The long road to Alaska, a story of letting go and discovering - The Way Back

Qiviut – softness from the cold north 

Every spring, musk oxen shed their thick winter coats. Beneath that coarse hair lies a layer of down known as qiviut. This rare fibre is one of the softest and warmest in the world, finer than cashmere and eight times warmer than sheep's wool. It is both light and breathable. The animals are combed only once a year, a process that can take up to three hours per animal. Everything is done with respect for their welfare. The rest of the down is collected by hand in the meadow, whatever the weather.

You would hardly realise you were on a farm, as there is no smell. Despite their name, musk oxen do not have scent glands. Even their droppings are collected, dried and burned to keep the environment clean.

From thread to pattern – the women of the north 

Qiviut is not processed on site. Each musk ox sheds around 1.8 to 3.2 kilograms of hair each year. The fibres are collected until they reach a tonne in weight. These are then washed and spun into fine yarns. The yarn is then sent to seven villages on the north-western coast of Alaska, where over two hundred indigenous women use it to make scarves, hats and stoles. Each woman must knit at least one item per year. Some do so out of necessity, while others do so out of tradition. Each community has its own distinctive, culturally significant patterns.

Some patterns are rare, such as the butterfly and the St. Mary's dancers. These are only knitted by a few women and are difficult to find. I found one – a lucky find!

In Anchorage, we also visited the cooperative's shop: Oomingmak, which was founded in 1964 by the anthropologist John Teal. His aim was to create a sustainable source of income for the people of the Arctic based on indigenous animals. The name means 'the animal that moves like a beard' in Inupiaq.

I chose a hat from the Tundra and Snow Collection, which features a motif depicting the musk ox's defensive circle when it feels threatened. The piece was knitted in Ekwok in a natural, light brown shade that evokes the autumn colours of the tundra for its makers. I also found a scarf featuring the Nelson Island diamond pattern – a subtle contrast that, when combined with the hat, creates a beautiful ensemble.

And, of course, girls will be girls. Gaïa found a simple skullcap that suited her perfectly.

The Glenn Highway – autumn light and the way back to Tok 

Feeling fulfilled, we left Palmer and drove east on the Glenn Highway towards Glennallen, alongside the Matanuska River. The Chugach Mountains were to our left and the Talkeetna Range to our right. The result was a beautiful view and plenty of wildlife. Although it was a sunny late summer's day, in Alaska August already marks the beginning of autumn.

The colours began to change. The leaves took on a yellow glow, and the willows developed brown edges. The air was crisp and the light was soft. We saw moose on the roadside, moving slowly and majestically. The rutting season would soon begin. Everything seemed to be preparing for winter, step by step but noticeably.

At milepost 99, we stopped to admire the Matanuska Glacier. Winding its way 27 miles through the mountains, the glacier appears to be melting due to the wide moraine, but it has actually been stable for 400 years. With a terminus four miles wide, it once reached Palmer, 60 miles away.

The road was bumpy due to the usual Alaskan roadworks. But nothing could spoil the beauty. The taiga had turned yellow-brown, and the snow line of the Wrangell Mountains was already lower. It was as if the landscape were saying goodbye to summer, and to us.

In Glennallen, we stopped at the Brown Bear Roadhouse for pizza. The smell of yeast and wood smoke hung in the air. The pizza was simple yet perfect. Photos of bears and trophies hung on the wall. It turned out that the owner, Cindy Rhodes, was an award-winning hunter. Her story was there in the pictures: a Kodiak bear weighing over a thousand pounds that she had shot at a distance of 22 yards as it charged at her. This was a different side of Alaska that we hadn't known about before – raw and full of tradition.

We drove on, over some higher mountain passes where caribou lived, taking in the views and impressions on our last day in Alaska.

The border and Kluane – silence, loss and memory

We left Tok under a bright blue sky. The road to the Canadian border was short at just ninety miles, winding through dense taiga. The road began to deteriorate. There were dips, bumps and subsidence. The border crossing itself went smoothly. The customs officer did not see our Canadian residence documents and thought we were just passing through on our way to Belgium. In a sense, we were.

