The Night We Chased the Glacier (and Found Dutch Neighbors at the Edge of Alaska)

We thought we were chasing a view, but the road had other plans. It led us into snow, starlight, and a meeting so unlikely it still feels made up.

Leaving Terrace

We left Terrace, BC around lunchtime, after one last stop at the market to say goodbye and stock up on groceries. Everyone had warned us: once you reach northern BC, grocery stores become rare—and if you find one, expect to pay double.

By the time we rolled into Stewart, it was edging toward dinnertime. We found the boardwalk and slipped into an easy pace—wood slats under our feet, tall green grasses swaying around us, mountains rising like watchful giants on all sides.

The girls ran ahead, spinning and laughing, turning the boardwalk into their stage. Élyssa wore a dress and high heels for the occasion—because even in the middle of nowhere, she knows how to make an entrance.

Dinner was picnic-style at the park by the school: camp stove hissing, carrots disappearing faster than we could slice them. The kids turned monkey bars into secret forts while we traded kitchen duty mid-stir. It felt like summer camp and home all at once.

The Idea

Somewhere between the last spoonful and the first yawn, a new idea arrived: What if we slept by the glacier? The day had kept all its promises—blue sky, soft breeze—so we let ourselves imagine the sunset draping Salmon Glacier in pinks and golds. Waking up there sounded like the kind of choice you remember for years.

To get there, we needed to pass through Hyder, Alaska—a tiny town at the end of the road. There’s no border going into Hyder; you just roll in with a surprised little laugh. Coming back into Canada is where the checkpoint sits. Between us and that view was about 20 miles of gravel on a forest service road.

We topped up our water, checked the tires, and promised each other we’d turn around if the road stopped feeling friendly. Then we eased onto the gravel, our Pink Sloth settling into its slow, patient rhythm. The forest leaned close—spruce and hemlock casting long, cool shadows. Every curve asked us to trust it a little more.

Climbing Into Snow

As we gained elevation, the air cooled, and patches of snow began to appear—first in ditches, then tracing the edges of the road. The girls pressed their faces to the window, whispering as if they might wake the mountain. That hush followed us all the way to the top.

When we finally pulled in near the glacier, we didn’t expect anyone. But there they were—two RVs tucked along the gravel, curtains glowing faintly in the fading light. I laughed and called out, “Hey, we’ve got friends!”

The joke was on me. Both rigs wore Dutch plates—not just one, but both. Simon grinned and, in true Pink Sloth fashion, parked us right between them. Bold. A little cheeky. Perfect.

One of the guys from the first RV stepped out—curious and friendly in that easy traveler way.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Québec,” I said, then couldn’t resist adding, “Maar ik spreek ook Nederlands!”

Side note for new readers: I’m Québec-raised with Dutch roots—my parents are from the Netherlands, and my mom kept Dutch alive at home. So when I blurt, “Maar ik spreek ook Nederlands!”, it feels less like showing off and more like stepping into a room I’ve always known.

His face lit up. Instantly we were less anonymous on a lonely mountain road—a Canadian family and two Dutch RVs, suddenly connected by language and the shared absurdity of meeting beside a glacier at the edge of Alaska. The girls waved. Someone laughed. A few familiar phrases—Wat leuk! Waar gaan jullie naartoe?—and the evening felt warmer, even with the glacier breathing cold nearby.

The Next Morning — Father’s Day, a Borrowed Signal

When I stepped out of the bus the next morning, the air smelled like snowmelt and pine. That’s when I met Corrine—our new neighbor at the glacier overlook.

When Corrine stepped out, smiling, she said: “My daughter and you have the same name!”For a second I wondered how she knew—then remembered: it’s on our blog.

It also happened to be Father’s Day. I’d hoped to call my dad, but the mountains were hoarding all the cell service. Corrine said they had Starlink and offered to let me connect. I can’t remember a time I felt more grateful for a borrowed password.

Standing there with the glacier breathing cold and steady behind us, I heard my father’s voice crackle through the mountains. We wished each other a happy Father’s Day, traded a few details about the road, and promised photos when we had proper service again. The girls took turns saying hello.

It felt like we’d threaded two worlds together with a single, generous beam of satellite light.

Serendipity at the Edge of Alaska

We’d come for solitude and found serendipity instead—a tiny roadside community formed around dust, sunset, Dutch license plates, and the kindness of sharing a signal at the end of the world.