2. Nose to Nose With a Chevy Silverado
Nose to Nose With a Chevy Silverado
LILLIAN
Getting to Naknek is a two-day affair.
Flying is a necessity.
From the second I arrive in Anchorage, I'm awed by Alaska’s beauty.
Six different mountain ranges are visible just from the airport.
California can be magnificent, but these mountains with their snowcaps and crags up against the majestic blue sky are unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
They are simultaneously like protectors and overlords.
Beautiful and terrifying at once. Tall plants with fuchsia flower clusters line the sides of the parkway.
I make a mental note to look up what kind of flowers they are.
A part of me is disappointed I can't stick around a bit longer and explore the nature Anchorage has to offer. Denali is a four-and-a-half-hour drive away, and I’ve heard the Alaska railroad has some of the most beautiful views in the country.
The next morning, I’m up bright and early to hit the airport and get to Naknek.
I knew the plane would be small, but not this small. It has propellers. Propellers. Couldn’t those things just break off and fly into the wind? And even if we survive a crash, we’d be doomed.
Climbing the few stairs into the cabin, I can literally see the cockpit. I feel sick.
There are only a few other passengers, which means I get a double seat to myself, and we take off on time. I don’t enjoy flying to begin with. And I like it even less when my stomach lurches with every bump and dip as we ascend to cruising altitude, which does not seem high enough in my opinion.
It’s loud too, so my noise-canceling headphones don’t quite do the trick. I decide to pass the short flight by looking at a book I picked up from the airport gift shop called Alaska’s Wild Plants. I know all about marine life, but plants have always eluded me. So, time to get smart.
That keeps me pretty distracted until I look up from the book and out my window, realizing we’re flanked by mountains on both sides.
I’m filled with dread for a split second, calculating how the hell we would survive the Alaskan wilderness if we crashed.
But that thought is quickly replaced with marvel.
The sharp, pointed tops of the surrounding ridge are breathtaking. How can you not be amazed at the earth and what a gift it is?
Unfortunately, the landing is no better than takeoff in terms of my anxiety. The landing strip is literally gravel. Isn’t gravel bad for traction?
The plane bounces twice as the tires hit the ground, but no one seems worried except for me.
I’m more than grateful to be alive once the plane slows to a stop.
When I unfold myself out of my seat and make it out of the tiny aircraft (alive, in one piece), I step onto the lone dirt runway that seems too short for a plane to take off.
With my luggage in hand, I set out across, greeted by a rickety plywood shed proudly labeled “South Naknek International Airport” above an empty window frame.
There's a “Lounge” sign above the open doorway. Inside, there’s a single wooden bench and an old landline phone hanging on the wall.
The air is filled with a faint smell of damp wood and stale air.
A guy from my flight, decked out in red flannel, blue jeans, and work boots, catches the look of utter confusion on my face. “Looking for the car rental office?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say with a sigh of relief. “How far is it?”
“About a ten-minute walk. But I’m heading that way now if you’d like a ride.”
“No, thanks,” I reply, forcing a polite smile.
“Suit yourself.” He shrugs, climbs into his pickup parked behind the shed, and drives off.
It would have been much easier to drive with my rolling suitcase, backpack, and overstuffed purse.
There aren’t any sidewalks and the roads are dusty, not to mention having to cross what is technically a two-lane highway to get to the rental place.
But I’ve seen too many hitchhiking stories gone wrong to get into a stranger’s truck.
And the second I step onto the property, the man from my flight steps out of the main building to greet me. The same one who offered me a ride. Red flannel and everything. That’s not embarrassing at all.
“Told you I’d give you a ride,” he says with a chuckle, a clipboard tucked under his arm.
“Better safe than sorry,” I say. “I didn’t talk with you on the phone this morning, did I?”
He looks down at his clipboard. “You’re Lillian Harvey?”
“Yes?”
“Follow me.”
He didn’t answer my question, but I’m not going to press.
The man leads me to my rental, and I immediately go slack-jawed when I come nose-to-nose with a Chevy Silverado.
“Just sign here and?—”
“I asked for a sedan,” I say, pointing limply at the truck.
“Upgrade,” he says.
I glance around the lot, which is full of cars in various states of . . . I can’t say disrepair. Maybe mid-repair. “There isn’t anything smaller?”
