A Spiritual Odyssey: My Pilgrimage to Alaska

Three months ago, I embarked on a pilgrimage to Kodiak Island—a transformative journey etched with indelible moments.  This is the story of what unfolded.

The initial day unfolded amidst the travel hustle, soaring from Portland to Seattle, fueled by the anthems of “North to Alaska” by Johnny Horton and “Northwest Passage” by Stan Rogers. Seattle’s layover passed with musical inspiration, setting the stage for an evening flight to Anchorage. My lodging, post-Uber from the airport, reflected the aftermath of a fire—a poignant contrast to the anticipation of this spiritual odyssey.

Despite the hotel’s scars, I rested, bathing away the travel grime. Morning saw me Uber to the Saint Innocent Russian Orthodox Cathedral in Anchorage. Arriving early, I savored the quiet church grounds before parishioners converged. Amid introductions, I shared my journey to Kodiak for St. Herman’s feast, forging connections with priests, deacons, and parishioners. I was then advised to visit St. Tikhon’s OCA Orthodox Church in Anchorage, as it was a “can’t miss opportunity” I whispered a prayer, saying “Lord send me where I need to go, for you are in charge” Then I surrendered to divine guidance.

A swift Uber ride later, I arrived at Saint Tikhon’s, arriving just in time, I caught the tail end of the service at this beautiful church. Its wooden walls stretched up, embracing a small opening that let natural light cascade down. In this sacred space, the grace of God permeated every corner, seeping from the walls, icons, and holy relics. I transitioned from the outside world to the presence of holiness in an instant—a moment forever etched in my memory.

Standing in awe, I received a blessing and introduced myself to Father Andrei. He extended a warm invitation to join the congregation for a post-service meal, an offer I gladly accepted. Inside the parish hall, I met several parishioners who embraced the presence of a fellow traveler. One of them recognized my Amazing Orthodox Churches Instagram, adding an unexpected connection.

Amidst the gathering, Freddie, a kind soul, engaged me in conversation, even sharing some Yupik words. Finally, Father Andrei joined me, and as I unfolded my journey as a wandering subdeacon, aiming to visit St. Herman, I revealed the struggles that had almost led me to become a seminarian at Saint Vladimir’s. The dream was halted by the lack of a college degree, a bitter twist. In a surprising turn, Father Andrei disclosed that he was on the brink of becoming the new dean of St. Herman’s Seminary. To my astonishment, he inquired about my interest and offered me an application.  Unfortunately he didn’t have any applications with him, but still gave me guidance and encouragement.

Before my departure, he advised me to seek out Father John upon reaching Kodiak, assuring me that he could provide further guidance regarding seminary. This unexpected encounter left me deeply humbled and fueled with anticipation for the next chapter of my pilgrimage.

Following my visit to Saint Tikhon’s, I opted for the convenience of another Uber, returning to the Ted Stevens International Airport. Boarding a Ravn flight from Anchorage to Homer was the next leg of my journey. From Homer, a taxi ride took me to the picturesque Homer waterfront. Reflecting on it now, I acknowledge there were likely more straightforward routes to reach Kodiak, but I craved the experiential richness of the journey. Hence, a few short hours later, I found myself boarding the Tustumena Ferry.

Descending into the front of the boat, I settled my gear into a galley booth, preparing for the overnight voyage. The experience proved nothing short of extraordinary. Witnessing the Alaskan night sky, untainted by light pollution, and inhaling the briny sea air felt like a rejuvenation of life itself. This was living, this was reality! Morning greeted me with a stiff back, a consequence of sleeping in a dining booth. Rising, I stepped out onto the solarium deck, watching as the boat gracefully glided into Ouzinkie.

There, a three-bar Orthodox cross, glistening in the sun, adorned a small church rising above the trees. It served as a poignant reminder of my purpose for this journey. An hour later, we docked in Kodiak. A sense of wonder enveloped me as we approached, with the steeples of the Cathedral visible from the boat, foreshadowing the anticipation of what lay ahead.

Stepping off the boat, a sense of disorientation enveloped me. Uttering a silent prayer, “Guide me to where you need me to go,” led me to the Kodiak Visitor Center. There, after purchasing postcards, I encountered a fellow pilgrim, Andrei. A Russian expat studying film in Los Angeles, he became a fast friend. Luckily, he had flown in and rented a car, allowing us to visit the Cathedral, venerate Saint Herman’s relics, and embark on a mini island tour, exploring White Sands Beach and the former Kodiak military base. The tour, though brief, brimmed with fascinating insights.

