Like most visitors to Alaska, we had planned from the start to make our return trip wildly different from our original journey. It's a long drive, and we didn't want to redo any of our adventures, no matter how awesome some of them might have been. Other than a brief stint in the Yukon, we drove different roads in Alaska home, and once we got to B.C., we turned west toward the ocean and made for a road of a different kind: water.
Since the beginning, there's only been one date set in stone on our entire itinerary: on July 12th, at the crack of dawn, we had to be in Prince Rupert, B.C. to board our ferry south. We camped outside of town, and set Sophia's alarm for 4:30 AM. It might have been the most painful wake-up call of the trip. However, once we arrived at the ferry dock, it proved worth it. While we were hardly the first car there, the ticket taker in the booth directed us to the #1 spot (probably because even at 5 o'clock in the morning we all look adorable). We boarded the ferry right on schedule, and I left Isabelle and Sophia sleeping in the car to wander updeck. This was the biggest boat I've ever been on--it had at least 8 stories, some with cars, some with restaurants, some with private cabins. It was no cruise ship, but after a ferry experience limited mostly to the Burlington-Essex ferry on Lake Champlain, I was more than satisfied. I chose a seat next to a window, ate a granola bar, and continued reading my book while I waited for the others to join me. And waited. And waited.
A couple of hours passed, and eventually they found me. They had slept on the car deck until someone watching a security camera had spotted them and tapped on the window of the car. Apparently this is not allowed. The security guard shooed them upstairs, where they came holding pillows and blankets. I was happy to see them, but then they promptly settled down and slept for several more hours, while I wandered the multiple decks and watched the coast go by. The ferry we were on took us down the Inside Passage, along the coast of British Columbia. Like Alaska, British Columbia has a rugged coast lined with islands, so we were never really at open sea--we were surrounded by land and it mostly resembled a river. The weather was beautiful (as usual) and we even got to see several whales over the course of the journey.
Eventually the girls woke up (close to noon) and joined me. The entire trip was around 16 hours, but we passed the time by watching on-deck movies, making delicious sandwiches, and just sitting by the water in the sun. Not a bad way to travel.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Once last visit to Watson Lake
Just as seems to be our luck, good weather faded away the day we were going to spend driving, so no harm done. Lightning flashed and rain poured as we retraced our steps (the only point of the trip that we were going to do so). When we stopped for gas, we were informed that the storm had knocked down the lines needed to process credit cards. We had no food, no cash, and it was getting late. We pressed our luck at a road house and luck prevailed. They would take our cards and though the grill was off, they would rustle up something for us to eat. Three steaming plates of spaghetti later and we were satisfied. It was far later than we realized and our initial goal (somewhere deep into Canada) seemed infeasible now. Watson Lake no longer seemed out of the way, so we decided to pay a surprise visit to our friend Mandeep.
We pulled into the familiar gas station and assumed we would find our host grilling steak in the back kitchen where we first met him (in our minds he did this every night). Alas, no sign of Mandeep. It was about midnight now and we searched around the grounds, awkwardly peering at the shadowy figures next to their RVs, thinking perhaps Mandeep was being the sociable host that he was. Still no sign of him. We pulled around to the convenience store on which sat his strangely laid out apartment. We looked for lights on or other clues as to where he might be. Maybe he was sleeping, maybe he wasn't home. We decided to knock on the door anyway, disappointment welling. We had had this whole surprise scenario in our minds and now that they were crushed, we wanted to at least be able to see him. We pounded on the doors and no response. There was a dull light coming from the room we knew to be his kitchen so we threw pebbles at the window. Afraid we might break it, we soon gave up. We circled the lot again and were about to give up when an unfamiliar truck pulled up, yet a familiar voice called out, "Sophia, Isabelle, Rachel!" Mandeep had appeared and we spent the rest of the night talking, laughing and debuting our song. Mandeep was kind enough to let us use one of the 8 extra beds he has (ok this might be an exaggeration, but only slightly). In the morning, as had been promised, we awoke to omelets, french toast, fresh fruit and bacon. If you know us at all, you know that this is the way to our hearts. Thanks again Mandeep. Watson Lake again proved to be a worthwhile stop.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Valdez Gets Awesome
Valdez quickly changed from the place we were yelled at to the place of one of our greatest adventures. What at the beginning had been a town at the end of the road with a hazy sky, lack of restaurants, and grouchy people turned into a beautiful mountain village full of glaciers and adventure, specifically: ice climbing.
