The Solo Trip That Started Because Nobody Could Come With Me

Last Updated: October 2025 | Reading Time: 20 minutes

I’m standing at the edge of Grizzly Lake in the Yukon, alone, having just hiked 11 kilometers with everything I need for four days on my back. My family is fourteen hours and a barge crossing away. The tundra stretches out in every direction—spongy and impossibly beautiful, those jagged Tombstone peaks rising like broken teeth against the sky. I can see why they call this the Patagonia of the North.

And I’ve never felt more capable in my life.

But let me back up.

Why Alaska? And How We Ended Up There

Picture this: you spend two years house hunting in Seattle. Its truly exhausting and honestly we were over it. Then you look north and see what you can get in Alaska: actual wilderness, incredible properties, friends already there living the dream.

So you do something a little crazy: rent a house in Anchorage for a month in July to try it on like a new coat.

• The kids (8 and 9) went to a local outdoor camp where moose and bear sightings were normal.
• My husband worked remotely, business as usual.
• And me? I finally had what I’d been craving: time to backpack.

There was just one problem: I had nobody to go with.

The Instagram Post That Sparked It

I’d been solo day hiking for years—comfortable with navigation, fine being the only one on a summit. But overnight? That was different. That was the thing I really wanted to do but kept putting off because—well, because nobody else’s schedule ever aligned with mine.

Then one day, scrolling Instagram, I saw photos of Tombstone Territorial Park. Jagged peaks. Otherworldly tundra. It looked like another planet. And something in me just… knew. I have to go there.

I’d been following several solo female backpackers online—women doing seriously amazing trips in gorgeous places. Their stories inspired me, challenged me, made me think: Why not me?

I had one month in Alaska. When would I ever get this chance again?

The logistics were actually perfect: the kids would be at camp for several days, my husband could handle the remote work and solo parenting, and I could coordinate it around everyone’s schedule. The only thing I didn’t have was a hiking partner.

So I had a choice: skip it and regret it, or go alone.

When I told my husband, he was supportive—he’s always supportive. Trusting. The kids thought it was cool that mom was going on an adventure. And honestly? I think part of me needed their permission. Not to ask for it exactly, but to know everyone would be okay while I claimed this time for myself.

Getting Ready: Food, Rain Gear & Bear Spray

I had most of my gear already from years of day hiking. But I needed a few things for a multi-day trip. I hit the Anchorage REI—grabbed dehydrated meals, found rain pants that would actually keep me dry, and bought bear spray.

The bear spray felt significant. This wasn’t Washington black bear country. This was Yukon grizzly territory. Real, no-joke wilderness.

But I was going anyway.

The Fourteen-Hour Drive (Plus a Barge)

I left Anchorage early in the morning, the city still quiet, my family still asleep. Fourteen hours ahead of me to get to Tombstone. Too far to do in one push and start hiking, so the plan was to drive to the park, camp near the interpretive center, then start the trail fresh the next morning.

I made a playlist before leaving—inspiring music, the kind that makes you feel like you can do anything. Songs that other solo female adventurers had probably listened to while driving to their own big trips. I let it play loud, windows down when the weather was good, singing along.

The Alaska Highway stretched north, the landscape changing from familiar to foreign. Mountains gave way to endless boreal forest, then started opening up into something more raw. I listened to the music, let my mind wander, thought about those other women who’d done harder things than this. Thought about what it meant to be doing this for myself.

And then: the barge.

There’s something about putting your car on a barge to cross a river that makes you realize you’re really committing. The wait, the crossing, the slow churn of water beneath you. I stood outside my car, watching the river, thinking: This is it. I’m really doing this. No turning back now.

After the barge, the landscape opened up even more. And then, finally, the peaks of Tombstone came into view—those jagged, impossible spires rising out of the tundra. My heart kicked up. Holy shit, I’m actually here.

