The entrance to the small green shed that is home to the Northern Lights Wolf Centre is covered in the skulls and antlers of Canadian Rockies natives. And a door the same colour as the nearby mountain town of Golden is our gateway to an experience for which I’m not fully prepared.
We’re going to walk with wolves, and I’ve watched enough Game Of Thrones to wonder whether I’ll have to adopt a Yorkshire accent to ensure the world’s largest wild canids know I’m friend rather than foe.
The centre was established in 2002 when Casey, a former Hollywood animal trainer, and Shelley Black decided to educate people about the majestic wolves and the important role they play in the environment. They started with just one wolf, but now have a pack of seven that live in a 5000 square metre enclosure.
A chorus of howls adds a backing soundtrack to Shelley’s warnings as she prepares us for what’s to come: “It’s important to remember, we’re on wolf terms.” Thankfully, the wolves, which have been born and raised in captivity, are used to the presence of humans. As a result, they act more like dogs than wild animals.
A leash is attached to young female Flora, who follows Casey to his sedan and is loaded into the back. Riding behind with Shelley, I see Flora’s yellow eyes peering through the back window. She has a pup-like appearance, but this is a 45-kilogram grey wolf with the strength to take down a cow.
It’s a combination of the breath-stealing scenery and majestic nature of the long-legged creature padding beside me that makes me want to pinch myself through my puffy jacket. Flora disappears then reappears far ahead or behind us. It doesn’t faze me until, as I crouch down next to a glacial creek snapping photographs, she starts running towards me. I freeze before remembering Shelley’s words: “Always stand taller than the wolf.” I don’t realise Casey is holding a treat, which is what has Flora’s attention, but before he says, “Don’t panic,” I’ve jumped up and moved well out of her way.
With my heart pounding, we continue. I’m still unsure of my relationship with Flora. She’s not let me pat her, nor has she sniffed my feet as a normal dog would. Shelley instructs me to stand next to a log, and I oblige. Within moments, Flora has jumped up on it and run her tongue along my face, leaving a trail of saliva. It’s the most action I’ve had on this trip to Canada and, wearing the remnants of her sloppy kiss, I’m no longer left wondering whether I’m friend or foe
It’s hard to believe the biggest thrills in Las Vegas happen about 30 minutes from the famous Strip. And, no, we’re not talking about a hedonistic pool party or an all-night club. This is dirty, dusty and easily the biggest injection of adrenaline you’ll have in years. Strap yourself into a dune buggy and hit the bumpy tracks of the Mojave Desert with the guys from Vegas Off Road Tours. This is definitely no ‘stay in line and follow at slow speed’ experience. Far from it, actually.
An instructor in full denim overalls and looking a bit like Jeff Lebowski offers up a few instructions before thrill-seekers hit the accelerator. “Don’t go too hard on the corners. Some dude died out here last week. Not with us, but watch your turns. Oh, and keep up.” With that he’ll shoot through in a cloud of Mojave dust. During the following two hours of insanity there are times when you’ll be sure all four wheels leave the ground, as well as moments when you – whether you’re driving or reluctantly filling the passenger seat – will find yourself screaming from a combination of fear and exhilaration. The trip ends with local craft beers and a barbecue lunch at the Pioneer Hotel. Viva Las Vegas indeed!
Protected from the harsh elements of the Southern Utah desert by nothing more than a rocky, rugged escarpment, luxury hotel Amangiri appears like a too-beautiful-to-be-real mirage. Minimalist lines and neutral tones allow the luxe digs to blend into their age-wearied backdrop, while concrete walls, timber fittings and blackened steel elements serve to enhance the features of the natural surroundings. Private pools, courtyards or rooftop terraces adjoin each of the 34 suites, further ensuring the desert landscape remains the focal point for visitors.
If you do manage to tear yourself away from the stunning vistas, adventure awaits in the form of pre-dawn hot-air balloon rides, rock climbing and horseback riding. Navajo guides are also on hand to share stories, traditions and ritual dances. Amangiri’s open-plan kitchen, complete with floor-to-ceiling windows to maximise the ever-changing outlook, is the ideal dining location, the views matched only by the impeccable quality of the food. Your tummy will rumble at the sight of traditional southwestern dishes served with a modern twist. It may look like an mirage, but we’re sure glad this desert oasis is real.
