Alaska: The Brochure Lied (Sort Of)

I came to Alaska expecting soaring mountain peaks reflected in sapphire lakes beneath impossibly blue skies. Instead, I’ve mostly been staring at a very expensive cloud.

Chad and I flew into Anchorage over the weekend and joined a Backroads tour that slowly makes its way northwest toward Wasilla, then to Matanuska Glacier, next to Worthington Glacier near Valdez. We have traveled thousands of miles across the continent to admire one of the most beautiful places on Earth. So far, our primary view has been fifty shades of gray with the occasional tree. Every now and then, a mountain politely peeks through the clouds just long enough to remind you what you’re missing before ducking back into hiding.

Apparently, this is normal.

Those gorgeous photos you always see of Alaska with brilliant blue skies and dramatic mountain ranges? Those are basically Alaska’s senior portraits. They exist, but they represent the absolute best day of the year. Summer here is mostly rain. Temperatures hover in the 50s and occasionally wander into the low 60s if they’re feeling ambitious.

Yes, I know. I could have Googled all of this. But reading “cool and rainy” on a weather chart is different from standing in the middle of a state so enormous that it contains over 100,000 glaciers while wondering if your socks will ever be dry again.

Fortunately, I’ve become what I like to call a seasoned traveler. My daughter once informed me that there’s no bad weather, only bad outfits. So I packed the rain gear, waterproof pants, jacket, gloves, layers, you name it. Physically, I’m doing great.

Mentally, however, I find myself agreeing with Parker Posey: “I just don’t think, at this age, I’m meant to live an uncomfortable life. I don’t have the will.”

I felt that deep in my Gore-Tex.

Thankfully, our Backroads guides, Ian, Ryan, and Abby, have been outstanding. Their two greatest skills are keeping morale high and making sure no one goes too long without snacks. Both are equally important in Alaska.

Our first ride followed the Knik River to the Knik Glacier viewpoint. Just as we arrived, the clouds parted for a few glorious minutes, revealing a patchwork of blue sky, snow-covered peaks, and the glacier stretching across the valley.

It felt like Alaska had briefly opened the curtain just enough to whisper, See? I told you it was worth coming. Then the curtain closed again.

I also learned that Alaska has over 600 named glaciers, plus tens of thousands of unnamed ones. Around here, glaciers are treated the way Starbucks are back home. “Oh look…another glacier.”

Speaking of things that are everywhere…Taxidermy.

On our very first day, several people in our group spotted a mouse in the wild. I missed it.

Fortunately, Alaska has a backup plan. Every single building we’ve entered has thoughtfully provided a stuffed version of an animal. Moose. Bears. Wolves. Ram. If it once had fur, there’s a decent chance it’s decorating a lobby somewhere.

Our hotel in Wasilla introduced us to Jeff, a full-sized moose head mounted proudly over the fireplace. Jeff spent his days gazing across the room at two enormous white bears illuminated by softly glowing pastel lights. It was less “rustic Alaskan lodge” and more “Bass Pro Shops meets Studio 54.”

The following day we headed to Matanuska Glacier for a guided glacier walk. The local guides were enthusiastic. In fact, they were aggressively enthusiastic. Imagine your favorite elementary school PE teacher after three energy drinks. Everything was delivered with the excitement usually reserved for launching astronauts.

It took over thirty-five minutes to explain how to put on crampons. Thirty-five Minutes! By the time we finally started walking, I felt qualified to teach a graduate-level seminar on footwear.

Chad, to his credit, hung in there for about half the hike. Considering this involved hiking on slippery ice—which ranks somewhere between root canals and airport security on his list of favorite activities—I considered that an impressive showing. When they offered an option to turn back early, he accepted without hesitation and went in search of coffee.

Meanwhile, I pressed on.

The guides had rigged safety ropes across several sections, and we clipped ourselves on using harnesses and carabiners. Only one person was allowed on each section at a time, which made perfect sense after one woman slipped and was caught safely by her harness. Safety matters.

But I couldn’t help noticing that while we carefully unclipped, reclipped, waited, and repeated, the guides were casually sprinting across the glacier like mountain goats fueled by espresso.

We had all signed waivers that essentially translated to, “Good luck.”

Yet somehow it still took us nearly two hours to travel one mile. At the pace we were moving, the glacier itself seemed to be advancing faster than we were.

Still…Every time I was ready to complain, I’d look up. The ice was unlike anything I’ve ever seen; ribbons of white and black twisted together with pockets of brilliant sapphire blue glowing beneath the surface. Nature has an annoying habit of making you forget your grievances.

Afterward we stayed at the wonderfully quirky Sheep Mountain Lodge. Naturally, they also had a stuffed moose that lived in the greenhouse.

The next morning we woke up to sunshine—a sentence I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to write.

The lodge also deserves special recognition for its coffee. Before the café opened, Chad and I wandered down to a gazebo, when we heard wolves howling somewhere in the distance.

At first I assumed someone was playing a recording. Then another wolf answered. Then another. It turns out that’s a magical sound…right up until someone casually mentions that if we’d like to go hiking, we can borrow bear spray.

Nothing says “Have a relaxing morning walk” quite like being issued a can of pepper spray the size of a fire extinguisher.

The wildflowers, however, are spectacular. The endless daylight, cool temperatures, and constant rain produce fields bursting with color. Even when the skies are gray, everything feels incredibly alive.

Our final ride of this leg took us from Worthington Glacier down through Thompson Pass toward Blueberry Lake before descending into the coastal town of Valdez.

As our shuttle climbed toward the pass, we drove straight out of sunshine and into another wall of gray clouds. Of course we did.

By the time we started riding, the rain had arrived once again. Thankfully, I had the right gear, so I stayed reasonably warm and mostly dry. And honestly, how many opportunities do you get to ride a bicycle through Alaska?

Sometimes travel isn’t about perfect weather. Sometimes it’s about pedaling through the rain, surrounded by mountains you can barely see, laughing at the absurdity of flying 3,500 miles to admire clouds…and realizing you’re having an incredible time anyway.

Because every now and then, the curtain opens for just a moment. And when it does, Alaska reminds you exactly why you came.