Whoever coined the word vacation must have led a life of turmoil. Why else would the would-be traveler want to “vacate”, to empty his world of flotsam and jetsam, to eliminate all the ho-hum busy-ness that gets in the way of feeling alive, then to travel to an exotic land where he tries to forget his miserable routines, and sometimes even succeeds, only to return in a week or two to the same pitiful life? It implies such a poverty of spirit, that I am resolved never to take a vacation. A journey is something else entirely. This has a purpose, a direction, and with the proper attitude, can become a quest. Alaska has always been on our wish-list, and finally, in June, 2001, my wife Cindi and I traveled with another couple to the Seward Peninsula for two weeks. We awoke to bald eagles flying overhead, encountered lynx in the foothills of Denali, and kayaked in Resurrection bay, hoping to see a resident pod of orcas. A wonderful experience by any standard. But one thing was missing: night. The sun set close to midnight, but never really dipped too far below the horizon. As a result our bodies were always on overdrive, and we would be continuously in motion until we dropped from exhaustion. Also no stars were to be seen, despite clear skies. We promised to return and experience Alaska by night, especially to experience the Northern Lights. The magazine “Astronomy” advertised a “Northern Lights” tour to Chena Hot Springs, Alaska in March, 2002. The “Solar Max”, in 2001, marked the peak of sunspot activity in an 11 year cycle. This year, being close to the peak, virtually guaranteed a fair number of auroral displays. This was also during the vernal equinox, so we enjoyed 12 hours of darkness. We were not promised 12 hours of clear skies, but it somehow worked out that way. For various reasons, we didn’t join Astronomy’s tour, but went on our own. Chena is a low-key resort one-hour north of Fairbanks. It’s very easy to find, because it’s the only paved road going north, and Chena is its termination. Gold prospectors discovered it nearly a century ago. The sulfur waters surface at 140 degrees F and are cooled down to a steamy 100 degrees, directed into a large pool where, after making a mad dash from the bathhouse, the bather can melt away in an arctic paradise, and look up at the northern lights. We were fortunate to have clear nights to view and photograph the lights. Most of the other tourists were Japanese, also coming for the same purpose. It appears that in the Shinto religion the aurora has a special significance, and one is considered blessed to be married, or better yet, conceived, under them. So you might imagine some of the other nocturnal activities at Chena. The show was spectacular. The solar wind, a river of charged particles from the sun, makes a three-day voyage to earth, encountering the earth’s magnetic field. At that point ionized gases hundreds of miles high create a dance of light, always in motion, in shades of green and red and white (and sometimes blue). We climbed a small hill overlooking the Hot Springs and came to a warming hut. We were joined by 20 awestruck Japanese tourists, bristling with expensive looking cameras. Beginning around midnight there was a subtle green-white glow near the horizon. Then columns of white light spiked upward toward the zenith, then faded, then glowed again. Later folded green curtains appeared, as if to open a stage performance. Shades of red became visible, especially in long-exposure photographs. Occasionally a dazzling yellow-white arc would scream upward across the sky. The display would climax around 2 AM, then make a gentle retreat toward dawn. The following evening we came back for more, at no additional charge. By day we were able to hike and ski cross-country. Cindi humored me one day while I took a class in mushing. Five of us students were each given a team of five dogs, who were friendly enough, but really weren’t interested in a bonding experience. We learned their names and personalities, and hitched them to the sled. Mostly they were oblivious to us and wanted only to run. Although, theoretically, the dogs knew a few commands, like Gee and Haw, there were really only three controls on the sled, and they all were brakes. One was a cut-up snowmobile tire you could step on to slow the dogs a little. If you wanted a full stop you could step on a lever that would dig a hook into the snow, and if all else failed, there was a snow anchor you could throw out and pray that it would grab. The instructors failed to tell us that these dogs had only one speed, and they had no use for slowing on the curves. As a result I took a fall at full speed, landing on my right wrist. I learned a week later that it was fractured, but at the time, the adrenaline rush carried me through the afternoon. The course was ten miles long and was quite beautiful; part of it ran along the Alaska Pipeline. At the end of the day I was given a diploma with a glossy photo of me, a most unlikely arctic explorer, with my furry friends. The author of one Alaska tour book recommends that Fairbanks is dark and depressing in winter, and should be avoided at all costs. Surely he missed out on Chena. Doubtless he was the Accidental Tourist. (Also, A few of these photos were taken in Iceland , September,2004)