MemoryKeeper

One Star Review

This week a lady approached me to ask if I was missing Alaska, and then had the audacity to tell me that she visited Alaska once and "didn't see that much beauty there." Why did she even ask, I wondered. I, on the other hand, spend everyday pining for that indescribable beauty that I once lived and breathed. And, in what can only be described as a unique form of self-torture, I even re-watch my videos and re-read my stories on the regular as my way of returning, if only for a moment. So, respectfully ma'am, are we talking about the same place? My mind is just so full to the brim of beautiful memories from my time there that I can't possibly imagine anyone else having a lesser experience.

And after a full year away now, my stories and photos are just about all I have left. I figured I ought to start writing more of 'em down here - you know, for posterity.

Bear With Me

We experienced no shortage of bear encounters during our time in Alaska, each time equally wild and humbling. Once, I took my Bible and some bear spray to the river to enjoy reading in the summer breeze. And when I went to leave, I walked up the bank and saw a brown bear swimming in the water, around the bend from where I had only just been sitting. If we went out hiking on our favorite trails, it usually meant hunting for paw prints embedded in the mud and gravel as well. And we spent many evenings looking for PJ, a local favorite grizzly whose eye had been shot out as a cub and who is known for wandering the roads of Eagle River. I once facetimed with PJ while at work, and remember thinking, "what a weirdly beautiful life I live now." In Valdez, we saw five black bears in one day, rummaging through campground fire pits and feeding on fish on the side of the road. Another time, we watched the tiniest black bear triplets play in the trees of Anchorage, one even appearing to get in trouble by its Mama when she had had enough. You may not see a bear when you visit Alaska, but trust me, they are out there.

So honestly, on this night, I should have known better. The salmon were running and our town's grizzlies had made their annual trek down to the river. We knew the bears were out and about, and we had also seen the danger signs posted at every trailhead. So naturally we threw caution to the wind and went down to the nature center every late August afternoon, falling in line on the viewing deck with a few other photographers (mostly retired men with lots of time and money). On this particular misty evening, we could hear some distant rustling, but we couldn't quite see past the brush. We stood in silence, heads on swivels. Shep was the first to notice that unmistakable face appear in the trees as it slowly, deliberately, loudly headed straight for us. Now make no mistake, that viewing deck protects you only from the marshy water's edge and nothing else. I could hear my heartbeat and his low huffs as he passed by, only feet away. He crossed the water and faded away on the other side, unbothered. The photographers congratulated Shep on his spotting skills and we all took a few deep breaths.

The entire group agreed to sprint the trail to the next lookout on a tip that a mama and her cubs were in the water nearby. I started off with them but when my bum knee couldn't keep up their pace, I told Cam and Shep to go on without me - that I would turn back and wait for them, that, I'd "be fine." But just as I rounded the curve back to the viewing deck, so did PJ. We locked eyes, 20 yards between us, a gap he could close in mere seconds. Suddenly aware of how alone I was, I started walking backwards slowly (but not at all calmly). Now lucky for me, PJ is used to people, so he just lowered his head and grazed. Honestly, he probably would've let me give him a good 'ol fashioned belly rub or a scratch behind the ears. But in the spirit of not dying alone, I continued backing away. Calling out "Hey bear," I hoped my voice would carry through the valley like a beacon to the others. Now at this point, I had been hiking with bear spray clipped to the front of my pack for two years, but did I reach for it? OF COURSE NOT, I FORGOT IT EVEN EXISTED.

PJ meandered down the trail away from me and into the forest, branches snapping beneath his feet as he disappeared from view. While it is scary to come face to face with one of these giants, I can tell you with authority: it is scarier knowing that he's there when you can't see him at all. The group came running back when they heard me - photographers looking for the shot, my boys looking for me. We gathered at the viewing deck all together (safety in numbers, ya know?), just in time to hear the heavy splish splashing of something coming towards us. One, two, three. Three fluffy summer cubs came bouncing by us through the water, playful and rambunctious, sending ripples through the perfect reflection of the mountains which loomed above. The way their teddy bear ears looked as they popped up above the brush would go on to live rent free in my head forever. When they had crossed the shallow pool of water, their mother walked out, raised her head to the sky and huffed - as if calling them home for supper and bedtime. They all retreated and, taking our cue, so did we.

