Week 9: Lessons from Alaska — Lake Clark National Park
A coastal brown bear moving through the water, calm and unhurried.
When I came home from Lake Clark National Park, I didn’t know how to put into words what I had just experienced.
People asked the natural questions — How was it? Were the bears close? — and I found myself struggling to answer, not because nothing had happened, but because the experience didn’t translate easily into words. The photographs said more than I could.
What I did have were the memory cards from my camera — full of moments I hadn’t even looked through yet. I had labeled them, backed everything up, and kept it all safe, because those photographs felt precious. Like something earned. Even now, a year later, they still feel that way.
A coastal brown bear feeding along the stream, with a second bear farther down, as the nearer bear slowly moves closer.
The same bear moments later, calm and focused on feeding.
And I was especially grateful that I had taken videos. Just short recordings — the sound of wind, bears moving through the grass, quiet reactions in the moment. They helped me remember what it felt like to be there. They offer something photographs can’t quite do on their own: a way for others to step into the experience too, even briefly.
A coastal brown bear feeding near the stream as photographers quietly document the moment.
I was also grateful that others had taken photos of me.
Images of me standing in the meadow, bears nearby, camera up and focused. Those photographs became another kind of record, especially on the days when the trip still felt distant or unreal.
One of the images that helped me remember how calm I felt in that moment.
Only later did I begin to understand what Alaska had asked of me.
Out there, nothing moved on my timeline. The bears didn’t rush. The weather didn’t negotiate. The light arrived when it wanted to and disappeared just as easily. The only real choice was whether I was paying attention.
Some of the most meaningful moments weren’t dramatic. They were quiet and easily missed: two eagles flying in perfect sync above the tidal flats, bear hair caught on a cabin railing in the morning light, the stillness of two bears sleeping on the sand. These weren’t moments I could chase. They were moments I had to notice.
Two brown bears resting on the tidal flats, undisturbed and completely at ease.
By the end of the trip, something had shifted.
I hadn’t expanded my comfort zone by pushing harder. I had done it by listening more closely — knowing when to step forward and when to stay back, when to lift the camera and when to let the moment pass without recording it.
When I look back now, what stands out isn’t a single image. It’s the evidence of the experience itself — the labeled memory cards, the short videos, the photographs others took of me in the meadow. Together, they form a record that doesn’t need explanation.
My solo adventure to Alaska didn’t need words.
It simply needed to be remembered and shared.
A coastal brown bear grazing in the last light — a quiet close to my solo time in Alaska.
