Away from the self-induced swarm of topsy-turvydom I turned myself over to during the summer, I am trying to wend to the quietude of Aleknagik, Alaska – yielding to a slower pace, allowing distractions to dissipate, and hopefully, re-establishing some sort of equilibrium. This is not my natural inclination, (and, is it anybody's?) but it is something I seek, yearn for, gravitate to. So far – this morning, anyway – I've been relatively unsuccessful in letting go of busyness, stimuli and extremes. I began writing this blog two hours ago, and have embarrassingly managed a mere ninety seven words in between skipping around the Internet, shuffling to the kitchen and back, and steeping ruminating thoughts in memory. The embarrassment is not that I've failed to produce output, however, but that I'm mindlessly filling time with triviality.

Entreating advice from author Brenda Ueland – of If You Want to Write – and short-story writer O. Henry – of “The Gift of the Magi”, “The Ransom of Red Chief”, “A Retrieved Reformation” and “The Cop and the Anthem” – I'm responded to with the following: “Everyone is talented, original and has something important to say.” And, “Write stories that please yourself.” For this tutelage, I extend a sincere “thank you” to both of you; and with this affirmation and direction, I'll continue with my return to Alaska, instead of attempting to re-cap summertime flurries.

Nine time zones and four airplanes, divided by a much appreciated overnight at the Microtel in Anchorage, brought me back to Dillingham, Alaska on the 1st of September, where I was met by my favorite pair of blue eyes, and MDUR – my dear uncle Rex. Rummaging through a sea of Rubbermaid totes, (in Alaska it seems more people check these at airports instead of suitcases) Jeff and I grabbed my luggage, ticked off an errand list, and escaped to what is always simply referred to as “The Lake” – which is actually a chain of lakes within the United States' largest state park – Woodtikchik.

I spent the next week relishing a timeless rhythm to each day with Jeff, and Labor Day weekend he took me on my inaugural moose hunt. We loaded up the boat with camping gear, bug nets, fishing poles, more than enough food, (but not enough Alaskan smoked salmon) and took the Agulawok river to Nerka, commonly known as, “Second Lake”. It was then and there I truly realized that camping in Alaska is completely different from what I grew up with in Minnesota. I know this seems a silly revelation – I mean, are you kidding me, of course it's different! – but sometimes it isn't until we find ourselves plopped down in the middle of something, that we can actually identify with an experience.

When camping in Alaska one doesn't need to buy a state park sticker for vehicles – a plausible perk, though this economic exemption is countered with other financial considerations. Gas, for example, is currently $5.61/gallon; I haven't got a clue how many gallons we burned out and back. Then, there are seemingly limitless choices for one's campsite, but locating it entails a bit more than driving around a paved road to decide whether it's better to be closest to the bathrooms, along the beach, or on the end site to avoid noisy night owl neighbors. We selected ours with the following criteria – tree shelter to shoulder the wind, a relatively flat surface, and propinquity to the boat.

The bug nets came in handy almost immediately (and fishing poles, later on) – in Alaska there are these annoying little insects called “white socks” (because it looks as though they're wearing them on their feet!); you cannot feel the bite initially, but the resulting red splotch is veritable evidence of it. We had to plod around an area to pack down the knee-high grass, and within forty-five minutes we'd made camp, satisfied hunger pains, and were ready find a bull moose.

In attempts to best prepare myself for the hunt, I asked Jeff if there was an etiquette to abide by as his tag-a-long. Without hesitation, he'd advised I was to be two steps back, and one to the left. I nodded attentively, taking mental note, and after a pregnant pause, my gullible self was greeted with a hearty guffaw. I did stay more or less on his heels though, watching his rubber boots as I squished along through sponge-like tundra.

It was around 8:30 the following morning when we caught a bedded-down bull by surprise, commencing the chase. The subsequent string of emotions I felt varied from exhilaration and anticipation, to remorse and regret for loss of life, to an all-consuming curious intrigue which was overtaken by my gag reflex during the butchering process. As quickly as I could, I clumsily scurried trying to meet Jeff's swift gate – then, I suddenly saw him drop to one knee to take aim. The gunshot cracked the silence with a cold, dry pop, and Jeff's eagle eye and steady shoulder secured his 2010 bull from 175 yards away.

We weren't sure, right away, if we'd got him or not. And, I became even more confused as we approached the woods from a clearing when Jeff bent his elbow to a 90 degree angle and closed his hand tight. I read this sign as “halt”, but realized soon after that it actually meant “success” when his fist began boxing the air. The remainder of the day was spent packing the bull out (I took one trip while strongman Jeff took four), fishing for dollies (I caught one!), and becoming captain of a boat for the very first time. Two weeks later I had another first – co-piloting Jeff's plane (which basically entailed taking the controls for about 10 miles, and trying to keep the altimeter around 400 feet), and here I am, daydreaming, wondering what my next Alaskan “first” will be. This is Elise, signing out, from Aleknagik, Alaska.