We stopped for lunch at Pickhandle Lake. When we got out, we noticed that one of the bikes had come loose on the rack. A dip in the road had loosened the attachment. Fortunately, there was no damage, just some rubber marks on the spare tyre. Didier repaired it with tape. It was a small reminder of how rough these roads can be.

We drove on towards Kluane. The mountains were getting closer, and the landscape was becoming more barren. The wind picked up and the air became thinner. The colours had changed here, too, to yellow, brown and pink. The willowherbs had finished flowering, and the dandelions had turned into white, fluffy balls. We were overwhelmed by all these impressions, which were impossible to capture on camera. You just have to see and experience it for yourself.

Then, just before the junction with the Stewart-Cassier Highway, we saw something lying in the middle of the road. A black spot. Didier slowed down. It was a bear. A young black bear, dead on the asphalt. We all fell silent. So did the children. It was an unexpected and confronting moment of sadness. We had seen so many bears in their natural habitat, full of power and rhythm. And now this: An animal that hadn't made it across the road. It was a reminder of how fragile everything is.

Hyder – the end of the road, the heart of the wilderness

Hyder, Alaska. A hamlet on the border with British Columbia where the road ends and the wilderness begins. It is the only place in the United States that can be entered without passing through border control. It is technically American, but only accessible via Canada. It is the last part of Alaska on the journey. There are no supermarkets or restaurants, just a few gift shops, a post office, a motel with a bar, and a campsite. Yet Hyder attracts visitors from all over the world. Why? For the bears at Fish Creek and the view of the Salmon Glacier.

The first time we came here, three years ago, I thought: 'Oh my God!' I had planned to stay for four days, but immediately thought that was too long. The muddy gravel road and the dilapidated wooden houses – the contrast with the tidy town of Stewart on the Canadian side couldn't be greater. But Hyder gets under your skin. The charm of this unique place is indescribable. And now we were back. This time, we had less time, but we were determined to make the most of every minute.

Fish Creek – back to the first grizzly 

We checked in at Camp Run-A-Muck, where we were told that it was a good year for bears. A grizzly bear mother with her three cubs came by every day. We immediately went to the Fish Creek Bear Observatory, a wooden viewing platform overlooking a river where salmon spawn. First, we saw an impressive male grizzly while chatting with other travellers: a German couple on a world trip after a radical career change, and a Polish-German couple who had chosen French as their compromise language. It started to rain, so Gaia went back to the camper; Alessio was already there. Didier and I stayed, raincoats on, chatting on a bench.

Then, at dusk, she arrived: the mother bear with her three cubs. She crossed the road, dived into the bushes and reappeared a moment later on the riverbank. The cubs played while the mother fished. The silence was deafening. Everyone grabbed their cameras, including me, until I thought of Gaia and Alessio. I ran to the camper, picked them up and we returned just in time to see the bears cross the road and disappear. The air was filled with tension, excitement and pure happiness.

After exchanging email addresses with our new friends, we returned to the campsite feeling satisfied and grateful. We had seen what we had come for. Two days in Hyder, filled with nature, encounters and stories. Tomorrow, the return to the 'real' world awaited us.

Conclusion – what remains 

After seven weeks, eight thousand kilometres and countless experiences, we drove back to the border. The roads became wider, the silence disappeared and the air felt heavier. Something in us had changed. It wasn't just that we had seen Alaska; we had also felt it. We had experienced the rhythm of the bears, the softness of qiviut, the creaking of glacier ice, and the sadness of finding a dead bear on the road.

We had arrived as curious travellers and returned laden with stories and experiences. Stories of a mother bear with three cubs. Of a musk ox losing its down. Of a whale that jumped thirty times. Of Gaïa, who collected mussels at low tide. And of my husband, who found my lost earring in the laundry room in Valdez.

What remains is not only what we saw, but also the realisation that travelling is not just about where you are and what you see, but about who you become along the way.