Review: Winterdance, by Gary Paulsen

In a slightly different world, I might have found this book completely incomprehensible.

Of those who know me, I doubt a single person would describe me as "outdoorsy". I certainly don't mind a walk down a well-worn scenic path now and then, but a general dislike of dirt and mess combined with a very specific fear of getting lost pretty much preclude camping, hiking, or breaking trail of any sort. My strengths lie far more in the "city" environment - urbane manners, snarky wit, discerning judgment of food, drink, movies, plays, and other entertainments.

So the fact that I was this emotionally affected by a book that's entirely about a man finding joy in some of the harshest outdoor environments and one of the most unpredictable sports in the world, a man who becomes further and further estranged from "civilization" as the story goes on, would seem a bit odd at first glance. Where's the attraction? Why would reading this be such an emotional experience for someone whose passions are more along the lines of mixing drinks and analyzing stories?

Part of it is the writing. Paulsen is excellent at the sort of spare, elegant prose that nonetheless sticks in your mind. Even if you have no remotely comparable experience with which to identify with his story, he makes the world of his rookie Iditarod run - stumbling through completely unfamiliar terrain, hallucinating from lack of sleep, nearly dying of cold despite wearing every stitch of clothing he owns, being dragged on his face almost more often than standing upright on the runners - real and surprisingly sympathetic. The story is insane - he, by his own admission, is completely insane - and yet you have to root for him because he and his dogs want this so badly.

But another part of it is likely also my background. I grew up in Anchorage (in fact, I was born the year the race he describes took place), during the transitional time when it was really changing from being a large Alaskan town to a small city, more similar to the rest of the US than Alaska. (The joke these days is that Anchorage is "near Alaska".) In my teens, I moved to a small town in the Arctic, one of the coldest and most desolate places in the world. I've also lived in the Interior, and in Juneau; I've experienced, to a smaller degree, many of the utterly extreme and breathtakingly beautiful scenarios Paulsen talks about.

Something about those experiences, about the place, sticks with you. I may be a self-avowed city girl, far more interested in intellectual pursuits than the primal pitting of the human spirit against nature's fury, but as I've lived and traveled here in the "lower '48" I've become more and more appreciative of exactly how unique and rare Alaska is in this age of near-overpopulation. And for all my youthful desperation to leave it in pursuit of a place more appropriate to my interests, some part of me is glad - no, some part of me is overjoyed - to be reminded that it's still there; to know that folks like Gary Paulsen can do truly stupid and ridiculous things like run a team of dogs over more than 1,100 miles of wilderness in the midst of some of the harshest weather on this planet, and be better people for it. Who knows - I may even feel the call to return myself, someday. A

Review: Winterdance, by Gary Paulsen

In a slightly different world, I might have found this book completely incomprehensible.

Of those who know me, I doubt a single person would describe me as "outdoorsy". I certainly don't mind a walk down a well-worn scenic path now and then, but a general dislike of dirt and mess combined with a very specific fear of getting lost pretty much preclude camping, hiking, or breaking trail of any sort. My strengths lie far more in the "city" environment - urbane manners, snarky wit, discerning judgment of food, drink, movies, plays, and other entertainments.

So the fact that I was this emotionally affected by a book that's entirely about a man finding joy in some of the harshest outdoor environments and one of the most unpredictable sports in the world, a man who becomes further and further estranged from "civilization" as the story goes on, would seem a bit odd at first glance. Where's the attraction? Why would reading this be such an emotional experience for someone whose passions are more along the lines of mixing drinks and analyzing stories?

Part of it is the writing. Paulsen is excellent at the sort of spare, elegant prose that nonetheless sticks in your mind. Even if you have no remotely comparable experience with which to identify with his story, he makes the world of his rookie Iditarod run - stumbling through completely unfamiliar terrain, hallucinating from lack of sleep, nearly dying of cold despite wearing every stitch of clothing he owns, being dragged on his face almost more often than standing upright on the runners - real and surprisingly sympathetic. The story is insane - he, by his own admission, is completely insane - and yet you have to root for him because he and his dogs want this so badly.

But another part of it is likely also my background. I grew up in Anchorage (in fact, I was born the year the race he describes took place), during the transitional time when it was really changing from being a large Alaskan town to a small city, more similar to the rest of the US than Alaska. (The joke these days is that Anchorage is "near Alaska".) In my teens, I moved to a small town in the Arctic, one of the coldest and most desolate places in the world. I've also lived in the Interior, and in Juneau; I've experienced, to a smaller degree, many of the utterly extreme and breathtakingly beautiful scenarios Paulsen talks about.

Something about those experiences, about the place, sticks with you. I may be a self-avowed city girl, far more interested in intellectual pursuits than the primal pitting of the human spirit against nature's fury, but as I've lived and traveled here in the "lower '48" I've become more and more appreciative of exactly how unique and rare Alaska is in this age of near-overpopulation. And for all my youthful desperation to leave it in pursuit of a place more appropriate to my interests, some part of me is glad - no, some part of me is overjoyed - to be reminded that it's still there; to know that folks like Gary Paulsen can do truly stupid and ridiculous things like run a team of dogs over more than 1,100 miles of wilderness in the midst of some of the harshest weather on this planet, and be better people for it. Who knows - I may even feel the call to return myself, someday. A