Alcan Highway Adventure Day 11: There and Back Again

Thursday, August 9th 2022
Valdez, Alaska

Short run. I'm getting used to the rain. We're both getting used to the hotel, but we head out today.

Still a few hours before checkout time. I go to the dining area for coffee. People in uniformed shirts sit at tables, pass through the halls. I've come to realize this hotel isn't just for tourism, but lodging for various industries offering seasonal work. Guides, whale-watching, fishing, oil industry, and people to feed and clean up after all the tourists...

I recognize one of the uniformed shirts. An employee I've seen maintaining the dining area. He sits at a table, staring at his phone. He's a different sort of person, this guy. My first day here it took him the entire afternoon to run a carpet cleaner over the dining area floors, an area smaller than my studio apartment. Whenever I pass him in the hall, he greets me. Hello, how are you? Loud and monotone. A quick glance, then eyes straight ahead. No response when I reply in kind. Once it seemed he barely saw me. I bumped into the wall to avoid getting run over.

On his phone is a video meeting. He has it on speaker. Volume at full blast. I glance at the screen. Two women talk about their respective fishing villages.

"I work for Trans Ocean," the dining area janitor guy cuts in. The women pause. Wait for him to say more. He stares at them. Silence. After an extended pause, they continue their conversation.

I push the red button on the coffee dispenser.

"I work for Trans Ocean," he says again.

A stream of coffee piddles into my cup.

The fishing village women ignore him.

I don't know what to make of him, but no matter. He does a good job here. Coffee is hot. Counters are clean. Floor is clean.

Back in the room, I sip coffee. Journal. Ponder my existence and ponder road conditions and if I should stick to the itinerary or chicken out and spend a week with my friend in Anchorage. It's a big journey ahead. Daunting. Am I sure I want to do this?

I decide to ask the cards, which tell me pretty much what they always tell me these days: keep doing what I'm doing, stop doubting myself, stay creative, learn, grow, and stop asking the same damn questions over and over.

As I contemplate the reading, my thoughts are interrupted by a familiar voice. I look out the window. There, perched atop the roof of the neighboring building, sits a crow. He makes a polite little racket. I fairly certain it's the dad from the group I fed yesterday. Also fairly certain I'm losing my mind. Is he looking for me? How did he find my window? Is he talking to me or is this all a coincidence? Am I delusional or am I some kind of witch??

I decide it's time to check out. I load the car with bags and dog and take my key to the hotel counter. Trans Ocean dining area janitor guy is there. He leans over the counter and talks to the clerk. Something about how to eat a certain kind of food. I mention to the clerk an issue of cigarette smoke coming into my room through the vents the night before. I don't want to get charged for smoking, especially considering that I don't. Trans Ocean guy pipes up. It happens a lot, he says. People don't realize the smoke gets into the vents, even when they smoke out the window. He sounds a bit socially awkward but otherwise completely coherent. Nothing like the peculiar person I've observed during my stay. I have no idea what to think. I decide not to. We're all mad, here.

Pilot and I walk along the docks. Take in all that there is to see one last time. Visibility is bad, but beauty pokes through the cracks in the leaky sky.

Most of the crows are busy, but a few find us. The dad is there. He mentions nothing about the tarot reading.

It's bittersweet, this last exchange. I doubt that I will ever see them again.

Don't forget me.

We drive back the way we came. The only way. Richardson Highway. We pass Horsetails Falls. Bridal Veil Falls. Names of the waterfalls here. Names of the waterfalls in my Portland backyard, and probably many other places.

The ravine is stunning, even in the rain. Rivendellesque. Pilot looks out the window in awe. I see him do this, sometimes. Appreciate beauty. It's more than just the happy dog, lolling tongue, head-out-the-window sniff-sniff (which he also knows how to do). It's contemplative. Thoughtful. My heart puffs and twinkles knowing that we are sharing the experience on the same wavelength.

We stop at Worthington Glacier Park, which I had skipped on the way in on lest I turn my car off and it never start again. We take a paved trail to a lookout point. Worthington is stunning. Thick blue ice veins holding millions of years of secrets and stories. Fireweed popping pink against glowing green thicket and grey skies.

Glaciers are beautiful. This land is beautiful.

But not quite as beautiful as a badass gang of baby magpies holding you up for all your peanuts.

I spend many minutes with these kids. They are fully corrupted by humankind, walking right up to vehicles as they pull up and waiting for the people to step out so they can commence begging and burgling. They are fully corrupted, but we as humans have corrupted their fledging grounds with our cars and trash bins and parking lots, covering up worms and seeds and tamping down the earth so no plants can grow. Leaving bread crumbs and fast food wrappers and beer cans for them to forage. It's a fair trade. I feel no guilt in feeding them organic peanuts and walnuts.

