The Longest Day of My Life

Today is the Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year. I am as far north on the planet as I am ever likely to be on this day of the year, thus, it will literally be the longest day I will ever experience while I take my spin on this sparkling, verdant space rock of ours. Coincidentally, it is also one of my days off this week. Due to the fact that the woman who hired me at the lodge took a different position within days of giving me a job (her parting gift to the department or a final middle finger?), there is a new manager making our schedule and this week I have off today and Friday. I would gripe a bit about not having my days of leisure back to back, but I don't plan on doing any traveling this week and today might be the only sunny day we get. Of course, as I am typing this it is beginning to rain. A brief sun shower, I suppose, but it drives home the fact that it has rained every single day for the past two weeks.

But I'm getting off track. Today is Solstice, and I have the day off. Normally I wake up around 4:45 in the morning to get ready for work. My job is close by, but I have to be there, most days, by 5:30. Because I knew I was planning on sleeping in today, I treated myself to a DVD and a nice meal last night, and stayed up late to enjoy both. Usually I am in bed, if not already asleep, by ten o'clock. Sherlock Holmes and my halibut and chips kept me up until almost midnight. And then there were some text messages and calls from a friend at home. It was nearly 1:30 before my eyes asserted their right to close and my dreams carried me away again. And sleep in I did. Nearly 9:30 before I rolled off my futon.

Here, on days that I am not working, I am somewhat aimless. I don't really know what there is around here, and it is impractical for me to take tours right now due to financial considerations. With all the rain lately, I've been spending quite a bit of time inside, watching movies, reading books, I've even started exercising again. With the sun out, and all the time in the world, I hardly know what to do with myself. Mostly I would just take walks around town, or sit in the park and people watch. This is a small town, and as far as the populace goes, it has all the foibles and lack of privacy that that entails. But each day there are throngs of people brought in on busses to look around and eat and shop. It's like a wildlife preserve of humans. Outsiders like myself come in, due their touristy business, pay for their bag of peanuts, point at the monkeys and go home to tell stories about it. It's interesting to me to take in people's reactions to life here. The personality of the town, and its locals, is off-kilter enough to sustain the steady flow of commerce, and occasionally ropes folks in to staying or at least returning for another go 'round.

This morning I actually started to form a plan for my day. There were a few things I wanted to do, not necessarily outdoorsy things, but things I wanted to use to fill my time. For instance, the internet connection where I live is fine for email and text and photo websites, but I've been using Hulu to catch up on the television shows I like and the connection is a bit too slow for that. To remedy this, I go to the library where the wifi is speedy enough to allow me uninterrupted viewing. Since I only go there one day a week, I wind up having around three hours worth of stuff to catch up on, and today was my day. Uninspired for the longest day ever, but as a practical matter it suits me just fine. I also wanted to stop by the post office and see if I had any mail. And I definitely wanted to treat myself to a nice, big breakfast.

There are easily half a dozen places around that serve breakfast, including my place of employment, but today I tried my friend Natasha's work, and our local brew pub, Twister Creek. Because of my early hours, I don't really eat before work. Breakfast is my favorite meal, and I never have it anymore, so today I ate like a king. French toast, sausage, bacon. A tall glass of ice cold milk. It was awesome. I watched the first half of the Spain vs. Honduras World Cup match and relaxed. Afterwards, I made my way to the library and watched a bit of TV on my laptop. I'm not going to go into detail about all that, but I will take this moment to recommend the show Justified to any and everyone who reads this. It is a spectacular bit of entertainment, and features top notch writing and acting. So I spent a few hours at the library, caught up on some TV, updated my computer's software, and then headed to the Post Office. I wasn't expecting anything, but I figured I should check since I do have a PO Box now. To my surprise, there was a piece of mail from a friend back home. It was a card, and a kindness that I won't go on about for the sake of saving a shy person some embarrassment, sufficed to say that I was reminded again that I am blessed with the friendship of some of the best people on this earth. I walked out of the Post Office into a storm of cottonwood pollen. Enough of the stuff has been blowing around town to make it seem like a snow globe any time the rain stops. It piles up in the streets, against the walls of buildings and around car tires. It's as if every wish ever blown off the top of a dandelion stem made its way here. It was too nice a day to continue this line of thinking. I certainly don't think Talkeetna is where wishes come to die, but the fuzzy bastards were doing their best approximation of a seed head apocalypse. I decided my best bet was to head out of town and go for a hike in the woods, so I returned to the place Natasha took me a couple of weeks ago, the X-Y-Z lakes.

Alaska has about seventy trillion lakes, and the naming process is dodgy at best, but when I started hearing people refer to X-Y Lakes a few weeks ago I just assumed they had literally run out of names. Turns out no one I have asked so far knows why these particular lakes have these names, or even which lake is which, but it's a nice little area to walk around. There is also a Question Lake, as well as an Answer Creek, so it seems the entirety of existential rumination is covered by the local parks system. In any case, the trail I took is about three miles, and well maintained. The only thing you have to be mindful of is local wildlife. Natasha and I didn't see any bears or moose the last time we walked it, and I figure that enough people use the trail regularly that I'm a fair bet make it around without incident. Here are a few pictures of my hike. I'm sorry if some are low-quality, as I took them with the 5 mp camera on my phone with no real zoom to speak of and whatever cheapo lens Samsung put in the thing.

