Warm canyons, the intuition of seagulls and the weight of loss
I’m back in Anchorage and there’s suddenly a lot of seagulls. The cacophony of their cries reminds me of being a child here, and the dystopic grey vibes of this city when the snow melts (except for a few filthy piles) but nothing has leafed out yet. Google tells me that most, but not all, of the seagulls in Alaska leave for the winter. I wonder what determines which ones stay, and how those seagulls feel about being left behind. Maybe they don’t feel like they’ve been left behind, instead they’re grateful for the peace- it’s so quiet, and there are fewer seagull brethren to compete with for stray pizza crusts. I go on a walk with my friend Sarah and we watch about a hundred of these gulls chase an eagle away above an island in the newly melted Westchester Lagoon, where we skated in winter. The seagulls are much smaller than the eagle but with all of them together the eagle doesn’t stand a chance. I wish us humans could organize like that, intuitively and without fear. I’ve been feeling spectacularly depressed about the state of the world lately, moreso than usual. But maybe it’s just perimenopause? Sarah says that our hormones drop off once we’re no longer able to procreate because statistically, as far as human history goes, this is about as long as people used to live. We need those hormones to function and feel good, though, so what to do with the fact that we’re still alive? I definitely feel that every year since 35 has been, for me, a bonus year, and not always in a positive way- there’s so much loss inherent in being alive, it builds up and builds up. At this point it feels like a hundred pound weight I’m dragging around. I don’t have capacity for any more, yet as long as I’m alive new loss will continue to crash against me, like waves breaking against a rocky seashore. Death allows this loss to decompose, melt back into the soil and get recycled into new, more naïve beings, stupidly hopeful. And so life continues. I’m not going to do anything to make death come faster but it is soothing to me that if I just wait patiently it’s guaranteed to someday arrive. And in the meantime, I want to build a twenty foot high wall around my tired-ass heart. Maybe I already have. The urge to move into the woods and become a hermit, get some goats and chickens and never talk to anyone again, is very strong. Perhaps that’s where the trope of the crone in her cottage in the woods comes from- we live too long, and the constant disillusionment of life breaks us, and we have to retreat.
I suppose this is all to say that this year has been hard for me so far. My health has been… weird- I got sick a bunch of times (I never used to get sick) and I’ve developed spectacular seasonal allergies. My sleep has been godawful (perimenopause or my usual insomnia? Hard to say) and my hair won’t stop falling out- every time I wash it there’s a lot of hair and I think, there, surely it’s done, my hair will stop falling out now and then next time I wash it there’s even more. The hair thing is probably perimenopause for sure. And depression has been following me like a black cloud that I just can’t shake. And then all my friends are struggling too, and the world- I’m afraid of what the future holds, I’m afraid of things that are happening right now. Fear grips me like a vice. And it’s been hard to address any of this because there’s been so much transition in my life the past few months. My guided trips in Arizona and Utah were so great! And provided temporary distraction, warm nights sleeping in canyons watched over by juniper trees, but then I returned to my life and was like damn.
However! I leave Anchorage for Fairbanks this week, one more step in the process of getting settled again and finally being able to deal with my shit. I keep having this vision of laying in a sunbeam on the wooden floor of the cabin that I eventually find to rent, my dogs laying next to me. It’s warm, and outside the boreal forest is quiet. Mosquitoes tap against the windowscreen. A cup of tea, forgotten, cools on the table. I’ve spent the morning working on edits for my novel, and soon I’ll ride my bike into town to do laundry and visit friends.
I’ve started compulsively looking at land for sale. It doesn’t make any sense because I don’t have the money but did you know that there are small tracts of land for sale in the desert, completely waterless, for like 25k? These plots of bare, bright dirt are fantastically terrible investments but I have a fantasy of owning one, of towing a busted trailer there and putting out a couple of lawn chairs. In this fantasy I leave my little cabin in Alaska for a few months every winter with my dogs and we dry out, let the wind rock the trailer and throw dust at us. It would just feel so good to own something, even if it was just sand.
I’m looking forward to teaching my online caltopo class on April 28- it’s sliding scale, and the bottom of the scale is zero, so you should come even if you can’t pay anything! Deets and the link to register are here. And there’s still one spot in each of the sessions of my July Brooks Range trips, which are lowkey going to be trips of a lifetime, if I do say so myself- deets for those are here. Also, I’m currently planning some other upcoming trips- I’ll post about that here, so subscribe if you want to get these newsletters in yr email!
That’s all for now,
Carrot
I hear you. I'm 73. The losses continue. But, so does the desert, the spring, skating on the pond.. love.. puppies.
I loved reading this, weirdly made me feel better.
The hair loss might be a thyroid issue. At least that was my experience. I was encouraged by my hair cutting person to see a doctor about it.
Carrot you should consider San Felipe Baja Mexico for your piece of sand. I’ve spent winter months here for more than a decade. Summer in remote Montana. For $25K you can have a small casita near the sea. Love your work and would be happy to give you more info. Kick back fishing village 2 hrs from the border. Not the tourist scene at all.