First Night: Camping at the Interpretive Center

I pulled into the campground near the Tombstone Interpretive Centre as evening stretched on in that endless northern light. Set up my tent among other campers—some heading out on trail tomorrow like me, others just passing through on the Dempster Highway.

The views were incredible. Those jagged peaks surrounding me, the tundra rolling out in every direction. I made dinner on my camp stove, organized my gear, went through my checklist one more time.

And felt… excited. Not nervous, not scared. Excited.

I was alone. Completely independent. My family was hours and hours away. Nobody knew exactly where my tent was pitched. Nobody was checking on me or asking what I needed. I was just… here. On my own. Capable. Free.

It’s a feeling I’ve come to really love. That particular flavor of solitude that isn’t lonely, it’s liberating. Where you’re accountable only to yourself and the landscape.

Tomorrow I’d shoulder my pack and walk into the backcountry for four days. But tonight, I was here. At the edge of it. And I was ready.

Morning: The Interpretive Centre & Getting Oriented

The next morning, I checked in at the interpretive centre. Picked up my permits, got the rundown from the park staff. The Grizzly Bear Lake circuit—four days, three nights camping. Or in my case, four nights, because I’d booked that optional extra night back at Grizzly Lake at the end. Just in case.

The infrastructure surprised me: designated tent pads, cooking tents, bear lockers, even outhouses at each camp. This wasn’t dispersed wilderness camping. This was… structured solitude. Controlled. And honestly? That made me feel a lot better about going alone.

The mandatory bear canister rental was free (I had my own anyway), and the staff was matter-of-fact about grizzlies: keep food secured, cook in the designated areas, stay aware. The terrain is so open, they said, you’ll see bears long before they’re anywhere near you.

I drove to the trailhead. Time to start walking.

Day One: Up to Grizzly Lake

Distance: 11.3 km | Elevation: 900 m gain

Everyone warned me about the first 5 km—steep, relentless, muddy if it’s been raining. But it was July, the weather was good, and honestly? It was way easier than I expected. Maybe all those Seattle day hikes had prepared me better than I thought.

The trail climbed hard at first, switchbacking up through the trees, then breaking out onto the alpine ridge. And then—ridge walking. Miles of it. Mossy tundra and black shale, rolling up and down along the mountainside, the Tombstone peaks jagged and surreal in every direction.

The tundra itself was spongy underfoot—this living, breathing carpet of moss and low plants. Beautiful in a way I hadn’t expected. Delicate. The kind of landscape you immediately understand needs protection.

Around the 8-9 km mark, the trail opened up to a viewpoint. And there it was: Grizzly Lake, far below, this impossible turquoise gem set in a bowl of tundra and rock.

I stopped. Put down my pack. Just stared.

This. This is why I drove fourteen hours. This is why I’m here alone.

The descent to the lake was fast, losing all that elevation in a hurry, and then a simple river crossing on rocks—easier than I’d worried about—and I was there. Grizzly Lake campground.

Fourteen tent platforms spread across the tundra, two cooking tents, bear lockers, outhouses. Roped-off paths between everything to protect the fragile ground. Other campers were already there—a couple here, a small group there.

I picked a platform that felt right—not isolated, not right on top of anyone—and set up my tent.

Solo. I did this solo.

The Thing About Tombstone’s Camps: You’re Never Really Alone

Here’s what surprised me most: the way the camps are set up, you’re never really isolated. The platforms are close enough that you can see other tents, hear voices, feel the presence of other people. It’s communal without being crowded.

That first evening, I wandered over to the cooking tent—a covered structure with benches and tables where everyone prepares meals and hangs out. I met a couple from Canada who were also doing the circuit. We chatted about the trail, the weather forecast, our plans for the next day.

“You doing this solo?” they asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “First time.”

“That’s awesome.”

And it was. It felt awesome.

