The long road to Alaska, a story of letting go and discovering - from Ketchikan to Wrangell

The sea became our path and the rain our companion. In Ketchikan and Wrangell, we got our first taste of Alaska. There were no endless tundra or glaciers. Instead, there was rainforest, totem poles, salmon runs and rock carvings. Above all, there were stories. Stories of people, animals and places that speak if you take the time to listen.

Arrival in Ketchikan – Light that does not come from people 

After the ferry trip from Prince Rupert, through misty fjords and along deserted coastlines, we finally set foot on Alaskan soil. Although it was only 2:45 a.m., the eastern sky was already beginning to glow. By the time we reached our spot by the water at the Clover Pass campsite, the sun had already risen. It never really got dark – not because of light pollution, but because of nature itself. A soft, diffuse light that did not come from people, but from Mother Earth.

On our first morning in Ketchikan, we woke up to the sight of a small marina lined with sport fishing boats and trees, where bald eagles were waiting for their chance. The salmon run was late this year, the locals told us, and the eagles were hungry. Some even called them 'nuisance birds' because of their droppings on campers and their cheeky behaviour. For us, however, they were the first sign of the wildness of Alaska: majestic, opportunistic and ever-present.

We struck up a conversation with Rayburn and Kitty, a retired couple from Indiana who spend their summers in Ketchikan and their winters in Cabo San Lucas. Their motorhome was like a palace on wheels, complete with satellite TVs, a full kitchen, a queen-size bed and even an old-fashioned footstove. I felt almost honoured when Rayburn, a former dentist, complimented me on my teeth. This unexpected encounter introduced us to a community of travellers who return here every year – people with stories, habits, and an openness that made us feel immediately welcome.

Totems, salmon and a steep climb 

Ketchikan proudly calls itself the 'Rain Capital of Alaska', and rightly so. Here, rain is not a spoilsport, but 'part of life'. Everything glistens; everything is alive. We visited Totem Bight State Historical Park, where Haida and Tlingit totem poles stand like guardians amidst the rainforest. Each wooden carving tells a story of clans, animals and times gone by.

In the centre of Ketchikan, we found a Native American art gallery that surprised us with its authentic works – no tourist kitsch here, just masks and totems by local artists. Didier found a totem pole carved by a student of Nathan Jackson, the master woodcarver of Southeast Alaska. I was captivated by a raven mask, which exuded power and mystery, but the price matched the work's impressive quality. Nevertheless, the idea grew to have a totem pole made, one that tells our story and that would one day find a place in our home in Belgium.

Finding fresh salmon proved to be more difficult. In a town where everyone fishes for themselves, there is no need for a fish shop. Nevertheless, I found a place where I could buy a beautiful Chinook salmon. That evening, we simply grilled it on our portable barbecue with a little oil, salt, pepper and basil. The taste was pure and wild, far superior to anything we had ever tasted before. Gaia, who isn't usually a fan of fish, ate with gusto and said, "This is really good fish. It doesn't even smell fishy.' Sometimes a child says exactly what you yourself feel.

On the way back to the campsite, we encountered a detour that was so steep that even Didier, an experienced driver, seemed concerned. The RV's engine groaned and the metres slowly crept by. I could already picture disaster scenarios involving us rolling back and getting stuck. When we finally reached the top, I felt immense relief, but my stomach remained tense. I resolved never to take that route again – a promise I would have to break.

The Misty Fjords and the dance of the orcas

On Independence Day, we got up early and went on a boat trip to the Misty Fjords. As the sun was already high in the sky, we saw local fishermen setting off in their boats – fishing is taken very seriously here. The catamaran Majestic Fjord took us deep into the fjord landscape, past steep cliffs and secluded coves. Our guide, Paul, who was a student from Anchorage but had lived in Ketchikan all his life, humorously talked about life in an isolated community. He told stories about milk arriving on Wednesdays and running out by Fridays. He told us about containers falling overboard and Nike shoes washing up all along the west coast. His stories were as colourful as the landscape.

Along the way, we saw a small group of orcas rising gracefully out of the water, harbour seals basking on sun-drenched rocks and sea eagles circling above. The fjords themselves were shrouded in a mysterious mist and the atmosphere seemed almost unreal. While most passengers stayed inside, we braved the wind on deck, which burned our faces as fiercely as the sun.

Halfway through the journey, we stopped at a floating platform where seaplanes arrived one after the other. Most of the passengers disembarked and boarded one of the planes to return to their cruise ships in Ketchikan. It was a choreography of kerosene, cameras and brief luxury. We stayed on board, which turned out to be worthwhile. On the way back, we saw two black bears on the beach looking for mussels. The captain made a detour to an active eagle's nest, home to a pair of eagles. As the wind picked up and the boat accelerated to thirty knots, Alessio leaned into the wind as if carried by the elements.

Back in Ketchikan, we stocked up on smoked salmon and jerky. The day felt like a complete journey. The flavours, the smells, the stories – everything was more intense than we had expected. As the cruise ships reboarded their passengers, we realised that we were looking for something else: not just fleeting impressions, but a deep immersion in the rhythm of Alaska.

