Alaska September 5-15, 2018
September 5, 2018
Car to bus, bus to plane, plane from Denver to Seattle, plane from Seattle to Anchorage, shuttle to pick-up truck, truck - that DID start - to Palmer, AK. From pillow to pillow over 3,000 miles traveled, two scrambled eggs, half a veggie sandwich, one noodle bowl, three granola bars, and a portobello mushroom salad eaten, over half a book read, zero poops taken, zero arguments initiated, and one stunning sunset later, Mom and I are here - in Alaska! Staying at cousins Duncan and Leah's bush abode with mountainous views and wilderness-chic decor down to the doorhandles. I'm grateful for the cousin that I barely know for the inspiration and opportunity to see this land. As my eyes close I think back to the view from the plane - gargantuan snow covered peaks, one right after the other - and smile for the adventure to come.
September 6
We begin by heading north toward Hatcher Pass, a steep gravel road winding through a vast expanse of orange and red tundra. We excitedly point out jutting rock features and distant jagged peaks while marveling at the lack of other leaf peepers and mountain gapers. We are literally alone as we pass by the Independence Mine State Historic Park - a backcountry skiers paradise in winter and gold mine open for tours in summer. We stop to admire the lonely, treeless territory just short of the pass itself, then carry on our windows down, heat pumping journey along the meandering Willow Creek until we reach the only highway in Alaska.
We continue north until we take the right fork, staying east of the Susitna River, straight to Talkeetna. A gold rush town turned mountain climbers' first stop, this quaint but funky historical downtown has only a few streets, a dozen shops and restaurants, and visitors of all shapes and sizes. From cruise goers on a lunch excursion, to Denali attempters, to homesteader off-the-gridders, this town has seen it all. Mom and I saunter our way downtown, casually window shopping, pausing for a caribou burger and bowl of muscles. We make our way to the Talkeetna Hideaway Lodge, our hostel-style home for the night.
We explore the XYZ lakes, admiring the rainforest meets evergreen environment, until we're ready to kick off our shoes and hang up our hats at the lodge. Tomorrow, we fly! Seen: 1 moose & 1 bald eagle.
September 8
Quietly, I sit looking out at the Nenana River, a blue grey icy glacial river just outside of Denali National Park and Preserve. Red solo cup of red wine in hand, I reflect on the past two days. The Athabascan native peoples call Denali "The High One" but do not refer to it often out of deep reverence for the 20,310 foot peek. The Alaska Range is the center point of the park's six million acres of pure wilderness. These impossibly steep, jaw dropping, incomprehensibly massive granite rock formations attract over 600,000 human visitors each year these days, an impressive number since the park's 1917 opening.
Our best feet forward and our credit cards swiped, we have seen this exquisite landscape's taiga, tundra, glaciers, and snow buried peaks by biplane and bus. A Piper Six 300 flew us to 10,000 feet to marvel at the extremeness of it all. I'm not sure I even possess the vocabulary to give it any justice. I never stopped smiling or exclaiming in wonder and joy for the 1.5 hour flight duration. The vast grandness, the sheer granite cliffs, the three thousand foot thick glacial slabs, the powder sugar snow clinging for its life on the 50 degree faces. The ridge lines, the ski lines, the blue that only glacial ice can produce. And the High One itself, bearing all of its greatness to us on a crisp bluebird autumn day.
Upon landing and feeding our adrenaline fueled faces with eggs and bacon, we can speak of nothing else. The photos and videos will be cherished, but nothing in comparison to the freedom of flight among the giants of North America. The gods of rock and ice and snow and all things wild and free. Homesteads and dry cabins speckle the boreal forest under our plane's shadow on the return flight. A true wild and free way to live among the animals that do not know or fear the human. Where subsistence living is really living and the only TV you need is to look outside.
One moose, two cups of coffee and 150 miles later we are searching for our cabin at Denali National Park and Preserve. We overshoot into Healy to procure wine, breakfast and lunch provisions, and gas, then backtrack just in time to settle in and enjoy that wine as the sun tucks itself behind the yellow and green hillside. Day is done.
An early wake up call - predawn and blanketed in fog. We rise to greet our 7am bus to Wonder Lake and back. For 85 miles (each way) and 11 hours we learn the park's natural history, climate change tangents, nature nerd jokes and facts from bus guide Rex. He's smart, witty, and cares about the park. We tour the taiga, traverse the tundra, and watch the wildlife under the steady guidance of Rex. And Denali is out in all its glory from dawn 'til dusk, making us part of the 3% club. Only an estimated 3% of park visitors receive the gift of the High One, unfettered by the clouds and weather that the mountain itself generates. Two days in a row we have respectfully received this gift - a sight that is blanketed in thick clouds two out of every three days from June to August, according to Rex.
