It is approximately 4,200 miles from Houston, Texas to Anchorage, Alaska. That translates to more than 70 hours in a vehicle if you’re going on land. For me, it meant a mere twelve hours in airports and two plane rides. Fortunately for me, the return trip waited two weeks from my initial flight. Being born and raised in Texas, I am accustomed to heat and humidity. Smog, congestion, and heat threaten to suffocate you in Houston during the summer months.
I had never considered travel to be a top priority, but when I broached the idea of visiting a close pair of friends as they settled into their new home in Alaska, everyone I talked to told me the same thing; go. As I talked with my mother about my plans for travel the two weeks immediately after Christmas, she nearly pushed me out the door when it was time to head for the airport. Go, she told me.
Twelve hours doesn’t seem that long to me. I can keep myself occupied easily for twelve hours, but on a crowded plane with scared children and tired, travel worn, adults, it’s a completely different matter. I have no fear of flying; I did, however, begin to understand the anxiety accompanied with those who suffer from claustrophobia. The flight from Seattle into the Anchorage airport was short, but as I stared out the window with the sun setting on the most beautiful, and only, mountains I had ever seen, the stress of travel began to wear away.
Despite being a little tired, I was ready to jump into my Alaska adventure. I was shocked that I could walk outside in my simple fleece leggings and flannel shirt! The cold wasn’t unbearable, as I thought it would be. Unlike what television shows I had watched about Alaska, Anchorage seemed to be a relatively modern city, although much smaller than I had become accustomed to at home in Houston. As my friends drove from the airport to a local restaurant I noticed no lines designating lanes on the road, not an uncommon sight during snow months, apparently.
As we drove through downtown on my first night, I noticed the ice sculptures. We parked and began a small side trip through the sculptures. Ice blocks, larger than I am, were carved into elaborate creations and works of art. The dedication to New York City was detailed with hand carved windows of the skyline. Animals, abstract sculptures, even a spinning bowl for children to play in. What struck me was the art decorating the sides of buildings, so well depicted I thought surely there had been a mistake in my research before coming to this place. There’s no mention of the extensive art premating the culture here.
I was fortunate to see much of Anchorage, however, one memory takes hold: the hike at the Thunderbird Falls. In winter, I thought that there would be no one on the trails. A snow covered trail uphill and slippery proved to be inhabited by local hikers. I stopped so many times during the hike for photos of the breath stealing scenery, my friends warned me that we might be hiking back during sunset if I continued. I never knew that a person could sweat so much and still be surrounded by snow and ice. I took off my gloves and touched the trees, larger than any that I’d ever seen. I touched ice delicately hanging from limbs, in awe at the grace with which they held on. As we approached the Thunderbird falls, after three slips and one almost fall, I stood in awe at the mostly frozen falls. The steaming rush of water filled everything. Staring at the four story high ice with water continuing to flush itself under the exposed surface, I wondered at it’s magnificence. With the sun slowly descending in the sky, I began to cry. Knowing I’d never be able to take in the magnificence with any number of photographs.
There are other memories to recount, but weeping in the presence of nature so pure is a profound experience that I will never forget. Photographs and words do the Alaska landscape no justice. The air in your lungs and vast expanse of glory cannot to be captured by a lens or ink on a page. The experience soaks into your bones and becomes a part of you. It expands your existence by reminding you of how small humans are and how nature goes on.
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