We all have them – people who dislike us for whatever reason, and go to great lengths to make their dislike known.  And with the advent of the internet and the anonyminity it gives us, it seems that we now all get to be their targets.  Let’s face it, most of us have come across these types of people in our lives starting with playground or school bullies, belittling co-workers and bosses and now the internet.  So what?

I can give into the urge to defend myself and reputation but that leads to an ongoing battle to see who is better, stronger, meaner and more determined.  And to what end?  It then becomes a never-ending battle that accomplishes nothing and serves no purpose other than to feed the negative energy.

Or I can choose to not play the game.  I can choose to shake the pebble from my shoe and walk a different path.  I can choose to take the high road where there is less traffic and does not include the anger or the need to strike back.  While I cannot control the emotions or actions of another individual, I can control my reaction and my actions.

So shaking the pebble from my shoe, I am taking a different road.

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Barter Island

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Anaktuvuk Pass

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Kaktovik

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Silence.  What was once a common place sound is now a memory for so many of us as we rush about in our day-to-day lives.  The majority of us live in places where there really isn’t silence – not even in the dark hours of night.

And when we stop to listen, we still hear the muffled sounds of traffic, the hum of electronic gadgets and electric machines that fill our homes with noise, albeit quiet,  white noise.  Yet there are so many different silences that we easily miss every day.

There is the silence of a snowfall muting and inhaling all the noises of the world around us as we gaze in wonder at the snowflakes falling.  There is the silence of held breath as we wait for a newborn to suck in its first gulp of oxygen and scream its first cry signaling that another life has joined us.  And the silence following a last breath as we mourn the ending of a life.

Living in Fairbanks and being so close to so many places where there is no one else for miles to interrupt the silence of nature, even I forget the silence of wilderness and wildness.  As my ears search for a noise to orient and anchor me, I forget to listen for the silence.  The sound of nothing moving for miles is overwhelming and at times, daunting.  And yet it is those moments of silence, when I slow down to really listen that I hear the voice of God whispering His grace and love.

Standing near an isolated spot in Kaktovik, where I scattered the ashes of a dear friend’s wife to guard the polar bears, I hear nothing and everything.  I hear the love he still feels for her today.  I hear the longing of wishing he could join her so that they could once again be together.  Standing near the bone pile where the villagers place the carcasses of their bowhead whale hunts, I hear the ocean greeting me with its rhythmic waves, and the primal grunting of polar bears as they gather to feed.

I find the silence at the top of Thompson Pass where I find a spot that blocks the sounds of passing buses carrying tourists to their next scheduled stop.  In that silence, I hear the voice of my father, a sound I have almost forgotten in the last six or seven years since his death.  In that comforting silence I hear the grandeur of God’s amazing handiwork, and His promise that I am not just another speck of dust floating through time.

In the primitive darkness of Denali National Park, I have heard the silence of the blackest night and the sound of the aurora waltzing overhead, enchanting me with its colours and undulations.  Sitting on the tailgate of my truck, I have heard the silence that can only be found in such places where man is nothing.  And sadly even in those places, my ears strain to hear a noise, anything that reassures me I exist.

And it is in a hospital chapel with tears of exhuastion and impotence streaming down my face that I have heard the comforting sound of silence.  The silence of prayers for strength and power to continue putting one foot in front of another for just one more day while God’s will plays out several floors above.

Silence.  A sound so many of us long for and fear at the same time.  Silence, a time when we are left with only our own thoughts for company.  Silence.  A sound that I can only hear when I stop and really listen for nothing and everything.

The Dreaded Christmas Letter

It’s that time of year again and the dreaded Christmas newsletter should be arriving any day now.  You know the letter I’m talking about.  There is that one tiny twig on the family tree that is compelled to share their entire year with you in the space of a sheet of 8 ½ by 11 inch paper.  Even though the letter only details the high points, it always sounds as if they have spent a year traveling for National Geographic.  Just once I would love to receive an honest, truthful Christmas letter.  In fact, I’ve gone so far as to write one a few times but just never got the gumption to photocopy it and mail out a few thousand copies to my closest friends and family.  This year it will be different…

Dear F/family and F/friends,

Well what a year it has been at the Smith (Not our real name but we had to change it after the news media took up permanent residence outside our home) house.  Since the jury is still deliberating (Thank God), I thought I would take a few minutes and write the annual Jones (The witness protection people suggested that we try out a few names to see what felt natural) Christmas letter.

