Alaska, Part 2

Alaska

We made landfall three times while in Alaska, at Hoonah, at Juneau, and at Ketchikan.

We didn’t actually make landfall at Hoonah. There was no pier; in fact, there was not enough depth within the Icy Strait to actually get too close to the town. We were shuttled into town. It’s a small settlement, mostly Native, and not particularly developed, either. It’s only about six streets deep. But it does sport a world class zip line.

We didn’t do much in Hoonah. Bev was still green, just happy to have two feet on solid ground. We strolled about town and along its rocky shore and went to the museum and bought a couple trinkets. We had lunch. I’d like to say that I wished I’d rode the zip line, and in a way, I wish I had; but I’m probably more happy that I didn’t. I’m a wuss at heights and would have probably needed a slight shove to have launched.

The Hubbard Glacier

Our approach to the Hubbard Glacier the next day was far more exciting. It was grey. It was grim. An icy sleet swept across the deck. Floes drifted past as we approached. Penguins and seals rode them, lolling about and watching us as we steamed past, a curiosity they must see a few times a week. The crackle of calving burgs rolled across the water like snaps of thunder, the sloughed off sheets and chunks of ice throwing plumes of spray into the air as the hit the water.

Juneau was busier still. The fog burned off over breakfast, a phenomenon we’d come to expect every morning while in Alaska. It was not a common occurrence at that time of year; indeed, rain was far more common. Rain was expected. It had been raining for two weeks prior to our arrival, in fact, only breaking as we arrived. Had we arrived the week before, we’d have not even seen the Hubbard glacier at all; we’d have been treated to a deluge instead.

Our Guide was waiting for us as we disembarked. She was young by all accounts, just twenty-three. And not a native Alaskan. Most people we met were not native Alaskans. Most were transplants from the Lower Forty-eight. Robina was no exception, being from New York State. Rick, our bus driver was from Miami. This is not surprising. Alaska is not densely populated. Most Alaskans are not terribly interested in tourism. They are fisher folk. They are lumberjacks. They are Sarah Palin. Those people working in tourism are students in summer employ. Tourism is seasonal, after all. Alaskans prefer year-round employment.

We boarded a coach that took us to the “Sounder.” Bald eagles sat on shore, watching us leave. There were orcas galore at sea, although we never got that close to them. Whenever we cruised closer to wherever we’d seen them surfacing, we’d discover them surfacing where we’d just left. Terrible rude of them. Herds of sea lions and walruses lay about on the rocks of the coves, groaning and growling amongst themselves, hardly taking notice of us as we passed.

Tongas National Rainforest

On returning, we set about exploring Tongas National Rainforest and the Mendenhall Glacier. The glacier was much depleted. All glaciers are much depleted. But it was still shockingly blue. Chunks of dense ice littered the shore where we stood, across the inlet from the wall. An eagle flew past overhead, no farther than ten feet from where I stood.
We expected to see brown bears. We crossed a bog and lined up, high above the river bank and peeled our eyes, scanning the forest’s edge for their arrival. The river was choked with salmon. It seemed only a matter of time. We waited in vain. The bears had gorged themselves on the spawning salmon already. The salmon had spawned and lay dying as we watched them roll and splash about on the rocks. They were not fit to eat, Robina told us. The bears were elsewhere, she said.

They were. They were back at the visitor’s center and parking lot. We’d begun to pay no attention to our surroundings. We were chatting, making Euro pals, or Alaskan pals as it were. But Bev was still watching.

“Excuse me,” she said to the oblivious. “There’s a bear.”

Many pictures were taken after much embarrassed laughter.

The Ketchikan Rain Gauge

Ketchikan was wet. It rained buckets. As it should at that time of year. The coast was a rainforest, after all. There was a meter in the town showing the amount of rain that had already fallen by that time. Seventy-six inches had been measured by then.

Trade was catered to tourists looking for a deal. I’d never seen so many jewelry stores in my life. I’d never seen so many Cartier watches, either. But I was disinclined to pay $10,000 for a watch. A young woman approached me as I was leaned over the glass display, gawking at the array of timepieces I’d never buy.

“Can I help you,” she asked. Her Russian accent was perfect. Every shopkeeper and every clerk I’d came face to face with in Ketchikan was Russian. That never seemed to cease to amaze me.

“No,” I said, too shocked at the price of everything I’d seen to say “thank you.”

Her head inched back. Her eyes snapped wide. She laughed. It burst forth from her in a surprised bark.
I finally did say, “Thank you,” but I decided to be on my way and not bother to step into another jewelry store. There was no point.

We had a snack at the Burger Queen. It’s a greasy spoon that all the Ketchikan travel websites said was a must do. There was a bit of a line-up. It was certainly busy. But it was just a greasy spoon, as tattered and worn as one would expect. But it was a change from all the decadent food we’d been eating aboard the ship. Burger and fries. Catsup. Lots of onions. As good as any barbeque. I’m not sure it was worth the somewhat lengthy walk we had to endure there and back in the rain, though. That said, I’d probably go there again, given the chance.

The Beaver

We boarded a Beaver. It was an expensive excursion, but I wanted to fly in a sea plane. We taxied out into the center of the sound and picked up speed, skimming and jumping over the chop, leaping into the air, climbing up and over the surrounding peaks, weaving between the still higher ones. Then we turned about and dove, banking hard as we descended into a steep fiord. We didn’t seem to slow as we raced toward the high treed wall ahead. Our waked splashed high and wide about us. Then we settled and slowed and turned, nestled up against the mountainously high shore that jut up from the sea and reached up into the sky. The pilot cut the engine. We donned life-vests and stepped out onto the pontoon floats. The engine off, it was quiet. Water lapped against the pontoons. Unseen birds called. Other birds glided past us as our eyes surveyed the rocky treed heights about us.

I was seated beside the pilot on the return flight. He was telling me about how he came to Alaska and what he liked about it.

Northern Ontario

“It’s an odd place to live, he said. “It’s a modern town. But within an hour, you can be deep in the bush, standing where no one else has ever stood before.”

He also said, “You gotta like to hunt and fish to live here. You gotta like the bush.”

I looked out the window, taking in the rivers and lakes and pine trees. The undeveloped expanse that stretched on and on and on. Green. Blue. Rain streaking the glass.

“Oh my god,” I thought. “I’ve just spent $10,000 to come home on vacation.”

Alaska was exactly like Northern Ontario.

It was just a little taller.