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Return from Alaska

A 17-day, 6,000-mile road trip from Alaska to Philadelphia

By Scott Richardson

October 29^th, 2023

Though hard to believe, a 6,000-mile solo road trip was the most efficient way to get my car home from Alaska.

The plan started nearly a year earlier as Kirsten and I began to plan logistics for her Coast to Coast Tire Roast trip through Canada and Alaska. We needed a support vehicle to haul supplies, spare tires, luggage, and half of our travel group. Plus, we needed a car to drive ahead or follow behind to film her car in action throughout the trip.

We researched rental cars capable of driving Canada’s remote Dempster Highway, purchasing and selling a truck when we arrived in Alaska, ferrying the car to Washington, and trucking it from Anchorage to home. Most proved prohibitively expensive, some logistically improbable, and the remaining options seemed like a waste of money.

Months later, we found a plan that was affordable and able to accommodate a two-month break in travels to return home for work, all thanks to a low-cost municipal parking lot. After completing the drive north from Philadelphia to Anchorage, with a detour to Tuktoyatuk to visit the Arctic Ocean, we’d park the car near the Anchorage airport. Two months later, I’d fly back, pick up the car, and drive home in 17 days.

Sure, the cost of parking, fuel, and food along the way would add up, but each dollar spent would be packed with adventure.

Anchorage

I landed in Anchorage at 4:45 AM, picked up my luggage, and called a shuttle to take me to my car. After nearly two months of storage in an airport parking lot, I was nervous about what I might find. A dead battery? That’d be an easy fix. A smashed-in window? Messy, inconvenient. A mouse infestation? That’s the worst-case scenario.

Luckily, the car was in one piece, and despite temperatures already dipping into the forties in early September, the car started right up.

One last fear was significantly underestimating the price of this municipal lot, a gem whose listed price online made this trip a reality.

We’d parked the car after a long journey north earlier in the summer that took us to the Canadian Rockies, the Arctic Ocean, and Alaska for my third (and now fourth) visit. The car served as a luggage carrier, support, and production vehicle for a documentary we filmed about my wife’s adventurous road trip in a tiny sports car. Now, it was time to get my car back home, a 6,000-mile trip to Philadelphia with more detours than I could comprehend to soak in scenery along the way.

I scanned my parking ticket and waited for the machine to calculate the total. $176. About $4 per day, and matching my budget.

Anchorage is a fantastic city to explore. You can get anywhere in 10 minutes, see moose in the city park, and start hiking in the Chugach Mountains in under 30 minutes. But with only 17 days to get home, I needed to get out of town quickly.

I loaded up on necessities at Walmart: stove fuel, extra water, and a memory foam pillow to make sleeping in the car a little more comfortable. At Fred Meyer, I stocked enough fresh food to last until I hit the Canadian border later in the week. I planned to eat fresh meat and veggies for the first week and arrive at customs with an empty cooler to avoid frustration or possible food seizure.

Hatcher Pass

My first destination after Anchorage was the road to Hatcher Pass, a rugged mountain pass we’d visited on our first trip to Alaska in 2015. Just an hour and a half outside the grocery store in Anchorage, I’d reached one of Alaska’s most incredible gems: a winding road through tundra and misty mountains. The cold and wind did little to dampen my spirits amongst the beautiful landscape.

Wrangell-St. Elias National Park

From there, it was a long drive along the Glenn Highway to Wrangell-St. Elias National Park. The highway followed the Matanuska River for hours, though trees limited the view. Eventually, the scenery opened up with a grand view of the Matanuska Glacier.

I filled up on gas in Glennallen and water at the park’s visitor center in Copper Center. Visiting the national park demands a certain level of self-sufficiency as fuel, water, showers, and food are nowhere to be found outside of a few small establishments in the tiny towns of McCarthy and Kennecott, neither of which are accessible by public roads.

Turning onto the much quieter Edgerton Highway, it was 92 miles until the road hit a dead end at a creek fed by runoff from the Kennicott Glacier. The last 60 miles were an unpaved, rough road built on top of an old railroad bed that once served the copper mines in Kennecott. Leftover railroad spikes that once punctured travelers’ tires have since been removed, but washouts and deep potholes continue to give the road a rustic charm.

