Return to the Last Frontier

The Road Home

2011-09-12T11:40:00.008-08:00

Part IV: Moving On

Alaska has a neat trick it pulls out of its majestic bag that never fails. On the last day of our trip on each of our vacations, the weather clears and the sun spreads its rays across this great land, casting unreproducible purples and blues across the horizon. Mountains previously hidden are suddenly exposed. Animals previously sequestered by dense brush and forest are set free to run about in plain view. Alaska knows that by giving brief parting glimpses of her splendor, she'll be sure we'll come back, and, of course, she's right. We will always come back.

Denisha took the wheel on the way out of Denali, and that afforded me the opportunity to enjoy the landscapes passing by at 65 MPH. I glanced up from fiddling with the GPS and a grey figure caught my eye along the opposite side of the Parks Highway. I thought initially this was a fox, but as we drew closer, I realized excitedly it was not. A grey wolf stopped in its tracks and watched as our car sped past. I could see his triangular head and eyes, though briefly. Since coming to Alaska in 2007, the wolf had been the one animal that had remained aloof, and unpoetically, my only sighting had come today, two miles south of a large sign advertising “Taxidermy and Tanning.”

We arrived at the airport several hours before our flight and found an observation deck where we could watch the final sun melt into the mountains.

Denisha volunteered to get us some drinks to take on the plane, my only request being noncaffeinated, as I had hoped to pass the flight in somnolence.

As she disappeared down the platform, I stood at the windows and watched the planes taxi on the tarmac, backed by Alaska's mountains and swirling lavender clouds. I sat down on the less than comfortable airport bench and looked, half-knowingly, half-expectantly, over my right shoulder.

“Well, it's about time,” I said.

Silence.

“I thought you weren't going to show,” I commented, intoned with relief.

Receiving no response, I continued. “So here we are again, you, me, and out there,” I nodded toward the windows.

“What you got for me this time?” I pushed.

His forehead crinkled up, eyebrows raised, and his low drawn hat shifted.

“Well, you found me, didn't you, what you got for me?” I was sterner, my time slipping.

“I think you've got it all backwards, Hoss. And what do you want, 'A penny saved is a penny earned?' or how about 'A stitch in time saves nine.' Maybe you could explain that one to me; I never really got the point of it.” His petulance lept through his sarcasm and brutality of sincerity.

He bent downward and unclipped the four clips on his guitar case, opening it to expose its tattered blue felt lining. A stale, fishy odor sneaked past as he reached inward to gather scattered napkins, which he then folded lengthwise and placed beside me. He re-clipped the case and stood up, whistled, and was joined promptly by a familiar retriever. He patted his companion's head and squinted out onto the last bit of sun and watched as it crackled, sputtered and then extinguished.

“That just never gets old,” he said, shaking his head. He picked up his guitar case and walked, with noticeably less of a limp, down the stairs.

I glanced down to the napkins on the seat and unfolded the stack. On the top napkin were scrawled in light pencil the words, “Blessed be the man who will never walk alone.” I looked up and the man paused as he descended the stairs, turned back, and grinned wryly.

I looked up and Denisha peered down, her back toward the window. The two purple mountains in the distance appeared to be sitting on her shoulder. She held two vitamin waters in her left hand, extending her right toward mine.

“Well, it's time.” she said,sighing. “Ready?”

I took her hand and appreciated the support, as my left knee had been aching from miles prior.

“Ready.”

The Road Home

2011-09-11T19:44:00.008-08:00

Part III: The Fall of Denali

Fourteen miles outside of Denali National Park, a group of two room cabins sit along the banks of a rushing creek. One can easily hear the stream slipping down against its bed of rocks while lying on the equally as rocky cabin bed. There was little need for recorded “flowing creek” nature sounds to induce slumber at this location, as the perpetual recording was just feet away. We awoke to the crescendo of this music, whose volume had been raised by the rains overnight.

We had held out hope that Denali's fall colors would at least hold their recession until we visited, and it had indeed obliged. Yellow, gold, green, red, orange, and their variations covered hills and mountainsides in carefully distributed patches, mimicking a natural quilt. We rode the Parks Highway through the gates of Denali to the Wilderness Access Center near the visitor's center, where we were to meet our bus that would take us to Wonder Lake.

Wonder Lake was the last stop on the unguided bus ride and it was a long 11+ hour ride. The bus was nearly to capacity, full of wildlife-spotting hopefuls who were salivating almost as much as that bear they were hoping to capture on film. It was not raining, but the skies were cloudy and grey. The driver echoed the sentiments of most of the other Alaskans we had met during our travels, that this had been one rainy summer season. He further depressed Denisha by reciting exceptionally low odds of seeing an exposed Mt. McKinley on this overcast day.

We rolled along the park road and beyond Savage River, which marked the extent of public vehicle access. This road would continue on for another 80 miles twisting and turning through narrow, rough roads that fell and then rose again. Through some of the terrain, I bit my nails hoping our aging driver was in excellent health, as one slip of his hand from the wheel, well...

But Ned proved to be steady and of firm health, and I marveled at his dexterity maneuvering the green monster named '543' around this terrain. We saw a stopped bus ahead of us, and everyone grabbed for their cameras. In the valley along the hillside, bus-right, were two grizzlies that were ripping apart the berry bushes, devouring the last remaining fruits before winter's arrival. These bears were much blonder than the lone bear we had seen earlier in the trip along the Russian River.

Another 20 miles rolled beneath our tires before someone spotted two moose a good distance away, appearing as moving dots along the ridge. This was our bus's 'super spotter,' and I'm certain every bus had one. The moose activity was visible only through binoculars—or through the lens of our front-seat professional photographer's lens, the shutter of which sounded like a machine gun being discharged.

Wonder Lake is illustrious for bearing the reflection of a fully exposed Mt. McKinley in the most celebrated photographs of the mountain. It is a supremely docile area and it's remoteness is most immediately echoed by the silence. McKinley was not out today, not even the giant's toes were exposed, and so Wonder Lake was not so wondrous, reflecting only the grays of the stagnant sky.

I picked a few of the sparse blueberries from the bushes that surrounded the lake, most already having been gathered by the fore-wanderers.

Ned herded us into the bus, insistent on keeping with his strict timetable, which we had evidently not managed to keep to this point. We launched into the return ride, which, recollecting from my collegiate Alaskan trip 16 years prior, was about two times the distance of the outbound trip.

I faded in and out of sleep during the return ride. The driver's microphone was quiet and the incessant clicking of our fellow traveler's Canon was muzzled. Even the older Indian man who had discussed his travels with a visibly disinterested Mr. Machine Gun had succumbed to the monotone of his own voice.

I saw headlights further up the road and the words “CAMPER BUS” displayed on the marquee came into focus. One of the last calls for returning campers, the camper bus was making it's final run of the day. The driver, bearded as most men [and some women] were in the state, looked bored of his routine. One passenger remained on his bus and occupied the last seat. As the buses slid by one another, separated by a moose's whisker, the lone rider titled his broad brimmed hat in acknowledgment. I followed the passing bus down the familiar road until it bent and disappeared.

We arrived chilled and hungry back at our cabin. The rain started again to fall and the mountains wept.

The Road Home

2011-09-11T07:06:00.009-08:00

Part II: In Passing

Fourteen miles out from Wasilla is a sublime vista called Hatcher Pass. It's in everyone's tour guide, tour book, tour blog, and welcome center map. If you stopped a Wasillian along Fishhook Road and asked them if they only had time for one activity in Wasilla, what would they do, they'd tell you to go to Hatcher Pass.

And there's a reason for it.

Alaska had given us plentiful rays of sun this morning, pushed them onto our plate, and said, “Here you go, you've got 8 hours of it, use it wisely.” We elected to take the road to the Pass, twisting and turning along a crooked two lane road, paralleled often by rushing crystalline streams. We had traveled this road two years prior, though the favorable weather this trip had rendered prior memories obsolete and replaced them with far more vivid ones.

The verdant hillsides glowed under ultraviolet illumination, artistically blurring into a backdrop of royal blue sky. An occasional white cloud filtered the light, casting protective shadows to the vegetation beneath. Though only 48 degrees, the warmth that eked past the snow-capped mountains thawed our still sea-frosted integument.

We arrived at the end of the paved road, demarcated by several cabins carved into the side of the mountain and an “A” frame lodge. We had eaten in the lodge during our prior trip here, more to digest the view than the food, as its overlook was captivating. Denisha stayed in the parking lot to add to her growing photo collection as I jogged toward the lodge to use the indoor facilities.

I threw the door open and a musty, stale smell rushed out, clashing awkwardly with the chastity of the air on the other side. My pupils dilated to compensate for the dimly lit room, and I was momentarily blinded by the murk. As my visual reflexes adjusted to the contrast, I became aware of the absence of activity in the dining area. I could hear dishes rattling and someone whistling in the kitchen stage left, but otherwise silence.

I craned my head to look over the bar to the table where, best to my recollection, Denisha and I had absorbed the splendor of the Pass in 2009. I was surprised to see my initial impression of solitude corrected. At that table sat a man of medium build with his face turned outward, gazing through windows, revering nature's magnum opus. Multiple napkins were strewn haphazardly on the table before him, and his right hand wielded a pencil. Perhaps he was working on his own masterpiece, I thought. He shifted and fell deeper into the shadows of the wood rafters bolted above.

I scurried to the bathroom and hastily succumbed to the diuresis of four cups of coffee. I was anxious to escape that lodge this time, as it had created a distinct feeling of ineffable unease.

As I walked back toward Denisha, who was just now holstering her Canon, her face bore concern.

“I just read the saddest thing!” she exasperated.

“Mmmm?”

“On that board over there,” she motioned with a rightward nod. “There's a sign where some guy lost his dog while traveling through the pass.”

I looked back at the lodge, frowned, and turned to walk to the car.

“Don't you think that's sad?” she inquired, accusatory undertones thinly-veiled.

“Of course. Maybe we'll find him.” I responded.

During our previous trip to the Pass, we had not chosen to follow the 30+ miles of unpaved, weather-beaten road on the other side of this lodge for fear of tire puncture and desolation. Today, however, armed with plenty of peanut butter, bread, and coca-cola, we were confident if things did go awry, we could sustain until help arrived.

And so we went, passing through to the other side en route to Denali. We could see McKinley beckoning along the horizon, hundreds of miles away, casting its illusions of proximity.

The Road Home

2011-09-09T07:02:00.015-08:00

Part I: The Old Man

My wife of nearly five years had booked us another boat ride the day following our rocky fishing excursion of six hours. I was still ebbing and flowing on dry land, and she wanted to put her reeling husband back on the waves again? I did not believe five years of matrimonial bliss afforded her such carte blanche. As the tickets were already punched and the address to the launching dock entered into the GPS, I was obviously mistaken—apparently five years was more than adequate.

We arrived at the docks a half-hour early, following closely the advice of the bearded ticket salesman. The rain continued interminably, and the clouds draped sorrowful gray, obscure hoods over the snowy mountains, which only hours earlier had been easily seen across the bay. We walked to the public restroom to satisfy any last minute bladder pleadings. I had witnessed several other women with the same idea precede Denisha, and I knew she was in for a wait. I finished quickly, not really needing to go at all, but seeking the reassurance of a dry tap.

I threw open the steel door and was met eye level by a man's weathered face. The lines defining his visage reflected that of many travels, many years, many everything. His greyish-blue eyes harpooned mine, tacitly speaking volumes of travels few have endured. His unkempt steel-woolen beard virtually masked any expression that was displayed under it.

“Excuse me,” I muttered. No response from the stranger, who pushed determinedly past, his graying locks hanging below an equally weather-beaten faded stetson. I caught a glimpse of his hole-riddled boots that stopped just several inches short of his knees. As the door closed, nearly smacking me in the forehead, I saw the stranger turn toward the mirrorless sink and hammer with closed fist the timed faucet button to initiate the stream of water.

I turned my curiosities forward to an affable retriever with receptive eyes, tail wagging, that was tied loosely to a sign advertising the Salty Dawg Saloon located across the street. By his side, a dented and scratched guitar case sat upright. The words “Odyssey” were etched crudely in block letters along the side. I approached without reticence, eager to pet this fellow, perhaps hoping to quell gnawing longings to see my dogs that now were 3,500 miles southeast of where I stood.

His face was white, his body a deep golden red. As I ran my fingers through his fur, I could tell the sea had blown its salt and stories deep into his undercoat. I held my hand up and ran my thumb against my index finger, feeling the grittiness. My pensiveness was startled by a gruffled voice, infused with whiskey and smoke, that ambushed me from behind.

“Name's Andy.”

“The dog or you?” I inquired, nervously chuckling. I recognized the boots and craggy face from seconds earlier. The stranger ignored my interrogative. As he bent to unwind the carelessly draped rope from the sign, I pushed further.

“You live in Homer?”

“Nope.”

“Going on the ferry?”

“Nope.”

Unclear by what motivation, I was determined to solicit more than a one word answer from this stranger whose dog had made me abruptly terribly homesick.

“What are you doing in Homer?”

“Lookin' for someone.” Victorious in achieving a structured sentence response, I pushed forth, sensing momentum.

“You play?” I asked, nodding toward the guitar case. Nothing. He completed untying what was likely his only friend, cocked his head upward, and squinted. There was an odd recognition reflected in that glare, if only for a fleeting instant, before he picked up the bruised guitar case and whistled for the dog to follow.

I followed the outline of the leftward limping old man and his four-legged friend as they walked in tandem down the narrow road into the gray mist, swallowed by distance, clouds, and loam.

“Ready?” A familiar voice queried from my right--soft, southern accented--a brisk contrast to what I had heard minutes prior.

“Yep.” I croaked back.

The ferry departed at 9:45 AM to shuttle its sparse human cargo across the bay to the small Alaskan town of Seldovia, population 300. Along the way, several pods of humpback whales frolicked alongside our boat, providing a harmonious escort to the awaiting waters– and shops – of Seldovia.

During the ride, however, my mind would drift unprovoked back to the dock and to the terse, cryptic responses of the old man.

Somehow, somewhere, I was convinced our paths would again cross.

The Middle Aged Man and the Sea

2011-09-08T07:50:00.008-08:00

We had planned for a very Alaskan activity that we had not braved on any of our prior trips – deep sea halibut fishing. Halibut is to Homer as tobacco is to Kentucky, only much healthier to the product consumer. The ½ day charter company we booked had called the previous day to push back our charter to later in the afternoon, as they anticipated better weather for fishing at that time.

We were fearful that they may call back and cancel completely, for the weather still looked foreboding, though not as windy. Wind gusts on Monday to 50-70 mph, combined with mid 40 degree weather and sporadic light misting, had chilled our marrows. We were not to be deterred, however, from our quest in bringing home a 350 pound halibut. It had been done, and likely accomplished on a day very similar to this one.

