Winter Thrills in Anchorage: Dog Sledding, Northern Lights, and Ice Climbing

The relationship between atmospheric conditions and dog sledding performance is something I've studied for years, but experiencing it firsthand still manages to humble me. Booking a three-day expedition with Alaskan Wilderness Mushing was, without question, the cornerstone of this journey.

Our guide, Mick Eriksson—a four-time Iditarod competitor with weather-reading abilities that rival my wife's meteorological expertise—introduced us to our team of Alaskan huskies at daybreak. The temperature hovered at -15°C (5°F) with a light northeasterly wind of 8 knots—perfect conditions for mushing. The dogs sensed it too, their excitement palpable as frost formed around their muzzles.

As we pushed off from the outpost 30 miles outside Anchorage, I was struck by how the varying snow conditions affected our momentum. Where wind-packed drifts created resistance, our lead dogs (magnificent creatures named Thunder and Storm) instinctively adjusted their pace. Through spruce forests and across frozen lakes, we traversed nearly 30 miles that first day, eventually reaching a remote cabin where Mick prepared a meal that would rival any five-star establishment in Anchorage.

Day two brought a fascinating mesocyclonic system that deposited 4 inches of powder—transforming our route through Chugach State Park into something from a winter fantasy. The silence was profound, broken only by the rhythmic padding of paws and the occasional commands between musher and dog. We stopped frequently for photography, and my weather-sealed camera captured the interplay of light through ice crystals suspended in the air—a phenomenon known as diamond dust that occurs only in specific Arctic conditions.

The Northern Lights aren't merely a visual spectacle—they're a complex interaction between solar particles and our magnetosphere that I've studied for decades. Yet understanding the science does nothing to diminish their magic.

After consulting with local aurora forecasters (and checking the KP index myself), we booked three nights at the remarkable Sheldon Chalet, perched on a nunatak within Denali National Park. At $3,500 per person per night, it represents the pinnacle of luxury aurora viewing—but for those seeking both comfort and optimal atmospheric conditions, there's simply no comparison.

The chalet's isolation means zero light pollution, and its elevation of 6,000 feet puts you above many of the lower atmospheric disturbances that can obscure aurora activity. Our pilot navigated through a challenging inversion layer to land us safely on the glacier, where the staff greeted us with champagne and a spread of Alaskan delicacies.

For aurora photography, I relied on my carbon fiber tripod, which performed flawlessly despite temperatures dropping to -23°C (-10°F). Its carbon construction prevented the thermal contraction issues that plague aluminum tripods in extreme cold.

On our second night, conditions aligned perfectly—a G2 geomagnetic storm coincided with clear skies and minimal moon illumination. What followed was a four-hour display that defied description. The aurora began as a faint green arc along the northern horizon before erupting into undulating ribbons of green, magenta, and rare blue tones that danced directly overhead. The vertical structures, known as corona, created a 360-degree experience as charged particles followed magnetic field lines toward the earth's surface.

My aviation background has given me a unique perspective on atmospheric phenomena, but witnessing the aurora from this vantage point—with nothing between you and these cosmic forces—is profoundly humbling. It's a reminder that for all our technological advancement, we remain subject to forces far greater than ourselves.

The formation of climbable ice features requires a precise sequence of meteorological events—sustained freezing temperatures punctuated by periodic thaws that allow water to flow before refreezing into solid structures. Nowhere are these conditions more reliably produced than in the valleys surrounding Anchorage.

For our vertical adventures, we engaged Alaska Mountaineering School, whose guides possess an intimate knowledge of how weather patterns affect climbing conditions. After a half-day refresher course on technique and safety at their indoor facility, we headed to Eklutna Canyon, where a series of frozen waterfalls offered routes ranging from WI2 (beginner-friendly) to WI5 (expert-only).

Our guide, Tasha Levine—a former glaciologist turned climbing instructor—selected routes based on recent temperature data and ice formation quality. We began on 'Ripple,' a WI3 route with excellent features for tool placement and relatively consistent ice density. Despite my decades of fitness maintenance, the unique demands of ice climbing quickly revealed muscles I didn't know existed.

