Into the Wild: Denali & the Arrigetch Peaks
In the summer of 2017, I took one of the best trips of my life. I joined my friends John and Ryan at the start of their “Arctic to Andes” journey—a yearlong drive from Northern Alaska down to Ushuaia, Argentina. After rendezvousing in Anchorage, we drove up to Denali National Park for a three-day backpacking and climbing trip. It was here that I had the best night I’ve ever had in the mountains, and I doubt it’ll ever be topped.
Around 10 PM, we set out to climb a peak near our backcountry camp—bottle of whiskey in hand—hoping to catch a glimpse of Denali from the summit. Only 10% of park visitors end up seeing it, so the odds were already stacked against us. The sky was overcast, and it was looking like a bust. But just as we reached the summit, the clouds suddenly broke and the sky erupted with color. We sat there completely alone, watching this slow-burning sunset illuminate North America’s tallest peak until 2 AM. It was surreal—one of those rare, perfect moments you never forget.
Next, we drove to Fairbanks and hopped on the Dalton Highway, one of the most remote and rugged roads in North America. After arriving in the small town of Coldfoot, we took a bush plane flight deep into the Arrigetch Peaks in Gates of the Arctic National Park, the USA’s least-visited national park. The time passed quickly as our pilot, Dirk, regaled us with stories of shuttling famous climbers to mountain base camps from Alaska to Argentina.
We spent five blissful days entirely cut off from civilization, hiking and experiencing 24 hours of daylight in one of the most picturesque and dramatic locations on Earth. Not even the hordes of mosquitoes (which are so bad, they’re notorious for driving caribou migration patterns) were enough to dampen our spirits. We took day hikes up the surrounding valleys, losing all track of time and reveling in the endless “sunsets", which lasted throughout the night.
When the trip drew to a close, we bushwhacked through the forest to our rendezvous point with Dirk—a rugged gravel bar along the Alanta River. It was then that we realized there may have been a miscommunication, because we’d heard nothing from him in days, and our satellite phone was out of juice. Our food (and whiskey) reserves were depleted, and we were wholly unprepared to spend more time in the wilderness. But after sitting on the banks of the river for hours and wondering if he’d show, we finally heard the faint roar of his 1953 de Havilland Beaver growing stronger somewhere in the distance. He landed, greeted us nonchalantly, and back to the big city of Coldfoot (pop. 300) we went. The following day in Fairbanks, our unkempt gang of adventurers parted ways, and John and Ryan continued their journey southward—unaware that our Arctic adventure was merely the opening chapter of what would become an epic year of discovery stretching 20,000 miles to the bottom of the world.
