Sometimes you find yourself at an end, where the only place to go is back the way you came, though you never intended to take the journey in the first place.

The fishing village of Homer is one of those places that comes to an end. It is an unforgettable spot in Alaska where the snow spills down the mountains to the sea and you are keenly aware that the end of the Homer Spit, the most western point on the North American road system, is as far as you can go.

There is something appropriate about drawing things to conclusion on the spit, on the man-made shore covered with pleasantly-shaped, light-colored and mostly smooth rocks, where one can admire the mountains, watch for whales and at the end of the day, follow the progress of fishing boats as they return to the harbor.

On bright and crisp April day at Land’s End Restaurant, my friend Cathleen and I had a fine lunch I could not taste. A short time later, sea gulls, bald eagles and a sea otter watched as we walked on beach, where I paused to throw a small, broken, crystal heart into Kachemak Bay. I saw it hit the waves and knew the ocean would wear the heart down until the last little bit of it disappeared.

Part of me wanted to disappear, to get away from everything that had happened during the previous six months and even a while before that, but throwing the crystal into the ocean left me feeling resolved. Cathleen hugged me as I cried heavy, unembarrassed tears. Then she said, “Let’s go back.”

As she drove along the bluff above Cook Inlet, which hugs the Kenai Peninsula, I stared out the window at the startling, sleeping volcanoes across the water that are covered with snow no matter the season. Cathleen and I did not talk much, and the radio was off, during the 90-mile ride under cloudy skies back to my home in Nikiski, 12 miles north of Kenai. We passed five moose at various points along the way, their brown bodies sudden against the snow.

We took off our wet shoes but didn’t bother to remove our jackets upon arriving at my single-story house on Forest Glen Street. We went immediately to my desk -- where I sat down, pressed my knuckles to my closed lips for a few seconds, appreciated the nod of encouragement from my friend, picked up the phone, took a nearly painful deep breath -- and began to communicate with the dead.

I never intended to take this journey.

In the summer of 2002, a spectacular bull moose walked around my house. His antlers snagged my honeysuckle bush and almost touched the living room windows. Just amazing! And my boyfriend Eric wasn’t home to see this! I practically shoved my confused dog into the bathroom, hoping she wouldn’t smell the moose and start barking, grabbed my new video camera and hurried to the front door. But the 1500-lb. animal was gone. That fast. The moose was massive, bigger than most horses; but he still just, disappeared. Oh well. I lay the camera back in the case with the lens cap off and battery charged, leaving the lid slightly open so I could grab it again at the next opportunity – but someone broke in and stole the camera and a lot of other things before I had another chance.

On November 1st, as I sat in my doctor’s waiting room in Anchorage, my cell phone rang. It was my friend and dog sitter Stephanie.

“Natalie, ummm, your monitor seems to be missing.”

Wait a minute. I did not want to jump to conclusions, so I asked, “What do you mean? Did Eric take it to work?”

“No. I don’t think so. And the door is open.” Stephanie sounded tentative, worried.

“The side door?” I asked.

“No, the sliding door in the living room.”  A tight wad of something exceptionally unpleasant had formed in my gut and was using up much-needed oxygen in my blood.

I knew I couldn’t roll back time and stop what had happened, but I could remain calm for Stephanie while I figured things out. Keeping my emotions under control in a crisis allows me to think more clearly and maybe do something positive. I wanted to determine what exactly had happened, how it happened and what could be done about it.  I was in do-it mode and all of this thinking was taking place in a matter of seconds. I would get upset later.

Stephanie said the sliding glass door was open. I wanted to know if it was only unlocked or if it was actually open. She said, “The door is slid open and Sooka (my dog) looks pretty freaked.”

“Does Eric know?”

“Yes, he’s on his way -- and so are the troopers.”  The Alaska State Troopers had jurisdiction over my neighborhood. They patrolled the area as often as possible, but the troopers are under-funded, short-staffed -- and the post was over 30 miles away. After work, Eric was supposed to catch the 20-minute shuttle flight and join me in Anchorage to visit friends over the weekend. Then we were going to drive home together.

Think. Think. “Are the computers gone?”

“The one on your desk?” She meant my Macintosh. I was worried about that, but first thing’s first. I said no, that I wanted to know if the custom PC computers in the big cases under the table were still there. She would have noticed, right? She noticed that the monitor on top of the table was missing. But would I notice if I were in Stephanie’s shoes?

“No. They’re gone.”

Don’t assume. Maybe she isn’t looking in the right place.

“What is on or under the table right now?” I asked, my voice sounding urgent but strangely smooth.

“Um, nothing. This is really bad. I’m not happy.” Stephanie George was brilliant and a creative thinker – but often used a casual, hesitant way of speaking that consciously, if only temporarily, masked the true level of her intelligence. “I’m sooo, so sorry Natalie.”

