I am swinging in a hammock in the shade of an abandoned hut that is being consumed by dunes.
I had an unusual visitor at my campsite along Jack Creek: Homesickness.
He presses the side of his once-famous face hard against the warm velvet of the giant sequoia, breathing the scent of eons of growth and struggle, feeling the basin and range of the bark against the length of his out-flung arms, his widest stretch embracing only a tiny span of the epic circumference.
The search had been going on for days. Every morning, just after dawn, the rangers gathered at headquarters to strategize the new day’s increasingly desperate efforts.
Teach me to be graceful in community
and beautiful in solitude
On some level I knew it was going to happen from the first evening I met Sam.
I am writing this along the banks of Jack Creek deep inside Wrangell St Elias National Park…in Alaska! It has again been a long time since you have heard from me.
I should have known that would be the last time I would see him; the eagle should have warned me.
I was only slightly nervous as I drove through the iron gates to his house.
He stands at the sink watching the sun set on the still water. “There will be stars in the lake tonight,” he says aloud to the emptiness.