Every street in Anchorage

Urban hikes as an invitation to stay

Until earlier this week, it felt like spring was never going to hit. It’s one thing to recognize logically that of course, living this far north comes with a different seasonal schedule than most of the country. That Anchorage spring does not look like New York spring, or Vermont spring, or any other spring I’ve experienced.

But the logic brain has nothing on the emotional brain, particularly when the internet is showing heat waves across the east coast, trees in bloom, people in shorts drinking iced beverages and living their best carefree lives. Meanwhile here I am, in my wool sweater, shivering inside a mysteriously cold office and scrolling through a feed of pastel flowers and bare skin. It’s no wonder the desire to flee hit hard.

Two years ago, when I was packing up to move from Brooklyn to Anchorage, the magnolia tree outside my bedroom window was in full bloom. I remember my heart break with gratitude at the idea that this was how my old apartment, my old home, was sending me off.

Laurie and I manage to make cozy reading nooks wherever we go. Brooklyn, NY, April 2021.

For the past week or so I’ve found myself scheming a visit New York. The desire felt frenzied and craving. I want heat and flowers, now! Let me reach out to a friend who might know someone with an empty apartment or room. Let me search for flights. Let me fantasize about how, if I could only find a nice little place to live for a few weeks, my entire life would be solved.

But I can’t time travel. Visiting Brooklyn this spring will not transport me back to that apartment with that magnolia tree. It won’t transport me back to the feelings of possibility I nurtured there—feelings that led me to Anchorage, that led me to writing, that led me to my life.

There is a lesson I will forever have to re-learn. I’ve written about it before: in particular, about how I’m learning to sit with discomfort instead of avoiding it. The lesson is that, each time I feel the urge to flee, the solution is to do the opposite. The solution is, instead of running away, to sit with whatever is troubling me. To stare it in the face, ask what it wants me to change, and then change it.

Let every desire to leave be an invitation to stay

After the requisite lesson-learning, I went to bed the other night resigned to the fact that I can’t just go to New York and magically solve my life. My life is here, in Anchorage. This life is emphatically mine. It’s a life that I chose, keep choosing, and would choose again.

Just because spring is slow to come does not mean that when it does it won’t blow me away. Just because Instagram shows me a version of my old life means that I can transport myself back there by getting on a plane.

I don’t want to go back in time even if I could. I want to be here, now, as is. But still, the longing for something to change remains.

Yesterday I had an idea.¹ I remembered one of my first art projects, a study for a class in high school in which I biked around neighborhoods in Brooklyn and took photos of things I thought looked cool. Then I printed the photos and arranged them in a sort of map overlay and connected them with strings.

I can’t say the project was successful, and by that I mean I can’t say it was “good art.” I also don’t have documentation of it, so I won’t be able to confirm. But regardless of its outcome, I remember the feeling of discovering new parts of my hometown for the first time. I remember the thrill, and the loneliness, of traveling on my own. I remember coming across waterways and warehouses and storefronts and greenery and chaos and peace, all within a few miles of where I grew up. I remember searching for something, some sense of connection between place and self.

It turns out I’ve carried that project with me. One of my favorite things to do when I lived in New York was take long walks and bike rides, mostly solitary ones, and see where I ended up. I used to call these walks “urban hikes” because that’s what they were: I would walk for many miles, usually without much of a destination, in areas I didn’t know well. Apart from the scenery, those walks are not too dissimilar from the nature hikes I’ve grown to love here.

The walks are what I miss about New York, particularly in the spring, when the world is alive for all to see. It’s what I would be doing if I went on my fantasy visit back there.

I remember in my early 20s when a few people were attempting to walk and bike every street in New York. I remember thinking it sounded interesting, daunting, and perhaps silly. Well…

Introducing “Every street in Anchorage”

In the spirit of urban hiking, I’ve decided to bring my old high school project here. Starting today, I’m setting out to eventually walk or bike every public street in Anchorage.² This project has no time limit: indeed, it might take the rest of my life to complete.

In the meantime, I’ve come up with a few intentions. As with everything I do, I hope this guide changes as needed. But for now, Every street in Anchorage is:

• a means of discovering and connecting with my current home, the city of Anchorage;

• research on issues facing pedestrians that can hopefully join a conversation with bicycle and public transit advocates;

• an invitation for others to join;

• a continuation of my lifetime of urban wandering and cycling;

• an homage to the many walkers and cyclists who’ve come before;

• a photo essay;

• a form of play.

My and Carrot’s bikes along the coastal trail in Anchorage. Film from May 2022.

I’m not sure what the sharing format will look like yet. It might become its own newsletter, or a different website entirely. It might include updates and photos or maybe just maps. I’ve never been much of a data person but am going to test out tracking my walks/rides with an iPhone app. I’ll also probably notate some kind of master map by hand… this is the very beginning stages of envisioning and I welcome requests to collaborate!

I’m excited to feel excited about this. I’m excited to discover, and re-discover, this chosen home. Cities are weird and I don’t have the time or knowledge to get into the urban planning disaster that is Anchorage, but here is an organization called Bike Anchorage that does! I’m excited to get tired and frustrated and inspired and awed by what I see on the street, from the street, all over town.

I’m excited to bring intentionality to my normal practice of wandering. I’m excited to finally have maps (maps!) to show for it. I’m excited to take the time to reflect on what I’ve seen and where I’ve been. And I’m excited to participate in a long line of artists and travelers whose feet guide the way.

Is the Strava output unbearably ugly? Can I customize it? Time will tell...

I’d also like to name a few sources of inspiration.

Carrot Quinn

, long distance hiker and writer raised in Anchorage; Adán Hernandez, who documents his community of Fairview in magical zines; Rachel’s aunt Sheila in Vermont who walked across New England; My dad, who’s biked much of Brooklyn himself; Jason Katz-Brown who roller-skated / roller-skiied the entire Dalton Highway last summer (!!!); the various bike communities of Anchorage, including everyone that organizes and attends group rides; Mierle Laderman Ukeles’ maintenance manifesto; Simonetta’s shoes; and Jody and Osiris, who coaxed me outdoors on many a day when I would have rather not.

Maybe it’s funny to list acknowledgments at the beginning of a project instead of at its completion? I’m learning that, for me, accountability to others is everything. By stating my intention and sharing it with you, I’m committing to setting out on a task that otherwise might simply fade into the dusty corners alongside many unrealized dreams. Why not attempt something? Why not try.

Finally, this project is dedicated to all the walkers out there, including those without any other means of transport. I’m but a lucky traveler who gets to wander by choice.

Happy spring to all who are celebrating.

With hope,

Julia

1. A rare occurrence, I know.

2. For those of you interested in technicalities, I haven’t yet decided if I’ll include the entire municipality of Anchorage or just the city area—that’s a bridge to cross (walking pun? maybe?) at another time.