We stand in awe as flocks of Sandhill Cranes migrate across our field of vision, croaking their distinct call continuously until they become flecks on the horizon. I stand there encapsulated by the wild stillness of this place. It remains as it was - as it should be. A glimpse into a human-less existence. But our deeds have not gone unnoticed here. The layer of permafrost just beneath the surface of the earth is thawing, causing hillsides to collapse, slumping into the glacial rivers below. The boreal forest slowly creeps higher into the tundra as temperatures continue to rise. Things change because we change them, life tries to sustain. What can we do?
In total we observe 11 grizzly bears, a dozen or so Dall's Sheep, two moose, five ptarmigan, many Alaskan ground squirrels, flocks of Sandhill Cranes, a handfull of Golden Eagles, at least seven caribou, one rare Gyrfalcon, two Northern Harriers, and I think that's all! An outstanding variety and quantity of wild creatures that could have been anywhere - but chose to cross our path today. All while the High One gazed across this precious preserve in the four directions. My cup is full, I am grateful, I will remember this forever.
September 9
Why do I travel? Why do I yearn, crave, need to travel? What is the point - what do I want out of it? To be able to say I've been there? To take and share photos? Who am I helping by being somewhere I don't live? The tourism economy? I'm not volunteering, I haven't met any locals, haven't interacted with an Athabascan descendent, haven't been on an unscripted adventure. Is that okay? Is it okay to go to a place and just revel quietly in its beauty? To pay my hard earned money, burn fuel to drive, fly, boat, repeat, tread lightly by avoiding too much plastic, pay more money, drive more - just to lay my eyes upon new lands? Is my horizon broadened, my mind expanded, my soul enlightened, to have tread on unknown soils? I’m just another white face in a crowd of peak-seeking leaf peepers. No better and no worse. What will I do with these stored images and memories? File them away until a conversation arises where I can say, “When I was in Alaska…” These future moments will become the past soon enough. So is the lesson to be learned that it all lies in the present moment? Who cares what these moments mean when they become memories of yesterday. So live in them fully - each and every one. Because they will pass and none will matter. Not the photos I’ve taken and posted to share, not the stories I will tell and forget, not even the words I write here - none if it will ever matter to anyone. It will only ever matter to me, in the moment in which it happened.
After sleeping in until sunrise - 7am - we enjoyed a busy breakfast on Glitter Gulch, then slowly said our goodbyes to Denali as we made our way south back to Palmer. A long and winding road that led to… the Matanuska Glacier. An hour detour due east to see a slowly dying glacier in the Talkeetna mountain range. A somewhat uneventful day of travel with clear skies, snowy sky piercing monolith mountains, and long talks about life with Mom. I now know her life like a play by play novel. Is that the real point to all of this? To spend precious time with her while we still can? Yes, I think that is the best answer I can find.
September 10
We drive the Seward Highway along the Turnagain Arm to Whittier. Seeing the backs of Beluga whales surfacing alongside the road, stunning in its own right, was a treat. We traveled through the longest tunnel in North America shared by train and auto to the tiny harbor town of Whittier on the Prince William Sound. Aboard the Phillips Glacier Cruise we spend about four hours touring the Sound through the Chugach National Forest with an interpretive ranger. She points out a group of Stellar sea lions, a lone Harbor seal, a raft of sea otters, and many impressive frozen rivers of ice called glaciers. We even see one calve off a section, causing a lot of waves - in the water and of excitement from the boat. The wind is strong and the air crisp and cold and I enjoy the time spent on the top deck with views of blue ice.
We dock, pass back through the tunnel, and turn sharply south toward Seward. The drive there is winding and gorgeous as we navigate the Kenai Mountains and their many lakes. Seward is a picturesque little village looking out into Resurrection Bay and the stunning glaciers and peaks of Resurrection Peninsula. We share a meal of Halibut, cooked traditionally by broiling it in sour cream, after a still evening along the shoreline where we watch a sea otter playfully groom itself in the fading light.
September 11
I know, absolutely, that I need purpose. So I’m finding it, best I can, along the way. I find it in the morning solo walk I take down to 4th street to the main marina in Seward. In the excellent latte I drink in the mug I provide to the local coffee shop that gives me a locals discount. In the walk I take along the waterfront as the late morning sunrise casts an autumn glow on Mount Marathon. I see mountains and smell ocean. I find purpose in the quiet moments on the leaf scattered walk to Exit Glacier. A “dirty ass” glacier that has receded many miles since first officially documented in the mid and late 1800’s. Free to see and depressing to absorb that humanity has doomed itself to a freshwater-less existence if we keep this up.