The road ends at a footbridge over the glacial creek, and a rustic campground welcomes people to boondock along the peaceful banks.

I arrived tired from 8 hours of driving (though the two-hour detour to Hatcher Pass was optional) and exhausted from being shaken around on the final 15 miles of washboard gravel. Dusk stayed around for a while, causing the sky to slowly fade from blue to pink to black over about two hours. At 10:30 PM, faint bands of aurora danced through the sky, eventually becoming bright enough to show purples and greens to the naked eye. I should’ve been tired, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the sky and searched for the best photo I could capture.

The next morning, I walked into McCarthy to catch a shuttle to start my guided hike on Root Glacier. Rain drizzled all day, but the sights of blue ice formations, streams, moulins, and the surrounding mountains kept my mind off the cold. One of my Australian tour-mates quipped, “Only homeless people sleep in cars,” when I mentioned how I’m controlling my travel costs.

That night, I met my camp neighbors, who invited me to meet them in McCarthy for live music and beers at its most beloved restaurant: The Potato. But first, I made a fantastic pesto pasta and ate it while taking in a view of the mountains that surrounded camp. No restaurant can match the ambiance of a wilderness meal.

The band played three sets that night, and I drank a few beers with my glacier guide, camp neighbors, and a few dozen strangers—an eccentric local annoyed the band by keeping his own beat with a pair of railroad spikes.

The following day, I caught a bumpy shuttle up to Kennecott, where I met an exuberant guide for a tour of the Concentration Mill. As we walked down the 14-story mill, he taught us how workers braved dusty and wet conditions in 30-40-degree temperatures to crush and sort copper ore for shipping.

I spent my last lazy morning at the McCarthy footbridge preparing avocado toast and coffee. The avocado had traveled further than anyone else at this camp, so I gave it the respect it deserved and spread it nicely on two evenly toasted slices of bread.

The camp host asked me where I was from and said, “No thanks,” when I answered, “Philly.” He said living in McCarthy year-round is pretty good, except for using the outhouse in winter. Oh, and the day-long trip to the nearest supermarket in Valdez.

I met Daisy, my shuttle driver, at the footbridge, and our conversation soon revealed she’d blown out the sidewalls on two of her tires while speeding on the rocky road near McCarthy.

The rest of the morning was spent in a tiny bush plane above the park’s peaks and ice fields. Fall colors decorated the tundra while hanging glaciers and blue pools adorned the mountains.

Wrangell-St. Elias is America’s largest national park, with an area larger than Yellowstone, Yosemite, and Switzerland combined. Exploring the park by road and trail only scratches its surface. Seeing the park’s glaciers and mountain ranges from the air was the only way to grasp its scale.

I flew in a 1971 Cessna 172 with a pilot and two other passengers from McCarthy to the massive Bagley Icefield, which is 127 miles long, 6 miles wide, and up to 3,000 feet thick. Our pilot spends his summers as an Alaskan bush pilot and the rest of the year as a flight instructor in Luray, Virginia. Though he’s flown over these mountains countless times, he’s never lost his passion for exploring the beautiful landforms.

Radio chatter from other pilots interrupted his narration throughout the trip. Each pilot teased the others, excited to be at the end of a short but busy summer season. But serious questions were also entertained, such as “Have you ever tried to land on this remote gravel bar? I don’t want my wheels to dig in and get stuck that far from town.”

Denali Highway

The Denali Highway is a 135-mile-long backcountry road that cuts through the center of Alaska, separate from the road in Denali National Park. It links the Parks Highway to the west at Cantwell with the Richardson Highway to the east at Paxson.

It’s underrated, widely unknown, and full of adventure. Naturally, it’s been on my to-do list.

After a few days off-grid in Wrangell St. Elias National Park, I stopped in Copper Center to refill my water jugs and dump trash. I refueled in Glennallen and headed north for a few more hours. I assumed I could top up my fuel at Paxson, but the buildings at the intersection looked long-abandoned.

