Alaska Begins With Anchorage

Anchorage was not what I imagined. I had envisioned a city cradled by untamed wilderness, where people live in communion with nature, deeply attuned to its rhythms and mindful of its fragility simply because nature is their closest neighbor. In my imagination, Alaska has an almost mythical reputation, and I was a bit caught off guard by my initial impression. On the drive from the airport to the apartment, I was greeted not by pristine beauty but by big-box stores and urban sprawl as far as I could see. It was a jarring reminder that sometimes the imagination and the reality are worlds apart. But as I delved deeper into Alaska, getting to know its people and landscapes, the state slowly revealed its true, mythical splendor.

Our apartment was tucked behind a strip mall, surrounded by small, weathered homes that bore the unmistakable marks of nature’s relentless wear. It looked like it had gone a few rounds with Mother Nature -- and lost. Meanwhile, Kip was ecstatic that we had a Carr's Supermarket in our backyard.

In Anchorage, we got our bearings, mapped out our plans for our trip, and had ourselves a few adventures. We started with a leisurely bike ride along the Tony Knowles Coastal Trail. This 11-mile (one-way) paved route follows the water at the confluence of Knik Arm and Turnagain Arm. While the trail is "said to be" mostly flat on the brochure, you wouldn't know it when you have an extra 45 pounds that you're pulling behind you. Through the cool morning air, on a tandem bike for the first time, Onora quipped, "I need my sweatshirt because I'm not moving anything except my mouth." And, that was the honest to God's truth. It was the dictionary definition of "A Free Ride." As I sweat it out, I'd look back to see her serenely looking at the scenery with her feet propped on the center bar of the bike, pedals going like mad; a ghost rider with a competitive edge. The flats were flat, the downhills were a screaming fast blessing, and the uphills were a grueling workout that left my legs pleading for mercy, often leading to a humiliating dismount to walk the bike the rest of the way. During one of my more discouraging dismounts, I started to push the bike, only to realize that she was still sitting on her seat, pretty as a picture. I thought, "She's taking this free ride a little too far." "Off," I instructed. Meanwhile, her mouth had a motor of its own. She proposed philosophical questions, practiced speaking in various accents, spouted theories on life, remarked on the scenery, pointed out moose in the treed forest along the way, and posed scenarios that tested our readiness if we should come upon a bear on our path. If only I could store up that energy to power the bike. We could have made it clear across Alaska in record time.

After conquering a particularly long hill, we earned our first planned rest. We parked our bikes right in the runway path of Ted Stevens International Airport, where we got front-row seats to several planes taking off directly overhead. It was like the universe knew we needed a break and threw in some in-flight entertainment—literally.

Talk about a well-earned treat: Nothing beats Handcrafted Alaskan Ice Cream after a 22-mile ride. We opted for non-traditional flavors and tried Blueberry and Baked Alaska with delicious marshmallowy meringue.

Alaska is home to 229 federally recognized tribes, representing over 180,000 tribal members, scattered across the vast state—from the lush forests of Ketchikan in the southeast panhandle to the icy reaches of Barrow on the Arctic Ocean. We spent several hours at the gorgeously designed Alaska Native Heritage Center to learn about these various cultures.

The center plays a crucial role in preserving and celebrating the rich heritage of Alaska's Indigenous peoples by safeguarding and showcasing the diverse traditions, languages, and art forms of Alaska's Native cultures. Through exhibits and artifacts, the center ensures that traditional knowledge and practices are preserved and passed on to future generations. In addition, by providing native artists, including carvers, weavers, and bead workers, a place to create and display their work, 100% of proceeds go directly to benefit the artist and their particular tribe.

The highlight was the "Traditional Games Demonstration," given by Colton Paul, named Alaskan Athlete of the Week at the 2024 World Eskimo-Indian Olympics just two days before we visited the museum. Colton, claiming a whopping 5 world records, spent 30 minutes demonstrating several traditional kicks that take incredible strength, flexibility, and balance.

We watched dancers performing a "Love Dance," which told a story using hand movements and drum beats. Later, in the spitting rain, we walked through traditional huts in the style of various tribes, spoke with artisans who make and sell trade beads for fur pelts, or carve elk and moose antlers into everything from earrings to knives.

Did you know that Liam got his pilot's license? He learned to fly a plane before learning to drive a car!

Our next adventure was a 7-seater Cessna seaplane, piloted NOT by Liam but by Tia. This plane, made 1973, looked a little worse for wear. I was made in 1975 and I guess I do too. But, this baby is in prime condition (I wish I could say the same). It gets a full engine overhaul every 2,000 hours of flight time.

