Epic Solitude

by Katherine Keith

  Dear Cassie and Cindy,

  I never expected to write this letter. I wish I had the strength to stay alive. Such is not the case. My love for you encouraged me to cling to my small thread of life. It hurts knowing what you will endure because of my selfish act. I’m so sorry for any sadness I caused. I’ve held on for months so you would not weep at my departure. My decision will forever affect you. I never expect you to understand my decision, and I hope you are never in a place where you do. You will be angry at me. You have every right to be.

  Please keep me alive in your memories of the happy times. The smiles, laughter, coffee shops, bagels, and other cherished times. Never forget what once was. Be proud of everything you do. Be proud of who you are. Take care of yourselves and each other.

  You girls are precious and deserve the world. You mean more than anything. I love you so much.

  Your big sister

  Writing this letter births my desperation. The damage my selfish actions will cause becomes tangible. Am I willing to let those I love suffer? I need help. The vision quest from so long ago taught me that help is there when I ask for it. Time to ask.

  “Universe?” I whisper. “Please show me the way forward. I need confirmation I should stay alive.”

  Realizing I need to be more specific, I try, “Universe, you have two days to prove the value of existence.” Not being in a place to make demands. I follow this up with, “Please?”—a cross between a question, a statement, and begging.

  If I don’t find it, I’m out of here. I rip the letter out of the notebook and put it in my jacket pocket. The clock is ticking.

  The next morning, flashbacks of abuse again leave me hallucinating and suicidal. I leave home at four thirty in the morning to sit in zazen at the Clouds in Water Zen Center, seeking through stillness answers to my desperate questions. By fortunate happenstance, the doshi, Judith Ragir, is there, offering individual sessions.

  Judith instructs, “Ask the question burning in your heart. Keep it as succinct as possible.”

  I look through tear-brimmed eyes at my most profound teacher and ask, “How can a person find the will or courage to stay alive? Why even struggle?” I feel awful putting her on the spot like that, but I need to know.

  “When I first practiced sitting, I was in a very difficult spot,” Judith says. “I remember noticing my breath for the first time in years, watching the morning come alive, and the birds singing. As I sat more, I noticed life as something larger than my small self and could tap into that. My twenties were tumultuous, and it wasn’t until my forties that I connected with my past and came to terms with it.” After a period of silence, Judith looks at me with a solid, steely strength giving no room to misinterpret her understanding of my situation. “Do not kill yourself in your twenties, because things will change, and you want to be there when it happens.”

  “Is it worth it to live?” I ask.

  Judith throws her arms up in the air and shouts at the top of her lungs, “Yes!”

  That yes reverberates in my heart. Is this the answer I’ve been seeking?

  Judith finishes by saying, “Remember, little things create our heaven in the present on earth.”

  After zazen is over, I go to the coffeehouse downstairs and order hot genmaicha tea. I take out my journal to sort through my turmoil via haiku.

  Dark clouds hide

  Sun’s light.

  Life has ended.

  New moon dawns a cloak of invisibility.

  Yet, is still the same moon.

  Full moon sheds a cloak of invisibility.

  Yet, is still the same moon.

  Stars lose their shine in the brightness of day.

  Yet, sparkle at night to light our way.

  The universe answered my question. Stay alive and live.

  I now need to hold up my end of the bargain. Knowing I want to live, I face an overwhelming mountain I must climb to heal. Tired and lost, I lack the strength to fight the impulse to hurt myself. Part of me fights to get better while the other sabotages my good intentions.

  In a make-or-break moment, I call a friend, Katie Nordahl. She takes me to a hospital where stone-faced doctors stitch up the cuts on my arms and legs, then admit me for attempted suicide.

  The next day, I am alive. Staring out the window at the frozen Mississippi River, the stillness of bare trees and cold snow mirror my dead gaze. This is the same hospital where I was admitted four years earlier, rail thin, in the throes of an eating disorder, and once again I observe the wonders beyond the glass in a detached, clinical manner.

