Rainforest Reflections - Alaska

It’s 5:25 p.m. on Thursday, October 15, 2015, and despite the thousands of miles of separation, the rainforest never felt so close. In approximately one hour, as sweat rolls down my face and my body struggles to hold proper pose, my mind will have returned to the teeming canopy of Costa Rica’s Osa Peninsula. Dropping in on an occasional yoga class has provided a much-needed mental timeout, allowing me to escape the bustle of city life long enough to tap into the peace I discovered while I was away.

And if that were not enough, I recently received a package postmarked from Haines, Alaska, the contents of which have provided me with yet another reminder of my recent summer travels. You may recall from a previous blog entry, entitled, “Valley of the Eagles,” that I was given the contact information of a local artist in Haines who was described to me as a “wild man.”

Come to find out, this particular artist is a rare master carver of traditional dugout canoes used by the native “Tlingit” people of Southeast Alaska. After several failed attempts, I finally crossed paths with this wild man and even decided to take one of his art classes at the local public library. 

By the time I arrived, the library tables were filled with town residents eager to learn a few tips from the man whose real name is Wayne. I have never been much of an artist, and my inabilities were on full display when Wayne asked us to replicate his “healing spirit” design, a piece that incorporates the use of “ovoids,” which can best be described as rounded rectangles.

The ovoid is central to all Tlingit artwork, but for someone like me whose artistic ability is limited to the occasional stick figure, duplicating the technique proved to be quite the challenge. According to Wayne, the healing spirit represents to the Tlingit what angels represent to other cultures. The spirit is believed to keep watch over a person during hardship, but this didn’t seem to help my situation, seeing that I spent most of the class erasing rather than drawing.

I walked out of the library questioning why I decided to attend the class in the first place, but I knew there had to be a reason why Wayne and I had met. Well, two months later, when a package from Haines, Alaska, arrived on my front door, I finally understood why.

Before I left town, I commissioned Wayne to create a special piece to commemorate my visit. My only requirements were that it be an original work and that it incorporate both the raven and eagle, central figures to both the Tlingit culture and also to the plotline of my novel.

Tucked safely underneath layers of packing paper and bubble wrap was a three-foot, red cedar canoe paddle adorned with intricately-painted images of both a raven and an eagle. It’s a one-of-a-kind piece from a master Tlingit carver designed in the traditional Northwest Coast style—exactly what I wanted.

The paddle arrived the same week that I sent the first 50 copies of my manuscript to an initial focus group. The participating readers have until Friday, November 13, to complete the book and return to me their official surveys. Now that I think about it, maybe it would have been wise to select a different deadline than “Friday, the 13th…”

As you can imagine, I’m a little apprehensive about the survey process. Part of me wonders what the response will be, while the other part tries not to think about it too much. The more I do, the more I’m reminded of the potential—not only the potential for success, but also for failure.

When I left Alaska, I thought my blogging days had officially come to an end, but I recently realized there is still one more adventure left to tell. My next series of blogs will take readers on a different type of journey—a firsthand account of my transition from an aspiring writer into a published author.

My days of traveling through tropical jungles and coastal rainforests have come and gone, but I’m learning that perilous missteps are not confined soley to the wild. Navigating the publishing process offers a new series of challenges, and as I move closer and closer to my end goal, I plan to shine a light on the ups and downs involved in the process. 

I don’t exactly know how my journey—my story—will end. I can only do my part and hope for the best. What the best looks like has yet to be determined. One thing is for sure: by this time next year, I will have a much clearer understanding of where my future will lead.

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