In June, Rick gave me the best gift of our marriage--a week in Alaska. Excited was an understatement. It was all I had wanted ever since we crossed the Canadian border a year before. Even so, getting on the plane was the scariest thing I'd done in years. It wasn't just because I hate flying (or, more accurately, the increased risk of plummeting to a fiery death). It was the first trip I'd taken as an adult where I was *entirely* alone. No kids. No husband. Just me, a carry-on, and a carefully planned itinerary made possible by the generosity of friends, a supportive husband, and a bountiful tax return. It was beyond odd to have only myself to worry about; I kept catching myself glancing over my shoulder to make sure I hadn't forgotten anyone.
Rick dropped me off at 5 pm, and I was crammed neatly in my seat and on my way to Seattle by 7:20. It was a quiet flight. Nobody really spoke. I alternated between reading a Stephanie Plum novel and watching the scenery slowly green up through my tiny window.
Lake Mead, I think
Naturally, it was raining when we got to Seattle. I trundled off the plane, got some overpriced pizza, and finished my book. In retrospect, I probably should have brought something a little more challenging than a bounty-hunter-misadventure, but I was on the first official vacation of my life, dangit, and if that isn't the time for literary popcorn I don't know what is.
The second flight was a marked change from the first. The small terminal was buzzing with conversation. As soon as I sat down, some Sourdough started regaling me with stories about his misspent middle-age as a guitarist in a touring folk band that played in Anchorage, Chicken, and every bush village in between. The conversations continued into the plane--if there's one thing Alaskans all love, it's talking about their state.
Time to suit up for cooler weather. Sweaters, I missed you.
Our departure was a little delayed because they had to remove some hazardous waste from the cargohold...because they didn't have ALL the hazardous waste. I also got my first glimpse of the midnight sun in over a year; as we flew north, the sun rested just below the horizon, illuminating the mountains poking up through the clouds. We landed in Anchorage about 2 in the morning and those of us waiting for our 7:30 flight to Fairbanks racked out in the terminal--which, to be honest, was the coldest, most miserable night of sleep I've had in a long time. I'd really hoped to make use of the USO during my trip, but every stop it was either after hours or outside security on the other side of the airport so lumpy, frigid terminal it was.
First star to the right, and straight on til morning.
Check out the frost. Welcome to Alaska.
2 am, setting up bed for the night.
Red sun thanks to all the smoke.
It wasn't too bad. I was up at 4:30 thanks to excitement, the cold, and the red sun climbing over the smoky horizon. I caught my last connection and spent the hour flight talking to a welder who was heading up to Fairbanks for a day job. He was full of all sorts of advice, including the best way to remove the prickles from a porcupine (place a wet log at its tail and then roll it up towards the head, if you're curious, and make sure you only carry it by its ankles which are one of the only places they don't have spikes). Apparently they also taste good roasted over a fire. Somewhere between rabbit and chicken.
Landing in Fairbanks felt like coming home. I'd been verklempt ever since I saw the sun waiting at the far edge of the world; being back in Alaska proper felt like a hug from an old friend. I got one of those, too, when I got picked up by a good friend who not only gave me a ride but generously loaned me her car for the week, complete with a sleeping bag, and an Alaskan car kit (the usual stuff plus toilet paper, super bug spray, and bear spray). I took her out to breakfast, but it wasn't even close to fair compensation. We did see a stoat (or a martin or some kind of middling-size weasel, at least) so that was an auspicious start.
After dropping her off, I turned around and drove...back down to Anchorage. I had made a reservation to go glacier kayaking out of Seward the next day, so the 9 hour drive was a necessity--but a joyful one. I stopped at Walmart for some snacks and supplies--fortuitously, as it turns out--and hit the road. No place is as gorgeous or green as Alaska in the summer. Even the smoke from the epic fire season was mostly lifted for my stay. I stopped briefly in Healy for a cat nap. I had a minor heart attack when the car wouldn't start, but it turns out it was user error and I didn't have it all the way in gear.
Welcome home.
Of course as soon as we leave Fbks gets two Arbys.
Bridge over the Nenana River by Denali.
So much Alaskan graffiti is oddly positive.
See? This was in a roadside pit toilet.
Abandoned igloo hotel on the Parks Highway.
Roadside waterfall--the first of many.
The drive was uneventful. A couple of guys were parasailing on Turnagain Arm, so naturally I had to stop and take pictures of them and the lupine purpling the sides of the road. The sky was on point, so I had to take pictures of that, too.
