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A historical guide to name origins for Anchorage’s major streets and roads: Part 2

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A historical guide to name origins for Anchorage’s major streets and roads: Part 2


Part of a continuing weekly series on Alaska history by local historian David Reamer.

The most common type of history question people ask me can be summed up as: “Why’s it named that?” Everyone lives in a relationship with their surroundings. And as with any relationship, knowing more about your partner — Anchorage, in this case — promotes a stronger connection. Today, it is time to learn the name origins for Anchorage’s major roads in the second part of a two-part story.

We left off last time with the transition from Campbell Airstrip Road into Basher Drive. Many Anchorage roads were perfunctorily, even lazily named for people who happened to live near them. Basher is indeed named after a person but gets there differently as no historical man or woman is named Basher.

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Incorporated in 1958, Basher was briefly an independent town nestled up in the Chugach Foothills, though the putative city only truly existed as a technically legal way for residents to save money on their taxes and buy surplus road-clearing equipment for the bargain price of $1.98. Though other people owned land in the area, only two families lived there full-time, the Taylors and Cottises.

Earlier in the 1950s, Ralph Cottis hired Stuart Tope (1909-1968) to expand the road. Even in a city where the residents have never been renowned for their driving prowess, Tope’s inability to follow a line stood out. In 1958, Ralph said of Tope, “He bashes everything. When he’s plowing the road, he knocks down trees. If you’re driving up the road, he’s liable to hit you. He’s a born basher.” Marjorie Cottis later recalled, “Stuart was a real peach. One day he almost ran into the doghouse with the blade of his bulldozer. Another time he knocked off the gate post.” If only other Anchorage streets were so honestly named, though getting around town would be confusing with so many roads named Pothole.

[A historical guide to name origins for Anchorage’s major roads: Part 1]

Over toward the other side of town, Minnesota Drive illustrates another way streets get their names. When Minnesota Drive was first built in the early 1950s, it was a relatively minor road, part of a development with several streets named after states, including Wyoming and Oregon. The adjacent part of West 36th Avenue was also originally called California Drive. The chosen states perhaps reflected the background of the developers and their families.

Developers and the city planning departments that approve names tend to favor themes. Collectively named streets are one helpful step toward the construction of a community identity. Where the neighborhood goes from there is another story, e.g., the dead presidents section of Spenard. Other naming clusters around Anchorage include groups of streets named for horse races, places in Switzerland, colleges, flowers, trees, Roman gods and pilots.

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Over several decades, Minnesota Drive was built up into its modern form as an expressway, including the bypass linking it to downtown in 1968. In 2012, most of the Minnesota Drive Expressway was renamed the Walter J. Hickel Parkway after the former Secretary of the Interior and two-time governor. However, the new name did not affect existing addresses.

Dowling Road is named for Bernard Andrew “Bud” Dowling (1920-2002), a longtime city surveyor. After retiring in 1978, he promptly relocated to Booneville, North Carolina, where he lived for the rest of his life. A surprising number of Anchorage road namesakes, like Joe Spenard and Burl Tudor, spent only part, sometimes only a small part, of their lives here.

Jewel Lake and Sand Lake Roads, of course, take their naming instructions from the lakes. Jewel Lake was perhaps named for its appearance, as like a jewel to some romantically-inclined pilots. Sand Lake is another of those self-explanatory names. Sand Lake Road used to be far longer, forming a sizeable U-shaped course that additionally included what is now Raspberry Road and Dimond Boulevard.

The Dimond Boulevard section of Sand Lake Road was renamed in 1966 after lawyer, politician, and judge Anthony “Tony” Dimond (1881-1953). He was the mayor of Valdez (1920-1922, 1925-1932), Alaska’s nonvoting delegate to Congress (1933-1945), and a U.S. District Judge (1945-1953). “Dimond” was previously considered as a possible name for the Fairview neighborhood and the Park Strip.

