Some people argue that travel can be immensely
disappointing. We visit places to escape our current lives and situations, only
to find that life carries on much like our own in the places we visit. I
suppose if you are predisposed to pessimism this view makes perfect sense. I
don’t subscribe to that line of thinking. However, there are some places that
even the most pessimistic travelers would be hard pressed to find
disappointing; places that are so unique and different that we overlook the
similarities and simply gawk in awe at the novelty of the place itself. I set off on a whirlwind weekend adventure
and found myself in just such a place – Barrow, Alaska.
Hanging forlornly on the wall of the airport terminal (a
generous term to be sure) is a small picture of Sir John Barrow, the namesake
of the northernmost town in the United States of America. Barrow was a British naval officer who
advocated the exploration of the arctic regions in the late 1700s. Though he never visited the point and city
that now bears his name, Barrow can rest in peace knowing that his name is now
synonymous with the idea of being “really, really far north.” At 71 degrees north latitude, Barrow is as
far north as you can go without leaving land in the USA, though that is
misleading as well. There are no roads to Barrow. None at all. The only way to
come and go is by plane, which is what I found myself doing on a Saturday in
July.
Accompanied by a fellow Alaska Airlines intern, Sam, I
stepped off the plane to a refreshing temperature of 38 degrees (Did I mention
that I was there in July? I did? Okay. Just want to make that point clear). Sam and I briskly stepped into the airport
and met with Debra, the Alaska Airlines station manager in Barrow. After exchanging
pleasantries (and a bribe of fresh fruits – a commodity that far north), Debra
gave us the keys to the late-90s Ford Ranger the airline uses around town. We
were told that the road to Point Barrow, the true northernmost spot of land in
the US, had been washed out in a recent storm, but that we were free to drive
as far as the road was navigable and anywhere else around town that we pleased.
She must have been secretly laughing inside at her knowledge about how little
there was to drive to, but we were grateful none-the-less.
Yes, people live lives in Barrow that are not too-different
than the lives we live down here in the contiguous 48. There are schools, a
hospital, and a post office. There’s a very nice library carrying the latest
new releases and computers connected to the internet with teenagers eagerly
posting Facebook status updates. There’s even a fairly well-stocked grocery
store, though the prices…well, those are unique. Still, life goes on at 71
degrees north. What drove us to Barrow and what made our trip to the town
immensely exciting and rewarding, was the knowledge of how far north we really
were. Literally, there is nothing/nobody
to the west, east, and north of you at that latitude. Only the extreme northern
reaches of Russia and Canada, and the icy expanse of Greenland, are level with
you.
Because of the excitement of finding ourselves in such a
remote outpost, Sam and I loaded into the truck and set-off at once for the
road to Point Barrow. We wanted to go as far as you could go, right away. After making our way down the dirt roads and
among the elevated wooden homes of Barrow proper, we found ourselves driving parallel
with the icy Arctic Ocean. Wow! We were staring at a sea that was, until this
moment, almost mythical. To begin with, very few people ever actually find
themselves along the coast of the Arctic Ocean. Secondly, the ocean only
resembles an ocean a few months a year. For 9+ months every year the Arctic
Ocean becomes entirely covered in ice.
Even now, in mid-July, icebergs floated idly off the beach and the
ice-shelf began a few hundred yards away. It looked cold, and it felt cold! Sam
and I pulled over, ran down the rocky beach and stuck our hands in the water. Almost
immediately, I lost feeling in my right hand. I didn’t care. I had just touched
the mythical, elusive, and mighty Arctic Ocean! I stuck my hand in again. And
again. And again. And I spent the next ten minutes feverously rubbing my hands
together in a desperate attempt at generating heat. It was wonderful.
