Wednesday, August 27th, 1997
Sunset over
Kechemak Bay from the Homer Spit
My watch wakes us at 7:15, and we slowly make our way out of the warm truck and into the biting cold. After our usual morning ritual involving a reasonably discrete bush, I climb back into my sleeping bag to change clothes. Breakfast is bananas and Oreo cookies.
I start driving as Sean catches up in his journal. Judging by the terrain as we get going, we didn't miss too much by driving after dark last night. After a while the Matanuska Glacier becomes visible to our left, and we stop to get a picture or two. We climb through some extreme-looking mountain passes on the way to Anchorage. Several times we are tempted to stop and climb some of the softer peaks, and we actually pull over next to one. Unfortunately AlasCom has put a communications antenna on it and the access road is blocked by a gate featuring no fewer than six padlocks. The mountains in this area remind me of the rockies in a way- with more vegetation.
We make Anchorage around 12:30, stopping for lunch at perhaps the best Taco Bell in the world. Afterwards we enter the heart of the city. I drive through once, then double back and park the truck in the heart of the tourist district. We don't blend in so well here, and I worry about leaving the truck with so much gear strapped to the outside. There ensues two hours of incredibly impulsive expenditures on my part, as I stock up on gifts for almost everyone I know.
We finally head south around Cook inlet, and after stopping for gas (at a station featuring the world's most spacious bathroom) Sean takes the wheel for the drive to Homer. A few miles down the road we come to the town of Girdwood, where a merchant in Anchorage has told Sean he may find the jade set in silver he has been searching for. We pull up to the ski-lodge style gift shop and hop out. The Jade Factory is situated on a steep pine slope, and the exterior appears almost Swiss. Inside the one-room store, there are many cases of carvings and other native crafts that are not for sale in addition to the many shelves of jade trinkets and jewelry. I admire the kayak and umiak models in the glass case in the center of the room. Some are wood-frame models with thin skin stretched over them, and others are carved from solid ivory, the hull of the boats worked so thin that light shines through. One artist has rigged the sailing vessels with thin line woven from his wife's black hair.
Sean makes his selection and we are back in the truck. But the headlights, CD player, and GPS battery charger have all been left on- the starter motor just clicks when Sean twists the key. Luckily, the steep terrain offers me ample potential energy to roll-start the truck, and I do so after the third attempt- finally remembering to turn the ignition to 'on' before popping the clutch. We switch places again as the truck idles happily in the middle of the street. I decide that there is no excuse for the battery to die after just a half hour of light load, and determine to but a new one as soon as possible.
We encounter much road construction as we make our way south. I am glad for the generous ground clearance of this truck as we slip and slide our way around some pretty sizable obstacles while passing over the more severely torn up sections of road. They say cars don't last long up here and I'm sure it is true.
Small towns
come and go- Soldotna has a NAPA, but it's closed. The weather clears
as we approach Homer. Rounding a high corner, we get a nice view
of the small town below us and Homer Spit (photo left). Downtown
Homer lies at the end of a blunt point, and Homer Spit extends about two
miles southeast out into Kechemak Bay. Across the still, wide water,
snow covered mountains frame white-blue glaciers nestled in their valleys.
We drive through town and out onto the spit, past the float-plane operations and the bear-viewing tours. "I'm not sure what I expected," I tell Sean, "but this isn't it." We drive slowly down the flat 2-lane road lined with shops and charter-fishing offices. The GPS silently blinks "Arrival Alarm" as we approach the point I have labeled "Road End." We have gone as far as we can go. Sean pulls the truck over into the gravel when we reach the wide, rocky beach next to the Land's End Inn. We are quiet as we walk away from the truck and down to the water. "Well," I say with a smile, "we're out of road." He walks away to the West along the shore.
I stand there amid the white driftwood logs with my eyes closed, head tilted back. I breath the clear, cool air and feel the bright white sun on my face. The sound of the small waves collapsing onto the pebbly beach grows louder. Each crash is short and distinct, isolated from the one before it by a moment of vacuous silence. The sound washes over me, then through me, and I am cleansed by it. The waves pass completely through my body- slipping between my atoms and stripping away all of the tension and struggle of the last six days.
When I open my eyes, I am born anew. I lower my gaze slowly and see that one foot is resting on a black, peach-sized rock. I pick up the stone and slip it into a pocket of my vest. Sean ambles back up the beach and we make our way back up to the truck for a few photographs to commemorate the event.
A hundred yards back up the spit we find a salt-encrusted telephone booth. It is 8:00 p.m. local time. About 12:00 midnight back home, but I decide to give my girlfriend Emily a call anyway. The electrical contacts on the phone's keypad are so badly corroded that I can't dial the 50 numbers required to use my calling card. At Sean's suggestion, I get the operator to connect me manually. I wait in the truck until Sean is finished with his calls.
We pull into the Land's End RV Park a few yards up the road, and get a nice site right on the water. The luxury of staying in an actual RV park means our first shower in three days. We both agree that 3 days is about the limit.
Pedro lost
amoung the RV's at "Land's End"
Starving, we walk across the street to the Rainbow Wok Cafe. It is 9:30 and the sky is still light. We both order a Salmon Burger from the Taiwanese immigrant behind the counter. We do the usual "So, where are you from?" bit, and I tell him we are up here from Tennessee, but I'm from Maryland. He mentions something about the thirteen original colonies and I congratulate him on his recently-acquired citizenship. His name is Sammy, and he makes an amazing Salmon Burger with 3/4 inch fillets on a toasted bun. Inside the small shop, we get into a conversation with a tall ex-Arizonian named Greg. He is a part-time charter fishing agent and works at NAPA during the day. After some deliberation, Sean and I decide to book a trip for tomorrow with a captain Greg refers to as Santa Claus. We convince Greg to take off work tomorrow and join us, and after agreeing to meet back here at 7:00 a.m., we head to the grocery store to get me some Dramamine.
The shop is closed. Soon we find ourselves sitting at the bar in the Salty Dawg Saloon, tilting back some cold native brew. The inside of the tiny structure is plastered in business cards and autographed dollar bills- so I add my card from Denso with the inscription: "Sean and Ben drove here in 5 days 8/22/97." Sean adds: "We are badasses!!!"
We retire to the truck and a fitful night's sleep. I worry alternately about my watch not waking us up in time, and the prospect of spending an entire day on the water in a strange boat without any stomach-settling Dramamine.