We met the charter group at 1:00 pm Dock #1 aboard the “Nauti-Lady.” As we walked down the plank to the docks, we noticed a considerably larger commercial fishing boat with a skull and crossbones symbol on the side. This was the Time Bandit boat that is a featured boat in the Deadliest Catch. A little Hollywood in Homer is surprising, as this city would grill Hollywood and eat it with a little dill sauce.

The captain was a midsized man with graying full beard and hair. Position little round glasses on his nose and he'd be a stand-in for Santa Claus. As we left the harbor, the captain went through his cursory safety speech, the key topic being what to do when you've got to vomit. The learning points were: (1) That inevitably someone, probably you, will throw up and (2) Don't vomit in the lavatory because the toilets can't handle it (3) Don't vomit in the cabin, because it stinks and makes other people vomit and, finally, (4) vomit on the outside deck, because then they can just hose it off the side. I peered around at the 17 pairs of eager eyes and tried to predict who'd be the first to blow. My money was on a nasally blonde girl who nervously would not stop talking.

Armed with that arma-voma-geddon message, we shoved off for a 6 hour tour.

We quickly found out why the captain was so detailed about vomiting. The seas tossed our boat around like a toy caught in a wave pool. I braced myself between the deck railing and the cabin and let my line- baited with a herring head—plunge into the murkiness below. The two pound weight affixed to the line drove the bait 220 feet to the ocean bottom where I hoped unlucky halibut would be tempted by my gruesome bait.

Unlike lake fishing, there is not a bobber to notify the fisherman when the fish is biting. Also, there is no need to jerk the line when the fish bites; the fish either swallows the hook or nibbles the bait off and leaves the fisherman with disappointment. As rocky as the ride was, everyone seemed to maintain their balance and their lunches. I had premedicated with a patch and two dramamine, so I was confident I would not need to heed the captain's prelaunch admonitions.

The weather cleared as we followed the mountain etched horizon. The sun, who had become a reclusive celebrity, had even decided to grace us with his presence, casting a brilliant spectrum of blue over the sky.

I heard a hubbub to my right and saw Denisha in the middle of it. She was reeling the first fish up of the day, what turned out to be a rather small halibut that the captain threw back. We were allowed only two halibut to bring back to shore, so you had to pick your fish carefully – once you accepted a fish, there was not returning or trading up later. She was clearly disappointed, and I think even a little annoyed at the captain having not given her the option of keeping the smaller fish.

Several hours into the excursion, the end of my pole started nodding. I waited. It nodded faster, and finally, I felt a pull. Some unlucky fish at the bottom of the ocean was going to find its way to a table in Union, KY. This was not easy. I reeled and reeled and pulled and reeled some more until finally I saw the fish struggling at the end of my line. I bolstered my position between the cabin and railing, as the boat rocked mightily as I reeled. I felt very confident in yelling “Fish Up,” which notified a deck hand to pull the fish onto the deck and remove the hook.

A 15 pound halibut flopped violently on the deck, hoping for a swell that would toss him back into the haven of the cold waters. A quick cut to the gills promptly ended those hopes, and he was tagged and tossed in with the rest of his brethren who had met similar fates. I had a brief moment of sympathy for this creature who was only trying to subsist and had simply chosen poorly.

Over the next 4 hours, Denisha and I both caught our limit and were excited about sending our catch home. After fileting and skin removal, 22 pounds of halibut will be delivered to our doorstep.

Alaskan deep sea halibut fishing: check.

The Id, the Ego, and the Reset Button

2011-09-06T09:03:00.003-08:00

A customer named Medea stood in front of me and looked over the menu board posted behind my shoulders. She studied each menu selection carefully, running her index finger back and forth, feigning her indecision. This customer knew the menu before she even stepped through the door, as she had visited many of these chain-type restaurants over the years. We all had the same menu, and Medea knew it.

I could see her finger, then her hand, then her arm developing a marching tremor that would terminate in her face, then start again in her finger and continue in this endless loop. Her teeth were sparse. Those that did cling to her receding gums poked through in earthen shades of coal and mud. Her hair had been probably styled with her trembling fingers just before she came through my door, as the hairs bent and twisted in disarray.

She had a low cut blue blouse that plunged into deeper despair between her breasts and lunged them forward, proudly displaying two small, but distinct tattoos decorating her yellowing skin. The one on the left, in scripted letters, spelled “Jobe,” likely pronounced “Joh-BAY.” I suspected this was the identifier for the solemn boy she clung to in her left arm, perhaps a self-reminder for whom she held. Above the other breast, “Caleb” was permanently scrawled in less ornate lettering. I paused for a moment to wonder where the person was who had been bestowed such an honor, and my internal query was answered faster than a Google search.

The customer looked away from the menu momentarily and yelled, “CALEB!!” loudly into the store. A boy of five to six years who had been climbing on the tables and chair surfing jumped off his imaginary wave and ran to his mother's side. She leaned forward, whispered into his ear, and the child began crying inconsolably.

I felt ridiculous standing there with my visor perched atop my head with the letters “Rx and More” embroidered in black letters against a subdued chartreuse background. I looked down and witnessed the white coat that hung from my shoulders staining red as my anger seeped through every pore. The smiley face button that was clipped to my jacket transformed into a scowl, and the red on my jacket quickly spread to my face, as all the tiny blood vessels dilated synchronously in a dramatic, conclusive denouement.

Sensing my growing skepticism, the customer turned her attention toward the task at hand and ordered: “I'd like a large Dilaudid with cheese, an order of Percocet covered, smothered, scattered, and topped with a sprinkling of Xanax for my nerves. Might as well biggie size it for me, my boys are hungry too!”

I stood before her, dumbfounded, the anger replaced by disbelief. She must have noted my changing countenance, though sorely misread it. She rummaged through her purse for several seconds, then threw her hands up, nonchalantly stating “Oh, just charge it to my boy Obama.” She grinned slyly, showing again her scattered earthen choppers.

I woke up gasping for air, my heart running sprints around my head. I grabbed for my scalp, seeking reassurance that there was indeed no company visor sitting atop my head. These dreams, unfortunately, had become more frequent over the past several months and had progressed in their symbolism and realism. The increasing vividness of these dreams would parallel the growing impatience and irritability in normal day-to-day operations. I would suppress, as we all are forced to do, so as to remain politically and professionally proper; though, despite the ego's best efforts, sometimes the id would intrude.

Personal and professional frustrations mount and threaten to chisel away at our protective armors, malignantly attempting to rip at personalities and strain tolerances. Everyone yields, though to varying degrees, to these stressors. Each person, therefore, must find a individual mechanism to combat these assaults, a way that allows one to forget, forgive, accept, and start again.

Before we left, my aunt asked me what it is about Alaska that keeps us coming back, and she strangely caught me off guard. This was not an unusual question, of course, as we were waiting in the weeds to embark on our fourth trip to the last frontier. To many, the likelihood of cold, rainy weather would be quite a deterrent upon initial consideration, and just simple insanity at repeat. I bumbled a bit in my answer, spouting a canned response about it being the furthest away that we could possibly get.

I awoke early this AM, sleep devoid of dreams, to look through the four now glowing eyes of our rental home across the bay to the snow-capped mountains. The clouded, but rainless, periwinkle sky beamed off the shimmery waters. The crisp, light breeze pushed the berried bush outside the windows harmlessly to the side and filled my senses with purity and carelessness.

And so, as I sit looking out over Kachemak Bay, teetering on a hillside surrounded by lush trees, berry bushes, mountains, and clouds, Aunt Barabara, I have a better response for you:

It pushes my reset button.

We're Back!

2011-09-05T22:05:00.013-08:00

Once again talk of all-inclusive beach vacations turned into another Alaska adventure. This time in the fall...post-tourist season with hopes of catching the brief fall colors. We arrived yesterday, jet-lagged and most of our day was taken up with sleeping and trying to get adjusted to the time change. We spent our first night in Girdwood, about 45 minutes south of Anchorage. Today we headed further south toward Homer where we will be spending the next few nights. Along the way we stopped to hike a 4.6 mile trail to the Russian River Falls. We then walked along the river to see the silver salmon run and the fishermen and bears that go along with them. Seeing the salmon run was a first for us. We were rewarded with a bear across the river fishing and heard rumors of a sow and two cubs frequenting the area but missed seeing her.

Now in Homer where we are tucked into our rental home with breathtaking views of the town and the mountains and glaciers across the bay. As I'm typing this, I am looking out over the city lights and complete darkness covering the land of the midnight sun...another first.

The Montana Moment

2010-08-16T18:56:00.014-08:00

I had been scouring mountain tops and diving through crystalline cascades for the moment to remember from Montana 2010.

I never know when that moment happens, and don’t particularly go looking for it, for fear of overlooking it. I have found that the harder you look for something, the more frustrating and less rewarding it is when you finally find it. It seems, too, when searching under duress, there is always a question at the end

as to whether the end-goal was truly what you were aspiring for at the onset! Confused?

Read these lines a couple times, I’m confident

you’ll agree.

Strange how the recognition of the moment works, and it can occur in a variety of circumstances and is a very personal, individualistic experience. My moments tend to happen in the middle of nowhere, which is where I prefer for them to occur. It is easier to remember these moments when they occur in the middle of nowhere, as there is no interference, no extraneous stimuli to muddle the recollection. Analogous to home wiring, you get a much clearer picture on your television when you don’t run the electrical wiring too close to the cable wiring, avoiding snowy-static imagery. The same can

be said for the brain’s neuronal electrical activity: the less interference our neurons have, the easier the brain can process, store, and retrieve these moments.

Our vacation to Montana has provided

many spectacular landscapes and more perfect weather than we had ever encountered on any of our trips to Alaska, and because of this, it is inarguably memorable. We have a certain bias toward our first love, however, an impenetrable

bias that no matter how picturesque the scene presently before us, it is simply just not the same.

The most noticeable tangible difference was immediate: tourists and traffic. The number

of tourists and predominance of boisterous, whiny children among them was disruptive to this paradise and delayed

the moment. We could hear the thoughtless stomping above us in our room at Many Glacier

Lodge in Glacier Park. The crescendo-decrescendo of their hurried, frenetic footsteps on the antique wooden floors were dissonant rhythms to two travelers who preferred the harmonies of birds and trapped winds skimming the lake waters outside their veranda. Along many trails, we yielded to the families of five, acquiescing to the noise and the fathers who carried their precious newborns in ridiculous backpacks, oddly juxtaposed with canisters of bear spray.

The other tangible

difference was the availability of coffee. Coffee was recognized as a basic need in Alaska for the survival of the indigenous, as well as the alien. In doing so, coffee freely floweth from the tundra of Denali Park, from the mountains of Wrangell-St. Elias. In Montana,

it freely floweth from gift shops for $2.00 a cup and no refills.

But enough of laments and old moments.

It has been enjoyable, despite Delta and Alamo’s initial attempts at railroading our Montana dreams. Given the affable weather, we have hiked more this trip than any other, logging 6-8 miles/day. We traversed trails that wound steeply up slippery mountainsides, while others ploughed through dense forest and soggy ground, and yet other trails somewhere in between. The “payoffs”-- as I refer to trail ends-- have been worthy in every case.

From the din of crashing waters to the anxious proximity of a resting bull moose among the woody aromas of cedars and spruce, from the still, introspective waters of shimmering lakes to the family of mountain goats traversing the verdant slope as armies of shutter clicks and electronic whizzes captured their progress, we have been witness.

My moment came in the latter part of the trip. We passed several infant heads bobbing atop backpacks, pushed past the arguing mother and father and unimpressed teenage son, instead choosing a denser, more narrow pathway that opened up to a steep rocky hillside. Atop the hill, a large flat rock beckoned as a comfortable landing pad. This landing was serenaded by a waterfall backdrop, and an irritated marmot off to the left chirped his alarm. My knees had been sounding like popping bubble wrap. My calf muscles sang elegies from previous days’ hikes. A rare respite atop this pastoral site was welcomed.

I melted into the rock I sat upon, becoming two tired eyeballs gazing upward at severa

l clouds that crashed fiercely

against each other, then shook hands and resignedly became one monopolistic puffy entity. I closed my eyes and could still see the blue sky, hear the water plummet from the mountain overhead, and smell the cedar. My world outside this one moment disappeared. I had been anticipating this for awhile and welcomed this transcendence.

A nearby fly, carrying upon its back uncertainties, mortgages, and various other relevant worldly weights, landed upon my forehead.

It’s ironic how absolutely unpoetic a moment ends.

And life begins again.

Final Days in the Final Frontier

2009-07-26T20:45:00.003-08:00

We left the town of McCarthy under beaming rays of bright sunlight and blue skies. Only an occasional lone cloud disrupted the continuity of blue. This was in stark contrast to yesterday, when glacier blue glowed under hazy skies, another testament to just how quickly and dramatically the weather can oscillate in this state. I had my fingers crossed that we would not cross the footbridge and find our Kia’s tires had deflated from the rough ride four days prior, and, luckily, they had not.

We drove uneventfully back down the 62 miles of gravel to where the pavement thankfully resumed at the town of Chitina. Our next stop was Wasilla, AK, the home of everybody’s favorite folksy Republican governor-on-her-way-out, Sarah Palin. Two hundred miles down the Richardson and Glenn Highways brought more purple mountains, majesties, and fruited plains. At this point in our trip, though, our awestruck sponge was pretty well saturated, and we stopped few times for pictures and “ahhhhs.”

Arriving in Wasilla/Palmer, we both were beat and crashed mightily at our cabin, which was tucked quaintly among the trees and green brush. The cabin’s kitchen was lined with windows, so we could see a complete panorama of the glowing blue mountains in the distance while sitting at the table.

I turned in earlier than Denisha, and her stamina was rewarded by watching a large bull-moose graze next to our car at the foot of our cabin. I looked this morning for some moose droppings to bring back as souvenirs for everyone, but he was indeed a stingy and/or constipated moose. Sorry to disappoint.

We had all day to burn until our flight out of Anchorage at 9:30 pm. We went on a google-sponsored wild goose chase to find Sarah Palin’s house, but instead landed at a Best Western under construction. We stopped at the Iditarod Race Headquarters in Wasilla and watched an inspiring video on its participants, and, naturally, bought more junk. On we drove to downtown Anchorage, where, you guessed it, we bought more junk. Ending our trip this time as we did last time with dinner at the Bear’s Tooth Restaurant, we conceded we were indeed ready for home.

Sitting in Ted Stevens International Airport from Anchorage, AK, back from Nowhere….

