Originally from Pennsylvania, I left home simultaneously seeking camaraderie with my brothers and generally to escape Pennsylvania. The first is of little surprise for the seven-years-youngest brother who grew close to his siblings visiting them while they were away (one of them, at least). I wanted another way to connect, so I set off determined to gain experience, insight, and change. I’m ultimately happy I did.
The second reason is somewhat more involved. I won’t say I had it rough, everyone has it rough one way or another. We all have scars; some may be worse than others, and no two show the same. That is to say, we all have a closet in our minds with memories we’d rather not sift through. Mine were of my father, though I never thought of it that way until now. The story is my own, but the lessons it taught me I think I may share.
Coming to Alaska was one of the greatest things to ever happen to me. Having spent some time in Florida and Texas, melting for ten months out of the year and crowded in bustling cities, feeling marrooned on a strange, alien-planet of flat land; I can summarize my time there as such: unbefitting a restless northern boy from the sticks.
But Alaska? A place where mountains abound and nature yet holds her dominion? Here I’ve found comfort. I’ve forever* felt a sense of wonder and connection to the mountains and to nature, much more at home in a small rural town or a pine forest than a bustling city. The ever-present opportunity to corral my border collies in the subbie and drive any direction, finding solitude in less than an hour. It’s unbeatable. Moreover, such solitude, combined with sheer distance, measured both in years and miles, from ones past? It lends itself to self-reflection. I knew I’d like Alaska, but I didn’t expect it’d change me.
*does seventh grade count as forever?
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