While cutting lazy circles in the teal waters near 鈥檚 Scorpion Anchorage during my second-ever sea-kayaking experience, I made a rookie mistake. 鈥淲hat are some of the most memorable wildlife encounters you鈥檝e had at the park?鈥� I asked , a writer, photographer, and paddler who鈥檚 been guiding here for almost 20 years. He didn鈥檛 miss a beat. 鈥淲ell, probably the two encounters I鈥檝e had with great white sharks.鈥�

It鈥檚 a testament to the stunning beauty of these islands and the Pacific waters surrounding them that I only ruminated on his response for a moment. The idea of killer sharks existing in a place like this was akin to a villain in a Disney film to me; even they took on an unthreatening feeling. On this perfect spring day, fingers of feather boa听and giant bladder kelp swayed beneath my kayak. A squadron of California brown pelicans perched nearby on craggy Scorpion Rock, while peregrine falcons swooped down to ruffle their feathers. Fleshy harbor seals sunbathed on craggy听outcroppings as a bald eagle cruised a thermal above. Beyond it all, the yawning mouths of barnacle-crusted sea caves beckoned like geologic sirens. You better bet I answered the call.

Channel Islands National Park, located off the coast of Southern California, provides visitors countless听pinch-me moments, but despite a fellow tourist听blurting out that she felt like she was living in a movie, I can assure you that everything here is quite real. Four of the park鈥檚 five islands (Anacapa, San Miguel, Santa Barbara, Santa Cruz, and Santa Rosa) once existed as a single volcanic landmass that was partially submerged during a post-ice-age period of glacial melt, creating the chain we see today. Over time, the Chumash and Tongva people came to inhabit the islands, and their descendants remain connected to them over 10,000 years later.

Because the islands are isolated from the mainland, nearly 150 of the more than 2,000 species of plants and animals existing听across them听are found nowhere else in the world. The most famous of these is the island fox, an adorable听floof that鈥檚 roughly the size of a well-fed house cat. I鈥檝e never not seen one on Santa Cruz, where they roam Scorpion Anchorage and the nearby campground looking for discarded听snacks鈥攖hat is, if the massive (and surprisingly dexterous) ravens don鈥檛 get to them first.

When I asked Graham听why he鈥檇 spent almost two decades of his life connected to this place of tiny foxes and outsize听scenery, he responded that it was because he could experience the land and the ocean as they听once were鈥攂efore the 1980 creation of the national park, and before Spanish missionaries arrived in the 16th century and nearly decimated both the landscape and the Chumash and Tongva ways of life. I could tell that the Channel Islands had burrowed deep within his heart,听and I suspect that听after a visit, you might feel the same.

What You Need to Know Before Visiting

Get your logistical ducks in order. Unlike most national parks, this one is car-free鈥攚ell, except for the main visitor center, which is located in the harbor area of the park鈥檚 gateway town, Ventura, California鈥攕o you鈥檒l need to arrive via sea or sky. Most folks cruise over on the ferry (more on this shortly), and I recommend taking the earliest one you can schedule to maximize your island time. It鈥檚 not as crucial to strike out early if you鈥檙e camping, but you will need to coordinate carefully and book early听to ensure that campsites and boats are available on the same dates. Weekends fill up听quickly for both, especially in the warmer months. And I do recommend camping, especially if you鈥檙e visiting the two biggest islands, Santa Cruz and Santa Rosa, since there鈥檚 so much to see.

Pack everything you need鈥攜es, everything. Infrastructure is minimal across the islands. Unlike many other marquee parks, there are no restaurants, hotels, stores, and traffic… which is actually a huge plus. With the exception of the Scorpion Canyon Campground on Santa Cruz and听the Water Canyon Campground on Santa Rosa, there鈥檚 also no potable water.听Plan to carry a gallon per day听per person if you鈥檙e traveling outside those areas. In addition, visitors should pack plenty of layers, a personal first aid kit, and food for the day. If you forget the latter, or if you want to supplement your stash, the Island Packers ferry听sell snacks and libations (including the adult variety) on board.

It鈥檚 wild out there. The islands sit on the southern side of the Santa Barbara Channel, and the shortest ferry crossing takes roughly an hour. It can get mighty windy out here, which creates chop, so anyone prone to seasickness might consider popping Dramamine before boarding. If you鈥檙e scanning for seabirds or marine life, the bow (or front) of the boat is the place to be鈥攂ut hang on tight, because it鈥檚 a wild (and often wet) ride. Once on shore, the weather varies from island to island, with the outer isles (San Miguel and Santa Rosa) most likely to be hammered by the wind. There鈥檚 not a lot of shade available, save for scattered stands that include oaks and rare Torrey pines, so good sun protection is a must. Finally, keep your distance from cliff edges (there are many), which are subject to erosion.

How to Get There

It鈥檚 about a 90-minute drive from听Los Angeles International听northwest to Ventura Harbor, where boats depart for the islands. Alternatively, 听offers service between LAX and听the Four Points by Sheraton hotel, located at the harbor front.

While runs private (and pricey) flights to听Santa Rosa听and San Miguel, most people travel via ferry. Island Packers, the official park concessionaire, runs frequent trips to Santa Cruz and Anacapa year-round (one hour each way)听and to the other three islands spring through fall (roughly three to four听hours each way, depending on conditions). The crew does a fantastic job of whipping up excitement about the national park听and its surrounding waters, and they often have a guest naturalist or ranger on board to answer any questions. In addition, they will often stop for wildlife sightings and may even pilot the boat into Santa Cruz鈥檚听Painted Cave, one of the longest sea caves in the world, if you鈥檙e in that听area. During a recent trip, we spotted a pair of humpback whales, along with a colossal pod of dolphins who were in cahoots with the pelicans, staging an elaborate routine to round听up fish for one another. Be sure to drop a few bucks in the tip jar (for the humans) on your return voyage.

Traveling between islands isn鈥檛 impossible, but it does require some logistical gymnastics. Island Packers offers occasional service between Santa Rosa and Santa Cruz, but otherwise听you鈥檙e rolling solo. Experienced boaters and kayakers who are equipped with proper safety and navigation gear can island-hop if the weather cooperates, but research landing and camping options ahead of time. There aren鈥檛 many,听and with the exception of Scorpion Cove and its nearby campground, few are convenient. It鈥檚 also possible to pilot your own craft from the mainland to the islands, although you鈥檒l be traveling across major shipping lanes鈥攏ot an endeavor for the faint of heart.

When听Is the Best Time of Year to Visit Channel Islands?

Winter

Come December, it鈥檚 not just colder, hovering in the low sixties听during the day and the high thirties听at night, but also stormier, with the likelihood of rain and high winds increasing through March. The upside to a late-winter visit is that the islands practically glow with chlorophyll, and wildflowers add even more color鈥攎y favorite is the giant coreopsis, whose daisylike yellow blooms and feathery foliage cluster at the end of twisted, woody branches, giving it听a somewhat Seussian appearance. Mid-December also marks the beginning of the annual gray whale migration; scan the channel as you cross to see if you can spot their misty spouts.

Spring

As daytime temperatures rise to the high sixties听and听rain decreases in frequency, the greenery fades. But luckily, flowers continue to dot the landscape, and whales keep on swimming in the vicinity. Come April, seabirds鈥攊ncluding western gulls and California brown pelicans鈥攂egin nesting in earnest. This is especially obvious on the tiny island of Anacapa, where they usually kick back en masse until mid-August. Plan your visit to this mini听chain of three islets for any other time of year, unless you enjoy dodging poop missiles while accompanied by the dulcet tones of incessant squawking.

Summer

This is the most popular time to visit the islands, when air and water temperatures climb to their warmest, in the seventies,听and children听are out of school.听Weather conditions鈥攁nd thus听ocean conditions鈥攁re also typically at their calmest, creating excellent underwater visibility for swimmers, snorkelers, and divers. The odds also increase for marine-wildlife sightings, since blue and humpback whales are migrating past the Channel Islands during听these听months.

Fall

Water temperatures reach their peak in early fall, which makes this the best season to take a dip if you鈥檙e so inclined. Autumn is also prime time to witness seabirds and elephant seals settling into their nests and rookeries around the park; just remember to give these island residents their privacy. By October, the infamous Santa Ana winds begin to pick up, blowing hard through January.

Where to Stay near Channel Islands

Campgrounds

A single walk-in campground is available on each of the islands, with the exception of Santa Cruz, which has two. To reach them, plan to hike anywhere from a quarter-mile to a full mile (and up a steep flight of stairs on Anacapa) with your gear. Reservations are required and can be made up to six months in advance via ($15). It鈥檚 also possible to reserve space on several of Santa Rosa鈥檚 remote beaches from mid-August to December ($10). No matter where you intend听to snooze, book your ferry ticket first, since those get snapped up quickly.

Hotels

While there isn鈥檛 any brick-and-mortar lodging on the islands, you鈥檒l find a pair of chain hotels at the Ventura harbor, located only a mile from the ferry, with more scattered along the coast. I can vouch for the 听(from $170), which features serene landscaped grounds and what I can only describe as a hot-tub terrarium (trust me, that鈥檚 a good thing). Closer to downtown and its popular pier, the almost听beachside 听(campsites from $59; trailers from $175) features over a dozen quirky vintage trailers for rent, along with even more space to park your own (BYOT, if you will). For a more refined aesthetic, splash out for a stay at one of the two century-old Craftsman-style听cottages at the听听(from $127), a property built in 1910 that has long hosted Hollywood luminaries and others who appreciate historic architecture (and ocean views).

What to Do While You鈥檙e There

Hiking

Santa Cruz (Limuw听in the Chumash language) is the park鈥檚 most popular destination and its largest at 62,000 acres. Only 24 percent听of the island is accessible to visitors, however, since the Nature Conservancy manages the remaining acreage. There鈥檚 still too much to see in a day (or even two), so spend a night if you can. My favorite day hike is the 7.5-mile round听trip from Scorpion Anchorage to Smuggler鈥檚 Cove, climbing to the fox-filled grasslands atop the island before dropping down to a pebble-strewn beach littered with tide pools. On the north side of the island, it鈥檚 only a five-mile听round听trip to score an eagle鈥檚-eye view of the rugged coastline and brilliant blue waters at Potato Harbor; if you鈥檙e short on time, the two-mile Cavern Point Loop keeps you closer to Scorpion Anchorage while still offering a bluff-top vantage. For something less traveled, stroll the 4.5-mile Scorpion Canyon Loop, which serves as prime habitat for the bright blue island scrub jay, a species endemic to Santa Cruz.

The second-largest island, Santa Rosa (Wima), is also flush with trails. It might be tempting to park yourself on the pristine white sands that curl around Bechers Bay near the landing dock, but make time to听soak in the landscape. Day-trippers will be able to complete the 3.5-mile Cherry Canyon Loop, which follows a thin singletrack through its namesake gorge before depositing you atop a bluff with exceptional views of the coastline and rugged interior. If you鈥檙e staying longer, extend the route for a total of eight miles to tag 1,298-foot听Black Mountain and enjoy the 360-degree panoramas at听its summit. From the dock, it鈥檚 about 4.5 miles one-way to the mouth of Lobo Canyon, a winding slot of wind- and water-carved sandstone that travels roughly 1.5 miles before spilling out onto what feels like your own private beach.

