A Seaman Transplanted From the Sea

No visit to Anchorage would be complete without stopping by the large railroad station at the northern edge of the downtown area.  This station, along with the adjacent shops, offices, and freight yard, constitute the headquarters of the Alaska Railroad.  My son James worked on this railroad for several years before transferring to his present employment on the White Pass and Yukon Route.   Despite this change, however, he retains fond memories of the Alaska Railroad, and these include meeting one of my former shipmates.

Captain James Edward James, Jr., originally of Manteo, North Carolina, sailed as second mate aboard the freighter Rigel in the summer of 1979.[i]  I was then a brand new third mate, and I had the interesting and entertaining experience of sailing with him.  To call him a character would be the height of understatement.  This was a middle-aged man who sported long and tangled gray hair with a matching tangled beard, wore a winter coat and hat in the summer heat, smoked horribly stinky cigars that dripped ashes on his clothes, threw money in the water to appease the gods for good weather, and had a ready pithy witticism to suit every occasion.  More importantly, he was a highly competent seafarer and recognizably an expert in celestial navigation and nautical astronomy.  Also, as he told me, he was a veteran of the United States Coast Guard and a graduate of Harvard University.  He read Greek and Latin to a considerable degree and was conversant in several modern European languages.  Aboard the Rigel with him, I sailed across the Atlantic, spent the summer crisscrossing the Mediterranean, and then returned to Norfolk.  After that, he went his way and I went mine.  We never met again, but I heard news about him through the fleet grapevine, including that he had successfully passed all the examinations and had received the unlimited Master’s license.

Thirty-five years later, in the winter of 2014, my son James met James James aboard the Alaska Railroad.  He was then living with a female companion “off grid” in the forest north of Anchorage, a region without roads, airfields, electricity, or plumbing, and accessible only by trains that stopped when hailed by people along the track.  James James would catch a southbound train at a trailhead in the woods near his home and ride it fourteen miles to Talkeetna, the nearest town where he could purchase food and supplies.  When his business there was finished, he would return home on a northbound train.

Having heard sea stories during his childhood and adolescence, my son James came to wonder if this passenger James James was the same man that I had sailed with many years previously.  His good-humored but eccentric behavior aboard the trains seemed consistent with my descriptions of him aboard ship.  Always traveling with a gun, he willingly rode in the baggage car because firearms were prohibited in the coaches.  Always tight-fisted with cash, he laughingly engaged the conductors in endless debates over the fare structure.  Boarding the train and later disembarking from it always involved a clown show of off-beat antics and charades.  Much of this nonsense, better appreciated by watching it than by reading about it, was filmed and featured in the television series Railroad Alaska.[ii]  James James thus became a star of the Alaskan interior as well as a star of the sea.  And my son was privileged to be a part of this!

One day, after consulting with me about this unique passenger, my son James identified himself to James James as the son of a former shipmate and told him specifically that I had sailed with him aboard the Rigel to the Mediterranean and back in 1979.  On receiving this information, James James became awestruck and thoughtful.  He stared off into the distance for a moment, and then quietly remarked, “Wow.  That was a lifetime ago.”

Thirty-five years later and thousands of miles away, the past had caught up to the present.  It was one of those sobering moments that provided much food for thought but left little to say.  Both James and James James continued on their railroad journeys, but not for very much longer.  Sadly, James James became ill and eventually died of lung cancer in August of 2016.  Known long and well by many of the railroad employees, his passing seemed to mark the end of an era, and he was both fondly remembered and sorely missed.  As my son James wrote to me:

His reputation lives on at the Alaska Railroad.  Current and former employees who knew him continue to talk about him.  Among newer employees, he lives on as a character of legends.  His debates on the fare structure and antics on boarding and disembarking are still talked (and laughed) about.  He even comes up at union meetings!

 

The only time I spoke to him and he did not have a ready response or witticism of some kind was that time I mentioned the Rigel.  I don’t think he ever expected his past to catch up with him on the train! That response came only after several seconds of thoughtful silence.  He must have liked and remembered you, though, because he and I got along great after that.  He always asked how “everyone in New Hampshire” was doing and was happy to hear good reports.  He was always friendly with all the train crews, but he never asked anyone else about their families.[iii]

I’m very thankful that my son had this unique experience of meeting and traveling with one of my former shipmates.  It gave us a common ground that transcended the ordinary father-son relationship.  On further reflection, though, what were the chances of such a meeting ever taking place?  How could anyone possibly have predicted this?  I’ve never placed any stock in such long-shot coincidences; they always seemed the stuff of pulp fiction, mere contrivances that never happened in real life.  But this one proved that sometimes truth really is stranger than fiction.

