Chitina to Valdez

I awoke along the river to rain falling harder than I expected. I could hear the rushing water and the rain at the same time. Together they created a soothing harmony inside the van. I'm not sure what time I woke up, but I remember taking a deep breath, rolling over, and deciding there was absolutely no reason to get up yet. The combination of the rain, the river, and knowing I didn't have a schedule to keep made for one of those rare moments where doing absolutely nothing felt like the right decision. I just listened and relaxed. It was surprisingly meditative.

The day remained overcast as I slowly made my way back toward Glennallen. It was the opposite direction from Valdez, but I needed gas. There were stations closer to where I was staying, but they looked like places that might only see a handful of customers each day. Maybe the gas would have been perfectly fine, but I wasn't interested in finding out the hard way. Glennallen was a sure thing, so I pointed the van in that direction and took my time getting there.

The weather gave the landscape an entirely different character than it had the previous day. Clouds hung low in the valleys, hiding the 18,000-foot peaks that dominated the region. At first glance it might seem disappointing to have the mountains hidden, but I've learned that Alaska almost always gives you something in return. The grand mountain vistas were gone, but the fog created scenes that wouldn't have existed otherwise. Every river crossing seemed to reveal another layer of clouds draped across the landscape. Every bend in the road offered another view of forests disappearing into mist. I've come to realize that there is almost always a photograph waiting to be taken. The trick isn't chasing it. The trick is slowing down enough to notice it. If a Buddhist monk carried a camera, he might say that the photograph appears when you stop looking so hard and allow it to find you.

At one point I stopped beside a field because something looked unusual. Sitting in the middle of the bright green grass was an old flatbed truck. There wasn't another vehicle in sight. I couldn't see a dirt road leading to it, and there was nobody working nearby. Behind the truck, a massive cloud had settled into the valley like a blanket stretched from one mountainside to the other. The forest below had nearly disappeared into the shadows while the cloud hid much of what was above it. The truck seemed completely out of place, as though someone had parked it there and forgotten about it years ago.

I sat there for several minutes trying to figure out the story. Was it still being used? Had it broken down? Was there a farm hidden somewhere beyond the trees? The longer I looked, the less the truck seemed to matter. What really held my attention was the scale of the scene. The truck was tiny compared to the cloud, the forest, and the mountains. It gave the landscape a sense of proportion and reminded me how enormous everything is in Alaska. Eventually I gave up trying to solve the mystery, took a few photographs, and continued on my way.

When I finally reached Glennallen and filled the tank, I discovered I had only about two gallons of fuel remaining. That's closer than I normally like to cut it. There are no gas stations between Chitina and McCarthy, and distances in Alaska have a way of being longer than they look on a map. I was glad to know I still had ten extra gallons stored in the van if things had gone sideways. This area is a hub for gas and access to Valdez and Anchorage. Most of the vehicles are some form of RV.

I also stopped at a few places advertising groceries. One was a gas station and the others were trading posts. Calling them grocery stores felt generous. Their primary business clearly wasn't food. The shelves were filled with canned goods, spaghetti, boxed meals, snacks, and frozen microwave dinners. I managed to find some yogurt at one stop, which was enough to hold me over. Rather than trying to piece together a proper grocery run from whatever happened to be available, I decided to wait until I reached Valdez the following day where there is a Safeway.

For the night, I found a campsite described as being located at the confluence of two rivers. The directions were simple enough: take a short dirt road near Alaska Rendezvous Lodge and follow it to the water. The site could accommodate a few vehicles, had a fire ring, good river access, and no cell service. The review also mentioned that the sound of the river drowned out highway noise, which immediately sounded appealing.

I arrived around six in the evening and understood the attraction as soon as I stepped out of the van. Two waterways met below the campsite, their glacial water rushing together before continuing downstream. Across the river, steep green slopes climbed toward snow-covered peaks that still held winter's grip despite the calendar insisting it was summer. The mountains rose high above the trees, creating the kind of backdrop that makes even an ordinary campsite feel special.

The river provided a constant soundtrack. It wasn't loud or distracting. It was simply there, filling the air with the sound of moving water. The trees swayed occasionally in the breeze, and the mountains caught what little evening light managed to break through the clouds. I stood there for a few minutes looking around and thinking that this little patch of gravel beside the river would be my backyard for the next twelve hours.

About five minutes after I arrived, a pickup truck pulled into the campsite. The driver rolled down his window and asked if I was taking pictures. I told him I was. When I asked if he lived nearby, he nodded and said he did. I commented that he lived in a beautiful place, and he agreed. I'm not sure if he had driven down to see who had arrived at the river or if he was simply checking on the river, but after a brief conversation he drove down closer to the water, looked around for a minute, and then left.

About thirty minutes later, a camper rental pulled in carrying a family with two young daughters. The girls immediately became excited about camping beside the river. I had the van door open and could hear them talking and exploring their new surroundings. Their excitement was contagious. Sometimes it's easy to forget how special a place like this is until you hear it through the eyes of someone experiencing it for the first time.

I've had worse backyards.