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A statue of Captain James Cook stands at the end of Third Avenue in Anchorage. Facing the railroad and the frigid waters of the Knik Arm, its back is coldly turned on the downtown skyscrapers. That this monument to one of the most prominent explorers of Alaska should exhibit such indifference towards the state’s largest city is appropriate, for the story of Anchorage is largely a tale of other places.

Anchorage was accidentally conceived in Washington DC. In 1914, President Woodrow Wilson formally selected the route for a new railroad between the sheltered harbours of Alaska’s coastal inlets and the gold and coal fields of the interior. On the alluvial flats of the Cook Inlet a tented camp was pitched to billet the navvies. Several names sat temporarily on this ragged canvas village – Woodrow, Alaska City and Ship Creek Landing among them – before ‘Anchorage’ received the official post office stamp of approval in May 1915.

Within five years, tents had been superseded by log cabins and Anchorage had become the third largest community in Alaska. But in this land strewn with faded boom towns there was little to suggest that an inflated construction camp would avoid the wilted fate of the once blooming gold rush communities of, among others, Nome and Skagway.

Indeed, by the early 1930s Anchorage’s initial population spurt had sputtered and a declining future loomed. However, and not for the last time, hard times elsewhere propagated good times in Anchorage. With the Lower 48 (as Alaskans refer to the rest of mainland USA) gripped by the Great Depression, President Roosevelt’s New Deal included the relocation of 203 mid-western farming families to the Matanuska Valley just north of Anchorage to pioneer agriculture. Their arrival sparked a mini-boom.

Agriculture continues in the valley today, contributing 64% of the state’s farm production. Though the short growing season limits output, there is nothing modest about the produce. Warm summers with long daylight hours facilitate the growth of spectacularly giant vegetables. This is the land of the 90-pound cabbage and the 30-pound turnip.

Even after two population bursts, Anchorage remained a fragile entity. Under the harsh exposure of winter, the population eroded each year as many cheechakos (newcomers) packed up and returned south. By the late 1930s, Anchorage was faltering again. It took a world war to finally secure its future.

War can transform geography in an instant. Once regarded as a remote appendage, with the advent of World War II Alaska was suddenly at the strategic centre of things and became the focus for a huge US military build-up. Alaska’s physical isolation was remedied in just eight months with the construction of the Alaskan Highway (or Alcan), forging an overland supply route from the Lower 48 via Canada.

To the north and east of Anchorage, vast tracts of land were set aside for military use, incorporating Elmendorf Air Base and Fort Richardson. The town shuddered with military activity, sharply heightened when, in June 1942, the Japanese launched an assault on the Aleutian Islands, a volcanic chain that stretches 1,200 miles into the Pacific from the south-west tip of mainland Alaska.

Two of the remotest of the Aleutians – Attu and Kiska – were captured by the invaders and became the site of the only World War II battle fought on American soil. Anchorage was the logistical linchpin for that campaign.

With the end of one war came the beginning of another. The Cold War reasserted Alaska’s strategic value. Anchorage’s military bases were consolidated. When Alaska gained statehood in 1959, Anchorage was its largest city.

But it did not become the state capital. That honour was bestowed on Juneau, inconveniently located in the Southeast Alaskan ‘panhandle’; so hemmed in by mountains and glaciers that overland access was – and remains – impossible. Juneau can only reached by sea (though the heavy waters of the Gulf of Alaska have prevented a regular ferry service to Anchorage) and air (though bad weather frequently closes the airport).

Geographically, Anchorage presents a persuasive case for capitalhood. But big cities are what many Alaskans came to this state to escape. Sprawling ‘Los Anchorage’ has few friends beyond its boundaries. In the long-running debate about relocating the capital there is popular reluctance to award it the prize. Anchorage, they will tell you, has only one redeeming feature: it is just a thirty-minute drive from Alaska.

It is all a matter of perception. Viewed from a log cabin in the wilds, today’s Anchorage of 237,000 (almost half the total population of Alaska) is a dreadful prospect. Yet for an outsider arriving here, this city is no urban jungle. At least, not in the usual sense.

On the front page of the Anchorage Times, the headline: ‘Anchorage Resident Attacked by Moose.’ From a hotel room balcony, a sharp view of the snowy Alaska range and, rising out of it, Mount McKinley (or Denali), North America’s highest peak. On every street, a coating of ash from the recent eruption of a volcano. Enfolding the city, glacial waters heaving under the effect of the continent’s second greatest tidal range – there is a 38.9-foot difference between high and low tide.

This city could only be of Alaska. Never mind that the vast majority of its inhabitants are first generation. Alaska moulds those who spend any time here, and it has moulded Anchorage. It has also, on one occasion, destroyed it.

It took five minutes on the morning of 27 March, 1964, to shiver fifty years of development to dust. The Good Friday Earthquake measured 9.2 on the Richter Scale; one of the largest ever recorded. It killed nine people, levelled much of the city, and stirred tidal waves that reached California.

Four years later, nature made amends. In the frozen Arctic, far to the north, oil was discovered. The oil companies chose to base themselves in Anchorage, and thus, through this shaken city, the oil money flowed.

Fuelled by the oil bounty, Anchorage began to exhibit cosmopolitan pretensions. Burnished glass skyscrapers sprouted, as well as theatres and museums, a library, a sports arena, a convention centre, a golf course, a ski resort. The population exploded, increasing from 48,000 in 1970 to 226,000 in 1990.

Not everyone has been a winner in Anchorage’s sudden flourishing. Grim trailer parks have expanded rapidly. Alcoholism is rife, particularly among native Americans who, while accounting for just 5 per cent of the city’s population, contribute the majority of its destitute and homeless. Violent crime is an increasing problem. In the seedy suburb of Spenard, spousal murder is all to common – it’s called a ‘Spenard divorce’.

The International Airport, too, is struggling to cope with rapid change. Once the ‘Air Crossroads of the World’, annually handling around 3 million transit passengers flying between Europe and the Far East, the International Terminal now lies relatively dormant. The introduction of the long-range Boeing 747-400, and the opening of Siberian airspace, led to the by-passing of Anchorage. Perhaps Alaska’s burgeoning tourist industry will eventually revive the international passenger traffic. For now, the airport survives as a hub for older cargo planes plying the polar route.

Through all the recent changes, Captain Cook has kept his back firmly towards the city. His bronze eyes stare at ice-clogged waters, at wilderness, at mountains. The view has changed little since he anchored here in 1778. Despite its breakneck growth, Anchorage will always be overshadowed by the great land it inhabits.

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