“Those roads provided breath-taking views. There's something special about an empty road going on and on and on to the horizon where the sun burns the world away into a dancing, shimmering heat haze that reflects the crystal blue sky, literally blurring the line between heaven and earth.” Dave Gorman
“Did you see that antelope?” my husband, Bucky asked.
“No, where?” I said, lifting my eyes from my phone.
I realized then just how much of my time was being spent looking at a screen rather than at the world outside. My Candy Crush game could never be more exciting than seeing an antelope acknowledge our presence then bound effortlessly into a coulee and disappear. Some call the antelope “speed goat”. Speed is indeed an apt name as this athletic animal can run at speeds up to 60mph. Perhaps their horns resemble those of a goat. I find the pronghorn to be one of the West’s most gorgeous creatures.
With my phone tucked snugly in my seat pocket, the wonders of Montana, Alberta and British Columbia appeared.
Montana watering hole!
“If these walls could talk”
It’s hard to spend any time in Montana without seeing cattle, horses, miles of fence, churches and barns. Old homesteads sitting on hillsides, their wooden frames being claimed by the very land their occupants once cleared, abandoned and beckoning their stories to be told.
Mule Deer
Chinook, MT
Havre, MT
The Canadian border is a mere 44 mile drive, through quiet ranch land, from Havre to Wild Horse, MT. Here we were greeted by an attractive female border agent whose petite stature was enveloped by her official blue jacket. I was surprised by the layers of delicate gold necklaces she wore and her discrete but evident nose ring. Was it a display of Canadian liberalism or an example of western freedom. Wild Horse is a long ways from Ottawa!
We were asked the usual entry questions but nothing about our possessing fruits or vegetables. As we drove away I thought of how delicious my recently purchased lime would taste immersed in my end of day cocktail.
Alberta is Canada’s largest oil producing province. With that said, every town we passed through is evidence of this. Mud covered white pickups, tandem tanker and large gravel haulers line the gravel in front of restaurants and lodging. Towns and businesses exist to support the oil fields.
While some pump sites are visible from the highway, most are far off the main road which provides to our view huge vistas of seemingly endless wilderness. However, this woodland is periodically punctuated by muddy side roads leaving the highway and signage indicating oil field locations. I have to imagine things appear quite different looking down from above.
Interesting rig
Smoke from the wildfires now burning in BC have created a haze over green hills and valleys and could be clearly smelled. Cool air and a steady breeze helped.
Mile 0 of the AK Highway, Dawson Creek, BC 2900 miles from Ripton, VT, and now only 1616 miles to Talkeetna, AK
“I have only to break into the tightness of a strawberry, and I see summer—its dust and lowering skies." –Toni Morrison,The Bluest Eye
Bucky, me and our grandchildren
Long legs pushed hard on bike pedals gliding across grass so green it didn’t look real, surely the result of an abundance of Spring rain. Quickly, more bikes, pedaled in similar fashion, crossed the lawn and entered the woods. Slender maples became slalom poles and while young legs pedaled, tan arms guided handlebars through a course of live poles.
My daughter in law’s flowered tablecloth fluttered in the warm breeze. Plates of sausages, burgers and hotdogs were accompanied by homemade salads and beckoned to me. Those who really know me, know my love of hotdogs! The resident goats peered with soft brown eyes from behind their wire fence, while chickens scratched the dirt at their feet. Everyone was enjoying this first taste of summer and Father’s Day.
Our fathers, Sutton, Bucky and Levi
All too soon, the June sun slipped behind the maples calling for more wood to be placed on the fire. Strawberry shortcake and whipped cream were added to the tablecloth’s palette of bright colors while cans of whipped cream replaced bicycles as the main attraction.
Growing up, Father’s Day was celebrated at “camp”. School was out, our station wagon was packed to the roof, dog at our feet and we hurried from town to the lake. I loved everything about camp, the sandy sheets, the endless card games, washing dishes along side my grandmother, calloused bare feet and painful red sunburns.
Camp was freedom!