As most of you know, Neville (not Richard’s real name.  See above.) is on trial for being some sort of sexual pervert.  Who knew it was an undercover cop in the airport bathroom stall next to him?  Andrew (still not Richard’s real name) swears he thought the guy was motioning for him to pass more toilet paper.  The defense attorney (Mr. SqueezeEmTillTheySqueak), thinks it is entrapment or at least coercion or prostitution.  I am still worried that he may not be the best defense lawyer.  It’s just that I’ve never seen a degree with White-Out on it.  The attorney said the college, Bob’s College of Law and Auto Body Repair made a typo.  I’ll let you all know how this turns out.  Although with way the news media is, you will probably know before we do.

We’re very excited that Jonathan finally debuted on a national television show this last year.  He was just wonderful.  I’ve seen him now several times since NBC keeps broadcasting the show he was featured in.  I’m not sure if you all have seen the show.  I know that I never had until we got Nathaniel’s (we’re also trying out new names for the kids too) phone call from the county jail.  Some small time television company was running a sex predator scam.  It seems that our county sheriff’s department was in cahoots with this company, NBC Dateline.  Our oldest boy was on “To Catch A Predator – Petaluma”.  He was very, very believable and portrayed his character very well.  It just always amazes me how actors can cry on cue.  The money we spent on finishing school for that boy sure paid off.

Our newest additions to the Thomas family arrived in April – finally.  I know that in last year’s letter I told you that we were adopting twins from China and we did.  Although we were a little surprised when the girls arrived to discover that they were conjoined.  I told Sam that conjoined meant more than they were just really close.  Push-Me and Pull-Me are adjusting well, we think.  Our Chinese sign language is rusty as it has been more than 30 years since we were Peace Corp volunteers in Africa (even hippies get old).

Marsha, Marsha, Marsha, the triplets are all doing well.  All three girls are now working at the same gentlemen’s club here in town.  I really do wish that one of them had learned to sew.  Either my arms have gotten longer or the sequins that go on their pasties have gotten smaller.  I am just thrilled that they found an employer that really pushes physical fitness.  Their upper body strength has sure improved since they started working on the pole.  I’m still not sure what they do with the pole while they are working out but you should see them throw hay bales.

On a sad note, our family cow, Sue Ellen was killed by a damaged alien space ship that crashed out in the pasture.  We got our picture taken in front of the space ship before the aliens left with Cousin Malcolm.  We thought he would be gone longer but they sure have improved those alien implant procedures although we have to make sure that we don’t use the microwave near him.  Cousin Malcolm twitches and shakes when he gets too close.  That part isn’t too bad but he pees his pants when you stop it.  And if you think those new glow in the dark cats are spiffy, you should see Cousin Malcolm glow.  He finally did get his disability due to the implants.  We keep him busy though.  He is a hell of a reading light and it sure has reduced our electric bills.

I wanted to thank all of you who bought Mary Kay from me.  Unfortunately, that business failed.  Guess what everybody is getting for Christmas?  It’s a good thing that I met Mary Kay’s daughter, Madame Kay when I was in Dallas for the convention last year.  Now I am selling her adult novelty items and business couldn’t be better or it was until Howard (does that sound too Richard?) was arrested and jailed on those bogus sex charges.  He was one of my best customers.  Who knew that “F*** me” pumps came in size 14?  If any of you have spouses who would like to get in touch with their feminine side, drop me a line and I will send you a catalog wrapped in a discreet, brown wrapper (which by the way, is the same way your merchandise is shipped).

Well, the bailiff just popped in and said that jury is back, so I better wrap this letter up.  I’m not sure where we will be living next year.  It all depends on the jury and their verdict.  We may have to move to be closer to the penitentiary or we may be moving out of state (we’re still negotiating with the witness protection people to move us to Hawaii but we’ll see).  I hope everyone’s year was as great and wonderful as ours has been.  And that you are doubly blessed in the coming year.

Love,

The Hansens (now this one seems just about right)

P.S.  If you don’t understand the use of the upper and lower case letters in our greeting, I’ll have to save it for next year’s letter.

Dear Roger,

Happy Veteran’s Day.  On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, I honour you and your service to this country.

