I became a man in the Alaskan wilderness – just not in the way you might think
Silence washed over me as the float plane buzzed away, leaving us alone. I turned around and saw fresh grizzly and moose tracks the size of dinner plates imprinted in the mud. Panic tiptoed in, but it didn’t reign. I tried not to dwell on it, taking a deep breath and sinking into the beauty rioting everywhere. I didn’t want my wife to know I was intimidated.
We were about to hike and packraft on our honeymoon in a remote Alaska wilderness. The bush pilot had just dropped the two of us off in the Brooks Range, a 700-mile mountain range arcing the width of northern Alaska. We had packrafts (lightweight, inflatable kayaks), all-weather gear and food – a load of about 70lb each, nearly half our body weight. We had rented a satellite phone, the only way to contact the rest of the world for emergencies, and I’d jotted a list of Alaskan contacts on paper if we needed rescuing. The consequences if something went wrong were mind-boggling.
As we both struggled to lift our packs, I wondered: what had we gotten ourselves into?
It had taken us a year to plan the trip’s nightmare logistics, during which Alaska’s myth had grown disproportionately vast in my mind. We would fly to Fairbanks, then take an eight-hour bus ride north through the boreal forest on a washboard gravel road that devoured vehicles, past the Arctic Circle to a spot called Coldfoot.
We’d then board a Cessna plane, fly more than an hour north-east, and get plopped off at an isolated lake. Shouldering our backpacks, we would trek toward the headwaters of a remote river, where we would float 80 miles and then be collected by the Dalton Highway Express at a specific mile marker at a scheduled time.
Ever since childhood, I had dreamed of visiting Alaska to see its glaciated mountains and teeming wildlife. Finally, in my 45th year, we determined to go somewhere we wouldn’t see other humans. We elected to go to the Arctic national wildlife refuge. We chose this particular river because it had class I and II rapids – nothing too dangerous to handle, since it was just us. It also was the perfect distance and trip length: four days in the mountains and four on the tundra.
Everything had to line up, like throwing a Hail Mary pass in football.
I imagined losing our way in the thick boreal forest that could absorb us like a sponge. I half-expected lurking brown bears behind every willow thicket, hungry and scraggly long-legged Arctic wolves, wolverines that stole Kevlar food bags, giant moose charging blindly, pestering mosquito swarms, polar bears wandering southwards and turbulent glacial rivers running mad.
I feared my wife or I might crack mentally after the bush plane left, along with the last connection to the known world. I even feared worse: that one of us might not return.
The emotional toll was exhausting. I almost canceled the whole thing, but I couldn’t back out. I was “the man”. American society told me I had to be strong, fearless and capable – the protector. But that’s such a silly notion: who said men can’t be vulnerable? •••
I grew up outside of Chicago, in a small town in a fundamentalist Christian household. I was timid – almost silent.
In school, I was athletic, not the brightest star, but I wanted to belong. In mid-high school, after being ditched by jocks and preps, I began hanging out with rednecks, then was beaten into a Mexican street gang, stayed in it for nine months, and was beaten out twice because I never wanted in and asked to get out.
Eventually, I hung out with hippies who read and liked the outdoors and we moved to Oregon. This masquerade party of my late adolescence also made me more adventurous and willing to try new things and helped me to connect to people from all walks of life. Later, I learned I loved being in wild places, which made me more confident in being self-reliant.
For decades, I worked in Montana’s Glacier national park, led backcountry trail crews, worked as a fire lookout, helped with numerous wildlife studies, and stayed mostly alone at an off-thegrid ranger station in the late autumn to watch for poachers and smugglers. Each night, while lying in bed, I imagined possible encounters I might have with wildlife or with poachers – fear always escalated.
I did this for 15 seasons, and each time I packed my belongings, I mentally entertained images of apex predators and what I would do if I had an encounter that went awry. This feeling would disappear the next morning as I took the first step toward the trail’s end, and I came to think of it as a protective balm.
But fear never gripped me like it did before planning for Alaska – especially after I read Bjorn Dihle’s book A Shape in the Dark, describing Alaskan grizzly encounters, including the story of Timothy Treadwell and his girlfriend being eaten by grizzlies.
Friends inquired: “Do you have protection?” I knew they meant a gun – for bears, specifically the huge grizzlies that grew more prominent in my mind. I admitted that it felt manly to tote guns around in wild places to fend off massive predators, but my .270 rifle was no defense.
We had two bear spray cans, an air horn and a Bearwatch Systems electric fence.
I deliberated over whether that was enough. My logical mind kept telling me that grizzlies and wolves rarely attacked humans. We were more likely to drown in a bathtub or be struck by lightning than be attacked by apex predators.
But I couldn’t shake the fear. I couldn’t back out. My identity as a man was at stake.
•••
After hefting our heavy packs, we climbed on to the tundra, and the ground squished like walking on furry bouncy balls. It was mid-morning, already in the mid-70s and desert-dry with no shade. Trees don’t grow this far north – there’s no respite from the sun’s intensity.
Animal trails guided us above creeks, but geology led us down. The stream bed below us was lined with head-high willows, limiting visibility. Immediately, we walked by huge steaming piles of grizzly scat. Moose bones and antlers littered the ground. We bushwhacked and yelled, “Hey, Bear! Hey, Moose!” announcing our presence to any creatures around. My senses were uber-alert to any sight, sound or smell, thinking the myths that had haunted me for a year could materialize around the next bend.