Canada’s convention centres generally don’t come to mind when imagining indigenous cultural gatherings and celebrations, but Manito Ahbee is an event unlike any other. Held annually in Winnipeg, the festival draws its moniker from the sacred site in Manitoba’s Whiteshell National Park, where First Nations people gather to share their traditions and teachings and perform ceremonies (its name means ‘where the Creator sits’). The celebrations kick off with the lighting of the sacred fire, held at the Forks National Historic Site, which signifies the opening of its numerous events.
Witness Pow Wow – the celebration of culture and friendship among First Nations communities – where more than 800 dancers come together to show off their skills. See the square dance exhibition and the jigging competition in honour of the Metis community. Discover myriad artefacts and traditional artworks at the Indigenous Marketplace and Tradeshow, and marvel as artists put brush to canvas in live art challenges.
Named for the sunset views that drench this rooftop establishment in a golden hue come late afternoon, Last Light is the newest addition to New York City’s crowded skyscape. Perched atop Sister City hotel on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, it’s positioned itself as a relaxed neighbourhood haunt – it’s far more chilled out than you’d expect from a hotel bar, with a first-in, best-dressed door policy, no bottle service and generous happy hour specials.
While the two outdoor decks are the obvious drawcards here, the creative and surprisingly affordable cocktail list, plus the tasty small plates from Floret, the ground-floor restaurant, make a trip up to the 11th floor worthwhile. Oh, Last Light is also completely cashless, so don’t forget to stick your credit card in your pocket.
Although unassuming from the surface, La Jolla Cove hides more than just a colourful array of marine life. Sprouting from the rocky reefs that blanket the ocean floor, with stalks reaching between nine to 25 metres in height, is a stunning kelp forest. Swaying dreamily in the underwater currents, flashes of red and orange-hued native fish and colourful reefs are a vibrant contrast against the green and brown kelp and, if you’re lucky, you’ll spot an excitable sea lion twirling through the tall stalks.
The only way to truly experience it is to suit up and take the plunge. As you glide between the long, rippling ribbons of kelp, you’ll feel as though you’ve left the world behind and entered the pathway to Atlantis – not bad for a place just a 20-minute drive from the busy streets of downtown San Diego. There are a number of dive companies that offer guided scuba tours of the spectacular aquatic world, so you’ve got plenty of opportunities to experience it.
Ensconced within a centuries-old redwood forest in the Russian River Valley of Sonoma, just a 90-minute drive from San Francisco, AutoCamp promises a touch of luxury in the great outdoors. Nature enthusiasts will love bedding down in the big canvas tents furnished with a queen-size bed, plush linens and electrical outlets. Each one also has a patio with deck chairs and a camp fire.
Those wanting to experience camping without the chilly runs to the clubhouse bathroom should check in to one of the custom-built Airstream suites. Each one features a glam white-tiled bathroom, kitchenette, television and sound system.
Once you’ve settled in, pedal your complimentary bike to the nearby river or one of the many surrounding wineries. The clubhouse has a shop where you can get important supplies like beers and snacks, as well as an adventure desk. When night falls get cosy by the campfire, toasting s’mores and watching stars blanket the sky.
AutoCamp also has locations at Yosemite and Santa Barbara.
Swap civilisation for this epic sailing tour of Canada’s Haida Gwaii archipelago. The adventure kicks off with a scenic floatplane flight to your schooner, Passing Cloud, which awaits you on the northern fringe of the reserve. The indigenous Haida people thrived here for more than 14,000 years and you’ll learn about their culture while exploring the ancient villages nestled among towering cedar and spruce trees.
The archipelago is also a marine wonderland. Spot sharks, dolphins and humpback whales in the pelagic zone. Kayak the glassy waters of Burnaby Narrows in search of sunflower stars, moon snails and decorator crabs. Look out for sea lions and orcas at Cape St James. Back on dry land, sink your toes into the sand and tide pools before boarding your floatplane once more for a final glimpse.
A yellow and green snake slithers below my foot. It’s pretty and colourful, but it’s a snake nonetheless. I rewind my steps in slow motion then rapidly retreat.
This is the first hike of many during a week rafting and camping down 300 kilometres of the Colorado River from Marble Canyon to Whitmore Wash, and while we were warned about the snakes and the scorpions of the Grand Canyon, the thrill of coming foot to face with one still has my heart racing.