Royal Blue Majesty

2009-07-24T19:30:00.007-08:00

Our final full day in McCarthy, Alaska, brought with it clouds and grey skies, which we assumed would not be ideal conditions for the guided glacier hike that was planned. We were reassured, although, by our guide Christina--a high school chemistry teacher from Washington, D.C. during the Alaskan off-season--that overcast skies enhanced the blue tint of the glacier and were indeed favorable.
We were picked up at our hotel in McCarthy at 8:30 a.m. and whisked again down the 4.5 miles of unbelievably bumpy gravel to neighboring Kennicott. It was from here that our glacier hike would start, initially following part of the trail we had already walked yesterday, then branching downward to the foot of Root Glacier.
We were accompanied by two older couples who were touring Alaska for 2 weeks--the right way, i.e., no cruise lines. Denisha and I had a good laugh as when she had arranged for this hike, one of the screening questions was our ages. This, we assumed, was asked so that you could be paired with other hikers of comparable physical abilities. These folks were most likely in their early sixties, from Alabama, and in quite good physical condition. I don't know what they did for a living, that is, who they were in Alabama. No questions were asked of us, either, and I appreciated this anonymity. I was certainly not laughing at our age-pairing by the end of the hike, as my knee likely throbbed worse than any of their arthritic joints!
We strapped on our cramp-ons, which fit over our shoes like roller skates, and were steel spiked so that when we stepped, the spikes would stick in the ice. We had to negotiate the steep parts of the glacier carefully, as a misstep could result in a slide of 100 feet that would not end in a bed of soft snow, but rather a bed of sharp limesrock. As we neared the top of the first hill, a world of blue unfolded. As the glacier ice absorbed all colors of the spectrum except blue, the vivid blue colors contrasted markedly with the glacier white. No picture or painting or prose could ever reflect the blueness and beauty, so I won't even try.
We explored the glacier, finding a number of plummetting waterfalls. The water created a deafening "WHOOSH" as it fell, and then a distinct "THHHUT" as it crashed into the deep blue collecting pools at the fall's base. From there, taking a less tumultuous course, it flowed resignedly into the glacial crevasses [cracks], effectively swallowed by the ancient chunk of ice.
The most fascinating of the glacial features were steep and seemingy interminable blue caverns, called moulins [MOO-LAWNS] through which floods of water rushed down, hypothesized to terminate in rivers at the glacier's base, thousands of feet downward. We observed the depth of the moulin from a very cautious distance.
We had a very frigid lunch on the glacier, as rain had started to fall and winds had picked up, both chilled by the ice. My exposed cheeks were a chapped red, and, as you might expect, lunch was a quick one. I would've given anything for a cup of coffee at that moment, and was a little surprised that an espresso stand had not been established on the glacier, as they seemed to be everywhere else in Alaska :)
We retraced our steps back down the glacier, removed our cramp-ons, and hiked again back to the mining town of Kennicott. In addition to the increasingly heavier backpacks, we also carried back with us internal photographs of ineffable blue magnificence.
Somwhere, 62 miles down a gravel road, in a town without a visible clock, calendar, television, door lock, government, or law enforcement, yet confusingly complex in its simplicity...

Exploring Kennicott

2009-07-23T18:18:00.002-08:00

After a chemically-supported night's sleep [a la Benadryl] at the Ma Johnson Hotel, we awoke to an unplanned rainless McCarthy morning. Breakfast was served one place in this town, and that was at the saloon across the street. So that's where we ate-- one pancake, two eggs, two strips of bacon were at a cost of $10.00 each. Nothing is cheap here, that's for sure, and I can understand why after driving across that rocky road into town for 62 miles.
There is not a plethora of activities to occupy one's time in McCarthy; however, one event was to take the shuttle 4 1/2 miles into the neighboring town of Kennicott. So that's what we did.
Kennicott was a hotbed of copper mining activity in the 1920's and 1930's. They'd mine it, purify it, and then ship it via railroad to Cordova, where it then would be shipped via boat. Most of the town was still intact, though the nearly 100 year old buildings were certainly showing their age. The national park service had purchased a portion of the land and buildings from the now defunct mining company and had restored only two of the restorable structures.
We set out on a hike that round-trip measured eight miles, but we did not anticipate hiking the entire way. We hiked out 3/4 length of the trail, coming upon several fresh piles of obvious bear poop, although we did not encounter the actual animal. Winding cautiously up the side of the mountain, the trail offered an overlook to the Root Glacier, on which we would be hiking tomorrow. To the south, we could see the smoke from the advancing fire like an advancing army, with each soldier abreast of the next walking in perfect tandem, burning everything in its path. The smoke hid the base of the mountains on the horizon, but, along with the sun, it combined to cast a bluish light upon the snow-draped peaks of the Alaskan Range.
The glacier's advancement had brought with it huge amounts of limestone rock, and across the deep canyon which it had created, it appeared as a rock quarry for a prodigious construction site.
We returned after the hike in time to meet one of the Forest Rangers for a 'nature' lecture, where she discussed the formation and advancement of the glaciers that shaped and determined the landscape. A group on their way back from the trail we had just hiked claimed to have seen a bear playing in one of the streams along the trail. We were disappointed we didn't have the bear photo-op, but at the same time were a little relieved that we had been 15 minutes too early.
We took another 'history' tour with a ranger, who allowed us to walk through the frozen-in-time copper mine buildings. Coupled with photographs of how things appeared in the 1930's, our minds filled in the gaps and recreated the process of copper extraction and processing.
Tomorrow, a hike on Root Glacier, complete with ice-hugging cramp-ons fastened to our feet...should be interesting.

The Road to McCarthy

2009-07-22T17:00:00.000-08:00

We've been out of blog action for several days, hopefully that lapse hasn't resulted in disinterest. Our final day in Valdez was again a rainy one, if not the rainiest. We went for a boat tour of Prince William Sound, ultimate destination Columbia Glacier. This glacier is the only one that is actively receding, and with its recession, it has left behind pieces of itself to float disconnectedly in the sound.
The wildlife was not plentiful on this boat trip; perhaps even the animals thought the weather too cold and rainy to make worthy their appearance. There were the obligatory sea otters, seals, and eagles, but no whales. I found the antics of one of passengers named 'Art' to be as entertaining as the boat ride. Most likely in the early stage of Alzheimer's, Art required constant redirection from his wife. He would wander below deck, and his wife would retrieve him and then guard the steps to make sure he didn't repeat. Art asked the captain the same questions over and over, and I could see where Stan the Captain was becoming annoyed, mashing forward on the thruster a little more aggressively with each repeated question.
We got out of Valdez early this A.M. [7/22/09] as it continued to rain and allowed the Kia to float down Alaska Highway #4, also called the Richardson Highway. As anticipated, the driving from destination to destination afforded us some of the more spectacular scenery, despite the continued rain. Waterfalls, polychromatic mountains, and quaint lakes along the roadside made for awe-inspiring views with nearly every turn.
We veered off of the Richardson Hwy and continued for another hour along a straight two-lane road called the Edgerton Hwy. This hwy ultimately ended where the McCarthy Road began, and also marked the end of the pavement. We were to continue another 62 miles on barely a 20 foot wide gravel road, where the maximum I could push our Kia was about 30 MPH. As we wound around and around, up and down, we passed a number of lakes, some with float planes and fisherman, others with nothing but uninterrupted shimmering water. By this time, we had finally outrun the rain and the sun was warming our Valdez-chilled bones.
We came upon a one lane bridge that crossed a deep canyon, and I admit I was more than a little nervous driving over it. With each roll of the tires, I could hear the wooden planks creak beneath us, I and saw where some of the boards were in need of replacement.
We saw a moose about 10 miles before the town of McCarthy, the only wildlife in the 55 miles we'd driven along McCarthy Road. We would've gotten some great pictures, if it weren't for the moose's ass in the white Ford Explorer at the side ofhe road honking at the moose to get her to lift her head! The plan backfired, though, as all it did was drive the moose deeper into the forest.
Arriving at the end of the road, we parked in a lot where we were to be picked up by our hotel shuttle. First, we had to load our luggage onto a cart and pull it and ourselves across a 75 yard footbridge that spanned rapid river waters. From the bridge, we could see the forest fires burning in the distance. Having already consumed 28,000 acres, the people of this area were hoping for rain while we, of course, were ashamedly not.
Our shuttle driver assured us the fires were not a threat to the town of McCarthy, but we could smell the smoke and were not quite so confident. We were driven futher down even a more narrow and rougher gravel road to the town of McCarthy, AK, population between 30 and 70--depending on the season. The town had been carved from the trees and brush during the copper mining activity of the early 1900's, and from the look of most of the buildings, nothing much had changed. Our hotel--called the 'Ma Johnson Hotel' had been used as a hotel also during this era, and much of its turn-of-the-century charm had been preserved.
We were shown to our room on cell block 6, I mean room 6. Barely 8 foot by 7 foot in size, we were squeezed tightly. No private bath, no television, no internet, and [GULP] no iPhone. The only entertainment from our room was the noise from the rushing river waters against its stony banks. Across the street was the saloon, and we hoped it would not be a source of restless sleep.
From somewhere deep within the heart of Alaska....miles away from anywhere and continuing down the road to Nowhere...

Day 5-6: Angry Skies, Blue Water, and Us

2009-07-20T13:55:00.011-08:00

When it rains in Alaska, it doesn't always pour, but it usually continues for days; that's what we've been experiencing in Valdez. Unlike beach destinations, where a persistent rainy weather pattern would be catastrophic for vacationers, we've come to expect rain as part of the Alaskan experience over the years. We would absolutely prefer nice sunny skies, don't get me wrong, as the few times we've had the good fortune of sunny skies, the landscape beauty has been markedly enhanced.

Arriving in Valdez yesterday via the ferry from Cordova, we were welcomed with rain and dense fog. We could only see pieces of the mountains that encircled the city, as the clouds hid the majority of the mountains, and our imaginations filled in the rest. The town of Valdez was considerably bigger than Cordova and more expansive, nearly double the population of Cordova [about 4400]. We settled into our Best Western on the Harbor, just about 1/4 mile from where the ferry belched us back out its hull.

We watched and read a dozen different weather reports, hoping one would give us a glimmer of sunshine at least one of our 3 days here, but it was simply not in the cards. Admittedly a bit dismayed, we took off driving with no particular destination in mind. We wound up outside of town at a salmon hatchery located directly off the road. The hatchery overlooked a bay where a number of fishermen and women took advantage of the weir at the hatchery to hook their dinner. [A weir is a man-made dam.] I'm still a little unclear as to why the hatchery intended to impede the homing progress of the spawning salmon, but it did allow for a good show of futilely jumping salmon. Across the street from the hatchery was a waterfall that tumbled down from the side of a lush green mountain, terminating in an azure pool of clear water. Glaring down at pesky tourists from KY was a pair of bald eagles who perched on a spruce branch that extended above the waterfall.

We turned in early last night, yielding to sleep about 9:30 p.m.

A new morning brought a new round of showers and thick dense fog. I was uncharacteristically optimistic in looking out our room window and expecting golden rays of light reflecting off the bay waters. No such luck. Dense fog and clouds enveloped the town of Valdez, masking the landscape, and a more-than-light rain fell. After breakfast, though, nature presented us with a ray of opportunity. The fog lifted, the clouds were hoisted, the rain stopped, and a few streaks of sunlight poked holes through the disgruntled sky. It was now or never. When Alaska presents one with an opportunity to explore its majesty dryly, one must get in their Kia and go for it.

We went for it.

We retraced the path we had taken yesterday back to the salmon hatchery. Just past the hatchery, off the left side of the road, was a hiking trail labeled "moderate difficulty" by Jim of Valdez, a local hiking-trail cartographer. Halfway up and up the trail, we decided there should be a hiking difficulty trail measurement handicapped for out-of-shape tourists from Kentucky. As we have become accustomed to finding, the physical demands of a grueling hike paid dividends.

We made it to the top in a little over an hour and looked upon the hike's payout with awe. Motionless crystal blue waters of a lake that widened and then narrowed as it snaked through snow covered mountains opened up before us. As if released on cue, an eagle swooped down from the left side of our view and touched the waters with its talons, quickly ascending and disappearing around the bend, its fiercely distinctive call the only audible.

The rain begun to fall and the clouds began to once again descend, and we thanked nature for giving us a break in her grey sorrow to enjoy another sublime Alaskan moment.

Day 4: Be Back...Gone to Nowhere

2009-07-19T06:22:00.011-08:00

The Copper River Hwy in Cordova is the only artery leading away from town. It is paved for about 15 miles but continues unpaved for an additional 40 miles, terminating at the Million Dollar Bridge to nowhere and Child's Glacier. Seeing the glacier is the thing to do for Cordovian tourists, second only to fishing. There were a number of hiking trails off the unpaved road, and we were determined also to explore the [supposedly] easier ones.

We had awakened to mostly cloudy skies, and the rotund, friendly hotel clerk, whom I've named "YouBetcha," forebodingly spoke of a rainy day. She had commented that the people of Cordova are used to two seasons-- the rainy season and the monsoon season. She described temperatures in the mid 80's several weeks ago and the consternation it caused among the townsfolk, who watered their flowers frantically.

We decided to get an early start, hoping to beat the rain. It's amazing how the rain and the clouds can completely alter the surroundings, instantly transforming it from one of mountain landscape beauty to a wall of white nothing. What a magician mother nature can be! In any case, we wanted to beat nature's theatrics, so we stopped by a local sandwich shop to take our lunch and were on our way. It wasn't long before we were greeted by the familiar desolation and the wonderful din of silence that defines Alaska.

The road was mostly straight and wide enough for cars to pass, and though, while bumpy, wasn't that bad at all. Mountains encircled us, the closer ones green with dense forest, and the ones that interrupted the horizon, mostly snow covered. As we were at the delta of the Copper River, there were many river offshoots, some turbulent, others calm and still, mirroring the spectacles that loomed above them.

We sped down the Copper River Hwy, kicking up a cloud of dust behind us, obscuring completely the rerun in my rearviewmirror. We passed neither car nor person for 30 miles en route to the Bridge to Nowhere. The Bridge to Nowhere, also called "The Million Dollar Bridge," was originally constructed in 1910, at a cost of $1 million. Originally built as a railroad connector between the copper mines of Kennecott to the northeast and the sea access of Cordova, its use was extinguished with the demise of the copper mines in the 1930's. No longer used by the railroad, locals decided to extend the road on the other side of the bridge to connect Cordova ultimately to the main highway network. Not much was accomplished before the earthquake of 1964, which laid ruin to the bridge, and work on the road was stopped. For reasons that still mystify the Cordovians, the bridge was repaired in 2005 at a significant cost, despite the fact that no road was ever completed--hence the dubious "Bridge to Nowhere" distinction.

We crossed this bridge, expecting a T-shirt stand at the other side with "I Crossed the Bridge to Nowhere -- Cordova, AK" available for purchase, but that just wouldn't fit in with this town at all. [But I would've bought it.]

On our way back from Nowhere, we stopped at the Child's Glacier viewing area. This area was quite impressive-- an unobstructed view was presented of the glowing blue ice thunderously crashing to the waters below, rippling waves against our side of the rocky beach. It was noticeably colder in the viewing area, as the sea winds whisked off the glacier and tried to blow the visitors across the channel back up the road. Denisha got a seamless panoramic picture of this area, which really captures the scene perfectly.

