Happy 250th America

The morning started at Starbucks with a latte, a toasted bagel, and a little time to catch up on writing before heading downtown. My plan was simple: finish some work, drive over to the Fourth of July parade, and then spend the rest of the day exploring Anchorage. While I was sitting there, a group of people came in talking about the parade. I asked if they meant the Anchorage parade, and one of them said, "Yeah, it ended about an hour ago." I had somehow convinced myself it started at 1:00 p.m. instead of 11:00. It wasn't exactly the start to the day I had planned, but there wasn't much I could do except laugh at myself and move on.

I drove downtown, parked on 7th Street, and once again enjoyed one of the perks of the holiday—free street parking. From there it was only a short walk to the Fourth of July Festival at Delaney Park Strip. Missing the parade really didn't matter. The park was packed, and it quickly became obvious that this was where the celebration was happening.

The festival had exactly the atmosphere you hope to find on the Fourth of July. The smell of grilled food drifted through the air while people wandered from booth to booth carrying corn on the cob, barbecue, giant lemonade cups, ice cream bars, and the inevitable clouds of pink cotton candy. Kids raced around blowing bubbles while parents tried to keep up. Everywhere I looked there seemed to be another photo waiting to happen.

The carnival rides kept everyone entertained. Children climbed through a massive inflatable jungle gym while younger kids took pony rides around a small ring.

The spinning rides never seemed to stop, and one ride reminded me of a Ferris wheel that had decided simply going around wasn't exciting enough—it tilted, flipped, and spun its riders in several directions at once. Judging from the screams and laughter, everyone on board thought it was worth every ticket.

Walking through the crowd was just as entertaining as watching the rides. Families had gone all out with patriotic clothing. There were red, white, and blue shirts everywhere, stars-and-stripes hats, Uncle Sam costumes, and plenty of shirts celebrating America's 250th birthday. A few people had even dressed in colonial-era clothing. Mixed among the food vendors and carnival games were local artists selling woodworking, jewelry, paintings, and handmade crafts, while politicians worked tables talking with anyone willing to stop for a moment.

Beyond the rides and food, I found myself watching the people. A family posed for photos while a little dog did everything it could to pull its owners in the opposite direction. Two men stood only a few feet apart, each completely absorbed in separate phone calls. A young woman working one of the music stages sat in a folding chair, looking thoroughly bored as she scrolled through her phone while waiting for the next performance. An older gentleman wearing a well-worn "Papa" sweatshirt slowly made his way through the crowd, while a striking young woman walked by dressed for the holiday. One of the performers, an Indigenous woman in traditional attire, waited beside the stage before her group's performance. It was a reminder that festivals aren't just about the attractions—they're about the people who come together to celebrate, and simply watching the crowd was entertaining all by itself.

At the far end of the park, the atmosphere changed completely. The music and carnival noise faded as I walked into the military memorial area. Rows of flags and memorials honored those who had served—and those still serving—in the armed forces. I spent time walking through the displays, reading names and simply taking in the quiet.

Standing there on Independence Day naturally makes you think about what happened 250 years ago. It's easy to celebrate with fireworks and festivals while forgetting just how remarkable the Declaration of Independence really was. The men who signed it weren't making a symbolic statement. They were declaring themselves traitors to the most powerful empire on Earth. If the Revolution had failed, many of them would almost certainly have been executed for treason. That took an incredible amount of courage.

The thought also carried me beyond American history. Even today there are people around the world willing to risk everything for the chance to live free. Some stand up to oppressive governments. Others leave behind everything they own to escape war, dictatorship, or persecution. The faces and places may change, but the desire for freedom never seems to disappear. Walking through the memorial was a quiet reminder that liberty has always come with a price, and there are still people paying it today.

Leaving the park, I wandered through downtown Anchorage looking for historical plaques marking the devastation from the 1964 earthquake. I remember watching the black-and-white television footage as a kid, seeing streets collapse and entire sections of the city disappear. I expected to find markers explaining where some of those famous scenes occurred, but I never found them. Instead, I stumbled across several buildings with plaques describing Alaska's history, which turned into an interesting little history walk of its own.