By day two, we'd progressed to 'The Drip'—a sustained WI4 route that required precise technique and significant upper body endurance. The temperature hovered around -8°C (17°F), ideal for climbing as the ice remained solid without becoming brittle.

My insulated gloves proved invaluable during belays, providing crucial warmth while maintaining enough dexterity for rope handling. They're substantially more expensive than standard winter gloves, but after spending hours managing ropes in sub-freezing temperatures, I consider them essential safety equipment rather than a luxury.

The psychological aspect of ice climbing deserves mention—there's something profoundly focusing about ascending a frozen waterfall with nothing but two ice tools and crampons keeping you connected to the vertical world. For couples seeking both physical challenge and mental clarity, few activities offer such immediate rewards.

While Anchorage's terrestrial adventures captivate most winter visitors, I've always been fascinated by how marine ecosystems adapt to extreme seasonal changes. Resurrection Bay, accessible via a scenic two-hour drive to Seward, offers a window into this remarkable adaptation process.

We booked a private winter wildlife cruise with Kenai Fjords Tours, one of the few operators maintaining year-round schedules. Captain Joanna McKenzie, a marine biologist who's spent 15 years studying these waters, navigated us through the complex interplay of tidal currents and ice formations that characterize the bay in February.

Despite air temperatures hovering around -5°C (23°F), the Gulf of Alaska's relatively warm waters (3°C/37°F) create fascinating microclimates where diverse wildlife thrives. Within an hour of departure, we encountered a pod of resident orcas—the fish-eating ecotype that remains in these waters year-round rather than migrating. Their dorsal fins cut through waters that steamed in the cold air, creating an otherworldly scene.

As we approached the glacial terminus at Aialik Bay, we witnessed what Captain McKenzie called 'winter calving'—where temperature differentials between ice and water cause spectacular glacial collapses. The resulting thunder echoed across the bay, sending bald eagles soaring from their perches.

For marine photography in these conditions, I relied on my waterproof binoculars which performed admirably despite exposure to sea spray and occasional snow. Their nitrogen-purged construction prevented internal fogging—a critical feature when transitioning between the heated cabin and open observation deck.

The interplay between atmospheric conditions and marine life creates unique viewing opportunities in winter that summer visitors rarely experience. Sea otters gathered in protected coves, their dense fur providing insulation against water temperatures that would kill a human within minutes. Harbor seals hauled out on ice floes, using the floating platforms as protection from predators while absorbing the limited winter sunlight.

After days spent challenging the elements, returning to luxurious accommodations isn't merely an indulgence—it's a practical necessity for recovery and preparation. Anchorage offers several world-class options, but Hotel Alyeska in nearby Girdwood provided our ideal balance of accessibility to adventures and post-expedition comfort.

Situated 40 minutes from downtown Anchorage, this chateau-style resort sits at the base of Mount Alyeska, where the maritime influence creates snow conditions distinctly different from the continental powder found further inland. The meteorological dynamics here fascinate me—Pacific moisture collides with Arctic air masses, generating some of North America's most reliable snowfall patterns.

Our Deluxe Summit Suite offered panoramic views of the Chugach Mountains, where we could track weather systems moving across the landscape. The room's gas fireplace proved essential for drying gear between expeditions—a practical consideration often overlooked in luxury accommodations.

The hotel's Seven Glaciers restaurant, accessible via scenic tram ride, serves what I'd consider the finest Alaskan cuisine available. Chef Aaron Apling-Gilman's preparation of locally harvested king crab with glacial mineral sea salt demonstrated a profound understanding of regional terroir.

For muscle recovery between adventures, the hotel's spa offers treatments specifically designed for winter athletes. The Alaskan Glacier Mud Wrap—utilizing silica-rich volcanic ash from the Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes—addressed muscle fatigue more effectively than any standard massage I've experienced.

While not inexpensive at roughly $450-700 per night during peak winter season, Hotel Alyeska's combination of location, amenities, and adventure access makes it the optimal base camp for couples seeking both extreme experiences and refined comfort. Their concierge staff maintains relationships with the region's premium outfitters, allowing seamless coordination of the activities described throughout this article.