While it is not perfect, it is the model that other countries follow and strive for in their pursuit of “freedom”.  It is the country that so many immigrants still want to eventually end up in.  It is the country where the son of a single mother can become president.  It is the country where we pride ourselves on having the freedom for each of us to reach our goals and our dreams.

As we know all too well, freedom isn’t free.  It comes at a very high price – a price paid in blood and lives cut short or changed forever by events that history will look back on and label extraordinary.  Freedom is measured in body bags returned home from foreign soil and white crosses standing guard silently in field of green grass while “Taps” plays mournfully in the distant.  It is the twenty-one gun salute acknowledging the ultimate sacrifice that freedom demands, and often claims.

As I watch you living your life day-to-day, wracked with pain from the injuries that you suffered while serving in the Army, I am grateful for your sacrifice and your service.  Even after I have spent hours arguing with various VA bureaucrats and paper pushers, I am still grateful that you have the medical care your country promised.  And when I can voice a dissenting opinion publicly, without fear of reprisal, I am once again reminded that your service guards my right to speak my mind.

Thank you My Beloved for all that you and thousands of others have done to guarantee the freedoms that we as Americans take for granted.  Freedoms gained at a high price and all too often paid for in blood.

Happy Veteran’s Day, my Love.

Well, he is HOME.  CruVin, the service dog we were raising for Canine Companions for Independence.  And CruVin has earned a new name – one that we gave him.  Thompson.  Named for Thompson Pass, one of our favorite places in Alaska.

Thompson was recalled in August by CCI for the next phase of his training.  From the time any of the puppies arrive at eight weeks old, we all know that they are never “our” dogs, and at some point, we will have to let them go – usually at 18 months old.  Thompson was different from the very beginning than all the other puppies we have raised.  He is smarter than most and much more sensitive and soft.  It is easy to hurt his feelings and then have to spend hours making up to him.  He never forgets.

When Thompson arrived at Alaska Airlines Cargo, and bounded out of his little crate, he seemed to know what was expected of him.  Once his jacket went on, he was all business – getting that almost stupid look on his face that meant he was concentrating on his handler.  He learned exceptionally quickly what behavior was allowable when he was working.  With one notable exception, toddlers.  Thompson could never seem to ignore a sticky toddler begging for attention.  One of the major differences that CCI required in its training of puppies is that they can visit while working.  The guide dog puppies that we have raised in the past are trained to literally ignore everyone except their handlers when they are working.  It is incredibly difficult to be out at Fort Wainwright and see someone from the sticky toddler to the young soldiers needing a dog fix and have to turn them down or ask that they wait until we could remove the dog’s jacket.

Thompson was with us when Roger was hospitalized with Guillan-Barre’s syndrome.  He was there for the initial ER visit, the hours spent in ICU watching Roger struggle to make progress and sense of what was happening.  He was there for the week long stay on the medical ward and then rehab at Denali Center.  Through it all Thompson was right beside Roger instinctively knowing that some how Roger had changed and needed him.  And he was there for me in those long, dark hours at home alone juggling the needs of an active 15 year old, the needs of a critically ill spouse and my needs to keep it all together.

One thing that service dogs are not allowed to do is sleep on the bed.  And up until Roger was hospitalized, Thompson never did.  From the very first night that Roger was not there, Thompson jumped up on the bed and slept beside me, snuggled so close to me that at times, I was trapped in the blankets wrapped like a mummy.  Listening to his rhythmic and loud snoring was comforting in those dark hours of not knowing and not sleeping.  Snuggled between Bubbles and Thompson, with Zelda sleeping on my feet, I felt as if I were protected by the spirit and unconditional love of all three dogs.

As Roger progressed from the Denali Center to home and outpatient physical therapy, Thompson was there.  His training in all things medical was far more complete than any other puppy we had trained previously.  And nothing seemed to bother him – not the loud, mechanical whirring of machines in the ER or ICU.  Not the routine and noise of a medical ward or a rehab center.  In fact, when Thompson came on the floor, you could feel the place change. 

