Do you know how much the aurora borealis weighs? Not much… because it’s pretty light. Ha ha.

This post is dedicated to those breathtaking northern lights — the ones that made the long Alaska nights feel like something out of a dream.
All of these pictures are mine, and the best ones were taken at Raft Camp, where I had my tripod set up and could really capture the movement and colors dancing across the sky. There’s something magical about watching them unfold over that wide-open landscape — quiet, vast, and so alive.

Now, you may say you’ve seen the northern lights down in the lower 48, but yeah… that’s like seeing a fireworks show from another county. Something’s happening, sure, but you’re not really part of the show. The interior of Alaska sits right underneath the aurora oval, giving it some of the best northern lights viewing in the world.
The bottom two shots were taken in Anchorage, where I was lucky enough to catch an absolutely killer show… the kind that makes you just stop and stare.

Alaska is one of the best places in the world to see the aurora borealis, especially once the nights grow darker in late summer and fall. The aurora is caused by electrically charged particles from the sun colliding with gases in Earth’s atmosphere, creating those shimmering lights that stretch across the sky — and when you’re under them, there’s nothing quite like it.

Being able to capture these moments up close — surrounded by quiet, dark skies and total stillness — bucket list item checked!

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.

It was a perfect afternoon at raft camp… clear skies, warm air, the kind of day where everything just feels right. I was out on the airstrip messing around with this old boomerang I had found on campus. It was weathered, warped, and honestly didn’t work very well… but I was determined to catch it.

Throw after throw, I kept chasing it down, trying to figure it out. My friends were watching at this point, probably wondering what I was doing. And then Steve… aka Scamp… yells out, “Jay, Jay, you’ve got this. You’re gonna get it.”

So I gave it everything I had. I ran… jumped as high as I could… reached as far as I could…

And I missed it.

But when I landed… I landed wrong.

A loud crack.

Immediately, I knew. Something was very wrong.

I limped my way back to the cook shack and told everyone I thought I had just broken my ankle. Not good. I was in shock. I asked my friend Ian to help me back to my room, using him as a crutch as I hopped across the yard. Once I got there, I laid down and tried to assess the situation.

I’ve broken bones before—motocross, other dumb decisions—so I knew what this was. Ian brought me a bag of ice, and that night was just survival… ibuprofen, ice, and trying to manage the pain. No quick trip to urgent care out here. The nearest real help was two hours away in Fairbanks.

The next morning, I made the trip. I didn’t really know where to go, so I called around and eventually got pointed in the right direction… an orthopedic clinic. They got me in quickly. After the first round of X-rays, the doctor told me it could go either way… maybe a boot, maybe surgery. We needed one more set of images.

So I waited.

And then I got the news… worst case. Surgery.

The break was bad enough that it had essentially opened up my ankle joint. If we didn’t fix it properly, I could have long-term issues just walking. A few days later, I was in surgery in Fairbanks, getting everything put back together. Plates, screws, wires… the whole deal.
It wasn’t easy. I didn’t have health insurance, and just like that, my entire savings account was gone. But… it’s just money, right?
What mattered was getting back on my feet.

Recovery was rough. I was on crutches in a remote, wild place, trying to finish out the season. And somehow… I did. It wasn’t pretty, but I pushed through.

Here’s a look at the aftermath… the sutures, the swelling, the reality of it all.

Definitely a defining moment of my first season in Alaska.

And all that metal in my ankle now…

That’s my Alaskan souvenir.

We finally had some time off, and instead of me sitting around camp, I decided to go explore deeper into the Alaskan interior with friends. So me, Adelaide, Christina, and Bearshark piled in and made the drive about two hours east of Fairbanks, heading out toward the small, rugged area of Delta Junction. Our destination… the Castner Ice Cave.

Now, Bearshark isn’t just one of the crew… he’s a pug. A very cute pug. And somehow, he handled the whole adventure like an absolute pro.

The drive alone was something special. For a stretch, we followed the Alaska pipeline, watching it snake across the landscape. It really gave you a sense of the scale of this place… the grandeur, the openness, the kind of freedom that almost feels overwhelming. Out here, everything is just bigger. Wider. Quieter. It makes you feel small in the best possible way.

When we finally reached the ice cave, it wasn’t what you might expect at first glance. The glacier itself was covered in dirt and growing matter, almost blending into the landscape. Not that bright, pristine blue you picture when you think of glaciers… but something older, rougher, more hidden. Like it was keeping a secret.

But once you stepped inside… everything changed.
The cave opened up into this stunning world of ice—deep blues, soft light filtering through, textures and curves carved by time and meltwater. And then there were the sounds. Inside the cave, it was like stepping into a living, breathing thing… a kaleidoscope of rushing water, steady drips of melting ice, and the occasional sharp crack echoing through the chamber. It wasn’t quiet at all. The glacier was constantly moving, shifting, melting—alive in its own slow, powerful way. You could hear time passing in real time, each drip and crack a reminder that this place won’t last forever.It was absolutely beautiful. Gorgeous. The kind of place that makes you stop talking for a minute just to take it all in.