“I’m so glad you’re there. Is the big, gray camera case in my office? It was sitting next to my desk, just as you go in.”

“Oh. Wait I’ll go see.” She has the cordless phone with her and my office is just a few steps, a few seconds, away -- but it seems like forever until I hear her say, “No, that’s gone too.”

Oh God, the camera alone cost thousands of dollars and there were other expensive things in the case too. My wireless microphone I hadn’t even used yet because I had been sick. Oh, and the little preview monitor I was going to use as soon as I felt better. I couldn’t think about that right then.

“The monitor and computer in my office. Are they still there?” Yes. I guess the burglars weren’t interested in a 6-year-old Mac desktop or my 21” monitor -- or my scanner. They were prehistoric in the eyes of people who keep on top of what is worth stealing I guess. I had a great monitor, but it was very heavy for someone to carry. At least I had that left. The big computers were super heavy too. I was starting to think of them in the past tense.

“What about the knives?”

“Knives,” she said, pausing. In the current atmosphere she was probably thinking of “Stab at thee” kinds of knives.

I spoke very urgently yet precisely. “Yes. My good, German cooking knives in the kitchen that are hanging on the magnetic strip above the sink. There should be six steak knives, a filet knife, two little paring knives, a bread knife, a tomato knife, a large and a smaller chef’s knife – and a sharpener hanging next to them on a separate hook. Are they there?” What a crazy thing. I don’t know how I recalled my inventory of cooking knives so completely. I have problems with short-term memory and write things down all the time to deal with that. I guess my brain is capable of giving me a little extra juice in an emergency.

“Yes, they’re still there.” Okay, so the burglars did not recognize valuable cutlery.

I continued to envision my home, walking through it in my mind, looking for valuables.

“What about my glass paperweights on top of my desk?” Still there. Those were definitely worth money and would be quick to tuck into coat pockets. The big pot containing what turned out to be, when I counted it a couple of months later, over $300.00 in loose change was still there.

Stephanie managed to keep fairly calm while I sent her though every room in my house. I met her when she was in high school at a T’ai Chi class and we had a nice little house-sitting routine. I trusted her to take care of my dog, lock the doors and take care of things. Stephanie’s boyfriend Brian happened to be with her when she discovered the break-in. I was so glad she was not there alone. Eric and I expected Steph to arrive at the house about a quarter past 5:00, but it was lunchtime. I ask her why she got there so early.

“My last class was cancelled and we were passing by, so I thought I might as well let Sooka out,” she explained. Stephanie is crying a little. My jaw is tight, but aside from the pain that has migrated to my upper chest, I am a rock.

I talk Stephanie around the house, having her check to see if anything else is missing. Several things I would certainly take if I were a thief are still there. But all of our high-end computer and video production gear is gone, including my brand new tripod, still cameras -- even the patch panel we use to make components work together. They took the expensive equipment but left behind many other things that have significant, and to my mind obvious, value. They were after the tech stuff. It was probably someone who knew what we had, but I have lots of windows and anyone prowling around could look in and see what was there.

My mind was in warp drive. The burglars were probably local teenagers. Several small businesses and a church in the area had been hit recently. A computer store over in Soldotna lost a whole bunch of laptop computers. Maybe the thieves started with the things they knew they could sell instantly, but were interrupted before they could get everything.  My house was at the end of a gravel road. Maybe someone pulled up visit to my next-door neighbor Dave, who was home most of the time because of being disabled with Multiple Sclerosis (we had a lot in common that way) and the burglars panicked. It must have been more than one person. Those custom computers weighed a ton. They left the laser printer in the middle of the floor, and they left the door open.

God, I hope they didn’t hurt my dog!  Stephanie says Sooka is okay, just pacing around nervously. “I petted her, but I think she knows something bad happened.” Sooka was a 12-year-old collie-greyhound mix who was smarter than a lot of people I’ve met.

I am so glad Stephanie and Brian showed up at the house early. I tell her she has done all the right things and to avoid touching anything. There might be fingerprints.

Steph says she called Eric first because she knew I was in Anchorage. “Eric is reeeally upset.”  

I know. Life can be really unfair. Eric has been burglarized before. Someone broke into his apartment once and when Eric was in the army serving in Germany just after high school, his own brother stole all his photography equipment! But this is the first time I have had to deal with theft since a rotten girl in 8^th grade stole my rings out of my locker. I got the rings back because I never stopped looking and saw one of them on the girl’s finger the second-to-last day in school. I reported her to the principal and the result was the return of both rings and suspension for the thief. I was lucky, but Eric never got anything back.

I felt sick. I had been getting frequent hang-up calls in the couple of weeks before the burglary. Lots of people dial wrong numbers, but these calls were pretty frequent. I was just starting to worry about them and then BAM – this happened. The burglars must have been checking to see if we were home.