Calling this a hike is somewhat misleading. Climbing is a more fitting description. We are in the North Canyon clambering over rock debris. It’s a bent-over, hands-on scramble, and natural footholds and nooks are the only help we have to bolster up our bodies. Each exaggerated step strains my groin muscles and tests my flexibility. We are tiny flecks of colour dwarfed by the terracotta-red canyon walls and surrounded by tessellated rock that looks like a stonemason has been busy slicing out blocks to create a giant game of Jenga. Pockets of empty space and teetering rocks are left behind.
At the river, we make camp on a small strip of beach. It’s the first night and somewhat of a culture shock. This trip requires all hands on deck – a raft full of bags, cots, tables, chairs, kitchen, food and water awaits us, and a human production line forms to unload our precious gear. Jeff is our trip leader and swiftly runs through camp set-up, hygiene and etiquette. Washing is limited to wet wipes or a brave wash in the achingly cold river. All peeing must be straight into the river while a fashioned ‘regular’ toilet is set up each night for number-twos only. A tight wiggle in a sleeping bag is our only hope of getting dressed discreetly. We are going to get to know each other intimately, and fast.
A comical scene quickly unfolds as everyone deciphers the knack of erecting a stretcher bed for the first time. Sleeping exposed under the stars is an incredibly peaceful experience – the crammed celestial sky seems almost fictitious and the roar of the rapids drowns out any snoring neighbours.
Jeff gets the camp moving at sunrise with the waft of fresh coffee. We’ve been told to kit up in full wet-weather gear, morphing the group into Michelin men in oversized parachute-like outfits. The week will see us ride through a system of 80 complex rapids and fluctuating water levels. This is one of the few rivers in the world that uses a rating system ranging from one to the highest rating, a Grade 10.
I take lead position on the raft, prepared to cop the full force. I see the slick sinkhole of 23 Mile Rapid and brace myself as the nose of the raft slams down and an icy wall of water smashes overhead. The water outsmarts my gear and snakes a chilly path down my body. Even in the milder rapids, water rebounds off the sides and splashes unexpectedly like a slap across the face with a wet fish.
Travelling just 16 kilometres each hour, we have plenty of time between rapids to lie back and absorb the skyscraper walls as the river winds through a tiny fracture in a vast plateau. It’s a geologist’s heaven. The history behind the formation is baffling and the horizontal layers – each distinct in colour and texture – are unique timestamps. The further we travel, the higher the cliffs rise as the older bedrock base pushes the young layers to the top. The eroded Redwall Limestone creates a fun game of I Spy – we spot the pillared entry of Petra, a game piece from Battleship, the pipes of a church organ and a statue from Angkor Wat ruins. In downtime, we’re entertained with the wonderful concept called the beer bag – a netted bag that drags along in the icy water behind us as a natural esky.
Approaching camp at Main Nankoweap, we see a row of windows cut into the cliff high above us. These granaries of the Ancestral Puebloans date back to 1100 CE and represent quite the impressive feat to protect their stores. A tiny path wiggles up and we naively comment what an arduous hike that would have once been. We don’t have to imagine for long though, as it’s our afternoon activity.
It’s a slow climb up 200 metres with little flat respite to ease the burn. Each taxing step varies in height from a tiny prance to a giant lunge. Several admit defeat along the way, but I pace myself with regular breaks to safely absorb the view. The goat track narrows until we must navigate single file for the last steep pitch along a rubbled switchback ledge. The pain is forgotten immediately upon reaching the granaries as the elevation unveils the immense surroundings juxtaposed against the tiny blue dots of our rafts far below. The cloudy olive river zig-zags through the distinct rift in the deep rock bed. I feel humbly irrelevant.
By day three I’ve lost track of time and regular life has faded away. A new seamless rhythm is in play and a team camaraderie has formed. Being stripped of luxuries and vanity is now liberating. Today’s highlight is Little Colorado River. At the mouth of the joining rivers, contrasting water colours swirl together as if a milk tanker has spilled its load. Calcium carbonate creates creamy glacial blue water and a snow-like frosting along the bank. Compared to the numbing Colorado River temperatures, this offshoot offers a balmy rinse off. Fashioning our life jackets into unflattering jumbo nappies, we slip into the cascading water. Bouncing off the rocks in the fast flow, I’m grateful for my padded ride. Throw in inflatable water toys and adults regress to playful kids who refuse to get out.
