During the summer, the ferry runs every two weeks between Dutch Harbor and Soldotna on the Kenai Peninsula, taking 3 days to deliver people and goods to villages along the way.
Vacationing tourists cram on with the locals, presumably coming for the scenery although in this case, there isn’t any – only sea and sky together residing in a pearl-gray soup. The rhythmic cadence of the boat, the constant buzz of engines and the deadening mire of sea and sky, make for a soporific voyage. Meals are the most popular distraction and people play cards in the lounge or chat just to pass the hours. Some of our fellow travelers sailed out on the ferry to Dutch Harbor and are returning without having once disembarked. To be fair, stepping ashore frequently guarantees a thorough soaking.
The few native travelers on the ferry get out at Akutun, a village of modest buildings sitting at the toe of an abrupt green hill that rises toward a snow-splotched volcano poking through the mist.
We venture out for a brief walk in the insistent rain along the boardwalks threading the town which keep foot traffic and ATV’s from bogging down in the mud. But first we buy homemade cookies from a group of teenage girls who meet the ferry hoping to raise scholarship money for a tribal member.
A small Russian Orthodox church stands locked amid nameless gravestones enclosed by miniature white picket fences, their stout crosses erect in the untended vegetation.
Subsistence hunting and gathering is a real thing in Alaska and Salmon Berries are an important traditional food; the loss of a crop is vexing.
“It’s the worst July we’ve had in years”, a resident we meet by chance, tells us. “The rain is ruining the salmon berry crop. They don’t taste good and the bugs get to them. When it’s wet, the slugs crawl up the stems and eat the fruit”.
The only industry in the village is a fish processing plant and from the look of things, the world comes to work here, too.
One of our fellow travelers had ridden the ferry the previous year and told us of 45 Russians who came to work at the plant.
“None of them could speak a lick of English. Just Russian except for lots of M….F….s”
Nothing quite satisfies like Anglo-Saxon expletives.
Cold Bay
Cold Bay is a clutch of buildings on a flat, wind-strafed peninsula, connected to the sea by a long pier. A brave few of us try to cross the pier in a howling gale that drives rain through our GorTex. A double rainbow arcs above the island as recompense for the dousing.
King Cove
We know the town from the onion dome of the Russian Orthodox Church. It lies over the bridge, too far to walk during the measly 30 minutes we are allowed off the boat. We content ourselves with a stroll on the shingle among discarded and weathered fishing boats and crab pots awaiting the next season. Mussels and star fish cling to the lava in the shallow water beneath the bridge and milk chocolate puddles pool in the potholes in the road.
Chignik
A band of young men board the ferry at Chignik. Fishing pays well but this year the puny salmon runs left the men without work and they are beating a retreat back to the lower 48 or wherever they came from. Dutch Harbor lies in another district with different fish populations that aren’t as threatened as salmon. With rising temperatures, salmon populations keep dropping and there is no end in sight.
Homer
The Homer Spit is an altogether unattractive melange of unpropitious elements – tents where fishermen live when not at sea, modern hotels, tiki bars, fishnet restaurants, RV parks – all cheek to jowl on a long, narrow spur in peril of being reclaimed by the sea at its least whim. But the approach misleads. The town itself is very pleasant with an enviable sense of place and plenty of services.