Sunday 7-29
Yesterday we were forced by an incoming caravan to leave our original campsite in the center of Valdez and move to a campground on the shore of the bay--a not unpropitious development, but nonetheless, we abhor caravans. Well, maybe “abhor” is a little strong, but we don’t understand the caravan mentality. Caravans are sometimes quite large groups of RVs led by a “wagon master”. You pay to participate in these wagon trains and then cede your independence to a gaggle of like-vehicles stopping when, where, and for as long as the wagon master dictates. Yuk. We see travel by RV as an essentially private experience. Since we carry our own home with us, we can dictate our own schedule, pick our own stopovers, and live independently. For us, the Admiral is the anti-hotel, anti-cruise ship, anti-tour bus. Maybe the participants in caravans are worried about being attacked by Bedouin raiders? I can see it now, a legion of white burnouses bobbing gracefully on their camels, plunging out of the mountains to surround the circling RVs with their long rifles popping puffs of smoke as they fire away. There in the center is the fearless wagon master waving his atlas at the invaders and shouting bravely, “STOP! STOP! WE HAVE A SCHEDULE TO KEEP”. But I digress…
This morning we reluctantly leave Valdez. This place has been good to us, and we’ll miss it. To bid us a fond and final farewell, Valdez Bay delivers us a spectacular day…cloudless sky, placid waters, flocks of crying gulls, and schools of leaping salmon. Oh my, how beautiful this place is.
As we climb out of the valley, over Thompson Pass, we get a new perspective on the mountains that surround Valdez, and, despite having taken hundreds of pictures on the way in, also take hundreds on the way out. As we drive through the Horsetail Falls gorge, there is a heavy mist floating above the Lowe River—magical.
Along the highway on our way towards Anchorage we continue to notice how many of the roadside signs have been objects of target practice. We saw some of this in Canada, but in Alaska virtually EVERY sign has been victimized. We’ve spent an inordinate amount of time pondering this phenomenon. Are Canadians more passive? Can they afford less ammo? We think the true answer is that Americans are just better marksmen. That suggests we should have some kind of organized competition to determine the world’s greatest sign shooters--an updated, X-games version of the biathlon. Instead of shooting at trees from cross-country skis, competitors in the Signathlon would fire at road signs from moving pickup trucks. The good ole’ USA will sweep the medals in this one.
After a short driving day, we spent the night near the Nelchina River--very nice view. As we make the difficult choice between Pepperoni and Supreme, another RV nestles in behind us…perhaps the lone survivor of a caravan attack?
