The USS Hornet is a nearly 900-foot-long aircraft carrier from the World War II era, designed to launch and land planes out at sea. After 26 years of service, she was decommissioned in June 1970 and sold for scrap – until a nonprofit organization decided that was no way for a ship like this to bow out. So, they towed it back up to Alameda Point, a former naval air station across the bay from San Francisco and turned the USS Hornet into a museum.
The carrier has been living at Alameda Point for close to thirty years, and for most of the time, it has played two roles for visitors. One of these is showing off its own history and other miscellaneous achievements like when it pulled the Apollo 11 crew, the first people to walk on the moon, out of the Pacific. Then there’s the other side, where the ship doubles as one of the more unique event venues in the Bay Area, hosting everything on its decks from anime conventions to raves. Lately, though, the second role has put the museum at odds with the city, and the fallout has the foundation wondering whether the Hornet’s days in Alameda are numbered. Unfortunately, even the relocation won’t come cheap, as the ship needs work it can’t pay for its own.
A safety review put a lid on the big crowds
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The City of Alameda recently introduced a cap on the number of people that can be aboard the Hornet at any one moment. The cap is a mere 660 people, including staff, which is a pretty notable drop for a venue that once hosted events like Rattleship, a two-day rave. In fact, a new edition of that event even got canceled due to these new regulations. Put into perspective, the ship boasted a crew complement of up to 3,500 sailors following WWII.
To be fair, the cap has a pretty solid reason behind it — safety — since the ship currently lacks suitable escape routes. As it stands, the gangways linking the ship to its pier, along with the stairs running between decks, simply can’t move a big crowd off fast enough in case of a fire. This isn’t some quirk limited to the Hornet alone, though, as similar ship museums across the country – 300 of them – have to deal with similar rules, specifically around whatever the local fire code demands. One example is the Hornet’s sister ship, the USS Intrepid, which has been converted into a similar museum — except it’s docked in New York. It moves roughly a million visitors a year, which it’s able to pull off without any restrictions because it’s fitted with six wide, gently sloping gangways.
Fitting the ship with a similar setup will certainly help remove the cap, but it won’t fix the deeper issue: The Alameda simply draws very few day-to-day visitors. So, the foundation is eyeing San Francisco instead. With its busier waterfront, the Hornet will be able to pull far bigger crowds there. At the same time, it will get a new pier with improved gangways built to handle large events.
Staying won’t be cheap, and leaving might cost more
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Regardless of whether the ship chooses to leave or stay, it still needs money, estimated at around $250,000, to simply clear the city’s immediate safety checklist. That’s mostly for adding another gangway to support bigger crowds. But that’s only part of the expenses. Overall upkeep on this ship actually climbs into the millions, which is the kind of bill that lands on any old Navy ship getting a major facelift. In fact, the foundation closed the fiscal year ending 2024 roughly $865,000 in the hole – although things have thankfully picked up since, with 2025 revenue climbing past $3 million. Those big events matter more than you’d guess, too, because they now bring in close to a third of what the museum earns.
However, moving comes at substantial price as well. San Francisco’s port makes any incoming historic ship cover costs including a feasibility study, moving costs, berthing facilities and more. After that comes the actual trip, which needs tugboats and a Coast Guard sign-off. All of this will cost money, but it will also attract many more visitors. Currently, the Hornet pulls close to 100,000 visitors a year, and that figure is set to dramatically increase should the ship find a new spot in the city. The foundation plans to start raising money this summer to study whether the math really adds up.
There are places in the world where everything feels accounted for. The roads are smooth, the signs are clear, and the experience has been carefully arranged long before you arrive. Adventure exists, technically, but only within boundaries that make it predictable. Nothing unexpected happens. Nothing pushes back.
And then there are places that still feel wild.
Not reckless. Not uncomfortable. Just untamed enough that you feel like a guest rather than a consumer. Places where the land doesn’t bend to human schedules, where weather sets the tone for the day, and where nature isn’t something you observe from a distance — it’s something you move through, adapt to, and occasionally surrender to. Traveling somewhere that still feels wild changes you in quiet, persistent ways. It slows your thinking. Sharpens your senses. Reminds you how small you are — and how good that can feel.
Alaska is the clearest example we know. But the feeling itself, the pull toward the wild, extends far beyond one place on the map.
The Absence of Predictability Is the Point
Photo Credit: Jenn Coleman.
When you travel somewhere wild, certainty disappears almost immediately. Plans turn into loose outlines. Timelines soften. The assumption that you’re fully in control starts to fade — and that’s exactly where the experience opens up.
In Alaska, weather doesn’t politely cooperate. Flights wait. Boats adjust for tides. Trails change overnight. Wildlife appears on its own terms, not when you’re ready with a camera in hand. At first, this unsettles people. We’re trained to optimize travel, to squeeze value from every hour, to move efficiently from one highlight to the next.
Wild places resist that mindset. They force you to slow down and pay attention instead.
Instead of rushing, you find yourself watching clouds crawl across a mountain range or listening for the distant crack of shifting ice. You wait because someone has spotted a bear across the river, and suddenly waiting doesn’t feel like lost time — it feels like the entire point. In wild places, patience isn’t a virtue. It’s a requirement.
Nature Isn’t a Backdrop — It’s the Main Character
Photo Credit: Jenn Coleman.
In many destinations, nature plays a supporting role. It’s something you admire between meals and museum visits, a scenic pause before moving on to the next activity.
In wild places, nature is the storyline.