San Miguel (Tuqan) is the park鈥檚 westernmost island, which means it鈥檚 susceptible to the gnarliest weather; windbreakers are all but mandatory. Due to possible unexploded ordinance (the Navy once committed the sacrilege of holding bombing practice here), unaccompanied visitors are restricted to a relatively small chunk of island鈥檚 northeastern quadrant near the ranger station. That鈥檚 why it鈥檚 worth it to call ahead and听ensure that a ranger is available to guide the 16-mile out-and-back traverse to Point Bennett, where you can gawk at a gaggle of chatty seals and sea lions living their best lives at one of the most densely populated rookeries in the world.

Hiking opportunities are slim on tiny Anacapa (Anyapax) and Santa Barbara (Siwot). On the former, a 1.5-mile round听trip drops you at Instagram-worthy Inspiration Point, while a 2.5-mile out-and-back to Elephant Seal Cove on the latter treats you to a sweeping view of its namesake pinnipeds in beachy repose.

Backpacking

Limited campsites and potable water make backpacking a little tricky. On Santa Rosa, reserve a backcountry beach-camping permit, then strike out from the dock to hike 12.4 miles along the unpaved former ranch road that traces Water Canyon before reaching prime spots near the mouth of La Jolla Vieja Canyon. Dispersed camping is available along the beach; be sure to pitch your tent above the high-water mark. On Santa Cruz, book a spot at the remote, oak-dappled Del Norte backcountry camp. This lofty perch, with only four designated sites, is a short 3.5 miles from Prisoner鈥檚 Harbor, but it feels more deliciously remote if you use it as a waypoint during a 24-mile loop from Scorpion Anchorage.

Kayaking

Listen, I鈥檓 a hiker through听and听through, but the best experience I鈥檝e ever had at the park was sea-kayaking near Scorpion Anchorage. Unless you鈥檙e an experienced paddler, book a tour through 听(from $118), which provides knowledgeable guides like Graham, along with all the equipment you鈥檒l need for a few hours or a half听day on the water. If you are already one with the ocean, rent a kayak from 听(from $12.50 per hour) at least one day before your trip, or bring your own (contact Island Packers to make sure they have room on board; kayak transport is听$20 to $28 on top of your ferry-ticket price, depending on its size). Scorpion Anchorage features the friendliest waters, followed by Anacapa, where you鈥檒l find incredible tide pools at isolated Frenchy鈥檚 Cove. Due to their more unpredictable weather and waters, touring the outer islands is only recommended for the most experienced paddlers.

Snorkeling and Diving

Roughly half of Channel Islands National Park is underwater, with its boundary stretching a nautical mile out from shore;听a zone six nautical miles beyond that is protected as a national marine sanctuary. This makes the park鈥檚 waters an extraordinary place to view marine life. Channel Islands 国产吃瓜黑料 Company also leads beginner-friendly snorkel tours at Scorpion Anchorage, where you鈥檒l marvel at sunlit kelp forests brimming with sea life, including the neon orange garibaldi, California鈥檚 state marine fish. Experienced snorkelers and divers will also enjoy the biodiversity in the waters surrounding Anacapa and Santa Barbara Islands. Wetsuits are recommended year-round. Snorkeling gear rentals are available via听Channel Islands 国产吃瓜黑料 Company (reserve equipment听before arriving on the island); divers can rent their gear听back on the mainland at , located in the harbor.

The Best Places to Eat and Drink Around Ventura

Nearly every time I听take听an early ferry to the islands, I make a quick pit stop at the , just听a short walk听from the Island Packers office. It听serves a thick-as-your-arm Hawaiian-inspired burrito stuffed with pineapple and Spam. And ask about its lunch boxes to go. After your return, linger awhile at the harbor to replenish your carb stash at (start with the yuca mojo de ajo), nosh on seafood classics at , or cool off with the frosty Technicolor concoctions dished up at .

Slightly farther afield, even carnivores will find plenty听to sink their teeth into at the punk-inspired , which serves up hearty, meatless riffs on all-American classics. Opt for the听Mr. BBQ jackfruit sammy with a side of Nardcorn, a loose-kernel version听on elote. The same unassuming strip mall features the , a brunch joint whose bold claim to 鈥淭he Best Homemade Chorizo in Ventura鈥� I cannot deny. There鈥檚 even more to choose from in the heart of downtown. A local pal of mine is a fan of the curries at , another friend makes a habit of听stopping for a few island potions at , and I personally can鈥檛 wait to sample more of the fare听at tucked-away , the seafood-heavy California outpost of a Belizean gastropub. For a more casual experience, grab some local craft brews (more on this in a moment) and head to nearby San Buenaventura State Beach, where you can tuck into briny bivalves at the听.

If You Have Time for a Detour

Immortalized in song (press play on the Beach Boys鈥� 鈥淪urfin鈥� U.S.A.鈥� if you don鈥檛 believe me), Ventura is one of the world鈥檚 most iconic surfing locations. Grab your board and head to鈥攚ait for it鈥擲urfer鈥檚 Point, a popular break near the downtown pier; tamer waters roll in听a few minutes up the coast at Mondo鈥檚 Beach. Less than 15 miles north of downtown Ventura, , home to the annual Rincon Classic, draws experienced surfers to a trio of good breaks. If you don鈥檛 have a board, rent one from the old-timers at , which has been catering to听wave hounds since the sixties. If you don鈥檛 have the skills, learn from the crew at ;听they teach groms of all ages.

For a short stroll or run, check out pastoral , which slices through the mountainous foothills perched at the city鈥檚 northern edge. For something a little more adventurous, the rugged fans out to the north, with the rising from the Pacific just a half-hour to the southeast. Cyclists will find plenty to enjoy in both of these areas, but there鈥檚 also great cruising right in town along several paved routes, including the 12-mile Ventura Pacific Coast Bikeway and the 16.5-mile Ventura River Parkway. Rent your wheels (or schedule a tour) at .

Finally, book an extra night in your hotel (and secure听a designated driver) so that you can partake in samples offered by听the region鈥檚 many purveyors of adult liquid delights. While the central coast鈥檚 famed wine country isn鈥檛 all that far away, Ventura is better known for its craft-brew scene, which includes (which keeps several gluten-reduced beers in rotation), (whose Donlon Double IPA snagged a World Beer Cup award in 2018), and brand-new (whose Peelin鈥� Out incorporates locally grown tangerines). That said, I truly can鈥檛 wait until I can once again kick back and sip a dreamy, creamy Tux Nitro Milk Stout in the perfectly chill beer garden at 鈥檚 Colt Street headquarters, located just east of the harbor. Save room to visit the tasting room at , a distillery that uses overstock and less听than听perfect produce from area farms (and in the case of its agave spirit, plants that people no longer want in their yards) to conjure up a host of aromatic elixirs. Try its听Wilder Gin, which tastes like all of my favorite California plants decided to get boozy together.

How to Be Conscious

There are no trash receptacles anywhere on the islands, so pack out everything you brought along for the adventure, including fruit peels and pits. I carry a reusable zip-top bag along for this purpose, just as I do when traveling anywhere in the backcountry.

Wildlife is one of the major draws of a visit to the Channel Islands, and it鈥檚 important to give our furry, finned, and feathery friends ample space to live their lives in peace while we gawk in wonder. This is especially important when seabirds and pinnipeds are caring for their young, which is why beach camping is not allowed on Santa Rosa from January through mid-August. The park suggests giving a 100-yard berth to any nesting or pupping wildlife, since our presence can spook away the parent, leaving their eggs or young unattended and vulnerable. For this same reason, tamper your squeals of joy and avoid shining lights if you enter sea caves while kayaking, since animals enjoy cozying up inside.

You can also protect the park鈥檚 wildlife by storing food in critter-proof containers, such as hard-sided coolers or the lockers provided at campsites and picnic tables. The ravens, mice, and foxes here are bold and skilled, especially on heavily touristed Santa Cruz, where they鈥檝e evolved to learn how to open (and close鈥�so stealthy!) zippers. Graham听shared that a cunning avian thief once swiped his car keys, which he later discovered dangling from a dock halfway around the island.

The post The Ultimate Channel Islands National Park Travel Guide appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

On Saturday, March 27, a helicopter carrying Petr Kellner, 56, a citizen of the Czech Republic and one of the world鈥檚 wealthiest men, crashed near the Knik Glacier in Alaska鈥檚 Chugach Mountains. The accident was ; the crash killed five people and left one person hospitalized in stable but serious condition, making it the deadliest heli-skiing aviation accident in North American history. Judging by the timing of the crash, at 6:35 P.M., it was likely the final run of the day. The trip was booked with听 and chartered听out of the Tordrillo Mountain Lodge. The death count included听Benjamin Larochaix, 50, of France; the pilot, Zachary Russell, 33, of Anchorage; Denali and heli-ski guide Sean McManamy, 38, of Girdwood, Alaska;听and lead guide and Third Edge Heli owner Gregory Harms, 52, of Aspen.听

Since the news broke, rumors have flown in the ski world, but the cause of the crash remains unknown. We鈥檒l have a much clearer picture of what happened when the flight recorders are examined and the survivor is interviewed. The investigation, run by the National Transportation Safety Board and likely backed by private accident investigators, is ongoing and, as with the case of the crash that killed former NBA superstar Kobe Bryant, could take more than a year to complete.

But we do have a couple details on the accident听and a wealth of background knowledge to pull from about heli-skiing to provide some context.听

Alaskan heli-skiing has a reputation for extreme risk. And if we鈥檙e talking slope angles, cliffs, crevasses, and avalanches, that reputation is well-earned鈥攎uch of it takes place on high-consequence terrain where falls sometimes don鈥檛 stop until the mountains do. But while the skiing is always assumed to be dangerous, the flying isn鈥檛 typically viewed that way. It should be.听听

I am not a pilot. But my brother-in-law, Richard Bovey, is just wrapping up a long career as an Army Chinook pilot. He flew听those 100-foot-long, dual-propeller aircraft听in the Himalayan mountains of Afghanistan and Pakistan. Over 16 years, he听also ran 50-plus rescue missions as pilot-in-command on Washington鈥檚 Mount Rainier. In reporting this story, I asked Richard to help me put the technical aspects of mountain flying into a layperson鈥檚 terms.听

For a nitty-gritty explanation of how helicopters and airplanes fly, check out the .听For our purposes, all you need to know is that, essentially,听the higher you go in a helicopter, the worse it performs and the harder the engine works.听The weight of the craft, including fuel and cargo, is also a factor in staying aloft鈥攖he more weight, the lower you must fly.听And the helicopter model matters, too. Different machines handle altitude differently. A Eurocopter/Airbus AS50鈥攖he aircraft in the fatal crash鈥攊s an excellent machine for heli-skiing in Alaska, where the elevations don鈥檛 get too extreme鈥攗sually between 2,500 and 10,000 feet鈥攂ut it doesn鈥檛 have the lift of a Chinook with its two powerful engines and dual rotors. In Nepal and the Alps, the Eurocopter/Airbus AS350 is a favorite workhorse. Regardless of the aircraft,听fly too high into air that isn鈥檛 dense enough to support the weight of the heli, and the rotor will droop and then stall.