Driving east, Dimond Boulevard transitions into Abbott Road, which is named for homesteader Cecil Abbott (1898-1986), a World War II veteran who moved north in 1944 and made a fortune in real estate and insurance. He was the first president of the Alaska Association of Realtors. Abbott Road was originally a loop onto what is now Lake Otis Parkway. As seen on a 1954 Anchorage map, Abbott Road then included parts of what is now East 68th Avenue and Elmore Road. That loop contained a neighborhood that became known as Abbott Loop, a name that lingered decades after the road names changed.

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South of Abbott is O’Malley Road, named for longtime Anchorage doctor James “Doc” O’Malley Sr. (1907-1974). He moved to Anchorage in 1946 with his wife and fellow doctor, Virginia. According to his granddaughter, journalist and author Julia O’Malley, the road was only named after him because he was the first to sign a petition for road improvements.

Huffman Road is named for radio operator Vernon “Vern” Huffman (1906-1974). In 1940, he and his wife Evelyn (1911-1978) moved to Anchorage and homesteaded on what is now Upper Huffman Road. They were leading advocates for the development of a Baháʼí community in Anchorage.

Klatt Road is named for Lester and Dora Klatt, who rode the Alcan Highway north in 1947. They had just married in California and were inspired by a book called “Opportunity in Alaska” by George Sundborg, the content of which can be correctly assumed from the title. When they got to Anchorage, they quickly filed for a homestead on a piece of boggy land several miles south of Anchorage city limits. Lester, people seemed to have called him Les, did some carpentry and sheetmetal work before he and Dora opened their nursery business, Country Gardens.

William “Pappy” Elmore (1915-1980) was a journeyman ironworker when he moved to Alaska in 1949, a former stunt and bomber pilot, the difference being whether it was during peacetime or not. He and his wife, Kathryn, homesteaded on their Elmore Road off Rabbit Creek Road, receiving patent on the property in 1953. He was president of Alaska’s first ironworker union but gained more fame for his role in the Alaska National Guard. He was instrumental in creating Operation Santa Claus, the Christmas tradition of airlifting gifts and supplies to Alaska villages. In 1961, he organized the daring rescue of 11 University of Alaska scientists downed and trapped on an Arctic ice floe. And he commanded the Guard from 1964 to 1966 and 1971 to 1973.

Rabbit Creek Road takes its name from the creek, and the creek name is a direct translation of the Dena’ina place name, Ggeh Betnu. In his 1971 Dictionary of Alaska Placenames, Donald Orth noted that “Rabbit Creek” usage predated the establishment of Anchorage by several years. There are no major roads in Anchorage named after Alaska Natives.

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Of the two highways out of town, the Glenn Highway is named for career Army officer Edwin Glenn (1857-1926). During construction, the road was informally called the Chickaloon Highway before its official naming in 1942. Glenn’s limited connection to Alaska came as leader of 1898-1899 expeditions into southcentral Alaska.

In early 1900, Glenn departed Alaska for his new posting in the Philippines. The Spanish-American War was two years gone, and he arrived amid open war between Filipino nationalists and American soldiers. During his time there, Glenn ordered several atrocities, including several documented instances of illegal torture, the shooting of prisoners, and the torching of a town without ties to any rebel forces. For these acts, he was twice court-martialed, once found guilty and once acquitted.

Glenn acknowledged these incidents but did not consider what he did torture. This conceptualization reflected his thoughts on the Filipino people, in that he did not truly see them as people. As he testified, “Every man, woman, and child in the islands was an enemy, and in my best judgment, they are today and always will be.” Despite the evident disdain of his commanders and public condemnation, he remained in the Army until 1919, partly a reflection of the shortage of experienced officers.

The other way by car out of town, the Seward Highway, is named after former Secretary of State William Henry Seward (1801-1872). After leaving office, he visited Alaska in 1869 and spoke at Sitka. In a real way, he established a standard for visiting politicians with his vague promises, compliments, and comments on the weather. Said Seward of Alaska, “It is an honest climate, for it makes no pretensions to constancy,” a solid line.