Could be X, Y, or Z...

only the Shadow knows.

The people rowing were coming towards me and as they passed they asked if they could buy some pot. I was actually a bit disappointed that I couldn't help, even though I have never smoked in my life.

Uprooted.

A bench by the lake.

Uprooted II. What can I say? Obvious does not diminish appropriate.

I wish there was a zoom on this camera, you can see the range a bit in the distance.

You would also have seen the creek better in this shot.

I wanted to feel the temperature of the water. Hope I don't get Beaver Fever...

from the Beaver dam you can just make out on the other side.

Not a bad place to spend the longest day of your life.

Without the sunrise and sunset, without time to measure against, all of life blends together. Our lives need some manner of delineation so we can process things in an organized fashion. Here in the land of the midnight sun, my days have become something of a blur. I am constantly checking the calendar on my phone or laptop, or asking co-workers what day it is. My concept of the passage of time is dulled, as all of my resources for organizing the chaos of my life have been turned inward. I am now measuring the passage of time in shifts at work vs. days off. In sets of push-ups or laps around the lake. In letters and emails, or even in text messages which inform me that things outside this place go on without me, and life is ever forward. The length of one day, stacked up against a lifetime of precious moments with people I love, is relatively insignificant. But although I spent most of my longest day alone, it didn't seem to pass me by too fast at all. Think of your days, and think of those you love. And take your time.

Be it ever so humble...

"He is the happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home."  ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I could regale you with tales of my week, about how I started working for real at the restaurant at the lodge, about how yesterday was one of the most humbling experiences on a job I've ever had due to the perfect storm of things that should not happen to a professional with 18 years experience in the service industry. Or I could tell you about how I managed to lock myself out of my place the second night I was there, wearing nothing but sweats and a zip-up hoodie, with no way to contact the landlord due to everything I own being inside; and oh yeah, it was raining. I could tell you about the fox I saw two days ago carrying his freshly taken prey across the road to enjoy for breakfast or even the entire convoluted tale about how my friends Natasha and Tyler essentially had their dog stolen by some unstable Alaskan lady who drove it over 80 miles away after she "rescued" it from wandering the streets (in front of Natasha & Tyler's house). I could go on at length about any number of these things, but instead I'm just going to give you a photo tour of my "home" away from home. And then maybe point out one thing involving trains.

I've already provided info on what a yurt is so I'm not gonna go through that again, but here's the view walking up the driveway. The building to the left is the kitchenette and bathrooms. Another renter on the property, who lives in a regular old tent pitched on the ground about 70 yards away, shares the kitchen with me, and everyone shares the washer/dryer. In total there are seven of us on this property, there is Marne, my landlord, who shares space with her boyfriend Geoff and Bailey, who is daughter to one or both of them, I'm not really sure. Also, Matt and Heather, who rent the loft apartment attached to Marne's place. Dennis is the guy in the tent, and I have the yurt. There are also two dogs (Jenna and Frank) and two cats (Pretty Kitty and Arlo).

Continuing up the drive, with some of the yard in view. Yurts are not usually built off the ground like this, and I am impressed with the effort the construction of this one must have taken. It's a twenty footer, a little over three feet off the ground, well insulated, and has a skylight and three windows.

This is the inside of the kitchenette. It's got a brand spankin' new stove, double well sink, microwave, toaster oven, mini-fridge, and a small table. It is well constructed and insulated, but the heater is never on in there so it is chilly, which I'm not particularly fond of.

Especially when I use my bathroom. Maybe it's just me, but I HATE cold bathrooms. I don't like sitting down on a cold toilet, I don't like brushing my teeth while shivering, and I especially don't like freezing my ass off after just getting out of one of my patented über-hot showers. But I'm not gonna complain too much because most of the people who live around here don't have their own private bathrooms, or even showers or running water in their summer rentals; they use outhouses and pay to take showers at a campground.

Another view of the kitchen where you can make out some of the other appliances.

One of the creative landscaping choices in our yard.

A view of the front.

The bedroom and lounge area.

A Talkeetna style walk-in closet.

Wardrobe / dressing area.

The den.

The study. 

As to the lighting, well, we're still working out the kinks in our camera/photographer relationship.

The skylight still has its winter cover on inside. I asked Marne to keep it like this because the sun never fucking sets here and I need to get some sleep. Seriously, it's still light out at 2 am, and I get up no later than 5, so I try to make it as dark as possible.

The heater, possibly my favorite amenity. It's summer here and it still gets into the 40s at night. 

I've got this great rug that really ties the room together.

And if you don't like it, there's the door.

All in all, I'm pretty happy with what I've got here. Being a city boy, of course I'd like things to be a little nicer/less rustic, and I wouldn't mind at all if it was cheaper, but I've seen what else is out there and this place is definitely one of the nicest going, and probably the best non-cabin option in town.

That being said, I sure wish it wasn't so close to the train tracks. It turns out that in addition to the regular passenger lines that whisk vacationers and mountain climbers back and forth from Anchorage to Fairbanks and back all day, there is also a freight line that uses the same tracks. I guess they want to send those trains at off hours when the passenger line isn't running because the one that made me realize that the difference between a yurt and an actual walled structure can be summed up in the words "noise dampening" blew through town at about 4 o'clock this morning. And it has to blast its whistle every time because it crosses the main road two blocks away. Vincent LaGuardia Gambini ain't got shit on me.

