When I was 41 I took an Alaska cruise with my parents, and when I was 49 I got to return to the southeastern portion of the big state.

I loved both trips. I adore Alaska. I once thought maybe I’d move there, but I made two emigration-killing observations during my visits. One problem is monotony. I mean that precisely. I have no distaste for cold or dark or snow, but Alaska has no color. It is almost black and white. It has evergreen highlights and wood-brown lowlights and every tone of gray, but nothing else. The second issue for me is aroma. Alaska has no smell. I’m not into perfumes or incense but I’ll never forget how struck I was by the floral scent when I returned to San Francisco, at the airport, overriding the jet fuel. That’s how starved my nose had been up north.

So no, I doubt I’ll live in Alaska. But I wouldn’t mind visiting again. And I won’t forget either time I’ve been there.

The first was a one-week cruise. I traveled with my parents, and I saw the big sights. The second was also a week and also on a boat, but it was a very small boat. It carried 7 passengers and 3 crew. We stayed in the Sitka area, and explored thoroughly. We pulled our own shrimp and crab pots. We ate fresh mussels our captain lip-tested for toxins. We even got to use the public baths in car-less Tenakee Springs.

I was struck with the quiet and the plentitude of birds. We were all attentive to weather. Here is something I made from that trip.

When Ursa Major strode the ocean floor,
before the raven flew or porpoise breached,
she left behind her pawprint islands: spoor
of life in seedling trees; embroider-beached
by kelp and mounded grasses; starfish-rimmed
and berry-pocked. She lumbered trading haze
for shadows; crevices that winter dimmed
she lit with mist, exhaling wispy grays.

We float descendant on those ancient routes
binocular-alert, delighted, bold
enough to try describing how the light
amazes water, topless Annahootz.
Bestirred by birds we hardly feel the cold,
and laugh in awe at lighted snow at night.