When I visited the Brooks Range north of the Arctic Circle many summers ago, I was hit with a curtain of ice that cut down much of my hiking. I was short on food at this point: oatmeal, cliff bars, and a block of emergency rations meant for shipwrecked souls. Perhaps I was shipwrecked, philosophically speaking, but I managed to take in the glorious north with its iced hills shimmering under the low and golden light. On the hike back out, I realized that I hadn’t had my heart in the hike. I was hit with a harsh sense of loneliness and nihilism, which the desolate Arctic air only exacerbated. I longed to see my friends back in Denali and to have a few beers, though this time I wouldn’t have any stories to share. Read more.
Writer and Veteran
Aging in the Time of Endless War
June 5th, 2017