Clear Creek - October

There are places a man visits, and there are places that become part of who he is.

Clear Creek is the latter.

By October, Alaska has stopped pretending that summer might return. The mornings begin with a skim of ice along the puddles and edges of the creek. Frost clings to the leaves in a soft white coat, just enough to remind you that winter is already waiting over the next ridge.

The low-bush cranberries still hold on, bright red against a landscape turning brown and gold. They seem almost stubborn, refusing to surrender their color before the snow finally claims everything.

The creek is alive.

The salmon have finished their journey, and the rainbow trout know it. They patrol the current, feeding on drifting eggs and the last gifts left behind by the spawning fish. Every bend in the water carries possibility. Every cast asks the same question:

What lies beneath this seam?

The woods tell their own story.

From the protection of the deck, I watch a young bull moose working through the willows. He's still developing his brow tines and might be a possibility next season, but today I'm content simply to watch him.

Earlier, during a morning walk, I flushed a flight of ptarmigan. They've just begun exchanging their summer camouflage for winter white, patches of brown still betraying them against the country.

Somewhere nearby, Brother Bear is making one final circuit, looking for an easy meal before settling in for the winter.

Out here, you are never truly alone.

You are simply another creature sharing the valley.

When the fishing is done and the daylight fades, the cabin becomes the center of the world.

It began as a dream of my dad's and became real through the work of friends and family. Years may pass between visits, but somehow time seems to stand still here. We leave pieces of ourselves behind, and when we return, they are waiting for us.

There's still a National Geographic my brother left out the last time we were here together.

That was also the trip when we replaced the stairway.

Apparently, two-inch roofing nails only discourage a bear from climbing onto the deck. Four-inch finishing nails make a considerably more persuasive bear board.

We arrived to find blood stains, gashes down the side of the cabin, stairs torn from the deck and gnaw marks on the risers.

I would say the four-inchers were a little more than called for.

Note to self: be a little more prudent with the deterrent.

Eventually, though, the repairs are finished. The rods are put away. Darkness settles into the valley, and the cabin returns to what it has always been.

The Coleman lantern hisses softly on the porch.

A good cigar—or sometimes an old pipe—adds its familiar aroma to the cold evening air. An army field jacket keeps the chill at bay, and a wool watch cap gets pulled low over the ears. On the side table rests a trusted sidearm, not from fear, but from respect.

Brother Bear has earned that respect.

A well-worn Louis L'Amour novel opens where the bookmark was left on the previous visit. I only read it here and never seem particularly concerned with finishing it. The Sacketts understand frontiers, hard country and quiet men.

They make fitting companions for an Alaskan evening.

There is no television here.

No traffic.

No meetings.

No deadlines to confuse, confound and distract.

The breeze moving through the trees replaces countless hours of online meetings. Nobody cares whether we're over budget or whether we're hitting the schedule.

The schedule here is determined by the chill in the air and the phase of the moon.

And eventually there is only the creek flowing through the darkness, the occasional crack of a branch in the timber, and the quiet satisfaction that comes from being exactly where you are supposed to be.

People often ask where a man finds peace.

Some find it in churches.

Some in cities.

Some on distant vacations.

Mine waits beside a cold Alaskan creek in October.

It smells of spruce, wood smoke and frost.

It sounds like moving water and the hiss of a Coleman lantern.

It feels like a fly rod in mittened hands and a warm cup of coffee before sunrise. It carries the memory of my dad's dream and the hands of the friends and family who helped make that dream real.

For a little while, the world is reduced to the things that truly matter.

Clear Creek is more than a cabin in the woods.

It is where I remember who I am.