I still haven't fully figured out the dynamics of on-line friendships.

Tom died last night. I met him twice; I've talked to him for about seven years. He and I belonged to an on-line baseball discussion forum. He lived in Pittsburgh - two miles from the Pirate's stadium. Starting four years ago, we'd converge for a weekend series of baseball games once a year. In 2006, our forum met in Pittsburgh to see a series against the Cardinals. I not only met Tom, but I met Tom's wife, who works a concession stand. Food was free, but you still had to buy your sodas - the concessionaires had to account for the cups. This year, it's the Oakland-Yankees series at Yankee Stadium - next weekend.

I met Tom a second time this past April. He and I went to a Pirates-Phillies game just eight days after Jekyll, Kimba and I went to the much-posted Phillies game meeting. Tom and me meeting was a private arrangement - not our annual convention. I happened to be in Pittsburgh, and I called him. I had no idea at the time that the visit meant Good-bye. Tom was a deeply religious family man with five children, born and raised in Pennsylvania, who loved baseball. He could have been me.

About a week ago, I got an e-mail advising the discussion forum that Tom hadn't been posting lately because his computer was stolen - his wife had taken it as she packed her things to leave him - for his next door neighbor. I wondered how one goes about pulling off a stunt like that. Surely one of the axioms of having an affair is to make sure your spouse and your paramour never talk to each other. And how do you leave? Do you just come "home" from work one day, and drive up to house 1723 instead of house 1725? Does the DMV clerk think it strange when you change the address on your license? May I never understand how that works!

So it's the weekend before the convention, and nobody's booked the hotel yet. I e-mail Joe, and ask him to call me, thinking it's time to reserve a hotel. He writes back, "I already know." I reply, "Know what?" Joe calls me, and tells me that Tom shot himself. And here I sit at my desk with the speaker phone on. As Joe continues, I whisper to my wife, "He's the guy I met in Pittsburgh in April." She remembers the trip as the time I remembered on the way to the airport that I had forgotten to pack my Parkinsons medication. She wanted to turn around and get it. And I said, "Nah, I'll just call the hotel ask the concierge the number of the nearest pharmacy give the pharmacy the numbers of my doctor and my regular pharmacy and ask them to provide me with a three-day supply before my next dose is due." The plan actually worked; Tom drove me to the pharmacy in Pittsburgh.

I was mentioned in his suicide note, along with five other participants of the forum. I reason that if the discussion forum was high among the people worthy of a final farewell, then he was lonelier than I had estimated. I wondered if his family and the computer comprised the entirety of his personal contact, and if his wife taking the computer meant the loss of both. Again, such pointless speculation!

Yet real questions remain. Whom do I express grief to? His wife, who at least knows my name? His kids? My whole contact with them was an Instant Message session that went "Hi" "I'm Tom's daughter." Do I attend the funeral? If he was in fact as lonely as I speculate, then somebody should. Who are the primary mourners to approach if I do?

I've basically decided on a private approach. For the remainder of the 2008 season, I'll become a quasi-Pirates fan. Except for head-on games against the Phillies, I'll root for the Pirates. This is not so trivial an approach when you consider that the Pirates and Phillies are cross-state rivals.

It's possible that I was the last friend to spend time with Tom in the flesh. I had no clue that was forever.

I've been through the desert on a horse with no name. - Dewey Bunnell, 1971

All that needs to be said about Prudhoe Bay is implied by whom the Alaskans name their airports after. The rest of what I say is rambling.

Anchorage airport - named Ted Stevens
Barrow airport - named Will Rogers-Wiley Post
Prudhoe Bay airport - named Dead Horse

Those who think I'm joking are free to google it.

The significance of Prudhoe Bay is that it's the north side of the Alaskan Pipeline. Through the marvel of the pipeline, arctic oil can be sent easily from the unnavigable port of Prudhoe to the very navigable Pacific port of Valdez. Oil exploration teams alternate 6-week stays there, though the Census Bureau cites the permanent population as 5.

The flight into Prudhoe Bay flies you over the controversial Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (ANWR). For decades our national leaders have been at war with each other: one side insisting that accessing the oil could alleviate our national dependence on foreign oil, the other side insisting that the land is too valuable undisturbed.

