In search of my inner-1970s Alaskan

I was indiscriminately rooting through the stacks of yellowed books that are tucked in a back corner of the Bishop’s Attic in Palmer when I came across a fine gem, at least according to my sensibilities.

“55 Ways to the Wilderness in Southcentral Alaska” is an indispensible guide for anyone who has stumbled along a trail in this area, and as the 1970s-era cover photo stared back at me, I knew my already overcrowded bookshelf would have to make room for this tome. Maybe it was time to jettison one of my many learn-to-speak-Spanish books that have done nothing more than induce an acute feeling of guilt that causes me to avoid eye contact with that particular shelf. Regardless, the book was purchased and I feel my bookshelf is now inoculated against sourdough-hiker criticisms.

This isn’t the sanitized book of the present, mind you, with its inoffensive mountain photo and sensible colors on the cover. The book I bought is riddled with pictures of real people from the 1970s whose love of hiking in cutoff shorts and all flavors of cotton is a harsh reminder of how much cooler people were back then.

Their faces reveal an easy contentment and free-spirited gentleness that could only accompany a time before an understanding of the HIV virus and the invention of acid-washed jeans. Back before Clint Eastwood spoke to chairs and the Cyrus family had yet to haunt us with their music, these people depicted a simpler, more elegant existence without bear spray or Gore-Tex, ready for adventure in a state with a population less than half of what it is today. Back then, the Mat-Su Borough had a recorded population of fewer than 10,000 brave individuals. Now the population is close to 94,000. As I flipped through the book, the walls began to close in around me and I yearned for the simplicity depicted in the grainy photos — it was time to escape to the mountains.

Since the book included no novel hikes for me in the immediate vicinity of Palmer, I chose one toward Anchorage that began near the terminus of Hiland Road in Eagle River. I don’t know whether to be impressed by, or a little scared of, people who manage to eke out an existence in a place that must get no more than 15 minutes of sunlight a day during winter. Fortunately, as the trail headed up the valley, these thoughts disappeared with the houses. The sun poked out, and I could now focus on finding my inner-1970s Alaskan.

Predictably, the scenery was gorgeous. I don’t think I have ever regretted going on a hike in Alaska — with the obvious exception of the jaunts that began with the words “it’s just on the other side of this patch of alders,” of course. But this wasn’t one of those. Some vandals had littered the trail with a comfortable width of gravel, and the mountains were a blotted patchwork of fall colors — the prettiest colors in the world to my eyes — usually only seen in the four hours between summer and the first snowfall.

People strode by in unnerving Spandex-rich ensembles, emblazed with logos and gleaming with purpose and speed. There were strollers and dogs and groups of runners and a confusing amount of neon colors. As I crossed the south fork of the Eagle River, the trail finally got a bit muddy and the hordes dwindled. I ate some half-decayed remnants of what might have been blueberries and settled down on a comfortable patch of tundra.

Alaska has changed. Never again will cutoff shorts be the norm on the trails (let’s hope) and there are more of us out there wandering around, looking to engage in the wilds of Alaska firsthand. We ride, we paddle, we ski, we run, we walk, we fly. We stumble upon bears, look moose in the eye, listen to the screeches of hoary marmots and are amazed at and slightly fearful of the cleverness of the massive black ravens with whom we share this great land. I think it is this innate drive, and the subsequent understanding that it prompts, that will save us from ourselves. Our compulsion to escape to the wild when the walls close in has hopefully delivered us to a place where we understand the preciousness of wild Alaska and make decisions with our feet on the ground and our eye on the surrounding mountains.

The magnitude of the effects that humans can have on this land is increasing faster than our population. With each big box store and fast food chain that springs up we resemble the Lower 48 a little bit more. Not that I am necessarily complaining, mind you, as I have slid through a grease-filled drive-through more than once on a quest for some late-night fuel. But as I looked down at my blueberry juice-stained thumb I knew that up here is the Alaska that matters — the Alaska that needs to be fought for and protected, the real reason why we all put up with frost heaves and mosquitoes. To live on the edge of true wilderness is a blessing only a small number of people in this world can boast, and we are the keepers of this covenant, the guardians of Alaska’s wilderness identity.

So let’s remember to protect our wilds. If we don’t, I suspect the clever ravens will come for us and we will be haunted by ghosts in cutoff jeans.

Pete LaFrance grew up in Palmer and has moved back to the area after a number of years living abroad.