The small Cessna bumped along an invisible current over wisps of low clouds and dark ocean eerily observable from the porthole window. I made out the creases of white caps in the height of their formation before they spread back into an inky expanse. My sleeping toddler pressed heavy against me and I heaved an audible sigh quickly lost in the hum and vibration of the propeller and wind. Moving to northwest Alaska, until now, was all bravado and enthusiasm. After three days in transit, I was sleep deprived and overwhelmed. In this brief moment of stillness, I retreated to the journey’s beginning when I was still starstruck by our plans. I had been dancing between reticence and elation ever since. I leaned my head back and looked blankly at the horizon while the engine droned.

Two days before, we lugged oversized bargain-store suitcases to a rented sedan in front of a scant two-story hotel. The early light of dawn seared a thin orange line on the eastern horizon leaving the western-facing hotel entrance in purple shadows. I snapped the last buckle of the car seat when Paul emerged with a cup of coffee in hand. We pulled onto empty streets and drove in pensive silence to the airport, buzzing with nervous energy.

Paul left the bags, the baby, and me outside the departures terminal to return the rental car on the opposite side of the airport. I stood momentarily in front of a soaring glass facade calculating how to move all the baggage inside while carrying Eloise on one hip. The recorded directive echoed in my head about the danger of leaving bags unattended. 

I turned toward the entrance surprised to see my mother standing inside. I hadn’t anticipated anyone sending us off this early. Her long gray hair was in a ponytail and she was wearing her usual classic black. She looked tired, but grinned broadly. She breezed through the sliding doors and and gave me a quick squeeze.  

“Hiya.” she said to me before turning to the groggy baby clinging to my shoulder. “Eloise? Walk with Grandmar?” she said, intentionally chipper. Eloise reached for her. I was relieved my mom showed up no matter the hour, no matter the situation. Her freckled arms and her veiny hands had a way of intuitively grabbing the right thing at the right moment. 

I looped my arms through as many bags as possible lumbering toward the line forming at the check-in counter. I made the last haul as Paul jogged to my side in time to hand over his ID and heft suitcases onto the scale.

“This one is overweight, sir.” The woman at the counter didn’t look up. She was unfazed, standing in perfectly pressed polyester. Paul removed the suitcase and laid it down. I fumbled for the zipper and hastily rummaged for heavy things to purge while he put another bag on. 

“So is this one.” she said without emotion while taping tags to the counter. Paul heaved the first bag back onto the scale. 

“49.3 pounds.” she said. I held a pair of tennis shoes and a hoodie in my arms. Dropping them next to the second suitcase, I snatched a pair of Paul’s jeans and two t-shirts. I smiled victoriously at the first test of our mettle, though I had no idea where we were going to pack these extra items. 

I smirked to myself thinking about the frenzy of luggage and carry-ons. Sitting in a tiny 9-passenger aircraft barreling toward a village on a narrow hangnail of land made the achievement of getting our bags under 50 pounds seem inconsequential. The little plane tilted toward earth. I focused in on the thin line of beach morphing into squat buildings in one long row and the giant X of the gravel runway growing closer. The plane nosed toward the landing strip and I could see dust clouds trailing four-wheelers headed to something of an airport. 

Eloise stirred to consciousness but sat still and groggy in my lap. The wings wobbled side to side slightly while we floated lower. The wheels crunched into the gravel, but not in tandem. I felt each individual wheel grope the ground. We lurched forward in our seats with the change in momentum. The plane abruptly pivoted, circling back toward the strangers collecting in earnest.

The pilot brought us to a full stop. He flipped switches and logged something in a small official notebook. It was a few more minutes before he cut the engine, took off his headset, and popped his door open. He dashed to the rear of the plane to pull open the hatch and flip down the ladder-like stairs. We each ducked through the door and trundled down to solid ground. Arriving by bush-plane into the Iñupiaq village of Deering, Alaska, just a shred of latitude outside the Arctic Circle, hastily transitioned from theory to reality. 

Passengers scattered to clumps of welcoming faces gathered in a wide arc. I folded Eloise into my arms preventing her from straying into the busy scene and we drifted to the margins to absorb the routine with sober curiosity. I turned to scan the surrounding hills and the sky. It was vast and open and infinite. I felt exposed and vulnerable on the low tussock covered tundra. 

We were easily recognizable as newcomers; my attempt to fade to the background was unsuccessful. I turned around to find a host of people cooing at Eloise. Paul collected bags, shook hands, and exchanged greetings. Little by little everyone dispersed kicking up rooster tails of dust on their way. We crawled in a rickety plywood trailer behind a red Honda four-wheeler as directed and trundled toward the road. The feeling of triumph burbled to the surface and my face spread into a wide smile once more. Our journey had only just begun.