The date was July 12^th, 2014.

The place was Coldfoot, Alaska. 60 miles above the Arctic Circle.
The Whiting was Jon.

I was working up in the boreal forest as a Wildlife Interpretation Intern one dreary, dreary season. Over the course of the summer, I hosted wildlife programs, provided travel conditions along the Dalton Highway leading up to the Arctic Ocean, and sarcastically relayed to many visitors that there was no cell phone service. By this time of the year along the Middle Fork Koyukuk, the eternal sunshine had given me a new-found sense of happiness. Irrational, ignorant happiness. Must have been all that “D.” Okay, bad joke.

My 21^st birthday was upon me, and I wanted to do one of those planned “unplanned beautiful moment” moments. So I had (un)planned a birthday party with the 20 or so, 20+ year-olds that kept “Coldfoot Camp” from across the highway running. Even though I didn’t tell the Coldfoot Campers it was my 21^st birthday, I still expected to be letdown by no one remembering it was my birthday.

High expectations, low common sense.

As I made small talk with my Alaskan Amber about the WNBA All-star game in the bar, I was approached by a grizzly patron. It was 3pm and of course, he was inebriated. I was trying to follow suit. We began talking and spoke of everything one may conjure up. From climate change to folk music to a recent moose tramplings to jelly on pizza, you name it. Before half-time, a few more campers had swung by and made a 6-person fiesta.

Musk Ox don't have time for games

After hooping and hollering for a couple of hours (we played basketball for a couple of hours), I decided to send my carrier pigeon off to retrieve my designated driver and get back to my cabin. I subconsciously spoke of my birthday, and the man was delighted but upset he didn't buy me a cookie or another round earlier. 

I told him I wanted to plan an unplanned significant event in my life. Even though the man was absolutely dazed, he had to reconsider if I was all-time toasted or a damn idiot. I have no idea the man’s name, or what he did for a living, or even if he was real. But I remember him saying this:

“Why don’t you run to the ocean? People do that for fun. Even pay other people to let them run on street where they can run on for free. Morons. Either that or shots. 21. 21 shots.” And with that irregular contrast in advice, we parted ways.

Fast forward to July 13th at 9pm. The other intern was driving me up the Dalton Highway to Milepost #196. Our cabin was at #175. I quadruple-checked to make sure I had my iPod, headphones, protein bars, and bear spray in possession. Age 21, time 2100, in most likely $21 running shoes (which I would regret later) for a 21-mile run I did not properly train for. But birthday spirit was by my side. The other intern’s instructions were to pick me up if I wasn’t back by 1am.

"Put it on social media or it never happened"

After one last photo for the ‘gram, I clicked my playlist entitled “John Muir” and began. I would speak of what was going through my mind through that run, but I wouldn’t be able to recall. No distractions, no one passed by me on the road, no bears thought of a late-night, 200-pound snack, no cramps. I ran straight and flat through the valley, down the utility corridor. Low 50s, light drizzle, overcast, slight breeze. Big ups to Zeus.

It’s as though I was riding on a flying red panda over a waterfall. Completely comfortable. And I am sure at that time my body was riding a serious “running” high and it will be excruciating when I stop. But for now, weeeeeeeeeeeeee.

I didn't time myself. Like a dozen of my mystic friends recited in college as they failed their chemistry exams, “it’s the journey, not the destination.” By the time I got to my gravel lot at MP #175, I slowed down to a slight jog to cool down and eventually stopped. I did my post long-run routine* and slowly walked up to my cabin. Paris had hit my heels. My colon was trying to evacuate before I packed all my luggage. My stomach began gnawing on my intestines. The lack of oxygen content in my body was lower than Perez Hilton's fan club.

Ask me about my self-inflicted pain. source:hexjam

Probably should have took the day off after my birthday besides the day of.

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*A dance learned from NBA star “Vince Carter” who would twirl around while pumping his fists as he ran upcourt.