When first devising our expedition route, Nome, Alaska hadn’t even been on the radar. Nome’s claim to fame is that it was once Alaska’s largest city during the gold rush of the early 1900’s, with its beaches still harboring the ore even today. But gold rush aside, if someone had told us we’d be flying there from Anchorage in the middle of August, we’d have never believed them. And we definitely didn’t expect that out of its roughly 3,700 residents, so many of the people we met would be absolutely in love with this remote, tundra-filled town, in all its rugged isolation.
Nome sits on the edge of the Bering Sea, about 75 minutes by air from Anchorage, in a truly unique part of the world. The Bering Strait separates Eurasia and the Americas—two of the largest landmasses on earth—and Nome is positioned right in the middle of that divide. Just 102 miles north is the Arctic Circle, and 161 miles to the west is Russia. We kept asking ourselves how a bunch of surf and scuba loving explorers ended up here, in such an extraordinarily strange place. What conversations, decisions, and circumstances brought us this far north? And now that we’d made it, what were we going to do with the next four days? We had no idea where to start.
Upon our arrival, we were taken back in time. It felt as if the town itself was clinging to its glory days. Escorted through the main streets in a vintage checkered cab, we saw run-down saloons and boarded-up restaurants lined the main street, and even though it was early fall, it felt like winter was already settling in. The ocean lay flat, but you could sense that one big storm would easily push it right up onto Nome’s main strip, possibly sweeping the town away. Maybe it had happened before. The reality of how remote we were hit hard when we saw the prices—two apples for nearly $8. Everything was twice as expensive as Anchorage or the lower 48. This wasn’t just far north; we had officially entered the sub-arctic.
We were dropped off in front of what seemed like one of Nome’s more established hotels—The Aurora —right in the center of town. Immediately, we felt out of place. Locals eyed us curiously as we dropped off our bags and began wandering the beach. It was obvious we weren’t from around here. Yet, we couldn’t help but revel in the uniqueness of this place. It felt like we had arrived at a different kind of "edge of the earth," one we hadn’t encountered on any previous leg of the expedition. Walking these historic shores, we knew the best thing we could do was soak in the natural beauty and look for what others might miss if too preoccupied by the modern world.
It rose to prominence during its gold rush from 1899–1909—a rush that some say was even bigger than Canada’s Klondike Gold Rush of 1896-1899. Gold rushes have a way of transforming landscapes and societies. These rushes, from California in 1848 to Australia, Africa, and South America (to name a few) were driven by the discovery of gold fields and the promise of wealth. The rush in the Yukon Territory opened people’s eyes to Nome, which was much more accessible than the Klondike. In fact, reaching the Klondike required a year’s worth of supplies just to survive the journey. The influx of prospectors often came at a heavy cost to the Indigenous people living there. In the Klondike, the Tr'ondëk Hwëch'in and Tagish First Nations were displaced, their way of life disrupted forever—a pattern that repeated itself in countless gold rush towns around the world.
Gold was said to be everywhere here—hidden in the hills, scattered along the beaches, and flowing through the rivers. We'd heard that modern-day treasure hunters still trek to Nome in search of nuggets along the beach, though strict rules now regulate how and where you can mine. Permits are required in public mining areas, and environmental concerns around mining activities run high. We weren’t there to sift through sand or stake a claim, but as we wandered toward the mountains, we couldn’t help but wonder what we might stumble upon in this isolated stretch of wilderness. It was impossible not to ponder what was out there.
What initially brought us to Nome was the chance to connect with members of the Indigenous Peoples Council for Marine Mammals (IPCoMM). This nonprofit represents 15 Alaska Native groups, working in partnership with federal agencies and scientists to manage and protect marine mammal populations while preserving Alaska Native traditions. Since 1997, IPCoMM has collaborated with the National Marine Fisheries Service and U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service through a co-management agreement, ensuring Alaska Natives can continue to hunt and use marine mammals in accordance with the Marine Mammal Protection Act. Our meetings in Nome marked the beginning of a relationship that would allow us to observe their traditional harvesting practices that take place each winter when the ice is thick enough to bring polar bears, walrus, seals, and belugas into these waters. That said, although this was the first time we were in Nome, it wasn’t going to be the last.
