Belonging

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 we embark into the outdoors to reveal what's inside of us.

~

BELONGING
(Sense of place)

"Every experience of love, bliss, belonging, inspiration, and insight provides a stepping stone back to your true self." - Deepak Chopra

I never realized how linked my sense of self was with my sense of place.  I am not only a girl  from Alaska, but a girl made of Alaska.  I cannot separate myself from the environment where I was formed. 

I may leave Alaska, 

but it never leaves me. 

It's no wonder that I have felt so out of place and foreign here in California.  After a couple weeks in a new dwelling, new job, new state, new family arrangement, and with new nearby relatives it became clear I needed a grounding experience to bring me back to some sense of myself.

Sense of place in geographical terms "involves the human experience in a landscape, the local knowledge and folklore. Sense of place also grows from identifying oneself in relation to a particular piece of land on the surface of planet Earth."  Finding a sense of place, a touchstone to bring me back into alignment with my heart, was as simple as getting into a quiet place in nature.  

I found the ideal place to center myself at Crystal Creek, just west of Whiskeytown Lake.  Wading through the clear water into the woods worked marvels toward getting me back in step with my purpose and filling me with peace.  Nature is my bliss!  And such additional bliss to watch my loved ones revel in the place as well. 

After a couple hours, the place felt like it was mine, like it was ours. That sense of belonging helped me to plant my feet a bit firmer on this new ground.  My heart opened up to the beauty of the sights and sounds and flowed with the water that trickled around my toes.  I let my hopes and wishes be carried like leaves down the creek to whatever destiny lay ahead.

It was like each barefoot rock-hop, or knee-deep step in the creek brought me closer to an unburdened state of being.

Though I might feel totally out of place, totally lost without the comfort of my familiar people around me, totally detached from love, totally incapable of handling every challenge with grace...I am always totally capable of taking a walk.  And therein lies my salvation.  So long as I can put one foot in front of the other and take myself somewhere that I might discover a unique stone, a beautiful fall leaf, a ray of warm sun, or a creature in its niche habitat, I will find perfect purpose in the place where I am.  And if I can find purpose in my surroundings, then I also have hope that I can create a sense of belonging in this new place.  This journey will not be for nothing.

Alaska in the Rearview - Yukon Territory

 We crossed the Canadian Border without a hitch, and were promptly stopped by road construction.  There was some kind of agreement when the Alaska Highway was built, that Alaska would foot the bill for constructing the road, but Canada had to do the maintenance forever afterward.  Guess who got the better deal?  It seems that some large portion(s) of the highway are ALWAYS under construction.  People ask, "Isn't that road finished?"  Well, yes, but the moment the tar dries on one part of the road, another part starts to disintegrate.  Most of the highway is nothing more than rocks and dirt pressed into something hot and sticky and left to dry.  It makes for quite a rough tarmac.  That being said, rough texture taken at 50mph is a pleasure compared to being at a standstill, waiting in the middle of nowhere for a pilot car to lead you across miles of un-tarmac'd road under re-construction.

Two other things...why are there two systems of measurement on the same continent?  Kilometers per hour vs. Miles per hour.  I just can't adjust my thinking!  Thank goodness for the little Kph numbers on my car's speedometer.  And secondly, have you ever seen a milepost with so many numbers!  I admit to being a bit daunted knowing that when I reached Mile 0, I was only about half way to my destination.  Dang.  That's a long way.



Our drive through the Yukon was quite devoid of human comforts and the good ol' American abundance of everything, but that was kinda nice.  My boy and I devised games to play in the car to keep us awake and entertained.  The best were Twenty Questions, Would you Rather..., I spy, and a few we made up ourselves.  We took turns starting a string of words that rhymed until someone got stumped.  We tried to say words really fast or loosely to make the other one guess what we were saying (this idea came from the movie John Doe).  Or there was this game I thought up:

Mom: "I'll say a word like 'tree' and you have to make a real sentence of words that starts with each letter of the word I said, in order.  For instance, 'Theresa rakes every evening.' Okay, so try 'road.'"
Izak: "Randy often ate deer."