Rain started to fall steadily long before I reached camp, but I made the most of my destination and hiked around the lake before dinner. While fall was beginning near McCarthy, a few hours north along the Denali Highway, the foliage was fully saturated in autumn hues.

Cheese and crackers seemed the obvious choice for a dry dinner inside the car, but a hot meal in the cold rain was more appealing. I knew I’d soak everything I owned, but I ventured out and got to chopping, sauteeing, and boiling, and ended up with a delicious vegetable beef pasta that I’m sure was only good because of its location.

The next day’s weather was more of the same: cold and rainy.

Working off a tip from my wife, who visited earlier in the summer, I headed west as far as The Sluice Box, a rustic bar inside a trailer at the Clearwater Mountain Lodge. Unfortunately, I arrived at closed gates as it had already shut down for the season.

The scenery along the way was spectacular. The flat, yellow tundra stretched back to misty mountains and U-shaped valleys in the distance. Stormy skies set a somber mood, but every time the sun poked out, it changed the dreary, muted landscape into a canvas of saturated color.

By midday, days without showering or a proper bed caught up with me, and I looked around for relief. I stopped at a hunting lodge on the highway’s western end, hoping to use their shower. Inside was bustling with a dozen guests eating lunch around a long table. One mentioned there was already a waiting list for the two bathrooms, so I settled for a cup of coffee and hit the road.

I stopped at another lodge, still hoping for a hot shower to wash away four days of sweat, grime, and half-baked attempts at sponge baths in camp. For a few dollars, they granted me unlimited use of their hot shower and a clean towel, and I cannot begin to explain how good hot water felt on a cold day.

Back at the eastern end of the highway, I stopped one last time to enjoy a view of the Gulkana Glacier, a giant icefield flowing down the slopes of the Alaska Range.

Alcan Border

As much as I hated the thought of it, I knew I needed to leave Alaska. I still had nearly 5,000 miles to drive through three Canadian provinces and eight states. It was time to start heading home.

From the Denali Highway, I headed north along the Richardson Highway, marveling at roadside glacier views. We’d started the Alaska Highway in Dawson Creek, British Columbia, earlier in the summer, and now I met its western end in Delta Junction. In a few days, I’d turn off the highway just west of Watson Lake, completing the portions of the route we’d missed when we headed north toward the Arctic Ocean in July.

At a fuel stop in Tok, someone yelled out, “Pennsylvania! Are you two traveling together?” Two women from Lancaster County were filling up their Subaru at the opposite pump. They were also heading home but declared they couldn’t cross the border until they consumed all their weed.

I drove as close to the Alaska-Yukon border as possible and camped along a lake within the Tetlin Wildlife Refuge. Dark clouds hung over the lake as loons serenaded the empty landscape.

The border was only 34 miles from camp, but it took nearly two hours to traverse, thanks to rough roads and construction delays. Oddly, my best wildlife spotting happened while I stopped at a flagger as a moose strolled across the road in front of the pilot car.

The border guard was quick but could have been more friendly. He asked about my plans in a thick French accent, inspected my belongings through an open window, and then sent me on my way.

Yukon

The Yukon greeted me with its road sign slogan, “Larger Than Life,” reminding me how empty and remote the next few days might be. I stopped across the border to fuel up, remembering to hand my card to the attendant before any gas could flow.

The wet, dreary landscape was decorated in a rainbow of colors. The mountains took on red, brown, and purple hues. Rivers were bright blues and teals. Shrubs and aspens along the road had turned yellow for fall, while other low brush was a mix of red and green.

I saw only a handful of vehicles in my first few hours of driving. A few trucks and RVs were headed north, but it felt like the travel season had ended. The emptiness was alluring. It felt more adventurous than lonely.

I passed a gas station and a tired motel in Destruction Bay, and found closed doors at Thechàl Dhâl Visitor Centre at the northern end of Kluane National Park. A sign in the local Southern Tutchone language read: “Kwiyaajál’ - We are happy to welcome you!” seemingly ironically, with no one around to greet.

