As a child, I loved watching reruns of the 60’s television comedy, “Gilligan’s Island.” The idea of becoming one of seven castaways on an uncharted, previously uninhabited island was oddly romantic to me. Of course, it was easy for me to relate to Gilligan, the bumbling and accident-prone crewman of the S.S. Minnow. But it wasn’t just one character that did it for me, it was the hodge-podge of pasts, personalities, interests and hang-ups of all the ill-fated passengers – the Skipper, Thurston Howell III, Lovey Howell, Ginger Grant, the Professor, and Mary Ann – that made the Island seem like a home.
A person can still feel alone living in a bustling city surrounded by millions of other people; when you live on an island, you don’t take your neighbors for granted, even if they are downright strange.
And then in the 90’s along came “Northern Exposure” – now, there was an addiction of mine. Residing in a tiny town in backcountry Alaska is pretty much the same as squatting on a spot of dry land amidst the immense Pacific Ocean – give or take a few or 6 feet of snow.
I was not only intrigued by a diverse handful of people gathered in a remote location just for the purpose of living, but I adored the vast space between these humans… and the next town… and the town after that.
( 4 Votes )
Standing at just under 13 hands, Winnie is a little mustang with a big history and an even bigger heart.
I was exhausted when I arrived at the Chief Joseph Campground in Harlowton, MT, last Saturday just after dark. I’d been driving since 7 am; it was time to stop and sleep. A pleasant breeze whistled through the cottonwoods as I staked down all four corners of my tent, snapped the poles together, popped up the body, threw the fly over the top and anchored it all down. I tossed a sleeping pad and bag, pillow, book, headlight, gallon jug of water, and a can of Pringles through the door.
Borage, an Alaskan Husky, is my right hand man when I travel the country giving Iditarod Sled Dog Race presentations in schools and libraries. Off and on over the last four months, my parents have been grand-dog sitting Jigs, my German Jagd Terrier, and Chloe, my corgi/springer mutt; when I venture south, it’s just too hot for the little terrors to hang out in the car chewing on bones while Borage and I work.
