©
Charles D. Hayes
My fascination with
Alaska began in Irving, Texas, in the 1950s, when my fourth-grade teacher read to
her class every day from Jack London’s Call
of the Wild. Some sixty years later, I’m now a resident of Alaska and have
been for more than four decades. Perhaps it’s my fate that, as a result, I
would have the opportunity to drive the legendary Alaska Highway, not once, but
seven times, four of those times by myself. I never tire of the drive and
always look forward to another trip.
Constructed in 1942, the
year before I was born, as a war measure in America’s defense against Japan, the
highway extends 1,390 miles through the Yukon to the heart of Alaska. It
traverses wilderness so breathtaking and spectacular that at times it doesn’t
seem real, almost like something created by the special effects department for
a movie production. My experience has been that if you have a philosopher-self hidden
beneath your consciousness, it will likely surface when you travel this road
alone.
Not surprisingly, the
fiction I write is largely shaped by these influences. More than two decades
ago, while studying Alaska history and philosophy, I began crafting a futuristic
story featuring the Alaska Highway. In 2003, eight years after I began, I
published Portals in a Northern Sky, a
science fiction novel envisioning a revolutionary
technological breakthrough that allows people not to travel back in time per se,
but rather to look back in time and observe any location on earth during
daytime hours on a cloud-free day at any time in history.
The Gadsden Times, a newspaper in the Deep South, described Portals as “a science fiction novel, a
history lesson, a guided tour of North America’s beauty and a thought-provoking
work of philosophy.” In places like Dawson Creek, Fort Nelson, Summit Lake,
Whitehorse, and other key locations along the highway route, characters in the
novel discuss the rewards of reading literature. Among other classics, Herman
Melville’s Moby-Dick features
prominently in the conversation.
As part of a
philosophical exploration into the notion of fate, one of the protagonists offers
an intriguing comparison of the lives and works of Herman Melville and Jack London.
These two authors were obsessed with the concept of fate, and their novels
reflect their fascination. They were deeply aware that both wilderness and the
sea dramatize and magnify mankind’s fear, frailty, and sense of existential insignificance.
London was born out of
wedlock, Melville with a pedigree. Both men’s mothers had been raised in wealth,
only to marry into hard times, and would ultimately rely on their sons for
support. Both men were drawn to the sea at an early age, and both signed aboard
vessels as deck hands or common sailors. As one character in Portals points out, the sea makes us
radically aware of our profound insignificance as individuals, even as it
amplifies the mystery of the vast knowledge we store beneath consciousness.
Both of the authors were
self-educated, voracious readers who wrote to earn a living, each thinking they
were capable of greater work than the public demanded, especially Melville. He
lived to write, while London wrote to live. Each of them earned money by
lecturing. London was a skilled self-promoter; Melville was not.
At the same time, both
men were moody and prone to depression, frequent disillusionment, and cynicism.
Both had detractors who declared they were insane. Still, both were capable of
writing the kind of prose that penetrates the public psyche in ways that stir
an emotional response as not much else has before or since.
London and Melville had a
way of exaggerating every aspect of our lives to compensate for the important
little things that so often go unnoticed. They were also very much aware of how
often we are influenced and motivated by our shadowy and immensely mysterious
unconscious. Both men were involved in butchery: Melville with whales, London
with seals. Both witnessed human brutality at its worst.
These men produced work
with deep allegoric implications beyond their own understanding of the
connections they were making. Both created magnificent, original,
larger-than-life authoritarian sea captains, Melville’s Ahab and London’s Wolf
Larson, who afford us a vision of all that is right and wrong with humankind.
Melville captured the
human predicament and the psychosomatic essence of the American experience in Moby-Dick, making all of us passengers
on a metaphoric ship named Pequod. Although
it was written in 1851, Moby-Dick has
been described by author Nathaniel Philbrick as a book written for the future
because it contains “the genetic code of America.” He characterizes the novel
as “America’s Bible,” declaring that every time we encounter a new crisis in
this country, Moby-Dick is relevant.
Jack London read the
works of Herman Melville, and his stories transport Melville’s epic primordial struggle
with the unconsciousness symbolism of the sea to the wilderness of the far
north, where the brutality of the natural world takes center stage: the weak perish
and the strong survive.
Politically, Melville was
a capitalist who clung to the economic security of civil service employment.
London was a socialist who despised human inequality and railed against
arbitrary authority until the end of his life. It should be pointed out,
however, that he held racist views common to his time and place. And although he
was a socialist, he lived like an extravagant capitalist.
Melville died in
obscurity at 72, having struggled financially most of his life. His recognition
as a novelist smoldered in fits and starts, but his work didn’t really take off
until after his death. London died famous at age 40, having achieved almost
instant rags-to-riches wealth and celebrity.
As fate would have it, I
once heard Alaska Congressman Don Young say that it was Jack London who brought
him to Alaska, echoing my own reasons for choosing the forty-ninth state as my
home. So, when I heard him being interviewed on a local radio show, I took the opportunity
to phone in. I asked Congressman Young if, as a conservative Republican, he
found it ironic that he was in Alaska because of a socialist. Thinking I had
him in a bind, I wondered how he would talk his way out of it.
Not missing a beat, Young
said, “Jack London? My father knew Jack London.” I was the one who was
speechless.
London’s work confirms John
Muir’s observation that “The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest
wilderness.” Indeed, London claimed that he found his perspective for becoming
a successful writer in the wilderness of the Klondike. In the same way, I’ve
observed that ideas and the Alaska Highway go hand-in-hand. The awe-inspiring
scenery, the isolation, and the absence of available radio signals invite deep
contemplation.
The sweeping and at times
overwhelming scenic grandeur puts our human frailties and our brief existence
into a stark light. The natural beauty of the landscape is so formidable as to
give an appearance of permanence in contrast to our fleetingly short lives, and
feelings of insignificance often follow. It’s an existential dilemma that begs
perspective.
Portals
in a Northern Sky is set
in 2021. The sequel, A Mile North of
Good and Evil, takes place in 2028, seven years into widespread use of the Portals
technology. In this story, the Alaska Highway serves as the hunting ground for
a serial killer whose behavior represents the personification of evil. The
malevolence of his crimes gives rise to penetrating questions about whether his
nature qualifies as an inevitable part of the natural world. In a concurrent
storyline, an impending doomsday scenario offers a group of individuals, as
well as every reader, a unique perspective on morality and mortality.
This second book took me
twelve years to complete, which means the two works together were on my mind
for a full twenty years. During that time, the only things I can relate to that
haven’t changed dramatically are the Alaska Highway and the beauty of Alaska.
In September 2015, I made
the drive again, all the way from Dallas. Except for the highway having been
paved, the trip was much like my first one more than forty years earlier. Services
and facilities are still few and far between, giving the pervasive sense that
one is detached from civilization. The wilderness remains a clear summons for
philosophical reflection.
In both of my novels,
most of the action takes place in interior Alaska near Mount Denali, a landmark
symbol worthy of its own genre of philosophic contemplation. Seeming to
represent permanence, or even eternity, the
majestic mountain elicits thoughts about mortality, morality, and fate,
eternal questions at the heart of the human condition. Considering these ideas
with Alaska wilderness as the backdrop offers a perspective with philosophical echoes
that can last a lifetime.
Drive to Alaska, visit
Mount Denali, and you will see what I mean.
My Books and Essays on Amazon
New Fiction: A Mile North of Good and Evil
My Other Blog
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