One Man's Wilderness: An Alaskan Odyssey

There is always a sadness about packing. I guess you wonder if where you're going is as good as where you've been.

Needs? I guess that is what bothers so many folks. They keep expanding their needs until they are dependent on too many things and too many other people... I wonder how many things in the average American home could be eliminated if the question were asked, "Must I really have this?" I guess most of the extras are chalked up to comfort or saving time. Funny thing about comfort - one man's comfort is another man's misery. Most people do't work hard enough physically anymore, and comfort is not easy to find. It is surprising how comfortable a hard bunk can be after you come down off a mountain.

Chores are easier if forethought is given to them and they are looked upon as little pleasures to perform instead of inconveniences that steal time and try the patience.

I enjoy working for my heat. I don't just press a button or twist a thermostat dial. I use the big crosscut saw and the axe, and while I'm getting my heat supply I'm working up an appetite that makes simple food just as appealing as anything a French chef could create.

The price was physical toll. Money does little good back here. It could not buy the fit feeling that surged through my arms and shoulders. It could not buy the feeling of accomplishment. I had been my own tour guide, and my own power had been my transportation. This great big country was my playground, and I could afford the price it demanded.

Why worry about something that isn’t? Worrying about something that might happen is not a healthy pastime. A man’s a fool to live his life under a shadow like that. Maybe that’s how an ulcer begins. I

This country makes a man younger than his birthdays.

Eight and a half miles can be covered in minutes in a car on an expressway, but what does a man see? What he gains in time he loses in benefit to his body and mInd.

The more I see as I sit here among the rocks, the more I wonder about what I am not seeing.

Sometimes I get lost in the rhythm of the paddling. I even count the strokes it takes to get me to a point of land, The play of the muscles in one's arms and shoulders, and the feel of palm against worn wood, are preferable to glancing at a speedometer