Time telescopes; tasks proliferate!

Is it the brain that's fevered? Or is the brain febrile and the brow fevered? Whichever it is, that cartload of errands, must-do's, and don't forget's that clings, remora-like, to any Major Decision threatens to overwhelm me. The easy part is done: apply for the job, wait out the notification, jump up and down and tell friends and family the good news. Then comes the OK-smarty-now-what moment. I got the job. Now I have to do something.

But those errands, must-do's and don't forget's--now they all elbow their way onto lists. Necessary clothing, extra toothpaste, skin care products, insect repellent, sun screen, dentist appointment, eye doctor, arrange for house-sitter, who gets the African violets, cancel cable service, get the car seen to, um, mail, what to do with the mail. Whoooff.

This summer of work at Camp Denali will be strenuous--it's the type of job that usually falls to a college student between sophomore and junior years. I'm seeing this at the other end of things. I retired so I could take this job. The physical challenge of the work demands that I keep going to the gym every other day until I leave; the psychological challenge of living in a small, isolated, 100-miles-off-the-paved-road community for three and a half months will test my equanimity. It helps to know that small, isolated community is surrounded by some of the most spectacular wilderness I've ever seen.

Still, the excitement persists. The carrot bouncing at the end of the stick is the transit. Seven days on the road. Overnight hotels, crossing terrain yet exotic to a New Englander. Alaska is more real when you have to drive to it. Climbing on a plane when your row is called is simplicity itself, and six or so hours later, Shazzam!, there you are, and you don't even have to go up or down stairs. Too easy.

The road trip demonstrates just how distant this place is. Even starting from Wisconsin, it's 3,500 miles to Fairbanks. Moving ever northwestward, I shall traverse flat North Dakota, roll over Saskatchewan's prairies, and then watch Alberta rumple up in preparation for British Columbia. The first time I made the trip, family members required that I check in each day. After breakfast one morning I called my Vermont brother at work and left a message. "This is his sister; tell him I'm calling from the Yukon Territory." The response? "Right." I had to say, "No, really! I'm OK, in Whitehorse, and I'll enter Alaska later today." Then I walked outside for my first glimpse of the Yukon River, for heaven's sake. By the time you show your passport at the border, you know just how far you've come.

In May I get to do it again. And--lists notwithstanding--I am eager to get on the road.