Not wanting to rely on the local cab service, we decided to hold our meetings in the hotel lobby. And once our meetings were complete, eyes open to the possibilities beyond the town of Nome’s borders, we had what felt like endless amounts of time to explore beyond—especially given the midnight sun was still hanging on. It quickly became clear that if we wanted to experience wild Alaska, we’d need our own set of wheels. So, we rented a battered 4x4 that looked like it had already endured its fair share of adventures and headed out. The locals suggested we take the "pass through road" up Anvil Mountain, the ridge that separates Nome from the true wilderness. The road, barely visible in spots and overgrown with sharp branches, added fresh scratches to the already rugged exterior of our rental. Every so often, we stopped to inspect patches of dirt that shimmered in the light. Upon closer inspection, we saw tiny flecks of gold glinting in the sun—and it was some of the most beautiful dirt we’d ever seen.
Nome only has three major roadways: the Nome-Teller, Nome-Council, and Nome-Taylor highways. We chose Taylor, an 85-mile stretch that runs north to south. Once on the gravel road, we were surrounded by rolling mountains and endless tundra. It was just us and the wilderness. We had no specific destination, just a desire to see where Taylor would take us. As we drove, we absorbed the vastness of the real Alaska—the Alaska far removed from city life and modern conveniences. This is what the state is truly about: untamed, raw beauty.
Alaska’s wilderness is like nowhere else on earth. Thanks to the Alaska National Interest Lands Conservation Act (ANILCA), over 90% of the state’s National Park Service land is protected as wilderness, making up 33 million acres—nearly 30% of the entire nation’s designated wilderness. These expansive landscapes of tundra, glaciers, forests, and coastlines aren’t just beautiful; they are vital. They support thriving ecosystems, preserve cultural heritage, fuel scientific research, and sustain rural and Indigenous communities. Today, on the first day of moose hunting season, we witnessed that subsistence lifestyle firsthand, with hunters being the only other signs of life out here.
At around the two-hour mark, we came across a sign for Salmon Lake. Our attempts to catch the salmon run near Anchorage had been fruitless. Locals had warned us that this year’s season wouldn’t be impressive. The state's 2024 salmon season opened in May, with promising forecasts of 1.3 million sockeye from the Copper River and a Chinook harvest of 47,000. However, there were concerns over early-season closures for Chinook due to conservation needs, and the general mood around salmon was somber. Despite a record 232 million salmon harvested in 2023, the 2024 forecast anticipated just 136 million, with a particularly sharp decline in pink salmon. The industry was feeling the weight of these changes, leading to the formation of a Seafood Industry Task Force to navigate issues like low demand and plant closures.
Before heading to Nome, we’d ventured to Paxson, a remote town five hours north of Anchorage, in search of these salmon. Suited in our drysuits, we braved the rapids, hoping to witness the famed salmon migration. Instead, we found only a handful of small juveniles fighting the current, while the river was otherwise eerily void of fish action. Locals were equally disheartened, surprised at our efforts to dive into the frigid waters to witness such a disappointing season. Higher-than-usual water levels, climate shifts, and overfishing were all common explanations for the poor turnout, but there was a collective anxiety about what this meant for the future of these communities that depend on fishing and subsistence hunting.
The water had a pinkish hue, with clusters of dark movement visible beneath the surface. As the wind whipped caps across the lake, we realized that salmon were everywhere, crowding the shallows. Their vibrant pinks and reds were striking, each fish circling slowly, protecting something precious. After a while, we noticed bright clusters of eggs beneath them—the fish were guarding their nests.
