Rising above Anchorage, Alaska, steam vents billow from Crater Peak on the volcanic Mt. Spurr at sunset.

I was working at the pharmacy when the darkness came. People hurried in and out of the store searching for face masks and food, as well as inhalers and bronchodilators as asthmatics began to panic. I closed the pharmacy about an hour later, and as I walked to my car parked nearby, I learned quickly to keep my eyes closed as much as possible. My eyeglasses offered little protection from the stinging, gritty ash that poured from the sky.

I had always thought that volcanic ash was flaky, but there was no flakiness about this substance. It had the consistency of dirt. Gritty particles settled in every tiny crevice of my body—in my ears and on my neck—and everywhere imaginable on my car. Driving visibility was reported at 15 feet and dangerous. Driving home, I remained one car length away from an 18‑wheeler, because if I lingered farther back, I could not distinguish the vehicle ahead of me or see its taillights.

A view across an inlet of the Pacific Ocean along the Turnagain Arm, a peninsula southeast of Anchorage.

An act of nature such as this paralyzes the city: businesses close, universities cancel classes and theaters reschedule productions. This paralysis demonstrated the power of nature to transform a beautiful land into a dirty, unhealthy environment within minutes. It transformed this last frontier into a city like New York, which is soiled by man-made pollution—yet Anchorage's transformation was due to an incredible natural phenomenon that just happened to be quite unpleasant.

The humbling effect that nature—with its volcanoes, earthquakes and avalanches here in Alaska—has on the human race is amazing, We tend to lose sight of the environment, of other living creatures and of life itself Perhaps God used this volcanic eruption to open our eyes, to deepen our appreciation and understanding of nature and to make us realize that within an hour not only our environment but also our own lives may turn from blue, to gray, to black.

I peer out my window and watch the clouds roll over the Alaskan Range. The blackness has given way to a bit of blueness, a bit of hope that soon our land will return to us. I envision the vast wilderness restored, emerging as an even more beautiful and living entity due to this ash, which is said to serve as an excellent fertilizer.

A view along Turnagain Arm.

One sight, unfortunately, will also linger with me for the rest of my life: the grimy bathtub ring that encompasses much of Prince William Sound, a reminder of the devastation that accompanied the oil spill. Perhaps this marker was left for humanity so that we would realize the harm that we are capable of performing and that life, other living creatures and the environment are precious and priceless entities.

Perhaps, too, we are reminded that within an hour life as we know it may turn from blue, to gray, to black. Today, the sound is a much better place, for it has been given more love and attention since the event than ever before. Alaskans have become quite possessive and protective of this area, and no doubt there has developed a much deeper devotion and love for this revived water.

Alaska is a state of incredible magnitude and vastness; the wild and natural dominate. Alaska is home to great populations of grizzlies, bald eagles (in Homer more than 400 are expected annually to visit the Spit), trumpeter swans, moose, salmon and halibut.

Arctic lupine and Indian paintbrush bloom at Porter Glacier on the Turnagain Arm southeast of Anchorage.

In Alaska, the last frontier, marvelous mountains envelop many of the cities and communities, mountains that rise from the depths of waters, creating inlets and waterways. These inlets provide spectacular sights such as the bore tides and numerous beluga and humpback whales.

Many times I have traveled the Turnagain Arm along one of three highways leading out of Anchorage, one that closely parallels both the water and the mountains. During the summer, spectacular flora line the road almost as if someone had planted thousands of seeds. There is fireweed (a beautiful, tall, pink flower), lupine (purple), paintbrush (both red and yellow), butter and eggs (yellow and orange), cotton grass, asters, shooting stars, violets and others. Include in this picture about 30 dall sheep, which inevitably can be seen scaling the sides of mountains—providing an occasional glimpse of a Tar Heel ram—and are often at roadside. The mountains are truly breathtaking; many remain snowcapped year-round.

I traveled along this road one February evening to go downhill skiing in Girdwood. Girdwood is home to Mt. Alyeska, one of the training sites of Olympic gold medalist Hilary Lindh and the U.S. cross-country ski team. My four-hour road trip quickly turned into a day off from work and a nice vacation as I learned that there had been three avalanches between Anchorage and me. It took 20 hours for the avalanche control team to clear the areas, including shooting off explosives the following day at 5:30 a.m. to trigger potential avalanches. On the way home I counted a total of eight avalanche sites: three natural and five man-made.

Amy backpacks near Seldovia, Alaska, a small community on a peninsula approximately 400 miles from Anchorage. Accessible only by plane or boat, the area also boasts a large population of grizzlies.

