My Own Private Denali

The brown spot in my camera’s viewfinder grew larger and began taking shape — four strong legs, two short rounded ears and a powerful shoulder hump. It was a male grizzly, and it was quickly coming our way across the scree. My heart was beating so loudly, I was sure the other photographers could hear it pounding over their clicking shutters.

When the grizzly got within 20 yards, I began to calculate how much time we’d need to retreat to the van if he kept hustling toward us. I assumed a couple of my comrades were doing the same mental math and wondered which of our group would be the consensus sacrifice in the panic. I was pretty sure it would be me.

Thankfully, the bear slowed, and his body language gave no indication that he was concerned about the wildlife paparazzi snapping photos. Instead, he focused on the field of ripe berries surrounding him. We watched as he shoveled clumps of the dark fruit into his mouth with his mammoth paws. It felt like our encounter lasted hours, but likely only 10 minutes had passed before the beautiful brown bruin turned from us and ambled away alongside the quiet dirt road.

Originally established in 1917 for the primary purpose of protecting Dall sheep, Denali National Park and Preserve has expanded in size and scope over the years. Today its mountains, taiga, tundra and glaciers sprawl across 6 million acres of south-central Alaska. The park’s vastness is a siren call for those seeking solitude, adventure and extraordinary wildlife sightings. During the busiest pre-pandemic years, some 600,000 people visited Denali annually, primarily between May and September.

I’d been to Denali twice before that bear run-in, but during my previous visits in 2020 and 2023, I had not been able to venture beyond the park’s front country. The hiking was amazing; Savage Alpine Trail in particular offered great views of the Alaska Range, even if the vicious wind threatened to launch me off the mountain. But what I remember most is the perpetual Patagonia parade. Gazing down from the jagged ridges, I could see an army of brightly colored, fleece-covered ants marching along the trails. As someone who visits parks to get away from other people, I yearned for a wild, remote Alaska experience. Unfortunately, the weather held me back on my first sojourn — a spur-of-the-moment trip — and then more recently, a geologic mishap stopped me.

For many visitors, the quintessential Denali experience involves boarding buses and bouncing along the park’s 92-mile main road, which runs east to west, bisecting the park. (People driving their own cars generally are not allowed past mile marker 15, where asphalt gives way to gravel, unless they’re staying at Teklanika River Campground at mile 29.) But in August 2021, when a long-active landslide worsened due to thawing permafrost (caused in part by climate change), park managers made the decision to close a 300-foot section of the road, starting at mile 43. This effectively shut down more than half of the park to everyone but those willing to fly, bike or hike around the road closure.

Work to reroute the road and build a bridge over the landslide area began in 2023, but a wide array of factors, including the remote location, steep and unstable slopes, short construction seasons, and local labor shortages, have caused multiple delays, said project engineer Steven Mandt. Wonder Lake Campground and five other stops west of the closure — Polychrome Overlook, Toklat River, Stony Hill Overlook, Eielson Visitor Center and Kantishna — will remain shuttered until 2027, when the road is slated to reopen to the public.

Though traffic continues to flow on the open part of the Denali Park Road, the western half is “a virtual ghost town compared to the high daily volume of buses and visitors prior to the closure,” said Simon Hamm, who co-owns the Camp Denali lodge with his wife, Jenna Hamm. “The heart of one of the world’s celebrated wilderness parks has suddenly gone from near congestion to visitation levels that existed nearly 75 years ago.” In the recent past, traffic would pile up when a photogenic creature wandered into view. Now when visitors spot animals like our grizzly, “there’s no pressure to move along so the next busload can have their turn,” Simon Hamm said. “Provided the animal is unperturbed, we have the luxury to observe it for however long we choose.”

During the early days of the pandemic, scientists around the world noted that while humans sheltered in place, wildlife ventured into areas they previously had avoided. That may be the case in the Denali backcountry as well, though it’s unclear how the absence of buses has affected the movements of bears, caribou, moose and wolves. The National Park Service has seized the opportunity to research how wildlife has reacted to the closure, but its study is set to continue for two years after the road reopens, so it will be a while before all the data is in.

The closed road would seemingly be the death knell for the private lodges in Denali’s backcountry, but in 2022, three (of four) began flying guests in via small commuter aircraft or helicopter. That caught my attention.