Andrei generously dropped me off at my hotel, providing me with a couple of hours before the evening vespers service. Donning my subdeacon cassock, I opted for a one-mile walk from the hotel to the church, sensing the benefits of a bit of exercise.

The vespers service, graced by His Beatitude Metropolitan Tikhon and His Grace Bishop Alexi, was a beautiful commencement to the Saint Herman Pilgrimage. The Metropolitan spoke of St. Herman, the first Saint of North America, beckoning all to be his spiritual children. His life, like a northern star, guides us towards a profound connection with Christ.

After the service, Deacon Thomas Rivas sought me out with genuine enthusiasm, expressing delight at my visit. To my surprise, he not only knew of my presence but also acknowledged Amazing Orthodox Churches, and the missionary work I have building.

In the brief yet significant exchange that followed, I shared details of my conversation with Father Andrei. Deacon Thomas, serving as the Episcopal secretary to Bishop Alexi, revealed the esteemed position of St. Tikhon’s as the crown jewel of the Alaskan Archdiocese. Intriguingly, he expressed a keen interest in forging a deeper connection, a desire to understand my journey and aspirations.

However, as the final notes of the service echoed, time constraints interrupted our conversation. I received heartfelt blessings from both the Bishop and the Metropolitan, renewing my veneration of St. Herman’s relics with a silent plea for guidance: “Help me!”

The emotional turbulence that had been brewing within me surged forth as I navigated back to my hotel room. The prospect of seminary, a dream deferred by the lack of a college degree, loomed large in my thoughts. The tranquility of my room became a sanctuary for reflection and prayer. Overwhelmed and stressed, I grappled with the uncertainty of my path, feeling like a fragile vessel tossed upon tumultuous waves.

In the quietude of that room, my earnest prayers sought guidance. It was then that an extraordinary occurrence unfolded. Amidst the emptiness of the room, I sensed an invisible yet palpable presence—I recognized it as St. Herman. A voice, gentle yet resolute, resonated within me: “Relax. Be at peace and let me handle this.” In surrendering to those words, I felt an immediate release, a calming of both body and mind that gently ushered me into a tranquil sleep, reassured that I was not alone on this profound journey.

The following morning, I rose early, embarking on a routine that echoed with reverence. A shower, careful selection of attire, and a contemplative walk to the church marked the prelude to the Heirarchal Divine Liturgy. Donning my cassock, I sought solace in the back corner, opting for a quiet observer’s role. The entrance of His Beatitude Metropolitan Tikhon and His Grace Bishop Alexi signaled the commencement of the resplendent service, where vestments adorned hierarchs, and chants resonated with ethereal beauty.

As communion drew near, a palpable sense of unworthiness gripped me. In silent prayer, I acknowledged my imperfections, my endless sins, and entreating the Lord for spiritual and physical healing, I prayed silently. Lord, I am truly not worthy to receive you! But if you say the word, I shall be healed. Let me partake in communion for the healing of my soul and body!” I walked up and got in line to receive the eucharist. I was nervous, but I kept repeating my prayer. Deacon Thomas was holding the cloth underneath the chalice, and as I approached, he whispered to the Bishop, “Subdeacon Ioannikios.” Then I heard the words said by Bishop Alexi… The Servant of God Subdeacon Ioannikios and I stepped up and placed my lips around the golden spoon that held the body and blood of Jesus Christ, and for the first time in almost a year, I received communion. I kissed the chalice and then the Bishop’s ring and walked back to my little corner in the back. I cried. I cried such tears of joy that I felt whole again. Then, inside my heart, I heard these words “Because of the prayers of Saint Herman, your sins are forgiven.” I wept! I knew I still needed to go to confession to receive the actual sacrament, but for the time being, I felt anew.

Post-liturgy, the queue for blessings unfolded, a microcosm of seeking grace. Approaching St. Herman’s casket, I prostrated—a gesture heavy with gratitude and whispered prayers. Turning towards Metropolitan Tikhon, the act of kissing his hand became a connection across time and tradition. The anointment with Holy oil from St. Herman’s reliquary, a tactile link with centuries past, marked a sacred culmination, a personal communion with the divine that transcended the confines of that Kodiak Cathedral.

After the service, Andrei and I hopped into his rental car and headed to the afognak center for the Saint Herman banquet. Our table quickly filled with a diverse group of pilgrims and sisters from a nearby monastery. Michael, a fellow pilgrim, shared his plans to stay on after the pilgrimage, contemplating a life as a monk. The compassionate words of the nuns, spoken with the warmth of maternal love, offered the comfort and encouragement I needed. One of them, as it turned out, was the administrative secretary for His Grace Bishop Alexi, and she graciously handed me her card.

