No Man’s Land

“I dated this guy for a couple of years,” Jan says. “I thought we would get married. Then he demanded I buy him a house and put it in his name.”

“You buy the house and put his name on it!?” We are hiking through woods outside Anchorage, the dogs romping beside us.

“That was it,” Jan says. “I broke it off with him.”

I am visiting my cousin Bec in Alaska and we spend our mornings hiking with Jan and her lumbering lab. Bec’s three dogs roam ahead and behind us.

“I’m telling you,” Bec says, “there aren’t any decent guys in Alaska. There just aren’t.”

“But I was hoping to find myself a lumberjack,” I tease. “I thought Alaska has more men than women.”

“It does,” Jan says. “You have a few dates with a guy and then find out he lives in a cabin in the wilderness. Or he’s gone six months a year on a boat.”

Jan owns a bed and breakfast and Bec is retired from the University of Alaska. They hike for miles each day, spoil their grandchildren, and are financially independent. If they can’t find a guy in Alaska, then there is definitely no hope for me.

I see my imaginary lumberjack fading from view. If a girl can’t find a guy in Alaska, then I might as well hang up my skirts and Spanx and spend the rest of my life wearing granny panties. At least, I console myself, I’ll be comfortable.

A few days later, I’m on a boat out of Homer as my sons fish for halibut. I am cuddling my grandson who has deposited all of his breakfast in a plastic bag.

The captain takes advantage of this lull to sit on the stairs and enjoy the calm.

He is 20 years too young for me but that doesn’t mean I can’t admire his rugged dark looks. I ask him where he’s from and he tells me.

“I’m thinking of going back, though,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m telling you, there just are no women in Alaska.”