My Own Words

Hey all, I thought I’d break the mold here a bit and do an entry of a more personal nature.  Up to this point Dad has been trying to make sure the blog speaks from both of our perspectives, and you can’t tell who the writer is.  (I’ll give you a hint:  aside from some editing and a bit here,  the majority of the writing has been done by Dad, though the experiences, emotions and thoughts are shared.)  So if you find this shift in narrative different, there’s your reason.  And I apologize for the length as it may surprise you to hear I can be more longwinded than dad. ;) 

I decided that, to wrap up my leg of the journey,  I’d share a bit of my individual experience in the last couple of days as we pulled into Quartz Creek Campground, a very special place the resides in the memories of all of our family.

Most of the ideals I have from camping come from that subconscious memory left by early trips to Quartz Creek.  The crunch of the small gravel over rough paved roads, the search for the perfect smooth flat rock to get the most skips across the glassy lake.   The reflection of a sharply rising peak over a broad lake with bright green trees coating the hill from shore to peak, the light sound of waves lapping gently against a loose rocky bank and golden glow across said lake from the low hanging sun call out familiarity from some recess in my mind where 22 year old memories are held.  Everything from the ground underfoot to the speed with which water shoots from the quick faucet collapses vague feelings of remembrance into acute memories.  I’ve been to this beach and I’ve poked a dead fish on its shores with a stick.  

This is my Alaska.  While we've spent the last couple of weeks making new memories on a path following memories of various family members, this last camping spot is one that, while not uniquely mine, is mine nonetheless.  It’s the perfect place to draw a quiet close to the whirlwind of perfect days and the days of driving and experiencing the great northwest.

After a night of camping at Quartz Creek we went on to add to our party of two, first Mom and Nephew Colin, Step Brother Sean and then Sister Berni and many others.  The quiet solitude has shifted to a constant hum of activity with people we care about, an abrupt, but not unwanted shift.  And now I’m preparing to leave Dad and Mom on their own solo journey back south as I fly home.

    

This has been a trip winding through memories.  Many many things are the same, and have shifted drastically from expectation (for better or for worse). One thing, one extremely important thing, has changed, for better or worse.  Instead of devouring a purposefully charred marshmallow on a stick, today's  S’more was slow roasted over a perfectly laid charcoal bed to crispy brown, gooey centered perfection; crafted with the aide of over twenty years of lessons from everyone whom I hold close to my heart.  And for that perfect marshmallow, I thank them all.