And so on...you should try it on your next road trip.

What the Yukon Territory did have was a lot of animals.  I've never seen so many bears in my whole life!  Our first one was just meandering along the highway in all his shaggy animal-ness, barely (pun) noticing that we had pulled up to capture his existence on our digital devices.  We saw six bears in one day!  Eight in total.  There were also moose, bison, porcupine, and lots of adorable little hares eating gravel along the roadsides.  We even saw a wolf!  The elusive wild canid was contemplating crossing the road when we zoomed by and, as sightings of elusive things go, he was gone by the time we managed to turn around and go back for a picture.

Between road trip games and taking potty breaks to stretch our legs, we snacked on peanut m'ms, horribly tough salmon jerky, cookies, fruit chews, and other unhealthy things.  In the afternoon, when my eyelids started to feel heavy, my son put a movie in the laptop and we shared a pair of earphones.  I was super surprised how well this kept me awake.  I'd rather not mention how often I found myself watching the movie - which wasn't much, I promise.  But I did find that listening to the action and the storyline kept my brain engaged enough that I wasn't fatigued. This was a good thing, since we decided on the first day that we wanted to put as many miles behind us each day as possible.  We put in about 12 hours driving each day to cover over 500 miles between decent lodgings.  This part of the highway is definitely more suited to motorhomes that can stop and sleep anywhere, than folks like us who depended on lodging with clean beds and food.

I was hoping that Whitehorse would hold some interesting sites and treasures for humans...a good restaurant at least.  This capital of the Yukon Territory was the first real city we'd seen in a thousand miles.  Alas, it was smaller than I'd imagined (or remembered) and not exactly rife with obvious touristy sites.  We parked in the downtown area, which is where I always go to scope out a new place, walked up and down a couple blocks that were mostly closed, and got back in the car. The day was waning, our bellies were growling, and we still had 100 miles to put under our wheels.  In a desperately hungry state, we gravitated toward the only business that seemed to have signs of life.  We entered what felt like the back door of a tiny, dimly lit, Mexican restaurant with patrons sitting inside and out.  I figured that was a good sign, so I ordered a couple things from the menu and then waited awkwardly between the cash register and the kitchen for our meals to-go.  As we drove out of Whitehorse, 25 minutes after we arrived, my only wish was that I'd ordered more food.

Whitehorse is a one horse town.

The only truly interesting sight in the Yukon was the sign city in Watson Lake.  I remember wandering the forest of signs as a kid twenty-five years ago on a family trip.  It has definitely grown!  There are also a lot more homemade signs and things people have simply written their names on to contribute to the menagerie.  Official street and town signs are still my favorite, like "Defiance, Corporation Limit" and "Niederwallmenach."  We spent a good half hour walking through the circular rows and reading the signs.  I loved finding names of places I recognized.  I think my son was just grateful to stretch his legs and have something other than me to look at. Watson Lake had a gas and a grocery store in town, but not a lot else.  Next stop...British Columbia and hopefully some civilization!

**Updated Oct 7, 2014**

Feeling my Way Foward

I feel like I've been searching for a light switch in an unfamiliar dark room these past couple months - arms outstretched and groping as I shuffle along the walls - trying not to panic before I find a source of 'enlightenment.'  Returning home to Alaska was like finding a door.  The door opened to a familiar room already lit up, so when I turned around to look at where I came from a few objects took shape in the dimness, but the room is still mostly dark.  I still have to find that light switch!  But, for now, I'm in a bright and familiar place.

I came back to Alaska, on July 1st, after spending two and a half months solo in California learning a new job at an outdoor science-based school.  That is the dark room I've been groping my way through!  My mind and body became more relaxed the closer I got to Alaska, and it easily slipped back into its original mould almost the instant I stepped out of the airport in Anchorage.  My whole history in Alaska, from before my birth to now, fit into all my nooks and crannies perfectly and made me feel at ease.  It all felt 'right' again.  I allowed myself two weeks of soaking in family quality time like a sponge before I began gearing up for the next leg of my adventure: the return trip to California.

