Homer Bound:

An Account of My Solo Travels to Homer, Alaska in a 1966 VW Westy Named Clara

September/October, 2009

Page 9: Hope to Homer

Mud. That's what I had been hearing in the night. The mud monster. In actuality, this wanton destroyer of souls that lurks in the tidal flats is a potential killer; its strength lies chiefly in subterfuge. Underestimation of its powers is one of the first mistakes made by its careless prey. You think I jest? I do not. Read on.

The bus was parked up on a sort of shelf that jutted, like its neighbors, from the mainland toward the waters of the Turnagain Arm. There were trees growing from the rocky land, giving way to small coastal scrub and a peculiar form of slate-like rock, the formations of which resisted the wind and the tidal currents to give this place its shape and character. There was a small shell-shaped beach on one side of my little overlook, and through it ran a small stream, undoubtedly flowing from the mountains looming to the south and east. There was snow up there ... I saw it the night before as I drove the Turnagain Arm. Here, there was only grey, as the low clouds that threatened death by drizzle were casting a pall over everything in sight.

It was to this sound I awoke: miniature mud cliffs calving off into the mouth of the stream where it met the gently lapping waves of the inlet. At least they were gently lapping when I saw them. The best time to be at this particular spot would be a couple hours just after a minus tide, the lower the better. It is then that the waves would not be merely lapping - all the little wavelets would be holding court out at sea, leaving the inviting mudflats exposed for you to walk out on, perchance to catch a clam, and then, just as you find out that you're stuck fast in the mud monster's sucking grasp, you see a gurgling wall of muddy water, up to ten feet high, heading towards you at nearly fifteen miles-per-hour (that's pretty fast if you can't move to escape). Egad! - it's the Bore Tide!

I discovered this phenomenon for myself (except the stuck-in-the-sand bit) when I was here in August, but rather than a "wall of water" I waited over on the other side of the Arm at one of the pullouts to view a rushing wave, devouring everything in its path ... well, everything that was about three inches high or less, which wasn't much, being that it was happening on the mud flats. It was still cool though, and I got a good look at the mud monster, which is largely comprised of glacial silt. When wet, which is most often, it has a solidity factor a step or two above that of quicksand, just stiff enough to maintain its form for a while after the motion of water carves edges out of it, and finally, it tumbles into the water around it, splashing like dirty brown icebergs calving off of glaciers. Interesting, eh? Think of the correlation! Wow.

Allowing myself to sleep late for once, as opposed to "accidentally" sleeping late, I enjoyed the fact that I was so close to my destination. I had a leisurely breakfast and a just-as-leisurely exploratory hike around on the rocks and on the trails leading from one little cove to another. For some unrelated reason, strains of Joan Baez's "Diamonds and Rust" provided the soundtrack for the morning as I watched the clouds move across the face of the peaks across the inlet and poked around, looking at neat rocks, roots, shells and the like. I reveled at the thickheadedness that I had experienced the last time I was here: Having no idea where I was, I had driven down the road to Hope, looking across the Arm just like I was doing now, and wondering how to get over to that road across the way - I could see cars - not realizing that I had just come from there! That's the kind of idiotic thought process that I'm glad no-one was able to witness, as I sure would be embarrassed if anyone found out. They would probably revoke my citizenship or something! Oh, wait. This is America. Nevermind!

Lollygagged out, I moseyed back to the bus, fired her up, pausing a few moments to get oil flowing where it should, and drove up onto the road heading for Hope Junction, keeping an eye out for interesting side roads that would give the day a good start. I found none, but knew of an opportunity for some mild "backroadbussing" at the Junction, so I resigned myself to the "mild" part of the equation. A maze of little roads meandered through the riverside forest below the junction, with several unmarked intersections and y's adding to the fun. There was even a small amount of mud and a groovy puddle to splash in. OK, enough is enough. Back to the highway, for I am on the Homer stretch. Or the Homer run. Whatever you want to call it, I felt silly as my head rattled with several Homer puns.

