So I opened my eyes to the Alaskan sunlight that had begun pouring through the crack in the curtain at 4:30 a.m., one year shy of another decade, and thought about all the many birthdays of my past. My sister Linda and I have birthdays two weeks apart, which my efficient but not always sensitive mother found rather convenient. One birthday party instead of two. So I never really enjoyed my own birthday party until I was seventeen, when living in Arizona on my own. Short lived, however.
Just three days after turning nineteen (with no gift from the man I was about to marry), I slid into a ten-year marriage without receiving a single birthday present from a man I'll call Dick, or even an acknowledgment that this was supposed to be a special day for me. I did try the year I turned 29 to ask for a book. What I got was, "You're so selfish. That will cost me $10." I left the brute ten months later.
My divorce not yet final when I turned 30, I had the best birthday of my life, ever. A secret birthday, the details of which I might one day reveal. But not yet. A cherished birthday that an old lady might tell to a great-granddaughter, and hold her to secrecy. What I will say about that birthday is that it brought me hope and possibility. Gifts I treasure to this day.
And ever since then I've had really happy birthdays, truly. One that stands out was my 50th, when my three children treated me to a holiday at Lake Harrison in B.C.
So there I lay this year, not yet sixty, wondering what I would do in Skagway to celebrate my very special day. The year before friends from the Garden had taken me to the Pizza Station and treated me to my first shot. I'd then made my way to my son's company party at the "White House," where the HAPA bus drivers had made me a cake and sang Happy Birthday. A good day.
This year I'm working for the company my son works for; we all had the day off. Pretty soon Shari texted from two doors down the hallway. "Happy Birthday. Coffee's on."
"What do you want to do?" she asked when I arrived, cream from the community frig in my hand.
"Dyea!" Dyea is the ghost town about 8 miles NNW of Skagway.
Two passions Shari pursues. Crosswords and geocaching. And who would believe there is such adventure in each?
Four of us ended up spending the day together--a totally unexpected, unplanned, but beautiful day of learning, fun, relaxation, and growing friendship. Me. Stanley. Shari. Teri. A day of soul enrichment in everything that's good, all of it experienced within Alaska's indescribable sense of space and spectacular.
First, it was out to the lot behind our hotel to receive instruction, me side-tracked with a birthday call from my son, not yet here in Skagway.
|Standing below my window, talking to Blake|
|Instruction from Shari|
|Me, Stanley, Shari|
We then veered over to the train track, where we found, to my great delight, an abandoned engine and box cars. Stanley poked her nose is one of the box cars. "Hey!" she said. "This is great place to come make out!" I looked and said, "Hey! This is a great place to live!"
|A great place to live|
Our needle was getting a little crazy. Shari told us that when we're within 25 feet of the cache, it'll do this. You have to just start snooping around. So snooping around we did. Teri found it. Who'd o' thunk it was there?
|What is this piece of rusted relic?|
|Stanley, Teri, Shari|
|Me signing the log|
|AB Building -- Arctic Brotherhood|
Now Dyea. Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. In the old days you rowed over from Skagway or steamed into the long shallow bay of Dyea on a steamer out of San Francisco or Seattle. Today you just drive up and around AB Mountain, around Long Bay, up the mouth of the Tyea River, over the bridge, and back down to Dyea.
Along the way we braked hard. An eagle was serenely perched on the branch of a Sitka Spruce, facing Long Bay with not a care in the world.
Suddenly, a second eagle swooped in, the two lifted together and circled south, landing in a tree behind us. I'm never not amazed how tiny a bird call these majestic birds have. Kind of like Paul Bunyon singing like Tinker Bell.
No, wait. First a stop at Slide Cemetery where so many men lost their lives on April 3, 1898, an avalanche catching them under 30-foot cloud snow. A somber place, a quiet place, sunlight dappling through the spruce and onto devil's club.
|Here Lies Stanly, A Pirate Who Died Not at Sea But Under the Snow|
A Story of Woe Too Sad To Be Told
|Creek running down into Lynn Canal|
|The Old Wharf, 1897, 1898, 1899|
And dare I get so mundane as to say, where else can you find a glacier fed creek bed full of gold? Winking up shiny and yellow, drawing me down into the frigid water?
Driving back to town in company of new friends, it seemed to me t it was one of the most satisfying, unexpected, and loveliest of days. The day, however, was not over.
Back at the hotel Jazz had baked me not only one birthday cake, but two! Two? And Davey, an adorable man who once held me in his arms while I cried, had his own birthday gift for me. Just to catch you up, last year, two days before my birthday, a man in town--who should never have said such a thing--told me I was too old to fit in. It was Davey I'd found in my tears, it was Davey who'd decried the man who'd dared say it. So what better way to end my birthday, older than the year before, with Davey singing me Happy Birthday?