Cooper Landing (2 Days)

July 16 – Rainy Arrival in Cooper Landing

I stopped at Nature's Nectars Coffee Shop one last time before leaving Seward. It was already raining as I topped off the gas tank, and I didn't take my first sip of coffee until I was back on the road heading toward Cooper Landing.

For several days I had been reading about the area and had hoped to stay at Russian River Campground. When I tried making a reservation through recreation.gov, every available site was listed as First Come, First Served. Arriving around noon on a summer day, I assumed I didn't have much chance of finding an opening.

The staff at the entrance station didn't exactly inspire confidence. They told me campsites wouldn't be released until 2 p.m., but wouldn't offer much insight into whether it was worth waiting. After asking several questions, one of them finally shrugged and said, "It looks like there will be at least five sites opening up."

With two hours to kill, I pulled into a nearby parking area, made lunch in the van, and spent the time reading about the Russian River, the hiking trails, salmon runs, and the possibility of seeing bears.

When I walked back to the entrance station at 2 p.m., two women had replaced the earlier crew, and the difference was immediately noticeable. They smiled, answered questions, and genuinely seemed interested in helping people. "No problem," one of them said after checking the computer. "We have about twenty sites available."

Earlier I had asked whether Starlink worked in the campground and had been told, "I don't think so." When I asked the same question again, she laughed. "It works in most of the campground. I'll give you a site where it's a little more open."

She also pointed out a few hiking trails, talked about the fishing, reminded me to keep food and trash secured because of the bears, and made me feel welcome before I had even driven through the gate. Amazing what a difference the right people can make.

Russian River Campground has eighty-three campsites arranged in loops named after salmon. I was assigned Site 8 in the Red Salmon Loop, and after settling in I drove over to the Pink Salmon parking area with plans to hike the Anglers Trail and photograph fly fishermen along the Russian River. Mother Nature had other ideas.

The parking lot was packed despite the weather. Entire families were unloading fishing gear while pulling on chest waders. There were grandparents watching the process, young children carrying rods almost as tall as they were, and one father with a baby strapped to his back. The river was fed by glacial water that couldn't have been much above freezing, yet nobody seemed to care that it was pouring.

I covered my backpack and camera with rain covers, zipped my jacket to my chin, and headed down the trail. Within minutes I realized the outing was hopeless. Rain covered the front element of the lens faster than I could wipe it clean, and every attempt to photograph someone casting ended with another sheet of water blowing across the viewfinder. There wasn't going to be a single worthwhile photograph that afternoon. Sometimes photography is about knowing when to quit.

I turned around, walked back to the van, changed into dry clothes, carefully dried the camera gear, and accepted defeat. The rain never let up, so I spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on blog posts, editing photographs from earlier in the trip, and listening to the steady rhythm of rain on the roof of the van.

It wasn't the afternoon I had planned, but after several busy days in Seward, it was probably one I needed. Tomorrow's forecast looked a little better, and with Russian River Falls waiting only a few minutes away, there would hopefully be another opportunity.

July 17 – Russian River Falls

The rain was still falling when I woke up. My neighbor had run his generator until nearly 11:30 the night before, well past the campground's 10 p.m. quiet hours, and then fired it up again promptly at 7 the next morning. After breakfast, I drove to the campground entrance to ask about hiking to Russian River Falls.

The same woman who had helped me the day before was working the entrance station. She explained that if I finished the hike before noon I wouldn't need a day-use pass. That wasn't going to happen. I still needed coffee and wanted to stop by the post office, so I picked up a latte from one of the small roadside coffee shacks that seem to exist everywhere in Alaska, mailed a package, and returned to the campground.

She suggested I leave the van in the overflow lot and ride my bicycle to the trailhead, saving the entrance fee. It was a thoughtful suggestion, but with rain threatening and several pounds of camera gear on my back, I decided to pay the reduced seven-dollar day-use fee instead.

Parking at the trailhead was already full, so I left the van in the Pink Salmon lot and walked the extra distance. It turned out to be a pleasant way to begin the day. The cool air, damp forest, and smell of spruce reminded me of hiking in New England during October, except here the mountains occasionally appeared through the trees to remind me I was in Alaska.

The Russian River trail climbed steadily at first before leveling out beside the Russian River. It was wide, well maintained, and busy without feeling crowded. Families with young children, fishermen carrying fly rods, photographers with tripods, and hikers with bear spray all shared the trail. Every so often the river appeared through the trees before disappearing again as the path wound through spruce, birch, moss, and ferns still dripping from several days of rain. I asked a few people coming the other way if they had seen any bears. The answer was always the same. "Not yet."

About twenty minutes into the hike I heard an ATV approaching from behind. A man and woman wearing Fire and EMS vests passed quickly before stopping briefly to secure some equipment. A few moments later they continued toward the falls. I assumed it might be a training exercise. By the time I reached the viewing platforms, it was obvious something serious had happened.

