Alaska, Then & Now is a series published in four parts: then (Kelsey), then (Jenna), now (Kelsey), now (Jenna). This is part three. Thank you to Jenna Kunze for hosting us in Alaska five summers ago, and for suggesting this project. Here is a previously published photo essay about our trip (then).
[My] Bed / the most reliable air mattress I’ve ever known. I love how when I first fall on top of it, Jenna asks if it needed to be blown up again because she set it up over twelve hours earlier, too excited to wait, how she told me in a text over a month ago that she keeps calling the spare bedroom Kelsey’s Room. Tucked in the corner, I move the pillows so I face the windows instead of my reflection in the mirrored sliding closet doors. Midnight sun leaking through the blinds, I crawl under Brennan’s ink stained “boy” comforter, vaguely blue patterned, an artifact from his life before Jenna.
Bike Guy / Jenna and I go for a walk on the coastal path on my first morning in Anchorage. It’s cloudy and mild. I can’t believe that I’m wearing long sleeves that I literally had to unearth from beneath my bed yesterday morning. Are you local? I’m startled by the kind voice, so sucked in to my conversation with J, the darting zigzag that is a well-worn path of our communication style. A small man on a bicycle, royal blue windbreaker, helmet strapped beneath his chin, his eyes clouded with cataracts, his mouth in an open toothy grin. He extends his arm to a lookout point just beyond where we are standing and we walk over as he rolls up behind us. And this mountain right here, he points, do you know that one? What does it look like? I don’t know. He motions his hand over the curvature of the horizon: Sleeping Lady. I don’t see it, neither does Jenna.
Boy Who Cried ‘Wolf’ / you’re going to write about the man on the bus who cried wolf, right? Probably Jenna, or possibly Brennan, types in red at the bottom of the draft of this newsletter. I wrote the story on a postcard but I don’t remember who I sent it to. Was it you? The bus drivers in Denali invite passengers to shout if they see wildlife, which signals for them to pull over and allow the entire group to gawk at some moose from a great distance. Once, I ask Jenna if she sees the moose, and she says, do you see that brown speck over there? I think it’s moving. I squint in the vague direction of the moose, and a man way in front yells WOLF! There is commotion. The driver replies over the intercom: Where? Where is the wolf? I haven’t seen one wolf all season? Is this finally the day? Where is the wolf? Where? Is there a wolf? I wonder if the tourist does not reply because the bus driver does not leave much room to answer, or because he is shy to reply in English for the entire bus, or maybe he doesn’t understand the questions are for him, or maybe he doesn’t understand our purpose here. Denali, he replies, his voice trailing off as the bus rolls forward.
[Brennan’s] Camelbak I / is just a little backpack with a long looping straw like a cartoon rollercoaster. The bag holds four clementines and my iPhone stuffed to the max. The bladder holds three liters and I fill it up in the visitor center. Each sip tastes stale and metallic, like old plastic in the sun. I force myself to swallow, to not think about how long the bag lay unwashed on the floor of his front closet.
[Brennan’s] Camelbak II / is a 20 oz black insulated water bottle with a built-in straw that collapses into the lid. I don’t remember notable scuff marks or remarkable signs of wear, which is either a signifier for his devotion and care for this vessel, or maybe a sign that this is a new bottle but I forgot. Brennan leaves his Camelbak on the coffee counter in the train station and is ready to leap from the train as it pulls out of the station before Daniel, an Alaska Railroad employee who is not the engineer or the conductor and I’m not quite sure what his official role is besides Awesome, wordlessly hands Brennan the missing bottle as we depart for our journey. The reunion is short n sweet. We stop in Whittier with enough time to soak ourselves speed walking to the cafe up the road but without enough time to order hot food to go. This shack cafe is a nightmare – what I’m saying is that I’ve recently noticed claustrophobic tendencies in myself, so I shimmy back out to wait in the whipping wind and Jenna follows while Brennan waits for his bagel and extra cream cheese. Is that a train whistle? We pick up our pace, the plastic bag of assorted snacks hissing in the wind, and once we are drenched and on the train, Brennan’s face drops. My water bottle, he utters. At least this is a round trip train?
Chris McCandless / died in Denali and went viral for it?
Clay / our Airbnb host, responds to my messages about firewood for the firepit. We start a fire and it dies three minutes later. A car pulls up to our yurt and a cool girl with tangled curls and an open flannel pops out of the driver side and asks if we still need help with the fire. Hannah is Clay’s neighbor and she’s house sitting while he’s out of town. She breeds sled dogs and grew up in Maine. She builds a roaring fire and we never see her again.
[The] Cousins / are seated directly behind us for the return journey with the inferior bus driver. They chat the whole two-hour trip about if they should get Thai food again for dinner, about other recent trips and upcoming weddings for people they know. Days into their trip together, they still swap pretty major life updates, like where they work, where they live. Hiking the next day, we dissect their perceived relationship. It’s almost like they’re friends……but distant………like there is something else that connects them…………………
[The] Curtains / ohmygod, the curtains, when we are really not talking about the heinous blinds, beaded metal cords with plastic bells dangling on the ends, fabric slats that move in two planes (open close open close). What do you think about the curtains? I’m asked by Jenna, later by Brennan, and I prefer the curtains to nothing but I don’t love the curtains themselves, I hate the fabric and the texture but I love the length and sheerness, but this isn’t about me, these are not my curtains, I don’t actually live here.
