In a particular sense it is a world unto itself, wrought with contradictions that prove an irresistible draw. Set within town limits—at least on paper--this paradoxical hub of both surging activity and moody introspection seems in some indefinable way separate, beyond geographical borders. It is an island of pilings and planking that calls you out from structured routine to a place where time suspends, where the breaching of barnacled whales or a sliver of orca fin in a glacial sea takes you to a wilderness within yourself.
Officially known as the John Thomas Kelsey Municipal Dock, the area plays host to cruise ships, commercial fishing boats, and the occasional U.S. Coast Guard vessel. On any given summer day it is a busy place, perfect for people-watching. Whether relaxing on its benches, strolling the boardwalk, sitting on a car hood and taking in the sun, or wetting a line in the hope of hooking that trophy halibut, locals and visitors respond to that urge to subtract a small chunk out of their busy day and “come and set awhile.” It is time well spent.
With a little persistence and a pair of field glasses, they might glimpse a pod of orca, or a Steller sea lion cruising for a fresh salmon lunch. Even a glance over the dock edge can reward with a show put on by of Valdez’ ubiquitous sea otters, its lithe body twisting “aquabatically” through a perpetually cold sea, or lazily sprawled on its back while hammering open a shellfish.
During summer, a pair of hoary marmots, bastioned in the rocks along the shoreline, alert with shrill whistles to the presence of cruise ship passengers or those promenading along the wharf. Their fear of man appears disingenuous at best, as they sometimes show up on the dock itself or on the asphalt just off the dock area, and with seeming unconcern allowing themselves to be watched or photographed.
For a little more of the human element, across the “Bay”, as it’s locally called, is the terminus of the monumental oil pipeline project. Begun in 1975 and completed in 1977, the Trans-Alaska Pipeline System (TAPS) was an engineering marvel, snaking 800 tortuous miles from the northern tip of Alaska at Prudhoe Bay, to the terminal at Valdez. With a good pair of binoculars, visitors can easily view the routine stopovers of those most gargantuan of ships—the oil tankers. When these vessels materialize out of a persistent morning mist, despite their modern lines they harken back to an earlier day, when other ships plied these waters, when sailors clambered up rigging and kept lookout from crow’s nests. Vanishing again into the mist, it is as though they retreat into Time, dissolving into all that had gone long before.
Then there’s the Valdez mist itself—half cloud, half rain, with stealth approach drifting across placid seawater to swamp the wharf and draw you into itself. The effect is ethereal, washing out landmarks, nearly erasing the boardwalk at your feet, until up and down lose meaning. You’re lost in the white and loving it. Somewhere out on the water a sea lion throat-barks, a lonely sound absorbed by the stillness.
When this veil lifts, finally, you can find yourself different, as if the mist got into you somehow and carried part of you away, a part that will remain always on this rain-wet planking at the edge of a glacial sea.