While Roger was still on the medical ward, I was approached by one of the nurses who asked if I would mind visiting another patient with Thompson.  The woman had been diagnosed with cancer and was no longer interacting with anyone.  She would lay in her bed, face to the window in the silence that can only be found in a busy hospital.  Ignoring me for the first five or ten minutes, the woman hugged Thompson to her and told him how much she missed her own dog.  She then looked at me and through her tears, told me how much she missed her little dog.  She had no family in Fairbanks and her dog was her sole companion, her closest friend and devoted partner.  She hadn’t seen her dog for several weeks and the separation was harder than the treatment she was undergoing for cancer.  Thompson and I visited everyday that Roger was there.  Within two visits, she was laughing again, eating, talking with staff and roaming the halls.  I have often wondered how she is.

Once Roger was transferred to the Denali Center for rehab, Thompson made an even bigger impact.  Although many people think of Denali Center as a nursing home (which it is), there is also a wing for rehab patients.  And even though the Denali Center supports pet therapy and therapy dogs, Thompson could come and go as I pleased.  We didn’t have to schedule our visits, we were just there all the time.  While Roger spent time in physical and occupational therapy, Thompson and I frequented the day room in the rehab wing.  There we met a wonderful woman, named Ruth who lives at the Denali Center.  She has Alzheimers and it has affected her ability to speak.  She knows this and most of the time, wouldn’t talk with anyone.  As we sat in silence putting puzzles together, she talked to Thompson.  I never said a word but learned so much from her conversations with Thompson, who was never in a hurry, didn’t care how long it took her to get a sentence out and was always attentive.  Thompson taught me the meaning of being in the moment.  He taught me to not fret over the things I could not control and that a well placed, cold nose will make a nurse jump, especially the one who didn’t like dogs in a hospital setting.  He goosed her every chance he could get.

Life took on a new routine of doctor’s visits and therapy sessions with Thompson there for each and every one.  He became a very purposeful dog on a mission, at least until his recall notice came from CCI.

Once we received his recall notice, there was a subtle shift in Thompson’s demeanor – a sadness almost as if he knew he was leaving.  This was going to be a dog that was very difficult to let go.  It was so emotional for us, that Roger would not make the trip to the airport and I had to say good-bye alone.  I cried the entire way home and then cried myself to sleep that night.

It was almost three months to the day after Thompson had left, that we received a telephone call from CCI.  Thompson was being released because of fear and anxiety issues – something that we had never seen from him.  Did we want him back?  HELL YEAH!!  We had missed him every day he had been gone.  The call came on a Monday and he arrived on Wednesday of the same week.  He was not the same dog we had sent off to California.  Thompson appearred to be very insecure and unsure of himself.  The old spark was gone.  We arrived home and let him out into the dog pen.  Suddenly he was bounding all over the place, recognizing the smells of familar spots he had visited before.

We are finally starting to see the confident puppy we sent to California.  He has carved out his spot on our bed, remembered exactly where he gets fed and most of all found an old tennis ball he left behind.  His sparkle has returned.  And one of our best friends is now home for good.

Many people are unaware that the State of Alaska as well as many other states in the Lower 48, sponsor BDSM weekends for women. In an effort to raise public awareness of this state sponsored phenomena, I went undercover and attended the Becoming An Outdoors-Women weekend at Lost Lake Boy Scout camp (located somewhere between Fairbanks and the edge of hell).

While many were content to ride with others, I volunteered to drive so that if needed, I could flee when the scenes, er, sessions got too intense. For those of you who have never heard of BOW, let me provide a little background information. BOW started a number of years ago as a way to attract women to the thrill of being in the great Outdoors. The goal was to provide a way for women to become more proficient in the skills needed to be comfortable, safe and sane while enjoying all the wonders that Mother Nature has to offer. Each of these weekends are made up of four, four hour sessions in such things as Big Game hunting, Maps and Compass (the group was last seen going through the woods and haven’t been found since. We think they are in Anchorage hiding in the Fifth Avenue Mall, Kayaking (through icy slush), GPS, Fishing, Knots, Scuba Diving (in a lake that still had ice floating in it), Skin Sewing and so on. For many of the women, this was their first time being out in the Woods without a mall parking lot in sight. And for many, their idea of “roughing it” was staying at a Holiday Inn.

