Taking a short break from the Greenland journal to tell about a recent trip to Alaska’s interior.

February 11, 2026

Since we took over the ski shop in 2020, Elaine and I have not taken a midwinter trip. Winters are shaped by opening hours, staff schedules, and the math of how snow affects a small mountain business. 

This year is different. Harder. Elaine tore her ACL and had knee surgery last spring. At one point we thought THAT would be the worst thing to happen, but it was not to be. A few months later her mom was diagnosed with an inoperable tumor, she passed away brutally last summer and the effect on the family was akin to getting smacked by a thunderbolt. The grief is still overwhelming. In addition, other issues stacked up without much space between. You get up every morning and put forth your best effort, because that’s what we do, but it hasn’t been easy.

In addition, Colorado is having its worst winter in 50 years. It’s been warm with no snow. We’ve been skiing, but it’s been scrappy. So we started talking about leaving.

The goal was simple: cold, quiet, and space. Lots of nordic skiing and no scene. No lifts, no infrastructure, no feeling of being funneled toward anything. Alaska felt obvious. Coastal towns were tempting, but this time we wanted the interior. Bigger spaces. Deeper woods. The ability to ski for miles without feeling watched or hurried. The Susitna River country made sense.

This morning started painfully early. 4 am out of Eldora. By the time we landed in Anchorage we were exhausted, but the timing was intentional. We had come in February specifically to see Crossings, the exhibition by Roman Dial at the Anchorage Museum. The work centers on the Brooks Range, a landscape that has shaped much of how we think about effort, humility, and travel in the north.

There were two reasons for that stop. First, Roman is the real deal. His knowledge comes from decades of moving through the land. The work isn’t about conquest or speed. It’s about paying attention. 

Second, after the summer we had, we realized we might have lost a little nerve. Not fear exactly, but sharpness. That quiet confidence that lets you imagine big routes without immediately listing reasons not to go. With a long expedition planned this coming summer, we needed to remember how to dream again.

Walking through the exhibit while exhausted felt strangely right. Images of skiers crossing rivers, bikers hiking down glaciers, and Roman and his friends moving through remote places. Nothing flashy. Nothing rushed. Just people moving deliberately through difficult terrain. It reminded us that hard things can be done gently, and that adventure does not have to announce itself.

The drive north was slow and tiring. Snowy roads and heavy eyelids made the two hours feel longer than they were. Anchorage faded behind us, the landscape flattened and widened, and the woods thickened. By the time we arrived, all we wanted was food and stillness.

We cooked tortellini. Simple and warm. Then we clipped into skis and stepped out the door.

The loop was short, maybe a mile, but the snow was perfect. Cold, dry, quiet. It was easily the best snow we had skied all year. We moved slowly. No big goal. No plan. Just shaking out the cobwebs of travel with the familiar rhythm of poles, skis and breath in the dark northern woods.

After an 18 month hiatus, it felt good to be in the north again.