Quirky Tales from the Land of the Midnight Sun

A Lesson in Mechanics (at 30 below)

2010-01-17T22:59:00.000-08:00

This Saturday started out very similar to most. David and I didn’t begin to stir until after the sun rose – in this case, 10 a.m. It was also very cold, per usual. This particular Saturday it was -31 degrees, according to the Mt. McKinley state bank sign. And like most Saturdays, we woke up with our stomachs rumbling.

There was a slight difference, however. Instead of opting for my cooking, David announced he wanted breakfast burritos. After a bit of back-and-forth, it was decided. He would drive down to the Just-A-Store at the bottom of the hill for some gas, then pick up some Lulu’s bagels and quiche.

A few minutes later, the phone rang.

“Jenny…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think you should go to the gym today, it’s more than -30 outside,” David’s voice informed me.

“No, I’m going no matter what. I want to go, so I’m going to go, I don’t care how cold it is. Don’t pressure me,” I responded.

And that was that.

“Ok, see ya’ in a few,” he replied, accepting defeat.

About five minutes later, there was another ring.

“Jenny, Blue won’t start.”

“What, are you sure?”

After much repeated questioning to an increasingly irritated husband, I hung up the phone, called a tow truck and bundled up to start my car. It seems after David had pumped his gas, the truck whirred and whined, but just wouldn’t fire up.

By the time I arrived twenty minutes later, an interesting sight greeted me. David’s truck, ‘Ol Blue, as it’s called, sat diagonally in between two gas pumps. Off to the right, a Sourdough Fuel 18-wheeler sat, abandoned.

There with David was its driver. The two had Blue’s hood popped, and the driver spoke with David emphatically, alternately touching something in the engine and gesturing to David. Amazingly enough, the truck driver had no gloves on his hands – just bare skin against the elements.

David huddled, gloved arms by his sides, shoulders hunched, nodding. I could tell from his stance he was freezing. Perhaps at this moment the beginning stage of frostbite was setting into his toes, which were nestled in L.L. Bean boots. (Which, by the way, may be sufficient for Maine, but not so much for the Arctic.)

The two continued to talk, their backs to me. I noticed then through my window a familiar black shape ambling along the ice. A raven stood next to my car and glanced into my window. His face was dusted with powdery snow, as if he’d just had a good romp on a nearby berm. He then decided to walk toward the action.

The raven plodded along, shifting his weight from the left to the right. At one point, his right leg shot out behind him, as he lost his balance on the slippery cement. I must admit that was the first time I saw a raven slip on the ice.

He stopped right behind David and the driver, glanced at them for a time, then wove in between the two gas pumps, behind Blue. It was there he stopped to rest.

And then it happened.

A massive plume of smoke rushed out from behind the truck, filling the air with a black and gray cloud. I noticed the raven rise like a phoenix from the ashes, furiously flapping his wings toward freedom, and oxygen.

David and the driver exchanged a few more words, a hearty handshake, and David hurried over to the car.

“Let me in!” he said, barely even looking at me. He crouched in front of the heaters, working to regain the feeling in his precious digits.

A minute later, our new friend arrived back to David’s door, presented him with a bottle of Iso-Heet, and proceeded to explain to David how to use the substance. Seems the choke on Blue froze shut almost instantly after Dave turned off his truck, and this rubbing alcohol of sorts would help prevent the phenomenon.

While he spoke, the man rested his arm casually on the opened door, holding onto the ice-coated metal with, once again, his bare hands. It hurt me to look at, bringing back unpleasant memories of ungloved hands that must be peeled off doorknobs and extension cords.

As David’s helper drove off, we jotted down his license plate number, vowing to call the fuel company and get his name, so we could send him a thank you. All the while, we shook our heads, both in gratitude, and disbelief in the man’s ability to handle the extreme temperatures.

It seems the two of us will never acclimate.

The Husky and the Chihuahuas

2009-12-03T22:51:00.000-08:00

I had just set out on a short walk to get the mail with the dogs. I thought they could go for a nice walk – although their “walk” consisted of them peeking their heads out of the top of my down jacket – snow and temperatures limiting their exposure. My arm was already burning from holding up both of them.

We hadn’t gotten very far when another tenant, a young guy with long hair wearing a knit sweater approached me. “Hey, have you seen a black and white husky running around?” he called. “My sled dog hopped out of the carport when I came out to the car,” he explained further.

I told him I hadn’t, but that if I did, I’d bring it to him. “Are you headed to look for her now?” He nodded, thanked me, then hopped in his beat up red truck complete with snug top.

