It is fall in Alaska, America’s Last Frontier, upon the empty Denali Highway, a rough but rideable stretch of dirt road connecting two desolate towns with a combined population of 260. The pavement runs out quickly giving way to wet brown-grey dirt. The change of season brings with it the reddening of the bushes that line the road and the tundra that works its way up the mountains.

Fall is a visual symphony: brown to yellow and red, green then finally the white of the glaciers in the distance on guard like lighthouses above a red sea. The more we travelled the more we saw men emerging from the forests with their plunder. Hunting camps sprung up on the sides of the single road through the valleys as four women clad in their own kind of hunting attire rode through, their thin machines and legs in sharp contrast to the trucks and ATVs. Hunters waved and smiled. An uncommon sight.

The vastness of this unknown frontier is its defining feature. Mountains that would tower above most in North America mind their own business in the far distance, looking perfectly within scale. Immense and frozen rivers of ice clog the narrow valleys. The tallest peak in North America, Denali, remains hidden under a cloak of clouds for days.

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