For more than a decade, I’ve traveled the world photographing wildlife and writing about the outdoors. Two subjects I keep returning to over and over are national parks and grizzly bears, which I’ve been infatuated with since my first sighting in 2018. I have a modified arrowhead logo symbolizing three of my favorite national parks (Acadia, Yosemite and Katmai) tattooed on my left leg, while an image of a brown bear — based on a photo I took in Katmai — graces my right leg. I’ve visited every national park in the contiguous U.S. and Hawaii and have been slowly ticking off the Alaska parks.

Venturing into the Denali backcountry would be the culmination of my two biggest obsessions, and I dreamt of returning to finally explore that last frontier. The promise of few visitors and abundant wildlife made it all the more enticing, and the flights to the lodges, though expensive, seemed well worth it. After several months of plotting via email with lodge staff, I picked a week in early September.

When I arrived at the Denali Air terminal just outside the park for my backcountry flight, the valley was covered in a fog thicker than the inside of Willie Nelson’s tour bus. But after a short wait, our pilot, Roger Füiten, determined that the weather had improved enough to fly, and we climbed into the Cessna 206 that would take us deep into the park. Because the plane was so small, the gear and passengers needed to be weighed before loading. Sliding into the copilot’s seat, I thought about the earlier weigh-in and wished I’d skipped breakfast that morning (and also every morning for the last couple of decades).

Füiten flew so close to the mountains we could see the Dall sheep lazing about on an impossibly steep rock face. But the fog was still hovering over the airstrip when it came time to land, and we had to go back to the terminal. Although bummed by the delay, I was just as relieved that Füiten didn’t ask “Who feels lucky?” and plunge the plane downward into the cloudy gloom. Fortunately, the fog dissipated enough that we were able to land on our second attempt a few hours later. Less than 10 minutes after arriving, our small group was on its way to Kantishna Roadhouse. 

A former mining camp, Kantishna is operated by Doyon, Limited, an Alaska Native corporation. (Denali sits on the traditional lands of the Ahtna, Dena’ina, Koyukon, Upper Kuskokwim, Tanana and other Native Tribes who have lived there for thousands of years and continue to use the land to this day.) My cabin was sparsely furnished, but comfortable enough, with running water and electricity provided by a large diesel generator.

At Kantishna, days started out with an optional outing to seek out wildlife. Before sunrise, three or four of us would pile into a van with our coffees and massive camera lenses, and head east on Park Road. On the second morning, we hit pay dirt when we spotted a caribou just as the sun had begun peeking over the mountains. Illuminated by a thin ray of light, the caribou strolled across a field dotted with willow, seemingly posing in front of Denali itself. (I should mention here that President Trump issued an executive order changing the name of the park’s eponymous peak back to Mount McKinley, after a former president who never visited Alaska, but it will always be Denali to me.)

During breakfast, as we ogled pics of the ungulates we had spotted earlier, our guides would lay out potential hikes for the day. The first hike I embarked on was the 5-mile McKinley Bar Trail, not too far from Wonder Lake. It was relatively easy, passing through spruce forests and across wooden boardwalks above the reedy marshes. The wild blueberries were abundant along the trail; with every stop, we scooped up handfuls, their sweetness a tasty enticement to continue.

The return of autumn coincided perfectly with my stay. The golds and reds of willows, poplars, blueberry bushes and fireweed contrasted sharply with the green spruce trees. It looked as if a humongous box of bright crayons had spilled across the tundra.

At the end of each day, we hung out in the main lodge, sipping Alaskan Ambers and Husky IPAs. Around 7 p.m., we’d gather in the dining room to eat a gourmet dinner, usually something along the lines of freshly caught salmon served with vegetables grown on the premises and slathered in an exotic-sounding sauce.

Despite our different backgrounds and ages, the other Kantishna guests and I quickly felt a sense of comradery. We told stories from home and shared discoveries big and small from the day: the bear fur stuck to the side of a tree or the blueberry-and-bone-filled scat found on the trail. 

The McKinley Bar excursion was a good warmup for my second hike: a 12-mile climb to Friday Ridge and back. Official hiking trails are limited in Denali, so our route took us along a narrow, overgrown social trail. Making my way up, I couldn’t decide what I hated more, the low-hanging willow branches or the unrelenting gradient of the path. “I’ve climbed ladders less steep than this trail,” I thought, albeit with more colorful language. With each step, the ache in my Hoosier flatland legs intensified.