I walked on, while the neighbor slowly drove through the complex. Suddenly, a large furry shape sprinted spastically in front of me, then made a beeline for us. Two bright blue eyes jumped up at me excitedly while Courage and Doggy growled and snarled from their perch at my zipper.

To my left, a female unloaded her school age son and German shepherd. “Is that your dog?” I called to her, as the husky set its sights on her apartment.

She didn’t answer me – instead, full of agitation, she addressed the situation with the stray, which was now up on her doorstep behind her son, ready to burst into her apartment.

“Anthony, go inside and shut the door,” she said firmly, almost afraid. Her own German shepherd reared up on the leash, looking intently at my dogs.

“Do you want me to get that dog,” I called again, since I had now firmly established it wasn’t hers.

“Well, it’s not mine,” she called, rudely.

“The guy over there is looking for it,” I responded. She walked briskly with her dog toward the woods, not answering.

Absent of neighborly good graces, I went ahead to get the husky myself. With my left hand supporting both Courage and Doggy in my jacket, I looped my right hand under the husky’s color and walked, err, was dragged along behind the husky.

I could see the headlights of her owner’s car up ahead, and wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold on. I walked out into the middle of the drive so he could see me, and within seconds, my neighbor had pulled up, jumped out of the car, knelt on the ground and grasped the husky by her fur ruff, cooing and cawing all the while.

“Rexy, silly girl, yes, I love you Rexy,” he called, along with other indistinguishable sounds.

It was a happy reunion, and pleased with my good deed for the day, I set off to the mailboxes, the neighbor relaying his many thanks.

I found humor in the fact that I had apprehended an Alaskan sled dog, an icon of the far north, with one hand, and supported two Chihuahuas, natives of Mexico, with the other. It was ironic in a humorous and albeit cheesy way.

2009-11-15T13:44:00.000-08:00

The Raven and the Trash

November 11, 2009

The trash bags had been on the car since last night, untouched. I often put them there, so that way I would be forced to take them to the dumpster the next day. A soft blanket of snow had formed on the top of them, making it look as if two giant snowballs had been lodged onto the Pathfinder’s roof.

It was now morning, and I had just finished my workout. Courage and I walked to the front door, so I could let him out for his customary bathrooming time, when I saw the violator. Perched on the top of the seemingly inconspicuous trash was the raven. He tore at the bags with his black beak, happy with his find.

Suddenly, he looked up, aware of my presence through the window. He peered in at me with beady eyes, and then went back to his business. I went to the door, rapped on the wooden frame, and off he flew. I chuckled, and had a sneaking feeling he’d be back.

Although I had no idea just how soon.

Less than a minute later, I passed the window once again, and there stood my friend, happily shredding the plastic. I noticed Fred Meyer bags and my foam Zales watch holder now littered the snow beside my car. The trash bags appeared now as fish netting, adorned with gaping holes.

This time called for a bit more aggressive behavior. So instead of going outside myself (who wants to when it’s -10?), I set Doggy, my faithful Chihuahua, on him. He raced out to the patio, barking and growling. Luckily, it did the trick.

Later, when I told David this, he asked me, “Why would you do that? That raven is bigger than Doggy!” Hmm, he did have a point. It was then I remembered the shocking tale I had heard two winters ago about the misfortune of a baby reindeer left alone from its mother. The ravens surrounded it, pecked out its eyes, then killed it, or so the story goes. I then imagined the raven with Doggy clutched in its talons, taking to the air, Doggy nipping at its legs as they went.

If I didn’t like ravens so much, I would have been mad. Now, for those of you who aren’t familiar with ravens, well, I’ll describe them to you. For you Texans reading, ravens are like giant versions of those pesky grackles, the little black birds which fill parking lots and line buildings and phone wires.

In Northwest folklore, ravens are known as tricksters, and in reality, live up to their title. They are opportunistic, often eating entire pizzas out of their abandoned boxes (as observed this Saturday at the parking lot of Kodiak’s, the local country bar). They are also mischievous, imitating sounds they hear and confusing ignorant passersby. They are also extremely intelligent, the utmost in avian survivalists.

Well, back to the story. At this point I still had not walked outside myself, and I had a suspicion that as long as those bags were left on the car, the raven was not leaving. I envisioned the mess that would ensue. Sometimes, outside of Barnes & Noble, if we don’t close the dumpsters entirely, the ravens wreak havoc on our trash. Mocha, napkins and raven prints line the snow outside the receiving door.

