In Seward for a few days. Happy wife is attending a conference. And I’m not! So out for a ride with Otis. But first, a trip into town for an espresso and breakfast sandwich, where I was once visited by a Raven. Those of you who know me well, know of my affection for Ravens. And few places in the world are host to Ravens as large as those in Alaska. Corvus corax is big of brain. This guy sure was fond of the few bits of my breakfast sandwich I shared with him. Photogenic too. Look at the talons on that bugger!
Back at the beach house I changed clothes and set out on Otis, headed for Exit glacier, pushed along by a nice tailwind, one I knew I’d be fighting on the return. But what a day! About halfway down the dead end road I got my first glimpse of all that remains of the aptly named Exit glacier.
As you get closer to the park entrance it feels like a graveyard march through time. Small signs mark the retreat of the glacier starting in 1815. A few hundred feet further, 1899, then 1912, then 1950, etc.. In a hundred years or so there won’t be enough left to cool a summer drink. I’m pleased I was here to see this old guy.
Had a short conversation at the park service information center with a nice fella visiting from Mississippi. He was looking over Otis pretty carefully, said it looked like a nice ride. I assured him he is, then added, “On a day like today I could get lost in my head and ride all the way to America.” He laughed and asked, and what is this? I asked him to pardon my Alaskan provincialism.
He told me he doesn’t ride too much anymore. He appeared to be in his late sixties, maybe seventy. Said when he was 52 years old he was riding in a fast pace line when all of a sudden a dog appeared among the bikes, and he went down hard. Took extensive surgery and weeks in recovery to put him back together again. Made worse by the fact that his doctors discovered he had osteoporosis, something he’d been unaware of. Not two weeks out of rehab and he was back on the trainer again. Typical biker. I wished him and his wife well and told them to enjoy Alaska. They boarded the park shuttle and down the road they went.
I followed shortly after, happy for my ability to ride here, on a day like this.
Back at the beach house. 32 miles. Nice.
In a hundred years or so there won’t be enough left to cool a summer drink.
While Exit may be receding, as evidenced by its historic markers, this does not conclusively prove that Exit will not be there in 100 years.
I know I won’t be here.
I know I won’t be here.
That statement has a higher probability of being conclusively true, Rod.
I keep meaning to go bicycle in Alaska. I also keep thinking I should bicycle again in Uruguay. It fascinates me that in late August-early September, which is when I’d probably go on either such trip, the weather in Anchorage and Montevideo is very similar.