Returning

I've come back home on purpose, with purpose, and, perhaps not surprisingly, discovered the most profound pleasure in life...

I've found a wonderful freedom in choosing my own path home to Alaska:
to be myself,
to like what I like, 
to let others choose for themselves,
to say yes or no as the mood strikes,
to take the risks I want,
to learn from my losses,
to live each day in a way that feels right to me.

I have made a pact with myself not to shrink

for anyone.

Hard times have happened, and will happen again, but I've learned something over the last two years: I will recover. At 37 years old, I finally acknowledged the strength, passion, and wisdom within me to author my own story...and a damn good one it's turning out to be! 

One year ago, I drove the bare essentials of my life (including my son) in a tiny hatchback over 3000 miles of highway from California to Alaska, which was just a year after making that same trip in reverse...escaping from Alaska. Both trips were adventures beyond the horizon of my known universe and the limits of my emotional comfort zone. Both were giant leaps of faith and stubborn determination to get across the yawning chasm that separated me from the life I wanted to be living. My landings were those painful kind of affairs where the leaper just barely catches the edge of something solid on the other side of the gap, banging shins and forearms, and has to claw and scramble and heave oneself up over the edge to stable footing. I did it twice. 

Each leap took me six months to heal and another six months to feel really glad I'd done it.

And now I'm in a beautiful place in life where everything seems to have fallen into its proper place. Each self-affirming decision has created a "pay it forward" momentum that continues to cascade toward more positive happenings. The abundance of joy, affection, support, and gratefulness between myself, my son, and my former spouse is actually ridiculous! We are each finally being who we were meant to be and loving each other better for it.

I am gobbling up the long Alaskan days, the steep trails, the sunshine, the moments with friends, the informing encounters with new people, the late-night campfires, the live concerts, and every possible experience that catches my fancy. 

I feel awake and like life is all re-prioritized to suit my needs and adventurous desires. 

And while it may seem counter-intuitive, all this energy toward myself has actually freed my dearest ones to also pursue their heart's desires. For the first time in years, my boy and the man I once called "mine" are discovering their own pleasures, with vigor! And we all continue to support each other, probably more genuinely than we ever did before. 

So, I guess I'm here to say...I'm back, baby! And things are gonna be different from now on. Better. More real. More affirming. It's not always gonna work out, or feel good, but it's gonna be what I make of it. And when I feel out of sorts, like the choosing has gotten away from me, then I still find solace and focus in the great outdoors...the WAY OUTDOORS! And I learn to get my choices back.

My world can be set right by the moon rising over lavender-lit mountains, the flutter overhead of a bat at dusk, or the crackle of wood-fueled flames licking the night air and throwing sparks up to the stars.

This is a moment in time where I feel perfectly where I ought to be...and I want to create a reminder that it is possible. If I am willing to take the risks, to not hold back, to be my best self...truly lovely things can happen. They HAVE happened. Wherever I go from here, I'm grateful for each connection, every moment of vulnerability, all the opportunities I've had to test my mettle. I think things are just getting interesting.

Choice

I've begun an adventure to live 3000 miles away from my lifelong home, accompanied by my 13-year old son.  My husband remains in Alaska with my family on a multi-generational homestead where I grew up, while our son and I explore living in Northern California near his family.  I've traveled south to seek sun, heat, and new opportunities. Along the way, I'm sharing my journey about pursuing dreams, discovering what matters most in life, and finding the strength to be brave in the face of uncertainty.  For me, healing and strength are often found in simple pleasures and frequent communion with nature, so join me as I embark into the outdoors to reveal what's inside of me.

~

Choice

(either way, you learn)

"More than anything, I've wed to the certainty that nothing changes without me." - Danielle LaPorte

Sometimes, a decision is so heavy that it knocks the wind out of me. It suffocates my brain and blocks my ability to think clearly.  A difficult choice can make me feel frantic to the point of mentally passing out.  I left Alaska with a weighty decision in my mind and have been worrying over it every day since I arrived in California.  My decision was whether to stay in California or go back to Alaska.  The implications that each choice bore with it were deep and life-changing.  Staying felt like facing forward, moving toward the future. The unavoidable word "back" caused me to shy away from that option.  Going back felt like going backwards. The whole point of my exploration was to change things up, to venture into something new, to free myself from what made me unhappy. These felt like very forward-motion goals. So, how could it ever be right to turn-heel and go back to where I came from? I couldn't embrace it. Yet, I still found myself compelled to consider it.  

