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Juneau & Kodiak

Where Pavement Ends and Wilderness Begins

By Scott Richardson

February 10^th, 2026

Juneau

In Juneau, it doesn’t take long to reach the end of the road. The pavement quickly gives up against the sprawling Tongass National Forest. It's a city defined by its boundaries: tucked between the mountains and the waters of the Gastineau Channel, it is the only state capital in the U.S. inaccessible by car. You can only reach it by flight, float, or foot.

We arrived in Juneau still carrying the solitude and silence of Glacier Bay, only to be met by noisy cruise ship passengers carrying t-shirts they bought across the street from the dock. But winding through downtown’s hilly, blind-curved streets, we found a town full of charm, history, and adventure, hidden beneath an overwhelming landscape of ancient forests and glaciated mountains.

The following week was a study of life on a terrestrial island. Of witnessing day-trip visitors, seasonal workers, and permanent Juneauites mix in a place equally full of kitsch, creatures, and indigenous culture.

Fresh off the flight from Gustavus, we prioritized the essentials: Thai food and bear spray. We reached a local outfitter just as the "Closed" sign flipped, pleading our way inside to secure protection for the next morning’s hike. With the spray in hand, we chased the light to the end of the road at Sheep Creek, where the mountains rose sharply over Douglas Island. Back in town, we navigated a labyrinth of hairpin turns and blind corners, the streets clinging to the steep hillsides until we crested a final rise to find the governor’s mansion overlooking the channel.

Mendenhall Glacier

We kicked off our first morning at a roadside espresso stand near Mendenhall. These drive-thrus are Alaskan staples, powering people through the winter darkness and the long days of summer. Twelve miles from the bustle of downtown, we found the solitude of the West Glacier Trail in the Tongass National Forest. It didn’t take long to realize that the "six-mile" rating on AllTrails was a modest estimate of the terrain that lay ahead.

The trail plunged us into a deep, verdant rainforest where moss swallowed the trees and water seemed to flow from every crevice. We moved carefully; the spiny stalks of Devil’s Club lined the path like organic barbed wire, waiting for a stray limb to brush against its irritating needles.

A pair of Stellar’s Jays entertained us as we stopped for a snack break. They bounced from between trees, making “shook shook” sounds as they called to each other.

The trail soon turned vertical, forcing us to haul ourselves up slick, muddy slopes using tattered guide ropes. We scrambled across rain-swollen streams and past a blur of waterfalls until the forest finally broke, revealing a spectacular sight: electric-blue ice calving directly into the glacial lake. It was a view of a vanishing world. By the time I sat down to write these words five months later, the glacier had receded so far that its toe had completely detached from the water's edge.

From the summit, the scale was dizzying. Helicopters buzzed like dragonflies over the ice, touching down to spill tiny figures onto a frozen world. Below them, a labyrinth of deep crevasses and jagged seracs cast long shadows, revealing the electric, "new" blue of compressed ice that hadn't seen the sun in centuries. Ponds and meltwater falls carved silver veins through the white expanse, stretching back until the ice finally met the jagged teeth of the mountainous horizon.

After the descent, we rewarded ourselves with handmade pasta at Bocca al Lupo, a local gem Kirsten had been eager to revisit (after ending her last Coast to Coast roadtrip there in 2023). Over an Anchorage-brewed saison and small plates, we traded stories of the trail before the evening light pulled me back outside.

While Kirsten rested at the Airbnb, I made a solo dash for Nugget Falls. I was racing the sun, reaching the roaring curtain of water just as the final glow of the day ignited the distant peaks. On the hike back, the wilderness offered one last quiet encounter: two deaf women signaled to me, pointing high into the canopy. There, silhouetted against the deepening dusk, a porcupine sat perched among the branches—a slow-moving shadow that vanished into the darkness as the light finally faded.

Tracy Arm Fjord

The next morning, we joined the local dawn ritual at The Rookery. A line had already formed by the time the doors opened, but we managed to snag window seats to watch the city wake up over coffee.

From the cafe, it was a short walk to the docks for our tour of Tracy Arm Fjord. Coming off the high of Glacier Bay, we wondered if any other landscape could measure up. While the fjord’s scale was more intimate than the national park, the wildlife quickly settled the score. Just south of the city, we watched humpback whales breach and slap their massive pectoral fins against the glassy water, an explosive start to a day that would eventually yield sightings of seals, eagles, and even a solitary bear.

Leaving the sprawl of Juneau behind, we cruised seventy miles through Stephen’s Passage until the landscape tightened into the dramatic mouth of Tracy Arm Fjord. The valley walls closed in, and we found an abundance of waterfalls. Above us, the fog played a game of reveal-and-conceal with the jagged peaks, while the water below was punctuated by the occasional overturned iceberg, glowing with a deep, pressurized blue that looked almost radioactive against the gray mist.