Yes, ice climbing. At the beginning of our trip over a month ago we all agreed that we’d spend the money to do at least one extreme adventure. We’ve come close to choosing one; paragliding in Girdwood would have been fun, rafting in Denali would have kicked ass, but for some reason, we never went through with it, none of them seemed to quite match our trip. None were quite epic enough, quite Alaska enough. Until Valdez.
Ice climbing immediately caught our eyes. At least me and Sophia’s. Rachel seemed a bit wary of the idea. We ignored Rachel’s concerns, decided it was now or never, and booked our trip.
We arrived at 9:30am to be outfitted and then headed to Worthington Glacier. It was a nice intimate group, just the three of us and our guide, Tim Duffy. Tim is originally a Mainiac who now spends his summers in Alaska doing all sorts of exciting trips and winters in Utah skiing. (These Alaskans really know how to have fun). Once at the glacier we had a short hike up to the base of the ice and then put on our gear. Tim then gave us our first lesson: how to walk on a glacier. It is key to always step flat footed and get the crampons thoroughly into the ice. And always be mindful of each step, if you trip and fall on the first part, he said, you’re toast. Scary…but exciting!
We began the trek up, feeling the glacier calve and move below our feet, each creek an ominous reminder of our fate if we were to trip and fall. We walked for about half an hour, going over steep slopes and deep crevasses that disappeared below the ice leading to tunnels of sub-glacial rivers. Sort of like a water slide only the end is an ice cave from which there is no escape. Finally we came up to a steep ice face and paused. Tim explained that this was what we’d be climbing. Yikes! He ran up to the top and secured the drills and ropes. “Who’s up?”
I volunteered to go first. I hooked up my harness, put my gloves on, and got my ice picks ready. “On Belay? I’m climbing”.
For my first climb, I decided to go with the “X” technique. I first raised and hammered my left ice pick in, and then did the same with the right. Next I lifted my left foot and secured the front prawns in the ice and did the same with the right foot, making sure they were a wide distance from each other, creating an X shape, all the while keeping my hips pushed against the ice. I felt pretty good. I then reached higher with my ice picks and did it again. I slowly started to climb.
Unlike rock climbing, ice climbing does not involve rocks (ed. note: Obviously). You have to completely rely on the stability of ice. Although ice is certainly strong and solid, it is hard to trust it the way one trusts rocks. It does not feel as tangible and stable as a rock. It took a while to trust my tools and the ice and believe that I would not slide to my death. But of course it held, and when my feet did slip, Tim did a great job belaying and keeping us alive.
I made it all the way up. By the end my arms were trembling from exhaustion and my clothes were sopping from the melting ice (side note: it was a gorgeous day, probably in the 70s, and the glacier was noticeably melting away below our feet. Tim said that he might not even be able to climb what we were climbing in a week or so).
Rachel went next and then Sophia. They both did an awesome job. After a brief break to eat some gorp supplied by Tim (yum!) we went again. We then trekked down glacier a bit to climb a moulin. A moulin is where water found a weakness in the glacier ice and ran through it carving out a large cylindrical hole. This particular moulin was about 50 feet deep and the water that had make it had abandoned it, leaving it empty and perfect for us to climb.
This time Sophia went first. It was a very difficult route. She thought that she would be stuck down there forever. She eventually made her way to the top, exhausted but proud of her abilities. When Tim took another look at the route he realized that it had melted and transformed making it far more difficult than he remembered. Even very experienced climbers would have a tough time with where Sophia went. I guess she’s just a natural.
Tim relocated the ropes and Rachel and I took our turns. Rappelling down and climbing up is far scarier than climbing up and rappelling down. With the first, you have to make it up, there is no other option. I thought of this as I was slowly lowered down into the moulin. However, once I reached the bottom all fear vanished. It was like being in Planet Earth, beautiful blue ice full of mysterious crevices and streams, so quiet and so peaceful. I did a little exploring and then began my climb.