I quizzed myself constantly: 

Is Redding the right place for me and my son?  

Am I in the right job? 

Am I with the right people? 

Can I afford this? 

Does this feel right?

Is this new lifestyle better than what I had in Alaska? 

What about it is better? 

What is worse? 

What is most important to me?

What is best for my son?

Should I stay or should I go back?

Answers came in phases (and are still coming) slowly...

Phase 1: Separation Anxiety

I felt a pain in my chest every day for months after I arrived in California, like a constant panic attack. I felt crazy unsure of myself after leaving everything familiar.  Pain in my heart was relentless. I yearned for the comfort of the old aching I knew, rather than this new pain. The only way I made it through this sad and scary agony was focusing on my work tasks and stubbornly refusing to be a quitter. Friends emerged in my new life and my son expressed a compassion I didn't know he was capable of that amazed me.  In time, I learned that there IS life on the other side of an uncomfortable change, and it was totally empowering and alive!

Phase 2: Gratitude

Once I realized that where I landed was safe and that I could manage it on my own, then came the rays of joy that pierced my gray clouds.  I found comfort in new daily routines and discovered a charismatic personality emerging from me that I had long forgotten. I came out of lockdown mode and let loose a bit. I inched forward on my own two feet and learned to believe in myself a little bit more.  A new relationship formed between my son and I that brought out our strengths.  Out of necessity, he stepped up to new responsibilities and expressed surprising empathy and intuition. He made me proud each and every day and was a buoy of positivity. In turn, I had the joy and energy to encourage his pursuits and growth as a young man. I also made friends who supported the emerging me, and I liked me again. Suddenly, I realized how joyful I was in the sunny weather I craved, the social networks forming around me, and the frequent travel opportunities.  I absorbed my new environment and lived more in the present moment where things were happening, good or bad, because it was all learning. My life felt electric with possibility.

Phase 3: Desire

This is where things got razor sharp. I finally felt like an instrument for change in my life, like I could cut through the bad habits I'd let grow up around me, and reveal a better path forward.  When I paid attention to the things I truly enjoyed, I found my desires.  

• I LOVED the sunshine and heat.
• I NEEDED to walk outside almost every day to hear birds sing and watch grass sway in the wind.
• I ADORED road trips - put me behind the wheel and I felt alive!
• I VALUED meaningful work that tapped into my curiosity and intelligence.
• I THRIVED on giving and receiving displays of affection and love - I needed to see it, feel it, and hear it to know it.

I followed interesting rabbit trails and unearthed mentors who taught me to honor myself, my worthiness, and those deepest needs that wanted filling. I learned that I was the only one who could change things for myself.  Only I had the insight on my true yearnings. Only I could pursue them without tiring or losing direction.  I was wrong to think that anyone but me was responsible for my happiness.  The power of choice gave me all the action I needed...if I could manage to remain open-hearted enough to accept what came from pursuing my desires.

Phase 4: Forgiving

The first defining choice I made toward my desires was to rewrite my story.  I needed to create new ownership of my history that felt better.  I replaced stories of shame and disappointment with kinder and more forgiving versions. I particularly looked on my lover and our history with open-hearted compassion. What I saw were choices we made in youth and inexperience that we tried to adhere to at all costs.  After so many years of struggle, we lost our joy, our trust, and our hope in each other.  I could finally see that the source of our unhappiness was rooted in a fear to be fully ourselves, a fear that we would not be truly loved for who we were, which led to years of defensiveness and blame. We had shut up our hearts to avoid pain and in turn shut off our capacity for wide-open joy.  I forgave us and let it go.  I forgave us for not knowing a better way and for naively thinking we could bridge all our differences. I forgave us for mistaking each other for lovers when we were probably better suited as friends.  Then I focused on that strong thread of friendship. I believed hard in the kismet of our meeting and the quick bond we formed with each other.  I chose not to regret one minute, but rather to be grateful for a new outlook. Not a moment of my life was wasted! It ALL counted, even though it changed. 

