Mouse to Alaska

A Winter Journey on the Open Road

This past October, while on an adventure with Robyn in Hawaii, she was sunning herself at the rooftop pool. I, on the other hand, a mouse with a permanent fur coat, was relaxing in the air-conditioned room. That’s when I spotted it…an email from Delta.

Minneapolis, Minnesota to Anchorage, Alaska… cheap. Me, in my fur coat, in Hawaii? Ugh. Me, in Alaska? I was born for this.

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I made sure that Delta email stayed open on Robyn’s laptop. Then, just to be helpful, I resent the Marriott email reminding her she had a free room and points to use.

My scheming worked. And just like that, we had an Alaskan weekend in January booked.

Before we get to Alaska, I should probably introduce myself. Yes, I’m a mouse, and I guess you could say I’m a squatter who has secretly been living with Robyn for years. As an adventurous single woman, she sometimes needs someone to look out for her.

Robyn likes to write. She has good intentions, but she doesn’t always get around to it. I know this because I’m the one who usually ends up writing the Christmas letter. So, when she surprised me last year by starting a blog, I was cautiously optimistic.

Her original name for it was Robyn’s Trips, but when she tried to turn that into a domain name (robynstrips), it took on a meaning neither of us intended. So, the blog officially became Robyn’s Open Road, which felt much more appropriate.

Which brings us to Alaska. It’s been a couple of weeks since we returned from Anchorage, and she still hasn’t written about it. I decided to take matters into my own paws and tell you about our time there.

Let’s start with the preparations. Oh, my goodness. You’d think this woman had never planned an adventure before. I mean, I get most of our trips involve sundresses and swimsuits. But for an Alaskan adventure? She agonized. What to pack? What was too much? What wouldn’t be enough?

Personally, I was thrilled that my life was simple. I had my fur coat, and I was set to go.

We were only going for three nights, yet she hauled out a large suitcase and somehow managed to stuff it full of every possible piece of winter gear she owned. Finally the big day arrived and we headed to the airport!

Having recently become a Delta Platinum member, Robyn was feeling excited. With several empty seats on the plane, she was convinced an upgrade to first class was imminent. When the email never arrived, she decided to be content with the first row behind first class which, in her mind, was still a win.

As we boarded and settled in, we waited for the remaining passengers. No one sat next to us. I’ve learned not to get my hopes up in these situations, someone always shows up at the last minute, which means I have to stay hidden.

But this time? No one came.

We had the entire row to ourselves. No seatmate. No competition. The restroom was across the aisle, and when I glanced forward at the first-class seats, I realized something important.

We had more room than they did. More legroom. More space. Our adventure was officially off to a great start.

The six-hour flight went pretty smoothly. I stayed hidden and enjoyed the crumbs Robyn dropped from her cheese and cracker snack box. Before I knew it, we were landing in Anchorage.

I managed to sneak a peek out the window and saw white ground everywhere. I was thrilled. Snow, not sand, would be our backdrop for this adventure.

But then the pilot announced the local time… and the temperature.

Thirty degrees.
In Anchorage.
In January.

I immediately thought, Wait… what?

It reminded me of that scene from Robyn’s favorite Christmas movie, White Christmas, when Bob and Phil, Betty and Judy step off the train in Vermont expecting snow and cold… and got neither. Maybe WE took the wrong plane. Maybe WE would be seeing grass-covered igloos.

Well after wrestling Robyn’s gargantuan suitcase off the carousel, we grabbed our rental car, complete with a supplied ice scraper and headed toward the hotel. And sure enough, it was raining. Not exactly what I had pictured for Alaska in January.

Thanks to the three-hour time change, we settled into our room and promptly fell asleep. Robyn, who is not a morning person, was thrilled to learn the sun wouldn’t rise until 10 a.m. Small victories.

Our first official adventure was a city bus tour. We woke to a city covered in ice and quickly learned that in Alaska they don’t salt the roads. Apparently, moose enjoy licking the salt off the highways, which creates… problems.

Instead, they sparingly sprinkle gravel and politely remind everyone to walk like a penguin.

We found a parking spot across the street from where the Anchorage Trolley aka Winter City Tour bus was picking us up. Getting the parking meter to cooperate was a challenge. The rain and touchscreen keypad were not friends but with help from our bus driver, we finally got it. I mean, I could have done it for her, but have you ever had to spend the day wearing a wet fur coat? I decided to stay in Robyn’s purse, warm and dry.

The meter was set to expire in two hours. Our tour was going to last three. “Don’t worry,” we were told. “They don’t check parking meters in the winter.”

Alaska already had a very relaxed vibe—and I approved.

Our city bus tour guide cheerfully informed us that, given the icy conditions, the tour probably should have been canceled. I, for one, was very glad it wasn’t.

We made our first stop at the Ulu Knife factory on West Ship Creek Avenue. When I first heard the address, I had questions. Then he repeated it…Ship Creek. Not what I originally thought I heard.

