A magical day

The morning dawned with clearing skies. It was the kind of morning where everything was crisp and cool and clean, with gray mist shifting over the dark mountainsides. The Kenai Lake, just downstream from Primrose Campground where I stayed the wet, rainy night before, was glassy, with nary a ripple to mar its mirror-like surface.

Near Primrose Campground: the shores of Kenai Lake

Morning contemplations

You can just barely see it in the picture above, but the lake has a faint teal tinge. This murky but lovely color is from glacial flour. If this were the Canadian Rockies, which are primarily made up of limestone, the turquoise color would be much more intense, but here the rocks are primarily shale, sandstone and granite, so the color is fainter.

Where possible, we used to do "hillside geology" by sitting across a valley and doing a rough trace of the rocks by observing vegetation changes (always field checked afterwards, of course). Here, you can get a good idea of the rock composition by noting the color of the rivers and lakes! For instance the Coal River is aptly named, being relatively dark gray. It's source is from a glacier that is grinding its way through primarily black shales, thus the water, with its high sediment load, is also gray.

What do you see in this wood?

So I was walking along the lakeshore, glorying in the rocks, the trees and the bright leaves that were wafting down to litter the beach like confetti. A kingfisher flew right in front of me with its characteristic swooping pattern, and then teased me by sitting on a branch too far away for a picture. I never mind, though, it's enough to have seen and appreciated the bird from afar.

Ravens cawed, too, and a magpie's tuxedo feathers flashed in the distance. It started to rain, just very lightly, like the delicate mist from an aerator, while the clouds swirled overhead.

I turned around, and a rainbow was developing right above me! It got more and more intense as the minutes went on.

Unbelivably intense, bright full rainbow.

It lasted for a long time, too, fading and re-intensifying in response to the interplay between the rising sun and the intermittent rain.

Rainbow above Primrose Creek

Simply glorious.

It lasted long enough for me to get another picture, this time with Primrose Creek in the foreground. Can you see the faint tinge of turquoise in the water? It's glacially derived from Mt Adair and an unnamed glacier on an unnamed mountain just to the south. I'd go out on a limb and surmise that there is some component of CaCO3 in those rocks! 

I've looked for a geology paper on this area, and did find a very fine road log, but it doesn't go into great detail. Nonetheless, it's a good overview resource.

It hardly seemed possible that there were only a couple of other people in the campground, and one other motor home in the day use parking area. 

I imagine that in the summer this is heavily used, but then, I thought that the campgrounds outside of Fairbanks would have been heavily used on a Saturday night in August, and they weren't so what do I know?

As it was, it was delightful to share this moment with the kingfisher and no humans, as everyone else was inside their RVs, and missed it completely.

It's one of the reasons I'm more than happy to let it rain, and keep outside as much as possible. One last look at the mountains behind the lake. It looks like a painting; maybe I'll paint it one day!

Fall colors at Kenai Lake

Exit Glacier

With the clearing weather, it seemed like it would be good to give the area around Seward another try. That's the really good thing about my very loose schedule: if things aren't good one day, they might be good on another.

There's a life lesson there...

Exit Glacier spills down the valley it's carved for itself

Exit Glacier reflected in a small pool

Exit Glacier is cool because it's one of the few glaciers you can hike to. Sort of. Because of the rapid retreat, conditions at the toe are constantly changing, with unstable ice and roaring meltwater issuing from the base of the glacier. Because the ice is unstable, you really can't go and kick it, but since I didn't want to do that, this day's excursion was just fine!

It's hard to remember when you look at this glacier that the ice is actually MOVING! We understand that the water under the glacier is moving — we can see that. The ice is flowing on a time scale that we can't quite comprehend, so we tend to be alarmed when ice falls from it. Of course, we shouldn't: geologically speaking, glaciers move much more quickly than soil creep, but we're so focused on our own viewpoint, we forget about the long view of things.

Another life lesson there!

Of course, the glaciers here used to be a lot bigger, deeper and longer, and Exit Glacier is a prime example of this. All along the approach road, there are signs showing where the toe of the glacier was during the past 150 years.

For the most part, as in the rest of the world, Alaskan glaciers are just hanging on. They are melting, like the Wicked Witch of the West when Dorothy threw the water on her. You can almost hear them wailing, "I'm melting..."

There is a small visitor center here; it seems I can always learn something. For instance, I honestly thought "ice worms" were like mythical snipes, but they actually do exist. They are related to earthworms, but are even tinier, looking like little black threads on the white ice. Snow buntings like to eat them! More cool facts about ice worms.

The mouth of the glacier, with silty water rushing from its base

The trail to the toe is a good one, well maintained, and even though it had rained the night before it wasn't too muddy. Of course, this trail is trammeled by many visitors, so it has to be good!

There were all sorts of people visiting: Asian tourists stereotypically loaded with cameras, from DSLRs to tablets; retired folks in plaid flannel shirts and Goretex jackets; energetic singles, both men and women; and one group of two obese women who were hobbling along the trail, one with a cane. They were moving slowly, but I certainly applaud their attitude and fortitude!