A heavy burden of guilt lifted off my heart as I forgave us. I felt like I found the way out of my dark dispair and took control over my own happiness.  I released my lover from that responsibility. In a bright moment of beautiful clarity, like sunlight being focused through a prism,  I saw that my choice was not about whether to stay or go...it was about whether to hold on or to release.  My decision was far less about whether my path lead to California or Alaska, and more about open-heartedly choosing the next step in front of me without worrying about where it would ultimately lead.  The destination wasn't as important as the journey taking place in me and the choices I wanted to make. I just had to decide whether to lead my own journey, or keep living someone else's. If you know me...you'll have a pretty good guess about what I chose.

I chose to lead MY OWN journey. 
And I choose to honor my motherhood by setting a better example for my son, to pursue my desires with confidence.

Phase 5: Acceptance & Allowance
I chose to release my connection to the path I was on in Alaska and let my desires carry me down a better feeling path, wherever that took me. I allowed myself to be honest. I began to accept that I wanted something different. I wanted to take better care of myself, my heart, my potential, and my son. The acceptance of what these desires meant was (and is) still difficult for me. California allowed me to release expectations, to accept how I really felt, and to create something better suited to my desires. The atmosphere of my new life encouraged me to grow and transform into a person I wanted to nurture. I felt seen, accepted, and appreciated for who I actually was. This was something I had never fully managed to achieve in Alaska, and yet I couldn't ignore the obligation I felt to go back there. I was like a runaway who had grown-up in hiding and needed to return home, if only to leave again on better terms.  

It was still an impossible notion to me until it all coalesced one morning as I lay in half-slumber and saw a vision of my future, like a waking dream.  I understood that I could give the gift of precious time between my son and his dad, while I simultaneously built upon my dreams amidst the support of a familial safety net.  I saw that this did not have to be a permanent choice and ways I could build in opportunities for flexibility and escape when I needed it. My son deserved that opportunity and I knew I was strong enough. I accepted that outcomes were not guaranteed, but I wanted to try it. Also, and more importantly, I understood that I had to return to Alaska on my own independent terms; I had released too much to just grab hold of the old routines again.  Back, but not backward.  I needed to loop around on a new trajectory and follow it wherever it led me, so long as it was forward moving and I remained true to myself. I didn't know exactly what shape that new life would take, but I hoped to reinvent my Alaskan experience, to reclaim pride in my childhood home, and make it work for me this time. Maybe, it would simply be a launching point to a brighter future in another place after all, but, before that happened for good, I needed to make amends with Alaska and the loved ones I left behind.  I needed to create a home of my own, to build a sense of place that was mine alone. I chose a new journey in an old direction, but I was ready to accept where my heart took me and allow life to unfold naturally.  I was (and am) brave enough to choose change, to shed the old ways and learn to stretch my wings.  I choose to release, release, release.  

Comfort

I've begun an adventure to live 3000 miles away from my lifelong home, accompanied by my 13-year old son.  My husband remains in Alaska with my family on a multi-generational homestead where I grew up, while our son and I explore living in Northern California near his family.  I've traveled south to seek sun, heat, and new opportunities. Along the way, I'm sharing my journey about pursuing dreams, discovering what matters most in life, and finding the strength to be brave in the face of uncertainty.  For me, healing and strength are often found in simple pleasures and frequent communion with nature, so join me as I embark into the outdoors to reveal what's inside of me.

~

Comfort

(the feeling of home)

"Oh give me a home where the buffalo roam, and the deer and the antelope play.  Where seldom is heard a discouraging word, and the skies are not cloudy all day." - Dr. Brewster M. Higley

I went home for Thanksgiving.



I was stand-offish at first, but it couldn't last for long.  Nowhere will ever be home like Alaska.  When I'm home I slip into a way of life I don't have to think about.  Alaska and I are like old dance partners who know all the other's moves.  We fit into each other's grooves and fall into step without much effort.  It's much the same with the people I left behind in Alaska, we embrace each other and take up our old routines without trying.  The feeling of home envelopes me in a comfortable warmth like crawling into a familiar bed. There's even a special kind of satisfaction from the familiar interactions of home. Something eases in my chest when I return, lets go of anxiety, and settles into the reliable assumptions about the places and people I've known best and longest.

