The Long Road Home

Letting Go

We left early on a Thursday in September. A comfortable chill hung in the air, and the morning sky was still dark enough to see the Big Dipper shining above. I told myself I wasn't going to cry. The way I saw it, I figured I had run out of tears already when saying our goodbyes the night before. We headed down our steep driveway; I remembered Shep speeding down in his sled and flying over the snow berm below. We turned right on the road towards town; I pictured the way Mt. Spurr would rise majestic out of the horizon as you drove further uphill, and the way it surprised me every single time. Quietly hoping we would turn back, we just kept driving. I watched as the mountains - my mountains - faded away in the rearview mirror. I was overwhelmed, overcome with emotion, completely undone.

I bawled like a baby.

Honestly, this went on for hours. Cam drove, and I cried. Shep slept, and I cried. I cried at the memories, at the sunrise, at the yellow trees, at a bird, at everything. I cried at God. Through my tears I talked to the Lord, literally casting my cares on Him. And do you know what happened? He cared for me. In that still, small voice, He cared enough to respond, saying "Do you trust in my goodness?" In that moment, I resolved to not be so devastated by the life which He had chosen for me. That evening, we drove into the Yukon with a truck full of grateful hearts, more snacks than a gas station, and two and a half years worth of Alaskan family memories.

And I stopped crying.

Just Keep Driving

As far as road trips go, this one may have been excessively long but it was also relatively uneventful (thankfully). We had only one morning of drizzly rain and we replaced one flat-ish trailer tire somewhere mid-Montana. The fall colors were peaking and, just like last time, there were so many animals on the Alcan that Copper became reactive to words like 'bison' and 'bear.' We even resorted to using code words so as not to alert him. "Mac and cheese ahead to the left," we'd say. Or, "macaroni noodle on the right," instead.

In Jasper we met this rowdy group of guys from India who invited Shep to play pool with them - they all had the happiest smiles. He warned them that he wasn't very good, and then IMMEDIATELY landed a ball in a corner pocket. They erupted in praise and hilariously called him "General Shepherd" for the rest of the night. Outside, the Milky Way shone bright above us - a river of stars packed into a pale, glowing haze across the sky. I lured Cam outside to be my bear bodyguard while I took pictures, under the guise of only needing a few minutes to get the shot (haha). He set a timer and every few passing minutes, reminded me of how long this was taking - but he stood close in the starlight anyhow. Another evening we took way too long floating in Liard Hot Springs and afterwards were forced to drive through the remote dark on E and a prayer in order to get to our lodge before they closed for the night. But it was worth it - that warm soak after so many hours in the car was everything. At least two women at the springs would agree, having driven 13 hours from the Northwest Territories just for a soak because "it was the nearest fun thing to do." It was also here that I met an enthusiastic young lady who was on her way up from Texas to Alaska for the first time. She borrowed a towel from us while I told her all about the amazing things she had in store. You see, I had been her once, and what I wouldn't give to do that again.

Eventually, the long ribbons of winding road gave way to long stretches of arid pastures and oilfields - a sure sign that we were almost there. The fall colors faded and the mountains disappeared from view - every new state line a glaring reminder that Alaska was getting further and further away. But alas: 4500 miles, at least 100 nerd gummies, 10 days, 5 national parks, and approximately 1 mental breakdown later and we made it. We were finally home.

Looking Ahead

Last week, when my Northern friends were experiencing the aurora storm of the year, I stood in my backyard and lowkey cursed the worthless Texas sky. I know I said I resolved to trust the Lord (and I do), but this almost irrational sadness is still there, lingering. Anytime I think about Alaska or speak of her beauty, I start to feel that familiar sting of an unavoidable cry welling up inside my nostrils. It's hard to talk about and yet, all I want to talk about. So when someone stops and asks me how I'm adjusting to Texas these days, I have a hard time knowing how to answer honestly. My mind is flooded with memories, and they rush in all at once - a meandering porcupine, flashes of green in the sky, burning cheeks in the cold, the exaggerated steps of a moose. Where Alaska was a quiet hymn, Texas is a brass band - one slow and intentional, the other, deafening. Driving takes an all-out assault on my senses - billboards, honking, traffic, trash, everyone rushing, rushing, rushing all the time. I feel small here, but in the worst way. And with ten times more people in Houston than in the entire state of Alaska, there is literally nowhere I can go where people aren't - and boy do I miss a quiet sit by the river, alone. But in His goodness, the Lord has blessed me with little Alaskan treats here in Texas too - a pair of bald eagles in the distant trees behind our house, some colder mornings (we even had a frost!), a few red and yellow trees scattered in the piney woods, a call from a dearly missed friend. And if I squint my eyes a little, I can even pretend the rooftops are ridgelines (silly, I know).

While I may not love it here (yet), and I can't pretend to know what the future holds, I do know this: wherever I go, Alaska comes with me. She's stitched into my thoughts and my memories like a quilt that wraps me in comfort on my worst days. It's the place I'll go in my mind when life here feels loud - sitting on a snow bank in perfect stillness or a walk down my favorite trail. Because even here, miles away, my internal compass still points north, pulled by the quiet magnetism of the place that left me changed forever.

So if you ask me how Texas is and whether we are back for good, I'll probably just nod and say,

"We're back for good...for now."