Notes on a transplant: A field trial on the efficacy of optimism.

The last few days have seen some big events in my summer excursion. Try to imagine a metronome granted sentience in some sort of Fantasian dream which then decides to spend it's entire brief life of awareness on amphetamine and you'll get some idea of my mood swings since Monday.

I brought my bicycle with me from Jersey, and on the trip up it got a little gunked up with dirt and debris. When we got to Anchorage I dropped it at a local bike shop for a tune-up. About a week after I got to Talkeetna, I took a ride back to Anchorage to pick it up and when I got there I noticed a bit of smoke coming from under my hood. Of course being over 4500 miles from home, with very little money and no idea how to work on cars, this freaked me out a bit. I looked things over, which is a bit like a a high school student trying to diagnose one of Dr. House's patients, but figured that since the check engine light wasn't on, it wasn't over-heating, and there was no discernible oil leaks or spatters that I was safe to make it back to Talkeetna (a two hour plus drive). Just to be safe I bought a spare bottle of engine coolant.

Neither myself, nor the trained eyes at the local service shop could spot a coolant leak and I made it back without incident, but discovered that the smoke was indeed coming from the radiator. When I got into town I asked Holli if her husband, who is a mechanic, would mind taking a look and see if he could figure out what was going on. A few days later he came by and after getting underneath he noticed that a small valve at the bottom of the radiator was weeping fluid; not a large leak, but enough to cause problems. After consulting with him, as well as my brother-in-law Shawn back home, the simple/cheap fix idea was to remove the offending plug and epoxy the hole shut completely. By then it was a holiday weekend, and the only place around where I might purchase something that works would be closed until Tuesday. I'm fully bummed about still being unemployed, and not looking forward to figuring out a way to perform this minor procedure without any tools, or ramps, or a place to store all the fluid I'm gonna have to empty in order to even try it. Hell, I don't even really have a place to work on the damn thing. Major downer. 

In the midst of all this, I go and look at a place that will be available to rent the second week of June. It's owned by a woman named Marne, who manages the big drinking establishment in town, the Fairview Inn. I show up at her place, just a block over from the hostel and one down from Natasha and Tyler's cabin. The rental is a yurt, a type of tent that is slightly more solid and more house-like than camping tents. It's as big as a large room of a house, has heat and power, shares a cooking area with some other people living on the property, but includes access to a private full bathroom, washer/dryer, and Internet access. The rent is $550 a month. A cabin that was much farther out of town and didn't have water was being offered for $450 on Craigslist, so the value here was obvious to me. This is a town where about twenty percent of the summer population lives in camping tents. However, I have about 8 dollars in my pocket and I've been sleeping in my Jeep all week. I tell her at the time that I am interested, but it is entirely dependent upon me finding a job. There are two more potential renters that are coming to see the place, but because Holli is friends with Marne and put in a good word for me, she said she'd try and keep me at the top of the list. I'm stoked on the yurt, but still need to find a job before I can even think about a place to live. Luckily, by the end of the week some REALLY good news comes in: a job interview. The big lodge on the hill, this area's version of the Waldorf-Astoria, called me back after several of my phone calls and intrusive surprise visits. I go in and meet with Sara, the dining area manager, and interview for a position as a server. Things go well (I've always been a good interview) and I have a positive vibe, especially when she says she just needs to check my references and she'll get back to me after the long weekend. Up!

While this is happening, some guys from Poland who are staying at the Hostel are trying to make plans to take a train or a shuttle bus to Fairbanks. It's a five hour drive north from Talkeetna, and it's pretty expensive. When they change their minds and decide to go down to Anchorage instead, I tell them  that I'll drive them there myself for a hundred bucks and we can leave whenever they want. My thinking is that I can take the money they pay and have a professional plug the leak for me so I know it's done right. They love the idea of saving some money and giving it to someone they at least know a bit instead of some random transit company. My mood begins to improve even more. Until an hour later when they realize that none of them brought a drivers license so they won't be able to rent the car they were planning on getting and taking the drive around Alaska that they were hoping for. Damn. This is on Memorial Day, so when my phone rings I think it's either Natasha or someone from home calling to say hello. As it turns out, it's Sara from the lodge, she has managed to get through to everyone she needed to, and made her decision, and she'd like to offer me a job. I accept and she asks me to come by the next afternoon to begin training. Holy awesome, Batman! Up, up, up. I immediately call Marne, and tell her that I'll take the place whenever it's available. When she showed me around, we discussed payment and everything and she was quite amenable to working with me as far as when I could get her the money and pro-rating the first month, etc. This was all going to be a huge help since I had so little left in savings. I began to imagine finally settling in for real, not feeling like a transient anymore. The next day I went in for training, which seemed to go well. The place has been around for a while and they really have their act together. I was given an employee handbook, a server handbook, and a menu to learn. I was shown around a bit and filled out some paperwork. This all managed to take about four hours. Plans were made for more the next afternoon at the same time, one o'clock. I have a good feeling.