We move on. The clouds are thick, the rain steady. I do a little brooding in tandem with the weather. Listen to audiobooks and music and do very little thinking, or at least none worth remembering later. Pilot naps in the bed in the back.

On to the Glenn Highway. I honk as I pass the Ranch House Lodge. I doubt Karen and Andy notice, or will recognize me as I whizz down the road, but maybe...

When the hunger hits, I pull over. Get some road snacks together. Cheese, salami, one of the hardboiled eggs that I'd cooked in my Jetboil a couple days prior. I snack as I drive. When it comes time to open the egg, I do the trick of peeling a little off both ends and blowing into it so that the shell comes off easily.

Egg explodes sidewise like Mt. St. Helens. Goes everywhere. My face, my ear, my hair, onto my pants and the passenger seat and Pilot's carseat and all the gear within a one-foot radius. I pull over and clean up and vow to never again use the Jetboil for anything other than boiling water.

What's left of the egg is delicious. Perfectly softboiled.

We're headed to Matanuska River Park. It's got all the promised goodies a campground could offer: hiking trails, showers, toilets. It's right on the edge of Palmer, in case I need to grab anything from town. The pictures look promising.

The road is winding. Misty and romantic in the rain. I pull over for a glimpse of the Matanuska Glacier. It stretches for miles. Stunning, from what little I can see.

The weather app promises to bring sunshine tomorrow. I already have plans to backtrack, even if it means adding several hours of driving to tomorrow's journey. I've passed too many lookout points with the same view of the same grey wall of rain. I know there are mountains out there. Big, sexy, voluptuous mountains.

Matanuska River Park is decent. Well-kept. Huge. It takes me two circles around the grounds before I find my site. There are only a few other campers. A couple sites look like they have become residences, a little too lived in for my comfort level, but I am far away from them.

A trailhead is right next to my campsite. Pilot and I get out and hike around. I bring my camera in the hopes of getting some good shots, but most of the pictures end up looking the same. Green banks, rushing river, dark sky.

I get one peek of mountains, and that's it.

I feel jumpy on this trail. I'm still afraid of bears. I will always be afraid of bears, even in the days to come when I get used to hiking out here. "You should be afraid of bears," my dad tells me. I find hollow comfort in his words.

I hear something approaching behind me. Heart summersaults and skin prickles ensue. I turn around, ready to face a snarling, snaggle-toothed bear, but it's only a bald-headed, big-bellied man with a grin full of smiling teeth, his stout little wife not far behind him. I can handle these bears.

They catch up to us. The friendly bear man pets Pilot, asks me where I'm from. Pilot falls in love as we chat. The couple comes out here often. It's one of the places they go on their daily walks. They share this with pride. Patriotism for the land. Friendly Bear Man's smile never waivers as he shares their life story. They've been married forever. Got married as soon as Friendly Bear Woman graduated high school. He served in the army. They moved to Palmer in the 1970s and have been here ever since. They love it here. Everything you could ever want.

We start walking. Friendly Bear Man pulls ahead. His wife stays back with me a little longer. We talk about hiking shoes. She asks about my Oboz. I've had them for years, I tell her. She's been looking for a good pair of boots. Hers wear out too fast.

Her husband gets farther ahead. She and I exchange pleasant farewells.

"Wait up, old man!" she calls out as she trots down the path. Friendly Bear Man slows and turns. He's still smiling. I bet he smiles in his sleep.

Talking with the friendliest people in town puts me at ease. Pilot and I wander the trails. Meander. With river on one side, highway on the other, we don't get lost. Eventually we find ourselves at a cemetery next to the entrance of the campground.

Passing through the parking lot I see the Friendly Bear Couple getting into their car. We all wave like we've known each other forever.

Back at the camp site I make and eat dinner, then go about cleaning and organizing the inside of the car. Instant coffee has somehow spilled onto the dry goods and made a tacky, smelly mess. I scrub off what I can with alcohol and baby wipes.

Across the road from the campground is the local airport. I quickly discover that my campsite is exactly under the flight path. The planes fly so close I can see the pilots inside. Every five minutes a new plane. I think it must stop eventually, but 9pm comes and goes and so do the planes. Pilot and I make eye contact as a noisy red sputterpop bush plane bumbles overhead. We come to a mutual decision. I pack up the car and we head back up the Glenn Highway.

Just in time for a little sun.

Gratitude. For the sun. For the scenery. And for the rain. Combined it paints a landscape more vibrant and magical than I could have ever imagined.

We forge ahead in last light. Stop for one last view of the stunning wilderness before making our home for the night in a quiet campground along the glacier's edge.

---

Read Day 12.

Read Day 10.

---

CrowTube Channel
Crowstagram
NFT Crowroom
_{A percentage of this post's rewards goes back to support the community.
All the stuff (pictures, words, etc.) I put in this post and any of my other posts is mine (unless otherwise stated) and can't be used by anyone else unless I say it's ok.}