Alaska, Day Three: Peace and Quiet

I love sausage. I know it’s wrong. It’s made from a bunch of chopped up animal parts that I would never normally eat whole…stuff like hearts, livers, and ankle tendons and…ugh, who knows what else. But my oh my, when you chop it all up, throw in some seasoning, squeeze it into some sheep intestines, and fry it up, it becomes so, so tasty. And what could be tastier than enjoying some French toast and sausage while looking out the window at this gorgeous view:


The day began with a beautiful drive south of Anchorage to Girdwood, home to the Aleyska Resort. As I ambled along the Seward Highway, giant chunks of ice crawled slowly down Turnagain Arm, which ran parallel to the road. Snow-covered mountains placed themselves strategically along the path, causing it to twist and turn as I barreled down in my Kia Spectra luge. The magnificence was heightened by a blackened halibut sandwich and reindeer chili from the Silvertip Grill.

Heading north, I gassed up in Wasilla (yeah, that Wasilla) on my way to my final destination, Talkeetna, a tiny town along the Alaskan Railroad responsible for many flightseeing tours to Mt. McKinley. Try as I might to schedule a flightseeing tour, only one company would take me up, and only at a $500/hr rate. Why? Because it was not tourist season. If it were tourist season, I would have also been able to frequent the town’s many shops and historical buildings. As it was, I quickly made my way through the three open shops, one of which had a box of Iditarod trading cards on the counter. They seemed like a cool, unique, local phenomenon, so I bought one. When I checked myself into the Talkeetna Roadhouse, the innkeeper informed me that nobody in town would be open for breakfast. In response, I picked up a raspberry roll (like a cinnamon roll, but with raspberries instead) at the Roadhouse’s bakery and went for a walk.

One Of These Three Stores Is Open. Can You Guess Which One?

Talkeetna Roadhouse

Reportedly, the Talkeetna cemetery has a monument for those who have died in their attempt to climb Mt. McKinley, the highest point in North America. Sadly, I was thwarted in my smaller-scale attempt to visit said monument when the snow’s surface gave way and I became lodged waist-deep into the ground. Where are my snowshoes? I need to buy some snowshoes.

Down by the Talkeetna River, I became acutely aware that the sounds normally infused into my environment (trains grinding, horns honking, children screaming, people yammering on cell phones, wind gusting, bass from car stereos rattling my windows, etc.) had been tamed by the frigid temperatures. I couldn’t hear anything. Everything around me was perfectly still, perfectly silent. It was so peaceful, so spiritual.