For my wife Gosia’s recent birthday, I bought a floral bouquet and, trying to be creative, a black-and-tan Louie’s Lunch Bucket from Duluth Trading Company ($89.95) to take to work.
The bucket proved big enough to hold a six pack of soda pop, five-course dinner, and maybe a spare car tire or a jack.
Gosia looked at her gigantic lunchbox a little dubiously after opening it. She’s an accountant, after all, not a pipeline worker.
“But all I carry to work is a yogurt, fruit, and a small piece of cheese.”
“Well, you have everything else,” I complained. “it was either the lunchbox or a sexy nightie for you.”
She winced. She was debating whether to give me a black eye or an answer.
“We’ll use it for fishing. You can fit a couple of king salmon in there.”
“You can still have the sexy lingerie, too,” I said.
She gave me THAT look.
“Is the present supposed to be for me or for you?” she pouted.
Gosia and are both Leos. Gosia’s birthday on August 7 comes before mine on August 19. Thus, for 12 days, I’m only 14 years older than my wife, not 15 like all the rest of the year.
I was born the same day, month and year as Bill Clinton. “Though I’ve aged better,” I say.
“Dreamer,” she fired back.
Anyway, before I was rudely interrupted . . . I wanted to tell you readers that I chose last weekend in Cordova as my present.
Gosia and I love visiting small cities in Alaska. The last two years, we’ve popped over to Sitka, King Salmon, Kodiak, Seward and Nome.
Gosia donated her Alaska Airlines miles, so the flight for two tix cost $22.
Connections between Fairbanks and these small towns are sparse. We boarded at 5 a.m. Friday and landed just before 3 p.m. At the long Anchorage layover, she buried her nose in a Sue Henry mystery story, while I read a biography of Robert Sherrod, the World War Two war correspondent for Time/Life.
On the plane we met our seat-mate Matt, a good-natured young fisherman awaiting the start of silver season.
“Got any restaurant recommendations?” Gosia asked.
“Many people like the Reluctant Fisherman Inn, but it’s pricey,” he said. “The Baja taco has good fish tacos.”
Upon landing, I walked across the short-term parking lot to a red building I thought was the rental car office.
There were beer advertisements on the building. I came back to the terminal where Gosia waited with the suitcase.
“It’s a bar, not a rental place,” I said to Gosia.
A local woman overheard me. “It’s both,” a lady called over to us.
Yep, turns out the Red Caboose Lounge was also home of Chinook Auto rentals.
A friendly, smiling young woman waited at the counter. Her voice reminded me of two journalists I’d met in the past.
“Are you from Nigeria?” I said.
“Same continent.”
“Kenya,” I said.
“Good guess!”
She gave us the choice of an old beat-up Jeep Patriot or a Honda SUV with 247,500 miles and a chipped window and faded paint.
I signed the damage waiver and gave a copy to Gosia waiting outside the caboose.
The falling rubber window trimming made door closing difficult on the passenger side.
“What’s left in the heap to damage?” Gosia asked.
The friendly Kenya lady had apologized as we left. These slim pickings were the only cars left unrented.
The agent said there was also a Suburban available. But it was in bad shape.
I looked it over. I concluded that the Joad family from Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath used to own this jalopy.
Happily, our Airbnb apartment awaiting us was perfect. It was spotless, equipped with full kitchen gear, and provided a picturesque view of Eyak Lake and the Chugach Mountains beyond.
A flag on the wall, next to a planter of fresh red Thai chili peppers, informed us our host hailed from the Czech Republic. The Airbnb provided coffee and tea.
We dropped our gear and raced to our first destination: a museum and adjacent library.
The museum gets five stars from us for its displays of Cordova’s fishing industry, boomtown mining relics, and panels devoted to the historical peoples on whose land we trod.
Me, a lifelong ink-stained wretch, loved an exhibit with the 19th Century linotype machine invented by Ottmar Mergenthaler that put out the pioneer Cordova newspaper.
“Mergenthaler died of tuberculosis,” I said to Gosia.
“How do you always know dumb things like that?” she asked.
Humph, so much for improving her education.
We entered the library. A cheerful librarian pointed to a wall filled with giveaway books. “It’s Freebie Friday,” she said. “Take what you want.”
I snatched two treasures, a published history of the Catholic Church in Alaska and a history of Alaska’s treaty with Russia. Gosia chose a Tess Geritsen murder (Are there any other kind?) mystery.
Hungry, we voted to get chow.
“The Reluctant Fisherman Inn or Baja Taco?” Gosia said.
“Pricey?” I reminded her.
A beat-up hippie bus greeted us at Baja Taco, along with two friendly servers at the window. We scanned the extensive menu.
We each ordered the halibut taco. We ate inside the comfortable eating area.
I’m no Anthony Bourdain, but I’d give the taco joint five shiny stars: huge chunks of meat, super sauce, tasty shell.
As always, Gosia and I decided to pick up provisions to save money. Nichols’ Back Door Company was a local supermarket celebrating its 20th year in business.