I checked the window again, and sure enough, the raven came back. This time, I ran outside, opened the gate, and grabbed the bags and set them on the ground beside the car. It was only when I reached the hood of the car that the raven flew off. He looked at me as if to say, “What do you want?”

As I got ready for work, I would check through the window to see if my friend had figured out the new location of his find. I noticed him flying near the phone lines, a large yellow object in his beak.

From that point on, the only evidence of my struggle with the raven were small pieces of trash, and the prints of my Nikes leading up to the side of the car. Upon closer inspection, one could notice little prints leading up to the back of the car. The v-shaped prints showed no detour, no other route – a sign the raven knew exactly where he was headed all along.

Husky in the Hospital

2009-09-06T23:03:00.000-07:00

The hospital pharmacy was crowded, to say the least. There were about 12 people in line in front of me, and the numbers didn’t seem to be advancing at all. I was already annoyed, since this was the second eye drop prescription I had to get (I had waited in the ER for four hours on Sunday because of my pinkeye, and then proceeded to lose the drops two days later.) Lest the weepy, swollen eye return, I booked it to the pharmacy to take get my meds . I was in an anxious mood, and didn’t sit – instead, I chose to stand.

Suddenly, I was jostled from behind, at thigh level. My first thought was that a child was shoving past, but instead, I turned to see a large brown and white husky leaping onto some nearby sitting children. He proceeded to lick them all over their little faces and then tore off down the gleaming white hallways, into the belly of the Bassett Army Hospital.

None of us patients really seemed to react – we all just laughed. But none of us tried to stop the dog, which was funny, given we were in a multi-million dollar, supposedly sanitary hospital environment.

Within a couple minutes, an announcement bellowed overhead. “Attention Bassett Army Hospital. Attention Hosptial. Would the owner of a brown and white husky please come claim your dog at the front desk.”

Soon a sheepish looking woman clad in cross-country ski leggings and a fleece came running down the hallway. Her brown curls were wild behind her green head band.

I was actually on the phone during this entire episode with my friend Kara, and kept interrupting the conversation to laugh and update her on the shenanigans.

It’s not every day you go to the hospital to pick up a prescription and have a close up encounter with a wild sled dog on the loose. Now that’s Classic Alaska.

Hungry Like the Wolf

2009-07-12T23:28:00.001-07:00

The day started off so idealic. We had landed on Katmai Island less than an hour ago. We arrived via float plane, the pontoons skidding across the cerulean waters while the sun glinted off of nearby bears swimming in the lake.

My friend Kara and I had ventured out to this isolated spot in search of adventure – mainly, from the rush that comes from being in such close proximity to the gigantic Alaskan grizzly bears that inhabit this island.

After a bear management course, we stored our Slim Fast bars and gum in the nearby food cache and set off on the trail to the Brooks Falls viewing platforms, to watch the grizzlies congregate to feed on the salmon.

This was easier said than done.

First, we had to cross “the bridge.”

The bridge is actually a rickety wood walkway that somewhat resembles a jungle gangplank, but with locking gates at either side to help deter the curious griz. This bridge can sometimes take hours to be able to cross, depending on the whims of the nearby bears. It is quite common to see jams of 20 or so tourists/photographers/fisherman walking first toward the bridge, then backward, then back toward the bridge, as if they are lost in an ant farm and have lost all sense of direction.

After waiting about 5 minutes with a ranger, we actually had to retrace our steps back towards Brooks Camp in order to maintain the 50 yard distance as a grizzly meandered by, alternating his path from shore to water, shore to water. Once the bridge area was once again grizzly-free, we were able to cross and then set off on the mile-long wooded trail to the falls.

We walked along on the shaded path, talking in a decibel a bit too high for a one-on-one conversation. This was on purpose, however, as we were traveling through woods laced with the tempermental creatures.

After a good 15 minutes, the door to the platform bridge was almost in sight. We then heard someone up ahead yell out to us, and immediately, I saw Kara turn, followed by a large, furry animal.

Immediately I remembered our instructions from “Bear Management.” The ranger’s voice echoed in my head. “If you see a bear, and you are on the trail, turn off the trail immediately and walk 50 yards into the woods to get out of its way.”

“Ok Kara, turn into the woods, I’m going to the right,” I called out, turning off with steady, deliberate movements.

“Jennnnnny,” I hear her whine. “It’s not a bear. It’s a wolf.”

