August had a different feel to it… like the season itself was exhaling. The long golden evenings were starting to slip away, replaced by a subtle crispness in the air that you could feel in your lungs first thing in the morning. The light changed too… softer, shorter, a quiet reminder that summer in Alaska never lasts as long as you want it to.
We call it “Angry August,” that stretch where exhaustion, emotion, and the looming end of it all would creep in. But for me, it was something else entirely… a time when the bonds I had built with the people around me felt the strongest they ever had.
This first picture captures a few of those people who made the season what it was.
Reed stands there… a kayaker from the Southeast, stepping into something much bigger than what he was used to. This was his first season on the big Alaska water, and you could see the growth happen in real time.
Then there’s Jimbo… still one of my closest friends to this day. The kind of person who just becomes part of your life without effort. Whether it was long days on the river or the slower moments back at camp, he was always there… steady, real, and impossible not to appreciate. Some friendships feel tied to a specific place or time… but this one stuck.
And of course, Dylan Metz… AKA Metz a legend in every sense of the word. One of those guys who seems to exist entirely within the rhythm of seasonal life. Summers guiding rivers in Alaska, winters shaping terrain parks at a ski resort in Idaho… year after year, chasing snow and water like it’s the only clock that matters. He carried this quiet authority, the kind that doesn’t need to prove anything. You just knew he’d seen it all before… and probably had a better story to go with it.
Looking at that photo now, it feels like more than just a snapshot… it’s a piece of that late-season energy. The mix of fatigue and fulfillment, the awareness that it’s all coming to an end, and the unspoken understanding that what you built together out there… it mattered.
By this point in the season, my mindset had narrowed to one thing… finish. Just get to the end. Under normal circumstances, that would’ve been its own challenge. But this wasn’t normal. I was doing it all on a broken leg… fresh off the biggest surgery of my life… and in one of the most remote places in America. Not exactly an ideal recovery plan.
Every step… or more accurately, every swing forward on crutches… was a reminder of it. The employee housing didn’t make things easier either. It was rough, bare-bones, and not built for someone trying to heal. But somehow, I made it work. You don’t really get a choice out there… you adapt or you don’t last.
And despite all that… I still found ways to live a little.
I made more than few trips to the bar, one of them being a favorite along the Parks Highway… Skinny Dick’s Halfway Inn.
Yeah… go ahead and say that one slowly. It sneaks up on you.
It’s about 45 minutes south of Fairbanks, sitting out there like a mirage for anyone who’s been on the road too long. And it’s exactly the kind of place you’d hope it would be… part bar, part gift shop, part adult novelty store… and somehow it all makes perfect sense when you walk through the door. Or maybe it doesn’t… and that’s the point.
Inside, it’s a mix of locals, travelers, hunters, seasonal workers like us… all passing through, all with their own stories. It had that perfectly unpolished Alaska charm… a little chaotic, a little ridiculous, and completely unforgettable. The kind of place where you don’t ask too many questions… you just enjoy the moment and let the weirdness wash over you.
Looking back, it feels almost absurd… hobbling around on crutches, healing from surgery, and still ending up in a place like that. But that’s kind of what the whole experience was… uncomfortable, unpredictable, and somehow still full of life. Even at my lowest physically, I wasn’t going to let the season pass me by without squeezing a few more stories out of it.
Every day… no matter how I was feeling… I made sure to take a moment and appreciate where I was. Alaska has a way of doing that to you. The scale, the quiet, the sheer beauty of it… it almost didn’t feel real. There were times I’d catch myself thinking… how am I actually living here?
Part of my job was driving a shuttle van between employee housing and the raft office… just a seven mile stretch. But it never felt routine. Every drive was a chance to take it all in… wide open skies, distant mountains, that crisp, clean air that made everything feel a little sharper.
Even on crutches, even dealing with the injury… those short drives became one of my favorite parts of the day. A simple reminder… I was really there, and I wasn’t about to take it for granted.
This is my dear friend Kayleigh … and my manager for two seasons while I worked for Denali Raft Adventures in Alaska. She was one of those people who made a lasting impact without ever trying to… Loving, hardworking and kind, all through the chaos of a busy season.
Tragically, she passed away in the summer of 2025. It’s still hard to put into words what that loss feels like.
But what stays with me more than anything are the memories… the long days, the small moments, the laughter, and everything in between. Those are the things that don’t fade.
I’ll never forget our time out there, Kayleigh.
I love you… and I miss you.
This is our end of season group photo… taken at Panorama Pizza and Pub… easily the favorite hangout for our rafting crew. It had that perfect vibe… a place that felt like it belonged more to the seasonal workers than the tourists, and it was almost always packed because of it.
After long days on the river, this is where everyone ended up. The kind of place where stories got louder as the night went on, and nobody was in a hurry to leave.
And the pizza… unreal. They even have a gluten free crust! Easily some of the best around. I definitely spent a dollar or two there over the course of the season… and every bit of it felt well earned.
Looking at that photo now, it’s more than just a group shot… it’s the closing chapter. One last moment with everyone together before we all went our separate ways.
This is me… laid out in my tiny ATCO room, finally able to take the boot off and let my ankle breathe for a bit. Honestly, I spent a lot of time like this… off my feet, trying to rest and heal as best I could in a place that wasn’t exactly built for recovery.
One thing I did have, though, was the view out the window. Small planes coming and going from the airstrip… lifting off into that big Alaska sky. It gave me something to watch, something to focus on… a little reminder that life out there was always moving, even when I had to stay still.
And with that… I’ll leave you with a few peaceful, crisp snapshots of fall in Alaska… the place I was lucky enough to live and work in for a season that I’ll never forget.
It really is a special kind of beauty. Fall up there feels clean… quiet… like the land is settling in. The bugs are gone, the air turns sharp, and everything shifts into these deep golds and soft fading greens. It’s the kind of season that makes you slow down whether you mean to or not.
More than anything, though, this experience gave me something bigger. It helped me connect… with Alaska, with the people around me, and with a group of friends who became something more like family. That’s the part that sticks.
And somehow… I did it. I made it through the season. Through the injury, the challenges, all of it… and came out the other side in one piece. From there, it was back to Colorado… and right back into van life, chasing the next stretch of road across the Southwest.
But Alaska in the fall… that’s something I’ll always come back to. It’s not just the colors or the quiet… it’s the feeling. And if you’re lucky, you catch the northern lights dancing overhead, like the place is giving you one last sendoff.
I’ll save that story for the next post.
journeyvision 