The best mountain pilots know all this stuff听and plan accordingly. (In the military, pilots typically attend the school in Colorado before they鈥檙e deployed to mountain-flying duties.) Beyond the equation, such planning involves always leaving yourself an exit. You do this by approaching a ridge or a summit at an angle鈥攊deally rising toward听a point above the feature听on a 45-degree path, so if something goes wrong, you can backtrack on that same听path and return to听what pilots call 鈥渃lean air鈥濃�攁way from a mountain鈥檚 wind currents鈥攖o regain sufficient lift.听Richard once drooped his rotor in an active rescue on Rainier and has experienced the edges of helicopter performance on many occasions. But by always leaving an exit, he was able to maneuver out of those situations. 鈥淵ou can鈥檛 cheat gravity or physics,鈥� Richard says. 鈥淥ften you鈥檙e planning as you fly, but the planning never stops.鈥澨�

Now听add in mountain weather. I once heli-skied outside of Valdez, and the visibility looked pretty good to me鈥攊t wasn鈥檛 blue, but I could see the nearby summits. Still, we didn鈥檛 fly that day. When I asked the pilot why, he said the milky conditions were too risky. Because all the heli-skiing and flying in Alaska happens above treeline, and often there are no trees at all, your depth perception goes to hell in the flat light鈥攑ilots often experience vertigo in such situations. Any skier who鈥檚 descended a treeless bowl in fog can relate. We call it skiing in a milk bottle. In the air, Richard likens it to flying inside of a ping-pong ball. In those conditions, it鈥檚 easy to misjudge airspeed and closing distances. Richard has lost close friends鈥攎ilitary pilots鈥攂ecause they simply miscalculated how far their blades were from the mountainside. For an example from heli-skiing, one need only look to 2019, when a heli-ski pilot took off in the Caribous of British Columbia鈥攁nd almost immediately lost visibility, setting the machine down hard at an angle听and causing it to roll over. Luckily, all 12 passengers and the pilot walked away.

Mountain winds further aggravate these situations. Experienced pilots can often read the moisture in the air and know what types of winds to expect and where. But winds can also hit with no visual warnings. A sudden downdraft coming over a peak can travel at 3,000 feet per minute and push a helicopter into a mountain. Ditto if a pilot is setting up to of a helicopter听into an Alaskan face to unload skiers and the ten-knot headwind shifts to a ten-knot tailwind. In such scenarios, you might have time to react, or the computers on today鈥檚 sophisticated aircraft might react for you, but there鈥檚 always a delay between when the pilot moves the stick and the movement of the machine itself. 鈥淗elicopters are weird animals even at sea level,鈥� Richard says. 鈥淚n the last 20 years of Afghan flying, we鈥檝e lost far more aircraft to mountains than to the enemy.鈥澨�

And now for the nuance. Mountain flying is fundamentally unsafe. It鈥檚 physics. And with helicopters, when things go bad, they do so dramatically. But听the aviation side of heli-skiing has a strong safety record, especially in North America. If that seems contradictory, it鈥檚 not. With the right amount of planning, systems, and experience, it鈥檚 possible to make the unsafe鈥攄eep dives, moonwalks, BASE jumping, heli-skiing鈥攕afer.听

The last multi-fatality heli-ski crash in the United States听occurred in 1994 in Nevada. That , which was the result of a mechanical failure, killed four, including the president and COO of Disney. The year before that, an accident outside of Aspen, Colorado, claimed three lives, also the result of a mechanical failure. In the 1980s, a horrible crash in the Bugaboos of British Columbia trapped clients in a fiery wreckage. (Bell redesigned its B12 helicopters after that for better emergency egress.) Since those early days, there have been incidents鈥攈ard landings, helicopters slipping off ridges鈥攂ut the longtime guides I interviewed for this story can鈥檛 recall another fatal crash in the United States, and in 22 years of reporting on skiing, I can鈥檛 either. In the intervening years, helicopters have grown more powerful and reliable, and the helicopter services that contract with heli-ski outfitters have become more exacting in their training and protocols. If you added up all the tens of thousands of flight hours associated with heli-skiing鈥檚 history, fatal crashes are incredibly rare. A ballpark estimate would put the hours clocked in U.S. heli-skiing at 2,000-plus a year.听鈥淚f we had crashes every year, we simply would not have a heli-skiing industry,鈥澨齭ays ski mountaineer and heli-ski guide Chris Davenport.听

Most big-mountain skiers know the risks of helicopter skiing. It鈥檚 ingrained in the culture. In the mid-1990s, a helicopter crashed outside of Portillo, Chile. Flying at 13,500 feet, the pilot misjudged the airspeed as he closed on a mountain. The ensuing crash killed the pilot instantly. A rising-star ski photographer from Telluride named died while waiting for first responders. The survivors were a who鈥檚 who of skiing at the time, including filmmaker Steve Winter of 听and , arguably the greatest big-mountain skier of all time. Also on board that day: Gregory Harms.

Which gets us to the second tragedy of the past weekend. Because of Kellner鈥檚 wealth, most of followed the schadenfreude theme: 鈥淩ich man dies heli-skiing.鈥� But the skiing and mountaineering communities suffered a loss as well.听

Standing six-foot-four with a chest like a middle linebacker, Harms was a boisterous giant sleeved in tattoos. Without question, he had a reputation for pushing skiers to their limits, which is why he had a loyal clientele. As such, he was a pioneer of modern heli-skiing, and his persona filled a room. Not content to only heli-ski in Alaska鈥檚 short season from mid-February through April, Harms became a privateer, founding what would become Third Edge Heli with Clark Fyans in 2007. The outfit piggybacked on the local knowledge of existing operations听but brought their own clients. 鈥淢ost heli-ski outfits operate out of a specific tenure,鈥� Davenport says. 鈥淗arms鈥檚 tenure was the entire world.鈥澨�

It was Harms鈥檚 goal to never let a client鈥攐r anyone, for that matter鈥攐utski him. Pro athletes would send a big line for the camera. And then, off camera, Harms would detonate it. While most guides tried to lighten their packs, Harms would load his down. Physics seemed different for him. Able to shovel large volumes of snow, he had a reputation for blazing rescues. When Fyans was buried to his neck in a 2009 South American avalanche that left him with a compound fracture, he knew he鈥檇 be out in five minutes. (When it was Harms who was buried in 2014, Fyans freed him. As Harms rolled over, he said, 鈥淲hat鈥檚 up, fucker?鈥� to his pal.)听

McManamy, too, was a character out of heli-ski guide central casting. As a kindergarten student, McManamy told his mom that he would never work in an office. A New Hampshire kid, he鈥檇 developed a love for skiing and mountains early on and later attended the outdoorsy Camp Belknap. After studying outdoor education in college, he worked as a mountaineering guide on Denali. A younger kid from the New Hampshire camp named Dan Starr followed McManamy鈥檚 path. They reconnected in Girdwood, a small resort town southeast of Anchorage, as heli-ski and mountain guides.

Like Harms, McManamy was a large person听with a voice that matched. 鈥淥ne time, we were on Denali, and everyone was sleeping at Camp 2 at 11,000 feet,鈥� Starr says. 鈥淚n the middle of the night, Sean called out in his booming voice,听鈥楧oes anyone know where Mount McKinley is?鈥� He had a talent to make serious situations lighthearted. If I said something sincere about him, he would give me shit. It wasn鈥檛 disrespectful. He just wanted to lift people up. He saved snakebit trips just by his presence. He would not want me to talk somberly of him now.鈥澨�

Beyond his extended family and a wide network of climbing and skiing friends, McManamy leaves behind his wife, Caitlin Hague,听also an Alaskan heli-ski guide. Harms leaves behind his partner, Chantel Ramsey, and their ten-week-old daughter.听

It makes sense that Harms and McManamy found themselves in the same helicopter on that Saturday. There is a saying in heli-skiing guide circles that sounds a bit macabre given the current context: 鈥淒on鈥檛 kill the billionaire.鈥澨齌he quote illustrates how interconnected the welfare听of heli-ski guides is with the well-being of their uber-rich clients.听The entire business of hand-to-mouth heli-ski guides getting to avoid office jobs and ski in the big mountains they love hinges on the massive income inequalities they share with some of their guests. Multimillionaires and billionaires have long propped up their favorite guiding outfits. With the cash to repeatedly experience an activity that starts at $15,000 a week, the mega-rich act like angel investors to these small companies with high overheads and short revenue streams. It鈥檚 not unusual for the rich to buy into the business to keep it running. In the pursuit of not killing the billionaires, two guides鈥攏ot one鈥攚ill often fly with the wealthiest guests. The client pays for the second guide鈥檚 seat.听

With that dynamic explained, I feel obligated to raise one question specific to the crash. It鈥檚 a similar that some had after the accident that killed Bryant. Did Kellner鈥檚 vast wealth, and the spoken and unspoken influence of such power, somehow affect the outcome of the day鈥檚 events?听

The sole survivor might know. I do not. Although I sincerely hope that was not the case.听

In the wake of the deaths of Harms and McManamy and the young pilot Russell, the small world of guides and skiers is reconnecting. The dream of skiing big lines won鈥檛 soon fade. There are too many counterculture kids born each year who will never work in offices but will find a path in guiding.听Call it an extreme embrace of vitality. Call it a day job. But the dangerous game will play on.

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For many, a trip to Alaska has听the same pull as a far-flung vacation. As we听anticipate the return of international travel, why not ease into things with a visit to the far reaches of our 49th state? Plus, Canada听听passenger ships听in all its waters until 2022, cutting off the only route to Alaska by sea. That means听it鈥檚 likely that many of the state鈥檚听most touristed parks, like Glacier Bay,听will see far fewer听visitors this summer.听

While much of Alaska听is听hard to reach and inhospitable, it has a whopping two dozen parks and preserves overseen by听the National Park Service that are easy to navigate with enough preparation. We picked five sites that showcase the best of the state听and included听tips on what to do and where to post up听while you鈥檙e there. The best times to visit land between mid-June and September, so听it鈥檚 time to start planning.听

Denali National Park

Arguably the most iconic of Alaska鈥檚 national parks, is home to North America鈥檚 highest peak, 20,310-foot Denali, and 6 million acres of high-alpine terrain. The park is a听two-hour drive from Fairbanks听or four hours from Anchorage听and听has just one 92-mile听road that crosses it, which听is closed to private cars most of the year. 听rents mountain and e-bikes听and hosts a shuttle for cyclists鈥攐r听 to travel a stretch of the scenic听roadway.