Now, whenever I go to Anchorage, I stop by the Alaska Railroad Station downtown and smile inwardly as I think of my son James and my former colleague James James riding the rails together.  I don’t have any photographs of James James, but perhaps these two can serve as substitutes.  In the first, a train such as the ones he rode reposes at the downtown station before departing for points north on Friday, April 25, 2025:

Here, a street sign near my son’s house honors James James’ favorite star on Thursday, April 17.  In the mid-latitudes of the northern hemisphere in the spring and summer, Arcturus was always the first navigational star to become visible in the twilight following sunset.  As the Rigel sailed transatlantic, James James was always waiting with his sextant and stopwatch on the bridge wing at star time, ready for Arcturus to make its appearance.  He always started his round of stars with Arcturus, followed it up with three or four others, and then finished with Polaris.

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[i] I wrote about James James previously in “Money for the Gods,” published in February, 2011.

[ii] My son James and his passenger James James were featured in several episodes of Railroad Alaska, which was broadcast between 2013 and 2016.

[iii] Extract from an email sent by my son James to me on May 27, 2025.

Along the Coastal Trail

It was high tide on Knik Arm at 8:30am on Wednesday, April 30, 2025.  The patches of snow and ice on the ground at sea level had all melted away in the recent rain, but a cold wind still blew from the west and drove trains of wavelets onto the rocky shoreline.  As the water splashed among the rocks it produced a soft and soothing sound that could have easily induced me to sleep despite the cold breeze.  But then I would have missed the full grandeur of the scene.

An extensive layer of stratocumulus clouds overhung the water, but blue sky and sunlight were emerging in the north and east.  In the distance to the west, Mount Susitna was visible, its snow-covered upper reaches merging into the white-gray cloud cover.  In the north, the Talkeetna Range with its extensive snow collection stood out more clearly beneath a brighter portion of the sky.  In the northeast and much closer to me, the boxy buildings of downtown contrasted against the backdrop of the Chugach Range.  In the center of all this, a tug and barge reposed at anchor.  The pull of the line connecting the barge with the mooring buoy indicated that the current was setting into port and thus the tide was still rising.  There was beauty all around me, and I felt like I was present at the very center of Creation, following the scriptural injunction to “stand in holy places” (D&C 101:22).   Still immersed in the Latin I had learned decades ago, I thought, Hic est gloria Dei.  This is the glory of God, and only twenty minutes’ walk from my son’s house!

I had come to Anchorage a week previously, on Wednesday the 16^th, for the purpose of visiting my son Steven and my granddaughters Miss Katie and Miss Abby.  It was my sixth time in Alaska in ten years, and it felt good to be back, both with the family and in such a beautiful and interesting place.  We had a wonderful three weeks together that included both Easter Sunday and Miss Abby’s birthday.  As an extra benefit, I had the leisure to explore Anchorage while they were busy at work and in school, and I strove to make the most of this golden opportunity.

In order to understand Anchorage, one must first understand its waterways.  The Cook Inlet, named for Captain James Cook of the Royal Navy, leads from the open Pacific in the southwest to a headland that splits the inlet into two branches.  The headland is the sight of the Anchorage International Airport.  Knik Arm, the larger and deeper branch, leads northeast to downtown and the commercial seaport.  Turnagain Arm leads southeast into the woods.  Its name comes from Captain Cook’s crewmen.  Taking soundings and finding the water too shallow, they told the helmsman repeatedly to “turn again.”

These names from the European discovery of Alaska have lingered.  Besides the inlet, Captain Cook now has two streets, a hotel, and a housing development named after him.  Turnagain Arm has two streets, a school, a church, an office building, a dental practice, and a neighborhood named after it.  Knik Arm, despite being the more significant of the two branches, as far as I could tell only has one street named after it.

