notes of a non-combatant

if only there were a reason

This blog won’t be as much of a journal or a log as it will be a story of my endeavors and experiences, all starting two weeks ago. The time frame, however, is irrelevant for those who know me well, as this is simply deja vu for most. I often question myself, frequently wondering “what am I doing with my life?”, “why am I doing this?”, and “is my time best spent as is?” Infrequently, my answers have turned out to be “I don’t know,” “I still don’t know,” and “probably not.” In these moments, I throw my mind towards the problem in order to sort out the equation to provide more favorable answers. In other words, I change my life to make it all worthwhile.

First it was a month spent on a motorcycle, my old girl Kacie. We tore across North America, living- and often sleeping- on the road. Maryland, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, Colorado, Utah, Idaho, Montana, Washington, British Columbia, Oregon, California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee, and Virginia. If that list was a bit much to read, imagine taking it all in via the saddle of my old Suzuki; eating in roadside diners, reading books in desolate canyons, and sleeping on picnic tables underneath the stars . To say the least, the trip broadened my horizons.

But the horizon wasn’t broad enough, and there was one road that had always called to me yet eluded me, as beautiful and dangerous as the Sirens and their song. The Alaska-Canada Highway, better known as the Alcan, stretched thousands of miles beyond my previous furthest destinations. As time passed, my motorcycle was totaled in a crash that should have taken my life with it. My bones healed, I had my heart broken a little, and then I graduated from college. The pieces had fallen into place such that I had absolutely no solid obligations, was uprooted, and yearned for more. I packed up my tiny car and went to Alaska.

Juneau was more beautiful than I could have imagined. Mountains that nearly block out the sky, wearing solid snow caps year-round. Streams teeming with enough fish that you could nearly walk across their backs. Lakes as still as glass, surrounded by evergreen trees so tall that only the mountains could upstage them. Autumn colors that turned beautiful shades of orange and yellow, but not across the trees; rather the grasses lit up with color, flipping the stereotypical fall landscape upside-down. All shrouded in a misty veil, a fog that would hide all of nature’s gems and jewels from view, only until it was ready to show itself. Alaska was magical.

Juneau afforded the opportunity to escape civilization; many destinations, daytrips, and hikes had to consider the possibility of injury or death in total isolation. Accidental falls into water causing hypothermia, exposure to the elements, possible bear attacks, or even a simple injury… if any of these were to happen on certain hikes, it could be days before I- or my body- would have been found. Coming from a world where cell phone service is rampant and bears are extremely rare, it was a breath of fresh air to hear the brown bear rummaging for fish in the creek as I checked the time on my cell phone, which was very much out of service range. This isolation, though, took its toll.

And so I had to return to the lower forty-eight for several reasons. Isolation is difficult to cope with. Isolated villages have very few options for employment, housing, and are extremely expensive to regularly travel from. I knew that if I were to see my family again, with my current finances, I could only afford the trip out of Alaska, without return.  And when my job had ended, in the dead of winter, I drove thousands of miles across snow-logged Canadian roads back into mainland America. It wasn’t long before I was renting the room that I’m currently laying in, tapping away at my keyboard as I write this post.

Denver had the best of both worlds: the large urban epicenter that I had grown so used to, nestled alongside the enormous mountains that I had come to love. It offered the comforts of mainstream America with the opportunities to explore Mother Nature at her best. It certainly lived up to everything I had thought it would be. But when I speak of Denver- even though I am currently here- it is in past-tense, simply because it is a closing chapter of my youth. With every day, every new experience, every conversation, I am growing. For now, I feel as though I’ve slightly outgrown Denver. Not to say that Denver doesn’t have so much to offer, of which I have barely experienced any of. Indeed, there are lifetimes of experiences to be had in this town, but my hopes, dreams, and goals have taken themselves beyond these mountains and plainlands. My dreams have grown, and even though I’ve found some of the best that America has to offer, I’ve begun to look beyond America.

And that infrequent condition that I rarely find myself in, wondering what I am doing with my life and wondering if my time could be better spent… it’s occurring again. And as I’ve done every time before, I enact change in my own life; the kind of change that turns my entire world upside down.