I met a couple of rangers along the trail. One was stopping to enjoy the view, and we chatted a bit. He was wondering about the sandhills. He said, "I usually see them fly through the valley about now," but thought that, since it was "already September 15," maybe he'd missed them. I was able to report that I'd seen a large flock in Palmer, just a few days ago.

There actually was a new letterbox along this trail, and I had to wait for the "muggles" to pass by before I could retrieve it. It was my first "first find," as the box had just been planted. How cool is that?

The weather was so fine and I was feeling so great that I decided to hike up at least the first mile or so on the Harding Icefield Trail. This is a "strenuous" trail that is over eight miles round trip, and they advise allowing 6-8 hours for the jaunt. I knew I couldn't do the whole thing, as it was already early afternoon, and I hadn't really prepared for a long hike (water, food, etc.). But I was feeling great, the weather looked like it was going to hold, so I decided to hike as far as I felt good about.

Getting high up affords an impressive view of the Exit Glacier outwash plain, the fall color in the valley, the Resurrection River and Resurrection Peaks.

The trail (going down); the glacier is just visible in the distance.

I did pretty well, but... I did feel the 1,000 foot climb, and I was moving a little gingerly since I had fallen the day before, and (silly me) since I hadn't really planned on doing this, I hadn't brought my hiking poles.

Don't get me wrong, it was a fine hike, but the last hike I took with even half this elevation gain was at Angel Rocks with Fran, and this was twice that vertical gain and pretty challenging. There were even places along the trail that necessitated handholds, and I'm no spring goat.

I didn't have the poles, but upon reflection, the trail was so steep and rocky that I'm not sure they would have really been all that useful.

I went up to the point at which I could see the glacier and then decided I didn't need to go any further. I'd gotten the impressive views of the valley and the glacier, and didn't think I needed to do any more.

Besides, its always good to leave something to bring you back, and next time I'll be more prepared.

On the way down, I met a few more people coming up. (In all honesty, a number of people passed me on the way up, too. There were a couple of gals talking loudly to each other about vodka shots, and another nice gal in purple who asked me if I went all the way to the top (I replied, "No, got too late a start.") But ALL of them were 20- and 30-somethings. I don't think there was anyone over 40 (except me) on that trail. So even though I was slow, I was there!)

Leaning in to get in the self-timed photo. Glaciers everywhere!

View of the top of the glacier, spilling down from the Harding Icefield

There were glaciers everywhere. Rushing water, no animals, other than some traces of squirrels, and some possible "sheep dots" or "mountain goat dots" on a far hillside. Unfortunately, I hadn't brought binoculars on this jaunt, either, since I thought I was going to be looking at things that were close, not far away!

Apparently nobody else that I met on the trail had brought them either, so whether they were white mountain goats or Dall sheep, or merely blocks of snow, as one girl suggested (I really don't think it was snow with legs), we'll never really know.

Crossing an unnamed stream.

But there were reports of mountain goats above the visitor center, and it's totally mountain goat territory, so I'm just going to think that they were, indeed, mountain goats.

Even though I normally prefer loop trails, so that you don't see the same thing on the way back, this was a great trail to take. On the way up, I was moving slowly, so most of my attention was focussed on my feet, with occasional stops to catch my breath and enjoy the scenery as I got higher and higher.

On the way down, I still have to watch my feet, but it's much more relaxing, and since it's going another way, I can see things that are different. And light is different, and the clouds, so it's never boring or repetitive.

It would be good to do this every day — I might actually get in shape then! My knees felt it a bit the next day, but it was a good kind of tired, not painful.

Back down at the bottom, I got some lunch (pretty hungry by this time), and retrieved my NP passport from the car, because there was another passport stamp at this visitor center, too (for "Exit Glacier" — remember what I said earlier about every visitor center having a stamp?). While there, I saw the gal in purple that I'd seen and talked briefly with on the trail. She was talking with the rangers, and gesticulating rather wildly. Turned out she was making out a bear report, and had seen a bear and cub just up the trail from where we'd met! All turned out well, but the encounter had shaken her up a bit.

This renewed my resolve to sing loudly and badly when hiking alone, especially in brushy areas where you can't see far ahead, or around a bend. Perhaps because people are more used to seeing bears (and because bears aren't as used to humans), the authorities don't appear to be quite as emphatic about bear management. But on the other hand, they're putting out warnings, but aren't fear-mongering. There in very much a sense that each person should be responsible for themselves. They give the information (I've seen dated "bear sighting" signs on trailhead hiker boards); you get to decide how you want to heed the information. 'Nuf said.

"Go Fish" letterbox stamp at Exit Glacier

There was one more letterbox to find near the parking lot, and I was pleased to find it, as it was certainly indicative of the area.