With the speed of a properly functioning city, we have plowed through the name origins of Anchorage’s major roads. In conclusion, it is worth considering the most prominent proposed local roads that never came to be. The 1980 Anchorage, Alaska Metropolitan Area General Plan was published in 1961 and envisioned the city as it might best appear 20 years later. The transportation design in the plan is strikingly different from what we have today. The connection between the Seward and Glenn highways diverts around Fairview, unlike the late 1960s expansion of Gambell and Ingra streets that horribly divided the neighborhood. Most notably, Coastal and Foothills Parkways circle much of the city. While aspects of the 1980 General Plan remained scheduled into the 1970s, city leaders never intended to implement it. Vocal criticism from coastal and foothill residents was a major factor, people with no interest in a major thoroughfare running through their communities.

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Key sources:

Abbott, Jeanne. “How the Names of Anchorage’s Past Fare Today.” Anchorage Daily News, June 13, 1982, D4.

“Businessman Abbott Dies at 87.” Anchorage Times, March 8, 1986, A-5.

City of Anchorage Planning Commission. 1980 Anchorage, Alaska Metropolitan Area General Plan. Anchorage: City of Anchorage, 1961.

“Former National Guard General Dies.” Anchorage Times, November 10, 1980, A1, A3.

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Hunt, Daniel W. Greater Anchorage Area Guide Map. Anchorage: D.W. Hunt, August 1954.

Kari, James, James A. Fall, and Shem Pete. Shem Pete’s Alaska: The Territory of the Upper Cook Inlet Dena’ina, Revised 2nd ed. Fairbanks: University of Alaska Press, 2016.

Makinson, Larry. “Wipe Basher Off Alaska Maps.” Anchorage Daily Times, December 14, 1972, 8.

“New City Set Up Next to Anchorage.” Anchorage Daily Times, August 8, 1958, 9.

“Obituaries—Bud Dowling, 82.” Anchorage Daily News, March 23, 2002, B9.

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“Obituaries—Eldrick “Dick” Michael Turpin, 87.” Anchorage Daily News, June 23, 2000, B-15.

“Obituaries—Vernon E. Huffman.” Anchorage Daily News, January 20, 1974, A-2.

O’Malley, Julia. “M.L.K. Avenue: Too Long in Coming.” Anchorage Daily News, August 5, 2010, A3.

Orth, Donald J. Dictionary of Alaska Place Names, Geological Survey, Professional Paper 567. Washington, D.C.: United States Government Printing Office, 1971.





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Black bear breaks into Alaskan mall, eats a peach and relieves itself on floor before leaving: video

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Black bear breaks into Alaskan mall, eats a peach and relieves itself on floor before leaving: video


Can bearly believe it!

A black bear was caught on camera seemingly running errands at a local shopping mall in Anchorage, Alaska over the weekend.

A black bear in Alaska strolled through the automatic doors of the commissary mall on the military base on Sunday. Kory Godbout

The bear entered the commissary mall at Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson around 9 a.m. Sunday, KTUU reported, citing a JBER spokesperson. 

Wild footage shows the young cub strolling through the commissary’s automatic doors and exploring all that the mall had to offer.

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Barber shop employee, Kory Godbout, saw the black bear approach his store and ran to the break room. Joint Base Elmendorf Exchange

The hungry bear stole and ate a piece of fruit before emptying its bowels on the hallway floor on its way out of the building.

Kory Godbout, who works at the barber shop on the military base, was waiting for his first customer of the day when he spotted the furry intruder traveling through the automatic doors.

“My coworker, who is cutting hair in front of me, she yelled, ‘Bear!’” Godbout recalled. 

The grizzly bear decided to “use the restroom in the hallway” of the shopping mall. Kory Godbout

“And I looked up from my phone and the bear was walking into the barber shop right in front of me,” the barber said. “And we all ran into the break room and shut the door behind us.”

After a few minutes, Godbout and his coworkers emerged from the break room and followed the out-of-place bear into the commissary, where it took a peach from the grocery store and ate it. 

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The barber recalled that a few onlookers were “going big to try and scare” the bear out of the grocery store.

