Leaving the Anchorage hostel was a struggle with only a couple hours of sleep. This is the disadvantage to sharing accommodation with large groups returning late and drunk. I had decided to retaliate by being extra loud when I left before 7am to catch my northbound train, but the group beat me to it. They were already up and occupying the bathroom. C’est la vie. A wicked glare will have to do.
Lucky for me, there was a coffee bar at the train station. I ordered an ‘Alaskan Sludge’ (added espresso shots to a traditional black coffee) and sat waiting for the whistle to blow for boarding. I chatted to other tourists with anticipation for the journey ahead, and took several photos in front of the shiny black display engine. The visitors from Kentucky were amused by my accent-it seemed as though the intensified coffee gave me an Irish lilt. Although I insisted I was Canadian, I gave in to the part and clicked my heels like a leprechaun for my own Kodak moment.
Once I nestled into my window seat on the top deck, I pulled out my guidebook and tattered travel notes. For the next eight hours I would be covering terrain that helped form ‘the wild frontier’ tag line known to all visitors. As ‘the last frontier’ is actually written on the Alaskan license plates, I figured it was time to delve into a bit more geographic history at the same time.
Just after passing the town of Wasilla, the wildflowers were showing off the last of their summer colours. One hillside actually resembled a Monet painting as the carpet of blue seemed to be the shade of forget me nots, the state flower. Purple blossoms poked into view, and later on in the journey I discovered these flowers as Alaskan fireweed. Florets burst out from the middle of the stem in late spring and as the weeks pass by, they crawl up the spine springing new life and revitalized colours. I had caught sight of these flowers as they clung to the top, often teetering in the wind like a nest balancing on a new branch. Just beneath the petals the leaves start to turn deep red, like that of an intense fire. The locals say that when this change has begun, there are only 6 weeks until winter. Need I remind you that it is still only August.
As passengers began to snore or sneak away for a stale coffee from the on board cafe, I continued to gaze out of the window transfixed by the refreshing landscape. The air I was breathing was far from refreshing, so I walked down to the join of two carriages. I leaned out of the triple bolted doors and let the wind scoop and swirl my hair into a back-combing style from the 80′s. There were a couple of other passengers there to take in the Alaskan air and capture passing images on their cameras. Daniel, an American landscaper joined me as the tracks led up to Hurricane Gulch. I had read about the building of the bridge so I was looking forward to crossing the meandering Chulitna River at 295 feet. Alaska Rail did not fail-the view was breathtaking.
The journey continued north and I caught sight of trumpet swans floating in the lakes, fishermen wading in the rivers, and coffins along the side of the tracks. Coffins? Well, they looked like coffins from above. Daniel wisely informed me that these were actually stacked railway sleepers. There seemed to be thousands of them…as I let my mind wander into images of building garden fences and vegetable patches with railway sleepers (and how to transport them for free to my backyard in Canada…the backyard of the house I will one day buy) I couldn’t avoid sneaking sideways glances at Daniel. Hmmmmmm. I’ve met a couple of very handsome men during my first few days in Alaska (did I forget to mention Manny at the market and Joshua at the hostel?!), but I haven’t been shamelessly flirting as I felt a drive towards finding a true Alaskan man as opposed to another visitor. But are there real Alaskan men in Alaska? I suppose time will tell. Daniel is certainly the cutest of the non Alaskans sofar.
  
When the train finally pulled into Denali, I was immediately regretting wearing my capris and sandals. Although I carefully stepped off the train, I still managed to plant my foot into the deepest puddle on the platform. The chill in the damp air sent a few shivers down my spine, but I smiled as I made my way over to the hostel transport. Of course, I happened to be following the large group I had been avoiding since first encountering them in the Anchorage hostel. My wickid glares from the lack of sleep didn’t seem to be working. The Denali Mountain Morning hostel is based in Carlos Creek, Â a few miles south of the Park Gates. During the drive over I was thinking of ways to make my night as cozy and warm as possible, a little challenging as I was booked into a tented platform .
As I got my sleeping quarters ready with extra layers, bug spray and a torch, the sound of the gurgling creek rushing by was an enticement to have a quick snooze…but I opted to survey the surroundings. The hostel grounds were tucked into the mountain side making it the perfect escape from city life. Across the main road there was a pizza joint and another accommodation option…and that was it. This is town. I stepped onto a trail that twisted into the treeline, pretending not to notice the signs indicating private property. I examined the bright red rosehips and inhaled the woodsy smells from the spruce trees. I felt alive again. Smiling to myself and strolling along at a snails’ pace, I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard a loud crack behind me.
Is it a shotgun being loaded by an angry landowner? A bear sniffing my tracks? I looked around in circles as fast as my heart was beating inside me. I started backtracking. Where is it? What is it? No answer was found I’m afraid, so for the story’s sake, I like to think of it as a curious bear that didn’t want to compete with the likes of me.