I made it to my Airbnb in Girdwood with no issues. For those of you familiar with Alaska, Girdwood is still about two hours from Seward. However, I had originally planned my excursion out of Whittier, which is only about 40 minutes away. All the trips from Whittier were full, though, but I had already booked my little cabin in Girdwood, so there I was.
The cabin was...Alaskan. Roughly 12 by 14, with a small add-on for a tiny shower and flush toilet
(yay!), it had one bed, two sleeping lofts, and an entire wall devoted to the "kitchen" and heating stove. The floor was plywood. I actually really loved it. I'd like some nicer furnishings because I'm getting bougie in my old age, but I could totally see myself living in something similar, tucked away in the woods with my blog and my dogs.
It was still only about 7, so I decided to go to Whittier. I'd always wanted to go and just never had the opportunity. It's only about fifteen miles from Girdwood, but you have to pass through a freaking mountain to get there. Not over--through. It's a one-way road that alternates directions every half hour. It was a little rainy, but I decided dinner in Whittier sounded great.
Twenty minutes into the drive I spotted a tunnel looming ahead. It wasn't regulated, and I didn't see the lights that I'd been told to expect, and I got a little spooked. The worst way to end this trip would be on the front end of a semi in a one way tunnel. A guy was cruising along behind me and slowed down when I started to slow down, so I pulled over and waved him past. He pulled up alongside me and we stared at each other awkwardly for a minute.
"I'm sorry," I finally managed, "I'm going to Whittier, but I've never been there before. Is this the tunnel? It doesn't look quite right."
He just shook his head. "I've never been there before either. I have no idea."
A trucker solved our dilemma by roaring past us directly into the tunnel. When a few seconds passed without tires screeching and a fiery crash, we followed him. Sure enough, the tunnel was only a couple hundred feet long. We waved to each other sheepishly and continued on to the real tunnel, which you will know when you find it. Anton Anderson Memorial Tunnel is clearly labeled and regulated, with many signs and lights and rails to keep you from driving blindly into the darkness. An understanding lady at a shack took my entry fee and gave me an overly helpful map that I stupidly chose to read while waiting for my turn to go. Cheerful warnings about speed and what to do in case the lights start flashing (turn off and exit your vehicle, leaving the keys in the car and the doors unlocked, and proceed to one of the shelters positioned every 300 feet and wait for emergency personnel).
Finally the lights turned green, and a long train of us proceeded into the 2.5 mile tunnel at 25 miles an hour and 50 feet apart. The road was bumpy because we were driving along a train track, and the rough rock walls were lined with rockslide nets and, as promised, there was a labeled and lit shelter every 300 feet. About halfway through the tunnel my excitement started to dim, especially as I could all too clearly imagine the countless tons of rock only feet above my head. Getting older hasn't just made me bougie, it's also given me an aversion to small, dark spaces where death is a possibility. Still, the only way out was forward, so I kept driving until the light returned.
To say Whittier is small is an understatement. The town rests on a rocky outcropping between two icy mountains and the great gray ocean. A strip of restaurants, gift shops, guide huts and a hotel overlooked the harbor full of small boats. An Alaskan Ferry boat was docked to the far side. Further back, as far from the water as possible, was where the locals lived--a giant multistory building with a playground and a few municipal buildings scattered around it.
I pulled into one of the few parking spaces (complete with a sign warning that in the event of a tsunami, my car was in the splash zone) and went exploring. It didn't take very long. In the past, Whittier had been a military base because of its unique topography and deep water port that didn't freeze in the winter. After the military pulled out, it became a tourist hub. Shockingly, a lot of people don't want to live somewhere accessible only by a single road with particular hours, so it's stayed rather small.
After taking some pictures I tried finding some dinner, but it was almost 8 on a Monday night and most businesses were closed. I still had time to make the tunnel back to Girdwood, so I turned around and made the return trip. I didn't enjoy the tunnel more on the second time through, if you were curious. Girdwood was mostly shut down by the time I got back and I didn't feel like gas station food so I had some Pita chips and Green Machine vegetable smoothie and read some Webtoons.
The next day after a breakfast of dark chocolate Oreos and more Green Machine, I struck out bright and early to Seward. It's a good thing, too, because it was summer in Alaska and that means one major inconvenience--construction. On the other hand, I got to follow this possibly possessed camper for half an hour.