Starting downtown and running along the south side of Knik Arm is the Coastal Trail, a paved recreational pathway for walking, jogging, and bicycling.  Appropriately close to the trail’s beginning stands Resolution Park, a large wooden balcony set on the hill at the corner of 4^th Avenue and L Street that bears the name of Captain Cook’s ship and commands a panoramic view of Knik Arm, the distant mountains, and the nearby commercial seaport.  A statue of the Captain gazes seaward; a bronze plaque on its bases describes his voyages of exploration.  I present both here as I saw them on Tuesday morning, April 22: 

When reading this account of Captain Cook, I marveled that he had not been knighted for his accomplishments, but then I recalled that King George had more pressing matters on his mind in the 1770s.  Perhaps the view of the waterfront, including this container ship as it was discharging cargo on the same day, serves as a more fitting memorial to him:

Descending from Resolution Park, I regained the Coastal Trail at Elderberry Park and then ducked through a pedestrian tunnel that passed underneath the main line of the Alaska Railroad.  This brought me to a viewing spot at the water’s edge, although at low tide, it was actually at the edge of the extensive mud flats.  Whatever the state of the tide, however, the view was pleasant and punctuated by an anchored tug and barge on the same overcast Tuesday:

From a little farther along the trail, the extent of the mud flats became even more apparent, and with the anchored tug and barge still there:

In brighter weather on Monday the 21^st, I found a different cargo barge at anchor just beyond the mud flats:

On a still brighter day, Wednesday the 23^rd, I took in this westward view of Mount Susitna beyond the mud flats and deep water of Knik Arm at low tide.  The headland on the left is the northern end of the Anchorage International Airport:

The commercial shipping of any seaport always interests me.  In the overcast afternoon of Tuesday the 29^th, I was able to capture several vessels in one photograph.  On the far left the tug Glacier Wind was towing a barge seaward with Kodiak as her destination.  Next, the tug Gladys M rested at anchor with her barge.  At the docks north of downtown were the vehicle cargo ship North Star (with the dark hull and white superstructure), and the smaller container ship Matson Anchorage[i] on the far right:

About a mile and a half from downtown, the Coastal Trail again ducks under the railroad and briefly enters the neighborhood of Westchester Lagoon.  Here the Chester Creek drains into Knik Arm, and the surrounding marsh and lake area form a haven for nesting birds.  Seagulls accustomed to human company unreservedly posed for me on the same sunny Monday the 21st:

Later, on Thursday, May 1, the lagoon reposed quietly with the Chugach Range behind it to the east:

As lovely as Westchester Lagoon was, however, my favorite part of the trail remained alongside the salt water of Knik Arm.  Soon after emerging from the third and final pedestrian passage under the railroad, these three scenes greeted me on Friday the 2^nd, a day that truly looked less like winter and more like spring.  In the first, looking northward, the Talkeetna Range loomed over the water in the background:

In the second, Mount Susitna blended into the low cloud cover in the distant west:

Finally, my favorite that day was this one with the largest expanse of water at the widest part of the arm with the mud flats completely covered at high tide:

Monday, May 5, was my last day in Anchorage.  Carpe diem, I thought, and seizing this final opportunity, I walked up to the waterfront early for a last look at Knik Arm before getting ready to leave.  It was a beautiful day with a beautiful view, and knowing that it would be many months before I would return to Alaska, I had great difficulty pulling myself away from the shoreline and heading back to the house.  Fortunately, with my cell phone camera, I could in a sense take some of the waterfront home with me.  My favorite photograph from that morning was this peaceful scene of the anchored tug and barge in the rising tide:  

At four o’clock that afternoon, I left Anchorage aboard an Alaska Airlines 737 bound for Seattle.  The aircraft took off into a west wind and then turned to port as it ascended.  From my window seat on the starboard side I enjoyed a fleeting but magnificent view of Knik Arm, the Cook Inlet, and the surrounding mountain ranges.  Then cloud cover intervened.  After the airplane had settled onto a southeasterly course at cruising altitude, it left the clouds behind.  Beneath me then for the next two hours lay the great blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean stretching to the far horizon.  I had not seen the open Pacific in a very long time, not since the 1980s from the Comet, and it felt great to be back, even at such a height!