When I get back to the hostel, I find the Polish guys have discovered that one of them brought his license after all, and they want to go to Anchorage. I do the math in my head. It's about five. I need to empty my Jeep to make room for all their stuff, load them up, then a two hour drive to town, drop them off, find someplace to park and sleep, make it to the mechanic's by eight when they open, two hours to get the work done, back by noon, ready and able for training at one. Sounds great. If I have extra time I'll buy the clothes I'm gonna need for work. We hit the road. Turns out there is some major construction on the highway, so about fifteen extra minutes are added to the trip. Gotta consider that in the morning, but no biggie. Vehicle is cooperating, we're moving along, and just getting into Anchorage when I notice the temperature gauge is creeping up a bit to the hot side. It holds steady, but when we get to the place where the guys are staying there's smoke coming from under the hood again. We're at a backpacker's hostel, and I decide I'm gonna sleep here for the night instead of driving around looking for a place to park for the night. The guys (sorry, Adam, Pavel, and Dariusz) tell me that in addition to the hundred, they're going to pay for my stay. Very cool guys. I have to figure some stuff out on the computer, and they're going to walk around and find a place to eat and drink, but we plan to meet up later for a beer or two. After letting the engine cool, I check the fluid level and top it off, things seem right as rain again so I take the opportunity to drive to Target to get the stuff I need for work.

I will now take a brief interlude to describe an interesting side effect of the awful globalization of American big box style retail commerce. For the last few weeks I have felt...displaced. Obviously I'm a stranger in a strange place, and I don't know a lot of people around here. Walking around Target at 10:30 at night made me feel--well it may sound awful but it made me feel normal. It's kind of sad, I suppose, but it was comforting in a way that only the familiar can be. And it really brought me to a head space that I needed to be in after a week of such ups and downs.

So I get back to the backpacker hostel, the boys from Poland are still out and about, but I need to study a lodge menu because I'm being tested on it the next afternoon. Also, since I'm getting up early in the morning to be at the repair shop by eight, I need to get some sleep. The next morning I wake up at ten after six, an hour and a half before my alarm. This sometimes happens when I'm on edge. I get to the shop, have a brief discussion with the owner and then just give my keys over and put my faith in the professionals. I also place a call to the manager at the lodge and let her know that I'm in Anchorage at a repair shop with car trouble and might be a bit late. For my second day of work. Shit. Thankfully she's very understanding. So four hours and four hundred seventy dollars later, I have a new radiator. God damn it. This means more borrowing, more debt, and more evidence of not being able to stand on my own. This is not at all how I wanted to start out my victorious summer with the new job and new place in Alaska.

By the time I get back to Talkeetna I have managed to center myself. Sara, my supervisor, told me not to worry about coming in for training, that I can just make it up the next day. I think I've got the menu down pretty good. My radiator is at least fixed. I stop by the hostel to use the 'net and make some phone calls and Holli tells me that while I was gone Marne called and said I can move in within the week. My sister said that her kids finally got the stuffed animals I sent to them almost three weeks ago, and I get to talk to my nephew Nick a bit. I settle back into the town that is my adopted home for the summer, and watch Into the Wild with a bunch of foreign climbers and some of the guides. It really is an excellent movie, despite the crazy behavior it sometimes inspires. And I am kind of happy.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick

Beaver Fever does not mean what I thought it means.

I have to clear my mind and allow myself to reset. I have to stop looking at the world around me according to preconceived notions of society and presumptions of the behavior of individuals. I have to erase my personal expectations of life and experience things honestly as they occur. I have to just be, and let things be. I apologize for suddenly going all zen, but I realize it every time that I walk around down town. In something as simple as the way people park, or walk around from shop to shop, or lay in the middle of the park with a growler of beer and pass out in the sun. I look around for the meter maid (a truly laughable thought) to tell people that they have to move because they're in a no-parking zone. I look for every business owner to tell people that the bathrooms are for customers only. I look for the cop to hand out tickets or at least roust the drunk and have him move along. These are the conditioned responses of living in even a small urban area, and certainly the experiences of a city dweller. That is not life in Talkeetna.

I was talking yesterday to Holli, the woman who runs the hostel where I loiter almost daily and occasionally sleep. We were discussing the local sights and nice places to hike and so forth and in the midst of our discussion she mentioned that when she takes her kids to the slough they either drink all the water she brought in the first five minutes or don't drink any at all the whole time they are there. This prompted my brain to wonder if the local water was drinkable, and I asked as much. "No," Holli replied, "that's a good way to get beaver fever." Now, I knew from the context of our conversation that what she said and what I thought those words might mean were not even on the same continent, so I asked for clarification. Apparently that is a colloquialism for Giardiasis, the sickness you get from drinking water contaminated with Giardia lamblia. This tends too happen when you drink water that other animals crap in, and lots of beavers crap in the water around here. This is not life in New Jersey.

