The last frontier
When it comes to licence plate slogans, Alaska's may be the second-best in the Union (it's hard to beat New Hampshire). As a good slogan should, it describes not only the land itself, but also the way its residents − or at least its non-native residents − perceive the land.
With its rugged geography and its relative isolation, Alaska either breeds or attracts individuals who understand that independence is rooted in self-reliance, and who value both. This can manifest in ways that are confusing...
...or even unsettling (at least to Canadian sensibilities).
But the frontier spirit is fundamentally positive, whether it manifests as an extreme expression of individuality (Sterling) or as a strong sense of community (Cammy, Mary Beth and Gordon). Alaskans know they have to rely on themselves and on each other − whether they be fishing at sea or working to improve life in an outport town − because the land is beautiful but unforgiving, and there's no help to be had from the lower 48, except for the steady traffic of container ships.
And everywhere, there is pride in one's work...
...and respect for the achievements, and the sacrifices, of those who have come before.
I can't seem to find the right words to sum up my experience of Alaska − either the land or its people − so I will borrow from the works of much better writers.
In anticipation of my trip, I read Passage to Juneau: A Sea and Its Meanings, Jonathan Raban's brilliantly observed account of his solo sailing voyage from Seattle to Juneau. At the end of his trip (and his book), Raban is moved to read his father's copy of the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, and from that book he copies the following quotation into his logbook: