Gustavus and Glacier Bay
We wrap up our two-month road trip throughout Alaska with a stay in Gustavus (pop 428), a tiny town that stands near where Muir Glacier once dumped into the sea.
In 1680, this area was a grassy valley full of salmon streams, while the glacier loomed in the background. The Huna Tlingit tribes of Alaska harvested salmon and forest delights until the glacier’s rapid advance in the year 1750 chased them out. The glacier advanced “as fast as a dog could run.” But the resilient Tlingit people returned as the glacier retreated and ultimately carved out Glacier Bay.
Marilynn and I hop off the ferry and walk on land that used to be glacier covered. Now the land is growing a wide array of flora and fauna attracting ecologists from around the world. The ground itself is growing, rising several inches yearly, rebounding from the weight of the rapidly retreating glacier (isostatic rebound). While ecologists study newly forming forests, the native population recently won a lawsuit to claim this “new” land.
We hike and bicycle around grasslands and forest, where bears forage and wildflowers explode into color. Of course, we manage to find the two places in Gustavus that serve alcohol, one of our honed travel skills, and chat with friendly folks who love living remote. Like much of Alaska, they work hard during summer tourist season to sustain for the rest of the winter.
Okay, it’s time to splurge on a 55-mile boat ride from the lodge up to the tidewater glaciers.
It’s the only way to see them, or by kayak, but that would take days. Oh yes, a cruise ship is another way as well.
The struggle between preserving the environment and providing a tourist attraction is nothing new.
Here the current agreement allows only two cruise ships daily to travel through the bay.
Of the 300,000 yearly visitors here, less than 10% of them ever step foot on land.
The Glacier Bay Lodge serves as a hub for tours and offers packages that include lodging and the boat tour.
Just be prepared for everything to be overpriced, even by Alaskan standards.
Glacier Bay National Park holds 3.3 million acres and is designated by UNESCO. Most of the glaciers are retreating, with only a few still growing.
The array of wildlife, from marine mammals to grizzlies and goats and birds almost overshadows the glaciers.
And then there’s the scenery. We just enjoy it all, knowing that we’re experiencing something special.
Sometimes it’s just that simple. Thank you, Abundant Universe.
Somehow this mayhem works. Few accidents occur and road rage does not appear to exist in this gentle culture. We already know from similar experience in Ho Chi Minh City that you must walk with a steady stride so that traffic can adjust to your pace, and flow around you like a school of fish. Of course, we’re lost. 
Wising up the following day, we take a tuk-tuk on a mission to walk along the Mekong River, where there’s a sidewalk. Slowly getting our legs back, but still delirious, we wonder if we’re getting too old for this type of travel. Nah, bring on the freaky food! On a walk back to the hotel, we do a reconnaissance mission seeking a restaurant that serves tarantula and red tree ants. Pure Cambodian country fare.
We get bad news from back home in the states, as my father is hospitalized with serious health problems. Not sure if we need to fly back now or later, we debate our future. Finally, we decide to play it by ear and not make any long-range plans. Another night of insomnia, surely caused by jet lag combined with worries. Either way, it is time for an afternoon beer on a street known for its nightlife.
Okay, a few beers later we visit “Romdeng” restaurant to dine on tarantula with black pepper lime sauce, and red tree ants with beef filet and spicy basil stir fry. The sauce dominates the ant dish, and we have no need to eat tarantula again! This restaurant is staffed by former street youths with teachers that present kids with career training. We’ll return to support this worthy cause but will skip the creepy crawlies next time.
Health news from back home gets better, so we book a minivan for a five-hour ride to the small beach community of Kep.
We sit in our assigned seats, when two other travelers approach with the same seat booking. Turns out that I booked this ride on internet without noticing that the next available opening was several days away! If we were in the US, we would simply be kicked off the bus. In Cambodia, the driver says, “Oh, problem.” He then removes some cargo, flips out a bench seat for two in the luggage area, and squeezes us in. Resolves problem. Love Cambodia. Never been so happy to sit on the bumpy bench in the back.
Kep. Wow! Laid back town with a small beach, surrounded by jungle covered hills and national parks. It has wide streets with sidewalks and an inviting waterfront where a person can sit with a cold beer and watch folks gather bamboo crab pots. 
A very welcome calm from city mayhem. We sit on the porch of our fabulous bungalow at “Atmaland,” and relax. As my father’s health slowly improves back home, we start to get our legs back. 
Kep, actually known for it’s crabs, lives up to the hype. The crab market has, well, crabs, everywhere, along with squid, octopus, fish, shrimp, sting ray on a stick, and other things we cannot identify.
These tiny blue crabs infused with Kampot pepper sauce demand a good bit of work for little payoff in meat. But then, we are spoiled as far as crab goes, from hanging in places like Oregon and Alaska. While the crab disappoints, the Kampot pepper sauce rocks.
Time for a shaded, mountain hike through a rainforest complete with monkeys and ocean vistas.
Our bungalow backs up to the Kep National Park. For only one dollar the Park’s five-mile loop trail makes for the perfect morning walk.
After four days of peaceful bliss, we’re hopping a minivan to the nearby town of Kampot. I got the booking date correct this time. Thank you, abundant universe!
This stretch of unfrozen water provides spawning ground for the final salmon run on the north American continent. That’s why an estimated 3,000 bald eagles converge here annually for a final feed every November, in Haines, Alaska.
Marilynn and I have volunteered as caretakers at the 
High-pitched screeches in the distance call for us to pick up the pace, and break free of the woods obstructing our view. Viola! There be eagles, hordes of them!
Some soar down to the river to snatch a swimming fish with their talons, while others line up along dead-end channels that trap Coho and Chum.
Many eagles perch in the trees to rest, or wait for an opportunity to steal another’s catch. Perhaps they conduct business in a language we cannot understand.
The eagles have arrived at their annual convention/feed. I’m not sure exactly how many have come. How can you count them all?
Outside of a few serious photographers, this week we have the place to ourselves. A handful of hearty humans shall arrive next week to enjoy this amazing event, and participate in the Bald Eagle Festival activities in Haines Borough for a final economic boon before winter.
We experience the gathering of eagles in one of the most pristine settings on planet earth. If anything, this phenomenon is under-hyped.
The cold wind blows down from glacial separated jagged mountains, and we seal the gaps in our clothing, looking forward to stoking up the wood burner back at the cabin.
