9/27 – 9/30/20
9-27
I woke to find rain still falling and a carpet of wet leaves over my car. Brushing these away, I left Seward and the monsoon behind. The terrain changed as I headed west: first mountains whitened by new snow, then the sky-blue Kenai River, and finally wooded flatlands. After lunch at a turnout overlooking the windswept sea, I rolled into Homer.
Since Denali, I had been sleeping in my car. My self-inflating mattress and sleeping bag were reasonably comfortable, and I had gotten used to reading in the passenger seat each night. But after two weeks, my bed was becoming musty, the lack of space was getting old, and all the clothes I had soaked the day before refused to dry. And so, feeling faintly guilty, I checked into a hotel. After walking round my room in wonderment – Two queen beds! Hangars! A flush toilet! – I draped wet clothing from every convenient surface, put my hiking boots under a fan, and spread my sleeping bag over the ironing board.
Homer is famous for its spit – a four-mile tongue of land that extends in Kachemak Bay. In the summer months, this is Alaska’s worst tourist trap. But by the end of September, the spit is mostly deserted, with only a few businesses still open. I visited one of these, Mako’s Water Taxi, to arrange a trip to Kachemak Bay State Park. Then I headed to the end of the Spit for a stroll on the beach. The wind was still howling, and heavy surf thundered on the rocks. Rain shadowed the mountains across the bay. As a fine drizzle began to fall, I returned to the car, and to the wonders of my heated hotel room.
9-28
After a pleasantly relaxed morning – my hotel, I was delighted to discover, has a waffle maker – I headed back to the Homer Spit for the ride to Kachemak Bay State Park. In the middle of that ten-mile trip, the captain stopped to point out a raft of otters, bobbing placidly in the pale green water.
On arriving in the state park, I set out towards Grewingk Glacier. Past a grove of golden aspens, leaves lisping with drizzle, I followed a spur trail to the hand tram over Grewingk Creek. I ate lunch on the platform, watching the creek foam over its rocky bed; and then – since two other hikers from the water taxi had arrived, and wanted to try the tram – I went across. The tram, we found, worked best if at least two people were involved – one pulling from the platform, the other from the tram itself. Even with help, it was a serious upper body workout.
After hiking a bit beyond the tram (and finding warnings of an aggressive bear in the area), the other hikers and I labored back over the tram and made our way to the lake at the foot of Grewingk Glacier. The sun emerged just as we reached it, illuminating an archipelago of icebergs. It was ridiculously photogenic – the sort of scene that appears on the covers of travel brochures. I took as many pictures as my failing phone battery would allow.
As we hurried to meet the return boat, the captain called one of the other hikers to let us know that a black bear was wandering on the shore right next to the trail. A few minutes later, he called back to reassure us that the bear was walking away. By the time we reached the shore, the bear was about 100 feet away. Nobody seemed much worried about its presence – not least because the other two passengers on the boat were rifle-toting bear hunters fresh from the bush. I rode back to Homer in the back of the taxi, next to a black garbage bag full of bear meat.
9-29
Today, along the first stage of my slow return to Anchorage, I stopped in the little town of Cooper Landing for an afternoon of mountain biking. Although I’m a fairly avid cyclist, I almost never go off-roading. So it was in a state of blissful ignorance that I selected my bike, strapped on a helmet, and nodded as the owner of the rental company talked about mud holes and washouts.
The first trail was an easy, graveled jaunt to the Russian Lakes. I raced through musty groves, wet leaves crushing under my wheels, and suffered no inconvenience worse than wet pant legs.
The second trail – the south end of the Resurrection Pass traverse – was a different story. Rocky, muddy, braided with roots, it climbed through a universe of grasping undergrowth. At first, I was worried about surprising a bear in the brush. After the first half-hour, bear attack would have been a pleasant diversion.
I struggled the four miles up to Juneau Falls, which cascaded picturesquely through a birch forest in full color. On the rattling return trip, I plowed into a hidden rock, and was pitched into a foot-deep puddle.
Mud-spattered and bruised, I returned the bike and headed toward Anchorage. The only roadside motel still open was a grim little dive perched over a bar. Unwilling to sample the menu, I cooked my last cans of soup in the gravel parking lot.
9-30
Roused before dawn by an argument in the bar, I could hear wind-driven rain rattling against the windows. When I emerged on the hotel’s wobbly balcony, I found a gusty wind hurling walls of water against every convenient surface. Dashing to the car, I placed both hands firmly on the wheel, and headed toward my final destination: Whittier, the strangest town in Alaska.
Whittier was born during the Second World War, when Pentagon planners were trying to establish a secure supply base on the ice-free Gulf of Alaska. They found the ideal place in a cove east of Anchorage, where almost constant cloud cover would foil Japanese bombers. Blasting a rail tunnel through the surrounding mountains, they constructed their base, which was developed and expanded through the early sixties. Then, abruptly, the army left, leaving an array of huge buildings to be abandoned or colonized by civilians.
The only way to reach Whittier by land is through the train tunnel, which has been widened to accommodate a single lane of cars. The direction of traffic in the tunnel – at almost three miles, America’s longest – alternates every half-hour, with breaks for passing trains. Once I finally entered (I managed to arrive a few seconds after the inbound lane closed), I had to hug the margins of the ten-foot wide roadway to avoid the slippery rails.
Whittier was as bizarre as advertised. Driving through a torrential rain that sent waterfalls roaring down the mountainsides ringing the town, I made my way to the abandoned Buckner Building – once the base headquarters – and drove around the 14-story structure that houses most of the town’s population. Then, satisfied, I headed back through the tunnel and storm to Anchorage.
After an enormous burger at the Arctic Roadrunner (an Anchorage institution), I ran a few errands, killed time in a used bookstore, and finally returned my car. I arrived at the airport a full seven hours before my plane was scheduled to depart. Parking myself in a remote corner of the atrium, I removed my computer from its travel-stained case. Then, with the Chugach Mountains glowing in the afternoon sun, I opened the cover, plugged in my headphones, and began to write.