Cruising Altitude

When my friend Anne was 80, she told me the story of arriving at Galbraith Lake airport for the first time in the 70s. She said when she got off the plane and looked over at Sheep Mountain, she thought it was the most beautiful place in the world. Looking across that same valley this week while waiting for the plane, I can't help but agree.

Anne died a few weeks ago, and I smiled a sweet blessing to her yesterday afternoon as we taxied down that same gravel stip, took off and climbed to cruising altitude. Looking out on this scene, I gave thanks that she taught me that you can better yourself and have adventures all through your life -- once when embarking on a drive from Washington to Alaska with three small kids in the car, she took a side trip to Yellowstone -- and she went back to college in her 60s, got a degree and even worked a couple of years before she retired for good. She was a wonderful friend and role model.

The physical urgency of working in the far north makes each day new and immediate, and I can't believe it's been almost 20 years since I first got off the plane at Galbraith Lake. I'm a little surprised to find myself working out here again this year. It is hard to share the experience in words because there are so many superlatives. So cold. So dangerous. So beautiful. So dark, then`so light. So careful. So much kindness, consideration and caring.

I haven't really noticed that we've all been aging, but I feel it personally. There was a time when I could work 18 hours a day, day after day, but now I sometimes feel run down from long hours. I'm too old for this, I say with a laugh. I'm not done yet, but I doubt I will do it that much longer. I know I will grieve the day I leave for the last time. I draw great comfort from what I learned from Anne. It is pleasing for me to think that when I am 80, there's some chance I'll tell the story of being a young woman of 58 who worked in the stunning, violent, unforgiving, beautiful, amazing Arctic.

I will never forget Anne, or this mountain, or that how high you get in life is more about attitude than altitude. Happy Valentines Day (one day late) Anne, I love you.

Seeking Silence

I spend a lot of time detached from the planet – in short leaps of course -- last year I got on a commercial jet nearly 100 times. I’ve become accustomed to standing in lines like a knot on a rope of patience; showing this and that ID, again, again; keeping my face and mind flat, still, what did the Borg say? Resistance is futile. I grieve the loss of my love of flying, exhale the tiny voice of fear in my head, and accept this is how it now is. It’s only as stressful as I allow it to be.

The one thing I do find stressful about flying is the whistle of jet engines. That noise vibrates my brain in an uncomfortable way. Even back when flying was a pleasurable part of my life, I wore earplugs. Perhaps it’s because I think physical stillness should be accompanied by silence -- not just a reduction in decibels, but mental and spiritual peace. If getting aboard felt less intrusive, if the seats were wide and reclined, if a jet was as quiet as a sailboat, I think we might all hug the flight attendants and turn to wave goodbye at the end of a flight, instead of crowding the door in anticipation of escape and dragging our bags in a quick march up the ramp.

My big picture view of this is that silence makes it easier to listen, and listening is restful. And restfulness brings peacefulness, and peacefulness restores my body and soul. In the busiest day, I can take a mini-break, by simply turning off my brain cells for just a few seconds to really listen to what another person is saying. Perhaps it is also my responsibility as a member of the human family to do so – but I do it to give myself a break. If I really look at them and focus on the sound of their voice – just stop for a moment and not try to solve even the smallest problem -- I feel momentarily refreshed.

The city where I live is rightfully filled with the whoosh of traffic and chatter of community. At the remote industrial site where I work, we use generators for light and heat. Sometimes during daylight hours, I wish they ran more quietly. Sometimes in the night, I awake and listen in the darkness for their sound, reassuring myself that they are still there to sustain my life. I do not long for a return of the quiet skies that followed 911. I am part of, and enjoy, the hustle and bustle. But I also crave silence, and I don’t mean just what I don’t hear.

I photographed an icefall last weekend, and now that I look at these photos, I see stillness captured in transparent layers and swirls. If life is a river then this is a freeze-frame snapshot of the eternal process of its comings and goings. Still. Waiting. Resting. Peaceful. Caught in the moment of listening to me inhale, then hold my breath as I snap this photo. Perfect.