Chapter Twenty-Six
Our next and final location of the trip is Denali State Park. Brick promised us amazing hikes, spectacular views of Mount
Denali, and, best of all, glamping. If Alaskan glamping is anything like the safari glamping I see on the Discovery Channel—all
the comforts of a five-star hotel within canvas walls—I’m all about it.
I almost chip a tooth as the van bounces down a dirt road that brings us to our new home. Soon we arrive at a small parking
lot filled with dusty cars but no luxury camping.
“It’s only a half-mile hike in,” Brick announces.
“I have to drag my suitcase a half mile?” Lily asks.
“Just bring yourself,” Brick says. “Frank and Jace will take care of the rest.”
“Thank God,” my sister says to me. “This has been a day. Dragging my bag even a few feet would have put me over the edge.”
The fact that she hasn’t gone over the edge before now is striking.
“Soon you’ll be tucked in a soft bed, with your own robe and a chocolate on your pillow,” I say to her. I received a glossy
Abercrombie that makes me practically a glamping expert.
A short walk brings us to clearing in between the trees, where four round canvas huts with circus tent–like roofs gather around
a cold campfire encircled by rocks. Not exactly the white-glove reception I was expecting.
“Each yurt sleeps two,” Brick says. “Jace and I are going to pitch our tents near the trailhead. Oh, and there’s an outhouse just there.” He points to a tiny wooden building with a quarter moon cut out of the door, standing within view of all the huts. My heart drops.
“Where is the glam?” I whisper to my sister. I was hoping for a little luxury to finish off this trip. A few days of a soft
mattress and a hot shower and so many clothes from my previously wayward suitcase to choose from.
“I don’t care,” says Lily. “I’m done. I need to sleep. For a week.”
“Oh, and by the way,” adds Brick. “Don’t bring anything with a scent into the yurt. Toothpaste, deodorant, shampoo, any food.
Take a bear canister—one of those containers right there—and we’ll hang them from a tree until morning. Nothing to worry about,
it’s protocol out here. Just a precaution.”
Lily and I glance at each other, but we are both too weary to make a comment about the chance of another wildlife encounter.
Everyone appears to have had enough of today—breakdowns, meltdowns, and all. Brick has promised us a long hike to the perfect
spot to view the summit of Denali tomorrow, so we all say our good nights, and my sister and I enter the yurt, hoping for
a pleasant surprise inside.
Glamping must mean something completely different in Alaska. Inside the canvas walls, thin enough to let the late evening
twilight in, are two twin-size cots. On an old steamer trunk laid with a woven runner are an electric lantern, two bottles
of water, and two hand towels. More Econo Lodge than Abercrombie & Kent.
“Well, we can’t say this hasn’t been a full wilderness experience,” I say.
Frank has delivered our suitcases, and we start digging through them to find anything a bear would consider a snack. Between
the lotions—moisturizer, eye cream, night serum—Lily’s special face soap from Kiehl’s hairspray, styling gel, and lipstick
that smells like roses, I need to ask for another canister.
We hold hands to walk to the outhouse, and I guard the door for my sister, before taking my turn.
When I step out, flapping my hand in front of my nose, Lily is gone.
I find her under the covers in her clothes.
“I couldn’t stay . . . it was . . . gross .
. . I’d rather go in the woods.” She makes fake gagging sounds.
I ignore her and wrangle with my hiking boots—finally the ones I brought from home and not someone’s hand-me-downs—kick them under my cot, and lie down on the canvas bed. At least it’s not the ground.
Lily rolls over, and I fight with the thin pillow as I pull my leg in and out of the covers. “You should introduce a new line
at the store,” I groan. “Camping pillows and comforters with some feathers and cushioning. You could call it the Sleep Under
the Stars series.”
“You always have the best ideas,” she says with a yawn.
I close my eyes and try not to play the day over in my head on a loop. It will have me tossing and turning all night. Staring
up at the circular canvas ceiling of the yurt, I hear something outside. A low, mournful howl outside our flimsy walls.
“What was that?”
“Sounds like a fox,” Lily answers without rolling back over.
“How do you know what a fox sounds like?”
“The Fox and the Hound. That Disney movie. I watched the DVD a million times with Cam and Annie.” The animal lets out another series of plaintive
cries. “Yup, definitely a fox.”
Merlin is here!