Enjoy Every Sandwich*

“Best of all he loved the fall.” — Ernest Hemingway

I’m sure I’ve highlighted that line from Papa in this space before, but I don’t feel like looking for it to make sure. I’m sitting in a Panera while my car gets worked on at the Midas just up the street, and the wifi connection here is just too slow to sift through. Suffice it to say that I’m also sure I’ve used that line and then told you not to bother looking for it in Papa’s writing; it’s from a eulogy he gave for a hunting buddy in Idaho.

But the sentiment stands and it’s shared by yours truly. And the past few days here in New England have only confirmed my continued adoration of this particular season. In fact, autumn is my favorite season in pretty much every place I’ve ever lived (hard to say San Diego has much of an autumn). And New England excels at autumn.

But I spent the first two weeks of this month in the mid-Atlantic region: a week in Annapolis, Maryland, helping with a friend’s booth at the U.S. Sailboat Show, followed by a week of kiteboarding (and a bit of surfing) on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. And while the time in those warmer climes was delightful, it was on the drive home this past Monday that I blissed out.

From Hartford, Connecticut, to around Lowell, Massachusetts, the fall foliage was not only at its absolute peak, but the sun was setting beneath a paper-thin stratus layer of clouds. The diffuse clouds reflected the golden light and made it bounce around between Earth and sky so the entire atmosphere glowed. It was like swimming in an aquarium filled with golden water and the trees were a coral reef of reds and oranges and greens that hummed and sang. Even the browns glowed in this twilight, and as the sun continued its setting, the higher cirrus clouds turned into pink swishes from a paintbrush on a field of powder-blue sky.

The perfect conditions have continued this entire week, making this truly the most amazing week and a celebration of the season, this last gasp before early nightfalls and cold rainstorms and piles of dirty snow. And it’s that recognition of inevitability that makes autumn both the most glorious and saddest of times.

Evening autumnal twilight on the Merrimack River.

Last weekend, before starting my drive home from down south, a friend from my prep-school days wrote to me, “We’ve reached that age when, if we don’t already, we must appreciate each day and the people we love.” A classmate of ours had passed away on Saturday and Deb’s words were right on the mark: we HAVE reached that age. The passings are only going to increase with frequency. And indeed, the horizon of our own passing looms larger and larger. My friends and I are, in the parlance, if not in the autumn of our lives then certainly in the late summer. Lisa’s passing and Deb’s words added a poignancy to Monday’s drive amid the stunning New England scenery.

Which is not to say the mood darkened, and my apologies if you feel this post has taken a darker turn. That was not my intention. Rather, it was to highlight the realization that, as Robert Frost wrote, “Nothing gold can stay.” I’ve had a much longer run than Johnny Cade and even Ponyboy. Longer than Scott. I’ve gotten to enjoy a lot more New England autumns than Joe and Bridget. And at least one more autumn than Lisa.

For all of those autumns — and all of the winters, springs and summers — I am enormously grateful and I want to stay openly, exuberantly grateful. Because as Jimmy Buffett sang, “There’s still so much to be done.”

* The title of this post comes from the late Warren Zevon who, during his final appearance on The Letterman Show before succumbing to cancer, told David what his illness had taught him to do.

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Another Dose of Humility, Please

Sitting in the lobby of the City Centre Hotel in Reykjavik. It’s midnight on a Friday and the scene up and down the street outside is, to put it bluntly, rockin’. Alas, I have an 8am flight to catch so I’m behaving: a couple of pints of Guinness and now I’m getting ready to turn in.

This town really is incredible: small enough to be digested in short order; interesting enough to keep someone busy for a very long time. I did the culture/history thing today: museums. Under an overcast sky that occasionally spit a few raindrops, I hit the Culture House and the National Museum. In the latter, I got a detailed rundown on the history of this island, this nation, this people. It was fascinating and very well presented, and I quite enjoyed myself. To be honest, I don’t think I gave myself enough time for the National Museum — there was just so much to digest.

The Culture House, on the other hand, was spectacular in an understated manner…especially if you’re into the written word. The emphasis at the Culture House is just that: the written word. So the focus is on the published versions of the Icelandic Sagas and Eddas and other national treasures that set this small island’s culture apart from more mainstream European history/culture.