  I speak to the crows outside, “Nothing matters. The snow melts, river runs, clouds vaporize, and crow flies. Nothing matters.”

  I spend a month and a half in the hospital, taking one baby step forward then sliding back a mile. My family feels helpless, and I’m sure it is very painful for them to watch me go through this. Katie continues to check up on me. Her care, focus, and determination give me strength. Her listening gives me a release. To hear of her hopes and dreams helps me to see there is a future. Some of us may find happiness. It is possible. Katie wants something out of life and will refuse anything short of her demands.

  The hospital feels like a haven, but it transforms into an isolated jail. It helps me get out of crisis, but I know that long-term healing and behavioral change is on me. Day programs and therapies offer counseling and coping strategies. For me, this approach is not effective. It serves only to wrap me up in my head and my problems. After five weeks, I am ready for discharge, prepared or not. Months of struggling to regain balance are ahead, and I know I must break out of this cycle of antipsychotics, antidepressants, and alcohol. I need to save my life my way for this to work. Time to search out wilderness.

  Soul Repair

  Minneapolis, Minnesota | 2000

  Here is a test to find whether your mission

  on earth is finished: If you’re alive, it isn’t.

  —Richard Bach

  I find an ad in the paper for a local shaman who does soul retrievals. I am intrigued and am self-diagnosed as needing one. I need answers. I walk up to his door in Uptown, knock, and find Timothy Cope.

  “Hi, Timothy?” I ask. “Can you help me? Your ad mentions talking to my spirit helpers and that you can help me find my power animal. I need that right now. I’m feeling lost. I’m throwing my future away. I’m leaving on a road trip to find myself. Can you help me?” I say in one breath out of nervousness and anticipation. Can he help me figure this all out?

  “Come on in. We’ve been waiting for you,” he says.

  I walk into his basement filled with the smell of sage and sweet grass. He sits me down on the pillow, picks up his drum, and sings at the top of his lungs. I open my eyes wide and wonder about the neighbor kids on their bikes right outside his window. Don’t they call the cops? This is his house, and I stop worrying as he pays homage to the four directions, the upper world, and the lower world—at least that is what I think he is doing. I am desperate for answers and help.

  “Why are you here?” Timothy asks.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I had everything right in my life. I was on varsity teams, getting straight As at the top of my class, married to my high school sweetheart, and heading fast toward the life of my dreams. I am imploding. Divorced. Living a waking nightmare. I did a vision quest, ate peyote, and thought I had it all sorted out. Things are being ripped away faster than I can hold them together. I want to be better than this. I can provide more details if you need.”

  “None are needed.”

  Timothy drums and sings again as I sink into the calm, deep place I find when meditating at the zazen center. Assisted through his drumming, I sink deeper, to a source within myself. I want to learn more. I have felt these drums calling throughout my life. Through the morning’s work, Timothy connects me with a power animal to support me on
the journey ahead. He brought back a piece of my soul that, in his words, presents itself as a young girl in an Easter bonnet with a flower bouquet—the same girl in the picture hanging on my wall. Standing in a barn, she wears a straw hat and a simple dress. We picked flowers together rather than live through the reality of what was happening in my bedroom. As this part of my soul returns, a wave of grief consumes me in pure, overwhelming loss and horror. It takes a long time before I can open my eyes and take a deep breath.

  “How did you do that?” I ask.

  “You are on a journey. Not all journeys are smooth, but they all are rewarding. May the spirits be with you.” He opens the door and sends me on my way.

  Soul intact, armed with a power animal, I am ready to embark on another solo wilderness adventure. Nature is a cure for self-absorbed thinking, depression, and a life circling the drain. Being outside, without external influence, frees me up to be myself and find clarity. Here we go. Alaska or bust.

  Kuskokwim 300

  Bethel, Alaska | 2013

  The spirit sled dogs have is both intriguing and mesmerizing.

  To hear the rhythm of their steps and see the purpose in

  their drive is to witness an animal in complete balance in its

  world, made more so by the pack like unity of the team.

