Alaska by RV
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Advice on Packing and Provisioning
Five Great Ways to See Alaska, No RV Required
My husband and I toss and turn in an overhead bunk, while our daughters sleep serenely in foldout beds below. It is the wee hours of the morning, when the sky is at its inkiest and you feel as though you're, if not the last person alive, certainly the last one awake. Cars and trucks whiz past on a nearby road, and planes still take off and land. So what are we doing in this tin can, parked at Anchorage International Airport?
We'd always wanted to see Alaska, especially in the summer when its whiter-than-white features thaw into a tangle of color. Amyas and I and our girls—Saskia, eight, and Tamzen, six—had already had grand adventures out West in Yellowstone and Yosemite. Then, one summer in Montana's Glacier National Park, as we squinted through binoculars at a speck of a black bear receding up a mountain, a man next to us said, "Go to Denali: Tundra. Taiga. Grizzlies galore."
But how do you plan a trip to a state that spans 600,000 square miles?Fortunately, early in my flounderings I discovered that, thanks to mountains, glaciers, and infinite wilderness, most of Alaska lacks roads—which immediately narrowed our options. Our two-week, late-August loop drive would encompass just a fraction of this vastness. We'd begin and end in Anchorage, the hub of south-central Alaska, and take in Denali National Park—home to 20,320-foot Mount McKinley, the tallest peak in North America—as well as the country's largest national park, raw, rugged Wrangell-St. Elias.
I assumed we'd rent a car and pack a tent and sleeping bags. Wrong. When making a reservation at Teklanika, a campground deep in Denali, I was asked if we had a "hard-sided vehicle."
A what?
"An RV, a recreational vehicle," the agent said. "Teklanika is closed to tent camping because of wildlife activity." In other words, bears and wolves are on the prowl. If we wanted to return home without teeth marks, we'd need an RV.
And so it was that we ended up flying across the continent, touching down after midnight in Anchorage, and taking a taxi to the RV rental agency, where our 21-foot Dutchmen Express motor home was ready for us and our five duffels.
We all return to the mother ship, which looks quite compact next to the 30-foot rigs parked alongside it, yet alarmingly large compared to our Volvo back home. Sandi runs through which hose connects to which tank and how to check the water level. But I'm already suffering from information overload.
"Any questions?" she asks.
I have dozens of questions. But at the moment I can't string them into sentences. I decide to mention that the agency forgot to leave us toilet paper the previous night.
"Oops. Sorry. Have a great trip!"
Amyas hoists himself into the driver's seat; I slide in next to him while Saskia buckles up at the table and Tamzen claims a bench. He may be an art dealer back home, but Amyas handles the wheel like a trucker on the Anchorage-to-Boise route. I feel vaguely embarrassed to be seen in this giant appliance. Not the girls. "Our RV rocks!" erupts from the back. After a stop at an Alaska-scaled supermarket—aisles the length of a city block, Honda Civic-sized shopping carts—we hit the road.
Our route today will take us north to the town of Talkeetna, at the confluence of the Talkeetna and Susitna rivers, about halfway to Denali. Instead of heading straight there on the George Parks Highway, we decide to heed the advice in our guidebook and detour over scenic Hatcher Pass. Once we start barreling down Glenn Highway toward the turnoff, we get our first lesson in RV basics: Always batten down the hatches. Driving more than 20 miles per hour in an RV is akin to encountering air turbulence in a plane. Contents will not only shift, but fly off counters and out of cabinets, especially on unpaved roads.
Advice on Packing and Provisioning
Five Great Ways to See Alaska, No RV Required
My husband and I toss and turn in an overhead bunk, while our daughters sleep serenely in foldout beds below. It is the wee hours of the morning, when the sky is at its inkiest and you feel as though you're, if not the last person alive, certainly the last one awake. Cars and trucks whiz past on a nearby road, and planes still take off and land. So what are we doing in this tin can, parked at Anchorage International Airport?
We'd always wanted to see Alaska, especially in the summer when its whiter-than-white features thaw into a tangle of color. Amyas and I and our girls—Saskia, eight, and Tamzen, six—had already had grand adventures out West in Yellowstone and Yosemite. Then, one summer in Montana's Glacier National Park, as we squinted through binoculars at a speck of a black bear receding up a mountain, a man next to us said, "Go to Denali: Tundra. Taiga. Grizzlies galore."