The bear cub stole a peach and ate it while exploring all that the commissary had to offer. Joint Base Elmendorf Exchange

But all of a sudden, the black bear returned to the barber shop.

“By that time, we were able to run back to the shop and then lock the door,” Godbout said. 

The bear cleared its bowels on the floor before leaving the shopping mall. Facebook

“And then we were watching him from the window and then that’s when he decided to, you know, use the restroom in the hallway.”

Officers from Conservation Law Enforcement attended the peculiar grizzly scene and were able to direct the wild animal towards a river and into the woods, according to the JBER spokesperson.

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JBER’s wildlife program manager Colette Brandt said in a press release that the bear had triggered the automatic doors and that Sunday’s events were entirely incidental, KTUU reported.

While there has been a decline in bear-related calls since the military base installed bear-resistant dumpsters, seven bears have been put down at JBER for public safety over the past year.



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Fatal crash closes Glenn Highway southbound lanes near Eagle River

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Fatal crash closes Glenn Highway southbound lanes near Eagle River


ANCHORAGE, Alaska (KTUU) – The southbound lanes of the Glenn Highway were closed Thursday morning near the S-curves due to a fatal crash, according to the Anchorage Police Department.

Police confirmed shortly after 11 a.m. that at least one person was dead. As of 12:45 p.m., one southbound lane is now open to traffic.

The southbound lanes of the Glenn Highway were closed July 9, 2026 near the S-curves due to a fatal crash, according to the Anchorage Police Department.(Alaska’s News Source)

An Alaska’s News Source reporter on the scene said the crash took place near the Eagle River Loop Road. Video from the scene shows multiple vehicles took damage in the incident.

This is a developing story. It has been updated with new information.

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See a spelling or grammar error? Report it to web@ktuu.com

Copyright 2026 KTUU. All rights reserved.



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Did I Find a Cure for Male Loneliness? No, But I Found a Way to Embrace Solitude in the Wild.

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Did I Find a Cure for Male Loneliness? No, But I Found a Way to Embrace Solitude in the Wild.


Published July 9, 2026 03:00AM

On the longest solo trip of my life, I stepped off a two-seat float plane onto the rocky shore of Upper Twin Lake in Alaska’s Lake Clark National Park.

I had taken four flights from New Jersey to Alaska to write about the iconic cabin handbuilt by Richard “Dick” Proenneke, the self-taught naturalist whose 30-year solo life in the wilderness was captured in the beloved PBS documentary Alone in the Wilderness. Proenneke never married, never had children, and spent nearly three decades completely alone, save for the birds he fed by hand and bears that occasionally clawed at his logs.

“He must have been lonely out here,” a fellow traveler said during the park ranger’s tour of the cabin.

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On that chilly June morning last year, I found myself wondering the same thing. I was just coming to a different conclusion.

Park officials told me the cabin has seen a recent uptick in visitors, which they attribute to Proenneke’s newfound popularity on social media, and to a direct flight to the property by an outback flying service. I visited the cabin as a member of a tour group led by two guides. My group included a doctor, a retired attorney, a veterinarian, and a handful of National Parks superfans. Still, I stuck mostly to myself, spending the trip deep in my own thoughts. In Alaska, I wound up pondering a life like Proenneke’s, sans the means or skills to make it happen.

The Richard”Dick” Proenneke Site is located on the southeast shoreline of Upper Twin Lake in Lake Clark National Park and Preserve, Alaska. (Photo: National Park Service)

According to podcasters, writers, polls, therapists, influencers, and anyone else with a mouth or keyboard, there’s a male loneliness epidemic eroding the dated fabric of masculinity, like the snake of patriarchy eating its own tail.

Remedies for this epidemic are everywhere in the media, with new ones popping up weekly. The New York Times wondered if pickleball held the answers; others have suggested buying a personal watercraft, joining a mosh pit, or taking off your shirt at a college football game, or watching a horror-comedy starring Paul Rudd. In recent months, brunch, AI-powered companion dolls, and Jack Black have been mentioned as cures.