Independence Day on the waterfront – a halibut fry to remember

That evening, we celebrated Independence Day in a memorable way. At the campsite, Rayburn invited us to the traditional halibut fry, an annual event where regular guests come together for a potluck dinner. Everyone brings their own plates and cutlery, creating a sense of belonging to a close-knit community of friends far from home.

Rayburn introduced us to Rose, a 76-year-old woman full of joie de vivre and humour who had prepared the batter for the fish. Her recipe was perfect, producing a thin, light crust around the pieces of halibut – unlike the heavy, indigestible chunks you sometimes get in average restaurants. Rose said that the recipe originally came from her friend Jo Alemose, who was absent for the first time this year because her husband had died of cancer in the spring. Rose added her own signature touch to the batter with a dash of Tabasco. As we enjoyed preparing for the party, Rose told us about her brother, who had fought in the Battle of the Bulge during the Second World War. Meanwhile, Didier and the children returned from the marina, where an impressive catch had just been brought in by a charter boat: halibut, salmon and lingcod, a typical Pacific fish species. The fish were weighed, labelled and prepared for cleaning and freezing – quite a spectacle.

At five o'clock, we gathered around the new gazebo by the water. The table was laden with pasta dishes, rice salads, coleslaw, chilli, devilled eggs, crisps with artichoke dip, napa cabbage salad, and a selection of desserts. The sun was shining and a light breeze made it a pleasant evening. Above us, bald eagles circled in search of a quick meal. Rayburn, the retired dentist with a passion for cooking, had fried the fish to perfection. The halibut was delicious – I ate twelve pieces, Gaia ate eleven, and the whole group polished off about forty pounds of fish. The evening felt warm and welcoming, and it completely nuanced our image of American patriotism. In the evening, another boat arrived with a 69-pound halibut, much to the disappointment of the fishermen, who had hoped for 80–90 pounds. As the sun slowly set, we discussed the late salmon run and reflected on a day that had brought us closer to Alaska and its people.

Saxman Village and the dream of a totem

On our third day in Ketchikan, we drove to Saxman Totem Village, where totem poles line the driveway and welcome you. At the end of the path, we could hear the rhythm of drums coming from the clan house, where a performance was being put on for cruise passengers, offering them a glimpse of the local culture in less than two hours. But our experience was different. We had no guide, no set itinerary and no bus to take us back to the ship. We were free to wander, watch and listen.

In the workshop, we met none other than Nathan Jackson, the world-famous Tlingit woodcarver. His presence filled the room with a quiet power. Didier asked him if he could take a photo, and he agreed. What followed was a conversation that went beyond mere tourist curiosity. Didier told him about his dream of creating a totem that tells our story and symbolises this journey and what it means to us. Nathan listened, asked questions and offered suggestions. “Tell me your story,” he said, “and I'll find the symbols.”

The idea of a personal totem, standing at between ten and twelve feet high and to be placed in our home in Belgium, took shape. It would not be a souvenir, but a testimony. Nathan recommended the book The Wolf and the Raven, which explains the meaning of the totems in Ketchikan. We could then distil our own story from there and let the symbolism speak for itself. While Didier continued talking, the children played among the berry bushes. The locals said that nature was out of balance, but the children enjoyed every sour bite.

When we returned to Saxman later, the light was perfect. The tourists had gone and the site was deserted. Didier went off on his own to take photos while I stayed with the children in the RV. They sent emails to friends via an open Wi-Fi network – a small moment of connection with the world outside Alaska. Didier came back with a smile that said it all. He had spoken to Nathan again about life, dreams, and wood. I knew then that this trip would have a totem. Maybe not made of wood, but a memory, nonetheless.

Wrangell – A place without cruise ships 

The ferry to Wrangell departed in the early afternoon, transporting us to a different world within six hours. While Ketchikan lives the rhythm of cruise ships and tourist numbers, Wrangell exudes tranquillity. There are no fifteen-storey ships or souvenir shops that close as soon as the last passenger leaves. Wrangell is small, authentic and unspoilt. Although the distance from the ferry terminal to our campsite at Alaska Waters Park was barely a mile, it felt like a transition to another dimension.

Located at the mouth of the Stikine River, with a population of just over two thousand, Wrangell exudes simplicity. The rain here is milder – only eighty inches per year – and the silence that hangs over the island is palpable. As the shops close at six o'clock, we took our bikes to have dinner at the Stikine Inn, one of the village's two restaurants. 'Fine dining' took on a new meaning here: no frills, just perfectly roasted halibut, fresh and pure. The children stuck to cheeseburgers, but even those tasted simple and honest.

On the way back, we cycled along empty streets under a sky slowly changing colour. The tranquillity of Wrangell was palpable. Here, nothing was required. Here, everything was permitted. It was a place that didn't try to impress but invited you to stay. As we prepared for the next day — a trip to Anan Creek — I felt that Wrangell would be one of those places that lingers in your memory: unique and quiet.