Instead of returning to the hostel and dealing with crowds in the kitchen, I opted for a solitary evening at the pizza parlour across the street. I stepped onto the outside deck and casually strolled past the group of bearded toolbelts and mac jackets…Alaskan men at last! I looked up at the last minute hoping to connect with momentary flirty eye contact as I reached for the door. My smooth move got stunted by an inability to actually open the door. I didn’t quite hit the glass, but I pushed and pulled and still didn’t step foot inside.”PUUUUSH” came a humourous grunt from behind me. I didn’t think my beet red colour would have the same impact as the batting eyelashes, so I mumbled and dug out some brute force. I then hid in the corner for a evening of people watching. Before long, I was back at camp, tucked into my sleeping bag and dreaming of my fresh start in the morning.
The road into Denali National Park runs across 90 miles of tundra and rock. If you’re not hiking or biking, the only way of getting past mile fifteen and on to the end of the road is on one of the designated park buses. This environmental move is a wise way to respect the animals and their habitat in addition to creating an on board entertainment system from the other tourists. I pulled out my notebook to detail the passing scenery, but found myself scribbling descriptions about the other passengers. There was a good looking pilot travelling with his mom, several couples looking for sights different than the Alaskan cruise boat option and wildlife enthusiasts with camera lens longer than my arm. Wendy, our white haired driver was full of stories and information that kept me busy and looking at everything in sight.
Similar to some of the scenes from the train, the distant line of spiky black spruce trees rolling across the hills reminded me of a heart rate moniter, rising and falling to the beat of the land. It was mesmarizing, which is why I was so startled when Wendy alerted us all to a moose greeting us from the side of the road. Ok, so the moose wasn’t exactly waving at us like Bullwinkle might, but simply looking up from the willow bushes that she was so engrossed in munching. Did you know that a moose can eat up to 65 pounds of twigs and leaves per day? I suppose that diet explains how they get up to 1500 pounds in weight.
  
When we saw the grizzli, our bus was pulling over to pick up a couple of hikers. Wendy started shouting at them to hurry up when the grizzli stood on his hind legs and started swatting the air with frustration. I only managed to get my camera organized in time to capture him walking away. The hikers had spent 10 minutes zooming and stepping in closer and closer.
It seems that I picked the perfect time of year to experience the colours of Alaska; summer greens turn into fall reds and are topped off with winter whites. It was amazing to see the mountain tops covered with ‘termination dust’ as the Alaskans call August snows.
For my second day in the park, I rented a mountain bike. I rolled down the same road as the bus had, but was able to get more of a flavour for the expanse of the land. It was at this point that I began to understand the Alaskan escape. I’ve read about so many characters that have run away from their husbands or wives, or even the FBI, and managed to surive in the Alaskan wild. Of course, some don’t survive. As documented by Sean Penn in the movie ‘Into The Wild’, the true story of Christopher McCandless pursuing a life of independence and living off the land ended on an abandoned bus. My peanut butter and jelly sandwich that I ate for lunch on the edge of the meadows might have been something that Christopher dreamt of as he slowly starved to death. With this in mind, I didn’t wander too far from my bike locked to a tree at the side of the road. I questioned whether I should even lock my bike, but being a city girl, it was a habit too hard to break.Â
After my lunch break, I packed up my garbage and was reminded of a gadget tucked into my bag for emergencies. The ‘P-Mate’ is a cardboard willy enabling ladies to pee standing up. Although I had no issues squatting in the wilderness, I wondered if being vertical really had its advantages. I scouted for an ideal location and prepared myself in every way possible, not to dribble. Although I wasn’t able to write my name in the snow, I assure you, I managed to mark my territory. I shouted and laughed outloud at the ridiculousness of my achievement, and perhaps it was this noise that drew attention to me. I thought I was tucked out of view from the road by a small hill, but the car passing with it’s window down hollering with me, proved otherwise. I’m not sure what they saw, or even thought they saw, but maybe I looked like a dude. With lots of curves.
Near the entrance to the park, I visited a dog kennel. It was much different than your standard kennel, as these dogs were all working dogs. During the winter months when transport options are more limiting, they’re harnessed into teams of up to ten dogs. They pull a sled across the rough terrain helping staff to record conditions and keep stats on wildlife. It was fascinating to witness the dogs’ determination to run as some were selected to pull a summer training sled at top speed.
The rest of my time in the Denali area was dotted with poking my head into the many tourist shops in the small town north of the park gates, called Glitter Gulch. I saw the same t-shirts and magnets, postcards and scrapbooking kits. Yes, scrapbooking kits. The tourist trail has changed forever as crafty travellers pack their double sided sticky tape and albums and make Martha Stewart proud. As for me and my arty action? I’m ‘workin on it.
I’m now boarding a bus southbound to Talkeetna and Seward where I will then be upgrading to a cruise…hopefully more men to come-and definately a few blogs!
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Ahh, honey, I just love you! Your writing is awesome, so fun and descriptive and certainly unique!
When do we get to hear about the cruise and Georgio!???