Eventually, we reached the empty valley that yawned in the hot sun. I was relieved to have made it these first three hours, but it was still daunting with 80 miles to go and maybe no human soul for at least a hundred. That night, we camped near some bushes. I kept wondering where the mosquito clouds were. Sure, there were a few, but not like everyone warned. We strolled to the river, amazed it was clear, shallow, and warm enough to swim in.
Step one had gone off without a glitch. However, I was more apprehensive about the journey’s pack rafting portion. I always considered myself a terrestrial animal more than a water being. I nearly drowned a few times, including an incident in 2020 when I flipped my pack raft in British
Columbia’s Jordan River, got banged around, lost my gear, and would have lost my vessel if a logjam downriver hadn’t snagged it. Trained in whitewater rescue, my wife saved me by tossing a throw rope and paddling back to me. I held on to her raft until we got to shore. Close to hypothermia, I had shivered for hours despite spring’s warmth.
In the Brooks Range, the river and the air weren’t as frigid as I’d imagined; semi-dry suits were largely unnecessary. Every time we stood up to walk the shallows, fresh caribou, grizzly, moose and wolf tracks plotted the shores but never materialized.
Each evening, we assembled the electric fence to keep grizzlies away. However, thunderstorms rolled in like clockwork. The manual instructed us to remove the apparatus far from our persons during such events. By the fourth night, we had to sleep without the security of 8,000 volts, even though old sow and cub tracks were near us. I imagined our food might lure them into exploring our rafts with their mouths, biting holes we would have to repair, or worse, I pictured them visiting our tent. I was restless, waking up often and glancing out. It isn’t easy to fathom 24 hours of daylight. But no darkness meant I had less fear.
The following morning, in the fresh mud, grizzly tracks – so recent I could discern individual hairs on the paws – were imprinted fifty yards away near bushes lining a side channel. The bear had gifted us a wide berth. Maybe this place was so wild that animals stayed clear.
Soon, the river slipped away from the mountains into the tundra. We floated between two ecosystems. Our trip was half done.
Tears streamed uncontrollably through dirt and sunscreen as I was engulfed by overwhelming quiet. The place’s beauty transcended my wildest fears, easing my anxiety. Life was reduced to simple rhythms.
Only weeks before the trip, I had told my wife we should consider finding somewhere else to venture. She admitted she was scared, too, but believed we could still pull it off. The beauty and remoteness of this area lured us – the trip of a lifetime, we kept telling ourselves. I succumbed to her rationale. Sharing my vulnerability cracked the veneer of my manhood. It had felt good to be honest with her.
***
But my newfound serenity shattered into thousands of pieces six days into our trip. We couldn’t find anywhere to camp amid the tundra’s sandbar islands. As we moved farther from the mountains’ late afternoon shade, the thickets grew smaller. Finally, we settled for an island with few shady shrubs and I spotted fresh wolverine tracks. My excitement grew: I had studied wolverines for many Glacier winters.
Wolverines are extremely rare, but populations are thicker in Alaska. Weighing 35-45lb, they are known to be fearless, standing up to wolves and bears. They have been documented taking down full-grown moose in deep snow and chasing down caribou. I thought the wolverine might return and steal our food, as I feared, but something more ominous appeared on the horizon.
Distant thunderheads grumbled. The storm cells resembled a swarm of giant dark-bellied arachnids scurrying across the land on lightning bolts. Sixtymile-an-hour gusts steamrolled us, flattening the tent into our faces, pelting driving rain through the rainfly. Holding opposite tent corners, we hoped the tent wouldn’t shred from the hurricane-gale force and the poles would not attract lightning. Lightning repeatedly flashed and booms of thunder followed.
The crashes lasted for what felt like an eternity. In fetal positions, we clutched each other for an hour in deathly fright. What happens to our bodies if we get electrocuted?Will we be vaporized?
Throughout the journey, my mind went from fear to tranquility, back to death’s imminence. The storm felt like my bottled-up emotions growing ungovernable, more significant than my wildest dreams, but it wasn’t out to get us, nor were my mind’s monsters.
Suddenly, the storm passed, sunshine returned, and a double rainbow appeared – but we couldn’t shake what had just happened.
The following day, we aborted our plan to camp for a final night. Instead, we boated the remaining 10 miles, hiked to the highway, and tested our luck at hitchhiking instead of catching the scheduled shuttle. A 63-yearold long-haul petroleum trucker offered a ride – as long, he said, as we didn’t mind that he drove as fast as he wanted, smoked as many cigarettes as he wanted, and talked about whatever he wanted.
For the first half hour, he bragged about people he’d knocked out. Listening to him, I realized that my hackles also rise and my tough-guy persona appears when I am scared. However, his machismo softened by the ride’s end. After he dropped us off, he even bought us dinner.
So, what did I do during my honeymoon? I faced my fears and learned that it’s all right for men to show emotions. The unknown is scary, but it doesn’t have to lead to paralysis, fearing “others”, and not allowing love in or out. Fear becomes a teacher when it creates humility.