This time, I will be driving my little red car down the Alaska Highway - a first for me by myself - but at least I will have the company of my son.  We will be embarking on a major life adventure together, to live near family in California and see what we think of it. We will be navigating the dark room together, using each others experiences and thoughts to get a fuller picture of that strange-to-us place.

I arrived in Alaska with the whole month of July ahead of me to enjoy being home, which felt like a lot at the time.  But two weeks goes by quick and then I had to start thinking about how I would live when I got back to California.  I had searched for two months for a home, but never found a place that felt right.  Funding was a problem too, because California, even Redding, ain't cheap.  Two days before I left California, I was set to make an offer on a home, thinking I'd be able to swing it with my income.  By some cruel (or kind) coincidence, I also found out that day that California would be taking a bigger chunk out of my paycheck next year than I had planned.  I had to throw my budget out the window and figure out how I would manage with less money than I thought.  So, I began thinking of alternative ways to live there on my even more modest budget. The idea of building a tiny framed house on wheels seemed like the perfect solution.

Living tiny was an idea Izak and I had toyed with before, even sketching plans for our 'dream tiny house.'  I dedicated more than a week to setting things in motion toward this exciting new idea.  I designed a dwelling, planned out the storage, contacted builders, priced out a truck to pull it, and researched how to make it super-efficient but with all the creature comforts.  The benefits and simplicity of owning my modest home and being able to move it wherever I went seemed the perfect solution.  Izak and I really loved the idea of our own cabin on wheels and started imagining it as a reality.  We just needed to hold out a few more weeks with our California family while it was built.  We even planned to do some finish work ourselves with some help from my Dad who could build Japanese-style stairs full of storage compartments.  It would be another house that our family built together, and I would never have to leave it.

Alas, on the day I was to sign a contract with a tiny builder in the lower 48, information came to light that made my plan impossible.  It turns out that while having a tiny house built is fairly simple and inexpensive, finding a legal place to live in it is far more complicated.  Many places consider a dwelling less than 200 sq. feet 'too small' and, thus, it's not allowed.  For many tiny house dwellers, working around the rules is a way of life they get used to.  Tiny-house-friendly neighbors also go a long way toward making it work, and I was learning that finding neighbors like that weren't as easy to come by as I thought.

Within the span of a couple days, my need to arrange a new home in California became both imminent and dire!  I had no viable plans and no place to land.  I began to feel the weight and stress of blindly heading back into a very dark room, and I was scared.  Three more days passed as I resorted to looking at used motorhomes and calling RV parks in Redding.  We adjusted to this new plan and started to find virtues in it.  Izak was excited to finally have a vehicle he could freely move about in while moving down the highway!  I test drove a motorhome in mental preparation to make the 3000 mile journey through Canada with 40 feet of cabinetry and metal behind me.  The driving didn't scare me nearly as much as hooking up the septic!  I arranged a tow-dolly for my car and decided only to pack what I needed to survive for now.  My search narrowed to two motorhomes and I made offers on both, but my stomach churned.  Something didn't feel right and my mind swirled frantically as the deadline for my departure raced toward me.

Then my new plans fell apart.  Neither of the two motorhomes would be ready in time for me to pack them properly.  There was too much to do and time was too short.  I was too emotionally scattered to deal with it.  Two days before I needed to start driving south, I was in full-tilt panic as my heart ached with the thought of leaving my family again, and my mind ached with the pressure to figure out how I would make a life in California with no place to live.  I still hadn't packed a single box!  I wanted to quit life, to crawl into bed, to take back everything I ever said about adventure and just rest in the comfort of the life I knew and loved so well.  What the heck was I thinking trying to make such a bold move and leave all my support system behind?  I couldn't stop crying and my chest felt like a boulder was sitting on it.