During the summer months, there鈥檚听also the daily听 (from $174), which offers spectacular views of Denali鈥檚 best sights, including Indian River, Hurricane Gulch, and the park鈥檚听namesake peak. It听departs from听Anchorage and stops at Denali seven hours later en route to Fairbanks. Stay in听a remote corner of the park听at one of 42 private cabins at听 (from $575), where meals are prepared for you and, because there are only a few designated trails in Denali, guides will escort you off-trail into the surrounding wilderness.听

Wrangell-St. Elias National Park

The country鈥檚 largest national park,听听stretches across 13.2 million acres, the equivalent of six . Everything feels bigger here, from the peaks鈥攍ike 18,008-foot Mount听St. Elias, the second highest in the United States鈥攖o the icefields and the caribou herds. It鈥檚 a 4.5-hour drive from Anchorage to reach the park鈥檚 main visitor听center.听听provides van shuttles, which operate from May through September, with plenty of stops听from Anchorage to Kennicott, an old copper mining village deep in the park, and McCarthy, the park鈥檚 barely populated town at the end of a gravel road. Stay a few nights in McCarthy at the historic 20-room听 (from $249), and hike the four-mile round-trip听听to Root Glacier to see a mile-high ice wall, or the nine-mile round-trip 听for sweeping views of the听Chugach Mountains, Mt. Blackburn, and Kennicott Glacier.

Glacier Bay National Park

听is one of the most visited of Alaska鈥檚 national parks, due to the many cruise ships that pull up听to听port here each day from May through September. But with Canada鈥檚 recent ban on vessels in all its waters until 2022,听it鈥檚 likely that Glacier Bay will see far fewer听visitors this summer.听The only way to get here is by boat or plane, most of which depart听from the town of Juneau鈥攐pt for a听 from Bartlett Cove, or fly听into the airport in Gustavus. With only a few听, totaling about ten听miles, the best way to see the region鈥檚 humpback whales, sea lions, and harbors seals is by paddling some of the 700 miles of shoreline in a kayak.听听leads guided day trips (from $95).听Spend the night at听 (from $239), the only lodging inside the park.

Kenai Fjords National Park

It鈥檚 glacier paradise in , home to some 40 bergs, many of which are receding听due to warming听temperatures. Get to the park鈥檚 gateway town of Seward via a two-plus-hour drive from Anchorage, or a ride on the听. Once there, hike the stout 8.2-mile round-trip听, which climbs听through meadows, forests, and rocky outcroppings before topping out with views of its namesake icefield.

Or take to the water:听 has chartered boat rides and guided ski kayaking tours to spot sea otters and Pacific white-sided dolphins. Afterward, stop by the听 in Seward for a dozen oysters and听 for a pint of red ale. Take an hour-long boat ride from Seward to Fox Island in Resurrection Bay to reach your overnight accommodations at the eight-cabin听 (from $1,506), or check out the new 听(from $150), which opens May 9, from the owners of the town鈥檚听.

Kobuk Valley National Park

Yep, Alaska has sand dunes. You鈥檒l find the Arctic鈥檚 largest听at the 25-square-mile Great Kobuk Sand Dunes area within . This remote, roadless, trailless park is accessible only via airplane鈥攆ly from Anchorage to Kotzebue or from Fairbanks to Bettles. Once in Kotzebue or Bettles, you have to fly into the park using听. Watch out for migrating caribou鈥攖he Western Arctic caribou herd is the largest in Alaska,听at 490,000 animals. With no lodging or developed campgrounds inside the park, staying here involves backcountry camping鈥攖he听 can guide you on the best places to set up camp, or you can book a weeklong听guided trip using bush planes with (from $5,900).

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Late winter in Alaska can be a magical time. Days are getting longer, frozen rivers are still blanketed with snow, and in many places, conditions are听near-perfect听for cross-country skiing. Yet while sports like basketball and volleyball have long been popular in rural Alaska, skiing simply wasn鈥檛 a thing until recently in many remote villages, where everyone and everything must be flown in on tiny planes.

is on a mission to change that. Founded in 2012 by I帽upiaq skier Robin Kornfield and , Skiku is introducing a growing number of Alaskans to cross-country skiing and biathlon, a sport that combines skiing and shooting rifles. Along with its sister organization, NANANordic, Skiku has delivered planeloads of ski gear鈥攁long with Olympians and other world-class athletes鈥攖o 55 Alaskan villages and counting. The athletes stay for a week each year, coaching local students and their families, but the donated skis, boots, and poles remain in the communities after they fly away.

鈥淭he majority of families in Alaska aren鈥檛 going out and buying their kids ski gear,鈥� says Calisa Kastning, executive director of Skiku, whose name combines the I帽upiaq word for ice, siku, with ski. 鈥淏ut if the gear is available, skiing can be so valuable to these remote communities.鈥�

Roger Franklin, principal of the in Shungnak, Alaska, says the program helps students build confidence, improves their physical and emotional well-being, and has helped increase school attendance. It also offers kids a healthy activity and positive role models in places with some of the nation鈥檚 highest rates of substance abuse and suicide. And it does so while allowing Alaska Native kids to stay on their homelands鈥攁nd connect to them in new ways.

So far, Skiku has gotten skis onto the feet of 8,000 kids and 500 adults, 98 percent of whom are Alaska Native. From the banks of the Yukon to the Arctic coast, students ski not just for fun and exercise, but also to go ice fishing, hunting, or traveling from village to village.

One of the few parts of rural Alaska that had a vibrant ski tradition before Skiku is the Bering Strait region, an 80,000-square-mile school district in northwest Alaska. In the 1970s, a teacher from New Hampshire arrived there with eight pairs of cross-country skis stashed in his luggage. Over the next few decades, he introduced hundreds of students to the sport.

Paul Lincoln, who grew up in White Mountain鈥攁n I帽upiaq village of about 200 people on a peninsula jutting into the Bering Sea鈥攚as one of Miles鈥檚 students. After Lincoln clicked into his first pair of skis at seven years old, 鈥渟kiing pretty much consumed me,鈥� he says. Most villages didn鈥檛 have television at the time, and at first听skiing just seemed like a fun thing to do in the winter. But Lincoln soon realized that it could offer him more. He eventually got a skiing scholarship to Dartmouth College, became a member of the U.S. Biathlon Team, and competed in Finland, Bulgaria, and across the United States. As he recalled in , skiing 鈥渂rought us into the possibility of expanding our world, while still having tremendous value for the one we came from.鈥�

But skiing wasn鈥檛 just Lincoln鈥檚 ticket out of rural Alaska鈥攊t was also a way for him to return. Although he now lives in Anchorage, Lincoln is and has served as a volunteer coach in White Mountain and other villages, sharing the sport with younger generations. 鈥淔or a kid in a village to see [that] I鈥檝e been all over the world because of skiing and I came from a village just like you did鈥� can be incredibly meaningful, Lincoln says.

Thanks to Skiku, NANANordic, and John Miles, skiing has become woven into the culture of rural Alaska. The stories of听how it鈥檚 changed people鈥檚 lives are both uplifting and heart wrenching. One woman credits skiing with helping her survive foster care and relocation. A boy who drowned was buried with his most meaningful possession, a ski-meet participation ribbon. And numerous kids have gone on to compete at national and international levels, including in the Olympics. Kids in rural Alaska seem to have an almost preternatural predisposition for skiing, their coaches say, even though it hasn鈥檛 traditionally been part of Alaska Native cultures.

Beyond the terrain and climate, skiing fits into village life for other reasons. 鈥淚n some really small communities, the schools don鈥檛 have enough students to field a basketball team or a wrestling team,鈥� says Tyler Henegan, who lives near Anchorage and works as a field biologist in the summer and a ski coach in the winter. 鈥淏ut skiing is accessible to everybody. The third-graders can go out with the ninth-graders and kids can go with their parents and everyone can just have a good time together.鈥�

As Skiku demonstrates, getting kids into outdoor sports doesn鈥檛 have to be complicated. (If you don鈥檛 have to fly gear and coaches around 663,000 square miles of mostly roadless wildlands, it鈥檚 probably even less complicated.) And once communities have the equipment and know-how, the momentum can be self-sustaining. As Paul Lincoln says, 鈥淚t really doesn鈥檛 take much. If it鈥檚 winter and there鈥檚 snow on the ground, you just put on a pair of skis and go.鈥�

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Along the southern shoreline听of Alaska, underneath the Aleutian Trench in the Pacific Ocean, two tectonic plates converge. One presses beneath the other at an annual rate of about听two and a half听inches, causing a moderate earthquake about once a year. But at 5:36 P.M. on March 27, 1964鈥擥ood Friday鈥攖he plates slipped dramatically, setting off a violent听quake that rippled across the state for nearly five minutes鈥攍ong enough, according to听journalist Jon Mooallem, 鈥渇or some people to question if it would ever stop.鈥� The great Alaskan quake, as it later became known, hit a record-setting 9.2 on the Richter scale. It remains the largest earthquake ever recorded in听North America听and the second-largest recorded worldwide.听

In Anchorage, just 75 miles away from the earthquake鈥檚 epicenter, a main road cracked in half, and the听wealthy enclave of Turnagain slipped almost entirely into the sea. Power lines went down. And very little information entered or exited the region听until Anchorage鈥檚 local radio station, using backup generators, burst back onto the air.

One of its local reporters, Genie Chance, was in her car with her son when the quake struck. After it subsided, and after she got a glimpse of the scale of destruction,听she only stopped to drop him听safely at home before rushing back into the field to start reporting. 鈥淔or the next thirty听hours,鈥� she recalled later, 鈥淚 talked constantly.鈥� She quickly emerged as the voice of Anchorage in the wake of the earthquake, dispatching critical updates to listeners across the region. (This included her own relatives: 鈥淭he Chance family is alright,鈥� she told her parents over the air.) Her programming was picked up by other Alaskan radio stations, then nationally; she later won numerous journalism awards for her disaster coverage. But history soon forgot about the听earthquake and the female reporter who covered it best. Chance died in 1998.

Decades later, Chance is at the center of Mooallem鈥檚 new book, ,听which will be published March 24. The veteran听journalist first learned about the great Alaskan quake听when he spotted black and white photographs of the wreckage from听tsunamis caused by the earthquake on the wall of a diner in Crescent City, California. His interest piqued, Mooallem later spent years poring听over听contemporaneous interviews, news accounts, and scientific research, including a report Chance produced for the U.S.听Geological Survey, trying to piece听together a cohesive account of that weekend. 鈥淣o one had written this story before,鈥� Mooallem told me recently.听

Before long, Chance herself became the beating heart of the story he wanted to tell. Perhaps intuiting that听her records might one day be of historical significance, Chance had sent听reel-to-reel tapes of her broadcasts to the University of Alaska, where Mooallem found and listened to them decades later. Her daughter, Jan, also had a separate trove of recordings.听As Mooallem writes it, Chance underwent a transformation from a working mom and frontier-town journalist (a typical story of hers might have been on听sled-dog races) to the most indispensable voice of a city thrust into disaster. 鈥淚 was just really moved by the role that a radio person could play in that situation,鈥� Mooallem says, 鈥渂ecause that role fundamentally connects other people.鈥澨�

Mooallem tried to interview as many survivors of the great Alaskan quake as possible, traveling听across Juneau, Sitka, Anchorage, and rural Washington State to speak听with them. Many people who had lived in Anchorage in 1964 are scattered now, getting old, with their memories failing or already gone. The bulk听of his research was archival鈥攈e spent a lot of time in the Newark, Delaware, archives of the Disaster Research Center鈥攁nd Mooallem, who usually reports on more contemporary stories,听found the gulf between himself and his subjects strange. 鈥淚t layered the whole experience with this weird feeling of dislocation, that I couldn鈥檛 quite connect with those people,鈥� he says.听

Decades of hindsight add nuance听to an otherwise straightforward narrative about disaster and recovery, allowing Mooallem to examine social issues that accounts at that time听did not. He writes, for example, of the sexism Chance听confronted at the radio station, the听鈥減ersistent, backhanded disbelief that a woman could work so hard and proficiently during a crisis.鈥澨齏hen she听asked for a raise, she was told she 鈥渨as already making the highest salary 鈥榝or a woman鈥欌�濃�攕he wrote听later that the station only employed her to begin with听鈥渂ecause I worked hard and cheap.鈥� Chance听faced similar sexism in her later work听in Alaska鈥檚 state legislature听and endured an abusive, alcoholic husband at home.

