A return to 'reality'?

When I left Coldfoot, Alaska three days ago the weather was rainy, a bit chilled, and the colors absolutely spectacular. My body was making the natural adjustment from those warm, summer heatwaves (a high of maybe 88) to the crisp coolness of autumn. My favorite season since childhood, I was making the most of every moment; walks through the falling leaves, reading on the porch, picking berries-o-plenty.
Now I sit in Trent, Texas, a world, and a season, away.
When I finally made the plunge into the pool yesterday, the shaded temperature read 96. Shaded. 96. The sun was blazing down on my poor, Alaska-whitened skin. Sounds funny, but a trip to the last frontier really will leave you tan-less. I arrived there, in May, with the beginnings of a nice bronze. Within a few weeks I was white as paper. Perhaps I sound as though I am complaining. Don't get me wrong, I hate complainers. Making a transition such as this is quite a shock to the system, and not only temperature-wise.
Coldfoot, Alaska cannot necessarily be described as a town, per se, but a wide spot in the road. Developed in the 1970s to accomodate long-haul truckers making their way to and from Prudhoe Bay on the arctic coast, this cafe/gas station/hotel/tire repair shop is the only 'civilization' one will encounter on the Dalton Highway--less Wiseman, a town boasting 13 year-round residents--until Prudhoe Bay is reached. 414 miles of an odd mixture of dirt, gravel and pothole ridden pavement, the Dalton Highway only exists because of the Trans-Alaska pipeline. The notorious road takes one deep into the heart of the amazingly dramatic Brooks Range, where hiking options are overly abundant, wildlife free, and the scars of human development at a minimum.
For the prepared and experienced hiker, rafter or rock climber the Dalton Highway blazed a trail into what is a wilderness dream come true. Passing in close proximity to three national wildlife refuges (Kanuti, Yukon Flats, and Arctic) and one national park (Gates of the Arctic) this highway is somewhat of a gateway to what may be described as some of the least visited areas in the country. This doesn't suggest, by any means, that exploring these parklands is easy to achieve. The only way in is on foot, dogsled, boat, or by hiring a bush pilot. No wonder Gates of the Arctic only sees approximately 1000 backcountry visitors each year.
The drive out of Coldfoot took about 6.5 hours. I had not been to Fairbanks since early June, out of personal preference. This was my third summer spent in the arctic (Coldfoot is 60 miles north of the arctic circle) and being far removed from 'civilization' doesn't bother me one bit. Getting used to the simple life is quite difficult for some, quite easy for others. Not hearing about all of the world's problems, economic downfalls or Michael Jackson's death....it was so nice.
My first two summers were spent volunteer/interning with Gates of the Arctic National Park and Preserve through the Student Conservation Association (SCA). I loved it up there so much that I returned for a third stint, this time with Kanuti National Wildlife Refuge and the Fish and Wildlife Service. The arctic has a way of sucking one in. I still haven't gotten enough.
I think it was when I began my trip home, via aircraft, that I really started to feel isolated. So many people around me, all of them either complaining, talking on a cellphone, or complaining while talking on a cellphone. Nothing seemed to make anyone happy--the plane was late, the weather was hot, the food was no good, the trip could have been better. BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. Why do we, as Americans, have to take everything we have for granted? We are so lucky.
As I sat staring out of my window, my last glimpses of Alaska for the year were glorious. The coastal mountains, covered with glaciers and a beautiful low-lying fog. There was nothing for miles and miles, as far as the eye could see. Nothing but pure nature.
As we came into Seattle, 'civilization' reappeared. Roads everywhere, cutting across mountaintops; the same mountains that fools paid millions of dollars to live next to. Had they never looked up? Noticed the mining roads that cut through the beauty? Homes, almost piled on one another, littered the countryside. Where was I? Was I the one in the wrong for wanting to be as far away from 'civilization' as possible? Was this, what I saw out my window, truly 'reality'? How could anyone really be happy in a setting as such?