Homer Spit Campground, Homer, Alaska
Sunday, July 8, 1973
Today was a rock-collecting day, although I don’t remember anything about it at all, or about what happened to those rocks once we got home. My father, who had a very strong interest in geology (I grew up learning more about things like the Lewis overthrust and alluvial fans than I want to think about), wasn’t a rock collector to the best of my knowledge, unless, apparently, the rocks in question were Alaskan. I do say in my diary that some of the ones he brought back from the beach were pretty.
In the afternoon we drove down to Homer, which I always think of now in connection with Tom Bodett, the writer, radio personality and spokesman for Motel 6, although he doesn’t live there anymore.
Homer has a spectacularly beautiful setting. People have been known to call it the Last Best Place. I know you could buy t-shirts there that said it was. Then again, when I lived in Libby, Montana, you could buy t-shirts there that said the same thing. It’s nice to know there is more than one Last Best Place in the world.
Homer was arguably the most beautiful spot on the trip, and that’s saying something. That finger of sand sticking out into Kachemak Bay is called Homer Spit, and it’s three miles long. The campground where we stayed for the next five nights was out on the end of that spit.
We spent our first afternoon there wandering the beach, then going back to the trailer to get our fishing gear and head back to the beach, where we fished for a long time but didn’t catch anything. My diary says that I spent most of the time just looking out at the water and the mountains instead of casting. And the weather, my diary adds, was perfect, cool with just a little wind.