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.
The silence throughout a piece of music is just as important as the notes themselves; music depends on rests to distinguish one sound from another and another and another. Like silence in composing, spaces between people – lives - hold an equal necessity and richness.
Walk out of a chaotic city and keep hiking until you hit nothing but wheat fields, desert, sagebrush, foothills, mountains.
I love people, and I love the long pauses between people.
In October of 2009, I purchased my own, first home in Martinsdale, Montana – the in-town population: 47 or so. This "stat" all depends on the day of the week, the season, the wind, whether the Mint Bar is open, and of course, who happens to tell you.
On my first lazy road-trip to Martinsdale two summers ago, I became captivated by the simple stretch of road known by many as the “cut-off to Martinsdale.” Highway 294, the loosely twisting and turning two-lane road starting at Highway 89 just North of Ringling and heading east towards Martinsdale, is a mesmerizing route offering all of the simply spectacular features of Montana – imposing space, majestic mountains, wild game galore, and very few people.
I love this road. And I respect this road.
The town of Martinsdale doesn’t just have that “island feeling” because there are so few residents. The magnificent space stretching and circling around Martinsdale in every direction is what does it.
At night when I am driving 294 home after a trip to town, I often get the sense that I am operating a boat, not an old, beat-up GMC. I motor my trusty ship east through a sea of immense space, darkness, stars. Often I travel for 27 miles without encountering another craft. I am way out on the ocean alone; gusts of wind pummel the tiny vessel, blowing snow rages sideways across my course like whitecaps.
Every now and then I spot a glimmering light in the distance. A lighthouse, I imagine.
Mushing the Iditarod Sled Dog Race, I often had this same sensation. At night as I stood on the sled runners after days and weeks of travel, I rocked back and forth in a trance, following the wave-like motion of the sled as it floated up and down over frozen drifts of snow.
Suddenly, a light twinkled on the banks of the Yukon River. A lighthouse, I thought. The keeper of the light saw my own headlight moving down the river ice – a long narrow beam illuminating the frost-covered heads and backs of a dozen dogs, clouds of white breath rising to the sky.
The light on the riverbank flashed off and on, waving at us, wishing us safe travels.
I hit my headlight switch and winked back. “Thank you,” I said. “For being there.”
As I round the last bend of 294, four flickering dots of light announce that the island of Martinsdale is just minutes ahead.
I love people, and I love the long pauses between people.
And I adore coming home.
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