Dome-topped mountains at parade rest flanked the highway as it rose and fell with the lay of the land. Down below, I could often see waterways, be they rivers or lakes or the watery fens of muskeg. The patchy fall colors lent their brilliance to the far-flung conifer forests, which gave way to eye-catching stone ridges protruding from the time-worn heights like great throbbing veins standing out on the temples of an enraged developer/lobbyist after his evil plan to build a coal power plant next to an elementary school was thwarted by environmentalists. Atop each peak, a liberal dash of snow, "termination dust" perhaps, was sprinkled like confectioner's sugar on a row of delectable pastries. Beyond that, I could not see, for an impenetrable grey ceiling of clouds obscured the very top of the range, and occasional droplets fell from them, as if to warn me that I should not complain overmuch about the grey - just be glad it was not pouring rain.

With elation I came upon the sign telling me to take the next right turn: A downward-swooping ramp taking me off the highway to Seward and onto Sterling Highway, the road that would deliver me unto Homer. I found myself shifting down hard and furiously mashing the brake pedal in the middle of the swoop (swoopus interruptus) because there was a bus-sized track on the left side which led me to believe that I might be afforded a grand view of the lake and mountain I had glimpsed further down Seward Highway than I was going, and I did not want to miss any chances of a splendid sight or decent photograph. My elation was dampened slightly by the fact that the road did not really take me far - it just went to a small power modulation nodule poised atop the spur - but I was re-elated by the fact that I got a pretty nice bus photo, and I could see swans in the lake below my vantage.

I backed down the little track, resumed my swoop down the off-ramp (swoopus resumus) and then made a U-turn to get back onto Seward Highway to go see the swans. Everyone else was stopping to take potshots with their cameras at the regal fowl, and I joined the fray. A pair of ducks accompanied the two swans ... were these the same swans with their duckish retinue that I saw the previous night, or is this just something swans and ducks do? In the background, big mountains rose up, and the whole thing was sure pretty, especially with the reflections of it all in the still water. I reveled at the simultaneous power and elegance of the big white birds as they paddled around, and wondered why our national symbol couldn't have been something as graceful and peaceful as a swan, rather than a fierce, selfish, predatory thief of a bird with wicked grasping talons and a nasty pointed beak well-suited for rending the carrion it likes to eat when it can't get fish because the American people have gone and killed them all. Hmmmph.

Back on track now, and heading for Homer. The sign that jumped up from the side of the road told me that I was but one-hundred and thirty-one miles from my destination, and while the colorful trees remained, I could no longer see the mountains, or very far in any direction. Here and there I got nice glimpses of the Kenai Lake/River as I approached and passed Cooper Landing. Some of the sights through the trees and bushes were tantalizing indeed, but many of them, especially those that had a fairly wide field of view, had built-up lodges and other crap on the shores. Billboards on the river? Yuck! I did so appreciate the few pristine spots, though, and stopped a couple times to try to capture the rich blue-green glow that kept teasing me through blurred branches, twigs, and leaves as they flashed by my windows.

Were it not for the grey day, I might have had more fun, but to me, this stretch of road between Cooper Landing and Soldotna seemed almost like a footpath in a manicured park. Perhaps it was the park-like setting, what with the gently rolling hills and mixed forest. This looked to be amazing mushroom territory! I'll bet a lot of the Peninsula is. Some of the forest was dense, and some light and airy. Sometimes it was a solid line surrounding muskeg, and patches of this mix would roll over the horizon, out of sight. I came upon a sign that said something about some lakes, and after I passed by the access road, I mulled it over for another quarter-mile, then about-faced to go look at some lakes. Kelly and Peterson Lakes. They shared a forked road, one lake at the end of each fork. Still, framed by forest and distant mountains, their existence and location was filed away in my mind for future voyages up in this neck of the woods. They are a great spot for a lunch stop or any quick respite while traveling.

Soldotna is kind of just there, and is the biggest town of the northern Kenai Peninsula, as far as I could tell. More a sprawling town than a city, it has many of the usual amenities one could expect from a modern settlement its size. One living anywhere south of Soldotna on this western coast side of the Kenai Peninsula must come to terms with this particular outpost, as there is but one road from here to points north, and only one road to here from points south, if that makes any sense. As I understand it, Soldotna is an intermediate "big city" destination from Homer. Next up is Anchorage. If you can't get it in those places, you shouldn't need it.

