When a friend described Denali Wilderness Lodge as the most remote lodge in the United States, I knew I just had to go there.
Thirty miles east of Denali National Park, it hides in a roadless valley in the heart of the rugged Alaska Range. The only access is by helicopter or bush plane.The single-engine Cessna struggled from the Denali Park runway, over Cody Pass and banked down into a glacial valley. To either side, gray peaks disappeared into a low mist. I soon spotted the lodge among the white spruce and willows lining the milky-green Wood River.
Established in 1907 as a hunting camp to provide meat for gold miners and railroad workers, Denali Wilderness Lodge became an exclusive hunting lodge in the 1960s under Master Guide Lynn Castle. After Castle died in his ninth plane crash in 1991 (he survived eight), Dave and Daniele Thompson turned it into a guest ranch. Now they offer accommodations for up to 48 guests in snug wooden cabins.
Mine was the Paddlewheeler Cabin. It had two single beds, an electric heater in one corner and a small bathroom with toilet and shower.
Hunger drove me to the main lodge where my fellow guests were relaxing around hors d'oeuvres in the museum.
Mounted animal trophies peered from every available wall space, each telling a tale ofCastle's skill as a world-class hunter.
The lodge naturalist cued me in to the wildlife around the lodge. This included grizzly and black bears, moose, caribou and Dall sheep, together with golden eagles and a variety of owls.
In the solarium, we had a delicious dinner of halibut in a thick creamy sauce followed by blueberry pie.
Outside, rain dripped from a low sky, obscuring all but the base of 6,920-foot Mount Anderson.
At 8:30 p.m., eager to get a head start on bear-spotting, I opted for a twilight campfire ride. During the past few evenings, a grizzly had been seen feeding on blueberries on a nearby slope.
I donned rubber boots and raincoat from the stack in the porch and hurried to the stable. The head wrangler carefully matched 20 guests with suitable mounts.
My steed slowly plodded along a muddy path behind the horse in front. In the distance, two moose stood motionless by the river.
After 30 minutes we reached a clearing in the trees. The wrangler started a fire and poured hot chocolate from a thermos.
We sipped the warming liquid and roasted marshmallows. Several members of the group kept binoculars strained on the mountainside. No bear showed up. Disappointed, we returned to the lodge only to discover that guests on a walk had seen a black bear with two cubs.
The next day, hoping to learn more about the flora and fauna of the region, I signed up for an afternoon nature hike with the lodge naturalist.
Our rubber boots squelched across the waterlogged river plain, through strands of dwarf birch and poplars and thickets of willows. Even though it was mid-August, many of the poplars already displayed the gilded tinge of fall.
We followed a trail across a tundra-clad hillside through waist-high blueberry bushes. I had never seen so many different kinds of ripe berries before. Bearberries, cranberries and crowberries all grew by the path. The naturalist pointed out gentians, goldenrods and majestic fireweed.
A golden eagle cruised far above. Ravens complained in the tops of the white spruce.
Shortly we spotted the paw print of a grizzly -- almost as wide as the pathway. A few minutes later, we noticed a pile of bear scat -- a foot-wide, round glob of partially digested blueberries. We followed the recent tracks, but the grizzly kept himself well hidden. Guests on a simultaneous trek to the beaver dams reported a bear sighting.
Sun streamed from an azure sky on my last morning and I was finally able to see the snow-dusted crest of Mount Anderson towering behind the ranch.
After a buffet-style breakfast, I lazed in a swing on the porch of the main lodge waiting for my flight time to be announced.
New friends played horseshoes out front and two black and white husky puppies romped with the children.
Wedged in the canvas rear seat of the Cessna, I watched as we looped above the gravely river bed, the sun glinting on the opaque Wood River.
We swooped over Cody Pass and, after an uneventful, 30-minute flight, were bumping along the Denali Park runway. I never did see a bear.
Christina Williams lives in Colorado.