A Stranger in the Denali Wilderness - Denalis, Alaska

A Stranger in the Denali Wilderness

Denali, Alaska


Hiking alone has always scared me. At 28, I have traveled alone, eaten in restaurants alone and even gone out for evenings alone in unfamiliar cities. But there's something about hiking solo on a narrow dirt path cutting through wooded areas that evokes a primal fear of unseen dangers lurking behind the looming aspen trees and amidst dense shrubbery surrounding an isolated trail which takes my imagination to places it should not go.

But I had always dreamed of visiting Alaska and had planned this trip for quite some time. When my traveling companion had to cancel at the last minute due to an unexpected job lay off, I decided to go by myself. Part of my journey took me to Denali National Park, one of the most remote wilderness areas in the United States. A place consisting of largely undeveloped wilderness and home to many species of wildlife.

Despite my fear of being alone in the woods, I've always enjoyed hiking and had planned to explore my fair share of trails on this vacation. But taking this trip alone meant that I'd have stick to more popular trails as there would be a greater chance of finding other hikers on the trail. Knowing there were people ahead of or behind me would eliminate the fear that would creep in while hiking alone in through densely forested areas with no sound other than the rustling of my day pack against my shoulder as I walked.

Early that morning, I set out on one of the most popular hiking trails near the park's entrance. A light rain was falling, as it had steadily done throughout the three days I had spent in Denali. Perhaps that was the reason why the trail was disappointingly empty. At first, I tried to brush aside my fear and hike anyway, since I would be leaving this area shortly and I was determined to experience as much of Denali as possible, despite the constant rain and the lack of a traveling companion. I even began humming to myself a bit and stomping my feet as I trudged along the narrow dirt path, attempting to make as much noise as possible in order to extinguish the silence and alert any possible wildlife to my presence. But as the trail continued farther into the woods, the rain-soaked dirt softened into thick mud which engulfed my hiking boots, slowing my progress and muffling my footsteps. At that point, the primal fear won and my thoughts became consumed with surprise encounters with bears who might confuse a defenseless hiker with a threatening presence and decide to attack. I was forced to dejectedly abandon my long-anticipated hike and head back to the visitors' center.

As I began walking in the direction of my car, I saw a group of four people heading towards the adjacent trailhead leading to a nearby lake. Great, I thought, why couldn't they have been here maybe a half hour before, possibly hiking on the other trail so that I would not have been alone out there. As if reading my thoughts, one member of the group - a white haired bearded older gentleman with bright eyes and a friendly smile, greeted me enthusiastically. "Don't tell me you've already finished the trail!" he exclaimed, pausing to chat while the rest of his group hurried ahead to begin their hike.

Somewhat embarrassed, I told him that I hadn't even hiked halfway. I explained that I was hiking alone, that I hadn't seen any other hikers on the other trail and that I was afraid to continue by myself. That same friendly smile and he said with certainty, "Then come with us!" Motioning towards his group, who had stopped curiously to watch this exchange, he explained to the others that I was about to join them.

The man's name was Bob Swihart and he was vacationing with his brother, his grandson and his grandson's friend. They had been exploring Denali National Park for several days during their week's stay in the area. Bob's grandson seemed a bit annoyed that his grandfather had slowed down their hike to invite a stranger along, but Bob didn't seem the least bit bothered that my joining their group may have caused a delay. While his grandson and friend hurried ahead, Bob walked leisurely beside me, chatting the entire time.

Bob told me that he and his family live in Michigan. He spoke proudly of their German ancestry. He also mentioned his wife who did not make the trip. When Bob told me that he was almost eighty years old, I was surprised and impressed. This was a relatively easy hike in comparison to the undeveloped backcountry exploration favored by more adventurous visitors, but by no means was the trail a mere walk in the park. In fact, it was quite steep in some places and the constant rain had turned the dirt path into mud, creating slippery conditions and making the hike more difficult. But this nearly eighty year old grandfather and friend to strangers did not appear to have much trouble. I began to wonder at his youthful energy.

When Bob asked what I do for a living, I mentioned that I am a free lance writer doing a story on Alaska. He appeared excited at the prospect of being mentioned in a magazine and asked lots of questions about what I was writing and whether I would include his family in any stories I submitted for publication.

"Sacajawea" and Bob

When we reached the lake, the rain granted us a reprieve and the sun almost broke free from the omnipresent cloud cover. Bob insisted on taking a picture with me, calling me Sacajawea, after the famous guide who lead Lewis and Clark's expedition. So my new friend and I posed for two pictures, one taken with his camera and one with mine.

The entire round trip hike lasted less than two hours. When we finished, Bob had asked me to spend more time with his family, but I had to be on my way to reach my next destination. We said goodbye and Bob insisted on spelling out his last name for me, in case this story appeared in an article.

As we shook hands and parted, I didn't have the heart to tell Bob that neither he nor his family would end up in a travel magazine as this was simply not the right material. After all, travel magazines usually seek stories about the finest places to stay and the best restaurants. But, driving south to Anchorage that day beneath the dreary sky, watching the wind-shield wipers intermittently brush aside drops of incessantly falling rain, I kept thinking about my new friend and how someone should write about Bob Swihart. By the time I stopped for lunch several hours later, the rain finally ceased and the day transformed from gray clouds to blue sky. At that point, I decided that I would write Bob's story. And I hope that someday Bob gets the chance to read this so that he can proudly show it to his family.

I can't say that Bob Swihart did anything earth-shattering that day. But he did extend a kind offer at a time when it was needed. I doubt that Bob himself would see anything extraordinary in that either. It was probably something he does on a daily basis. Bob Swihart struck me as the kind of man who chats with the person behind him in a supermarket check-out line, shows pictures of his grandchildren to everyone he meets, knows the names of all his neighbors and who, quite possibly, has never met a stranger.

But in a world where evil forces are trying to destroy people they don't even know based upon misguided notions of what this country stands for and where many people, such as myself, live in overcrowded and unfriendly cities where we are afraid to even say hello to passers by on the street, people like Bob Swihart are, in a sense, extraordinary. It is the Bob Swiharts of this world that show us that good people exist and that they are, in fact, everywhere. Even in the most remote wilderness areas of this country.

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