I gathered my family around me one last time for an outdoor meal.  They watched me with pitying and confused eyes while mine blurred with tears.  They must have thought I was truly crazy, especially since I refused to give up on my plans despite the absolute the mess I found myself in.  But, on the day I found out that the motorhome I needed would not be ready in time, a miracle happened.  With an outside hope, I called about a craigslist ad for a one-room cottage for rent on private acreage in North Redding.  The place had a pool, looked clean, and seemed too good to be true.

Within 24 hours of my initial conversation with the female property owner, whose kind heart made me feel at ease, I was promised that the space would be held for me and Izak, despite there being many others in line ahead of us.  We could take residence upon our arrival and could stay on a month-to-month basis.  The property was gated, with only female residents (a couple of them lived in motorhomes with RV hookups!), and it was recently renovated.  My chest pains subsided and I sighed with relief that I had found a solution.  There would be a safe place for us to land in California.  I Googled-mapped it and showed it to my family.  It was even slightly reminiscent of our Alaskan homestead in its rural location and rustic charm, which made me feel even better.  With not a moment to spare, I dried my tears, packed my tiny car to the roof, loaded two kayaks on top, and hoped against all odds that this was a good omen for what is to come.

The Chrysalis

Change is hard.  Even for someone like me who really likes change.

The other night, I crawled into bed after dark and glanced over at the photos of my family I keep on the nearby table.  I had just the light on my cell phone to see by.  As I shone the LED on their two-dimensional faces, I suddenly felt homesick and longed for a strong hug from each of them.  I imagined the sinewy squeeze of my 13 year-old's lanky arms and the broad embrace of my bear-huggable husband.  I then found myself switching the light on and off, like Tom Hanks did in the movie Castaway.   When I turned off the light, I missed their faces, so I turned it back on so they would reappear.  It brought me some comfort reassuring myself they were still there.  Then I remembered that I wasn't stranded on a desert island with a volleyball for a friend, so I used my phone to call them.

I have been working at my new job in California, at Chrysalis Charter School, for a little more than a week now, and I think I'm starting to get the hang of it.  Some days I feel completely overwhelmed trying to comprehend all that is required of me, but other days I feel like I might, just might, be able to do a satisfactory job of filling my new role.  My role, by the way, is to manage the technical office operations of an outdoor science-based charter school for grades K-8.  Chrysalis was the first charter school in Shasta County and I'm taking over the job of someone who has been with the school since the beginning almost 20 years ago.  Every time I am introduced to someone affiliated with the school, I hear the statement, "Wow! You have some really big shoes to fill…"  And it's true!  There's no way I can be everything that my predecessor has been to the school.  She's like the school mother who knows the story of every child who ever passed through the doors.  She and the school have grown together for 17 years.  I can't compete with that, nor do I want to.  She has nurtured the school like her own family and is now retiring her position, bravely releasing the school (and herself) to a new phase of life.  Coincidentally, she began working at the school when her son entered his eighth grade year (just like me and my son).  Now, I face the task of helping envision the future of this school and equipping it with some organizational tools to continue being successful.  Likewise, the original founder of the school is also retiring his position next year as school administrator, passing the torch to a highly qualified and capable woman who is also the mother of a young Chrysalis student. Everyone at the school is facing this new phase with surprising optimism and hopeful expectations.  It seems that Chrysalis really lives up to its name by embracing inevitable change.

In nature, a chrysalis is formed by a caterpillar when it is ready to go through metamorphosis, the most amazing and complete transformation undertaken in the animal kingdom.  The chrysalis is built by a juvenile butterfly caterpillar with silken strands and a thick, spit-like substance that hardens into a tough shell.  It's like a bivouac bag (one person tent) the caterpillar tucks itself into and zips up all the way to the top.  A cocoon is a similar woven encasement made by moths. The result of metamorphosis is akin to a plump, naked baby curling up for a long nap and unfolding as a fully grown adult wearing an Armani suit and driving a Ferrari.  In fact, the metamorphosis of a caterpillar is actually more amazing than that, because what emerges from the cocoon doesn't remotely resemble what went in.  It's more like the change from a baby to a rainbow striped hot air balloon.  Bada-bing, bada boom!  It's the magic of the chrysalis!

