Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
In the Shadow of the Great One
(Part 2)
THAT AFTERNOON I INVESTIGATE
the camp's nature exhibit, where I learn how to tell how
old a Dall sheep is (think tree rings), examine resource files labeled Aurora through Giardia
(from the sublime to the ridiculous), and reverently touch the wing feather of a golden
eagle. “What is it you want guests to take away from their visit here?” I ask Jerry Cole.
Jerry and Wally Cole bought Camp Denali from its original owners twenty-seven years
ago.
Jerry, a slender woman with that ruddy glow peculiar to those who live most of their
lives out of doors, a glow common to everyone at Camp Denali, says, “We are as a society
getting further and further away from dealing with nature. We want people to go away with
an understanding of why it is imperative to protect and to value ecological systems. If they
just go back with a greater appreciation of the green space in their own back yard, I'd be
happy.”
Jenna said much the same thing that morning, quoting Aldo Leonard, “'When we see
land as a community to which we belong, we begin to treat it with love and respect.'” Si-
mon says, “The land is pretty much the way it was before man got here, and we'd like to
keep it that way.” To leave as small a footprint as possible is the credo here. No one at
Camp Denali preaches, but they are true believers, and they speak from the heart.
After a dinner of salad grown in their own greenhouse, flank steak in a balsamic vinegar
reduction, mashed potatoes, braised vegetables, and then, oh my god, dessert, chocolate
decadence cake garnished with raspberries and whipped cream, we waddle down to Pot-
latch for Jenna's slide show on the cross-country ski trip she and Simon made into camp
the previous winter.
Sunday morning I wake to a gleaming white monolith at the foot of my bed. The moun-
tain is most definitely out, the air is filled with birdsong, and we all line up in front of the
lodge to have our picture taken with Denali. “Hello, handsome,” somebody says. The rising
sun throws the ridges and crevasses into sharp, dark blue relief; it is like a paint-by-num-
bers picture. I begin to have a tiny understanding of why artists like Fred Machetanz and