Striking Balance
For my birthday last month, Aubrey planned and organized a surprise trip for me. On a gloomy Friday morning in Anchorage, we packed the Subaru with bikes and camping gear, dropped Sam off with his grandmother, and headed south. A close friend stayed at the house to take care of the dogs and cat, so it was just Aubrey and me for the weekend.
There are only two ways to leave Anchorage in a car: north and south. We headed south and began the four-hour drive to the end of the road. The first two hours of travel wrap around Turnagain Arm in a tedious detour that would be a fifteen-minute flight in even the most anemic airplane.
Departing the waterway, the Seward Highway encounters its only fork, splitting off towards Hope and Homer. The "highway" then winds steeply up hills, around mountains, past pale turquoise lakes of freshly-melted glacier, and through picturesque fishing villages. As the road flattens, it joins the banks of the partially frozen Kenai River. Hopeful fishermen braved the damning cold and heroic force of the iconic water for a chance at the first salmon of the season.
Four audiobook chapters later brought us to the crest above Homer. A tidal inlet so diluted by glacial runoff that the air doesn't smell of salt. The iconic Homer Spit stretches like the slender finger of an ancient witch into Kachemak Bay.
Aubrey and I spent the balance of the afternoon scouring used bookstores, browsing the latest commercial fishing fashion, and eating dinner at the fanciest inexpensive restaurant we could find.
When the time came to retire, we headed for a municipal campground on the spit and looked for a place to establish residence for the next nine hours. As much as we would have liked to camp right on the beach, a 36-knot breeze forces us to camp leeward of the road; a proposition which was both loud and disenchanting. Before we even finished pitching our tent, a two-foot diameter crab-pot float flew off a truck passing at 50 MPH and missed us by four feet.
Before resigning ourselves to unconsciousness, we read, watched Dune, and played Mario Kart. We fell asleep to the gentle sounds of gale-force winds and intermittent traffic.
Sealed inside cozy, zip-together sleeping bags, we woke to the once-familiar desire to stay sealed inside our cozy cocoon forever. Before mustering the gumption to unzip, Aubrey's phone vibrated with a text saying our water taxi would be leaving at two instead of nine. We wasted no time in settling back in.
Ninety minutes of Dune, Mario Kart, reading, and tomfoolery later, we decided it was time to emerge from our nest of wool and down. With practiced (albeit rusty) harmony, we broke camp and loaded eighty pounds of wet gear into the back of a dirty Forester.
Our first stop was a local bakery. Tucked into the left corner of a nondescript strip mall next to an Ace Hardware. Inside, the wall was an oil work and blown-glass shrine to the fish that put Homer on the map: halibut. Reggae music dripped out of Bluetooth speakers and saturated the three-table café as we ordered.
After an hour and a half of breakfast, coffee, planning, and loafing, we opted first to browse what few shops were open that early in the season and selected two of the local commercial fishing supply stores in search of a rain jacket for Aubrey. Aubrey tried on numerous options but didn't love anything. Meanwhile, I found a jacket to replace my well-loved and very duct-taped flying coat.
By one-thirty we were at the docks and ready to leave. The boat was ready when we arrived. It was a small, aluminum vessel with a tight cabin and open deck. We loaded bikes, backpacks, and coolers onto the spacious foredeck, grabbed the camera our neighbor Will had loaned us, and moved astern. As we taxied through the harbor, I practiced taking pictures of boats. Once outside the "No Wake" zone, Captain Curt opened up the twin Honda outboards and we were immediately on step in four-foot seas.
With the plan to move inside soon after taking a few pictures, Aubrey and I had opted to start the journey on the deck. However, it was immediately apparent that, between the stinging spray of brackish water, the chop of the boat skipping across the waves, and thirty knots of wind, we would be best served by clinging casually to the outside of the cabin with white knuckles and injured pride.
Captain Curt traced the boat through well-trodden waters, around small islands, behind beaches, and through channels. He then circled the spit upon which he would deliver us and approached via a circuitous, winding path that dodged invisible sandbars and unseen monsters.
Upon landing at the beach, we unloaded and were greeted by our hostess, Christy. She led us up to the cabin and showed us the grounds.
The campground was situated atop a forty-foot-wide spit that stretched into Kachemak Bay like a tendril of smoke uncurling from a lazy campfire. Five stairs to the top of the wood-braced sea wall brought us to a gravel path that traced left and right amid towering evergreens. Four steps down the trail brought our accommodations into view. A cozy log cabin with windows facing beaches on opposite sides. Inside was a bed, a small kitchen area, a table facing the northern beach, and a loveseat. Much of the decor was fashioned from retired commercial fishing gear with rods and nets put to various, clever work. The smell of pine and seawater drifted in through open windows.