But how do you plan a trip to a state that spans 600,000 square miles?Fortunately, early in my flounderings I discovered that, thanks to mountains, glaciers, and infinite wilderness, most of Alaska lacks roads—which immediately narrowed our options. Our two-week, late-August loop drive would encompass just a fraction of this vastness. We'd begin and end in Anchorage, the hub of south-central Alaska, and take in Denali National Park—home to 20,320-foot Mount McKinley, the tallest peak in North America—as well as the country's largest national park, raw, rugged Wrangell-St. Elias.
I assumed we'd rent a car and pack a tent and sleeping bags. Wrong. When making a reservation at Teklanika, a campground deep in Denali, I was asked if we had a "hard-sided vehicle."
A what?
"An RV, a recreational vehicle," the agent said. "Teklanika is closed to tent camping because of wildlife activity." In other words, bears and wolves are on the prowl. If we wanted to return home without teeth marks, we'd need an RV.
And so it was that we ended up flying across the continent, touching down after midnight in Anchorage, and taking a taxi to the RV rental agency, where our 21-foot Dutchmen Express motor home was ready for us and our five duffels.
MOTOR HOME 101
By 8 a.m., after I've filled every drawer, shelf, and closet, everything fits! We head to our RV orientation and meet Sandi, who breezes through the contract and all sorts of technical mumbo jumbo. Ominous words like propane, waste tank, and generator hang in the air. "Pay attention," I snap at Amyas, who is snatching up pre-owned salt, pepper, and pancake mix left by RV'ers who've come and gone. We all return to the mother ship, which looks quite compact next to the 30-foot rigs parked alongside it, yet alarmingly large compared to our Volvo back home. Sandi runs through which hose connects to which tank and how to check the water level. But I'm already suffering from information overload.
"Any questions?" she asks.
I have dozens of questions. But at the moment I can't string them into sentences. I decide to mention that the agency forgot to leave us toilet paper the previous night.
"Oops. Sorry. Have a great trip!"
Amyas hoists himself into the driver's seat; I slide in next to him while Saskia buckles up at the table and Tamzen claims a bench. He may be an art dealer back home, but Amyas handles the wheel like a trucker on the Anchorage-to-Boise route. I feel vaguely embarrassed to be seen in this giant appliance. Not the girls. "Our RV rocks!" erupts from the back. After a stop at an Alaska-scaled supermarket—aisles the length of a city block, Honda Civic-sized shopping carts—we hit the road.
Our route today will take us north to the town of Talkeetna, at the confluence of the Talkeetna and Susitna rivers, about halfway to Denali. Instead of heading straight there on the George Parks Highway, we decide to heed the advice in our guidebook and detour over scenic Hatcher Pass. Once we start barreling down Glenn Highway toward the turnoff, we get our first lesson in RV basics: Always batten down the hatches. Driving more than 20 miles per hour in an RV is akin to encountering air turbulence in a plane. Contents will not only shift, but fly off counters and out of cabinets, especially on unpaved roads.
From our vantage point high atop the highway, we see a lot of firsts: our first mountain range sliced by glaciers, our first braided river (a wide, sandy riverbed interlaced with narrow, watery channels), our first jumbo RV park, and our first MOOSE CROSSING sign pockmarked with bullet holes. America's last frontier is evidently home to more than a few target-happy hunters and others with outlaw ways.
We climb through a landscape of Sitka spruce, quaking aspens, and birch trees. Fireweed, a plant we soon learn is ubiquitous in these parts, grows by the road. It has pink flowers in June and July, but now—already autumn this far north—it's ablaze with red leaves. Just before the road turns to gravel, we pass another bullet-riddled sign: TRAILERS, CAMPERS, AND RV'S ARE NOT RECOMMENDED BEYOND THIS POINT.
Talkeetna, which lies at the end of a spur off the highway, has a hip counterculture-meets-the-backwoods vibe. On a stroll around town—galleries selling nature photography, adventure tour operators (a run up McKinley, anyone?), and shower-and-laundry services—we pass grizzled types with ponytails and down vests as well as bronzed mountaineers in head-to-toe Patagonia. There are two RV parks in town, one with front-row views of McKinley, the other with electric and water hookups and hot showers. The call of comfort wins. Our neighbors in their gargantuan taverns-on-wheels carouse noisily until all hours, and at first I feel hemmed in. But once we close our blinds, our Dutchmen feels cozy—ideal for the four of us.
En route to Denali the next day, the Alaska Rangegets bigger and bigger. Before the town named Honolulu—"Dream on!" I yell out the window—we pull over and hike down to Troublesome Creek. The lush woods have a surprisingly tropical feel. Cottonwoods and willows are draped with a wispy emerald moss called old man's beard. Ferns, wild rose, and huge red-capped mushrooms cover the ground.