If the bastards knew what they were looking for, they probably knew us, which means they would know where Eric worked. Everybody knew Eric because he was involved in Rotary, Boy Scouts and did volunteer work for non-profits. Maybe they were checking to see if I was home.

I felt creeped out; so, violated. Strangers were in my house. Who knew what they pawed through? I felt dirty. How bizarre. Oh, I should have called the police the second the calls became too frequent. The police can set up phone traps that keep track of calls. If only I had done that, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.

Hindsight is brutal. Shit. And I was in Anchorage, 180 miles away by road.

I was just about to leave my urologist’s office when Stephanie called. I decided to move forward and head back to friends’ Greg and Michelle’s house. I had the absurd idea I could try to take a nap in the guest room while I waited for Eric’s plane to come in. Would he still want to come?

South-central Alaska was having a mild fall so far, so there is very little snow in the parking lot as I made my way to my car as I remained on the phone.

“Try to relax, Stephanie. There is nothing to be done now except tell the troopers what happened when they get there, okay?” I wished I were there to comfort her, but I imagined Brian sitting next to her on the futon in the living room. Eric and the troopers would be arriving soon.

The blob of sickness that had been moving around in my body was becoming really heavy. I was telling myself,  “I can take it. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.” I always seem to think that over and over again, sometimes aloud, when I am dealing with stress. This loss is bad, but 10 times worse for Eric and 100 times worse for my parents, who bought much of the equipment.

After Eric and I spent last Christmas with them in Montana, my parents decided to buy some digital equipment and give me the opportunity to preserve nine seasons of archival footage of my father Bob Munden’s appearances on the American Shooter television show by converting it to digital format. Before I finally had to leave the work force because of the mostly invisible effects of long-term MS, I worked for 11 years as a media producer in several places in Alaska including the arctic.

With the new gear including everything I needed to do DVD production, I could spend time on the Munden archive project when I had the energy, working around the limitations MS places on me. More important, I could use my skills, with technical support from Eric, without the perpetual stress so unavoidable in a media production work place. Stress can be relentlessly debilitating people, especially people with medical issues like MS. Plus I had developed noise sensitivity and became very easily distracted, or confused, so making limited efforts as I could seemed like a good plan that could help me feel useful and help my parents at the same time.

Eric was very understanding about how stress could trigger MS symptoms. Some days I feel quite normal and often do not appear to have many, if any, problems. But Eric was sweet about my bouts of unexplained fatigue, vertigo and other fun things MS throws my way, probably because he had relatives with MS and knew it isn’t a death sentence for me – just a more a pain in the butt at some times than at others.

During the previous few months MS had been a little rough though. I enjoyed a lovely couple of weeks with nystagmus (jerking eye movements) and double vision as the result of a urinary tract infection that triggered a MS flare. My eyes finally settled down enough for me to be able to drive all the way to Anchorage this day to see a urologist about the recurring infections. I had been feeling terrible, but I did not accept, “Well, you have MS,” as an explanation for why I kept having exacerbations. Several in one year! I felt there must be something else going on. It just didn’t “feel” like MS. So, I referred myself to a specialist in urology. I would get the rest results in a few days.

I stopped by my friend Vickie’s office with some banana bread a few days before after spending an hour or so in the the outpatient clinic for my 3^rd and final day of intravenous, anti-inflammatory steroid treatments that sort of shock my body out of MS attacks. The treatments had worked very well already and I was almost completely back to normal.

After I made sure I wasn’t interrupting her schedule, in Vickie’s office I became emotional. It was sort of funny. I asked, “Is it okay if I cry?” She said sure, so I immediately put my head on her desk and let the tears roll.

“I need just a little bit of a break,” I told her. “If I could just have some respite from these infections and the antibiotics, and the MS stuff.  It is relentless!”  I looked fine, but lately there had been several moments when I felt like I was dying. I hated it.

Still, being the strong person friends have always said I am,  I was determined to do what I need to do to get well and stay well. Vickie told me I would be okay. “You’re doing everything you can do. You know your body better than anyone and I think going to see Dr. Reser to go figure out exactly is going on is the perfect thing to do.” Vickie worked in the medical support field, knew most of the doctors in the state and words were comforting.

Five days later I kissed Eric goodbye and enjoyed the beautiful and relaxing drive to Anchorage past the multitude of little frozen waterfalls and the ice-clogged Russian River. The road had patchy snow. Not bad. I could see just fine, was feeling positive about my doctor’s appointment and thanks to Eric, I had a signal booster system in the car that allowed me to listen to the radio all the way through the mountains. Cool. I consciously took the slow, relaxing breaths I practiced in T’ai Chi class. It was a beautiful day. Things were looking up.

It was a very nice, and very short, break.

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