‘Shut your trap and do your best to look smart’

As I sit pondering the intelligence of my decision to return to Alaska after 18 years on the run, worries pile up as numerous as the contents of the U-Haul truck parked in the driveway.

Will I accidentally mutter the term “snowmobile” and be deservedly mocked? Will my lack of Carhartt clothing induce subtle looks of pity and slow deriding head shakes from strangers? Will my baby soft hands reveal my penchant for indoor jobs and overall comfort with gentleness? Will the force of the Alaska winter push me closer toward embracing new-age solutions like full-spectrum lights or crystals? Has my sourdough status been revoked? Will I be unable to qualify myself as a lifelong Alaskan, and therefore by default lose every argument with real Alaskans? Will my Sportswest gift card still be valid?

A few weeks ago, I was camping outside of Bordeaux, France, sipping wine with an ex-con from Arizona I had met the day before. When the topic of my move back to the states came up, his kind eyes tensed and his normally smiling, goateed mouth dropped.

“Man, that’s gonna be rough.”

Really? I thought, what could be so rough? I was born there. My parents have lived in Alaska since the 1960s. My “street cred” in that place is through the roof. I was born in a mobile home in the Valley, for goodness sake. I ski, I have hunted, I have been charged by moose and I once ate two Costco hotdogs in one sitting. I got this.

“Oh yeah, it will,” he said. “You are just like someone who has been released from the pen. You remind me a lot of me when I got out. Completely clueless. You have been out of both the states and Alaska for too long. But don’t worry, I’ve got some good advice for you.”

I hadn’t realized that I had impressed Rodolfo so deeply with my cluelessness, but I was intrigued. “So what’s your advice?” I asked.

“Don’t say a word. And I mean it. People will be talking about TV shows, and music and their friends and local politics and you will have no idea what’s going on. Just shut your trap and do your best to look smart,” he said.

This approach, unfortunately, seemed quite similar to the one I had employed when I first moved to Europe. But after four years of being lost on that continent, I am a trifle dismayed to learn that I may return to the Great Land, the place of my birth, my real home, as an outsider.

“Don’t worry though, after about six months, you will probably fit right in,” he said.

As I prepare to aim the U-Haul toward those mighty Canadian cities of Moose Jaw and Saskatoon, I wonder if I will be able to follow that advice. For years among friends and coworkers I have been the de facto Alaska expert. When questions arose about Sarah Palin being able to see Russia, or the truthfulness of the newest round of Alaska-based reality shows, I could pass judgment with confidence and scoff at the depth of others’ ignorance.

“Of course, I can see Russia!” “Yes, you probably would die on your first day of crab fishing.” “Most of us do indeed mine for gold and run our own sawmills.” And, of course, the most popular: “Yes we all get checks each year from the state — you mean you don’t?”

I saw myself as an ambassador for the state, paid daily by the starry-eyed looks of people who had never met an Alaskan before. But no longer. Soon my tales of Caribou hunting and studded tires will only induce boredom and a prompt labeling of cheechako.

It is a strange thing, really, to lose what little social capital you have just by rolling down a road. But I am committed — the boxes are already packed, full of things that only a fool would bother to bring for life above 60 degrees latitude. I have a sinking suspicion that my cargo will offer little comfort beyond the humor of unpacking multiple pairs of Spandex running shorts as the snow piles up outside. Come morning, I will unlock the potential energy of the truck and eventually ease my way past Regina, Edmonton, Whitehorse, Beaver Creek, Tok and Glennallen. In about a week I will quietly roll into town and head to my mother and father’s house — stopping off at Carrs for a cheese roll first, of course, I haven’t forgotten everything.

Hopefully I will have enough sense to just keep quiet.

Pete LaFrance grew up in Palmer and moved back to th e area after 18 years living abroad.