South Hero, VT
My father, brother, me standing, my sister and a friend.
Father’s Day at camp marked the beginning of summer. We gathered at the long kitchen table, passed our drug store cards to our Dad and Grandfather. My mother and grandmother would have prepared a summer meal complete with garden fresh vegetables and ending with strawberry shortcake. No canned whipped cream! Later in the summer we’d pick sour cherries and they’d fill my grandmother’s excellent pie crusts. I’ve yet to taste a crust as perfect as hers.
Camp today with Bucky, my brother and sister in law.
My grandparents drove from Pennsylvania to spend the summer on the lake with their only daughter, my mother. Together we lived a carefree multigenerational life in what felt like an endless summer and I dreaded the day we had to return to “town” and school. Our seasonal move from the suburbs to camp can only be compared to post war baby boomers returning to the farm life of previous generations. After Labor Day, our station wagon was repacked and Karboy reluctantly took his place on the floor. He showed his dislike in leaving as strongly as I did. My grandparents packed the Pontiac with my grandfather’s tools, fishing poles, items purchased at summer farm auctions and headed home. We wouldn’t see them again until they migrated east the following summer.
The Pontiac!
Not Father’s Day, but a typical camp meal.
My Grandparents sitting outside camp and Grandpa’s shop with our collie, Karboy.
This year Father’s Day was not only memorable because it included all our children and grandchildren, but it was also our goodbye for the summer. From the time the winter snow melted and turned to Spring rain, we’d debated when to leave. It was finally decided that right after Father’s Day made sense. Separating from family is always difficult for me. However, unlike my grandparents, we’ll reunite with our family in the Fall and enjoy the company of our youngest daughter while in Alaska this summer.
I didn’t get to see my peonies bloom, but maybe next June!
My hand brushed against the Labrador tea sending its pungent fragrance into the air as I settled belly down on the tundra. My camouflage clothing concealed me from the caribou herd passing just 20 yards away; so close that I dared not lift my camera for fear of being seen. Instead, I stayed face down in the lichen and crow berry leaves raising my head periodically to glance at the animals parading in front of me. For the first time ever, I felt the ground tremble under the weight of hundreds of oversized hooves. Some animals huffed and grunted; their heads lowered while chewing mouthfuls of lichen. I heard stiff stemmed plants being crushed by strong teeth. I desperately wanted to photograph the sights before me, but I dared not move a muscle for fear of spooking the herd and maybe ruining, my daughter’s chance of shooting one of the bulls.
This was our third fall hunting caribou from Tyrrell's Trails Lodge https://tyrrellstrails.com
and we were seeing the largest number of caribou ever. Several times each day, hundreds of caribou passed before our camp. It was a picturesque migration. The odd thing was, they were almost always headed north!
Using binoculars to locate them in the distance, we positioned ourselves hoping to be on their chosen path. We were often lucky, but other times they seemed to vanish into thin air. While the tundra appears wide open, there are ridges, dips and valleys that the caribou slip into and walk behind. They also can cover ground with amazing speed.
Bucky was fortunate to get his bull on the first day of our hunt. He sat camouflaged against a rocky outcropping and was blessed with a favorable wind. Caribou are often described as cow like, goofy and not particularly challenging to hunt. However, if spooked, a herd can “spin on a dime” and be gone.
The job of field dressing a large animal is never easy and at our age we welcomed the help of Carlisle and her friend Carter. They were on a stalk and never heard Bucky shoot. As Bucky and I worked on the animal I kept looking in the distance hoping to see them approach. They arrived from an unexpected direction and had a story of big bulls that had given them "the slip", Their youthful strength and endless humor made our task much easier. Our meat was put into game bags and transported up to the plane’s landing area where it was taken out of the bags and laid on a tarp to be exposed to the air. It's ideal to dry the meat’s surface and by doing so protect the interior meat. With cool temperatures our meat set up quickly.
Nightly frosts had the tundra changing color and each morning we arose to new beauty.
Carlisle and Carter chasing bulls.