We settled in, grabbed drinks, and headed to the hot tub. The only other people on the spit had the same idea, so we all hopped in and began to soak in the warmth and sunshine.
Micheal and Joe were from Fort Lauderdale and enjoying their first trip to Alaska. We talked about weather, flying, marriage (Micheal's wedding was impending), and kids. Afterward, we invited them to our cabin for dinner, which we made with an eclectic blend of ingredients donated by each participant.
After dinner, we gathered chairs, firewood, bourbon, and marshmallows and settled in to watch one of Alaska's long sunsets while smoking cigars and burning s’mores.
The next morning, Aubrey and I were up early to go kayaking. The weather was picturesque and the wind dead calm, but with all of the mountainous islands, craggy coastlines, and separated bodies of water, I knew that could change with the rapidity of a toddler's fury. So, with mild hangovers and adventurous spirits, we set out.
Given that the tide had fallen nearly twenty feet since our arrival, the paddle out to a nearby island was circuitous and filled with a shallow labyrinth of never-before-seen sand bars and undiscovered beaches. We carefully picked our way through the maze of Kachemak Bay until we reached the open channel between us and a smattering of islands. Together we slipped across glass and through time. The only sounds were of the paddles dipping into the water and humpback whales breaching in the distance. Twice on our journey, otters approached within feet of the boat; playful and curious, they swam by on their backs while holding a pet rock in hand.
After more than an hour of paddling, we landed on an arboreal rock that promised excellent photo safari potential. Crystal clear waters afforded an almost voyeuristic view of marine life while birds called from the trees in languages unknown to me or perhaps any man. Aubrey stepped out of the tandem boat and made prompt use of her 15" tall rain boots by wading through tide pools with camera in hand. I headed for the summit and more expansive views.
Upon reaching the peak, I was greeted with an unexpected sight of immediate consequence: an ominous storm forcing its way down the valley toward us. Sheltered on the lee side of the island, Aubrey and I had enjoyed nothing but blue skies and high hopes on the ride in, but now we were faced with a clear and present danger. The island offered little in the way of protection from a storm; less if it brought lightning. But returning to the safety of the cabin would mean facing open water in the direct path of a furious storm.
"Aubrey!" I called as I ran toward her, "Let's go, NOW!"
Aubrey looked at me with utter confusion, why should we leave? We had just arrived.
"There's a storm, right there!" I pointed toward the peak.
Aubrey couldn't see the storm, but she could see I was serious.
Donning life jackets and kayak skirts seemed to take hours, but facing glacial waters without them could be deadly.
We turned the boat around, hopped in, and snapped the skirts into place right as the storm's shadow crossed over the island. I pushed off against the volcanic rock shore as we paddled into the water.
We were at once struck broadside with a four-foot swell. The paltry kayak reeled but stayed afloat.
"We have to turn right!" I yelled at Aubrey over the now-deafening roar of the storm.
We both pulled hard on the left as I gave full right rudder. Nothing happened. We were tracking straight as wave after wave slammed into our port side. Rain joined in the frenzy. Temperatures that had felt downright balmy on dry land now plummeted as the late winter storm pummeled us.
"Harder!" I yelled.
I knew Aubrey was already giving everything she thought she had, but she found more strength. We worked together, beating the water with all our might, but still we tracked parallel to the swells; still we took waves and wind broadside.
I looked back.
"Fuck!"
In my haste, I'd failed to lower the rudder. I swung backward with my paddle, trying feebly to drop the life-saving appendage into the water as our boat threatened to capsize in arctic waters. I couldn't reach. I shifted my grip to the very end; precariously clinging to the blade and risking the loss of my paddle to an angry sea.
Contact.
I forced the rudder as far into the water as I could manage, less than half its travel.
"Pull!" I yelled at Aubrey.
With two humans and half a rudder, we managed to turn downwind and aim for the end of our spit.
We paddled with our very souls; every muscle in my body strained against the churning sea. We pulled through open water as waves continued to crash over the kayak. My hands blistered, the blisters broke, and blood mixed with brackish water and poured down my wrists. The cold water and adrenaline numbed the pain as I continued paddling.
Minutes or hours passed. Aubrey pulled and I pushed. We were no closer to the spit, but we were farther from the island. The quartering tailwind had pushed us well off our path and we were forced to turn broadside to the wind. Two humans and eight pounds of plastic against a wicked sea.
The storm consumed the sky. All that was once calm and beautiful now lost as darkness and hatred reigned.
Aubrey's lightweight rain jacket soaked through. Water that was, moments ago, ice, saturated her outer layer and soon bled through to her skin. Only the hard work of survival kept her from hypothermia.