I asked a man standing nearby if he knew what was going on. He told me they were part of a faith community from Nashville spending a week together in Alaska. One of the men in their group, sixty-eight years old, had climbed to the edge to get a better view. He slipped on a wet rock, and went over the cliff striking a birch tree before dropping onto the rocks below. I guess it was a 100’ fall total. I asked if he was alive. "The Lord works in mysterious ways," he replied. "He's going to be fine."

What stayed with me wasn't his faith. It was how detached he seemed from the reality unfolding around him. He talked as though everyone would simply be catching their flight home from Anchorage later that evening. I mentioned that the doctors would probably want to determine whether the injured man had internal bleeding, a concussion, broken bones, or other injuries before anyone even considered putting him on an airplane.

"The Lord will get us through this," he answered again.

I said I was going to explore a little further down the trail. Then, almost as casually as if he'd misplaced a set of car keys, he told me they couldn't find another member of their group. If I happened to see him farther down the trail, would I send him back?

I remember thinking that one member of the group had nearly been killed after walking to close to the cliff, another was now missing, and yet he seemed remarkably unconcerned with either situation. There was a well protected platform that had been ignored. The barriers weren't there to interfere with the view. They were there because the consequences of ignoring them could be catastrophic.

A few minutes later the Fire and EMS team appeared, helping the injured man back up the trail. His arm was obviously broken. His head was heavily bandaged, and his face and arms were covered with cuts and scrapes. Looking at him, it was remarkable that he had survived at all. As the rescuers passed, the Nashville leader called out, "The Lord bless you."

None of the volunteers acknowledged the comment. They remained completely focused on their patient, moving deliberately and professionally toward the waiting ATV. Watching them work, I couldn't help appreciating the calm competence they brought to a situation that never should have happened in the first place.

As the crowd gradually dispersed, I finally turned my attention back to the reason I had come: photographing salmon.

It quickly became apparent that photographing salmon jumping Russian River Falls is much harder than it looks. A fish breaks the surface for less than a second before disappearing back into the whitewater. Timing the shutter meant anticipating the jump rather than reacting to it, and after many hundreds of photographs I came away with only a handful that I thought were worth keeping.

To one side of the falls is a fish ladder, where salmon can bypass the strongest current. Looking down from the platform, I could see fish packed together near the entrance. Some were still bright silver from the ocean, while others had already turned a vivid red as they entered the final stage of their spawning run. I found myself wondering why some continued throwing themselves against the rapids while others quietly took the easier route through the fish ladder.

I stood there for more than two hours in the rain waiting for those brief moments when another salmon would launch itself out of the water. During that time I met people from all over the country. I spoke to a woman from Rochester, NY. I told her I had been there. She said her husband was from there, but she was from Pennsylvania. Having grown up in PA, I knew the town were she was from. They were traveling in a camper van, and we compared camper van road stories.

I had my eye to the camera when a young boy screamed beside me, “I see one!” Click, I had captured that same fish. Their grandmother said to him, "Maybe Mr. Cameraman will let you see one of his pictures." I looked up and noticed she was wearing a pistol in a chest holster. Only in Alaska, I thought. Indeed, I had captured the salmon and the children gathered around while I showed them several images on the back of the camera. Their excitement was every bit as enjoyable as finally capturing the photographs.

By mid-afternoon I finally started back toward the trailhead. I was soaked by now and on one of the bridges I stopped to photograph the rushing water below when a young man asked, “Sir, do you know how much farther it is to the falls.” I pulled out AllTrails and showed him where we were, it was about .6 miles.

His father had already walked more than two miles despite having both knees replaced. Only then had he admitted how much pain he was in. The rest of the family wanted to continue to the falls, but he had decided to head back to the camper alone. After taking a few more photographs I caught up with him on the trail.

"You're keeping a pretty good pace," I said. "Not as good as you," he replied. His name was Dave, and he was from Butler, Pennsylvania. Another Pennsylvanian. We spent the next couple of miles talking about family, work, Alaska, and life in Butler. By the time we reached his camper he thanked me for walking with him. I suspect the conversation helped distract him from the pain, but I enjoyed the company just as much.

By the time I got back to the van, I was soaked, tired, and ready for dinner. As I sorted through the day's photographs, I realized I had spent more than two hours at the falls and come away with only a handful of salmon images worth keeping. Oddly enough, that didn't bother me.

The photographs were only part of the day. Watching the EMS volunteers calmly bring an injured man back up the trail was a reminder that the wilderness doesn't forgive carelessness. The barriers, warning signs, and advice from the rangers aren't there to limit the experience—they're there because someone has already learned the hard way.

Rather than return to the campground, I paid five dollars to spend the night in the overflow parking area near the entrance. It turned out to be quieter than the campground itself. No generators. No late-night noise. Just the occasional passing vehicle and rain.

The rest of the day was a much happier reminder of why I enjoy traveling this way. Conversations with people I'd never met, helping another hiker on his walk back to the campground, and standing in the rain with complete strangers waiting for the next salmon to leap the falls all became part of the experience. I came to Russian River hoping for photographs of salmon. I left remembering the people.