Salty skies and sturdy souls

Homer, Alaska

Day: 60

Km Travelled: 8,716

Clutch replacement: 1

Week 8 Hope

After a few unexpected days waiting on Toyota in Anchorage, Tom and I were more than thrilled to be back on the road with Envy, heading south. The stretch of Hwy 1 from Anchorage to Seward is, without fail, a stunning drive. We were fortunate to see it in all weather, gloomy on the first day and bright on the second. Mostly coastline for the first stretch, the one winds its way down Turnagain Arm, a long, shallow inlet where the water looks like it can't be more than a few feet deep. Long sandbars stretch from shore to shore, turning the whole inlet into something that looks more like a tidal desert than open water, ribbed and glistening wherever the sun broke through.

We took a small detour to the tiny town of Hope. A fitting name, because the town itself feels like optimism wrapped up in a box, quaint shops, a couple of restaurants, and a stillness that makes you want to slow down. The real draw, though, is the shoreline on the first street in town, facing the water. At this time of year, the long sandbars from Turnagain Arm are covered in tall grasses and small budding flowers that lean and hiss with every gust off the inlet. Rolling green hills rise up behind it all, and it's hard to believe there are glaciers just around the corner. We spotted a family of herons picking their way along the mudflats, and ended up planting our camp chairs right there for an hour, books open on our laps, mostly unread, listening to the birds and the wind whispering around us.

Nestled in the mountains above Hope is a well-maintained gravel track that climbs to the foot of the nearby peaks. We spent the night surrounded by lush greenery, the air thick with the citrusy scent of alpine wildflowers in full bloom. The vegetation says it’s summer, but the temperature does not. We've had a scattering of sunny days over the last two weeks, and I can count the number of times I've worn shorts on one hand. Everyone we meet talks about the season the way you'd talk about a guest who's leaving soon.

Seward

Further down the Kenai Peninsula is the bustling tourist town of Seward. This is exactly the kind of town you'd picture when someone says "Alaska." Because of its proximity to Anchorage, Seward sees a lot more tourist traffic than Valdez, even though the two towns are similar in size and offering. Tom and I strolled around for a short while, past the harbour where fishing boats and charter vessels knocked gently against the docks, lines creaking, gulls wheeling and hollering overhead, before grabbing food and a pint at the brewery and heading out to find our next campspot away from the crowds.

There are seven RV campsites in Seward. Seven! And they're all lined up next to one another, right along the oceanfront, close enough that you fall asleep to the sound of water working at the shore. Our server, whose parents own the brewery, explained that the whole operation is only open from May to September. Come winter, most of the town shuts down. I've been asking myself over and over as we make our way around this state: what do people do here in the winter? My best guess is they close up shop and either snowbird somewhere warm or find work in Anchorage, where the sheer number of people, and slightly less brutal temperatures, makes some kind of a life possible. It's strange to walk through a town this alive, this full of noise and boats and ice cream cones dripping in the sun, and know that in a few months it will go almost silent, boarded up and waiting out the dark. You have to love winter if you live here.

If you're ever in Seward, visit Sweet Darlings ice cream and chocolate shop. The lavender ice cream, not a flavour I'd normally reach for, might be one of the best I've ever had. The same goes for the chicken burger Tom and I shared, and basically inhaled, at the Seward brewery. 

I’ll also add that Seward’s only double black bike trail ‘Money on the Vine’ is a steep and loamy delight, reminding us that not all bike trails created in Alaska are shite.

Homer

After a harrowing evening atop Crown Point Mine mountain (a story reserved for another time), Tom and I enjoyed a relaxing drive down the westernmost driveable coastline in North America, tracing the Kenai Peninsula to the fishing town of Homer. Our campground sat at the very end of a long spit, flanked by small shops and restaurants all with weathered, salt-bleached charm. Built up on stilts to keep from being thrashed by the tide, the shops are strung together by an elevated boardwalk that groans underfoot, waiting for eager customers. We arrived on a rainy day, and even then the place was bustling, hoods up, everyone unbothered. 

We figured if there was ever a place to try fresh fish and chips, this was it. The halibut from the Harbour Grill did not disappoint. Neither did the small saloon called the Salty Dawg, with its low ceilings, dollar bills stapled to every inch of wall, and a truly nautical ambience that smelled faintly of woodsmoke and brine. We were lucky enough to stumble on a local couple playing live music in the corner, and stayed for a while, tapping our feet to their folky tunes.

Hope, Seward, and Homer are exceptional places to visit, and each one delivers a real, unpolished Alaskan feel: humble, inviting, a little rustic, and full of character. You feel how much these communities depend on the ocean, how fishing and the sea aren't just a backdrop but something woven into daily life. Sure, we have towns like this back home too, but everything here feels a shade rawer. There's a liveliness to the water that seems to spill straight into the people, the boats, the docks, the whole rhythm of the place. Underneath that liveliness is something steadier: the quiet knowledge that winter here is long and bitter, and everyone, it appears, is ready for it. You can feel both things at once walking down these streets, the warmth of a short, generous summer and the toughness it takes to make it through what comes after.

To celebrate our 60th day of the trip, Tom and I camped for a night at Anchor Point, North America’s most westerly driveable point. At this iconic location you’ll find a beautiful stretch of beach, perfect for driving and camping on. We ended the day sitting by the fire with our toes in the sand, watching bald eagles fish by the sea. 

I'm looking forward to heading inland again and exploring more of the north over the next couple of weeks. But for now, our cup is full when it comes to Alaska by the sea.