Hello again!

Well, it’s been more than four years since my last blog post. It’s late November in Fairbanks, winter darkness is ascending, and I find myself with plenty of time with my thoughts again. That means time to write!

I won’t try to cover in detail everything that happened since my last post. Three big moves, new friendships kindled, outdoor adventures in Alaska and beyond, a few near-death experiences, and a pandemic thrown in for good measure. I’ll do justice where I can, though.

Probably the biggest shift in my life, as far as Alaska (and this blog) is concerned, is the introduction of the community of Fairbanks. It began in summer 2016, while I still lived in Talkeetna. After a friend had to bail unexpectedly, I found myself at the Chickenstock music festival alone, experiencing the Interior in depth for the first time. The town of Chicken, Alaska seemed a little strange, and maybe a little desperate for tourists. The music, however, was jamming, and all sorts of people from far over had converged for the occasion.

There by myself, I had no excuse to be shy if I wanted some company. I had some conversations with hip-looking couples from Dawson, gruff miners out of Mentasta, fisherfolk from Valdez. Searching for the next group of people to impose myself on, my eye fell on a crowded picnic table headed by an exceptionally tall man with flyaway red hair and a t-shirt emblazoned with a quote from Thomas Jefferson: “I cannot live without books.”

I plopped down on one end of the picnic bench, introduced myself, and learned the names of everyone else. KC was the man I’d first noticed, and there was Mikki, Kim, and Portia too. KC quickly took the lead in making me feel as though I belonged among them. All from Fairbanks, they were fun, alternative, open, and on my wavelength in a way I hadn’t quite experienced in Alaska yet. The rest of the music festival flew by in their company, and I parted Chicken with KC’s contact info and an invitation to come visit sometime.

I took KC up on his offer, of course– we went on an overnight canoe trip, and the visiting turned out to be a gateway drug to potlucks, contra dancing, saunas, and other forms of Fairbanks degeneracy. Most importantly, KC and his friends welcomed me into their lives unreservedly, and made one thing clear: that here there was a place for me.

I had come up to Alaska chasing excitement and adventure. What my Fairbanks friends presented was a calmer, steadier side of things. The community had a warmth and coziness to it that balanced well with the harshness of the surrounding wilderness.

As years passed, KC and many of those first friends moved away from Fairbanks. So did I, for that matter– I went and started graduate school in the lower 48. But long before any of that, maybe even back at Chickenstock, Fairbanks sunk its hooks in deep. Deep enough that when I got the chance to take my lower-48 work remote, I came wandering back up just as the barely-sub-arctic winter set in, hungry for even a socially-distanced, pandemic-suppressed taste of the community here.

That warmth and coziness I first felt in Fairbanks has become just as much a part of my Alaska as the rivers and the mountain ranges. I count my friends here as close as family, bonds that I hope are built to last.

Through all the changes the years have brought, one constant: here is still a place for me. Hello again, Fairbanks, Alaska.

Gifts from the land

“Beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.” -Annie Dillard

The Northern Lights were out in force above Talkeetna the other night, all night long for all I know. I also went my entire first summer in Alaska without seeing a grizzly bear. What do these two facts have to do with each other? Or with me, for that matter? After all, I had no real control over either of them. I can’t force the Lights to come out, and I can’t force a bear to cross paths with me no matter how long I spend in grizzly country.

Will your trip look like this?

… or this? (These photos were taken just a few days apart on the same trip.)

When I first arrived in Alaska, I quickly learned that that’s the way things are here. Without access to a weather forecast, a car to reliably get places, or even a map, I simply hitchhiked around the state, never quite sure what I was getting myself into. Maybe it was raining the whole time, or I couldn’t catch a ride, or maybe I ran into an old friend, or the clouds finally parted for a sublime view, or I stumbled across a herd of Dall sheep. Every day was new and fresh because I had no plan. Alaska simply happened to me.

In the process, I got the ground-truth on what it means that Alaska has twice Texas’s size and 3% of its population, that Alaska’s mountains rise a mile higher than Colorado’s, that its rivers run wild and free for hundreds and thousands of miles… From the icefields of the Kenai Peninsula to the lonely forests of the Interior I’ve explored huge swaths of country, and somehow only just scratched the surface.

The Harding Icefield

Here the landscape looms larger than life, larger than you, me, everyone. Where I grew up, New York, the attempts to turn the land into something relatable, understandable, and controllable have largely succeeded. Not so in Alaska. The place retains an aura of incredible power, the feeling that we are here by permission and that at any moment a landslide, earthquake, volcano, anything could sweep us from the landscape without fanfare.

This is also a place of great mystery, where Northern Lights sweep silently across winter evenings and the wolverine prowls ridges yet unseen by man. To step into this world, to truly engage with it, is to accept the mystery and take your place as a mote of dust in the air, ready to be blown where the wind pleases. In a place that will never be mastered, you must accept your own powerlessness, and be happy for everything that comes your way. Personally, what’s come my way has often been unexpected, delightful and unforgettable. So forget your plans, and listen to what the land is telling you. Get outside, get wet, get muddy… maybe you’ll see the Lights, or find that perfect blueberry patch, or catch a lasting glimpse of alpine glory. Or maybe none of these will happen; there is no guarantee. But the only way to receive the land’s gifts is to get out there and be ready for them.


The Journey North, Part II: Return to Alaska

Continued from Part I…

There I was, just across the border into British Columbia, with nothing but the world’s second largest country between me and my destination. After leaving Washington, the landscape became noticeably bigger, with wider valleys and rugged, snow-capped peaks.

Landscape in southern British Columbia

With nobody left to visit along the way, I stopped dawdling and focused on the miles. After a long push into the Fraser River Valley, I excitedly pulled out my map to gauge how far north I’d gotten. As I located myself on the paper, my heart sank. I had only chipped away a tiny amount of the remaining distance, and had hundreds of miles to go before I was even at the same latitude as anywhere in Alaska, let alone near Anchorage. There were long days ahead.

Now I slept in the back of the car, as a cost-saving strategy to avoid hotels. As I drew further away from the border, patches of snow began appearing on the ground, and before long I was back in the depths of winter again. By the time I got to the start of the Alaska Highway in Dawson Creek, the cars around me on the road had plugs sticking out of the grills: evidence of engine block heaters, to help cars start when temperatures plunge far below zero. I certainly felt out of place with my New York license plate and near-complete lack of winter clothes. Thankfully, though, I never saw temperatures below twenty degrees Fahrenheit on this trip.

Scenery near Liard Hot Springs

Miles piled on and civilization slowly dropped away. Loneliness ebbed and flowed, but mostly I felt glad to finally be working directly towards a goal again: returning to Alaska. My excitement rose as the landscape took on a more northerly character, spindly spruce trees piercing the sky and sunsets lingering long into the evening. I still had some trepidation about my future, but at least I knew it was going to be an adventure.

I tracked my progress by noting which Alaskan towns I was on equal latitude with. Ketchikan, Sitka, Juneau… slowly but surely, I was getting there. Highlights included crossing the Canadian Rockies, with spectacular winter scenery, and taking a luxurious soak at Liard Hot Springs, where I finally met some locals to chat with.

The Alaska Highway gradually meandered into the Yukon, bending westward and plunging through huge swaths of snow-covered wilderness. As I woke up one morning outside Whitehorse, I realized that I might actually reach Alaska the that day. After months of plans, failures and frustrations, my moment of triumph was at hand. I still felt a little apprehension, though. It had been a long time since I left Alaska, and besides, I had never been there with snow on the ground. It would undoubtedly be a completely different place. Would I still like it? Would it meet my expectations, which had never been higher? Was my summer in 2015 a singular event, never to be replicated, leaving me forever trying and failing to repeat it?

No other way to answer these questions than to go. I floored the gas and surged towards the border. Just as when I crossed from Washington into British Columbia, the landscape widened, and by the time I passed Kluane Lake, it was epic in scale. Rows of mountains marched off into the horizon, and the boreal forest displayed a scraggly toughness that only comes from the harshest of winters. I was close.

At the border, when questioned about my purpose, I muttered something about the only potential job lead I had, possibly making birch syrup in Talkeetna. Apparently the customs agents were satisfied, and just like that, I was back. After driving a mile or two beyond the border, I pulled over to celebrate. The fact that I had no friends within 300 miles to share this with did nothing to diminish my happiness. Finally back!!!

I made it!

After reaching the tiny town of Delta Junction, I turned left (my first turn in over 1,000 miles) and drove south to the Black Rapids Lodge, situated in the middle of the Alaska Range. As I approached the mountains, the sun began to set, casting a sea of jagged peaks in brilliant rays of orange and pink. Mount Moffit, over 13,000 feet in height, surged above the clouds.