I felt myself being drawn toward home weeks before I boarded the airplane, like my heart was leaning that direction so hard I thought I would fall over.  It hurt.  I wondered if it meant that I wasn't supposed to be in California. I heard my home calling to me, beckoning balefully, but my emotions became more muddled the closer I got to answering the call.  I was afraid that when I got there, I wouldn't want to leave.  That's why I was stand-offish at first.  I knew I wasn't done with my quest in California and needed to get back to it, but I also knew the allure of comfort was a powerful thing.  Comfort is a feeling that lulls me into complacency and instills fear toward losing it. In general circumstances, comfort is a lovely thing, but I had learned to become comfortable with things at home that weren't good for me. I had come to realize that many of the comfortable habits I would slip back into weren't serving my soul, my inner joy. I had become comfortable with holding back, sacrificing my pleasures, and believing that more wasn't possible.  I was starting to learn so much about myself during my time away from home that I didn't want to lose my fragile insight, my new perspective, my tenuous hold on inner desires. So, I tried to view my visit in a different way: as a visitor.  I tried to stay in observation mode, to tell myself that I could be the kind of person who returns to her childhood home on occasion to reunite with family and friends, but I didn't have to stay.  They make movies about people who do that sort of thing!  Lots of movies.  I could be one of them.

At first, I felt like an impostor, a black sheep, rather than a prodigal child returned to the snow from whence I came.  But, I waded back into the flow of the lives I left six months ago and was swiftly caught up in the old ways. I laid back in the current and tried not to think about where it would carry me. I reveled in simple joys like snuggling my kitties, warming my back by the wood fire, cooking in my large kitchen with the expansive views outside, and having lunch dates with my dearest loved ones.  These were good comforts that I noted to myself as necessities in an ideal life.  I was grateful for the beauty of a light snow on our first morning, for the orange glow of the fire and the lemon yellow of the walls, for the easy physical closeness of my family, and for the seemingly vast indoor space of the house (compared to the 350 square feet of our California living quarters).  I dually noted that room to stretch my legs and large windows to look out on the world from within the warmth of my home was an essential ingredient to my feelings of joy, and something I missed desperately in our tiny California rental.

As I encountered people during my visit, I had to put away my former pride about loyalty to my home state and learn to tell my story about a new relationship with a warmer, sunnier place.  It was sometimes awkward, like telling the friends of your ex about your new beau.  It made me reflect on my choices and my choice of words.  But I maintained my convictions and did not regret for one second the decision I made to leave Alaska...so long as I could say that it was still temporary.  I was still no closer to knowing where this adventure was leading me, which made me feel untethered and apart from the kind of real lives everyone else was leading.  Their lives sounded concrete and dependable, while mine felt like it was dangling and drifting further away from anything solid.  I felt like the bit of lint at the end of a thread that's come unraveled from a sweater.  My state was precarious and ever-shifting, barely connected to anything, and vulnerable to being cut-off completely.

During my time at home, a sense of homelessness began to grow. It became clear that I had neither a home I could truly call my own in Alaska, nor California.  I felt uprooted and in danger of my roots withering if I didn't find soil to plant myself in soon.  I felt the pressure to choose a soil and at least say that I would end up there soon.  I felt like a traitor, a refugee, from any home I'd ever known and I yearned for the grounded feelings of place and belonging I'd had before.  On the other hand, I was nervous about admitting that I liked the freedom and unpredictability of the place I lived in now.  California was the land of opportunity and surprises for me...each day presented an adventure toward an unpredictable future.  That uncertainty and openness suited me, too.
























Being home in Alaska was exactly the paradox I thought it would be.  I felt at once peaceful and restless; comfort and discomfort; satisfaction and longing.  The two halves of myself were facing each other in the mirror and squaring off.  I decided to allow the Alaska self, the one that found comfort and reward in conformity, to overrule the wilder adventurous self that was visiting from down south.  I decided to lay back into my familiar mould and just sink down in the warm cushion of familiarity for the sake of peace and comfort.  Oh how easily it is done!

