I’m alone on the deck of my igloo, standing under a murky Alaskan night. All is quiet, save for my husband’s chainsaw-like snore vibrating from within the dome. I wonder if the neighboring igloo-dwellers can hear him?
Ironically, Rick’s grizzly bear snore isn’t why I’m standing outside in a fairly cold forest in my pajamas and hiking boots at 2 a.m. It’s the gamble I came to Alaska for: chasing the Northern Lights. Minutes ago, my eyes popped open with a purpose but it took a second to recall exactly what that purpose was. Oh yes: my solitary goal for this trip! Seeing the Northern Lights. I jumped up, grabbed my cameras and threw on this ensemble that makes me grateful it’s too dark to see from igloo to igloo.
We checked into Borealis Basecamp two nights ago with the highest hopes. An hour north of Fairbanks, Alaska, it’s the only place like it in North America — a boutique, outdoorsy 100 acres designed to make viewing the Aurora Borealis as comfortable and luxurious as possible. The igloos have clear domes and 12-ft. ceilings, so you can snuggle amid high quality linens while viewing what indigenous Arctic people attributed to ancestral spirits or animal battles in the sky. From late August through mid-April, the Fairbanks area becomes a hub for aurora chasers, and ever since Borealis Basecamp opened in 2017, the property has gained a reputation as one of the best spots to watch the sky.
Posted up on the deck and surrounded by tall pines, the world feels unimaginably still — and obnoxiously, disappointingly dark. It’s been cloudy since we arrived and the heavy gray blanket seems thicker than ever. But I’m ready for anything. My DSLR is on a tripod, pre-programmed with aurora-appropriate settings I have been researching for weeks. My GoPro is on the table ready to capture a Night Lapse. And my iPhone is in my hand ready to experiment.
The forecast on the three different apps I downloaded all promised strong aurora activity during our stay, but they don’t account for weather. Now on our last night, I gaze out into the darkest dark willing the clouds to part. Even just a tiny glimpse will do. According to University of Alaska Fairbanks (UAF) physics student Andy Witteman, “Big auroras can happen on nights which are seemingly quiet, and cloudy nights can break up just enough to let the purples and greens rain down from the stars!”
I’m betting on it.
I snap a photo with my iPhone in Night Mode and sure enough, the Northern Lights are strong tonight — strong enough to tinge the clouds a faint Elphaba green, but not nearly enough to break through with effervescent sparkling and dancing. Someone, somewhere at this latitude is getting an incredible show. I try not to be too jealous. In Alaska, nature deals the cards and sometimes you get a bad hand.
I admit defeat — quicker now that I’ve done this three nights in a row. These clouds aren’t going anywhere. I pack my cameras back into the igloo and join the snoring grizzly in the bed.
The first time the Northern Lights evaded me, I was flying back from Calgary, having just spent a week with my mom exploring Western Canada onboard the Rocky Mountaineer train.
“DING. This is your captain speaking. Sorry to interrupt for those of you sleeping but we’ve got a rare treat tonight and I didn’t want anyone to miss the incredible show of Northern Lights we’re seeing outside the left side of the plane,” the pilot said as I reached for my seatbelt, ready to climb over the 8 occupied seats between me and that left side window. But before I could make my move, another interjection: “DING. Also, we’re heading into some pretty strong turbulence so I’m going to leave the seatbelt sign on for the remainder of the flight. Flight attendants, secure the cabin and take your seats.”
The lucky left side of the plane had the most epic, albeit turbulent, light show of their lives, while I sat staring forlornly out my right side window, with a pitch black view of nighttime in rural Canada.
I was RIGHT THERE. The Northern Lights I’d dreamed of seeing since I was a kid were happening so close I could almost touch them. Right place. Right time. Wrong seat.
Other times, I missed the aurora by a day. Just last month, I was eating my way through Traverse City, Michigan, the Cherry Capital of the World, and the day after I left — I kid you not — there was a brilliant, early season display of the aurora over Lake Michigan. And last year, I was in Sweden for a concert and the day after I left — I CONTINUE TO KID YOU NOT — there was a brilliant, late season display of the aurora.
In my line of work, these near-misses happen a lot. I remember waiting on a geyser eruption for 3 hours with my sister once in Yellowstone. It was imminent… but not so imminent that we caught it. A few hours after we left, it went off. Same thing in Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park. Rick and I hiked the Big Island for days wishing to witness Pele’s fury in person. A few weeks after we flew home — you guessed it — BIG FAT Big Island eruption. And to really rub lava salt in the wound, Kilauea has been erupting dramatically on and off since we left.
I try not to take these near-misses personally. The reality is that traveling to experience natural phenomena is a risky undertaking. You never know when a tropical storm might block out a meteor shower, or when whale sharks you flew halfway around the world to snorkel with took the day off. It’s kinda like betting it all on red — or maybe on 36. Odds really depends on which natural phenomena we’re comparing. Either way, it’s a gamble.
