To Dad: My Farewell Salute
Expect the Unexpected
I don’t recall my first trip to Alaska. Hauling me along for kicks and giggles, my mom and dad got into their ‘53 Chevy and headed north for 2,000 miles along the Alaska Highway to Fairbanks. I suppose it was their way of having one last “big” vacation before I was born.
Little wonder I was born genetically hard-wired with the love of travel.
My return to Alaska was impromptu. My Dad passed away in British Columbia, Canada, and I found myself neither wanting nor ready to return home to Texas. It seemed like a good time to complete one of the goals on my bucket list - To visit all 50 states. Alaska was the only state remaining for the goal to be accomplished, and I was already two-thirds of the way there.
With no plan in place, aside from crossing an item off my bucket list, I flew to Anchorage and checked into a downtown hotel. I practically had the entire establishment to myself. Winter was just around the corner, so the tourist haunts and services were shut down for the season. Except for the locals, who were all busy at work, the town was almost deserted.
OK, I admit, there were plenty of rough-and-tumble lumberjacks and leather-faced fishermen in town. Some were on break, some were passing time waiting for the next flight back to Seattle.
It didn’t take long to figure out why all those fair-weather tourists had packed up and flown the coop for the winter. The ice-cold wind blasted my face and chilled me to the bone, evoking memories of my Canadian heritage. My Northern horse sense told me I needed to get some sensible winter clothing if I intended to survive this spontaneous escapade.
So there I was - in Anchorage, Alaska, all decked out in my new North-style duds with nowhere to go and nothing to do.
When all else fails, one can always read the telephone book.
The yellow-page ad was small, but it jumped off the page and captured my attention:
Private Flights to McKinley
I was sold instantly. I would charter a private Cessna to fly me up to Mt. McKinley. THAT sounds like an adventure!
I called the number in the ad. It rang and rang and rang. No answer. I called later. No answer. I called the next day. Still no answer.
Changing my approach, I took a cab to the address in the ad. The cabbie dropped me off at a small, wooden building with a Cessna out front. No signs, no advertising, no fanfare. I walked through the door of the old shack and stated my business to the only man in the place.
“I want to charter a Cessna to fly me to McKinley tomorrow.”
The owner, a man about my age, put down a mechanical part he was tinkering with, wiped some oil off his hands, looked me in the eye, and thoughtfully stated, “Ma’am, ain’t nobody going to the Big Mac tomorrow. It’s been socked in under heavy clouds for the past two months. I’d be glad to take you, but nobody’s been flying up there.”
Perhaps this man didn’t understand. My Denali wardrobe was all ready to go – parka, gloves, hat – the whole nine yards. This costume don’t fly in Texas, buddy! This gal is NOT going to take NO for an answer.
So, I told him the obvious, “It will be clear."
He shook his head, “Nope. No one’s been up there for months. Can’t get up there. It’s too cloudy. Nothin’ to see.”
This guy just didn’t get it. For some reason, known only to God above, the clouds always clear around big mountains that I visit. Don’t ask me why, because I do not know why. They just do. (I’ve seen it happen too many times for it to be a coincidence. Seriously… it is a strange phenomenon.)
So I explained as best I could, “The clouds always clear when I visit. What time will we leave?”
He looked at me like I was THE biggest lunatic, Texan screwball he’d ever encountered. “Ma’am, we ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
I assured him, “It WILL clear. God always clears the clouds around the big mountains that I visit.”
He shook his head and blinked, “Well, give me your number. I’ll check the weather in the mornin’. If it’s clear, I’ll call you. Don’t get your hopes up, though.”
Just imagine what the guy told his friends over a brewski after work that night.
“I had some haughty-taw fancy crazy lady from Texas come into the hangar today, and she thinks the Big Mac’s gonna clear tomorrow cause she’s here. Told her I’d call her if Mac’s open in the mornin’ but not to hold her breath. Man, we really get the nutty ones comin’ up here, don’t we?”
The next morning, I received a call. “Ma’am, you’re in luck. The Big Mac is clear. We can take off as soon as you get here.”
Birdman handed me a set of headphones so we could communicate over the roar of the engine. We buckled in, and the Cessna took off. The flight to “The Big Mac” would take just over an hour. As I gazed out the window, my puddle-jumper jockey started stringing a whopping load of Northern tall tales. His specialty appeared to be stories about brown bears. It didn’t take me long to figure out two things:
What he called brown bears, I called grizzly bears.
He had me pegged as a gullible airhead Texas princess who believed his hooey.