After almost 6 hours, we made our way back to the Blue Avenger. At this point we had become quite close with our guide Tim and felt that he was worthy of our halibut. We left him with a feast of about 4lbs as a thank you for taking us on one of the most extraordinary adventures. Hope you enjoyed the fish!! And that it didn’t make you sick…
(by Isabelle)
Yes, ice climbing. At the beginning of our trip over a month ago we all agreed that we’d spend the money to do at least one extreme adventure. We’ve come close to choosing one; paragliding in Girdwood would have been fun, rafting in Denali would have kicked ass, but for some reason, we never went through with it, none of them seemed to quite match our trip. None were quite epic enough, quite Alaska enough. Until Valdez.
Ice climbing immediately caught our eyes. At least me and Sophia’s. Rachel seemed a bit wary of the idea. We ignored Rachel’s concerns, decided it was now or never, and booked our trip.
We arrived at 9:30am to be outfitted and then headed to Worthington Glacier. It was a nice intimate group, just the three of us and our guide, Tim Duffy. Tim is originally a Mainiac who now spends his summers in Alaska doing all sorts of exciting trips and winters in Utah skiing. (These Alaskans really know how to have fun). Once at the glacier we had a short hike up to the base of the ice and then put on our gear. Tim then gave us our first lesson: how to walk on a glacier. It is key to always step flat footed and get the crampons thoroughly into the ice. And always be mindful of each step, if you trip and fall on the first part, he said, you’re toast. Scary…but exciting!
We began the trek up, feeling the glacier calve and move below our feet, each creek an ominous reminder of our fate if we were to trip and fall. We walked for about half an hour, going over steep slopes and deep crevasses that disappeared below the ice leading to tunnels of sub-glacial rivers. Sort of like a water slide only the end is an ice cave from which there is no escape. Finally we came up to a steep ice face and paused. Tim explained that this was what we’d be climbing. Yikes! He ran up to the top and secured the drills and ropes. “Who’s up?”
I volunteered to go first. I hooked up my harness, put my gloves on, and got my ice picks ready. “On Belay? I’m climbing”.
For my first climb, I decided to go with the “X” technique. I first raised and hammered my left ice pick in, and then did the same with the right. Next I lifted my left foot and secured the front prawns in the ice and did the same with the right foot, making sure they were a wide distance from each other, creating an X shape, all the while keeping my hips pushed against the ice. I felt pretty good. I then reached higher with my ice picks and did it again. I slowly started to climb.
Unlike rock climbing, ice climbing does not involve rocks (ed. note: Obviously). You have to completely rely on the stability of ice. Although ice is certainly strong and solid, it is hard to trust it the way one trusts rocks. It does not feel as tangible and stable as a rock. It took a while to trust my tools and the ice and believe that I would not slide to my death. But of course it held, and when my feet did slip, Tim did a great job belaying and keeping us alive.
I made it all the way up. By the end my arms were trembling from exhaustion and my clothes were sopping from the melting ice (side note: it was a gorgeous day, probably in the 70s, and the glacier was noticeably melting away below our feet. Tim said that he might not even be able to climb what we were climbing in a week or so).
Rachel went next and then Sophia. They both did an awesome job. After a brief break to eat some gorp supplied by Tim (yum!) we went again. We then trekked down glacier a bit to climb a moulin. A moulin is where water found a weakness in the glacier ice and ran through it carving out a large cylindrical hole. This particular moulin was about 50 feet deep and the water that had make it had abandoned it, leaving it empty and perfect for us to climb.
This time Sophia went first. It was a very difficult route. She thought that she would be stuck down there forever. She eventually made her way to the top, exhausted but proud of her abilities. When Tim took another look at the route he realized that it had melted and transformed making it far more difficult than he remembered. Even very experienced climbers would have a tough time with where Sophia went. I guess she’s just a natural.
Tim relocated the ropes and Rachel and I took our turns. Rappelling down and climbing up is far scarier than climbing up and rappelling down. With the first, you have to make it up, there is no other option. I thought of this as I was slowly lowered down into the moulin. However, once I reached the bottom all fear vanished. It was like being in Planet Earth, beautiful blue ice full of mysterious crevices and streams, so quiet and so peaceful. I did a little exploring and then began my climb.