During the banquet, Subdeacon Spiridon captivated our attention with a Yupik story, a tale passed down through generations. He recounted how his Creole people, a blend of Russian and native heritage, were introduced to Orthodoxy. The missionary, faced with a community worshipping the Raven and the Eagle, explained that it was his God who created these creatures. The result: the entire village embraced Orthodoxy. It was a profound narrative that resonated with the unique cultural tapestry of Alaska.

Post-feast, our group had divergent opinions on how to spend the evening. While Michael aimed to explore Kodiak, Andrei and I were keen on a tour of the Saint Herman Seminary. Fortunately, Daria, the Instructor of Church Slavonic and Russian Church History, accompanied by Subdeacon Spiridon, was leading a tour covering the seminary, the church, and a library housing relics dating back to the 16th century. Despite a slight delay due to our split party, we made it back in time to catch the remainder of the tour.

Entering the St. Herman chapel, Daria, with her distinctive accent, guided us through the icons and traditions that made St. Herman’s Theological Seminary exceptional. The tour was a visual and educational feast, prompting me to capture the moments through the lens of my camera.

After our visit to the chapel, Subdeacon Spiridon and I descended into the library vaults, where the sacred pages of religious texts and documents that had endured for centuries awaited. To my amazement, Daria explained that St. Herman’s library possessed a unique collection, untouched by the Library of Congress. This was in stark contrast to many other churches in Alaska, which had lost their historical texts, genealogy reports, and vital records to the national library. The vault, a fortified fireproof room, safeguarded the most priceless books and artifacts.

In the midst of exploring this treasury, Subdeacon Spiridon, with a directness that surprised me, inquired if I was a seminarian like him. I replied, “Not yet, but I aspire to be.” Subdeacon Spiridon then took me under his wing, ensuring I had a clear view of the repository and explaining its profound significance.

St. Herman’s, with its rich history, stood as a guardian of a cultural and religious heritage not just for itself but for the entire Alaskan Orthodox community. Daria and Subdeacon Spiridon skillfully narrated the stories behind each precious item, painting a vivid picture of the struggles and triumphs preserved in these hallowed texts.

Post-tour, I had a delightful conversation with Daria, whom Subdeacon Spiridon had introduced. I shared my aspirations of becoming a seminarian, and she responded with warmth and encouragement. Her words echoed those of Father Andrei in Anchorage, directing me to seek guidance from Father John.

With a few hours before the next vespers service, Andrei, some fellow pilgrims, and I hopped into his car, heading to the beach. As photographers, Andrei and I shared a common passion, always poised to capture the next captivating shot.

Later that evening, we reentered the Cathedral for the vespers service, a tranquil and beautiful symphony of prayers ascending to God. Amidst the hallowed chants and reverential tones, I found myself reaching out to Saint Herman, expressing gratitude for the profound blessings bestowed upon me that day. The memory of the communion lingered, juxtaposed with contemplation of my own sins and my need for confession.

As the service unfolded, I noticed a line forming to my right—a priest offering the sacrament of confession. Seizing the opportune moment, I stepped forward, baring my heart and soul. I spoke of my aspirations, the familial struggles, and the challenges that strained my spirit. The weight of estrangement from my mother and father, a retired deacon, due to recent negativity and verbal attacks, loomed heavily. I confessed my desire to become a seminarian but admitted my hesitancy given the strife within.

To my surprise, the priest offering solace and counsel revealed himself as Father John—the very person I had been advised to seek. His words were a balm, providing guidance on navigating the complexities with my parents. Confession became not just a sacrament but a transformative conversation, leaving me with a renewed sense of calm and quiet peace.

At the conclusion of the vespers service, we approached Metropolitan Tikhon for another blessing and the anointing of holy oil. Subdeacon Spiridon, ever generous, placed several vials of holy oil into my hands, a tangible reminder of the sacred moments shared.

Before departing, I expressed gratitude to both Bishop Alexi and Metropolitan Tikhon. I bid goodnight to my friend Andrei and strolled back to my hotel. Enveloped in an aura of peace and grace, I chanted hymns along the way. A pause at the harbor allowed me to breathe in the salty air, contemplating the vessels resting in the calm waters. Upon returning to my hotel room, a call to my wife became a tender recap of the day, and we exchanged goodnights as the echoes of hymns lingered in my heart.