There are other key features involved in chrysalis formation: wide dispersal from home territory, secure attachment to a base, camouflage, and defense techniques.  The caterpillars leave their source of food to enter metamorphosis in a solitary location, because it increases their chances of hiding from predators.  The camouflage enhances the success of survival while in the chrysalis, mimicking a leaf or leaf bud.  The defenses of the chrysalis can be quite elaborate, such as spines, involuntary wiggling when disturbed, or even squeaking sounds emanating from tiny air holes to scare away predators.  Sometimes, ants help guard the chrysalis.  If all goes to plan, a magical transformation occurs within the chrysalis as a tiny creature turns inward and somehow finds within itself another creature entirely, which it allows to burst through its skin and embark on a new phase of life.  The fat, crawling, leaf-eating machine gives its life to become a graceful, flying, ephemeral nymph.

But I wonder about the caterpillar.  How does it know to change?  Is it afraid?  Does it ever hesitate to enter that second phase of life, questioning its instinct to build the chrysalis?  Is it aware of what will happen when it enters the chrysalis?  Does it have any idea what life awaits it on the other side of its transformation? Is the transformation difficult for the caterpillar? Is it painful?

I wonder these things because I feel like I am forming my own chrysalis.  I am wrapping myself in new threads of experience: a new job, new co-workers, new environment, new climate, new social circles, and new routines.  I'm sticking all the threads together with my sweat and tears.  And I am missing my home base, I am scared of what will become of me, I am unsure of what I'm doing, and I have no idea what kind of life will emerge from my metamorphosis.  I can also assure you that this transformation, for me anyway, is fraught with difficulty and pain. But it is also graced with moments of beauty and inspiration.

If I could talk to a caterpillar and a butterfly, I would ask a lot of questions.  How do you know what to do?  Is it scary to be something different, to suddenly be an air dweller where you used to crawl on land?  What does it feel like to unfold your wings for the first time and feel them expand?  How do you learn to fly and choose your favorite flower?  Do you ever miss your other form or regret the change?  Is the change ever so hard you feel like giving up?  Obviously, natural instincts play a major role in the behavior of caterpillars and butterflies, and I envy that.  I know that somewhere down deep, that I am probably following my own instincts, acting on my own internal drive to survive and serve my intended purpose.

At the Chrysalis school where I work, I have witnessed former students return to thank their teachers for helping them transform into new, healthy, and confident beings.  The philosophy of learning through nature frees children to discover the unique qualities within themselves.  The children are open, caring, and thoughtful.  I am touched by daily accounts of  how the Chrysalis environment nurtures change and growth, especially in kids who face the biggest challenges.  In spite of my homesickness, I feel grateful  to be in a place that so lovingly embodies the process of metamorphosis, that views it as a natural step toward becoming more ourselves.  My hope is that something as beautifully purposeful and instinctual as a butterfly emerges from this time spent in my own chrysalis.

Creating an Island

Trailside wisdom.

A couple years ago, when I was interning as a Naturalist away from home, I discovered a way to make myself comfortable in unfamiliar surroundings.  Inspired by some deep nurture-craving instinct, I created myself an island.  The shores of my personal island began as the edges of the borrowed bed I slept in.  I put clean sheets on it, replaced their pillows with my own, and piled all my belongings from home at my feet.  With all that was familiar nearby, I felt more safe and secure.  It was my home base.  I reached out from my island via the telephone and the TV remote, which I used to call family and watch movies.  I found the feel-good flick Two Weeks Notice in my hosts' collection and watched it every day for a week just to reinforce the familiarity and sense of peace that came with a guaranteed happy ending.  Plus, it was a humorous distraction from my worries.  I ventured out from my island only to forage for food, go to the bathroom, and report to work.  During the first few days, the bed was a mental and emotional oasis where I retreated at every opportunity to restore my sense of security.  Eventually, with time and exploration came confidence, and my island expanded to other rooms, other homes, and eventually to the entire town.  By the end of the summer, I was no longer afraid of my new surroundings and even felt personal attachment to some of my favorite places.

