Forest’s voice

It is a grey and heavy morning, it may almost rain; it is time for me to reach Seward. I catch the wrong bus – the right one but wrong way – and confirm my first friendly feeling about Alaska, thanks to my chitchat with the second bus driver about travels, foreign languages and cultures that enrich each other.
As I catch my actual ride to Seward, both late and early, I beautifully leave Anchorage. We barely have passed Rabbit Creek Road that Kenai grey and blue mountains, later covered of warm colors with the sunset, raise in this smoky morning. We drive along the bay, grey as well, where we should have seen, if it wasn’t low tie, some Alaskan whales; mounts softly gaze upon us. Chucagh State Park ones that I leave too early, Peninsula ones that long for my traveling soul.
Thus, I get to my fleeting home, to my endless crossroads, I join the Nauti Otter Inn friendly and warm team; adopted without conditions. I immediately have a taste of the place for my first evening in the Yurt village courtyard, where halibut and ling cod cooking smells blend into the bonfire smoke under talkative tress. Tonight, I pop up my S’Mores cherry like a first baptism in this new ephemeral clan.

For my second day, I blend into the peninsula habits, working in the morning, hiking in the afternoon. We slowly start, all together surrounded by the bear bell sound, a walk under some trees not really giant but tall enough, whose branches hide some sharp and sometimes white mountains. Grayling Lake is peaceful and shinny in the torny forest sun, the translucent and smooth water calls for our warm and walking bodies, flying with wandering dragonflies. Happy. Simple. Easy. A magic moment. Neighbors, strangers or friends, we contemplate fleeting happiness, silent in the water swash. One floats, the other swims his foot on the shore and sunbath his body on the stones. Then we walk again, cool, enchanted and groggy. We want more and get enchanted by another magic on Meridian Lake banks. Its mesmerizing waterlily green matches its neighbor transparent calm water.

My third day in Seward has a grey smoky sky. I was right in Anchorage though, Alaska has known multiple forest fires since the beginning of summer, blazed with the wind. Therefore, I won’t hike the glacier today, it will have to wait for a clearer weather. I have known too many invisible landscapes, because of the fog or the smoke; I choose to delay when I have time. To an epic and warm excursion, I prefer the shadow trail starting at Lowell Point in order to reach Tonsina Creek. I feel the same as two years ago in front of the untamed wilderness, deeply moved to be moved in an untouched scenery. It is weird to feel the same and yet not completely than what I experienced in Iceland which was already different than in Ireland; yet those three lands possess the same kind of moving unblemished nature. In Ireland, so much majesty in such a tiny case, human memories contained in ruins that now utterly belong and blend into the wild absolutely stun me. In Iceland, inhospitable and extreme features of what I gazed fascinated me, but nature is untouched there only because mankind couldn’t tame its pure and frozen essence. In America, especially the West part, especially on this last frontier, it is also another feeling. I know this land has known human hands for ages, since some Eurasians cross Bering pass, but today the gracile wind full of their wandering souls is the only remain of those old civilisations. As I go through those millennium trees along dry river rocks or red dying salmons torrents, I feel like I can hear forest spirits having conversations… Amazed by their untold secrets, I reach Tonsina Point shores, its blue beach easily cut by the Fjord mountains and I relax for a short time. Moved by such a big world that my heart can’t explode.

My weekend is slower, warmer and at the smoky blur mercy. I fly from one tree to another almost to the top, no time to listen to their secrets anymore, my English got confused between Zeep Lane and Zeplin that would actually have sent me to the sky. I try to taste the local color by the traditional Miller’s landing Saturday night, but our clan is self-sufficient. And I let the sun enlighten my travel diary from rise to set, as my words rock from one world to another.

I thinkt about Ennis in the early day of the 19th and, after a new busy morning – forest fires closed roads toward Homer, Seward was the best option for everybody – Exit Glacier remain unreachable, I try, with some hesitation, Primrose Trail leading me to Lost Lake. 25 kms in six hours spent with a thought running as fast as the different landscape shades that I already gazed during my ride between Anchorage and Seward, I can now slowly walk every detail.
After a small forest where singing is my only chance against bears, the view breaks into my eye throughout some slow mountains. Shy lakes are revealed in the far, grey-blue in mounts’ heart. You can hear the river running downhill, invisible, and fire weeds paint in pink blueberry trail. Sun shines, but not really, fragile behind his silver curtain. Evergreens sparsely intertwined, vanishing little by little in mountains plateau thousands of colors. All of sudden, green heights rise everywhere and slowly lead us to Lost Lake mesmerizing blue. The water is so blue, so pure, so mysterious; how my words can give justice to this blue? How any artist can challenge a wild masterpiece?
The endless treeless trail blown with the wind brings me to the edge of a new forest. Sounds change, I can hear sunset birds song, so soft compared to Flatey Island birds. And the sun is setting behind the mountain, in between mossy branches and tortuous trees mistletoe. Night is not here yer, the path will never end. I think about Mount Rainier whose multiple colors look like some Lost Lake parts. Night turns light blue, my feet can’t get amazed of the landscape anymore, I wait for the next crossroads, the next concret that will lead me to my bed.