I suppose I could avoid this natural phenomena-dependent travel, but then I’d miss out on all the character-building disappointment. The drama, the anticipation, the complaining — it’s all a part of the experience, right?
I travel all the time, but I’m no Captain Cook. Nearly every path I walk has footprints much older than mine leading the way. Anybody with a credit card can book a trip to Alaska, stay up all night and cross their fingers. Visiting unknown lands in search of new wonders just isn’t the risk it used to be. So we add new layers to make it feel more adventurous. Like spending thousands of dollars and hoping for clear skies.
That might be worth unpacking with a therapist. But I digress.
At any rate, there are plenty of sure things in travel if a guaranteed outcome is required. The Pacific Ocean will always be waiting at the end of Route 66. Stonehenge will always be henging. Seasonal destinations like Denali shut down right on schedule every year. Some travel experiences you can set your watch to.
But nature isn’t on anybody’s schedule — and I can’t stop chasing that high. The not knowing how it’s all going to turn out is what makes it so juicy. Addictive, even.
There have been plenty of times when the risk paid off, so I know better than to bellyache about this week’s clouds. I stayed up all night on my last visit to Yellowstone and saw one of the strongest showings of the Perseids in recent memory. I wouldn’t have experienced the last two solar eclipses that passed over the US if I hadn’t ignored the forecasts calling for storms. I still get chills thinking about the perfect sunny days I ended up with, and the awed hush over nature that came with the rare daytime darkening of the sun.
In the morning, we drive south toward Denali National Park on the scenic George Parks Highway, watching for feisty bull moose since it’s mating season. We check into our second hotel of the trip, the Grande Denali Resort. It sits above the tourist-centric town just outside Denali National Park’s entrance, giving an eagle-eye view of everything below. The 6-million acre national park sprawls as far you can see, the Nenana River snakes along its eastern border and the typically crowded restaurants are mostly shuttered now that it’s mid-September and most tourists have turned back to the south. It’s a stark contrast to Borealis Basecamp, which is just kicking off aurora season. There, we were spoiled with tons of activities and dining options. Here in Denali, it’s all “Closed for the Season” signs and my rumbling tummy.
That night in the parking lot at Grand Denali, I watched the clouds roll in again. Another bet, another bust.
By the fifth night, I almost forgot about the aurora — not because I gave up, but because Alaska delivered so much wonder. We tore through the pine forest at Borealis Basecamp on an ATV, getting absolutely drenched in mud in the process. Then we walked a reindeer, aptly named Aurora, through the woods. We’ve eaten some of the best food I’ve had in a long time, from every dish at Basecamp’s Latitude 65 to a juicy Yak burger and King Crab grilled cheese from 49th State Brewery.
Denali added another layer of awe to our trip. Massive bull moose paraded, Dall sheep balanced on cliff edges and a couple snowshoe hares hid in the red underbrush. I know it’s just a pipe dream (because there’s no way this Floridian could hack it in an Alaskan winter), but we joke about how lovely it would be to live here with all these animals and millions of miles of wilderness.
I’m struck by a thought that an Alaskan could be standing in Florida right now, waiting for a manatee to surface or hoping to catch the blue fire of a bioluminescent bay. An ordinary Tuesday for me could be the top of someone else’s bucket list. Meanwhile, I’m not getting out of bed for an alligator sighting, but I’ll drive around all day in search of moose.
Who knows why awe feels like it hits harder when it happens far from home? Maybe it’s because we’ve had to invest something to chase it. Sometimes the bet doesn’t pay off the way you imagined — but the game itself was worth playing.
After our full day hiking and photographing animals in Denali National Park, I collapse into bed shortly after 9. This seems to happen every night as Eastern time has me in the worst chokehold I can recall. Probably because I’ve been waking up every few hours to see if the lights are out and interrupting my REM sleep. Not tonight though. I lump all the camera gear into a pile in the corner, muttering something about charging batteries and offloading memory cards in the morning. I am too tired for words, unconcerned with polar light shows and unconscious before Rick has even started getting ready for bed.
I am soon roused from a deep sleep by an unfamiliar sound — not the grizzly bear/chainsaw medley I’m used to. Is that ringing? My eyes pop open in the hotel room illuminated only by the show Rick is watching. I reach for the hotel phone on the nightstand.
“Hello?” I say, groggily, barely registering where I am in the world.
“This is the front desk with your wake up call,” a cheery voice announces. I look at the clock. 10:15 p.m. Weird time for a wake up call.
“Oh, okay?”
“The Northern Lights are visible now over Mt. Healy. Have a great night.”
*https://www.explorefairbanks.com/blog/post/aurora-season-has-arrived