"My definition of wilderness is unpredictability," said Paul Claus, our pilot and owner of Ultima Thule Outfitters, as we flew into a fog-filled pass. He had just radioed the lodge for a weather check, where "Granny" (his mother Eleanor), said it was blowing snow and she could hardly see Bear Island. "Weather is the most unpredictable," he said.
Our group of seven, piled into a turbine Otter along with the weekly grocery haul, was headed toward the unpredictable, the unknown—toward Ultima Thule, in fact, both the lodge and the idea. The medieval definition of ultima Thule is any distant place located beyond the known world. As we wound our way 100 miles deep into the Wrangells, that's how it felt.
In addition to a weather briefing, we had all received a functioning headset, and now a guided geography lesson. It was a land of superlatives we entered: Wrangell-St. Elias National Park—the largest in North America; Bagley icefield—the largest non-polar icefield in North America; Mt. St. Elias—the largest vertical rock face on the planet. Paul called this place the last true wilderness on earth.
For three generations, the Claus family has made a life and a living in these mountains, starting with five acres that Paul's father, John, homesteaded in 1961. The rest of the Ultima Thule team are each as accomplished. Paul is a renowned bush pilot and mountaineer. His wife, Donna, is a decorated skier. Their daughter, Ellie, was a junior Iditarod champion and maintains the record for youngest Iditarod finisher. Their son, Jay, is a mountaineer and licensed hunting guide. Their younger daughter, Logan, is an accomplished pilot, artist and free spirit. Ellie's husband, Ben, is a search and rescue helicopter pilot for the Alaska Air National Guard. Granny runs marathons. She trains by running up and down their half-mile runway, and qualified for the Boston Marathon at 60.
Since spring break-up was making a mess out of said runway, Paul carefully lowered the plane onto an ice bar alongside the Chitina River, and we landed at Ultima Thule, on skis, no less. Low visibility added mystery to the already unknown, and mountain peaks towered beyond the cloud ceiling. It was quite a scene.
As Ellie guided our small group to the lodge grounds, she discussed glaciers, grocery logistics and gardening. "We flew in two Otter loads of starts last year," she said as we passed the hillside gardens that would be brimming with flowers and vegetables by summertime. A sauna, wood-fired hot tub and taxidermy-bedecked cabins rounded out the accommodations.
Inside each cabin, two growlers of glacier water, chocolates and a smoked salmon spread, cheese and apple platter awaited. But the real gem in my experience was the main lodge—a place of warmth, good company, storytelling, music, family photo albums, fresh cookies and craft beer. For all of the Claus' effort to share their piece of wilderness, they do a fabulous job of making guests feel like they're the furthest thing from it.
"Can I get you something to drink?" came a question from the kitchen as I sat down at the counter to observe dinnertime prep. I requested a lemonade. "Do you want it sparkling?" Ellie asked as she pulled out the SodaStream. Of course, I did.
No sooner had I finished my sparkling, unfiltered glacier water lemonade than I was asked whether I wanted wine with dinner. Definitely. Red or white? It depended on the meat we were having. Ellie peeked into the kitchen, and came back: "What goes best with moose?"
Dinner conversation was as well-rounded as the menu. By the time we reached dessert (a layered sponge cake inlaid with the words "Ultima Thule" in dark chocolate syrup), Paul had covered homesteading, park service relations, even ANILCA. It takes a lot of energy to entertain, and for someone who could leave hosting to the help, I thought it was especially gracious that he made a deliberate effort to connect with each guest.
Over coffees and cocoa, we talked more about wilderness, as a philosophy and a lifestyle.
"Everyone who comes here wants to experience wilderness," Paul said."But they don't know what that means," Ellie added as they recalled guests who have come with predetermined adventures, meals, even stories they want Paul to tell, based on a previous guest's experience.
"It takes time to disconnect," Ellie said.
I remembered what Paul had said during the flight, about wilderness meaning unpredictability, and it made perfect sense that a part of helping their guests experience wilderness meant helping them adapt to it. I realized how they had already eased me into this place beyond the known world: annotated flight and grounds tours, sparkling lemonade, moose meatloaf encased in a flaky pie crust.
By late evening, I was exhausted, and retreated to my toasty cabin. I was already in my pajamas when our photographer snagged me to come see the Northern Lights. There followed a party in the hot tub, while the highly active aurora overhead reflected off the water, making it glow green.
You really can't plan for a night like that, or recreate it.
Sharing those moments, not creating them, is what team Ultima Thule does every day. They show you that wilderness isn't about isolation. It's about community and exploration and discovery. They offer unlimited, customized adventuring—flightseeing, fishing, hiking, skiing, rafting, beach combing, glacier sledding—all-inclusive with the package rate. Because each day at Ultima Thule is new and unpredictable. You never know what it will bring.
For the Claus kids, the confidence and resourcefulness they learned growing up at the lodge goes way beyond the Wrangells. Whether traveling the world or exploring other endeavors, "We feel like we have the skill set to just go," Ellie told me the next morning over espresso. Fortunately for their clientele, they're not going anywhere.
While she intends to continue marketing, improving their customer service strategy and creating that "wow" factor, Jay has plans to expand the operation into other areas of the park, and Logan will continue to assist with operations and artistic flair.
"We're not investing ourselves because we have to, but because we're really lucky," Ellie said, speaking for the three of them.
Her tone reminded me once more of our dinner conversation: "Ultima Thule…what does it mean again?" I had asked.
"A land remote beyond reckoning," Paul said wistfully, probably for the thousandth time, and still with wonder.
This story appeared in the May 2015 issue of 61º North Magazine. Contact 61º editor Jamie Gonzales at jgonzales@alaskadispatch.com.