After almost 6 hours, we made our way back to the Blue Avenger. At this point we had become quite close with our guide Tim and felt that he was worthy of our halibut. We left him with a feast of about 4lbs as a thank you for taking us on one of the most extraordinary adventures. Hope you enjoyed the fish!! And that it didn’t make you sick…
(by Isabelle)
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Valdez: A Very Strange Beginning
We left Seward on July 6th ready for the next adventure. They seem to follow us wherever we go, and figured the next stop would be no exception. Valdez (Val-DEEZ), AK is yet another town at the end of the road, on Prince William Sound, with more boats in the harbor than houses on the streets.
Our first morning in Valdez started off rather well. After our first showers since Homer, we set off for the docks to meet up with Brad, the son of a family friend currently living in Alaska, working for a fishing company. The day we met up was one day before they were to se off for a multi-month salmon fishing trip. Which is cool, because it means that we got to check out the boat before we left—the first of its kind I’ve ever encountered outside of a book or film. And the Pequod it was not. It did not evoke angry seas or bawdy fisherman—in fact, the Ruth M was downright cozy. We toured the tiny kitchen, the bunks, and the head down below, followed by the comparatively spacious skipper’s quarters above deck. The boat had a sink and freezer, a shower even. From what I could see, it sure beats living out of a car. It got me thinking that fishing wouldn’t be a bad life, escaping the real world for months at a time. Sophia quickly killed that newfound dream by informing me that deckhands (Brad’s job on the boat) have to be strong enough to, you know, pick up things. Like buckets of salmon. And I can barely do real push-ups. Bummer.
While I greatly enjoyed touring the boat and even felt an instant fondness for ol’ Ruth, I will say this: the boat, she was filthy. Clothes and food strewn everywhere, dishes piled high, the decks were bogged down with fishnets waiting to be mended, and the top of the skipper’s bunkbed was buried in a lifetime’s accumulation of junk. I guess he sleeps in the bottom bunk. What this boat needs is a woman, I thought. A cliché, I know, but Suzanne Germain would have this vessel spotless (in shipshape!) before departure the next day. But apparently that’s bad luck twofold: a woman on a boat is no good, and Brad even thinks bathing is bad juju, too. God, what I would’ve given to see the boat (and its crew) when it docks in Valdez in 2 month’s time.
After seeing the boat and enjoying a picnic near the harbor, we decided to rent mountain bikes and go for a ride in the surrounding wilderness. This idea started off phenomenally: it felt good to get on a bike, the scenery was beautiful, we were practically alone (always a plus), and the terrain was actually pretty exciting. We took a mostly abandoned road out of town that made Vermont’s dirt roads look tame. The road wound alongside Mineral Creek, and as long as we kept peddling, the mosquitoes kept their distance.
Eventually we came to a broken down bridge, and could go no further, so we turned around and arrived back in town with 2 hours left of our rental. At this point, Sophia and I switched bikes so that she could get a turn on my much better bike (Isabelle and I had the same ok mountain bike, Sophia’s was just awful). Within minutes of kicking off on the pavement, the peddle peddled itself right off the bike. I was shocked, but kept my cool, glad that it hadn’t happened on the earlier more rugged terrain. We all went inside the rental shop to tell them about the broken bike, and asked if we could exchange it for another, or at least a partial refund.
The woman behind the counter (the owner, we later found out) had been scary even when we had first rented the bikes. Wizened and witch-like, she had said nothing friendly. I was not excited to talk to her again, particularly not about the broken bicycle. My fears were instantly realized. When we asked for an exchange, she snapped, “absolutely not.” We argued that it was unfair, that we had paid for four hours and only gotten two. “Such is life,” she said. By the end of the extremely tense conversation (Isabelle and Sophia did most of the talking, it was badass), she had essentially implied that I had broken it on purpose to get my money back: “I’ve had this bike for 1 year and this has never happened before.” (The “mountain” bike had no shocks and was not a day under fifteen years old). Well, great. It’s happened now. We left the shop pissed and hormonal and HATING Valdez (unfairly, yes—and our opinion and memories of the town are now fond, but at his moment…it was ugly).
It only got weirder from here. We went to a very small town green alongside the road (two picnic tables) to make dinner. We have become so sick of halibut that dinner is now just a way to wash it down as easily as possible. Using mostly supplies on hand, we created what eventually amounted to halibut slop: rice, peas, tasteless Colby jack cheese, and fish all mixed together. It was fine. Kind of. Not delicious, but nothing would make halibut exciting at this point. What made dinner exciting was not the cuisine, but the entertainment that accompanied it.