An informational sign noted that Kluane is a place of constant change, as the wind whipped dust into swirling clouds along a recently dried lakebed nearby. Between 1945 and 2016, when an ice dam on the Kaskawulsh Glacier melted, the average annual temperature rose 4.2°C. Water that once flowed into two rivers, one of which flowed to Kluane Lake, now only flows out to the Pacific.

Atop Soldier’s Summit, where the Alaska highway was inaugurated in 1942, signs told the stories of Dań – the citizens of Kluane First Nation and Champagne & Aishihik First Nations – who have lived in Kluane for thousands of years but lost their connection to the land once the highway was built. The region’s population doubled, the game was overhunted, and everyone, including indigenous people (until recently), lost their right to hunt on the land.

Haines Junction showed a few more signs of life as the primary Kluane Visitors Center was open. It shared a space with a cultural center run by the local tribes, and both were full of stories and information about the land, its people, wildlife, and geologic history.

I camped near Kathleen Lake, and hiked around the lake as the wind whipped up waves, then took a trip to Dezadeash Lake, where layers of mountain peaks looked even more dramatic.

The next day, I stopped at a hardware store in Whitehorse to fix my sleeping platform as it had rocked itself apart along the trip’s rough roads. Just south, I stopped at Miles Canyon and marveled at its basaltic cliffs and the rushing Yukon River below.

At Carcross, I stopped to explore an ancient dried lake bed now filled with dunes. Its low brush, mountain views, and boreal forest surroundings reminded me of the Kobuk Sand Dunes we’d visited the previous summer.

I stopped for a quick lunch in Carcross and wished I had more time to explore its small shops and lakefront. But soon, it was on to more lonely Yukon roads through some of Earth’s most incredible scenery.

At Teslin, I hoped to learn about the traditions of the Inland Tlingit people, but unsurprisingly, by this point, the cultural center was closed. Instead, I inspected the artwork on brightly painted totem poles and canoes along the lakeshore and marveled at the immense scale of Teslin Lake.

The drive from Teslin to the British Columbia border at the intersection of Highway 37 felt like the most empty yet. The mountains, rivers, and lakes provide the only entertainment with no towns, fuel stops, or services for three-and-a-half hours. Beautiful, dramatic, and empty.

British Columbia

State and provincial border crossings aren’t usually dramatic. Sometimes, the other side of the welcome sign looks the same as before. And sometimes the road surfaces change, for better or worse, depending on whose residents are taxed more or where those dollars are prioritized.

Crossing from Yukon to British Columbia proved more exciting.

The sky grew hazy, then gradually darkened on the last 150 miles before the Alaska Highway intersects with Highway 37, the Stewart-Cassiar Highway. The two pumps at Nugget City had cars and RVs queued up when I arrived, so I continued to the intersection only to find that the gas station was closed. I doubled back but first noticed a sign that read “HWY 37 CLOSED.”

I helped a family work the outdated gas pumps, filled my tank, and headed inside to ask the lodge owner if he had any intel on the supposedly closed highway. “It’s open,” he responded, and just shrugged and muttered, “No, it’s open. It’s open.” when I mentioned the sign.

I turned onto the highway and stopped at the British Columbia border. The sign read “The Best Place on Earth,” as the sun glowed orange in a sky full of wildfire smoke. I carried on into darker smoke, excited to see the best place on Earth, and noticed distinct plumes rising in the distance. The narrow highway wound through curves and foliage crept onto the shoulder.

The scene grew eerie as the sky glowed orange over everything in sight. Having not seen a single soul on the road, I turned around and used my satellite messenger to text my wife for road updates. “Possibility of closure on short notice. Delays of 30 minutes.” “There is a wildfire between French Creek Bridge and Border Rest Area for 28.3 km.”

I hesitated if I should keep going or turn around. Rerouting meant losing out on some incredible scenery I wasn’t likely to ever visit again. Plus, it would require an extra day of distance I had yet to account for, so I’d lose a day of hiking in the Canadian Rockies.

My wife urged me to continue on the narrow, brush-lined road towards the fire to see if crews would let me pass. “Basically, a 45-minute time burn if you have to turn around.” “Poor word choice.”

