A fine October night in interior Alaska. Steaming cup of coffee in hand, I stand on the porch in my bare feet. At ten below zero it feels downright tropical. It’s midnight, and the cabin; just below the Arctic Circle, is engulfed in silence. Far overhead, northern lights compete with the moon for ascendancy. Beneath them, the land is bathed in an otherworldly glow. Breathing deeply, I try to capture the magic of this night, to fix it within my being, if only for a time. No luck—once again, transcendentalism has betrayed me. Or so it seems.
Looking toward the southeast, a patchwork of dark woods and brightly illuminated snowfields extends toward the horizon and the bulk of the Alaska Range. Close by the cabin, a copse of spruce and birch trees lean into each other in a conspiratorial fashion, keeping their own counsel. For just a moment, the faintest of whispers reach me. I listen closely, straining to hear, but learn nothing. Whatever secrets they share are not meant for my ear. Far back in the dark woods, flashes of light draw my attention. Like will-o’-the-wisps, the starlight, reflected off the snow, beckons. But I remain, transfixed by the night.
Now the aurora, swirling above, asserts itself. As it increases in intensity, an eerie green light fills the clearing. From far above, I hear, for the first time in my life, the sound of the aurora borealis. Outsiders might scoff, but native Alaskans have long known that it can sometimes be heard. As the electric sound recedes, I turn to find I have company. Before me, my shadow stands etched upon the cabin’s wall. I am reminded of Plato’s Parable of the Cave. But, unlike the cave’s famous inhabitant, I’ve never felt so free. We stand there a moment longer, my shadow and I, contemplating our mutual existence.
Our ruminations are interrupted by the sharp crack of spruce limbs breaking beneath something large and furry. Who’s there? I ask reflexively. In answer, I hear the rustle of brush as a tentative step is taken in my direction. Pausing, I consider the loaded rifle leaning inside the door. But it won’t be necessary. Another step, this time accompanied by the sound of munching from the undergrowth. Mystery solved. My nocturnal visitor has resolved itself into nothing more than an insomniac moose, out for a midnight snack.
Turning my attention back to the heavens, I discover that the aurora has abandoned me. In its stead, stars without number sparkle across the firmament. Though I want to see more, the cold has at last found me. Scurrying inside I retrieve my boots and parka, leaving the rifle behind. Once outside, I move away from the cabin for a better view. Glancing back from a distance, my cabin appears snug and reassuring; an oasis of warmth amidst the cold. Far above, I watch as billions of years of history unfold before me. In the utter silence of this night I stand, an audience of one, and attempt to comprehend the incomprehensible.
I think of my small cabin, nestled in the interior of Alaska, and of the continent upon which it rests. This continent, that peeks from the blue oceans of a modest little planet known as Earth. And what of Earth itself, a mere speck in the infinity of the cosmos. By what strange concatenation have it, and I, come into existence?
I’d like to say that standing there; I am privy to some startling revelations regarding our existence. That; for a moment, I truly understand the nature of reality. The fact is that doesn’t happen. Instead, my reverie is broken by the arrival of a meteor low in the southeast. Approaching improbably close, it flares in a final ecstasy of immolation and dissolves in a burst of light. Blinking, I stamp my feet against the cold and look around me.
The moon, resting against the horizon, appears gigantic. From this low angle, its buttery yellow light etches the land in deep relief. Mountains seventy miles away stand sentinel as the valleys beneath them retreat into shadow. And as I shiver, gawking at this magnificent scene, a fey sense of awareness overcomes me. For just a moment, I have the distinct impression that my surroundings have shifted imperceptibly. A façade has been lifted. And in that instant, I perceive the sheer improbability of it all. An overwhelming sense of unreality leaves me shaken, unsteady. The moon, the mountains and forest, now appear as mere props scattered upon an enormous stage. And I, what am I?
Reeling from my discovery, I flounder through the snow, back toward the cabin. It’s much colder now, perhaps twenty five below. My boots squeak against the snow as I make my way. Pausing at the porch to catch my breath, I venture a final look around me…nothing. Everything looks normal, even banal. My snow shovel rests on the porch, as it always does. The usual junk remains stuffed beneath the porch for safekeeping. Out front, a surplus 55-gallon barrel awaits its fate. It’s just your normal Alaskan cabin. If it’s all part of a play, everything’s in place for the next act.
Inside, hands stiff from the cold, I manage to remove my parka and boots. As I warm myself, I think of what just happened in the forest. It is then that I recall another forest, where Shakespeare has Jaques declaim: “All the world’s a stage.” Well, you won’t get any argument from me, not now. But if it is just a theatrical production, if reality isn’t all it’s made out to be, then who is producing it? Will it have a long run? Or does it even matter? What the hell, some moments should be experienced, not analyzed. Maybe that’s our problem. We’re always looking for meaning, when we should just be looking. Eventually, I succumb to the weight of these philosophical queries. Feeling my way in the dark, I wearily climb up to the loft and collapse into my sleeping bag. The curtain lowers….