Not long after setting up our cookstoves, a truck pulled up nearby and idled for a moment. We worried that we were breaking a rule of some kind, until the engine died and the man inside walked over to us. “Do you mind if I use this other picnic table?” he asked, indicating the only other table in the miniscule park. “I don’t want to interrupt your dinner.” We said it was fine, wondering why he even felt the need to ask. He went back to the truck, and returned holding a cardboard box with some kind of animal inside. “This is my red wing hawk,” he said. “she’s just a baby.” He carried the box over to the picnic table. “I have more stuff, too.” He walked back to the truck and next emerged holding a fully grown hawk on a fake perch, attached at the foot. “She’s injured,” he explained, “so I bring her here every day to get some fresh air.” Then he returned again to the truck. We waited eagerly for the next arrival, which turned out to be just a normal-looking dog. By now we were a little wary of Valdezians in general, and this man was not helping. “Maybe it’s part of his job,” Sophia whispered, and we all sat down to eat our halibut slop and pretended to ignore the man, whose hawks were also enjoying dinner: the corpses of many smaller birds.
Now, what happened next actually happened. The hawk man took a boom box out of his truck, and a staff, unbuttoned his shirt halfway, and began performing rather intense tae kwon do/bo staff moves, while the hawks all looked on and (get this) the Eagles sang “Take it Easy” in the background. Several cars passed by during this time, and I wondered if they thought we were all together—three homeless girls in bright sweatshirts, and a man performing martial arts with a bo staff surrounded by hunting hawks.
[Insert by Isabelle: Rachel left to do dishes and Sophia and I began to pack the car. Although the man with the hawks was certainly bizarre, I felt a sort of fondness for him and felt compelled to talk to him. We’d been discussing ways to get rid of some of the Halibut for a few days and I thought, why not give some to this man? It would be the perfect in to have a conversation with him. We also had some left over peas that were rapidly thawing that we needed to get rid of.
A little terrified of the hawks that stood in my way, I headed over to the man. I explained that we were on a trip and had a lack of freezer space and would he like any of our excess halibut. His face red from dancing and shirt still unbuttoned, he began to explain that he was the tae kwon do instructor at the local college. “Everyone knows me, why don’t you just head over to my house and stick your halibut in the freezer? It’s the house with the big open garage, you’ll see some hawks in there.” Did he really expect us to go to his house? Too scary. We told him that we were heading out the next day and that we just wanted to get rid of a few pounds. He agreed and we were able to get rid of the peas and the halibut. He did not seem nearly grateful enough and acted as if we were the strange ones. He told us all about hawk hunting though, so in the end, totally worth it.]
Eventually we packed up, bought ice cream sandwiches at Safeway for dessert, and headed back up the abandoned road we had cycled to scope out a free campsite. Before long, I was snoozing peacefully, on the whole content with the bizarre (yet memorable) day in Valdez. Hours—or perhaps only moments—later, Isabelle shook me awake.
“I need to pee,” she whispered.
“So?” I asked, tired and grumpy.
“Come with me.”
“No! Just go right outside. I’m sleeping!”
“But I’m scared,” she replied, “I just saw someone run by on the road.”
At this point, it was practically broad daylight, and I thought nothing of this morning jogger using the old road. “So?” I asked again.
“So, it’s 1 o’clock in the morning.”
Oh. The image of the jogger disappeared, replaced instantly by a homicidal psycho preying on naïve young girls camping illegally, dragging the bodies off into the Alaskan wilderness. We’d never be found. Like a good big sister, I accompanied Isabelle outside, and she soon fell asleep. Meanwhile, I laid awake in terror long after, straining to hear the murderer’s footsteps over the roar of the nearby river.