I returned to the road and followed a truck with Quebec plates that passed by. We stopped at a roadblock with five cars and a school bus lined up front. Other drivers went to the front of the line to get information and reported back: the road would close at 7 PM, and we would be the last group to be escorted through.

Blackened and burned trees reflected in a lake alongside the road, silhouetted against the orange sky. A group of high schoolers yelped as they kicked around a soccer ball, and other travelers looked on, anxious to get through the fire.

The fire scene was both ghostly and enchanting. Roadside trees showed gorgeous autumnal colors while miles of blackened forest stood behind. The haze turned into a visible plume, then into an orange flame. A large stump shot flames upwards just ten feet from the road. Trunks stood bare, hunched, and sad-looking as the crowded forest became sparse.

I camped 20 miles south of the fire at Boya Lake, beautifully calm and remarkably clear in contrast to the fire. The mountains turned purple as the sun set, and I hurried to make tacos for dinner before the temperature dropped below its comfortable 65 degrees.

Boya Lake looked remarkable as the sun rose the following day. Trees on the opposite bank mysteriously revealed themselves as the fog drifted along the surface. The sun quickly warmed me up as it crested over the mountains. The only audible noise was water lapping ashore and the occasional wail of a loon in the distance.

I spent the day driving the narrow, winding Cassiar Highway, marveling at the scenery. The overgrown brush I feared the day before as a fire hazard soon made me feel like I was driving through the wilderness. It’s an empty road, but only if you keep moving. Each stop of five minutes or more would eventually produce the sound of a passing car.

I stopped often to enjoy the scenery, topped up on fuel at Dease Lake, and hoped for a long-overdue shower at a roadside lodge. An old tourism sign promised showers at Bell 2 Lodge, so I drove for hours, excited to refresh mid-day. The cafe worker looked very confused when I inquired if I could use the public shower promised to me by a roadsign 150 miles back and kindly said, “No.”

I turned off the highway at Meziadin Junction, marveled at the roadside Bear Glacier, and made it to Stewart by 3:45 PM. Dirty and a bit road-worn, I debated splurging on my first hotel of the trip but decided against it when I found a municipal campground tucked into the rainforest. I checked in, paid a very modest fee, and finally stood under the showerhead I’d been daydreaming of.

Cleaned up and ready to hit the road again, I crossed back into Alaska without a border crossing inspection. The entrance to Hyder, Alaska is two signs tacked to a pole (“Hyder Townsite Limit” and “ENTERING ALASKA”) and a hand-lettered “Welcome to Hyder, Alaska” banner hanging above the road.

At Fish Creek, I spent a few hours looking for grizzlies on their platform overlooking a salmon run. No luck. Then I headed north, back into Canada, through another unmanned border toward the massive Salmon Glacier. Road crews tore up the path and waved me around their heavy equipment. Freshly fallen rocks occasionally sat on the road, and potholes made the ride bumpy as the road climbed steadily.

The view of Salmon Glacier is unlike anything I’ve seen before. Hiking to a view of the Harding Icefield in Alaska took a whole day. This view only required an hour-long, rock-strewn drive. The icefield was massive: the fifth-largest glacier in Canada. I found a quiet spot below the main viewpoint to make dinner and enjoy the solitude of this incredible place.

A couple I had met while waiting to clear the wildfire roadblock tried to convince me to camp next to them at the viewpoint, inarguably the best campsite I’d ever have. But I had a twelve-hour drive ahead of me the next day, and adding an hour just wasn’t worth it. I sadly made my way down the mountain road, stopping frequently for mining crews who worked around the clock to improve the road.

I spoiled myself with another shower in the morning, ice cold and dark as the entire town lacked power. Then, I drove for 12 hours across the width of British Columbia, stopping only for a farmer’s market, lunch, fuel, and groceries once I reached Prince George. Smoke made the views hazy, but I enjoyed the view of bears along the road. I only made it to Mount Robson, near the border of Alberta, well after dark.

The Canadian Rockies

When my head hit my pillow in Mount Robson, I had grand plans for the next day: wake up by 5 AM, hike around a mountain, hike around a half-dozen lakes, and drive most of the Icefields Parkway while enjoying some detours.

