Water

After three days they took that nasty tube out of my chest.  Then they made me get out of bed and walk around the room, a nurse holding me on each side.  That hurt.  The surgeon told me it was a good thing I was young and fit before the accident.  I could regain my health if I worked hard during my rehab.  I did. 

I lifted weights, did yoga, peddled the exercise bike.  After three months, my physical therapist declared me healthy and discharged me.  I was still having some pain in the elbow.  But it felt strong to me.  I was certain I could go back to work.     

I bought another truck in Fairbanks and returned to Eagle.  I was nervous about the drive to the mine.  The last time I’d made the trip it didn’t turn out so good.  But it was summer and the snow was gone.  I was glad I couldn’t remember the exact spot of the avalanche.  Everything was white and frozen in February, now the slopes were endless rocks and trees.  Nothing looked the same.

They were happy to see me at the mine office.  So far so good.  But as soon as I walked through the repair shop door, it hit me.  A powerful flashback.  The image of the woman planting seeds in the garden.  

I just stood there and let it wash over me.  It only took a few seconds.  But when I returned to the present, something had changed.  I looked around the repair shop.  There was just one thought in my head:  You don’t belong here any more.

I walked back to the office.  The boss had a stunned look on his face when I said, “Sorry, Mr. McDermott, but I quit.  I’m leaving now.”  I heard him say “What the heck, Johnny…” before the door closed.  Next thing I know, I’m in a hotel room in Fairbanks.

Lying on the bed, I try to sort through what is happening.  What do I do next?  I turn on the TV and watch the news.  A reporter is talking to an agricultural scientist.  He sounds worried.

 

He talks about industrial agriculture.   Much of it goes over my head.  But things like “oxygen-deprived dead zones” and “herbicide resistant superweeds” get my attention.  Then he started talking about monoculture.  

Monoculture refers to the practice of growing only one crop.  More specifically, just one variety of one crop.  If your goal is to maximize profits, you will plant as much of one thing as you can.  

The scientist warned that this practice is leading to a loss of genetic diversity in our food crops.  He pointed to the Irish potato famine in the 1850s as an example of the dangers of monoculture.

That was when the flashback happened again.  My eyes went blank as the image of the woman appeared before me.

This time, it actually made a little sense.  An old lady planting seeds in a garden.  It felt like things were falling into place.  Somehow, whatever I do next would involve seeds.  

I got in the truck and drove to the library.  I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for.  But I found it when I read a story about a seed bank on Spitsbergen, a remote Norwegian island near the North Pole.   

The Svalbard Global Seed Vault is a series of tunnels cut into the Arctic permafrost.  It contains almost a million unique samples of seeds, for over 4000 species of plants.  The freezing temperatures make it an ideal place to store seeds.  

I’d heard the miners tell stories about Mixon’s Folly.  At an elevation of 9600 feet, the temperature stayed below freezing year-round.  They said the cold was so bad, Henry had lost most of his toes and a few fingers to frostbite before he quit digging.  I knew what I was going to do.

My first attempt to hike to the mine nearly ended in disaster.  I underestimated the dangers of being exposed to the elements at high altitude.  When you are walking up a steep grade, it doesn’t matter if it is cold.  When you are wearing many layers of clothing, and you exert yourself, you will sweat.  

On the steep part of the hike, I got hot from the exertion.  I sweated.  After an hour I decided to stop, drink some water, and eat a granola bar.  In the few minutes I sat on a rock outcropping, the excess body heat dissipated.  I got cold.  I decided I’d better get moving and thought I’d warm up like I did before.  But between the cold, the weight of the damp clothes, and the steep slope, I felt like I weighed a thousand pounds.

Panic struck.  I’d read stories about hikers dying of hypothermia.  I realized my only chance was to get out of the cold.  Fortunately, walking downhill was easier.  I made it back.  The heater warmed up the truck and I slowly thawed out.