Our first morning in Valdez started off rather well. After our first showers since Homer, we set off for the docks to meet up with Brad, the son of a family friend currently living in Alaska, working for a fishing company. The day we met up was one day before they were to se off for a multi-month salmon fishing trip. Which is cool, because it means that we got to check out the boat before we left—the first of its kind I’ve ever encountered outside of a book or film. And the Pequod it was not. It did not evoke angry seas or bawdy fisherman—in fact, the Ruth M was downright cozy. We toured the tiny kitchen, the bunks, and the head down below, followed by the comparatively spacious skipper’s quarters above deck. The boat had a sink and freezer, a shower even. From what I could see, it sure beats living out of a car. It got me thinking that fishing wouldn’t be a bad life, escaping the real world for months at a time. Sophia quickly killed that newfound dream by informing me that deckhands (Brad’s job on the boat) have to be strong enough to, you know, pick up things. Like buckets of salmon. And I can barely do real push-ups. Bummer.
While I greatly enjoyed touring the boat and even felt an instant fondness for ol’ Ruth, I will say this: the boat, she was filthy. Clothes and food strewn everywhere, dishes piled high, the decks were bogged down with fishnets waiting to be mended, and the top of the skipper’s bunkbed was buried in a lifetime’s accumulation of junk. I guess he sleeps in the bottom bunk. What this boat needs is a woman, I thought. A cliché, I know, but Suzanne Germain would have this vessel spotless (in shipshape!) before departure the next day. But apparently that’s bad luck twofold: a woman on a boat is no good, and Brad even thinks bathing is bad juju, too. God, what I would’ve given to see the boat (and its crew) when it docks in Valdez in 2 month’s time.
After seeing the boat and enjoying a picnic near the harbor, we decided to rent mountain bikes and go for a ride in the surrounding wilderness. This idea started off phenomenally: it felt good to get on a bike, the scenery was beautiful, we were practically alone (always a plus), and the terrain was actually pretty exciting. We took a mostly abandoned road out of town that made Vermont’s dirt roads look tame. The road wound alongside Mineral Creek, and as long as we kept peddling, the mosquitoes kept their distance.
Eventually we came to a broken down bridge, and could go no further, so we turned around and arrived back in town with 2 hours left of our rental. At this point, Sophia and I switched bikes so that she could get a turn on my much better bike (Isabelle and I had the same ok mountain bike, Sophia’s was just awful). Within minutes of kicking off on the pavement, the peddle peddled itself right off the bike. I was shocked, but kept my cool, glad that it hadn’t happened on the earlier more rugged terrain. We all went inside the rental shop to tell them about the broken bike, and asked if we could exchange it for another, or at least a partial refund.
The woman behind the counter (the owner, we later found out) had been scary even when we had first rented the bikes. Wizened and witch-like, she had said nothing friendly. I was not excited to talk to her again, particularly not about the broken bicycle. My fears were instantly realized. When we asked for an exchange, she snapped, “absolutely not.” We argued that it was unfair, that we had paid for four hours and only gotten two. “Such is life,” she said. By the end of the extremely tense conversation (Isabelle and Sophia did most of the talking, it was badass), she had essentially implied that I had broken it on purpose to get my money back: “I’ve had this bike for 1 year and this has never happened before.” (The “mountain” bike had no shocks and was not a day under fifteen years old). Well, great. It’s happened now. We left the shop pissed and hormonal and HATING Valdez (unfairly, yes—and our opinion and memories of the town are now fond, but at his moment…it was ugly).
It only got weirder from here. We went to a very small town green alongside the road (two picnic tables) to make dinner. We have become so sick of halibut that dinner is now just a way to wash it down as easily as possible. Using mostly supplies on hand, we created what eventually amounted to halibut slop: rice, peas, tasteless Colby jack cheese, and fish all mixed together. It was fine. Kind of. Not delicious, but nothing would make halibut exciting at this point. What made dinner exciting was not the cuisine, but the entertainment that accompanied it.
Not long after setting up our cookstoves, a truck pulled up nearby and idled for a moment. We worried that we were breaking a rule of some kind, until the engine died and the man inside walked over to us. “Do you mind if I use this other picnic table?” he asked, indicating the only other table in the miniscule park. “I don’t want to interrupt your dinner.” We said it was fine, wondering why he even felt the need to ask. He went back to the truck, and returned holding a cardboard box with some kind of animal inside. “This is my red wing hawk,” he said. “she’s just a baby.” He carried the box over to the picnic table. “I have more stuff, too.” He walked back to the truck and next emerged holding a fully grown hawk on a fake perch, attached at the foot. “She’s injured,” he explained, “so I bring her here every day to get some fresh air.” Then he returned again to the truck. We waited eagerly for the next arrival, which turned out to be just a normal-looking dog. By now we were a little wary of Valdezians in general, and this man was not helping. “Maybe it’s part of his job,” Sophia whispered, and we all sat down to eat our halibut slop and pretended to ignore the man, whose hawks were also enjoying dinner: the corpses of many smaller birds.
