16. up with the people, down with the lawn exectations
When I told people I wanted to go to Alaska, they typically responded with “bears!” or “everything is just so big in Alaska!” Yes, true, we’ve seen seven bears this week and yes, it’s gigantic. Mountains are huge and there’s enough space for everyone and everything to spread their arms out wherever they please.
What no one told me was that we would meet a man at a crepe stand and he would recommend a tiny oasis to camp where we would meet his aunt and later be graciously and enthusiastically invited on his boat for two nights to spend the solstice at his family cabin across the bay. We were welcome to help him gather firewood, but we’re not obligated to do anything but enjoy ourselves.
No one told me we would meet two twenty year olds who were on their first ever bikepacking trip. They pulled into camp full of questions and searching for chamois advice. When one of them told us he got a new sleeping bag, his face lit up as if it were the most important, fluffy, and exciting thing he could have possibly purchased.
No one told me a man named Jammer would pick us up on one particularly windy day to bring us into town when we were fed up with the highway. Two days later, he spotted us as we rolled up to a Safeway, “Emily! hey!” he yelled, his granddaughter peering across the dashboard to wave at us as well.
No one told me we would meet a couple on a dock in Seldovia who, within minutes offered to give us a pair of shoes so we could hike and then told us we could simply stay in her house while they were gone. We’re here now, on their couch, surrounded by plants, skylights, an open door, and a pile of National Geographics. Their house has wiggly driftwood banisters and we have specific instructions on how to navigate the shower knobs, she installed them opposite of usual knobs.
No one told me there were farmers markets where if you rode your bike, you received a notably used and recirculated paper coupon for $2 off any item for sale. I bought homemade lemon ice cream and ate it in the drizzle as a tiny child in a full rain suit bobbled around and grinned at everyone -her grandma said this market is her favorite place to be.
I’m on a stranger’s couch, their dirty pan on the stove, feeling tired of always locking doors and feeling obligated to clean for company. I want to live like Sue and Gordy, who live in this house, and care more about my neighbors or strangers than I do about my lawn. I want to make rainbow signs about all the birds who live in these hills and remind folks to watch for ground nests if they walk in the grass. I want to jump like the child on the boat who had clearly practiced how to feel weightless when the boat bounced over other wakes. I want to trust the people who ramble along in old trucks and the folks at the laundromat - why would they want my damp chamois, anyways?
There’s bigness here, there’s also a seeming endless pile of kindness, trust, and community. People care, they’re soft and sweet, rugged and hearty. Maybe it’s the consistency of Xtratuf boots on most people’s feet, the incredible amounts of sunshine, or the fact that it’s not so easy to live here, but there’s a kindness strong enough to match the bigness, and maybe even take on the bears. :)