Alcan Highway Adventure Day 12: The Long and Sunny Road that Leads to More Rain

Wednesday August 10th 2022
Matanuska Glacier Recreation Area

I wake up to a long dawn after the deep sleep of a short and frigid night. I stretch. Peel myself away from the warmth of the sleeping bag and the hot little dog snuggled deep down inside it. I don't check the clock. I don't need to. I know it's early.

Pilot and I take care of our morning routines before slipping over the the adjacent parking lot to hike the one-mile loop trail with a view of the Matanuska Glacier.

The air, heavy with the memories of yesterday's rains, lightens with the ever-increasing lumens of the morning sun. The ambient mood heightens, but my spirits linger in the lows. Something is coming. Soon. It sends me messages of its impending approach. Leaves me notes. Pisses me off. Gives me headaches. Indigestion. Reminds me of bad moods and bad times and blinds me to all that glitters. It always does this, this something. I used to fight it. Or worse, try ignore it. None of this has ever worked. This vital part of my deepest and most ancient human identity, it comes anyway. The brooding moon inside me doesn't care what I think. One day it will stop coming, though, and I will miss it. And so I have learned to embrace its inevitable approach. Or at least put up with it.

For fun, I drive us down a winding dirt road that crosses a funky bridge and leads to a trail that leads to the head of the ice snake we call Matanuska. I consider hiking the trail, but the trailhead swarms with people, and a very long drive to Homer beckons. Next time. Because there will be a next time.

We backtrack a few miles in the sunshine on Highway 1 so I can get my fix with some mountains.

Am I the only human being that feels the oxytocin rush of being in the arms of mother earth? I don't think so. I pull off at a sun-sparkled pond.

"Hey, I know that dog!" a voice booms, echoing across the water. Out from behind a truck steps Friendly Bear Man. Pilot cracks a crocodile grin and pulls me toward him. Writhes and wriggles at his feet. Friendly Bear Man is ecstatic. Drunk on nature. Tells me first thing he did this morning was call his son. There's a break in the weather, let's go fishin'! He points to a stout and round man wading next to a little grey motor boat. His son. Looks just like him. A little more hair, maybe. A little more weight of the world on his shoulders, but otherwise glowing with the same love for the land.

I share with Friendly Bear Man the events of the night prior. The challenges with the rain and the campsite under the flight path which led to backtracking at 11pm so I could wake up out here in this stunning landscape. Friendly Bear Man beams at me with the pride of a fourth grader who's just won first place at the science fair. Beams as though he was the one who'd made this stunning landscape, this country he calls home. If I was in his place, I think I would feel the same pride.

Friendly Bear Man recounts my story when he rejoins his son.
She said she couldn't sleep!
His enthusiasm bounces off the mountains all throughout the valley.
So she came back here!
His joy penetrates cell membranes. It's so influential I bet the fish jump right into his boat just to be part of it.

---

The ride to my destination is long. I exchange texts with my friend in Anchorage as I weave in and out of cell reception. I'll be staying with her in a couple days. I'm excited to see her. It's been 13 days since I've seen any friends. A couple years since I've seen her.

I don't know if you're single but the guys in Alaska are really rugged and hot, says one of her messages.

I stop briefly in Anchorage for groceries at a health food market she recommends. In the parking lot a crew of Alaska construction worker guys are hard at work under the piercing rays of a northern sun. They look rugged enough. Hot, sure. It's a warm day. They're cute. But it doesn't do anything for me. Never really did. I wander the aisles of the grocery store. Zucchini, spinach, sausage, cheese. It was always about who I could rescue. Who was the perfect balance of talented and broken. That was my rugged and hot. I think back to the weird parade I saw in Valdez. About the young twenty-something driving a corvette at 2mph, eyeliner smeared on like she'd just heard the 90s aren't coming back, ever, and it's now or never. Long hair falling over her rugged-Alaska-girl shoulders. Bangs. Sweet smile as she stops for the candy-hungry kids that dart out in front of her. If I'd known myself then, would I have fallen for someone like her? Been with someone like her? Loved someone like her? So much time wasted. How many opportunities were lost trying to save others instead of myself?

The prices for produce here are unfathomable. Luckily I'm only feeding myself.

I pay $8 for a case of La Croix.

Highway 1 is full of splendor. The sun shines brilliantly like it's never heard of rain and what the hell have I been complaining about? I check the weather for Homer. It's due to be raining when I arrive. I want to stop and play and hike in the sunshine, but I don't have much time. Gotta check into the campground before the main office closes. We stop for mini excursions. Leg-stretches. Two-minute jogs. Photos. It's all so fucking breathtakingly beautiful and I'm so fucking breathtakingly pissed because the sun only wants to shine when I'm stuck driving in the car anymore and my butt hurts and my ovaries ache and why the hell can't life just be a goddamn picnic?!

I stop and gas up and buy weird expensive gross oily salmon jerky that ends up being Pilot's most favorite treat ever, and a sticker that I'm pretty sure is mocking me.

Bad moods aside, the land does a good job of keeping me distracted.

But as I grow closer to Homer, the skies fill with clouds.

There is a fantastic backdrop to Homer Spit. Oceans and mountains all around. What I see of it seems impossible. Then the clouds come and take it all away.

I check in to my camp site. Learn that there was once an "eagle lady" that lived out here and fed wild eagles. Learn where to shower and wash my clothes and that I'll have to wait until tomorrow to do these things. Pilot and I walk along the beach. The rain waivers between pitter-patter and spittle. Clears up now and then. Comes back. Pilot dislikes the rain. He wants to be grumpy with me, but forgets about it once we're out there. His contagious ability to rediscover his internal happiness is one of the reasons I am alive today. We frolic. Kick up beach pebbles. Chase each other down the shore.

I walk us back to camp along the road, peeking in at the various shops and restaurants. The buildings are brightly colored. Cars and people everywhere, late into the light night. It's like a festival, here.

The crows have all gone to bed.

We pass a bar called Salty Dog Tavern. I consider going inside for a soda or, hell, maybe a Lagavulin, but a sign on the door tells me "dawgs" aren't allowed. So I just look. There are dollar bills pinned up everywhere, on everything. Music plays loudly. Voices talk over top of it. Laugh over top of it. It smells like beer and bar carpet inside. My curiosity is satisfied. We keep walking.

I don't have my camera. I tell myself I want to take pictures of Homer Spit before I leave, but I will forget to to do this. Maybe because of the rain.

Probably because of the rain.

I cook a late dinner scramble in the drizzle. Share it with Pilot. Since he's discovered I can make scrambled eggs, he's refused to eat anything else unless I share.

We eat. I clean up. Brush my teeth. Light incense. Make tea and climb into the carbed. Leave the hatch open. I journal. Brood. Watch the light of a boat drift through a dark mist across the bay. I shut off my lantern. Close my eyes. Listen to a cacophony of gulls in the distance. The tumbling of beach pebbles in the gentle surf. The ebb and flow of the rain.

The sound of the wild north soothes me to sleep.

---

Read Day 13.

Read Day 11.

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