Piling our gear once again into the Kia, we backtracked up the gravel road, stopping initially at a hiking trail, the trail head which was a mile off the main road. Imagine a dead end road, terminating in a clearing surrounded by dense forest composed of mile-high straight spruce trees, the branches of which nearly obfuscated all ambient light. In a futile attempt to penetrate deeper into the forest, my eyes conveyed fear directly to my heart, ignoring the normal neuronal pathways. Walking into this hiking trail would be essentially hiking in near darkness for a 6 mile round trip. We decided wisely, I think, not to pursue this. Maybe some day, but not today.

We instead chose a 2.3 mile roundtrip hike that was labeled 'easy' on the National Forestry Service pamphlet. 2.3 miles of hiking in Alaska is NOT equivalent to 2.3 miles of walking the dogs in Central Park in Union, KY. We had entertained the idea of turning around about 10 times, which interestingly corresponded to the number of berry-laden bear poop piles we avoided along the way. I freely admit that fear once again tried to take hold after the second pile of poo, but somehow we fought it off. Summoning lessons learned from previous Alaskan adventures, we talked loudly to avoid confronting a scared bear--usually the deadliest kind of bear.

On our return trek along the same trail, our attempt at loud conversation had yielded to our bodies' fatigue. We plodded probably too quietly about, watching our feet stomp against the rocky, root-rich soil. I thought I heard shuffling just ahead of us, and tore my eyes quickly away from my feet and cast them in the direction of the noise. I saw brown fur and my heart rate doubled--no tripled--and I could feel the heave of every beat in my throat. It was indeed an animal, but thankfully not a bear. It was a dog, accompanying the Forestry Ranger who were accompanying a couple to the cabin at the end of the hike, from where we had just returned. "Pyro" was not the fiercesome beast I had briefly anticipated, and Denisha and I got a brief dog fix in the middle of Nowhere.

We shoved more memories in our baggage and re-launched our Kia, driving even further from Nowhere, AK, out of the darkness, through the rain and clouds and back to the arms of our room at the Reluctant Fisherman. It's so much fun to go to Nowhere, and it seems every Alaskan town has one.

Day 3: Kayaking Cordova

2009-07-18T07:24:00.014-08:00

Cordova is a fishing town, period. If you don't fish, then you must either be a tourist or a mutant. The Corodovians are as salmon-worshipping as the other coastal towns we've visited in years past, with salmon caricatures dressed in outfits relative to what is being advertised.

We're staying at a fisherman's hotel on the dock of an inlet of Prince William Sound, aptly titled "The Reluctant Fisherman." It's pretty simple and undoubtedly luxurious by Cordovian standards. Our 1-foot balcony offers a view of the dock of Orca Inlet, from where the local private and commercial fisherman launch. I awoke one night about 2:00 am and opened the blinds to reveal a multitude of pale yellow orbs. In my somnolent haze, an adrenaline rush ensued, as I was reminded of the barrage of alien lights from Close Encounters. After fumbling for my glasses, I was reassured with corrected vision that these 'orbs' were lights from the boats that were bobbing harmlessly in the inlet waters. I didn't get a picture, but hope to tonight. As our college intern-contact at Enterprise Rental Car would have described it, "Very Cool."

Denisha had planned us a full day of Kayaking and hiking, guided by Kelly [male] from Cordova Coastal Outfittes. We went with one other group of two people from Scottsdale, AZ, who had flown in on their own plane, thanks to their husband-pilots. We launched our Kayaks at the opposite end of the city from a rocky beach. There were several fly-fisherman nearby, and we watched one snag a pink salmon which he claimed was "small," but it was about 5X the size of the biggest fish I ever caught.

It was a perfect day for Kayaking. Though cloudy and mostly grey, no rain or mist was falling and the waters were pool-calm. There were hints that the sun may try to make a guest appearance during the rainy season, but that appeared off into the distance. I thought if we paddled fast enough, we just might beat the clouds to the sun. The placid, waveless water of the inlet provided flawless reflected mirror images to the green and snow-dotted mountains that rose from the bay. We paddled about 2 miles straight across from our launch site to "Observation Island." Our guide was familiar with this spot and was eager for us to hike to the top. Along the way, we caught a glimpse of two harbor seals that would pop their heads up and down, reminiscent of that carnival game where the monkey head would pop up and you would have to thump it back down with a sponge hammer.

We landed on the beach of Observation Island and had lunch on its shoreline. We then wound our way up the steep side of the 500 foot mountain. The familiar spruce trees provided some support as we used them as leverage to hoist ourselves upward. We paused several times for one of our asthmatic group members to catch her breath, as she had unfortunately forgotten her inhaler. Our guide was sympathetic, but it was clear he was not going to allow a silly asthmatic to impede our progress.

We arrived at an open meadow, which Kelly called "The Sound of Music Meadow." Cottongrass dotted the meadow, and a crisp wind picked some up and tossed it gently around us, simulating a sparse snowfall. Onward we went, with the mossy ground allowing our feet to sink several inches with each step until reaching the peak. As if there ever any doubt as to whether climbing to the top would be "worth it," the reward was indeed priceless.

We were offered a 360 degree view of the surroundings. We could see the small city of Cordova miles down the opposite coast. We could see a lone kayak paddling its way through the nearby waters, though it appeared as only a speck from our vantage point. We noted moss that hung from the spruce and hemlock trees, analogous to the Spanish moss seen in the Southern U.S. This moss, however, would only grow in the purest of air, according to our Scottsdale asthmatic, and was therefore found only in Alaska. [Can't confirm the veracity, but it made for a interesting tidbit.] Up here, nothing much seemed to matter, and it was wonderful.

We descended the mountain and once again launched our kayaks, paddling across the inlet to where Kelly convinced us migrating salmon could be spottted. There were no salmon in the specific place he had anticipated, but nearby, we could see fins and jumping fish. Suddenly, as if materializing from the water below, a hundred individual eddies swirled and progressed toward our kayak. We watched as the school of salmon passed under our boat, and gave us the first rocky waters of the day.

We continued to paddle along the shore and interrupted the naps of several sea otters, one of which turned his head, yawned, and disappeared. Our final stop before returning to Cordova was the highlight of trip for me. From high atop the nearby mountain, a thunderous gush of water fell into the sea below. We ran ashore at the waterfall's termination, climbing out to experience one of nature's most beautiful gifts.

I climbed up the steep side of the mountain to where the falling water collected into a rocky basin. From here, it stubbornly fell less frenetically into the welcoming arms of the sea. I stood at the basin and felt the spray, inhaled the crisp air, and was pleasantly deafened by the crashing water. I looked upward and labored to see from where the water fell, but couldn't. I imagined a group of angels somwhere high on top of that snowy mountain peak whose job it was solely to continue pouring water down the side. I appreciated their hard work.

Day 2: Ferrying to Cordova

2009-07-16T15:58:00.005-08:00

I watched through the eyes of the plane as the blue glacial water below evolved into snow-covered mountains then into green, forest covered mountains, settling finally into less aesthetics of residential Anchorage. As the plane cut through the clouds, the scene below unfolded like a movie through the windows of Delta’s big bird, each portal itself representing a frozen frame of nature’s feature film.

This is the third time we’ve watched this movie in as many years, but it’s just simply one of those that seems to get better with each rerun, noticing each time something new that we missed previously. The touchdown was smooth, landing effortlessly like the gulls I had watched several minutes prior. As we taxied toward the terminals and exited the plane, we were greeted by our old friend the record-setting 150 lb halibut and the snarling polar bear, who will undoubtedly forever frighten Alaskan tourists.

Our first snafu of the trip came when Enterprise told us they didn’t have our car reservation. I smiled as I was immediately reminded of the Seinfeld that addressed how easy it is for rental car companies to “take the reservation” but struggled in “hanging on to the reservation.” It turned out it was a minor inconvenience, and actually worked out financially to our advantage, as they knocked 15% off the price.

We stayed again at the Voyager Hotel in downtown Anchorage, somewhere on K Street, notably the same hotel where we had concluded last year’s travels. Though not purposefully planned, this arrangement gave the impression of a continuation of our prior travels, with a pesky interruption of 345 days.

I had gotten very little sleep on the plane, thanks mostly to a horribly congested--if not pertussis-infected--old fart in front of us. I could not help but bitterly resent his presence, in part for ruining my slumber and giving me a headache, which worsened with each guttural percussive “BLAH” that ricocheted off the wall in front of him and bounced into my right ear. I found some solace in knowing he would be entertaining his fellow cruise ship patrons with his dissonant pulmonary music.

I fought Mr. Sandman hard, but he wrestled my eyes closed at 8:00 pm AK time and conceded at 5:00 a.m. We ate breakfast at a trendy café downtown, only several blocks from our hotel. Our waiter was helpful, but I felt certainly he liked dudes, liked dudes a lot, if you get my insinuation. I looked at the coffee cup he had placed and filled before me. A large red heart decorated the middle of the cup, with the words, “I Love You” scripted below it. I chuckled at the irony, then hoped that was all it was; after all, I was wearing my new super sexy glasses.

We took the now familiar Seward Hwy to the town of Whittier--population barely 100--to catch the ferry and float down the Marine Highway to Cordova. This ferry appears much newer than the ferry last year and also more plush. I’m sitting typing on a restaurant-style table while watching puffins float outside our window. It’s overcast, as we’ve come to expect from Alaskan coastal weather, and a light mist is struggling to find ground. All but the bases of the surrounding mountains are cloaked in angry clouds.

Man, I can’t wait to get lost in this state again.

Prologue: The Almost Hawaiian Blunder

2009-07-14T11:01:00.004-08:00

As has become ritualistic, Denisha sought to plan our next vacation immediately upon completion of our last vacation. We entertained other sites for the next trip, and I sheepishly admit that I had allowed myself to be drawn into the idea of Hawaii. Its rich greenery and splashing waterfalls and white beaches were a tempting lure to two travelers who had spent the previous two summers traveling in beauteous contrast. The Travel Channel in HD had further inebriated us with Hawaiian splendor, but isn’t everything more attractive and seductive in HD?

Travelling abroad was out. I had been horribly delinquent, if not subconsciously purposefully so, in obtaining my passport. Our options were therefore [thankfully] limited to the United States. When Hawaii as our next vacation destination moved from speculation to strong consideration, I noted at the same time a spore of guilt materializing. This spore, as spores tend to do, fermented into gnawing remorse at thoughts of infidelity to my beloved adopted state. I shared my reservations with Denisha, who had her finger on the ‘SUBMIT’ button for purchase of airfare to Honolulu. It took some persuasion, and at one point, a pair of pliers, to wrestle her finger off that SUBMIT button, but I succeeded.

After bottling up the Hawaiian getaway and setting it afloat, we once again turned our focus back to Alaska. Alaska, after all, was a big state and there was much left to explore.

At some point in wrestling with indecision, I had closed my eyes and returned instantly to that grassy knoll somewhere in Katmai and then paddled clumsily around Kodiak Island. I saw again the otters doing the backstroke in the calm waters of the bay, the bears swooping upon unsuspecting salmon with their mighty talons, eagles gliding against the backdrop of lush hillsides and snow-dotted mountains. Unfettered purity and satisfaction filled all five senses simultaneously. I could feel the Alaskan mist as it bounced off my cheeks. It was at this moment that I felt an overwhelming sense of certainty.

How could one who had spent the past year losing paradise not attempt to rediscover it?

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We are both eager to embark on our next Alaskan adventure and again look forward to taking all who are interested with us. This year’s blog promises even more vivid landscapes and detailed photography, nicely balanced [hopefully] with descriptive narrative and introspection. If you're not interested in the introspection, then skip it and look at all the pretty pictures :).

There is truly no excitement like the excitement of anticipation, and we are anticipating hard.

Paradise in the Rearview Mirror

2008-08-19T14:35:00.009-08:00

It is always most challenging to finalize anything in life, and consistent with human disparity, some do it better than others. The human brain is a marvellous, wondrous mechanism, but at the same time, its neuronal firings can offer a muddling of visceral responses that make it difficult to ever internally collate, let alone convey through words. Every story, journey, art, or life must have an end, though, just as it must have a beginning. It is with this dichotomous necessity and thinly-veiled disclaimer that I begrudgingly attempt to conclude our travels, albeit with warning of unavoidable melancholy.

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As the Subaru travelled down an uncommonly straight and barren stretch of the Seward Highway en route back to Anchorage, I glanced to the passenger's seat and saw that Denisha had yielded to the lullaby of the rolling tires. I cracked my window slightly to enjoy the coolness of the air and smell of spruce. I had been listening to my generic Ipod for a number of miles, as the few radio stations that were received did not offer my preferred musical genre. As the last chords of the Eagles' Desperado faded from my earphones, the vaguely familiar low-end chords of a Bruce Springsteen song filled my ears.

There is always that one song that plays fortuitously, serving to take you and your emotions somewhere they haven't been for sometime, at times conjuring dormant memories hibernating between cerebral folds. This particularly wistful tune was called "Paradise," certainly not a hit for Mr. Springsteen, and doubtful whether it even graced the airwaves. [You can argue that Bruce doesn't have the best voice, nor the most complex instrumentation, but one thing I will certainly defend is his uncanny ability to create lyrically dense and simplistic, yet pensive melodies.]

The song itself presents multiple perspectives on what defines paradise, purposefully presenting it in this tune as a vaguely existential experience. This interpretive diversity intrigued me and instigated my search for paradise as I drove along Alaska's Hwy #1.

I glanced up into the rearview mirror and there we were in Homer, at the peak of a green hill, variegated by Alaskan wildflowers, surrounded by snow capped mountains and chilled by blue glaciers. The clouds danced around us, as we strained to see past them, hoping to catch a reflection of the scene before us in the bay waters. There were bears, too, giant brown bears that fished in a nearby stream. I could almost touch them, you know.

I reached to adjust the mirror a bit, turning it closer towards me. Now I could just see water, and there was an adult otter supporting new life on her chest. There were seals in the distance, too, playing peak-a-boo with the two kayakers who potentially threatened their paradise.

I rubbed the mirror with my sleeve as it had started to develop an unfamiliar haze, but I soon realized the haze emanated from my eyes. I labored to see beyond the emotion into the green hills that now dominated my rearview mirror, and watched as the pink fireweed swayed in the gentle breeze. I leaned forward in my seat to discern a movement I had detected against the emerald background, a disruptive golden blur, running freely and unencumbered. The golden figure, illuminated by the sun and highlighted against the contrast of the green brush, paused, and I know I saw a tail wag.

Paradise is the hand next to you. Paradise is the friend or companion who travels beside you. Paradise is the mountains, the rivers, the silence. Paradise is the beach that renews with each tide. Paradise is seeing an old friend in your rearview mirror.

