The date was July 12th, 2014.
The place was Coldfoot, Alaska. 60 miles above the Arctic
Circle.
The Whiting was Jon.
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 21st 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 21st 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.
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| 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.
“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.
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| "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.
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| Ask me about my self-inflicted pain. source:hexjam |
Probably should have took the day off after my birthday
besides the day of.
*A dance learned from NBA star “Vince Carter” who would
twirl around while pumping his fists as he ran upcourt.