Outside wondered whether “outdoor friendships,” volunteering, or getting a pet could work.

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These cures may seem unrelated and even, perhaps, a little silly. However, the common theme between them seems to be social interaction, choosing community over individualism, a bowling league or running club over your PlayStation.

Some entrepreneurs have even launched businesses to combat male loneliness. A deep-dive earlier this year in the New Yorker revealed how fathers are paying men to turn their sons into “alphas,” while others are joining men-only retreats to be screamed at. Men are taking reams of peptides, smashing their cheekbones with hammers, and getting chin implants in an effort to chase some warped standard of masculinity.

Most of these solutions seem alien to the introverts of society, myself included. I’m not sure I’ve ever been lonely, per se, or even bored, unless I’m stuck in small talk. I’ve never loved team sports or double dates either. In school, hearing a teacher say “let’s break into groups” made me groan.

Richard
Richard “Dick” Proenneke’s iconic cabin in Lake Clark National Park and Preserve, Alaska. (Photo: National Park Service)

During my trip to Alaska, I realized that Proenneke enjoyed solitude but not loneliness. The former feels intentional and rewarding, as opposed to the latter, which causes anxiety and depression. He wasn’t a misanthrope. He welcomed visitors and was thoughtful enough to whittle a variety of walking sticks to match their height.

Monroe Robinson, author of The Handcrafted Life of Dick Proenneke, spent nearly 20 years living at the cabin and maintaining it for the National Park Service. Robinson knew Proenneke, who died in 2003, at the age of 86. “He liked when people came to visit,” Robinson told me later in a call, “and he also liked when they left.”

I can relate.

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My aversions to crowds and clubs have been a source of personal confusion over the years. I’m not a misanthrope, either. As a reporter, I crave deeply personal interactions with others and get invested in the people I write about to a fault. Part of me always thought loneliness was a good way to avoid heartbreak. I’ve loved deeply anyhow, and lost people in my life to suicide and divorce.

In June of 2024, I learned my then-wife was deeply unhappy in our marriage. I had a real breakdown. The ensuing algorithms of online divorce content can be toxic for men, a slippery slope greased by manosphere grifters. Well-intentioned friends and family will often just take your side during a breakup, too, and there’s not much growth in that. So I tried to avoid that noise, choosing to walk inside myself, to find a “vast inner solitude” as the poet Rainer Marie Rilke advised.

f Richard L. Proenneke, a legendary writer, wildlife photographer, and conservationist lived alone in this cabin he built by hand.
The Richard L. Proenneke Site is located on the southeast shoreline of Upper Twin Lake in Lake Clark National Park and Preserve, Alaska. (Photo: National Park Service)

I wanted to confront my own bullshit.

I spent a few dozen nights sleeping in tents for the rest of that year, mostly in the Northeast. Sometimes I slept in single-digit temperatures. I’d reserved a tent site for my wedding anniversary, a campground where I’d wanted to renew my vows. But after my marriage began to crumble, I took my young daughter, instead of canceling. I put her in a hiking backpack to slog my way up a few summits. I kept on punishing myself too, on trail runs and difficult hikes, hoping exhaustion would tamp down the urge to beg my ex and anyone who knew her for answers. Bad cell service helped with that.

(I also found a great therapist, thankfully.)

On a long-planned family vacation to Southwest Colorado in August of 2024 that I couldn’t afford and couldn’t cancel, the San Juan Mountains loomed everywhere I went. I saw them from the window of my cabin, the dirt roads I drove along with my kids, and the hammock where I finished The Snow Leopard, in which author Peter Matthiessen joins an expedition to find the mythic beast in Nepal after the death of his wife.

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The mountains felt timeless and unavoidable there, and they spoke to me, a perfect epilogue to the book’s zen message.

“Accept what’s happening” they said.

And so I accepted that my marriage was over.

In May of 2025, the divorce was finalized. A few weeks later, I was in Alaska as a freelancer, pinching myself as my plane touched down on the icy, blue lake.