  —Bruce Lee, musher

  The second Iditarod qualifying race begins in January 2013. I prepare for the Kuskokwim 300 all fall and winter. I exit the plane in Bethel and receive a great bear hug by our host, Mike Shantz.

  I hear a loud voice over the small and crowded airport. “Welcome home!” He means it as well, “Steaks are on the grill, potatoes in the oven, gin and tonics waiting to be poured.”

  After a couple of days of solid preparation, logistics, and travel, this is music to my ears. We grab the gear to enjoy the promised hospitality.

  Before the start of the race, a few mushers visit with attorney and musher, Myron Angstman, born in Minnesota and now practicing law in Bethel. Myron, always a reliable source of trail information, invites us for a hot cup of French press coffee.

  “Myron, what are we getting into here?” I ask, taking a seat by the cozy woodstove.

  He crosses his arms and leans back into his milled-log counter and blows out a long sigh. “I could tell you, but it will probably change tomorrow.”

  I am overwhelmed, full of uncertainty, and hoping for more. “Come on. Is there anything you can tell a rookie?”

  Myron grins and raises his left hand to count off trail conditions: “I would expect glare ice, snow, water, crushed ice, high winds, bitter cold, dirt, gravel, and rain—then you won’t be disappointed.”

  I slump my shoulders, realizing I am in over my head.

  Three days later, I leave Bethel wearing bib 2, the lowest number issued to racers, which allows me to run first on the trail with a start time three hours in advance of the next musher. The Kuskokwim 300, or K300, is a twelve-dog race that goes through the checkpoints of Tuluksak, Kalskag, Aniak, and back again. It is spectacular to be on a dog team watching the K300 fireworks go off over Bethel. This trail will not be easy. The race committee went on an overland route due to dangerous river-ice conditions. Two days ago the trail had snow cover which promised a smooth ride. Forty-degree temperatures and rain washed away the snow and left bare tundra, glare ice, and water. The first leg to Tuluksak is fast, since the dogs are excited and full of energy. We cross glare ice ponds and standing bodies of frozen water. The most dangerous ice is smooth with a fresh shine of water on top. Dogs get no traction on this, and neither does the sled. Crossing these lakes becomes a circus as the dogs, trying to cling to the ice, end up sprawled out, knocking over other dogs like bowling pins. The sled slides back and forth perpendicular to the team, allowing any bump in the ice to tip the sled over. The ice-skating rinks continue for dozens of miles. How much more can the dogs take?

  In one disastrous incident, my big wheel dog, Deuce, slips on the ice, causing him to tighten up, then slide backward. The sled becomes unstable and, along with me, tips over in front of Deuce. We slide along the ice, Deuce, my sled, and me. The snow hook rips into my pants, my left leg is under the sled, and I worry about how to get out of this jam. Being dragged by the sled often seems to last a long time, but it all takes place in less than ten seconds. I free my leg, right the sled, and get poor Deuce back on his feet to attack the next ice rink one hundred yards ahead. On and on.

  At Tuluksak we cut down to the Kuskokwim River and head north to Lower Kalskag, fifty miles away. The temperature that night is above freezing. Rain creates standing pools of water on the ice, along with slush. The trail is barely visible under knee-deep water. Snow mixes with falling rain making it difficult to see where the next trail markers are. Arriving in Kalskag, the dogs eat well and I get myself sorted out.

  “Maybe we should take a vote on this becoming the Kuskokwim 200,” fellow musher Rohn Buser jokes.

  Before crawling into the sleeping bag, I take off my boots. There’s an inch of water in each. I made the mistake of not putting garbage bags in them to help protect my feet from water. While they are warm now, this would be a scary situation were the temperature to drop. I try to dry them out and find a new pair of socks.

  Scared and full of dread about the trail ahead, I watch other mushers getting prepared and realize the race must go on. I harbor a small hope that the race officials will stall the race pending better conditions. But this race is the real deal and not for pansy mushers. I buck up, get dressed for more water, go out to feed the dogs, put their booties on, and head upriver toward Aniak.