We spent hours exploring, laughing, climbing around, taking it all in. Bearshark especially was in his element, running around with that little pug energy, completely unfazed by the cold and clearly loving every second of it. It felt like one of those perfect Alaska days… good people, a very good dog, wild places, and the kind of experience that sticks with you long after you’ve left.

Out there, standing inside a glacier in the middle of nowhere, it really hit me again just how incredible this place is. Alaska doesn’t just show you beauty… it makes you feel it.

June in Alaska is something else… the days stretch longer, the sun lingers forever and everything feels like it’s turning up a notch. I’ve made so many new friends that it feels like we’re all part of one giant, wild Alaskan family.

Every night is a party. In the cook shack, the place where everyone gathers—eating, laughing, swapping stories—there’s a saying that’s carved into the wall: “Every night is a Friday, every morning is a Monday.” And somehow, it’s true. The nights are electric, the mornings are a little rough, and yet, the adventure never stops.

And then there were rainbows… rainbows everywhere. It felt like the sky was putting on a show just for us.

We lived right on an airstrip, and all day long, small planes would take off for flightseeing tours. I actually really enjoyed it—the constant hum of engines, the tiny dots lifting into the sky, the way it made the whole place feel alive.

Another shot shows more rainbows stretching across the sky, but if you look to the right, you’ll see the trailer I called home. We called these ATCOs. They’re basically dry cabins—four small dorm-style rooms crammed into each one. No running water, but electricity and heat keep you comfortable enough. And let’s just say the walls are thin… you can hear your neighbor talking, snoring, even pacing in the middle of the night. Privacy isn’t exactly the main feature here, but it grows on you.

Here’s my friend Steve, aka Scamp, caught mid-question, asking why, why? He’s always like that… curious, baffled, slightly dramatic.

And I absolutely loved the dogs at camp. They were like our little family, each one with their own personality and antics that kept us entertained all day.

First up is Radar, the chihuahua and my personal favorite—small but full of character.

Smoke and Snow are our Alaskan native dogs—one a striking white husky, the other a powerful malamute. You can tell they belong to this land.

Then there’s Bean, the three-pawed husky all the way from Florida, who somehow managed to steal hearts despite missing a leg.

Then there’s Weezy, one of Storie’s dogs—Storie, S-T-O-R-I-E, one of the raft guides—always ready for an adventure, and in the background,

yes… Bean again, just casually photobombing the moment.

It’s impossible not to feel a little more at home with these furballs around. They’re part of the rhythm of camp, part of the heart that keeps the place alive.

Here we are at 49th State, easily one of my favorite restaurants in all of Alaska. This is the very first one, tucked in Healy, and of course we had to take some fun photos at the Chris McCandless bus. Just to be clear, this is the bus used in the movie—not the actual Magic Bus 149—but it still carries that same sense of adventure

I finally made my first trip down to Talkeetna, one of my favorite little Alaska towns, full of charm and character. It was the 4th of July, and my first time leaving camp. My friend Luke let me borrow his little Saturn station wagon to drive down there—Alaska hospitality at its finest. We’d only known each other for about a month and a half, and yet he just handed me the keys for the weekend. I was blown away.

Getting out of the Denali area was a relief. After a month and a half of working hard and living in tight quarters with thirty other people, the cramped space of employee housing was starting to get to me. Talkeetna was the perfect escape.

In addition to the very temperate vegitation. the town itself was alive with the 4th of July spirit—I caught the parade and all the small-town festivities.

And for the first time, I saw Denali, the Great One, rising in the distance. You can actually see it from the shore of the Susitna River, its massive presence humbling and breathtaking all at once. That view alone made the trip unforgettable.

And I’ll just leave you with some parting pictures. First, Denali from the south viewpoint—a truly beautiful day, the kind that makes you pause and just take in the majesty of the mountain. At 20,310 feet, it’s the tallest peak in North America, and standing there looking up at it, you feel both humbled and inspired.

Next, another endless Alaskan sunset… the kind that drags on for hours, painting the sky in colors you didn’t think could exist. You start to understand why these long summer evenings feel magical, why every night is a Friday.

And finally, I’ll leave you with my first-ever experience dining on decadent king crab. Sweet, rich, and unforgettable, it felt like the perfect way to cap off a summer day full of new friends, adventures, and the endless beauty of Alaska. This was when it was still affordable at $65 a pound.

Flying from Anchorage up to Fairbanks… this was the moment it really started to sink in.

You look out the window and it’s just… white. Endless white. Not like the Rockies, not like anything I’d seen before. This is the Alaska Range stretched out below you, completely buried in snow and ice, like the land never even gets a break

Alaska wasn’t just going to be another trip. It already felt different… colder, bigger, quieter… like it didn’t really care if you understood it or not.

And honestly… that’s what hooked me right away.