Now I am very comfortable at sleeping in a tent. In fact, I possess my own tent – a cozy, little grey number that sleeps one to two (if one of the two is an anorexic, undernourished refugee from a Third World country). It has a vestibule to store your gear without taking up any space in the main sleeping chamber. This is very important as there is no room whatsoever in the tent for anything beyond a sleeping bag and a flashlight. Constructed to conserve heat, my tent is a wedge-shaped contraption that tapers to a point at one end. For anyone who has ever spent any time outside in Alaska after the snows melts, you know that the number one priority is lots of mosquito netting which my little tent has.

Now I am a woman of a certain age. That of course means that I like comfort and being comfortable as often as possible. What could be more comfortable that a sleeping bag pad to sleep on. And after looking at the miniscule, millimeters thick sleeping pad that Coleman promises will make my outdoor slumber as comfortable and peaceful as sleeping at home, I opted to purchase an air mattress. This decision led to the local Wal-Hell for a tour through the camping section. After fighting my way through the parking lot filled with Winnebago’s, huge SUV’s and old pickup trucks, I entered the store only to be accosted by an elderly woman doling out shopping carts and welcoming me to Wal-Mart. I bravely fought my way through the tourists snapping up Alaskan souvenirs (all made in China) to find the camping section. There it was. The deluxe, double tall, extra long air mattress of my dreams. With mattress in tow, I exited the building and fought my way back to my truck, vowing never to return.

Most areas of the US have mosquito eradication plans that knock down the mosquito population to a level that is only mildly annoying. In Alaska, we don’t believe in mosquito eradication for several reasons. The first being, that mosquitoes are the State insect, and we grow them to enormous sizes not seen since prehistoric times. The second, they are a form of population control where surviving in the wilderness without being sucked dry weeds out the weak, the dainty, the scrawny and the mentally stable. The third reason is that there are more mosquitoes in the State than there are chemicals to eradicate them. This in turn helps to fuel a secondary industry -bug dope production. Now I am not sure how the manufacturers determine what will deter a starving, blood crazed mosquito from becoming your best friend. My personal theory is that they don’t deter mosquitoes but rather work to enhance your flavor in the same way that a marinade does for other meat. It takes a relatively short time to realize (say a matter of minutes) that stepping outside in the Summer is like ringing the dinner bell for mosquitoes.

After loading the truck with all my portable camping implements (all three hundred pounds of necessities) and then squeezing in the belongs of three other women, we headed East 56 miles to Lost Lake Boy Scout Camp. The location should have been my first clue that this was a BDSM weekend. First, it’s summer. Second, there was a body of water (read breeding ground for mosquitoes). Third, it was a boy scout camp and boy scout camps are not known for their luxurious, four star accommodations. Imagine two hundred plus women and only four showers. The facilities did not flush, you just sort of hovered over a hole while holding your breath and praying not to touch anything or be touched by anything. Of course with it being mosquito season, you accomplish your daily constitutional in record time because your butt is nothing but a big buffet to your best friends and constant companions.

We checked in and got our living quarter assignments. While my companions elected to sleep in crowded, barracks designed to sleep three comfortably but stuffed to hold ten, I had chosen to sleep in the great outdoors in my spacious tent with its miles of mosquito netting. The first hint of trouble came as I was stuffing the air mattress into the tent. It was longer than the tent by about six inches. Most women know that six inches is no big deal but when it pertains to mosquito netting, and closing the flap of the tent, it is a huge deal. So I deflated the mattress just a tad to give it some flexibility in cramming it into the tent. And that worked to a degree. I still couldn’t get the tent to zip close but by then I didn’t care. I reasoned that the extra mosquito netting I had in the truck (remember the three hundred pounds of supplies?) would do the trick. I was only partially right.

