Week 3 – First Flight, First Bear

Seen in My Lens: Alaska - Week 3

Before the bears, before the mud, before any of the magic—I had to get myself to Alaska.

I hadn’t flown alone in years, so my nerves fluttered a bit as Dave dropped me at the airport. Stepping onto that plane by myself felt both strange and a little bit brave.

Anchorage greeted me with cool air and late light. After checking in, I met the small group of photographers I’d be traveling with. I’d emailed with Wayde, our trip instructor, beforehand, and meeting him and the rest of the team brought an immediate sense of ease—good people, excited and experienced.

That night, I tugged the blackout curtains closed against the bright midnight sky. The adventure had already begun.

The Bush Plane

The next morning, anticipation turned real. We met early, weighed our bags, and gathered around the small bush plane headed for Lake Clark National Park. Our pilot looked young but had that steady, seasoned confidence you instantly trust.

Once we lifted off, the world changed fast—Anchorage falling away, mountains rising, rivers shining like silver threads. The pilot pointed out a beluga far below, a pale flash against the water. One glimpse was enough to remind me how far from home I’d traveled.

The landscape unfolding beneath us as we flew toward Lake Clark.

We landed smoothly on dark beach sand and stepped out into bright air and the sound of waves. An ATV with “Silver Salmon Creek Lodge” trailers waited for us, and our guide loaded everything up.

The ride in took us across the sand and through open grasslands until the lodge appeared—a cluster of log buildings tucked against tall evergreens, with a fire pit out front and a wide meadow stretching toward the creek.

Landing on the beach — the true beginning of the adventure.

Walking Toward My First Bear

We didn’t waste any time. As soon as we settled in, we grabbed our cameras and headed out for our first walk. The meadow was quiet under a gray sky, our group moving in an easy line behind the guide.

And then we saw it—
my first coastal brown bear.

It stood grazing in the distance, completely at ease, the slow sway of its head moving through the grass like it had all the time in the world. For someone who’d spent a few months in college studying inland grizzlies, the idea of walking toward a bear felt surreal—something my past self would have never imagined. But with our guide’s steady presence, a calm settled over me. Instead of fear, I felt a rush of awe.

A quiet walk across the meadow toward our first bear — with a second one standing up in the distance.

As we moved in small, measured steps, our guide explained why these bears felt so different. Coastal brown bears are genetically the same as inland grizzlies, but life here is abundant—sedge grass, clams, and soon, salmon. With so much food, there’s no reason for aggression. Many of the bears return to this same area year after year, comfortable with photographers who keep a respectful distance.

Our guide carried bear spray but had never once needed it. The bears went on with their day exactly as they would have without us; we were simply another quiet presence in the meadow.

Being allowed into that world felt like a privilege.

“These animals weren’t reacting to us; we were just another part of the scenery.”

A coastal brown bear grazing along the meadow’s edge — relaxed, aware, and completely at ease in its own world.

The Rhythm of the Day

By midday we headed back to the lodge for lunch, and I was genuinely surprised by how good the food was. Everything was homemade—bread, desserts, warm meals that tasted even better after hours outside. We ate by the windows, watching another bear graze in the meadow as casually as if it lived in someone’s backyard. In Alaska, it practically does.

After lunch we headed back out, finding another group of bears along the creek. The light had softened, the colors deepened, and we spread out just enough to give each other space while still moving together whenever the guide signaled.

Later that afternoon, two bears splashed through the river in a playful chase—water flying, paws pounding, pure joy in motion. I held my shutter down and captured the whole sequence. In the moment, it felt like witnessing a private scene the bears would have shared whether or not a single photographer was there to see it.

In an instant, the meadow erupted — two young bears charging through the water, their energy hovering somewhere between play and challenge.

Throughout the afternoon I switched between my two cameras—one for close moments, one for the wider view—and grabbed a few quick phone clips for Dave and the boys. Even in all that wilderness, sharing those little snippets kept me grounded.

We returned to the lodge for dinner: fresh salmon over rice and vegetables, simple and exactly what we needed after a long day outside. The room felt calm and content, everyone quietly taking in the day.

And still, the light held, so we went back out for one final session before calling it a night.

I had no idea how different the next morning would be—how the weather would shift, how the bears would gather in the tidal flats, or how one distracted moment would leave me stuck in the mud with two cameras in my hands.

But that, of course, is Week 4.

A quiet end to Day One at the lodge — not knowing how different tomorrow would be.