Brachyramphus marmoratus

I’ve spent a great deal of time here in Alaska speechless, gaping at indescribable scenery and overwhelmed with the opportunity to sink into huge expanses of wilderness. Will my eyes ever recover from the glowing blue light that icebergs emit? Will my heart ever beat the same after hearing, actually hearing, a whale breathe?

My companions here in Alaska are varied and fascinating: humpback whales, Stellar sea lions, harbour seals, varied, Swainson’s, and hermit thrushes, ruby-crowned kinglets, salmon berries and blue berries, Alaska daisies, foxgloves, forget-me-nots—it is a long and exciting list made even more satisfying by the enthusiasm and generosity of my human hosts. I've actually eaten "Alaskan wild-caught salmon" IN Alaska!

What tickles me is that a typical neighborhood walk here in Juneau yields creatures that one just doesn’t expect to see from a roadside, at least one such as myself who hails from a less remote locale. Arctic terns, my old buddies, forage here—I can sit in the backyard (yes, the backyard) and watch them dive and swoop for herring and other delectables. They have a nesting colony at the foot of a local glacier. (Did you hear that? Local glacier? “Oh, let’s see—head past the glacier a few miles and turn right—you know, the glacier by the Safeway? That’s the one…”) And marbled murrelets, birds that until now I’ve only read about, whistle and coo at each other just beyond the intertidal zone.

Marbled murrlets have an astonishing life history—a female will lay her single egg high up in a mature evergreen tree, sometimes miles from shore and their seafood sustenance. Though seabirds, their nesting habitat requirements make them vulnerable to damage inflicted by logging, thus they are threatened or endangered throughout their range. They winter at sea. Can you imagine? A winter spent among waves and winds and ice. Like other alcids they are plump, chunky, squishy, mushy, all those wonderful adjectives we humans try so hard to distance ourselves from make these football sized birds all the more endearing.

Prior to my visit here I’d never before seen miles upon miles of unbroken coastline, entire panoramas unmarred by a single house, boat, road, or powerline. Just motor away from shore for a few minutes and suddenly you are alone. I’ve always eagerly looked out of plane windows, and my eyes naturally have scanned the ground below for parks, green splotches of trees and water—but on my flight to Juneau I found that it was the human communities that were dwarfed by expanses of wilderness, and not the other way around. My explorations have always been clouded with a sense of desperation—every view of every beautiful place always requires some editing. For some mysterious reason I find myself trying to erase the evidence of people in my view and always failing. I’m finally succeeding, and it seems to be allowing me to relax, to recharge in a very deep way.

I’m no fool. I know that a conservation crisis exists here as much as anywhere. Scratch the surface of beauty and you will find trouble. Like any place ghosts of native cultures and folk tales of formerly abundant wildlife haunt Alaska. While one fishery strengthens another loses ground. Uneducated tourists harass whales and their young. Decision makers must juggle demands for development with an intense and fragile landscape. The glaciers are receeding. More people are coming to stay. But I sense that the value of Alaska today hinges in part on its priceless ratio of wild to developed lands. I sense that it would be dangerous for humans to lose access to what is essentially an alternate reality—to feel so small in the face of so much space. Few people may ever get a chance to experience this phenomenon, but simply the idea of wilderness has sustained me through so much, and I can’t be alone in this. I know that some Alaskans must despise the remoteness of their home, and who am I to question them--but I hope that the people who live here are not blinded by their own good fortune, I hope they can appreciate, can cherish what they have to offer the world. I find myself praying that Alaska’s winter darkness and fierce mountains will continue to offer it some protection. I’m trying to have faith that it will.