In this other morning, Alaskan weather is getting cooler, the smoky haze remains and I try to reach the ocean’s heart, or at least a piece of it, to sea fish and hope to leet a few whales. On my way, Resurrection Bay breaks in front of me, revealing its mounts maybe its glaciers, covered of spruces falling towards the sea salt. I admire them, stunned and still, running along me in the grey morning. Sun is trying to find its way through the smoke and hit the mountain’s light. I missed my travel diary for a few days and I am hoping the beginning of this travel would allow me to intertwine landscapes from my eyes to my pen. Yet, as soon as the Bay entrance is passed and my first Alaskan puffin met, sea starts its bumpy dance with the tiny boat and prevent me from writing down my tired way. I can only focus on my fragile life trying to get away through my mouth… I am a sea star on the booth to survive to the ocean; I doze, dream of other lives, feel my aching body from my long walk yesterday using its last ressources to keep me alive.
When we get to the deep sea we are supposed to fish in, I look at gigantic and multicolore fish hooked from their salted waves. It is suddenly terrible and so real to hear them silently screaming, to feel them struggling against the boat to go back to the ocean. I fish only once, fighting several wars in the same time, against the fish, against the sickness. I bravely catch the fish out of the water, it is my last ressource, my body is shaking, I go back to lie down for the next hours.
In the middle of my sick dreams, I question this fishing experience that is supposed to be the true Alaskan experience but strangely looks like a touristy attraction. I feel for the smaller fish that we throw back into the sea, mutilated forever. Going to fish on a charter to feel Alaska to its bones, is it truly a genuine experience? There is no simple answer, only a fog. Blurry life… And I think about this Native Alaskan whales hunter whose story was told in Anchorage Museum, banned from the web because whales are endangered species, websurfers couldn’t get the whole picture. This hunt is not only, for this young man, part of his primitive initiation rituals, it also comes from the need of feeding his family. You can’t apply our urban rules where there is always a road to drive you to the local or bigger groceries stores, to a world where most of Alaskans villages are only accessible by plane and/or snowmobile, and completely depend on what the surroundings has to offer. Torn by all my opposite theory about life, my day is a question mark.
Once I got used to the ocean danse, I enjoy the quiet blue area to the far horizon, I laugh with rocking waves, I tease the seagull nearby, I glimpse at the peaceful sun. I gaze at the deep sea mystery without seeing the bottom. Then comes the long and dizzy return to the port.

For the night, karaoke is on track, I follow the mood to the Yukon Bar when my body is only calling for my bed. It is tradition. It is somebody’s last night. I go, I sing and embarrass myself; from there, my tired being can only trip. I give a bitter look on our traveling reality, all trying to find a fleeting home here in the Nauti Otter Inn. Suddenly, I can only see our deep shift. The only reason why we travel, change our world every minute, is because we can’t find one where we would rather last. We are gone with the wind. The more we travel this out of time race, the more difficult it becomes to reach this ultimate desire that we couldn’t achieve. I feel suddenly so lost in my wanderings, even if I choose them, even if they are my only need now. I would like to go back to some solitude but everything is so far in America, I have to wait nearby my beer, lost in my tired and dark dreams.

My tomorrow is a napping day, trying to replace my struggling body, my exhausted soul. I choose what will lead me to the light and not what would drawn me into the darkness. My thoughts work, they grow old, they heal and swing cuddled by the hamac at the end of the day, comforted by two friendly smiles, my look lost in the branches sky. I can feel fall is coming.
I soon realize, away from the breathless smoke for a few days, that a year ago, I was going to Canada trying to find a new life; that two years ago, I was sinking when my heart had yet reached its American dream; that three years ago, I touched heaven because everything was possible. Memories always stick to my present, but only today matters.
I feel connected again, I breathe better. I would like to walk along Bear Lake, alone with my forest spirits and my dreaming diary, and write better what goes through my soul in Alaska. I already feel like I belong here.Even if Iceland is still part of my writings, it seems so far. The one I was there as well. You change so deeply when you are abroad. Despite my sad and fleeting states, I feel so good here, with my endless worlds and this come and go smoke, making the sun as red as the Icelandic volcano of 1783.

