Seward, Alaska: Home for the Hearty

Last summer we took a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Alaska. Here’s one day from my journal and, of course, some photos.

August 1, 2007: Seward is a fisherman’s paradise, host of the annual silver salmon derby. The winner beats thousands for the $10,000 prize. In January, people jump into Resurrection Bay at the polar bear fest (a sobering thought!) In April, Seward celebrates the migrating gray whales. There is an end-of-the-world feel to the place. Only the strong survive here. No time for messing around, they get straight to the point—“cheap beer, lousy food”— reads a sign over a tavern.

The same Good Friday quake that hit Anchorage in 1964, caused a gigantic hole to form in Seward’s harbor sucking water and a lot else down to the bottom of the sea, like a giant toilet flush—131 people died, 86 homes were destroyed, all of the commercial oil and fishing buildings and docks were destroyed. Tsunami waves as wide as the bay and 30 feet high crushed what was left.

The local fry shack offers a dozen different types of fish fry options. I savored the Pacific cod for lunch—so good I forgot to leave Bill a promised last bite.

The road to Exit glacier is marked with a large sign (full of bullets holes as are all signs in Alaska)—Travel Beyond this Point not Recommended. We blew past wondering if it referred to us. Around a curve in the river, Exit came into view. You can almost see it grinding its way through the mountains, leaving fjords and gravel and milky ice cold water in its wake.

On a hike from the National Park cabin we got pretty close to the glacier not close enough to touch but close enough to feel the chill flowing down the icefield. I know I’m going to be disappointed with my photos, each too small a piece to convey the enormity of this place.

Mitch Seavey was the 2004 Iditarod champion. We signed up for a sled dog ride at his training camp. About 100 huskies were tied to plastic barrel homes, waiting impatiently for their next call to service. As they saw us round the bend, they whimpered and paced in anticipation. Our group visited the puppies first. We cuddled and cooed over eight-week old pups—one fell to sleep so hard it didn’t wake through three or four different handlers. Ryley had no clue how to hold one and they kept slipping through his arms. The next pen held eight-day old puppies, their eyes glued tight. Both mamas tolerate these intrusions six times a day. Our wheeled cart had four kids and four adults instead of the usual eight adults, so it flew through the woods. The lead dog was yellow, lab-looking. No two of these dogs look the same. It’s hard to believe they are a bona fide breed. Ryley rode up front with two other kids. They screamed with delight when one of the dogs pooped. The team didn’t stop.

The neverending daylight urged us to do one more thing despite the post-cocktail hour. We visited the Alaska Sea Life Center built with money from the Exxon Valdez oil spill fund. The puffins once again were our favorite attraction. We watched them above water first and then from underwater. They can’t fly well in the air, but underwater, they fly naturally, wings spread wide, holding their breath for remarkable minutes. The seal swam in a mantra-like circle around and around reminding me of the polar bear at the Central Park Zoo that had to undergo psychiatric treatment. The fleshy sea lion slept.

The Crab Pot serves live king crab. The thought was irresistible despite the whopping price. Bill and I ordered a 4-pounder which they brought out alive for our approval. The taste was exquisite, rich and full and buttery. I will never be able to eat frozen crab legs again.