Free Working It by Leah Marie Brown

judgment, her lips pressed together in a grim, sanctimonious line.
    I raise my glass and smile. “Salut!”
    I defiantly tip the rest of the wine into my mouth. She picks up her book, Tea with Jesus: Morning Devotions for the Baptist Woman , and begins reading, turning the cover so it’s facing me.
    The ridiculous almost-farcical nature of this moment is not lost on me. I am moving to a cultural wasteland. A place where people get excited over a Target store opening. If the passengers seated around me are any indication of what Alaskans are like, I am going to be a fish out of water. I don’t hunt. I don’t drink beer, unless it’s from Belgium. I don’t read religious books. The only thing I have ever purchased from Target was a box of tampons.
    I order another glass of wine, pop a pair of earplugs into my ears, and pretend I am winging my way to Milan.
    * * * *
    By the time we touch down at Ted Stevens International Airport in sunny Los Anchorage, I am working a pretty good buzz. The kind of buzz that makes me feel like I am wrapped in a cocoon as warm and fuzzy as Vivian’s hideous, trendy sheepskin-lined Uggs.
    Pulling my rolling carryon behind me, I follow the crush of passengers down the boarding ramp and through the terminal. I am not sure what I expected the Anchorage Airport to look like—perhaps a World War II era Quonset hut filled with cheap plastic chairs and vending machines—but I never expected it to be a sleek, modern facility with local artwork hanging on the walls and massive windows offering panoramic views of distant snowcapped mountains.
    I roll past a glass case displaying shaman masks, sealskin boots, and fur parkas. I pause when I come to a second display case, this one containing the stuffed carcass of the largest Kodiak bear ever killed by a human being. The bear has been posed in an attack stance, standing on its hind legs, gigantic paws outstretched, claws poised to rip flesh from bone. The wooden plaque affixed to the display case lets curious onlookers know that this dead beast has a thirty and twelve-sixteenth skull score. Whatever that means.
    “Awesome, isn’t he?”
    I turn and find Ms. Los Anchorage, the chatty passenger seated behind me during the flight, standing beside me, staring up at the stuffed bear.
    “He certainly is,” I say, looking back at the plaque. “It says this bear was ‘harvested in Anchorage in 1997.’ That must have been when the city was still relatively small and less developed. You probably don’t see bears in Anchorage anymore, do you?”
    “Twenty years ago, the hills around Anchorage were filled with moose, dall sheep, red fox, black bears, and brown bears, especially in the spring when the lingonberries and blueberries were ripe for the picking”—she sighs heavily and shakes her head—“but that was before the snowbirds arrived.”
    “Snowbirds?”
    “People from the lower forty-eight,” she says. “They watch those damned reality TV shows— Alaska State Troopers, Deadliest Catch, Man Versus Nature —and then they move here, their heads filled with silly romantic notions about living in the last frontier. They bring their fancy SUVs and Starbucks.”
    Thank you, snowbirds! “The snowbirds came and all of the bear left. Is that it?”
    “Well, now,” she says, chuckling. “I wouldn’t say that. It’s still Alaska.”
    An icy finger trails down my spine. I am spending the night in Anchorage. Should I be concerned? Should I arm myself with some bear spray or a bazooka?
    “But I won’t see bears here in Anchorage, will I?”
    “You might.” She shifts the strap of her steel-framed backpack from one shoulder to the other. “A mountain biker was mauled at Russian Jack just last month.”
    “Russian Jack?” I consider asking if he is related to One-Eyed Jack, but figure the sarcasm will be lost on this woman.
    “Russian Jack Springs. It’s a park.”
    “How far is it from Anchorage?”
    “What do you mean, how far is it?”