Three weeks have passed since Nick and I made our way safely back into our little slice of (then seeming like) Heaven - pillows that knew us and sunshine to warm us (and leave us, finally). I let out a sigh of relief once we pulled in the driveway, almost like the whole, "We've made it this far, but there's still a chance something could happen" thing. Roughly 7,500 tickers were added to the Versa, with that number comparable to the hours of sleep lost during the month (or so it appeared).
I feel like ever since I woke up the next morning, reality - one that didn't consist of moose on the side of the road or rubber boots - quickly swept me off to a place where reflective time wasn't allotted. That is, until today.
I found myself faced with the question yet again, "So how was your trip?" and no reply has really been completely truthful, only because I haven't really known how to answer it. I hadn't had the time to formulate. I hadn't stared out the patio, across the sidewalk, into the world and back to myself to figure out just how the trip actually was. Sure, it was great - it was fun. I saw a lot. I learned a lot. Apparently I didn't eat enough. I lost a lot. I found a lot. And I gained a lot.
But that doesn't even justify what we experienced - what I experienced. I've always thought of myself as this traveler, this "free-spirited" person who gets whisked off on journeys, loses her footing, but in the end comes out with a great story. Funny thing is, though, is that I've never really done that. But here I am, back from a month long drivers-hell-of-an-excursion to the supposed "Last Frontier," and have nothing really to say about it. The communication major, no less.
Something tells me, though, that that's probably the best part entirely. I can say that it was a life altering trip, and that the cliche of no-words-to-describe really ring true. I probably won't be back, or if I do, it'll be years down the road.
But still, it's like my own little something I can claim.
It's my own little bit of warmth. It's my own little bit of mystery. It's my own little memory I won't forget.
I can share stories to the best of my ability, I can say I'm more in love than I've ever been, I can pull up sideshows, commentate, wear my baggy, unflattering Alaskan wardrobe every winter. But, again, it will never suffice, and that's just something I have to come to terms with.
Dad had mentioned before we left that I'd never be the same once I got back.
And he's right.
He also said that the only memories you'll hold onto in your life are the good ones.
And he's right.
Alaska was incredible - it wore us out, tore us up, froze us, thawed us, broke us. And we made it.
And I couldn't be happier.