After deciding to skip the peanut butter sandwich lunch in the dining hall located four miles away, all uphill both ways through the snow (hey, it’s my story), I hiked down to the lake where my first session was scheduled to take place. Skin sewing. My reasons for choosing this session were numerous. Road kills are a common occurrence and what better way to pick up animal pelts without having to buy a license, actually track them down, skin them or carry them back to the vehicle. I figured that this skill would prove invaluable when the next nuclear winter hits. At least I would be fashionably dressed. Eight of us gathered in a sweltering shed with little light and less breeze. The windows were welded shut (to prevent escapes, I think). Our eyes all went to the hairy pelts laying on the tiny tables. Though many in the room were expecting to be working with Canadian prairie wolf (ask Roger about this), we found, to our delight, beautiful beavers. Then they took away our mirrors and we were forced to look at the table. The pelts were gorgeous, soft, luxurious beaver. There is nothing like fur to make a female forget that her deodorant quit, she stinks of bug dope which the mosquitoes are drinking as cocktails before they get to the good stuff and the woman next to her smells worse. And in one collective thought, every woman in the shed wished there was more beaver because a beaver parka would be so awesome. Needless to say, it took only seconds before the beaver jokes started. It’s tough to keep a straight face when asking your neighbor how she’s doing, and she replies, “Look at my pretty beaver”. What ensued was four hours of bad beaver jokes being bantered about by a giggling gaggle of middle aged women snickering like 13 year old teenage boys. I left the session with a hand sewn, beautifully constructed beaver head warmer. My beaver matches the color of my hair, it is sheer heaven to slide your hands into it and feel that soft fur, and the head warmer isn’t bad either (what did you expect? High brow?).

After dinner (some type of Mexican Korean delicacy), we were dismissed to our cabins and tents. I crawled into my bulging tent onto the less than taut air mattress and snuggled in for the night. After attaching the extra mosquito netting over the gaping opening of my tent, I figured that I had at least some protection from the gathering hordes. Now anyone who has every slept on an air mattress knows that if it isn’t full when you get on it, the only thing that happens is that it becomes a death trap closing in over top of you. I didn’t care. I was exhausted and figured that the extra material from the air mattress would at least protect my exposed flesh from the blood sucking mosquitoes. And I was wrong. What it did do was slowly baste me to a warm and inviting temperature that mosquitoes cannot resist. And while I had the foresight to turn on my little camp fan (back to the three hundred pounds of necessities) to keep a breeze blowing and the mosquitoes from actually settling in for dinner, I made a huge mistake at 03:00 when Nature called and I turned off the fan and left the tent for the two mile hike to the “Hole” to pee. By the time I returned, the tent was filled with mosquitoes. I didn’t see them as they were cleverly hidden at the small end of the tent waiting to ambush me. The second biggest mistake was not turning the fan back on. The buffet line was open for business.

I woke a little after 1:00 pm. I missed breakfast (yeah), the morning session, lunch (yeah again) and the beginning of the afternoon session. I knew that I was tired when I arrived. And aside from being covered with dirt, pine needles, pine sap, dead bugs stuck in strange places and thousands of mosquito welts, I felt great.

17 hours of sleep has a way of putting a new perspective on things. Right then I called it quits. I had had enough of the Great Outdoors. My primary goal was accomplished. I had a beautiful beaver and a neat head warmer too. I stunk so bad that even I had to stand down wind of me, my teeth were covered in a dirt encrusted grime. I had braved mosquitoes, death by cooking in a small fabric casing and an astounding lack of decent facilities. I could survive anything after this.

My next camping trip is scheduled later this month at the Captain Cook Hotel in downtown Anchorage in one the junior suites. It will be tough but I feel that I am now fully capable and qualified to tough out anything Nature can spring on me.

There are many reasons why I live in Alaska and Fairbanks, in particular.  First and foremost, my biological family will never visit me in any season.  And my family of choice lives here.

Even though this is the second largest “urban” area in Alaska, in comparison to Lower 48 standards, we are a small town.  In spite of the arrival of the big, box stores, most of us treasure that small town feel.  We shop at our local merchants rather than fight the hordes flocking to WalMart.  It isn’t that we don’t want progress, we just want it on our terms and in our own, unique way.  And really and truly, we don’t care how they do it in the Lower 48.

Perhaps the biggest reason that I am here is because I always wanted to live in Alaska.  From the very first pages of Jack London’s books, The Call of the Wild and White Fang, my heart yearned for Alaska.  There was such a sadness in knowing that I had missed my time – when going off to explore the unexplored was a calling, a vocation.

I am the child of two Nebraska farm kids who left the farms of Greenwood for Omaha.  Then Chicago, the woods of New Hampshire, the heat of Fort Lauderdale and the flatness of Texas.  While my mother may have given me roots, my father gave me wings and the encouragement to take off in new directions and see the World as long as I kept in touch. 