Those who advance the wildlife refuge side are really counting on the fact that few people ever get a chance to see this refuge firsthand. For the land sports only a tundra. There are no roads in and out. Indeed, the roads would likely sink if any were built. There are no trees, for the freeze line is too high for the roots to take hold. There is no vegetation of any kind. It has become largely a swamp land, as snow melts on the surface, but cannot drain for the high freeze line.

Large black clouds hover over the swamp puddles. They are mosquito swarms, the only visible forms of wildlife that I could discern. Yet the one side of the debate consistently describes it as a nature preserve, knowing full well that few will observe otherwise.

The other side consistently claims ANWR to be the answer to our oil supply problems. However, nobody knows for sure how much oil is there - if any at all. The evidence of oil is based on "sonograms" of the earth, which suggest the rock formations conducive to the presence of oil. No actual oil has ever been spotted there.

Regardless of which side ultimately wins out, both sides tend to overlook that earth's oil supply is temporary. No matter how much oil we find in ANWR, or any place else, the supplies will eventually expire. Oil does not renew itself. Some future generation will by necessity have to live in an oil-free economy.

Such a feelin's comin' over me
There is wonder in most everything I see
Not a cloud in the sky
Got the sun in my eyes
And I won't be surprised if it's a dream

I'm on the top of the world
Lookin' down on creation
- Richard Carpenter, 1970

Savat!!

The local language of Barrow is iñupiaq, and "savat" is iñupiaq for "What's up!" though I suspect that the translation is loose. Barrow is the northernmost city in the United States, and Point Barrow is the northernmost point.

I quickly saw that the reason to come to Barrow was the adventure, not the scenery. In late June, the temperature peaked at 33. During the 190-mile flight in from Prudhoe Bay, I was able to gaze out into the Arctic Ocean. Ice crust buckled on top of ice crust, and terribly dirty at that - the type of dirt that we are used to seeing on a week-old snow bank. Barrow has no paved roads, just packed tundra. The houses are glorified trailers, all of them terribly weather-beaten, individually built with no apparent neighborhood planning, some with obvious unrepaired damage. They stand on top of pilings, lest they sink into the tundra.

Yet touring Barrow presents an adventure. A local restaurant sponsors a Polar Bear Club. The sole membership requirement is to immerse yourself fully into the Arctic Ocean before a local witness. The liquid water temperature that day was 28, the salt content kept it liquid. Three tourists were up to the task.

A live polar bear was spotted in a neighborhood called Gravel Pit. I estimate it was about a half mile out in the ocean, obviously looking for dinner. It amazed me how many people came by just to watch him. But a polar bear near a village is somewhat like a rattlesnake in a playground. The children and touring novices are impressed with how cute they are; the parents and natives know they are immensely dangerous. Polar bears may look the part, but they are far from the cute and cuddly mascots of old Coca Cola ads.

The town of 5000 has 8 churches, 7 restaurants, and 3 schools - one elementary, one middle school, and one high school. The high school athletes are called the Whalers, though it's not clear who they play against. No roads come in or out of Barrow, and the nearest towns are Atqasuk (60 miles), Wainwright (90 miles) and Nuiqsut (150 miles). They do boast a brand new football field financed by former NFL star Larry Czonka. The field has royal blue Astroturf. To date, they've played one game on the field. They beat a team from Glennallen (550 miles), and to celebrate, the whole team jumped into the ocean.

Most of what the natives can hunt is an endangered species. Supply shipments are inadequate, so they are permitted to hunt a quota of whales, polar bears, etc, strictly for personal consumption. They are not permitted to open an iñupiaq restaurant, or to sell it as food for any purpose. The three restaurants within walking distance are Pepe's (Mexican), Osaka (Japanese), and Sam and Lees (Chinese).

The sun indeed stays up all night - for 87 nights to be exact. At 4:30 am, I take a picture - but it simply looks like the sun in the sky. There's no way to photograph the time. Yet the sun is nowhere near a setting point.

A special car is required to get to Point Barrow. The packed drivable tundra ends, and you must drive over loose gravely tundra - a mixture of stony gravel and mud - for the remaining 3 miles. Walking it would be wearying, as you sink about 8 inches with each footstep. It's easy to see where bears have been. We arrive at Point Barrow without fanfare. We are now further north than anybody else in the country. There is no gift shop, for it would sink; not even a marker post, for the winds would knock it over. The only sign that we have the right place is that it's the place where the Chukshi Sea and the Beaufort Sea come together. Around August or September, these seas will have a current, and the two currents will conflict as they meet.