Anan Creek – Bears, salmon and silence

The morning started out crisp and cloudy, which was perfect weather for our trip to Anan Creek – one of the best places in Southeast Alaska to observe bears. Our guide, Jim Leslie, picked us up in his van. Together with Ivan Simones, a Czech naturalist with a soft voice and a wealth of knowledge, we set off by boat towards the creek. The journey across the water was an experience, with seals and bald eagles abounding, and the air filled with the scents of salt and pine trees.

Anan Creek is a place where nature rules. The wooden boardwalk follows the original bear trail, and the fresh tracks, scat and claw prints remind you that you are a guest in their realm.

The salmon run was late this year, leaving the bears hungry. It wasn't the quantity of fish that was impressive, though, but the dynamics between the animals. Black bears stood hesitantly along the shore, too lazy or too cautious to enter the water. A mother bear with three cubs hurriedly retreated into the forest. Another chased her cub up a tree when a brown bear appeared. The creek was a theatre of instinct, hierarchy and survival.

We were given a time slot in the camouflaged hide, a sheltered spot close to the water where we could observe the bears up close. Just ten metres away, we saw a brown bear fishing with an impressive level of skill. He ate only part of his catch, leaving the rest for eagles and other bears. Later, a mother bear with two playful cubs came right up to us. The little ones were so active that they were almost impossible to photograph. However, the moment — the closeness, the excitement and the beauty — was unforgettable.

When we returned to the boat tired and hungry after hours of bear-watching, we knew we had experienced something special. Ivan and Jim said it was one of the best days they had ever had in Anan Creek. And us? We felt small, grateful, and amazed.

In search of Dungeness crab – a culinary discovery in Wrangell 

Our campsite host recommended that we stop by the fish processing plant to buy some fresh Dungeness crab. There wasn't a shop, but he assured us that they sometimes sell to people passing by. So, we got on our bikes and rode a mere 300 metres between trailers and huge plastic bins until we came across someone. It turned out to be the manager, who immediately took us to the bins full of crabs. Not cooked ones, but live crabs – five dollars each. He gave us some instructions: bring water to the boil, put the crab in, and once the water boils again, cook for twelve minutes.

Cleaning them was easy: tap the shell against the edge of the container to remove the innards, then split the rest in two – fifteen seconds per crab. With our bag bulging with seven crabs, we returned to the campsite where Jim, our host, had set up a large bowl of water and a propane burner. We cooked the crabs outside next to his impressive RV at the fish processing area by the smokehouse. 

It felt as if I had landed in a Jamie Oliver travelogue. The crab tastedsweet and juicy – pure, fresh and irresistible. There was even enough left over for a delicious lunch.

Salmon, roe and hard labour

The following rainy morning, we visited a fish processing plant where a commercial fishing boat had just arrived with a load of chum salmon. It was a fascinating yet crude spectacle: water and fish were sucked out of the hold through a large hose. The salmon then slid over metal grates and were sorted into bins. Men in raincoats stood in ankle-deep bloody water, kicking the fish back into the stream with their boots.

The sorting was carried out quickly and efficiently. The males have a hooked upper jaw and the females have a round mouth – and anyone who was unsure could feel the belly to tell the difference. The roe had to be processed quickly, so the females were given priority. In the processing building, workers cut off the heads, opened up the bellies and removed the entrails. The fish were then subjected to a temperature shock of -70°F (-57°C), after which they were washed, packaged and prepared for transport.

It was impressive to see how hard everyone worked. Students, immigrants from Mexico and Russia, and local seasonal workers worked 18- to 20-hour days. There was shouting and laughter amid the hard work. The manager told us that a boat can bring in up to 160,000 kilograms of fish. Standing there, I realised how far removed this world is from the romance of cooking salmon on the barbecue.

The Stikine and Leconte – Glacial beauty and human stories 

At around noon, we set out on the water again with Jim Leslie, this time heading for the Stikine River and the Leconte Glacier. The river, fed by over a hundred glaciers, was murky and unpredictable. Jim navigated skilfully between sandbanks and floating logs while his charming, fourteen-year-old son, James, who is of Haida-Tlingit descent, helped us on board. Gaia blushed when Jim suggested that he had brought James along 'for her'.

The Stikine is a river of stories. About homesteaders who live on floating cabins to circumvent federal law. About hunters who climb Sitka spruce trees to spot moose. About the unwritten laws of the North: whoever uses a cabin leaves it in better condition than they found it. And about the bald eagles, which only get their white heads after five years and which, according to DNA research, are not always faithful to their partners.

As we approached the Leconte Glacier, the landscape became increasingly surreal. Blue icebergs bobbed in the icy water, their colour enhanced by the rain and diffuse light. Jim turned off the engine, and suddenly only the murmur of waterfalls, the patter of rain on the deck and the creaking of the glacier remained. We ventured deep into a narrow creek in search of moose but got stuck in the grass. Jim remained calm, asked us to move forward to shift the weight and managed to turn us around safely. His experience was evident in every movement.

The trip was a lesson in humility. In how nature cannot be tamed but can be admired. In how stories – from Jim, from Ivan, from people who live on the land – are connected to the environment. And in how even a rainy day, with wet cameras and cold hands, can turn into one of the most magical moments of a trip.