Dallas / is a big dude and the last to board our bus in Denali. I wonder if he just appears tall from my seat but when we are outside he still stands a head taller than most. I eavesdrop on his forced conversation with Red Shirt Guy. I learn that he is retired, that he spends eight months a year away from home on his National Parks Tour. I wonder if either of them were ever married. I don’t notice any rings but I’m listening and not looking. Jenna’s eyes are closed. I think about these two men and their families and their focus on their investment properties, on the National Parks. Dallas has a massive camera strapped to his chest, on our journey back he shows the photos he took of the caribou who grazed along the trail we just walked, and I feel a soft sadness for this person with tens of thousands of photos from the most beautiful landscapes in this country. Who does he share them with when not with us? In my mind, he’s sunk deep on a leather sectional with three fingers of bourbon in a rocks glass, watching a slideshow of his own nature photography on a 76” flatscreen, maybe there’s a dog, small, white, but probably not. This sadness is my own. I’m conditioned to crave partnership, to understand myself as unstable, to share my photos with my husband back home, who responds hours later, if at all, Nice!
Denali I / did you know that only 30% of park visitors actually see the peak? I spotted it first on our drive north, still an hour from the park entrance. I point to Jenna, who dutifully leans over the wheel to look between the blurry curtain of pine trees. That can’t be it, she concludes. Three hours into the road trip and vibes have plummeted. I cue up a 2000s myspace hits playlist that I found in my downloaded folder on Spotify. Kiss Me Thru the Phone plays loudly, the white peak against a storybook sky falls back to the rearview mirror.
Denali II / Now you can say you’re part of the 30% club! Tim announces to our bus, out the right side we have a full view of the elusive peak. People grab their cameras and gather at the windows while I remain seated but twist myself to cop a view. One of the cousins turns her SLR camera to the other and shares her photo. Sweetie you didn’t get it, he tells her gently, and she follows his finger from the screen in front of them to the opposite window as he voices over THAT’S it and she exclaims OH FUCK that’s so embarrassing and just as the green bus rolls forward she straddles the aisle and cries WAIT I DIDN’T GET IT and even though I know she’s talking about Denali, I think about her photo, the miss, that she thoughtfully composed and is obviously beautiful, how you could love it, even, if not for what you knew was missed.
Denali III / I scream. Full body shriek that would absolutely crack glass. We climb the steep ascent step by step so it wasn’t until I pause to chug water that I turn around to discover God has pulled back the curtain, the clouds are swept aside and the famously elusive peak stares back at me in full view. I jump up and grab Jenna by the forearm and she tells me to never ever do that again. But LOOK I plead, and she’s still collecting herself. I turn back to the ascent. Five minutes later through shortened breaths, I tell her that we no longer have a choice. We must buy the 30% club shirts.
Grace Elliot / plays a set when we sit in Writer’s Block cafe. I’m on the phone with Jenna and she tells me to include more about our time in Anchorage, like that girl who played at the cafe who Brennan loved, but I’m rushing because it’s 10:30 am in Anchorage and 8:30 pm in Florence and Andrew is giving me the signal, like okay, wrap it up, so here I am, hitting send.
Hannah / the forest ranger stationed in Chugach, led the group hike to the Spencer Glacier during our Whistle Stop. I am jealous that she keeps talking to Brennan, because I want to talk to Brennan. She tells him about her husband, about her job, about her background, about her childhood. I love that he asks so many questions but never yields the conversation back towards himself.
Hearth Server / who seemed to have gone out of her way to make B feel bad, it felt like a movie scene the way she delivered the message that HIS CARD WAS DECLINED or did she say REJECTED, like the scene from Mean Girls when Regina George is dress shopping and the sales woman suggests she try Sears when the zipper doesn’t budge. I’ve worked as a waitress and sometimes the card machine doesn’t work because the internet is funky, or you just have to run it a few times. Only after three tries would I approach the cardholder in a low voice to inform them of what’s happening, let them offer another card before I ask. This server essentially pulls out a bullhorn to announce to the restaurant that the payment didn’t go through, and it was no fault of her own. Why did she say it like that? Brennan asks us, or the world.
Ilia / the host at Tent City Brewery, who has three jobs in Anchorage for the season and can’t wait to travel the US before he goes back to Serbia. He can't be older than twenty three and he wears a goofy smile and ready openness as he replies to our questions, standing over our outdoor table that is amazing real estate when the sun is out but slightly chilly when a cloud rolls in. My insecurities are heightened as I strive to mold B’s perception of a person he might know forever, but I can’t keep up, obviously, so I’m being weird. I think of how Jenna’s pointed out that he told someone in passing that “Jenna has a best friend in town” and isn’t that the sweetest distinction? What did he possibly mean by it? I think of Tent City and hope it refers to voluntary camping in nature and not to the battered tents I’ve seen on the side of the highways. I think about a tent as a temporary home, a pop-up refuge you take with you, and I think of B’s perception of me (or my perception of him) as another type of tent. I turn to Brennan with a proposition: tell me everything you already know about me, I’ll do the same for you, then it’s a blank slate – everything on the table. Go.
