There’s a place up on the hill near the small boat harbor where I used to hike to a spot and sit on the cliff overlooking the spit.  I would sit there and write or sometimes I’d go up there and make out with my boyfriend, and others I’d just go cry where I thought, “If there is a Goddess and if there is such thing as magic – this place is where I’ll be heard.”

Last Thursday I went up there.  It was a rare sunny day for the area.  I went up feeling needy for something.  My trail has been turned into a tourist walk, and the path I used to forge through the ferns and mud has been made into a boardwalk.

I sat looking on my spot (now right at the end of the boardwalk, where there’s an information placard and a bench).  I had a little resentment, lots of resignation, and finally after a few minutes I started laughing.  So this is progress.

It’s still my spot.  No railing can keep me from it.  I hooked my boot on the bar and threw my leg over the fence.  Almost as soon as I touch down on the other side, I felt better. 

I realized I was wearing the same knee-high brown boots I used to climb up there with and the pine needles on the mossy granite gave just enough for my body to feel instantly at home.  Yes, laugh if you must, but I’ve had those damn boots for at least 12 years. 

I recognized the energy, the ground, the air like an infant recognizes its mother’s heartbeat.  I sank down near ledge and started sobbing with what I can only explain as relief.  Like a THANKYOUGOD THIS IS STILL HERE!

The sun came through the tree limbs and warmed the moss where I was sitting and I suddenly felt so tired.  Just s little nap… for old-time sake.  My eyes grew heavy, my breathing deepened – I fought it, but it just seemed like the right thing to do.  So I pulled the hood up on my sweatshirt and curled up on the edge of the cliff pillowing my head on a clump of moss that felt like Berber carpet… and closed my eyes. 

Before I fell asleep I remember thinking the sun was deliciously gentle on my right hip, the ground still smelled like a mixture of sea, ferns, moldering pine needles, sap, and wild.  I also remember thinking right before I dozed off – “Please, Freyja.  Don’t send someone to rescue me – but a sign in the right direction would be very much appreciated.”

I woke some time later because I was twitching and some thought in the back of my mind kept warning me that I might just twitch my way over the edge.  I laid there for a time before deciding I needed a picture if the view my eyes saw just to remember it.  As I pulled my camera out of my bag I heard voices coming up the boardwalk. 

Two elderly men stopped and stared at me as I sat below them I smiled and they pretended interest in the placard.  I imagined it saying –

Here is an example of the wildlife of Valdez Alaska.  Somewhat domesticated but currently rehabilitating for the wild, this creature is often found barefoot and wandering as if confused.  Do Not Pet Athena.  She is very protective of her spot. Do not litter or she will devour you without pity.  This natural outcropping of granite is her home and visitors would have been lucky enough to see her mating here before the encroaching tourist industry built planks over the ancestral ground of sacred whoopie.  Now Athena is not getting any, which makes her very cranky so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll smile and back away from the viewing area.  Please do not use a flash.

The tourists managed a brief appreciation of the view, but I think I made them uncomfortable as they left quickly and quietly.  I snapped a couple of pictures before curling up and falling back asleep.  I slept like a baby, totally secure and unconcerned by anything.  I felt at peace, protected and sheltered and woke refreshed like I’d slept for a hundred years.

Sitting up I noticed a small blueberry bush that that actually had ripe berries on it.  Perhaps from being in the sun, but blueberries aren’t usually ready for another month.  I tried a few and was surprised by the sharp tang.  I’d forgotten how wild the blueberries in Alaska are compared to the fat sweet berries of the lower 48.  I started to pick the bush clean when I heard anther tourist.  Turning around I saw a guy in his early thirties staring at me as I hunched over a shrub on the edge of a cliff. 

“Picking some blueberries,” I explained.

“They’re not in season back home,” he said.

“Usually they have another month here, but I think these were in the sun.  So where’s home?”

“New Zealand.”

I went to the railing and held my hand out.  “Try these.”

He took the berries and shook my other hand.  “I’m Robbie.”

“I’m Athena.  Nice to meet you.”

To be continued…