A Life Well Aimed

Denali from Reflection Pond. About 2 miles from the Wonder Lake Campground.

Denali

It had taken some effort to get myself—and my gear—to this exact spot at this exact moment.

2,964 miles, to be precise. From Salt Lake City, up the ALCAN Highway, absorbing frost heaves large enough to rattle both suspension and confidence, all the way to Denali National Park. It seemed like nothing could rattle me, or my Solar Yellow Nissan Xterra—a vehicle that was proud to be there. I had retrofitted it for the trip with prayer flags, a clothesline, power inverters, a small desk, and a comfortable bedroom, turning it into a rolling declaration of independence.

I didn’t mind the distance of this drive. I was on a pilgrimage, which transformed the miles from an annoyance to a badge of honor.

I stopped often. For large mammals. For views that demanded respect. And occasionally to fire up a camp stove and produce pancakes of heroic lumpiness, enhanced with berries picked from the side of the road—Himalayan Blackberries, mostly—which did nothing to improve the texture but greatly improved the quality of my rudimentary culinary efforts.

Eventually, there was a five-and-a-half-hour bus ride to, (almost), the end of the dusty Denali Park Road, at Wonder Lake Campground, mile 84.4. Along the way, we pulled over as a male grizzly with rich, caramel-colored fur ambled across a tundra so red it looked like autumn had spilled a paint bucket and then kept going. Alpine bearberry. Dwarf blueberry. Dwarf Fireweed. A rolling sea of crimson, framed by a deep sapphire sky untouched by smoke or haze. It was the last week of August, and Alaska was in a particularly boastful mood.

At this moment I was grateful to be inside a large green bus. In case the bear was hungry. But also longing to be walking side by side with him across the tundra like a close friend.

From the window of the bus. That bear. That stretch of tundra. As advertised.

From the bus drop off, I backpacked through Wonder Lake Campground and found a spot entirely to myself. No voices. No headlamps. Just me, a tent, a down sleeping bag, and a carefully rationed supply of dark chocolate, eaten slowly like it might have been the last chocolate on earth.

Sitting there I thought: This setup is PERFECT. It is the kind of orchestration I love… where I can be still, and carefully listen, because I’ve trained myself to listen. And often, it’s in situations such as this when magic happens. 

Then I nibbled off another small nugget of chocolate and smiled. This was kind of exciting. I felt anticipation combined with a sense of well-being.

The days were shortening fast. By nine o’clock, it was fully dark. The full moon didn’t rise so much as arrive by degrees, inching its way up from behind the mountain. At sixty-eight degrees north, it traced a low, patient arc, casting reflected light across Denali’s vast face. I was viewing more visible vertical feet of mountain than can be seen anywhere on the planet. Snowfields glowed. Shadows softened. Because of normal stormy Alaskan weather, only about thirty percent of visitors ever get to see the mountain at all, and on that night, it felt less like good luck and more like a quiet act of mercy.

Then the northern lights arrived—like a troupe of angels showing up for a curtain call.

Green ribbons first, then hints of purple, unfurling, dancing, and dissolving as solar wind met the upper atmosphere. The mountain. The full moon. The aurora. All of it happening at once, unhurried and unsponsored. I had orchestrated some elements of this recipe to get here, in this season, this weather window, this spot. But the best part, happening right now, had clearly been provided by a higher power.

I lay there, WIDE awake, wrapped in down and wonder, feeling that unmistakable sensation:

I was fully alive.

What Changed

We live in an amazing world. Best in all of history.

But it is comfortable, efficient, and spiritually anesthetizing—and some of us can feel those effects happening in real time.

Even the outdoors can feel busy, crowded, and transactional. Parking, people, permits.

Despite all this, I don’t believe wildness is gone. I believe it has become harder to access—and easier to miss.

Why Now?

I’ve been preparing for this longer than I realized.

For years, I balanced demanding work with high-level travel and outdoor pursuits, quietly assuming there would be more time later—to retire early, to roam longer, to go bigger. It all felt inevitable; in the vague, comforting way things do when you believe your body will always cooperate.

I got injured running marathons and had to let go of the idea that I could simply out-train time, or perpetually limp through it. Spreadsheets had always been reassuring; my knees were less so. Later is no longer a strategy.

Around the same time, something else loosened its grip. The drive that had powered my consulting career—the need to be the best, the fastest, the sharpest—didn’t disappear so much as quietly excuse itself. The work was still fine. I just wasn’t meant to keep doing it indefinitely.

Then a few practical things fell into place. A dream van appeared at exactly the wrong moment to ignore. The numbers worked—close enough, anyway. And it dawned on me that leaving it parked in a driveway until the “right time” arrived would be the most expensive form of procrastination imaginable.

What surprised me was what came next.

I realized I didn’t just want to go on adventures—I wanted to use them. To give something back. To show how wild places can still feel wild, even now, if approached as an act of skillful orchestration—doing our part with discipline and timing, and leaving room for God to do His.

There’s no official playbook for that part. I’m writing my own.

And if I’m honest, there’s a simpler truth underneath it all: I can still shoulder a pack. I can still cross high passes. I still feel strong, curious, and deeply alive—and I don’t want to discover, too late, that I politely waited for a window that had already closed.

So, this year, I’m stepping fully into the wild—not to escape life, but to practice it.

Denali Requiem

I woke up the next day to the feel of sun warming the tent and the sound of a nearby bird. I was momentarily disoriented.

“Where am I? What happened?”

I thought about an experience… with a full moon, and the Northern Lights, and …

Did that really happen?

Yes. It did.

I rummaged through the tent to find my Nikon, flipped it on, and started thumbing through images.

Nothing from last night. That was the photographic opportunity of a lifetime and I had NOTHING.

Then the perspective came into focus:

High in the Himalaya, a photographer once explained that when a moment is truly beautiful, he sometimes chooses not to capture it.

“If I like a moment, I don’t like the distraction of the camera,” he said, watching quietly as something rare moved through the frame. The camera sat on a tripod right in front of his face, but the shutter never clicked.

Then he said: “Beautiful things don’t ask for attention.”

That idea has stayed with me. Not everything meaningful needs to be recorded, shared, or proven. Some moments are diminished the instant we reach for evidence of them.

They are given not to be displayed, but to be received—and if we are lucky, to change us.

At the foot of Denali, the night before, I had experienced something wild, beautiful, and the hand of God.

That was the point, and that was enough.