I'm very intrigued by the Tlingit / Haida style of artwork, and this was a very fine example. I'd like to try my hand at it, although it's so far from the realism that I've striven far to date, that I'm nervous about even attempting something like this.

You also have to KNOW what a fish looks like in the first place, in order to do an interpretation. I guess I need to go find some fish. Or other animals.

Last look, fall colors in Resurrection Valley

It had been a marvelous, awe-inspiring day. I am so lucky to be here and see everything that I can. This earth is filled with such beauty, and I appreciate it every single day.

On the way to Seward

I spent the morning in sheer bliss, wandering around the campground and Summit Lake, taking photos. I'm going to let them speak for themselves as I don't really have that much to say about them, except what might amount to photographer's notes. The weather was cloudy again, but it didn't diminish my happiness at being here.

Summit Lake reflections

Summit Lake Campground

Photographer's note: So the issue here is that I'd really like to have had a bit more of an angle on the bridge, but then more of the brilliant trees in the middle/background would have been hidden. This is all about compromise!

The tasty-looking berry at left and right actually is baneberry, which is highly poisonous. The one at left is masquerading as a high-bush cranberry, since it's stalk is poking through the innocuous cranberry's leaves. On the right, is the baneberry plant; the leaves do look quite different.

If one really knows what the cranberry berries look like, one would never confuse them, but it really pays to be alert if you're trying to live off the land. Supposedly they don't taste very good either; I did not experiment.

Fern growing in a bed of dwarf dogwood and moss.

I reveled in all the colorful parts of the forest, whether the plants were close to the ground and set off from the dark soil, or up in the trees, or farther off up the surrounding mountains.

So many colors: it's like an artist's palette

 While some plants are familiar to me now as plants of the boreal forest that I've been in for the past three months, there are some new ones. Instead of black and white spruce, now there is Sitka spruce. There's the nasty Devil's Club, and I think there is are some azaleas. Their leaves are also a rainbow of colors: green, brown and apricot. I'm running out of superlatives.

A carpet of dwarf dogwood

After several false starts, ("Oh, look at this..."), I tore myself away... I really did need to get going. Just a few miles down the road was the turnoff to Homer, which I intended to take in a few days. At the turnoff was a big lake, Tern Lake, and as I went past, I saw two white blobs that were too big to be terns. They were, indeed, trumpeter swans. 

Trumpeter swans

I screeched to a halt, found a spot to the side of the road where I could park the car, put on the blinkers, grabbed the camera, changed to the telephoto lens and sneaked up towards them. Fortunately there was a good screen of trees between the road and the lake. I gradually moved closer and closer, taking pictures all the while. You want to get close, but not so close that they are disturbed. 

As it was, they didn't seem to mind in the least, although I was very quiet and mostly hidden by the trees and bushes. 

Taking pictures of wildife is harder than taking pictures of stationary trees, obliging plants and massive mountains! The closer of the two swans never poked its head out from under its wing, and, of course, it had its ass end to me the whole time. It's not like you can politely tell it to wake up and turn around. The other swan was busy preening, tucking its bill under its wings, fluffing its feathers, pulling the feathers with its beak. It finally stretched its wings, and then started gliding around.

I had not realized how far back the legs are, or that a swan's neck is so long that it enables the bird to reach vegetation far under the surface, making the bird look like it's headless. Fascinating to watch!

Unfortunately, the weather was deteriorating (again). I seem to be on a one day marvelous, another day rainy, which kind of keeps one on one's toes. The clouds started to sock in, but the views were still wonderful since the cloud ceiling was still high enough that one could see the mountains and across the valley. The golden glow of the meadows, with the yellow cottonwoods contrasting against the dark green spruce... well, the scene will never get old.

Glaciers hide in the mountains on the way to Seward

It was raining by the time I did make it to Seward, which was something of a letdown. I stopped by the Kenai Fjords National Park Visitor Center, which is very small; kind of a hole in a wall. The Fjords don't really have a "main" area to visit, like Yosemite Valley. It's a big park, most of it only accessible by water or, I suppose, plane or helicopter, so I guess there's not much of a reason to have a large visitor center. I watched the introductory movie of beautiful photographs along with a very bouncy child and his grandparents (probably). Got my national parks passport stamped.

This is the National Parks centennial, so the stamp thing has sort of gotten out of control. Now they not only have a dated park stamp, but also a dated park centennial stamp. And now each visitor center has a separate stamp. In Denali, for instance, there was a stamp at the main Visitor Center, the Wilderness Center, the Murie Science Center, the dog kennels, and each of the visitor centers in the backcountry: Toklat, Eilson (and I'm sure Kantishna and Wonder Lake, which I did not get to). 

I wandered around Seward just a little, getting the lay of the land, but I didn't really want to get all that wet, so went looking for the library. As the gal in the Sea Center said, "You can't miss it, it's the purple building that looks like it has fish scales on it." That about described it. They were having a "Meet the Candidates" night in the community room, so it was a busy place. I'll comment on Alaskan politics some other time!

