Alaska PART FOUR

From the Beach Bar to the Last Frontier: the last piece.

continued from part three

As I was walking home from my first day of work, I heard a man yelling in a slightly disgruntled voice, “Hey!” I looked to my right, and there was John. He sat on a rocking chair with a glass of red wine in his hand.

“Hey,” he yelled again. “Come introduce yourself.”

I walked over to the old man in the rocking chair, the sun catching the silver in his mustache. He squinted up at me, hand outstretched and steady.

“I’m Mary,” I said with a firm handshake. “I’m staying up in Fred’s homestead.”

“Ah, yes, I heard some girls were staying up there this summer,” he said, rocking gently in his chair.

All of a sudden, a woman appeared in the doorway. She smiled as if she had been expecting me and introduced herself as she handed me a piece of halibut wrapped in paper, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I thanked them profusely, as now I had dinner for the evening.

“Come by anytime,” John told me. “We usually have wine on the porch after 5.”

And that was it. No awkward small talk. No asking about what I was doing for work. Just a simple welcome to the neighborhood.

I walked back down the path through the woods to Fred’s place, halibut in hand, smiling ear to ear. This was why I had come back.

Not just for the views and the potlucks that would go late into the night, since it felt like the sun never went to bed.

But for this.

The way strangers waved from their houses. The way people shared whatever they had. Their food, their stories, their time…without keeping score.

In Alaska, I never had to prove anything. The community here made room for me without question. And in a world that so often felt transactional or performative, this simple, unspoken belonging was a gift.

That night, I made the halibut for Liz. A meal we had a lot of that summer, but that first one, gifted from our neighbors, was the most special. And their kindness was what reminded me that it didn’t matter where I came from here, it simply mattered that I was here. And that the people around me were willing to welcome me in and make me feel like family. Something that helped a lot during the few weeks Liz was gone.

I also managed to get a cat-sitting job for a lovely woman in town the day after Liz had left. It was a nice bonus because it included access to a washer, dryer, and hot shower. I started volunteering one day a week at the local Homer Public Library. I found a coffee shop called the Zen Den, where I began going to write on my days off from the farm.

And it was the people on the farm who helped me the most. My boss, Emily, was the best boss I ever had. Alongside her were Allison, Kara, and Turt. Turt reminded me of my brother. A quiet man who didn’t talk nearly as much as I babbled or sang through life, but when he did, his words were always laced with wisdom. He was way smarter than he ever gave himself credit for and always knew the answers to my riddles. And he was kind, everyone on the farm was kind. It seemed like it was a prerequisite to get the job.

I remember one day at the beginning, when we were paper pot planting some Brussels sprouts. All of us headed to the compost pile, loaded up a wheelbarrow, and then brought it back up to Zone 1. Each section was organized by zone. Zone 1 was located in the upper left corner of the farm. This meant you had to go up a slight incline to reach it. It had been raining the last few days, and the tarp laid down as a path to the section was covered in mud. And, as it turns out, Extra Tuffs do not have a great grip. Each time I’d start to wheel up the incline with a full barrel of wet manure, I’d start praying. Then, I would hit that halfway mark; my arms would start shaking, my boots would lose grip, and I’d slowly skid backwards down the hill.

It was mortifying. Although due to the insane level of kindness on the farm, no one made fun of me but myself. “That happens to us too sometimes,” they would always say. But I’d watch them each day and only be in awe of their strength. It was inspiring to see them run this farm without any machinery. It motivated me to become stronger.

I also didn’t have a choice; if I didn’t get stronger, I wouldn’t get far here.

As I was new, I started bringing baked goods occasionally for our lunch break. Some of the people working on the farm had gluten, dairy, or sugar intolerances, so I became quite inventive in the kitchen. Honey and maple syrup replaced white sugar, almond and coconut flour replaced wheat flour, and applesauce or yogurt replaced the eggs.

