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October, 2008
Autumn In Alaska

Twenty years ago I performed for a couple of months in Valdez and Glenallen, Alaska, two months that left a very vivid impression on me. So when my good friend Judy Belknap asked me if I would help her close her cabin on the Kenai River for the season, I leapt at the chance. Of course, I didn't realize how much work would be involved, but still, we managed to get most everything done and still got out into the countryside enough that I got some pretty good photos. Here are a few.

Fall comes early in Alaska, needless to say. Snow was already dusting the tops of the peaks by mid-September and the cottonwoods and shrubbery were displaying their yellows and browns by the time we returned to Anchorage for the flight out. Up on the slopes, the small berry shrubs and willows turn red as though chapped by the cold, and the big bears, tired of eating nothing but salmon, spend the waning daylight fattening up on the berries before searching out a cave or hollow in which to hibernate for the winter.

The state flower of Alaska is the alpine forget-me-not, but it would be easy to assume that it would be the ubiquitous fireweed. During the long summer days, fireweed turns the roadsides and avalanche slopes purple with their blossoms. Come fall, though, they really catch fire. Here, fireweed looks over the small coastal town of Ninilchik.

Ninilchik was founded when Alaska still belonged to Russia, and Russia still adhered to the Orthodox Church. The Transfiguration Of Our Lord Church dates back to before statehood and the classic building is surrounded by the graves of the parishioners.

This fireweed is certainly living up to its name as it grows between the pickets of the church's fence.

The seed pods of the fireweed break open when ripe, each pod releasing dozens of tiny, feather-tailed seeds, which will lie dormant through the long winter until sprouting on every bit of open ground come spring. While I've often seen the seed pods, I've never seen them open so perfectly as I did here in Moose Pass.

The rough coast of Alaska is protected by a few lighthouses, like this one near Anchor Point. The mouth of the creek forms a wide, rich swamp, home to many species.

A short side trip to Clam Gulch yielded quite a surprise: this immature bald eagle fighting with its sibling over a fresh thigh bone.

The bedraggled immature eagle above wouldn't have inspired our Founding Fathers to name it the national symbol, but the full-grown adult on the wing at right certainly inspires plenty of pride and awe.

Both fires and avalanches bring down the spruce trees regularly, making room for aspen, willow, and cottonwood. Here by the Moose River, the fading light of fall brings out the color of the turning leaves.

Needless to say, life in Alaska is pretty darned primitive. Judy's cabin is no exception. There were times when we had to make do with just domestic caviar and inexpensive champagne before dinner.

As nice as Judy's cabin is, many sportsmen would say the best thing about it is the location: right on the banks of the Kenai River's famous Hole 2, which was rarely devoid of fishermen.

Fishermen weren't the only ones taking advantage of the spawning salmon: one evening, I took this photo of a black bear eating salmon in front of the cabin, surrounded by ducks.

Judy's neighbors Fred and Suzanne Louner were kind enough to take us up to Skilak Lake, where we had a not-so-primitive picnic lunch. Despite the rain and snow on the horizon, we had a nice day for the peninsula: partly sunny and about 50 degrees. And at the lake we got away from the pesky white sock flies, which left painful, itchy bites that caused the whole area of skin to burn and swell so much that one bite left Judy unable to open her eye for a couple of days.

Along the rocky lakeshore I found this gull's feather still dotted with raindrops from the night before.

A fire burned part of the shore of Skilak Lake's many miles of shore, leaving behind the gray skeletons of the burned trees but making room for bushes which seem to have caught fire themselves.

The Moose River provides some of the classic views on the Kenai Peninsula: snowy peaks, thick forests, fall trees, and blue water.

Fishing has attracted men to the very rough seas off the coast of Alaska for centuries, and many a ship has disappeared beneath the surface of the Bering Sea. In Homer, the town has erected a monument to the men who have been lost, where people leave shells and flowers and other mementos.

Seward still has a thriving marina and is the main port of access to Kenai Fjords National Park, accessible only by water.

Not all ships stay sea-worthy. The Virginis sends its prow just through the grasses on shore near Homer these days.

Looking a bit like a scene on a tropic island, sunset falls over the Kenai River. While there's no way to get to know a place very well in just a couple of weeks, I sure enjoyed my brief stay in this land of abundance, beauty, and hard work.

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