John Carter Cash's Book 'Anchored in Love: An Intimate Portrait of June Carter Cash'

On the heels of the June 5 release of the 'Anchored in Love: A Tribute to June Carter Cash' album -- a collection of songs written by or associated with the late singer and wife of country outlaw Johnny Cash, performed by Loretta Lynn, Willie Nelson, Elvis Costello and Emmylou Harris, among others -- comes the accompanying book, 'Anchored in Love: An Intimate Portrait of June Carter Cash,' written by June and Johnny's only child together, John Carter Cash.

The biography, which takes its name from a Carter Family song, is a telling account of June's life, from her Appalachian childhood to her romance with Johnny and the struggles therein. Below is an excerpt that tells the story of one of many family fishing trips -- this one to Alaska -- during which the characteristically adventurous June, John and his father, now clean after coming off of a tour, found themselves reinvigorated by Mother Nature. June mostly journaled while Father rowed and Son casted his reel. It would be a trip that John remembered brought them closer together than the three had been in years.

Mom and Dad and I had been on the road most of that summer in 1983, and I was looking forward to the Alaska fishing trip Dad had scheduled for the three of us.

It would be my first trip to Alaska, but not my first wilderness fishing trip. Several times, my parents and I had enjoyed trips to Red's Camp on Lake Costigan, a remote hideaway in Saskatchewan. The camp was an hour's seaplane flight north of La Ronge and had no electricity -- not even a generator -- but the fishing was fantastic. Native guides provided for us superbly and always took us where the big northern pike and lake trout were waiting. Red's was a wonderful place, but I craved an adventure with a little more excitement, a few more challenges. I wanted something a little more treacherous. So I had talked my parents into a float trip through the Alaskan wilderness.

Mom normally accompanied Dad and me on our extended fishing explorations. She was always up for adventure and was likely to catch as many fish as either of us. I was constantly reading magazines and poring over brochures advertising fishing camps and float services in the Alaskan wilderness, and I had found what I believed to be the perfect place for a fishing adventure.

The excursion we planned was a five-day float on the Tikchik River from Nishlik Lake to the Tikchik Lake Narrows, where the Tikchik Narrows Lodge is located. It is an isolated location in remote southwest Alaska, and at the time, the lodge offered fish and float trips from the more remote, northern lakes. That's what we would do.

The Johnny Cash Show's tour that summer had ended in Anchorage in early August, then the three of us were off to the wilderness. I was beside myself with excitement. Here I was, an adolescent boy who'd grown up amid comfort and privilege, and all I wanted to do was visit places that had neither. It was a lifelong dream coming true for me. Not that I had to beg too hard to make it happen. Mom and Dad were up for the adventure and looked forward to the trip.

June and Johnny in Pictures

I was in awe, flying my first time over the open expanse of southwest Alaska to the port town of Dillingham. There is no way to explain to someone who has never been there the raw beauty and mystic grandeur of Alaska. It is beyond description. At the airport in Dillingham we crossed the tarmac to board a five-passenger single-propeller plane, where a brawny man with bright eyes and gruff countenance greeted us. He introduced himself as Bob Curtis, the owner of Tikchik Narrows Lodge. Often he contracted with other pilots to fly his clients to their putting-in points, but Bob would fly us himself the rest of the way. As we loaded our gear, I eagerly climbed into the co-pilot's seat.

"Son, why are you sitting up there?" asked Mom, concern darkening her eyes.

"I want to look for caribou!" I answered. We had seen a smaller herd during our flight from Dillingham, but I hoped to see one of the giant herds I'd read about. I knew they migrated across the wilderness of tundra and brush.

"Oh, all right, son. But be careful, John Carter."

Mom probably said those words at least ten times a day -- or more -- on this trip. My family used to joke that I must have grown up thinking my full name was "Be Careful John Carter" because those were the words I heard most frequently for the first two decades of my life. Since the Jeep accident when I was a small boy, Mom and Dad had become even more protective of me than they'd been before. I had learned to accept their cautions and warnings, realizing it was a part of the way they loved me.