Anchorage Aweigh

2008-08-17T19:07:00.013-08:00

Yesterday morning was spent eating breakfast with Darlene, blogging, and repacking yet again. Check-out time was 12:00 p.m., and she was expecting more guests, so we had to vacate promptly. This left 8 hours to explore/tour Kodiak before lining our car up for ferry loading. We strategically left our museum and indoor sightseeing for this time period, as we had done in Homer before our previous ferry departure. The aforementioned ‘strategy’ revolved around allowing for ample opportunities to use clean bathrooms—have you ever seen a museum with a dirty bathroom? The public bathrooms in fishing towns are most unpleasant, and besides, this strategy had served us well in Homer.

We first stopped at the Kodiak War Museum, about 3 miles away from our B&B. It was open only Fri-Sun, as it was staffed entirely by volunteers from Kodiak. Its focus was primarily on that of Kodiak’s role in World War II and the Aleutian campaign. The museum was set up in one of the bunkers of Fort Abercrombie and had war uniforms, weaponry, vehicles, and communication equipment on display. Many of these were incorporated within wartime vignettes to add to the effect of the demonstration.

Kodiak Wildlife Refuge Museum, in downtown Kodiak, was a newer building evidenced by the modern architecture. Inside, the highlight of the self-guided tour was a reconstructed grey whale skeleton that hung from the rafters. Someone, though I can’t remember who, described the tale of finding this beached whale about 7 years ago on one of Kodiak’s shores. The dead animal was intentionally covered with sand, which somehow hastened the decomposition process. After a certain time, the whale carcass was uncovered, cleaned, and reconstructed for viewing at the museum. Talk about a stinky job!

Across the street was, by comparison, stood the oldest building in the state of Alaska. Built during the early 1800’s by Russian settlers, the Baranov museum provided a quick glance into Kodiak during its pioneering and fur trapping days. The museum also offered Russian-made china, scarves, and a large selection of hand-painted Russian dolls, called matryoshkas. Borrowed from wikipedia, in case you’re interested: “A matryoshka doll or a Russian nested doll, also called a stacking doll, is a set of dolls of decreasing sizes placed one inside the other. ‘Matryoshka’ is a derivative of the Russian female first name ‘Matryona’, which is traditionally associated with a fat, robust Russian woman.
A set of matryoshkas consists of a wooden figure which can be pulled apart to reveal another figure of the same sort inside. It has, in turn, another figure inside, and so on. The number of nested figures is usually five or more. The shape is mostly cylindrical, rounded at the top for the head and tapered towards the bottom, but little else; the dolls have no hands (except those that are painted). Traditionally the outer layer is a woman, dressed in a sarafan, holding a rooster. Inside, it contains other figures that may be of both genders, usually ending in a baby that does not open. The artistry is in the painting of each doll, which can be extremely elaborate.” The elaborate ones at the museum were $1200. Uh, no thanks.

We then decided to drive to Pasagshak [PUH-SAG-SHACK] Bay and out to fossil beach, where the Milepost Guide had suggested could be found fossils of sea creatures past. Pasagshak Bay had reportedly been a recent hotspot to view humpback whales, which provided enough motivation to make the excursion. This was at least a three hour venture, and at that point we had four to burn before catching the ferry.

More beautiful scenery greeted us at every turn, the landscape seemingly becoming greener with every passing mile. This day was probably the best overall weather day we’d had since we landed in Kodiak, with partly sunny skies lighting the majority of our trek to Pasagshak.
We ebbed and flowed down Pasagshak Road and ascended to an overlook of the ocean in which buffalo—yes, I said buffalo—occupied the foreground. Ugly beasts, indeed, but this made for an outstanding picture. Continuing on the road, as we neared Fossil Beach, was something right out of the X-Files. We had seen signs along the road directing toward the Kodiak Launch Complex, which is a “spaceport.” Bragged about being a non-federally funded, non-state funded independent corporation for launching rockets and satellites into space, it doesn’t take much to allow the mind to wonder if there’s more to it. Deserted buildings were strewn about the hillside, each one surrounded by razor wire. The launch pad could be seen in the distance, and hopefully turned out in one of the pictures. Needless to say, we saw no launch that particular day.
Fossil Beach was a bust. No whales, no fossils, nothing special—just stinky from decomposing kelp and crab. We did see two surfers, although, at surfer beach en route to fossil beach. This beach is one that is, per Darlene, coveted for its large waves by die-hard surfers who can tolerate the frigid Pacific waters. We didn’t stop, but surely felt the surfers would have to be a lovely hypothermic blue.

On the way back, we spotted two foxes by the road, one standing guard while the other prowled the rocks for dinner.
As luck would have it, the ferry was delayed from Homer and wouldn’t be arriving until sometime after 9 pm, which would delay departure probably to around 11 to 11:30. Thanks to technology, Denisha and I enjoyed a movie while waiting, so it passed quickly. The ferry ride was much less turbulent and we slept soundly without dinner making an encore appearance.

We drove the four hours back to Anchorage, leaving Homer and the sea in our rearview mirror. Just before entering Anchorage, we saw a female moose standing in a small stream along the Seward Highway. My moose sense had been tingling all day, so I was relieved when my intuitions were finally rewarded. As I sit at a table in our room at the hotel Voyager, typing this latest blog, that feeling that we’re ready to come home and that vacation is nearly over is creeping up, tapping us on our shoulders. From the “big city,” somewhere on K Street in downtown Anchorage, Alaska…

Chasing the Sun

2008-08-16T10:12:00.010-08:00

We begrudgingly conceded that the clouds and rain had won, that the sun was going to remain entombed in the clouds of Kodiak. At the same time, would could see a break in the clouds, but it was near the other end of the island, nearly an hour drive away. In an epiphanous moment, we refused to be reticent and continue to wait for the sun to come to us; why not go to the sun?

We followed thirty miles of paved Chiniak Road then an additional 10 miles on unpaved road. The Milepost was a handy book to have along on our travels, as it listed do-not-miss sights down to the tenth mile. For instance, at milemarker 21.3, it said not to miss a large eagles nest atop a cottonwood tree...sure enough, there it was, though void of eagles. At milemarker 39, the author encouraged a walk along the shoreline, as sea otters and whales often were spotted at this locale, so we made this our ultimate destination.

As we drove down Chiniak, we passed the Kodiak Coast Guard Training Facility and saw two of the rescue helicopters used for the daring rescues that we've seen in movies and on Oprah. We crossed the Russian River, and made a mental note, as that was where there had been recent evening bear sightings. We planned to make this a stop on our return.

The drive was along a winding, narrow road that rapidly ascended into the hills, and then just as quickly descended to hug the coastline. The unpaved portion was rough, and it most likely would have been frowned upon by Avis, as our Subaru took a beating. Along the way, we passed the desolate Chiniak post office, which was little more than a single wide trailer.

We arrived at mile post 39 and were greeted amicably by the sun. The light not only elucidated the beauty of the water and beach, but also made the vegetation covered hills even more verdant. We could see a Princess Cruise ship far in the distance, which was a crude reminder of the unfortunate need for this industry to the Alaskan economy.

While scouring the waters for wildlife, I noticed a large bird perched upon a distant pinnacle that jettied from the shoreline. Denisha walked further down the beach and managed some clearer pictures of the bird, which we later researched to be an immature bald eagle. No otters or whales, oh well.

It was around 7:00 when we decided to head back toward town. Our gas gauge was making me nervous, as the warning light for low fuel had been lit for the past 30 miles. There was nothing along this road, except for the Rendezvous Bar and Grille, which was little more than a double wide with neon beer signs as window dressings. I was quite sure they did not offer gas at this establishment.

We made it to Russian River and noticed several cars pulled off to the side, a reliable indicator that wildlife was near. We saw several bears galloping through the thick grass and creekbeds and prepared our cameras. Exiting the car, we were greeted by a swarm of mosquitoes, which I am afraid made my camerawork rather, ehem, nauseating. We lathered ourselves in DEET and continued filming. These were true Kodiak bears, daunting in their size. We soon realized that there were actually four bears -- 3 cubs and the mother bear. The mother bear was considerably bigger than the three cubs, but even as cubs, these bears nearly equalled the size of the bears we saw in Katmai.

It was fascinating watching the cubs play. They would quickly spread out over the river basin, hiding in the tall grass, then popping up to look for their siblings. As they found one another, the cubs would rear up on their hind legs and push the other away in playful banter. Meanwhile, the watchful mother bear would urge them, mostly futilely, to follow her up river. We watched for perhaps 30 minutes before the bears galloped out of sight, and coasted in on fumes to the local Gas-N-Go, where gas was a bargain at $4.88/gallon.

We ate a late dinner at Henry's Diner and had, what else, halibut sandwiches. Retiring from a full day's driving, we rejoiced at having the opportunity to experience part of Kodiak under the clarifying ultraviolet light that caused the island to quite simply, glow.

Kayaking Kodiak

2008-08-15T09:07:00.009-08:00

It was an overcast day with the clouds hurling rain down against our windshield as we drove into the docks at Kodiak to meet our Kayak guide. We arrived to meet Andy, a bearded mid to late 30's former member of the Coast Guard, aboard his boat, the Celeste. We pushed off rather quickly and putted out of the docks into the choppy waters of the frigid Pacific. I suppose we got caught up in the anticipation of the day's events, because we neglected to bring any motion sickness medicines, which, retrospectively, was a big mistake.

To two landlubbers, any turbulence could equal big nausea, especially in the absence of pretreatment, and it did indeed. About 30 minutes into the journey, both Denisha and I began to feel abnormally warm, and peeled off several layers. I could feel my face flush, then my countenance cycled through all the colors of the rainbow, settling finally on green. We made it through, thankfully coming to anchor in much calmer waters where we were to begin kayaking. We got a "Kayaking for Idiots" abridged version and launched off the back of the Celeste into the welcoming waters.

We paddled about half a mile, seeing various bird species float and disappear, only to reappear magically in unexpectedly distant places. We paddled up to a beach of a nearby island, called Long Island, aptly named because it was 3 miles long and less than 0.5 miles wide. This was one of the highlights of the trip for me. The island was felt to be a strategic point in the 1940's, with the American forces anticipating the Japanese flying overhead en route to the mainland to attack from the North. Though neither Long Island or Kodiak Island never actually ever received enemy fire during the war, Long Island had been readied to take--and give--an onslaught.

After lugging our kayak ashore, pulling them a distance safe from the tentacles of the tide, we entered the woods and immediately were engulfed by the surrounding brush and Sitka spruce trees. The density of the trees provided a canopy which shielded us from the rain as we plodded along a crude military-blazed road that had survived nearly 70 years. As we climbed up further into the hills of the island, we reached a point where a daunting scene unfolded before us. I looked behind me, fully expecting to see a glowing portal through which we had unknowingly stepped, teleporting us from 2008 back into the early 1940's.

Before us was a scene lifted out of the war: I could see ghostly figures of soldiers, walking past us down this same road. Off of the road were ten to twelve living quarters, each made out of corrugated steel and fashioned in "half-circles." Several had been crushed by falling spruces, but most were largely intact. We passed what must have been the bathhouse for the community, as this was the only building where plumbing was evident. Long, stainless steel sinks were also intact on one side of the building. The silence added to the eerieness of the wartime diorama, as only an occasional crash of the ocean against the rocks disrupted the hush.

As we walked further up the road, we climbed to the peak of the island, where two, fifty-ton gun turrets and fragments of gun barrels were positioned. Beneath the gun turrets, hollowed into the side of the mountain, was one of the many bunkers on Kodiak and surrounding islands. Though dimly lit by the outside light shining from through the other end, we managed to walk from one end to the next, passing by lockers which the soldiers used to store their gear. Emerging to the opposite side of the mountain via the bunker, a panoramic view of the ocean and coastline opened up. Puffins dotted the hillside in the distance, and gulls swooped like kamikazes into the ocean below us. The cool wind blew the moisture-laden air against our raingear, and chilled our exposed cheeks. Wow.

We backtracked down the road and were regurgitated by the forest back onto the rocky beach, where we launched our kayaks back into the ocean waters. We paddled back to the Celeste and climbed aboard. Andy was determined to show us whales, so we cruised further out into the Pacific. It was not long before we saw water spouts shoot up into the horizon, heralding the presence of humpbacks. We soon found ourselves surrounded by four humpback whales, the immensity of which would have to be witnessed to be truly appreciated. Pictures or words could not describe, so I won't even attempt it.

We again endured a rocky ride to another, much smaller island near Spruce Island, further off the coast of Kodiak. We could see a herd of seals along the coast, and several inquisitive members swam near our boat, poking their heads occasionally above the water to monitor our progress. These were most likely the look-outs, communicating back to the rest our position and probably perceived intentions. These same seals followed us during our kayaking, all the while maintaining a safe distance.

The highlight of this kayaking excursion was floating alongside sea otters. We saw 4 or 5 otters floating on their backs in the distance, but an elder otter allowed us to get very close. We saw, too, though not quite as close, a female otter supporting a pup on her chest. What an unforgettable experience.

I had fought hard against the nausea for the majority of the trip. On the way home, however, I unfortunately succumbed to its persistence. We'll leave it at that, certainly not the highlight of the day.

As we pulled into the docks, two shaggy, weather-beaten bald eagles watched us from a perch near the dock entrance. Denisha had finally gotten good pictures of eagles, although these were "embarrassing" examples of Kodiak eagles, per our guide Andy. It was quite an adventure, but the land was a welcome steady platform to my tremulous legs and tenuous stomach. Today, exploring Kodiak Island...

Ferrying to Kodiak

2008-08-13T20:09:00.011-08:00

Yesterday was fairly uneventful. Our ferry departing from Homer en route to Kodiak Island did not leave until 10:30 p.m. and did not start loading until 8:30, so we had about 8 hours to occupy. It was rather an overcast day with a misty rain. While the rain and clouds obscured the view of the hills and mountains across the bay, they did act to make the greens more lush and the wildflowers more vivid.

We decided to save most of our indoor sightseeing for the last day, and this worked out quite well given the uncompliant weather. We hopped from local restaurant to tourist shop, eating lunch at the Cosmic Kitchen and dinner at the Boardwalk Fish N Chips [on the spit], where we enjoyed halibut from the day's catch. We toured a local winery, tucked high into the hills of Homer, and shared a scone and java at the Two Sisters Bakery overlooking the Bay.

Neither Denisha or I had ever ridden a ferry, so we were looking forward to our pending trip with eager caution. We weren't expecting much in the way of accommodations, and that's exactly what we got. I felt like I had just enlisted in the Navy and this was my first night on the ship. The quarters were small, but spotless, and the bunk beds were made so tightly that my lung capacity was halved after I wiggled under the covers. I am quite thankful that we had the foresight to pack Dramamine, because it came in very handy at 2:30 a.m., when we were awakened by severe rocking. Taking a shower was also a challenge, as one hand was always stabilizing while the other washed. After a rocky night, we emerged from the hull of the ship and into the welcoming, rainy arms of Kodiak.

Kodiak was about 52 degrees and rainy. The locals equate the weather patterns to that of Seattle, which is also notoriously rainy and cloudy. We were disappointed at first, but grew to accept that's just simply the way things are here. In Florida, on Venice Beach, it would be a vacation stopper; on Kodiak, it was way of life--and that's what we were here to experience.