I step out into the ocean, the North Pole still 1300 miles away, roughly the distance from Boston to Miami. I take a few steps out, as far as I can keep my footing. And I am on top of the world. For the next five minutes, I am the northernmost person in the country.

Husband: (Impatient that his wife was not quickly returning to the bus) I guess my wife has left me. Now, I'll have to find a woman with lots of money and low standards.

Wife: (Upon hearing what he said while she was gone) If she can buy me out, I'll help him look.

I don't know who you are - Joanne Accom, 2001

Ordinarily, I would have been tired: five flights in two days, it was past 10:30 pm (2:30 am from where I left). But the sun was still up, and the mountains in the background were captivating. I drove from the airport to the hotel - and then I just kept driving. I would explore Anchorage right then and there. It never really did get dark. About 2:00 or so, there was a deep dusk that lifted at 5:00. But a deep nighttime darkness never came. Officially, the day lasts 19 hours, 28 minutes. But some level of sunlight lasts longer than that.

Two hours later, I walked into the hotel. At the registration desk, Bill was sitting as he chatted with Steve who was standing there with no particular agenda. I wasn't really sure if Steve worked there, or if he was a buddy hanging out. It was evident that Bill would direct my check in. And Steve evidently worked there - for a buddy would have stepped aside as Bill and I managed the paperwork.

Bill assigned me a room, though I was not terribly happy that Steve was within earshot. By now, I had ruled out that Steve was an employee. Nonetheless, I simply accepted the room. There remained three items of business:

Is there a pizzeria nearby that delivers at this hour? Steve piped in that there was one directly across the street. He even offered to pick it up for me, and spare me the delivery charge.

Three days from now, may I leave my rental car in your parking lot for a night as I check out of here, and go to Barrow? Bill resumed command, and granted the permission.

Do you have someone on call who can go to the car, and bring my luggage to my room? Bill asked Steve, and Steve agreed.

Maybe they do things differently in Alaska. Steve - I was thoroughly convinced he didn't work there - agreed to carry my luggage. On the way, we chatted about how to spend the time. And he had an abundance of suggestions. He was stopped only because we had arrived at my room.

I didn't know what to tip him, but his efforts were well worth it. I reached into my pocket, and pulled out several bills. There were several denominations, all unsorted, and randomly folded. He asked if I needed more help. I placed the bills on the table, and began to sort through them. When he figured out what I was doing, he intervened:

"You probably shouldn't do that. I own this hotel."

There's no stopping [me] now - Diana Ross, 1967

I planned the trip last August, and booked it in March. I would leave June 20; arrive in Anchorage on June 21; and return home June 29. Yet as the days approached, something felt wrong about the trip. The trip itself was gruesome - connections in Cincinnati, Minneapolis, Portland and Seattle before arriving in Anchorage. But I've survived gruesome itineraries before.

Negative thinking usually isn't my way and I hated the feeling. What disabling injury would come my way; what overriding crisis? I started feeling that my worries might actually cause a self-fulfilling roadblock. And then there were the obstacles out of my control - weather, mechanical failure, cancelled flights.

Perhaps it started when my original plan fell apart: I would fly to Nome and take a day-trip into Russia just 20 miles away. I thought it would be cool to go to Russia. But I changed my plans when I discovered that they wanted more for the 20-mile puddle jump to (frankly) nowhere, than Lufthansa wanted for a stand-alone trip from Washington, DC to St. Petersburg - where there would be plenty to do. So Russia becomes another topic for another day. And I decided to spend the time in Anchorage and Barrow instead.

But the week to leave approached, and everything went well. And with it came a certain elation of entering my 50th State. While in the neighborhood, I even got a chance to spend two days with KFCgravy, along with her husband, and their two youngest kids.

As I stepped onto the jetway in Seattle, a wave of euphoria swept over me. That single footstep represented the last activity required of me to attain the 50-State goal, and drove a final spike into three months of pointless worry. Unlikely circumstance could yet deny me. But there was no longer anything I could do to screw it up. I had stepped onto an airplane that - with or without my consent - would lift off the ground momentarily, and would not return to the ground again, except securely inside the boundaries of Alaska.

On June 21, 2008 at 10:05 pm, at age 53 years, 343 days, the plane touched down in Alaska. Or maybe I should say age 53 years, 344 days. For where I landed, it was still June 21. But in the place where I was born, and in the place of my home, and for over 99% of the world population, I landed on June 22.