Cruising in Alaska

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Bigger than the three next largest US states – Texas, California and Montana – combined, Alaska challenges the American consciousness like an unscratchable itch. It’s so massive, so under populated, so untamed, there’s no wonder it attracts everyone from free spirits and survivalists to hardened criminals, hoping to disappear in the snow and under the radar. It also attracts cruise ships, sailing the Inside Passage amongst crystal-blue glaciers, snowcapped mountains, deep fjords, icebergs, whales, seals, and soaring bald eagles. Before we board the Coral Princess, a floating palace of luxe, lets head inland to see the wild for ourselves. The hard sun of summer has lost its shine, but the foliage of fall is exploding, the glacier-fed rivers sparkling, and the salmon are nearing the end of their long journey to the same river that sees them born and die.

“Anchored down in Anchorage.” Michelle Shocked’s 80’s hit is swilling in my head, even though I haven’t heard it in 20 years. With only 240,000 people, Anchorage is the smallest of big cities in the biggest of all American states. We’re still way below the Arctic Circle, but the days stretch brightly into the late August evening. My Brazilian Gonzette and I check into the Captain Cook Hotel, amongst the tallest buildings in the city. We’re at the tail end of the tourist season, and the downtown open-air market looks somewhat exhausted, like a cabin larder after a long, hard weekend. The amount of fur on sale is one indication that we ain’t in Kansas, because whatever you might buy in Kansas ain’t gonna get you through winter.

We meet our fellow travellers at the Cook’s panoramic restaurant for an excellent dinner. There are about 20 of us, and looking around the table at the Australians and the Americans, the Canadians and the British, I know that before our two weeks are done, they won’t be strangers at all. But for now, it’s anticipation, champagne and grilled salmon, and the spear of Mount McKinley, the tallest mountain on the continent, reflecting sun and snow, so very far away in the distance. Anchorage is crisp and pleasant enough in the sun, but I’m sure they can appreciate Game of Thrones, because winter is always coming.

Our bus traces along the Kenai Peninsular, stopping to look for beluga whales at Beluga Point, before making its way along the fjord to the Kenai Princess Wilderness Lodge. Guy, our leader, downloads information about the area, the wildlife, the culture, the abundant natural wonders. He speaks earnestly on the microphone, and could say anything, because he looks like John Cusack. The scenery is like balm for the dry, cracked heel of the soul. We stop at a couple roadside attractions – a visitor centre where we learn about the US Congressmen who vanished without a trace while flying to Juneau; a Conservation Centre where we stare at huge grizzly bears, elk, caribou, black bears and a couple lynx. With 50,000 brown bear (aka grizzly) and even more black bear, the bears have already become an object of fascination. For the next week, just about every local we meet tells us what to do should we encounter one. Be big! Be small! Run! Don’t Run! You would think a bear is waiting to pounce behind every tree. Waiting to give you a bear hug.

Ana’s just reeled in her third large sock-eye salmon. It’s our first time fishing on a river, and what a river to start with. Fed by glaciers, the Kenai is a gemstone blue-green, the result of rock flour grinded by ice. Our fishing guide Eric lives with 200 other people year-round in a village nearby, “hunkering down” for the winter, exploring the wild with his snowmobile and skis. An important river for spawning salmon, no engines are allowed on the Kenai. The fishing is regulated, and today it’s strictly catch and release. A good thing too, for the fish are biting with kamikaze dedication. With four of us on the boat, nigh a minute goes by without one of us hooking a rainbow trout, Arctic Char, Dolly Varden, or old, red salmon. The biggest salmon ever reeled in was caught here on the Kenai, a King salmon weighing 97lbs. Eric oars the boat with the current, further kept busy unhooking and releasing our catch, telling tall tales (“one time, this bear came after us”) and being patient when I lost the hook, twice, on the river floor. If we kept our haul, we would be able to feed a small hamlet in Ireland, but we returned the fish to the water, so clear we could see the bright pink salmon swimming right below us.