I have gotten quite a bit of feedback on my last post about the soldier who went nuts and AWOL and trashed the hostel and yadda yadda yadda. I want to clarify that (apart from my childish thirst for vengeance) there was never any danger in the air, at least that I could discern, and I'm fairly adept at knowing when some shit is about to go down. I have not encountered one locked door since I've been here. There is a bumper sticker promoting this town which reads: "Talkeetna - A quaint little drinking town with a climbing problem." The bars are allowed to stay open until 5 am. I have had one beer since I've been here. I wouldn't say that I've made new friends, but I am certainly on friendly terms with a number of regular locals and summer locals. In fact, some of the guides just invited me to a bonfire tonight at the river. There are hippies everywhere, and some other fringe types, as well as climbers and skiers and granolas of every shape and size. Everything is expensive. I miss my dog, and think warmly of the friends and family I left behind to come here. Apart from this blog, I haven't really done any significant writing since I came to Alaska. As comfortable as I've been able to set myself up (and it's actually not bad) sleeping in my Jeep, I still have trouble actually falling asleep because I constantly think someone is going to come along and tell me to move, that I can't just park and sleep on whatever piece of land I've settled on. I have worked a total of six hours in the last month. I work again tonight and tomorrow night, but the part time thing will not get it done. I had a job interview this morning, which I hope will turn into full-time employment at the big lodge up on the hill. If this comes to pass, I've already found a great place to stay for the summer, and that should be ready in two weeks or so. If I don't get a full time job very soon, I'll be on my way back to Jersey. This is life as I know it.

And I'm only drinking water from the tap.

The Night Crazy Came to Town

For those who have never read/seen Into the Wild, here's the tiniest bit of background:
Christopher McCandless was a young man from Virginia who basically gave up all his worldly possessions, hitchhiked his way across the continent, and finally entered into the Alaskan wilderness with only the most meager supplies, surviving for about 100 days before succumbing to either poison or (more likely) starvation. He weighed less than 70 pounds when he died. The book and, especially the film of his story, in which McCandless refers to himself as Alexander Supertramp, make him out as a bit of a folk hero who turns his back on the materialism of the world to live simply in the wild. I am a fan of both bits of media, especially the book, as I think its author Jon Krakauer is a magnificent writer. I have learned that the good people of Alaska generally don't share my opinion of the book or movie, and they feel that McCandless himself died needlessly, and if he wasn't such an inept fool than he wouldn't have had to suffer his fate. They also tire of the endless pilgrimages taken by copycat wanderers and fringe dwellers who worship the guy.

This morning I was given a bit of a lesson as to why.

After spending my previous evening on the couch at my friends Natasha & Tyler's cabin due to my normal digs being completely booked (I didn't have to sleep in my car, yay!), I came back to the hostel last night. I spent most of the day out and about, enjoying what was some really nice weather for once, and I was looking forward to a quiet night in, as the place was almost empty. There were only two other people booked for the night, and I hadn't seen either of them since I got back. I watched a movie with some of the climbing guides and was feeling sleepy enough at around 1:00 that I thought I could turn in and get a solid six or seven hours before the normal bustle of the morning intruded on my dreams. Turns out this was not to be.

I was jarred out of my slumber by some very loud banging, as well as what sounded like a noisy conversation in French. After tossing and turning for a bit, thinking maybe that it was morning and I just had to deal with the noise, I checked my phone; it was about 4:40 am. This was odd because despite the constant back and forth of climbers, guides, and hostelers, everyone who came through pretty much adhered to the rule about quiet time from 11 pm to 7 am. I put on the least aggressive countenance I could muster and walked down the hall to the common area. The television was the source of the French, someone put on the movie Chocolat and it was turned up loud. The banging stopped, so the TV was the focus of my ire, but there was no one on any of the couches or chairs; there didn't seem to be anyone watching. I made my way to the television and noticed that someone was in the kitchen (directly adjacent to the common room). I didn't recognize him, he wasn't one of the guides and since I didn't know who was checked into the other rooms I just assumed that he was a climber and was getting his gear ready to go up to the mountain. That would account for all the banging around. I asked this stranger if I could turn down the TV and he told me I could turn it off if I wanted, which I did immediately. As I turned around to go back to my bunk he asked where I was from, which isn't an odd question in a hostel. "New Jersey," I replied. "No wonder you're angry," he said.

Now, those who know me also know very well that I will respond to an attack on my beloved Garden State with no less than the full measure of my considerable arsenal of mean-spirited rhetoric and sardonic wit, but it was 5 am and I was just too tired. All I wanted was to get some sleep, so I ignored this little remark and simply told this stranger that I wasn't angry, just tired. With that, I went back to my room, climbed into my bunk, and tried to fall back asleep.

Not twenty minutes later, the movie is back on, the French dialogue is just as loud, but is being drowned out by the even louder music pumping out of a laptop. Plus he's singing. At this point my patience is wearing thin, but I'm a guest here just like him so I don't want to come off like some maniac who thinks he owns the place. I make up my mind that I'm just gonna remind him that from 11 to 7 people are expected to be courteous and quiet for the sake of everyone sleeping. As soon as I walk out of the hall I'm met with him packing things into a large backpack and before I can get out a word he assures me that he'll "be out of my hair in five minutes." "I'm going to McKinley," he says. I stop in my tracks, turn around and mutter something like "sounds good" before going back to the bunk again to wait out his nonsensical behavior. I'm still exhausted, not a state that puts me in a good mood, and now I'm starting to just think his rudeness needs to be met with some of my own, but surely I can wait out five minutes of the sake of keeping the peace. I get under the blanket, wrap the pillow over my ear, and wonder why the other guests haven't come out to complain like me.

