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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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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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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.

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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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A dozen Alaska schools closed their doors in May, the most closures in a single year in the last two decades, according to the state education department.

Clusters of school closures in urban areas of the state had been uncommon until recently, but are part of a larger trend as public school enrollment declines nationwide. School district officials have framed closures as a means to bridge multimillion-dollar deficits, but some research suggests districts don’t realize meaningful savings. Closures can also have negative impacts on students and families.

According to data from the Alaska Department of Education and Early Development, 60 schools closed between 1999 and fall 2025. Another 12 schools closed this year, part of the 28 total that have closed in the last three years alone.

Four districts closed schools this year, and each of the state’s largest five districts have closed schools in the last three years. In interviews, school district superintendents said closures are caused by insufficient and unpredictable state funding, demographic changes and, to varying degrees, the proliferation of school choice.

Superintendents, lawmakers and Alaska Education Commissioner Deena Bishop agreed that closures are likely to continue unless something changes.

State legislators last year passed the first permanent increase to state formula funding for schools since 2017, but school officials said state funding remains inadequate. This year, lawmakers approved one-time energy relief payments for districts totaling at least $29 million — with up to $115 million in additional funding contingent on unexpected oil revenue — and an education package that directs spending for specific programs as opposed to the per-student formula.

Matanuska-Susitna Borough School District Superintendent Randy Trani said Alaska districts no longer have enough funding to provide all the choices families want while maintaining the expected access to neighborhood public schools.

“There is a general funding problem for K-12 education where we just have not kept up with inflation, and simultaneously districts are being asked to provide more choices, and choices cost money,” Trani said. “We’re all dealing with this more and more choice thing, and we’re all dealing with less and less funding.”

Alaska school districts offer 34 correspondence programs. In the last 25 years, 10,000 Alaska students have moved from neighborhood public schools to correspondence programs, typically taking their per-student funding with them.

Bishop, the state education commissioner, said that’s evidence that families want additional choices beyond neighborhood public schools.

“There will be continued school closures, and I believe there will be continued choice programs to pull people back or to give people what they want,” Bishop said.

Contributing to the enrollment decline, Alaska has had more than a decade of sustained outmigration as the birth rate continues to decline nationwide.

School finance officials have identified class size increases and school closures as the most direct ways to cut expenses for districts facing budget shortfalls, but families have pushed back against large class sizes that can be harmful for student learning.

Closures combine schools under one building to provide more opportunities for students. State law allows a three-year grace period where districts still receive some funding for the closed school under the “hold harmless” provision, incentivizing closures for some districts.

Neighborhood schools, and choice

The Mat-Su school board voted to close Glacier View School after enrollment dipped near the 10-student limit. Trani said several dozen other school-aged children live in the area who don’t attend Glacier View. He said the factors driving closures in the Mat-Su are the same ones that districts in Anchorage and on the Kenai Peninsula are facing.

“Funding, birth rate, and then movement, offering more choices, which we can’t afford to do anymore,” Trani said. “If those three trends don’t change, or if some combination of them doesn’t change, then school closures are going to be on the docket every year going forward.”

Students who attended Glacier View School can choose from a variety of homeschool or correspondence programs next year, or drive more than 50 miles to and from Sutton or Palmer for class each day.

Trani said his district didn’t have many other options to reduce the budget after they cut one-eighth of staff members last year. In a survey asking residents to rank district budget priorities, community members indicated they would not support a four-day school week or cuts to sports programs, but would want to preserve class sizes, Trani said.

Along with Glacier View, Larson and Meadow Lakes elementary schools also closed in the district.

In Anchorage, families have also pushed back against proposed cuts to sports, teachers and school nurses. The Anchorage School Board responded with a fast-tracked plan to close three schools, which spawned a lawsuit from Campbell STEM Elementary School parents.

After the April municipal election, several Anchorage voters said they didn’t approve the district’s school bond and special education tax levy because of their distrust in the district stemming from the closure decisions.

According to the most recent data available from Alaska’s education department, about 12% of neighborhood public school students statewide switched to correspondence schools in the 2020-21 school year, a time marked by upheaval from the COVID-19 pandemic. Of those nearly 9,600 students who left brick-and-mortar school buildings, only about 5,800 had returned in 2021-22.

While a smaller percentage of neighborhood public school students in the 2021-22 school year switched to correspondence schools — 3% — the number of students who returned the following year, 850, continued to lag far behind the number of students who had left, nearly 2,100.

The Anchorage School District is the state’s largest and has lost about 7,500 students since 2015, closing six schools in the last four years. The district saw an 84% increase in correspondence students between 2011 and 2025.

Despite that enrollment drop, Anchorage School Board President Carl Jacobs said the recent cluster of closures are a symptom of state fiscal issues plaguing several core government services.

“It’s a process that, with the right leadership at the state level, may have been completely avoidable,” Jacobs said. “The issue is so much bigger than just school choice.”

ASD Superintendent Jharrett Bryantt said the district will not close more schools next year, and instead will work to rebuild trust with the community. He said closures should be used as a way to improve academic offerings for students, not to close budget deficits as they were this year.