Tundra patchwork
Skylining bulls
I spent hours walking the tundra, sometimes accompanying Carter and Carlisle and other times on my own. I felt comfortable doing this although one morning fog moved in quickly and I hustled back to camp. I always carry my camera so when I saw movement in the rocks, I was ready. At first the ground squirrel stuck only his head out of his underground home. I didn't move and he gradually exited his hole standing tall with front paws held at his chest. I could see by the length of his nails/claws that digging in this rough terrain was a made easy. The droop of his mouth gave him an adorable appearance.
I inched closer and closer to him, snapping pictures as I went. He posed unafraid until he'd finally had enough and ducked beneath the earth. They certainly are well adapted to the life they live.
Neither Carter nor Carlisle took animals. The opportunities were there, but they chose to wait. Bucky and I were picked up by Carlisle's husband, Luke while Carlisle and Carter walked and hunted the 8 miles back to the lodge. We used the lodge's meat cutting table, vacuum sealer and freezers to cut, seal and freeze our meat.
meat cutting and packaging
Caribou antlers of lodge clients.
Luke and Lisle peer into the airplane taking us back to Fairbanks.
Leaving Carlisle, Luke and the lodge behind is always difficult. It's hard living far away from those we love. We spent almost a month at the lodge and assimilated into lodge life. Now, we'll leave Fairbanks and begin the long drive to VT. Our caribou is in our motorhome freezer and we'll have the company of Lisle's dog Pika......the best dog ever!
August in Alaska can be rainy, but we were anxious to use our motorhome, so we left the rain in Talkeetna and drove to the Kenai peninsula. It had been several years since we'd been South of Anchorage, so this seemed the perfect time to do go.
The small town of Hope was our first stop. It can be seen on the map beneath the letter A in Anchorage.
One road leads south of Anchorage, the Seward Highway. This heavily traveled roadway winds along the Turnagain Arm of Cook Inlet and beneath snowy Chugach Mountain peaks. The town of Hope, similar to Talkeetna, is at the end of a 17 mile spur road. Although the population of Hope is said to be about 100 residents, it's a very popular summer destination. This particular weekend, music filled the air, people strolled the streets and a celebration of some sort was happening. Hope's scenic beauty combined with its laid back vibe makes it hard to resist. Our hope, pardon the pun, of camping in Hope near Resurrection Creek was quickly squelched. Fishermen lined the creek banks and all campsites were taken either by them or those partying in the street.
The Seaview Cafe, recently sold and renamed the Hope Cafe, is often the site of music in Hope.
I love the white and green theme that plays out in Hope.
Take note of the paper ballot!
Two people stand on the marsh in Hope looking across the Turnagain Arm.
It's only 40 plus miles from Hope to Moose Pass, so we continued on certain of a camping spot there. Moose Pass claims a population of under 300 people and lies on the shore of Upper Trail Lake, surrounded by towering peaks. Unfortunately, a steady stream of traffic passes through this small village headed to Seward. We were happy to leave this line of traffic and pull down the short dirt road leading to the ballfield. I assume this once was a ballfield, but now, through word of mouth, it's become a popular free lakeside camping area.
A small boat breaks the glassy surface of Trail Lake.
Seward is 30 miles beyond Moose Pass and is often considered the gateway to Kenai Fjords National Park. My hope was to camp along the beach. From there we could watch Seward’s busy harbor and walk easily into town. I attempted booking online as required, but repeatedly found no sites available although we’d seen many unoccupied sites while driving through. After some searching, I found a phone number to call. To my amazement, rather than hearing "press 1 for this and 2 for that", a man's voice answered. He understood our desire and was able to quickly assign us a site in the perfect location. There's always a sense of relief to be settled in somewhere.
No one ever parked beside us which was an added bonus. It wasn't until I looked at my emailed receipt that I noticed the privilege of booking through a human had cost us an additional $10. Definitely money well spent!
Seward is a bustling town and harbor with many shops and tourist attractions including fjord tours and the SeaLife Center. www.alaskasealife.org. We have enjoyed each of these in the past so we were content to relax and feel sun on our faces while listening to the waves crash.
