THIRSTY IN THE RAIN: KIM HEACOX

Alaskan author Kim Heacox spoke last night in the season's final "Wildlife Wednesday," a multi-agency lecture series sponsored in part by Conoco Phillips. Hailing from Gustavus, population 440 or so, Heacox is one of Alaska's most notable nature writer/photographers. His books include The Only Kayak and In Denali.

Personable and sincere, Heacox read, with commentary, from his essay "Thirsty in the Rain: Reflections on Restlessness." He spoke with genuine love of Gustavus, a place where "green is more than a color - it's a texture," a place that's "the perfect mix of imperfections."

Where he lives, Heacox says, "Nature isn't just another channel on the TV. If you're not smart, it will kill you - and we like it that way." It's an attitude that comes off as arrogance when some folks hop on their homespun soapboxes and rail about Outsiders who should have known better.

Heacox turns it full circle, making us wonder about ourselves. A weird, sick part of us does like it that way. Or maybe it's not so weird. It's how we channel our restless spirits to Nature, who isn't so sure she wants to make friends.

"Alaska's still a frontier," Heacox says. "As such, it's transformative." If we allow it, and sometimes when we don't. Mostly when we stay thirsty, even in the rain.

TRAIL WISE

It's not a book, but it might as well be. The authors are many. Mushers racing to Nome are known to the world. But there were also indigenous people. Explorers. Prospectors. Railroad workers. Telegraph linemen.

Last night I attended a kick-off function for the four-year celebration of the 100th anniversary of the Iditarod Trail. One hundred is an arbitrary number, given archaelogical digs unearthing evidence of prehistoric use of parts of the route. But on Christmas Day in 1908, gold was discovered in the Iditarod Fields, ending the debate about which route was best for hauling supplies overland from the port town of Seward to the bustling gold rush metropolis that was Nome.

Ghosts must roam the trail. Dreams were chased, tackled, and lost here. Wilderness is quick to erase the human footprint. The once booming town of Flat, a regular stop for Pan American and Alaska Airlines in the 1930's, is now no more than a rag-tag collection of falling-down buildings, barely a comma's pause in the expansive forests, tundra and mountains that surround it.

Like all good books, the National Historic Iditarod Trail whispers of fleeting forms, wild dreams, and desperate souls.

SMALL GESTURES

This quote, ostensibly spoken by the character playing Harper Lee in the film "Infamous," made the rounds on a few writer listservs last week, generating a bit of discussion:

“America is not a country where the small gesture goes noticed. We’re not a country like France where charm, something light or effervescent can survive. We want everything you have and we want it as fast as you can turn it out. I read in an interview with Frank Sinatra, which he said about Judy Garland. ‘Every time she sings she dies a little.’ It’s true for writers, too, who hope to create something lasting. They die a little getting it right. And the book comes out and there’s a dinner. Maybe they give you a prize and then comes the inevitable and very American question: “What’s next?” But the next thing can be so hard because now you know what it demands.”

The small gesture means much, even if it's not at the forefront of the American mindset. To those who cherish nature, it's nearly everything. Alaska, like so many places, is a paradoxical mix of those who covet the small gesture and those who could care less. I like to think there are more of us small-gesture types, but that might be wishful thinking

Writers do die a little getting it right, not only wielding the broad brush of truth but dabbing their creations with the small gestures that encompass it. If we seek recognition - lasting recognition - then we may as well die all at once and get it over with. We know what this task demands, and we do it anyway. Not because someone asks "what's next?" but because we cannot contain our passion for beauty and truth and the sheer joy of creation.

WHY SHOULDN'T I BE OKAY?

This weekend I finished The Glass Castle, a memoir by Jeannette Walls. It's a mesmerizing read. Walls' irresponsible, dysfunctional parents were, as her mother put it, "addicted to excitement." Had they had more money, they would have run off to Alaska - it made her alcoholic father's short list of escape routes.

Reading the book reminded me of two exceptional Alaskan memoirs: Kim Rich's Johnny's Girl and Natalie Kusz' Road Song. It's been awhile since I read Road Song, which came out in 1991, and unfortunately it appears to be out of print. If you can get your hands on a copy, I recommend it heartily. Thankfully, Rich's amazing memoir is still available. She recounts a harrowing childhood, growing up in the underbelly of Anchorage during the 1960's, with a father as incredibly dysfunctional as Walls'.

