The Kenai peninsula is where I spent my entire trip. As you can see by the index finger it is only a small part of the state of Alaska. But there was plenty to see, and I saw it well.

Half-Ass and Honey Bucket received me at the airport. From there we drove to their friend's house in Anchorage. According to everyone I talked to -- and every city, town, or village I explored -- Anchorage is the least Alaska-like place in Alaska. And Alaskans retain a general disdain for this town and I can see why. If there were a color that best represented my memory of Anchorage, it would be gray.

From where I stood, most Alaskans see Anchorage as the place for Alaskans who don't really want to deal with the obnoxious terrorism of an Alaskan winter, but still would like to call themselves "Alaskans."

There is a powerful sense of pride here. To be an Alaskan, generally, means to be different than the masses; Stronger than the masses; more in touch with the planet than the masses; smarter than the masses. Harder boozers than the masses; stouter than the masses; and loathing of the masses.

And nowhere have I found anyone who feels this passionately about Alaska and Alaskans (and their relationship with the masses) more than Half-Ass and Honey Bucket feel.

(Note: H.A. and H.B. are there real nicknames. I did not make them up. However I was asked not to use their legal birth names because, well, I can't tell you why. Sorry.)

The point is, I've known H.A. a long time. And what I admire most about him, is the large quantity of McCandless blood he has coursing through him. H.A. doesn't have pure McCandless blood, obviously. But it's more than I have - and I have an ample dose (figuratively of course. The blood I literally have in my veins is that of John Muir, another Badass adventurer. I'm told I am his great nephew on my father's mother's side. Her name is Christina Muir. It is my belief that my wanderlust comes from him.)

MORE ON HALF ASS.

He thrives on the outskirts of society, in the shadows of canyons and trees and amps. He follows few rules, and doesn't give two rat's asses and rotten pickle about what anyone thinks of him. When he does follow rules, they are usually rules of "respect."

He was born in San Diego, which he now abhors. The San Diego he knew is dead; overrun by people like me who moved here for natural beauty and the California lifestyle and killing it in the process.

He is an artist who meanders on a bike he bicycle he built himself, among the punks and the rastas of Mission Beach, Ocean Beach and North Park, and God knows where else. Maybe you've seen his murals. This one is behind the Jack in the Box, catercorner from the coaster.

He doesn't drive a car. Never has. He doesn't know how. One time he coerced me to leave a party in North Park at 2am -- drunk and stoned -- to drive to San Francisco to party some more. I agreed. After we got through the grapevine, I couldn't keep my eyes open. I demanded that he drive. He said he didn't know how. I said, that it wasn't possible to not know how to drive. The car was automatic, all he had to do was gas and steer…. Simple.

We almost died.

He doesn't like to be photographed. I had to sneak this picture when he wasn't looking. I had to sneak every photo I took of him.)

H.A. will often rant about the hypocrisy and absurdity and ugliness of our culture. One of his favorite rants is how the California State Flag has the image of a bear on it, yet we chased the bears out of here a long time ago.

He's right about how sad that is, but I argued that it would be even worse if we took the bear off the flag and totally forgot what this land used to be and who used to live here. Maybe the bear will remind us to stop, or at least slow, our ravaging ways.

And so it came as no surprise when he told me he met the girl of his dreams (an ex-stripper who looks and acts nothing like you would expect a stripper to look or act) and moving to Alaska.

And now, on the way to their friend's house in Anchorage, they bubble with delight as they share all the adventures they've had since arriving, and all the adventures around the corner.

Our first trip was going to be Denali National Park. H.B. couldn't go because she had to do a week of city tours. She works for Princess tours and drives tour busses in and out of Denali National Park, one of the most beautiful places in the world. However, this week she had to drive the city tour, which meant I was going to have to drive the truck. And that, my friends, is an honor.

They drive around in a puke yellow Toyota pick-up that doesn't drive faster than 50 mph. And since Alaska is notorious for having awful drivers, people routinely whizzed by us, sometimes in dangerous situations. Once I even had to slam the brakes and pull sharply right to the shoulder because a driver underestimated the approaching semi when he tried to pass. To make matters worse, sometimes the gas pedal stuck and I'd have to punch the gas pedal a few times to get it unstuck.