We watched the traditional Alaskan curved-edge blades being made, tools designed generations ago and still used today. Even I could appreciate the craftsmanship though I did have a brief flashback to the warning my parents used to mention about the Three Blind Mice and their unfortunate encounter with a carving knife.

Another stop brought us to the site where the land quite literally fell away during the massive 1964 Alaska earthquake. Standing there, it was hard to imagine the ground beneath your feet simply… disappearing.

At one point, we sampled an Alaskan Hunter Stick made with reindeer meat. I was assured it was not made from one of Santa’s favorites, which put me at ease.

We soaked in beautiful mountain views and visited Lake Hood, home to the world’s largest and busiest seaplane base. Even frozen solid, it was impressive to see just how many planes call it home.

We also learned some history of the Iditarod dog sled race and saw where the ceremonial start takes place each year on the first Saturday in March, a reminder that adventure here isn’t just a pastime, it’s tradition.

Once the official tour wrapped up, Robyn, unsurprisingly, decided the day wasn’t quite adventurous enough. We hopped in the parking-meter-expired rental car and navigated the slippery streets ourselves.

I stayed alert.

After our Friday afternoon drive around Anchorage, during which we saw far too many cars in the ditch I was a little nervous about our adventure the next morning. We were heading northeast toward Palmer, a roughly fifty-mile drive. The plan for the day was a glacier helicopter tour with Knik River Lodge Helicopter Tours.

Saturday morning, just after 7:30, we hit the road and there was very little traffic. We were on the main highway heading out of Anchorage—simply called “One”. They refer to it as an interstate, though it doesn’t exactly go state to state. Then again, when there’s only one, I suppose the naming options are limited.

Even though the speed limit was 65, no one seemed to be in a hurry. Thankfully, Robyn kept her love of speed in check, and we cruised along at a cautious 45–50 mph. I appreciated this greatly, especially since I occasionally spotted cars in the ditch—and one on its roof.

Eventually, the GPS instructed us to exit onto South Old Glenn Highway. The four-lane road narrowed to two lanes, and suddenly there was no traffic at all. I became fairly certain Robyn and I were the only living beings anywhere nearby.

It was still pitch dark. The dashboard lights glowed softly, and in that glow, I noticed Robyn’s knuckles were nearly the same color as the snow outside. My paws were tightly clenched around the passenger seat headrest.

Signs warning of curvy roads ahead suggested we were entering mountainous terrain. The falling rock signs were unsettling. The moose crossing signs did nothing to calm me.

We had left more than an hour early to be safe. I heard Robyn mumble something about stopping at a coffee shop if we arrived too early, which would have been reassuring if there were any signs of civilization. There weren’t. No houses. No town. Just road.

Then a sign appeared: END ROAD 1,000 FEET AHEAD.

Well. All right then.

We rolled to the end of the road, where miraculously there was a lodge. And a parking lot. And absolutely no one there. It was 9:15 a.m., a full hour early, but Robyn has always believed early is far better than lost.

Eventually, a few other vehicles arrived. One man parked next to us and casually confirmed, yes, this was the correct place. He also mentioned that the lodge would open in about an hour.

As we waited, the sun slowly began to rise. What had been darkness, transformed into something breathtaking. Mountains emerged on both sides of us, still partially wrapped in clouds. It wasn’t bright or dramatic, but it was stunning.

And just like that, my nerves gave way to awe.

This, I decided, was going to be worth it.

The entire reason for this expedition, the pre-dawn drive, the white-knuckle navigation, the complete trust in GPS was a helicopter ride that would land on three different glaciers, giving us time to step out and walk around on each one.

Naturally, this created a wardrobe dilemma for Robyn.

A helicopter is small. Very small. Four seats total. But once you land, you’re stepping out onto a glacier. So how many layers are too many? How many are not enough? What’s the right balance between I might freeze and I can’t move my arms?

I, of course, had no such concerns. Permanent fur coat. Problem solved.

Once airborne, the landscape changed completely. Mountains stretched endlessly in every direction, and the glaciers below us were unlike anything either of us had ever seen. The ice wasn’t white it was blue. Deep, vivid, almost glowing blue. Ancient, quiet, and impossible to fully capture in a photo.

Our first landing was on a rocky section of glacier, where solid ground met ice. The second landing brought us to a spot where the surface felt surprisingly soft and mushy underfoot, a reminder that glaciers aren’t frozen statues they’re living, moving masses of ice.

The final landing was where we spent the most time walking around. It was also where Robyn, in an impressive display of enthusiasm and clumsiness, managed to fall flat on her backside.

I will say this: glaciers are forgiving. Dignity, less so.

At one point, Robyn asked the question: How old is this ice?

The pilot explained that if you were to cut a chunk from the very top of the glacier, that surface ice would likely be around three to four thousand years old.

And then he added what we were actually standing on, the glacier itself, was hundreds of thousands of years old.

Not history-book old. Not “a really long time” old. Hundreds. Of. Thousands. Of. Years.

Eventually, gravity and time pulled us back into the helicopter and, later, onto the road. The drive back revealed what we hadn’t been able to see in the darkness earlier that morning; mountains on both sides of the highway, stretching endlessly.

