Jean Aspen - Trusting the River

Trusting the River

Jean Aspen

Epicenter Press is a regional press publishing nonfiction books about the arts, history, environment, and diverse cultures and lifestyles of Alaska and the Pacific Northwest. For more information, visit www.EpicenterPress.com

Text and images copyright 2016 by Jean Aspen

Lyrics from Across the Great Divide Kate Wolf. Used with permission.

Lyrics from American Rivers Tom Russell. Used with permission.

Original poem Supernova Ela Harrison. Used with permission.

Cover photo and author photo: credit to Tom Irons

Editor: Tricia Brown

Cover and interior design: Aubrey Anderson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Permission is given for brief excerpts to be published with book reviews in newspaper, magazines, newsletters, catalogs, and online publications.

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Paperback ISBN: 978-1-935347-69-9

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-935347-85-9

Produced in the United States

Flattop watches over the River.

I am grateful to my many teachers, especially:

Our gracious planet, mother of all life,

Winifred Chittenden, who gave me roots into this blessed Earth,

Janet and Bert Cutler, who taught me the joy of simplicity,

Connie Helmericks for the wings of her dreams,

Annie Helmericks, deeper than sister,

And Rude Amerud, who rides with the raven upon my left shoulder.

Phil Gordon and Laurie Schacht accompanied Tom on his journey into darkness,

While countless others tended our flames.

Above all, I am grateful to my husband, Tom Irons, for paddling with me across three magical decades,

And to our luminous son, Lucas Foster Irons,

Whose name means Light, Keeper of the Forest.

Although much of my life has been lived in remote wilderness, I could never have traveled far without friends who championed my journey. The names of those whom I owe would fill a book in itself. I am deeply grateful for candles in the window and the unexpected hand from the darkness. I am also beholden to elders whose books glimmer down the years, assuring me that awakening to our human purpose is worth the effort. I have been blessed with spacious nights and dawns drenched in wonder. When I lost my way, I discovered notes left in bottles and hieroglyphs among the stones. I am not alone! I am awed by this vast, evolving Cosmos. Our sacred Earth, of which I am a cherished member, has provided my every breath. The more-than-human world has graced me with silent forgiveness. I am, after all, just a human, a member of a new species struggling to find its way.

In telling my story, I have endeavored to be truthful and fair, though events are filtered through my personal lens and memory. To those who find my descriptions unjust or who recall a different story, I apologize. I never intended to damage anyone. I am deeply grateful to each who have shared the remarkable adventure of my life.

Friends who generously gave their time reading and making suggestions for this book: Anne Davies, Barbara Burnham, my cousin Bert Cutler III, Leslie Garrison, Jody Henry, author Nan Leslie, Alaskan author Stephen Reynolds, Terry Smith, and Denise Wartes. I am deeply grateful to my beloved husband, Tom Irons, and to Laurie Anne Schacht, companion of many adventures. Finally, I am indebted to the wise and concise editing of Carol Sturgulewski, Tricia Brown, and Aubrey Anderson whose knowledge and integrity held me to a higher standard.

In deep appreciation,

Jeanie Aspen

Kernwood Cabin, Brooks Range, Alaska

August 2016

Kernwood Cabin

It takes two logs to keep a fire burning. Most of this book was written at our cabin in the remote arctic wilderness, two logs at a time. While my husband, Tom Irons, picked blueberries of a summer afternoon, I sorted memories like familiar old clothes, holding each to the slanted light before releasing it into the fire with the next log. Curious as an ermine, I followed emerging patterns in and out of time. Occasionally I would climb onto our sod roof to rotate the solar panel that powered my laptop toward the low arch of sunlight twinkling through stunted trees. From my perch on our homemade ladder, I could see the river and hear its song of nameless mountains. For more than forty years, this wild valley has cradled my dreams. It has nearly taken my life many timesand yet I owe it everything.

What began as a series of letters to our son, Lucas, when Tom and I set out to search for a different future, evolved over the seasons into this fourth snapshot of my life. My mother, who also loved northern wilderness, caught glimpses of me as a wild girl of fourteen in her seventh book when she, my little sister, and I paddled across Canada. I wrote my first book while wandering arctic mountains at age twenty-two, and another when I returned two decades later with a family of my own. Now at sixty-six, I close the circleonly to discover familiar footprints in the snow. Life sometimes takes such unexpected and violent twists that it can appear frighteningly arbitrary, and yet seen from this distance of years, it glimmers with underlying motifs. All those seemingly random threads have woven the tapestry of my mostly completed journey home.

Each person who crossed my path left a giftsome obvious and others only visible in retrospect. In truth, the shore I arrived upon is very different from the one I set out to find. Life is much deeper than it is wide, and while the power of choice cannot determine outcome, it creates who we become along the way. Thus I choose to keep my mothers dreams, but not her fears; Aunt Janets whimsy, while releasing her debility; Rudes keen alertness, and let go of the fighter who battered like a moth against life. Even my father left me something of value, though he never intended it.

Wilderness is the matrix of my life, for which I am grateful to my parents. Because of them, Ive spent perhaps a third of my years remote from the complex issues of our times. Nevertheless, the struggle to integrate these two worlds and come to peace with our culture has been the driving force of my quests. Despite my adventurous choices, I am not intrinsically brave, and I have often listened with apprehension for the sound of rapids. I have also deeply grieved for our wounded planet and lost children. If lifes purpose (as I believe) is to evolve and express at ever-higher levels, a safe and uneventful course may not serve. In any case, I have repeatedly chosen the more difficult channeland for that I am not sorry. The miles have humbled me and I have learned compassion by smashing into boulders. Life is a journey into mystery. No matter the careful preparation, we wander a starry night on an unknown course. Yet if one can surrender to the grace and magic of each shifting moment, this dance is everythingexquisite and profound.

It was perhaps inevitable that Tom and I would end up in Alaska. I was drawn inexorably as a salmon back to my natal landscape, while gentle Tom would have followed me anywhere. I have not been an easy partner. My questing carried us at last into a quiet backwater, our travels reduced to seasonal migration. When ice claims the Northland, we are snug in a little Alaskan town, watching December light spill over the glaciers and pool on the breaking surf. I work at the small hospital, welcoming neighborhood children onto the planet and easing the departure of their grandparents. Tom creates the art of daily living and builds community. Each spring we migrate with the birds a thousand miles north to our cabin in the Brooks Range.