Posted on November 22 2016
IT'S AN EARLY MAY MORNING IN SOUTHEAST ALASKA AND I WAKE TO THE SOUND OF SOMETHING EATING CRACKERS.
Rolling over from my plywood perch on the top bunk, I peer down to see all three of my cabinmates asleep. So I rule them out. Slipping the headlamp from beneath my pillow and turning on the light reveals not one but two Alaska-sized mice sitting on top of a cooler, munching saltines. I stare at them. They stare back. I grab my socks, scrunch them into a ball, and throw it at the intruders. I immediately regret using both socks. Out of ammo, I lower myself to the floor and shoo-away the rodents. Stepping outside to pee, my bare foot comes down on an ax leaning against the door, causing me to lose my balance and fall off the deck into a dark, wet pool of Chichagof Island rainwater mixed with wood chips and discarded, half-squished beer cans.