The library is new and has (or would have, had it been clear) gorgeous views of the mountains and sea. The fjords here have not filled up: they are still deep enough that fishing boats can get in and out, so it's a busy harbor, offering tours to see puffins and whales and more spectacular scenery. 

I can see why it would be a good place to kayak. The water is an almost lake-like calm. I've found places I'd like to go: Spires Cove and Bear Glacier Lagoon, which is one of the places where a glacier is calving off into the ocean. Pictures look amazing; I'm starting a new list!

Across the inlet from Seward

I didn't want to stay in town that night. It smelled palpably of fish, and seaweed, and damp, from both the rain and the ocean, so I high-tailed it back to the mountains for the night. I cannot say "no" to the lure of free camping in the mountains!

And as it turned out, that was a great decision!

Turnagain: Arm to Pass

Days are alternating between gorgeous and a miserable. Such is life on the road, in the fall, in Alaska. I'm loving the beautiful days, though... it's making everything worthwhile, and I'm treasuring them while they last.

Turnagain Arm, with the tide coming in

Morning dawned... clear.  I headed out early to take advantage of the weather.

Potter's Marsh

Potter's Marsh is a wildlife refuge, south of Anchorage on the way out to the Kenai Peninsula. There were nice tables there, so I had a welcome hot breakfast after the previous night's wet, wild weather.

The marsh is just outside of Anchorage, so it gets a good deal of attention and love, and is a good place for kids to experience wildlife. There are extensive boardwalks in several directions, and kids can run along the boardwalks and enjoy the wildlife without their parents worrying about the falling into mud or water, or getting too close to a bear or moose. I didn't check, but I think the railings are the governmentally proscribed four inches apart so that babies won't fall through. Presumably bear won't get in either, although they could walk along the boardwalks just like everyone else.

Potter's Marsh

Wigeons, again, I think.

During the time I was there, I didn't see a whole lot of wildlife. Maybe it was too late in the morning, maybe the birds have already flown south, or maybe I just don't have the greatest eyeballs for seeing birds. I did see some wigeons, and some sandpipers of some sort, but they were low in the water and behind the tufts of grasses, so it was tough to see them.

Plus, the light is getting low in the sky, so there were deep shadows on the birds that I did see, which didn't make for the greatest photography.

Nonetheless, I did enjoy my time walking on the boardwalks and futilely looking for songbirds in the willows and waterfowl in the marsh grasses.

It was just nice to get out and enjoy the sunshine, blue sky and lovely scenery of gold and green marsh grasses.

Two young trumpeter swans

Going on a little further along the road, I did spot some young swans, which I was quite excited about. I've been looking for trumpeter swans this whole trip, and even though I've seen some single swans from far away, I haven't been able to get any pictures or even stop to watch them.

The gray plumage of these young birds — not cygnets, but definitely not adults — did make them difficult to spot, so I was pretty overjoyed to see them, get some pictures and watch them preening for a bit.

 However, I told myself that if I was EVER going to get on the Kenai, I'd better leave and not watch swans all day!

There is always something else to see around the next bend!

Turnagain Arm

The Kenai Peninsula is known as "Alaska in Miniature" or "Anchorage's Playground" because there is so much to do there (mountaineering! fishing! hunting! kayaking! hiking! bicycling!), and it's all relatively close to the city. And the scenery is gorgeous. There's something for everyone: sea, estuaries, fjords and mountains, glaciers and tundra, lakes, rivers and fish. It's an amazing place.

Looking back across the inlet back towards Mt Susitna, aka "The Sleeping Lady"

Turnagain Arm of Cook Inlet is so named because Captain Cook, in his quest for the Northwest Passage, had to "turn again" when the way closed up as so many others had and wasn't what he was searching for.

There are broad flats filled with glacial silt, and, due to the "bathtub effect,"  the tidal swing here can be as much as 38 feet. It used to have a respectable tidal bore that people could surf on, but the 1964 earthquake changed the dynamics of the water flow, so it's not quite as dramatic as before, although some strong tides apparently do still have a respectable bore. (Supposedly the incoming tidal bores on Sept. 20 & 21 are supposed to be very strong; might check that out!)

Low tide near the sea end of Turnagain Arm

There is something to see at every turn of the road, and fortunately the road builders have made lots of turnouts, and, for once I was on the correct side of the road for making lots of stops. This made me very happy, and I think I went all of twenty miles in six hours.

Steep mountainsides with fall color

This place is just achingly beautiful.

Fall colors spill down the steep mountainsides near the road, and on the other side, there were bright reflections on the glassy flats. The sky was brilliant blue, with white cloud puffs. It just doesn't get any better.

At one of the roadside pullouts, there was a guy with a trailered fishing boat. The boats I've seen on this road are seriously big for trailered boats (at least to me). He was crossing the road with a big blue five-gallon carboy, and I realized that he was filling up on water from a spring flowing from the mountain. Someone had put in a pipe, making it quite easy to fill up from the spitting pipe.

