ALASKA - everyone should visit

When Barry and I joined Stu and Gay for a cruise to Alaska in the 1980s, few people were  going there, I did not expect to have the time of my life. We sailed on The Love Boat. Princess Cruises was one of the first to sail up the coast from California, past Canada, to reach the forty-ninth state. 

Every day on the ship was perfect, although a bit cold sometimes. We traveled in the fall. I had never been on a cruise ship and had some trepidation about going, but the flight to San Francisco was more frightening than the ship. We were young and I had never been far from home, had never flown in a large airplane. It was a 747 with seats on each side and another row of seats down the middle. Barry put earphones on me and helped me find music that I could turn up loud and lose myself, forget where I was. We were served champagne although we were not in first class. It was the eighties, and flying was more of a luxuary then. 

Life on the ship was a ball. The shows each evening were lots of fun and Barry and Stu often sang with the big bands. They became well known by the other passengers.

But the scenery of Alaska really impressed me. One of our outings was sailing on a raft on the Mendenhall River at the foot of the Mendenhall Glacier. Our guide was fun and knowledgeable. He pointed out Eagles, and their nests. We wore warm jackets and never got hot or cold. We stopped at an island and were served smoked salmon on crackers with wine or beer. All of us on the raft had a chance to talk together. The mountains and the sea, the rivers and the glaciers, made me feel I was in another world. We drank water from a glacier after hiking on the frozen ice for a bit.

The Mendanhall Glacier

I wish I could go back now and travel the interior of the state. We only stopped in towns close to the water, but it was fun to go into shops and to talk to people who lived there year round.

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The following was in a newsletter sent to me today by a company from which I order Alaskan Salmon. It reminded me of our trip so many years ago.

Because I need to eat more fish, and because it is easy to take one piece of frozen fish out of my freezer and cook it for myself, I am delighted to order a box every couple of months and it is sent to me quickly packed in dry ice so it never thaws until the day I want to cook it. 

This Wild Place

By Mandy Dixon

 

Fall in Alaska is a quiet magic. The summer rush starts to ease off. Light comes in lower across our bay, the water turns a deep indigo, and leaves swirl in the wind. You can smell the last cranberries — sharp and tart in the air. After all those endless summer days, the season finally exhales. Everything gets hushed. This is my favorite time of year.

 

The air has that first bite of cold — enough to wake you up in the morning, but not too sharp yet. The sky opens up wider somehow. Evenings stretch out in rose and gold, and suddenly the wood stove becomes your best friend. Guests who come now feel it too. They’re stepping into a different Alaska, something quieter and more intimate.

 

Cooking in autumn has its own pace. Summer’s all about speed and abundance — fall is about depth and taking your time. The catch is still incredible — halibut, salmon, scallops, crab — but now I can lean into it, slow things down, and bring some real warmth to every dish. Root vegetables and squash start showing up, along with hearty greens, apples, and mushrooms, taking the place of those tender summer shoots. The kitchen fills with the smell of things roasting, stocks simmering all day, chowders that warm your hands while you eat.

 

Here at Tutka Bay Lodge, autumn draws us back to the water. The fjord is still generous with us — crab pots come up heavy, late-season salmon still flash silver in the bay, and kelp hangs slick and gleaming on the rocks. Our guests figure out pretty quickly that autumn here isn’t about rushing around. It’s about honoring the ocean’s steady rhythm.

 

This is the preserving season, too. Salmon smokes over alder, roe gets cured into jeweled pearls, seafood goes into jars for winter. It’s what people have done here for generations — carrying the essence of the sea forward into the dark months.

 

Fall at Tutka Bay shows you something true: wildness and comfort aren’t opposites. They’re companions. The tide sets our tempo, the catch shapes what’s on the table, and seafood becomes more than just dinner as everything slows down. It turns into a story about this place, about resilience and gratitude — a reminder that in this brief, beautiful season, we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be. Nourished by the sea, anchored by the wild.