My island habitat in Redding, California.  Not bad, right?

The evolution of my island is much like the evolutionary ecology of real islands.  The earliest inhabitants of an island are the smallest creatures, like microbes and insects that float in on the wind and water, or are carried there.  They are followed by plant seeds, birds, and other animals that may "raft" to the island by accident.  The contents of my comfort-island also start small: a photo of loved ones, fresh-smelling soap, favorite snacks, and maybe a book.  Then I collect bits and pieces of information from observation to start drawing a map of my island, getting a lay of the land.  Over time, animals and people start to "raft" into my experience and become part of the unique ecology.  As with island theory, the size of your island and its proximity to the mainland has a big influence on how many and what kind of species you will collect.  The bigger your island, more things will land on it.  And the closer your island is to other inhabited places, the more likely it is that things will find their way to you.

Decorating my island in California with familiar things and a bit of loveliness.

This week, I set up my island in Redding, California.  If you're following my story, you know I have ended up here to start a new job and possibly a new future for my family.  My island is where its all going to begin.  Even though I've been to Redding a dozen times before, this time is different.  This is not a vacation. It is a long-term experiment to see if I can survive a new environment.  Under those conditions, the familiar landscape of Northern California felt strangely ominous to me when I arrived.  As I explained before, change can cause a kind of fear that puts everything in a shadowed light that makes me want to retreat.  But, I know that if I can follow the advise of Benjamin Mee and exhibit "just 20 seconds of just insane courage" that I can get through my moments of panic and keep moving forward.  So, I do.

Sunshine and a green smoothie = familiar comforts

As before, my island began with my bed.  I put on clean sheets, set up photos of loved ones, put my suitcases within arms reach, and dug out my personal copy of Two Weeks Notice.  Yes, I watched it.  And I watched it again the next night with my sister-in-law and her two daughters.  It just works for me.  Thankfully, because Redding is not completely foreign to me, my fears began to dissipate pretty quickly.  I fell into familiar routines with my sister-in-law's family (my hosts) and had relatively few panic attacks over thoughts about my husband and son being 3000 miles away.  I avoided thinking too far ahead into the future and overwhelming my fragile sense of security.  I talked to my loved ones often and Skyped so I can see their faces.  My island of comfort expanded.

Some of the species inhabiting my island.  They provide a tasty breakfast!

As I look around me and observe the new surroundings of this island, I am beginning to appreciate all it has to offer.  I relish the warmth of the sun that penetrates at this latitude.  I savor the edible abundance of organic produce at the grocery store and at corner fruit stands.  I marvel at the diversity of insects, animals, plants, and landscapes I can observe on a five mile bike ride along the Sacramento River.  I've landed in nature-nerd heaven!  I'm cataloguing all that I see and experience to build a map of my new territory.  I take note of places to avoid and places to revisit.  The Sacramento River Trail is definitely a place to revisit, while it's still aflutter with butterflies and wildflowers in bloom.

Exploring the area by bike.

My island is rapidly being populated and expanding.  There are people on my island that I like and, most importantly, I like myself.  I'm feeling optimistic and creative…safe in my own skin.  I look forward to seeing how my island develops and what new and wondrous alchemy comes from it.

Experimental Trails

I wasted an entire day of sunshine indoors.  It's an embarrassing admission.  This self-proclaimed sun-worshipper and solar-powered lover of California, doddled about inside the house while the sun shone its glory on the world outdoors!  I did appreciate the golden sunlight streaming through the windows and curled up in its warmth next to my cat lying in a beam on the carpet.  I basked in its cheery glow while I baked muffins, did chores, and read a novel.  However, at the end of the day I had regrets.  I wished I'd taken a walk, or pruned my raspberries, or in some way allowed the sun to brush against my skin with its soft fingertips.  I vowed that if the sunshine graced my Alaskan landscape again that I would run toward it with open arms.

