Northern Lights (Greetings from Alaska)

We are five people packed into the Subaru, which sits low on its tires, laden with sleeping bags, cooking supplies and beer. To be exact: two 24-packs of Miller High Life, a 6-pack of Ubu Ale, a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream (coffee flavored), some champagne, two bottles of wine and a 3-liter box of it, as well.

We are thirsty people. (Would you believe that we ran out of water?)

But we are soulfully thirsty, on our respective quests “to live deep and suck out the marrow of life,” and to “burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars,” and perhaps, somewhat, “to boldly go where no man has gone before,” or at least to do it all a little differently. For example, I’m willing to bet neither Thoreau, Kerouac nor Jean-Luc Picard experienced anything quite like the frighteningly powerful hand-dryer-on-crack in Wasilla that would be better suited to a local taxidermy shop, which attracted admirers from as far away as the next bathroom over.

In the seven days I spent in Alaska, I never saw the Northern Lights. I couldn’t catch a glimpse of Denali though we drove through both the State and National Parks. But we did complete a scavenger hunt that included Carhartt’s patched up with duct tape, glaciers, dog sleds, bunny boots, and a few miraculous additions: refurbished and surprisingly functional military vehicles (patched up with duct tape?), people biking nonchalantly along snowy roads in the middle of nowhere, a cache of long-haired drunkards at an all-night diner in Anchorage whom I thought were speaking some sort of native language, etc.

So while the Northern Lights might have made me tear up with awe, I kind of preferred laughing until I couldn’t breathe when Dawn unintentionally left Brandon peeing by the side of the road; I’m sure Denali is impressive, but on par we had Chauncey creating the world’s first Miller’tini, thereby preserving an ice museum tradition while saving us each $15.

I had awful stomach cramps the second day, a sinus infection the third day and jetlag the whole way through. But I gulped down reindeer chili, mixed a Sudafed cocktail and soaked my tired body in hot springs.

I did a LOT of thinking. I would be lost in a train of thought at any given moment, wondering if I could recover my carefree spirit, about how a sign of maturity is supposedly the ability to make rational decisions, yet I think more and more it’s the ability to see people, including myself, in full color – that no one person is all bad or all good. I think that makes it very difficult to hate anyone, but the opposite is also true. When you see people for all that they are, and all they are not, it does not become easier to love everyone, or anyone.

Eventually someone would bring me back to reality, to a bald eagle soaring above or a moose perusing the roadside. Or perhaps, lounging in our toasty Fairbanks cabin well off-the-grid, to something a little more worldly:

“Are we having mimosas or wine with [breakfast/lunch/dinner]?” ~ Dawn

“No, Erika! Is that the only card you can play?” ~ Amy

Between us, my fellow travelers have lived on every continent except Antarctica. To most people, we have already seen so much of the world. But we are kindred spirits in our understanding of something sacred: it’s the endless journey, not any one, two or ten destinations that define us. Something to ponder:

We find ourselves in the most uncommon places.
We find ourselves in the most uncommon places.

*****


The Official Iditarod Start takes place in Willow, Alaska. I finally give my shotgun seat back to Chauncey for the ride, much preferring to sit with a handsome, (blue-eyed, sandy-haired) not-quite-stranger in the backseat. He was Chauncey’s idea two days ago, I swear. But it was a very good idea, and despite having to pull 48 hours straight because he works nights and had skied with us the day before, he agreed to tag along. We picked up our usual “lunch” at the beer store and headed north, talked our way into a snowy, crowded, non-parking space and added layers over and under everything we already had on. (I imagine that de-layering is some sort of amusing Alaskan foreplay).

The dogs are ecstatic. They jump, bark and poop their ways to the front line before embarking on their 1,000+ mile journey – it takes several handlers to quiet or even contain the 14 or so dogs, and people cheer for everyone who goes by regardless of hometown or nationality (most are Americans and Canadians, but I think there was even a Jamaican this year? Or maybe that was a rumor.) Wow, this beer is delicious.

Just after the last sled slips past and the crowd begins to dissipate, I feel myself hesitate, not wanting the day to end although another beginning – the after-party – is 5 miles up the road, and then a plane is waiting to take me home. I am not alone.

In one unbearably short moment, frozen in time on this frozen lake, my handsome not-so-stranger makes a familiar gesture. Anticipated, craved but unexpected, this epic first kiss permeates my innermost core with white light from all directions. It leaves behind the sweet taste of barley wine, and an unsettling level of consciousness.

That is, until a little girl in the background says, “Eww, gross!”

I think to wave her away, and then I think, “Just wait! Girl, you have no idea!” and then I stop thinking and just exist, eyes closed, heart open, for several seconds. Later, I wonder if maybe love is not impossible after all. The illusion of perfection takes a backseat to inspiration.