When I was presented with an opportunity to work in Anchorage for six months shortly after I turned 40 in March of 1999, it was my father who asked if I would ever get the chance to do this again.  Could I live with the “what if”, if I didn’t go.  And would I ever regret not taking a chance to fulfill my biggest dream.  I packed my bags and headed north leaving behind a husband, a house, my dogs and the old cat.  And my father.

I wrote him letters of the majestic places that I saw first hand.  In those letters, he lay on his back on the black rocks in Thompson Pass as the eagles cartwheeled overhead.  He saw the glaciers calving in Prince William Sound.  He listened to the silence of Denali National Park.  We shared my dream of living in Alaska and together we travelled thousands and thousands of miles on what little road system Alaska has to offer.

Six months quickly turned to two years.  His health declined and my husband wanted me closer to Texas.  I cried from Anchorage to Las Vegas for many reasons.  The most important being that I had finally found “home”.  After all those years living in places across the United States, this was the first place that I was going to actually miss.  My now ex-husband was fond of saying that although I had returned from Alaska, my heart never did.  I think he meant that I had found someone else and in some respects I had.

I found the optimistic 18 year old who believed that she could change the World.  I found myself and my home – I found my heart and my place in the world.  I finally returned to Texas from my travels, much subdued and madly homesick.

In 2003, my life changed completely.  I seperated from my husband, my father died two weeks later, I lost my job and really had no reason to stay where I was.  Again, my heart turned North and I heard the call of Alaska once again.  This time the call was clearer than I had ever heard and the pull was stronger than anything I had ever felt.  So I took a chance on an almost complete stranger, put my belongings in storage and headed north with Roger, my old dog and the old cat.  My family questioned my sanity, my friends questioned my thought process while still wallowing in grief and I left anyway – scared to take such a leap of faith and even more frightened to not.

Here I am six, almost seven years later.  Married to the stranger, now my best friend and traveling companion, mother to a 15 year old girl (never expected that one and wouldn’t change a minute of it) and still living my dreams ever day I wake up.  I am in one of those places most people only dream of, and few ever get to.  I have seen Barrow, Kaktovik and polar bears.  I have danced with the aurora and sung with the wolves.  I have watched the clouds overhead while luxuriating in the warmth of the Midnight sun on the side of a mountain with a grizzly as my neighbor.  I have closed the gates on Denali National Park as the last person out of the Park on the last possible day while being chased by a blinding snowstorm all the way to the front gate. 

More than anything else, I followed my heart and made my dreams come true.  I am where I always wanted to be and was always meant to be.  I am an Alaskan.

It all seems so scary anymore.  Life, that is.  Maybe we have too much free time on our hands now, that our ancestors didn’t have while they were scratching out a living.  This must be the part where life seperates the weak from the strong willed.  When it gets scary and yet there are those of us who refuse to give into the fear and live out our lives cowering under the covers.

Is this the part where we continue to believe in the good in humanity rather than focusing on only the worst parts of it?  Is this the part where we continue to trust our own instincts rather than those who govern us?

I don’t know.  I have no answers.  I am not a mystic nor one of great wisdom.  I am merely a speck of dust whirling in the cosmos along with all the other specks.  What I do believe in is the power of Love, that good triumphs evil any day, and that while bad things do happen to good people, it is up to them to determine their response and live accordingly.

Every year, Denali National Park Service opens its road lottery inJune. For a $10.00 application fee, you can enter to secure one ofthe 1600 road permits that are issued for entry to Denali NationalPark. For four days after the “regular” season closes, the Parkallows four hundred cars a day to drive the 90 mile road to its endin Kantishna. In addition to the ten dollar application fee, if youare one of the lucky ones to win a road permit, there are a coupleof additional fees that bring the total entry cost to $55.00. Sowhat do you get for $55.00? The experience of a lifetime.

Alaska residents know that Mount McKinley, The Great One, is so hugethat it creates its own weather. Because of that, it is impossibleto predict when the mountain will be visible. It is only visibleabout 20% of the time and there is obviously a greater chance thatyou won’t get to see the splendor or magnitude of North America’stallest mountain. Tourists and residents alike, are awed by thesight of this magnificent mountain, especially since it is soelusive. Add to this, the unpredictability of Alaska’s weather inSeptember, and your chances of seeing Mount McKinley, decrease evenfurther.