Pharmacy in Alaska differs little from that in any other state. The most noticeable difference, I believe, is during the winter months, when I fill numerous prescriptions for antidepressants and antipsychotics. This prescribing practice unfortunately also extends to many children, who are not always given adequate or appropriate ways to expend their energy. I am saddened at the number of children on antidepressants, antipsychotics and Ritalin, which is used chiefly for attention deficit disorder. My customers in this classification continue to increase in number.

The dark and cold Alaskan winter drives many people to abuse alcohol and other substances. I observed the extent of alcoholism among the native Alaskans when I did an extemship with the Public Health Service (PHS) in Anchorage, Kotzebue (approximately 30 miles above the Arctic Circle) and Bethel. My experience with the PHS gave me a deeper appreciation and understanding of the government hospitals and the natives.

Many tribal rituals and values succumbed to the "white man's invasion"—in which the dominate white culture replaced native customs. The lures of the white man's society are often hard to resist-monetary wealth, liquor, the "finer" things in life-and its impact has been devastating. One wonders why a lesson was not learned. How can one judge another person to be inferior and then proceed to decide the way of life for another?

I am angry that the same story repeats itself today. Exploitation of the Amazon rain forest is slowly devouring and annihilating tribes, human beings who are an integral part of and belong to the rain forest as much as the insects, animals and vegetation that comprise it. The Amazon is possibly one of the few places on earth in which there exists harmony between man and the environment—much like what once existed in the native culture of Alaska.

Change is good, advancement in medicine and technology is grand, utilizing our resources is imperative, but greed and selfishness that lead to senseless destruction and death are intolerable. Perhaps if there existed true altruism, or if each person would merely follow the Golden Rule, changes would come from consideration and understanding and, most important, love.

Cleanup workers pack bags of oily debris from the Valdez oil spill and leave a section of beach on Sleepy Bay, Latouche Island, in Prince William Sound.

Summer brings long, warm days of sunlight. At the summer solstice we have 19 hours of daylight—the sun rises at 5 a.m. and does not set until 2 a.m. After the solstice we gradually lose a few minutes of light each day until the winter solstice in December, when there are about 19 hours of darkness.

It is easy to get cabin fever and become depressed during these long, cold, dark, winter days, so it becomes critical to remain active. I usually go cross-country skiing. The well-lit trails accompanied by the natural glow of the moon reflecting off the snow—with an occasional glimpse of the aurora borealis, or northern lights—welcomes skiing at any time of the day or night.

Winter also brings Fur Rendezvous, a winter festival of far trading and exhibits, dogsled races and blanket tosses, and then there is the Iditarod.

In February I flew to Cordova, a small community nestled in the midst of towering mountains; it reminded me of documentaries of the Alps. Cordova hosts the Ice Worm Festival. This three-day event rejoins the entire community in celebration with a parade, crafts and food fairs, and (my favorite) an all-you-can-eat Alaskan king crab dinner. There are also festivals in Nome, Juneau and other towns, all intended to help break cabin fever.

The state differs vastly from any other land; it invites the free spirit and the adventurer, the naturalist and the explorer, the introvert and the idealist. Alaska has made it possible for many people to attain a deeper appreciation of the natural world, people who were once caught up in the rushing lifestyle of the city.

In Alaska, people who once failed to cherish time away from work have learned to relax by breathing fresh air in a place where no traffic or no other human being could be detected, by watching and enjoying a sunset, smelling a flower, touching a tree or playing in the rain. Adults tend to forget the joy of these activities that they left behind in childhood.

In rediscovering simple pleasures a person's life is transformed. One realizes that life is beautiful and much simpler than we often believe; one feels a deeper love for other human beings, other living creatures and our planet. Such a realization demonstrates the power we each have to turn life from a depressing black or gray into an enlightening blue.

North Carolina is also a state of wonder, with its Outer Banks, Blue Ridge Parkway, Appalachian Trail, beautiful people, Thomasville's Big Chair (in my hometown) and, of course, Dean Smith and his Tar Heel basketball team. I miss many things in North Carolina, first of which is my family and friends. I miss watching the fall colors, visiting Beard Hall, walking down Franklin Street, going to the beach and wearing shorts in October. I miss the thunder and lightning, for there is none in Alaska.

I have grown immeasurably by living in Alaska, by welcoming change and fearing stagnation. Perhaps as Alaska has transformed many a person from a black or gray to an enlightening blue, I, too, will someday have such a lasting effect on life and the lives of others.

This article was published in the Carolina Alumni Review (Winter 1992), at which time Amy was a practicing pharmacist in Anchorage, Alaska.