As we drifted toward a thundering waterfall, a black bear emerged to forage along the tide line. It picked its way across the jagged, barnacle-encrusted rocks with a casual indifference, utterly unbothered by the boatload of tourists just fifteen yards away. It was a classic Alaskan scene: a predator focused on its salt-slicked meal while tourists created a chorus of camera clicks.

Deep in the fjord, the granite walls soared higher and the water turned a milky, opaque turquoise. As we pushed further, the channel choked with ice of all sizes: the truck-sized chunks known as bergey bits and the smaller, more treacherous growlers that sat low in the water, nearly invisible and ready to scrape a hull.

As we made our way toward the end of the fjord, chunks of ice limited our access to South Sawyer Glacier. The grand glacier, tucked into the mountains, was beautiful even from afar.

Sawyer Glacier offered a sobering contrast. Having receded past the tidewater line, it now shrinks by a staggering 300 meters every year, a ghost of its former scale. Yet, up close, the details remained hauntingly beautiful, revealing veins of vibrant, pressurized ice at its melting toe.

The ride back to Juneau turned raw and rainy, the kind of biting cold that seeps into your bones, but we stayed glued to the observation deck just long enough to see a final humpback breach against the gray horizon. Seeking warmth, we bypassed the tourist traps for Devils Club Brewing Company. There, at a local comedy open mic, the "cruise ship" version of Juneau finally evaporated. We listened to locals tell absurd, grit-strewn tales of life on fishing boats, a raw, hilarious reminder of the community that exists beyond the tourist's short stays.

Juneau & "Out the road" destinations

Downtown Juneau museums

I woke up with the telltale scratch of a sore throat, a souvenir from the wet coughs echoing on yesterday's boat ride. Hoping the Alaskan air would act as a tonic, we set out to find an Indigenous-owned coffee shop, only to find it shuttered in an empty office building. We pivoted to the Sandpiper Cafe for a quick fuel-up before diving into the city’s past.

The morning was a deep dive at the Alaska State Museum, an expansive journey from the mastery of Native art to the harsh realities of Russian exploitation and the rise of modern tourism. We then swapped history for a civics lesson at the State Capitol, where we toured the legislative chambers and learned about Alaska’s unique coalition government and ranked-choice voting. After a final stop at the Juneau-Douglas City Museum to trace the gritty lineage of the local mining industry, we crossed over to Douglas Island for dinner. There, the day ended with excitement as we watched a pod of orcas slicing through the water just off the shore.

Glacier Highway

A week of traveling caught up with me. I tried to rally, but we eventually surrendered to my sickness, swapping our ambitious hiking plans for a much-needed rest day. We retreated to our favorite ritual at The Rookery before spending the morning at the Sealaska Heritage Institute. There, the focus shifted from scenery to soul as we explored the intricate art and living traditions of the Tlingit, Haida, and Tsimshian peoples. A docent guided us through a hand-carved clan house, explaining how ancient fishing techniques are being preserved for a new generation.

Later, we attempted a low-stakes drive north along the Glacier Highway, but even the "short" Breadline Bluffs trail demanded more than I could give. After a few muddy, grueling inclines with little payoff, we called it, abandoning the hike to continue our drive toward the literal end of the road.

Seeking a moment of stillness, we visited the Shrine of St. Therese, a stone chapel nestled within a natural cove. Hemmed in by mountains and the sea, the grounds felt like a sanctuary for more than just weary travelers; on the path to the chapel, a hoary marmot stood sentry, a small reminder that in this corner of Alaska, the line between the sacred and the wild is almost non-existent.

In the 1930s and 40s, Jesuit visionaries hand-built this retreat, in response to the profound silence of the Alaskan coast. We spent an hour wandering through its meticulously tended gardens, struck by a quiet, structured beauty that stood in stark contrast to the sprawling wilderness just beyond the shrine’s edge.

Pushing north to the very end of the Glacier Highway, the pavement finally surrendered to a rugged 4x4 trail. The dead end is littered with the skeletons of abandoned furniture. We scavenged the horizon for life at Eagle Beach, finally spotting a pair of bald eagles perched high on the edge of the forest.

Gold Rush Days

Our final day in Juneau broke with clear skies, perfect weather for witnessing a local tradition. We watched a gritty, low-stakes competition where men and women of all ages faced off in a celebration of frontier skills: axe-throwing, rhythmic two-person hand bucking, chainsaw competitions, and speed climbs up towering wooden poles. Between events, I tracked down a local vendor serving birria tacos, easily the best meal of the entire trip.

