Friday, 24 May 2019
Cooper Landing, Alaska, USA
Late morning walk along one of the trails from hotel down to the river. The trail head recommends taking a stick from the box and to beware of bears. Off I go for a short leg stretch down the steep path leading to the river. The trail has a number of observation decks on the river to admire the views. Good views too.
Narrow path through the dense woods. Just the sort of place to be mauled by a bear. The advice is to make a noise as you walk. So as not to surprise the bears. Jolly good.
The only thing I can think of to make a noise is to…sing.
So.
There.
I.
Am.
All alone in the woods.
Singing. To myself.
I know.
It’s enough to scare the bears away.
The only suitable song I can think of is ‘Land of the silver birch’. Remember it from primary school days in the 1970s.
Except.
Can only remember two lines:
‘Land of the silver birch
Home of the beaver.’
So. It’s on repeat. As I walk through the bear infested woods.
Note to self. Ask piano teacher if she does singing lessons. Do you?
And then.
Some fellow walkers appear. They’re probably more concerned by the lunatic walking through the woods repeating, ‘Land of the silver birch, home of the beaver’ to himself, rather than being attacked by a bear.
An hour to kill, so have a quick drive into Cooper Landing. A blink and you’ll miss it sort of place. Not much to see or do especially as the ‘museum’ is closed. Local cemetery says enquire at the Post Office. As if to suggest something of interest is in there. Off I go. Meet the Postmaster and ask about the cemetery. “Eh? What? You’ll have to shout, I’m hard of hearing.”, he says. “I’M HERE ABOUT THE CEMETERY”, I shout. But he’s new and knows nothing. It was something to do with the old postmaster who has now left.
An afternoon of white water rafting down the Kenai River. I say white water. Sounds dangerous and impressive. But it’s only a little bit of white water in places. Not a raging rapid. All the hard work of rowing/steering is by a young millennial lad. Four guests and two from the rafting company. One of the other guests is a young girl, of about 20, from Tasmania. She’s cycling around Alaska. Like you do. In May. When it’s still cold. She’s wearing shorts and flip flops. I’m wearing three layers, waterproof coat, pashmina scarf wrapped around my neck, a woolly hat and two pairs of socks with boots on. It being a bit parky. It’s clear she hasn’t had a wash in weeks as there’s a distinct whiff of the unclean about her. Explains that she sleeps in a bivvy bag wherever she can. Bit feral. Her knees are cut and bloodied. Her nails are rugged and grimy. She’s just dirty. Like Eliza Doolittle, she needs a bloody good wash. She pulls at her hair under her beany bat as she chats with me and suddenly pulls out a huge clump of hair. Whoa. Where did that lot come from. Not a few strands of hair. A whole clump of hair.
It’s a pleasant two and a half hours floating down the turquoise river. Spotting a bald eagle and two eagle nests, told that that the first nest was built by Mr Eagle but then Mrs Eagle decided that it was too small and so Mr Eagle had to build a second and bigger nest in the adjoining tree.
Don’t see any bears though. It’s my one wish in Alaska to see a bear on the riverside fishing for salmon. But the salmon don’t arrive until about 10 June. They can pretty much tell the date the salmon will arrive. As they have every year. The river banks will then be full of fisherman catching salmon. However. There is a daily quota of three salmon per fisherman. Fisherman from Anchorage have been known to drive down after work, fish just before midnight and catch that day’s quota and then continue fishing after midnight to catch that day’s quota before driving back for work the following day. It’s quite a sight apparently to see hundreds of fisherman standing, quite literally, shoulder to shoulder fishing.
After an hour or so, the cold is getting to us all and as scenic as it is, the cold becomes a preoccupation. Coupled with sitting on a wooden board as a seat. Bum numb. Toes numb. Fingers numb. In need of a hot chocolate with whisky. Sadly, they forgot to pack that vital bit of survival kit.
The best sight of wildlife though is a baby moose on a shingle bank in the middle of the river. Just lying there. Only a few weeks old. Placed there by its mother for safe keeping as she goes off foraging, which could be for a few days. Baby moose has been there a few days now according to the guide. Such is the guide’s excitement of showing us the baby moose we very nearly crash into a upturned tree stump in the middle of the river. Some very frantic and panicked rowing avoids a soaking for us all.
Quite glad to get into a warm bus and transfer back to the hotel. Have rafted 11 miles down river.
After dinner, decide I’ll take a beer back to room to watch a bit of TV in front of the log fire I can start in my log burner. Oh dear. What have I suggested. Now. Like most of you reading this, you will be based in Europe where the drinking laws are quite liberal. You can buy beer, wine and spirit most places. And drink it most places. If you were staying in a hotel, it would not be the slightest issue to get a drink at the bar and go back to your room to drink it. In fact, it’s normal to do that.
Well, dear reader. Alaska has a drink problem. Alcohol is strictly regulated. Hence the requirement for ID in liquor stores. I personally cannot take a small bottle of Heineken back to my room. Or even walk out of the bar into the corridor. No.
Instead. A hotel employee has to take the unopened bottle from the barman and escort me to my room, which, as it happens, means driving in the shuttle bus as she doesn’t want to waste time walking. Once in my room, she has to open the bottle and give it to me.
Bloody nonsense. I half joke that I’ll open the bottle in the shuttle bus, as she has the bottle opener to save her getting out. Deadly serious, she replies, “Well OK, just don’t tell my boss.”
Deary me.