We’re not on the cruise yet, but the service that has made Princess such a successful luxury travel brand is on full display at the lodge. Outstanding food, friendly and efficient service - if you ever get the chance to see Angel in action she’s a wonder to behold. Our next stop is several hours drive away, the historical climbing town of Talkeetna. It’s a launch pad to Mount McKinley, that monster of a mountain, a giant that strayed too far from the Himalayas where it belongs. The plan was to go flightseeing, but heavy rain and low cloud kept us grounded. We wander about the town’s cute gift shops, recognizing the moose/bear/puffin/whale motifs. The evening’s accommodation is the Mt. McKinley Princess Wilderness Lodge, one of five inland lodges Princess owns and operates in Alaska. You can leave a wake-up call if the mighty McKinley emerges from the cloud, or the northern lights explode in the night sky. McKinley, known in the native tongue as Denali – The High One – is the only 6000m+ peak on the continent, one of the Seven Summits that challenges all serious mountain climbers. Alaskans proudly point out that McKinley is taller than Everest, if you account for its elevation from sea level. For several weeks, it has remained hidden in cloud for guests at the lodge, but emerges on the morning of our departure. I am still salivating over my first meal of King Crab, surely the sweetest and most expensive candy bar of all seafood. The Deadliest Catch, the hit TV show filmed off Alaska where men risk lives for a short, stormy and highly lucrative crab season, gave me plenty of appreciation for the pink and white meat wrapped inside the long, sharp spidery legs of this ocean crustacean. Someone went through hell to get this buttery soft crab meat on my plate, and Beelzebub would agree: it tastes delicious.

Denali National Park is the grand attraction for inland tourists, and the adjacent town, Denali, opens only during the summer season. During winter, the one traffic light turns off, the Subway and shops close down, and the Denali Princess Wilderness Lodge (Alaska’s largest hotel), shutters up for the freeze. Denali is a launch pad for a national park that covers a staggering 24,585 square km, accessed by only one road. This is the area is where that misguided Californian kid went Into the Wild, losing his life, but gaining a hit book and film about his quest to escape. To get a sense of the size, we hop aboard a helicopter for a view from above. Fireweed and foliage is erupting with the reds, oranges and yellows of autumn. The taiga, a Russian word to describe the boreal forest that forms the largest biome on Earth, was a palette of colour. The firs, pines and spruce of the taiga only grow several weeks a year, appearing stunted compared to their more temperate cousins. The helicopter glides over massive blue-ice glaciers, stark gray mountains, and untamed valleys too remote for human interaction. We land on a glacier alongside a pool with water so clean and so blue it gave us goosebumps. “That’s just about the purist water you’ll ever drink,” explains the pilot, enjoying himself on the ice as much as anyone.

The group reforms at a cocktail party, elated from the day’s experiences. Some took a plane right to the top of Denali, which burst forth from the cloud cover. Others went river rafting in dry suits amongst the salmon and taiga. We watch a hokey-fun performance in the theatre (“Denarr—Leeeee!”) and begin to adjust at last to the cold, wet and wild winds of Alaska. The following day, we hit the skies once more, this time in a plane modified to land on the High One itself. The weather once again closes in, blanketing the mountain like a mother, protecting her teenage daughter from the stares of young men. We fly over the National Park, spotting large white Dall sheep on impossibly steep slopes, admiring their best defense against predators. The colours of the foliage beneath us resemble those Magic-Eye pictures, the ones where if you stare long enough a 3-D image emerges from the pattern. The fall colours only pop for a couple weeks at the end of summer, an advantage of visiting at the tail end of the season, even as the days and nights become significantly cooler.

Our final night on land demanded a celebration. After another outstanding meal at the lodge (uniformly, the lodges delivered some of the best gourmet meals I’ve had anywhere), we crossed the lone highway to the Salmon Bake. Friday night and the pub is busy with off-duty staff, operators, and the transient workers that head north each summer to ply the tourist trade. Here we learn about Duck Farts – a sweet Alaskan shooter that gets the job done. A wild blues-rock band, the Seth Freeman Band are tearing up the dance floor below. “What the hell is a band this good doing in a place like this,” asks Nick, and I concur entirely. I chat with some of the performers of the theatre show, a Bulgarian, Ukrainian and Romanian who work for a nearby lodge. It’s been a good long season. The group slowly dissipates, crossing the lone highway, to crash in the warm, wooden lodge. I forget to ask for a northern lights wake-up call, but make sure we pack for the train before passing out in duck farty bliss.

The Denali Express, shepherding passengers from the Princess Lodge in Denali to an awaiting cruise ship in Whittier, could well be one of the world’s most beautiful train journeys. Customized cars with panoramic windows, full bar, dining service and affable guides roll amongst taiga, rivers, mountains and fjords. It’s a practical means to get passengers from point A to point B, but a worthy journey to make just in itself. Especially when the sun’s rays crack the clouds, beaming a yellow yolk over the luminescence of fall. The Trans-Mongolian, the Rocky Mountaineer, Eastern Europe, the Tazara in Tanzania – I’ve always had a soft spot for train journeys. Especially when they deliver you to port to hop aboard one of the world’s great cruises, as guest of one of the world’s great cruise companies.

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