However, I did leave the shore to take a walk through some of historic Seward. I’ve always loved the small cottages and bungalows that line Seward's side streets. Historic in Alaska refers to the 1900's which for a New Englander seems almost modern! This cottage caught my eye.
The trim and fireweed match in color!
Circa 1916
St Peter’s Episcopal Church circa1905
On July 4th, Seward celebrates the Mount Marathon Race. On this day racers scramble 3022 feet to the summit of Mt Marathon and slide back down on a very steep trail easily seen on the mountain’s face.
Once again, Seward is at the end of the road so we retraced our steps, making a stop at Exit Glacier,
I was anxious to see if this glacier like others was receding. Our first visit was in 2008, then again in 2013 and 2019.(check the blog archive August 2008 for some humor on our first visit)
I admit that while others "oohed and aahed" I was somewhat underwhelmed. Absent were the bright blues of refracted light radiating with such surreal beauty as to take ones breath away? The blue achieved in the photo above was in part through photo editing. Perhaps it was my perspective, but I saw dirty grey snow similar to a melting ski hill when Spring arrives in Vermont. I attribute this jaded view to having been spoiled seeing glaciers close up through an airplane window. Regardless, with that being said, I know with certainty, Exit Glacier is receding.
We drove back through Moose Pass and onto the Sterling Highway to Soldotna where we exited for the city of Kenai, spending that night at Walmart. Here the rain started in earnest. Little did we know that it would last for 10 days. This wasn't drizzle, but heavy downpours with intermittent light rain. We now follow the Alaskan adage, “if you don’t do things in the rain you’ll never do anything.” Still, it’s hard to be motivated. I guess I've adopted some Alaskan behaviors since I now leave the cabin in light rain without wearing a raincoat and sometimes question as to if it's actually raining at all. Yesterday I caught myself looking into mud puddles to determine if it was mist hitting my face or if it was in fact still raining. Kenai has lots of beach to walk, a wonderful visitors center and some historic buildings. I was primarily interested in revisiting the Russian Orthodox Church which sits just above the beach.
From Kenai to Homer the ocean dictates the livelihood of those around it. Fisherman walk creeks flowing to the ocean, fishing charters and commercial fishing boats seek deeper salt water, canneries processed the catch and restaurants serve food fresh from the sea. Halibut purchased fresh from the dock in Homer was a delightful treat well worth $30 a pound.
Nothing from the sea goes to waste.
At Deep Creek, tractors are used to place fishing boats in the water.
We were able to walk the beach a few times between showers. It was hard to photograph the eagles without them looking bedraggled.
The rain gave The Holy Transformation of Our Lord Russian Orthodox Church in Ninilchik a most solemn appearance.
We spent six days on the Kenai Peninsula. Each one filled with ocean views minus seeing the volcanos that dot the far shore of Cook Inlet.
We finished our trip with a return visit to the Norman Lowell Gallery. We learned that the gallery, housing Mr. Lowell’s life work, is now a nonprofit ensuring that all those who wish to view his art will have access to it.
Norman Lowell, his wife Libby and infant child arrived in Anchor Point in 1958 from Iowa before the existence of the Seward Highway. By way of the Homestead Act, they acquired 160 acres and there they built a small cabin on a bluff overlooking Anchor Creek. Norman dedicated his life to teaching art and capturing with his brush strokes Alaska’s unique beauty. We had the pleasure of meeting this artist in 2008 many years before he became legally blind from Glaucoma thus ending his artwork.
This photo taken when meeting the artist in 2008.
I wished in 2008 to be able to afford one of his paintings, some of which were selling for $3,000. Now, his art can sell for as much $100k.
We were told that today at 96 Norman lives in assisted living in Homer, but Libby still lives in their house on the homestead. I feel grateful to have met this artist who is often described as “Alaska’s artist”. There’s no doubt his brushes were guided by his love for Alaska.
His large canvases, some as big as 9’ by 14’ envelope the viewer.