Upon entering the main display at the Culture House, I got a little upset: everything was just a reproduction of the books that contain these amazing stories dating back more than a thousand years. BUT…in the back corner of the main room there was a little sign saying: “This way.” And for those who followed…wow. Real, live, actual books that were almost a thousand years old (from the 1200s in some cases), under glass, protected from ultraviolet light and humidity and other degrading impacts. Stories that were written down so they’d survive from generation to generation — and all gloriously crafted, with beautiful calligraphy and gorgeous illustrations. It was truly awe-inspiring, especially to one who bitches about how writing with pen-and-paper is just sooooo trying…how he writes more easily on a keyboard. Boy, did I feel like a big wuss. It was a truly humbling experience.

It was a fitting send-off. Tomorrow morning I’ll jump a flight to the northwest part of Iceland, to Isafjördur, where I’ll rejoin Polar Bear and we’ll head to Greenland. Maybe. Yesterday, on the flight over the southern cape of that mystical land, I saw quite a bit of ice so we’ll see what happens (last week, Polar Bear was turned back by the ice). I’m hopeful of reaching Greenland via boat but again: it’s not up to me. Either way, we’ll give it a shot. And assuming we get through, I’ll be incommunicado for the three week-long trips on the schedule. My next connection to the modern world will come upon our return to Iceland in late August.

So enjoy the rest of your summer. I lived in Alaska, but even I’ve been shocked in the change in the light at this latitude in just two weeks: it’s pitch dark out now whereas when I was here last, it was a pleasant surprise to see the moon in an otherwise daylight sky. The lesson is clear: light and summer (and a few other things…) are fleeting. They are to be savored, made the most of. Because it’s a long time till they come ’round again…

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We Love It!

An Anchorage limosine

People who live in Anchorage are used to being the butt of jokes made by those who consider themselves “real” Alaskans. You’ve heard the dings (“Anchorage isn’t Alaska…but you can see it from there”) and the derogatory nicknames (“Anchoragua”) and so on, but here’s the thing: Anchorage enables those who love it to have their cake and eat it too.

No, Anchorage is not the fulfillment of some Hollywood-cliche Alaskana — we residents (what ARE we called? Anchorites? Anchoraguans? Anchorage-ites?) don’t mush dogs from our log cabins to check the trapline — but not many of those who actually live out in the Bush have lives like that either (I don’t recall many mentions of snowmachines or Gore-Tex in “Call of the Wild,” folks). But by living here in Alaska’s version of the big city, we get to enjoy most of the perks of modern life (little things like, oh, medicine, income, culture and such) and still have a lot of the Alaska cliches like moose in the front yard, fresh salmon in the creeks and so on. Sure, there are some (let’s call them) interesting characters here in town, and the fact that it’s a city means Anchorage has some of the negative aspects of any other metropolis. But the bottom line is that Randy Newman was right when he sang “I love L.A.!” It’s just that he meant Los Anchorage, not some smog-choked, paved-over desert in SoCal.

So now as I prepare to hit the road for a spell, let me answer the question: “How do I love Anchorage? Let me count the ways…” with the following, VERY incomplete list in no particular order…

* The view from Flattop on a clear day: mountains from Iliamna through Redoubt, Spurr, Susitna and on to the great peaks of the Alaska Range: Foraker, Hunter and Denali; the lowlands of the Kenai Peninsula; the waters of Cook Inlet; the Chugach Mountains to the east
* Evening alpenglow on the Chugach
* Morning aplenglow on the Tordrillos
* Morning and evening alpenglow on Denali…120-ish miles away
* The honk of returning geese each April
* Seeing the flash of white backs as beluga whales cruise Cook Inlet
* Boarding the plane in Seattle
* That feeling as the plane emerges over the edge of the Chugach and descends steeply into the Anchorage Bowl…and you know you’re home
* Running into someone you know every time you pass through the airport…and also in SeaTac a lot of the time, too
* Awesome sushi at several different places, especially Ronnie’s and Peter’s Sushi Spot
* Moose’s Tooth pizza and beer
* First Tap concerts at the Moose’s Tooth
* Moose, bear (black and brown) and other assorted mega-fauna within city limits
* Seeing outdoor hockey rinks at pretty much every school and realizing that Anchorage is a hockey culture not unlike those in New England and the Upper Midwest…it’s just still developing
* Catching a salmon in the morning and then gathering a bushel of mountain blueberries in the afternoon — and enjoying them both on your dinner table that evening
* Seeing urban streams such as Campbell Creek and Chester Creek as the ice breaks up — and knowing that in a couple of months those creeks will be chock full of salmon
* The drive from town to Girdwood along Turnagain Arm on a sunny day
* Cross-country skiing under the lights at Kincaid Park
* Watching snowline creep down from the Summit of Sleeping Lady (Mt. Susitna) in the fall
* Termination dust in the Chugach on a sunny September day

Feel free to add your own faves. This post will be ongoing…

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