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If you were to judge a city based on the average depth of the tread on its vehicles’ snow tires, Anchorage would fare terrifically well — the typical two-door Nissan has tank treads that could pull it up a side of an ice wall. If, however, you were to judge a city based on the cleanliness of its streets and vehicles by measuring the total amount of road dirt and pebble in tons, then, perhaps, Anchorage would be mentioned only as a footnoted last place — there is only one color that outlines Anchorage in April, and that is “dirt grey.”

If I were to create the definitive criteria for judging the cities I have graced, however, neither of these measures would serve to address that which I feel is important. Instead, I would demand that a city be judged not by its inhabits, its poverty rate, its crime, its abject visual horror, or its job availability — a city, as far as my eye can see, should be judged solely on its proximity to snowcapped mountains.

Anchorage, Alaska, makes the list.

Some cities have no mountains, snowcapped or otherwise, and, therefore, should never even submit their names for consideration. New York City, Boston, Washington, DC, Chicago — these are all immediately disqualified and I will never visit them even if they ask me. Las Vegas and Los Angeles deserve a fair mention for having put forth the effort to supply viewable peaks, however, their general lack of snow does little to attract me to even their airports for a flight change. Denver, I have heard, is simply foolish and I am afraid to go there for fear of never returning.

Anchorage, however, will forever welcome me and I will welcome it. But only as a place to arrive and depart from; it is the gateway to Alaska and, desiring to come to Alaska, this is where one must go. If it were not for these mountains, Anchorage would be a terrible and awful place. It is ugly, dirty, depressing, and soul starving.

Alaska offers a decidedly wonderful lack of people, which further stimulates my love gland and pumps up the deflated Anchorage to a more worthy status. Driving between Anchorage and Seward, the radio in the rental car could only find a station once every fifteen minutes; normally, it simply sped through the numbers, cyclically reinforcing the vast emptiness of Alaska. In Talkeetna, when I became lost, I simply stood atop my car and viewed the ends of all four roads that made up the single city block that was their city.

The people of Alaska frighten me and as well they should: they are in Alaska because they cannot survive anywhere else or, because quite plainly, they are not wanted anywhere else. Yet they are a sweet and loving people, and more polite than I have seen in some time, and I found myself drawn to them and their obvious chemical imbalance.

I will return. Alaska’s mountains call to me and Ben and I have already found a highway that must be tamed. It is called the Dalton Highway (or Haul Road) and runs from Fairbanks to the Artic Ocean — over four hundred miles of absolutely no one and nothing, except the oil pipeline, big rig trucks, and bears and moose and yeti.

I would recommend you go as well — the glaciers are soon to melt and the climate is soon to change and, before either of these events occur, Anchorage, and vast parts of Alaska, is soon to disappear in an earthquake or in a vote by the Senate and House. Go to Anchorage, of course, but only stay as long as it takes you to point yourself in the direction of one of the many snowcapped mountains and be on your way.