The Alaskan Hotel

In the carnevourous corridors and rooms of The Alaskan Hotel, between the late hours of night until just before breakfast, is a frenzy of jamming. Bluegrass, old timey, old-style country, you name it - it happens. The space is cramped - squeeze through and put your fiddle case along with the others towering on the bed in the centre of the room. Take a swig of whiskey from the medicine jar that girl with the cowboy hat is passing you, and get some bow room to thrash out a tune along with the mesmerising cacaphony of sound. For the final two nights of the festival I break-through into the jam-land of the Alaksan Hotel. On Saturday night I get home at 9:30am Sunday morning.



Around five am on the final night of the festival I need to leave. I am getting on a tiny float plane in three hours for a seven hour flight. I need my wits about me to put on the immersion suit should we hit a migrating swan and plummet to the ocean. But the music plays on and I am transfixed by this lone coyboy old country jukebox. A Juneau local with his own radio show, he is a walking encyclopedia of knowledge and the voice of early country music. His voice is sweet and perfect for pre-dawn watzing. Ahhh slow dancing. Why is it not practiced in Australia? How lovely it is to sway with your partner, cheek to cheek.