Mount Gastineau

On Mount Gastineau, the summer snowpack felt treacherous and unstable, forcing us to trade the summit for the safety of a high ridge. From our vantage point, the city and channel shrunk to a miniature scale while bald eagles hung nearly motionless on the mountain’s airfoils. We watched paragliders laboring uphill with their gear, though the mood felt slightly shadowed; word reached us of a pilot who had misjudged the morning’s shifting winds and collided with a building downtown. It was a sobering reminder of how thin the margin for error is in this vertical landscape.

After dinner, we searched for eagles in the wetlands preserve. Bald eagles are a common sight in Juneau, often resting on downtown light poles, but seeing them in a more natural habitat was our goal. After an extensive search and patience, we found two hiding in the trees.

Just as we were ready to head back to our Airbnb, a final detour led us down a quiet side road. We were looking for eagles, but found a lone black bear drifting into a field of lupine. As we tracked its path through the wetlands, more shadows emerged until the quiet was shattered by an explosive, splashing battle. Two bears collided in the shallow water, trading heavy paw strokes that sent splashes of spray into the air. Whether it was a territorial dispute or a ritualized playfight, the tension was electric. As abruptly as it began, they parted ways, vanishing into the tall grass and leaving us to head to bed, exhausted and awestruck by the sheer raw energy of the Alaskan night.

Kodiak

While Juneau felt like an island, our next destination actually was. We flew to Anchorage and then on to Kodiak, our jumping-off point for a deeper trip into the wilderness of Katmai National Park.

Both Juneau and Kodiak are served by isolated road networks; neither highway extends much beyond 45 miles before the pavement simply surrenders to the wilderness. Yet, despite their shared geography, the two are culturally worlds apart. Juneau’s downtown hums with the frantic energy of the cruise industry: a chorus of live music, the hum of tour buses, and jewelry hawkers vying for tourist attention. Kodiak, by contrast, is quiet, punctuated only by the low moan of a boat horn or the occasional rowdy hoot from a group of locals down by the liquor store.

At our rental cabin near Womens Bay, we were greeted by two dogs and our hosts—the local brewer and his wife, a marine biologist. We had arrived in the middle of her week-long "celebration of kelp," and were invited to the brewery to test our luck at kelp trivia and sample their latest experiment: a kelp-infused beer.

That evening, we caught our first glimpse of the island’s rugged beauty at Fort Abercrombie. We wandered a rocky beach framed by bright wildflowers. Back at the cabin, I sipped tea in the yard soaking in the warmth of the 9:00 PM sun. The lingering dusk of Alaska summers is peaceful, interrupted only by the occasional sharp swat at a mosquito, the state’s most persistent and humble predator.

The next morning arrived draped with a persistent drizzle, the kind of brooding weather that defines the Alaskan coast. We didn't let the gray keep us in, and after a slow morning, we packed the car to chase the island's perimeter.

Our first stop was the end of Monashka Bay Road, where the pavement dissolves into a striking white-sand beach. The "sand" is actually a relic of the 1912 Novarupta eruption: fine, petrified volcanic ash that traveled from the very wilderness we were preparing to visit in Katmai. Across the shore, the tide had carved the ash into an endless gallery of Rorschach inkblots: swirling patterns, deep-cut waves, and abstract geometries that shifted with every step.

Mill Bay offered a startling pivot: a beach of hammered black sand born from eons of geologic breakdown. It looked remarkably like the volcanic shores of Hawaii, a disjointed parallel that defied the Alaskan landscape. Despite the clashing climates, the two islands shared a spiritual DNA in their empty beaches and villages.

in the center of town reflect the immense influence Russian fur traders had during their short rule over this part of Alaska. At the Alutiiq Museum, we learned that even the word “Aleut” is Russian for “coastal dweller,” and that “Alutiiq” (”real people”) is how they refer to themselves in their native Sugpiaq language. The museum focused on Llarpet (Our World), Suuget (People), Anerneq (Spirit), and Keneq (Fire), linking exhibits about their surroundings and hunting grounds, family relations and customs, faith, language, arts, and traditions.

The Russians brought their language, customs, Orthodox religion, and ties to the global economy. The Americans brought boarding schools and a need to control land use and customs. Commercial fishing and canneries brought the cash economy and shifted people to a reliance on pre-made goods. Only after ANILCA (the Alaska National Interest Lands Conservation Act signed by Jimmy Carter in the early 80’s, establishing native-owned corporations) were interests renewed in language, art, and customs.

The history of Kodiak is a saga of successive impositions. The Russians brought Orthodoxy and global trade; the Americans brought boarding schools and land-use mandates; and the commercial canneries introduced a cash economy that eroded self-reliance. It wasn't until the 1980s, with the passage of ANILCA, that the tide finally turned. This federal act established Native-owned corporations, sparking a powerful, long-overdue reclamation of Alutiiq language, art, and custom.