The plane spluttered to life, its propellers whirring as we adjusted our headphones with attached microphone sets. It only took a few hesitant tries of "Can you hear me?" on the speaker system to feel like real aviators. But, once we worked out the kinks, the delays, and how far to keep the microphone from your mouth, we became comfortable...possibly over-comfortable. I think Onora asked Tia the same question about why the rivers were different colors...Three. Different. Times. I'm convinced it was only to hear her voice played back in her ears for the novelty of it.

Why am I more nervous on a commercial flight than a dinky 7-seater plane that looks like it's been around since WW1? I'll tell you why. #1 Getting 7 pretty light bodies off the ground seems a much easier feat than launching 180 bodies and their luggage into the air. #2 You're only 700 ft. off the ground. Does that mean you wouldn't die if you fell? No. It doesn't. Honestly, I don't know why this is even on my list but I'm leaving it here. It makes sense to me. #3 The take-off and landing are as smooth as silk. Landing on water is like a feather landing on a pillow. None of those teeth-rattling, spine-jarring, landing-gear-buckling arrivals. Plus, being at a "mere" 700 ft takes turbulence from a "10" to a "nonexistent."

We glided over Cook Inlet, tracing the winding curves of finger lakes and glacier-fed rivers as they wove together into a single, stunning expanse of water. Each river added its own hue to the mix, creating a subdued kaleidoscope of colors...you know, the ones that Onora couldn't stop asking about.

For an hour, we gazed down at what felt like an endless gallery of abstract paintings, each one more mesmerizing than the last. The wind and rain on the Susitna Mountains didn't allow for a flyover that day but we were able to see her from a distance, misted over in rain and cloud cover.

Below us, remote cabins were sparsely scattered across the landscape. Just before the cabins appeared, the only hints of human presence were the narrow landing strips carved through pockets of trees. Shivers snaked down my spine as I contemplated living in such true wilderness. It feels unimaginable. Accessible only by seaplane, folks come out here for months at a time, living off the grid and relying solely on the land and their own wits. Our pilot narrated the landscape with an intimate familiarity, pointing out the topography, rivers, and even the belugas swimming below. It was as if she was woven into the very soul of the land, knowing it as intimately as her own body.

There's a unique philosophy to being in a small plane. You're elevated just enough to drink in the vastness of raw wilderness, yet low enough to witness beluga whales breach, animals roaming freely in open fields, and even the faintest signs of human presence on the land. In this suspended space, the usual boundaries between earth and sky blur, leaving you, all at once, with a feeling of exhilaration and serenity. Touching down at Knik Arm, skidding across the surface of the water, like a water strider, the awe of the experience gave way to the solid reality beneath me. Maybe I should get my pilot's license?

Traveling back in time a bit: In 2001, Kip went on a three-week Outward Bound adventure in the untamed wilds of Alaska. Loaded with camping gear, cooking equipment, food, and supplies, he spent those weeks rafting rivers, camping on glaciers, hiking, and ice climbing while subsisting on iodine-treated water, 5 lb. bricks of cheese, peanut butter, and oatmeal. The pinnacle of the experience was a solitary 24-hour stint with only his thoughts for company. His takeaway wasn't necessarily about testing his stamina or fortitude. It was a deep appreciation and amazement of the untouched beauty of Alaska's wilderness, in all its forms, and the personal connections to the 10-person community of fellow outdoor lovers he met along the way. The group spent their final night at the Moose's Tooth Restaurant to celebrate their trip. Fourteen slices of pizza later, Kip can still recall the meal as one of the most satisfying he's ever had.

Kip circa 2001 at the Moose's Tooth Restaurant

The Moose's Tooth. So, this is where we found ourselves, 23 years later, on our last night in Anchorage. We didn't realize how famous this place was until we pulled into the parking lot at 5:30 pm, a time usually reserved for the elderly crowd, and found ourselves looking at an hour's wait for dinner. If you've been following along, "The Legacy of the Diggeses," was pulled out and spit-shined. Long wait? No problem.

Dinner was a lively affair with lots of laughs. I couldn't tell you what we talked about but I can tell you that we were in rare form. Pizza (though not 14 slices each) was followed by Moose Pie and a Brownie Sunday before heading back home to pack for our next stop in the mountains near Girdwood.

I'm incredibly grateful that our kids embrace every opportunity we throw their way. Let's get in a tiny plane. Sure! Want to try and raft class 4 rapids? Why not? How about a 2-hour horseback ride? I'm in! Who wants to play dress up for a photo? Yes, please! They dive into new experiences with boundless enthusiasm, curiosity, and a can-do attitude. In our household, "boredom" is a foreign concept, and discomfort is simply another opportunity for them to grow and stretch their limits. I'm thankful to have them all by our side and see the world through their eyes.