I’m terrible at timelines. I don’t remember things by their year or month. I remember them by women. What woman was swirling around my head at the time. This time—this woman—sent me. I fled Arizona, all the way to Alaska escaping her.
The ad in the Oregonian read “Fly-fishing guide wanted: Wrangell, Alaska” I wasn’t sure where Wrangell was and I’d never fished for Salmon before but the next thing I knew, I was departing Seattle, fly-rods in tow, Saguaro’s at my back.
The owner of the guide service sent me a brochure picturing the Star Queen, but it wasn’t very descriptive. I knew she was a 72’ steel hulled motor-yacht. And I couldn’t wait to see her—my new home—a luxurious, floating fishing lodge. (They hadn’t told me the guides camped on the fly-bridge).
It’s a hop from Seattle to Wrangell, just north of Ketchikan and Petersburg. The plane never cruised; as soon as we reached altitude, we began the descent. I had made an effort to suspend expectations and even curiosity. Soon, I’d be on the ground.
Ken’s son met me at the airport, which was more like a Greyhound bus station. He didn’t say much and I only saw him that one time. But he drove me to the harbor and showed me to the Star Queen, though nobody was aboard her when I arrived.
I stood on the stern, let a moment pass, and quietly looked around, breathing in Southeast Alaska. This wasn’t the interior. This wasn’t like the few images I’d allowed myself. It was insular. And everywhere there was water: the fjords, the creeks—volcanic lakes. Water seeped into everything. The air was thick with it. I could feel my body soak it up.
It was everything the desert wasn’t. And that was the perfect way to forget about a girl from Arizona.
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