Every summer, I vanish.
No email. No meetings. No alerts, updates, or conference calls. I trade the world of screen time and artificial urgency for something raw, wet, cold—and real. I disappear into the Alaskan backcountry, strap on a drysuit, fire up an old 6” dredge, and go hunting for gold.
It’s not your typical vacation. It’s physically demanding, logistically complex, and full of unpredictable wild moments. But I’ve been doing it for years, and I don’t plan on stopping.
Why?
Because in a world obsessed with comfort, speed, and constant connection, there’s something sacred about choosing the hard way. Gold dredging resets me. It reminds me what effort feels like, what quiet sounds like, and what I feel like without all the noise.
The Journey vs. the Destination
I didn’t grow up doing this. I wasn’t raised by prospectors or wilderness survivalists. I was introduced to gold dredging later in life, almost by accident. Gold was introduced early in life. I wanted to try something different… and well… here we are.
That first time changed everything. It was messy and uncomfortable and, frankly, way harder than I expected. But it lit something up in me. Something ancient and stubborn and curious.
Because here’s the thing: when you’re out there on the river, digging into gravel beds for flecks of metal, you start to think bigger. Not just about the gold, but about the meaning behind the effort. About the tension between journey and destination.
Do we work only for the reward at the end—or is the doing the real treasure?
I think gold dredging answers that question in its own quiet, grueling way.
The Daily Grind (and Joy)
Every day in the river follows its own rhythm. We wake up early—sometimes after a night of rain pounding on the hooch roof or bears crunching around in the woods. Coffee gets made fast. (Thanks Ginger!) Gear gets loaded faster. You don’t dawdle in Alaska. The weather, the water, and the wildlife won’t wait.
We run a 6” dredge every year. It’s not fancy, but it’s ours for the time. Rugged, reliable, and a little moody—like all small engines that spend more time in the elements than they probably should. Some days it starts up on the first pull and hums like a song. Other days, you spend half an hour sweet-talking it and praying to the carburetor gods.
But when it runs, it’s beautiful.
Dredging is hard work. You haul rocks underwater, vacuum gravel beds, and process it all through a sluice box, hoping to catch glints of gold. The river’s cold—always. No matter how warm the sun feels on your back, the water never forgets its glacial source.
After hours of physical labor, you return to camp wet, sore, and deeply, deeply satisfied. That night’s dinner—cooked with like like a feast for kings—tastes better than anything you’ve had in a restaurant.
It’s work hard, play hard in the most primal, satisfying way.
When the Wild Shows Up
Every year brings at least one story you couldn’t make up. One of the most unforgettable?
I was dredging the river when I saw a black blur crashing through the trees on the opposite bank. A bear. And not just lumbering along—chasing something.
Seconds later, a moose thundered into view, clearly the object of that bear’s focus. They splashed into the water, headed straight for the other side of the river from where we were working. It was one of those moments that hits you square in the chest. Wild. Raw. Unfiltered nature.
We fired a shot into the air—just to make sure neither animal decided to cross in our direction. It worked. The bear stopped, looked, and ran back up the hill. And the moose? It followed it. I still don’t know what to make of that. Whether it was fear, confusion, or just some primal code we’ll never understand.
But I’ll never forget it. Because you don’t get moments like that unless you go to places that still surprise you.
More Than Paid For
Some people assume this kind of trip is a money pit. That we pour time, money, and gear into the wilderness for a handful of shiny dust.
But here’s the truth: I’ve been fortunate enough to pay for these trips many times over. The gold we find adds up, year after year, and while it’s not a full-time income, it absolutely offsets the cost—and then some.
Still, the real value isn’t measured in ounces or dollars. It’s measured in mindset. I come home richer in ways most bank accounts can’t track.
Coming Back Changed
Flying back into civilization always feels like re-entry from another planet. The phone lights up. The pace quickens. The noise returns.
Alaska used to be a place where you could be fully disconnected. These days, signal is creeping in. You can check in—if you really want to. But I still try not to. Because that freedom from pings and pings and algorithms? That’s increasingly rare. And increasingly necessary.
That stretch of river, that dredge, that time away—it’s my happy place. My reminder that you can still choose a life of intention over automation. That discomfort can be joyful. That silence can be golden, even when there’s no gold.
Why I Keep Going
So why do I do it? Why keep hauling that dredge across rivers and rocks? Why keep subjecting myself to cold water, engine problems, wet boots, and unexpected bear encounters?
Because it strips life down to what matters.
Out there, the world makes sense. You put in effort, you get results—or you don’t, and you learn. You solve problems with your hands. You eat when you’re hungry. You rest when you’re tired. No pretending. No scrolling. No algorithms.
Just effort. Nature. And a little shimmer in the pan if you’re lucky.
I’ll keep going back every year as long as my body lets me. Not for the gold, but for the grounding. For the stories. For the silence. For the version of myself I get to be out there—unfiltered, unplugged, and fully alive.
If you want to know where I go, or what I do… or heck you want to come along. Reach out.