I have no idea how that little guy got up there.
Three hours later found me on the front of a boat, cozy in a borrowed set of rain gear, with my faded Alaska ballcap switched out for a wool beanie and wake spray lashing my cheeks. It was a two and half hour ride out to the glacial fjord we'd be kayaking. The weather couldn't decide between rain or sun and settled on overcast. We saw hordes of puffins and sea lions, a playful young humpback, otters, cormorants and a couple of Dall sheep. We passed by the Iron Doors, a pair of gun emplacements on either side of Resurrection Bay that date back to World War II. Our guide also pointed out a bare patch that was the site of the landslide in a video that went viral a couple months back. Part of the road was still closed.
Tire padding for the tugboats. Love it.
Site of the landslide.
All of the starfish exposed by low tide.
Once we pulled into more open water the swells got a little rougher (7 feet, according to the captain) and we all retreated to the cabin. Even so, it was a bumpy ride. You know that fluttery feeling you get when you are on the first drop of a rollercoaster or going over a really hilly road? Imagine that, but instead of the little whoosh at the bottom of the dip the car slams against the road with a flat, hard smack that rattles your teeth. Now wash, rinse, and repeat for 45 minutes. I don't usually get seasick, but I held off on eating my complimentary muffin until we were in calmer waters. The cherry on top was the shrieking alarm that went off intermittently and was only silenced when the captain finally got frustrated and just pulled the wires out.
That's how Alaskans do, y'all.
Finally we were deposited on a rocky glacial moraine three miles from Aialik Glacier. While the boat chugged off to get a once-over by the crew before the return trip, we bagged our gear, cinched on our life jackets, and wedged ourselves into long, slender two-seater ocean kayaks. I was in the second seat, which meant I had the pedals and got to steer. Then we were off. Aialik Glacier is one of the largest and most active tidewater glaciers in the world and is advancing at 6 feet a day--one of the few glaciers that is growing instead of retreating. It is simply massive, a wall of blue-white ice. More and more ice had to be avoided as we neared the glacier. Finally, several hundred yards from the face, we rafted together and ate our sandwiches as we watched the glacier calve several times. The soft groaning of the glacier, the snap-crackle-pop of the smaller ice drifting by us, and curious harbor seals popping up among the floes... It was really cool. It also made me realize that I need to get a better camera.
By the time we shoved off, these chunks of ice were floating. Half an hour, tops.
For perspective, that boat is a double-decker tourist boat with a couple hundred people on it, and still about a quarter mile or so from the glacier. Aialik is huge.
The guide insisted we all take photos. Also, neoprene mitts are amazing and the reason I still have all ten fingers.
When we made it back to the moraine, the boat was ready for us. We stored the kayaks and clambered back on board for another muffin. The ocean wasn't as rough on the way back, and we ran across a pod of orcas. It was fabulous.
I went to the Exit Glacier Salmon Bake, hoping to get a good meal before the drive back to Girdwood, but was thwarted by a bunch of tourists clogging the turn-in. As soon as I managed to pull in, I saw why. A mama moose and her twins were in the small median between the road and the parking lot, munching on willow and fireweed. It was really easy to tell the Alaskans from the tourists--the Alaskans either walked right past or kept a car between themselves and the moose. The tourists, however, ringed the fireweed patch with their cameras clicking away. One little earth-mother was sitting cross-legged on a stump, just feet away from the mom, smiling blissfully. I thought about saying something but decided against it for the moment and headed into the restaurant. I turned right around when I was told there was an hour wait even for a seat at the bar. On the way back to the car, the tourists were still there. I sighed.
"Hey, you folks from here?"
I got a chorus of nos. I pointed at the mama moose. "Okay then, you should know that those are very fast, and they are very, very mean." The tourists looked a little uncomfortable and started to filter back to their cars. Little earth-mother got off her stump and gave me a dirty look as she stomped back to the restaurant; apparently I'd ruined her magical moment. Fine by me. Better pissed at me than a bloody smear in the fireweed.
Driving out of Seward.
Too blurry, but these are the same lady mannequins waiting for the bus that I've mentioned in other posts.
I drove back to Girdwood and had a dinner of fruit and some Cheerios. The next day I started the trip back to the interior. I stopped by the local gift shop and found what I want to be when I grow up. Connie, proprietor of the Alaskan Tourist Trap, is awesome. It's a great little store with all sorts of Alaskan-made souvenirs--including The Duke, a jock strap made with cozy fox fur (complete with tail) for that adventurous gentleman in your life. It was tempting. I almost got one. It would go great with the oosik and Mountain Man calendar.
