32 Weeks Pregnant & Stranded in the Alaskan Wilderness

It’s taken me five years to write this. Maybe longer to fully process it.

I was hired to photograph a remote lodge deep in Wrangell–St. Elias, the largest designated wilderness in the United States—nearly 10 million acres of backcountry, mountains, and nothingness. Yosemite, by comparison, is a sliver. The lodge, grandfathered into a forgotten edge of this protected area, sits at the end of a bush plane flight with no road in, no road out.

The plan was to stay three weeks. I’d photograph guests fishing and hiking, flying in and out of glacier valleys. Lindsey—32 weeks pregnant at the time—and our two-year-old daughter came with me. It felt like a dream assignment: wild beauty, a rare photographic opportunity, and a last adventure before our family grew by one.

That changed on day three.

One of the three bush planes crashed while trying to land on a remote island beach—no one was hurt, but we were suddenly short a plane. With only two aircraft remaining, there was no way to extract everyone. So three of us stayed back to secure the downed plane from the incoming tide and wait six hours for a pickup.

I volunteered. I was eager for the adventure, eager to be useful. Lindsey and Norah stayed behind at basecamp, completely unaware.

Hours later, a red Piper Super Cub came in low—six hours too early. It touched down fast, barely braking. The pilot leaned out and shouted before the wheels even stopped:
“Get in! Get in! Go, go, go!”

No explanation. Just urgency. The four of us crammed into a three-seat plane and took off over the icy Pacific, dodging driftwood and cliffs. Back on the mainland, we regrouped. A fast-moving storm was coming in, and the pilot—going against protocol—decided to evacuate everyone before weather shut us in completely. We loaded two planes and flew over sharp ridgelines and glacial expanses just before visibility disappeared.

They wouldn’t get back to Kayak Island for ten more days to retrieve the downed plane.

The lodge had no guests now. Weather had spooked them all off. And with no one to subsidize my work, we were quietly stranded—tucked into a beautifully isolated, increasingly strange paradise. After a couple weeks pacing the same trails, the crew offered us a chance: a 24-hour drop-off at a trapper cabin even deeper in the wilderness.

I said yes.

The cabin sat on a slope between a glacial river and a near-vertical mountain. A shack, really—one window, no insulation, no running water. As soon as the plane lifted off, we were alone on a scale that’s hard to describe. Beautiful. Silent. Utterly detached from the rest of the world.

Until the weather turned again.

At first it was fog—creeping, then surrounding. We woke the next morning to a whiteout. No plane could land. At 9:00 AM we heard one circling overhead, unable to touch down. Our food supplies were minimal. We hadn’t packed to get stuck. No electricity, no heat. Lindsey was nearly eight months pregnant, and our toddler didn’t understand why we couldn’t go home.

The following morning was the same. And the day after that. The fog thickened. The satellite phone blinked with a single bar of battery. We rationed food. I watched Lindsey start to have light contractions. We had no trail out—only a theoretical four-day trek with no real gear to do it. No animals. No birds. No sound but the glacier groaning in the valley.

That kind of silence shifts something in you.

By day four, I walked to the edge of the clearing and saw it—a tear in the white. A narrow slit of blue down the valley. I sprinted to the sat phone. One call. One chance. The pilot had been camped out below, waiting for exactly this moment.

Minutes later, the plane emerged. Again, shouting before he stopped:
“Get in! Now! Go, go, go!”

Lindsey, carrying our daughter, ran uphill to meet him. We all piled in, took off from the wet grass, and threaded through the only break in the weather.

The shack disappeared behind us.

The emotions didn’t.

I will never forget the resilience of my wife or the quiet strength of my daughter. I’ve seen hunger and hardship before—in refugee camps, in places where food insecurity is systemic. But this was different. It was personal. I learned what it means to carry the weight of not being able to provide. To fear for the people you love with no backup plan.

It wasn’t the adventure I thought I was signing up for. But it was the one that changed me.