Day Two: Grizzly Lake to Talus Lake via Glissade Pass

Distance: 12.6 km | Elevation: 682 m gain / 678 m loss

Glissade Pass. The crux of the circuit. You can see it from Grizzly Lake camp—this steep gash in the mountain that you have to climb up and over. 400 meters of elevation gain in less than a kilometer. Everyone talks about it. Everyone worries about it.

The Canadian couple and I decided to tackle it together—not because I couldn’t do it alone, but because it made sense. Company for the technical section, then we’d all go our own pace afterward.

The Grizzly side is a boulder field that feeds into steep, grassy slope. When it’s wet, it’s apparently brutal. But we had good weather, and honestly? It was fine. Steep, yes. A workout, definitely. But not scary.

At the top, we paused to catch our breath and look back at Grizzly Lake far below. And then: the Divide side. A scree slope that you can basically ski down if you’re comfortable with loose rock.

I was comfortable. I scree-skied down, laughing, feeling like a kid.

We parted ways at the bottom—they were heading to Divide Lake, I was pushing on to Talus. Solo hiking again.

The terrain opened up into this vast, rolling tundra. Just me, the trail, and these massive views in every direction. This is when I felt truly alone. Not lonely—alone. Just me and the landscape. And it felt… incredible.

Talus Lake campground was smaller—10 platforms, one cooking tent. I set up, made dinner, chatted with other campers. Watched the light change on the peaks. Read in my tent as the evening stretched on forever in that northern July light.

Day Three: Talus to Divide Lake

Distance: 6.2 km | Elevation: Minimal

The easy day. A short hike, gentle terrain, arriving at Divide Lake camp early with time to kill.

I spent hours working on my photography. This was actually one of the reasons I needed to do this solo—I wanted to capture myself in this environment. Not rely on anyone else to take my photo, not compromise my vision, not feel rushed or like I was inconveniencing someone. Just me, my camera, my tripod, figuring it out.

The hardest part? The light. Summer in the Yukon means no real sunset, no real sunrise. Just this endless, even light that stretches on forever. Beautiful, but challenging for a photographer. I had to get creative with angles, timing, the way the light hit the peaks at different hours.

I practiced self-timer shots, adjusted the tripod over and over, ran back and forth to get in position. It was meditative. Creative. Exactly the kind of solo time I’d been craving. This is me. In this place. And I did this alone.

Then, around mid-afternoon, the rain came.

Not gentle rain—POURING. The kind that drums on your tent fly and makes you wonder if you remembered to stake everything down properly. I crawled into my tent with a book and just… existed. Reading, listening to the rain, feeling cozy and dry and completely content.

It lasted about an hour, and honestly? I loved it. We were all tucked into our little houses scattered across the tundra. I could hear other campers rustling around in their tents, the patter of rain on nylon, the occasional laugh or voice carrying across camp. Communal solitude.

At some point, a helicopter landed at the camp. I watched through my tent mesh as people climbed out—hikers coming in via heli access. It felt surreal. This remote place, but not too remote for helicopters.

The rain stopped eventually. I emerged, made dinner in the cooking tent, met more people. Everyone doing their own version of this trip. Everyone impressed that I was solo.

And I kept thinking: I’m not scared. I’m not lonely. I feel… proud. Independent. Capable. Like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Day Four: Divide Back to Grizzly Lake

Distance: 5.94 km | Elevation: 481 m gain / 497 m loss

Back over the pass, this time from the other direction. The scree-ski section became the boulder climb. Still manageable. Still way easier than I’d expected.

Arriving back at Grizzly Lake felt like coming home. I knew this camp now. Recognized some of the same faces still there. Set up on a different platform, made dinner, watched the evening light on the lake again.

The days had been warm—comfortable hiking weather. But the nights were cold, that high-altitude Yukon cold that reminds you where you are. I’d crawl into my sleeping bag and listen to the sounds of camp settling down, the occasional rustle of something outside (probably just other campers, definitely not a bear), and feel… safe. Proud. Like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

One more night. My last night. Tomorrow I’d hike out.

