Seward harbor stocked with ships amid a stream of clouds over glacier capped peaks, as the tourist season draws to a close.
I must admit I spent a single day in Seward, Alaska. Nevertheless, the title of this piece is intended to pay homage to "Alaska Days with John Muir" by Samuel Hall Young, a text which made an indelible impression on my perspective of inexhaustible days spent northward.
This day in Seward, September 5th, 2022 to be precise, was met with a dualism of excitement in adventure and pervasive Alaskan gloom overhead. I drove south along the Seward highway, a route that took me toward the Kenai peninsula via a road that at first passage resembled the freeways back home, suddenly shifting into a winding path replete with waterfall-blessed cliff sides and the calm, yet frigid, waters of the Cook Inlet.
What ensued was two plus hours of weaving past landscapes so thickly forested that it became all too easy to forget that I was on a stretch connected to the mainland by a thin band of earth and a single major throughway.
I drove calmly despite the intermittent rain. This is, after all, a frank departure from drought-stricken California, where the skill associated with getting around in inclement weather of any type is nourished so rarely that most tend to forget amid the lengthy interlude between storm cycles.
Arriving at the terminus of this short journey was graced with a serenity that only the opportunity to exist here and now may bring. Seward at a peculiar, quickly passing time of transition: After nearly all the tourists have vanished for the season and still before Winter has established a grasp enough to halt such activities as may only be enjoyed beforehand.
I at once headed for the National Park visitor center, graciously intending to partake of my second Alaskan National Park thus far, the domineering Kenai Fjords, known for the Harding Icefield, glaciers that meet the sea, and wildlife such as whales and seals in abundance.
However, the visitor center was already closed for the season, a reminder that preparation for the cold months here is undertaken in earnest. I therefore made haste to the nearest coffee shop. That turned out to be 13 Ravens Coffee and Books, a delightful establishment offering a cup of warm comfort and a selection of books from local authors.
A nondescript latte and the book Seward Soundboard by Sean Ullman stood out to me, and both turned out to be excellent choices, together capturing the drumbeat of life in southcentral Alaska via the mediums of caffeine and homespun literary excellence.
Shortly thereafter, I sauntered along the fenceline abutting the rows of docks, each seemingly at capacity with the sheer number of boats bearing various Alaskan and Canadian origins.
The Kenai mountains surged across Resurrection Bay at a distance mildly foreboding, sweeping clouds of mist grasping at fjords jutting seaward. The highest of peaks remained lapped with white, never ceasing their celebration of the impending season, despite the relatively warmer months acting conspicuously on the lower elevations.
A walk further downtown revealed a pace of life drawing ever more still. September is certainly when the Summer tempest is far from its crescendo, when rain dominates, not yet ready to become its freezing counterpart.
A trail leading to the Harding Icefield just outside of town offered solace among the boulders of slate haranguing the steep hills. Stream crossings were common, illustrating the difference between here and the closest comparison that I could conjure to memory - Icehouse Canyon in the San Gabriel mountains, boasting a few at most in a modest year, when there were countless such crossings.
A roaring river beckoned below a bridge at a notable point further along, serviceable indeed as a vantage point for this mesmerizing country. Glacier caps present on peaks, both faraway and seemingly close enough to caress, glistened as if watching the proceedings of the day with the utmost intention.
A valley of immeasurable wealth in scenery was laid out below and in between us, the mountains and I. A river braided through in a lackadaisical meandering. The leaves on the trees here also began to show signs of what is to come, hinting with careful shades of brilliance in variety that only nature can provide.
Reaching my turnaround time, I lumbered back towards the beginning. Failing to reach the icefield, I at the least gazed reverently upon my first glacier, Exit Glacier, before it recedes inevitably into memory for all others who have had the miraculous opportunity to view it also.
The day concluded with a picnic at Waterfront Park, once more overlooking Resurrection Bay. The subtle aquatic chops below were at once interrupted by a seal cruising in perfect freedom from vessel traffic gone away for now.
Seagulls glided in center frame, basking in the early evening melody. Residents and visitors indistinguishable from each other took their walks along the paved path, minds observably full of ease.
The occasional car rounded the nearby street corner, headed in no such hurry to a destination imaginably not walkable. Downtown sputtered with life in the open spaces, the restaurants, and the bars.
The SeaLife Center hummed along as the hallmark attraction of the area. Off to the right of my delicately laid out ensemble stood a bench, looking forlorn as it faced the shimmering waters, interspersed with dark blotches, caused by patchy cloud coverage.
If anywhere, this must be the spot where magic happens, where any wish or dream can conceivably come true if it is desired enough, pray the heavens be compassionate enough to bestow it. And thus the day concludes with a shining image of vitality, a philosophical vantage point discovered along the shores of Seward.