To Walk is to Dream

 To imagine walking alone down an ice-covered gravel highway north of the Brooks Range when it's minus forty degrees Fahrenheit, one must consider fire. Human skin is comfortable in a relatively narrow range of temperatures and when we take it beyond its limits either through heat or cold, the feeling is similar. Extreme cold is as painful and deadly as extreme heat. Seeing this man walking north with nothing but a small cart is not a complete surprise as he's been preceded by Haul Road rumors. But I am startled.

Caribou, ravens and foxes have proved their mettle through generations, but few humans venture into the Arctic winter, even with good reason and a safety net. Here is someone who faces it alone, with nothing more than he can carry. I observe him from the comfort of our heavy warm truck. We've spent a lot of days hunkered down this stormy winter, not even driving, to avoid the possibility that we might get stuck for a few hours. He chooses to travel for days, on foot, alone and exposed. My brain chews on this enigma.

While common in some parts of the world, I'd venture pilgrims are scarce above the Arctic Circle. And this one is both rare and mysterious. Accustomed to peeking behind the magician's curtain with a quick Yahoo search, I am surprised to find little more than his name, Toru Yamaguchi, and a quick note in the Fairbanks NewsMiner that he started at the southern tip of South America five years ago and plans to finish at Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, the northern coast of North America. I didn't even know there was a Pan American Highway and he has almost walked its length. I found no Facebook page, no blog, no website where he posts daily snapshots from a satellite phone, but an article in the Fairbanks NewsMiner includes a quick quote from Texas in 2007.

"People think I need help," he says, "but I don't need help. I love to walk. This is my dream.

To walk is to dream. Toru Yamaguchi walks slowly and deliberately. Perhaps it is because of the weight of the cart he pulls, or perhaps it's simply that after five years, he's in no hurry. I reflect on what it might be like to have walked the world from stem to stern. First, I envy how much closer he is to these Arctic mountains than I will ever be, and then I envy the hours he has spent listening to the symphony of the Americas. Then I move beyond envy to consider that to an outsider, such a traveler might appear foolish or fearless, but he is more likely self-aware, self-confident and self-contained. He has experienced truths that were impossible to understand. In the steamy press of a jungle or a dreamy frigid Arctic landscape, his own breath has been a constant companion. He has tested his mettle, and found fear can be pushed back to reveal a world much bigger than most of us could envision. He is not bound by politics or geography. Life and death are his limits, each constantly within reach. After five years, I'm guessing it doesn't feel like a huge journey so much as one brilliant moment after another, each step a lifetime within a lifetime.

To imagine what it's like to walk alone down an ice-covered highway north of the Brooks Range when it's minus forty degrees Fahrenheit, one must take into account that each life includes personal pilgrimages. While most are smaller in scale, they take us beyond day to day existence, and allow us to breath in, breath out, and see the dream that is our life. An evening walk reveals a sunset more beautiful than we have ever seen. Love-lifted wings carry us through a terrible life 'storm.' The awakening journey of pregnancy connects us to our ancestors and human continuity. The death of a friend, parent or child leads our hearts into unknown territory. From these experiences, we constantly refine our limits, and learn that while we can touch the pathways of other lives, no one can save another from their life's truths. Like Toru Yamaguchi, we make our own way and we all walk alone.

I watch him in the rear view mirror as we drive away. We shared a few words, and smiled warm thoughts for his safe journey. He said 'thank you' when he grasped the apple and orange I held out the window and I felt grateful that he had accepted our gift. Perhaps his face lit up, thinking of fresh sweet juice streaming down his throat on a dry Arctic highway. I can only imagine. Like a true pilgrim, he remained a mystery. The mask protecting his face from the cold completely hid his features. We never even saw his eyes.

In This Moment

I was lucky this year because I was happy so much of the time. I spent a few days with my younger brother in early December when we made a trip to see our Mom – and like many siblings, I guess, we enjoyed exploring the many ways we have turned out alike. Most of all, we are both fundamentally happy.
I’ve read that happiness is genetic – you are either born that way or not – and Harvard Medical School says it’s also contagious – spending time with a happy friend (or brother) increases your happiness ‘quotient’ by 15%. But even so, I have wondered how happiness is sustained in spite of the inevitable trials and sorrows of a normal life. Little brother says it’s all about living in just this moment. I am familiar with the Buddhist ideal of living in the moment, but little brother’s view has a quantitative twist. Add up the moments of your life, he says, a normal year has 525,600 minutes, and a Leap Year like 2008 has 527,040. Now, just think how many of those minutes were actually frightening or sad – not that many – with a little luck, almost all of the moments of our lives are filled with the potential for happiness.

