JULY 3— Down the river, through the portal of the mountains into the foothills, approaching the coastal plain, we float northward in our little air-filled boats. Seeing that I have come back to life, the literary natives on shipboard badger me with bookish questions. I am happy to oblige.

What’s the best book about Alaska? The best book about the North, I say, is The Call of the Wild. In the words of a critic, Jack London captures there the essence of the mythos of the wilderness. No, she says, I mean about Alaska? Winter News, I say, by John Haines—pure poetry; and by “pure” I mean poetry about ordinary things, about the great weather, about daily living experience, as opposed to technical poetry, which is concerned mainly with prosody, with technique (one of my favorite lectures). Don’t lecture me, she says, I’m talking about prose—about books in prose. (I sense a trap about to snap.) What’s the best prose book about Alaska? I pause for a moment, pretending to reflect, and say Going to Extremes by Joe McGinniss. A brilliant book. Mandatory for anyone who wants a sense of what contemporary life in Alaska is like. My opinion does not set well with the locals. No! they say, McGinniss writes only about the sensational. Alaska is a sensational place, I reply. He’s a scandalmonger, they say. Alaska is a scandalous place, I say; McGinniss tells the truth. How much time have you spent in Alaska? they want to know. About four weeks, all told, I answer. They smile in scorn. Four weeks of observation, I explain, is better than a lifetime of daydreaming. What about Coming into the Country? someone asks. I had to admit that I had started on that book but never finished it. More questions. I say, since I left Cherry Tree down in Tennessee, this is the first time I’ve been warm. McPhee, I explain, is a first-rate reporter, but too mild, too nice, too cautious—no point of view. You like Robert Service? I love him. But, says my first inquisitor, I don’t think you really love Alaska, do you? The most attractive feature of Alaska, I say, is its small, insignificant human population, thanks to the miserable climate. Thanks a lot, she says. I like the mountains, the glaciers, the wildlife and the roominess, I hasten to add—or I would if the bugs would stop crowding me. I think you are a geographical chauvinist, she says; a spatial bigot. Special? Spatial. Well, I confess, I’ll admit I’ve lived too long in the Southwest; I should have saved that for last. Then what are you doing in Alaska? she says.

Me?

You.

Slumming, I explain.

Quiet, whispers Mark, resting on the oars. Look over there.

We look where he points. Three wolves are watching us from another bar beside the river, less than a hundred feet away. Three great gray shaggy wolves, backlit by the low sun, staring at us. Silently we drift closer. Gently, Mark pulls the boat onto the gravel, where it stops. Don’t get out, Mark whispers. The wolves watch, the cameras come out, the wolves start to move away into the willow thicket and toward the open tundra. A whistle stops the last one as it climbs the bank. I stare at the wolf through my binoculars, the wolf stares at me; for one, still, frozen, sacred moment I see the wild green fire in its eyes. Then it shrugs, moves, vanishes.