The next morning heralded a momentous day as we embarked on a journey following in the wake of St. Herman, venturing to his sacred abode on Spruce Island. This hallowed place exuded an air of sanctity, every inch of land resonating with holiness. Rising early, I undertook the familiar walk to the church, a daily ritual that had become a cherished part of my pilgrimage. Chanting hymns along the way, I felt enveloped in the love of Christ.

Upon reaching the cathedral, a momentary panic gripped me. The instructions were to assemble at the waterfront just south of the cathedral, yet it seemed deserted. Fearing that I had been left behind, I called Andrei, only to spot his car approaching, accompanied by clergy from the seminary. Peace washed over me—evidently, I wasn’t late. In Andrei’s car, we corrected course and headed to the correct waterfront, where Matushka Elizabeth organized us first-timers onto the second boat.

The mist of the sea enveloped us as we set sail for Spruce Island. Glancing around, I was surprised to see both His Grace Bishop Alexei and Metropolitan Tikhon seated within the cabin of the boat. A passing joke about surely making it with hierarchs on board received a sobering response—an acknowledgment of the rugged and unforgiving nature that Alaska harbors within its scenic beauty and the clergy members that have perished because of it.

Fortunately, the 20-minute boat ride to Spruce Island transpired without issue. As we disembarked, I stepped aside, allowing deacons and subdeacons to greet the hierarchs. Our journey into the heart of the island led us through vast spruce forests, the trail adorned with icons hung on trees and glossy green moss. Approaching the Saint Herman and Saint Sergius Chapel, the resonant peal of festal bells greeted us—a sublime melody in the midst of nature’s majesty.

The path, guided by bell ringing, led us to an outdoor space brimming with holiness as the Hierarchical Divine Liturgy commenced. Recording the entire service on my phone, I captured the ethereal atmosphere. Once more, I partook in communion, this time with Bishop Alexei, Deacon Thomas, and an altar server, an experience that deepened my connection to the sacred.

After communion, I found a moment to crawl beneath the chapel, beneath the very floorboards I had recently stood upon. There, beneath the rafters, lies the grave of Saint Sergius of Valaam and the former resting place of Saint Herman, now enshrined in the Cathedral. Armed with a small wooden shovel, I scooped some soil into a sandwich bag as a sacred keepsake. The earth, even months later, retains the freshness of that sacred ground.

Post-service, I presented icons of Saint Herman purchased the night before to Metropolitan Tikhon, requesting his blessing. Placing them on the chapel altar, he uttered a prayer. My next task was to take these blessed icons down to St. Herman’s spring. Following the Metropolitan’s guidance, I descended to find a line of people awaiting their turn to collect water from this hallowed spring. Andrei awaited me, and together we participated in this ritual. The slightly discolored water, infused with minerals, proved to be some of the most refreshing I’ve tasted. Informed that the spring’s sanctity arose from St. Herman’s life and prayers, I marveled at the concept of an endless source of holy water. Unprepared to take much, I filled a container, cherishing this connection to the sacred.

Later, during the post-Liturgy picnic, we gathered for food and fellowship. An altar server, seated next to me, curiously asked why I hadn’t served. I explained the absence of my robes and my out-of-practice state. Undeterred, he insisted there were spare robes to share, a gentle chiding born out of love.

After the picnic, I yearned for a moment with His Grace Bishop Alexei. Unable to locate him initially, I scanned the surroundings until I spotted him strolling down to the beach. A sense of urgency propelled me, and I hurried to join him, humbly requesting a brief audience. With a warm smile, the Bishop welcomed me to his side. I introduced myself as Subdeacon Ioannikios, to which he replied “Ah, a good Greek name!”

As we walked along the shoreline, I began sharing more about myself — the journey that led me to the shores of Alaska, the trials I faced, and the unwavering calling to pursue seminary. In the presence of this seasoned clergyman, who had spent a decade on Mount Athos, I felt a mixture of awe and gratitude. I spoke of the challenges in my life as well as the unwavering desire to enter seminary.

The Bishop listened intently, his gaze fixed on the rhythmic dance of the waves. When I mentioned my encounters with St. Herman’s relics, the transformative communion, and the guidance received in confession, his eyes conveyed understanding. His response was filled with compassion, acknowledging trials present within my spiritual journey.

As we continued our stroll, the conversation deepened. I shared my reverence for the Alaskan landscape, its rugged beauty, and spiritual significance. I told him of my brief journey with St. Vladimir’s and expressed my desire to be a seminarian again. The Bishop, with a twinkle in his eye, offered words of encouragement and explained that I already had more experience than many of his own seminarians. I smiled, knowing full well of how far behind I am and how much I still have to learn.  His smile conveyed a genuine anticipation for the future, as he finally said, “I look forward to receiving your application.”

