Destination Homer

The early morning sky was leaden and heavy, a chill breeze cut through light clothes. It took a few trips to load everything needed for the four day trip south, but at last the truck was parked and the big coach turned onto the road. A quick stop for coffee and on to pick up the group traveling. A few stood on the curb near the pile of bags, blankets and pillows; most crowded inside the entryway - waiting. They filed out as the coach pulled up to the curb, some waiting to throw bags into the luggage bins, some more concerned about getting on first and claiming a seat - someone else could throw their bags below.

With everything put away and people settled into seats, a head count was done and, as always on these trips, someone was not yet there. A phone call was made to discover that they were still on the way and departure would be delayed until their arrival. When they arrived, there was no hurry to get from car to coach, load luggage and board. Everyone had already waited, a few more moments wouldn't make a big difference. And it didn't in the long term.

The coach turned out onto the street and toward the Parks Highway south. Traffic at this early hour was still light and would be much less once out of town. As the coach climbed out of the valley, mist swirled in trees at the top of the lower hills and disappeared completely on the higher ones. Visibility dropped to a couple of hundred feet and a few snow flakes drifted across the windshield. Winter was still trying to hold on.

The miles slipped by. Fog and snow were left behind, but the sky remained gray and heavily overcast. As the coach crossed the Nenana River, the driver glanced to the left and saw that the tripod still stood on firm ice in the middle of the river. The official arrival of spring was still a few days away. Across the river, the little village lay quiet and still, but the gas station was open for a quick stop. Everyone piled off, but no one lingered in the chill breeze that swept across the river valley. They returned, clutching light sweaters and jackets against themselves, laden with snacks and drinks that would last only a few moments before they were eagerly looking forward to the next stop.

The sun was out at Trapper Creek and the air warm enough that the group stood on the entry deck to consume some of the lunch and drinks they purchased here.

By the time the coach rolled into the outskirts of Anchorage, the skies had closed in again. While the group played, the driver took the coach to the yard to empty bags of garbage, sweep, mop, dump the restroom water and take on fuel. Then back to take the group to dinner before turning in herself.

She made her single bed in the empty driver house, changed into pajamas, put water and drinks in the fridge to cool, finished her paperwork for the day and curled up for a moment of quiet aloneness with her book before opening a window for some cool night air and turning out the light.

The alarm went off way too soon, but daylight was already lightening the sky. She was up, showered and dressed and loading her things up for another day of driving. The group was all gathered at the curb this morning, huddled in pajamas and blankets after spending the night sleeping on the floor of a local school. Bags were thrown in quickly and the group settled in for the short drive to breakfast and then curling back on board for the long drive to Homer.

At the end of Turn Again Arm, the coach turned onto the road to Portage Glacier and the Begich, Boggs Visitor Center. Tucked into the end of the valley, the snow covered glacier was barely visible in the distance. Ice still covered the lake thickly with a few open areas at the edges. A good number of the group debarked to walk out on the thick ice, a few remained - grumbling softly in their seats.

It was mid afternoon when the coach arrived in Homer, the driver eager to see this place - so far unknown. This was the place where Tom Bodet kept the light burning, this small town at the end of the road that is to Alaska what Taos is to the southwest. First stop was the high school, but it wasn't easy to find at first try. Up one wrong road before stopping to get better directions. How can one get lost in Homer?

The group piled off, wrapping blankets about thinly clad young bodies as the wind cut through all. Across the bay, clouds scudded across the sky, obscuring the peaks of the mountains. The driver stood looking out at the scene, wondering what this place must have been like during the last ice age. With maybe a few native residents - skin boats pulled up on the rocky shore, fur shelters scattered on the gentle slope where only the hardiest of small wind twisted trees bent toward the hills above. Would there be time to explore? Look around?

A quick trip to check into the hotel and back in case the youngsters needed on board for any reason. They were eager to return to the welcoming warmth of the coach after playing out in the bitter wind for an hour. Dinner was pizza at the Lighthouse on the spit interrupted by a quick run to the hospital with one of the young men who had taken a hard hit in the upper side of his chest - just a bruise.

Summer has not arrived with tourists and open shops. There was little to explore and less time to see what was there. The only light the driver found left on in Homer was the one revolving slowly in the tower of the lighthouse.