Rich states clearly what Walls implies. People marvel at how well she turned out, despite the wild ride in her formative years. "What did you expect?" she asks. "Why shouldn't I be okay?"

Much fuss has been made over the dysfunctional family. I'm as much an advocate of good parenting as the next person. But I've yet to meet the perfect parent. Parents do the best they can with what they have.

I once heard a husband say to his wife - and I'm paraphrasing here - "Why don't you admit it? Your family was dysfunctional. Of course you're messed up." That sort of statement says more about the arrogance of the speaker than anything else.

Walls and Kusz and Rich traveled roads no child should have to go down. But they did more than survive. In telling their tales, they celebrate the triumph of the human spirit and the power of love.

APRIL SNOWS

Talk about weather. We do it everywhere, especially in Alaska, where our weather is something of a novelty. Our seasons don't jive with the tidy patterns learned in grade school. Winter begins early and ends late. Summer, fall, and spring sprint past in a blur.

Outside my window, an icicle has fallen into our latest blanket of snow. Each day it grows like a fat carrot, thickening like our winter, holding on. Down the street, a dozen mallards huddled beside an open spot in the pond, beaks tucked beneath their wings, blinking at the swirling snow. The next day they were gone, the open spot glazed with ice.

This winter, though odd weather-wise, has been the finest of the 29 I've spent in Alaska. There've been complaints about scant snow, snow too late, warming when it was supposed to be cold, cold when we thought it should be warm. I took my snow tires off too soon.

But every day was an adventure. No more waiting, longing, or planning my escape.

Weather changes. Finally I did, too, finding joy in what is, right now, and not concerning myself with what should be.

PAST TENSE

Two days ago, BP and Conoco announced that they're going to build a natural gas pipeline to haul Alaska's gas to markets in the Lower 48. They emphasized that this was not a plan; it was a project that begins now - the Denali project. Alaskans know how much political wrangling wraps around this simple announcement. It's the answer to prayer begged for on the bumper stickers: "Please, God, give us another pipeline. We promise not to waste it this time."

Pipelines are deja vu for Alaskans. We boom and bust, hoping for more boom and less bust on each go-round. We watch the road ahead, all the while glancing in the rear-view mirror.

All of which has me thinking about the past. One of my upcoming projects (Sasquatch, 2009 - in conjunction with the 50th anniversary of statehood) has me exploring Alaskan archives. Amazing places, these archives. Millions of photos, tens of thousands of family stories - all preserved. A person could spend a lifetime there and only skim the surface.

Paradoxically, in my own life, I'm trying to focus myself on the present moment, to not get caught up in the past or worry about the future. It's not as easy as it sounds. All sorts of pithy little things can be said about the past - how we learn from it, how we try not to repeat its mistakes, how it forms who we are.

As I pour over amazing photos from Alaska's past, I think of each as a moment captured not in time but outside of it, a snapshot of what was one person's present. The energy can't be relived or captured in two dimensions, but like a good poem or story, the images ring with truth.

Now if only we can figure out the truth about the pipeline, which will carry hopes and dreams, some of them twisted and wrong, along with a more mundane kind of energy.

American Idol for writers? Sounds like fantasy, but a new venture, WEbook, is giving it a spin. At the newly launched www.webook.com, writers can initiate either public or private collaborative efforts. Post your work on WEbook and you'll have a shot at being published - not vanity publishing, but royalty-based. I haven't checked out the legal fine print, but it's an interesting concept.

Writers complain that the current publishing model is broken. A multitude of problems prevail: unrealistic advances to big-name authors whose books don't earn out, mergers into mega-companies, overly-generous return policies, and the takeover of the book market by chain stores where publishers pay for books to be positioned.

As the traditional market becomes increasingly dollar-driven and exclusive, the far end of the market is busting at its seams. Print on demand machines can now print and bind books in 15 minutes, all at your local bookstore. And now comes online collaboration, with investors onboard.

Any takers, Alaska?