Late in the afternoon, we traced Anton Larsen Road past the sprawling Coast Guard base to a cove swallowed by fog. The shoreline was a graveyard of industry: discarded buoys, rusted traps, and coils of frayed rope littered the shoreline.

As the daylight finally began to fade, I wound my up Pillar Mountain Road for a panoramic look at the city, harbor, and distant peaks. Just before 11:00 PM, a thick wall of fog surged inland, erasing landmarks but transforming the summit into an ethereal, cloud-bound sanctuary.

A rusted barge sits partially submerged in the shallows of Womens Bay, a jagged monument to Alaska’s rough seas. It's just one of many ghost ships scattered along the coast, monuments to lives and livelihoods lost to storms.

We traced the island’s jagged edge, pulling off at every unnamed beach that lacked a "Private Property" sign. The coastline was a geological patchwork: some coves were tucked away with pristine white sand, while others were forged from dark, weathered stones crushed fine by the relentless Pacific.

The village of Chiniak was a modest outpost with a tiny post office, a library, and the sign for a nearby park. Beyond town, the pavement surrendered to a "Designated Stream Crossing Area," where a steep gravel ramp plunged into the water, a dare for anyone brave enough to forge toward the cape. We declined the challenge, ending our drive where the road met the river. Instead, we pulled onto a quiet stretch of beach to eat our sandwiches. There are many great restaurants marketing their ambience, but none can match the raw, solitary atmosphere of a picnic on a rugged Alaskan shore.

We cut a U-turn and doubled back through the village. Eagles patrolled the shoreline, but they remained elusive. Each time we spotted a bird, it would take flight, vanishing before we could ever truly close the distance.

At the junction of the Chiniak and Pasagshak roads, we veered south, winding through vast, open ranch lands where only a few scattered cattle broke the horizon.

It was at Pasagshak Bay that we finally found the encounter we’d been chasing. On the lip of the beach, a bald eagle stood guard over its catch, locked in a tense standoff with scavenging ravens. Unlike the skittish birds we’d seen earlier, this one remained unbothered by our presence. For an hour, we watched, fascinated, as it shielded its salmon, occasionally taking to the air in short, powerful bursts to drive off any bold thief eyeing its prize.

Even at this popular beach, we saw just a handful of visitors. Kodiak felt raw and wild, and as we drove toward its southern road terminus, we practically had it to ourselves.

A thick fog rolled in as we passed a heavily fortified rocket launch base just above the end of the road. The state-owned site lofts satellites into polar orbit and serves as a proving ground for missile defense systems like the Golden Dome project. Passing its high fences in the mist felt like driving through the set of a Cold War thriller.

Kodiak’s road network terminates at Fossil Beach, a rugged stretch of coast where the past is etched into the stone. Here, the cliffs hold the fossilized ghosts of clams, snails, and prehistoric invertebrates. As we stepped onto the sand, a heavy fog rolled in, erasing the horizon and shrinking our world to a few dozen yards of mist and ancient stone.

We returned to Pillar Mountain Road, this time rewarded with a clear, sweeping view of Kodiak’s rugged spine. The road terminates at a line of towering wind turbines that power nearly the entire island. While the project is a win for renewable energy, its wasn't just built for sustainability, it was designed for reliability. By stabilizing the grid against unpredictable swings in diesel prices, the system saved the local electrical utility nearly a million gallons in the first year alone. It was also designed to support the intermittent, high-power draw required to operate a large electric shipping crane at the shipyard that supplies the island with nearly all its goods.

I ventured out, hoping to see some of Kodiak’s famous wildlife after the late-night summer sunset. Almost invisible against the deepening shadows, a black morph fox, a rare pigment variant of the red fox, ambled along the roadside. It was a silhouette in motion, identifiable only by the distinctive white tip of its tail, a signature shared with its more common crimson cousins.

Kodiak had long been a point on my map, but the reality of the island defied every expectation. With its winding roads, stark black-and-white beaches, and tiny villages, it felt like a rugged, northern echo of Hawaii. Yet beneath the wild exterior, the town was efficiently modern—a hub where a Walmart and a well-stocked outfitter provided the final essentials for our push into the wilderness.

We closed the chapter on Kodiak at the Trident Seaplane Base. After a final hand-off of our rental car, we weighed our packs, stowed our excess gear in a shipping container, and turned our eyes toward the water.

There is a distinct tension in stepping onto a wooden dock to board a floatplane thirty years older than you. As the engine roared to life, we lifted off, soaring over a verdant landscape where emerald peaks pierced a cloud ceiling. We were leaving the last vestiges of the road behind, flying toward the deep isolation of Katmai National Park and the coastal brown bears that awaited us.