I know I’ve made it home when I step off the plane and a rush of cedar bark invades my senses. As I step onto the airport tarmac, I see the Stikine River and the tiniest airport terminal I have ever laid eyes on. I’ve returned for my annual summer vacation in Wrangell.
Once a small yet vibrant logging and fishing community which has long since diminished, leaving a population of roughly 2,000, what could make a town double in size for two weeks out of the year? That’s simple, the best Fourth of July celebration of my life.
The Fourth is the time when everyone who left Wrangell comes back home....
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