After bidding farewell to Bishop Alexei on the beach, I gently kissed his hands and received his blessing. As he continued his path along the shoreline, I, filled with a sense of reverence, made my way back to the picnic tables. Seated on a bench, I marveled at the unfolding tapestry of God’s mercy. It was in this contemplative moment that Deacon Thomas, returning from the chapel with reader Peter, joined me on the bench. Their arms were laden with music stands and equipment, remnants of the Divine Liturgy on Spruce Island.

Eager to share my encounter with the Bishop, I relayed my story to Deacon Thomas. To my surprise, he revealed himself as the Bishop’s episcopal secretary, entrusted with the responsibility of accepting or denying seminarian applications. Our conversation delved into the depths of my thoughts and emotions regarding Orthodoxy, my perspective on the Native populations, and the significance of the Mother of God in my spiritual journey. It was an intensely personal dialogue, a rare opportunity to articulate the nuances of my faith.

Deacon Thomas, not merely seeking those who professed love for Christ but those committed to serving Alaska and its diverse communities, scrutinized my convictions. We explored topics such as the Theotokos, and I expressed how, to me, she is not only the Mother of God but an actual mother – a comforting presence, guiding my path. Our fellowship was more than a conversation; it felt like an interview, an attempt to discern if I truly belonged to the seminary community.

We discussed how God had already worked wonders in our lives, and how our shared love the faith shaped our world beliefs. We told stories we heard from ancient elders and saints that went before us.

I shared my contact information with Deacon Thomas, extending an invitation to continue our dialogue. His questions were not just inquiries but a probing exploration of my readiness for seminary life. As the conversation concluded, he expressed the Seminary’s desire for individuals devoted to the service of Alaska and its people, irrespective of color or nationality.

As the day waned, and the final call for the boats echoed, I reluctantly prepared to depart. Standing at the back of the boat, watching Spruce Island recede into the horizon, I offered a prayer to Saint Herman, beseeching his guidance to return to this holy land. The splendor of nature—leaping king salmon and soaring Kodiak bald eagles—seemed to bid me farewell. I left with a longing heart, yearning for the day when I might set foot again on this sacred ground.

Upon reaching the waterfront, we relinquished our life vests to Matushka Elizabeth. Slowly trudging back to the Cathedral, soaked, cold, and fatigued from the day’s exertions, I sought solace in the basement where a comforting aroma led to the discovery of Borscht being served. The warmth of the soup, complemented by buttered bread, not only revived my energy but also provided a setting for renewed conversations with fellow pilgrims.

Later that evening, I messaged Andrei, expressing my enjoyment of the Borscht in Russian. He responded, expressing his liking for it as well, albeit without meat.

Returning to the hotel room, I felt a profound sense of fulfillment and blessing. Preparing for the journey home, I arranged for a taxi to the airport the next morning. Andrei, not ready for the pilgrimage’s end, suggested visiting churches in Anchorage. However, I chose to contemplate the trip’s revelations and focus on what God had presented me with. Later, Andrei texted me and said that it was a good idea to contemplate about the pilgrimage and that he had visited Father Andrei at St. Tikhons OCA church in Anchorage. He was grateful for the suggestion.

In the airport terminal, I quietly prayed for the pilgrimage to continue, even if only for a little longer. Surprisingly, my wish seemed granted as I found myself surrounded by familiar faces and new friends—half the plane filled with St. Herman Pilgrims! Landing in Anchorage, I bid farewell the friends I had met, and to Alaska. I also made a promise to return.

Arriving in Spokane later that night, a solitary walk back to my car marked the transition from the sacred aura of Alaska to the familiar contours of normal life. Wrestling with the question of how do I keep the person I became while in the presense of such holiness, and not return to the person I was before… a question I hold onto now several months later. I gave glory to God for the incredible people introduced on this pilgrimage—Andrei, Daria, Subdeacon Spiridon, Deacon Thomas, Father Andrei, Father John, and countless pilgrims whose faces I remember even if their names elude me. Gratitude extended to Bishop Alexi and The Metropolitan for their kindness. Above all, gratitude to Saint Herman, who I felt had adopted and continued to watch over and guide me.

Through the prayers of Saint Herman, I hope to return to Kodiak someday, this time as a seminarian. May it be blessed.

Thank you for reading my friends. This was truly a life changing experience, and I hope you enjoyed my retelling of it.

-Orthodox Trucker