An Alaskan Adventure

There’s something about the Alaskan backcountry that stays with you, like a scar you can’t help but be proud of. It’s not just the landscapes, though they’re as wild and jaw-dropping as any postcard would have you believe. It’s the way the land humbles you, reminding you that you’re just a fleeting speck in a place that’s been carved by glaciers and roamed by creatures much bigger and older than you.

I remember one particular hike that still lingers in my mind. The trail, if you could call it that, was little more than a suggestion cutting through a valley. The air was sharp and clean, the kind of crispness that makes you feel like you’re breathing for the first time. Snow dusted the mountains in the distance, a quiet reminder that winter in Alaska likes to show up unannounced.

The silence out there was a type of quiet that few will ever know. Every crunch of my boots on the ground felt amplified, every breath hung in the air like a fragile secret. The only other sound was the occasional call of a raven, that deep, throaty croak that somehow makes the wilderness feel even wilder.

I paused by a stream, settling on a small log, letting the world slow down as I took in the vast, untamed beauty around me and, more importantly, pour a cup of coffee from my thermos. 

Sitting there, sipping from my tin mug, I let myself relax for a moment. The coffee was strong, dark, and just hot enough to keep the chill at bay. It was a small comfort in a place that doesn’t offer many, and I savored every sip as I listened to the creek’s endless murmur.

I was climbing higher into the valley when I saw it. At first, I thought it was just another boulder among the trees, but then it moved—slow, deliberate, and impossibly big. A moose.

If you’ve never seen a moose in the wild, let me tell you: pictures don’t do them justice. This was a young bull, antlers stretching out like the crown of a woodland prince. He stood there, chewing lazily on some brush, not a care in the world.

I froze, not out of fear exactly, but out of respect. Moose might not be predators, but they don’t need to be. When you weigh 1,400 pounds and can run faster than any human, you don’t really have anything to prove.

The bull turned his head and looked right at me. It wasn’t a threatening look, but it wasn’t exactly friendly either. More like, you stay over there, and I’ll stay over here, and we’ll both live to see tomorrow. I took the hint, moving slowly and carefully along the trail, giving him all the space he wanted.

As I put some distance between us, I couldn’t help but chuckle. People always talk about bears and wolves in Alaska, but it’s the moose that’ll keep you humble. They’re the true rulers of the backcountry, and you'd do best not to forget it.

By the time I made it back to the truck, what little light there was, was beginning to fade. I sat in the cab, poured myself the last of my coffee, that was lukewarm at best by this point, and tried to let a little warmth seep back into my bones. Days like this are what we live for—muscles aching, clothes damp, and the memory of a close encounter with one of nature’s most unlikely giants fresh in the mind.

Alaska doesn’t let you take it for granted. It’s not a place you conquer; it’s a place you survive. But in surviving it, in walking its untamed trails and icy streams, you find something you didn’t know you were looking for.

Even now, years later, I can still smell the spruce, feel the chill in the air, and hear the soft babble of the creek below. And the moose? That’s just a reminder of whose land it really is. I've walked a lot of wild places since then, but nothing ever hits quite the same. Some landscapes leave a mark on you, and Alaska carves its name deep. No matter where I go, a part of me is still out there, walking those valleys and hiking the ridges, lost in the kind of wild that never truly lets you go.