Dance of Days

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The flight into Anchorage was long, though not nearly as long as one of the girls I met here at the hostel that just flew in from Poland, but it was long enough to make the plane seem as though I was flying up in a single engine Cessna or something. I got into Anchorage a little after midnight. The hostel was closed (office hours here are from 7PM to 11PM) and so I ended up making my way over to the Motel 6 who then charged me enough for half a week's rent at the hostel, using half of my in hand cash. Stress but comfortable sleep came next as my stomach grumbled in fear that the rest of my cash will only suffice to keep it warm not fed. "We'll deal with that tomorrow my old friend," I said, patting my belly and turning over to embrace unconsciousness.

I woke up to see the sunrise at 10:30 AM, looking over Anchorage and the mountains that surround. I was unsure of whether or not any of the peaks in view were McKinley, but I was quite content to not know any of their names. Sometimes, when you look at things as majestic as mountains such as these, it hardly matters what they're called as I'm sure the mountains themselves could hardly care less what symbols and words and meaning we strange and often neurotic people assign to them.

Check out time was noon, but of course I rolled out in a cab at one. I made my way over to the hostel and went on inside. The ambiance was inviting. "Leave your shoes at the door and come on in," the sign read. There are shelves of shoes in the entranceway. It's a split-level house and the office, though not open, was on the upstairs level. I carried my pack upstairs into the first common room where a desk has been set up long ago, computer screen atop it, as the pseudo office of sorts.

There were a couple of people sitting around inside and we quickly made introductions. I'm ashamed to say that I've never been good with names with exception to meeting a single person at a time, but in a hostel filled with many people, well, you get the idea. But nonetheless the energy was kind and reciprocal. One guy that did stand out name-wise was this fellow Ben. I instantly felt that he was somebody who I would end up liking and honestly, did so right away.

Ben is one of the house parents of this hostel and, aside from working here, he apparently works at a club downtown as well as a shelter for children. He was talking about having to be in town around 4:30ish for work at the club but that he had time and really wanted to drive down to Beluga Point to see if he could see Augustine, the volcano which had recently erupted.

On the flight up, I had been keeping up here and there with information concerning the volcano, as I was worried that it would blow before I got there, after having a minor eruption that very morning, and would subsequently be rerouted to another airport as the ash would most assuredly cover up the sky above Anchorage. This is not what I wanted, but would have had to contend with that should it come up. Although, honestly, I really would not have scoffed at that too much as it would have just given me an opportunity to check out another corner of the world before completing this leg of my journey.

Nonetheless, the volcano had not blown to its potential, and Ben toyed with the idea of the drive. Finally, after very little real consideration (which I would understand how easy it was to come to this decision soon enough) he decided that he wanted to drive down to the point to see if he could see Augustine from afar. Being late to the club gig apparently was not too much of a concern. He quickly offered me a ride, and before I could even think twice, I had grabbed my camera and laptop, dropped my main pack, and was scurrying to the stairs to get my shoes on. Needless to say, I more than welcomed the opportunity I was being given on my first real day in Alaska.

There was a girl (who unfortunately happens to be one of the names I have yet to place) who had just flown back in from a month in a half in Poland. She works as a census employee for the government here in Alaska and their job assignments tend to follow the seasons. Especially hers as she is usually assigned to remote villages out in the bush of Alaska, places where she has to pack in her food and gear and take a small plane to some remote location to extract information from people who generally have gone that far out to get away from the information age. This job was not without its difficulties, as she would describe. But, the perks were that she was able to travel the rest of the time, and as it were, had just come back from another journey just in time to get packed and get on a plane to shove off and collect the data.

She too hopped in Ben's truck and off we went. The conversation was more or less the get to know you type. Ben was from Wisconsin and had followed his girlfriend, now ex, up to Alaska to check it out. He told me that it wasn't very long before he knew he would be staying. Not long after his trip up, he returned home and packed his truck, accompanied by his father who would ride up then fly back, and here he's been since.

But as for myself, it was a mix of introduction and stumbled words, with every long gentle curve in the road, another scene from some black and white gone color photograph would jump into sight commanding the "oh my gods" of my attention and then all I could do was adjust the settings of my camera and snap snap snap.

An entire roll of film later, we moved off to the side of the road. The inlet was frozen but moving. It's an odd site to see a wall of ice slowly crunching in and out of itself over the surface of a large body of water surrounded by peak after peak that hide the now setting sun in what time wise in Atlanta would have been the mid afternoon, though not so strange really. It was I who was the stranger, yet the emotion in the air was inviting.

We weren't able to see Augustine through the clouds, but nonetheless the sights were blessed and then we dressed up ourselves from the frost and shoved off back into town. "Hey, let's go up to flat top," it was spoken. Well, I of course was along for the ride and soon it was back into town to turn around down another street until we were climbing up up up and up over ice and snow until the town lingered small below and there she stood. McKinley. The beauty of my dreams. There beyond the horizon, overlooking like some divine set of eyes on her children, these miniature mountains though hardly small. Man, if there really were words to relate the experience, but there's not. So, of course I snapped through another roll of film. Can't wait to have money to develop these rolls.

Forget about smoking or food. I want to share the air of my experiences, set out the sights for those to greet and see through what is becoming some divine part of me. Dig it? Nonetheless, I find myself thinking of food more and more. Right now, I'd give something of value, if I really had anything to give, for peanut butter, maybe some sushi. Christ! I must be pregnant or something. Not sure but nonetheless, food is quickly becoming an obsession.

I think about chai tea from Intermezzo. Portabella mushroom sandwiches from R. Thomas. Tater Tots from the local. Grilled asparagus, avocadoes, cheeses of almost any kind. Noodles from Mama Fu's, humus on those intimate nights in light of eyes I remember and miss... too much to think about really.

So, instead of obsessing, I go out to smoke a cigarette in the recent dump of another six inches of powder snow. There, across the street in the white skeleton branches of trees in the slumber of winter, are hundreds of birds. I wasn't expecting to see that many birds. I wasn't fully shocked I suppose as the day before I watched some cackling crows dance over crumbs from some fast food joint around the block, flapping their wings and dancing for food superiority. But these little birds, they hung frozen in the branches, singing a chorus that reminded me of warm summer days in the North Georgia mountains when the crickets chirp endlessly into air. It's vibrant and constant, and almost the same song, as if they were inviting some stray bugs who forgot to die or hide from the cold to come up and be noticed. No worries from those birds, they must be dead, the song is ours... chirp chirp chomp, as the cricket is picked up and consumed, the song carries on. Or at least that's how it played out in my head.

And so then I go in and go back to writing, and reflect on how lucky a person I am. Though the hardest times here are yet to come, I'm not so worried. It all takes time and faith and though I never really feel that I have much of either, it's okay. This is just one corner of one street in the life of my own personal parade.

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