Mooallem addresses听the 鈥渙vert听racism鈥� some Anchorage residents directed toward Native Alaskans immediately following the earthquake, a 鈥渟hameful exception鈥� to the narrative of harmony and inclusivity听that听the city wanted to tell about itself during the crisis.听He describes a tense standoff between听journalists from the lower 48 who arrived to cover the quake and the Eskimo Scouts, a contingent of the Alaskan National Guard made up of Native Alaskans,听who were tasked with securing that area for everyone鈥檚 safety. The journalists, hoping to get as close as possible to the disaster zone, soon became antagonistic; one called听the Natives 鈥渓ittle soldiers鈥� to belittle them.

At its core, This Is Chance! succeeds at creating the first contemporary history of how Anchorage responded to the unexpected crisis, and it paints a picture of a community coming together in the face of tragedy. It seems to offer a blueprint for us now:听a possible route forward, when previously unthinkable environmental and political catastrophes听seem to have听become a daily occurrence.听

Earthquakes, by their nature, disrupt something we听take for granted as stable: the solid ground beneath our听feet. Though that experience provokes a queasy, vertiginous fascination and tons of press coverage,听鈥渢hen,听somehow, life stitches back together and you move on,鈥� Mooallem says.听鈥淚 really wanted to spend time seeing what happens afterward听instead of just looking away.鈥�

What he found,听when he peered into the void the earthquake ripped open, was encouraging. Sociologists with the Disaster Research Center touched down in Anchorage just a few hours after it ended听to study the city鈥檚 response. Despite prevailing fears about mass hysteria听and stampeding crowds, what they witnessed seemed to demonstrate that people are inclined toward听goodness. 鈥淢any of us have enjoyed鈥攁ctually, taken a great deal of pride in鈥攕eeing the way the people of Anchorage can rise to the occasion,鈥� Chance said shortly after the earthquake. It听supported then controversial social-science theories, which have since been borne out by decades of research, that disasters might actually bring out the best in people.

鈥淚 don鈥檛 think we have a real way to talk about what happens next in those situations,鈥� Mooallem says, echoing an observation in听Rebecca Solnit鈥檚 , a compilation听of case studies about how communities respond to catastrophe.听鈥淲e lack the language for that aspect of our existence, the language we need to describe what happens during disaster,鈥� Solnit writes, describing the compassionate human response that arises in the wake of a catastrophe. 鈥淎nd yet the experience happens anyway.鈥�

Mooallem argues听that Chance, for one, provided the language, that her live-broadcast coverage became 鈥渘ot an antidote to that unpredictability, exactly, but at least a strategy for withstanding it.鈥� In moments of chaos and upheaval, strong narratives can make sense of what previously seemed senseless. 鈥淭he disaster had no narrator,鈥� he writes. That is, until Genie Chance got back on the air.

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鈥淢ore people summit Everest in an afternoon than have made it from Anchorage to Nome on a bicycle,鈥� says the听summary of听Safety to Nome, a听documentary听that follows听participants of听the 2017 听in Alaska. The ITI is the听human-powered equivalent of the Iditarod, in which participants travel the legendary听1,000-mile course via听fat bike, foot, or skis听instead of a dogsled. And the filmmakers do not for a second let you forget just how difficult this听is鈥攚hich makes Safety to Nome,听available on streaming platforms as of February 25, both听incredibly fun to watch听and an excellent meditation on why outdoorspeople like to do nearly impossible things.

Presiding over the event is ITI founder and past competitor Bill Merchant, who probably knows better than anyone听how dangerous the race can be. He reminded me of 听in a giant parka听and frequently says things like,听鈥淢y responsibility is to sit here and sweat blood and hope that I made the right decision when I told them, 鈥榊es, you can come do this.鈥� What I鈥檓 saying to that person is, 鈥極K, you鈥檝e convinced me that you鈥檙e not gonna hurt yourself or die on me out there.鈥欌�澨�

The ITI, an annual event that听will be held for the 20th time听on听March 1,听generally takes听people two weeks to a month to complete, and though many of the featured racers have done it before, the documentary makes it clear that experience and bravery听can only get them so far. Temperatures consistently approach the negative teens. There are storms. There is snow. There is something called overflow that involves navigating a frozen lake to avoid falling into 鈥渃rotch-deep slushie,鈥� as Merchant describes it.

The race begins with 26 competitors, but that number quickly drops as people succumb to exhaustion, chest infections, and frostbite. There is so much frostbite. At one point, a man in a beanie reports that just that morning, a piece of his ear came off with his hat鈥攁nd yet, he鈥檚 not sure if he should drop out!听

The documentary makes audiences really feel the slog at times, but as the remaining racers push on, it becomes a no-nonsense examination of the attitudes that made them sign up for such an insane and Herculean task in the first place. The participants are mostly local men whose听views of racing the ITI are similar; they often, for example, frame the race听as a form of escapism from their daily听lives. 鈥淭his is still all easier than taking care of a two-year-old,鈥� says Kevin Breitenbach, who holds the lead for part of the race before having to drop out. 鈥淚 haven鈥檛 had anyone hitting me, yelling at me.鈥� Another racer relishes that he doesn鈥檛 have to answer his phone or reply to email听while competing. And it鈥檚 a way to shake out of being a 鈥渘aturally fearful person,鈥� as the sole female racer interviewed in the film puts it. It鈥檚 also simply a choice of what to do with your free time, several interviewees point out.听

Basically, people do the ITI for the same reasons that others dedicate听themselves听to mountaineering, ultrarunning, or any other sufferfest. But the character traits (stubbornness, fortitude, and pride, among them) that lead a person to听sign up for grueling outdoor challenges听are on much fuller听display as听Safety to Nome鈥檚听racers make their way through the desolate, icy听Alaskan wilderness. Perhaps the filmmakers鈥� wisest choice was spending听a lot of airtime emphasizing that each person is making a moment-by-moment decision听to be out there:听these racers are technically able to bail before something really bad happens听or听to ask for help when they need it.

The racers, however, are not always eager to call for help.听In one memorable scene, Merchant听debates whether to check on a competitor,听Tim Hewitt, who is in his early sixties. Hewitt previously completed the race nine times on foot, but this time around,听he鈥檚听trying听his luck on a bike听and is struggling. Hewitt gets stuck between checkpoints听for multiple days with limited supplies, so Merchant sends a messenger out with PB&Js and Coke, with instructions to make it seem like a snack is being offered to every racer the messenger meets. Secretly, Merchant is trying to suss out whether Hewitt needs help. (He does.)

While听Safety to Nome doesn鈥檛 offer revolutionary insights into the adventurer鈥檚 psyche, it鈥檚 extremely compelling when it comes to the complicated emotions that people have while attempting gargantuan feats.听

鈥淭hey were the little kids that wore the right shoe on the left foot.听Because their parents figured it was a fight, they didn鈥檛 want to take it there,鈥� Merchant says of the racers. 鈥淭hose are the little kids that grow up to be the people who come out here to do it theirself. And in Alaska, we鈥檙e given that opportunity.鈥�

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The two greatest barriers to seeing the northern lights have always been price and timing. Starting today, Alaska Airlines鈥� 听may have the solution to both of those challenges.

From January 13 to 17, the airline will offer a 20 percent discount on flights to Anchorage and Fairbanks, Alaska, from all cities in the continental U.S. The percentage, generated through a partnership with the University of Alaska Fairbanks Geophysical Institute, was based off of the highest reading of northern lights鈥檚 visibility听from a 27-day forecast performed this morning. The discount will apply to travel through February 12.

鈥淲e鈥檙e hoping that this can be the motivation for someone who has had the northern lights听on their bucket list for a long time to actually get out there and see them,鈥� said Natalie Bowman, managing director of marketing and advertising for Alaska Airlines.

According to Mark Conde, a听physics professor at the University of Alaska Fairbanks, the best time to see the lights during the promotional dates are from January 14 through 20 and February 2 through 7, due to the fact听that there will be more activity in the earth鈥檚 magnetic field.听Often referred to as Aurora Borealis and characterized by mesmerizing green, blue, and purple hues, the lights are caused by charged particles hitting the Earth鈥檚 upper atmosphere.听This听creates small disturbances in the earth鈥檚 magnetic field,听which correlate with the strength of the lights and can be听measured on the , a geomagnetic forecasting system. The index operates on a scale from 0 to 9, with 9 being the greatest level of activity in the magnetic field鈥攖ypically leading to the highest chance of seeing the northern lights.

The 20 percent discount means that the highest forecast showed a 4 to 5 Kp reading. The airline used the following system in determining the figure: a 15 percent discount if the forecast showed 0 to 3 Kp, a 25 percent discount at 6 to 7 Kp, and a 35 percent discount at 8 to 9 Kp.

Conde says the forecasting system is fairly accurate, though he reminds travelers that there is always uncertainty when predicting future atmospheric patterns. 鈥淚 think Fairbanks is a much better choice if you want to see the Aurora,鈥� he says, suggesting fliers consider it over Anchorage. 鈥淲hen the Aurora is inactive, it retreats to the north. So places like Fairbanks and even further north up the coast of Alaska are where you want to be when the Aurora is really quiet.鈥� Fairbanks is also far from big cities and light pollution, making it an ideal place to see the lights.

Conde says the hours between 11 p.m. and 2 a.m. are the best times to see the lights, though there is a chance of seeing them on a clear night between the hours of 5 p.m. and 7 a.m. He also recommends spending at least three to four days in Anchorage or Fairbanks to ensure a good chance of a sighting.

For those who make it to Alaska, Conde recommends heading to Cleary Summit or the Chena Hot Springs in Fairbanks for the best view of the lights. Visitors can rent a car or join a group like the in Fairbanks or in Anchorage. There are plenty of affordable places to stay in town, but for those who want to stay where the magic is more likely to happen, the (from $369), an hour north of Fairbanks, has geodesic domes with 16-foot windows that curve across each roof, while 40 miles outside Anchorage, the remote (from $130) has staff that provide wake-up calls when the lights are visible. Planning ahead and dressing warm is a must, Conde adds, as observers could be waiting two or three hours before catching a glimpse. 鈥淲e鈥檝e been helping people chase the northern lights for more than 25 years by tracking and posting aurora forecasts online,鈥� Conde said. 鈥淭he Geophysical Institute team is thrilled to see our data come to life.鈥�

The post You Can Now See the Northern Lights on a Budget appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Clouds that obscured our view a few hours ago have since given way to dazzling stars and a crescent moon.

