The Spirit of The Copper Center Lodge

Yesterday morning I received a sad phone call from my mother.  As I poured my first cup of coffee, she gently broke the news that our favorite restaurant, the historic Copper Center Lodge, had burned to the ground just hours before.  As soon as she confirmed to me that there was no one inside and that my friend's family (the lodge's owner's) were okay, we began to discuss the finer points of the beautiful Alaskan landmark that no longer was.

When I hung up the phone, my heart was heavy and I cried for the better part of an hour.  I was a bit surprised at my strong reaction to the news and I began to wonder why or how I could become so attached to a place.  How can we fall so in love with a building or a piece of land, that it's memory or it's mere absence can make us nostalgic, homesick, and even make us weep when it seems like we will never see that place again?

But as I recall the history behind that building, the time spent there with loved ones, I am reminded that a place can possess more than just the physical materials that we often tend to hold so dear.  It wasn't the tables where we sat, the beautiful artwork on the walls, or the artifacts on display that I was crying over.  Nor was it the hotel rooms or rustic Alaskan decor. It wasn't even their amazing food I was crying over.  (Although my heart did sink a little when I thought about the delicious sourdough starter that they've used for over one hundred years to make the best pancakes in the state.)

My Grandpa, Chief Harry Johns

No, my tears came from a deeper place; a place that absence, nor age, not even fire can destroy.  I'm talking about the human spirit, the soul within us all, the place that connects us and makes us the same and plants our roots so deep into this earth that it becomes apart of us.  And Copper Center Lodge had become apart of me very much the same way.  My roots are there; in that valley, in that tiny Alaskan village, and, yes, even in that restaurant.

The original lodge was built in 1896 for the gold miners passing through that needed a warm overnight stay and a hot meal.  Years later, my grandfather, the late Chief Harry Johns, lost his mother to the 1918 flu.  He was only 9 years old.  Shortly after, Mrs. Barnes of Copper Center Lodge took him under her wing and hired him to do odd jobs.  I believe he recalled that time as an enriching learning experience and thought of Mrs. Barnes as a mother figure.

My great-grandfather,
Estaco Ewan (top-middle)

Then the original structure was lost in a fire and rebuilt in 1928.  My great-grandfather (my late grandmother, Ruth Johns, father), Estaco Ewan, carved the diamond willow banister that decorated the lodge's stairs.  It was beautiful and full of thick, knotty diamonds and remained apart of the stairwell until yesterday.  In 1948, the Huddleston family took over the lodge and hosted many guests and many family gatherings.  My own family celebrated my Aunt Patsy's wedding there and, throughout the years, Copper Center Lodge became the place to eat, to visit, and to celebrate.  And that is exactly how I spent my time there.

Diamond willow banister

I didn't go there much as a child, at least not that I can recall.  But when my husband, Dave, and I decided to marry, we were only 18 and fresh out of high school.  When we broke the news to our parents they were apprehensive at first, but supported us in our decision and joined us for our big day.  After saying our vows at the Glennallen courthouse, we celebrated at the Copper Center Lodge with our family and close friends.

Unbeknownst to us, two of our friends were lurking outside, tying soda cans to our car and painting, "Just Married" on it's back window.  Dave and I said a teary goodbye to everyone as we departed for our new life in Anchorage.  We drove away in our decorated car, honked our horn, and left our family, friends, and the Copper Center Lodge in our rearview. What a beautiful, exciting day. I'll never forget it.

Our wedding day  celebration at CCL, August 21, 2000

The lodge continued to be my family's "first choice" for dining out.  My niece, Amanda, recalls those next two years and how my Dad (her Grandpa) would often take her and her siblings there for breakfast.  This was a special treat and is now a cherished memory for her ever since his sudden passing in 2002.  And as my husband and I moved and traveled about the state and the country, the lodge became a staple for us to visit when we traveled back to Glennallen.  We sampled their pancakes, their burgers, their yummy homemade dinners.  We ate and visited with Dave's parents and my Mom.  We observed the beautiful watercolor by Jean Rene on the walls and we said hello to the "regulars" as they sipped cup after cup of their never-ending coffee.  And we were always greeted by the owners, the Huddleston's.  I often got to catch up with their daughter, my friend, Aftan.

When Dave was working on the North Slope and I was living at the cabin, I could always count on my Mom to join me for a meal at the lodge when I was craving some good food and my "Momma time."  We spent so many breakfasts and dinners there, I can't even count.  Sometimes, I would wake up on a cold morning at the cabin after letting the fire go out.  I would reluctantly get out of bed and shiver and shuffle about as I tried to find food and make coffee.  Then my stomach would growl, I'd think of sourdough pancakes, and before I knew it, I'd be dialing my Mom.

The last time I went to Copper Center Lodge was a couple months ago.  There was still snow on the ground and the cold morning beckoned for something heavy and homemade.  My Mom and I split an order of eggs and bacon, and an order of their biscuits and gravy.  Oh man, the indulgence, the decadence of their food!  So good for the tummy!  Even better for the soul.  Aftan came to our table to say hello and scooped up my son in her arms to get her "baby-fix."  She carried him about the lodge, showing him off to her mom and other customers, and gave me a bit of a break so that I could enjoy my meal without interruption.  My Mom and I left there with full stomachs and happy hearts.  It was the same as so many other times at the lodge.  It was perfect.  It was just as it should be.

So, when my Mom called me yesterday, I was saddened by the news and I couldn't help but wish that I had gone there on my most recent visit to Glennallen and had just one last meal; one last hello to the "regulars", and one last look at those old log walls, perhaps even my photo taken by the diamond willow banister that my great-grandfather carved.  But I didn't.  Like every other day, we just never imagine that these things will disappear.

I spoke to my husband late last night and cried yet again when I told him the news.  He was understanding and, in his warm way, he wanted to brighten my spirits.  So he looked up the event on ADN and read the article out-loud to me.  It spoke of the lodge's history and how it was called the "jewel of the roadhouses".  It spoke of the people it kept fed and warm and how the lodge has meant so much to the community for over a century.  As he continued to read, my heavy heart began to lift.  Particularly when he got to the following excerpt:

A sourdough starter used to make locally-beloved pancakes was destroyed, but neighbors had some to spare.  "The pancakes will be coming back," Huddleston said....The couple plans to rebuild the lodge.  "The building is gone but the history is still there," he said. (ADN, May 20th 2012)

I was surprised, yet delighted to hear that they have plans to rebuild.  Of course, nothing will be exactly as it was, but Huddleston is right.  The history, the spirit of the place will still be there.  And my roots will be too.  The Copper River Valley is as much apart of me as my limbs are.  I am grown from it's soil.  So was the lodge.  And the spirit of a place can live on this earth, long after it's structure is gone.