I look back, and sure enough, there was a gray wolf. Our new friend then began to follow Kara off the trail and into the woods. He walked just a couple feet behind her, and easily stood at waist level.

“It’s ok,” I yell to her. “I can see you – now turn right again and head back to the trail.”

Just as I step back onto the trail l I am intercepted by our wild canine friend. Now how can he be in two places at once?,I think to myself. I swore he was right behind Kara. He takes a curious look at me as I head back to the deep ferns. He then decides Kara is more interesting and once again takes to stalking her.

At this point Kara is getting more and more bothered by it all, but continued to walk in her path, turning once again to the trail as she continually trilled “La,La,,La,La,” to no specific tune whatsoever.

I took that moment to glance back, and sure enough, there was the wolf, following Kara, practically in the manner a stray dog follows a passerby.

When we looped back to the trail for the third time, the wolf remained in his gait behind us. A couple walking in the other direction then saw us, and the gutsy woman jumped out and yelled at the wolf, scaring him off deep into the woods.

Before she did so, however, she did manage to click a few frames of an image that will forever be burned into my memory: Kara, with her corn blond hair, sunglasses and baby pink t-shirt, walking along the trail. To her right, a wolf follows silently on large paws. The sun peeks in through the branches above him, shining light on the fur at the top of his head. He looks at her with curious eyes.

And we thought we came here to see bears . . .

Midnight Sun Run

2009-06-22T22:37:00.001-07:00

“David, look at this commercial, I really think we should go,” I whined. The TV showed images of people adorned in eclectic costumes, partying on the grass in an open field.

“You know, just to see everything, not to actually do it,” I added.

“No way,” Dave responded, “it looks gay.”

That conversation took place two years ago, our first summer here. I was whining because I wanted to go to the Fairbanks Midnight Sun Run, an annual 10K run that is sort of like Halloween, the Fourth of July and St. Patrick’s Day all rolled into one.

I say Halloween because many of the 3,000 + runners wear costumes, and I say St. Patrick’s Day because the 10K run across Fairbanks is more like a parade – just a little more fast-paced and not as organized. And then it’s sort of like the Fourth of July because there’s boozing – lots and lots of boozing.

It’s meant to celebrate the Summer Solstice – our longest day, with nearly 21 hours of daylight. This is odd in and of itself, so of course, it’s only fitting the event be peculiar as well.

This summer, with all our husbands gone, some of us girls finally had our chance to go. Not only did my friend Nikki and I sign up and train for the run for more than two months, but we went adorned as the St. Pauli beer girls – in costumes lovingly made by Nikki herself.

At the last minute we added another runner to our costume clan, as well as Nikki’s nine month old daughter, Belle, complete in the costume and a stroller covered in ribbons and flowers.

At the University of Alaska Fairbanks Patty Center, the local radio station DJs announced the costume contest participants from the flatbed of an 18-wheeler.

And oh, was it a sight to behold.

As we walked up to the area, we first noticed a male “runaway bride.” He had a bouquet, sporty running glasses and a dress with a plunging neckline that highlighted his dark chest hair.

And then there was Optimus Prime, the Starship Troopers, Smurfette, Steve Urkel, and more. Highlights included a mermaid with just shells to cover her chest, and a complexion a bit too pasty for the daring ensemble. There was a Recycling Fairy, actually covered in a bell-shaped skirt of red Dixie cups, with a hairpiece of the plastic ring on coke 12 packs, as well as Octo-Mom, pushing a stroller with fourteen baby dolls and balloons to boot. How some of these people planned to run in these costumes is a mystery to me.

The most entertaining part of the hour before the race was actually all the people who wanted to take our photo. While in the past I have enjoyed asking local Fairbanksians if I may take their photo, for the first time, I was actually tourist fodder. One mother asked if I would be in a shot with her son. The teenage boy looked as if he could kill his mother. After two years could it be that I have taken on some of the quirks of this far north town?

The best part was the run. It wove 6.4 miles across town, and ended in our famous Pioneer Park, a quaint old-time replica of a log cabin village. As we ran, groups of people lined the streets to watch, gawk, drink and cheer us on. You could tell which parties had alcohol and which didn’t – there was a definite difference in the decibel level.

Some of the most memorable by-standers included: A guy pulling a keg in a wagon, labeled “Biggest Boozer – Dehydration Station.” My friend Nikki later informed me she watched a mom pushing a stroller grab a beer, put it in the cup holder on the top of the stroller and continue on with the race, sipping her libation.

