Visitations

Gordon Wright was a major force in the musical life of Alaska. For twenty years, he served as conductor of the Fairbanks Symphony and taught at the University of Alaska at Fairbanks. In 1970, he founded the Arctic Chamber Orchestra, which he led on tours across Alaska and the Yukon Territory, sharing music and fostering cultural exchange in small towns and remote villages. He was also the co-founder of the Fairbanks (now Northern Alaska) Environmental Center.

Wright conducted the first performances of a number of my works. In addition to our musical collaborations, we regularly shared camping trips in the wilderness of Alaska. In 2007, Wright passed away unexpectedly at his cabin in the Chugach Mountains, overlooking Turnagain Arm. I was among the group of close friends who brought his body down the mountainside.

1

Gordon Wright was my dearest friend. For thirty years he and I shared our two greatest passions: music and Alaska. For a decade we were next-door neighbors, a half-mile through the woods on the outskirts of Fairbanks. During these same years, I served as his timpanist in the Fairbanks Symphony.

Each Tuesday evening after our orchestra rehearsal, Gordon and I would drive back to the forest and walk home together. When we'd reach the fork in the trail, he would veer left, to his cabin, and I'd continue on to mine.

One deep winter night when the temperature was in the minus forties, I dipped into the low spot where the tamaracks grow and heard a great horned owl calling.

Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo?…?Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoooo?...I stopped and answered.Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo?...?Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoooooo?…The call came again, and I knew it was Gordon.

From that night on, this was our signal, our way of staying connected, reassuring one another through the cold and the darkness: I'm here. And even though you can't see me, I'm still there with you.

Whenever we walked home together, Gordon and I would call back and forth. When I'd hear his last hoot, I'd know he'd arrived at his cabin. Then, a minute or two later, I'd step onto the porch at my place.

Each Sunday evening, Gordon and I would have sauna. Walking over, I'd come to the final turn on the trail to his cabin, then stop and hoot. If he were outside splitting wood or walking between the house and the sauna, he'd hoot back in greeting.

At the end of the evening, Gordon would always stand on his porch and send me on my way. About the time I'd reach that turn in the trail, I'd hear him calling. Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo?...?Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoooooo?...

I'd stop, turn around, cup my hands to my mouth, and call back.

Over the years, Gordon and I called back and forth countless times: in the forest at home, on camping trips in the wilderness, on busy city streets. Our hooting was a way of voicing our affection for one another. It was also a way of acknowledging our connections with the owls in the forest and with all our relatives in the larger-than-human world.

I always imagined that Gordon and I would continue calling to one another until we were both old men. Then, suddenly, he was gone.

2

Gordon was meticulous about his schedule. We always kept one another informed of our itineraries, and after he moved away we took great care to plan our time together far in advance. For months we'd reserved a date when Gordon would be in Fairbanks for a performance by our friend the violinist Paul Rosenthal. The three of us were going to have sauna.

In the weeks since Gordon's passing, I've been determined to keep this appointment. Paul agrees it's the right thing to do. So following his concert, we walk the familiar trail out to Gordon's cabin.

We split wood and light the fire. We toast our friend, share memories, and catch up on one another's lives. Then...