The clarity sends Hugo Sanchez into high gear. Tugging a neck warmer up over his nose, he grabs two tripod-mounted cameras and starts trudging across a snow-covered field toward a riverbank.

It鈥檚 around 12:45 A.M. on a February night. The temperature is minus nine degrees, but a steady wind blowing over interior Alaska鈥檚 Middle Fork of the Koyukuk River makes it feel more like minus 20. Behind us, silhouettes of the scattered log cabins that comprise the hamlet of Wiseman look like something out of a different century.

Hugo keeps walking, pushing farther from our small group and the log fire that most of us are huddled around. One of the tour guides, a burly man in a snowsuit, follows Hugo and me toward the river鈥檚 edge, then asks that we stop. The frozen river is probably safe to walk on, but unnecessary risk doesn鈥檛 pair well with tour operations in absurdly remote and frigid locations.

After setting and resetting his tripods in the snow half a dozen times, Hugo is finally satisfied. He angles the cameras, and then we wait. Before long we鈥檙e stomping in place and swaying subconsciously, the body鈥檚 automated reply to the brain鈥檚 insistence on staying out in this outrageous cold. The Milky Way is aglow, illuminating the forest and snow-covered roofs. We haven鈥檛 yet seen what we came here for, but conditions couldn鈥檛 be better.

Every now and then, Hugo bends to look through a viewfinder. Forty-eight years old and standing about five foot seven, he has large brown eyes and a slightly purplish nose. He鈥檚 partially deaf in one ear, the result of a long-ago infection, and his English, although fluent, is tinged with the Spanish of his native El Salvador.

Growing up in Central America, Hugo had never heard of the northern lights: la aurora was a phrase used only to describe the special glow of dawn. But since relocating to Edmonton, Alberta, nearly 30 years ago, he鈥檚 had scores of sightings of what he sometimes calls Lady Aurora. Nowadays, when the forecast looks good or half decent, Hugo will load up his 2007 Mazda and drive, alone and often in the middle of the night, to Elk Island National Park, about 40 minutes from his home on the northwestern edge of Edmonton. There he鈥檒l set up and wait. It鈥檚 a calming place, he says, where he can reflect on what he鈥檚 been through, what he鈥檚 lost, and what he still has.

Before peeling off from the group, Hugo and I listened to a Wiseman local give an informal lesson about the physics of auroras. He stood outside a cabin filled with furs and mining-era memorabilia, and, with mittened hands gesturing toward the sky, explained how nonstop nuclear fusion in the sun sends electrons and protons zooming into space鈥攖he solar wind. Some of these charged particles make their way into earth鈥檚 upper atmosphere, where they smash into oxygen, nitrogen, and other gases. The collisions emit visible light: greens mostly, with cameos from pink, violet, blue, yellow, and red.

They鈥檙e visible, mind you, if it鈥檚 dark and no fog, clouds, snow, or light pollution impede your view. The show is best in an oval region that surrounds earth鈥檚 magnetic poles at high latitudes. Situated at 67.4 degrees and perched on the edge of Gates of the Arctic National Park and Reserve, Wiseman is as front row as it gets.

A few people huddle around the fire outside a cabin; others stay indoors, sipping instant cider, trying not to nod off, and trusting that someone will alert them if there鈥檚 light from above. Not Hugo. He stays at his outpost nearly the entire time, close to three hours. I worry that he鈥檚 colder than he lets on, but this is his element.

In 2016, Hugo鈥檚 ten-year-old son, Emilio, died from complications caused by profound developmental problems. Throughout the challenges, pain, and sadness of that decade, Hugo struggled, as anyone would, to make peace with existence and its cruelties. Yet he has managed to do so, thanks in large part to photography and his quest to capture the northern lights.

I first connected with Hugo more than a year ago, when a NASA scientist听sent me the names of a few aurora aficionados who share their images with the scientific community. After learning a little about his story, it felt like a good idea to take him someplace he鈥檇 never been鈥攁 place known for clear skies, stunning vistas, and tourism infrastructure catering to aurora chasers. My thinking was that really getting to know this photographer, elementary school custodian, and philosopher-poet would require a dream trip. So in February of last year, we met up in Anchorage to begin our journey into the heart of an Alaskan winter.

Hugo was raised in San Salvador, in the northern part of the capital, not far from the University of El Salvador. One of his neighbors was a baker, and Hugo can recall happy mornings traveling in the back of the man鈥檚 pickup to deliver fresh bread around town. He enjoyed soccer after school and on weekends. His family often went to the beach, buying a watermelon to have on the way and returning home with fresh fish or crab. But Hugo鈥檚 teenage years were defined by the civil war that ravaged El Salvador for 12 years starting in 1980. Decades of tension between an impoverished citizenry and an oppressive right-wing government erupted into full-scale conflict that spring, after government snipers opened fire on a crowd gathered for a funeral, killing 42 people and injuring hundreds more. In response, leftist insurgent groups united to form a guerrilla army intent on overthrowing the regime.

The year 1980 was also the height of the Cold War and the dubious notion that drove much of U.S. foreign policy in the region: 鈥渟pheres of influence.鈥� Turning a blind eye to the Salvadoran government鈥檚 barbarity, the U.S. gave military support to its counterinsurgency campaign. A decade of fighting, marked by widespread human-rights violations, rape, torture, and disappearances, left an estimated 75,000 dead.

At the start of the war, Hugo was more wide-eyed than frightened. When he was about 12 and visiting his grandparents, he and his cousins would lie on a hill and watch government helicopters fire at guerrilla camps on the forested slopes of a mountain named Guazapa.

鈥淚t was so cool to see the lights, the gunshot fire in the sky,鈥� he recalls. But soon the skirmishes between rebels and U.S.-backed government forces began closing in on San Salvador. Hugo remembers seeing dismembered corpses on roadsides, dead bodies in a dumpster. Entering the university at 17 helped him avoid military recruitment, but it always felt like he was just a sideways glance away from execution.

By 1989, explosions, gunshots, and murders were the norm. Hugo, not yet 20, was already married and had a baby daughter. Fearful of crossfire, no one left their houses for days on end. Hugo鈥檚 family passed the time with marathon sessions of Monopoly as food supplies dwindled. Then, on November 11, Hugo awoke to shouts: 鈥淓l pueblo unido jam谩s ser谩 vencido!鈥� (鈥淭he people united will never be defeated!鈥�) Gunshots echoed up and down the street. It was the beginning of the opposition fighters鈥� final offensive against the government. The house shook as helicopters fired rockets and sprayed gunfire into nearby buildings.

Hugo鈥檚 mother-in-law was already in Canada, and her church had been sponsoring immigrant applications for friends and relatives back in San Salvador. The process took more than a year鈥攄ocuments, medical exams, interviews鈥攂ut Hugo, his wife, and the baby were finally approved for Canadian residence. In September 1991, they flew 3,000 miles north to start their new life in Edmonton.

Despite support from the church group, Hugo struggled to adjust; the language barrier was intimidating, and he could only get low-paying jobs doing painting or landscaping. The cold weather didn鈥檛 help, and his marriage was strained. In 1998, Hugo and his wife had another child, but by 2004 it was clear their relationship wasn鈥檛 working, so they split up.

At a bar one night in 2005, Hugo met Jamie House. She was a lot younger than him, but they appreciated each other鈥檚 nonchalant vibe and shared easy laughs while playing pool. 鈥淥ur sense of humor kind of clicked,鈥� Jamie says. The two dated for about a year before Jamie got pregnant. 鈥淚 loved him and wanted to have a child with him,鈥� she says. 鈥淲hen you鈥檙e young, you want your happy ending, and that was where I saw it.鈥�

Emilio was born on May 24, 2006, seriously ill from the start. 鈥淭hey rushed him into intensive care because he wasn鈥檛 breathing properly,鈥� Jamie recalls. 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 get to hold him until he was two days old.鈥� Emilio didn鈥檛 leave the hospital for five months, following multiple surgeries on his trachea and abdomen.

Over the next few years, Emilio went back and forth between home and hospital. His doctors never came up with a comprehensive diagnosis, but he had difficulty breathing and eating, could barely see or hear, and never walked or talked. He would come to endure dozens of trips to the emergency room and still more surgeries. Caring for a child like that, one of Hugo鈥檚 close friends told me, is like trying to tread water with an anchor around your neck.

Our plan in Alaska was straightforward: hopscotch to different aurora-viewing hot spots, linking up with local tour operators who know the best places, the ones far from the lights of civilization and set against dramatic backdrops like fjords and abandoned mining buildings. We started in the south, outside Anchorage, then made our way to the interior, first to Fairbanks and then another 270 miles north to Wiseman. Over the course of a week, we stayed out most nights, checked the forecast compulsively, and did a lot of marching through knee-deep snow.

The chase itself began around 9:30 P.M., when the local guide we were working with phoned to give us an update about the prospects of seeing auroras. This input was based on weather conditions and something called the Kp-index, a numeric scale conveying the intensity of the solar wind, with lower numbers (1, 2, 3) indicating less geomagnetic razzle-dazzle and higher numbers (4 to 9) indicating more.

Seeing an aurora on a Kp 9 night is like a religious epiphany鈥攐r so I鈥檓 told, because that鈥檚 very rare and it didn鈥檛 happen for us. But the truth is, seeing an aurora at a 3.5 or a 4, on the right night and in the right setting, is so magnificent that it leaves you laughing.

The forecasts mattered little to Hugo. He鈥檇 seen many auroras on nights when conditions were supposed to be poor, and he鈥檇 come up empty when forecasts looked great. The only guarantee is that you won鈥檛 see anything if you don鈥檛 show up. If the midnight trek to an old mine, the drive to the top of a dark ski mountain, or any of our other frigid adventures yielded no reward, at least we would know that we tried.

The other thing about an aurora quest is that there鈥檚 a lot of downtime during the day鈥攊n February in Alaska, you get roughly six to nine hours of daylight in the state鈥檚 northern areas鈥攁nd Hugo was hell-bent on making the most of it. During a stop at Chena hot springs, outside Fairbanks, we rode a couple of beat-up snowmobiles around, laughing our asses off when I rolled mine and Hugo did the same about 30 seconds later. Afterward we toasted our snow-machine rides with appletinis poured into glasses made of ice while sitting on ice stools at a bar also made of ice, inside a building made of ice and decorated with scattered caribou furs and鈥攇o figure鈥攎edieval-themed ice sculptures.

Make time for hot springs? Check. We also went to the University of Alaska Fairbanks鈥檚 Museum of the North, where Hugo made goofball faces in front of a stuffed grizzly. He also sat quietly in a room filled with music created from satellite data measuring the particles of the solar wind.