I felt so "in the know" when I went to fill up my puny 1/2-gallon recycled milk cartons. It's great water, and I've marked the place to fill up again on my way back.

I may have mentioned this before, but good water is actually a little hard to come by out in the wilds. In campgrounds, pumps are "weatherized" (i.e., turned off) after Labor Day in anticipation of the cold weather, and the water from those sources never seemed all that great to me, anyway. And they often warn that the water still needs to be boiled/treated before use. So finding a spring source was like gold.

Looking across the tidal flats to the other side of Turnagain Arm

Falls Creek

Falls Creek

Another time, I took the opportunity to pull over on the mountain side of the road at Falls Creek, where a creek was tumbling down through the forest.

It was so pretty, and I haven't seen many — well, any — cascades like this for a long time. The interior is really too dry and doesn't have enough relief to have waterfalls. (Not that I'm complaining about this!)

Another truck was parked there, and as I was trying to get a good shot of the foaming water, I saw two people coming carefully down the steep trail. They each had a pail of cranberries!

I decided I'd take just a small walk up the trail a bit and try to get a better picture. There's one thing about sun: it does create some problems in photography, creating harsh shadows and high contrast, which is not always what one wants!

It was a pretty trail, and I probably would have gone further if there had been someone else along with me. As it was I didn't go far as I was nervous about bears, especially knowing that there really were lots of tasty berries up ahead!

Devil's Club berries

It was interesting to hike in this forest. Southwest Alaska is full of microclimates that create different zones where different plants like to live.

For instance, on this trip I hadn't yet come across the very nasty "Devil's Club" yet, which I remember with such loathing from hikes in British Columbia in 1976.

Unfortunately, I'm back in a similar climate (wetter, more temperate), and I've made it's reacquaintance.

Devil's Club leaf

Devil's Club could be a pretty plant, and, to the uninitiated, it looks harmless enough. It has big leaves that might look like giant maple leaves that can be a foot across. Now they are turning yellow, so really brighten up the forest floor, almost glowing in the sun.

In the spring, they sprout sprays of white flowers, which now, in the fall, turn to big sprays of bright red (inedible, for us) berries that are quite beautiful.

They also have horrible, nasty prickers everywhere: on their fat, woody stems (thus the name "club") and even on the underside of the leaves. They make hiking through the underbrush a miserable experience, and if nothing else, they encourage one to stay on the trail.

If anything would convince me to carry a machete, it would be this plant.

I soon turned back, as the underbrush, combined with the steep trail, made it difficult to see ahead, and I didn't want to surprise any bears all by myself.

I kept stopping, as each place offered something new and wonderful. Perhaps on the way back I'll hike at Bird Creek, which looked popular (lots of cars parked), and a quick glance up the canyon showed spectacular peaks, more fall color in the canyon, and a relatively open valley.

At Upper Bird Creek, there were abundant orange ripe cranberries, sometimes with accompanying brilliant red foliage, other time with green leaves.

Highbush cranberries

I'm not sure which I like better!

Honestly, by this time I was pretty much speechless and inebriated with beauty, with a huge smile on my face and, if you'd seen me, I might have been dancing.

Beluga Point

I stopped at Beluga Point and hiked out to the viewpoints and read all the informative signs.

The tide was just turning, and it was incredible to see it come in so fast. There wasn't a tidal bore per se, but there was a

They warn people not to go out on the flats, as the glacial silt can act like quicksand and suck you down. And the tide comes in relentlessly, almost like a tsunami.

It would be interesting to do a time-lapse series of photographs of the tide coming in. As it is, you can see it inexorably creeping in — the water level along the shore rises noticeably, and the flats change from mud and sand to water in the space of minutes.

Tide just turning at Beluga Point. In an hour, most of the flats will be covered with water.

Look in the exact center for a white spot. It's a beluga!

I kept leapfrogging with a group of Asian tourists in a handicapped (? sorry if that's un-PC) van. There were two women in wheelchairs, one on crutches, and three men who were fully able, manhandling the wheelchairs and doing the driving. It was so sweet to see them get the women loaded in the van, then pull down the ramp and wheel the chairs up into the back. They had it down to a science! Everyone was so enthusiastic and smiling, but then, how could one not be?

As the tide came in, I was utterly thrilled to see some of the fabled beluga whales!

It wasn't one of those smack-you-over-the-head sightings, as you could just barely see them under the water. Then there would be a ripple, followed by a puff of vapor from their blowholes. Impossible to take pictures, as then they would submerge, and come up again somewhere else, a long way from where you'd seen them last. They really did follow closely behind the incoming tide.

I hadn't known that much about beluga whales before this. The are relative small whales, and almost pure white. They are endangered, and are now protected from hunting, even subsistence hunting. The Cook Inlet belugas are "genetically distinct" from other belugas found in the Bering Sea and in Russia, so are at some risk because their population is so small, and because they don't interbreed with others. Unlike other whales, they actually prefer the silty water of these northern marine estuaries. Natives here hunted them respectfully, using upside-down tree stumps (with the trunks firmly planted in the glacial silt) as hunting platforms to spear the whales as they swam by. That's about the extent of my beluga-knowledge.