As the race wore on, the parties grew larger, and much more fun. By mile four the block parties included hundreds of people. One party had two guys dressed as KISS, who would run out in the street, stick out their tongues, and cheer the runners on.

“Good job 1197!” they cheered to me, and I couldn’t help but laugh. I don’t think I have ever been so entertained on a run before.

My costume got lots of attention.

“Hey Snow White!” some would yell. “Look, it’s Heidi of the Mountain,” one parent said to their young daughter.

When a women finally got it right and yelled out, “Hey it’s the St. Pauli Beer Girl,” I put my fist in the air and yelled out a good “Woo-Hoo” in agreement.

Another group requested I retrieve some beers for them: “Hey Beer Girl, Go On a Beer Run for us!”

I must admit, I was quite tempted to duck out of the run for a quick drink, but, wanting to get a decent time, I stayed true to the course.

Despite the steady stream of rain, kids lined the streets with water guns and hoses, spraying unsuspecting runners. Banners with American flags hung over the street, and the smoke from hamburgers and hot dogs lingered in the damp air.

Kids held their hands out to us for high-fives.

By the time I reached Pioneer Park, there was a massive party waiting. Thousands of people lined the finish, where there was music, prizes and all sorts of buzz.

In the end, I finished in 1 hour and 5 minutes. Although everyone in our running clan took at least four minutes off the run, due to the jam at the start, complete with tourists standing along the side of the road, getting in our way, holding cameras up and almost getting trampled.

But, at the sake of sounding quite corny, it wasn’t so much the time as the fun of the run. That event was definitely Fairbanks at its finest. Should I ever return for a visit to this Northern town, I believe I will come once again and run under the late-night sun.

The Hand-Beaded Watch

2009-05-20T00:13:00.001-07:00

I had just registered and gotten my t-shirt when I heard the announcement.

“And our grand prize at this year’s run is a lovely hand-beaded watch.”

“Hand-beaded,” I mused to myself. How interesting. I wondered what that watch would look like, because I was at a 5-K for Presbyterian Hospitality House, a non-profit which supports troubled youth, specifically Native Alaskan teens.

I imagined three chains of white beads with a square watch face in the middle – a unique and possibly stylish addition to my wardrobe. At that, I tucked my raffle ticket into my hoodie, patted it in place for good luck, and walked over to meet my friend Nikki and her darling 8-month old Bella (or Annabella, Belle or Tinker Belle – just depends on the mood, I guess).

We had a nice laugh about the hand-beaded watch, which the demure announcer continually mentioned. I had a sneaking feeling the actual thing looked nothing like the one I envisioned.

This 5K would be short, flat and fast. It was also quite scenic. We took off on a grassy knoll in front of the Patty Center, the gym at UAF. After crossing the roundabout we wound along on a sidewalk that took us past the large animal research station.

It was a clear day and one of my highlights to running in Alaska – there were reindeer families with lots of wobbly legged, charcoal-colored babies on my right, and to my left, a clear view of the Alaska Range, complete with chunks of white ice that looked as if plunked straight into the backdrop of a Bob Ross painting.

The funny part was after the race.

After finishing with two quite respectful times – 28 minutes and 31 minutes respectively, Nikki gulped her water and then suggested we set out Bella’s blanket for a nice sit.

The sun was out, there was a light wind at our backs, and most importantly, it was warm – it was only 10:30 or so in the morning, but already the temperature had risen to 60 degrees, which, with the dry air, feels like 70.

Before long, the raffle began. Unfortunately, I lost my raffle ticket. Apparently I tore it out and it fluttered to the ground when I yanked my keys out of my pocket whilst running.

“Don’t worry, if I win the beaded watch, I’ll give it to you,” Nikki said to me in jest.

Just then, the first raffle item, a lovely doll with a large splaying of plasticy yellow hair, was held up high for everyone to see. The prizes that followed were even more random:

Baseball caps which sported the logos of local car dealerships, a book on baby birds – there was even a photo frame for multiple spots to put photos of a newborn baby. I think the best prize was a $35 gift card to Chatanika Lodge, which ironically enough, a 7-year old girl claimed.

“She can’t even get in there!” Nikki said. After all, it is a bar with tree stumps for stools.

“Well, maybe she’ll give it to her parents,” I said.

“Maybe we should get going,” Nikki said.

“No, we’ve come this far, we have to make it to the end,” I responded. “We have to see if we win the beaded watch.”

