On the Edge of 63

In a few days, I’ll stand at the National Park of American Samoa, and with that visit, I’ll complete something that has quietly shaped most of my adult life.

It will be my 63rd U.S. National Park.

That number still feels unreal.

I’ve been visiting National Parks since 2008, long before I ever imagined this would become a goal, let alone a defining thread in my life. My first park was Haleakalā, in Maui, the day before my wife and I got married. We woke up early and drove above the clouds to watch the sun rise over the crater. The light broke through in layers, clouds stretched endlessly below us, and everything felt surreal.

At the time, it was just a beautiful moment. I had no idea it was the beginning of something much larger.

The Idea Takes Hold

The following year, I watched Ken Burns’ America’s Best Idea. It wasn’t just the history of the parks — Yosemite, Yellowstone, the creation of America's National Parks — that stayed with me. It was the stories of people whose lives were shaped by these places. Couples who traveled together. Individuals who made it their life’s work to see and document them all.

After watching that series, I told my wife, “I’m going to see all of the National Parks.”

It sounded ambitious. Maybe even unrealistic. But the idea never left.

Learning the Road

Our first major National Parks road trip came in 2010. We drove to Yellowstone and Glacier, passing through Grand Teton along the way. That trip didn’t just cement my love for the parks — it gave birth to my love of driving to them. Being on the road. Moving through landscapes slowly. Watching places change mile by mile.

In Glacier, hiking above treeline and seeing emerald lakes surrounded by towering peaks, I realized something else had taken hold: I loved the mountains. That feeling of space, elevation, and scale became something I kept chasing.

Over the next few years, we visited one or two new parks at a time. Some trips were solo. Some were with family. The pace was steady, but the pull kept growing.

Yosemite Changes Everything

In 2014, I went to Yosemite for the first time.

We flew to San Francisco, stopped at Muir Woods, and stayed in Wawona. The day we drove into Yosemite Valley and stopped at Tunnel View, everything shifted. Standing there, looking out at El Capitan and Half Dome for the first time, I remember saying to my wife, “When we move to California, we can come here all the time.”

It wasn’t if. It was when.

From that point on, Yosemite became a gravitational center. I kept returning, again and again. Before I ever lived in California, I had already been there nine times. No other park came close, either in how often I visited or in how deeply it shaped me.

Learning to Be Alone

Around 2016, something else started to evolve. I began backpacking more seriously.

That year, I flew alone on a float plane to Isle Royale and backpacked the entire island from west to east — 42 miles, four days, completely solo. When the plane lifted off behind me and the sound faded away, it hit me: I was on my own, far from help, in one of the least visited parks in the system.

That trip changed me. It taught me self-reliance. It showed me that I could do hard, uncomfortable things alone — and come out stronger. That confidence would quietly shape everything that followed.

Acceleration and Van Life

Between 2016 and 2019, the pace picked up. Six, seven, eight parks in a year. Big road trips. The Utah Big Five. The West Coast. By 2018, I’d reached 31 parks, nearly halfway to the goal.

In 2019, after watching Free Solo, I became fascinated not just with climbing, but with van life. The idea of living simply, moving freely, and waking up in wild places stuck with me. By the end of that year, I bought an empty cargo van and converted it myself.

It wasn’t glamorous at first — especially testing it out in Wisconsin — but it was the beginning of a new way of moving through the world.

2020: Everything Shifts

Then came 2020.

Before the lockdowns even fully set in, life was already changing. My wife lost a job she’d held for over a decade. Our kids were grown and moving on. One day, without much planning, I asked my boss if I could relocate to California and keep my job.

A week later, it was approved.

We sold our house in two days, packed everything up, and moved west. I never returned to a physical office. Suddenly, Yosemite wasn’t a destination — it was part of my life.

My first Yosemite trip in the van was surreal… and also painful. Our dog Kona wasn’t there anymore. I was standing in a place I’d dreamed about, living a vision I’d worked toward, while carrying real loss. Pride and grief existed side by side.

The Push to Finish

By 2021, I was stuck at 37 parks. I knew that if I didn’t make a deliberate push, I’d never finish.

Early 2022 started with Florida — camping out of a rented minivan to visit Everglades, Biscayne, and finally Dry Tortugas. Standing at Fort Jefferson, after worrying the ferry might be canceled, I felt that familiar lump in my throat. Another long-imagined place finally real.

Later that year, I drove across the country in my van for two months, visiting 13 new parks in one trip. Maine’s Acadia in late fall became a highlight — climbing the Precipice and Beehive Trails, watching sunrise from Cadillac Mountain, eating lobster and blueberry pie in Bar Harbor.

There were also box-checking parks — Cuyahoga Valley, Congaree, Hot Springs — places I’m glad I saw, even if they don’t stir my soul the same way.

On the way back west, Carlsbad Caverns surprised me with its sheer scale, and White Sands became the final park of the lower 48. I was at 54 parks.

Alaska Changes the Scale

To finish, I knew I had to face Alaska — not casually, but intentionally.

In 2024, I drove there and spent two months visiting all eight Alaska National Parks. I booked a guided trip in Gates of the Arctic with Andrew Skurka — someone whose advice had shaped my backpacking for years — because Alaska isn’t a place to underestimate.

Alaska exceeded every expectation. Each Alaska National Park is a treasure — places that could take a lifetime to fully explore.

Hearing humpback whales breathe from inside my tent in Glacier Bay. Watching glaciers calve in Kenai Fjords. Kayaking at Lake Clark. Sand dunes at Kobuk Valley. Walking through rivers at Denali. Bears at Katmai.

Wrangell–St. Elias — the largest park in the system — became my 62nd. I barely scratched the surface, and I already knew I would return to Alaska again.

Katmai instantly became one of my favorite parks anywhere. Watching dozens of bears fishing at once is something I’ll never forget.

If I didn’t live in California, I’d live in Alaska.

The Final Steps

In 2025, the miles kept coming. Utah again. Glacier again. Yosemite again — 11 times so far this year. 42 individual park visits total this year alone. The most I’ve ever done.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I told my wife, “We need to go to American Samoa. Now.”

She asked for the time off. I booked the flights. The rest fell into place.

On Tuesday, I’ll walk into the Visitor Center in American Samoa and complete something that’s taken 17 years.

I don’t know exactly how it will feel. I expect tears. Gratitude. Maybe a little uncertainty about what comes next.

What I do know is that my wife will be there — the same person who stood with me at Haleakalā in 2008, before any of this existed.

As for what’s next? I’m not declaring a new quest.

I’ll probably just go back to Yosemite.

And keep going back.