Just past Soldotna, the general direction of my route took a distinct southerly aspect, whereas before, it was westerly in nature. I was now parallelling the coastline of the Cook Inlet, and I began to see bits of the grey expanse of the Inlet in all-to-brief clearings in the purple fireweed, dark green spruce trees, and copses of yellow-leafed birches and alders. If the sky was clear, I would have seen the Chigmit Mountains, part of the Aleutian Range. I would have been looking at active volcanoes, the most recently active one being Mt. Redoubt, which went off in the early part of 2009. Alas, the view would have to wait. So much for just "happening" to be at a nice overlook, looking over Cook Inlet at the volcano as it erupted again, the lens of my video camera aimed at it ...

The rolling road took me through the little towns of Kasilof, Clam Gulch, and Ninilchik - soon I was approaching Anchor Point, which is so close to Homer (about fifteen miles) that I then officially considered my mission successful: I was within easy towing distance (AAA) of my destination, and nothing could go wrong now! Despite this affirmation, I was not feeling at all triumphant; there's just something wrong about a road with its end in sight. Not that I could see it, but I could definitely feel it, and knew that I was about to be busier than I like to be. Road trips occupy me physically and mentally, but I was looking forward to lots of stops, meetings with people, checking things out, arranging things, and dealing with a few issues I need not bore you with.

Investigation was required of the weird "Beestream", an Airstream trailer painted up like a big goofy bee, complete with stinger. It looked to me like a drive-through coffee shop or some such, likely no longer in service, but kept for its good looks. The house and other buildings on the property were also treated with the yellow-and-black bee motif. As of the time of this writing, it has finally occured to me that maybe these people had a honey business, keeping bees and making, packing, and selling the incomparable fireweed honey. I then passed through Anchor Point, and over the Anchor River. It was lunchtime, and I pulled into a spot that was nestled on a short bluff on a curve of the river. Just down a very short track off the highway, I called the site "My Camping Spot", as I had used it every night but one when I was here with the rental car. It was fairly private and convenient, if not quiet - the road noise was unpleasant - but I had good views of river and forest, and stood a good chance of seeing something wild. Indeed, back in August, I saw two Chinook salmon, for days in the same spot just below the bluff, doing that thing that they do before they die.

I ate a wonderful lunch, Gene-style, and organized my thoughts, put on clean clothes, and went to Homer. It wasn't as much fun this time due to the clouds and rain, but I had plenty of other chances to enjoy "topping the rise" just before dropping down into Homer. Just to the east of Homer, a significant hill rises up from the shore below, not only forcing the highway up and over its shoulder, but also blocking the view until you come to the top. An expansive parking lot was installed there to accommodate the need for people to gawk. The Homer Spit jutted out into Kachemak Bay, and beyond, the magnificent Kenai Mountains rose as if to perforate the sky with their jagged, snow-covered peaks. Lower down, from between the mountains, at least two massive rivers of ice squirmed and scrunched their way to their termini. Looking to the east from this overlook, one can see four volcanoes, and a little to the south of them, the open ocean.

None of this was visible, however, on the day I first arrived. The mountains were obscured by cloud and fog, the rain making for visibility that frankly did nothing for my flagging spirits. I really wanted to show up in a dazzling show of sunlight beaming from behind picturesque clouds which lay over the mountains. I was hoping for something a little less drab and awful, but I got what I got. Besides, who was I to complain? I had enjoyed an amazing amount of great weather for a trip this long at this time of year, so I counted my lucky stars and told myself to shut up and get on with greeting and exploring my new home-to-be (Homer Base).

My life in the next week was to turn out differently than I had planned, and there is enough to fill another page, (and then some) so I will leave this one here, having arrived safely in Homer (Homer at last). In the next (and last) page, I will give an account of the more interesting experiences I had while in the area, and that will be that for this report!


Next: Homer Bound Trip Report: Page Ten


Gene Cornelius
mizamook@geemail dot com



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