Now, what happened next actually happened. The hawk man took a boom box out of his truck, and a staff, unbuttoned his shirt halfway, and began performing rather intense tae kwon do/bo staff moves, while the hawks all looked on and (get this) the Eagles sang “Take it Easy” in the background. Several cars passed by during this time, and I wondered if they thought we were all together—three homeless girls in bright sweatshirts, and a man performing martial arts with a bo staff surrounded by hunting hawks.
[Insert by Isabelle: Rachel left to do dishes and Sophia and I began to pack the car. Although the man with the hawks was certainly bizarre, I felt a sort of fondness for him and felt compelled to talk to him. We’d been discussing ways to get rid of some of the Halibut for a few days and I thought, why not give some to this man? It would be the perfect in to have a conversation with him. We also had some left over peas that were rapidly thawing that we needed to get rid of.
A little terrified of the hawks that stood in my way, I headed over to the man. I explained that we were on a trip and had a lack of freezer space and would he like any of our excess halibut. His face red from dancing and shirt still unbuttoned, he began to explain that he was the tae kwon do instructor at the local college. “Everyone knows me, why don’t you just head over to my house and stick your halibut in the freezer? It’s the house with the big open garage, you’ll see some hawks in there.” Did he really expect us to go to his house? Too scary. We told him that we were heading out the next day and that we just wanted to get rid of a few pounds. He agreed and we were able to get rid of the peas and the halibut. He did not seem nearly grateful enough and acted as if we were the strange ones. He told us all about hawk hunting though, so in the end, totally worth it.]
Eventually we packed up, bought ice cream sandwiches at Safeway for dessert, and headed back up the abandoned road we had cycled to scope out a free campsite. Before long, I was snoozing peacefully, on the whole content with the bizarre (yet memorable) day in Valdez. Hours—or perhaps only moments—later, Isabelle shook me awake.
“I need to pee,” she whispered.
“So?” I asked, tired and grumpy.
“Come with me.”
“No! Just go right outside. I’m sleeping!”
“But I’m scared,” she replied, “I just saw someone run by on the road.”
At this point, it was practically broad daylight, and I thought nothing of this morning jogger using the old road. “So?” I asked again.
“So, it’s 1 o’clock in the morning.”
Oh. The image of the jogger disappeared, replaced instantly by a homicidal psycho preying on naïve young girls camping illegally, dragging the bodies off into the Alaskan wilderness. We’d never be found. Like a good big sister, I accompanied Isabelle outside, and she soon fell asleep. Meanwhile, I laid awake in terror long after, straining to hear the murderer’s footsteps over the roar of the nearby river.
Our Trip in Numbers (as of 7/9/09)
31 days on the road
5,893 miles driven
16 tanks of gas
3 nights in a hotel
20 nights in our tent
1 night in our car
1 night in a school bus
6 nights in a house
3 jars of peanut butter
90 lbs of Halibut caught
19 lbs of Halibut eaten
9 showers
8 mountains climbed
36 plays of “On the Road Again” by Willie Nelson
8 national parks visited
2 loads of laundry
2 times washing dishes in an outhouse
1 time washing dishes in the sink of a Starbucks' bathroom
3 times eating tuna straight out of the can b/c it’s all we had left to eat
2 times gambling
$0 won while gambling
2 rainy days
29 days of sun
3 propane tanks
Countless more adventures to come
5,893 miles driven
16 tanks of gas
3 nights in a hotel
20 nights in our tent
1 night in our car
1 night in a school bus
6 nights in a house
3 jars of peanut butter
90 lbs of Halibut caught
19 lbs of Halibut eaten
9 showers
8 mountains climbed
36 plays of “On the Road Again” by Willie Nelson
8 national parks visited
2 loads of laundry
2 times washing dishes in an outhouse
1 time washing dishes in the sink of a Starbucks' bathroom
3 times eating tuna straight out of the can b/c it’s all we had left to eat
2 times gambling
$0 won while gambling
2 rainy days
29 days of sun
3 propane tanks
Countless more adventures to come
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Hike to Harding Icefield
After our luxurious stay in Homer and an overload of festivals it was time to get back to the basics. We set up camp by a lake and planned an all day hike to the Harding Icefields. Fish again for dinner and we snuggled up in our tent for the first night in far too long. The next morning, after a hearty bowl of oatmeal (perhaps the best one yet by chef Rachel) we retraced our steps to the bottom of the Exit Glacier.