Comfort came in the automation of my few days back in the familiar realm of home.  I could drive to town on auto-pilot, find groceries at the store without thinking, relish the provision of heat and light without concern about finances, and fall into familiar routines and physical intimacies without self-consciousness.  There was so little thinking necessary to functioning at home.  Unlike the exhausting rally I had to muster each day I spend on my own in my new sunny surroundings down south.  These were all luxuries I'd learned to live without while away in California.  By the end of my short week at home, despite my initial trepidation, I had sunk deeply into the old ways.  I was a spoon in a jar of honey, slowly submerged, coated, and now impossible to extricate without a sticky mess and a good deal of waiting.

The shock of returning home, and leaving again, hit me the night before I left Alaska.  I didn't sleep.  I rose with butterflies, churning questions that needed answers, and panic over not having enough time.  I felt like there were things that needed to be talked about, but never were.  I felt the urge to make some kind of decision, but I didn't know what it ought to be about. I worried over the future. I lost my feelings of comfort as I faced a plane ride back to the ever-changing battle lines of my life expedition.  I was headed back to the front lines and wasn't sure I was ready.  I didn't know where I was headed and where home was supposed to be anymore.  I hugged my family goodbye, again, and pulled myself away from the solid warmth of their bodies against mine.  My husband said, "We'll figure this out."  And I knew that he meant, "You have to figure this out for yourself."  The tears began to roll down my cheeks.  They didn't dry out until I was somewhere over Oregon.

I recognized that I didn't have answers yet, but I accepted that the kind of answers I was looking for weren't going to be found in the comfort of my family home.  I allowed myself to feel the pain of separation and uncertainty, to let it seep down into my open wounds, to run hot down my face.  I let it out and wasn't ashamed. It helped that my son was right there with a hand on my arm, comforting, loving, quietly hopeful that when I emerged from my longing sorrow we would continue on our adventure.  And so we are.

Alaska in the Rearview - America

On our fifth day of driving south, I started to feel anxious about re-entering America.  I felt my road trip coming to an end and the reality of the life that lay ahead of me looming very large.  There was no turning around and I was a wee bit nervous about what I'd gotten myself into.  I counted down the few days remaining of my summer freedom like a school kid. I started to drag my feet, so to speak; I wanted to linger in Canada, to find meaning, to find a memento to mark my progress through another country and toward a new way of life.  I had to buy something! As I mentioned earlier, Canada didn't necessarily capitalize on the memorabilia market, but I managed to waste a whole morning in order to find some Canadian-made tea and a locally-made stoneware mug in Maple Springs.  We also stopped at the duty-free store on the border at Blaine and picked up Canadian maple syrup.  I felt satisfied. We'd loitered long enough and I was ready to return to my home country - even though it felt like entering a different country from Alaska.

I don't know what it is about crossing borders, but there is  a difference from once place to another.  For one, we could drive faster on I-5 than in Canada.  At 70 mph, the kayaks wiggled ferociously on the roof from the buffeting wind.  But they held. For second, Washington state was absolutely brimming with lusciously dark green evergreen trees that towered over everything man-made.  I felt like a deer mouse in Sasquatch country or like the trees were gentle giants just allowing the freeway to pass between their legs.  In spite of the speed we were achieving, I veered off the freeway at the first opportunity, because I still wanted to show my son as many sights as possible before we reached our destination.  I followed the scent of saltwater into the maze of islands in Puget Sound, hoping to avoid the Seattle Metro area and catch a glimpse of the ocean.

We hopped across islands and over ornate stone bridges until we ran out of road.  I hoped that there would be room on the last ferry across the sound that would connect us with the mainland and Hwy 101, but I wasn't sure.  I was traveling by the seat of my pants with my fingers crossed and it made my traveling companion very nervous.  Fast forward through the argument we had about optimism and trust, and where my attitude got real stinky, to the part where we joyfully found our way onto a transport from the southern tip of Whidbey Island to Port Townsend.  The ferry ride was another checkmark on our "first time" list.  I was grateful it worked out and we eventually enjoyed the coastal scenery and the novelty of all the cars packed onto the boat traveling across the smooth ocean sound.

