Backpacking Denali National Park, without trails or a plan

The sense of total isolation felt rejuvenating as I hopped off the hiker bus in the heart of Denali National Park.

My two cousins and I were 43 miles from our car, dropped alone in the Alaskan wilderness in August for a four-day, three-night backpacking adventure with no trails and no concrete plan of where to go.

Denali — the gigantic park that is home to America’s highest peak, federally known as Mount McKinley — had fascinated me for years because of its backcountry format. The park places hikers in the middle of nowhere, forcing them to improvise their route since there are no established paths.

There were no official campsites, and for 95% of the time not another human in sight. Our only task each day was to wander the tundra and admire the mountainous landscape, picking intriguing natural landmarks in the distance as targets for our next destination.

After driving up from Anchorage and taking the 6:30 a.m. bus, we asked the driver to stop at the farthest accessible stretch of the Park Road — which turned out to be East Fork Bridge at mile 43 — and we were off into the unknown. It felt akin to Christopher McCandless’ Alaskan adventure chronicled in the iconic Jon Krakauer book “Into the Wild,” minus the part where he starves to death.

For someone who gets masochistic joy out of backpacking — where you’re carrying a 35-plus-pound pack at all times — Denali was right up my alley, since there’s the added difficulty of no trails. Every day I felt a tad more accomplished as we navigated through an unknown environment without a clue of what we would find.

The terrain ran the gamut from gravel riverbeds that were easier to traverse, to swampy marshlands, to a dense shrub landscape. The willow shrubs were more nerve-wracking because there was a chance we could surprise a hidden grizzly bear as we pushed through, yelling, “Hey, bear!”

Luckily, we did not come across any until we were back on the return bus. However, we did encounter the skull of a big-horned sheep and its two spiral-shaped horns, complete with blood stains and bite marks, near our first campsite.

A rough point for me came on day one, when I was dismayed to realize that a branch had knocked the can of bear repellent out of my pocket at least a mile back. My cousin luckily found it after an hour of scrounging through the bushy environment. But what if we had never found it? Would we have had to leave?

The wetness was also a challenge. Each day we came across rushing rivers we had to cross, leaving our socks soaking wet. By the end of the trip we crossed at least 20 streams and rivers. Unfortunately, my plan to keep my feet dry by wrapping my socks in plastic Walmart bags did not work.

But I got used to getting my feet wet by the end, and it contributed to the somewhat meditative satisfaction of being alone in nature.

Backpacking is as much a mental workout as it is physical, giving hikers ample time to think about anything stressful or positive going on in their lives. There have been some trips where I have struggled to set my worries aside.

After the initial hours walking along riverbeds and ridgelines with gusts of winds blowing around me, though, my lingering concerns melted away, replaced with awe from the views of far-away mountains and the gleeful realization of how far from civilization I was.

My most cherished moments were the side hikes we embarked on each afternoon after putting up our tents. We would pick a nearby mountain that looked scenic and scramble up it without our heavy packs.

One night we climbed up to a glacier. Another night, we made our way up a steep ridgeline to get an amazing view. We sat and snacked on wild blueberries and cloudberries, watching as beams of light mixed in with dense rainstorms drifting across the valley.

This landscape required constant bushwhacking that was difficult, but it was easier than what you might picture.

Unlike in the Midwest, there was no poison ivy or thorny bushes in Denali. All of the vegetation consisted of short bushes and leafy plants, which never put up much of a fight.

Being able to share the experience with my cousins was also a pleasure, and new for me. The majority of my backpacking has been alone, but my cousins made for ideal hiking partners because they shared my desire to mix things up between long stretches of hiking — and to take stops to admire nature.

The logistics of getting permits to hike in Denali matched the free-form nature of the trip.

Unlike other national parks such as Yosemite, there was no months-in-advance campsite reservation requirement. We simply stopped by Denali’s backcountry office and told the rangers which 30-square-mile areas we would be exploring.

I pestered the rangers with questions about where they think we should hike and what the best spots are. Their message seemed to be that I should just relax and go wherever I felt like going.

By the end of the trip I felt like I was living a similar life to the caribou that we saw trekking around the hills without a care in the world. On the bus ride back, I felt sad to be leaving the gorgeous environment we temporarily called home.

Two days after our drive back to Anchorage, we took a boat to Harrison Lagoon Cabin, in Chugach State Park. It was incredible, and a great way to complete a quintessential Alaska trip — covering both the mountain landscape of Denali and the lush coastline. At the same time, it felt noticeably cushier.

A different cousin who has recently become a fisherman took us out on his boat from the town of Whittier, motoring for about an hour before reaching the cabin that’s reservable through the state’s park system. There were black bears along the shores, sea otters popping up across the water, and beautiful views of glacier-lined mountains all around us.

But there had been something more rewarding for me, personally, in getting soaking wet and leading a new excursion every day in Denali.