In Glacier Bay, the water is an unearthly and milky blue: something in between turquoise and jade. On a boat, plying the channels and bays of southeast Alaska, you feel that you could sail these waters forever and never reach an end. Always in the distance are white-capped mountains, which never get closer or farther. They’re always on the horizon—seemingly unreachable.
On an Alaskan cruise last month, I was overwhelmed by the vastness and emptiness of this landscape. For days we saw no other boats among miles of open water where the only signs of activity were the spouts of humpback whales and a quick view of the tops of their sleek bodies as they briefly surfaced before slipping back into their watery homes; sometimes we saw their tails flip as they took a deeper dive into a place invisible to us on the boat. Occasionally, we would come to an island teeming with life: sea lions lounging on the rocks or playing in the water; sea otters floating on their backs; and puffins and other seabirds in the water.
Evidence of civilization was scarce: only a few fishing boats and yachts; and almost no human habitation. It would be difficult for humans to get a toehold in this monumental landscape, even though the early natives found a rich life here. Pristine forests come down to the water’s edge, and waterfalls plunge from the tops of mountains so tall that I got dizzy staring up to the top where snowfields dazzled the eyes. At the terminus of bays, glaciers creaked and groaned while we wandered through a maze of blue icebergs big enough to get lost in. I felt that vastness most when we kayaked, where we were tiny dots in a landscape that seemed too big to comprehend. Here we were insignificant.
Coming back to Colorado, I dreaded returning to a place crowded with humans and their detritus. Even in the mountains, there are masses of people, especially in popular places like Rocky Mountain National Park. Yet once back at the cabin, I fell into the ease of life here. In southeast Alaska there is no easy way to enter into the hundreds of miles of wilderness except by boat. Hiking is difficult because the mountains are so steep and are covered with dense and almost impenetrable forests—and also full of huge brown bears.
But in Colorado, I can drive to the nearest trailhead, park my car and start walking. Or I can walk out my cabin door and hike into the forests around Meeker Park. This ponderosa pine landscape is spacious enough for flowers, shrubs and grasses to grow, so I don’t have to bushwhack through dense and steep woods, like the sitka spruce forests in Alaska.
Although the flowers in Alaska are huge—the purple lupine reaching almost 4 feet tall—the number of species is small, because there are few open and sunny meadows in which they can flourish. Here in Colorado, especially this summer, the wildflowers are profuse: whole fields of Indian paintbrush, yellow buckwheat, purple lupine and blue penstemon.
The only deciduous trees I saw in Alaska were alder, which are outnumbered by the more plentiful and somber spruce and hemlock. Here in Colorado, aspen cover meadows and hillsides, providing a sheltered space for the columbine and other flowers to grow, and for birds to nest. In this landscape of intense sunlight, the soft rustling sound of their leaves and filtered green light provide havens of coolness and calm.
On the waters of Glacier Bay, I never heard song birds, perhaps because there’s not enough food. Here at my cabin, hummingbirds, swallows, nuthatches, Stellar’s jays, western tanagers and bluebirds fill the skies from morning till night.
In a world that is fast becoming overrun by humans, Alaska is one of the few places on earth that’s still pristine and untouched by civilization, a place where humans are vastly outnumbered by bald eagles. I’m grateful it’s still wild, but I also appreciate the intimate landscape at the cabin, where I can sit among a field of flowers and listen to the soft whispering of the aspens and the chirping of the swallows. In Alaska, I’m awed by the grandeur, but here I feel enclosed in nature’s sweetness.
Having lived in Alaska, I have to agree that stunning though the landscape can be there, our Colorado home is vastly more hospitable. Particularly in Alaska's southeast panhandle, the constant rain further makes for a relentlessly soggy world. Nice to look at, but I sure got tired of wearing those ubiquitous "Juneau tennies": brown Wellington boots, without which one was forever hanging out shoes and socks to dry.
Posted by: Jennifer Woodhull | July 17, 2021 at 06:07 PM
Jennifer, I grew quite fond of my rain boots, but it did get tiring trying to get wet clothes to dry, especially compared to Colorado.
Posted by: Kathy Kaiser | July 22, 2021 at 10:47 AM