My
dreams howl into the core of my being, following me like a wolf on
the tracks of its prey. They often seem far-fetched and unrealistic,
these dreams, and I put them aside for more pressing, attainable
goals: paying back student loans, pursuing a career, being a good
daughter. But always my dreams linger on the periphery, the wolf at
the edge of the firelight, moving through a landscape of swirling
mist, changing shape, calling to me.
Sometimes
my dreams make sense, coalescing into something I can reach for –
an achievable goal, a certain place on the map. But more often they
are simply images I've carried with me since childhood, vague and
uncertain. When I was in fifth grade and had to choose anyone in the
world to impersonate, I chose Dian Fossey, the gorilla researcher who
gave her life fighting for conservation in Rwanda. That was the kind
of life I wanted. I'd pore over photos of SCUBA divers swimming with
manta rays and National Geographic explorers in Papua New Guinea. My
make-believe games consisted of creeping stealthily along creekbeds
or pretending the side of my house was El Capitan. But were there any
children growing up in post-industrial America that didn't dream of
being an explorers or rock climbers or SCUBA divers?
At
some point, I shifted my focus north. I devoured books about Alaska,
homesteaders striking it out in the last frontier, dog sleds and
moose carcasses and detailed descriptions of sewing mukluks and
chinking cabins. My greatest dream became to be self-sufficient
somewhere in those distant reaches, to live a life worth writing
about.
And
then I went to college, became saddled with debt and had to find a
steady paycheck to cover the bills. The same old story. It happens to
everyone; fantasies inevitably become squelched beneath the realities
of life. Stubborn or immature or both, though, I've had a hard time
letting go. I travel and live in rugged places as best I can; I
dabble in adventure sports. But always dreams of a different life
elude me, remaining just out of grasp. My housemates go out to the
pub and I stay home staring at photographs in a new book I was given
about a polar expedition. I peer into the eyes of one of the
explorers and they squint back from within the fur ruff of a parka,
revealing nothing. How did you get there? Who will invite me on an
Arctic expedition? And more importantly, how will I pay the bills?
Surviving seems simple these days compared to the question of how
people can afford to be professional explorers.
These
are the questions that plague my dreams – like most people, I
suppose. I don't delude myself into thinking that I am unique. I
don't feel sorry for myself. But I wonder what I can do to get
invited on some epic expedition, how I get to be one of the people
who squint into the camera lens with a face hardened with jungle mud,
Arctic ice, sea salt. It hardly matters where. All that matters is
that these dreams continue to chase me like a hungry wolf. They keep
me restless, roaming, searching, awake while everyone else drinks a
beer and goes to bed. I stay awake writing, because writing seems to
be the answer.
