Right about now, we are stacking nets, coiling ropes, filleting fish, and sliding sheets of plywood over the windows of our Alaska home. We are burned from the sun, covered in mosquito bites, and aching in parts of our bodies we seldom call upon when we are home in Maryland. As I write this, it’s June 28, and I am sitting in our air conditioned studio in Chestertown. But I well remember what the end of a fishing season feels like, and so I can picture the scene of frenetic last-minute arranging and packing as we try to get the compound sealed up for the winter—in the frantic minutes before we must catch our ride five miles up the beach (in the bed of a neighbor’s pickup) to meet the chartered plane that will take us back to civilization.
I hope that we are looking back on three good weeks of solid, productive fishing. I hope that no one got hurt, that the kids had a great time stomping about on the tundra and throwing stones into the river. I hope that Iggy has not tussled with any porcupines, that the bears have kept a respectful distance, and that no one’s waders have sprung a leak.
These are the measures of a successful season in Alaska, and here’s hoping we’re sitting on the back end of one.
I’m guessing that I’m anticipating a bittersweet journey home. It’s always exciting to return to some trappings of the contemporary life (ice cream! electricity! roads!), but there’s also something of a loss each time our plane takes off and lifts us from the tundra.
If you want to picture us today, picture us in transition. strung between two worlds. By the time we wake tomorrow, we’ll be back among the modernized, but in body only. I’m guessing that the better part of us will still be stuck up there on the tundra, listening to the wind through the alders, the waves on the rocky beach as the days grow short and the Alaskan fall rolls in.
You will hear from us tomorrow. The return to Anchorage means the return to king internet. There will be new stories and pictures aplenty. Until then, wish us save travels.