The next morning, in a Facebook Live session with friends, Hugo previewed our afternoon plan. 鈥淢y next adventure is going to be one of my dreams,鈥� he said. 鈥淲e鈥檙e going to go dogsledding. I鈥檓 ready to mush, mush!鈥�

It was a crystalline day, and the setting was a pristine river valley. Hugo, wearing a GoPro and lying low in a cocoon of blankets, threw me a sideways peace sign as he whooshed across a meadow of untracked snow. When he was finished, he took a knee with the boisterous dog team. 鈥淚 have to thank them!鈥� he said, hugging each one and giggling at their frenzy of affection.

When darkness arrived and it was time to try our luck, Hugo鈥檚 unassailable good mood was a balm for frustration when the skies didn鈥檛 deliver. On one of our first nights, at a spot along the Seward Highway southeast of Anchorage, we were coming up on two hours with nothing to show for our efforts. Hugo and our guide were unfazed, chatting about the best camera settings for capturing aurora reflections on water, and discussing how photography is simultaneously an expression of the self but also a way to connect with others.

鈥淭o me, it鈥檚 not because I want to be Insta-famous,鈥� Hugo said. 鈥淣o. I want to show people how beautiful the earth is. The magic. They can call it whatever they want鈥攃reator, God, science.鈥� For Hugo, witnessing an aurora is a kind of meditation. But the sight, the image, is a gift that should be shared. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 why I love photography,鈥� he said.

Another night, near Fairbanks, we rode in a snowcat with a small group to a remote hilltop, where we were engulfed in a soupy fog. A yurt stocked with a supply of instant cocoa and oatmeal provided relief from the cold, but as the night wore on, the air grew thick with disappointment. True aurora chasers, like true fishermen, have to be zen about coming up empty. It happens. But that鈥檚 easier said than done for travelers who have come from far away, paid thousands of dollars, and may not have this opportunity again.

Hugo was never down. One night he joked about the weather with a tourist from China. 鈥淵ou know Mother Nature!鈥� he said. The man laughed and finished the thought for him: 鈥淎nything is possible!鈥� Hugo patted him on the shoulder like an old friend. 鈥淥hhh, yeah,鈥� he said.

When Emilio was three, Hugo and Jamie made the wrenching decision to place him in the Rosecrest Home, a full-time care facility. Hugo and Jamie could visit whenever they wanted, but they could also try to regain some balance in their lives. (By this point, Jamie and Hugo had split up, but they remained friends.)

A rare happy memory from that time came when Hugo first saw the northern lights. He and Jamie were driving on Highway 2 between Calgary and Edmonton, far from any cities, when they saw a glow rising from the horizon, gradually lighting up the sky. Even to Jamie, who had seen many auroras, it was stunning. Later she told Hugo that her people, the Cree First Nations, believe 鈥渢he northern lights are dancing spirits of loved ones who have passed on.鈥�

Jamie hated Rosecrest and the sense of failure it symbolized. 鈥淚t was difficult having people tell me how my son was doing and how he did overnight and stuff,鈥� she says. 鈥淚t should have been me.鈥� But for Hugo, Rosecrest had the opposite effect. He believed Emilio was happy there, and he could see that the boy鈥檚 quiet charm had won the hearts of the staff and other families. Rosecrest also gave Hugo, for the first time in years, just enough personal freedom to pursue a new interest.

A few years earlier, a friend had loaned him a camera, a Canon T2i. He went to a nearby park and photographed Canada geese on small ponds. He went again a few days later, and again to explore other parks. 鈥淒ay in, day out, I was photographing what any amateur photographer would,鈥� he says. 鈥淔lowers, ducks, benches, birds flying around.鈥� Money was always tight, but the next year, using his Christmas bonus, Hugo bought a Canon T3i. 鈥淚 had a new toy, and I wanted to play with it,鈥� he says.

He borrowed photography books from the library, watched tutorials on YouTube, and stole away to practice. He began visiting Elk Island National Park in the daytime, zooming in on bison, deer, and owls. His job required him to be at school around 7 A.M., so he would take pictures of the Edmonton cityscape at dawn. He began posting his favorites on Facebook and Instagram, enjoying likes and praise from friends and family.

Meanwhile, through Rosecrest, Hugo made a connection that would change his life. Tom Braid, then the photo editor at the Edmonton Sun, had a son whose condition was similar to Emilio鈥檚. Tom鈥檚 boy died before Emilio got to Rosecrest, but Tom and his wife had stayed close to the community there, helping with the family support group and fundraising.

One night, at a send-off party for a Rosecrest doctor, Hugo volunteered to take pictures. He and Braid struck up a conversation, and Braid asked what he did. Hugo told him he was a custodian at a local Catholic school but that his passion was photography.

鈥淲hat kinds of pictures do you take?鈥�

Hugo handed him his phone and Braid started scrolling, mostly through shots of wildlife and landscapes.

鈥淲hoa, these are good!鈥� Braid said.

鈥凌别补濒濒测?鈥�

鈥淵eah. Really.鈥�

Braid made a point of supporting budding photojournalists, and before long Hugo had a press pass and was doing assignments for the Sun around town鈥攆airs, farms, fireworks. One day in the spring of 2013, Hugo heard there was going to be a meteor shower. He鈥檇 been experimenting with taking long-颅exposure images at night, so he headed out of town. He failed to capture a single picture of a meteor, but when he got home and uploaded his images, he saw that he鈥檇 taken a hazy shot of the northern lights without knowing it.

The photograph was unimpressive, but Hugo was hooked. He loaded his phone with apps for aurora forecasting and began reading about strategies for taking pictures. During the daytime and early evening, when he wasn鈥檛 shooting for the Sun, working his regular job, or caring for his other children, Hugo was at Rosecrest with Emilio. They would usually watch movies together鈥擡milio鈥檚 favorite activity鈥攁nd rub noses in greeting, 鈥渨hich he loved so much,鈥� Hugo says.

After leaving, Hugo would go home to fetch his gear. If it was still early, he might grab a nap or visit the Azucar Supper Club, a Latin-themed nightclub owned by longtime friends. Then, come 11:30 P.M. or so, he would head out to hunt for the northern lights.

Our daylong drive out of Fairbanks began at 8:30 A.M. at the airport, where we joined a tour group and settled into our seats on a small bus pointed north. 国产吃瓜黑料 town, the bus merged onto the Dalton Highway. The scenic and treacherous artery, built during the seventies to support construction of the 789-mile Trans-Alaska Pipeline, stretches from Prudhoe Bay to Livengood, not far from Fairbanks, and is the setting for the reality show Ice Road Truckers.

By early afternoon, with daylight dwindling, we reached the Yukon River, where we stopped at a lonely outpost for a salmon-soup lunch. A few hours later, we pulled off beside a sign marking our arrival at the Arctic Circle, 66掳 33鈥� latitude. We piled out of the bus to stretch and take pictures.

Our fellow aurora chasers included retirees from Oklahoma, a couple from North Carolina, and about a dozen people from China. By this point, Hugo was already a favorite of the group, talking cameras with one elderly man, using his phone to share photographs of auroras, exchanging e-mail addresses with a woman from China, and linking up on social media for future friendships.

It was the same throughout our week together: while we explored the mountains outside Anchorage, visited the ski town of Girdwood, or ate burgers in downtown Fairbanks, Hugo was open to talking to anyone about his life, including the story of his son. Yet it never struck me as oversharing. Being around Hugo made me wonder if the rest of us are sharing too little.

Around 9:30 P.M., we reached Coldfoot Camp at the foot of the Brooks Range. Consisting of a truck stop, a diner, and a motel cobbled together from the same portable structures once used to house workers constructing the pipeline, the place scarcely exists, and there鈥檚 no real reason to visit in winter except for the one big exception that we all hoped to see.

In the diner, Hugo bought a few souvenir magnets for friends back home, then we sat down to eat. Afterward, it was so cold outside that we had to cover our hands and faces just for the walk across the parking lot back to the motel, where we prepped our gear, then rendezvoused in the lobby at 11:30 P.M. for the 16-mile drive to Wiseman.

Emilio鈥檚听death was both sudden and expected. There had been so many close calls, so many times when Hugo and Jamie thought, This could be the day. Then, on December 9, 2016, they each got a call from Rosecrest. Paramedics were already on their way.

Hugo was wrecked. 鈥淚 wanted to see no one and talk to no one,鈥� he says.

After saying goodbye to his son, Hugo called Braid, who suggested they meet at a coffee shop. They sat for hours, talking and crying, two fathers of dead children. They discussed how kids like Emilio and Braid鈥檚 son, Nicholas, are 鈥渂orn pure, live pure, and die pure.鈥� Braid reassured Hugo that he and Jamie had done right by Emilio. 鈥淗e is proud of you,鈥� Braid said. But now? Now is the time to go and live. 鈥淓milio wants you to be free.鈥�

Hugo decided to visit family in Atlanta. The trip helped a little. God did, too, but Hugo still felt broken. Where he did find solace was in nature photography. He started going back to his favorite parks and roadside pull-offs at all hours of the day or night. He would go to work the next day, sometimes having slept only a few hours, and keep one eye on the forecast. Jamie could see it. 鈥淗e was chasing something,鈥� she says.

It’s about 1:20 A.M. in Wiseman when Hugo first spies a thin, ice-green trail over the treetops behind us, looking almost like lava but flowing upward and across the sky. It grows steadily, morphing into the shape of a mountain, then sending streams bursting and shooting into the heavens. To our left, over the Middle Fork of the Koyukuk, the sky looks like fire, then a dragon, then massive flickering pink and green columns, rolling, brightening, and fading.

I give Hugo space as he works quickly with his cameras, setting up exposures, repositioning tripods. I wonder if he鈥檚 nervous about getting the shot, or not getting it, like skiers who get stressed out on a powder day. But he isn鈥檛. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 even know what to shoot anymore!鈥� he shouts, holding his arms up to the sky, delighted.

Over the past few days, Hugo had been saying, half joking, that we would see aurora in Wiseman. He just knew it. Even earlier in the evening, when clouds threatened to fill the sky, he gave me a sly smile. Now, with the show on full display, we can hear cheering from the rest of the group back near the cabins. 鈥淭hese guys,鈥� Hugo says, referring to our guides, 鈥渢hey want to hire me to be their lucky charm.鈥�

A few minutes later, Hugo steps away from his cameras. He looks up at the sky, alive with color and motion, and takes a deep breath. 鈥淚鈥檓 happy to see you, Emilio,鈥� he says, sniffling, his voice cracking slightly. 鈥淚 miss you, buddy. And I love you. Mom loves you, too. So, thanks for everything you鈥檙e doing lately because this is鈥︹�� he says though tears. 鈥淚 love you, buddy.鈥�

The post The Man Who Chases Auroras to Push Away Darkness appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Marin Sardy鈥檚 younger brother once asked, in all earnestness, if she remembered the time she tried to murder him.听

She was taken aback鈥攕he had never done that.听

Sardy鈥檚 first book, the memoir听 ($25.95, Pantheon), details the complicated experience of living with both a brother and mother who suffered from听severe mental illness, neither of whom agreed to substantial treatment or even acknowledged their situations. With lyrical descriptions and a creative, nonlinear structure that mimics the erratic nature of schizophrenia鈥攖he book鈥檚 form shifts from听prose to disembodied lists鈥擲ardy traces the course that mental illness has cut through her family.