Our B&B was 6 miles out of the downtown area, and we had arrived 5 hours before check-in time. Denisha had read where our hostess, Darlene, was a retired Alaska State Trooper, so we anticipated strict enforcement of all house rules. [We were to learn later she had also worked homicide and taught Crime Scene Investigation at the Alaska State Trooper Training facility in Anchorage.] As we had time before we could check-in, we decided to drive around, hoping to find easy hiking trails.

We wandered into Fort Abercrombie Park, which offered several trails, each about an hour hike. The ranger at the welcome center--whom I believe we woke up--seemed all too eager to help two "real" tourists who were not from a cruise ship. We donned our rain gear and set out along a well-stomped trail that wound through a dense forest, crammed with moss-covered pines ?, whose tips scraped the clouds. The plants and ground cover were greener than anything I'd seen, thus the "Alaska's Emerald Isle" dubbing for Kodiak. The trail led up to a steep cliff, which provided an awe-inspiring vantage of the coastal ocean waters. We watched as the waves crushed against the rocks to our right, producing a calming din, while to our right, a single gull glided above a serene, muted fresh water lake.

We were allowed to check-in early, and Darlene was nothing like our preconceived--and perhaps stereotyped--notions. Our housing was by far the most spacious and elegant. We were invited to dinner with Darlene and several locals who tried their best to sell Kodiak to us, grooming us to replace their several aging physicians and extolling the virtues of community.

Our plans, weather permitting, as it has continued to rain steadily this evening, are to arise early tomorrow and go on a guided Kayak tour with 'Andy.' We hope to have an inspirational trip, though doubt that will be able to share pictures, so I guess you'll have to settle for my prose pictorials. From Kodiak Island in the middle of 35 degree Pacific waters, removed from life as we know it...

Across Kachemak Bay

2008-08-12T10:49:00.007-08:00

I yawned myself awake at around 6:30 a.m. and left Denisha to sleep “just a little bit longer.” I could smell the coffee brewing and was elated at the thought of a fresh pot to enjoy while absorbing the crisp mountain morning air. If everyone thought I was a bit dependent on coffee before I left, wait until I get back! That reminds me, I’ve written several sentences, time for another cup…

Okay, refueled.

We had booked a cruise across Kachemak Bay to eat at The Rookery, a restaurant owned and operated by the accompanying Otter Cove Resort. En route to the restaurant, we detoured slightly to take a tour of Gull Island, where tens of thousands of birds came each year to nest and rear their young. The gulls formed the overwhelming majority of the bird population on the island, but luckily there were some colorful and playful puffins that offset the monotony of the gull preponderance. Just as we were leaving, an obliging sea otter did the backstroke past our boat, pausing to run his fin across his bald head, as if to primp for the onslaught of tourist pictures.

The second half of the lunch cruise, was, you guessed it, lunch. We arrived about 20 minutes later at the resort docks of Otter Cove. The word ‘resort’ conjures connotations of luxury, but four rustic cabins without TV or running water & a shared bathhouse is not most mainlanders’ idea of resort living. The ‘resort’ referred rather to the remoteness of the location—available only by boat—and the striking view. The view was impressive. The restaurant and the nearby cabins were both constructed into the side of the mountain, supported by mammoth joists. The outside deck overlooked the jade water as it lapped playfully against the rocks below, but it was unfortunately too chilly to enjoy for an extended time.

Arriving back at the Homer docks, we disembarked and strolled up and down the touristy shops that dotted the Homer spit. It was late afternoon, so many of the fisherman had returned with the day’s catch and had their fish hung up and strewn across the planks of the dock. Halibut weighing 50-75 lbs, along with salmon and red snapper, created a lovely aroma for the sea winds to distribute amongst the awestruck tourists and apathetic locals.

I had been on the lookout for an abandoned car from which to “borrow” an Alaska license plate since our last trip, but had been unsuccessful in my plundering. One of the shops on the spit, however, sold authentic, used AK plates, which I willingly paid $14.00. I’m not sure which wall it will adorn, perhaps our living room if Denisha will let me.

Today [Tuesday, I think] looks to be overcast and an occasional raindrop is starting to pelt the wooden deck where I’m seated, overlooking the bay and the mountains. The view is starting also to fade, with the mist and the grey clouds concealing the picturesque backdrop. We’re getting ready to check out of our B&B, owned by a colorful transplant from Minnesota named Lori, who is worthy of her own dedicated blog entry.

This evening, we will depart on the ferry from the Homer spit for a 12-hour ride, destined for Kodiak Island. This is the part of the trip that I have been anticipating most. Hopefully, the weather will comply.

Lazy Sunday

2008-08-11T09:59:00.007-08:00

Yesterday was a typical Sunday—lazy. We didn’t have anything planned, so it was a day of motor exploration (driving around). We stopped at the Homer Visitor’s Center and inquired about local hiking trails, and the helpful lady referred us to some “new” trails that were about 13 miles outside of town. We piled our gear, MRE’s (meals ready to eat), water supply, and books on how to survive the wild into the Subaru and tore up and up and up East End Road. East End Road was a spectacular drive, as it was the only main road that led up into the hills that overlooked the town of Homer and the enveloping Kachemak Bay.

It was a warmer day by Alaskan standards, hovering near 60 degrees, although the sun played peak-a-boo with us the majority of the day, emphasis on the boo. This made for an angry sky and horizon, though, and was a bit uncooperative with photos. We stopped at Eveline Park, where the new hiking area had been established. The acreage for the park (80 acres) was donated by a man named Schuster in memory of his wife Eveline, who had died at age 48. There was a memorial for Eveline in the form of a 5X7 photograph at a much younger age, surrounded by Alaskan wildflowers that fought off tall grass, threatening to swallow Eveline. The photo was encased in a durable fiberglass case and supported by an ornate stone pillar, overlooking the exposed mountains and glaciers. We assumed that Mr. Schuster had picked this specific spot so Eveline could always enjoy the natural beauty and sense of infinity that it provided—a rather somber moment.

The trails themselves were very new and were not what we had expected. Rather, someone had mowed swaths through tall, thick groundcover and had rather arbitrarily named and marked them. We decided to follow the mowed path marked “Glacier View” and sat out on our way, confident that if we did indeed get lost, then our MRE’s would be enough to sustain us until we could reach the cabin that was less than 0.5 miles away. It was indeed a very pretty jaunt, but the ungodly number of mosquitoes and flies made the trip less enjoyable. We came away with no bites, incredulous as it may seem.

The Alaskan wildflowers were flowers that in KY would find their way into pots and flowerbeds. Vivid colors of purple, pink, blue, and yellow surrounded us. The timid breeze would provide us with an occasional whiff of pine and saccharine. Most enjoyable to me was the silence and the purity of the air—two of the most attractive qualities of Alaska.

Our evening concluded with dinner at the Sourdough Express, where we were bombarded by a zealous owner who extolled the virtues of eating organically and the ‘greenness’ of her menu. Our friend, David, would have been hard pressed to find to find a tree nearby that was not already being hugged.

Today we have an afternoon cruise across Kachemak Bay planned, where we will eat lunch at a restaurant called “The Rookery” overlooking the bay. From Homer, AK, where the men are men and the women look a lot like the men, until we blog again…

We invite your comments. Click on the "comments" link at the end of each entry. You can also get a better look at the pictures posted with each entry by clicking on the image.

Into the Heart of the Wild

2008-08-10T10:07:00.020-08:00

Today was billed to be the highlight of our trip by the 5’0” embodiment of tripadvisor.com. We were scheduled to fly out of Beluga Lake--0.2 miles from our current B&B--on a ten seater float plane at 8:30 a.m. into Katmai National Park. [Katmai, unlike the other major Alaskan national parks, is only attainable via boat or plane.] Our ultimate destination was to be that of “Geographic Lake,” located in the heart of Katmai. This unofficial, unmapped name allegedly derives from National Geographic photographers who were among the first to visit the area to capture Grizzly bears in their natural habitat. Today, we were destined to follow in the shuttering footsteps of our photographic forefathers and capture the beasts on film as they fed on everything but [GULP] us.

I wrestled throughout dinner with just where to start this blog. Conventionally, one would anticipate starting at the beginning, have a progressive monotonous middle, and lead ultimately to an exciting climax. Convention—blah!

I sat along with 19 other fellow adventurers on a grassy island that was surrounded by streams and silt. The grass was higher than my field of vision while seated, and we lost Denisha several times in its density, having to retrieve her each time from its grasp. The mosquitoes and flies were present, but neither obstructive nor destructive, as we had lathered ourselves in DEET earlier that morning. We had, at this point, been sitting largely motionless on this island for the past three hours, watching grizzlies frolic and feed on pink salmon on the stage before us. Expansive mountains, dotted with ash from prior volcanic eruptions, green with dense brush and forest, and white with snow capped peaks, engulfed us. The sapphire sky hung above us, nearly cloudless, the wind, at a standstill, the emerald green water that was trapped in the mountainous basin—could it possibly become more sublime? The answer, in short, was, “yes.”

We had so far seen three bears, each coming from the bend in the river upstream, but so far none had emerged from the mountains to the north. That was about to change, however. I could see him in the distance, traversing the rocky ground in a deliberate, lumbering, relaxed gait. Our guide, peering through binoculars, commented that this was most certainly a much older bear than what we had previously witnessed, evidenced by his blonder fur and lower lip hang. As he cautiously made his circuitous route across the river, through the grass, and into the stream before us, a nervous hush reverberated throughout his audience. Each pair of eyes was madly transfixed on the elder grizzy that stood in the stream about 50 feet away. He paused, looked up, as if to briefly acknowledge our presence with a sweeping glare. Our guide, earlier in the trip had assured us that he had struck a deal with these bears—we wouldn’t bother them if they wouldn’t eat us. That seemed like a reasonable pact to me, though was dubious as to its veracity.

This tacit agreement, which I have affectionately named the Donteatme Pact, became increasingly less relevant as the bear inched forward. I’m not sure at which point I actually aspirated my heart, but it had to be around this time. The bear was now standing in the middle of the 30 foot wide stream whose eastern bank was lined with expectant tourists. [To save you the math, the bear was about 15 feet away.] As he scoured the stream for potential mid afternoon snacks, he continued to move upstream. Denisha and I formed one end of the line of tourists, and he was drawing unnervingly closer to us. I had purposely selected a seat next to the meatiest onlooker, thinking that if…well, you see my reasoning.

I was peering with one eye through the lens of my camcorder and with the other eye monitored the proximity of the great beast. I was feeling a bit lightheaded, certain that I was succumbing to adrenaline, but then I realized I was just holding my breath. There was a pregnant pause in the bear’s progress, as he stared intently into the water below him. Then, abruptly he lurched forward, and all my sphincter tone was lost. In an instant, I thought of Timothy Treadwell, the basis of the documentary ‘Grizzly Man’ whose 10 year relationship with these same Katmai bears ended abruptly. Perhaps I thought first of him because our pilot, only several hours earlier, had directed our attention to the precise location of his grisly death. [That was one tidbit this day-tripper would have preferred at the conclusion of this excursion.]

The bear’s lurch was, thankfully, not directed at us, but rather at an unlucky salmon, whose long, arduous upriver progress had met an untimely conclusion. Midstream, the bear held the fish against one paw while manipulating its body with the other, assuring a savory first bite. I zoomed in closer on this wondrous moment unfolding in front of me, clutching the camera with my right hand, doubtful that even the sinew of this bear could separate me from it.

Through the lens, I watched intently, capturing the feral twist of the bear’s head, the opening of its jaws, the brandishing of its honed teeth, and the consequent disappearance of the salmon’s upper body. He chewed for several seconds, then hesitated, looked up, and stared directly into my camera, salmon entrails quite visibly dangling from his drooping lower lip. For that instant, the bear communicated with me; not in the psychotic, Son of Sam sense, but in the ethereal sense. As the camera’s zoom penetrated beyond the piercing stare of his brown eyes, he reminded me that he was the king of this temperate jungle and my day’s ticket was nearing the end of its validation. He, too, reminded me that the remaining fish that he protected against the futile efforts of the current to dislodge could easily be me if he so chose. That bear didn’t give a pile of his own berry and fish-laden scat who or what anyone sitting on that river bank was or pretended to be. This is the amazing thing about nature: it does not discriminate. Sure, it will tolerate, it will bend and flex, malleable only to a certain point before snapping, lurching forward to slap man in the face with one of its powerful paws.

I looked up from the viewfinder on my camera to meet unobtrusively with the bear’s stare. I had hoped that he recalled signing some time ago the Donoteatme Pact and would continue his trek upstream. Almost disgustedly and with just a hint of resignation, he released the salmon carcass downstream, where it was immediately devoured by loitering gulls. He retreated into the tall grass and was immediately swathed by the dense brush.

We left shortly thereafter, ourselves retreating into the blue sky that was our artery to reality. I left several intangible things back on that riverbank: arrogance and fear. I approached this trip with both eagerness and trepidation, though admittedly much heavier on the latter. I was scared to board a small plane and fly low enough and deceptively close enough to clip a wing on a craggy mountain peak. I was scared to sit among one of the most fearsome of beasts without ANY means of defense, entrusting my existence to the discretions of one of nature’s most obstreperous creatures. I overcame these fears, and in doing so, learned that you can choose to be imprisoned by fear, choose to be shackled by phobias, and choose to refuse to suck the marrow from life, OR you can choose to simply live it.

Today, I lived it.

The Adventure Begins

2008-08-08T21:12:00.011-08:00

After picking up a few supplies in Anchorage at the Fred Meyer (Chris's favorite store in AK) we were on our way towards Homer. The first part of our drive took us down the Seward Highway which runs along the Cook Inlet with gorgeous views of the water and mountains. The tide was in and we were lucky to see Beluga whales feeding in the waters. Unfortunately we were too far away to get any good photos.

After a few more stops along the way for pictures, we then turned off onto the Sterling Highway towards Homer. The road began to run along the Kenai River which was a beautiful turquoise blue. It reminded me of the Caribbean Sea. We finally arrived in Homer and checked into our B&B which will be our home for the next several days. It is overlooking Kachemak Bay and the Homer Spit. The Spit is a 5 mile piece of land that juts out into the bay. It's filled with souvenir shops, restaurants, charter companies, a boat harbor, and lots of colorful people.

The weather today has been perfect. It's been sunny with blue skies and temps in the 60's. From what we've heard, this is one of few sunny days they have had here this summer. Hopefully it will keep up.

Now it's about 9:30 local time and we're about to turn in for the night. We've got a big day planned tomorrow!

Day 1 - Arriving in Anchorage

2008-08-08T07:11:00.002-08:00

As Seward and Prince William Sound came into view from our seats on our 757, expansive, snow capped mountains with glistening fjords nestled between them was a welcome sight. We were back, baby.