In Alaska, the scale alone recalibrates your perspective. Mountains don’t rise politely in the distance; they loom. Glaciers don’t shimmer passively; they groan, fracture, and move. Rivers aren’t decorative — they’re powerful, cold, and very much alive. Wildlife isn’t something you visit. It’s something you encounter, often unexpectedly, and always on its own terms.
That reality changes how you move through the world. You speak more quietly. You scan the horizon. You learn to read the land not just for beauty, but for meaning — wind direction, cloud movement, water levels. You stop expecting nature to perform for you and start allowing it to lead.
Comfort Looks Different in the Wild
Photo Credit: Jenn Coleman.
Traveling somewhere wild doesn’t mean giving up comfort, but it does redefine what comfort actually means. Luxury here isn’t about excess or polish. It’s about warmth after cold. Shelter after exposure. A solid meal after a long day outside.
Some of our most memorable places to stay in Alaska weren’t remarkable because of opulence, but because of where they were. Remote enough that silence felt complete. Close enough to the land that stepping outside meant being fully immersed — weather, wildlife, and all. Comfort in wild places is practical and intentional, and because of that, it feels deeply satisfying.
You notice and appreciate the basics more. Dry socks. Hot coffee. A sturdy roof during a storm. These aren’t assumed; they’re earned. And because you’re more present, they land differently. They feel grounding in a way that polished luxury sometimes doesn’t.
Your Senses Wake Up
Photo Credit: Deposit Photos.
One of the quieter gifts of wild travel is how it reactivates your senses. In daily life, we filter relentlessly just to get through the day — noise, movement, light, information. Wild places strip that filter away.
You smell rain before it arrives. You hear ice shifting miles off. You notice how light changes minute by minute. In Alaska, even the air feels sharper, cleaner, alive. You become aware of your body in space — where you step, how fast you move, what’s happening around you.
This heightened awareness isn’t stressful. It’s calming. It pulls you into the present without effort or instruction. It’s mindfulness without the app, presence without performance.
You Remember What Adventure Actually Means
Photo Credit: Jenn Coleman.
Somewhere along the way, adventure became a marketing word. But real adventure, especially in wild places, isn’t about adrenaline or bragging rights. It’s about curiosity, humility, and uncertainty.
Adventure means not knowing exactly how the day will unfold. It means trusting guides and locals. It means adapting instead of controlling. In Alaska, that might look like hiking through mist, unsure if the clouds will lift. Kayaking through ice-dotted water where seals surface nearby. Boarding a small plane knowing weather could change everything.
And when things don’t go according to plan, that doesn’t diminish the experience — it becomes the story. Wild places remind you that the goal isn’t perfection. It’s participation.
Time Feels Different Out Here
Photo Credit: Jenn Coleman.
Wild destinations stretch time in ways that are hard to explain until you experience them. Days feel full without feeling rushed. Hours pass unnoticed when you’re fully engaged. Evenings arrive gently, not abruptly.
Without constant stimulation or packed schedules, your nervous system settles. You sleep more deeply. Wake earlier. Feel less urgency to check your phone. In Alaska, the light itself reshapes time, lingering late into the evening in summer, quietly reminding you that clocks are human inventions, not natural laws.
That shift doesn’t disappear when you leave. You return home more aware of how often urgency is manufactured — and more protective of your time because of it.
You Feel Like You’ve Earned the Experience
Photo Credit: Jenn Coleman.
There’s a quiet satisfaction that comes from traveling somewhere that isn’t effortless. Wild places often require extra steps — small planes, ferries, long drives, patience. But effort creates investment.
When you arrive, you don’t feel like you stumbled into the experience. You chose it. And that choice creates respect — for the land, for the people who live there, and for the experience itself. In Alaska, simply reaching some destinations comes with stories before the stay even begins.
Wild travel doesn’t hand itself to you. It asks something in return.
Why We’re Drawn to the Wild Now More Than Ever
Photo Credit: Jenn Coleman.
The pull toward wild places isn’t accidental. After years of constant connectivity, crowded destinations, and carefully curated experiences, many travelers are craving something real. Something grounding. Something that doesn’t ask them to perform.
Wild places offer perspective. They remind us that the world is bigger than our inboxes, that discomfort isn’t dangerous, and that awe still exists — no explanation required. Alaska sits at the heart of this longing, but it isn’t alone. You feel it in remote coastlines, high deserts, northern forests, and far-flung mountain towns around the world.
What unites them isn’t geography. It’s restraint. These places haven’t been overly softened or simplified. They still ask you to meet them where they are.
What You Take Home From a Wild Place
Photo Credit: Deposit Photos.
You don’t return with just photos. You come back quieter, more observant, and more comfortable with uncertainty. You gain a clearer sense of what you actually need — and what you don’t.
Traveling somewhere that still feels wild recalibrates your sense of scale and self. It reminds you that not everything needs improvement, explanation, or monetization. Some things are powerful simply because they exist.
And once you’ve felt that — once you’ve stood somewhere that didn’t care whether you were there or not — it changes how you travel going forward. You start seeking places that ask something of you. Places that feel alive. Places that leave room for surprise.
Because wildness, in the end, isn’t something you conquer.
It’s something you experience — and carry with you long after you’ve left.
Hi! We are Jenn and Ed Coleman aka Coleman Concierge. In a nutshell, we are a Huntsville-based Gen X couple sharing our stories of amazing adventures through activity-driven transformational and experiential travel.
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