Inside the national park we drive into what looks like prehistory. Stunted spruces stand near the road while waves of tundra roll toward mountains white with clouds and snow. We'll spend the next four days at Teklanika Campground, which has 53 motor-home sites, each surrounded by sentry-like conifers.
We either pack lunch for an all-day expedition, or return home between walks. Denali offers guided hikes and narrated bus tours, but we strike out on our own. One morning we get off the park shuttle at Tattler Creek, where we gorge on tangy little blueberries and scramble up steep, scree-covered slopes to a high col. Another day we explore Caribou Creek, walking on spongy tussocks and bushwhacking through prickly shrubs.
Everywhere, I scan for bears. During a walk on Denali Park Road, we pass a sign with gnawed edges that reads, NO HIKING OFF ROAD FOR NEXT FIVE MILES DUE TO WILDLIFE ACTIVITY. The park service has spiked the sign with nails, voodoo doll-style, to keep grizzlies from devouring it.
Fortunately, our many animal sightings are made from the safety of shuttle buses: caribou walking in single file; munching moose; golden eagles and ptarmigans; Dall sheep on distant inclines; and, most exciting, those lumbering grizzlies—especially the golden sows with their black cubs. Although we hear wolves howling at night, we never see one. Our closest wildlife encounter occurs one afternoon when we're toasting s'mores over a campfire. Out of nowhere, fearless gray jaysstart dive-bombing for graham cracker crumbs.
The most relaxing time in the RV is cocktail hour. Amyas, the cook in our family, prepares pasta with tomato sauce or chicken with rice in the kitchen at the rear of the vehicle. The girls write, draw, read, or play one of their imaginary games—baby, teacher, house (which, in the RV, has risen to new heights of domestic creativity), or, the current favorite, park ranger ("If you see a bear, follow these steps . . . "). I curl up in the passenger seat with my mug o' wine and watch fellow RV'ers traipse to and from a pump. After dinner my grim housekeeping duties begin. To conserve water I wash dishes frugally, so they always have a film of grease. But I'm manic about sweeping our white linoleum floor. "Take your shoes off!" I bellow when anyone enters the motor home.
We climb through a landscape of Sitka spruce, quaking aspens, and birch trees. Fireweed, a plant we soon learn is ubiquitous in these parts, grows by the road. It has pink flowers in June and July, but now—already autumn this far north—it's ablaze with red leaves. Just before the road turns to gravel, we pass another bullet-riddled sign: TRAILERS, CAMPERS, AND RV'S ARE NOT RECOMMENDED BEYOND THIS POINT.
THIS IS THE BIG TIME
We decide to take our chances. Soon we're tracing dramatic switchbacks above the tree line and into the clouds. Once over the pass, we drive in and out of rain and splash through water-filled potholes and muddy washboard. Ponds materialize behind beaver dams. Aqua-colored glacial runoff courses down the mountains. When the motor home is parked, Amyas discovers—to my terror and the girls' delight—that the best views are from its rain-slicked roof, reached by the back ladder. As we descend toward the George Parks Highway, we catch a glimpse of McKinley, a twin-peaked ice cube swathed in clouds. Talkeetna, which lies at the end of a spur off the highway, has a hip counterculture-meets-the-backwoods vibe. On a stroll around town—galleries selling nature photography, adventure tour operators (a run up McKinley, anyone?), and shower-and-laundry services—we pass grizzled types with ponytails and down vests as well as bronzed mountaineers in head-to-toe Patagonia. There are two RV parks in town, one with front-row views of McKinley, the other with electric and water hookups and hot showers. The call of comfort wins. Our neighbors in their gargantuan taverns-on-wheels carouse noisily until all hours, and at first I feel hemmed in. But once we close our blinds, our Dutchmen feels cozy—ideal for the four of us.
En route to Denali the next day, the Alaska Rangegets bigger and bigger. Before the town named Honolulu—"Dream on!" I yell out the window—we pull over and hike down to Troublesome Creek. The lush woods have a surprisingly tropical feel. Cottonwoods and willows are draped with a wispy emerald moss called old man's beard. Ferns, wild rose, and huge red-capped mushrooms cover the ground.
Inside the national park we drive into what looks like prehistory. Stunted spruces stand near the road while waves of tundra roll toward mountains white with clouds and snow. We'll spend the next four days at Teklanika Campground, which has 53 motor-home sites, each surrounded by sentry-like conifers.
