I arrived at the Alaskan border to find a small, but sturdy building wrapped in cameras. I waited my turn behind a handful cars and pulled up to the drive-thru style window. I handed over my passport and the guard flipped back and forth through a few pages. After a some basic questions, he handed me my passport and said “Welcome home.” I was back in America.
A day later I was in Fairbanks, and ready to drive the the Dalton Highway. It is mostly a commercial route for semi-trucks moving oilfield equipment and supplies. There are a few gas stations and almost no cell service on this stretch of the Pan-American Highway. I arrived at the start of the Dalton and found decent pavement, but quickly it transitioned to dirt. I continued on and crossed over the Yukon River ultimately finding a large sign that said Arctic Circle. I slowed down and parked the bus. As far as I could see, I was surrounded by treeless rolling tundra. It was so quiet. Latitude 66 degrees, 33 minutes was written on the sign. At this latitude you begin to lose a half hour of light every week in the fall. The sun hovers instead of rising or falling. It is hard to know if you are coming or going.
I got back in my bus and headed towards Coldfoot Camp, one of the limited fuel stops on this part of the route. Coldfoot was just 60 miles ahead, but the road surface was getting so much softer and harder to navigate. My bus struggled to drive straight, getting sucked into the ruts left by the heavy semi-trucks. I drove into a pothole, then immediately into an even deeper one. This caused a massive metallic bang above my head. The bracket holding the fuse box in place had broken loose. Another few potholes and a rivet holding the bus together landed in my lap. Was the bus going to fall apart? I was in the middle of nowhere, no cell phone service, and the roads were getting increasingly worse. I made the decision to turn around.
I was in the middle of nowhere, no cell phone service, and the roads were getting increasingly worse. I made the decision to turn around.
I retreated back to Fairbanks, all while wrestling with a feeling of failure. I needed a distraction, so I left town and headed for Denali National Park. It was one of my bucket list destinations before I left home. Park rules restrict access for private vehicles, so I bought a ticket for the tour bus. The route offered me a chance at seeing Denali, the tallest mountain in North America. My bus driver for the day was Chavez. He was an Alaskan transplant. He’d moved here in his 20’s and loved it so much he never left. He’s been driving a tour bus through the park every summer for the last decade. I was glad to have someone else battle the roads of Alaska for a while. As the bus left, Denali’s peak was still blocked by clouds. Chavez kept pointing to where it would be if it were visible. Only 30% of visitors to the park ever see the peak, and today, there was barely any visibility. We drove to the end of the road. Everyone got out and stared into the fog.
On the return trip, Chavez told us that when Native Alaskans went hunting, they’d say they were just going to “look around the land.” It was their way of preparing for the possibility of coming back empty-handed. Perhaps he wanted to ease our disappointment of not seeing Denali, the very thing we had come for. He was suggesting that you enjoy the journey more if you don’t put unnecessary pressure on yourself to succeed. I'm not sure if that's entirely true, but it was a good reminder of why I left home in the first place: to take a look around.
