Twenty-three years ago on May 4th, 1988, I landed in Juneau, Alaska. I had driven to Prince Rupert, British Columbia from my long-time home in Oregon, my small car packed to the gunnels, a gorgeus trip. I was agog at the beauty; had it been in the US I would have stopped and looked for work, no question. The way the mountains reared out of flat ground was a constant bemusement to me. It was kind of how I reacted to the red bluffs around Laramie, Wyoming when I drove through there years ago, somehow both were equally ageless.
I knew no one in Alaska and never had been here. That first summer I worked in a wilderness lodge and when I returned to Juneau that fall I stayed around for "just awhile" (I thought I was on my way to Fairbanks) and fell in love with Juneau- its beauty, its air and water, its people, its music. There was no reason to leave.
That winter I took a fiddle class and by spring I knew at least 50 people. I've never looked back.