From this point we leave Marble Canyon and officially enter the Grand Canyon. The rock surrounding us dates back over a mind-boggling 1.6 billion years. We can now observe the Great Unconformity, a missing supergroup of rock layers representing a 1.2 million year gap in history. You can clearly see the top layer of young Tapeats sandstone sandwiched with the ancient Vishnu Schist, yet no middle layers of time. Where they have gone remains a great natural mystery.
My favourite part of the day has become lying in bed as camp is stirring, watching the rising sun play across the rock walls. The spotlight moves from just the peaks, then slowly lights each canyon layer with a warm glow.
Water has been released overnight from Glen Canyon Dam. This surge is significant because today is a conveyor belt of big rapids and this extra water just made them a whole lot crazier. Hance Rapid is just past camp and our first grade 10. The roar is heard well before we see the hint of white chop ahead. It’s a tricky weave through the menacing rocks just below the surface. No one is staying dry this morning.
Each rapid has a unique story and naming convention. Some get their label from the adventurer who conquered them (or didn’t), while others from their characteristics. We pass through Sockdolager, a boxing term for a knockout punch; Grapevine, described as more rocks than grapes on a vine; and Horn Creek, known for the steepest drop in the shortest distance. Hermit Rapid is the monster of the day. A nine-metre vertical drop bends our raft like a banana, and the impact lifts my body and deposits me into the lap of my neighbour behind. The roller-coaster continues through a succession of massive dips, a torrent slamming us each time.
I swallow my fair share of water as I’m laughing too hard to shut my mouth. Cheering as the raft is finally spat out, I wish we could do it all again.
Even after 370 river trips under his belt, Jeff still looks tense as we approach certain rapids. No run is ever the same. The rapids are forever changing and unforgiving of a minor mistake. It’s unfathomable to think of the first explorers in vulnerable wooden crafts navigating this river blindly. With these currents there is no reversing. They were 100 per cent committed with no idea of what they faced around each corner. Many explorers abandoned their boats and hiked out instead, but this in itself is dangerous. The river is not to be underestimated, even today.
Big Dune campsite is a long strip of beach bordering a plunging cliff line. We’re now at the 119 Mile point. Jeff creates a makeshift fire out of paper towels and olive oil to congregate around each night. With the wine flowing, a hearty rendition of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ incites a dance party. The sheer rock face becomes the stage backdrop for an impromptu shadow play. Interpretative dance by torchlight, magnified and warped onto the rock, creates surreal entertainment for those watching from bed.
By day five the tree-topped North and South Rims are in clear view, towering nearly 1500 metres above us. The oldest canyon rock, layers of dusky pink Zoroaster granite and polished black Vishnu Schist, weaves down vertically like burrowing tree roots. Millennia of rockfalls have scattered immense boulders, now resting on impossible angles and tipping points. The slightest tremor would completely transform the make-up of the Grand Canyon in a split second.
Today’s hike is to Upper Deer Creek ‘patio’ and not for those with a fear of heights. The escarpment looms straight up from the water and it’s a challenging climb from the get-go. The 44ºC heat radiates off the rocks, singeing hands on contact. The final leg to the waterfall traverses a sketchy ledge. Facing the wall, I gingerly shuffle my hands and feet along like a mime artist’s impression of being trapped in a box. The ledge is boot-width in some places and the drop has no detectable bottom. The pay-off, however, is a refreshing soak as I sit, clothes and all, in the waterfall spa bath.
The extreme temperatures and dry air are taking a toll on our bodies. No amount of water or moisturiser seems to placate my dehydrated system. The fingers of a fellow camper have split like burst sausages.