All smiles, taken by a friendly photographer

Good grief, how could it possibly get any better?

Oh, but it does. As the road winds gently uphill, glaciers begin to come into view. They're everywhere!

The tide is just beginning to come in, but rising rapidly.  

I played with the idea of heading up to Aleyeska, but decided at my slow pace that I might have to leave this for another time, as I really wanted to keep going further on the Kenai.

I did, but slowly, savoring every moment. At the 20-Mile River, I got out and sneaked across the railroad tracks to get some particularly fine gold cottonwoods.

Near the 20-Mile River 

Color along the road

Now, you have to understand that getting spectacular photos actually isn't all that easy, for all that beauty is everywhere. The spectacularly brilliant trees can be too far from the road to convey that mass of gold you think you're seeing; if you get too close to them, they obscure the view of the mountains behind them. The sun can go behind a cloud, thus making them appear dull gold, not bright yellow. When you're on the road, they are easier to see because there's nothing in front of them and you're up high in the vehicle. By the time you get somewhere to park, you're down low again, and either the road is in front of the picture (not very interesting), or you're too close again. It can sometimes be frustrating, but eventually I have been getting some good shots.

And I had one particular mishap when I tried to get over a guard rail. For a short person, guard rails can be, uh, too tall for one's legs. Coming back, my boot caught on the sharp edge and sent me sprawling. Fortunately, the camera suffered only some scratches, and seems to be working okay. Me, too, although I was embarrassed and a bit shaken up.

Near Turnagain Pass

The road winds gently upward, until it finally reaches Turnagain Pass, at an altitude of about 1,000 feet. For someone who is used to Sierra passes at 6,000 to 12,000 feet, this seems really, really low, but for all that, the treeline is just above.

Near Turnagain Pass

Sinking into the moss and crowberries.

There was a good turnout here, and I headed cross-country up the hillside, hoping to get a picture that might show the grandeur that was all around me.

It is surprisingly difficult to hike through this country, for all that it appears open and smooth. Once I had scrambled through the dense willows that grabbed at my hair and left leaf debris and made it to the upper hillside, I started sinking into the vegetation.

It turned out that I have new respect for caribou.

This is their home turf, such as it is, and, as my Pikahiker boots sank into the deep moss and crowberry plants, I envied their springy gait and split hooves.  I found I had to make a conscious effort to lift up my feet (no wonder they have a springy gait) in order to not repeat the experience of falling that I had earlier in the day (although falling here would have been far more comfortable than falling on hard dirt or asphalt)!

It was something of a humbling experience. Luckily, going down was much easier that hiking either up or on the "flat."

My book club group was meeting this evening, so I parked by the side of the road and joined in remotely via phone. It's fun to be able to catch up with everyone, although I can't hear everything clearly. In fact, I lose entire sentences, but enjoy what I can pick up.

Summit Lake

I wouldn't trade the view for the world, though!

As it was late, and getting dark, I snagged a campsite at Summit Lake. I was the only one there, it was closed for the season, but they hadn't closed the gate, so one could still use the spots. Gorgeous, gorgeous place.

This day was one of the high points of this trip, but I'm accumulating so many, it's hard to rate them! 

Rainy Reflections

I'm writing this in the thin autumn sunshine above Cook Inlet, at a small campground called Stariski State Recreation Area. There's nobody else here except flocks of chickadees and a woodpecker and some ravens that fly through, as do some tourists or fisherfolk with trailered boats. I should head into Homer to get ice, but... I can't leave. The sun, the view, the sun, the lack of annoying insects, the sun, the light breeze are just perfect, so I'm taking the chance to write and reflect, while the weather and sun last. The solar charger seems to be just keeping up with my use, so I'll write as long as it allows. I'm using my phone's hotspot to connect to the internet. This is the way the trip was supposed to be!

Aptly named "Reflection Lake"

Sunday morning in Palmer was lazy. It started to rain early, and I was glad I hadn't stayed in Denali, expecting to see the mountain again. It would have been wet and rainy and something of a letdown.

Instead, I was treated to three sandhill cranes wheeling in the sky above the hayfield. Their croaking cries alerted me to their presence, and they turned gracefully above, circling and gently lowering altitude until they finally landed in the field. They never seemed to be still, but started walking across, never separated from each other by much distance.

They must have been the vanguard, because about 20 minutes later a large flock of more than 100 birds announced their presence by raucous squawking. Like the previous birds, they circled the field, and finally landed in the morning mist.

This land is magical. I am so glad that so much of it is preserved so that people in the future can be treated to sights such as this.

It was a lazy, rainy day.  I really didn't feel like doing all that much, so did a bit of food shopping, got more ice, did some reading and knitting, and only moved on at the end of the day.

