On the day of Sullivan’s suicide the twenty-five miles to the cabin was far enough for me to have time to think over the day’s events. As I drove, I realized I found them neither particularly disturbing nor traumatic, probably because during my forty years in Alaska I have known death to reach up from the water, out of the trees, down from the peaks, and out of the noise and violence of avalanches, car wrecks, and bear attacks with what some might consider unsettling frequency. I am neither callous nor inured, but in trade for the vast, beautiful heartache of its landscape and other treasures, Alaska often exacts a shocking tithe. Hikers get lost and die within sight of downtown Juneau. Climbers slip and fall. Simple fishing jaunts turn tragic when a boat overturns. Still, I mulled over what might push a man to leap off a bridge instead of simply waiting for time to throw its dark shadow over him and relieve him of his burdens. A vision of Sullivan floating with his feet slightly spread, arms at his sides, and face gray with lack of life drifted across the windshield of my truck. I saw new