It Took Visiting the Wildest of Places to Overcome My Fear of the Outdoors

Traveling to Alaska made me nervous. So nervous I packed approximately 10 pounds of magazines and breezy novels as a distraction, and a plastic baggie of prescribed Xanax to fit in every pocket of my new wardrobe of brightly colored all-weather garments. I hoped it would all distract me from my discomfort of being in what New Yorkers, like myself, call wilderness, and Alaskans call home.

I’m a fiercely independent travel writer and am fearless when it comes to taking three connecting flights to the middle of France to interview a winemaker in a hot air balloon, or spending a week solo in Hong Kong during a heat wave. Cities, transit maps, and cell service are comforting to me. The outdoors, however, a place I actively avoided as an indoor kid and subsequently indoor adult, is incredibly daunting to me. Bear attacks, getting lost with no cell service, icebergs, car accidents, snakes, bugs, and homophobes are among my fears.

But I couldn’t stay away forever. My wife, who loves Alaska adventure shows and is a lifelong fan of being outdoors, had always wanted to visit the Last Frontier. So we spun a brief reporting trip to Seward into a two-week road trip across the lower part of America’s largest state. (Alaskans will remind you that many, many Texases could fit in Alaska.)

We decided to focus our trip on Denali National Park, which I had only become familiar with circa 2015, when Obama rightfully returned the protected land to its native name. Denali, named for the 20,310-foot-tall mountain that’s its focal point, is some 6,000,000 acres (larger than the entire state of New Hampshire) and a must-visit for retirees disembarking their Alaskan cruises and avid outdoors people alike.

Nearly 15 hours of travel later, we exited the plane at Anchorage’s airport in early evening, the bright summer sky illuminating exquisite snow capped mountains in the distance. After a night in Anchorage spent eating crab topped-Panang curry at Pho Lena, we drove about two hours north to our first stop: Talkeetna, a small town (pop. 876—at the time of our visit, a cat was mayor) on the way up to Denali National Park. We feasted on cedar plank grilled salmon, sipped craft beer, and exchanged pleasantries with visiting senior citizens, who raved about our youth. I had a new neon fleece vest to keep me cozy, and, although I am a creature of habit who usually relies on things like the sunrise and sunset to keep my mind in check, the never-ending summer daylight almost felt like a sign that I shouldn’t be afraid.

Alaska’s tourism industry is prepared for unprepared, inexperienced, non-outdoorsy folks like me. Because Alaska prioritizes protecting the land, everything in Denali is hyper-organized, safe, and beautiful. Small businesses and soft adventure activities (think ATVing, rafting, biking, birdwatching) surround the park. While plenty of backcountry, rustic experiences are available to those eager to experience nature without limits, the entire area is plush with opportunities for indoorsy people to enjoy the great outdoors, with structure and professional leadership.

When we pulled into the park on a grey and rainy afternoon, I zipped up my new lightweight raincoat (a must when traveling to Alaska in the summer) to shield myself from the misty rain. Waiting out the weather, we started in the visitor’s center, where exhibits detail the history, wildlife, and significance of Denali. There is also, for better or worse, a Starbucks. By the time my inner nerd was satisfied by facts—something that helps me feel less anxious in unknown situations—we were ready for our free guided hike, led by a friendly ranger who taught us basic outdoor safety and bear protocol ("If it's brown, lay down; if it's black, fight back”) before we headed out.

The ranger leisurely led a small group through the taiga forest, encouraging us to press our fingers into the green moss covering the ground, feeling the squishy terrain indent and bounce back under the pressure from our touch. She shared names and identifying characteristics of various plants, and I was captivated by taking pictures of the way raindrops stuck to the various leaves and flowers throughout the forest. I forgot my fear of bears, of the unknown in the wilderness, so much so that when the ranger shared directions for an individual hike we could embark on following her brief nature walk, I enthusiastically ventured out with my wife.

At night, we enjoyed a quick but excellent dinner at the Denali Salmon Bake. I soon deemed Denali to have the best national park cuisine of any site in the nation. With the amply available creamy seafood chowder, glossy cedar-plank salmon, and plump blueberry scones in the Denali region, it’s almost as much a culinary destination as an outdoors one. Laura Cole, the chef and owner of upscale, hyper-local eatery 229 Parks has even competed on Top Chef.

Because the sun never sets on an Alaskan summer day, our itinerary didn’t end with dinner. Alaska, it turns out, is for early birds and night owls, and in the warmest months, you don’t have to distinguish between the times of day. So, we set out on a midnight sun ATV ride, where I rode as a passenger as my wife and I passed through rocky, nearly extraterrestrial areas on the perimeter of Denali. Every turn was surreal, every splash and bump in the vehicle worth it, for the seemingly endless views of pastel rocky terrain almost glowing under the still-shining sun.

A few days later, white water rafting on the Nenana River had the same effect: We witnessed a mother and baby moose try to cross the crashing river, drifted under a historic truss bridge, and viewed the gargantuan but lanky pine forests from a new perspective. Though my fingers curled up in tiny icicles as I gripped onto the raft, I wasn’t ready for the (mild) adventure to end.

In days, I’d gone from Denali doubter to a hype woman, eager to sell the national park to anyone and everyone I knew. But there was one highlight left: The drive down Denali Park Road to see wildlife and a view of Denali’s peak. Neither is guaranteed, because nature, but we were lucky enough to get a look at both. Our guide on the seven-hour round trip had an impressive, safari-tracker-level ability to spot wildlife in the distance, and we used our binoculars to view clusters of white doll sheep, caribou, and grizzly bears from the bus. The bears’ shiny gold skin nearly sparkled as they walked, drifting in and out of view in the tall, wild grass, as we held our breath, eager for more views of the impressively terrifying claws protruding out from their paws, or a look inside their mouths, maybe a yawn showcasing their spiky teeth. But the wildlife were free to roam—the park is theirs of course—and unlike those of us with looming flights and work deadlines, they were free to roam forever.

My own roaming coexisted with an itinerary, one that had seemed extensive and intimidating when I printed it out to pack in my enormous suitcase. But after two weeks in Alaska, I wished there were more pages. I’d only seen a fraction of the state, and there was so much more I was eager to do and see, my fear replaced by eager curiosity. Little did I know we’d be back to Alaska the following winter, at my urging this time.