cache me if you can.

a song to set the scene // i remember well, by cody francis

Summer was officially over when my favorite seasonal antique store closed its doors for the year.

It’s a sneaky slither, that cold creeping feeling when autumn sidles in. The berries dry up, the leaves turn red, the air smells of decay.

Work halts, traffic becomes lighter, and the fishing slows.

The seasons don’t last very long here in Alaska.

Save for winter, whom reigns supreme.

One minute, you’re standing out in the sun, crying at your friend’s riverside wedding; and the next, you’re pulling your scarf out to keep warm against the autumn wind.

It’s gone, in the blink of an eye: that summer season, which we wait so tirelessly for all year round.

All I can think about are the hikes I didn’t do, the fish I didn’t catch, the evenings I didn’t spend walking outside with my gem.

Instead, regret. I feel regret. Guilt and anxiety creep in, like: did I do enough this summer? did I make it worthwhile?

But then there’s my drive home from work, that which takes me past an old Alaskan bear cache.

If you’re not from Alaska, and don’t know that of which I speak, a bear cache is a “… place designed to store food outdoors and prevent bears and other animals from accessing it.”

I’ve always thought it looked like a little treehouse cabin, placed up on stilts. It’s an Alaskan symbol, and always something I see when driving home. It’s an icon, especially this time of year when hunter and gatherer types stock up before the long winter.

But for me, I also saw it as safe, when I made it off the main roads and away from the ludicrous tourists.

I saw it as familiar, a part of my routine coming home for the day.

I saw its constant presence amidst the changes in season around it, and always marveled at how proudly it stood.

And it begged the question: why dwell on summer?

As I stopped one day and admired its stature amongst the fall colors, I realized that the more time I spend on regrets and feeling guilty about not taking advantage of a season that has long since passed, the less time I have here: in this moment, in this season, in front of this particular cache.

Summer season is short here, this we know. But so is fall.

So when those feelings of summer guilt and regret skate by?

I’ll let them know that I’m here, enjoying fall, in all of her colorful glory.

Cache me if you can.

one more week.

a song to set the scene // meant to stay hid by syml

I am drained.

Depleted, devoid of energy, spent, and on my last legs.

Even my fingertips struggle, the weight of lifting them an agonizing task.

It’s the last week of dip netting here on the Peninsula.

And if you’re a local and work in the service industry, you know the light is at the end of the tunnel.

One more week, of battling reckless drivers on your way to work.

One more week, of dealing with impatient, cruel, and unkind people at work, who have no tolerance for how hard and how quickly you’re working to serve them as efficiently as you can.

One more week, of dealing with egregious lines at the grocery store. Even at 11pm, fisherman crowd the aisles and deplete the shelves for the rest of us.

One more week, of dealing with this onslaught of tourists that infest our small town, that overcrowd our roads, make our hair turn prematurely grey, that make us cry in our car after coming home from our shift, that take take take and leave us feeling nothing short of exhausted.

That leave me feeling drained.

“Oh but what it does for our local economy!”

But at what cost?

This is my near fifteenth year working in the service industry, nearly all of those being in Alaska, where our town triples in size to accomodate those on the prowl to net as many fish as they can.

As is their Alaskan right.

Unfortunately, this time of year is also synonymous with the busiest, most brutal couple of weeks in the service industry.

Yes, the money comes in droves, but it always ends up leaving a mark on us, on my family, on me.

And I don’t know how much longer I can put myself through it.

Even when I have the day off, when I’m not physically there running product and dealing with grumpy guests, I’m still there.

On my days off, I am inundated with guilt because I’m not here.

On my days off, I feel responsible when things go wrong, cause I’m not there.

Because when I’m not there, I am at fault when those bad reviews come in because it is my business, my staff, and therefore I am culpable.

So yeah, I haven’t had a day off in months.

And again, I don’t know how much longer I can put myself through it.

Everything in my life falls through the cracks during this time of year: exercising, eating right, socializing with friends, intimate moments with my gem, family dinners, spending time outdoors, and most importantly: taking care of myself.

I live in the salmon capital of the world and I haven’t even been fishing yet. Like, I live here and can’t even enjoy the fruits of my labor?

My exhaustion takes over, and when I do have a moment at home to myself, I crash, hard.

I sleep for hours, often waking up to calls from work.

I lie on the couch and stare at nothing, reliably getting interrupted with work texts at 11pm.

I mope around the house, bawling on the floor on the other end of the line as I get chastised for not being at work, all day, every day.

I have no days off.

And it’s killing me.

There is no part of my life that isn’t affected by my job, and the light at the end of the tunnel could not come any sooner.

One more week, of putting myself through the most financially successful but stressful season.

One more week, of suffering on the field and on the sidelines.

One more week, of dragging myself to work only to drag myself home at the end of an exhaustive shift.

One more week.

Well, until next summer.