Thursday morning began under a blanket of clouds. At 8 a.m., we texted the tour company, unsure of what the day held. “Meet at 10:15,” they said. Perfect. At 10:00, they changed the time to 10:30. But by 11:00, we were finally boarding the small plane, where Remy, the tour company’s dog, darted around us, desperate to join the adventure. His eyes, full of hope, mirrored my own excitement.
Once on board, the pilot delivered his safety brief with the casualness of someone who probably flew more than he walked. “Seatbelts on. Emergency exit’s above. No crumbs.”
As the engine hummed to life, we lifted off into a world that felt forgotten. We waved goodbye to Kotzebue, and soon the Kobuk River stretched beneath us through a wilderness of gold and rust-colored tundra. Trees dotted the landscape, looking more like toy models than actual giants of the forest. Mountains rose around us, close enough that it felt like you could reach out and touch them through the window. In the distance, we saw the Great Kobuk Sand Dunes, out of place in such a rugged land—a desert within the Arctic. That would be a stop on the way back, but for now, our destination lay farther ahead.
Our pilot, sharp-eyed and experienced, quickly pointed out wildlife below. “Bear on the right,” he called. I craned my neck but missed it. Moments later, I caught sight of a mother bear slowly lumbering across the tundra, her cub taking a cute little tumble beside her. The massive outline of a moose standing among trees shortly after looked almost surreal, even from above. Another bear appeared on the opposite side of the plane, it’s massive form standing out against the tundra.
Our approach into Gates of the Arctic National Park felt like entering another realm. Spanning roughly 8.4 million acres, it’s one of the most remote and least visited national parks in the U.S.—and for good reason. Named for the twin peaks that form a “gateway” to the wilderness, Gates of the Arctic is a place where time slows. With no roads or trails, it remains completely untamed, a place where nature rules. In fact, fewer than 10,000 people visit the park annually.
We landed not on a runway, but in the heart of the Ambler River—on a sandbank. The river’s water was so impossibly clear and blue that it felt like we had stumbled into a painting. The air was still, thick with the kind of silence that only exists when civilization is hundreds of miles away. However, civilization is not as far away as it seems in this remote region; while the land appears virtually untouched, archeological sites within the park indicate that people have lived off it for at least 12,000 years. I knelt by the river, scooping up the cold, pure water in my hands, tasting its untouched clarity. It was more than refreshing—it was life itself, unfiltered and raw, and it became apparent how much this land provides for the people who have called it home for so many years.
I could see myself living here, away from everything. A cabin, solar power, maybe a few generators for the dark winter storms—who needs running water when you have a river this pure? It was a beautiful, untainted corner of the world, and for a moment, I could imagine never leaving.
But alas, my moment in Gates of the Arctic was just that. We hopped back on the plane and waved goodbye to a moose as we flew out of this indescribable area. Our pilot played some bluegrass music over the headphones, which was a delightful touch to the trip, in my opinion.
Our next stop was Kobuk Valley National Park, home to the Great Kobuk Sand Dunes. Gates of the Arctic is a wild, untamed frontier, and Kobuk Valley feels like the quirky cousin who throws a sand party in the Arctic. This park attracts a bit more foot traffic—between 10,000 and 15,000 visitors each year—so it’s like the popular kid in school, but still pretty exclusive.
We retraced our path over much of the same area on the way to Kobuk Valley, jamming along to the music. The sun even decided to come out, shining a different perspective on the colors of the arctic wilderness. As we landed, I was giddy to step off the plane and onto a massive expanse of sand. Seriously, it was a desert right in the middle of the tundra! The dunes, shaped by relentless Arctic winds, are a reminder of the last Ice Age. Those ancient glaciers may be long gone, but they left behind a dramatic landscape, with sand deposited as they retreated.
The climate is interesting, too—low precipitation and high winds mean the sand stays mostly bare, so we get to enjoy this lovely desert vibe without vegetation getting in the way. These weren’t the towering, rolling hills of sand you might find at more famous dune locations, but they had their own charm—more like gentle waves than giant mountains. It felt like we were on another planet, with the mountains in the distance and lush forests behind us creating a stunning backdrop.
After about 25 minutes of wandering and exploring, we boarded the plane again. Our pilot, clearly a veteran of sandy landings, swept the bottoms of our shoes before letting us climb back up the ladder—his way of saying, “This will save me a headache later!” Less than an hour later, we touched back down in Kotzebue, where Remy was there to welcome us like we’d just returned from a grand adventure (and he was right!)
Not everyone gets to explore such remote parts of the Arctic, and I felt lucky to experience it firsthand. Wandering through this wild landscape made me think about what life must have been like before the internet and modern conveniences—a time when survival meant truly understanding the land and its rhythms. I’m not sure I’d have survived out there, but I sure appreciated the glimpse into that world. It wasn’t a cheap trip, but boy, was it worth every penny. The memories of that day, surrounded by the raw beauty of Alaska, are ones I’ll cherish forever.
Love the descriptions and the pics!