Delta, consistent with its infamy, delayed our flight an hour, so we didn't arrive at the also now infamous Ted Stevens International Airport in Anchorage until 9:00 p.m. (1:00 a.m.). [If you haven't heard about Ted Stevens, Google him. Something tells me they'll be renaming the airport up here.]

I didn't realize it until the end of the flight when the flight attendant swooned upon the passenger in front of us and said, "Good to see you Dr. Shearer," that both Dr. Shearers were on board. I felt reassured that if anyone on the flight had a dermatologic emergency, then they would be all over it, thus absolving Denisha and I from obligation of emergent cryotherapy. I had the unfortunate presage that this twosome, alas, would be doing more than just simply marvelling at the wildlife. The camouflage jackets and T-Shirts exuberantly proclaiming "I Killed Bambi's Mom" were a strong hint. [This is not true, of course, but rather subtle hyperbole, often employed by English majors for effect.]

I'm sitting at a parlour-type table at our B&B early this morning enjoying the limited view from the atrium. We are staying off one of the few main roads in Anchorage, so our view of the landscape is a bit limited. It's around 47 degrees this morning, and expectantly, a bit crisp. But who wants to go to Alaska and experience 90's and high heat indexes and smog warnings?? It's supposed to be a beautiful first half of the day and then perhaps a passing shower. As Troy, our current B&B host put it, "But what do they know?" I see weathermen in AK ooze the same confidence as those in OH. Plans today include a tour of downtown Anchorage and then a 4-5 hour drive [but who cares] to Homer, where the real fun commences. Pictures to follow.

It seems like only...a year ago...

2007-07-25T17:35:00.000-08:00

The following are emails that were sent to family and friends during our first trip to Alaska together in 2007.

Greetings all:

I’m going to try to keep up with a daily Alaska blog, internet availability dependent, of course. Included in the emails will be picture attachments of the day’s highlights. Double click on them at the bottom of the message and they should automatically open up.

Day 1: Anchorage July 25, 2007

Amazingly enough, our planes were all on time and we arrived in Anchorage International Airport on time at 5:10 AK time, 9:10 EDT. We were greeted by a 9-10’ snarling stuffed bear. I made an executive decision at that point that Denisha would indeed be carrying the food during our hikes.

We had no problems with our luggage and getting our car—a freely upgraded Honda Accord—and were on our way to Hood Lake Inn, about 1.1 miles from the airport.

Hood Lake Inn is a 4 room bed-in-breakfast type place tucked behind a hotel and restaurant, opening up to Hood Lake (see pictures). The greeting committee was several seedy-looking cooks taking a smoke break outside the restaurant, which admittedly, at first cast a dubious light. The inn, fortunately, was not consistent with the greeters. We had a deck that opened up to a view of Lake Hood, which is used as a ‘dock’ for float planes (see pic). Earphones were hooked up so that you could listen to real-time ATC’s from the airport’s control towers as the planes landed and took-off.

The owner of the inn, Bill, has his own float plane on the lake, thus all the décor was pilot-plane themed. He had been fishing earlier in the day and “only” caught 17 fish.

We did what everyone does when they first come to Anchorage—go to Bestbuy and Wal-Mart. Our trusty GPS guided us to the retail Meccas. It was a bit surprising, if not reassuring, to find that WalMart’s atmosphere transcends oceanic boundaries. (If our souvenirs appear as if they came from Wal-Mart, it’s because they did!)

We finally collapsed in exhaustion at 10:30 AK/2:30 EDT.

We are currently packing up to leave and drive to Seward, which is about 2 hours/120 miles southeast of Anchorage along the coast. We’re planning on a leisurely drive, as this is supposed to be quite picaresque and hope to have lots to share next e-blog entry.

Day 2: Seward July 26, 2007

We woke up early this morning (we’re still on KY time) in Anchorage to get a start to our day. We had breakfast at Lake Hood Inn, checked out and were on our way. The drive down to Seward is pretty spectacular. It is like a postcard picture everywhere you look. There are several scenic view stops along the way to get out and take pictures. The road is mostly only two lanes and runs south along Cook Inlet so there’s water and mountains to the right and more mountains to the left. About 15 miles south of Anchorage we saw a couple of Dall sheep on the cliff to the left of the highway only about 50 feet above us. Unfortunately there was no good place to stop and take pictures.

About halfway to Seward we took a detour towards Whittier to the Chugach National Forest. We stopped at the campgrounds and took some pictures of some beautiful mountains and took a short hike down a stream where you can apparently sometimes see salmon running…but not today. We walked about a half mile down the trail until the stream ran into a very blue lake called Lake Portage. We took care to make lots of noise not to surprise any bears or other critters along the way.

We then went down to the Visitors’ Center and from there we could see Burns Glacier which is a hanging glacier on the mountains across from Portage Lake. We also saw some crazy people kayaking on the freezing water. Further down the road from the Visitors’ Center, we were able to see Portage Glacier which has receded so that it is impossible to see from the Visitors’ Center. You really need to take a boat to see it well. We decided not to travel on to Whittier which a very small town on Prince William Sound; one-because we had to pay a toll of $12 and two-because there didn’t seem to be much to do there.

Then we were back on the road, continuing through the Chugach National Forest for about 70 more miles and then on into the small town of Seward which only has about 3000 people. It sits on Resurrection Bay and surrounded by mountains. We found our bed and breakfast which was built in 1905. It has 6 guest rooms and is filled with antiques. It is in downtown so it is within walking distance of most places.

The weather today has been overcast and cool with showers most of the way from Anchorage and Seward was no exception. We walked through downtown in some light rain to browse through some gift shops. We then took a tour through the Alaska Sea Life Center which is a research facility devoted to the marine life of the Gulf of Alaska and the Bering Sea. We saw sea lions, seals, sea birds and lots of fish but Chris didn’t get to see his otters. The staff at the center said they are hard to keep so they don’t have any exhibits, only a 2 week old pup that was recently rescued and we could only see that on a video. We were told that there are sometimes sea otters in the water nearby but we didn’t see any. In fact, the only wildlife we’ve seen so far (with the exception of the Dall sheep) has been in captivity. Hopefully that will change tomorrow when we cruise the Kenai Fjords.

Day 3: The Kenai Fjords July 27, 2007

About the only way to experience marine life in their native habitat, aside from a cruise liner, is to take a boat tour of 4-5 large glaciers around the port of Seward. There are different distance cruises—one of the surrounding bay, a 6 hour, and a 9 hour tour. We opted for the middle 6 hour cruise, as my resident Frommer’s tour guide and travel agent-in-training had read where this would provide ample photo-ops.

The boat was a large boat, two levels, holding about 200 passengers. The captain was also the narrator of the tour, as well as the critter-spotter. The captain and the company rely on the presence of certain groups of seals and whales in expected places to provide the passengers with “oh’s” and “ah’s.” They did not disappoint.

We were told the tours the day before were fairly miserable, the ocean waters being fierce in response to local storms--and fierce on stomachs. We had motion sickness patches that we applied, but in retrospect probably didn’t need. Our excursion day was the first day we had seen the sun in its glory, so Denisha had chosen well. The sea was compliant, with no rough spots or excessive rockiness and pristine blue waters innocently slapping the sides of the boat.

Within 30 minutes, our first friend was the sea otter (see pic) floating on his back; FINALLY, I got to see an otter. We were told this was an older fellow given the golden tint to his head. (The captain likened this to the aging of golden retrievers.)

The orca (killer) whales were probably the most magnificent of the wildlife that day, spotting around 8 smaller ones—mothers and babies. It was nearly impossible to get a picture of their easily recognizable heads, but I did get video that hopefully turn out. Supposedly, the captain also spotted several humpbacks, but we were never privy to their location.

The other destination of the cruise was the blue ice glaciers. The blueness is a result of the glacier reflecting the smaller wavelength blue light while absorbing the other colors. The most fascinating event was watching tons of ice blocks melt from the glacier and plummet thunderously into the sea below. Global warming = tourist entertainment.

We went out to eat at a place called The Salmon Bake that was out of town and offered definite local flavor. I had battered Halibut and fries and Denisha had crab cakes. I enjoyed the fish, but Denisha felt the fresh, authentic Alaskan snow crab could not rival the Hebron crab of Mr. Herb’s.

This Saturday morning, we’re going to do an easy hike to Exit glacier on our way out of town and then head back towards Anchorage, where we will drop off our rental and stay at B in B more in the heart of the city. Along the drive, we’re hoping to take a ski lift up the side of the mountain for a better view and hit a wildlife refuge.

Until the next installment…

Day 4: Back to Anchorage July 28, 2007

I awoke at my usual early time, and Denisha awoke at her usual later time. We were at first hesitant about the experience at the Ballaine House in Seward, scoffing a bit at the idea of sharing a bathroom and interacting with strangers. By the second day, however, we had acclimated to these inconveniences and had begun to rather enjoy them as ‘part of the experience.’ We had a pancake, egg, and bacon breakfast, shared with a businessman, Bill, and a New York lady (Stanton Island). I asked the NY lady to say coffee about half a dozen times just so I could hear the “Kah-fee” Yorker inflection, and each time laughed a bit harder.

We had many stops along the way back from Seward to Anchorage, the first of which was only about 15 miles from the Ballaine House. We were told Exit Glacier offered easy hiking trails, one of which led up to the glacier, and we were all about the easy.
Exit Glacier is part of the main ice group from which most of the named glaciers offshoot. We hiked about ½ mile, winding lazily up the side of a mountain and before we knew it, were dwarfed by an imposing chunk of blue glacier ice. We took some wonderful pictures—some of the best so far—of the landscape, as seen from an elevated vantage, and of Exit Glacier.

The next stop was at a resort town on Alyeska. Our contact at Ballaine House had recommended stopping at The Hotel Alyeska and taking the tram up the side of the mountain for a bird’s eye view of the surroundings. The hotel was unique in itself. Used primarily for skiers in the winter, the hotel décor mimicked that of a ski lodge, though with an archaic 1970’s aura. A dimly lit hallway, draped in deep reds and shades of grey, led to a staircase that then opened up into an expansive gathering room. The highlight of the room, aside from the numerous leather-backed couches, was a large bull moose head staring down from above an emberless hearth.

The tram took us up the side of the mountain and we dismounted to watch a lady jump off the side of the mountain—and paraglide down. We never saw her land, though, possibly bear meat.

Onward to Beluga point, a stop off along the #1 AK highway (there are only 3), where at certain times, you might get lucky and see a “Bore Tide.” A bore tide is a wall of water and rock, supposedly up to 10 foot, but we were unable to confirm this.

The next B&B in downtown Anchorage was staffed by a kooky lady named Barb. I was taught if you didn’t have anything nice to say about your Bed In Breakfast, then you shouldn’t say anything at all. So there.

The 12 hour marathon train ride from Anchorage to Fairbanks lies ahead tomorrow.

Day 5: On to Fairbanks July 29, 2007

Chris and I woke up early yet again, this time out of necessity. We had a hurried breakfast of cereal and toast (too early for Barb to cook for us) and were on our way to the train station by taxi. We got to the train depot north of downtown Anchorage early enough to check our bags and wander around a bit and before boarding the train.

There are several different types of passenger cars on the train. The first cars are owned by the Alaska Railroad, then cars owned by the cruise ship companies (Princess, Holland America, and Celebrity). The Alaska Railroad itself is owned by the state. The car we were on is one of the fleet owned by Holland America called the McKinley Express. We were on the Chena car and as usual ended up in the very back of the car where it was very loud for most of the trip. The McKinley explorer cars are double deckers with the dining area on the bottom and passenger seating on the top. Each car holds 88 people on top with panoramic dome windows.

At promptly 8:15 AM we started our 12 hour journey north. We had a tour guide named Chris who spoke over a PA system about the points of interest on the way. Almost as soon as we pulled out of the station we heard someone yell “MOOSE!” and sure enough there was a cow with a baby walking in the brush just off the tracks. Our first moose sighting of the trip, finally! On the way we would see 3 more as well as a bald eagle. Someone said they saw a beaver and I swear I caught a glimpse of a brown bear in the woods but Chris of course doesn’t believe me. We did see bear tracks alongside the train tracks at one point.

They serve breakfast, lunch, and dinner on the 12 hour trip. We ate lunch on the train and sat with an older couple from Connecticut who kept commenting that “the scenery looks just like it does at home.” I’m not so sure about that. Our lunch was a very tasty cheeseburger with fries. Very good but not cheap.

As we traveled toward Denali National Park we began to see parts of the Alaskan Range which contains Mt. McKinley. We were lucky enough to be able to see Mt. McKinley from the train and got some great pictures. Our guide said that was the first time they had been able to see it for 3 weeks because of the cloud cover. Once we got closer to Denali the clouds were covering the mountain and it was no longer visible.

The train made its scheduled stop at Denali Park and everyone disembarked except for us and the crew who seemed surprised that we were making the whole journey in one day. Once the train boarded again we moved up to the middle of the car and were on our way. We finally reached Fairbanks at about 8:00 PM. We didn’t have dinner on the train and by the time we reached our final destination we were starved. After gathering our luggage at the train depot we got a taxi to the airport to pick up our second rental car. This time a Toyota Corolla and drove to our bed and breakfast in Fairbanks called Dale and Jo’s View Suites.

Dale and Jo live about 8 miles outside of Fairbanks and as we followed the directions we turned off onto a gravel road and started up an incline. When we found the house we were greeted by Jo who came outside and helped us with our luggage. We were led up to our room which was a site for sore eyes. It is better than any hotel room I’ve stayed in. We have a spectacular view of the mountains and rivers, a comfortable king sized bed and a bathroom that has a soaking tub and a spa jet shower. By the time we arrived it was around 9:30 PM and Jo offered to make us sandwiches which we gratefully accepted. She brought sandwiches and fresh fruit up to our room and then we fell asleep.

Tomorrow—discovering Fairbanks.

Days 6 and 7: Fairbanks July 30-31, 2007

Our trip has taken on a much slower pace now that we are staying in the same place for a few nights. This bed and breakfast is really great. Our room is very nicely decorated and we have great views of the Chena and Tanana Rivers and also views of the Alaskan Range (which we have yet to see because of the clouds). Our host, Jo, is very accommodating and gave us lots of ideas of things to do around Fairbanks.

Yesterday we started exploring Fairbanks and after a trip to Sam’s Club we stopped at a place called Pioneer Park, formerly Alaskaland. This is a collection of odds and ends representing the origins of Fairbanks. There was a restored steamboat, the USS Nenana, several log cabins that started out in downtown that have been converted into shops, and also the railcar President Harding rode to drive in the golden spike on the AK railroad. Overall the park was pretty cheesy. We didn’t stay long.

For the rest of the afternoon we explored downtown Fairbanks. We found a few interesting shops with arts and crafts made in Alaska and of course souvenir shops. Their visitor’s center is in a log cabin by the river and had lots of information on tours and things to do around town. We then had dinner at a great little Italian place called Gamberdella’s and then came back to our B&B.

