"You have to go to McCarthy. It's real freedom." Judd and Linda were unanimous in their advice on where to go next.
From Anchorage it's a 300 mile drive east. 200 miles of "highway", then 40 miles of territory subject to "precision bombing", and the last 60 miles of impenetrable gravel. But from that conversation I only remember the highway and freedom)
Leaving Anchorage, I stopped at the crossroads of two main roads. One led north to the world-famous Denali National Park, the other to the east, to McCarthy. "Why do you need to go to Denali? It's a place for bus tourists, regulated by a lot of prohibitions and restrictions," I heard Judd's insistent voice. And at the last moment, I chose freedom.
So. McCarthy.
In 1900, copper was found in those parts. A lot of it. First, the mining town of Kennicott appeared in the immediate vicinity of the local glacier. And after some time, McCarthy blossomed as a local Las Vegas 4 miles away.
Copper flowed like a river. Miners, returning from the mines, came here at night to the pubs.
In 1911 a railroad was built to McCarthy.
It seemed like it would last a long time, if not forever.
But in 1938 the copper suddenly ran out and the town was quickly abandoned. The job seekers had arrived in their time and now they left quickly.
The residents of McCarthy turned off the music, fired the prostitutes, locked the doors behind them, and the town emptied out.
And so it stood as a ghost until the 70s, when suddenly the smell of money suddenly began to rise not far from here. Oil was discovered somewhere in the far north of Alaska. And the Trans-Alaska Oil Pipeline stretched south through the eastern territories of Alaska adjacent to McCarthy. Not nearby, but the direction for the next migration was set. Some of the seekers of a new life made it to McCarthy.
And a few years later, in the 80s, the Wrangell-St. Elias National Forest was established in these parts. And people realized that money could be pumped not only from oil wells and mined, but also fished out of the already printed money right from the pockets of warm tourists.
There are currently 28 people living here. In the summer, young people come to work as rangers, waiters and other workers in the not rich but quite sufficient service sector.
No, there are no millionaires living here. And they never laid asphalt here. And the last 60 miles of the road are closed for the winter.
But what an incredible 60 miles these were for me! The best 60 miles of my entire 1600-mile road trip through Alaska. And the best 2 days spent in the McCarthy and Kennicott area.
12 midnight. Dark. Looks like a campsite…
I turn. The headlights illuminate a wooden sign with a name familiar from the guidebook. A small open wooden bar-counter. The owner of the campsite is sober and friendly.
"Hello, do you have any free space for a tent?"
"How many people?"
"One"
“Alone?” the owner looks up in surprise.
Next to me, leaning on the bar counter, are two already well-drunk locals. A young one and an old one.
Old: "Where are you from?"
I'm from Russia."
Him: "Ahh. I know the Russians want Alaska back."
Me: "No, I think so."
Him: "Hahaha. Just kidding."
They both laugh. The old man falls silent. A pause. He turns to me again.
"But it's true. Hahaha"
It's time to pitch the tent and go to bed.
Before this:
There were 60 miles left in my journey to McCarthy from Anchorage. 240 miles behind me.
It was already 9 pm, but 60 miles didn't seem like a big deal. After passing the last village of Chitina, I squeezed the Ford through a one-lane crack in the rock on the way out, and then my little box started shaking as if in its death throes. The road was renamed McCarthy Road and turned into a washboard for small Fords.
It was August. The nights here are already dark at this time. The thought that I would have to spend the night on the road was already glimmering. In order not to attract bears with the smell of food at the possible overnight stop, and before it got dark, I stopped on the side of the road to have dinner. The Chitina River was smeared across the valley under my feet. The wind did not allow me to completely relax, trying to blow out the burner.
An hour passes. 22:00. Ahead is a crazy wooden bridge over an abyss.
40 miles left… the empty road is plunging into twilight. Bouncing on potholes, I crawl at an average speed of 20 miles… every ten miles is a celebration, like an anniversary. Elks are hiding somewhere. They are probably waiting for me to speed up. They won’t wait… The only ones who have a chance to wait are the bears, when I, in despair, stop for the night in the forest.
Hares and squirrels run across the road. A porcupine slowly hides in the roadside bushes. A gopher happily runs towards us.
Nobody. On the whole road after Chitina, one car passed me, one overtook me, and then I overtook one. Possibly the same one.
12 midnight. Dark. Looks like a campsite…
Source: travel.ru