My new passion for baking was a bit like my life there. Outhouses replacing bathrooms, lobster pots and sump pumps replacing indoor plumbing. The more convenience I sacrificed, the happier I felt. I realized that all of the things I had grown accustomed to in New York weren’t actually making me happier; they were just more things I was being told I needed. But what did I really want?

This.

This simple, sweet life on a homestead with my best friend. This was happiness. I remember the day we made the compost pile on the farm, with no machinery. Just the five of us out there for hours with our shovels creating layers of chicken manure, kelp, old compost, grain from the local brewery, and wood shavings. It was one of my favorite days on the farm, not because it was easy or enjoyable necessarily. But because it was such hard work, it felt so good to be a part of it all. To create something that would help make food for next year.

Emily was certainly skilled at running a farm, but her true strength lay in her ability to manage people. Each of us mattered to her, and she made sure we felt it. There was an unspoken, gentle respect that existed among all of us, rooted in the different paths our lives had taken that brought us to her farm. This mutual respect was evident in the small gestures and the way we looked out for each other. That sense of connection was what I cherished most about being there. Everything, and everyone, was handled with intention.

One day, on my way to work through the path in the woods, there was a small white envelope lying against a rock with “MAGS” written beautifully on it. It was such a surprise to find on my way through the woods to work. I opened it, and there inside was a card for my half-birthday from Kara. She had gone to work on the farm early, leaving it for me to find on my way to work. I never told her this, but the gesture made me cry. It was so unexpected and made me instantly feel so special. She put thought into every card she wrote. If anyone ever did anything for her, even the smallest thing, they received a thank-you card from her, usually accompanied by a drawing of the item they had given her or the act they had done.

But what amazed me most was how Kara carried so much gentleness and gratitude in a world that hadn’t always been gentle with her. Despite everything she’d endured, she moved through life with an open heart, always finding ways to make someone feel appreciated. She was one of the most generous spirits I’d ever known, proof that softness can be a kind of strength.

Our last week in Homer, Liz and I were finishing a hike at Diamond Creek Trail when I persuaded her to take the shortcut. It was a five-minute walk versus the fifty-minute trail. Partly out of laziness, partly because I felt strangely pulled that way.

A few minutes later, we turned a corner, and two Aussiedoodles ran up to us barking. Their owner called out that she’d just seen a bear cub, though not the mother. We exchanged nervous glances, but continued walking, now as a trio. I asked her about herself, trying to shake the tension.

After a few minutes, she told us her nephew had died by suicide years ago. In response, she packed up her 11-year-old son and began traveling, starting in Ireland.

“Travel is fatal to prejudice,” she said, quoting Twain.

“And it’s the best way to grow empathy,” I offered.

Meeting her sparked inspiration within me. I got home that evening and immediately opened my computer to write. I thought about how beautiful it was that she continued to search for joy, even in the midst of her grief. And I thought about how, when we had said goodbye, I asked her for her name.

“Mary,” she said.

I had looked at Liz and smiled.

If Alaska taught me anything, it was to pay attention.

There were no coincidences. The signs and messages were all there if I paid attention. Staying alert also kept you alive in Alaska. If you weren’t paying attention, you could get charged by a moose, attacked by a bear, or fall through the ice. The place was full of breathtaking beauty, but it demanded presence.

Paying attention, I learned, was the most important thing. Not just to stay alive, but to truly live.

I thought it was odd that I was pulled toward the shortcut that day, but the moment the woman told me her name, I realized it wasn’t. It was something larger pulling me towards Mary, towards a conversation I desperately needed to have, yet again reminding me that grief and purpose so often coexist. And that, despite the pain and heartbreak we will inevitably endure, we can still choose to move forward. She had. I had. I still could.

My entire road trip taught me to pay attention, but getting off the road changed me. The world shut down. I shut down. I couldn’t properly process all of the sadness rooted in the stories of kindness. All of the tragedy. I had numbed myself to sleep for a long time after I got out of that car. But it was here, back in the place that made me the happiest, that I reset myself.

Alaska was what healed me. Not all at once, but moment by moment. Trail by trail. Person by person.

Until, finally, I was awake again.