On The Edge

The river cut a gorge through the greens, yellows and oranges of the changing birches that carpeted the Alaskan hills. Behind these lesser hills loomed mountains, already white with snow. Ribbon clouds made them seem as though they were rising out of the depths of a dream.
Jenn and I drove down the Glenn highway through the expansive Alaska landscape. This portion of the state’s only highway was cut out of the side of a mountain and overlooked the gorge. Vertical lines where the dynamite had been dropped still scarred the slate cliffs which formed the road’s left boundary. I hoped the picturesque landscape of the Matanuska Valley would go on forever.
Before long, our destination spread out before us. I had always pictured glaciers as smooth, flat, sheets of ice hanging between two mountain slopes. The Mat-Su glacier, however, seemed like an endlessly white topographic model, marked by hundreds of icy protrusions and deep crevasses. We were there to climb those icy protrusions. It was the deep crevasses, however, which filled me with dread.
Alex, our fearless leader, hadn’t wanted to take us climbing that morning. He was hesitant about taking amateurs to such a dangerous terrain with only three experienced climbers. The year before, he’d taken a friend climbing and she’d behaved carelessly. As a result, she rolled her ankle in one of the glacier’s ravines. All the men in their party had to take turns carrying her off the glacier.
Jenn, however, was determined to join their climbing expedition. After all, we had rented ice boots and crampons. We rose early from our cozy tent, for the chance to try ice-climbing. We wouldn’t be careless, she swore. She assured Alex that we understood the dangers of climbing and that we took it very seriously. Alex still looked skeptical, but he agreed to talk it over with Lane and Steve, his long-time climbing buddies.
I, for one, couldn’t blame Alex for being concerned. He had watched me tumble down a muddy hillside on our Indian River camping trip. He had bandaged my bloody finger when I cut it with a knife on the train, where we waited on Princess Cruise passengers. He, single handedly, towed my kayak back to shore after my partner broke our rudder and we’d almost floated into the whirling motors of the departing Princess ship. Alex and I both knew that I was a liability on this trip.
Yet, here we were, an unlikely group of experienced and beginning climbers, at the mouth of the Mat-Su glacier. Before we could attach our claw-like crampons to our boots, we had to hike through a rugged path of rock and silt, to the glacial face. The trail curved around small gorges, filled with blue-green water. This uninhabited region was silent except for the excited and nervous chatter of our group. I lagged behind, watching every step I took in my heavy ice-boots. Finally, we reached the glacier. A sign warned us that to proceed beyond the end of the trail was to do so at our own risk. I swallowed the lump of fear that had risen in my throat.
We attached our crampons to our boots and Sherri, Lane’s girlfriend, gave us a quick lesson on how to walk on ice. While we waited for everyone to attach their claw-like crampons into place, Jenn and I each took turns posing for pictures with our ice axes. In her picture, I noticed, she looked like an adventurer who was about to conquer a mountain. Mine was missing a bowl hat to complete the Charlie Chaplin stance I had assumed.
Before long, we set out. The snow crunched beneath our feet as we plodded past sloping ice ridges. Azure pools formed in the ravines created by the ice flows. Ribbons of black silt broke up the immense white landscape. I took off my jacket as the sun’s rays reflected off the frigid landscape and warmed my body.