Farther down the road we came across, entirely unexpectedly,
a sight that I was hoping to find but unprepared for at that moment. Sandwiched
between the Arctic Ocean 30 yards to the north and an expansive bay ten yards
to the south was the home field of the local Barrow High School Whalers
football team. I had seen an ESPN vignette about the team and its field, the
true Frozen Tundra (sorry, Lambeau), almost 6 years earlier. Surprised and
saddened to learn that the Whalers had been playing football on gravel for
years, a rich woman from Alabama had paid for an artificial-turf field to be
built for the school. Years after watching that vignette in awe and wonder
(mostly amazed that Barrow High played football at all), I found myself running
across the blue-turf in near-freezing temperatures in July. How on earth could
they play football here in October with wicked winter winds coming in off the
frozen Arctic Ocean a mere 30 yards away?! Again, it was wonderful.
We drove even farther down the road, past the remains of an
old Navy airfield and radar station, and eventually encountered a sign
informing us that the road beyond was impassable. We had made it! It was now
impossible to travel farther north inside the United States without hiking and
risking death-by-polar-bear. Mission
accomplished.
The town of Barrow itself is nothing much to write home
about. Every building is elevated off the ground a few feet and built on
pillars that dig into the perma-frost below. The homes are little more than
sheds with a few windows. Everything is incredibly simple. As we drove back into town we chanced upon a
rare town festival – a Nulakataq. In celebration of a successful whale-hunt,
the town gets together once-a-year to feast and party the day away. The town “park”
(a dirt and gravel lot about the size of a soccer field) was enclosed with a
tarp-fence, a noble effort to keep the winds from pummeling Nulakataq party-goers.
The entire town was inside. Literally, everyone was there – children, adults, elders,
visitors. Teenagers, all wearing the same bright-yellow hoodies, walked around
the perimeter of the park and passed out food. Rice pudding, watermelon (a
special treat), whale blubber, macaroni salad, and Halloween-like proportions
of candy were given out freely to all in attendance. Music blared loudly in the
background.
Lying loosely on the ground in the middle of the complex was
a circular mat attached at four points to long ropes. No one seemed to be using the contraption,
but it was evidently a key-piece of the celebrations to come. As Sam and I stood discretely to the side and
observed the scene before us, an elderly white lady turned to us and asked us
who we were. We explained where we were from and that we were only visiting for
the day. It was clear from her obvious New York accent that she was not from
Barrow either. She had visited the town 20 years prior and fell in love. She
never wanted to leave. Unfortunately (her words), she had a family back home in
New York and a life to live there. Still, every summer for 20 years she had
moved to Barrow to “live the life.” She loved it there. Between numerous
part-time jobs around town and a broken leg suffered at the football field
mentioned earlier (she was hit by an out-of-control player), our New York
friend had managed to become more-or-less a local over the past two decades.
She knew everyone and everything about Barrow. She explained that the circular mat
was dried and stretched seal skins and that they would use it later to toss
people into the air. This sounded immensely exciting to watch, but alas! she told
us that the toss wouldn’t be for hours more. We were scheduled to leave in only
a few hours. I cannot remember her name
anymore, but Sam and I made a friend that day in Barrow. She fed us watermelon and
offered us candy. It was a wonderful experience.
Freezing and finding little more to do in Barrow, Sam and I
decided to head back to the airport and wait out our flight south. After making a detour at the town craft store
to buy a postcard (an interesting store that sold cloth, trinkets, souvenirs,
postcards, and an extensive selection of tobacco products), we pulled up to the
terminal, parked, and sought shelter inside. Sitting next to us inside was a
middle-aged couple from Tennessee. Like us, they had traveled to Barrow simply
to say that they had been to Barrow. And, like us, they had found Barrow to be
much like the rest of our great country, but at the same time, satisfyingly
unique and special. They were not
disappointed, and neither were we. Yes, life goes on in Barrow much like it
does in less-exotic locales. People wake up, eat, go to school or work, return
home to families, and live life like the rest of us. All of that didn’t matter.
We hadn’t traveled that far north to escape anything – we were there to
experience Barrow. We were there to know what normal life is like at 71 degrees
north. We were there to feel like we
were a long ways from anywhere. We were there to be there. And it was wonderful.