Somewhere after arriving in Anchorage, there was a moment where it finally started to feel real. I was standing there taking a photo… snow covered mountains in the background, white spruce all around, and that cold, clean air that immediately feels different the second you step outside.

It still hadn’t fully sunk in yet. Alaska had always felt far away… more like an idea than a place I’d actually be. But there I was, not just visiting, but there to work with Denali Raft Adventures.

That part is what really got me. It wasn’t a short trip or a quick stop… this was something bigger.

What really stuck with me in that moment was the air. It sounds simple, but it’s hard to explain until you experience it. It was the purest thing I think I’ve ever breathed in…

After getting settled, I went out to explore around the housing. Nothing planned… just started walking.

It hit me fast. The Boreal Forest felt completely different… dense spruce, dark greens, cold air, and these quiet little lakes tucked into the landscape like they’d always been there. And then right behind it all… mountains that didn’t feel distant, just there, rising up sharp and snow covered.

It was a lot to take in for a first walk.

Everything felt raw and untouched… like I had stepped into a place that didn’t need anything from me. I remember thinking… if this is just what’s outside my door, I have no idea what the rest of Alaska is going to look like.

Somewhere in those first days, it stopped just being about the place and started being about the people.

The sunsets didn’t end. At 11:30 p.m. it still felt like 7… that long, golden light just hanging there like it didn’t want to leave. You’d lose track of time without even trying.

We took a trip out into Denali National Park… early season, when you could still drive out to Teklanika River. Piled into those beat up raft guide cars, no real plan… just going.

And somewhere along the way, it all clicked. The laughs, the music, the chaos of it… it didn’t take long before we weren’t just coworkers anymore. We were in it together.

Those are the kinds of nights that stick with you. The kind of people that do too

God damn… I sure am lucky. I don’t think I’ve ever felt my spirit this high in my entire life.

Those are the kinds of nights that stick with you. The kind of people that do too.

There are places in the desert that feel open and endless… and then there are places that pull you in close.

Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument does both better than anywhere I’ve been. It’s probably my favorite stretch of Utah… not because it’s the biggest or the most famous, but because it feels like you have to earn it a little. You don’t just pull up and see it… you go looking.
April 2021 felt like the right time to be out there. The air still had that cool edge in the mornings, the kind that disappears fast once the sun gets serious. It wasn’t peak season, not crowded… just quiet enough that you could hear the desert again.

I started with Lower Calf Creek Falls… which, on paper, is just a hike to a waterfall in the desert. But it never feels that simple when you’re actually walking it.
The trail winds along the creek… sandy, exposed, with these long stretches where the canyon walls rise up around you like they’ve been there forever… which, of course, they have. You start to notice the details after a while… the way the rock changes color in layers, the sound of water moving just out of sight, cottonwoods breaking up the red and tan with flashes of green.
And then you turn a corner and there it is.
A 100 plus foot ribbon of water dropping straight down into this deep, cold pool… surrounded by sheer rock. It doesn’t feel like it belongs there. The desert is all heat and dryness… and then suddenly there’s this pocket of shade and sound and life.
I remember getting close enough to feel the temperature drop. You can hear the falls before you really see them… and once you’re there, people get quiet without even thinking about it. It’s one of those places.

Later on, I headed deeper into the Escalante backcountry… toward the slot canyons.
Peekaboo Slot Canyon and Spooky Gulch sit not too far from each other, but they feel like completely different worlds compared to the open trail at Calf Creek.

Getting there is part of it… dirt roads, a bit of route finding, nothing overly technical but enough to remind you you’re not in a national park with guardrails and signs every few hundred feet.
Peekaboo starts with a climb… a little scramble up into the canyon itself. And then suddenly the walls close in.
Not gradually… just all at once.
The light drops, the air cools, and the sandstone wraps around you in curves and shapes that don’t look real. It’s all smooth… carved out over time by water that only shows up a few times a year, but leaves its mark every time.

There’s a rhythm to moving through a slot canyon. You turn sideways without thinking. You step carefully. You look up a lot… because the sky is just this thin ribbon above you now.
Spooky is even tighter.
At certain points, it feels like the canyon is deciding whether or not to let you pass. The walls press in close enough that you can touch both sides without reaching… sometimes a little more than that. It’s quiet in there… almost unnaturally quiet. No wind, no distance… just you and the rock.
It’s not for everyone. If you don’t like tight spaces, it’ll get to you pretty quickly. But if you lean into it, it becomes part of the experience… that slight edge of discomfort that makes everything feel more real.
That day in Escalante had a little bit of everything… open desert, moving water, narrow stone corridors… all within a few miles of each other.
That’s why it sticks with me.
It’s not just what you see… it’s how quickly the landscape changes, how it pulls you from one world into another without much warning. One minute you’re walking under a wide sky… the next you’re squeezing through stone that’s been shaping itself for thousands of years.
Escalante doesn’t hand itself to you. You have to go find it