It was a terrible drive. The storm came in earnest, with high winds and driving rain. I gave up earlyl and only made it to Wasilla. I stayed in the parking lot of a Best Western on Lake Lucille, and had a momentary worry in the morning when a police vehicle drove into the parking lot. Fortunately, he didn't give N0MAD a second glance, but was after two other guys in a dirty blue sedan. Not sure what their transgression was, but, after a lengthy discussion, it looked like they were written up for something, as one of the guys was presented with an official-looking, very clean piece of paper.

I left quickly, following the police car out of the parking lot.

There is a fine line between homelessness and my present situation. It's one that I thought about after the sale of the house two years ago, and that I think about still.   

What is the difference between living in an RV as a "full-timer," which is accepted by society and even evokes something of adventure and romance, and being homeless, which evokes feelings of pity and desperation? 

The easy answer is that full-time RVers (and me, a nomad who is living in my car without the niceties of an RV or trailer), is that we are doing this by CHOICE, whereas "the homeless" are homeless out of necessity. However, I suspect that even might not be true. Some homeless in cities choose to remain in that state. They drift in an out of shelters, preferring life on the streets to the rigors of "normal" society.  Who are we to try to herd them into shelters and make them adapt to our ways of thinking? 

Alaska, truly the last frontier, as it says on their license plates, seems to attract people who live on the fringes of society, whether because of their background    

It's complicated. There's an essay to write here, or maybe the bones of a story.

At any rate, we'll leave that discussion for another time. But, my situation — as wonderful as it is right now — does still make me squirm at times. It's so far from the way I've been brought up and so far from my vision of my own future, that I'm still adjusting to it.

But on a day like this Sunday, as I write this in the calm sun of an autumn afternoon, overlooking the spectacular snow-covered peaks of Alaska's Ring of Fire volcanoes, it just doesn't get any better.

Two moose in the garden.

Lake Lucille

Having only glimpsed at Lake Lucille (the hotel obscured the view), and having read about it yesterday and picked up a trail guide, I figured the misty rain wouldn't keep me from exploring. Lake Lucille is in Wasilla, the home of Sarah Palin, and it has lots of nice houses. It's basically a bedroom suburb of Anchorage, with its fair share of strip malls, fast food joints, bars, shopping centers, potholes and other trappings of civilization.

And police.

And moose.

Two moose turned into three: two cows and a young bull, intent on assembling his first harem. 

I finally found the well-disguised entrance to the park. Turns out it's probably easier to get here by plane than it is by car! While there, I saw at least one float plane landing on the lake and taxiing up to a home on the lake.

Rustic breakfast cooking class, with birch leaves.

This large park has soccer fields, a camp ground, playgrounds for kids, a swimming/canoe dock and loads of hiking trails. I made breakfast under one of the covered pavilions, and was entertained by a couple of guys on the honeypot patrol. Took them about 45 minutes to do their thing and manage their hoses, winding and re-winding them; about the same amount of time it took me to make breakfast!

They nodded somewhat apologetically to me as they left in the drizzling rain.

There was no one else here except one dog walker.

Stairway of birch roots

I took off on the perimeter trail, which went through the forest and would eventually take me back to the lake. I didn't worry about bears so close to civilization. They don't even bear-proof the garbage cans! I could have worried about moose, but fortunately the forest floor was relatively open, and I hoped I'd be able to see any animals before they saw me and became alarmed and angry.

There was a confusing tracery of trails, and after awhile I gave up trying to figure out the "right" way to go, and just followed my nose.

Even with the absence of sunlight, the trees above blazed with yellow, and the understory was resplendent with the deep red of dwarf dogwood and fireweed, the brighter red of highbush cranberry leaves, and the green of leaves that had not yet turned.

The forest floor was littered with fallen birch leaf stratigraphy, the latest crop of which were golden, the older ones underfoot turning brown.

Mysterious miniature railroad tracks and town.

One of the surprises on this hike was a miniature train track! It was on the other side of a serious-looking barbed wire fence at the perimeter of the park, but it was evident that a lot of work had gone into laying the track and building the miniature structures along it. No signs or anything else; perhaps it was someone's hobby.

In my wanderings on these unmarked trails, I did unintentionally walk into someone's backyard, but fortunately there were prominent "No Trespassing" signs, so I beat a hasty retreat and went a different way.

Dwarf dogwood showing off its fall colors

The line between "park," "wilderness" and "civilization" is sometime difficult to tell here. 

I eventually figured out where I was when I crossed a linear trail, which was a good landmark. The lake itself wasn't too much farther, and the rain was (mostly) holding off, so I kept going rather than returning on the wide fast-track direct trail.

Lake Lucille may be natural, but isn't really a wild lake. There are high-end (and some not-so-high) houses around most of it.

Current prices? $140,000 will get you a one-acre lakeside lot on the south side; $159,000 will also get you a .64 acre lot on the north side of the lake.  I'm not sure about the price difference, but beaver-knowledge says to always build your lodge on the NORTH side of the pond so that you maximize sunlight on your abode... makes sense to me, and might account for the difference. $590,000 will get you a very nice 4-bedroom lakeside home.