But I love the little bastard.

Half Ass painted the design of the Flying Tiger, a World War II , fighter plane (the Curtis P-40 Warhawk). The tiger and Chinese star are on the hood and the tiger's teeth are on each side of the front wheel wells, much like those beautifully vicious warplanes. There is also painting of Honey Bucket, in the nude, standing in a pond, on the right rear wheel well.

People stop us on the street. Everyone checks it out as they pass us by, chicks dig it. We get stares (and confused glares) on the road, at the gas stops, and in the grimy fork diners along the way.

This one guy, a Vietnam vet named Dick Slater, approached us in Seward. He was so taken with the painting, and the man who painted it, that he invited us to the bar across the street, the Showcase Lounge (a dive to be certain) and bought us a few drinks. His name was Dick Slater and he was an old, drunk ornery bastard. More on that later.

So, the next day, in preparation for our Denali camping adventure, we went shopping for supplies. The day after that we headed to Denali.

H.A. couldn't wait to get there. He had spent the summer in Troublesome Creek, just outside of Denali, in a tent with H.B. she drove the Denali busses and he kept camp. They told tales of great joy: like how the Denali dunes were deep red and they felt like they were living on Mars.

They talked of despair: as when the mosquitoes came like a cloud of bats and they could not leave the tent without being violently assaulted and that that they had to wear three layers of clothes in the Summer if they didn't want to be siphoned, permanently. "The mosquito," the locals joke, "is the Alaskan state bird."

And they told tales of fear and wonder: like in Troublesome Creek, when they came upon a grizzly fishing in a stream. They stopped dead in their tracks. The grizzly noted their presence, and kept fishing. A grizzly, my friends, can kill your ass. A LOT.

And this, was where we were headed. To wild Denali: home of moose and bear and fox and cold; home of Troublesome Creek, Hurricane Gulch, the Savage River, and the Soiled Underpants.

Home to the soul of Christopher McCandless.

How to Die in Alaska

1. The Jokulhaup. (Pronounced Yok-lope. They are flash floods from glaciers)
2. Wading Boots. (I heard about how an Alaskan fisherman's wading boots had filled with water. He was pulled downstream and drowned)
3. Pondhopper Plane Crash (see Will Rogers)
4. Food Poisoning. (besides Chris McCandless vile potato roots, another famous alleged food poisoning story is that of President Warren G. Harding
In 1923 Harding went to Alaska to drive the ceremonious golden spike to signify the completion of the Alaska Railroad. He died two weeks later. Some speculate that he was poisoned by his wife or by foes.
5. Baneberries.
6. Monkshood. (a flower).
7. Glacier Cracks. (The badasses who cross ice fields and glaciers are in danger of sliding down these fissures that lead into the stomach of the glaciers. They can be a mile long. The mouths of the cracks are often covered with snow and often not detected until sliding to their death. [Men who have braved these icy serpents: Christopher McCandless, Jon Krakauer [author of Into the Wild], John Muir, and Yule Kilcher [Jewel's Grandfather.]
8. Hypothermia.
9. Crab fishing in the Bering Sea. (Calculated by the most on-duty deaths per capita, this is the most dangerous occupation in the world.
10. Bears. (More on this later).
11. Avalanches.
12. Drunk Drivers. (This is a serious problem in Alaska. Those long, cold winters make for quite a thirst and loneliness that only a bar can quench. There are more bars per capita in Alaska than any other state).
13. Bore-Tide/Mudflats. (In Anchorage, and along The Cook Inlet, are these mudflats that separate the beach from the water. They are a cross between a Venus fly trap and quicksand. If you go out on them you'll get stuck. Now the mudflats themselves won't kill you. It will just hold you there until help arrives. The problem is the bore-tide: an unpredictable tidal wave that shoves through the Cook Inlet from the force of the Pacific Ocean and floods the mudflats. If that comes when you are stuck… you are dead.
14. Earthquake.

"On March 27, 1964 a 9.2 earthquake ravaged Anchorage and it's surrounding areas. The quake caused much of Anchorage to sink 3 or 4 feet into the earth. When that happened the soil filled with salt water and simultaneously killed and preserved many trees. These embalmed trees can be found all through area.