The plan for our last full day is a long visit to Havasu Falls, but we are side-tracked by an impromptu pit stop at Matkatamiba Canyon. This narrow slot canyon cuts a tight v-shape channel through ribboned rock. The walls resemble the compacted layers of a Flake chocolate and a small stream flows through but is slick with algae slime. The only way up is to pressure climb: a technique of maintaining constant pressure with your body to climb without touching the bottom. Jeff wedges himself between the walls and pulls each of us out of the waist-deep water to start. Digging my backbone into one side, I push hard against the other with my feet. Each move is carefully considered as I inch my way up. It’s the point of no return. A slip is guaranteed to significantly injure not only me, but everyone else below me. Somebody on a previous trip had to be helicoptered off the river after a fall here. At one point I freeze. I’m horizontal across the canyon, painfully pushing my elbows hard into the rock to hold me, but I’m not secure. My adrenaline is racing as I am completely out of my comfort zone. Jeff clambers up and over like my Spiderman hero to provide a higher anchor point. It’s an intense physical and mental test, but the sense of achievement is exhilarating.
After our final camp pack-down, we are taking a seven-minute helicopter shortcut out of the canyon. Downriver at 187 Mile is the Whitmore helipad, in reality is little more than a knoll midway up the cliff. The precision of the helicopter cutting past the canyon walls to land is extraordinary. With the rotors spinning, the pilot hovers on the ground just long enough for us to swiftly buckle in. The scope of this Natural Wonder of the World can only be realised from the aerial view. Our group flies out dishevelled and weary, but bonded by a proud sense of having conquered something quite special. A mere 0.4 per cent of annual visitors experience the Grand Canyon as the adventure we’ve just had. The focus is now firmly on removing the permeating film of grit covering our bodies. I can’t wait for a long hot soak in a bath.
Paddling furiously, we manoeuvre the kayaks into the middle of the cove and peer up at two specks soaring above the hemlocks and spruces. Caught up in the thermals, they twirl around each other, nearly touch, then circle again, gliding effortlessly through the crispness of the morning sky. The ritual is repeated over and over until they crescendo into the grand finale. Grasping talons, they lock together tumbling in free fall towards the ground.
“For a bald eagle, trust is everything,” explains Megan, our expedition leader. “What we’re seeing is a courtship dance. They’re testing out each other’s fitness and strength. That is, if they don’t crash…”
It’s spring in Alaska and love is not only in the air, it’s all around us. My affair with the last frontier started when I saw a snippet on TV of Susan Butcher winning her first Iditarod sled dog race in 1986. Gary Paulsen’s novel Hatchet came out the following year and I became hooked on all things Alaskan. From Travels in Alaska by John Muir to Alaska: A Novel by James A. Michener, the poetry of Robert Service and the works of Jack London, words on dog-eared pages drew the pictures in my imagination.
This is my fifth trip to Alaska. The ‘call of the wild’ keeps drawing me back. I’m not alone. Passion for the vast wilderness is written on the faces of the people. You see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices and feel the comradeship that comes from being in a place where survival depends on what Mother Nature throws your way.
Starting in Juneau, I’m travelling with UnCruise Adventures for two weeks through the Inside Passage. It’s late April and we’re on the first itinerary for the year.
“As an Alaskan, spring is my favourite season in Southeast Alaska,” says UnCruise CEO Dan Blanchard as we prepare to set sail. “Everything is fresh. Like the bears emerging from their dens, we feel renewed. It’s like an awakening.” Dan is similar to his vessels – built for adventure. A wild, madcap type of guy who’s more comfortable with his feet in the water than under a desk. And Juneau, the rugged capital of Alaska, suits him just fine.
Originally settled by the Auke and Tlingit tribes for the abundance of food sources, and later named after gold prospector Joe Juneau, the state capital (population 35,000) is only accessible by sea or air. It was a Tlingit chief who told Joe Juneau where to find the gold that led to the town becoming the home of the three largest gold mines in the world. Speak to any local and they’ll nod towards the mountains and mumble, “There’s plenty of gold left in them hills”.
It’s the same story all the way along the Alaskan part of the Inside Passage and across the border into Canada’s Yukon territory. When cries of ‘gold’ went up in 1896, it started one of the greatest adventures in American history. The Klondike Gold Rush saw a frenzy of around 100,000 gold diggers (known as stampeders) sail from the US west coast to claim their fortune. However, once they arrived, perilous journeys on foot over the inhospitable terrain filled with steep ravines, freezing temperatures and dangerous animals dashed the hopes of many. Most either died or turned back. It’s said 99 per cent of the gold in Alaska is yet to be discovered.