The vertical lines are drill marks from when the rock was blasted apart with dynamite.
Next on the itinerary was the Alaskan Native Heritage Center, a museum and cultural center dedicated to preserving and sharing the various indigenous Alaskan cultures--Yupik, Cupik, Haida, Tsimshian, Tlingit, Eyak, Inupiaq, Unangax, and Supiaq. It was one of my favorite stops the whole trip. I started with a demonstration of native dances and explanation of the symbolic gestures and clothing, then took the self-guided tour around the lake. Reconstructed tribal homes ring the lake, each one staffed by teenagers who share a little bit about the house, its supplies, and the lifestyle of the people who lived in it. It was fascinating. I also particularly loved that the program offered teenagers a chance to connect with and share their culture with others.
The white raincoat to the right is made from seal intestines and sewn with sinew with a blade of grass between the strands of sinew--when the grass got wet, it would swell, ensuring that the raincoat was waterproof. Genius.
There were some amazing innovations that the tribes came up with to exist in such an extreme climate and ecosystem. We all think of Alaska and picture igloos, but most of the houses were subterranean or had earth heaped on the sides as insulation against the bitter winter. Kayaks were made out of female seals because they had fewer scars from frighting. Seals were incredibly useful--in addition to skin products, whole headless seals could be used as bags, fridges, or buoys, depending on your needs. Ground squirrels were diapers. There was also a truly clever but horrific way of hunting polar bears--a baleen bomb. Basically, you soften baleen in water until you can bend it into a ball, then coat it with fish oil so that it smells really good and stays soft. A bear horks down the entire ball (they aren't big on chewing), and their stomach acid digests the oil, which allows the baleen to lose water--which makes the baleen start to flex back to its original shape inside the polar bear. Then it's just a matter of tracking down the eviscerated bear.
Fish racks
The cottonwood floof was out in force.
After the ANHC, I drove several hours north to Denali for the night. I procured my campsite, then went to the little tourist strip just north of the park entrance for dinner. I finally ate at Prospector's, a pizza place that came highly recommended. I got a personal sausage pizza on the house special sourdough crust with a locally brewed rootbeer. It was delicious. I picked up a couple gifts and some gourmet popcorn, realizing in the process that I'd forgotten my debit card at Prospector's. They had it waiting for me when I got there and sheepishly explained what I'd done.
Prospector's. Good food, fun atmosphere, good staff.
The parking in the Denali tourist strip is a little nervewracking. But I haven't lost a car yet, so that's something.
Nenana River running past Denali park, and a rafting tour getting ready to leave.
With hours of daylight left, I returned to the park and drove to Savage River. I'd have preferred to go farther, but during the summer season the road is only open for twelve miles to personal cars. I hiked the trail out and back along the river, then sat on the offside of the bridge and painted some truly ghastly watercolors, the first I'd done in a year. By the time I was done it was nearly 11. I drove back in the pink twilight; caribou lurked in the distance, and a pair of porcupines ambled on the shoulder of the road. It was easily one of my favorite drives on the park road to date.
I slept in the car, something made possible and comfortable by Nicole and the lux sleeping bag she loaned me. I'm not much of a camper and I'm certainly not one to wax poetic about sleeping bags, but this was by far the best sleeping bag I've ever used. It was fluffy, flannel lined and canvas covered, with enough room to move freely. I had been worried about being frozen out--I've learned through experience that summer in Alaska doesn't always mean above freezing--but I actually had to strip a couple layers during the night. I am currently selling our old sleeping bags and will be replacing them with these. Rustic Ridge, if you're in the market.
Bedtime. Around midnight.
It didn't get darker than gray shadows overnight, and I woke to rain drumming on the car roof. There might be a better way to wake up, but if there is, I can't think of it. It was barely six in the morning but already bright enough I was awake. I pulled on pants, rolled up the sleeping bag, and started the two hour drive to Fairbanks. Oreos, once again the breakfast of champions.
Made an attempt to get Jason's donuts, but they were sold out by the time I arrived.