At one point, a bald eagle appeared, flying just ahead of us. I’m fairly certain we followed it for nearly a mile. It felt intentional. Like a send-off.

I was very glad to be inside our Ford Bronco because I’m quite sure that eagle could have had me for an appetizer.

As we returned to Anchorage, we again passed cars in ditches—and even a few more upside down but the roads themselves were now dry. No one was driving too fast. No pressure. No rush.

And as someone who pays close attention to these things, I can confidently say: it was a perfect ending to a very Alaskan day.

One thing I came to appreciate about Alaska in January was the timing of the sun. It doesn’t rise until nearly 10 a.m., which sounds luxurious—unless you’re a mouse who has spent the last three weekends in three different time zones.

First, Robyn took me to South Florida to celebrate the new year. Then the very next weekend, to Las Vegas. And now… Alaska.

I had absolutely no idea what time it was supposed to be. Morning, night, afternoon—it all felt theoretical.

Somewhere around 2:00 a.m. Alaska time, Robyn woke up and began mumbling quietly to herself. I knew the signs. This wasn’t a full wake-up—it was the kind of half-awake worrying that happens when the brain decides now is the perfect time to solve problems.

Today’s concern: how she was going to get her suitcase to the car.

The parking lot was a sheet of ice with a polite scattering of gravel—just enough to suggest traction, not enough to guarantee it. The area near the entrance was slushy from foot traffic, but the rest looked slick enough to require a helmet.

I listened as she mentally worked through the logistics:
Where can I pull up the car?
How do I wheel the suitcase without sliding on the ice?
If there’s no traction, how do I lift it into the car without falling on my ass?

To be clear, the “ass” in question was Robyn’s.

These are the thoughts humans entertain at 2:00 a.m.

Morning eventually arrived, whatever that meant, and Robyn made a few trips back and forth, starting the car, letting it warm up, and staging her bags near the door. She had pulled clothes out of her suitcase for the day’s adventure: a dog sled ride.

When she returned to the car with her smaller bag, she turned around just in time to see the bell captain carrying her suitcase across the parking lot. Not wheeling it—carrying it, so it wouldn’t get wet. He gently placed it into the back seat for her. She gave him a big hug.

It turns out the things we sometimes worry about in the middle of the night often resolve themselves without our help.

Checkout was at 11. Our dog sled ride was scheduled for 2:30, with about an hour-and-a-half drive to Willow. True to form, Robyn left early. Better early than lost. There was time for lunch along the way.

The drive was beautiful with mountains rising on both sides of the road, the kind of scenery that makes you realize pictures don’t even come close. Growing up in Minnesota doesn’t quite prepare you for that kind of scale.

We stopped at a small brewery, had wings and a beer, with plenty of floor crumbs for me and then continued on toward the husky kennel.

We arrived early. Again. Sitting in the parking lot, there was nothing to do but listen. The dogs were barking and howling—not out of impatience, but excitement. They wanted to run. Every sound said the same thing.

There was, once again, a clothing dilemma for Robyn. Layers were added. Then reconsidered. Then added again. Better warm than cold.

Our guide at Alaskan Husky Adventures walked us through what to expect and casually mentioned that he’d raced in last year’s Iditarod. As one does.

There were four of us on our sled. Another woman and her friend stood and sat on the connected sled behind us. Robyn chose the cushy seat up front with the musher right behind us. She had no interest in steering or braking. I fully supported this choice.

Once the dogs were hooked up and started pulling, everything changed.

They went quiet.

Well—quiet except for the multitasking.

As they ran, the dogs casually licked snow off the side of the trail. They relieved themselves. They kept moving. No stopping. No hesitation. No loss of momentum.

I watched in awe. As a mouse, I would like to formally state that I cannot run, lick snow, pee, and poop at the same time. I can barely manage two of those activities without careful planning.

The dogs, meanwhile, made it look effortless.

We were out on the trail by 3:00 p.m., with sunset coming early, just after 4:30. The light softened. The sky shifted. Snow and trees took on a glow that felt unreal.

It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was calm and breathtaking all at once. The world felt still.

And in that quiet—with the sun slipping away and the dogs doing exactly what they were born to do—it was impossible not to feel grateful. To be there. To be present. And to experience something so simple and so beautiful.

The drive back from Willow to Anchorage was quiet. The mountains faded into darkness again, and the roads felt familiar in a way they hadn’t just a few days earlier.

We turned in the rental car. We made our way through the airport. There was food at some point, though I don’t recall the details and that feels about right.

Our flight home left around 9:30 p.m. Flying east always feels faster, as if the world is gently nudging you back where you came from. We landed in Minnesota at 5:30 the next morning, tired but full.

Alaska didn’t end with a bang. It ended quietly.

With tired eyes, a full heart, and the kind of memories that don’t need embellishment.

And if I’ve learned anything traveling with Robyn, it’s this: the open road always has more to offer than you expect, especially when you’re brave enough to follow it.

As for me, I settled back in, warm in my fur coat, already wondering where she might take me next.