WHERE THE BEARS ARE
Our days here take on a pleasing RV rhythm. Mornings are always freezing. Amyas gets out of bed and turns on the heat. I'm next, slithering down over the front seats. Once Saskia, our self-appointed majordomo, is up, she's in action: making and folding up her and her sister's beds (often with Tamzen, howling, still in hers), then setting the table for breakfast—sometimes eggs or pancakes, often simply cereal and bananas. We either pack lunch for an all-day expedition, or return home between walks. Denali offers guided hikes and narrated bus tours, but we strike out on our own. One morning we get off the park shuttle at Tattler Creek, where we gorge on tangy little blueberries and scramble up steep, scree-covered slopes to a high col. Another day we explore Caribou Creek, walking on spongy tussocks and bushwhacking through prickly shrubs.
Everywhere, I scan for bears. During a walk on Denali Park Road, we pass a sign with gnawed edges that reads, NO HIKING OFF ROAD FOR NEXT FIVE MILES DUE TO WILDLIFE ACTIVITY. The park service has spiked the sign with nails, voodoo doll-style, to keep grizzlies from devouring it.
Fortunately, our many animal sightings are made from the safety of shuttle buses: caribou walking in single file; munching moose; golden eagles and ptarmigans; Dall sheep on distant inclines; and, most exciting, those lumbering grizzlies—especially the golden sows with their black cubs. Although we hear wolves howling at night, we never see one. Our closest wildlife encounter occurs one afternoon when we're toasting s'mores over a campfire. Out of nowhere, fearless gray jaysstart dive-bombing for graham cracker crumbs.
The most relaxing time in the RV is cocktail hour. Amyas, the cook in our family, prepares pasta with tomato sauce or chicken with rice in the kitchen at the rear of the vehicle. The girls write, draw, read, or play one of their imaginary games—baby, teacher, house (which, in the RV, has risen to new heights of domestic creativity), or, the current favorite, park ranger ("If you see a bear, follow these steps . . . "). I curl up in the passenger seat with my mug o' wine and watch fellow RV'ers traipse to and from a pump. After dinner my grim housekeeping duties begin. To conserve water I wash dishes frugally, so they always have a film of grease. But I'm manic about sweeping our white linoleum floor. "Take your shoes off!" I bellow when anyone enters the motor home.
Chores done, we usually attend a ranger talk. At one called "Scat and Tracks" we learn to distinguish moose, wolf, and caribou traces. As we head home, we meet a Pennsylvania family— a doctor and a physical therapist with two daughters the same ages as ours. They invite us back to their spacious RV, 30 feet long with a master bedroom in the back. As the girls somersault off the top bunk, we talk motor-home shop.
Amyas and I have noticed that most conversations at Denali have a competitive edge. Topics include wildlife sightings (the more animals, the better), cameras (who has the fanciest), and whether or not you've seen McKinley (the mountain's weather conditions make this hit-or-miss).
On our last morning in the park, the sky is clear and we have superb mountain views. After a sled dog demonstration at the kennel near the visitors' center, we make a pit stop to dump 'n' fill. By now Amyas, with Saskia's help, is adept at emptying the waste tank and replenishing the water tank. All it takes, he claims, is dexterity with a hose.
The rest of the trip follows the jagged contours of the mountains that surround us, alternating between extraordinary highs and vexing lows. For me, many of the highs relate to my growing fascination with glaciers, culminating in a decision to pursue a career as a glaciologist as soon as I can find the time. We take a joy ride in a six-seater Cessna over the Kennicott, Root, and Gates glaciers in Wrangell-St. Elias National Park. Our pilot zooms up to the Stairway Icefall, close to Mount Blackburn, then cruises low over the glaciers; their ice and rock striations look like oozing Oreo cookies. Later, north of Valdez off the Richardson Highway, Tamzen provides some comic relief when she attempts a walk on minty-blue Worthington Glacier in a kid's version of strappy Manolos. And out on Prince William Sound, toward the end of the vacation, during a ferry ride from Valdez to Whittier, the temperature drops 10 degrees in as many minutes as our boat nears 30-mile-long Columbia Glacier.
Most of the lows result from our struggles with the motor home's water supply. Despite our self-restricted usage—showers every third day and limited toilet flushing—the water level is often down to a half or a third of the tank the day after we fill up. When we pull into the former railroad town of Chitina, just outside Wrangell-St. Elias, we are counting on finding a full-service RV park.
"You passed it 30 miles back in Kenny Lake," says the cashier at a gas station. "But you can get water at the fire department. Do you have a hose?" No. Nor, it appears, does anyone else in town, until we run into Alex, an enterprising 10-year-old. "Come to my house," he says. "We always give folks free water." He hops on his bike and we follow him. Sure enough, there's a water tank—with a hose—in his yard. He sells the girls gorgeous chunks of teal copper ore ($4 each).