First time taking our car on a ferry!

I'm going to say something here that will incriminate me, or endear me, depending on your perspective.  I was a wee bit excited to see the town of Port Townsend and see whether it still had any trappings of its fame brought on by the Twilight book series which feature this hip harbor.  Yes, I read the books (straight through in 4 days with hardly any sleep - I'm slightly ashamed to admit).  But sadly, or not, I saw nothing regarding the cult trilogy during our brief layover.  However, I was completely taken by the cool and crunchy vibe of that remote Victorian town in the heart of the Olympic National Forest.  I felt quite at home there with my tiny hatchback piled high with outdoor paraphernalia.  This was the kind of place I could put down roots and grow tall as the pines!  It requires a lot of rain to get that tall, though, so I opted to continue onward toward my last stopover with the in-laws down in Portland, Oregon.  Right after we ate.

The main street was lined with eclectic, modern shops behind brink facades. On a quiet side street, we found the funky Hillbottom Pie where we feasted on scrumptious artisan pizza and salad while we observed the locals from our barstools above the sidewalk.  I started to feel a particular comfort seep into me with every sip of pungent green tea, like each choice I made toward my personal happiness was a cautious step into my new life.  Each time I said "yes" to my desires I carved out a little niche in which to get my footing and find stability.  I hoped that over time I would dig in enough to feel settled.

It was late after we finished dinner, and I knew we would arrive in Portland after dark, but I hoped to make it through the unfamiliar woods and back to the freeway while there was still light.  The boy put a movie in the laptop and I started hugging the turns through the darkening forest.  My tummy was full, my feet were warm, and my heart was at ease knowing I had a familiar bed to look forward to that night.  Those winding miles of tarmac through Olympic National Forest granted me the most peaceful and beautiful hours of the whole trip.

The next morning was a straight-shot south on I-5 to Redding, California, and the tiny cottage we would learn to call home.  We ate a pleasant breakfast with the grandparents, picked blueberries in the yard, and hit the road.  Oregon was my old stomping grounds in college and driving through it put me in familiar territory for the first time in days.

An Oregon Caveman greeted us in Grants Pass...it's apparently a tradition.

As we neared the Oregon-California border, my anxiety inched its way up into my chest.  The sun was setting on the landscape behind me and cast everything in shadow on the horizon ahead, both literally and metaphorically.  I had many questions churning in my mind and emotions vying for position in my heart.  Could I afford California on my own? Would my son like our new life?  Would our new home ever feel like home? Could I do my new job properly and make friends?  I felt keenly the reality of entering uncharted territory, and not just for a short vacation.  I was committed to a long-term change!  As if to signify my apprehension, ominous smoke clouds emerged on all sides the closer we got to Redding.  Forest fires in Oregon and California were to become a familiar part of our new daily life.  We were entering the land of triple digit summer heat, drought, and landscape like a tender box.  We were entering a strange new world...California.

At nearly 10pm, after some uncertainty about whether or not we needed a hotel for the night, we arrived in Redding at our tiny cottage rental.  I met our hostess in the dark of a moonless night as she unloaded bales of hay into a barn adjacent to our cottage.  I felt overwhelmingly grateful to this woman, whom I'd only spoken to once on the phone.  From 3000 miles away, she had sensed my need and extended her kindness and trust towards me by offering me the cottage sight-unseen.  I met her with a hope that we would like each other and find mutual benefit in our arrangement.  For the immediate time being, I simply wanted to unload our overnight bag, set up our sleeping bags, and get situated in our tiny new home.  As with most first nights in a new place it was sleepless and uncomfortable, but I felt tremendously grateful that we had a clean and welcoming place to lay our restless heads.

Alaska in the Rearview Mirror

You know you live in a big place when you can drive in a single direction all day and still be in that place.  No one would ever accuse Alaska of being small, but I think few people realize just how difficult it can be to get out of the last frontier by road.

