There’s not much that isn’t temporary. Temporary tattoos are temporary, but so are permanent ones as they will fade over the years. Cheese is temporary, sadly, and so are baby teeth, adult teeth, wisdom teeth, most jobs and most income levels.

My mind constantly churns to tell my own story in the midst of every day bumbling about. “And then, I returned to Alaska after I finished Peace Corps and it was similar to my first season, but even better.” “And, after I left Ketchikan, I never returned. It was the summer that would live on in my memory as my first summer of complete and utter freedom. I have not achieved such freedom ever since. Some experiences are simply irreplicable.” How is this summer going to wedge itself into my story?! Am I going to meet my future husband in the peace corps, did I already meet him once at a party in Ketchikan, but we won’t talk to each other until next week when I accidentally almost run him over at a crosswalk and roll down my window to apologize?

The deeper question, always, is why any of that matters in order for this place to be meaningful to me. Why does it matter how Ketchikan is represented in my roster of experience when I’m 75, why does that matter to me now? Am I curious or am I trying to fashion its significance as it is happening to me?

In the midst of all that mind churning, I keep realizing that I am missing it. This place seems like a massive backdrop, that it’s not actually real. I am missing the majesty of these mountains because I am not gazing at them long enough or with enough gratitude, awe.. Even while I’m in a most wondrous place, I am staring at my phone screen checking instagram. 

How do I keep this place with me forever? The water, the mystery of sea stars and jelly fish blobbing by my feet, the relentless tidal rotation, the spruce trees that erupt from the mountains in abundant chorus, the amazing rock wall behind Brewed Awakening: these are all things I want to keep inside my palm like a first lost tooth in a 6 year-old’s clench.

I’m afraid I won’t be able to remember it. Not afraid in a fearful sense, but I guess sad. I’m sad that I can’t feel the mountains when I look at them now. I can only stand far away and appreciate their beauty. What is it about mountains that we find so majestic, anyway, now that I think of it? A mountain is land smooshed up sideways and stuck there.

Water’s majesty needs no explanation. The ocean is the opposite of humans. We are fixed creatures, in our habits, our preferences, and our bones encapsulated with our skin. The ocean is a powerful force that juxtaposes everything we fight for: to keep the dust out of our houses, to keep our nails perfectly manicured, to fight time. We don’t ever want to let go of our favorite moments, the people we love, the memory of our first kiss. But looking out over the ocean, I’m reminded that everything is temporary. The boats we sail on, the creatures, the currents, the people bobbing at the surface who are just a molecular piece of an earth-winding agent: the sea. We’re all accessories to the water, like salt dashed on a mile high mound of pasta.

How can I be present as I look at the last leg of my first (and maybe only) summer in Alaska?

My usual approach is to take lots of pictures, and to sit at a coffee shop and journal for hours until I can sense that I’ve catalogued the important elements of a place inside my soul, well-labeled and accessible for later reference. That won’t work here. There isn’t even a coffee shop with a good vibe where I’d like to sit. It’s really just work, sleep and the mountains, the comforts of true home are not really an option here.

Alaska is not so calm that I can catalogue it. It has to be experienced in the moment, I think. This ecosystem is ever-evolving because the people who live here are here for very specific and often unexpected reasons, and they don’t usually stay. You know that the people you came to know as your friends here in Alaska won’t be here, in the same fashion, if/when you return. When you visit Chicago, you visit Chicago. You see the bean, eat the pizza, visit the married couple you know there, wear a heavy coat and plan to return another time. You know that it will still be just about the same thing you come to expect from Chicago every time you go.

But I could come back to Ketchikan in 4 years and not recognize it. I don’t mean the mountains or even the lifestyle: those change at a snail’s pace here anyway. But my experience of Alaska? That won’t be accessible to me anymore. Like returning to your high school four years after graduation, where are all of those freshman you used to tower over?

I want to remember it: even how I can’t get decent wifi to save my life, the mammoth dead salmon pathetically drifting down Creek Street, the mist, the windy days, the sight of the water and the boats coronating Thomas Basin and City Float.

I want to remember that I walk by kids fishing over the bridge almost every day, all the dogs roaming around with their owners, the native art in the style of the totem poles. Even the fact that posted phone numbers never include an area code but people proudly don “907” sweatshirts. I want to remember what it’s like to walk 50 minutes to Safeway and carry my groceries all the way back, being serenaded by musicals through my blue headphones.

I don’t want it to change. But I’m already anticipating and restless for the next thing. Maybe I can be the mountain and the sea.