I got back to Fairbanks in time for playgroup. A group of us desperate moms started the group several years ago as a chance to distract our kids and talk to other adults, and I was glad to see it was still going on. It was one of my favorite days. It was wonderful to spend a couple hours reconnecting with some of the coolest people I know, and meeting some of the fresh faces. The park chosen was also conveniently next door to the friend's house where I was staying, which meant I could walk over.
In the afternoon I hit some of my favorite gift shops (Great Alaskan Bowl Company and the Craft Market) and caught a nap, then headed out to Pioneer Park just for the heck of it. I ran into some old friends, Buddy and House Grouse. I chatted with their owner. It's amazing what you can find out about a person in fifteen minutes. For example, Buddy's owner used to be a jouster and fight choreographer. Now he sells bone carvings and jewelry. It's weird the left turns our lives can take.
Fossils--mammoth tusks and jaws, among others.
Legally harvested walrus jawbones--$14 a pound, and these suckers are DENSE.
House Grouse, still kicking.
Since I was at Pioneer Park, I headed over to the Salmon Bake. Since it was the thick of tourist season, I was waylaid by two couples from Oregon and Tennessee. We talked about mosquitos and Alaska and what they did for a living (truckers) and their swearing toddler grandchildren. I was quickly talked-out and when my food was ready I opted to eat outside solo instead of joining them at their table. I'd never eaten at the Salmon Bake before, but I found it less than inspiring. If you ever find yourself in Fairbanks and wanting to try some local cuisine, there are better places. Now I can say I had the experience, though, so I guess that's something.
After dinner I wandered over to Creamer's Field. I've said it before, but the Boreal Trail is one of my favorite local walks, a meandering dirt and boardwalk trail over a seasonal lake and through a sun-dappled birch forest. It was in the same condition as it has been for the last three years, however--namely, the boardwalk was washed out and people were told to turn around. Just as I remembered it, however, there was a patchwork of carefully placed loose boards, a makeshift bridge connecting the last ten feet of the boardwalk to the rest of the trail. I politely excused myself past the disappointed birdwatchers and continued on my walk. It was gorgeous, and frankly all the more enjoyable for the smidgen of civil disobedience. I returned to Juliet's house and watched beavers from her boat deck on the Chena.
This is the kind of view I could get used to.
The next day started questionably. I woke to two hours of missed texts and calls from an El Paso number. Turns out my idiot dogs had escaped. I thanked the lady profusely, apologized for not responding sooner since I was out of state, got her address, then called the girls and sent them to acquire the dogs. Crisis averted, I headed out to brunch at The Cookie Jar with my brunch friend, Danielle. It was a fabulous morning catching up over bacon and Savannah cream cake.
After getting suitably carbed-up, it was time to check another item off my carefully scheduled itinerary--hike Wickersham Dome, about an hour north of Fairbanks on the Steese Highway. It was a questionable decision, as it's generally recommended to have a friend or a gun or both when you go hiking in bear country. Wickersham is a pretty popular summer trail, though, so I wasn't likely to be completely alone and at any rate this entire trip was about getting out of my comfort zone. Besides, I wanted to see the marmots that lived in the rocks at the top of the Dome. I very responsibly let several local friends know where I was going and when to send out the search party. Then I slapped on some sunscreen, liberally doused myself with DEET, and started up the thin, muddy trail, one hand on my borrowed bear spray.
Despite the cars (and one horse trailer) in the trailhead parking lot, I was quite alone. I sang to myself and the bears so they knew where I was. I relaxed a little once I passed the treeline and I could see more than three feet in any direction. It was a stunning view, even with the baby wildfire smudging the sky to the west. I knew I had about a three and a half mile hike to the top of the Dome, and so I pushed on. After a sweaty, bug-choked hour, I crested the hill and saw a long, marshy, spruce-filled saddle below me, with a much larger hill in the distance...with a satellite tower that was a distinctive marker for Wickersham Dome.
The wildfire in the distance.
The Dome I was aiming for, and the forest between.
As I stood on the rocks, trying to decide what to do (and keeping a hopeful eye out for marmots) a lady and her dogs appeared out of the spruce downhill. The dogs--a cheerful white mutt with no boundaries and a better-mannered German Shepherd--came to say hello. I asked the woman if she knew where the marmots were. She pointed back at the big, distant hill with the tower. "That's the only place I've ever seen them, near the top." I thanked her and she went on her way with a nod and a final sniff from the dogs. I took a water break and looked for ermine in the rocks, then turned around and headed back to car. No marmots today, but also no bears, so I was counting it a win. I compared my progress to the map at the trailhead and...well, let's just say that my inability to gauge distance based on topography is still going strong.
