I remember where the seed was planted. It was a hot, dusty day in late August. After logging a few flight hours in my logbook, I found my way to Archer City, Texas. Following a long walk from the airstrip, the cool, musty depths of the world’s largest bookstore made the trip worthwhile. Deep in the confines of Booked Up’s building #4, I found the very story that would stir my wanderlust and keep it lit until our move to Alaska nearly a decade later.
As I flipped through the pages of Beryl Markham’s, West with the Night, and read these words:
“Africa is mystic; it is wild; it is a sweltering inferno; it is a photographer’s paradise, a hunter’s Valhalla, an escapist’s Utopia. It is what you will, and it withstands all interpretations. It is the last vestige of a dead world or the cradle of a shiny new one. To a lot of people, as to myself, it is just ‘home.’ It is all these things but one thing – it is never dull.”
I knew that, like Markham, “I was obsessed with the desire of seeing this world before leaving it.”
Initially, my travels took me to Markham’s Africa, then Europe, and then to Central America and the Caribbean Islands; but it wasn’t until the road ended in Homer, Alaska that I found my “mystic place that withstands all interpretation.” I recall the day my breath caught in my throat as I topped Baycrest Hill and looked out across the magnificent Kachemak Bay for the first time. This view was one of the reasons we decided to sell everything and move 5,000 miles away from our family and begin a new adventure in Alaska.
Eight years later, I am still taken aback by that view. Ever changing, this vista never fails to produce an overflowing amount of awe. However, after a summer of family visits and tear-filled return trips from the airport, I must mentally give myself an annual gut check. As the fireweed goes to seed and the air gets a nip, one must ask oneself: am I man (or woman) enough to make it another season? While Alaska collectively sighs with relief at the retreat of the tourists and enjoys the restfulness of lengthening nights, we all take stock of the reasons we live here.
One of the primary sources of enjoyment for my family is found in our freezer and pantry. Where else could I look upon a freezer full of white-papered packages of moose, caribou, bear, and vac-packed veggies and fish with both contentment and thankfulness? It isn’t just the bounty that gratifies my heart, but the spirit behind the gathering, collecting, fishing and hunting that binds us together with others and harkens back to past generations. Whether it is the yearly picking of raspberries with my best friend, subsistence dip-netting on the beach, or several days of processing moose and chickens with friends that feel like family, good times are had by all. Laughter and stories are shared over the blade, fire, and bush, creating a resourceful community of the gatherer and hunter.
Another reason Alaska still has me in its grasp is because of the daily paradox of extremes. In the winter we yearn for the sun and six months later celebrate its retirement, just so we can rest, regroup and reconnect at a slower pace. The seasons are definite and marked by the blooms coming to the end of the fireweed stalk, the first dusting of snow on the mountains, and then that initial melting of snow with the return of the lupine. Life is tied to the coming and going of remarkable tidal movements and the migration of the largest salmon fishery on the planet. Nature moves in mysterious and powerful ways that make men feel small, yet large in the power to exist in such harsh extremes. It is this harsh extreme that lends itself to a yearly self-evaluation.
This summer marked a pivotal moment for me. When it came time for my gut check, I recalled this moment. It didn’t happen in a West Texas book store, but at Summit Lake. As we pushed off from the shore in our 16 ft. canoe, I felt elated at the thought of the entire family on an adventure, yet, apprehensive at the sight of my oldest manning the anchor at the bow, my middle son sharing my bench, the dog at my husband’s feet and our 18-month baby in his lap. I figured it would be a miracle if we stayed afloat, much less caught fish. The lake sits in a valley within the Chugach National Forest. The lush, surrounding mountains and expansive sky were reflected in the smooth water. The encompassing beauty gave us all pause.
Nature moves in mysterious and powerful ways that make men feel small, yet large in the power to exist in such harsh extremes.
However, as we began fishing we could see the fog rolling down the mountains. The baby grew tired and fell asleep with the dog in the bottom of the boat. The fish weren’t biting and I began looking for sun. Suddenly, the most amazing avenue of crepuscular rays shone down from the heavens onto a section of the lake. We floated into the sunshine and instantly I set my hook on the biggest rainbow trout I have ever caught. Soon afterward, my husband set the hook on another big trout and our 4-year-old reeled it in with a big grin. It was a magical and memorable day for our family.
This moment of realization wasn’t about the fish we caught, or the sun beaming down on us on a stunning valley lake. I am sure we could perhaps catch fish in a beautiful setting elsewhere. The question for me was this; could we live anywhere else to the extent that we can live…truly live…life here in Alaska? Even though we are 5,000 miles from family, I’ve never felt more alive or more at home.
I remember where the seed was planted. It was a hot, dusty day in late August. After logging a few flight hours in my logbook, I found my way to Archer City, Texas. Following a long walk from the airstrip, the cool, musty depths of the world’s largest bookstore made the trip worthwhile. Deep in the confines of Booked Up’s building #4, I found the very story that would stir my wanderlust and keep it lit until our move to Alaska nearly a decade later.
