Cross-legged on the cushion of my couch, I close my eyes, and the wild breeze of the Talkeetna Mountains blows.

The crisp air feels as untamed as it did the afternoon I reached the mountain saddle. I can still feel how the gentle current bathed my tanned, unwashed skin as it swept over the grassy curves of the range, and how there was no shush or woosh or wisp to accompany its force—just a raw silence so unfamiliar to my ears.

I remember the sweet relief of sliding my pack off my tender shoulders and how cool the Alaskan tundra felt on my muscled legs as I lowered myself to rest on the ground. I picked at the tips of nearby wildflowers and tussocks, rubbing their silky dew between my fingers while I watched a river of stratus clouds course east over the valley floor, over 2,000 feet below.

Looming in the distance was a mosaic of snow- and grass-covered peaks from the neighboring Chugach Range, as far as my naked eyes could see.

The expansiveness of that moment—both around and within me—still overwhelms. As I looked around, I felt I had waited my entire life to reach that saddle. It was possibly the closest to Heaven (if such a place exists) that I’d ever been. 

A fast-moving rain swept through the Chugach and over our trekking group as we descended the slope. We hiked for another two hours in the wet weather until we made camp on the soggy edge of a lake. Cold and tired, we huddled under our tarp tents to keep dry, gathered around the WhisperLite stoves to stay warm. Eventually, someone questioned the day of the week, a practical thought that hadn’t crossed my mind.

“I became awash in a growing need for presence; one day gained meant another day gone, and I felt I could stay in Alaska forever.”

Even in the Land of the Midnight Sun, where constant daylight distorts any biological understanding of time, we were still bound by the clock. Day six of eight, we learned, was coming to a close. I became awash in a growing need for presence; one day gained meant another day gone, and I felt I could stay in Alaska forever.

A good life awaited me outside the mountains, eager to wrap me in my husband’s loving arms and my German Shepherd’s loyal companionship. I missed their sweet, solemn affection, too. But being away magnified how navigating the messy, pot-hole-covered roads of adulthood could feel so taxing. Society looked so gluttonous, with unfinished business, boundless responsibilities, and fleeting temptations waiting around every corner.

The energy of feeling my sleeping self wake, my senses and consciousness moving over the whetstone, was intoxicating. It was as though I had peeked over the walls built to keep distance from our primitive selves and suddenly understood how much I had to do; the time I had to make up; the work to keep my wildness alive; and the need to stay a student and servant to nature.

Two weeks passed as I immersed myself in Alaska, but the sweetness of home beckoned. I bookmarked my daydreams of becoming a woman who runs with wolves and packed up my things. On the plane ride home, I buried myself in the pages of an outdoor skills book, soothing the part of me who understood how vulnerable she was to shrink under the pressures of modern living.

My transition has since been buoyed by silent prayers—Dear Universe, please don’t let me forget who I am. Guide me down paths to understanding. Promise you’ll make life ripe with opportunities in the wilderness—and seldom free of friction:

My return would mark a quiet battle that would feel confusing and intense.

I’d need time on the local trails to lure myself out of the dark corners of thought.

There would be an acclimation period to the overwhelming amount of people and sounds.

Self-care, compassion, and discipline would feel even more essential for my well-being.

“…I have found tremendous grace in letting myself willingly leap—rather than stumble—into transient rifts of reality and memory.”

This strange time of adjustment is nearing its end, but I have found tremendous grace in letting myself willingly leap—rather than stumble—into transient rifts of reality and memory, even if just for a moment or two. Remembering feels healing to the me who mourns my decision to leave the backcountry, and brings gratitude to the me who is happy to be back home.

For now, I practice gratitude for these wild, ephemeral experiences.

They have carved me out of stone.

They have gifted me the immovable courage to return, stirring the depths of my being time and time again.