Robinson, when I asked, said “feeling lonely was not a thing” for Proenneke. He was too active, too busy trying to survive. Proenneke left society, yes, but he didn’t withdraw from life. In the long winters, when no sun hit Proenneke’s sod roof, when no planes landed on the frozen lake, he would spend months penning thoughtful letters to close friends, family, and his growing legion of fans.

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Inside Richard Proenneke's cabin
The author sits at the desk of Richard “Dick” Proenneke in his cabin he built by hand. (Photo: Courtesy of Jason Nark)

Proenneke cared about his cabin’s appearance too, about beauty, and that matters. He built a stone fireplace, an extra bunk for guests, and hand-carved a much-beloved Dutch door. Windows would be an inconvenient luxury in a trapper’s cabin in Alaska, but Prokenneke fashioned one that offered a grand view of the lake anyway.

While I was contemplating Proenneke’s contentment in Alaska, I was also watching contentment in action with the two young guides in charge of us there. For a moment or two, I envied both of them, the same way I envied Proenneke. Guide Dom Gawel, who is in his mid-20s,  was the quieter of the two, and he led a few of us on some longer hikes while others stayed behind at camp. Later, I asked Dom about loneliness. He thought young men feel lost today “because they are comparing themselves to others in a negative way through social media” and “disconnected from nature.”

Luckily, there’s nothing close to a signal at Lake Clark National Park, no texts you feel compelled to answer, no influencers to interact with. That’s not easy to do in the United States.

I also found kinship with Dr. Adam Bolour, my kayak partner at Twin Lakes and roommate at Port Alsworth, a tiny Alaskan village on Lake Clark where we slept on our final night. We talked about fatherhood, relationships, and nature. He was traveling solo too, from California, and while he was upbeat and talkative with everyone, I watched him steal away to read some Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Self-Reliance by the lakeshore. I did the same with Proenekke’s book there.

I emailed to ask about male loneliness, when I got back to New Jersey.

“I cherish solo trips, whether I’m married, feeling alone, feeling super connected with someone or a big group,” he wrote. “It’s just great to get away and convene with silence and space.”

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Lake Clark National Park and Preserve.
Arriving by float plane to Lake Clark National Park and Preserve. (Photo: Getty)

My revelations in Colorado and, later, at Proenneke’s cabin, helped me realize I must connect deeply with myself in the outdoors from time to time. Nature can’t just be an emergency room for me, either. It’s long-term maintenance for my physical and mental health, whether it’s trail running, floating in a swimming hole, or staring at mountains. It’s more than a hobby. The version of me who returns from those trips is a better father and, hopefully, a better partner someday.

Unlike Matthiessen, who spent months away from his young, grieving son in search of a snow leopard, or Proenneke, who spent 30 years away from almost everyone, I couldn’t and wouldn’t want to pull myself away from my children and responsibilities to that extreme. I have been guilty of that in the past. I’ll make do with a vow to see mountains like the San Juans as much as possible, even if it’s just a few days to convene with solitude, as Adam does. And if I can’t get to the Sawtooths or Switzerland, I’ll cut myself a break and keep exploring Pennsylvania or the Catskills.

A few months after I got back from Alaska, I tackled Pennsylvania’s Black Forest Trail. It’s the state’s most difficult hike, a 43-mile loop with a mind-boggling 8,500 feet of elevation gain. I was craving solitude, again, and found the trail emptier than the Alaskan backcountry. I saw as many rattlesnakes as people on that trip.

On my final night of the hike, after pushing hard for about 18 miles, I took off my boots and socks and stretched out on a shady vista as the sun began to sink.  Two hikers came in, a father and son, after their own long day. They hoped to camp there too and asked if I minded. I said it was fine and then, a few minutes later, reached for my socks and boots.

I shouldered my heavy pack, wished them a deep sleep, and pushed on to find solitude, that little bit of loneliness all the world says is a problem.


Jason Nark is a reporter who covers the outdoors for the Philadelphia Inquirer and and a freelance writer whose work has appeared in The New York Times, Outside, The Alpinist, Adventure Journal, National Geographic, Dwell, and other outlets.

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