Day 20: Anchorage to Homer

Homer, Alaska (population 4020) is a fishing town towards the bottom of the Kenai Peninsula. Besides halibut, it has two claims to fame: Jewel and the Salty Dawg Saloon. We drove down on Thursday, passing through Soldotna and several smaller settlements that exemplified the raw environment of rural Alaska. The state’s entire economy hinges on mining, drilling, fishing, and moderate timber harvest- no agriculture or resources exist save for those that can be extracted from the surrounding environment. Most jobs in Alaska revolve around those three disciplines, or exist to serve them in some way. Dangerous work is compounded by environmental hazards, and although median salaries are higher than in the Lower 48, wages often fail to cover the dramatically increased cost-of-living: imported goods (that’s EVERYTHING) get pricey. Subway can’t even turn a profit on a $5 footlong… they’re $6 up here.

Plenty of people lived along the side of the road in haggard Winnebagos, Quonset huts, and prefab houses in various states of disrepair. It’s not unusual to see homes repaired with duct tape or plastic tarps. Rural Alaska has the same feel as the rural South, but in central Mississippi the people don’t have to deal with temperatures ranging from 90 above to 70 below, 9 month winters without a single ray of sunlight, and mosquitoes that can airlift you up into the trees to suck you dry. Alaska’s citizens are a hearty breed.

In contrast to Anchorage, Homer was “real” Alaska, just as Savannah represents a more “real” Georgia than does Atlanta. The town’s most interesting feature was the Homer Spit, a finger of gravel running out into Kachemak Bay. It’s certainly worth a peek on Google Maps. Rusty fishing boats groaned at their moorings in the Spit’s crowded harbor. We visited Mason’s grandparents for a bit and pitched our tents on the beach across from the harbormaster’s office. It was no accident that we’d chosen to camp close to the Salty Dawg Saloon, a local landmark and truly epic local dive.

We moseyed over for a cold one, and were pleased to find that they served Homer’s local brew- it came in old Sobe Ice Tea bottles. From a brewing perspective it needed a bit of fine tuning. The inside of the Salty Dawg (it was literally a shack with a lighthouse next to it) was festooned with nautical memorabilia covered in dollar bills. They were literally tacked to every available surface- to the walls, the ceilings, the life preservers, the bar, the door, even covering the windows. It wasn’t Karaoke night, but we would have sung “Intuition” in honor of Homer’s most famous daughter. We hoisted a few and met some of the locals (boy, were they colorful characters) before walking across the Spit’s only road to our tent.