A view from the totem pole toward the lodge and other buildings.
A selfie, gritting my teeth, waiting for the Super Otter to takeoff.
Air taxis are scary. I like new experiences, but I hoped this one would not be my last. I sat quietly in the unadorned waiting area at the air taxi terminal in Juneau-gritting my teeth and contemplating mortality. Then a guy behind the counter walked briskly into the waiting area, twirled his finger in the air and bellowed, "Time to go. Let's board the bus." The bus took eight or nine of us to the seaplane gently bobbing in the water next to the tarmac.
As I awkwardly climbed in through the tiny door, I made an innocuous comment to the pilot that apparently oozed apprehension. He responded confidently that this plane, a Super Otter, was made in the 1950s and this type of plane flew all over Alaska. I couldn't help but think of cars I remembered from the 1950s. All in junkyards by the end of the 1960s. Yikes. "Don't worry. Be happy," I intoned to myself. I was determined to go. We were instructed to put on our headsets to block out the engine noise. Calming elevator music was piped into our brains. The plane accelerated and gently bounced off the waves into the air.
Forty-five minutes later we landed in a channel surrounded by islands and mountains. A smallish boat approached us. Luggage was stored under the deck and we clambered on board. A few minutes later we motored through a somewhat concealed opening between the rocks. We entered a cove about half a mile across surrounded by heavily forested mountains. We pulled up to the dock near a string of low wooden buildings. Welcome to the Hobbit Hole.
A few months earlier I had seen an advert in a local newsletter for Alaska writers about a "gathering" on a remote island to hone our skills about "environmental rhetoric." I wasn't really sure what that meant but it sounded interesting and maybe even appropriate to my interests. The event was surprisingly inexpensive. Yes, a little out of my comfort zone but certainly I would have something to learn from younger attendees, and perhaps something to leave with them too. I signed up.
Most of the other participants were in their 20s and 30s. They were from New York, Boston, Alaska, even Hong Kong. They slept in a communal bunkhouse up a steep trail. Three of us had limited mobility and we were assigned the "guest cabin." I am 79 and got my own queen-sized bed. No, I did not feel in the least bit guilty.
Rhetoric is the art of using language to persuade someone to do something. After a communal breakfast in the lodge, we had lectures about rhetoric basics such as logical and illogical ways to argue, and the elements of formal debating. As a case study we discussed the role rhetoric played in the complex relationship between early conservationist John Muir and the Tlingits here in Alaska.
The afternoons usually involved a hike or a kayak trip or both. The Hobbit Hole is situated in spectacular country, and I deeply regretted that I could not hike those rough and steep trails due to an ankle that seems to have aged faster than the rest of me. Two of us "limited mobility" types stayed behind to enjoy more contemplative activities. One afternoon Zach, co-director of the nonprofit Tidelines Institute that owns the Hobbit Hole, approached the two of us with a proposition. How would we like to go on a boat ride around some of the local islands? Well, sure.
Off we went. The highlight of the excursion was a visit to a nearby sealion haulout featuring maybe 150 of the gigantic creatures sunning themselves, arguing loudly, completely unaware of their pungent and overpowering malodor.
In the evenings, huddled around the campfire or in the main room of the lodge, we had a variety of educational presentations and public speaking exercises. Suffice it to say that I am a better writer than public speaker. One evening I was assigned to a team of very smart environmental activists in their 20s and 30s. The instructor would yell out the name of one of about 50 types of illogical arguments, and individuals on the various teams would instantly thrust their hand into the air to be called upon to give an example of that type of argument. Way too fast for me. I told my younger colleagues that I was the team ballast.
All in all I am glad I was able to go-as a guy at the threshold of his 80s. I still want to have new experiences and learn what life has to offer. I love meeting new people and hearing their stories. A couple months ago a friend called and invited me to join a group of a dozen "artists" headed to Adak for a week in August. I think he expected me to say "No." I said "Yes!"
Lawrence D. Weiss is a UAA professor of Public health, emeritus, creator of the UAA Master of Public health program, and author of several books and numerous articles.