Bryantt said results from Anchorage residents on a budget-balancing simulation showed the community supports school closures. Bryantt said choice schools are not causing school closures, and called for an increase to state funding.

“Thousands of families in Anchorage and all over the state are choosing their neighborhood schools, and they are urging us to figure out ways to strengthen those neighborhood schools,” Bryantt said. “There is certainly a conversation to be had about consolidations, but I think it’s a red herring to pit neighborhood against choice.”

Benefits for students

While many districts sought out low-capacity schools to close, district leaders on the Kenai Peninsula felt they couldn’t combine students at its smallest schools in more remote communities — such as Cooper Landing, Hope, Moose Pass or Razdolna — with others without disproportionately increasing travel time for those students.

The KPBSD Board of Education has voted to close five schools in the last two years, but reversed planned class size increases with additional funding from the Kenai Peninsula Borough.

Superintendent Clayton Holland expects more school closures next year, but said he’s dreading those discussions. Districts budgets are due to local municipalities or boroughs before the Legislature has determined what level of funding to appropriate for schools.

“We’re so intent on a short-term financial stability or financial gain that, because we don’t know what we have, that we have to go through this early. It’s not as planned out as it could be,” Holland said.

Closed in 2025, the Nikolaevsk School has been approved to reopen as a charter school by the district and state Board of Education and Early Development. Housing charter schools has become a popular use for the vacated buildings.

Farther north, the Fairbanks North Star Borough School District has shuttered seven schools in the last four years, more than any other district in the state.

Unlike Anchorage, Fairbanks Superintendent Luke Meinert said his district had a much smaller savings account to draw from as state funding fell flat year after year, and hasn’t received the maximum allowable local contribution from the borough.

That led district officials to invest early in the idea of closing schools, and giving residents an idea of what to expect long term. Meinert said the emotional toll that closures have on the community is real.

“We were kind of on the tip of the spear in terms of having to make some of these painful decisions earlier than some other school districts,” Meinert said. “We went through three rounds of school closures, and I will say, while we felt like the process from administration got better each time we did it, it’s still incredibly difficult and painful.”

Bobby Burgess, the Fairbanks school board president, said military families were concerned about the plan to close Ben Eielson Jr./Sr. High School. But the small class sizes limited what educators could offer, and students had more options once they moved to North Pole High School.

“Because those kids were not getting that number of electives, there were a lot of folks who were, in the end, OK with the move because they had more choice and more opportunity,” Burgess said.

Burgess said the closures were approved as a way to avoid class size increases. Instead of more school closures this year, Fairbanks officials used the savings from prior closures to reintroduce elementary music offerings and programs for gifted students during their budget process.

Outmigration

In Southeast Alaska, former Juneau School District Superintendent Frank Hauser said consolidations and closures have had a positive impact on student performance.

“By combining the schools in Juneau, we’ve been able to maintain and expand opportunities for students,” Hauser said. “The board here has also not had to make the heartbreaking decisions other school boards in the state have made to cut art or music or other opportunities or supports for students.”

The Juneau School Board voted to close three schools in 2024 and reopen one as a middle school the following year. Hauser’s time as superintendent ended last month, but he said the consolidations saved the district money.

Juneau and other Southeast communities have experienced more rapid population decline than other parts of the state, and suffer less from school choice options.

“While we’ve seen a lot of improvements and positive impact from the consolidation and the closure, the district is still projecting a multimillion-dollar deficit for FY28,” Hauser said.

Ketchikan Gateway Borough School Board President Katherine Tatsuda said their district represents the other side of that equation. Board members in Ketchikan voted to close two elementary schools and increase class sizes after cutting about about one-quarter of their staff to reduce expenses.

“None of us knew how significant of a really negative financial position we were in until we got into it at the end of February,” Tatsuda said.

Research from Stanford’s Center for Education Policy Analysis released in May suggests closures don’t save districts as much as expected, and districts often come closer to breaking even after closing schools.

“With closures comes a whole host of other kinds of expenses that can show up,” Stanford assistant professor of education Francis Pearman has said. “It’s not free to close up a building and to move students and material elsewhere.”

Further research indicates that poorly handled school closures can exacerbate racial inequities and hamper student achievement.

Last year, the school board in Ketchikan avoided closures by restructuring elementary schools, which Tatsuda said drove many families to leave the district for choice schools.

“Basically, every single department across the board and every school was impacted by that reduction in force, and so the impact to students is (that) there will be larger class sizes for sure,” Tatsuda said.

Tatsuda said residents have been emotional and frustrated with the decision, and called on lawmakers to forward-fund education.

State Sen. Löki Tobin, an Anchorage Democrat who co-chairs the legislative Task Force on Education Funding, said Alaska’s shift to the per-pupil model that ties school funding to the location of students is part of the problem.

“We don’t have good statewide policies to support families,” Tobin said. “What we also should be thinking about is new school finance models, and I think that’s really where the work of the task force and education funding is critical.”

Tobin suggested paid family leave, a statewide option to access healthcare, improvements to the foster care system and raising wages. She said Alaskans uncertain if their school might close next should support state leaders who support schools.

“The hope is November,” Tobin said. “There have been multiple opportunities for us to stop this rash of school closures, and that has been at the ballot box.”