I Didn’t Always Love Alaska
Three years ago, I set foot in Sitka, Alaska for the very first time.
The day was damp and gray, much like the hundreds of days that would follow. Somewhere in the distance sat a dormant volcano, but thick, low clouds would cloak its whereabouts for weeks. We stepped off the four-day ferry with our two dogs and 18 month old daughter in tow, piled in our truck, and drove south along a curvy, coastal road. Dense fog blanketed the towering trees to our left, and the frigid waves of Sitka Sound crashed onto the rocky beaches to our right. After departing our home in Michigan nearly six weeks prior and driving west across the country, we had finally made it to the last frontier. We had finally made it to our new home.
If you’re unfamiliar, Sitka is located on the small island of Baranof in southeast Alaska. It’s a temperate rainforest, accumulating nearly 100 inches of rain annually with temperatures rarely brushing 70 in the summer. And if you think you’re familiar with Sitka because you’ve seen Reynolds and Bullock get naked in The Proposal, you’re wrong. Sitka is wild, untamed, and painfully remote. You either fly off the island by plane, sail away on a boat, or you don’t leave. It offers fourteen miles of paved road, three grocery stores, two stoplights, and a backdrop of snow-capped mountains that never failed to add magic to my day. It is unquestionably the most beautiful place I have ever seen, a place that has changed my life in ways I never expected, and a place that I will always feel fortunate to call home. Today, as I type this story in my new house in Indiana, my heart aches for Alaska, for the giant pines, for the rugged majesty of the mountains.
It wasn’t love at first sight, though, me and Sitka. We arrived during the summer of 2020 when the pandemic was clenching its wicked fist, so that first year was suffocating and one of the darkest periods of my life. Of course, everyone in the world could probably say the same about that year. Covid sucked. It tossed around all our lives like rag dolls and left us questioning if the light at the end of the tunnel would ever appear. That summer’s record-setting rainfall in Sitka only made matters worse, with stubborn gray clouds hovering just below the mountains for weeks on end. The rainy island was isolating enough without a pandemic breathing down our necks. Everyone’s eyes looked hollow that summer, the rest of their faces hidden behind masks.
Thankfully, the light at the end of the tunnel eventually appeared and our time in Sitka started feeling brighter by the day. Less and less masks were seen around town. Restaurants slowly began opening their doors. The sun started blessing us with its presence every few days or so and patchy clouds uncloaked the giant volcano that sat watch over the island. Without the pandemic’s handcuffs locked around our wrists, we could finally set out to explore our new Alaskan home.
And, boy, did we explore.
I grew up fishing in the midwest, where whopping two-pound bass and walleye were the most thrilling catches of the day. So when I hooked my very first Alaskan silver salmon back in Silver Bay, the adrenaline was palpable. There’s no bobber-fishing in Alaska. There’s no sitting around with a book while you wait for the fish to bite. There’s no boredom. Whether you’re bottom-fishing for halibut, trolling for salmon, or spin-casting for lingcod, you’re almost guaranteed to reel in something that would make my Minnesota lake fish look and feel like bait. There is nothing better than fishing in Alaska — it’s unbeatable.
If the sun was out and we weren’t fishing on our boat or at the playground with the kids, we were on a hiking trail. I’ve always been an outdoorsy girl. I love camping and beaches and hiking. But I’d never hiked anywhere like Sitka. Even the “easy” trails will take your breath away. And the “hard” ones, well, they’ll take your breath away in more ways than one. I’ll never forget the first time I reached the top of Mount Verstovia, a 3,300 ft peak that offers remarkable views of Baranof Island and its vast terrain. Just 4.5 miles round trip, the trail juts back and forth across Verstovia’s steep, forested floor until the tree line breaks and the alpine struts out from the clouds below. It’s a rigorous hike, one that, coming from experience, I would not recommend to pregnant women. But on a decent day, if the sun is projected to come out and you’re in good physical shape, there’s no better reward than the view at the top of Mount Verstovia. Unless, of course, you’re at the top of Harbor Mountain at sunset. That view will quite literally steal the breath from your lungs.
Photo credit: Kaitlyn Hull Photography
Sitka wasn’t all thrills and adventures, though. We had bad days, too. Lots of them, especially in the winter when darkness settled in and made itself a member of our family. We welcomed our twin baby boys to the world that first December, so the following few months were long and horribly dim. Motherhood is pretty lonely at times, even more so on a damp little island in Alaska. Oftentimes, the rain felt eternal, like we’d never see the sun again. After a while, an anxious dread would creep under our skin and we’d want nothing more than to leave. But with only fourteen miles of paved road, a thirty minute drive to one end of the island and back was all we could do to keep our heads above water.
Fortunately, there was a large community of Coast Guard spouses who became like a second family to me and my kids. We were all going through the same hardships together — battling the rain, darkness, isolation, military obligations, and island-life — so we related to each other in a very natural, instant way. I don’t think I would’ve departed the island with my insanity intact if it hadn’t been for that group of women. We hiked and drank wine together. We read books together and chatted over coffee while our kids tossed toys around each other’s houses. We leaned on each other when the weight of the island was unbearable. Even if we weren’t physically together, the thought of having them close by was hugely comforting. You don’t thrive in Alaska without good people in your corner, and I had some of the best.
Three years came and went in what felt like minutes. Looking back, I wish we had done more. More cabins. More hot springs. More hikes and fishing and camping and boating adventures with friends. But what I especially wish we had was more time to do life in our little Alaskan town. What started as a foreign place that felt like a cavernous prison blossomed into a home that I wasn’t prepared to leave. I don’t think anything or anyone could’ve prepared me for saying goodbye to Sitka, because nothing prepared me for how hard I’d fall in love with it.
We boarded our departing ferry on another gray day in May, our closest friends wishing us farewell through tight hugs and tears. And as the boat drifted gently away from the shoreline, I felt a part of my heart linger back, clinging to the pines and the mountains for dear life. I wanted to stay, if only for one more day, to catch one more salmon, to watch one more bear saunter along the edge of the forest.
To watch the sun drift peacefully behind the gaze of Mt. Edgecumbe.
To drive south along Sawmill Creek road and feel so incredibly small below the mountains above.
To share pizza and beer with friends at the brewery.
To watch my kids run tirelessly around the playground until dinner.
To live and breathe and love in Alaska, just one last time.