Beginnings of an Alaskan Adventure

For most of my young adulthood, friends have stuck me with the affectionate and annoying nickname of "Princess." Part of it was being Asian and delicate and hopelessly uncoordinated, compounded by my love of food, fashion, and gems. However, the connotation was also one of dependency, of limitation, of always needing help from others. So I set out to change that perception. I made plans to visit the mecca of the hardy outdoors: Alaska.

Now my aunt, an accountant, lived in Anchorage and I had a standing offer to tour the rugged landscape of the Great White North with her. Two weeks before my arrival she called. "Sweetie, my quarterly financial deadlines coincide with your visit. Unfortunately, I have to work, but you are welcome to stay with me. I also suggest that you see the state on your own."

So I was forced to brave the wild on my own. Mind you, I had never gone camping before, not even with a group, let alone by myself. I began to question the prudence of my hasty decision to prove everyone wrong. Every time I mentioned the idea to a friend or former colleague, the reactions ranged from prolonged silence to disbelieving laughter to "Are you sure that is a good idea?" Nonetheless, I swallowed my doubts and started mapping my route (Anchorage, Denali National Park, Seward, Homer, etc), booking hostels and convincing myself that I was indeed the strapping adventurous sort.

Of course, I procrastinated on buying supplies until three days before the journey. I went to Campmor, a huge camping goods outlet in Paramus, NJ, where I honestly could not name half the equipment stacked high to the ceiling. In a frenzy, I called my cousin Paul, who had been to Alaska the previous year. I panicked when he didn't answer at first.

"So what do I need? I've been roaming the aisles for forty minutes hoping you'd call."

Chuckle. "Okay, waterproof hiking boots, lightweight rain gear, don't forget the mosquito nets for your face and socks for your feet, bug spray, a bell to fend off bears, a compass. Don't know how to use it? It's simple."

And he proceeded to enumerate directions that I didn't remember as well as a host of other survival items that I apparently forgot. So I went and hunted down the ideal pair of waterproof hiking boots, except that the closest size to my 7.5 was an eight. Not realizing the importance of footwear that fit securely on my feet as I climbed mountains, I bought the size eight boots because the colors were most amenable to my new rain attire. (And it was most reasonably priced.)

Armed with my backpack and necessary items suggested by a bonafide hiking expert, I grew more and more excited about the trip. I also started reading a fascinating account of Chris McCandless, a promising and philosophical university graduate who sold his car and gave away all his money to go into the Alaskan wilderness. It was a riveting book; I began to idolize the nobility of a young man to dispense with materialism and to live off the earth.

Into the Wild. What a wonderful way to find oneself.

It wasn't until my plane rose from the tarmac that I realized he died in Denali National Park.