His Northern tall tales about brown bears grew bigger and bigger. Finally, I decided I really had to do this buckaroo a favor and let him know the joke was on him. With the honed skill that we card-carrying, born in the north Canucks are famous for, I strung him along with a reel-him-in, leg-pulling grizzly bear story of my own.
Only then did he finally figure out his passenger actually grew up in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies.
Tall tales and other nonsense aside, Birdman started shooting straight.
In 1867, the U.S. government purchased Alaska from Russia for $ 7.2 million. In present-day value, this equates to approximately $ 133 million.
Mt. McKinley/Denali is 20,310 feet above sea level. It is the highest peak in North America.
The McKinley/Denali naming debate has been ongoing for over 100 years. In 2015, President Obama changed the name of the mountain and the national park from McKinley to Denali. Both names remained in use, but McKinley became less prevalent. Denali originates from the Koyukon Athabaskan word “Deenaalee” which means “The Great One” or “The High One.” (Let me help you out with the pronunciation: Ko-yu-kon and Ath-a-bask-an). On January 20, 2025, President Trump officially changed the name back to McKinley.
Between 1903 and 2019, 46,665 people attempted to summit McKinley. The first successful summit attempt was on June 7, 1913.
June is the most popular month for attempting to summit McKinley. The average climb takes 15 - 18 days, and 52% of those who attempt it are successful.
Ninety-six climbers have lost their lives trying to summit McKinley. 92% of fatalities are male, and 45% are due to falls.
McKinley is considered the most strenuous climb of the Seven Summits, the highest mountain peaks on each of the continents. It is not a climb for novices.
This is one massive mountain!
As the Cessna approached the humongous mountain, Birdman veered down to give me an encompassing view of the climbers’ base camp.
This is not your average campground!
Having spent time in the Canadian Rockies cross-country skiing, and even being wacky enough to try my own hand at winter camping (in the mountains, in a tent, in the snow, in sub-zero weather) this base camp grabbed my attention. One night of such lunacy was more than enough for me to quit camping forever more. Been there, done that, never ever doing it again. These climbers are one rugged breed.
Passing the base camp, Birdman banked sharply upward and to the left until Cessna flew parallel to the “Big Mac”.
In honor of my father, who taught me the love of travel, the pilot tipped the right wing of the Cessna toward Mt. McKinley. As the plane tilted, I smiled and saluted, “Here’s to you, Dad!”
Birdman asked if I was interested in landing the puddle-jumper on a nearby lake if it wasn’t already frozen.
Hey, you are talking to the Queen of Adventure. Do tourists fly South for the winter? You bet! Let’s take this bird down.
The Cessna descended rapidly from the sky, coiling around like a corkscrew between the mountains. Its pontoons skimmed and bounced along the surface of Chelatna Lake before the plane finally roared to a stop, spraying water along the remote rocky shoreline. Birdman grabbed a rope from behind him, climbed out onto the pontoon, jumped to shore, and tied the small craft to a nearby stump.
He made a big bruhaha about this being brown bear territory, so I might prefer to stay in the plane. So when I hopped out and joined him on the shoreline, he just looked at me, dumbfounded.
Wow! This fella just could not comprehend that this was not my first rodeo in grizzly country.
The rugged shore was completely littered with the carnage of fish bones and all types of fish skeletal remains.
Obviously, this spot was the ultimate Michelin Five-Star fish epicurean extravaganza for grizzlies.
The temperature was falling. We needed to get in the air before the ice started forming on the lake. I picked up a stone from the shoreline 1and put it in my pocket before I hoisted myself back up on the pontoon and into the Cessna. Birdman untied the rope, jumped into the cockpit, and fired up the engine. The little plane spun around and thundered full-blast across the water before lifting into the air, pulling away from the lake.
The plane wound back up the mountain slopes until it came to a wide glacier corridor that extended for miles.
We landed on a waterway in front of Birdman’s hangar just as the sun dipped below the horizon. It was a day to remember.
I wonder what Birdman told his friends over a brewski after work that night?
As for me? My time in the north country of Alaska had come to a close, and I was ready to return home to Texas. Despite my Canadian roots and heritage, I prefer the warmer weather of the south.
In honor of my Dad on Father’s Day
Remember this stone. It appears again in “Camino Traditions, Switching Gears & Lessons from a Slug” Post on Expect the Unexpected, April 11, 2025 See Site Menu
Love it! Awesome trip and tribute.
WOW!!! Lois, I think you are made of tougher stuff than me, that was quite a tale! FWIW, my last post to Substack was in honor of my dad, a Korean War vet and music lover.