As we take our seats on the flight back to Frankfurt, I begin turning the pages of Caroline Van Hemert’s book The Sun Is a Compass, which Heather—our kind host on our last night in Anchorage—had recommended so enthusiastically that I bought it at the airport. It tells the story of a young couple undertaking a wild, seven-month, 4,000-mile off-trail journey through the Canadian and Alaskan wilderness. As I read, I realize with a touch of sadness that Matthias and I will never come close to such life-changing experiences. We discovered our passion for outdoor adventures too late, and gained experience at too slow a pace. Over time, our list of commitments grew longer, while our bodies and energy reserves began their slow decline. Gone are the days when I would set out alone on an alpine tour with a 1,900-meter ascent culminating in an exposed UIAA Grade II ridge, turn back just before the summit due to weather, rest for a day in the valley, and then start all over again—because reaching that peak, for reasons I won’t go into here, felt like the most important thing in my life.
As it happened, trekking through the Tombstone Range was on the brink of failure until the very last moment. Matthias needed antibiotics for a newly acquired Lyme borreliosis, but developed another infection several days later that required a different antibiotic. He interrupted the Lyme treatment and began the second antibiotic, which turned out to be ineffective. We were already at check-in in Frankfurt when the doctor called, recommending a third antibiotic and advising us to cancel the trip altogether (a similar letter from the hospital arrived after we were back home). So, upon arriving in Anchorage, instead of preparing for our eight-day trek through Tombstone, we first had to find a doctor. After hearing the full story, he prescribed the correct antibiotic without hesitation. Still, we feared potential side effects that might render Matthias unfit for such an intense outdoor trip. And let’s not forget: after treating the second infection, he was supposed to resume the Lyme therapy. We were worried even before starting the long journey to Yukon, and the place we stayed for our first two nights in Anchorage—a basement apartment, clean only where the eye first landed and rather squalid elsewhere (not to mention the owners pacing and talking loudly through the night)—did little to lift our spirits.
Fast forward three days. Matthias feels well. We managed to buy everything we needed for eight days (back home, we rarely last more than two days without a supermarket visit, but our two-week camping adventure with our son in the French Alps taught us a lot about calorie planning and food rations). We also “survived” the drive along the Taylor and Top of the World Highway. It’s Tuesday morning, August 27, and we pick up our bear containers at the Tombstone Interpretive Center—no fewer than three (but then again, we’re staying for eight days). We listen to the park ranger’s briefing about the weather (apparently it was -15°C up there just last week) and the “infamous” Glissade Pass, which was still covered in icy snow the day before our start. By now, each of us is preoccupied with our own fears: I’m worried about the 12km hike to Grizzly Lake and the extremely steep ascent and descent of Glissade Pass, especially with my very heavy backpack. Matthias is afraid of bears. His backpack is extremely heavy—around 30kg, I’d guess. But the weather is calm, and it will stay that way for the next eight days. Only on the seventh and final night will heavy rain pelt the tent for hours.
As for the trail itself: we covered about 75km over eight days. We spent two nights at Grizzly Lake, two at Divide Lake, and two at Talus Lake. Then we returned to Grizzly Lake for one final night before hiking out on the eighth day. With no phone or internet coverage in the area, we regularly sent “all fine” messages via a Garmin InReach. We didn’t see any bears. Yukon is home to around 6,000–7,000 grizzly bears and 10,000 black bears—but it’s bigger than Germany! The odds of an encounter aren’t that high. Other hikers on the trail around the same time did see bears; we didn’t. We’re not complaining.
I wouldn’t call this trail a true wilderness experience (though it’s certainly no comparison to the Disney-like Alps—albeit ones full of dangers that regularly lead to fatal accidents). There were simply too many people. Tent spots are limited (10–12), and you’re only allowed to camp in designated areas, which means everyone clusters together. If you’re afraid of bears (as we were—Matthias even more than me), that’s a plus. But if you’re seeking solitude or at least quiet, as we also were, this isn’t the place. Even more surprising was discovering that people can fly in and out by helicopter at Talus Lake, turning the camp into something of a small airport. Two groups of photographers arrived that way (and while there, I heard that none other than Mark Adamus was scheduled to hold a workshop in the coming days). Of course, you have more energy to shoot at sunrise, sunset, and even at night when you haven’t had to hike in with 20–30kg on your back. But for me, being a nature photographer means getting to know nature at its most intimate level—finding your way through it, learning how it feels and smells in that place. You must earn your photograph by working hard for it, not by stepping out of a helicopter and lounging around camp waiting for the right light (which, by the way, I missed several times because I lacked the energy for extra hikes at sunset or before sunrise—that’s the downside of hiking in and out :-)).
Closing words (in case someone made it this far): We observed several things during our trip that we couldn’t help but compare with what we know from Europe—specifically Germany. People seemed more open, relaxed, eager to talk, and genuinely helpful—all in a natural and personal way. In Germany, we often feel as though we have to apologize for asking too many questions or for taking up the time of a service provider whose service we’ve actually paid for.
On the highways, we saw construction sites where strong women were operating massive machines—bulldozers, dredgers, excavators, and the like. We’ve never seen women doing this kind of work in Germany.
The biggest cultural shock, however, was walking into Walmart and seeing that one could buy guns as easily as buying bread.
As we drove back to Anchorage through remote places like Chicken and Tok along the Taylor Highway, I turned on the radio. A pleasant female voice from a Fairbanks station was presenting classical music. For the next two hours, we listened to all kinds of pieces—from Max Bruch’s Fantasy for Violin and Orchestra to Scarlatti’s piano sonatas performed by András Schiff, with Mozart’s Concerto for Two Horns in between. It was a perfect match: off-stream music for an off-stream route.
