After a visit from a coworker today, I started thinking about my trip to Alaska last summer and how glad I am that I went. While I was there, I experienced things that, even if I were to return, are probably things that I would not be able to recreate. I may have been the only person who ever experienced AND appreciated them to their fullness. I didn't have a great agenda or plan, and so I was able each day to stop and take a second or two and pause to take in things with my senses that words cannot describe. Except for the fact that I had nobody with whom to share them, I experienced an almost perfect moment every day I was there, and I will forever thank God for inspiring me to visit Alaska when I did. I almost think He arranged what I experienced knowing that I was coming. I realized that I witnessed something truly majestic while I was there, and I wish I could convey to you how it affected me.
I remember how, on both the first and last day, I visited an out of the way area where the canyon was lined with glaciers. The first day, I stepped out of the car into a soft sleet and made my way through some light brush to the lake that sits at the foot of the first glacier. It still awes me what I saw. The pure water was a blue, like the blue of the sky. Here, as close to the source as possible, it wasn't clear like water you see in movies, but it was literally blue. The lake was full of ice chunks. I listened for a moment to the sounds of silence. All I could hear was the soft patter of snow, the gurgle of a stream sliding into the far bank of the lake at the foot of the glacier, and the drip of water. It was an almost perfect moment.
Here at the edge of the frontier, the edge of civilization, I stood without any white noise or static of modern living. There were no people, no animals, no distractions that evince the bustle and hubbub of human existence. The only attendants were some birds moving so softly that I heard nothing until they landed and myself. The only noises were the primeval concertos where life begins to emerge after the long winter. The colors and feelings were ones I shall always hold dear. The only thing I would have changed is if you had been there with me to enjoy it. Even that would have changed it, but I would have changed it in order to share some of it with you.
For a moment, life didn't need to have any meaning or action or hurry. For a moment the most important thing for me to do was to stand still and listen. For a moment, I forgot myself and didn't worry about an avalanche killing or drenching me with ice-cold water. For a moment nothing else mattered except that moment. It was amazing, and I write this as much to myself as to you to remind me just how glad I am that I went to Alaska last summer. Since I came back, I have kind of wondered if it was worth it, particularly since some things in my life fell apart shortly after my return. I suppose I shall never need to go back now, but at least you can experience it with me this way.
The moments that matter most are with the people that we love. Given that Alaska taught me that I actually enjoy my own company, it met the minimum standard in that way. I know God was with me. He didn't have anything to say to me. I was just supposed to watch. I returned on my last day before I left, and it had changed dramatically. The biggest change was that when I arrived, I was not alone, and it was just not as spectacular when two other people decided to interrupt the moment by opening their mouths and digging out their smartphones.
When I go into the back country, I find something rather peculiar. Whereas the wildlife decides to go silent often when other people arrive, the world does not seem to be disturbed by me when I go there. I have stood a few feet from a deer at a watering hole and had hummingbirds fly beside me when I run. I notice that my presence doesn't disrupt the normal order of nature when I visit. Sometimes the wildlife is interested to see the intruder, but maybe they know that I'm there to partake with my eyes rather than my wallet, to experience with my soul rather than my hands, to trespass only as necessary to see what others only dream, and to appreciate the things God made to please the eye and gladden the heart. It was an almost perfect trip. All that was missing was you, a particular and practically perfect you.
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