"No Less of a Man"

NO LESS OF A MAN

Given the vastness and remoteness of Alaska, it is understandable that most Alaskans have traveled so little of it. Given the comparative smallness of the Kenai Peninsula—and its proximity to the population center of Anchorage—it might seem strange that most Alaskans have trod on so little of it, too. After all, the peninsula makes up only about 2-3 percent of Alaska’s 663,300 square miles, but a closer examination clarifies the situation. The peninsula, comprising some four million acres, contains few transportation corridors, most of them north-south passages on the western side, plus a west-east crossing or two over to the communities of Seward and Whittier. Much of the rest is mountains, lakes, streams, swamps, and mammoth masses of ice and snow. To travel these areas without roads, one must have certain tools—airplanes, boats, perhaps a bicycle or a pair of skis, or a good pair of boots—and certain characteristics—determination, fortitude, and a willingness to be uncomfortable in beautiful surroundings. The Kenai Peninsula can treat its travelers severely at times.

I have lived in this place for more than 50 years—I grew up here—and yet it seems that I have traveled so damned little of it. Perhaps that is because I have never owned an airplane, a boat with an engine, a four-wheeler, an all-terrain vehicle, or even a snowmachine. Consequently, what I have been unable to cover in the confines of an automobile, I have covered mainly in watercrafts I could paddle, on mountain bikes, or on my own two feet. And although I have seen plenty in my travels, I am reminded almost daily of how much more I have yet to see.

Most people who know me may have the impression that I am constantly afoot and on the move. For instance, I have climbed nearly every roadside mountain from the northern edge of the Sterling flats to the junction of the Seward and Sterling highways, and yet each time I have ascended to the top of one of those peaks, I have spied another valley that I have never worked my way along, or a sea of other mountains beyond those I’ve climbed. The peninsula contains hundreds, if not thousands, of lakes and ponds on which I have never floated when they were in a liquid state or strolled across when they were frozen. I have never traversed the Harding Icefield, never summited the peninsula’s highest peaks, never walked the slate-strewn east-side beaches outside of Resurrection Bay and Passage Canal, never hiked more than a few miles of the myriad trails across Kachemak Bay. On and on. I’ve seen so much, but there’s so much more to see.

And again, the Kenai Peninsula is just a fragment of the entire state—a state in which I’ve barely and rarely strayed far from the few asphalt ribbons that connect many of its major communities. I haven’t even traveled all of its roadways.

Is this a lament? Perhaps somewhat, but not entirely.

Is this a manifesto of my intent to mend my ways and expand the field of my Alaskan experiences? Not exactly, but the notion of change is refreshing. I’m growing ever more ready to open my eyes wider to the rest of the world.

Do I plan to purchase an airplane and take flying lessons? Learn to navigate a power boat and maintain the intricacies of its engine? Not likely, but I also have no wish to be limited by a dearth of machines in my life.

I’ll get by somehow.

Besides, as Shakespeare said in Romeo & Juliet, the world is broad and wide—and my desire to travel more of my birth state is endemic of my desire to travel more of the whole planet if I can.

I am not less of a man for having seen so little thus far, nor will I be more of a man once I have seen more, but the limitations of the past (self-imposed or not) do not have to be the limitations of tomorrow.

Perhaps this is some sort of declaration. Perhaps this old dog is ready for some new tricks.