Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
— 9 —
Unhappy Trails to You
I'M AN UNHAPPY CAMPER.
Where I grew up, when you didn't get your moose, you didn't eat meat that winter. If
you wanted meat to eat, you went hunting in Kamishak Bay. If you went hunting in Kamis-
hak Bay, back before statehood, when Alaska was one gigantic national unPark, perforce,
you went camping. In tents.
Before I was ten I'd had it up to here with breaking trail while carrying a full pack while
wading through swamps while slapping at mosquitoes while yelling to scare off bears. I
told my mom when she got a real job on shore that paid enough so we could buy our meat
from Bayview Mercantile that I had pitched my last tent.
Which was why, a few years ago when my friend Linda Longstaff suggested hiking the
Resurrection Trail, I responded, well, shall we say, in the negative.
“Not only no,” I believe I said, “but hell no,” and I trotted out my standard disclaimer. “I
don't do tents.” Thinking that was that.
It wasn't.
“There are cabins,” she said. “You don't have to sleep in a tent.”
“Are there beds in these alleged cabins?” I said.
“I'll pack one in for you,” she said.
“Are there hot showers in these alleged cabins?” I said.
“I'll pack one of those in for you, too,” she said.
She said all this, she said it often, she wouldn't back up or off or down. I caved, which
was how I wound up on the Resurrection Trail for five days and four nights without any
real intention of going in the first place. (I may have no backbone, but Linda has no
scruples. She didn't pack in the shower and the bed for me.)