About fifteen more minutes passes (see how patient I was being) and the movie and music are just as loud, but I notice that the singing has stopped. Also, the same song has played at least twice in a row now: Revolution 9 by The Beatles. It's a long song, and I know I heard the beginning a couple of times. I get up again, this time prepared to have it out with this incomprehensibly rude person, but he's gone. In his stead is a room full of hazy, fragrant incense smoke. His pack isn't on the floor. There is something stuck into a map on the wall, which turns out to be a butcher knife wrapped from tip to handle in plastic wrap. Hung from the butt of the blade is a t-shirt with the logo of a military company on the front. All the books from a free book exchange in the common room have been removed from the shelves and are stacked on the floor next to the shelving unit. A few of the books, specific titles dealing with the Alaskan wilderness, are set standing on window sills, one book to each, throughout the room. I turn the corner and look into the kitchen to see every single cabinet door left open and every drawer pulled out, as if a poltergeist had its way with the place. Even the stove was left open. I turned the TV off again, leaving only the Beatles' song to sound out through the place. I step into the kitchen and notice that a book has been placed standing, open to a page scribbled with the line "Start a Revolution," on an unlit burner on the stove. At this point I'm starting to get a bit creeped out and visions of Tate-LaBianca start to fill my consciousness. I head back to my room and grab a pocketknife from my jeans and head back out to assess the rest of the damage. Little notes are left around with tiny missives scribbled on them about what is needed to head into the wild. One indicates that he took a water bottle belonging to one of the climbers, the note read: "I owe you 1 Nalgene bottle - Edward Supertramp."

I'm feeling a little less likely to be killed by some crazed Manson groupie after reading that, but still a bit unsettled. Looking around again I find more notes, food left out on the stove and counters, a wine bottle stacked on a coffee press, which is stacked on a coffee can, wine footprints on the kitchen floor, and a particularly rancid smell coming off a plastic wrapped plate with what appears to be a full shot glass in the middle of it. I made sure all the burners and the stove are turned off, shut off the music, and tried to piece together what was going on. The creeping feeling I had earlier gave me a little jolt of adrenaline, so I was starting to wake up. Then I started to get even more pissed. The hostel where I stay is a very open, accommodating place. They never lock the doors. It's a small business run by a young woman who does her best to make sure everyone who comes in feels welcome, and she really doesn't deserve to have her place trashed by some jackass McCandless wanna-be. I decide I'm going to find this person and, I don't know, bring him to justice. My myopic tendencies reared their ugly head and I just went out to my car and started driving around town. Talkeetna is not a big place and I figured he couldn't have gotten too far since I last saw him. I ran parallels of the neighborhood streets where I stay and then went to the downtown area. At this point it's some time around 5:30 in the morning. I didn't see him anywhere. Then I start to think that if he's going to Denali maybe he's taking a flight up, so I drive past all the Air Taxi companies to see if he's camped out waiting for one to open, to no avail. Now I'm wondering--if he thinks he's gonna walk the few hundred miles up, will he head back down the spur road to the main highway north or is he smart enough to just follow the train tracks? I decide to drive a little bit down the spur road, about as far as I figured he would have made it on foot with his pack, but he's not there either. I realize that if he's on the train tracks I cannot follow him in my Jeep. I turn around and head back towards town. After I come around the bend in the road where an observation turnoff is set up I notice for the first time this morning that the skies are perfectly clear and Denali is out in all her glory. I pulled into the turnoff and just sat for a bit looking at the mountains. Normally I'd post a picture here, but I left the hostel in the sweats I sleep in, without even grabbing my wallet and license let alone a camera. My notions of petty vengeance were starting to look awfully silly in the light of day. I drove back to the hostel to start cleaning up his mess. When I arrived, the only other guest who actually spent the night was just emerging from her room. Abigail was her name, a Brit on holiday who was wearing earplugs and had managed to sleep through the entire ordeal. I told her about the intruder, and together we assessed the rest of the damage and cleaned up the place as best we could. I was still stewing a bit and to be honest, she did most of the dirty work. After everything seemed to be back in its place I decided to get the sleep I had missed that night. It was now about 7 am.

I wake up again around eleven, and the house is buzzing. Holli showed up and Abigail told her the whole story as I related it to her. Holli decides that the best thing to do it alert the Rangers and the State Police so this stranger doesn't do anything that could get him hurt, or worse. Also, some of the guides are up and point out that he used one of their phones to call Modesto, California about seven times. He also drank an entire large bottle of wine that belonged to another guide. A bit later, the phone rings, and the puzzle pieces fall more firmly into place. A woman asks Holli if someone named Chris checked in the night before. He never did, officially, but they get to the truth of the matter when the woman says that her husband had gone AWOL from his Army post the night before, that he was a bit obsessed with Into The Wild and might be smoking something (not weed) that makes him a bit delusional, and that he's not supposed to be drinking (medicated perhaps?). He left behind a blue motorcycle helmet, which the wife identified, although he doesn't have a motorcycle. So he left on foot. She was calling from Fairbanks, over 250 miles north, and we speculated that he hopped a freight train to head south, but since they don't stop in Denali National Park, Talkeetna was the first place he could hop off. The Modesto number is his brother. The police, army, and a very annoyed/concerned wife are all looking for him. I'm still angry that he trashed the place and stole from its guests. My sympathy and compassion are non-existant.