I made it to the Ski Loop. I was aiming for roughly the S on Summit Trail.
That is how muddy the trail is--there's a boot scraper at the trailhead. It was needed.
Dinner was at Zorba's, one of my favorite food trucks. You really can't go wrong with this place or with Aurora Mediterranean.
Once again I woke up to missed calls from a different El Paso number. I called them back and found out that my dogs had escaped the back yard again. Having to solve a crisis from 3700 miles away is the worst way to wake up during vacation. I was less pleasant this time when I called the girls and told them to retrieve the dogs and make sure the farkakte gates were actually latched. To calm myself, I dropped by the Tanana Valley Farmer's Market, still hands down one of my favorite markets in any state I've lived. I bought some one of a kind coffee mugs, forty cream rolls from my favorite ethnic Russians, and a giant bag of kettle corn (to share with my host, of course). Best of all, I got to meet up with Becky and her husband, military friends whose kids had run in the same D&D nerd circles as mine. They were shortly leaving to their next duty station, and I was so glad to be able to catch up with them before their next adventure.
Since I was returning my borrowed car the next day, I went through and cleaned out the detritus of a week living on Oreos and fast food. I also took it to the car wash. I generally see them as a waste of resources, but I also don't usually borrow cars. I'd forgotten how much fun carwashes can be. Crank the music and let the suds fly.
A few hours later I was kayaking down the river with some friends and sisters from 5th ward on the annual summer solstice float. It was one of my favorite activities when I lived there, and I was only too happy to be invited to join in. It wasn't at midnight, but it was still so much fun. I love the Chena.
For dinner, I dragged Juliet and her youngest kids out to the Midnight Sun Festival. This was not well thought out. It was loud, and crowded, and every food truck had close to a forty-minute line. There were booths selling all sorts of non-necessities and some stages set up for aerial silks, dancers, and the odd band or two. We snagged a meal from a cash-only Korean truck and watched a few shows, chatted with another set of friends who were shortly PCSing out of the state, then went back to the house. It was nice to catch up with Juliet, who had just gotten back from a trip to the lower 48 herself.
Apparently this was also an option on Saturday. I was intrigued but just didn't have the time.
Sunday was my last day in Alaska, and I tried to make the best of it. Sunday brought church with my old ward, a long talk with Juliet, and an invitation to dinner with some friends who were coincidentally thinking of moving down to Texas. Becky and her family were at the dinner as well. I left a little early to meet up with another friend, Sue, and her family, and got to see their gorgeous garden (Rick and Ryan, Sue's husband, are very competitive. Ryan wanted to show off, and rightfully so. Gardens in the interior are a challenge.)
All of us ended up at a "small" good-bye party generously hosted by a mutual friend for the two PCSing families. As these things always do, word got out courtesy of teenagers who casually invite "a couple of friends" and the next thing you know there are fifty people laughing and telling stories in a kitchen and overflowing living room, with kids running crazy outside. It was without a doubt the best day of my trip.
Not all, but a lot of my favorite people. What a blessing to know them.
The party wound down around 10, and I went back to Juliet's to grab my things. Juliet gave me a ride to the airport. It sucked to be leaving. I missed my kids and Rick, but I didn't want to go back to El Paso. There were no moose in El Paso, no midnight sun, no magenta fireweed just beginning to open. But I hugged my friend goodbye and checked into my flight. Luckily I had friends on the first flight out, and we got to chat and tearily buy souvenirs at the overpriced terminal gift shop. (My favorite purchase was a shirt that has proportional silhouettes of Texas and Alaska side by side with "Size Matters" emblazoned across the top. I couldn't help myself.)
I got on the plane shortly after midnight and watched the sun fade as we flew into the southern darkness. The layover in Seattle was irritating; my terminal got changed multiple times, meaning I had to schlepp my stuff from terminal to frigid terminal. I managed to catch an hour or so of sleep, but that was it. Seventeen hours after I started, I was back in El Paso, rumpled and slightly whiffy. My darling sister picked me up at the airport since Rick was working and gave me a ride home. There were lots of feelings. I was glad to be back with my family (and where I could keep an eye on our dumb dogs) but I already missed Alaska. It had been a great trip. It had been the perfect blend of wonderful solitude, independence, and good times with the best people on earth.
Time to start planning next year's adventure.