Today we decided to take a drive to Chena Hot Springs. This is a resort (for lack of a better word) about one hour’s drive outside town. On the way there we saw two moose on the side of the road not more than 50 feet away. That was our only wildlife spotting.

Chena Hot Springs is of course built on hot springs. We did not get into the hot springs but were able to walk around and look at them. They also have an indoor pool and lodging to spend the night, but our reason for driving out there was to see the ice museum. A few years ago, the owner of the resort decided to build an ice hotel and did, but it melted. Since then, it has been rebuilt and housed in a large aluminum building that is cooled from geothermal energy from the hot springs. In fact all the energy used to heat and cool the resort is from the springs. To look at the place you wouldn’t believe it is so high-tech.

The ice museum was well worth the trip. The temperature inside is 20 degrees F and luckily we just bought winter coats yesterday. Just inside the door there is an ice carving area. Inside, everything is made from ice including the chandeliers. There is a bar where they serve martinis in ice sculpted martini glasses, there’s a chess set, an igloo, a Coca-Cola bear, and a wedding chapel where you can get married. There are also 4 rooms with ice sculpted beds that you can rent for $500 a night. For that price you get a backup room in the lodge and believe it or not, several people have paid to stay there but only 2 or 3 have actually made it the whole night without retreating to the backup room. The ice museum is lit up with multi-colored lights to represent the aurora borealis but the colors get washed out of the photos when the flash is used (hence the blurry colorful and clear uncolorful pics).

After we returned to Fairbanks we decided to go to the University of Alaska Museum of the North. The building itself is very unique in design. The architect is said to have taken inspiration from the northern lights (do you see a pattern here?). Here we saw exhibits on native Alaskan art, the gold rush, the northern lights, and other aspects of Alaska’s history.

And in case you’re wondering, McDonalds in Alaska is the same as McDonalds at home with one exception—the McKinley Mac.

More adventures from the interior tomorrow…

Day 8: Fairbanks August 1, 2007

With the ice museum and Chena Hot Springs behind us, it was time to do a little more free exploration down one of the Alaskan highways. Today, we chose the Steese Highway (AK #6) to drive, hoping to see roadside wildlife (not to be confused with roadkill) and view the Alaska oil pipeline. We drove past Home Depot and WalMart, not an unfamiliar route, as it was the same we had taken en route to Chena Hot Springs the previous morning. We went beyond Chena today--nearly 60 miles beyond.

There was initially some traffic on the two-laned Steese Highway, largely secondary to a small patch of construction. Once beyond this, however, it was leisure driving.

Not too far into the trip, we happened upon the designated viewing area for the Alaska oil pipeline. The pipeline runs from Prudhoe Bay, north-central Alaska, down to the (in)famous Valdez port on the southeastern bay, barreling through 800 miles of rough terrain and at least 3 ecosystems (see picture). I bought several shirts commemorating our stop here at a highly discounted rate—they were “damaged.”

Onward down the Steese Highway we drove, further and further from Fairbanks and further from civilization. Amazingly enough, there was an occasional house along this two lane road, each one engulfed by dense rows of skyward Black Alaskan spruce. We’ll get this out of the way early in the dialogue—we saw no wildlife on this nearly 125 miles round trip.

This is one experience that you absolutely cannot get from a cruise ship—the interior of Alaska. The ‘interior’ of Alaska offers a glimpse into the spectacular landscapes, highways, byways, and no-ways, that come together in variegated colors and textures to complete “The Final Frontier.”

If we could have only bottled the scent of purity along this road, we would certainly bring it back and let everyone sniff. Neither pictures, video, nor words could ever capture this; it is just simply something one has to experience.

We climbed higher and higher up the mountains, cutting through clouds with our Silver Toyota Testarossa (a.k.a. Corolla)—I think the attached picture captures this well. As rapidly as we climbed the mountain, we descended, stopping only several times along the way. One stop included a brief trek up the side of a hill to explore the Old FE Company Camp hotel, bar, and restaurant, which was a converted gold mining camp. There were cars here, but no sign of life except the flowers out front. We stayed very briefly in this area. Despite being interestingly archaic, this area was also strangely fearsome.

We did not continue to where the pavement ended, stopping 12 miles short of the start of the gravel/dirt road which would continue on to Circle, Alaska, nearing the arctic. The end of our journey is shown in the attached picture.

Upon returning to Fairbanks, we once again took advantage of the University of Alaska’s (go Nanooks!) tourist offerings and stopped by a botanical garden and reindeer refuge. After this, we headed to a hot spot of Fairbankians—the local ‘Hot Licks’ ice cream stop. They were out of the highly touted Wild Alaskan blueberry, so we instead got an aurora borealis—a swirl of vanilla, blueberry, and cranberry. Good, but not Graeter’s.

Day 9: Fairbainks August 2, 2007

This was our next to last day in Fairbanks so we decided to do a little more exploring. We really wanted to drive north to the Yukon River and across the arctic circle (about 200 miles) but the Dalton Highway that travels this route north from Fairbanks to Prudhoe Bay on the Arctic Ocean (500 miles) is only paved for the first 80 miles. From there on out it is a very rough gravel road mainly used to haul equipment for the pipeline. We were not allowed to drive this type of road with our rental car. In order to do this we would have had to rent a four wheel drive vehicle and go equipped with two spare tires on rims, extra gas and anything else we might need if we broke down in the middle of nowhere. There are only a couple service stations along the way and no cell phone service. So instead we stuck to the paved roads. Today we drove out along one of the local roads that leads out of Fairbanks to the southwest, mostly residential areas with awesome views of the river and mountains. Again, no wildlife. Guess we’ll just have to wait ‘til Denali Park.

One of the big tourist attractions in Fairbanks is a river boat tour called the Riverboat Discovery. It is a 4 deck paddlewheel boat that took us down the Chena River which is a clear water river and then into the Tanana River which is glacial fed. Where the two meet you can see the clear water of the Chena swirl into the murky water of the Tanana. On the tour we watched a float plane take off and land next to the boat. We also made a stop at a recreation of a native Indian villiage and watched a few demonstrations on how they lived. The highlight of the trip was a stop by Susan Bucher’s dog kennel. Susan Bucher was the first woman to win the Ididarod. Of course there was no snow but they showed us how they exercise the dogs in the summer. Instead of a dogsled they use an ATV with the motor taken out and the dogs pull it around just like a dogsled. We were able to see they dogs up close and got some good pictures.

Day 10: From Fairbanks to Healy August 3, 2007

It was our last day in Fairbanks so we had to squeeze in one more tourist trap…Gold Dredge No. 8. This was a tour through one of the last remaining gold dredges in the area. A gold dredge is a huge piece of machinery that digs up the earth and filters the gold from the gravel and spits the gravel out behind it. The gold was then collected using mercury to form an amalgam. The amalgam was then taken to Fairbanks where it was heated until the mercury became a gas and then the gold was poured into bars. This gold dredge was used for thirty years for about 200 days a year but it only traveled 4.5 miles. They collected over a billion dollars worth of gold during this time. The machines were all shut down in the 50’s because of how badly they tear up the environment. It takes a really long time for anything to grow where the dredges have been. When we drove the Steese Highway a few days ago we saw piles and piles of gravel where the gold dredges had worked. After the tour of the dredge it was time to pan for gold ourselves! After a quick tutorial we were each given small bags of paydirt, a trough of water and pans. I ended up with 3.1 grains ($8.22) and Chris got 3.0 grains ($7.95). We almost struck it rich.

After our gold panning adventure it was time to start out for Denali National Park which is just over a 2 hour drive from Fairbanks. We arrived at our cabin which is in Healy, a small town just north of the park to find a little one room cabin with a great view of the mountains. We got unpacked and headed out to explore Denali. We decided to do a little hiking. There are very few hiking trails in the over 6 million acres of the park. The only trails are near the visitor’s center. The more experienced hikers hike in the backcountry of the park without trails. We would be lost in five minutes so we stuck to the trails. We started out to do one of the easy trails but ended up hiking up the most strenuous trail which leads to the top of Mount Healy. At first the trail was a slight upgrade, then became steeper and steeper to the point where we were no longer hiking and instead we were mountain climbing. We made it almost to the top, almost because I got scared and because we didn’t think we could go any further. The views were awesome and well worth the sweat and pain. (Deanna-I still think the Breaks was worse!)

We had dinner at a restaurant in Healy near our cabin called the Black Diamond. Much to Chris’s dismay I finally tried some fresh Alaskan salmon. It tasted okay but his cheeseburger looked better!

Then back home to our tiny cabin in the woods. We’re still looking for those moose!

Day 11: Denali National Park August 4, 2007

Today was the day! We finally got to see some wildlife. We got up at 7AM this morning and drove to the park to catch our bus. Denali only has one road leading into and out of the park and it is 92 miles long. Personal vehicles are only allowed to drive the first 15 miles. After that you must buy a ticket on a shuttle bus to get to the campgrounds, to go hiking in the backcountry or just to see the scenery. We decided to go only as far as Fish Creek which is 62 miles into the park. This trip takes 8 hours roundtrip and keep in mind that the shuttle buses are only converted school buses with bucket seats and a PA system. Not the most comfortable way to travel but it gets you there. The road starts out paved and then turns to gravel, first wide enough for two way traffic then only wide enough for one.

Most of the wildlife is pretty far away from the road so we had to use binoculars most of the time. We took lots of pictures but sometimes the animals are tiny even with the zoom all the way out. Almost immediately we saw a moose off the highway and then few miles later we saw a larger bull moose. At our first rest stop there was a platform over looking a river and on the other side we were able to spot a mother bear and a cub. The mother was blonde but the cub was a deeper brown. According to Lydia (our bus driver/tour guide), most of the bears in Denali are blonde. Lydia ran a tight ship so our bear watching was shorter than we would have liked.

We traveled on through the park and into an area called Polychrome Pass which was really beautiful. The mountains take on several different colors due to lava from volcanic eruptions in the past. The mountains are brown, orange, red, gold, and green. They really look like a gigantic oil painting against the sky. Hopefully the pictures do them justice.

Further into the park we were able to see several Dall Sheep high up in the mountains (look like rams). We were never able to get a close look at these without binoculars. We also saw several caribou, mostly in the distance as well. There were many types of birds along the way including ptarmigan, magpies, ravens, golden eagles, and gyre falcons. We also saw arctic ground squirrels (look like regular squirrels with little skinny tails) and snowshoe hares (look like regular rabbits to us).

When we were near our turnaround point, the higher snow covered mountains of the Alaska Range came into view. Unfortunately we were not able to see all of Mt. McKinley because of cloud cover. The skies all around were clear and blue except over the great one. Oh well. At least we were able to see it from the train on the way to Fairbanks.

On our way back towards the park entrance, things were winding down for us. We had seen all of the “big five” except for a wolf. (The big five animals to see are Dall Sheep, Caribou, Moose, Wolf, and Grizzly Bears.) It had been a long day and Chris and I were falling asleep as we looked out the window. Our bus had stopped because of some construction happening on the park road and then everyone started looking out to the right of the bus. We got up to check it out and there right beside the road and right beside our bus was a grizzly bear taking a nap! It was very close, only about 20 feet away, really kind of scary if you think about it because our bus driver told us that you should always stay at least 300 yards away from a bear to be safe. She turned off the bus and we all gathered around the windows to watch. It stayed asleep for a few minutes, then woke up, yawned and started walking in front of the bus to the other side of the road. Amazingly it paid no attention to us at all. Some hikers got on our bus a few minutes later and said that they almost walked right by it as it was sleeping before they realized what it was. That was really the highlight of the day.

We made it safely back to the park entrance, stopping for another moose and caribou sighting, but we were never able to see a wolf or a bald eagle. Maybe tomorrow. Before heading home we took another short hike down to Horseshoe Lake which was very pretty and a piece of cake after yesterday’s extreme hiking adventure.

Day 12: Denali National Park August 5th, 2007

The conclusion to our adventure has arrived, so wipe away the tears and stretch out the banners, we’re coming home. As I’m typing, it’s about 11:40 a.m. and we’ve just finished an excellent breakfast at The Totem Inn Café. Our waitress is very amicable, and her gravely, nicotine-infused laugh is rather infectious. The Inn itself appears antique, with large spruce logs held together by a lightly colored grout. Photographs of Denali landscapes and wildlife adorn the logs that constitute the walls. It is quite windy today, and a bit chilly and drizzly, with temperatures hovering in the mid 50’s. We can hear the wind as it tries desperately to escape, trapped between the café and the surrounding suites. The noise of the wind combines with the Vivaldi (oddly enough) playing overhead to create wonderfully dissonant chords. What a perfect place to start the day.

We are hoping to take one last spin through the park and hike a trail at the end of the park road along Savage River. I am hoping we see a wolf with our last wildlife viewing effort, though the possibility I realize is remote. I wonder why they call it Savage River? Hmm….
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It is now 9:00 p.m., and we are sitting on the bed in the Healy cabin listening to the rain outside disturb the silence. We did the hike, although the only animal we saw was an arctic squirrel. No wolf. Oh well. Grayness has fallen, as the rain clouds have shrouded the sun in their gloom. I say ‘grayness’ because it’s never actually been dark at all during our stay. I have been awake all times of night and early morning and always could easily see outside. I believe it to be a misnomer that Alaska is ‘the land of the midnight sun.’ Rather, Alaska is more appropriately described as ‘the land of the midnight hues of darkness’—though not nearly as catchy and does not fit well on a t-shirt, or mug, or shot glass, or coaster, or luggage tag, or purse, or keychain, well…you get the point.

Denisha is reading her paperback as I am laboring at the laptop trying to conjure my prose skills from what seems like a previous life. I had forgotten how unimaginative and creatively stifling medicine can be!

We have truly enjoyed every twist and turn of this trip, with each location presenting us with a new adventure and a new aspect of Alaskan countryside and culture. This has been an amazing journey through the past and present, a journey that has transcended both our expectations. We have seen primitive life at its most primitive. We have driven the roads less traveled. We have seen the trails that have led intrepid men and women into the heart of the wild, only to be absorbed by it and, in many cases, never seen again. This place is like that, and unless you’ve been here, it is difficult—if not impossible—to comprehend. It is easy to get caught up in its beauty, seduced by the siren’s song that is the mountains, the rivers, the trees, the animals. This land takes one so far away from life as we know it; it is nature’s drug.

I leave with this, the final entry of the blog on the final day of our trip in the final frontier. While it is always hard to conclude a trip, knowing that tomorrow will bring the return of routine, there is solace in the hope that we will someday return. Anyone who has the time and resources to dedicate to exploring this great land, do it.

We have flown nearly 10,000 miles. We have traveled 500 miles by rail. We have driven over 1,100 miles. We have traveled by boat over 100 miles. We are tired.

From the land whose state flower is appropriately the Forget-Me-Not, I hope everyone has enjoyed these musings as much as we have enjoyed writing them.