After exploring for about a half hour, the boys finally found the perfect ridge for a beginning climb. Lane scaled the ridge’s face, and secured the ropes to which all subsequent climbers would be harnessed. I watched as everyone took a turn. Alex, Lane and Steve were professionals. They made it look easy. Laura and Sherri had only gone ice climbing once before this, but they summitted the ridge with hardly any difficulty. At last it was Jenn’s turn. As Alex clipped her harness to the ropes, I noticed Steve and his girlfriend, Kira, moving away from our group. Steve had been our biggest opponent that morning when we’d begged to join their expedition. He was a life-long climber who didn’t want to be responsible if Jenn or I injured ourselves.
Jenn let out a euphoric shout as she reached the top. Meanwhile, I held Lane’s peanut butter and jelly burrito, so he could fix my harness. I had almost changed my mind and decided against attempting a climb. I had been terrified of embarrassing myself by tumbling down the side of the ice face. My friends, however, refused to let me back out. Lane was getting me ready for my climb before I could change my mind again. I handed Lane his burrito and crunched through the ice toward Alex. His brightly-colored, diamond-patterned bandana stood out against the endless glacial landscape. I laughed at his ridiculous headpiece as he buckled my harness to the ropes. “Just take it easy,” he advised, and I turned to face my icy obstacle.
I made first contact with my ice pick, a few feet above my head. From there, I tore up the initial slope of the ridge. All around me, I could hear astonished laughter. I had been so determined to prove that I could handle this climb that I’d raced up the ice face until I reached the crux. Here, just a few feet from the top, the slope changed from inward to outward. I, essentially, had to climb backwards to stay with its curve. My face turned red and beads of sweat formed above my brows. I struggled to maintain a hold on my ice axe, lodged in the ice overhead, despite my frigid fingers.
“I want to come down,” I shouted to Alex. His bandana now looked more like the checkered flag of surrender.
“No, you can do this Jamie,” he answered. Lane free climbed up a side of the ridge beside me, and dictated my next move. Sherri, Laura, and Jenn cheered me on from below, as I pulled myself up with the handles of the axe.
“Just one more and you’ve got it,” Lane instructed in his calm Southern drawl. I sunk my pick into the top of the ridge and pulled myself over its summit where I instantly met breathtaking views of the bordering mountains.
“I did it!” I thought.
Later that night, there was a celebration back at our campsite. It was the fall equinox and belly dancers had taken the stage. Hippies twirled all around me, while others were spinning fire and tethered balls of colored light, called poi. Behind me, a man spit huge geysers of fire.
I was celebrating more than just the changing seasons; I was celebrating the perfect end to a perfect summer. I had arrived in Alaska, scared and alone, except for two former Fort Myers Beach co-workers whom I hardly knew. But, I had gone on many adventures during my four months there, which all lead up to that moment on the Mat-Su glacier. In that moment, I recognized, for the first time, a strength I never knew I had.
Armed with this new awareness, I decided to learn how to spin fire. I took the make-shift poi, composed of weighted balls in the toes of green, spandex stockings, which served as practice instruments for fire spinners. On my first attempt, I whacked myself in the head. I didn’t give up, however, until I had learned the basic motion from which all fire spinning begins.
Two days later, I set out on a road trip to San Diego, to begin a new chapter of my life. I left Alaska armed with the knowledge of my accomplishments; knowledge I carry with me to this day.

A Rose For Oscie

My perfect mate is also An Ideal Husband author, Oscar Wilde. Oscie, as I’ve affectionately nicknamed him, is a perfect example of the type of man to which his play’s name alludes.
If Oscie knew me, I am almost certain we would be best friends. He is notorious for his witty dialogues, so conversation would never be dull. Furthermore, I already know that I can appreciate his social circle: Bram Stoker, Henry Irving, Walt Whitman, and Henry James, to name a few. We also share similar interests: writing, men, fashion, theatre and beauty. Oscie’s appreciation of the aesthetic qualities of life, as well as his exceptional fashion sense would undoubtedly land him on the cover of GQ magazine, and I have always been attracted to GQ models.
Ordinarily, I prefer men who are not only my best friend, but also who have good credit history and job stability. However, Oscie’s literary success allows for some flexibility of these requirements. A writer from this century is not ideal because he would offer no financial security. Oscie, on the other hand, has an established writing career, which provides him with the type of stability I look for in a man.
The aforementioned traits make Oscie a wonderful mate; however his Irish upbringing and last name make him the ideal mate. I have always wanted to go to Ireland, which is, conveniently, Oscie’s birthplace. Also, if we were to marry, my name would be Jamie Wilde, and there are, arguably, few names better than that. Oscie, to my knowledge, is not allergic to dogs. As an avid dog lover, myself, that is the icing on the cake.
On our perfect first date, Oscie and I would take a long ride in his carriage. We would read our poetry to each other and engage in witty political debates. Afterwards, we might take a long ride on horseback through the Irish countryside.
Essentially, the only thing Oscar Wilde lacks is a pulse, and that, unfortunately, is an insurmountable obstacle. Thus, the only logical solution is to name my future child Dorian, in honor of the father he should have had.