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“I’ve got some bad news this morning,” my guide, Kelly, mumbled as she boiled a pot of coffee. “A bear ran off with our bacon in the night.”
My heart sank into my stomach the moment I heard about our missing bear can. I love bacon, sure, but the thought of a rogue (and hungry) grizzly stumbling around somewhere nearby was a lot to take in before caffeinating. My tent was, at that moment, pitched in a patch of wild blueberries. Plus, our bush plane wouldn’t be able to retrieve the group until we reached our exit point some three days later. We’d need to ration the rest of our snacks until then.
This was my second trip to Alaska’s Wrangell-St. Elias National Park. During the previous visit, in 2020, I had been living in a worn out minivan and traveling to every U.S. national park. It was a journey that rocked the very core of who I thought I was, and here, in one of the largest protected areas in the world, was where I got my heart completely shattered by Adam, the man I thought I would marry, at a small, pockmarked picnic table overlooking Mt. Blackburn.
Three and a half years later, I’d authored a book, relocated to Boulder, Colorado, and fallen in love again. Still, something about that massive expanse of jagged mountains, wide-open tundra, and glacier-carved valleys beckoned for my return. In late summer of 2023, I booked my spot on an all-women backpacking trip with St. Elias Alpine Guides, hoping to forge new memories in a place that had flipped my world upside-down.
The trek was a 22-mile traverse of the notoriously rugged Upper Chitistone Goat Trail, though I’ll be honest, “trail” is a generous euphemism for what we encountered. After a Ziploc snack fiesta and gear shakedown in the tiny gateway town of McCarthy, my group of four boarded a bush plane that was scarcely bigger than a tin can and soared over immense, sparkling glaciers and craggy canyons until we came to a flat, grassy landing strip dubbed “Wolverine.”
My boots squished into spongy alpine vegetation as I hopped out of the aircraft, my 45-pound backpack in tow. The heaviness of the pack mirrored my inner world; thoughts of Adam swirled around in my head. To my right was a bowl-shaped glacial valley surrounded by enormous summits. To my left, electric green tundra and myriad rock berms we’d traverse to reach our first campsite.
Bear scat, ground squirrels, and loose talus played on repeat as my glutes throbbed under the huge pack. By the time we chowed down on a supper of Dan Dan noodles and nestled into our tents, I was feeling accomplished and tired in all the right ways. As if our meadow campsite was blessed by some spontaneous wizardry, an immense double rainbow sprouted in the mist above our tents just as we settled in for bed. A good omen, surely.
The next day made my knees weak and my stomach tremble. The Goat Trail was the main event of our trip, but as we approached a mess of rust-hued scree and sheer drop-offs, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. It looked impossible.
I was used to the manicured trails of California and Colorado. The faint line of footprints that I saw etched into the steep slopes in front of me seemed like the kind of thing a mountain goat with a death wish might attempt. If one of us slipped, we could plummet hundreds of feet off a cliff’s edge.
We moved slowly and cautiously across the unconscionably loose face, Kelly taking the lead. Tearing up with nerves, I kicked steps into the scree as best I could, trying to breathe deeply and take in the otherworldly beauty of my surroundings. We moved slower than a one-legged marmot all afternoon and evening. Despite the adverse circumstances, all four women in our crew stayed cool and collected, inching forward bit by bit and cheering each other on after each one of us finished a particularly butt-puckering stretch.
I began to notice a funny thing as I tiptoed my way across the 50-degree slope: Nearly everywhere I looked, there were heart-shaped bits of talus mixed in with the errant rocks and dirt. It was as if the universe was winking at me, reminding me how far I’d come in three years.
After feeling my life get ripped apart in this very landscape back in 2020, I could see how much braver and sturdier I’d become, precisely because I’d been forced to stare down my worst fears and defeat them. After the breakup, I’d taken a swan-dive into the challenging and fulfilling life I’d always wanted as a freelance writer. Now, I was in a relationship that felt even more viable, long-term, than the one that had disintegrated within these mountains. I thought about my new love, Oliver, each time I leapfrogged over yet another heart-shaped rock.
Together, women can accomplish big, scary things. Once we broke the Goat Trail into small, achievable segments, we were able to inch our way across its terrifying expanse safely, eventually slumping into our tents on a small field above the Chitistone River.
The following morning, bacon gone, we hurriedly packed up our belongings and watched, awestruck, as two subadult grizzlies sprinted up a shrub-covered mound on the opposite side of the river, less than a quarter mile away. Yikes, I thought to myself. We’d better get moving.
The group meandered along a riverine trail for much of the third day, ascending a majestically verdant stretch of grassy hillside that Kelly dubbed “the Shire.” Even under a 40-something pound pack, I felt like I was bounding up and down Wrangell’s uneven, unmaintained slopes. After having my wits tested on the Goat Trail, it was a piece of cake to ascend Chitistone Pass, then scree ski the few remaining miles into Skolai Valley while the icy blue tongue of Russell Glacier came into view. We dove into our final rations and cooked a pot of pesto pasta as a farewell dinner, knowing that a bush plane would arrive the following morning to shuttle us back to McCarthy.
On my final day in Alaska, I struck a deal with my bus driver to make an extra special pit stop at that old picnic table where I had thought my life was ending just three years prior.
Fresh rain beginning to fall, I bent down and gave it a kiss, whispering a soft, “thank you,” to its grooved, pockmarked surface. A gnarled older man camped nearby asked what the heck I was up to, then after I told him my story, he said congratulations and introduced me to his newly adopted puppy.
In 2020, I had left the park feeling lost and defeated. This time, I left feeling light and at ease in the notion that all endings are simply beginnings shrouded in the unknown.