Saturday May 25th, 2002 might well be the most rewarding day of travel I’ve ever enjoyed, things falling into place to create a cornucopia of experience.
At its heart, the day’s focus was Alaska’s Glacier Bay National Park, the subject of the picture, with a spectacular flight over its brilliant white expanses.
But there was much more to this day than that exhilarating highlight. My diary records the details, though I’ve re-lived them in my mind numerous times since. I have to share the tale of this day.
Crucially, the day was prefaced by a good long sleep, always a strong base for a busy day. I was staying in a bed and breakfast in the town of Gustavus, in Alaska’s southeast, and on this day roused myself from bed at 6:30am. The B&B’s facilities included bicycles, and with the sun beaming brightly, I grabbed one and headed off for a ride, not knowing nor caring where I would end up. The fresh air was stimulating and I found myself at a pier running into the water. The view across the water was a sequence of distant snow-capped mountains. Similarly enjoying the view was a bald eagle – America’s national bird – patiently watching from the pier, though perhaps with more malicious, prey-hunting intent, than I. I was buzzed already.
Refreshed by the outdoor adventure, the bicycle took me back to my B&B, where I joined my travelling buddy Paul for breakfast. A solid cooked breakfast, backed up by muesli and toast, was just what the doctor ordered.
With time to kill before our flight, Paul, who had done most of the legwork in getting this Alaska visit off the ground, and I then headed to Mount Fairweather Golf Course, a little nine hole affair. While Paul was the superior sportsman, I was game for a challenge, so as we collected clubs and golf balls, all done on an honesty system, we agreed to a small wager on the result. Naturally the course had a backdrop of snowy peaks, gleaming under the sunshine, a unique setting. As Paul and I reached the ninth hole, scores were level – and somehow I finished better. This was a sweet result, a first victory for me in our sporting contests, an achievement not to be taken lightly.
In due course, we found ourselves at Gustavus’s tiny airport, where we weighed in to allow Brad, our pilot, to understand the fuel requirement for the Skagway Air Service’s Piper Cherokee. There was just Brad, Paul and I onboard for this specially chartered journey.
Coming on this Alaska trip, I had felt some trepidation about my forthcoming first experiences on a plane this size (a six seater). Reaching Gustavus required those first small plane flights, a double hop from Juneau. My stomach was in a knot as I climbed on board – the interior looked for all the world like a cheap car from the early 1970s, and was just as fatigued as something that old. How on earth could this thing be trusted? Of course, I survived those short trips, and that experience meant I was relatively relaxed as I boarded this flight to Skagway.
There were no guarantees that we would be detoured over the national park, as we had requested, but on a lovely flying day the pilot was granted permission to head in that direction.
As we climbed into the air in another flimsy vehicle, the view ahead became a never-ending expanse of white. Everywhere you looked were mountain peaks, universally snow-topped, and slashes of sheer rocks falling away from the peaks. Bright washes of snow dressed much of the National Park, and then there were the glaciers themselves, serrated textures indicating the direction of their slow progress.
The scenery was breathtaking. The highest peaks were above us, on either side, as our pilot banked left and right to give us a better view. For a time we were alone in that space, as there was not a sign of man’s presence on the ground below us, lending a great intimacy. As I wrote in my diary of the time it was “a crazy feeling to be so alone in this little plane, somewhat at the mercy of nature as we chug along with nothing but nature to contemplate outside our windows.” It was, frankly, intimidating to be so embraced by nature’s raw beauty.
In the presence of this beautiful and engulfing landscape I lost all fear of the light plane. Even as we hit a bumpy patch – preempted by Brad’s gentle warning – I found nothing to cause me to break into a sweat.
Inevitably, the majestic views demanded photographs be taken, so I got very snap happy. Only later did I realise that I’d had a bit of a nightmare, the bright white of the snow fooling me and my camera into over-exposing badly.
And in time, Brad turned the Piper Cherokee’s nose towards Skagway, the National Park receded behind us and we found our way to the very narrow strip of the town’s airport. Paul and I weren’t the only ones who had enjoyed the flight – Brad too clearly appreciated the scenery. What a job he had. I was left contemplating whether I could actually become such a pilot, such an about face as to be preposterous.
The rest of the day could not sustain quite such highs as that flight, but it was still fun.
A beer from the Skagway Brewing Company kept the buzz alive in what seemed like a friendly town. Then we hit the Klondike Highway north, for more down-to-earth yet still impressive scenery. Crossing the border to Canada’s Yukon Territory, there was the oddity of the Carcross Desert, sand surrounded by snowy mountains. On most other days these landscapes would have demanded attention; not today.
By the time we reached Whitehorse, gold rush country, the best of the day was long behind us. Then again, the heights – both literal and figurative – of the flight over Glacier Bay National Park had set such a highwater mark for “best” that anything to follow would pale in comparison.
From the early morning bike ride, through the golfing victory, to the Glacier Bay flight, and then the journey into Canada, there might be no other travel day that has offered me quite so much satisfaction. Living the dream, I was.