The hostel and its guests are really no worse for the wear, though I still shudder to think what could have happened if someone interrupted his stabbing/trashing/stealing spree if he was truly delusional. I was half asleep both times I confronted him, but he seemed completely lucid, if a little "off." Holli has two small children, and I'm really glad they were not here when any of this was happening. I realize that I was not behaving all that well when I went out with violence in my heart to find him this morning, and that kind of reaction is just one more thing I have to look at as I while away the hours out here. At the same time, none of his behavior indicates to me that he wants to come back. His course and actions were all self-destructive. If he's on something maybe he'll think the better of it when he comes down, or maybe someone will find him and talk some sense into him. The last thing Alaska needs is another ill-equiped dilettante walking off to his death. But walk away he did, out into the wild, and part of me thinks that he wants to die out there. Faced with someone like that after less than two weeks here forces me to compare it to my own journey. I came here to examine my life, and what to make of it. If this morning has taught me anything, it's that I certainly don't think giving up is the answer, and that as much as I may chide myself for running away from my life by coming here, at least I know I plan to go home.

Racing Glaciers

Been some ups and downs and back ups since last I wrote. There was a distinct possibility of a job which has yet to materialize. There was an ad for someone looking for a housemate. It was a bit far out of town, but being a beggar I couldn't exactly turn it down. Of course it was already taken when I called. I heard news of three other places where the scheduled summer employees have yet to appear, places where I have already applied. Checking back has resulted in a whole lot more "we'll let you know" responses. Yesterday I was treated to the mind blowing experience of Flightseeing the Alaskan Range. You're flown up over Denali National Park in a small, single engine plane and given an air tour of the mountains and glaciers that make up the range. It is breathtaking. A singular experience that I really cannot shape into words. Here's a few of the million pics I took (that also do the real thing no justice). 

Best flight service in the land.

Glaciers, glaciers everywhere...

Billions of tons of ice moving at three feet a day.

Bashful Denali.

More glacier and the Alaska Range.

A little avalanche.

Crazy beautiful up here.

Our intrepid pilot, Tyler. Master of the glacier landing.

The view from Ruth's Amphitheater.

Another view from the glacier.

So that was a big part of the upswing yesterday. And then I wake up this morning to find out that the hostel is full tonight, so I don't have a place to sleep. Luckily I bought a sleeping bag before I left, in case it gets cold spending the night in my car. Also, while I was typing this and uploading the photos, I got a call back and start work at a local restaurant on Saturday. I don't know if I'm beating the glacier, but I am making progress. 

Fear and loathing in Talkeetna, Alaska

I spend my nights in a bunk at the chilly end of the Talkeetna Hostel and my days looking for work and a more permanent place to live. The weather isn't warm by any stretch of the imagination, even if some of the people are; the thermometer hasn't climbed out of the fifties yet. There's been some sun, but it's a little gray every day. And the nights rarely get above freezing. I've been trying to keep my head in the game, as it were. Not to sweat things out of my control, which, at this point, is just about everything. Vacationers and the climbers who guide them come and go on a regular basis. The hostel is just up the street from the airfield and each day I hear the buzzing of small single-engine aircraft shuttling them back and forth from the mountain. Denali stands like a magician in the mist, never fully there, always part of the illusion.

So why have I evoked the good doctor? What does any of this have to do with the American Dream? Truthfully, not much at all. I punched my card on that lofty ideal the day I handed in my letter of resignation to the Mercer County Sheriff. The part of my brain that must constantly put the rest of me in my own way was certainly at work again bringing me here. Leaving New Jersey, for me, was a solution to that age old problem of trying to observe a thing without changing it. I could not legitimately observe my own existence, mostly because I was living it day to day in a terrifying circle of tedium that was getting smaller and smaller each year. I was working upwards of sixty hours a week and going exactly nowhere. I lost sight of who I was and was no closer to discovering what I wanted from this world. The creature comforts provided by my loving family were like an opiate at work on my passions. I had grown so complacent that it was almost beyond me to even recognize how low I had sunk. My shot at the mythical American Dream disappeared when I walked away from the last chance for a generous paycheck and a slow suburban euthanization.

And now I am here, to figure out…god only knows what. Who I am? What I want? Where I want to be? How I'm gonna get there? Why bother? Any and all of the above. Even the people I know who are established in a life they love didn't come by it easily, so I'm not whining about not knowing my place in the world. And it's a very different world than it used to be. Softer, really, on those of us who didn't find our way in our twenties. Socially it might be a bit stigmatizing, but really, it's not like the lost and wayward are roaming the streets, stealing bread and sleeping under bridges by the thousands. You'll find us here and there, working at some menial task, struggling to make sense of our own choices, and wondering why we couldn't just take the same roads as everyone else. 