By late afternoon I was getting hungry and stopped at the 49th State Brewery. The wait for indoor seating was an hour, and several people standing in line confirmed it wasn't moving very quickly. Outside, however, they had converted part of the parking lot into a large beer garden where they were serving food and drinks. That sounded like a much better option. I ordered a hefeweizen and a salad, found one of the standing tables, and before long people naturally gathered there while waiting for their food.

One man had lived in Anchorage for about fifteen years. His family had fled the civil war in El Salvador and settled in New York City, where he finished school before eventually making his way to Alaska. He smiled when he said he couldn't imagine living anywhere else now. It was one of those conversations that starts with, "Mind if I stand here?" and somehow turns into learning about someone's entire life. So many people knew him. Big guys would come over an give him a hug, “How you doin’ man?”

A little later I met a couple who had once lived in Anchorage but had since moved to Idaho. They were back visiting friends and reminiscing about the years they had spent here. He had owned a successful landscaping business while living in Anchorage, and one of their friends, who still lives here, turned out to be a wealth of information for me. Once he learned I was traveling around Alaska photographing wildlife, he started giving me recommendations for places to find bears, moose, eagles, and other animals. Those kinds of conversations are one of the unexpected pleasures of traveling. Locals almost always know the places that never make it into the guidebooks.

Without realizing it, I had spent nearly an hour and a half there talking with complete strangers. Eventually I wandered through downtown a little longer before heading back to the van around 8:30. Since the fireworks wouldn't begin until after the late Fourth of July baseball game at Mulcahy Stadium, I stretched out and took a short nap.

Around 10:00 p.m. I headed back toward Delaney Park because I had read that it was a good place to watch the fireworks. A light rain had started falling, but what surprised me more was that the park was almost empty. That didn't seem right. If this was supposed to be one of the main viewing areas, where was everybody?

I drove over toward Mulcahy Baseball Stadium instead and immediately found the answer. It was absolute chaos. Cars were honking, people were cutting each other off trying to squeeze into parking spots, and traffic was backed up in every direction. I decided there was no chance I was joining that mess.

A couple of blocks away I noticed an open field with only an SUV and a pickup truck parked there. It looked promising, so I pulled in and walked over to ask if the fireworks could be seen from that spot. The young couple in the truck smiled and said they had watched from this exact location for the past few years. The apartment buildings blocked a little of the lower fireworks, but the view was still excellent. More importantly, when the show ended they could be out and on the road in a couple of minutes while everyone else was still sitting in traffic.

We ended up talking for almost an hour while waiting for the fireworks to begin. Like so many people I've met in Alaska, he wore more than one hat. He worked as both a welder and a truck driver, and we swapped stories about driving the Alaska Highway, crossing the Canadian border, and traveling long distances. He offered suggestions for my drive toward Fairbanks and farther north, pointing out places that were worth the time and others that weren't. At one point they mentioned they had recently encountered a grizzly bear in town that had started following them for a while before finally wandering back into the woods. I was perfectly happy hearing that story after the fact rather than experiencing it myself.

Around 11:30 the fireworks finally began. Even with a few buildings partially blocking the lowest bursts, the display was excellent. The couple had been right about something else, too. As soon as the grand finale ended, we were back on the road almost immediately while thousands of people were still trying to work their way out of the stadium parking lots. Sometimes local knowledge is worth more than the best travel guide.

I pulled back into the campground around 12:45 in the morning. It took me a while to fall asleep, partly because it was still light enough outside that it didn't quite feel like midnight, and partly because my mind kept replaying the day. I had missed the parade, never found the earthquake markers I had been looking for, and spent far more time talking with strangers than I ever expected. Yet somehow those conversations ended up becoming the highlight of the day. They reminded me once again that while it's fun to visit famous places and photograph beautiful scenery, the memories that stay with me the longest almost always involve the people I meet along the way.