Ninilchik to Homer

Day 15--Friday, August 2, 2002, 46.87 miles

We awoke this a.m to find our fishermen fan club waiting for us. Charlie, Cathy, and Treever were leaving for more fishing in Hope, but before leaving they gave us their e-mail address and brought over a big vacuum-sealed filet of smoked salmon. Brent & Son replenished our Oregon cherries. Life really was a bowl of cherries. Instead of coffee we had peppermint cocoa for breakfast, which consisted of our usual oatmeal, but supplemented liberally with raisins and dried fruit.

As usual, we kicked around catching up on our correspondence, saying our goodbyes, and packing, so didn't get out of camp until noon. We weren't many miles down the road when Brent passed us with a friendly toot.

We stopped for a late lunch after 25 miles or so at Anchor Point. Ate our salmon of last night (not the smoked salmon) with cream cheese and avocado in rolled tortillas. We sat at a little picnic table outside a grocery, and so observed several Russian couples coming and going. The men look almost stereotypical with bushy dark beards and mustaches. Most wear belted, embroidered Cossack shirts with high collars, generally in purple, blue or white. The women look a little Amish at first, but then you realize that their headwear is more elaborate and that they are wearing jewelry and make-up. They wear long-sleeved, long dresses of any color and style, and several were wearing and apron over their skirts. 

After eating lunch, we left our BOBs at the grocery and rode a 4-mile round trip down to the beach so that we could say that we'd been at the furthest driveable point west. We also wanted to see the sea tractors. These are big diesel tractors modified to exhaust above the cab and pull boat trailers. They drive right into the ocean through the breakers to put in and haul out boats. Young guys (Russian seemingly) in waders ride on the back and get wet to the armpits hooking and unhooking boats. I took several photos. 

The terrain yesterday was up and down as it has been for the past several days, but some of the hills were longer and steeper than before. On one steep one, Jess and I both thought BOB had gone flat. Shortly before Homer we had a long steep uphill that kept snaking up. It was a trial, particularly as it is in the high 70s and very warm. It was nothing, however, compared to the looong, steep 2- or 3-mile downhill into Homer. I don't look forward to climbing it on our way back up the Peninsula.

Taken from the top of the hill down into Homer and the Homer Spit

That's the Homer Spit you can vaguely see reaching out into Kachemak Bay from the left

From the top of this hill you are greeted by a view to the south that is stunning in its beauty and grandeur: Far below lies the Homer Spit curving 5 miles out to sea, across Kachemak Bay, and the rugged Kenai Mountains spread east, west, and south. Soaring snow-capped peaks overlook massive glaciers crawling toward the sea. The guidebook says that "this is one of the few places in the world, if not the only place, where several glaciers and active volcanoes can be viewed at the same time."

We were planning on camping at Seaside Farms Campgrounds and Hostel on the recommendation of several, but learned that it was 5 miles out of town. My fishing charter was another 5 miles out at the end of the Spit. Since I had to be at my charter at 6 a.m., we could not camp that far away. So, as I write this, we are camped on the Spit per my original plans.

After setting up camp and taking showers, I got in touch with my charter people and then we ate at one of the many seafood places out here. We couldn't resist because the wonderful smells lured us as we rode through in search of a place to pitch the tent. We shared a fish and chips and had fantastic chowder in a sourdough bread bowl and a coupla beers to help us "vege out" after a full day. Don't have a clue as to why a 40-mile day up here feels like an 80-mile OK day. 

[I am turning what was a website into this blog 12 years after the ride and now know the cause of my tiredness. I had no B12 and was anemic. I have been giving myself a shot of B12 every month since.] 

After dinner, we had to visit the Salty Dawg Saloon, of course. The Salty Dawg was built in 1897 as one of Homer's first cabins. Half of the present day saloon was once the town's P.O., and later a railroad station, grocery store, and coal mining office. A second building, built in 1909, also served as a P.O. and grocery, as well as a schoolhouse and family home. The tiny, low-doored buildings were joined and made into a saloon in 1957, then moved to the present location after the 1964 earthquake.

The Salty Dawg still lays claim to a surly reputation as a hangout for the rough and rowdy. Its floors are ankle deep in wood chips and its ceilings low and plastered with autographed dollar bills, t-shirts (including one from Eskimo Joes), bras, etc. The tables are thick slabs of wood, knife-etched with initials from 100,000 nights of drinking. On the ATM machine is a bumper sticker: "Homer, a quaint little drinking town with a fishing problem." The place is packed with men. I see only two other women. Jess and I share a Homer brew that comes in a SoBe bottle. I wonder idly about sanitation. We quit the joint and hit the sack about 10:30.