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Show extended family tells me that Jerry held the matches. He was the one who made the fire, cooked the food, called us from our tents when the sun was just beginning to chase away the morning chill. He was the one who chose the routes, found the campsite, told us how close to the river we could pitch our tents. He was the one who held the map, named the stars, and warned us repeatedly about the three greatest threats in wilderness backpacking: lightning, sunstroke, and falling. Day four. Jerry can no longer speak. His voice is a whisper, words slurring together. They decide over breakfast that they are in real trouble and need to head for help at Lake Takahula, a journey of sixty miles. Two retired school teachers live in a remote cabin in the woods near the lake with their dog and a satellite phone, information handed to them with their fishing licenses and now more precious than fuel. This, then, is the way things are. My dad writes, Jerry was gone part of the time. In these moments, he is utterly alone. The last time I saw my uncle was only a week or so before the Alaska trip. We had a Sinor Family Reunion in Grand Island, Nebraska. My dad's younger brother, Keith, lives on a lake and the family gathered for a weekend of swimming and boating and beach picnics. The entire family was there, uncles and aunts, nieces and nephews, brothers and sisters sweating under the Midwest sun while the black flies bit our ankles. On the first morning of the reunion, I took a picture of my uncle and his family, the camera holding what would soon be lost. They were dressed in blue and stood in the 245 |