Gravel moves roughly underfoot. Each step slightly unbalanced, my ankles roll on the uneven terrain and I know I’ll pay for it later. In front of us, about a quarter mile ahead is a braided river. Its swiftly moving streams snake through the rocky landscape, thinning and widening, twisting and turning. We approach it, groaning as we peel off our boots and put on our “creek shoes”: mine a pair of worn Nike’s, and step gingerly into our fast-moving braided creek of choice, bracing ourselves against the current and the icy, icy cold, a cold so cold I fight back a scream of shock and agony. Glacier water, kids, it’s no joke. But as soon as it starts it’s over, and we laugh and take our time putting our socks and boots back on, warming ourselves in the warm July, Alaskan sun.
Backpacking in the wilderness surrounding Denali challenges the average hiker with the truth of its stark reality–you sign up for a backcountry permit at a ranger station where the quota board breaks up the park into units with a limit to the number of people permitted in each. The max number is usually four. The idea is to provide everyone with the greatest degree of wilderness as possible. No trails, signs, water stations, trashcans, bathrooms, ranger stations, or cell phone service. Nothing but you and the wild–the grizzlies, the caribou and golden eagles, rushing glacial rivers and their gravel beds, grassy ridgelines and icy moraines, tarns and waterfalls and lakes, marmots and wildflowers and dall sheep, and of course, the ever-present Denali herself, looming like a goddess in her veil of clouds.
I spent the summer in Denali climbing steep ridgelines instead of climbing granite walls back in the sun-drenched valleys of California. I gained a new appreciation of cross-country travel, moving awkwardly over unknown terrain instead of pushing my abilities on steep cliffs, blistering my feet instead of my hands, growing tough skin in new places. I tried to decipher the delicate lines on topographical maps that examined the vast horizontal instead of the vertical, route finding of a different sort.
These mountains changed my idea of what the word “vast” even meant. Their sheer size, ruggedness, remoteness, all taunting us from afar, “you’re not good enough for us yet” they seemed to shout at me. I wanted to be good enough for those mountains, and I vowed that the next time I was in Alaska, I would be. This time instead, I would cover as much ground as I could on foot, determining for myself what a long day of hiking under the midnight sun was like, and growing stronger with each gravely step. On many of our trips, Denali unveiled herself for us, a rare sight. There’s something truly inspiring about hiking around the foothills of a mountain like that, covering the ground in her shadow, and snaking your way ever so slowly towards the base, imagining, that one day, you’ll ascend.