View of Lake Lucille, looking south.

As part of an Eagle project, a local scout troop had built a narrow boardwalk along the lake; a newer project was a broad boardwalk and swimming dock. I'm sure it gets a lot of use on the long summer days.

It began to drizzle more in earnest, so I headed back to the car.

Itidarod Headquarters

A letterbox was supposedly hidden here, but the directions were somewhat obtuse, and the place was a bit on the busy side, with a team of dogs running around an oval track with tourists on the wheeled cart. When they know they are going to get to run, the dogs express their excitement by barking and lunging, showing that they just cannot wait to get going! Would that everyone enjoyed their work so much!

One is supposed to be "stealthy" when finding letterboxes, so I abandoned this one.

Reflection Lake is aptly named

Reflections Lake at Palmer Hay Flats State Wildlife Refuge    

I hadn't really planned on it, but I'd been past this turnoff several times now as a result of missing the turnoff north (due to road construction and murky signage). 

The rain was holding off, so I decided to just go with the flow and take another walk. Besides, I hadn't really been seeing much wildlife, so thought visiting a wildlife refuge might remedy the lack. 

Like Wander Lake, Reflections Lake isn't a "natural" lake, but it's perfectly situated and honestly, who cares? The "hay flats" to the east used to be where the Palmer settlers grew hay (duh), but the land sank by more than seven feet during the 1964 Anchorage earthquake, with the result that water invaded and the land became too marshy to farm. Now it's the home to beaver, muskrats, and migratory birds, of which I saw none. Zero. Zilch. 

Palmer Hay Flats (now a marsh)

I saw one dragonfly, which I expect was not long for this world, as it was particularly lethargic, posing nicely on the rusty railing of one of the bridges. And I did see my first true squirrel midden: a large pile of spruce cones. Perhaps the relative rarity of spruce here convinced the squirrel it had better stockpile those available cones for the coming winter!

Dragonfly

Apparently the lake has had a hard life, being "vandalized" by disrespectful people. (Not sure what that means, but possibly littering and woodcutting and illegal hunting). "Concerned citizens" banded together to urge state wildlife refuge protection for the area, and it's quite a lovely place to visit now, with boardwalks protecting some of the more fragile and accessible spots (thanks to Conoco). There is a lakeside viewing platform, and a new sturdy metal observation tower that was just built in 2015. 

However, despite the apparent lack of birds or other animals (and I know I'm starting to sound like a broken record), even in the soft gray misty light, the fall foliage around the lake was spectacular. The birch trees here were joined by cottonwoods, and they are in full, glorious color right now. These trees are huge. Some of the leaves that had fallen were bigger than my stretched-out hand. 

Rose leaf colors

Trails circle the lake, but also go out onto the marsh. Unfortunately the signs warned of "high water during rains," and this was true... I didn't get more than a few hundred feet when the trail went underwater, so I gave up and kept going around the lake.

More forest color: are you bored yet? I'm not!

At the other side of the lake was the Knik River, another broad, rushing river. No birds there, either, but it was a pretty view point, although by this time the clouds were lowering and the colors were muted.

Knik River

A breeze had also sprung up; you know that breeze that often portends the beginning of rain? Well that was the end of the reflections on the lake, but it had been a beautiful walk.

Last view looks like a painting!

It was time to make tracks and get going toward Anchorage proper, and thence to the Kenai Peninsula.

I ended up in Eagle River for the night; first trying the library to see if I could possibly get some work done there, but it wasn't open and there was no wifi. By this time the rain commenced in earnest, a repeat of the heavy rain and wind from the previous evening, so it was time to hole up for the night and see what the next day would bring.

---

At this point, I'm alternating between euphoria and emptiness. I once read an article by a travel writer who said that every trip has an apogee: that point at which you begin looking forward to going home more than you look forward to the trip ahead. The writer went on to say that this could happen at any point during a trip, but most often happened towards the end, when you start thinking about all the things you have to do at home. This has always resonated with me. I know it's been true on some of my hikes, when it just seems like, hey, you're done. It's a slog to continue, and you're happy when you're done.

Now, I'm not sure. It was hard to leave Fairbanks and head south. It felt like giving up. I have done so much on this trip: seen the northern lights, glaciers and volcanoes, high mountains and broad rivers; moose and bears and caribou and eagles. It seems hard to contemplate that anything can cap the experiences I've had to date.

But... I'm not ready to come home, even if I had a home to come to. Perhaps, if it were freezing cold and rainy again, I'd have a different viewpoint, but I'm not ready to give in and stay in one place, no matter how comfortable. 

I'm finding that there are still awesome places to visit, and I want to keep going as long as I'm able and happy to travel.

The dust (or mud) isn't going to settle on my Pikahiker boots.

The wind came up, and no more reflections. I was lucky to see what I did.