We headed south with four dogs, 25 extra gallons of diesel,emergency survival gear and food, enough diet Coke to keep me happyfor a day or two, cameras and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.The weather in Fairbanks was gray and drizzly when we left,prompting speculation on what the weather would bring in the Park.The Weather Channel was predicting sunny skies with comfortabletemperatures. Weather predictions are like opinions, everyone hasone. We topped the ridge surrounding Fairbanks as the sun emerged,and the clouds disappeared revealing an azure sky. The weather godsobviously smiled on us as the weather held throughout the day andnight. It was perfect – absolutely, poetically, picture perfect.

After paying our fees, purchasing trinkets in the gift shop, and alarge caffeine fix for Roger, we headed into the Park. Leaving allthe unfortunate souls who didn’t win the lottery at the Savage Riverturnout (the last place the general public can drive to -approximately 11 miles into Denali), we crossed the bridge at SavageRiver, reassured the young Park Ranger at the check in that wewouldn’t play with the bears or feed the wildlife, and headed off.

Mount McKinley was not only visible, the view was unobstructed byclouds, snow, fog, mist, haze, smog or ozone. Within the first hourof driving while watching Mount McKinley the entire time, we ran outof adjectives, superlatives and any and all words that could beginto describe the majesty, the magnitude, the mystique and the magicthat you feel when looking at something, anything this monumentallyhuge. Coming up woefully short to try and describe the beauty wewere seeing, we settled on, “Wow”.

I cannot begin to do the Mountain justice in describing what I wasfeeling as we gazed in wonder at it. Most times, we just simply satsilently in awe and reverence. There is something sacred andspiritual being in the presence of a monument so great as MountMcKinley. We are ants in comparison. It can’t be bulldozed orpaved over. It can’t be sanitized or reduced to an “A” ticket rideat Disney World so that it is safe. It just is. When I look at itand ponder the forces that created it at the beginning of time, myexistence seems minute and tenuous.

We drove our usual speed – turtle, letting the hurried and harriedmasses go around us. We weren’t on a schedule or deadline. Wedidn’t need to reach Kantishna at a particular time in order to turnaround and leave the Park before it got too late. As long as wewere back at the Savage River bridge before midnight, we were fine.The views, the wildlife and the beauty dictated how far we wentbefore stopping again. We let something bigger guide our journey.

Near the end of the road, not far from Wonder Lake, we stopped fordinner. Sitting on the tailgate of the truck, eating peanut butterand jelly sandwiches as the alpenglow started to color MountMcKinley with wisps of salmon, electric pink, vibrant orange andtouches of purple, we had the best seats in the house for Nature’sdusky show. As the shadows gathered around us, we reluctantlyturned East back toward the entrance that we had left behind a worldago.

Dusk gave way to dark. It is a primitive darkness of long ago -before street lights and manmade torches. It is the darkness thatyou remember from childhood summers when it felt as if you couldreach out and dip your fingers in it. With no other light tointerfere, the stars began to twinkle and shimmer for us. The BigDipper brilliantly hovered overhead, the lights from the truck asits only competition.

As we talked about the wonders and the magic that we had beenprivileged to witness, we wondered how it could have been moreperfect. It was Christmas morning and my birthday all rolled upinto one trip. It was natural perfection. There was not a singlething that could have made the day more idyllic than it had alreadybeen. That is until the aurora began its ghostly seduction.

The first indication that we might get to see the aurora came as awhisper light ribbon of pale green. Then to make sure that it hadour full attention, the aurora spontaneously burst across theblackness. It swirled and spun like veils on a belly dancer. Poolsof color dancing and undulating, teasing us with whispers ofshimmering light before fading into blackness. This light show wenton for hours as we drove slowly toward the entrance. The auroraescorted us home all the way to Fairbanks, forcing us to pull overtoo many times to count so that we could watch in awe and wonder atits beauty. It was the perfect ending to an absolutely perfect day.

As I attempt to document and capture all that I witnessed, I find mywords and my vocabulary woefully lacking in trying to describe theoverwhelming beauty, the raw power of the land, the absence ofmanmade intrusions in this magical place. I desperately search forways to convey the magnitude, the majesty and the magic. I can’t.My words pale in comparison to seeing this natural wonder firsthand. Even if I had hours to spend poring over a dictionary andthesaurus, I would never be able to find the words to do theexperience justice. All I can say is, I couldn’t have asked for amore perfect trip.