Pink salmon, or "humpies" as they're called for the hump males develop during spawning, are traditionally one of the most abundant Pacific salmon species in Alaska. Weighing between 1.5 to 2.5 kg (3.5 to 5.5 lbs), they’re also the smallest of the species, though these fish looked enormous to us. Pink salmon have played a crucial role in Alaska's commercial fisheries since the 1800s, not only for their numbers but also for the economy they support. But, what makes pink salmon unique is their concise two-year life cycle. They form genetically distinct odd-year and even-year populations, which never interbreed—despite inhabiting the same streams.
Some streams will favor one cycle, but others produce salmon in both years. As soon as the fry hatch from their riverbed nests, they make their way to the ocean to feed for 18 months on plankton, small fish, and squid, with their diet giving their flesh its signature pink color. But once they return to freshwater to spawn, they stop eating altogether, focusing solely on reproduction. Males grow large humps and hooked jaws to fend off rivals during this season, which is what we saw in abundance at Salmon Lake. After spawning, the fish die, leaving behind the next generation. What we witnessed on the lake's shores was the culmination of their life cycle—many already dead or dying in the shallows right before our eyes as they completed their life’s work.
While pink salmon are not considered endangered, they face threats like overfishing and habitat loss, which can't be ignored. In Alaska, where populations are closely managed, they remain stable but still experience the natural ebbs and flows the locals had warned us about since the minute we touched down in the state. At Salmon Lake, the shallows were an active blend of the circle of life presenting right before us. Wading carefully into the icy sub-arctic waters, we were cautious not to disturb the precious gravel beds, fully aware of the vital role these spaces play in the salmon cycle that’s so critical to many.
On our way back to Nome, we decided to take a hectic detour along the Teller Highway, a rugged road leading 73 miles north, bringing us within 55 miles of the Russian border. This route was as close as we could get to the land bridge that once connected two continents. Our plan was to drive through the night, aiming to catch the Northern Lights that were supposed to be visible up near the tiny village of Teller, home to less than 300 Inupiat people. By 10:30 pm, with daylight still lingering, we began the trek, unsure of the road’s condition but too intrigued to turn back.
Driving through the surreal landscapes—ocean on one side, tundra on the other—surrounded by Arctic wildflowers, we felt like we had entered a completely foreign planet. It was both awe-inspiring and unsettling, knowing that out here, we were entirely in isolation. After two hours of focused driving, we reached Teller just as the sun finally set over the ocean. We parked at North America’s most westerly highway point, reclined the seats, and fell asleep waiting for the Aurora Borealis to pass us by.
When we woke up, darkness had completely taken over. Waves crashed ominously on either side of the narrow landmass where we had parked, and we realized how close we were to the edge. Uneasy but still searching for the elusive lights, we started driving back toward the mainland, with our heads reared out of the windows, scanning the skies. While we didn’t spot the Northern Lights, we did catch the eerie glow of animal eyes watching us from the tundra, accompanied by the howl of wind ripping across the landscape.
Many visitors to Alaska stick to the well-worn paths—Anchorage, Fairbanks, Juneau—or even a cruise ship to safely ferry them along the coast. It's the checklist approach, the tourist trail everyone suggests for a first visit. You snap your photos, tick off your bucket list, and move on. But there’s a stark difference between following the crowd and embracing the true spirit of exploration. Alaska offers more than what’s in the brochures, and out here, off the beaten track, we found what many called the real Alaska.
If you're looking for experiences that will truly shift your perspective, like taking in an Alaska of a bygone era, start by disconnecting. Sometimes, it's as simple as just turning off your phone. Nome forces you to do so. We’re so tied to our screens that we miss the moments that matter—the feeling of icy water on your skin, waves gently rocking you awake at 1am, or finding beauty in the dirt that glistens in the sun. Step off the beaten path, explore places that aren’t on every tourist map, travel in the off-season, and embrace a world far removed from the one you know. A place like Nome may just remind you what real exploration feels like.
To be continued …
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