Sunday will finally be my lonely walk under one only airplane flight, in the dead salmons pestilent smell, on Bear Lake banks. To think that a week ago they swam their last breath and now, they rot in every Alaskan stream… It does mean fall is coming, despite the sweet afternoon breeze. I am once more enchanted by the devil’s club red matching the forest green, I am surprised by the Red Robin red that I unintentionally scare in the uprooted tree roots. I like the peculiar light of my afternoon hikes, when sun rises so low, soft and beautiful and free.
I have felt a bit out of my body lately, out of my feelings, out of my ability to be truly stunned, out of this beautiful magic Ireland gave me one day… It is like I had cut my internal roads and I didn’t know how to get there anymore. Maybe I don’t even want to anymore… I was asked this morning how I could feel lost in the most beautiful place on earth; how may I, indeed, not be amazed of everything and prefer languor to happiness? Yet, I get closer to heaven as I walk and I enjoy it, even for a short moment. I trust my fate even if I don’t understand all the time. Three years ago, after my Irish travel, after my encounters – one special encounter -, I cherished all my failed detours that led me to that particular moment. Today, I have to get the same understanding without knowing the outcome, and enjoy every lesson. Because they absolutely lead me to the right place.
It is weird and comforting to realize that I can fix some internal difficulties mostly related to my past, just speaking them out, even when my state of mind feels so lukewarm. Even if I feel like swimming in blurry waters, I progress step by step.

In the first morning of my last week, I feel a bit melancholic of the end… Days are cooler, the Inn is quieter. My heart is heavy to follow the next step of my journey. I ride my bike in the afternoon, with two fleeting travel buddies, Jackie et Devin, in a sky that doesn’t look like fall anymore, neither to the smoke, and my joy wins in front of mountains revealed again. As beautiful as my first look, like I had never seen them before, even more than yesterday waterless morning, as forest fires made them less blurry, mysteriously magnificent. I walk downtown along souvenirs shops in Main Street, which actually is the 4th avenue. Despite the touristy look of some showcases, the city still has a deep America taste. I can see as I come home, the smoke slowly flowing in between mountains’ heart, blown by Homer wind while breezes are dying over here. My look is blurry again.
Thus, tomorrow cruise along the Fjords changes into an historical afternoon. I go to the museum, hear about the Alaskan Gold Rush on Iditarod Trail that also helped Balto* to save Nome people from diphtheria. I am then bored by 1964 Seward tsunami, I am history overdosed, and my companions and I would rather grab an afternoon drink at the Yukon bar that will have more of us later in the night, for our traditional Tuesday Night Karaoke. It is time for new goodbyes to new quiters then.

Days are flying and get less smoky even if the bay still hides behind a blurry curtain. Not enough to prevent my impatient feet to get some last hikes though. Alice was calling me from the other side, yet I climb Mount Marathon, harder but shorter. It is steep right away, no for play, I slowly get progress, step after step, matching my breathless heart and my enchanted soul, surrounded by devil’s club berries that I adore. The path offers a flat truce for a little while, the top doesn’t seem so far with no tree to tell me about distances. The view is beautiful even with a grey filter on my eyes. I can tell the mountain’s sides have dried since my first hike, it still shines happy and colorful summer though. At some point, I don’t hike anymore, I truly climb so steep the rocks feel along the river full of Mount Marathon hidden ice. When I get closer to the summit, glens are so beautiful, drawn by their own mood in a soft sun, in rough rocks. My walking companions are quicker, leaving me to my bitter thoughts, to my unfair and paradoxical ideas… To think that I am here, my body suffering uphill, fleeing to the other end of the world because, one day, my being was transformed, because my soul is not able to find her home anymore…