Day Five: Out

Distance: 11.3 km | Elevation: 449 m gain / 900 m loss

The hike out was fast. All downhill after the first climb, retracing my steps from Day One but in reverse. The ridge walk, the steep descent, back to the trailhead.

I threw my pack in the car and just sat there for a minute. Four nights. Four days. Solo. And I did it.

Not just survived it—loved it.

The Fourteen-Hour Drive Back (Processing Everything)

The drive back to Anchorage was different than the drive up. Fourteen hours to think. To process. To replay the whole trip in my head.

I wasn’t nervous anymore. Wasn’t wondering if I could do it. I knew I could. I’d just done it.

I thought about the trip, about what I’d discovered. About how solo didn’t mean isolated. How the infrastructure and other campers provided community while I still got those long, quiet stretches of solo hiking. How I’d felt proud and capable and independent in a way I hadn’t felt in years.

How I’d spent four days in grizzly country and never felt scared.

How I’d photographed myself in the Yukon tundra and figured out the light.

How I’d tackled Glissade Pass and thought, That’s it? That’s the hard part?

The Meal in Dawson City

But first, I stopped in Dawson City on the way back.

I’d been eating dehydrated camp meals for four days. I’d been hiking, sweating, working hard. And now I was going to sit down in a real restaurant and order real food and it was going to be the best meal of my life.

It was.

Not because the food was fancy (though it was good). But because it was earned. Every bite tasted like accomplishment. Like independence. Like: I just did that. I just solo backpacked the Grizzly Bear Lake circuit in the Yukon and now I’m sitting here, by myself, celebrating myself.

I texted my husband. Told him I was on my way home. That I’d done it. That I was okay—better than okay.

Then I finished my meal, paid the check, got back in the car, and drove the rest of the way to Anchorage.

What That Trip Actually Started

Tombstone wasn’t just my first solo backpacking trip—it was the start of many.

Back in Washington, I kept going: the North Cascades, the Olympics, the Alpine Lakes. Weekend overnights when my family was busy. Multi-day treks when the timing worked. That feeling I found in the Yukon—independence, capability, freedom—I wanted again and again.

I didn’t start solo backpacking because I was fearless. I started because I wanted to hike, no one else was free, and I realized: I can just go.

That Tombstone trip showed me solo doesn’t have to mean lonely or scary. Tent pads meant I was never truly isolated. Cooking tents gave me community when I wanted it. The open terrain felt safe, not exposed. And those solo stretches gave me exactly what I craved: space, quiet, the freedom to move at my own pace.

Every trip since has given me more than beautiful views. It’s the feeling of complete self-reliance—trusting my own decisions and claiming time that’s entirely mine.

What I Tell Women Who Say “Nobody Will Go With Me”

When women tell me they’d love to backpack but have no one to go with, I tell them what I learned in Tombstone:

That’s not a reason to stay home. It’s the reason to go.

Pick a place with structure—designated camps, other people around, a permit system. Solo doesn’t mean isolated. You’ll find community at camp, solitude on trail, and discover how capable you are.

I had one month in Alaska, no partner, and a dream of seeing the Yukon. So I went alone. That trip changed everything—not because I was fearless, but because it showed me I could.

Tombstone was my first solo backpacking trip. And definitely not my last.

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The Classic Circuit: Most people do 4 days/3 nights:

• Night 1: Grizzly Lake
• Night 2: Talus Lake (via Glissade Pass)
• Night 3: Divide Lake
• Night 4 (optional): Back at Grizzly Lake before hiking out

What You Need:

• Bear-resistant canister (mandatory – free rental at interpretive center)
• All camping must be on designated tent pads
• Cooking only in designated cooking tents
• No campfires permitted

When to Go: Late August to mid-September offers incredible fall colors. July has the longest days but also more rain and bugs.

More Info: Stop at the Tombstone Interpretive Centre for current conditions, bear activity, and trail updates before heading out.