foray

The coffee shop in town is tucked into an old Methodist church. The wood floor is stained and scarred, none of the chairs match, the tables have bright, incongruous south American cloths covering them in this otherwise muted-tone place. The walls are filled with northern inspired art and the shelves with knickknacks for the tourists. The choir loft holds a handful of comfy chairs. There is nowhere to plug in a computer, but there is, miraculously, wifi in the air. Geriatric dogs wander through the tables soliciting ear scratches and the tables themselves are filled with the elderly residents of Seward, boat captains, lodge proprietors, small business owners. On days the cruise ships are docked, bevys of onlookers filter through in bright rain jackets and squeaky new hiking boots. There is never any room at the few tables, and the locals never wear rain jackets despite the ubiquitous coastal drizzle.
It is drizzling now, as I sit here. Devon, a sailing captain and old co-worker of mine, called me over to his table when I walked in to get my morning fix of chocolate and coffee (they steam Ghirardelli’s into the milk here, and it is divine) and so I got a table despite my status as an outsider. Although I do not, of course, have on a rain coat, hoping as always to blend into the background of these places.

Devon is gone to “see about a boat” at the harbor, and I am left at a coveted table watching the slow rain coat the town from the huge arched church windows. I am scheduled to leave paradise today, and despite the fact that the last two days of unaccustomed sunshine have faded into damp and the mountains are veiled in mist, I am loathe to leave. These last days and hours have been a balm, between paddling and hiking up into the hills around town. Yesterday, I headed up Lost Lake trail and trekked about three miles up into the mountains before I turned around (the lake itself is seven miles in, a round trip I am neither conditioned for nor committed to this time). When I did finally turn to head back, the bay and her islands were spread out in the distance, beckoning, and the mountains jutted up on every side, snowpack and the telltale blue glow of glaciers peaking out in the sheltered bowls impossibly higher than my little goat trail through the alpine tundra. I sat in the cool afternoon breeze until I was well and cold, relishing the place, content, again, to just be in the mountains, feet on the earth, even on a relatively well traveled path like this one.

Last night, in another small-town moment, I met the sister of a friend and she exclaimed “oh, I saw you out Lost Lake this afternoon!” because even wilderness is well populated around towns and communities, even here where there is wilderness in every direction. I did some thinking about my little treks this trip so far. I am in no shape for expeditions these days anyway, and the thought of traveling utterly alone into the deep wilderness, although filling a place in my idealist’s soul, still leaves me with the anxiety of a pragmatist. On this trip north, I have made no plans for treks into the trackless tundra of the Alaska range or the Brooks further to the north. I did not map out an epic journey into Aialik or Northewestern Fjord with kayaks and bear cans and food for days, out of even radio contact with the outside world for as long. I am doing little day hikes, granted in spectacular wilderness, but all within an hours’ drive (to a few hours’ paddle) from towns along my route visiting friends across the state. These are the little adventures, the ways that these places are accessible even to me, just getting my sea-legs back into day trekking after several years of stagnation. Those trips are still on my horizon, I hope, but I am also relieved to find that the little forays into wild places can provide balm as well as the big ones.