My beautiful never-ending night didn’t free my yesterday-today-forever-sadness that invaded my soul. I finally follow the water on the boat that didn’t leave two days ago and escape the smoke once I have passed the Fjords border. Indeed, there is Fjords here as well, it is really unreal that both Icelandic and Alaskan Fjords are named the same so different they look into my eyes. I try to forget the flashing and cameras crowd on the deck. The sea doesn’t upset me, I look into all its blues, it is insane to think of so many blues you can see depending of the part of earth you are standing on. Hours run, melancholic and curious. Irrepressibly waiting for my sadness to fade with summer. Despite my laughs and my joy, my heart is so heavy and impatient.
I gaze at the sun shinning in the eye of the sea, in the boat freezing wind, I meet my first sea otters almost forming a raft, dancing in the sea. We get close to my first glacier in the water, translucent blue, mesmerizing blue. Tiny moving icebergs are sea salt sculpted. Lonely and abandoned by motherland. Fleeting and sparkling. Endless. Then, a bigger piece falls like thunder to meet its orphan brothers and get sculpted as well. A black mama bear and her cubs suddenly appear on the other side, summer colored, and try to reach the sky in front of my moved heart. They climb one after another, one is late and runs after time, too cute for his short paws.
We eventually sail home but the journey is long, sea lions sing their distorted song nearby puffins and seagulls cave; two orcas follow us for a while. And the day ends around the halibut fished by Eamonn, our Australian traveler, to the sound of my giggle because English fish go to school. It is my last night. I pack my impatient heart, I want to move on now. Yet, I feel so good here, but my time is over…?

It is my last day in Seward, I am supposed to spend the night in Talkeetna but the forest smoke has been so eager during the week that I couldn’t get a chance to hike the glacier. Bargaining with my Australian driver for a delayed departure and a shared hike, we leave in the early morning to get high and observe freezing eras, as the cold soil smokes under the first sun in the valley. A mama bear and her two cubs are supposed to wander around but nothing can scare the two of us. Our day goes by with our clumsy and naive theories of life.
We start along grey and dry river banks, running from eternal snow, where we can see the glacier in the far, already giant but so small compared to what we will see in a couple of hours, gigantic in a sea of clouds. Going uphill is rough under fragile trees. It is so dusty under our feet because of this rainless season, of this smoky wind. We reach our journey first level where a little piece of glacier falls into the cliff, tiny in between rocks, feeding the stream downhill. Our sky is treeless now in the desert marmot meadow and even if nature got thirsty, it still shines in different surrounding mountains layers. It sparkles my heart with the fading green, the falling red, the overtaking maroon pink. And I play hide-and-seek with this new evanescent blue glacier, white sometimes, dark in some places of the slow ashes river.
Kenai blends more and more its colors until they disappear in a barren grey. This land closer to the sky creates worlds that I don’t know, it draws and digs, memory of some ancient vanished glaciers, only remained with a drop of salted tears. Then, from light grey, the mountain turns dark jewel on some snow-white. We are getting closer to the top, some eternal remains, shy and almost invisible, despite a hot summer. We reach the lost shelter, engraved with explorers.
Then, we are standing on the last hill in front of the endless immortal ice. The landscape is absolute. Unbelievable. It a snow meadow where raise a few sharp rocky summits to the end of the world, the glacier might end two steps away from here, or most likely thousands of year away. It looks like a Siberian lake on the world edge. It is eternal and never-ending. I could stay hourless days gazing at this iced sea moving so slowly, invisible, towards the cliff, since the beginning of time, until the end of time.
But moments sometimes have stuff to do, wind blows some freezing cold bringing us where we come from, with more wonders on the way down. The valley in front of us lost some of its hazy morning mystery, sun is turning grey or smoke. Colors change, it is the same landscape but different, surprising, stunning. Mama bears and hers kids stayed hidden.

It is really time to go now. Last shower. First cinnamon donuts. Goodbye the fleeting home of my traveling heart. My fish is on hand, my two different earrings hanging to my ears. It is time to go closer, Talkeetna won’t meet me today.
I leave the peninsula in the same grey sky that welcame me. I leave the peninsula, so beautiful in daily sun even in smoky winds; the peninsula blending so many of my favorite landscapes, millennium forests, waterlily green or turquoise blue lakes, snow-white or light grey mountains depending on their mood, frozen gigantic streams, slowly metamorphosed in thousands of year.
I feel so weird, like after Iceland; I need to change my world, I am getting impatient. I feel like staying in the same place got me heavier day after day, got me closer to what I am trying to escape. Leaving once again allows me to reach my freedom, to falsely feel light and ephemeral? I will have to understand those disturbing feelings. Would I be running away again?
When I reach the bigger piece of land, when I cross the river and leave the peninsula, I can see Homer western side lost in the smoke despite first rain drops spreading as we drove. Anchorage welcomes me once more for a moonless night, exhausted and lonely, quickly hugged by two sea otters.