We purchased breakfast fixings, milk, butter, a strip steak, and salad makings for Saturday and Sunday morning. We went back to the cabin and read that evening on the comfortable sofa. A Dali sheep head watched us from the wall.
That night, as we dressed for bed at 8:50 p.m., the Airbnb landlord’s Black Labrador went nuts with barking.
I figured it was a moose in the yard.
We went to sleep early and awoke early to a rooster crowing. I read a phone text from the landlord. He wrote when we were in bed asleep.
“I was trying to call you last night!” he wrote. “Seems like there is a black bear hanging out in neighborhood. It was around the house around 9 p.m.”
“I can imagine why,” I said to Gosia. The large chicken house in the yard housed plump white chickens and two fat turkeys.
After I whipped up a farmer’s breakfast, we went sightseeing.
We first drove the Copper River Highway and passed the Eyak River with a fair number of fly anglers. We stopped at a display informing us about the enormous Copper River Delta and drove to stunning Sheridan Glacier and found an easily traversed trail.
The glacier sighting was among the best birthday presents I ever had.
Gosia loves landscape photography, and so she was in heaven clicking away.
Our beat-up car ran better than it looked. I would have had no problem next driving 50-plus miles to spectacular Miles Glacier, but a sign informed us a bridge ahead was out.
So, next, we came back to Cordova and drove to the once-booming cannery town of Orca, admiring its views of a rocky beach and close-by island. The town had an abandoned cannery, a café, coffee shop and lodging belonging to a wildlife adventure company.
The Orca Beach is famous for tide pooling, where seekers can find mussels, gunnels and other organisms.
We came back to Cordova and stopped at the Little Cordova Bakery. There we cheated on our diet and purchased, with tasty coffees, a maple sticky bar and a cinnamon roll that bulged in its container.
We sat down on a bench outside the bakery and shared our treats.
Two men left the shop with their own boxes of cinnamon rolls dolloped in frosting.
“My favorite,” one said to us.
“They’re awesome,” said the other.
“Mmmmph,” I said swallowing a chunk. “They’re killers,” I agreed.
Gosia ate several bites but surrendered. I polished off the sticky bar and roll.
“Don’t worry, there’s no calories if eaten on a birthday,” I said to Gosia.
“Oh, yeah? Keep eating these and you’ll have a belly like a table,” she answered.
We wiped our sticky faces with napkins and went next door to investigate Sue’s Knives and More.”
The “More” turned out to be musical instruments, Alaska souvenir paraphernalia, clothing, toys, swords, red salmon windsocks, and, clever handmade crafts and rope art by April Beedle.
Sue proved a real interesting conversationalist. A retired municipal worker, she now ran the shop, drove a school bus, and worked as a substitute teacher when the local school was shorthanded.
“She really shouldn’t be such a shirker,” I said to Gosia.
“I admire these Alaska older women,” said Gosia, a native of Warsaw. “Polish women that age watch TV and sigh that life’s past them by. Alaska women are too busy to complain.”
“Have a jalapeno fresh cracker on the house,” Sue said, joining us.
“We just ate at the bakery,” I said, clasping my table—er, belly. “But thanks.”
We elected to explore another side of Cordova. We turned onto the road to Hartney Bay. We followed it until the road ceased, enjoying uncountable numbers of seabirds, lavish-colored wildflowers, and breathtaking views of the receding land inching toward high tide.
At 4 p.m. we explored the Net Loft, a shop recommended by my editor Elin. This was a dazzling place with gorgeous stationery offerings, craft goods, silk clothing, and skein upon skein of colorful yarn.
Gosia bought me a birthday card, and we picked up some souvenirs.
After we left we went to a Seafood Sales place. Salesman extraordinaire (his title on a business card) Ken Roemhildt greeted us.
“I see you used my stool to step onto the platform,” he said.
“Yes, at age 77. . .” I looked at Gosia, “at age 78, my right knee’s about worn out.”
“Me, too,” he said. But I was born in 1939.”
We bought a pound of gigantic shrimp and a pound of steamer clams. We went back to the apartment. I made supper and used the seafood to top off a salad.
The next morning , we rose late. At the window, I watched a small army of Canada geese strutting in the yard.
I made breakfast while Gosia cleaned the apartment like only Gosia, the Queen of Clean, can.
Outside the door, we found our perfect host gifted us three cans of local king salmon from his 2023 catch.
“What a nice, unexpected birthday present,” Gosia said.
We went outside for our last walk at the beautiful lake. A couple mallards swam past. A jay scolded us from a pine tree, and Gosia turned her camera, too late, to catch a young bald eagle aloft.
“Well, your birthday is practically here,” she said. “Is there something else I can get you to make it perfect?”
“How about that sexy nightie?” I said with fingers crossed.
“Drop dead.”
At the airport, after we returned the car and said farewell to the cordial Kenya agent, Gosia said this: “Hank, you’ve seen dozens of small cities in Alaska once. Which one would you want to see again?”
“Oh, Cordova, for sure,” I said. “Let’s come back as soon as the bridge gets fixed so we can see Miles Glacier.”