While the purpose of my three weeks’ sojourn in Anchorage was to visit family, my leisure time at the waterfront came as a wonderful side benefit.  The Coastal Trail was a place of peace and quiet and solitude that soothed my soul, a spiritual haven where the sound of silence spoke volumes and enabled me to achieve communion with the Divine through Nature.  The confluence of seawater, tidal mud flats, snow-covered mountains, and the overarching sky provided an opportunity for quiet contemplation that yielded insight and inspiration.  In this magnificent location the scriptural promise manifested itself:

Draw near unto me and I will draw near unto you;

seek me diligently and ye shall find me (D&C 88:63).

     

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[i] Shipping information from www.marinetraffic.com. 

Cold Beauty

With the conclusion of the cruise ship and excursion train season in southeastern Alaska, it became time to make the long drive from the workplace in Skagway to the family home in Anchorage.  Curiously, no roadway or railroad link connects the Alaska panhandle to the main part of the state.  One must leave the country, drive through British Columbia and the Yukon, recross the border back into Alaska, and then continue southwestward to Anchorage.  I accompanied my son James on this journey through a snow-filled and mountainous landscape on Thursday and Friday, October 24 and 25, 2024.  On arrival in Anchorage, my son Steven and his two little girls, Miss Katie and Miss Abby, welcomed us to their home, as yet untouched by snow.

Before Halloween, however, this changed.  The clean, white, fresh-fallen snow that now blanketed the city reminded me that the beauty of the Earth is not confined to the oceanfront or the high seas but can be found in our own neighborhoods as well.  Accordingly, then, I set out with my trusty little cell phone camera to record some of this simple yet majestic beauty, and I’m pleased to present some of the results here.

For this first photograph, taken at midday on a bright and sunny Wednesday, October 30, I faced west across a field near my sons’ house.  Note the long shadows cast by the Sun.  At this far northern latitude, about 62 degrees above the equator, the Sun at the highest point of its transit remained quite low in the sky and shone nearly horizontally:

Twenty-four hours later, on Halloween, I looked eastward across the same field.  The trees obscured a busy street and a railroad bridge, and thus they gave the neighborhood an almost rural appearance:

Later in the afternoon on Halloween, the sky changed to overcast in the south.  These two views from James’ front window presented a snow-covered semi-suburban residential street scene.  Most of this snow remained unplowed for several days:

On Friday, November 1, All Saints Day and my sainted mother’s birthday, we visited the Anchorage Temple.  I felt rather sentimental about this building because three years earlier, on Wednesday, October 6, 2021, we had done my parents’ sealings here.  Now this temple is due to be replaced by a much larger edifice currently under construction nearby:

While this older temple remains with us, however, we can enjoy views like this one that feature the statue of Moroni standing above the treetops and silhouetted by the low-lying early afternoon Sun:

We can also glimpse the future in this architectural rendering of the new Anchorage Temple:

Back in my sons’ and granddaughters’ neighborhood on Sunday afternoon, November 3, I stopped by the Rustic Goat, a locally famous restaurant that features al fresco dining.  Somehow, though, I got the impression that this outdoor dining option was more popular in the summer:

Three days later, on a comparatively mild and sunny Wednesday, November 6, I stepped out onto James’ balcony.  With sufficient layers of warm clothing, this was actually a very pleasant spot for sitting quietly, reading a good book, and surveying the neighborhood:

Such mild weather did not last long, however.  After more snowfall and its subsequent cleanup, I walked to a different spot in the neighborhood on Friday, November 8.  Beyond the plowed piles of snow and the row of houses, the mountains of the Chugach Range were visible southeast of the city:

Finally, after yet more snowfall, I found our two precious granddaughters, Miss Katie and Miss Abby, watching the weather from their front window on Monday, November 11, a day they had off from school:

The winter beauty of Alaska notwithstanding, these two little girls were the main reason to make the long trek to Anchorage.  Every visit with them seems too short; hence the need to return and see them again.  Hiking around the city and observing its repose in the snow served as a wonderful collateral benefit while visiting the girls.  It gave me the time not only to observe the natural beauty of winter, but also to reflect on the great gift of children and grandchildren.  The psalmist informs us that “children are an heritage of the Lord” (Ps. 127:3), and the Lord himself asserts that “of such is the kingdom of heaven” (Matt. 19:14).  How blessed I am in my posterity!