Austin to Anchorage Part II: Into the Light, Death Following Behind

Canola fields. Photo by author

The light is rushing back. Like the Alaskan springtime when I was young, only faster. Day by day, the farther north I drive, I find the quality of the light transmuting, becoming less like a round shining orb and more like a vast, particulate sea. Like eternity, it is everywhere.

I pass mile upon mile of impossible yellow glowing beneath hazy skies. These are canola fields. Before this I had not learned that something so ordinary could light a flare of psychedelic joy at the backs of my eyeballs. I may never navigate another cooking oil section at the grocery store without a giddy rise in the core of my brain.

The sun sets later and later, shortening the nights. At the same time, I am gaining hours as I cross time zones. I watch the light change with the landscape. Night settles in behind the trees well after 11pm, after I’ve bedded down in the truck.

Dusk after 11pm. Photo by author

Along with the light comes darkness. It comes from within and from outside of me. I first noticed it two days ago, when my brain began to chatter madly in the absence of distraction from music. No radio, phone, streaming music or TED talks filter through the vast…