Though the trail was not as uninhabited as we would have liked, there is something particularly alluring about hikes in which you gain this kind of elevation. We began in the shade of the trees, entirely enveloped in a world of branches and brush, unable to see what lay beyond or behind. It seemed as if it could go on forever, then gradually the trees seemed to get smaller, then disappear, and an entirely new world was revealed. The glacier became visible and we could see how far we had ascended. At this point the ground was carpeted in green, with pink, yellow and purple accents.
Perched on a boulder we ate lunch (peanut butter of course), getting lost in the mysteries of the bright blue crevasses and the endless sea of white that peeked over the glacier. Soon we were a part of the white sea that crunched beneath our feet and created a field of reflection that baked our skin. The sun glaring above forced us down to our bras and to reapply sunscreen. The view of the forests and the path over which we had come disappeared behind a ridge and we were left alone with nothing but the icefield. It expanded in all directions, the peaks of mountains emerging from the snow every now and again. The way down was a journey through the layers in reverse, returning towards normalcy one step at a time. The burn in our lungs and legs felt good after our period of respite.
When we returned to our campsite, the sun had still not relented and the idea of climbing into our sleeping bags still dripping with sweat and caked in dirt was particularly unappealing. There was no running water around. In fact we had not encountered any running water since Homer (you reach a point where anti-bacterial gel just doesn’t cut it anymore). There was only one option – to jump in the glacial lake.
Knowing that it was near freezing we took a deep breath, counted down and took off at a full sprint into the water, wading up to our ankles, then knees, then dunking in our heads. By the time the entire body was submerged our feet were nearly numb and we were forced to sprint out at the same rate. Refreshed but not quite clean, we braved a few more dips, sometimes just wading out far enough to scrub our feet. Exhausted and as clean as possible we retired to our tent while the sun was still high in the sky despite the late hour.
Though the trail was not as uninhabited as we would have liked, there is something particularly alluring about hikes in which you gain this kind of elevation. We began in the shade of the trees, entirely enveloped in a world of branches and brush, unable to see what lay beyond or behind. It seemed as if it could go on forever, then gradually the trees seemed to get smaller, then disappear, and an entirely new world was revealed. The glacier became visible and we could see how far we had ascended. At this point the ground was carpeted in green, with pink, yellow and purple accents.
Perched on a boulder we ate lunch (peanut butter of course), getting lost in the mysteries of the bright blue crevasses and the endless sea of white that peeked over the glacier. Soon we were a part of the white sea that crunched beneath our feet and created a field of reflection that baked our skin. The sun glaring above forced us down to our bras and to reapply sunscreen. The view of the forests and the path over which we had come disappeared behind a ridge and we were left alone with nothing but the icefield. It expanded in all directions, the peaks of mountains emerging from the snow every now and again. The way down was a journey through the layers in reverse, returning towards normalcy one step at a time. The burn in our lungs and legs felt good after our period of respite.
When we returned to our campsite, the sun had still not relented and the idea of climbing into our sleeping bags still dripping with sweat and caked in dirt was particularly unappealing. There was no running water around. In fact we had not encountered any running water since Homer (you reach a point where anti-bacterial gel just doesn’t cut it anymore). There was only one option – to jump in the glacial lake.
Knowing that it was near freezing we took a deep breath, counted down and took off at a full sprint into the water, wading up to our ankles, then knees, then dunking in our heads. By the time the entire body was submerged our feet were nearly numb and we were forced to sprint out at the same rate. Refreshed but not quite clean, we braved a few more dips, sometimes just wading out far enough to scrub our feet. Exhausted and as clean as possible we retired to our tent while the sun was still high in the sky despite the late hour.
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