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| Hard not to feel at home with a backyard like this. |
I know it seems unconventional, but I knew I was home when I
walked up to gate C4 at the Portland airport earlier last month. I’d been Outside for 6 months (that means
anywhere Outside of Alaska) and as I approached the gate I knew I was among my
people. It wasn’t that I
recognized anyone in particular, but I identified with the motley crew
assembled and waiting for our Alaska Air flight. Not many, if any, tourists are clamoring to visit Alaska on
the cusp of winter, so those heading north at this time are generally of a
local breed: a skinny guy in a
black Salty Dog Saloon sweatshirt and work boots; several variety of bearded men—from beanpole to beer
belly—with the name of their drilling/mining/construction company (see also:
fishing vessel) embroidered onto their denim jackets; a harried-looking couple
apparently returning home with their infant baby after a trip to visit the
family; a woman holding a coat with a fur ruff around the hood. Also of note was that not one of these
people looked at me twice for being a woman wearing Carhartts, nor did I feel
conspicuous for doing so. Because
even in uber cool Portland, a girl can feel like she is not cool in
double-kneed work jeans (please Carhartt, please do not make skinny jeans.
Ever.). Instead, we all just
milled about the gate until our flight was ready and headed to Anchorage.
Upon arrival in Anchorage I also felt like I had arrived
home. I couldn't tell if my mind was playing tricks on me or if my olfactory
nerves were projecting nostalgia, but I seriously smelled salmon in the baggage
claim area. Not cooked salmon, but raw, barely dead, still twitching because
even s/he doesn't know it's dead, just off the river fresh salmon. I knew
it was crazy, but I embraced it because I'd been gone for so long. As I
waited for my humongous bags to come around on the carousel, I admired what is
indisputably strictly Alaskan decor at almost any airport: a stuffed
polar bear on it's hind legs, a wolf posed in a lifeless snarl. To top it
off I thought of what a small place this is because I know the people who built
these dioramas. Talented carpenters and musicians one and all and
outspoken political whiskey drinkers on occasion. I knew I was home when a
friend volunteered to come pick me up from the airport and that conveniently,
and coincidentally, another friend was arriving 10 minutes after me so we could
all ride together (I doubt that happens in New York City).
I knew I was home long before I stepped foot in my cabin 215
miles north of Anchorage. Because
in Anchorage there were giggles with girlfriends, smiles with babies, brunch
for fifteen people including, but not limited to, bacon waffles, cheesy grits
with shrimp etouffee, an egg pie with moose sausage, homemade muffins, and a
mimosa or two, music of the old timey variety, walks at the dog park, falling
snow, and bundling in down; reuniting with old friends, sharing stories and
catching up; being in a place where I feel part of a community.
By all means that community stretches across Alaska. From my own home in the Jack River
Nation and the Denali area to Fairbanks, Talkeetna, Juneau, Anchorage, and
Homer I feel like I’ve got friends, confidants, and allies. While I enjoy my time Outside and
people I know there, I do not feel part of a larger community there. In AK we always joke about the
population here being the biggest, most spread out small town ever and that
feels true. Whether from my Denali
National Park ranger days, the bluegrass community, outdoor enthusiasts, or
just next door neighbors (or a combination of these interests/experiences) it
is amazing how many people a girl can get to know across this vast state.
After a jaunt to Homer--beautiful, beautiful Homer—I finally
made it back to Cantwell and back into the cabin I built for myself. But even before I arrive at my log
cabin in the spruce forest, I feel settled because I know I'm
home when I'm not even to my cabin yet. It's when I arrive in Broad Pass and
look around at the 360 degrees of mountains that envelop me: Denali book ending
one side and the Deborah gang of mountains on the other. The Alaska Range and
the Talkeetna Mountains forming a carousel of summits that make me dizzy. And
on that early winter day I witnessed a sky full of every blue hue on the chart from bright and perky to smoky
and nearly purple. The ring of snow capped mountains surrounding me were all
shades of white from sun lit and shiny to the indescribable muted white and
shadowy that only occurs at this time of year, the contrast with the sky always
drastic. These mountains, these colors: these are as familiar and welcoming to
me as an old friend.
Of course being in my cabin and among
my neighbors has been wonderful.
Walks in familiar woods, seeing the way the Jack River has changed
course after fall flooding, checking progress of our local beaver families,
admiring the crystal-clear, glass like condition of the ice on the slough,
walking in the winter sun with a romping brown dog, impromptu dinners with
neighbors, wine with girlfriends:
all things that I missed while away on my adventure (and
mis-adventure). It’s just really
nice to know that this cozy, comfortable, safe feeling that one generally feels
in her own home is not limited to my physical dwelling…sometimes that feeling
can start at an airport gate far, far away and stretch across the biggest state
in the union.
