For a couple weeks my theme seems to have been rain. If it quits raining I’ll go to Kodiak Island. It’s raining, I’ll go back to the cabin – at least I had been privileged to use a cousin’s cabin. There will be another summer for Kodiak Island or Cordova. For the last five days I’ve been watching the weather forecast carefully. Remnants of a typhoon was following the Aleutian Islands. A system off the Bering Sea was going to merge with the tropical moisture creating a real rain event on Thursday. Thursday came and went, so did Friday. Periodic drizzle. Either the storm wasn’t coming or it had been delayed. Friday night it started raining. The rain continued through Sunday afternoon. I was immensely thankful for the windowless cabin. I sat in front of the open doorway experiencing the storm.
Sunday afternoon a glorious ray of sun struck the fall coloured birch trees. Three days of rain had transformed the forest of muted greens and pale yellows into an artist’s pallet. The white birch trunks contrasted with golden leaves. The aspen, a drab gray were now an orange hued yellow. The fireweed had transformed into a vibrant red. I was ecstatic – it was time to be freed of the cabin and take to the road.
Puzzle piece by puzzle piece the contents of my trip nestled into their private crannies. Problem is I’d inherited a new sleeping bag, a two quart bottle of salsa, three magical berry harvesting devices, a massive roll of navigational charts – everything else once nicely compacted had expanded to enormous proportions. There was no way it could all fit.
Eager to move on, I rose early Monday morning. My chair stood idly in the doorway. I sat down. I began to feel loath. My eyes grew heavy. I wasn’t ready to leave. I was mesmerized by the colourful forest and the crinkle of falling leaves. I still sat there. Maybe I’d grown fond of Alaska’s rain, the windowless cabin, the doorless outhouse, and the local residents – the chickadees and nuthatches providing company in the outhouse, the hairy woodpecker methodically gleaning from the cracks around the house – even the evening bats. Eventually I convinced myself – I’ll just go to the store for the last minute staples – a fresh can of hot chocolate with mini-marshmallows – imperative for cold, fall mornings.
Leaving town – I had my last look at Knik Glacier pouring through the valley beyond Palmer. Then I made a quick stop at the overlook above the Matanuska River’s braided streambed. It was just a few more minutes before I passed Soapstone Road. I almost turned in. Just one more night, but I plunged onwards.
One hundred thirty-seven miles to Glenallen. Silently computing – 2½ hours. My eyes wandered to the multi-hued hillside. A clone of aspen reflecting gold on one rounded knoll. Another clone crimson-yellow. I slowed more. The traffic piled up behind me. I pulled over allowing the stream of eager drivers passage. Continuing on. The Glenn Highway traversed the slope above Long Lake. My attention snapped to the narrow neck on the lake and the leaves pastel reflection on the nearly still water. I stopped. There were two pennies and a nickel outside my door. I stared down the lake for a while – clicked a picture and ventured on. A herd of Dall sheep flanked Goat Mountain. I almost missed them because my eyes were glued to the Matanuska Glacier. It’s massive crevasses catching the late afternoon sunlight, but refracting the colour of glacial ice – subdued blue. I followed the medial moraine defining the different ice flows through the valley. I pondered the very white west flank of the valley glacier contrasting sharply with the till covered east flank.
Leaving Matanuska Glacier behind the highway left the deep mountains valleys where the colourful deciduous trees dramatically demarcated by the spruce interspersed across the mountainsides The terrain opened up. Small ponds harboured flocks of mud stained swans. An occasional flock would coast low over the highway. I was lamenting the loss of mountains as I navigated the frost twisted highway surface. Something on the horizon captivated my gaze. A cloud – no it was above the clouds. Mount Saint Elias towered in the distance. It is Alaska’s largest volcano. For nearly two hours I drove towards its snow and glacier cloaked heights.
Glenallen. I finally arrived – three hours late. But what is late when there is no schedule? With a few more hours of daylight I continued on towards Tok circling around the north side of Mount Saint Elias. The Tok Cutoff was rougher. The perfect reason to slow down again. As I headed north the fall colours began to fade. Dipping back into the mountains I found myself in the late evening shade. Just the hilltops now reached by the sun.
It was time for the first night on my southward journey. My favoured campsite – a gravel pit - appeared. They’re free. I pulled in and quickly established my home. I sat there nibbling on crackers while watching the sun set. It was early, but I clambered into bed. The final sunset glow was still on the horizon. It slowly – as do all sunsets in the north – faded. I zipped the door closed. Through the net I noticed the sunset lasting far longer then I expected. I opened the door, slightly puzzled, but developing a theory. I reasoned that the sun had set to my left – therefore I was looking north. I confirmed this by finding Ursa Major and then the north star.
The entire northern horizon was glowing. Then I noticed it was moving. From the warmth of my sleeping bag I was watching the aurora borealis – not a lingering northern sunset. A fan waved, then a spike shot off to the south, cutting through the milky way. My spine tingled. I never grow tired of watching mystical northern lights dancing through the sky. There is something magical about a pulsing sky.
Laying there watching the green and blue glow I forgot about the decision I must make in the morning. Which way will I travel? North through Chicken and over the Top of the World Highway to Dawson City or south and more quickly to Whitehorse.