Somehow, though, even though I'd grown up in such a protective environment, I was, at the same time, quite self-sure and daring. I felt fully alive and indestructible, and I couldn't wait for this adventure to begin. I couldn't imagine that my daring attitude and thoughtless courage would prove to be a detriment on this trip.

But it did.

Dad and Mom both were probably worn out from all the rigors of traveling and performing. The fact was, none of us was in great physical shape -- and we were in for a strenuous surprise.

The scenery on the flight north was stunning, and I did see the huge herd of caribou I was watching for. As we flew over the great open expanse of tundra to the north of Dillingham into the Wood-Tikchik State Park, Bob turned to me with mischievous eyes. "Do you want to fly this bird?" he queried almost nonchalantly.

"Yes I do, sir!" I answered excitedly.

"No, son! Don't do it!" Mom called out from her seat behind me. She probably was thinking that not only my life but hers and Dad's were at stake. Dad was mostly noncommittal, laughing quietly. I don't remember whether he objected to the plan, but I grabbed the wheel and Bob let go of the controls, and I was flying, just like that!

"Oh, dear. I don't like this at all!" Mom moaned.

I don't recall how long I flew the plane, but it was probably at least ten minutes. I was amazed at the feel of the controls in my hands, and I was in my glory: at the top of the world, figuratively and realistically.

Despite Mom's fears, we arrived safely at the lodge after I eventually relinquished the controls to Bob. We spent the night there then left the next morning by seaplane for the remote northern parts of the state park. Our guide, a tough and spirited redhead named Tim, had flown on ahead with provisions and our rafts to prepare for the trip. We landed on Nishlik Lake and were soon under way.

Mom and I both knew that Dad had been using drugs on the tour that led up to our arriving in the wilderness, and we assumed he had brought more drugs along with him. But Dad told me later that he was clean on our Alaska trip-although if that was true, it didn't happen by choice. Dad claimed he had run out of pills at the end of the tour and had sobered up on the float trip. If that was the case, he certainly did it the hard way, sweating through not only withdrawal but the physical hardships of strenuous exercise, which he had always loathed. I'm sure he got quite a workout on this trip, and certainly by the time it ended, he had to have been in much better shape than he'd been when it began.

There were two rafts. Tim was at the oars of the first one, with Mom and me as passengers. Dad rowed the second raft, which carried all the gear.

The first night we sat up late by the campfire and watched a bear across the river. The great beast sat on his side of the water, watching us. I'm sure he was trying to deduce whether or not we were something good to eat. Tim didn't sleep that night. He held his gun close and fed the fire. Dad, Mom, and I crawled into our tent and did our best to forget the carnivorous creature licking his chops across the river.

I don't recall anyone but me actually catching a fish, but I made up for the others. I seldom let my lure stay out of the water for long and reveled in reeling in big arctic grayling and char. Dad concentrated entirely on rowing and carefully steering his raft so that all the gear didn't get dumped in the river. He never even wet a line. Mom spent most of the trip writing in her journal, some of which she shared in her book 'From the Heart' in the form of comical dialogue, including this conversation:

"John, I'm not having a good time. I want to go home."

"We're going. Just get into the raft. We're on our way."

"I want to stop at the first store and telephone that little plane to pick us up."

"Up? Up off of what?"

"Maybe if it would fly low, I could grab a wheel."

All through the float trip, while Dad rowed relentlessly and I cast my lure incessantly, Mom wrote in that journal. Lately, I read it for the first time and enjoyed the charm and humor that appear on every page. Her desire to "go home" was just a joke, and she was consistently upbeat and hopeful, a reminder that the trip brought the three of us closer than we had been in years. Dad's addictions were nearly forgotten, and Mom was persistently optimistic; she acted as if there were no problems in her life whatsoever.

The fact was, the only time Mom would ever admit to her heartache and angers was after she'd reached the point of nearly total emotional breakdown. Such despair was far removed from the Alaska trip. We laughed together throughout our adventure; we enjoyed five joyful days of happy fun. There were no breakdowns. And although I nearly died, we finished the trip very much alive.