I haven’t quite been myself since I’ve been back in civilization. Other than the road trip with Teri where we talked about anything and everything, posed for some photos, saw a black bear, ate blueberries and almonds, and listened to the same CD over and over… I haven’t been very social.
There’s not a great way to say this, but people who know me should understand I don’t mean to be rude or cruel by what I’m about to say. I’ve admitted many times that I’m not a people person, but lately I’ve come to recognize that I’m a select people person.
You see, as I write this, I’m sitting home alone in the house of 2 friends who are fantastic enough to let me sleep on their futon for a couple months. They’re both out and about somewhere for the evening, and I’m enjoying the peace and quiet of not socializing with anyone! Don’t get me wrong. When one or both of them are home, we have some good times. Usually there’s a lot of Steph teasing, along with cooking, watching movies, washing dishes, or drinking. But having the house to myself right now is making for a perfect evening of being alone. Possibly the only way it could be better would be if I had a puppy to cuddle.
As much as I enjoy the company of some friends here in town, I don’t belong here. I’m surrounded by so many people who aren’t “my people.” To be honest, it’s almost like I live 2 separate lives.
I can tell co-workers, long-lost acquaintances, and tourists all about snowmachining to nowhere to dig through snow to build a home, but they won’t necessarily get it.
I can talk about how peaceful it is to wash dishes on a riverbank at dusk, but they won’t get it.
I can talk about spending 22 hours (yes, that’s overnight) in a tower to observe brant families and record the birds’ activities, but they won’t get it.
I can talk about how goofy my crew could be, but they won’t get it.
These people in town may smile at my stories, but usually they’ll think I’m just crazy because they don’t understand me. Not only do I sign up for these jobs in the middle of nowhere, but the part I dread is the return home. When I’m in the field, I live with a small crew that ranges in size from roughly 4-10 people who also enjoy working with wildlife and escaping from civilization.
Amazing! No wonder we can practice tying knots (or in Mo’s case, make up knots) for hours, bake far too many batches of brownies (or not enough?), and get excited for pizza/sauna night. If we want to talk, we talk. If we need to find someone, we pop by his/her tent (generally we’re all in the main camp Weatherport anyway). Or we don’t. There’s none of this constant communication found flowing throughout the civilized world. We’re not bombarded with media ruining our peace unless we listen for news on the radio. We don’t have anyone trying to sell us anything. We’re just a little camp doing our own thing in the middle of nowhere.
Living as part of such small communities has lessened my skill at making small talk. Since I’m often out working on my own all day, I don’t have to talk. Back in town, it’s expected that people will converse; I don’t have anything to say about typical life, though! I’d rather reminisce on funny happenings from camp life, but whoever is around won’t understand or be able to laugh at inside jokes like:
- Don’t tell Jim.
- Sometimes it’s the only friend you’ve got out there… late at night in your tent. The Gold Bond.
- That’s the danger of getting too close to the heater. You get an m-word sockette to the face.
What I would like is to connect with crew members and then not say goodbye. We’re not quite like most people, and I love it. As much as I want to say I fall in love with the places and experiences I have in the field, I have to admit it’s the people, too. Field workers are my people.
I shed tears at the end of every field season, but this year I made the observation that none of those tears came when we tore down camp and boated away for town. No, the tears came once our crew started breaking up (queue “The Breaking of the Fellowship” track). I had a healthy sadness session on the flight to Anchorage, and after having a beer at opening time in the Anchorage airport and saying goodbye to the rest of my crew, I wandered aimlessly for a bit. My family was no more, and I was alone in the civilized world. In my book that’s no good.
This post applies to every field job I’ve held – not just my 2013 job. It’s not fair that in my chosen line of work, I get to know and live with awesome people but then am forced to say goodbye just a few months later. It sucks. My field friends are spread out over the US and even overseas (thanks to that stinkin’ country where hobbits live), so I never see them.
Don’t worry, I have other good friends who aren’t from the field. They’re the friends who appreciate how crazy I am and maybe secretly want the field or adventurer’s life, as well. They hear my stories and give a good laugh rather than the “huh?!” expression. Unfortunately we seem to be at that point in life where we don’t quite know where to live, so we’ve also spread out. Whenever the chance to meet up arises, I get excited. I enjoy being able to swap stories and know that others appreciate the far-from-normal lifestyle.
So, to all my friends afar, I miss you guys. You’ve helped create the memories that get me through these stretches of town life. Whenever I see you next, here’s to a good visit and quality ice cream or beer!
And to you town friends, I hope you don’t feel down after seeing this. I promise I appreciate you, too. Having competent people like you tell me I haven’t missed much in the last 3 months just confirms that I don’t belong in town. I wasn’t made for normal life and dealing with lots of people. To put it simply, I live when I’m in the field.