When the alarm sounded at five, I hit it with a swift snooze. Still tired from the long driving day and realizing that four days of driving since leaving Alaska only put me above Idaho, I welcomed another hour of sleep, fearful of tiring myself out with so many miles yet to go.

I made coffee and hit the road, stopping in Jasper’s town center to refill my coffee and find a pastry. I found a cafe that served as a public shower and laundromat, which was the most appropriate option.

I wound up the road to Mount Edith Cavell, one of Jasper’s most iconic peaks, hoping to find a parking space. The lot was busy but not packed, and I quickly prepared my hiking bag and refilled my water, hoping to beat any late crowd that might arrive.

I had plenty of company as I walked toward the glacier lake, but once I turned onto the meadow trail, I was alone. Eventually, other hikers caught up, but I hiked most of the distance to the meadow completely alone.

The first viewpoint featured an incredible view of the glacial lake, hanging glaciers, and waterfalls that dropped down the mountainside. From there, it was a steep hike through a lush meadow full of wildflowers, though their peak season had passed.

Toward the top of the highest viewpoint, a descending hiker stopped to tell me, “It sucks up there.” I couldn’t understand how that was possible until I reached the top and the sky opened up with rain. The wind picked up, rain soaked down, but the scene before me remained majestic.

The rain and wind ceased as soon as I descended to the meadow, and it was a quick and pleasant hike back to the car. Another hike wasn’t practical, so I began the drive knowing my route was one of the most famous scenic roads in North America: the Icefields Parkway.

It didn’t take long to find my first detour. I turned onto a road that followed the Athabasca River and stopped often to marvel at its teal color.

At one turnout, a guy approached me and asked, “So, do you like rivers?” It seemed like an odd question, though accurate to his observation of someone standing at the side of a river. Either way, he told me to drive the road to Moab Lake, which also followed a river.

I made it to Lake Louise by late afternoon and braced myself for the frustrations that the tourist hub might bring. It’s first? A long line to enter the campground which was partly caused by clueless travelers and partly caused by Parks Canada staff who needed more initiative to keep the line moving. I was charged twice, refunded, and finally, on my way, I crossed a bridge and found my campsite.

Dealing with seasonal closures had become my hobby, but a half-closed campground provided fresh frustrations. People lined up at a bathroom, unaware that the locked door wasn’t the fault of someone’s overactive bladder; it would remain locked until spring. The walk to the next restroom was manageable, but it became crowded as it was now shared by half of the campground’s guests.

Rain began to fall before dinner, so I once again braved the rain and opted for pasta as it could withstand some extra moisture. Then I went to bed early, lulled to sleep by rain hitting the car’s moonroof.

I woke up early. Very early. 4:30 AM early.

Lake Louise is understandably popular. It’s an iconic view of a sprawling turquoise lake surrounded by mountains, with a glacier feeding into it on its backside. The luxury hotel doesn’t hurt, either. Parking is limited. Hence my early wakeup.

I entered the parking lot around 5 AM, far earlier than I needed to, though I was not the first car to arrive. With nothing else to do, I started hiking when the sky showed its first sign of dawn and found the usually crowded lakeshore empty.

I walked through the dark forest, hoping to make it to Mirror Lake for sunrise. I found a view overlooking layers of mountains and waited for the clouds to clear. Sunrise sent light rays through the hazy sky, creating a dramatic scene.

Lake Agnes was quiet when I arrived just after 8 AM. The teahouse was quiet, and I quickly secured a table looking out over the lake. Late in the season, their menu was full of ommissions, but I found a few items to order for breakfast.

After breakfast, I headed around the lake, admiring the reflection of the mountains and fall foliage, and up to the Beehive. At the top, I took in a view of Lake Louise that you only get if you work for it.

When I returned to the teahouse, it was mobbed with a line of people stretching down its steps and nearly to the lakeshore. I started my hike down, but the quiet and solitude of my early hike up was replaced with groups of hikers blasting music from Bluetooth speakers.

Annoyed by the hordes of inconsiderate tourists, I reconsidered my plans over a lunchtime beer in Canmore and decided to push onto Montana a day early.

