"Really, that's great," I reply.

"Yup, thinking of taking a trip and my wife doesn't want to go." Long pause.

"Well, Neal, I mean, yeah, great ..."

"So I'm thinking of going to Alaska."

OK, so now I'm trying to figure out what my taciturn friend is talking about, and it dawns on me. "And you're telling me this because -- you want company?"

"Yeah, of course," he replies, as if to say, "You want me to spell it out for you?"

So here we go, into some image of the Alaskan wilderness, a consultant having a premature mid-life crisis and a recently divorced New Yorker. No itinerary, Anchorage and the Kenai peninsula, looking for something.

Alaska, the last wilderness, they say. Alaska, bigger than the United States east of the Mississippi, they say. Alaska, virgin land, hardy people, glaciers, mountains, eagles, Eskimos and Dr. Fleischman, Maurice the astronaut and the rest of the "Northern Exposure" crowd. Alaska, pipelines and oil spills and strange young men wandering off into the wilderness of Denali, Jon Krakauer tells us. Alaska, fishermen and endless night and nightless day, and frozen wastes. Alaska, what we once were but aren't anymore.

Alaska has become a giant projection screen for the angst of the lower 48. Against the backdrop of the Alaskan wilderness, the conundrums of late 20th century urban/suburban life suddenly become less perplexing. They also appear in sharper relief. Juxtaposed to pristine mountains, angry weather and vast open spaces, the foibles and worries and fears that beset us in cities and subdivisions seem absurd. They also become more troubling.

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