"Turn left!" Aubrey yelled, "Aim for that sandbar!"
She was right: if we could pull ourselves to the leeward side of the sandbar, we'd be in calmer water much sooner. I deflected the rudder left, turning us slightly upwind. The boat quaked ceaseless as waves ravaged her. Capsizing in these waters would all but guarantee death for both of us, brackish waters freeze at a lower temperature than fresh, and these were speckled with ice. We pulled for our lives; we pulled for each other. The sandbar inched closer as we fought to stay upright; as we fought both wind and wave. At once open-boat whalers and the children of the damned.
And still we pulled.
Tormented, exhausted, wet, and bleeding, we paddled into safer waters. The storm still pressed down upon us, and we still had a mile of paddling ahead, but the waters amid the maze of sand were much smoother. Aubrey took the opportunity to film a quick video before realizing how easily she could lose her phone to the sea. We paddled at a consistent and hard, but less frenzied pace for the next half hour until we beached ourselves on our home shore, spent.
Back inside the cabin, we dried off, changed clothes, and ate a well-deserved lunch of canned chicken, fried bacon, and leftover charcuterie.
"Wanna call it a day and get in the hot tub?" I asked.
"Ugh, yes!" Aubrey replied, "But since we got a late start yesterday, we only really have today for fun."
'Fun' meant riding the bikes we’d brought; specifically, a seven-mile ride to Seldovia proper.
"Ok," I said, with enthusiasm scraped from tawdry leftovers.
We suited up for our second misadventure of the day and grabbed the bikes. The ride started on the beach before turning up a steep, muddy hill. Fifteen minutes of honest work brought us to a road of gravel or deteriorating asphalt which wound its way high above the shore and into town. A combination of mild elevation and full shade meant the road was still a patchwork of snow and ice; the fat bikes had been a good choice.
The ride was relatively uneventful and completely unimaginative except for an occasional peeking-through of the bay far below.
With cold hearts, light whining, and heavy pedaling, we reached our top-of-descent and began coasting towards the heart and harbor of Seldovia. We passed a junkyard filled to the brim with rolled-over Suburbans, a Baptist church with eight parking spaces, and an airport with a gravel runway.
Spilling out into downtown, we were at once lost; due not to the complexity of the city, but the utter lack of it. Bewildered, we stared at the small fish processing plant in front of us and looked around for more. To the right, the road ended in a dirt cliff. To the left, we saw no more than one or two small houses. However, the road continued to the left, so our decision was made.
Two blocks of small houses and tiny apartment buildings passed as we followed the only road in town. At last, the lights of the Seldovia Metropolitan Area came into view. Sprawled beneath us were all the high rises and hustle and bustle of a remote Alaskan village in its off-season; a skyline that would put Cincinnati to shame.
The city of Seldovia was once one of the largest ports in Alaska and as such, plays host to an array of cutting-edge fishing infrastructure from the seventies. Wooden false-fronted bars intersticed well-worn seafood restaurants and sun-dried sundries. Behind the buildings on the right, the town docks hosted a scant variety of small boats and a smattering of seaplanes. A half-dozen locals walked with evident purpose and obvious nonchalance on weekly errands. The overcast sky diffused what light there was into a sepia filter for a Lifetime Movie.
We stopped for snacks at the Crab Pot Grocery and were treated to an in-person recital of the unabridged autobiography of Jim from two islands over. Inside, we purchased two granola bars for twelve dollars each and split a bottle of ginger beer.
The ride back would have been unremarkable save for the singular view of the spit upon which we were staying. Alone in the bay, jutting haughtily into a labyrinthine mixture of Pacific Ocean and melting snow.
Aubrey’s only request upon returning from town was to soak once more in the hot tub.
That evening, in the comfort of wooden walls and electric heaters, we dined on bacon and almonds, drank the finest twenty-dollar whisky, and held a tournament of Mario Kart
The next morning was our last. We were prepared for an early departure but woke up to a message announcing yet another delay in our water taxi. So, we took the opportunity to make use of the camera Will lent to us, and to explore the spit on our fat bikes.
Viewed at the leisurely pace of four photos per minute, the spit offered a treasure trove of Triassic tidal pools, volcanic leftovers, and forgotten wildlife.
All too soon we were loading bicycles and bags onto the open deck of the water taxi and departing the fairytale world that had belonged only to us.
Aubrey had once again crafted an unforgettable trip out of the leftovers of my busy schedule and a calendar full of adult responsibilities. These trips; the adventures, however small; which Aubrey carefully plans and creatively executes, are perhaps the reason I am still so madly in love with her after more than a decade.