As we hiked through spongy tundra and higher on the rocky cliff face, hints of the Alaska Range began to appear in the distance. Finally reaching the ridgeline, I gulped down some water and took in the park’s most famous mountain in all its majesty. Towering above the rest of the Alaska Range at 20,310 feet, Denali is the highest mountain in North America and a bucket-list climb for many alpinists. Comparatively, the Kantishna Hills are barely bumps on the topo map, but as far as my weary body was concerned, Friday Ridge was my Denali.

When my time at Kantishna came to a close, a staff member drove me to Camp Denali, a more rugged lodge 2 miles away. After the initial pleasantries, I was led to my cabin, which was a seven-minute walk from the main lodge. (I’d quickly learn that the trip back was almost entirely uphill, which is one way to get your blood pumping first thing in the morning.)

Cabins were devoid of power, save for a battery-powered wall light. An outside spigot provided water, while heat was generated by a small woodburning stove in the corner. The sparse furnishings — just a bed, desk, chair and washbasin — wouldn’t have been out of place when the national park was established. Given that I look like a turn-of-the-century lumberjack, why shouldn’t I live like one?

After breakfast in the lodge the first morning, visitors broke out into groups, mainly hikers and wildlife photographers. Still recovering from my Friday Ridge climb, I happily joined the photographers out to the road closure and back, looking for any sign of movement in the hills. We saw a few bears from a distance, lots of caribou, and plenty of ptarmigans and other birds with impressive names I immediately forgot.

The next day, I joined a group doing a 6-mile jaunt through the scree and tundra in a light drizzle. Because there were no trails, we were dependent on our guide’s instructions: When she pointed us toward a ridge, that’s where we went.

Up on the hilltop, we gazed upon miles of red berry thickets, small pockets of forest, hills transitioning to mountains and a seemingly never-ending expanse of tundra. I shuddered at the thought of getting lost in this vast wilderness without a GPS device or map and compass.

That night, I woke up in the wee hours, needing to do what middle-aged men need to do at that time. Walking out the door, I saw Denali underneath the clearest sky, illuminated by thousands upon thousands of stars. I had my camera and tripod at the ready for such a sight, but instead of taking action, I muttered, “I’ll take the photo tomorrow,” and went back to bed. As luck would have it, it was overcast the remaining nights, and the scene never did repeat itself.

I regretted that moment of somnolent procrastination, but the rest of my visit was damn near perfect. To be sure, I felt more than a little guilty about enjoying something that was accessible to so few, but I was glad I’d jumped at the opportunity. When Park Road is finally reconstructed, the crowds could be even bigger than before given the pent-up demand, Simon Hamm told me, and some cruise-affiliated hotels close to the park have announced plans to increase occupancy. (Closer to publication, Hamm revised his projections, saying that unfortunately, given the current economic uncertainty and the threats national parks face under the Trump administration, it’s hard to know what to expect.) 

Of course, flying in isn’t the only way to get into the backcountry right now. Though it requires some grit, visitors can still take the bus to the East Fork stop and hike or bike into the far reaches of the park.

During my week in Denali, I only saw one backpacker, a lanky young man from Japan. Bikepackers were more prevalent; each day we saw about a half dozen chugging along. On my last day in the park, shortly after the hair-raising grizzly encounter, our group watched as two cyclists churned their way up a steep rise. The first rider was pushing upward with a steady cadence. His companion struggled a bit more under the weight of the loaded panniers and a huge backpack. Just looking at him made my spine hurt.

At the top of the hill, the pair doffed their packs and took a breather. When I walked over to warn them about the nearby grizzly, I learned their names were Ken and Kit Werley, a father and son from Los Alamos and San Diego, respectively. Like so many other visitors I spoke to, Kit said they were there because they wanted to experience “one of the most beautiful places on Earth with no traffic.”

They had started their journey at 6:30 a.m. “We had to push our bikes about 4 miles through and around the closure,” the younger Werley said. “We went up a wash, did about 10 stream crossings and pushed through thigh-high scrub before making it back to the road. It’s already been an adventure!”

He looked a bit weary but couldn’t stop smiling.

I knew the feeling. Denali can do that to a person.