As I flipped through the pages of Beryl Markham’s, West with the Night, and read these words:
“Africa is mystic; it is wild; it is a sweltering inferno; it is a photographer’s paradise, a hunter’s Valhalla, an escapist’s Utopia. It is what you will, and it withstands all interpretations. It is the last vestige of a dead world or the cradle of a shiny new one. To a lot of people, as to myself, it is just ‘home.’ It is all these things but one thing – it is never dull.”
I knew that, like Markham, “I was obsessed with the desire of seeing this world before leaving it.”
Initially, my travels took me to Markham’s Africa, then Europe, and then to Central America and the Caribbean Islands; but it wasn’t until the road ended in Homer, Alaska that I found my “mystic place that withstands all interpretation.” I recall the day my breath caught in my throat as I topped Baycrest Hill and looked out across the magnificent Kachemak Bay for the first time. This view was one of the reasons we decided to sell everything and move 5,000 miles away from our family and begin a new adventure in Alaska.
Eight years later, I am still taken aback by that view. Ever changing, this vista never fails to produce an overflowing amount of awe. However, after a summer of family visits and tear-filled return trips from the airport, I must mentally give myself an annual gut check. As the fireweed goes to seed and the air gets a nip, one must ask oneself: am I man (or woman) enough to make it another season? While Alaska collectively sighs with relief at the retreat of the tourists and enjoys the restfulness of lengthening nights, we all take stock of the reasons we live here.
One of the primary sources of enjoyment for my family is found in our freezer and pantry. Where else could I look upon a freezer full of white-papered packages of moose, caribou, bear, and vac-packed veggies and fish with both contentment and thankfulness? It isn’t just the bounty that gratifies my heart, but the spirit behind the gathering, collecting, fishing and hunting that binds us together with others and harkens back to past generations. Whether it is the yearly picking of raspberries with my best friend, subsistence dip-netting on the beach, or several days of processing moose and chickens with friends that feel like family, good times are had by all. Laughter and stories are shared over the blade, fire, and bush, creating a resourceful community of the gatherer and hunter.
Another reason Alaska still has me in its grasp is because of the daily paradox of extremes. In the winter we yearn for the sun and six months later celebrate its retirement, just so we can rest, regroup and reconnect at a slower pace. The seasons are definite and marked by the blooms coming to the end of the fireweed stalk, the first dusting of snow on the mountains, and then that initial melting of snow with the return of the lupine. Life is tied to the coming and going of remarkable tidal movements and the migration of the largest salmon fishery on the planet. Nature moves in mysterious and powerful ways that make men feel small, yet large in the power to exist in such harsh extremes. It is this harsh extreme that lends itself to a yearly self-evaluation.
This summer marked a pivotal moment for me. When it came time for my gut check, I recalled this moment. It didn’t happen in a West Texas book store, but at Summit Lake. As we pushed off from the shore in our 16 ft. canoe, I felt elated at the thought of the entire family on an adventure, yet, apprehensive at the sight of my oldest manning the anchor at the bow, my middle son sharing my bench, the dog at my husband’s feet and our 18-month baby in his lap. I figured it would be a miracle if we stayed afloat, much less caught fish. The lake sits in a valley within the Chugach National Forest. The lush, surrounding mountains and expansive sky were reflected in the smooth water. The encompassing beauty gave us all pause.
Nature moves in mysterious and powerful ways that make men feel small, yet large in the power to exist in such harsh extremes.
However, as we began fishing we could see the fog rolling down the mountains. The baby grew tired and fell asleep with the dog in the bottom of the boat. The fish weren’t biting and I began looking for sun. Suddenly, the most amazing avenue of crepuscular rays shone down from the heavens onto a section of the lake. We floated into the sunshine and instantly I set my hook on the biggest rainbow trout I have ever caught. Soon afterward, my husband set the hook on another big trout and our 4-year-old reeled it in with a big grin. It was a magical and memorable day for our family.
This moment of realization wasn’t about the fish we caught, or the sun beaming down on us on a stunning valley lake. I am sure we could perhaps catch fish in a beautiful setting elsewhere. The question for me was this; could we live anywhere else to the extent that we can live…truly live…life here in Alaska? Even though we are 5,000 miles from family, I’ve never felt more alive or more at home.
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Eight years ago, Dana Jaworski and her husband moved from West Texas to Anchor Point, Alaska. Dana is a graduate of Abilene Christian University with a degree in Political Science. She enjoys writing for the local paper and has been a frequent blog contributor to Word for Today, www.gsccwordfortoday.blogspot.com. She, her husband, and their three children enjoy clamming, gardening, fishing and the many outdoor activities of the Kenai Peninsula.
