In 1904, Sydney Laurence, an artist approaching the age of 40, deserted his family and moved to Alaska. Though some may find his decision objectionable, his paintings would come to define Alaska's image as the final frontier to Americans longing for a bygone era.
A bitter westerly lashes off the Chukchi Sea, hurling skeins of sleet, fog and snow – typical early June weather for Point Hope, Alaska. This Inupiaq Eskimo village of roughly 700 perches on a weather-raked gravel spit a hundred-some miles north of the Arctic Circle, on the state's northwest coast. Photographer Clark Mishler, Mayor Steve Oomituk and I jounce along over the sparse tundra in Steve's well-used SUV, past rows of oblong mounds, many of them ringed by strange, curving shapes taller than a man, some standing erect, others splayed on the ground. There are hundreds more ahead.
"This is crazy," murmurs Perry Mollan, lead guide of Katmai Wilderness Lodge. Here we are in Kukak Bay, about as wild as Alaska gets, and we're witnessing a scene straight out of Disney: a 400-pound brown bear and a red fox hanging around with each other. In all his years, Perry's never seen anything like it; Alaska photographer Carl Johnson and I are just as flummoxed.
On the cusp of the 20th century, some 100,000 prospectors flooded into the Yukon to strike it rich. There was gold up in the hills and people's eyes glittered with thoughts of prosperous lives. A few thousand did find gold. Most didn't. Some died trying to find it. Some lived and headed back south, empty-handed. Some stayed, made themselves a home and acquired land. On one such property, a decade or so later—1916 to be precise—someone planted a peony root.
Graham Stanford is 18 years old. Standing just a few inches over five feet tall, he carries a short-barreled .40-caliber rifle as he walks through the waist-high brush in front of me. He stops, holding up his right hand—a signal for the four of us behind him to hold back. I can see over his head: a small field of brown grass divides the nearby lake's edge from a thick stand of alders and a wall of snow- dusted mountains rising up behind them. From our guide's slightly lower vantage, I'm fairly certain he can't see more than a few feet beyond the barrel of his gun. I clutch my camera, as if it might help."There," he says, pointing off to our right. Squinting into the rising sun, I see two small brown forms and one big one, slowly lumbering along the bank about 50 yards away. My heart skips a beat.
To say the suit is snug would be an understatement. I nearly broke a sweat pulling it over my calves, and it was frustrating having to furiously twist my arms to get them out the other side. Now I'm grinding my foot into the booties and working my fingers into the tips of the gloves. Standing up, I feel elastic and toned, wound up and ready to spring open. But it's only a feeling.
This image was taken by Patrick Endres in his travels through Alaska. Can you tell us where you will find this view? Tell us on our Facebook page, Facebook.com/AlaskaMagazine
If you fly three hours west out of Anchorage on a Sunday afternoon, along the spine of the Aleutian Islands that separate the Gulf of Alaska from the Bering Sea, and you land in Adak, you'll walk off the plane into an otherworldly place, stunning in its natural beauty, rare for its isolation from technology, rich in military history. You'll also be there just in time for donuts.
Famed mountaineer Bradford Washburn and his team leaned against the body of Bob Reeve's bush plane, pushing the old Fairchild around so it would face the abrupt drop-off of a cliff. When Wash- burn looked into the cockpit, he saw no sign of emotion on the face of pilot Bob Reeve—even though Reeve was about to taxi his plane right off the cliff.
“Don’t run,” I tell myself as two young grizzlies leap out of the forest and scamper down the beach toward us. Then I say it out loud to my wife: “Don’t run!” Even though our guide, Ed Shanley from Above & Beyond Alaska, had us check every pocket to make sure we weren’t carrying any food that might attract bears, the grizzlies seem to be running trough the drizzly afternoon straight at us. Perhaps this is a traditional welcome on Admiralty Island, part of Tongass National Forest near Juneau. We do as we should; we freeze. The Admiralty Island National Monument ranger accompanying us—Carl Koch, a former paramedic from New Jersey—says the two bears are 3 1⁄2 years old, and that this is their first summer on their own. Never run, Koch says again, as he had in our initial briefing: “Even if they are not going to hurt you, they would love to chase you. It’s instinct.” Koch carries a .338 rifle, but assures us he’s never had to use it.