After almost five wonderful summertime weeks at home in Alaska, half of that time being occupied by frantic preparations for my return to California, I had to get in my car and start driving south.  I wasn't exactly anxious to leave the mild summer sunshine and impossible green lushness of home, but I knew that in six months time I would feel lucky to not be in the long deep-freeze of the northern winter.  So, Izak played with his cousins and snuggled the cats one last time as I tried to reduce the weight in my car by eliminating one more box of kitchen ephemera.  Somewhere in that box was a very useful can opener I later needed.  Good thing there are Target stores everywhere!  Everything else I thought I needed was crammed as efficiently as possible into boxes and an overnight bag that filled my entire hatchback from floor to roof.  My dad expertly harnessed our two kayaks, paddles, and walking sticks to a new roof rack on top of the car and applied protective plastic on the hood for the unpredictable journey through Canada.  I only hoped that everything was secure enough to not rattle off and not so heavy as to blow out any of my tiny tires.

My son and I made our tearful goodbyes to our dearest loved ones in the driveway on a drizzly Saturday morning.  The only way to make such a heart-wrenching departure was to do it without thinking too much.  Easier said than done, of course.  It also helped to avoid actually saying, "Goodbye." So we said, "See you later," and climbed into the seats we would call home for the next week.  Our first stop was only 10 miles down the road at my favorite healthy cafe, The Red Beet Bistro, where we bought lunch and some gluten-free cookies for the road.  About two hours later, we finally left familiar surroundings behind and started making our way into uncharted territory.

My sport-car seats soon had us shifting from cheek to cheek and regretting that we forgot the pillows we'd set aside to cushion the non-luxury ride.  I developed a technique of putting the car on cruise control so I could alternately cross my legs or sit side-saddle and stave off numbness.  We watched the spruce forest and aspen groves flash past the windows for several hours.  Mountain ranges approached and receded, rivers meandered close by and then drifted away, and millions of trees watched quietly as we drove by.  Izak filmed interesting viewpoints and vantages with a new video camera I bought for that purpose, but, mostly, we drove without talking much.

We got out at a rest stop somewhere on the interior plateau, beyond the blue peaks of the Alaska Range, and stretched our legs.  A young couple on heavily loaded bicycles pulled in just as we were getting back into the car.  I asked where they were going and learned that they had started biking at Prudhoe Bay on the North Slope and were headed to Mexico.  This beautiful couple from Amsterdam hoped to be sipping Mojitos on a Mexican beach by Christmas!  I marveled at their story (and their freedom) and suddenly felt like our adventure wasn't as daring as I thought.  Mostly, though, I appreciated how remote places had a way of drawing out fascinating people, and that our converging paths weaved together some of the outer fringes of human experience.  Izak and I were out on the borders of the human tapestry integrating our own unique thread.  I just hoped that when we looked back on our journey that our thread made sense in the larger picture - that it looked like it belonged - and maybe even enhanced the greater whole.

 Alas, we didn't quite make it to the border of Alaska that day, but stopped just short of it.  We overnighted in Tok at a lovely cabin, ate burgers at Fast Eddy's, and picked up a couple final Alaskan souvenirs.  Our first day racked up about 280 miles on the odometer in about six hours, which was an easy start for our journey.  In order to get to California by Friday, like I hoped, we had to start putting twice that many miles under our wheels each day.  I hoped it wouldn't always feel like an endurance test and we could manage a way to enjoy it, too.

We stretched our legs by walking on the road near the cabin until the cold wind forced us back to the warmth of indoors.  The next day promised to be full of firsts, so I didn't mind one more night of familiarity and comfort before crossing that physical and metaphorical border.  Tomorrow, we venture into the Yukon Territory of Canada - a place more remote and lacking in services than most people in North America are likely to ever experience.  Here we go....

Leaving Alaska

As of today, I've left the homestead.  I'm on a journey of self-discovery and exploration that will take my family into new frontiers this next year.  About four weeks ago I received an offer of a job in Redding, California, that was too good to pass up…so I took it.  I've pined for the warmth and openness of more southern latitudes for over a decade, but refused to make the move without the consent of my loved ones.  This year, with the theme of "bravery" as my banner, my son on the cusp of high school, and my husband as encouraging as ever to seek my potential, the timing seemed just right.

Exploring other places has always been exciting to me…and more fun when done with someone I love!

