Segue

The summer job is over. Last Thursday afternoon I drove to Anchorage for a couple of days' worth of rest before resuming--tomorrow morning--the Drive Out.

As much as I dislike the word 'transition' (hence the title "Segue"), the three days here at Gail's in Anchorage have been restful and refreshing, and have provided a wonderful bridge from my fatigue to the eagerness to be on the road again. The bulk, and weight, of much of my stuff will find its way to Wisconsin via UPS starting Tuesday; MSCARLT's burden has been dramatically lightened--as has my anxiety at what a fully loaded car does to its tires, let alone the reduction in gas mileage. Yesterday we drove down to Summit Lake on the Kenai Peninsula to gawk at leaves (not yet at their peak), fresh snow (not yet anything serious), and stop in Girdwood at the Bake Shop (not yet overcrowded with snowy skiers) for some delicious Minestrone. I will admit to catching catnaps as Gail drove.

Mostly what I've done for the last couple of days is process the summer's experience. About halfway through the summer I'd come to the conclusion that I'd accomplished what I set out to do in committing two summers to working at Camp Denali/North Face Lodge. This would wrap it up. I was done. As August went on, my resolve weakened. The rain let up and the sun shone, the tundra came alive with the most spectacular display of autumnal color I've ever seen--and I'm from New England!

Then the first wing of migrating Sandhill Cranes flew over. If there is a signature moment that says to me, "It's Autumn," it's the rattly gobble of the cranes overhead. While waiting for the guests' arrival on a Friday evening, we watched a huge flock rise from the nearby tundra, their cluster enlarging, tightening, winging up, circling ever higher--we were transported as we watched. It's not something you can capture in a photograph, or record; it is an experience. And it simply fills you up.

And being full of the experience, I started to think: what are the things arguing for ending my stint here after two summers. Blasted mosquitoes. Those mornings when the room is freezing. Walking up that hill. Walking back down that hill with the knee that doesn't like descents. The more I thought, the more I realized that my dark spells came when I recognized that I'd performed at less than my best in the job. Hmmm. We're getting somewhere here.

Then came the morning that the last guests left. I checked in with the breakfast servers and kitchen staff to congratulate them on the summer being over, and I realized just how hard they'd all worked, and how well they'd done. Double hmmm.

Two days later, staff were boarding Happy Bus for the trip out of the park. Engines revved, gears meshed, wheels turned. We waved them out of the yard even as we wiped tears that kept falling...and they were gone. Then I put the last couple of things in the car and began my own cycle of departure hugs. And the awareness hit me again--as it did last summer: we really are like a family. We live in the same small community, we work side-by-side for several months, we grow to know each other so well we can laugh heartily as all our foibles and frustrations appear in the staff spoofletter.

That's when it hit me. All the reasons I cited for this being the end were just annoyances. Do the mosquitoes drive me nuts? Yes. But can I live with them? Yeah, most likely. That's why there's insect repellent. Is it cold in the mornings? Yes. Does it warm up? Yes. Well, kind of. But can I live without that nighttime view of stars peeking through the aurora? The company of laughing co-workers watching the display from the roof, all wrapped in down garments and blankets? The golden glow of the leaves flaming above brilliant red bearberry and orange dwarf birch? The friendships, the shared work and purpose? Most likely not. These are the important parts. They're what I remembered from last year;they're what will warm me through the winter.

So it took me a couple of months, but I finally got it into words. You can live with the annoying parts. But you can't live without what's important. Something not to forget.