The Loss of Wild America, or the Back Forty Where I Live

Where I come from, (Alaska), we call anyplace left wild, as the Back Forty. That's pretty apt for where I live. I'm perched on a hill, on a tiny house built by me and my parents, who helped me build it in return for giving my acre down Knik Road to my Brother Sandy, who was homeless at the time. I'm right on the corner of 33 and 1/2 acres, that Dad bought in the 70's, when Wasilla had no stop light, and just three places that I recall, Teeland's General Store, Knik Bar, and Kashim's.

I've lived on this little hill for twenty years, with my nearest neighbor, Cliffy, a half mile away. Needless to say, I never bothered with curtains...I made friends, well, sort of friends with Little Blackie; a female black bear on the far side of Yaskowski's field. She left me alone, and I sure gave a wide berth to her, and even stayed indoors when the bigger brown bears, usually young males would come barreling down the access road, scenting Tita Marostica's garbage pile. Tita is always cooking great stuff, but she's a tiny Phillipino woman that eats like, a few bites, and is done. All that rich provender gets put back on the earth, as it should, and ravens, bears and foxes all adore her. Well, so do I, but I leave the beeline to her food pile clear.

All this is changing. Some industrious Mormon from Chugiak, or Eagle River is putting 80 zero lot line houses in. Does anyone out there know what that means? Of course you do, because I'll bet you some rabid, greedy, bastard has done it to where your living. Well, God forbid I should fashion every developer of zero lot lines as rabid, greedy bastards. Well, actually, no, I don't think he forbids it. Thank you God!

I'm the fool, Mr. Medford, that posted those poems on the trees, last winter, and the winter before. Someone left me a sprig of dried Yarrow. I was touched, but apparently, you were not. Or at least, not enough.

I remember me and my Father cross country skiing the back field, running along Yaskowski's field. It was snowing heavily, that day in "73". I said, "Dad, look!" "A Moose!", "No, three, four..." We ended up with a count of thirty nine moose tracking our progress along our trail. It was an amazing sight, thirty nine placid sets of moose ears just watching... as we foolish humans toiled on our way, secure in their safety.

I've found such great haven in this land... for example, one of the trails that will be destroyed, is home to a unique and variagated species of "dogwood", found no where else. It will surely die. There is also an interconnected trail running on my land that has white violets, which I've seen no where else in Alaska. I hope they do not die as well.

There is also a flower... small, waxy, thick and white, with only four petals, with thick violet like leaves, and in all my travels, I've only seen it twice, and only on the land that is being developed.

There is such a huge variety of plants and animals... all subject to dying now... alders, ash, spruce, birch, dogwood, fireweed, starflowers, both small and large, Jacob's Ladder, Bluebells, that smell like orange blossoms, Pyrola, Twin Flowers, Wild Parsley, lilies, both Callas, and Yellow Bulb, Monk's Hood, Vetch, so many kinds as to defy the imagination... dandelions, clover, Wild Roses, currants, raspberries, wild strawberries, watermelon berries, blueberries, crowberries, Monkey Faces, or Wild Geraniums, as they should be called. Wild Iris, which grew right in the middle of Yaskowski's field... Fiddlehead ferns... I feel like I'm reciting the names of the dead, in honor of their falling... Yarrow, both pink, and white. Horsetail and moss. Amanita Muscaria, timothy grass, chickweed, Trailing Raspberries, with Fuschia blossom, and Trailing Raspberry with Yellow Blossom, Labrador Tea...Lupine, both blue, and purple, asters, and forget-me-nots... High Bush Cranberries. Lowbush Cranberries.

My God. Who will ever know what it looked like? Brilliant patches of Sun glowing down over moss covered stump and watermelon berries drooping, chevenais, down to the path? Who will remember the variagated dogwood? Who will even notice? Who must record this? The Historian? The Poet? You? Me?

I don't know people, but, this Spring, at least where I live... we will have lost a bit of our soul... a bit of what makes us...holy, of what makes us...whole.