On an August morning when the weather forecast in Winston-Salem promised 92 degrees and 92 percent humidity — along with the continuation of a drought — I got up early, put on several layers of clothing, a wool hat, mittens and rain gear. I was in the wilds of Alaska.
I stepped out of our tiny cabin to a light rain and a jaw-dropping view of the mountains of Denali National Park. Denali — aka Mount McKinley — was shrouded in clouds, as it often is. At 20,320 feet, it is the highest mountain in North America and towers above the other peaks in the Alaska Range, which are nonetheless awe-inspiring.
We had started our Alaska adventure a week earlier on the Inside Passage, the panhandle that stretches to the southeast. We were on a 120-foot boat, small enough to get into the nooks and crannies off Endicott Arm, places where we paddled sea kayaks to get a closer view of black oystercatchers and dozens of 1,000-pound Steller's sea lions.
Tiny harbor porpoises broke the surface just an arm's length from our kayak. Among the smallest of marine mammals, they're an eighth of the size of the bottle-nosed dolphins that are common on the Carolina coast.
As we paddled closer to Dawes Glacier it calved, a chunk of ice the size of a house plunging into the water. Glaucous-winged gulls, herring gulls and black-legged kittiwakes flocked to the commotion, swooping down to pick up fish stunned or killed by the falling ice.
Harbor seals resting on icebergs ignored the excitement. They had had their fill and basked in the sun now, their thick coats and layers of blubber insulating them from the cold.
The next day we paddled around a tiny cove sheltered from the cold winds of Stephens Passage. Suddenly, two rufous hummingbirds, the most north-ranging of all hummers, swirled toward us. As anyone knows who feeds hummingbirds, they are attracted to flowers, especially those in the red spectrum, and these birds were attracted by our orange life vests. They must have thought, "Wow, where did these giant flowers come from?" They flew up to us, hovered in a bewildered way and flew off. Then they returned a moment later as if thinking, "Maybe I'd better check again."
A few days later, we were 600 miles northwest in Denali hiking through a tundra that was dotted with glacier-carved potholes and lakes. Although caribou, moose, wolves and grizzlies attract most of the attention, the bird life is just as fascinating.
The willow ptarmigan is Alaska's state bird. Related to grouse, the world's three species of ptarmigans — willow, rock and white-tailed, all native to Alaska — are well camouflaged to protect them from the many carnivores and predatory birds such as falcons.
During the breeding season, these birds are dappled with earth tones, while in winter their plumage changes to white. Ptarmigans are so hard-wired to rely on their camouflage that they don't fly when you walk right up to them.
On the last morning of our visit to Denali, I hiked up to a ridge 1,000 feet above our camp. Redpolls and rusty-capped American tree sparrows decorated Sitka spruce trees along the trail on the way up. The ridge was above the tree line, though. There was little vegetation at 3,400 feet. But there was still wildlife. Pikas, little relatives of rabbits, peeked out of crevices in boulder fields — sort of pika condos. American golden plovers are upland shorebirds that seemed out of place so far from the coast.
As I paused to catch my breath before descending the steep trail back to camp, I looked to see if the clouds had parted to reveal Mount McKinley. They hadn't, but just then a golden eagle soared by majestically.
If you spend enough time in nature, something grand is bound to come your way.
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