Epiphany on the Hike From Hail

The sun’s rays sparkled across the small pond, across the back porch, and into the windows of the cabin. The day was bright in Fairbanks, singing the tune of summer with clear skies and chirping birds. It seemed like a shame not to be out there, reveling in the glory, so I took to the streets in the belly of the “Bomber,” a term so fondly given for my friends’ indestructible Alaskan Sable (being Alaskan because it has survived enumerable winters). I decided to head to Wickersham Dome to hike Summit trail, a path I had previously been unable to finish due to the latent winter residue. But today, on such a clear day, I was sure to succeed

As I drove along happily with not a care in the world except for whether or not the Bomber would make the forty-five minute drive, I couldn't help but notice the black blanket unfurling across the skies, overshadowing Fairbanks with an ominous gloom. Determined as I am, I pressed on to conquer the trail. And since the weather in Alaska changes every hour or so, I assumed that the skies would again turn to my favor and make for a delightful afternoon.

I arrived to the trail and began my ascent just in time for the skies to descend. Hail the size of peas speckled my head, fleece, and exploded onto my pants, dousing me completely in a matter of fifteen minutes. The muddied trail from the recent snow-melt turned to sludge that I trudged through as I persevered through the elements. Nothing was going to stop me; I was determined to make it to the end.

The hike through hail was more than just my afternoon workout: it was a representation of the last three months of my time in Alaska. I arrived here just a short while ago to what should have been the most favorable of conditions. I had a job, a place to stay, and the potential for nothing but adventure this summer. However, upon arrival, I quickly came to see that uncontrollable conditions and unpreventable “hailstorms” were going to dampen my spirits, forcing me to consider turning back on numerous occasions.

I kept going even at the first hint of ankle-deep mud, lightning, thunder, and never ending hail. For an hour and a half, I pushed forward, thinking to myself that the weather just had to break. The sun had to come out. It was supposed to be a glorious afternoon and an exhilarating hike. But it wasn’t. The lightening flashed around me and the hail continued raining on my uncovered head. After one step too many in the mud and rain, I finally decided that it was time to turn back.

After three months in Alaska, I've decided the same about being here and working in Denali. The hike that day was everything that my time has been—isolation, bad conditions, hail on my head. It has taken me three months to realize that some situations in life are not meant to be endured. It is only wisdom to see it in time to seek shelter.

I made it back to the warm Bomber in record time, just as the sun was peaking through the clouds. I had been drenched, but I felt more at peace than when I began. I left the trail and my own internal battle that day with the resolution to leave Alaska.  It has been nothing that I anticipated and more than I could have expected for shaping who I am.  

America's Last Frontier

People aren’t kidding when they call Alaska an America’s Last Frontier. It is wild, untamed, and fraught with all sorts of mischief. I’ve managed to explore a few places in the first weeks that I’ve been here, and I have yet to be disappointed with all that Alaska claims to be.

I arrived on March 27^th to unexpectedly frigid temperatures, normal to Alaskans and an utter shock to novel visitors such as myself. I had been forewarned about the cold, but nothing could equip me for minus 2 degree temperatures and snow banks as high as my shoulders. Without transportation, walking was my only means for getting around and getting around was what I did: on my rear, hands, and sliding feet. My first run in downtown Fairbanks landed me face-down in the middle of the road, quickly teaching me for the next time around: don’t run outside.

However all of that passed within the last week with the onset of what Alaskans call, “The Break-up.” Fondly referred to as the heralding of spring, it’s the period of the year where streets flood from the dissolving snow and the icy river literally cracks to reveal water below. A few weeks ago I walked on the Chena River not even aware that it was a moving body of water. Now, the river is a melted, slushy mess. Really I can’t complain at all with temperatures now at 60 degrees Fahrenheit; what a welcome relief that is!

With the change of season and increased mobility, I’ve been able to take part of all the outdoor adventures that Alaska has to offer. I’ve taken a dip in Chena Hot Springs while it snowed, watched the Northern lights snake across the sky in the middle of the night, and explored the inside of an abandoned gold dredge. I even took a day to travel out to Denali National Park, where I will be located, and saw the breathtaking remote beauty of the Alaska Range. I leave Fairbanks the first week of May and head to my new home for the next 6 months in Healy, Alaska, located ten miles outside of the park.  I’ll be driving buses of every sort, shuttling passengers from place to place, and making sure they enjoy Alaska as much as possible. In the process, I hope to absorb as much as I can of the beauty and adventure.

Its strange, but sometimes I wake up and think: “Where have I landed myself?” But then I look out the window of my seven story hotel room where I can glimpse the skyline in the morning or the brilliant setting sun; it is then that I am reminded why I’m here. It does my soul good. 

A Glimpse of the Railway in Denali

Loneliness

There is this snaggle-toothed ghost that haunts my steps and shrouds my thinking whenever I least expect it. My forward motion propels me with the unabated thrill and excitement of life, but this thing beckons me back to the shore of my own deficiencies. This beast is called by many names, but I know it as only one: loneliness. It came to me during my first week in Fairbanks, leading me to pen the following words:

I am alone, dark, and caught in the light of a fading sunset

The carpet is the color of sickness, wood, and moldy cheese.

Home furnishings beckon to me, but I’m on an endless adventure.

Of solitude, I belong though inwardly I crawl

Toward a community that will embrace as only fat women do

It is warm, squeezing, and smells slightly of baby powder                 

A touch I have seldom known since my own mother’s sanity passed.

This room is a cacophony of silence; a tomb of a life lived in one.

Even if the snow melted and spring sprung, it is here that I become

I am one with no noise, a tight wad of sadness

The moments encroach and offer nothing, no one, and nothing.

To wish for something different is to dream of another life.

That is not what I live for though it pains like a burning slide

The looming metal kind I delighted in climbing as a child

Until the fateful descent left my rear scalding and tears in my eyes

At the bottom, embarrassed, and wanting to conceal

It is here that I hide though I long for someone

Fated it seems in the spaghetti mess of life to find a thread all my own

Though lost in the slated, slanted, and sliding, I find no one

I find myself, alone, and I am not undone.

It is here that the adventure continues with me, one passenger beside.

I believe we all grapple with loneliness, however we choose to name it. But each time I find myself face to face with it or gripped in its vice-like grasp, I am more connected to life. It brings me to my knees, forces me to clarify my current place, and ultimately reminds me of my own need for connection with others. I'm not undone in that loneliness because my outlet is alive and very active; my outlet is my faith in God who faithfully treads along with me. I may be the passenger on the adventure, but He is the driver. Therefore, I am not fated alone to journey onward; that is a sweet reminder to come to in the midst of loneliness.