Jim / How can I help you today? I swear is his opening line and I’m overwhelmed immediately by this invitation to be helped. We buy our park passes and look at trail maps, cocking our heads to reorient ourselves to the winding park road. We ask about closures which is code for The Fire and as I jitter at the counter WHOOPSIE! What was that? I’ve flung my silver hoop across the counter into Jim’s territory and before I even take a step he’s hunched over the carpet like he’s looking at a baby sparrow or small flower. A crowd amasses behind us but Jim doesn’t fluster, he doesn’t rush. I wonder if he likes his eyeglasses, I wonder how he dresses when he’s not in uniform. I say thank you as he passees me the silver hoop. We are on our way.
Judy / is dead, according to Brennan. But the cafe with her namesake is our church with eggs benedict every other Sunday, because they bring in Lisa to prepare the hollandaise. Sit anywhere, Shawnie with the statement eyeglasses and sunflower apron, who Brennan thinks is ditsy even though all of our breakfasts come as expected, plus the bonus homemade blueberry and strawberry rhubarb jams. Shawnie tells us she foraged the blueberries from the Costco parking lot. Brennan is mainlining coffee when I’ve barely had a sip, every six minutes his usual server Ariana comes by the table with a full pot for refills.
[LLB ***] / Jenna’s new car, not new to the world, but new to her, that came to her from “her boy Adrian” in Eagle River, a prominent suburb of Anchorage. He’d posted it in the JBER Lemon Lot Facebook group about a month ago and now it’s parked in the lot outside Brennan’s apartment. The car, who I want to refer to as she - what does it reveal about me that I’m quick to engender a vehicle? - she’s white and sparkles until she’s freckled with the bodies and literal blood from the mosquitos, the “state bird of Alaska” according to B. She’s sweet but sometimes gives me an attitude, teasing that my phone is not connected to USB1 but CAUSE IT RAINS IN YOUR BEDROOM BABY forever & always pumps full blast as we roll out of Anchorage and drive toward the peaks on the horizon line. Can you believe we only make one turn in four hours to get to Denali? No, I can’t believe it.
Kahleal / is allegedly on vacation when we drop our precious 35mm rolls at Stuart’s downtown during my bonus morning in Anchorage. He is THE film guy, as in, the ONLY guy who processes the film drop offs, and he picks up on Mondays. We just missed him. Three weeks, the man behind the counter replies when Jenna asks when we can expect the scans. He doesn’t react to our dramatic echoes, three WEEKS! We drag our heels back to the car, turning it around in our mind, it’s not so bad, this is what film is about? right? when was the last time you waited this long for film?
Red Shirt Guy / sits a couple rows back from us on the bus from mile 43. He has hiking poles and a tanned face and a quiet reluctance to fall into conversation with his seatmate. He was a dentist before he retired to Denver, where he works as property developer. Later, while we’re hiking, he encourages us to walk through the stream. I don’t know why it felt so impassable at the time, maybe it could be a metaphor for something, like he needed to assure us, or we needed assurance, that this will be okay.
Rex / is the driver for our 10:30 am bus to beyond mile fifteen in the park. J & I score front row seats on the green school bus and just below, out our window, we see the bus dispatcher with khakis, a clipboard, and greasy curtain bangs absolutely eye fuck the shit out of our guy Rex. He has short sandy hair and a beard, he’s gotta be older than us but not nearly old enough to be described as Old. He came on the mic to give his spiel and as he spoke, my attraction to him increased at a constant rate over time, even after starting at net-zero attraction to him. I love how he picks the cuticle on his thumb with his pointer finger, how he kind of trash talks the park rangers who he calls Flat Hats, how his demeanor is vaguely bored and how I feel compelled to entertain him. He tells us that he’s already run from a moose twice this season, that he’s been driving the bus for eighteen seasons, that he’ll use an analog clock to point out wildlife along the way, twelve o’clock is the front of the bus, six o’clock is the back, and so on. The entire bus journey is an immersive back country I Spy. I think of us as time travelers, the bus that is really a clock, and I wonder if he’s lonely, if he was ever married, if he calls his mother when he’s on break.
Smoking Queens /
Tense / I text Brennan and Jenna today —
Whole thing should just be in past tense right? Or present? I gotta pick a side but I don’t wanna
Cast yer votes
The votes are split. I feel embarrassed for having to ask, I feel embarrassed for opting for the present, even though I’m writing months later. I feel embarrassed for writing about it here. But this is NOW and THEN, and we are in the NOW! If it seems fake or artsy, so what? What is now, if not present? But maybe I keep it in the present because I miss them, Jenna and Brennan, and I want to be together with Costco wine on the sectional couch, reading this essay out loud.
