Friday, October 28, 2011

Denali National Park

It felt good to be back in motion, and I was again enjoying the thrill of reaching a new destination. The road south towards Denali National Park, the George Parks Highway, is a motorcyclist's dream, with mountains that rise straight up from the side of the road, both thrilling and humbling at the same time. With the events of the past week behind me, I had an even deeper appreciation for all that I was taking in, and I was enjoying every moment of it.

Within several hours I was within range of the park, unfortunately the most obvious clue being the increase in RVs, tour buses and roadside gift shops. I stopped at a cluster of storefronts to scope out a potential lunch spot, but was so turned off by the inundation of T-shirts, sweatshirts, embroidered jean jackets, carved bear statues, "authentic" native jewelry, posters, prints, shot glasses, mugs, hats, stuffed moose toys, stuffed caribou toys, stuffed bear toys, and an endless array of other objects that were of absolutely no interest to me, that I climbed back on the bike and drove off. Touristy areas have always made me uncomfortable, but after experiencing all that I had in Alaska up until that point, it made it all the more unbearable. Not one of the things for sale in any of those stores spoke to my time in this part of the world, and I wondered what experiences the people who rolled in on the charter buses and the RVs were having to think that, for them, it did.

At the park entrance I made a right turn, climbing slowly towards the visitor's center. I had been advised through Lonely Planet to book my ticket for the bus tour through the park early (the only way that Denali allows access beyond the first 17 miles of road), and since I was planning on taking one of the early buses the next morning, I thought that I should get it out of the way right off.

After my ticket purchase, I thought I owed it to myself to drive the 17 mile stretch that the park allows private vehicles on, and I headed out into the beginnings of some spectacular scenery. I parked just beyond the ranger's checkpoint, walking to the river below to admire the scenery and take some pictures. The wind was strong, and the chill forced me to zip up my leather jacket. Aside from the handful of tourists walking about, it really felt as though I had stepped into untouched wilderness.




The only hostel in the area, about 12 miles south of the park entrance, was completely booked, and I could see why. Tucked into the woods, the grounds had small bunk cabins spread out throughout the property, connected by a series of paths that wound about in no apparent pattern. In the center of all these stood an eight sided building, the "Octagon", which served as the central meeting place for everyone staying there. It felt like a giant wooded playground for adults, and I was disappointed that I wouldn't get to experience any of it.

The alternative, though, a campground just on the other side of the Carlo Creek from the hostel, turned out to be a wonderful alternative. It was by far the cleanest, most well maintained campgrounds I had ever stayed in, and each site even had a hand-built lean-to made from rough cut timbers, ensuring that I would stay dry during my stay, even if the weather turned. It looked as though I had the place to myself that night, as there was only one other sight that was occupied, with the residents nowhere to be found.

The check-in cabin at the Carlo Creek Lodge. Rustic.
Home sweet home...
Apparently, using burled wood as a decorative element for EVERYTHING is big in Alaska.

I woke up early the next morning to the sound of my phone's alarm, a precaution to ensure that I made my 7:30 bus on time. Truth be told, I was awake even before it went off; I was thrilled to get the opportunity to see the innermost areas of a park that is legendary in this country, and, like a kid who can't wait to dash down the steps on Christmas morning, I was already wide awake at the crack of dawn.

I fired up the bike, navigated out of the campground, and shot north on Route 3 back to the park. Although still slightly overcast, the weather seemed to be breaking, and the potential was there to actually see blue skies, something I was learning to never take for granted in Alaska. When I arrived at the visitor's center, I realized that I wasn't the only person eager to get on the bus; a line was already forming where the buses pick up and drop off. It afforded me the time to eat the breakfast I had brought with me, and do a little people watching, as well. Soon the bus rolled up, and the odd assortment of tourists that had gathered climbed aboard.

The bus rolled leisurely through some of the most beautiful terrain I had come across since starting the trip, and my only regret was that I wasn't seeing it from my motorcycle. After so many miles on the bike, I had grown accustomed to the unobstructed, panoramic view that it provided, and seeing things from a bus window just didn't seem to do the park justice. Still, I made the most of what I had, and I was able to capture several astounding views that seemed to change as quickly as I could raise my camera.


My first glimpse of Denali, or the "Great One". The bus was pretty far away, so it was only because of the 15x zoom on my camera that I was able to capture this shot.

I shake my head whenever I see this image, because I took this shot while the bus was moving, my camera jiggling around as I stuck it out the window. I can't believe that it even came out at all...

"Polychrome Pass" - a series of multicolored mountains formed by volcanic activity millions of years ago. WAY cooler in person, I promise...

Part of Denali National Park's appeal is the opportunity to see wildlife, and there was no shortage of that on the eight hour trip. Bears, moose, caribou, dall sheep; all oblivious to our presence as the bus sauntered through miles of the deepest regions of the park. Most of the animals were too far away to get adequate pictures, but a couple sitting across from me, obviously wildlife fanatics who kept listing and passionately discussing EVERY animal they had seen in the park since arriving several days earlier, would pass along their binoculars to me, and all of a sudden animals that were far off in the distance came into razor sharp view. The most thrilling was a brown bear with her three cubs, and the sheer size of them as they lumbered about left me speechless.

The final destination point before turning around was the Eileson Visitor's Center, 66 miles into the park, provided an awe-inspiring view of Denali mountain. As fate would have it, my battery had died right before arriving, so I popped it out of the camera, warming it with my hands in the hope that it would give me one more shot. At the lookout point of the center, with a rare, unobstructed view of the mountain range (only 30% of visitors to the park every year have weather that allows them to see the mountain), I took my last shot of the day before it gave out completely.



The ride back on the bus was quiet, as all of us were spent from the four hours it took to get out that far. Even the bus driver, who had graced us with entertaining stories for most of the ride out, was mostly silent, and at one point I even began to doze off. The silence was broken about an hour before arriving back at the main lodge when one of the passengers spotted a brown bear grazing less than 50 feet away from the road. Even though I had no battery power left to take what undoubtedly would have been some spectacular pictures, I was grateful to experience something so rare up close. As other tour buses began to stop, creating the equivalent of a national park traffic jam, our bus driver pulled away, passengers all around me still hanging out the window to take more pictures.

I rode back to my campsite exhausted from the long day, but completely satisfied from the experience. I decided to splurge that night for dinner, and I ate at a brick-oven pizza joint not far from the campground. I had not thought about how alone I had been during the trip, but sitting at a table by myself, surrounded by couples, families and large groups of tourists, I became acutely aware of my solitude. With only a little more than a month in, though, I was going to have to get used to it. Again, I found myself wondering how Ido and Shira, the Israeli couple I met back in Haines, were doing, but the likelihood of running into them from here on out was slim. I paid my bill and took the quick trip on the bike back to the campground. It had started to rain lightly, so I parked the bike under the lean-to and hunkered down in my tent for the night. Alone.