Montana

Driving across the continent is nuts. And in 17 days? That’s ridiculous.

But it’s also an incredible way to learn about the diversity of the world around you. The people and customs are remarkably different in each state, province, city, and village. But they’re also quite similar in their goals and problems.

The geological and climate diversity is just as fascinating. The low tundra along Alaska’s Denali Highway quickly turns into the mountains and glaciers of Wrangell-St. Elias and Kluane National Parks. Western British Columbia’s mountains turn into Central British Columbia’s farmlands, and its Alberta border welcomes you to the Rockies.

That’s what excited me most about ending the trip in Montana. Well, it may not be ending, considering the 2,000 miles left to drive east, but it was undoubtedly the last time I could keep a relatively slow pace.

After logging nearly 4,000 miles before I reached the US border, camping each night, and showering occasionally, I was ready for a hotel. I splurged for a room in Havre, Montana, slept in, showered, and found a laundromat to clean my dusty clothes.

Upper Missouri Breaks National Monument

Then, it was on to the badlands of eastern Montana. I pointed the car to the middle of nowhere and drove for a few hours through the rolling prairie. In the middle of all that nowhere, the Missouri River carves canyons and badlands: a rough and primitive country.

Emboldened by my “haven’t got stuck yet!” track record, I started down several paths I would later abandon along the Missouri Breaks Backcountry Byway. The Bureau of Land Management notes that the route should only be attempted when the ground is dry because the mud will quickly swallow even the most capable vehicles. And the Subaru, loaded down with 17 days worth of gear, barely qualifies as capable.

Each mile into the backcountry was another more expensive mile I’d have to pay for if I got stuck, and I constantly warned myself that each downhill might eventually be a more treacherous uphill. Packed dirt turned into crumbly dried mud, and potholes became long, deep ruts wide enough to swallow the tires. But while my paint may have earned a few new pinstripes, I navigated away from obstructions, and the engine reliably crawled up each steep hill.

I briefly enjoyed the land’s emptiness and the stars’ brightness that night. Before long, wildfire smoke and cloud cover rolled in to ruin my view.

Makoshika State Park

The next day, I drove to the eastern edge of Montana, near Glendive, to explore Makoshika State Park. Its landscape has fascinated many, from Lewis and Clark to paleontologists who’ve discovered the fossils of Triceratops and Thescelosaurus and, of course, me.

The collection of badlands reminded me of other trips to the Dakotas and New Mexico, places with similar forms. But each texture was unique, from the cracked mud to the prairie wildflowers.

I stayed in a scenic campground, enjoying a vibrant sunset against the campsite’s ridge. The dim light of Glendive did little to hide the bright stars once twilight came, but clouds soon came to obscure my view.

Theodore Roosevelt National Park

I wasn’t excited about the three-day trip from Montana to Philadelphia, which explains how I spent a half-day in North Dakota.

My parents were traveling through the Dakotas on a long road trip, and we knew we might intersect in Medora. The night before, we scheduled breakfast, and I should have paid more attention to the time zone change, which necessitated an early start. After breakfast, I followed them into Theodore Roosevelt National Park, enjoying the Dakota badland scenery just a bit longer while keeping an eye out for wildlife. We hiked the Boicourt Overlook trail and spotted bison along its base. After our goodbyes, I hit the road.

I arrived in Minneapolis well after dark, the third long night drive I’d completed on this trip.

Indiana Dunes National Park

The next day, I logged many miles through the midwest, stopping for a brief visit to Indiana Dunes along the shore of Lake Michigan. Given my fatigue, I opted for another hotel on the border of Indiana and Ohio. Knowing where I’d spend the night, I spent a few more hours along Lake Michigan, found a brewery, and enjoyed a decent meal.

The last day was unremarkable, featuring a nearly nine-hour drive across Ohio and the Pennsylvania Turnpike. It’s a drive I’ve done a few times and rarely enjoyed, especially when it means the end of a trip. But I was glad to safely bring my car back to my driveway and reconnect with my wife and cats at the end of a grand adventure.