I felt the spirit of Alaska when I felt the body of the six-seat prop plane descend into the crystal blue water of Lark Clark. Like most of the best parks of Alaska, it’s a place you can’t get to by car or boat, where the only ones to greet you side from the occasional federal ranger are a few hundred grizzly bears and a territorial bull moose.

Ask someone how they found themselves in a place as far off as Gustavus or Talkeetna and you’ll hear stories about passing through for some seasonal work, about running away from the pace of life in the Lower 48, about having always been there — a descendent of the powerful First Nation tribes of people that opened up the continent for the rest of us.

Anchorage does its best at pretending its a convenient extension of Cascadia and Rocky Mountain sensibility — a delicate blanket of domesticity to mask the roar of life echoing through the infinite woodlands of North America’s greatest beats, highest peaks, and freshest waters. I went to Alaska to become reacquainted with a long-lost relative: the riches of Mother Earth, free from the grips of man. In that pursuit, I was far from alone.