Home at last
The Midwest nearly killed me. Surrounded by asphalt and concrete, everything arranged like a monopoly board, one can forget what it means to be human. People tend to become attached to routines, patterns, or dogma without ever venturing beyond their monotonous security. That prospect always terrified me. So I moved to Alaska.
         I’ve always heard about this place, The Last Frontier. I was born in Anchorage, but ever since I was a child the state has evaded me. Finally arriving here for a longer stay seems almost too fantastic to be real. The first thing to catch my eyes is the mountains. They are all sheer, launching straight out of the sea into massive cliffs.  The depth at shore can be a few hundred feet in some places. Behind the mountains, hundreds of miles of ice fields leading into Canada. The city is built on the short width between the base of the mountains and the Pacific Ocean. It’s considered a “city,†but the population doesn’t exceed 30,000 contained in what is ranked one of the largest geographical city limits in the world. If one keeps walking away from the ocean long enough, everything will eventually fade into miles upon miles of uninhabited temperate rainforest.
          In the summer, survival isn’t a serious problem. Berries frequent the forest, fish populations soar, and bears can be tamed with a rifle. In the winter, without a real shelter and source of food, unless one is an expert, death rides quickly. One bad night could kill any man. The local newspapers frequently print reports of hikers who bit off more than they could chew and wound up kissing permafrost. Safety margins become increasingly thin the further one ventures from town. Aside from a lengthy ferry ride, there is no “next town over.â€Â Professional medical attention is confined to a few small hospitals. Driving from one end of the road to the other takes around two hours. Towards the road’s northern end, the view blooms and continually tops itself the further one drives.
          The snow peaked Chilkut pass stares back at me from across a deep, wide channel. Its slopes are notoriously treacherous. Most men never chance them. That makes them all the more enticing. A well stocked kayak and some proper gear could bring some new adventures into the mix. Until then, I’m bushwhacking what’s on my side of the water. It’s tough, it’s long, it’s tiring. I like it.                                  Seth GriffinÂ
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