A Place Like This

I've long dreamt of being in faraway places, and for me, those dreams found their literal fulfillment within our Alaskan adventures. I think that's what makes living in Texas so stifling - the monotony of it all. Roughly this time last year, life was so full of excitement, so different, so far away from normal.

We drove several hours from Anchorage and then hung a left down a rough gravel road for another 60 ish miles. We stopped for lunch at a riverbank near Chitina, where Shep's feet got stuck, sinking into the silty mud beneath the water. He let out a scream and panicked a little as the water began filling up his rubber boots. Cam pried him loose and he dried out in the sun with a turkey sandwich before we pressed on. His damp socks hung out the window, flapping in the wind for the rest of the drive. Eventually we came to a steep, one-lane bridge stretched over a deep gorge. Local legend says you're supposed to stop in the middle and throw a rock into the river below, wishing for your tires not to blow-out on the road ahead. I used up all my rocks to wish that we could stay in Alaska forever, but as fate would have it, our tires remained intact instead. It was also on this long, empty stretch of road where Shep took the wheel for a bit and learned how to ease the brake, but only after throwing me into the dashboard a few times first.

Visitors to McCarthy aren't allowed to bring their cars in, so we walked in on foot - flanked by giant mountains and the grey-blue Kennecott River surging beneath us. We knew we were in the middle of nowhere after noticing the local restaurant had only 4 wheelers parked outside. We listened to live music and ate pizza at The Potato, and I dreamt of the kind of life we could live in a place like this - where kids and dogs roam as free as bears and everyone really knows everyone. We spent the next couple of days wandering the dusty, wooded trails, and showering outside with the squirrels. But the real highlight of course was seeing the absolute grandeur, the remoteness, the vast wild of Wrangell St. Elias National Park from the air. Squeezing into our sardine-can bush plane, the three of us joined a barely-old-enough-to-fly pilot and took off. He casually warned us how to use the radio and explained about the survival gear in the back of the plane (you know, just in case). I quickly realized I couldn't even shoot with my zoom lens because there was too little space between myself and the window. Flying through a narrow canyon sent us bouncing into the ceiling and I wondered if my stomach would last the hour. But boy, was it worth it. Rocky peaks, waterfalls, grazing mountain goats, braided rivers, and ice. So much ice. We flew over a milky lake, littered with floating chunks of glacier, which I noted to look like diamonds sparkling in the afternoon sun. I saw a tent set up on the edge of a cliff and realized in that moment that we - we, in the sky - were the closest people around for maybe hundreds of miles. It was like stepping back in time and glimpsing what the world must've looked like at creation, before humans tore it up and tore it down. This was, as far as the eye could see, God's pure, untouched masterpiece. After we landed, Cameron sent me a video of the airplane fuel gauges on empty, taken somewhere roughly 6,000 ft in the air. We had a good laugh and figured we were glad to be back on the ground. But seeing this place, just being in a place like this, this was my dream.

That's the thing about dreams though - eventually, you wake up. Now, I find myself both haunted and comforted by the Alaskan memories that I keep so close to my heart. I pull them out when I'm feeling restless, boxed in, bored; they keep me afloat like a life preserver when I'm drowning. A snow drift at sunrise, illuminated pink. Caribou crossing a red tundra. Shep setting off a bear spray, everyone running. Our windows glowing in the evening blue hour. The bite of a cold frost on my skin. And just like that, these stories carry me away again and drop me off somewhere in the middle of the far north.

Head in the clouds,

heart in Alaska,

home in Texas.