Utqiagvik - Flying home to Utqiagvik

Editors' note: We asked 14 of Alaska's best writers spread across the state — from Tenakee Springs to Dutch Harbor to Utqiagvik — to grapple with a question we all face in our lives: Why do I live where I live? This piece is part of that collection.

When people hear where I live, they always ask about the winter darkness. Conversely, I always think of the light. The dreamy midnight light of summer when the sky is everywhere, translucent. Luminous. The russet light of fall, flecked with snow and full of its own flavor as though the air itself is made different by its presence. The dusky dream, light of winter. And the rekindling first light of spring, the one that warms our drowsy spirits.

It was February 1980, when I first flew into Barrow, the community that has now returned to its traditional name of Utqiagvik. What stunned me then, and continues to stun me in this season, is the light. There is a sense of having crossed a formidable border, of coming home into the light — because I knew in my heart, even then, that I had come home.

When people ask me what I like about living at the top of the world, I say it's the people: the Iñupiat, the real people. I had never lived within an indigenous culture before I came here and I quickly found that the Iñupiat worldview made sense to me. It made sense on that day nearly 40 years ago when I enjoyed my first bowl of rich caribou soup in a house full of laughing, welcoming people, and it makes sense to me still.

I think of this as the sun sets on the life of my old friend Edward Itta, at the tail end of his battle with cancer, who came home to enjoy his last days in the land of his birth. When I visit him I see how cancer has ravaged his body. But I see, too, that it has not touched his spirit. He is simply grateful to be home, touched by all those who have come to see him, smiling and even joking in the face of death. I leave his hospital room uplifted by his deeply spiritual acceptance of his journey, by his humble gratitude and his unflagging humor. These are the things that embody, for me, the spirit of the Iñupiat.

I have so many memories of my life lived here — books full of things experienced, lessons learned and people, amazing people, so many of them gone now. I remember when Edward and I were both young with young families. Now we have grandchildren. And I remember, too, exactly when I recognized, in my mind, as well as in my heart, that Utqiagvik was home.

I was in an airplane, headed north, my face pressed against the window as we passed the Brooks Range to fly free over the formidable tundra of the North Slope. The land was blindingly bright, the frozen rivers curly as ribbons. From across the aisle I heard a voice, an Iñupiaq voice. I no longer remember who it was — only his words, which remain etched in my memory: "Welcome home, Debby."

And I named it right then and there, that which I had already known in my heart: Home. I was flying home.

Debby Dahl Edwardson writes books and stories for young people of all ages. Her latest novel, "My Name is Not Easy," was a finalist for the National Book Award. Debby and her husband George have seven children and nine grandchildren.