We see more copper ore when we tour the park's ghost town of Kennicott,at the edge of Kennicott Glacier. In 1900, prospectors discovered rich deposits here and a company town grew up, only to be abandoned in 1938 after the ore ran out. Today the National Trust for Historic Preservation and other groups are working to save the red clapboard buildings. From atop the 14-story mill, we gaze at hills made of mine tailings, winking blue and green in the sun. Fewer than 50 people live in the area year-round. On a bus ride into McCarthy, five miles down the road, the driver tells us there are no newspapers, TV's, or radio, though "one person has a shortwave."
The next day we backtrack to Kenny Lake, where ours is one of only two motor homes at the RV park. Even though it's cold and raining, I'm in an expansive mood and don't mind when the girls splash barefoot in the puddles. I even take the wheel for the first time. My destination?Thirty yards to the dump station.
EVE GLASBERG is a former senior editor at Travel + Leisure.
Amyas and I have noticed that most conversations at Denali have a competitive edge. Topics include wildlife sightings (the more animals, the better), cameras (who has the fanciest), and whether or not you've seen McKinley (the mountain's weather conditions make this hit-or-miss).
On our last morning in the park, the sky is clear and we have superb mountain views. After a sled dog demonstration at the kennel near the visitors' center, we make a pit stop to dump 'n' fill. By now Amyas, with Saskia's help, is adept at emptying the waste tank and replenishing the water tank. All it takes, he claims, is dexterity with a hose.
GLACIERS ARE COOL
We head east on gravel-topped Denali Highway, which parallels the snowcapped Alaska Range, through high-alpine terrain of taiga and blue lakes. Unlike the more trafficked George Parks Highway, where we passed a parade of RV's, we see very few vehicles of any sort. At night, we camp in the middle of nowhere. That's the beauty of RV travel: you simply find a glorious spot and settle in. The rest of the trip follows the jagged contours of the mountains that surround us, alternating between extraordinary highs and vexing lows. For me, many of the highs relate to my growing fascination with glaciers, culminating in a decision to pursue a career as a glaciologist as soon as I can find the time. We take a joy ride in a six-seater Cessna over the Kennicott, Root, and Gates glaciers in Wrangell-St. Elias National Park. Our pilot zooms up to the Stairway Icefall, close to Mount Blackburn, then cruises low over the glaciers; their ice and rock striations look like oozing Oreo cookies. Later, north of Valdez off the Richardson Highway, Tamzen provides some comic relief when she attempts a walk on minty-blue Worthington Glacier in a kid's version of strappy Manolos. And out on Prince William Sound, toward the end of the vacation, during a ferry ride from Valdez to Whittier, the temperature drops 10 degrees in as many minutes as our boat nears 30-mile-long Columbia Glacier.
Most of the lows result from our struggles with the motor home's water supply. Despite our self-restricted usage—showers every third day and limited toilet flushing—the water level is often down to a half or a third of the tank the day after we fill up. When we pull into the former railroad town of Chitina, just outside Wrangell-St. Elias, we are counting on finding a full-service RV park.
"You passed it 30 miles back in Kenny Lake," says the cashier at a gas station. "But you can get water at the fire department. Do you have a hose?" No. Nor, it appears, does anyone else in town, until we run into Alex, an enterprising 10-year-old. "Come to my house," he says. "We always give folks free water." He hops on his bike and we follow him. Sure enough, there's a water tank—with a hose—in his yard. He sells the girls gorgeous chunks of teal copper ore ($4 each).
We see more copper ore when we tour the park's ghost town of Kennicott,at the edge of Kennicott Glacier. In 1900, prospectors discovered rich deposits here and a company town grew up, only to be abandoned in 1938 after the ore ran out. Today the National Trust for Historic Preservation and other groups are working to save the red clapboard buildings. From atop the 14-story mill, we gaze at hills made of mine tailings, winking blue and green in the sun. Fewer than 50 people live in the area year-round. On a bus ride into McCarthy, five miles down the road, the driver tells us there are no newspapers, TV's, or radio, though "one person has a shortwave."
The next day we backtrack to Kenny Lake, where ours is one of only two motor homes at the RV park. Even though it's cold and raining, I'm in an expansive mood and don't mind when the girls splash barefoot in the puddles. I even take the wheel for the first time. My destination?Thirty yards to the dump station.
EVE GLASBERG is a former senior editor at Travel + Leisure.
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