Denali, the highest peak in North America, with a summit elevation of 6,190 meters, would serve as our home for three weeks. With our lives packed in our sleds, we marched beneath a two-toned landscape—cloudless blue sky above, and snowcapped peaks stretching as far as the eye could see. Any mountains back in Colorado or Norway now seemed like small, rolling hills compared to the ancient Alaskan range.
Each night, under the endless sun, was controlled chaos inside our small two-person tents—crampons, axes, harnesses, ropes, clothing, water, and food were all stored methodically in preparation for the next morning. Anything that could freeze came inside the sleeping bags—three water bottles, food for the next day, cameras, batteries, and 40 rolls of film. Reaching for anything once in your sleeping back became harder than any climbing done that day…


Caches were made along the way in a disciplined, methodical manner. Digging a cache between camps allowed us to store unneeded items for the day, thus reducing the weight we had to carry. But it meant doubling the amount of travel: from Camp 1 to the cache, back to Camp 1; from Camp 1 to Camp 2, then back down to the midway point for the cache and back to Camp 2. This routine would continue as we moved toward the summit.


The vastness of the Denali range cannot be captured in words or photographs. It’s an all-encompassing sensory overload. From the grand visuals of dark crevasses and towering peaks, to the lack of fresh scents, to the paradoxical freezing air and smoldering sunshine, and the absolute silence—the experience is otherworldly. In few places is the call of the wild still so alive. If you heed its call, adventure becomes inevitable.