I feel purpose in driving the length of Nash road, a road off the beaten tourist path on the opposite side of Seward and Resurrection Bay. Spontaneous joy strikes when I stumble down the beach on “the nicest day of the year.” It’s 70 degrees without a cloud in the sky which means stripping down to your bra and undies and jumping in, jellyfish and all!
September 12
Our time in Seward passed after a 1:30 am wake up call to see the northern lights. We crept out to the darkest side of town and waited to have our minds blown by the raved about flowing greens and blues. But they did not come. A bit deflated, we pack up and bid farewell to this salmon slinging fishing village. I have left things un-done here that I wish to return to do someday. Summit Mount Marathon, hike to the Harding Ice Field, explore Kenai Fjords National Park, to name a few. A reason to come back. We wind our way further south to Homer along Kenai Lake and River. A striking grey blue river much wider than the fish-less glacier-fed braids of the north. This river carries hoards if salmon in its icy waters and are avidly fished by humans and bears alike. We share moments of awe as we pass through places I wish I had time to give to.
Homer - the Halibut capitol of the world - is shuttering its windows and bolting its doors for the season. We manage to experience the Spit, delicious Halibut sandwich and all, while taking in the views of the glacier carved mountains across the Cachemak Bay. We wander our way up the steep hillside to A Room with a View - Maynard the widower German’s B & B. He’s lived in his home with hunted trophy animals adorning every empty wall and immaculately landscaped lawn with a panorama view of the Spit and Bay, for 19 years. We relax on his blanket of thick, soft grass staring absentmindedly at the unobstructed view, drinking in every drop of sunlight. Eventually we make our way to the estuary at the base of the spit to stalk the local bird populations. We admire the three Sandhill Cranes and may waterfowl in the shallow marsh under the evening golden hour sun. There, we did a thing in Homer. We left a long laundry list of things undone, things to return for someday. We return to our house on the hill, room with a view, to admire the alpenglow on the opposing glacial slopes and close the chapter on this exploratory mission to the last frontier.
September 13
We start the long journey north with homemade dutch apple bake for breakfast with Maynard. He’s pleasant, polite, and a good conversationalist. Then we depart from whence we came eight days ago to receive Duncan, Leah, Silas, and Hayden from the Anchorage airport. We stop along the way to admire the striking grey blue of the Kenai River and the changing colors of the birch and aspen trees. Along the river at a boat ramp I catch a glimpse of the ruby red and forest green of the salmon this river is well known for. And there are fisher people lining the shores and floating lazily down this perfect river. It’s a picturesque fall day, with a chill in the air and a breeze covering us in that sweet smell of the death of summer. I am grateful to have spent this time with my mother exploring this absolutely stunning and purely magical landscape. I intend to return and continue to journey.
We successfully collect Duncan and co. at the airport and relinquish our trusty Toyota Tundra to her rightful driver. Friendly family banter and regaling of travel stories follows for the rest of the evening. What once was a tidy, clean and quiet home, almost overwhelmingly so, is now the sight of two young boys throwing toys and screeching with either delight or the opposite emotion. It took mere minutes to fill the stark emptiness with typical familial chaos - and I’m happy for the change in pace. It feels fitting to finish out our time here this way. With a dose of reality that our quiet, idyllic time lacked. Readying me for my reunion with reality.
September 14
Our final day in the last frontier and it’s as sunny and perfect as the one before that, the one before that, and the one before that. The urge to inhale every vista has left me and instead I enjoy every sip of tea, bite of sourdough blueberry pancake, and ray of sunshine. I’m feeling ready to return to my Colorado life with its simplicity - when I let it be - but I’ve got today to drink in this wild place one last time. We load up the family and wander a mile or two up Gold Mint trail at the base of Hatcher Pass along the little Susitna River. The rush of the water, warmth of the sun, and sight of the glowing tundra is the perfect ending to all of this. The long day proceeds with a nap on the lawn, a blueberry beer at the Palmer Ale House, and a harvest dinner. We feast on a salmon that Duncan netted on the Kenai River, honey carrots from the garden, and sparkling water with cranberry syrup made from berries picked from the backyard. Casual Alaska subsistence living - I love it. Good conversation, an early bedtime for an early flight. And that’s it. No muss, no fuss, it’s over.