  I have trouble again with Deuce. He is a very large dog, close to seventy pounds, with black hair. With thirty more miles to go, I put him in the sled to prevent him from overheating. The other dogs have to carry Deuce through the bare tundra, slushy snow, and water. The heavier the sled, the greater the drag, and soon other dogs become tired in the heat. Having Deuce in the sled near the top creates a sled that can’t steer, and it keeps plowing and falling into the snowbanks. I repack the sled so that Deuce is as low as possible. This change makes things better but it eats into our time. We lose a couple of hours on this run, and I realize that the team will not finish in the time I planned.

  Looking forward to two hours’ rest in Aniak, I hope it will energize the dogs. I have the Aniak vet examine Deuce to make sure he isn’t sick. Deuce gets out of the sled, happy, refreshed, and eating well—figures. One day, Deuce will be a great dog. He needs more confidence and experience. Me too. Leaving Aniak, I worry about finishing. What do I do? Call Mom.

  With hopes of some cell phone connectivity, I call out, “Mom? Can you hear me?”

  The breath I hold escapes me as I hear her reply, “Yeah, honey. Hi.”

  In controlled, short, shallow breaths, clenching back tears of fatigue and frustration, I say, “Mom? How are you doing?”

  “Fine. How are you doing is the real question.”

  “Umm … well … I’m fine too.” This is how our typical Minnesotan conversations go. “Up!” I shout to the dogs to keep them from slowing down while I am distracted on the phone.

  “Okay, the ‘fines’ are out of the way. How are you really doing?” Mom asks.

  Ordinarily, I can bluff my way through Mom conversations, but after significant sleep deprivation, I lack my usual finesse. Tears come—inconvenient, given the conditions.

  “Mom, I do not understand why I am out here—Up! Up!—I mean, why the heck do people run this race? I don’t get it. It’s horrible! Why did I sign up for this?—Up! Up!—I will never race again. We will be in last place. The dogs hate me by now—Haw!”

  The trail is splitting up ahead. “Haw!” I call out again, directing the dogs’ next move to the left.

  “Katie, you are always so hard on yourself,” Mom says. “I’m sure it’s not that bad. You are doing a great job.”

 
“What? Mom, I can’t even stand, and I doubt we’ll even finish this race—Up! Up!—This is my last time racing dogs. We won’t even finish.”

  Tears continue to stream down my checks as I whistle to the dogs in shallow encouragement.

  “Good dogs. Way to go,” I say. “Mom, how do we finish? I want to do so well, but I’m just a great big disappointment.”

  A long sigh comes over the phone. I can even feel her eyes rolling as she has likely heard this before.

  She tries a different tactic: “Why not just enjoy being outside? You dream of being outside, in solitude, with the dogs. I know you like to compete, but the pressure makes it so you can’t have fun. Just let that go and savor the adventure.”

  We’ve had this conversation a few times before. “Competition is awesome” I say, voice rising, waving my arms in the air to make my point to the tundra shrubs, almost forgetting I have a sled to hang on to. “Up! Up!”

  “Sounds like you are right where you want to be.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right, Mom. Thanks for listening—Gee over!—Love you,” I say as the dogs take the command to turn to the right.

  Deciding to stick with the program, I stop long enough to snack the dogs with sheefish, change their booties, and go. Their pace is now steady at about eight and a half miles per hour as we make our way back to Tuluksak. We aren’t fast, but we are moving. More important, we are a team that doesn’t quit. At long last, the Bethel finish line comes into view. I breathe a sigh of relief and feel huge pride for the dogs who see this race through to the finish.

  At the K300 banquet on Monday evening, twenty-four hours after most mushers complete the race, I notice a few common themes. First, mushers agree that the trail conditions were the second worst ever witnessed, outranked only by the 2008 race now nicknamed the KuskoSwim. Second, most mushers confess to swearing to themselves that they will never race this course again. In the next breath, those same mushers also admit that, in hindsight, it wasn’t all that bad. They will be here next year. The ability of mushers to have selective amnesia amazes me.