Like moths to a lamp, swallows to Capistrano, or post-race cankles, there's a certain predictability to autumn. Daylight wanes, temps fall, precip rises, and invariably my thoughts turn north to Alaska. Each February of the last 11 years I've made a pilgrimage to some part of that state to spend time, usually alone, enjoying the backcountry. This year I'm not exactly sure how I'm going to spend that time, nor where, nor with whom. Like so many circling moths I'm not even completely sure why I choose there.