Today the rush for riches is of a different kind: tourism. By the end of September, more than one million cruisers will sail on mega ships through these waters. We see none of them. UnCruise vessels get into the myriad hidden coves and sheltered inlets the big ships can’t, so virtually the only people I see are my 49 fellow guests and the 32 crew.
“Whatever nature gives, we’ll embrace it,” says Megan, who aims to get out all the toys (kayaks, paddleboards, hiking poles, skiffs) every day. Some days we tuck into coves surrounded by old-growth rainforest and paddle the kayaks through the glassy waters; other days we drift past spring meadows dotted with early bloomers like the vibrant yellow skunk cabbage flowers.
From water level there’s a sense of immediacy and surprise. The soft eyes of a harbour seal suddenly popping up in front of the kayak, a sea otter floating along on its back, the blow of a humpback whale echoing across the water. And then there’s the day we paddle to the face of a glacier.
As one of the world’s most protected sites, Glacier Bay National Park is the holy grail of Southeast Alaska. Covering around 1.3 million hectares and home to more than a thousand glaciers, it’s a glimpse of how our planet might have looked during the ice age.
Surrounded by snow-covered mountains we paddle towards Lamplugh Glacier. It’s almost t-shirt weather. Sunlight captures the drips from my paddle and transforms them into mini starbursts. As we get closer to the glacier, whooshes of cold air sting my face and we start to navigate through the bergy bits and growlers (small chunks of ice) floating past.
“Keep your kayak straight and try not to bump the ice,” says our guide Matt. Positioning the kayaks on the edge of the exclusion zone, we crane our necks up at the skyscraper of ice. A maze of spidery black lines slice through patches of iridescent blue, topped with swirls of white that look like meringues.
But within the beauty lies the beast.
From somewhere deep inside on the left of the six-kilometre face, a low rumbling sound reverberates across the water, followed by a long moan that sounds like a sick cow. Suddenly there’s a thunderous crack and, within seconds, chunks of ice start tumbling down the face of a massive column. There’s a pause as the column teeters on the brink before smacking into the water in a cloud of icy shards. “Get ready for the wave,” yells Matt.
Mesmerised, we watch the swell create a pattern across the water. The front of the kayak lifts slightly as we ride a series of ripples that peter out as quickly as they formed.
Other days we swap the paddles for boots. We walk through old-growth rainforests under a dense canopy of hemlock, spruce and cedar trees. Branches drip with moss and walking the forest floor feels like bouncing on a trampoline. Everything is silent.
“Too silent,” says Megan, before shouting, “Hey bear! Bears don’t like surprises. By letting them know we’re here, we want to keep them away.” The guides also carry a range of deterrents like bear spray. Thankfully on this occasion they don’t need to use it.
It’s low tide when we hike along the rocky shores of Keku Islands, a string of tiny islets sheltered between two larger islands. “In Tlingit tradition, this would be a banquet,” says Megan. “When the tide is out, the table is set.”
Clinging to slimy rocks, wrapped in thick straps of kelp or tucked into sheltered rock pools, the rich intertidal life of limpets, crabs, mussels, oysters, starfish, coral, sponges and clams creates a kaleidoscope of reds, oranges, blues and purples. Although the staple of the Tlingit diet was salmon, they cooked ‘beach tucker’ over an open flame. Kelp wasn’t only a source of food; it was also put to a more practical use, collected to create things like baskets and decorative jewellery.
Pulling a strap from the water, Megan explains the importance of healthy kelp forests. “The kelp here supports a variety of fish species, as well as whales, sea lions and sea otters.”
To learn more about the Tlingits we meet up with Dan’s friend Joe Williams, a Tlingit elder and Ketchikan’s former mayor.
To Joe, preserving his heritage is his life’s work. He tells how when he attended a Native American convention in the 1960s, he was told that by the year 2010 there wouldn’t be one person who could speak the Tlingit language. Fortunately, due to the work of Joe and others, the stories and traditions of the Tlingits and other Native Alaskan tribes haven’t been lost. “The younger generation embraces the culture because they consider it an honour,” he explains. “In our culture, we’re split into two groups called moieties. Everyone is either an eagle or raven. An eagle must marry a raven and vice versa. It’s all about the balance.”
I think back to all the eagles and ravens we’ve seen soaring through the skies and perching in the treetops. There is a true sense of equilibrium here, and you can’t help but marvel at the harmony in this ridiculously beautiful part of the world.
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