By the time I actually reached the lodge, it was getting dark. I figured I shouldn’t stay long, say hi and then find somewhere to camp. On the contrary, however, the owner immediately sat me down with a warm bowl of soup for dinner and we began swapping stories. He was friends with my only contact in Alaska, Doug White of Anchorage. I told him who I was and stories from my journey so far, and in turn he regaled me with tales of backcountry skiing among the peaks surrounding us. Before long he was setting me up to stay overnight in the downstairs hostel area. Alaskan hospitality at its finest!

I played cards with some lodge guests, then dozed off to sleep, happy to have a warm bed for once. But soon I was shaken awake again. “Anthony! Come look outside!” It was Jim, one of the guests that I had met earlier. I asked Jim what this was all about. “Just come,” he said. I stumbled out of bed and groggily staggered upstairs towards the balcony. There was already a crowd outside. I joined them and looked up: a great ribbon of green light wove across the clear night sky. The Aurora.

We spent the next few hours watching the display, as the ribbon spun and multiplied, breaking into a thousand spears of light and then re-forming again. As I stood watching on my first night in Alaska, I felt confident about the future. It was good to be back.

Epilogue: Ultimately, I ended up landing the birch syrup job in Talkeetna, and ended up living there through spring and summer. Turns out my anxiety about finding a job and getting established was cured by simply showing up in Alaska first, and figuring things out afterwards. I’ve made plenty of mistakes in the past year, but I’m proud to say this wasn’t one of them!

Sunset over the Alaska Range from Talkeetna, Alaska


The Journey North, Part I: Leaving the Lower 48

Time: Early 2016, Place: Flagstaff, Arizona

The San Francisco Peaks outside Flagstaff. Taken on the way back from an ill-fated solo winter attempt on 12,637 foot Humphreys Peak

My job had everything I thought I wanted: I was outside every day, surrounded by outdoorsy peers, in a place that did not lack for snowy peaks or spectacular scenery (see photo above). Still, things weren’t right. I found myself poring over my Alaska Atlas, dreaming of valleys nobody has yet seen and mountains no one will ever climb. Out of sync with the bustling city of Flagstaff and my happily comfortable friends, I began to feel a nagging sense of stagnation. After an incredible summer in Alaska in 2015, I was eager to return, and unlock the potential I knew lay in the North.

Due partly to my primitive living situation last summer and partly to my own lack of confidence, I had been unable to secure a position in Alaska for the winter. Hence, Arizona. In coming south I concocted a dozen rationalizations: that I needed a winter Outside in order to learn to ski, that I wanted to explore the rest of the country, that I would save up money to go back next summer. The reality is that I still don’t know how to ski, that exploring Alaska was always the priority, and that I already had enough money saved. The saving grace was that I now had access to a car, a quantum leap in my traveling abilities.

It only took a weekend of reminiscing with an old Alaska compatriot to make me realize that Arizona was merely a holding pattern. Ultimately, there was nothing for me here. It was time to return now. Not next summer, now. Before I rationalized myself out of ever going back, before my courage faded, before I forgot my memories of the North.

And that was it, basically. I left my job, paid a visit to my family back East (I did not want to leave before making sure they were in good health), and departed solo from Phoenix on March 3rd in my trusty Honda.

Saguaro cacti outside of Phoenix, Arizona

I went west first, hitting the Pacific at San Luis Obispo, California. From there I turned north, meandering along the coast, with the occasional zig or zag. When I drove out to Flagstaff from New York, I left myself with too little time to see anyone along the way. Now I had nothing BUT time. So I called everyone I knew from California to Canada, and bounced from one bed or backyard to the next. It was a fascinating cross-section of my friends’ lives, ranging from oblivious, fun-obsessed college kids in San Luis Obispo, to the rarefied, monastic world of Berkeley’s mathematics department, to the ski bums of Portland, Oregon. I reconnected with people I hadn’t seen in years, and in my role as a transient, I got to see sides of them they might not have revealed to an everyday face.

A brief, tempting look at the ways other lives have gone, and how mine might still go. But all the same, I wasn’t bound for Berkeley or Portland. I was headed to Alaska, and before I knew it I was past my friends, preparing to cross the United States border into Canada. The thing was, I had no job lined up yet, no idea of where I would be in a month, and no clue of the snow conditions through British Columbia and the Yukon (after traveling from Phoenix to Bellingham, I was less than halfway there). Inevitably, after leaving all my friends behind in warmer climes, I began to question myself. Just what am I getting into? Continued in Part II…

Cloudy skies over Portland, Oregon

Sequim, Washington