Sardy鈥檚 is a multiplex clan, one in which a condition appears in successive generations. In such instances, severity often increases as it鈥檚 passed down. This was the case with her brother, Tom鈥攁 skilled skier and climber who abandoned those pursuits when schizophrenia grabbed hold during his mid twenties鈥攁nd their mother, Mari, who broke down in her forties and spent the rest of her life roving from the family鈥檚 hometown of Anchorage, to California, New Mexico, and beyond. While Mari was functional with the support of Marin and others, Tom refused offers of help from family and friends and spent years homeless in Alaska before eventually dying by听suicide in 2014.

How does one try to lead any semblance of a normal life under such circumstances? Sardy provides no concrete answers to this question except her own example. She hasn鈥檛 experienced schizophrenia firsthand but recognizes the ways it has听informed her life. The first chapter, 鈥淪trange Things I Have Encountered,鈥� is a series of disjointed vignettes: the sun red through a dense cloud of smoke, a crumpled bullet on the floor. Upon first read, the strange episodes seem confusing and incongruous. Later听they become prescient. 鈥淲hen a sharp object presses into you but doesn鈥檛 cut you,鈥� Sardy writes, 鈥渁nd your skin bulges around it and forms a crease at the point of contact.鈥� This turn of phrase reflects the book鈥檚 exploration of how mental illness reverberates through the affected person鈥檚 entire community, everyone growing awkwardly around it.

The author, also an essayist (some chapters, like 鈥淎 Shapeless Thief鈥� and 鈥淐hokecherries,鈥� were published elsewhere before being incorporated into the memoir) describes childhood with a severely paranoid mother in surprisingly matter-of-fact听terms. Mari鈥檚 delusions became obvious when Marin was just ten听years old. 鈥淪he took my sisters and brother and me to hotels when she thought they were watching us,鈥� Sardy writes. 鈥淲e slept there on school nights, displaced, broken from our routine as she remade our world.鈥� After the parents divorced, the children鈥檚 father moved in next door so the kids would be close by. The four siblings continued to live with their mother on and off.

A chapter is dedicated to anonymous family members鈥� interviews with Sardy, explaining in turns that they didn鈥檛 understand what was happening to Mari, that they hoped it might go away, that it was too shameful to address head-on. Even in the 1980s, schizophrenia was not well understood, and to this day听the syndrome鈥檚 causes and symptoms are not entirely clear.听Despite her tumultuous upbringing, Sardy matured into a well-adjusted adult with a more nuanced understanding of how her mother saw the world.听

The author鈥檚 life isn鈥檛 terribly dissimilar from her mother鈥檚. An itinerant worker in her young-adult years, Sardy worked summers in Alaska banding birds for Fish and Wildlife and spent winters chasing powder and exploring Asia and Latin America. She takes readers along on some of her travels鈥擟osta Rica with Tom, just before the onset of his mental illness; Morocco with her sister Adrienne. She also reaches back through several generations of mental illness. Her grandmother Barbara鈥檚 brother was institutionalized, and her great-grandmother Julia appears to have experienced hallucinations of Japanese spies in the walls of her home during World War II. Sardy connects the dots between her own traits and those of her forebears: the sensitivity, the moodiness, how听鈥渋n spite of myself, my life turned on absurdities and paradoxes.鈥� She touches鈥攖oo briefly鈥攐n her own struggle with depression. As in any family, examining one鈥檚 relatives is a useful lens for understanding oneself.

An essayist and cultural critic,听Sardy also uses pop culture to look inward. One chapter recalls a phase in her early twenties when she took to wearing flamboyantly colorful clothing, accessories, and makeup while living in Bozeman, Montana. She likened herself to David Bowie and his famous Aladdin Sane persona, who wore a lightning bolt across his face to symbolize the dual-mindedness exhibited by schizophrenics like his brother Terry. Sardy wasn鈥檛 aware of this connection, but in retrospect, she writes, 鈥淚 think I was trying to do what Bowie had done, to find a way to continue on in the presence of schizophrenia.鈥澨齇stentatious articles听of clothing like听a thrifted lavender and navy mesh shirt emblazoned with the word ASYLUM made Sardy stand out听from the crowd in the mountain town.听鈥淭his was where I first understood that you could find asylum in exposure.鈥�

By opening up and writing frankly about her experiences, Sardy does more than indulge readers鈥� morbid fascination. She writes to help herself make sense of traumatic events, but in doing so she forces readers to consider mental illness more familiarly: What if your brother, or your mother, was psychotic? Odds are, you鈥檇 think differently about how our society addresses鈥攐r fails to address鈥攎ental health. In the book, Sardy remembers a shockingly tactless column in the Anchorage Daily News about Tom, who was by that point a well-known fixture around town, infamous for peeping on a local woman (though his motives, at least to those who knew him, were ostensibly benign). To the columnist, Tom is merely some crazy guy in the park who might be dangerous. To Sardy, he鈥檚 her brother. It鈥檚 a messy reality to tangle with.

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Most of us who venture into the wild for fun and fulfillment can do so with a belief that, even if we鈥檙e tested, everything will turn out alright in the end. In Chia-Chia Lin鈥檚 debut novel听, a Taiwanese American family struggles to eke out a life on the outskirts of Anchorage鈥攁nd part of what makes the story so gripping is the lack of any underlying sense that things will turn out alright.

When the family moved听to Anchorage, it was听into a听creaky house in an empty cul-de-sac where听the听father had hoped听a neighborhood would听take root and a middle-class life could thrive. Instead, amid听the isolation that many immigrants face, life has become a series of 鈥渟hould haves.鈥� Once a proud engineer, the father resorts to plumbing and odd jobs, leaving his resourceful and increasingly resentful wife with the burden of keeping four children clothed, fed, and safe on the edges of the south-central Alaskan wilderness. Through the eyes of the book鈥檚 narrator, Gavin, we quickly understand that the family lives a threatened existence. When Gavin falls seriously ill at age ten, he awakens days later in a fog to learn he鈥檚 had meningitis听and his four-year-old sister, Ruby, has died from it. The father is later sued over shoddy work on a water well听that resulted in the poisoning of a customer鈥檚 son. He lapses into a state of abject passivity.

As Gavin says of his family: 鈥淥ur aliveness was precarious.鈥�

It鈥檚 from this teetering state that The Unpassing sets in motion a complicated and refreshingly unromantic family drama. While Gavin and his siblings try to go about the business of being kids, exploring the forest at their doorstep and making friends with distant neighbors, the forces of grief and dysfunction tear at the fabric of the household. The novel鈥檚 tension mounts like accumulating snow on the strained roof.

The drama plays out against a set of intriguing, often menacing landscapes鈥攖he shadowy backyard spruce forest, brooding coastal inlets, the Kenai River glimmering with silver salmon. One of the immediate pleasures of Lin鈥檚 writing is the听heightened perception it brings to these environments. While it鈥檚 actually adult Gavin who鈥檚 narrating the story in retrospect, we鈥檙e effectively experiencing the world through ten-year-old Gavin鈥檚 senses. In one especially vivid scene, he听and his mother encounter a beluga whale stranded on a treacherous tidal flat. Beneath their feet, the cool, wet silt is 鈥渞aw batter shaken inside a pan.鈥�听The whale鈥檚 exposed white flesh is 鈥渟oft, like a ripe peach,鈥� and its extended forehead and mouth shape 鈥渁 pained smile鈥攁s though we鈥檇 asked, 鈥楽houldn鈥檛 you be in the water?鈥欌�� There鈥檚 a slow drip of delicious, tactile detail that not only establishes a rich scene but reveals clues about Gavin鈥檚 inner state.

Full disclosure:听I went to college with Chia-Chia Lin, so after I emerged from The Unpassing鈥檚 spell, I caught up with her and asked, among other things, how she channeled the experience of a child.

Lin, who grew up in a family of Taiwanese immigrants in various cities on the East Coast, first visited Alaska听nearly 15 years ago for an internship at the attorney general鈥檚 office in Anchorage. In a dying Subaru, she spent weekends exploring the Chugach Mountains and beyond. She says she found herself wide-eyed.听鈥淐hildren experience the world so dramatically and fully. They鈥檙e really in touch with their senses. As an outsider, I experienced Alaska at a different, heightened level, the way a child would,鈥� she told me.听鈥淚nsiders have more access to knowledge, but outsiders in a place have access to their reactions鈥攖o newness.鈥�

The allure of the wilderness in听The Unpassing听is not only in its newness,听though. It鈥檚 also that it鈥檚 unknowable, a source of irreducible mystery. Lin said that while writing the novel, she drew inspiration in some small but meaningful way from a news story about a Japanese boy who鈥檇 gone missing in the听woods. 鈥淗e was too young to explain what had happened to him in the few days he鈥檇 spent alone. But even when you鈥檙e an adult, it鈥檚 hard to describe what happens to you in the woods鈥攈ow they change you.鈥澨鼳s she was telling me this, I couldn鈥檛 help but think of the moment in the book when Gavin reflects on his wild backyard with a sort of naive wisdom: 鈥�The truth was, we didn鈥檛 know the woods at all. We only knew the path. Once you stepped off it, there was no telling what you鈥檇 find.鈥�

It鈥檚 worth noting that for all the natural threats that loom for Gavin and his family鈥攍ike man-swallowing mudflats, tree-thrashing moose, and bears听descending from the Chugach Mountains鈥攁t its core, the novel doesn鈥檛 lean too hard on timeworn ideas of the wilderness as a proving ground of one鈥檚 prowess or will to survive. Lin laughs recalling that she forbade her publisher from putting a bear on the book鈥檚 cover.听

What鈥檚 more menacing鈥攁nd moving鈥攊n听The Unpassing听is the way the wilderness creeps into house and home, and the way it leads characters astray from one another. First, tiny fungi sprout in the dank bathroom. Later, squirrels take up in the attic, and rain leaks through the ceiling. As the novel builds toward听a scene of harrowing dysfunction and confrontation, the wilderness comes to reflect the unforgiving emotional terrain that family members听are trying to navigate鈥攁nd are not guaranteed to emerge from.听(Lin says, 鈥淭here鈥檚 nowhere as wild as our families.鈥�)

To be fair, it鈥檚 not all bleak in the cul-de-sac on the edge of the woods. In moments when the kids snuggle in bed, sharing an illicit candy bar, or when curious, caring neighbors reach out, there is warmth and optimism, rendered with the kind of understatement that reverberates. There are funny moments, too, usually involving Gavin鈥檚 tenacious, unfiltered mother (when we meet her, she鈥檚 playing dead to test her children鈥檚 reactions).

At its heart,听The Unpassing听is about newcomers striving in the margins between civilization and the forest for a basic sense of security that others have long taken for granted. It鈥檚 a kind of modern pioneer story, stripped of sentimentality but pulsating with both love and dread for the wilderness.

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