The mosquitos are unbearable. Just one big swarm of buzz and torture; a constant, itchy white noise. Why is it the most beautiful places are tarnished with such terrors? Should’ve brought a net. And that word, human, the same word over and over again. It’s driving me mad. Underprepared and naive. If this was a tourist exploring the mountains back home in the Lake District, I’d be shocked at the unpreparedness. But this wasn’t really what I was supposed to be doing.

Back in late 2012 I’d set off to cycle around the US and Canada; eight months later I was in Alaska, walking along the Stampede Trail, just outside Denali National Park. The location of ‘the magic bus’. The place that Christopher McCandless used as a base to live off the land, and the place where it’s believed he starved to death. 20 miles away from the nearest town, away from people, with just moose, grizzly bears, 2 river crossings and a whole lot of Alaskan greenery for company.

For eight months cycling had been my life but now needed a break. In all honesty, it was driving me crazy. So much was going through my head that I was finding it hard to keep it together. Despite some incredible highs, I’d be lying if I said there hadn’t been some serious lows too. Mainly it was because I was doing the same thing for so long alone. I was wondering why I was doing it and why I wasn’t sharing the experience with someone else. Wondering whether I was a selfish person and whether there was something wrong with me for being drawn to these kind of trips. There had been lows recently that I’m not proud of. Some involving stopping, letting the bike fall over, and screaming out ‘FUUUUCCCCKKKKKKK’, head in hands and taking a moment – or two.

I needed to do something, anything that didn’t involve the bike. So I stopped pedalling when I reached a suitable building in Fairbanks and, in a typical Brit-on-an-adventure fashion, heightened my British accent to charm the receptionists with memories of Colin Frissell from Love Actually, and asked for a favour. Hopefully they’d be oblivious to the dirtiness that had built up recently. Thankfully they were, or at least didn’t mention it, and said I could lock up my bike and gear behind the building, and agreed to look after my electronics in their safe. Colin’s accent worked. It works a lot in the US. Thanks Colin.

I recall reading Into The Wild as an 18 year old. It’s a divisive story and touching in many ways. McCandless was willing to forgo obvious security to be drawn to a life of adventure, a desire to question perceived normality and a search for simplicity, solitude and self-sufficiency. That’s something not many people do when we’ve never been so busy, on our phones and constantly hitting the 9-5. Throughout the Alaskan portion of my adventure, I’d be reminded of the distaste the locals had for McCandless and his story. Exactly the same distaste I have for tourists who arrive in the Lake District and get lost or sprain an ankle and call for a helicopter rescue. Alaskans think of a disillusioned dreamer, naive to the realities of surviving in a harsh environment. They hate that people come from around the globe and get themselves in trouble, some have even been killed, after being spurred on more often than not by Sean Penn’s Hollywood adaptation.

A break was necessary, for sanity if nothing else, and I was in the area, so the decision was made. I didn’t expect it to be a profound experience or anything, and honestly, looked at it as more of a nice two day walking holiday than a spiritual pilgrimage. I went to the supermarket in Fairbanks just before it closed, bought a pack of 24 granola bars, and set off with a camera bag acting as a walking pack, a small tent, no sleeping bag, minimal running shoes and a 5mm thin foam mat – light and fast. Plus because this was a cycling trip I didn’t have access to walking gear.