And I did.

Here I come, sunshine!

I desired to go somewhere new.  I remembered a friend mentioning the trails at the UAF Experimental Farm, part of the Mat-Su Greenbelt in the heart of the Valley, so I made haste in that direction.  I don't know why I never visited the trails before.  Maybe it's the curse of being a local that I never explored all of my own back yard.

The Johnson Lake loop trail starts just behind the farm outbuildings.

A beautiful barn is a thing to cherish.

I feel so countrified already.

I love the green marshmallow hay bales.

I parked in front of Kerttula Hall and walked around the left of the building toward the barns and fields behind.  I admit to feeling a bit lost, trying to find the head of the actual "trail".  Following intuition and the most heavily used road (backtracking just once), I eventually wound up on a two-lane track that led me toward some gloriously sunny solitude on the Johnson Lake Loop. It's just one of the myriad of trails connected in a mixed-up spider web system that could confuse the best orienteer.  I suggest carrying a map with you, or leaving a trail of breadcrumbs (http://www.matanuska-greenbelt.org/trail-maps).  I also suggest supporting the non-profit groups in the Valley that make the creation and preservation of these trails a priority. If you want to get involved, check out Matanuska Greenbelt Trails, or Valley Mountain Bikers and Hikers (who are looking for board members).

The bends in the trail are marked, though not always helpful for orientation and way-finding.

When my mother was a young teenager, she worked at the Experimental Farm.  It was, and is, best known for its services as the Cooperative Extension, run by the University of Alaska Fairbanks.  They provided agricultural assistance and extensive resources for local farmers and hobby-agriculturists alike.  My family homesteaded in the early days of Alaska's statehood, so the extension was a familiar and useful part of their lives.  You could learn about how to make yogurt, how to smoke salmon, or what seeds grow best in our climate.  The farm's array of fields provided both hay and foraging grounds for cattle and migrating Sandhill Cranes, and still do.  On that day, for me, the fields were a blank canvas for my mind.  Fall colored trees alternately shadowed the trail or framed bucolic vistas of serene beauty.  I experienced a feeling of discovery at every turn.

The fall colors are stunning along the trail.

There's something deeply peaceful about a farm and its vast green fields. Must be the Laura Ingalls Wilder in me.

I wandered the Johnson Lake loop trail until I found the perfect place to picnic on the dewey grass in full view of both Pioneer and Matanuska Peaks.  I unpacked a slice of cake from my birthday, which was the day before, and I savored the moment.  I recalled the quote by Marie Antoinette, "Let them eat cake!"  And life is short, so I took her advise.

Birthday cake, of the carrot variety, with a fabulous view.

Curried tuna and red grapes, just to show you I didn't ONLY have cake for lunch.

During my walk, I crossed paths with just one person that Tuesday afternoon: a woman walking her three dogs, who were keen to my snack crackers and tuna.  The trails and fields were a paradise for dogs, who could be off leash everywhere except by the barns and livestock.  And there were so many offshoots and alternative routes that one could easily find themselves completely alone, especially if you aimed to make it that way.  The only thing I found wanting on the trail, besides a map, was an occasional bench to sit on and take in the view, a luxury that would simply be the cherry on top of this pleasurable walk.

The experimental trails were the perfect companion for a sunny Fall afternoon, like wine and cheese, or like chocolate and peanut butter.  The open expanses gave me room to breathe.  The changing vistas kept it interesting.  And, despite being right in the heart of freeways and the busiest part of the Mat-Su Valley, I felt hidden.

It's like town & country for cows around here.

Clearly, my experiment to try a new trail was a success.  The only downside was not having enough time to explore further.  The trails in the Mat-Su Green Belt are open year-round, though, so I could come back for a winter stroll in the snow if I wanted.  I could walk to Matanuska Lake from here, or to Mat-Su College for lunch, or even into the Crevasse Moraine maze if I felt very enthusiastic.  The possibilities are practically endless in this multi-faceted jewel of public space.  One thing's for sure, I'll be back.