Now of course, to really benefit from this equation, one must be quick and willing to let go of dark memories and allow the twinkle of shining seconds to light the soul. So, I thought I’d reflect on bright moments from this year to celebrate the fact that in spite of passing through anger, anxiety, and great despair, I survived with my overall happiness intact. Through these memories, I relive the moments of joy, and looking back on them, I feel lucky because I was happy so much of the time.

Febuary 15 - After a long drive from the airport, we crested the last hill and looked down on 'home.' It was minus 47 degrees and I think this scene captures how tenuous life is in the high Arctic. We humans are not at all special here. We are fragile and we have to be really careful. There’s a tension and fairness to it. Each moment alive is precious.

March 8 - From 34,000 feet, Slope Mountain looks like an underwater landscape. In a way, it is; we do live in Water-world, the blue planet. The water in the atmosphere isn’t dense enough to be a cloud, but looking through over six miles of water vapor is like looking down into an ocean. This is my favorite mountain, and I thought I knew it well, but in this moment, I saw hidden mysteries of time, wind and water that I’d never noticed before.

June 16 - The caribou that live on the North Slope all give birth within a few weeks in June. Driving north, we came upon this herd of thousands. There were moms, dads and babies scattered across the tundra as far as we could see.

July 12 - Here’s the southwest corner of ANWR, the part of Alaska at the center of great political debates for decades. It's made up of mountains and plains, myths and legends. Look at those cloud shadows, drifting across the slopes like a long told story passed down through generations.

August 3 - Our little dog Roxy is a constant source of love, surprise and delight. When we adopted her two years ago, she was a frightened, anxious little thing -- it is amazing to watch her blossom and change. Just goes to show the power of giving and receiving love. Any day with Roxy and Walter is a good, and happy, day for me.

August 19 - I was watching a herd of musk ox off the side of the road when I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a young male challenge the herd leader. It was all over in a few minutes, and the young one was banished to a solitary life down the road. I didn't see this because I was clever -- just lucky to be in the right place at the right time.

September 8 - I was having a bad day, a really bad day, at work. When the power went out, and I thought – I’m outa’ here – I’m going to take a ‘time out.’ I’d driven about 5 miles when I saw three Dahl Sheep ewes and three lambs just off to the right. I decided I’d walk toward them taking pictures. If you’ve ever been around wild sheep, you know that they have a ‘sight’ alarm – when they catch sight of you, even a mile away, they just start moving up hill. So, I never dreamed I’d get very close. But these sheep didn’t run away. As I walked uphill, they walked down toward me until we were in one group. I was so close, I could hear them munching on golden grass.
I believe this to be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, when the beam of an undeserved blessing shone down on me. Two days later, I’d learn of the dark days ahead. I got through them in part by looking at these steady brown eyes. ‘Don’t’ be afraid,’’ they seem to say, “everything will be okay.”

October 10 - I went straight from the airport to the hospital, and it was several hours before I drove downtown to check in to my hotel. As I drug my bag to the front door, I saw them there in the gutter – tiny brown birds, diving, shaking, wagging their tales in a puddle from that afternoon’s rainstorm. The reflection of the red brick building across the street turned the water a delightful peach color. I couldn’t help but smile and shake my head, ‘thank you, thank you, for this priceless moment’ I said dropping my bag, and digging out the camera. They looked so happy, oblivious to the tragedy unfolding in my life. I’d travelled from the Arctic Ocean to the Gulf of Mexico that day, from winter to a warm autumn day. I can remember thinking I couldn’t possibly be too sad when the air felt so warm and comforting. Of course, I was wrong about that, but I also remember thinking that the potential for beauty and joy exists around every corner even when the darkest cloud is overhead. About that, I was correct.


December 23 - At the opening reception for my art show in November, two couples whispered, “we just got married.’ They’d flown to California just before the election, as an act of civil disobedience, one told me. So I made each couple a wedding pillow, just like I’ve done for other friends over the years. I just took a short walk in a blizzard to deliver the second gift.

Is a quilted pillow an act of civil disobedience? I think not. I may never actively march, give a speech, or otherwise protest myself. Perhaps my part is to celebrate the courage of those who do. I'm inspired by my friends and our new president to renew thoughts of service. We each have a part in our great, strong country. When I think of peace and freedom, and realize that either can begin with me, I think, "what an amazing opportunity!" It's a humbling happy thought to end the year.