Saturday morning was chaos.
My husband and I were trying to get out the door, surrounded by stacks of pancake-crusted dishes in the sink, the unforgiving clock, and piles of clothing, water bottles, and shoes scattered near the door. We said we'd get to the trail head at 10 a.m. It was 10:45 a.m. and I was wearing all-black long underwear and purple wool socks in the kitchen, throwing chunks of cheese in a plastic bag and calling it lunch. The tea kettle shrieked.
In the middle of this, I remembered something. I had to relax my mind to fully see it.
It was me in a former life. I was in my kitchen, which was also my living room, which was also my bedroom (I lived in a studio downtown). My backpack was packed and leaning against the front door. My shoes were in a row. The carpet was vacuumed. I owned a pair of non-broken trekking poles and those were also by the door. I could leave the house, fully prepared, at a moment's notice.
In those days I was always on time, or early.
I guess that's pretty boring. But the idea of it also gave me a great sense of relief. Especially the shoes-in-order part.
Swirling, chaotic process
Since then, all of that sweet, sweet order has been upended. No, it's not due to my husband, or not exactly. He has his own way of organizing things. It's kind of a swirling, chaotic process. He reminds me of a planet attracting space debris with the power of gravity. I picture him walking through the house with a headlamp, wool socks, and crampons orbiting him mockingly, nearby but sweeping out of sight when he needs them. He reorganizes the basement from time to time in order to trap the things he needs in one place, which mostly works.
What's happened is that together, where our little worlds and approaches collide, time and stuff seems to splinter. It's a happy kind of splintering, like fireworks. We enjoy being together and we laugh at ourselves and one another. But our individual way of doing things — states that we return to briefly when the other is out of town — are in direct conflict.
I like order; he sees life as being more fluid. I tend to be fussy over details and the way things "should" be done; his philosophy is something about cats and skinning them. I clean as I go; he creates a magnificent explosion of stuff that takes a day to clean up.
Where do we agree then?
We agree on the ambition. Our weekends are for being outside, however we need to get there. This past Friday night, we lay around looking at our dog-eared copies of Alaska trail books. We talked about how much daylight we'd have to work with. I put in my request to sleep in, which in my world is (tragically) 7:30-8 a.m. We decided we'd get to the trail head at 10 a.m. This seemed like an ambitious time for Saturday morning, but not too ambitious.
Where to go?
We'd made and consumed breakfast by 9:15 a.m. Not bad. "We're not late yet," I thought. Then again, the kitchen was a disaster, I was still wearing my slippers, and I hadn't yet pulled my backpack out from the basement.
We also hadn't exactly decided yet where we wanted to go.
While lingering at our sunny and warm kitchen table (9:20 a.m.), we decided to hike The Dome starting from the Basher trail head up Campbell Airstrip Road. I'd never hiked it, but my husband had. At the time there wasn't enough snow on the ground for it to be much of a factor, either for avalanche danger or bringing special footwear beyond spiked shoes. This was a discussion, though. We checked in on the Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson recreation portal, since part of the hike is over military land. This took a few minutes. I packed us a "lunch." This took time. We filled the water bottles, grabbed extra layers, warmed up the car.
We made it out of the house at what I still consider the respectable hour of 11 a.m.
The hike, of course, was gorgeous. It was a clear day. We chatted and said hi to the few other hikers on the trail. We ate the peanut M&Ms he'd sneaked into his bag without telling me. The ridge leading to Knoya Point was jagged and white, and at the same time we could turn around and look back on Anchorage and Cook Inlet far below. The wind drove into our faces and we descended back into the woods pretty quickly, talking more when we were there all the way to the trail head.
Bottom line
Afterward, we went home. As we flicked on the light we were greeted by the living room turned upside down with clothing and gear, and the sink still full of breakfast dishes. We cleaned it up, made dinner, and watched a movie.
I loved my little, neat, laundered and folded life in my tiny studio apartment downtown. I went and did my outdoor adventures in tidy units that felt accomplishable, within my comfort zone.
But as much as that was great, I love my expansive, changing, creative relationship with my husband, and by extension our lives together and experiences out in the world, even more. I am made better by not worrying about the time as much and looking more to relax into the quality of experience. I am made stronger by hiking farther than I expected to, or skidding down the scree, or whatever other kind-of-crappy-but-still-wonderful experiences come with outdoor adventuring that don't fit on a calendar. I love that even with our different styles, our bottom line is spending time outside and together.
Still, it's an adventure of its own just getting to the trail head. Someday I'll share what it's like when we go to the airport.
Alli Harvey lives, works and plays in Anchorage.