“Alaska is a reminder that the world is still bigger than us.” – Rick Ridgeway, American environmentalist

The Train to Denali

All aboard the McKinley Explorer! After spending seven days cruising the waters of the Inside Passage, it was time now to explore deep inside the Alaskan interior via train. We’d enjoy viewing picture perfect, postcard panoramas from the huge windows.

The 250-mile ride from seaside Whittier to Denali National Park is scheduled to take about 8 hours, but our journey had its own sense of timing. Between track maintenance, and the occasional, mysterious delay, it ended up taking nearly twice the expected time, providing plenty of moments to admire the scenery.

There were breathtaking landscapes: towering peaks, rushing rivers, and endless forests, but inside the train, the charm was mixed with a fair bit of discomfort. The antiquated seats, creaky and worn, looked like relics “leftover from the painful Spanish Inquisition,” and by mid-ride, the novelty had worn thin from being scrunched uncomfortably into them.

Poor David’s knee had swollen to the size of a baseball by the time we finally pulled into Denali train station, a stark reminder that even the most beautiful journeys can be physically challenging.

As for the food, well… let’s just say it didn’t quite match the scenery. Meals were served in a rush, lacking flavor and finesse, leaving us longing for a hot sandwich on a station bench rather than the tasteless fare hurried onto our plates. We always feature photos of the good food, but here’s a sample of the sad …

Still, the train offered unparalleled views, stories from the rangers, and the kind of moments that make you laugh, wince, and marvel at the same time. Alaska’s wilderness is magnificent, sometimes unforgiving, but always unforgettable in its endless beauty.

For those of you old enough to remember the classic, famous ditty for Doublemint Gum, “Double your pleasure, double your fun,” tv commercials, we doubly experienced every bit with twice the travel time, twice the adventure.

The next morning, in Denali, a tour was scheduled to glimpse Mount McKinley, but after that dreadful train ride, I wasn’t about to bounce around for eight hours on a school bus along gravel roads in order to take a peek at a mountain that’s only visible 30-40 percent of the time. On this trip, the weather gods generally haven’t favored us.

But Beth wasn’t going to miss anything. Off she went on a tundra tour via bus. It wound deep into the park, and with each bend she hoped to see a moose and/or caribou grazing in the distance, or even a grizzly bear lumbering across a ridge.

That night, over pizza, she recalled her adventure, reliving every moment as she described spotting the distant summit of majestic Denali. Along the drive, wildlife appeared in fleeting glimpses – a ram on a ridge, a caribou moving across the tundra; tough too far away for a proper photo on her iPhone.

The bus, however, was equipped with long-lens cameras, their images projected onto monitors throughout the cabin; the attached photo was captured from one of those screens. Still, as impressive as the technology was, it couldn’t compete with the real spectacle of the vast, untamed landscape unfolding outside the windows, utterly beyond spectacular.

Another day, another adventure … this time opting for a self-drive jeep tour. This entailed joining a convoy of Jeeps, ours a distinctive, vivid, bright orange-red color. We’d “follow-the-leader” through Denali’s backcountry; each vehicle bouncing along rugged trails tagging behind the guide.

It was like a car caravan, with engines rumbling in sync; dust and gravel kicking up behind us. The Jeeps moved as one, a small fleet threading through forests, across rivers, with each stop a perfect photo opportunity.

The guide set the pace, stopping at scenic overlooks and hidden nooks tucked away from the main road. Being in the driver’s seat, even while following the leader, added a sense of freedom and control. We could admire the scenery at our own pace while still trusting the guide to lead us safely through the rougher stretches.

However, maybe once or twice, a kindly reminder would come through our vehicle’s walk-talkie, “Would the orange jeep to please keep in line!” Who us?!

By the end of the tour, we had traveled through some of Denali’s most dramatic landscapes … the line of Jeeps snaking back toward base camp. It was part adventure, part safari, and an unforgettable way to experience the wilderness up close without losing the comfort of a guided hand.

Food and Service

Holland America has long carried a reputation for delivering the full Alaska trifecta: scenery, service, and food. And to be fair, they delivered beautifully on Alaska and service – no complaints there. But on the food front? Ay, Dios mío … let’s just say it was a bit sketchy. Then again, I freely admit I’m very critical when it comes to food. David calls it “refined taste,” I call it “I’ve eaten too well in life to pretend otherwise.”

