While the forest trails were delightful, there was something about skiing up the Susitna River that captured what we love most about Alaska: a vast riverbed winding toward an epic mountain range.

Traveling up the river on the foray a few days ago with Wendy and Jorge felt like the closest we had been to the Brooks Range since we were last there a year and a half ago, an absence brought on by family tragedy and a knee injury. Being on that big river was good for my soul. It woke it up. It reminded us how excited we are for the summer to come in the far north. We decided to explore it again today and head further up river.

Ahead of us the river divided: one fork heading due north to the right, another bending northwest toward Denali. My instincts wanted to go that way, but this was only a day trip, and from the plane we had spotted some promising snowmachine tracks heading up the right fork. So that’s the direction we chose.

The river itself is enormous, maybe a mile across at its widest point. In summer it is likely a brown, intimidating torrent. But here in February, as winter reaches its peak, the entire riverbed is locked in ice and snow and becomes wonderful terrain for travel. Occasionally we spotted open leads and kept a careful eye out for soft ice, knowing we don’t really know much about skiing big Alaskan rivers in winter. Still, the skiing was smooth and fast, and the cold a few meters down on the riverbed was sharp.

We skied north toward the heart of the Alaska Range, close enough to touch, though I suspect it would take a week to reach those mountains from here. Funny how a plane can do it in fifteen minutes.

The river led us north, the best direction. We were back in the Alaska we love: wild country, a landscape that makes you feel small because you are. We spotted half a dozen moose grazing on willows. When they noticed us they darted across the river, alert and alive in a way that moose in Colorado rarely seem to be. Out here there are plenty of two-footed and four-footed things that would happily eat them, and they know that.

Eventually we looped back across the river, weaving through small islands and stopping with the late afternoon sun directly in our faces, soaking in a little warmth against the cold. Just then we heard the distant drone of an airplane growing louder. It spotted us, turned downriver, and passed directly overhead. It’s something fairly common in Alaska, the kind of fly-by that might get you shot in Boulder. Out here it feels more like a wilderness salute between travelers.

We skied back downriver feeling tired in the best possible way after several long days of skiing. The body settles into a kind of autopilot, breathing steady, muscles working, cold air filling the lungs. Moving through the cold, becoming part of it.

The light did that thing northern light does. The sky shifted from orange to pink to the blue haze that belongs to the Arctic. I love that winter light. I could get used to that light.

It was our last evening in town, so we grabbed a pizza, went back to the cabin, and watched the Winter Olympics. It felt strange to sit there watching world-class racing while knowing the skiing outside the door felt even better.

I could easily imagine doing this for the rest of my life.