Ready to launch
Glacier View, Alaska
For the past 20 years, a strange event has taken place in Glacier View, Alaska. It started when a small group of people gathered on their property, several acres of land perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Matanuska river and glacier, and decided it would be a fun idea to launch cars off it. To catapult an automobile off the edge and watch it soar, tumble, and obliterate against the valley below.
Sounds like fun, right? Yeah, so did everyone else.
Two decades later, the event now launches upwards of 30 cars, sourced from locals and folks from surrounding towns, and draws upwards of 5,000+ eager spectators. At $30 USD a ticket, it remains a very feasible afternoon well spent.
If you're camping on the property, you have to arrive two days before the event. Why this early, I've still not figured out. Tom and I rolled up at 10:30am on Thursday morning to find a long line of campers and RVs idling on both sides of the highway, waiting to get in. Part of me was still not entirely convinced this was a real thing. But with approximately 50 rigs ahead of us, we quickly understood this was no joke. We were led down to the riverbed, where a large gravel lot had been cleared to house the campers and day parking.
As soon as we parked, our neighbours stepped out of their camper and introduced themselves by immediately opening their cooler and offering us a beer. A pair of middle-aged Australians from Darwin, we couldn't have believed our luck. Tom settled into an hour-long conversation with Dyck, reminiscing about his two years living in Australia, while Dyck's wife Sam and I shared our mutual disbelief at how absurd the whole event was, and our equal anticipation for it. Still a whole two days away.
The rest of the evening was spent getting to know the neighbours, including Keith and Carrie, a couple eighteen months into their round-the-world road trip, travelling in a pristine ex-army carrier they'd refurbished into a camper. Here we thought Envy might turn a few heads among all the white RVs. We were thoroughly outdone by the retirees. Young, friendly, and doing exactly what Tom and I are doing, but with considerably more money and considerably more time. Life goals, version two.
We spent Friday relaxing, walking along the river, and peering up at the cliff we knew the cars were going to be launched from, quietly wondering whether the rope keeping attendees back from the edge of the future wreckage was, in fact, far enough away to feel safe. We followed the lead of everyone around us and put a tarp down on the ground to mark our spectator spot, sparing ourselves the need to wake at 6am and stake our claim before the crowds arrived.
And arrive, they did. By 7am, Tom and I were sitting in our tent reading our books, watching the gravel lot fill within the hour. A quick drone shot confirmed what we suspected: all remaining day parking was lined up along the side of the highway back at the top. Only in Alaska would thousands of people be allowed to park this way.
A couple of small sandbars in the middle of the river played host to helicopters and bush planes ferrying in wealthier spectators. Watching a small plane land on what I can only describe as a plot of gravel more suitable to a group of kayakers was more astounding than the event itself. Alaskan bush pilots are as talented as they are completely unhinged.
I'm still trying to work out why it's so satisfying to watch an old car get launched off a cliff. Is there some deeply layered part of the human psyche that genuinely enjoys destruction? As the crowd cheered and the pile of wreckage grew, I dipped back and forth between laughter and bewilderment. Car after car, each one met with the same roar of approval when it hit the valley floor.
As quickly as they arrived, the crowds disappeared. Within hours, the highway was clear, the gravel lot was thinning out, and the cliff sat quiet above a pile full of twisted metal. It struck me as the oddest thing: this enormous gathering, this grand parade of people and machines, assembled for a matter of hours and then gone.
Only in Alaska do you find an event this gloriously, unapologetically pointless.
Just another Saturday up here.
