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LETTERS FROM THE GREAT WHITE NORTH....
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By: Michael Forbes
| 10/01/2009 |
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Michael, Mike Downer, and Andrew Varney
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LETTERS FROM THE GREAT WHITE NORTH....
I apologize for not writing a letter in several months. Most readers probably did not notice, but after several voice mails from various members of my family wondering if I was still alive, I decided to resurface from my testosterone-induced, adrenaline-pumping, beard-donning, bear-wrestling, gun-shooting, fish-slaying, 100 percent epic wilderness adventures and write another letter to the hometown newspaper, if for no other reason than to assure my family that I did not do something that they made me promise I would not do (and thus wind up bear scat).
Today the snow appeared atop the mountaintops in the Glen Alps for the first time. This serves as a warning sign that the long, harsh, bitter winter is only a few weeks away from sinking her teeth back into us, and also signified that my glorious summer of freelance wandering had completely come to an end. Indeed, we are several weeks into a new school year (at a new school for me), and I'm readjusting to the annoying beeping sound I hear at an ungodly hour every morning. It also means that it has been just over a year since Andrew, Mike and I began a story of male bravado in Alaska, the place where boys go to become men (Seriously. This past spring I did my taxes and began shaving twice a week).
As I reflect on our year together, I can't help but be proud of the fact that we stayed alive. On multiple occasions we were aliens in a foreign land, relying on a combination of Andrew's eight or so years of Scouts (and general aura of responsibility) and pure luck to finagle our way through situations. On our first hike we got lost, a horrific omen by any measure, but we continued to test fate and offer ourselves to the untamed hand of the land. Each time we set out for a new adventure, we grew more cocksure, slightly wiser, and, inevitably, older. I say this because I am confident that Alaska has morphed us from the wily little boys who showed up last August, into the muscle-toting men we now see in front of the mirror every day.
Not too long ago, on a cool early fall morning (a definition meaning roughly sometime before noon), the three men could be found in apartment three at 7500 Petersburg. They were all using a real sitting device (see: chairs), and setting their coffee mugs (filled with cowboy black coffee) on a real ping pong table (see: kitchen table). A crumpled map, two hiking backpacks, several fishing poles, and a large bow knife also lay across the table. Bob Dylan echoed slightly in the background, and it was hard to tell if the floor was harder to see (due to the crusted mud build-up) than the countertop (due to the insanely high pile of dirty dishes). Inspection of the freezer would have found that there was no room for boyish popsicles, because all available space was filled with fresh halibut, salmon, and moose meat. A three day old pizza box was being passed from one man to the other, but words were not spoken, only a carefully choreographed sequence of grunts and points.
At this moment, as I pondered my upcoming October wedding, I couldn't help but think about how lucky my fiancé was that she was getting me after a year of being turned into a real man by the Great White North.
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©The Lone Tree Reporter 2010
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