Opinions

Living in Alaska is a love affair, and a Thanksgiving blessing

The first views of Alaska that I can remember were in Seward in the late 1940s, when I was about 3 years old. It was instant love. From our front yard on Fourth Avenue one could look out on Resurrection Bay. On winter afternoons its waters became restless with whitecaps and darker blue than the sky as seen in photos from the top of Mount Everest. Beyond the bay the eastern skyline was dominated by the rugged Kenai Mountains and 5,265-foot Mount Alice, a mountain that became woven into my dreams.

That vista captivated my early childhood and probably played a part in shaping the person I would become. But in the more than half a century since then, living and working in far-flung locations across this vast state, I have amassed a repository of sights and experiences that have convinced me Alaska is without doubt the finest place on earth to live.

And whether you have been here for one day, or 70 years, young or old, I believe that just standing here and breathing the air is a precious gift -- on Thanksgiving and every day of the year.

You will definitely know if you are in love with Alaska. On airline flights you will ask for a window seat and if visibility is good, press your nose against the glass to take it all in -- as if were you were seeing it first time. People might even ask you if you are a tourist.

Alaska is all about light. Acclaimed Alaska poet, Tom Sexton, noted in one of his poems: "For all our sadness, melancholy and regret, at times it is possible, even necessary, to believe we are here for the sake of the light."

We follow light through the seasons. In spring, with the anticipation of a lottery-ticket holder waiting for winning numbers, we wait for the sun to sluggishly rise above the nearby mountain and for its balmy light to touch our faces. We cock our ears to hear the dripping from melting snow and exult in the riotous sounds of newly arrived birds. We notice the trees turning purple as sap begins running and unconsciously, find ourselves taking deep breaths. With its reawakening, the land is also making us come alive.

Summer light expands waking and sleeping dreams and we fully immerse ourselves in it; knowing that it will be short-lived. Whether fishing at 1 a.m., bicycling, hiking or tending to yards and gardens at all hours, we become something akin to sun addicts, fervently mainlining solar energy.

ADVERTISEMENT

It's bittersweet when we behold the first yellow leaf and feel a breeze that's cooler than it should be; precursors of a changing season. But signs of one season ending and another on the way are harbingers we have come to know, and love.

With the waning summer we'll watch the sun drift lower in the sky, but we have learned to overcome feelings of regret or melancholy. The new season, autumn, with its explosion of color from valley to mountainside -- buoys our spirits.

Autumn's spectacular displays -- tree foliage on the ground and aurora in the sky -- feel like nature desperately trying to grab our attention, a last blast akin to a star going supernova. We fish, hunt, chop wood and perform myriad other chores with the zest and urgency of the fleeting season.

We once regretted the sights and sounds of high-flying geese and sandhill cranes. They are leaving us, but we've come to think more about where they are going.

Anticipation becomes keen again as we watch the snow creep down the mountainsides, knowing that our world will remain white much longer than it was green. Sometimes we don't feel we're ready for winter, but nature gently nudges us into submission. Our preparations, car tires changed, hoses put away, outdoor equipment readied -- have become rituals.

Entering the holiday season, the deepening cold draws us closer together. Bonds are strengthened and we're again reminded why we love Alaska so much: its people -- some of the most caring, helpful, vibrant, friendly people in the world.

Whether we're ensconced in a cabin on the Koyukuk River on Thanskgiving, at Bean's Café or the Clare House; on a fishing boat in the Bering Sea, at an oil field camp on the North Slope, on duty at JBER, performing security rounds at the Anchorage Ted Stevens International Airport; or at home with family and friends, it isn't difficult for us to remember why we love it here. We look around at the smiling faces of fellow Alaskans, glance outside the window to the subdued midday light, clouds tinged orange by the low-hanging sun, and the feeling overwhelms us -- a rush of awe and pride -- the way we feel upon hearing the "Alaska's Flag" song. We have given up trying to explain it to folks in the Lower 48.

I never did climb Mount Alice in Seward. It became iconic of my Alaska dream narrative -- something entreating but intangible, beautiful yet formidable; a symbol of the Alaska that we relentlessly seek: our own Alaska. And in that search, we can't help ourselves. We fall in love. We remain forever thankful.

Frank E. Baker is a freelance writer who lives in Eagle River.

The views expressed here are the writer's own and are not necessarily endorsed by Alaska Dispatch News, which welcomes a broad range of viewpoints. To submit a piece for consideration, email commentary(at)alaskadispatch.com.

Frank Baker

Frank E. Baker is a freelance writer who lives in Eagle River.

ADVERTISEMENT