“You came at the tail end of tourist season. I’m running on fumes here.”
“But, I mean, I can’t drive that!”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Course you can, Lillian! Believe in yourself. The only difference from a little sedan is it runs on diesel.”
The blood drains from my face. “Diesel?”
“Yup. And it’s your lucky day; diesel just dropped in price ‘round here.” The man pushes his clipboard into my line of vision again. “You gonna sign?”
I take the pen in an absolute daze. Maybe there’s another rental place where I can find a better car.
I’ll pay out-of-pocket if I have to. I can’t be driving this thing around my entire time here.
For one, it’s humongous. For another, it is absolutely outside of my moral compass to drive a diesel engine.
I’m not making a scene, though. I will not be the temperamental city girl.
The man, Ed, hauls my bag into the bed of the truck and helps me up into the cab. This thing is massive, like riding three horses at once. But I grin and bear it, fumbling to three-point turn it out of the parking lot.
Ed flags me down in the rearview before I can pull out onto the Alaska Peninsula Highway. I roll down my window and peek over the monstrosity of a vehicle.
“Just want to let you know, Lillian, people hitch around here. Don’t make a big deal of it, alright?”
“Hitch?”
“Hitchhike?” he clarifies, pushing his chin forward.
I renegotiate my hands on the steering wheel.
“Don’t know where you’re from, but around here, it’s not some dangerous thing, alright?”
Yeah, he should tell that to that serial killer who used to hunt women down in the Alaskan wilderness with his plane.
“Good . . . um, karma,” he says with a snap of his fingers.
I force myself to smile. “Thanks for the tip.”
He slaps the side of my truck. “Alright. Take care.”
I just need to get to the cottage and drop off my things. Then . . . chai. I can already taste it.
Naknek is as scenic as it is decrepit. The buildings all look rundown and weathered. All the blemishes are even clearer under the summer sun. I’m sure these buildings have done their duty all these years, bearing the Alaskan winters.
And yet, while the town is a bit rundown, the surrounding nature brings it to life.
The Naknek River is wide and still, with boats coming in and out of Bristol Bay.
Salmon season is ending, so I wonder what accounts for all the busyness.
I’m interested to hear from the local fishermen how their yield has been this summer.
Across the river, I catch glimpses of South Naknek, where many of the docks and some canneries are. I still haven’t figured out how people get across. Apparently in the winter, the ice is solid enough to drive on, and they literally use a plane to get kids to school on the south bank.
My worst nightmare.
The drive is short, as I expect is true of everywhere in the Naknek area. My rental cottage is one of a small neighborhood of cottages that has long-term and vacation rentals alike. They’re all carbon copies of one another—blue metal roofs with light wooden walls.
After struggling to get my bag down from the truck bed, I head into my cabin, my home sweet home right on the Naknek river.
Inside is smaller than I anticipated. I was particularly impressed that the pictures had shown a kitchen separate from the living space, but they must have used a wide-angled lens on the camera because the galley kitchen is nowhere near as big as the picture made it look.
I’m also shocked when I flop down on the bed and realize it’s two twins pushed together instead of a full.
A bed is a bed. This is all for science, anyway. Function over form, hm? That’s the Alaskan way.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, which surprises me considering the limited cell service out here. It's a text from my sister.
So? Are they naked?
I laugh, rolling my eyes. Her horny brain cells really work overtime. I respond in kind.
Sadly, not :(
I force myself up from the bed to check out the rest of the cabin. There’s a door out the back of the house that leads down a grassy hillside to a stony beach. At least the views are expansive, even if the insides aren’t.
I know I’m going to be spending a lot of time in here going over my data and writing reports, so I might as well see what Naknek has to offer.
Which means it’s chai time.
There isn’t really a downtown in Naknek. Buildings are just peppered wherever they landed. I make a beeline to the only place that appears to carry what I desire.
The Half-Hitch coffee shop is a long, brown structure right off the main road that looks like the freight car of a train.
All the signage is homemade and hand-painted, and there’s a hand-carved bear out front.
There are a few foldable tables and chairs, all occupied by people enjoying the “nice” weather.
I pull my truck into a semblance of a spot. This thing is so embarrassing and gauche, but it’s not the only truck here. I’m sure all those drivers, though, know how to get out of this sort of thing. I kinda just slide down and hope my feet hit something.