Al Batt: Tales from Exit 22

HAINES, Alaska — I fixed the wobbly table leg by putting a magazine under it.

It took out the old wobble and put a new wobble in. I’m a jack-of-all-thumbs.

That was the cheapest thing I did all week.

The lowlights of my week included buying a new garage door opener with a smaller remote that gave me much more room in my car, having an injured light fixture repaired, carrying a new cell phone that has a tendency to freeze even in hot weather, obtaining estimates for a new roof and watching as my health insurance premiums climbed as high as the hopes of a new mother. I worried that the next thing would be that something would go wrong my precious stapler. I was concerned that the Swingline stapler’s flux capacitor might hyperventilate and transmogrify. I had to go to somewhere. I couldn’t afford to stay home. Besides, how could anyone miss me if I don’t go away?

I went to the airport and quickly found the trail. Seated in the plane, I heard the pilot say, “We’ve just been informed that a butterfly has flapped its wings in Brazil. So be prepared for a flight delay.”

I went to Alaska. I like the sound of going to where Baked Alaska is called “baked here.”

“Alaska?” one of you is saying. “They eat whale meat and blubber there.”

You’d blubber, too, if you had to eat whale meat.

For most of my life, Alaska was an imaginary place. I had uncorked a bottle of Alaskan dreams with my insatiable appetite for the written word. I read my way to Alaska. I read books by John Muir, Jack London, Robert Service, Joe McGinniss, Peter Jenkins and bits of James Michener. I love books and I’ve tried to read Michener. He’s a fine writer, but he could fill 700 pages about changing a light bulb.

I live in Minnesota. Why would any man who has been described as “slightly smarter than a houseplant” and “almost normal” go north in November? I was born facing north. Alaska is lovely. It’s one big postcard. A friend told me, “Alaska is to Minnesota what Minnesota is to Iowa.” There is more Alaska than can be taken in.

I flew into Juneau. From out of the blue into the biggest state. Alaska’s name comes from the Aleut word “Alyeska,” which means “Great Land.” Alaska was purchased from Russia for two cents an acre. Russia used a clueless appraiser.

From Juneau, which some claim is the cloudiest city in the US, I took a ferry 80 miles north to Haines. There, I got a room and a bath. Haines has a population of only 1,800, but it is bigger than life. The rarity of people gives this stunning location a not yet domesticated feel. It is a place of phenomenal views that makes it impossible not to fall in love with it.

I watched bald eagles feed along the Chilkat River near Haines. Haines has a black belt in eagles. The eagles do not have dreadlocks. That’s the fear of smoked salmon. I watched the eagles feast on salmon. I noted that salmon rarely feed on eagles. Haines is so beautiful that bears hug themselves with joy. I spotted the footprints of a gigantic bear. People who saw the beast said that, from beezer to bustle, it was the size of a Buick. Others added that it was overbearing.

I sauntered around. I stared out the window at dawn and saw a world unlike that of my homeland — this one had large mountains. It was difficult to see much with all those mountains in the way. Is gigantitude a real word? If not, it should be one used just to describe mountains. The sunlit, snowcapped mountains appeared to glow from within. Ansel Adams wrote, “No matter how sophisticated you may be, a huge granite mountain cannot be denied — it speaks in silence to the very core of your being.” John Muir said that going to the mountains is going home.

I decided to get a closer look and ventured forth from my residence, the one featuring the statute of a man with a beaver on his head. I donned allegedly thermal underwear to stand and stare. I wore heavy wool socks without much thought, just as someone would bring a towel to the beach. Such dress allowed me to be hot and cold at the same time.

There are places that once we leave them, they cease to exist. Haines is not one of those. It is a snapshot that I carry with me.

A man is like a table, he needs dreams to come true and take out the wobble.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.