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Travelogue,
09/20/04
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I really didn't lie to my mother. When I wrote her saying I hadn't seen
any Alaskan bears or moose outside of Denali National Park, it was true. |
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However, two days later that was no longer the case. I hiked up a gravel road
half a mile from my beach and encountered this big gal grazing in tall
grass. She saw me, too, and we stood staring at each other for
several minutes, I ready to turn and run if she charged me, and
she apparently undecided. I kept a respectful hundred yards from
her, snapping a few photos. She concluded I wasn't a threat, and
after a while she sauntered across the road and disappeared into
the woods.
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I waited a few minutes to be sure she'd gone, made some
noise to be extra sure, then continued cautiously up the narrow road. I
was scouting for a way into the mountain forest that flanks my beach.
There's a glacier up there I can see from my campsite, and at least one
prodigious waterfall below it that I'd spotted through binoculars from the Fourth
of July Creek riverbed.
Shortly after seeing the moose, I came upon a
much more startling sight. The narrow gravel road ended abruptly and
across a shallow ravine was a great, shiny, new-looking prison. The modern
complex seemed completely alien to its natural surroundings, like a fallen
spaceship. Layers of tall, gleaming steel fences topped by thick
coils of razor wire enclosed several rectangular, two- and three-story
buildings with gray facades and few windows. In between and around these
structures were patches of open ground, small fields, some of them partitioned with more
fences and wire.
I'd had no idea there was a prison barely a mile from
where I'd been living these past weeks. At first it looked empty. I didn't
see anyone at all, but there were at least a dozen cars parked in an
adjacent lot at the far corner. I pulled out my binoculars and
scanned the eerie scene more closely. There, way in the back through the
multiple layers of fencing and wire, I saw men walking in a sort of
courtyard, strolling, some
alone, others in pairs and threes making conversational hand gestures.
Inmates enjoying their exercise period.
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Soaring above all this was the watchtower, its tinted
windows staring blankly like the eyes of some deadly predator. The entire
complex was encircled by two concentric roadways with a row of mowed grass
bordering each inside and out, a clear field of fire. |
It was along the outer perimeter road that
a patrol pickup truck now came racing towards me. It braked across the ravine
from where I stood and, without getting out, a burly, uniformed guard with
a flat top haircut and a square jaw barked in a sharp, military voice,
"Sir, what are you doing here, sir?"
I laid on my most non-threatening, easy going,
not-too-bright Southern drawl and replied, "Well, I was just out
hikin' and came down this here road and saw that," pointing to the
prison. "I was kind of surprised. Didn't know there was anything back
here."
"Sir, this is a maximum security prison and we
don't appreciate visitors. I'll have to ask you to move along, sir."
"Sure," I said," no problem. What's this
place called anyway?"
"Spring Creek Correctional Facility, sir." He
didn't seem inclined to elaborate.
"Yeah, well, thanks. Ya'll have a nice day,"
and I turned and walked back the way I'd come. Glancing over my shoulder I
saw the guard was sitting in his truck staring after me, and I'm sure he
continued staring until I was out of sight. I imagined someone in the
guard tower would take it from there, tracking me through powerful
binoculars to be sure I didn't double back, which I didn't.
Sometimes I think I must have been imprisoned in some
previous lifetime. The idea of being locked up like that - caged in, shut
off, ordered around, virtually buried alive - spooks me to the bone. I
can't imagine, don't want to imagine such a fate. No doubt most of the
inmates I saw through the layers of steel fencing deserve to be where they
are, need to be there so the rest of us can live with some semblance of
security and peace of mind. Still, I always find jails disturbing to
contemplate.
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The weather remained balmy and sunny,
perfect for hiking, but the prison had cast a shadow on the day
and my mood never quite recovered from it. I made a half-hearted effort to work my
way up Fourth of July Creek towards the glacier from which it
emerges, but that prison watchtower remained visible above the
trees. After a while, I turned around and headed
home. |
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As this summer ends I find my wanderlust has, for the
moment, been sated. Rather than continuing to explore and hike the Kenai
forests, I have been content this past month to live quietly on the same
beach on Resurrection Bay. I get into town at least twice a week for
supplies and wi-fi. Out here I write, read, fuss with digital photographs,
and work on the RV. I have a long list of things I want to do before
storing this camper for the winter. I'd like to come back to a clean, dry, ready-to-roll vehicle next
spring. The work list keeps me busy on & off.
I have compounded and waxed the entire exterior, giving
it a layer of protection from the elements. I scrubbed the rubberized roof
and re-caulked all the seams to ensure there is no leaking while I'm gone.
Many of the Walkabout's lockers and their contents were coated with dust
from my travels, some heavily. I have cleaned that up, re-packing at the
same time. Meanwhile, I've secured safe storage for the RV in Anchorage,
arranged for my insurance to switch to a lower rate the day after I put it
away, and even found a warm place to leave my guitars and aloe plant.
Mundane accomplishments, to be sure, but necessary. Nevertheless, there
remains much more to do. Because I'm still living aboard, most things need
to be done within the last week, like cleaning out the refrigerator and
winterizing the camper's pressure water system. Some, such as final engine and
generator oil changes, must wait until the last day.
By all accounts the warm, dry, sunny weather that
prevailed throughout Alaska this summer was abnormal. I'm lucky to have
been here this year to experience it. That seems to be over now. It has rained
almost steadily these past three days. When the mist
clears enough to reveal the higher mountainsides I see it has been
snowing up there, maybe a thousand or fifteen hundred feet above my sea
level campsite. Temperatures drop into the high 30's at night now, and barely reach
50 during the daytime. Summer's over, dude. Time to leave Alaska to it's
long, dark winter.
Next Entry: 09/30/04
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