I’d like to think that I get my gypsy tendencies and ambitious spirit from my late Grandpa Kink (rest his pioneering soul).  He traveled from Loveland, Colorado, to Anchorage, Alaska, almost 70 years ago to take a job on Elmendorf Air Force Base with his twin brother, Mutt.  He was newly discharged from the Marines after World War II, newly wed to his childhood sweetheart, and newly a father.  He and his brother did odd jobs on the military base for a year before he drove his wife, young son, and all their belongings up the unpaved Alaska-Canada Highway to start a new life in the “Last Frontier”.  By 1950, my grandparents were building new roads and proving-up on a 120-acre homestead in the Matanuska-Susitna Valley.   His decision to move his family to the unknown wilds of Alaska shaped the lives of their three children, seven grandchildren, and fifteen great-grandchildren, who also anchored their roots in the iron-rich soil of those homestead woods.  Without intending it, he created a legacy to which all his descendants became deeply, almost inextricably, bonded. 

Like me, my son spent his tender years roaming the Alaskan homestead.

Alaska is in my blood like DNA, passed down through the generations.  In summer, I traipsed through the moose-inhabited woods and ate puckery-sour highbush cranberries, picnicked under the spruce boughs with my younger brother, smacked the bloodthirsty mosquitos by the hundreds, and played house in the gravel pits excavated to build our driveways.  In winter, I watched the thermometer dip to 30 below, made icicles into lollipops, stood shivering at the bus stop in the pitch dark with my shoulders around my ears, spent endless hours entertaining myself indoors with LEGO’s and pencil drawings, and reanimated my frozen fingers and toes against the electric baseboard heaters after playing in the snow.  My entire life is interwoven with threads of Alaskan experience that are not only dear to me, but part of me.  My paternal grandparents have history in Alaska dating even further back to the interior gold rush booms of the 1920’s.  And, yet, I yearn for things Alaska can’t offer.

I'm a product of Alaska, that's unchangeable, but where do I belong?

Today, I began a journey reversing the ones my grandparents took.  I left Alaska, bearing south, wondering if I’m headed toward a new legacy of my own.  I travel solo toward a job in the far-off place of Redding, California.  I leave my husband and son behind, temporarily, in order to test the terrain of a new landscape and lifestyle in the golden state.  I go to Redding because my husband’s family is there, and I value the bond of relations too much to deprive myself, or my child, of them completely.  I go there because I dream of bike rides in November, of sunshine that lingers longer than a week at a time, of heat that penetrates as deeply as the chill of Alaska, of stargazing without need of a parka, of roads to curious sights branching in every direction all the way to the coast.  In practical terms, I look forward to meaningful work in collaboration with nature (thank you California greenies!) and giving my son new opportunities to learn and grow in a different environment.  I hope that I can tap into Grandpa Kink’s ingenuity and endurance to create a new homestead for my family, a place that fulfills our dreams, under the tall trees of a small mountain town.  Grandpa always said he didn’t want the land he settled to become a burden, a ball and chain around our ankles, holding us back from where we were meant to be.  I’d like to think he’d be proud of me.

The woods and I commune with each other.

A while back, I had a dream in which I sat in my grandpa’s small kitchen, across the table from him, talking about the future.  I was helping him fry his breakfast in an old cast-iron skillet with leftover grease and we were sharing saltine crackers (totally a grandpa thing).  Though I don’t remember the dialogue exactly, I remember vividly the feeling of the dream.  He was encouraging me.  He explained to me how he had taken a risk coming to Alaska and that I shouldn’t be afraid to take risks, too.  He made me feel strong and capable and like anything was possible.  Basically, his philosophy was that no one ought to follow in the footsteps of another, including him.  I needed to make my own path and he believed I knew just how to do it.  The dream was a revelation to me.  I felt a special bond with him after that, despite that he had passed away years earlier.  His presence in the dream was real and relevant and just like him.

Children often follow in our footsteps, wherever we lead them.

I do not leave Alaska now on a whim, but rather a wave.  The swell of my desires increased over the years, recently crashing upon my shore in a series of circumstances that appeared to be the undeniable break that I needed to launch out on this adventure. I do not know exactly what is in store for my family and me but I believe in us.  I believe we love each other and want the best for each other, and nothing bad can come of that.