At 5 am there was a streak of orange in the sky. It looked a lot like the 2 am sky from three weeks ago. It was only late July, but it felt like Fall was coming. I could see my breath inside the tent.

Cold days of long motor miles; I’d stand, sit, squat, adjust the tiller, turn off the motor and pull hard for 100 strokes to warm up. With just under 300 miles to the sea, I began counting them down in familiar Grand Canyon chunks: Mile 30 – South Canyon, Mile 52 – Nankoweap. It was a way for me to mark progress, and offer something tangible in the huge monotonous landscape.

Village stops continued to be my salvation. At Pilot Station, a supply barge was in town, creating an excited buzz. At Russian Village, I walked busy dirt streets of children riding wheelies, bounding dogs, and two-room houses with doors ajar. It felt more like Guatemala than the United States. In Marshall, the local guys hanging out at the store got a good laugh when I told them about Holy Cross’ fuel hours of 10 am to 1:45 pm.

Emmonak appeared like a mirage, reflected colors warbling in a vast gray-green horizon. When I queried a group of young men at a building site about buying my boat, a voice bellowed from the darkness inside, “Does it have 2,000 miles on it?” Apparently I wasn’t the first “floater” to sell their boat in Emmonak. A series of dead-end leads finally had me making For Sale signs in front of the grocery store, where the store manager, Matt, assisted at every step. He looked vaguely familiar. “What’s your last name?” he finally breached. “Williams,” said I, and the dots soon connected. We were schoolmates in high school, a mere 37 years ago.

When a silver line of perfectly flat empty horizon opened to my left, I let out a whoop. There it was—the Bering Sea. A quarter-mile farther, I pulled ashore on a beach of flowery green, and cracked a beer. More whoops. I felt like crying but it always turned into a laugh. “Williams, why the hell do you do this shit?” I said aloud. I knew the short answer—for the moments of elation, for the reminiscences, for my identity. The longer answer will take more time to unravel, maybe a lifetime, maybe never.