The pay-to-dine restaurants were a mixed bag. Canaletto delivered Italian food without soul. Pinnacle Grill, by contrast, could hold its own against any great steakhouse: solid, elegant, and deeply satisfying. But the true star of the voyage? The Asian-inspired Morimoto at Sea, where every dish was exciting, tasty and utterly memorable.

That dinner packed such a punch of umami flavor that both David and I were in heavenly bliss. Hands-down the best meal of the entire trip. (The girls didn’t join us that night – their loss?)

However, every morning, without fail, the ship’s private-level coffee bar provided some redemption, and got my day going in the best way. My latte, with an extra shot, warmed me up for the day ahead like a caffeinated hug.

Then there was Denali. The resort’s food was pure survival mode – being basic, bland, and the culinary equivalent of a weak handshake. Thankfully, our wonderfully candid bus driver delivered a lifeline tip: a pizza place just across the highway.

Prospector’s Pizzeria & Alehouse – Denali’s unexpected delight. Inconspicuously tucked away from the street front, this rustic little gem rescued us from “survival mode” meals and restored faith in Alaska’s culinary possibilities.

We crossed over like hungry pilgrims and were rewarded the moment the door opened; with warm wood interiors, the hum of happy diners, and the unmistakable scent of sourdough crust hitting a blazing stone oven.

The pizzas were nothing short of outstanding: chewy, crispy sourdough bases piled with inventive toppings and just enough flair to make each bite feel like a small celebration. Their pastas and salads were fresh, bright, and shockingly flavorful for such a remote outpost.

But the standout for me? The Italian wedding soup – a steaming bowl of comfort that felt like a warm embrace from a Nonna who finally approves of your choices (sorry, no photo – I attacked the bowl immediately).

And yes, meal prices are, shall we say, enthusiastically Ala$kan, but in a place where everything is flown, hauled, or coaxed into existence, you quickly accept that dinner here is less a meal and more an investment. And honestly? It was worth every penny at the Prospector’s.

We enjoyed it so much we went back the following night. And if I found myself in Denali again, I’d happily cross that highway once more to reach dining Valhalla.

Returning Home

The finale … the last leg of our Alaskan journey began with a bus ride back to Anchorage; the landscape stretching out like a living postcard. The lengthy excursion included a young college woman who provided lively, spirited commentary along the way to keep us all happy campers.

Outside the window, the season’s first dusting of snow appeared as the golden tundra gave way to white, speckled mountains, rivers sparkled in the sunlight, and I caught myself reminiscing about every moment we had shared on this trip.

Before parting ways, the four of us gathered in Anchorage for one last meal together, sharing stories, clinking glasses, and letting our laughter drift around the table (mine echoing a little louder than everyone else’s, as usual).

This wasn’t just a trip, it was the realization of something Beth had held in her heart for years. To see her step into that long-awaited moment, to hear her soft, joyful “Finally, I’m here!” and to watch happiness bloom across her face felt like a privilege I’ll always treasure.

It was a wonderful privilege for us to come along for the ride – along with wind, rain, runaway hats, nearly-flying Beth ~ darn it all. I hope Alaska gave her everything she wished for, memories big and bright; enough to last a lifetime.

As we said our goodbyes, I realized how differently we’d return to our own routines – different cities, different schedules, but all carrying the same shared treasure: Alaska in all its wild, unpredictable, majestic glory.

I truly hope you’ve enjoyed this long and overdue recollection of our Alaskan adventure; yes, it took me ages, but at least I didn’t wait until the next ice age!

“Thank you for keeping your powder dry” in Alaska (or anywhere) means, “Thanks for staying prepared, alert, and ready to act if needed, but waiting for the right moment.”

It’s about cautious readiness, stemming from soldiers needing dry gunpowder for their muskets to fire, perfectly fitting Alaska’s self-reliant, “be ready for anything” spirit . It’s an old military saying, popularized by Oliver Cromwell, telling people to have their resources (like gunpowder) ready for a sudden need, fitting the rugged Alaskan mentality.

As seen on the frontier …