Since I've spent the better part of the last week with nothing to fill my time, I have read quite a bit. Today I picked up Emerson's Self-reliance. It's a quick read, no more than as essay really, and I wouldn't say it really stirred anything within me. There were a few lines though that made me smile, considering my current situation, foremost of them all being: "Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist." If being desperately unemployed, slowly running out of the meager savings I managed to put together for this trip, and going out of my head with wonder at what happens if things DON'T change is the path to manhood, than perhaps I was better for being written off as a child. The truth of the matter is I don't have the slightest fucking idea what I should be in this world. Still. 36 years old, and nothing has struck me as the "right" thing. If such a concept even exists. At this point it seems I should have just toed the line at any one of the hundred chances I was given at a normal, sensible life and just stuck with whatever I would have fallen into because finding your proper place in this world through trial and error is a long, miserable process that takes the best years of your life and pushes everyone who supports your foolishness to the breaking point. Trying to reveal the meaning within, if it is not obvious, and you're not stirred by passions great or small to point you in a direction is like 36 years under brain-cloud inducing fixtures of noxious gray light.

I have always had a demonstrative heart that steers me. I follow my instincts when I know that the other way is simpler. It is a stubbornness that I possess for making the decision that I believe in, even if it means things will be more difficult down the road. The problem is I'm not the only one who pays for these decisions, and the weight of that fact has been pushing down on me more and more. Being supported, in the most literal ways, by the ones I love and who obviously love me more than I have any right to claim I deserve, has left me soft and fed right into my directionless behavior. Everything they have done to help me, to keep me on my feet or put me back there when I've stumbled, has enabled me to stand perfectly still in life. I did not take advantage of a single leg up, I wasted every single break that came my way. And that is part of the reason I am in Alaska. Really, a big piece of the puzzle was just leaving the nest. Now I either get to see how magnificent my scramble back to the blanket is when things don't go my way, or I cowboy the fuck up and get on with my life. Time will tell.

Another facet of this little passionless play is finding some time to be by myself. I'm a fairly social person, I like hanging out with my friends, going to pub for some craic and a few pints, a nice meal and conversation, sitting around a fire pit after a nice BBQ, or maybe heading to a show or some other such thing. Point is, I am blessed with fantastic friends, and we're never at a loss for something to do. But just as often I am in the mood to withdraw, to stay in and keep to myself. Unfortunately I don't use this downtime to whittle away at my list of things to do. I'm not writing the great American novel or answering the deep imponderable questions of man. Usually I'm not doing anything at all. I don't know where these days and nights come from. Sometimes I've already got something planned and then without warning I want to ignore the world and just hide in my little cocoon. Well, let me tell you how Alaska puts that behavior to the test. I know exactly 1 person in this entire state. In fact, the closest other person that I know to hang out with is over 2000 miles away. I've already been invited here and there by some friendly types at the hostel, and the temptation to do that very thing, despite not having a leg to stand on financially, just reminds me how much I love the company and companionship of others. I am not half the misanthrope I sometimes act. So far, however, I have turned down every invitation. I have resisted every impulse to join and frolic, be it hula-hooping in the park with locals or taking in live music and a few drinks with my dear friend Natasha. I don't want to be out and about. I'm not ready to let loose and have some fun. There was a greater purpose here which I cannot even begin to cipher until I have set a stake in the ground. Circumstances being what they are, I have done just a little soul-searching. But I don't know what I'm looking for in there, so how will I know when I've found it?

I suppose the point, if there is one, is that I'm still alive and well, here in this place so far removed from everything I know. I haven't died from exposure to the elements, I haven't starved, I haven't thought of throwing in the towel or cursed the fates for my sour luck (though I was tempted the other day when I discovered that there is a hole in my radiator), I don't spend my nights weeping for the life I left in New Jersey. Existential ennui is never that dramatic anyway. I just look around corners for my muse, wondering at the same time if I'll ever fill that purpose for someone else. I ask the questions I feel need asking, and take in the world around me while I wait for the answers to appear in my shocked little brain. If at any point, I, or anyone else, thought of this summer as a vacation for me, let me dispel that notion here and now. This is a journey. A portion within the larger whole, but with a purpose I have more of a hand in. This is MY journey. My searching and my wandering and my wondering, and if the conclusions I come to are as simple as heading home with a heart comfortable in its mediocrity and a life without any great accomplishment, then I can at least say I went the distance in finding that out. Not everyone leads a life of greatness, maybe I will or maybe I won't, but I have to learn to be okay with the goodness that stands in its stead. 

My current housing, as seen through the crack in my windshield.

Anchorage, AK

I haven't updated while we were in town because there was actually stuff to do. Anchorage is a cool town. Reminds me of the Jersey shore. A little resort city on the water that will blow up once tourist season gets here. It even has that kind of vibe to it. I see a bit of SLC here as well, a big city surrounded by gorgeous mountains.

I dropped Frank at the airport a while ago. I am now on my own, whatever that means. I have literally never been so alone before in my life. I'm not anxious. I'm not worried. I'm also probably not doing too good a job at facing reality. Technically I'm homeless and unemployed. I suppose I should start thinking more and start "going with the flow" less. Maybe even grow up a little?

Fuck it. Others have done more with less. Tomorrow Talkeetna, and the future.

Tok, Alaska

Finally here! Back in the states. In Alaska. Holy shit. And one more day until Anchorage. We made the long trek up from Whitehorse, stopped here for a bit for lunch, and then made our way up to Delta Junction to see the official end of the Alcan. Now we can say we did the entire 1422 mile journey. Then it was time to head back to Tok (sounds like poke) for the night. More beautiful scenery, of course, but there was something about driving towards a town called Destruction Bay while listening to Springsteen sing "This Land is Your Land" that filled me with a powerful dose of melancholy.