Skagway

If your idea of adventure is squeezing into a vintage railcar and rumbling perilously close to cliff edges while soaking in scenery that would make an Instagram influencer weep openly, then the White Pass & Yukon Route Railroad is your ticket to paradise-albeit a slightly rusty, squeaky paradise. This old iron horse, forged in the manic gold frenzy of 1898, twists boldly through sheer mountain passes and emerald-hued forests as if daring gravity itself into a showdown. Go ahead and opt for the early morning departure; the crisp mountain air sharpens the senses, and the sunlight hits those snow-dusted peaks just right-plus, fewer tourists elbowing you out of the way for the perfect photo. Reserve your tickets at least a month in advance during high season; spontaneity is charming but doesn't score you a seat aboard history. Budget around $140 per adult, and wear layers-weather along the route changes its mind faster than a hungry prospector deciding between beans or bacon. Pack some snacks, binoculars, and a decent flask-trust me, that historical romance of frontier hardship tastes better with a splash of bourbon. Ultimately, even if historical trains aren't your thing, you ride the White Pass & Yukon Route Railroad because it's the closest you'll get to experiencing the raw madness of Klondike gold fever-without frostbite or losing your teeth to scurvy. And let's be real-how many of your friends can casually one-up your weekend hiking tales with, "Well, when I crossed the perilous White Pass by train..."?

Embarking on the Glacier Point Wilderness Safari is like stepping into an adventure novel penned after an evening spent drinking bourbon with Shackleton and Hemingway. This journey-part leisurely canoe paddle, part thigh-burning trek-drops you right into the lap of raw Alaskan wilderness, navigating ice-cold waterways and scrambling up rocky slopes toward a glacier so remote it probably hasn't been insulted by human selfies yet. Locals whisper that glaciers have memory, silent giants holding frozen secrets from the last Ice Age, but they also remind you cheerfully that nature's temperament can shift faster than your mood without coffee, so pack accordingly. Dress in layers like an onion with trust issues, slip waterproof gear over your skepticism, stuff extra socks in your pack, and budget about $200-$300 per person; book at least a month ahead, and aim for an early morning start when the air is clear, wildlife abundant, and crowds about as scarce as Wi-Fi signals. Sure, your arms will ache from paddling, and your boots will fill with glacier silt, but standing in front of that glacial mass-blue ice glowing eerily under the midnight sun-you'll feel a peculiar kinship with explorers of old, or at least earn the right to exaggerate shamelessly about the adventure when you're back home.

Forget sunscreen-soaked beaches or umbrella drinks-this summer, you're strapping yourself onto a flimsy wooden sled behind a squadron of absurdly energetic huskies somewhere atop Alaska's Denver Glacier. Yes, dog sledding-because nothing screams vacation like clinging desperately to icy handlebars, shouting encouragement at dogs named things like Thor, Luna, and Mr. Pickles. Historically, dog sledding was serious business in these parts, a lifesaving link between remote communities, and now, wonderfully, it's your ticket to adrenaline-fueled bragging rights. Book at least two weeks ahead, as even icy exploits tend to sell fast, and expect to drop around $500 per person (hey, glacier-level fun doesn't come cheap). Bring sunglasses, layers, and waterproof gear-because glaciers, astonishingly enough, are cold even in summer-and schedule your adventure early in the morning, when the ice sparkles and the dogs are brimming with caffeinated enthusiasm. In the end, it's worth every penny, every shiver, every white-knuckled second-for the thrill, the scenery, and above all, the absolute joy of casually dropping, "Oh, last summer I went dog sledding...on a glacier," at every dinner party forever after.