caught a bug, feeling existential

For the past three years, I haven’t seen an Alaskan summer.

Up to this point, my visits to the motherland have been strictly white, frigid and dark. Though, the winter isn’t too terrible, especially if you were raised in it. Bodies glow brighter. Pale skies alluringly conceal the Sun’s secrets. Blankets of silence envelop the world in stillness, lulling Time itself into a well-deserved snooze (just look at how stretched out and relaxed the “T” looks!). But now a unique family event beckoned me to come home long before the snow fell.

As my plane glided above Anchorage in mid-August, I was shocked to see the exposed ground rather than dirtied snow and black ice. Yellow dividable lines confirmed roads weren’t simply a concept, and patches of green proved that grass survived beneath domineering fortresses of snow and merciless ice slabs. When the plane hatch opened, sweet smells of summer crept in. One mixed with the scent of baked soil, spruce needles and persistently damp branches. No longer was a frosted chill going to snarl and bite at my cheeks – at least this time.

But, amid my string of pleasant observations, I caught a bug.

I’m talking about a sickly sort of icky insect. The kind that makes bones throb, eyelids droop, and a back yearn for a soft bed. However, my sudden ailment felt rather emotional than physiological. A heartache, in the metaphorical non-life-threatening sense. (Who’s to say? Maybe I did experience a minor heart palpatation when the plane bounced on the tarmac).

Homesickness, that pesky thing, undoubtedly struck me with a mighty blow.

Whenever I visit home, I recall how enormous it felt as a child. Dreams of grand ambitions bubble to the forefront of my thoughts, particularly those that haven’t materialized (yet). A shapeless memory sits on my shoulder, kicking its legs and whistling a little tune. To be truthful, a twinge of pain follows as I observe the melody and weight, but I struggle to pinpoint what it’s in response to. Paths not pursued? Future unknowns? I can’t discern what feels more intense: the presence of something or its absence.

That bug carried a variant of homesickness that packed a punch, which sent me stumbling into an existential puddle. A small pool laced with nostalgia. Evidently, the impact made me see stars. So while I ice my bruises, let’s take a beat and journey to a fond memory of home: May 23, 2019.

According to my journal, today I drove to Hope, a (once) Gold Rush town currently home to less than 200 people (no more gold). But the adventure I wrote about began before I arrived.

My friend and I traveled southbound on Seward Highway before taking a turn at Mile 56.3. The road before us narrowed and branches stretched overhead to create an emerald tunnel. Openings in the woods flagged that homes or collections of camping spots were close, but these sightings were few and far between – as were any opportunities to pull over and rest. Upon this realization, our confined legs wished to run while our brimming bladders howled. Despite feelings of immediacy, we felt picky enough to establish that our pitstop had to have a view.

Before I realized it, my friend and I were following a winding trail toward Hope Point’s titular tip (nearly 3,500 feet above us). 

Weeping firs hugged the path, oozing their sappy tears on our arms if we got too close. Though sticky, we smelled sweet and fresh. Our hands found walking sticks, mine a meager twig compared to my friend’s wizard's staff. However, neither provided much reprieve as we marched up the steep, unforgiving slope to our desired vantage point.

Sweat beads rolled down my back, easily forming thanks to my unbreathable wool sweater. Bolts of sun cooked anything they illuminated, including my friend’s long pale neck. The wind was shy, if not completely absent, making us wonder if we said something to hurt its feelings.

Beautiful Jacob’s Ladder, lupine and forget-me-nots were gracious enough to remind us to take a beat. I flipped through the pages of my book to find plants' lookalikes as my pal questioned whether he could eat them.

Walk. Pant. Spot a flower. Stop. Hydrate. Repeat. Soon, we made it.

Arolling mosaic of green, brown and blue valleys expanded infinitely before us.  Hope's main street wasn’t visible nor were many signs of people, as evidenced by scant dashes and dots of roads and rooftops. Facing the other direction, snow-peaked mountains hugged Turnagain Arm, which was now a broad mud flat dissected by meandering streams. Later, at high tide, water would pool in and erase the image.

As we stared, the wind finally said hello. Our breezy reunion could only be celebrated by lying in the grass, where I melted deeper into comfort with each soft gust. Each of my exhales blended with the open air, and I wished for Time to stop (if only I could lull it to sleep myself).

So, here we are again in the plane and feeling existential.

While I sat in that stuffy fuselage, I wondered how long Anchorage’s roads or my favorite hiking trails would remain in my head. Imaginary routes appeared before my eyes as I quizzed myself. When landmarks tell me to turn, will I know to listen? Can stumps on my favorite hikes be forever recognizable? Otherwise I may lose track of pitureesque outlooks. How will the maps I know like the back of my hand morph as I age? Paths will inevitably be forced to weave around the wrinkles drooping from my knuckles!

Routes leading to beloved places are slightly fading from my mind, from secret treehouses to famous warbling rocks. I suppose that’s the result of moving away and falling for other towns and landscapes. Still, I’d like to think these maps are simply tucked within the grooves of my mind and waiting to be summoned when familiarity welcomes itself in.

Perhaps the adage, “Home is where the heart is,” applies here. Or maybe those are the stars talking again.

l.e.