Just then, Bella plopped her little diaper booty right onto my foot. She had definitely been amusing herself with our paper water cups and my bib, complete with safety pins (closed of course).

She reached for my keys just then, which I promptly put on the stroller, safely out of spit’s way. Her rice teething cookies were scattered across the blanket, but of course to them she paid no heed.

And finally, the grand prize: the beaded watch.

We listened carefully to the numbers. “671, we have 671,” the lady said. Nikki’s ticket said 695.

Another moment then, “671, 671.”

The woman moved on, selecting another number from the plastic Tupperware.

“695, 695.”

Immediately, Nikki and I begin to crack up in laughter, and she headed over to claim her prize.

Finally, I could have an up close and personal look. The watch was actually a necklace, interwoven into an array of blue and white beads, in the native fashion.

It was quite pretty actually, but of course nothing either of us would wear – that is, not until our 70s.

Immediately Nikki put the watch/necklace around her neck, and it was then we were hit with a lovely idea. For every subsequent race we will run, Nikki will wear the hand-beaded watch for good luck.

And with that we picked up our blanket, along with the straying infant child, and headed off to our cars, the beads on the watch glistening in the sunlight all the way.

Snowstorm

2009-03-09T00:19:00.000-07:00

Thursday, March 5

7:45 p.m.

I have managed to make it up the hill of Yak Road. I am proud of this conquest, content with the knowledge that it has snowed a foot today and I have maneuvered my car around a 180 degree turn and then gotten it up a large hill.

The street before ours was clogged with cars that could not make it up their hill, a foreboding sight, but not a fate I would share.

The car begins to squiggle and squirm as I enter the complex – the snow is fresh, wet and deep. Tire tracks mire the soft white powder, and make it impossible to stay straight. It’s as if I’m on a train that can’t choose which track to take.

And now, my parking spot. Next to it is Dave’s truck, Blue, or as I currently refer to it, “the Snow Monster.” Three-foot drifts cover half of the truck’s side and all the tires. The top of the bed, cab and hood are covered in more than a foot of snow. The drifts make parking more difficult, but I manage to get the car into the spot.

“Hmm,” I think to myself, “maybe I should move the car in drive and reverse a bit to create tracks so I’ll be able to get out in the morning.”

I reverse the car. It moves, but with hesitation. I put it in drive. Reverse. Drive. Reverse. Uh-oh.

The car won’t budge.

I get out, clad in my Uggs, tights and dress and take a look around the tires. They don’t look sunken in the snow. Hmmm. It’s a mystery. After getting back in the car, attempting to move it, while the tires just spin, then trying to shovel myself out, the car still won’t move. It’s now after 8.

And finally: “Screw it,” I say, as I jam the snow shovel into the three foot snow drift to my left, and go inside.

All night long, whenever I looked out the front window, I could see the handle of the snow shovel sticking up into the air, the hard-packed snow holding it firmly in its place.

Friday, March 6

9:15 a.m.

It’s snowed more during the night. The car is covered with a fresh three-inch layer of snow. Perhaps the added down will give the tires the traction they need? I go outside to start the car, and am met with a gust of wind. What the hell is this? Fairbanks may have many very horrible things, but biting arctic winds is not one of them. I guess it is now.

Snow swirls all around me in tiny tornadoes. The wind chimes I’ve kept up all winter make fun tinkering sounds, mocking me. It’s a blistery 4 degrees or so.

9:30 a.m.

Now that the car’s warmed up, I can begin Operation Dig Out. I try a number of maneuvers, including putting gravel under all four tires, propping the shovel under the tires. (Possible added traction?), but nothing seems to work.

9:45 a.m.

I call the apartment office and request for the maintenance man to come help me, since David is 6,000 miles away, and all the friends I could call for help are girls, and well, let’s face it, we’re just not brawny enough to push a car out of a foot of snow.

Within a few minutes, he arrives. I neglect to lock the apartment or bring my purse and work bag into the car, because why would I want to do that if we’re not successful and I have to call a tow truck? (Which, fyi, costs more than $100 just to have them wench out the car.)

10:00a.m.

The maintenance man is well natured, and seems well equipped for the weather, complete with a Carhart jacket and beanie cap. It’s more than I can say for myself, with my unzipped Uggs and frilly gray gloves from Ann Taylor Loft.

After throwing more gravel under the tires, the maintenance man tinkers with a hammer, chipping away at the snow under the rear left tire. I get out amid the snow and gusting wind, investigating the tires, trying to do something to make myself seem useful.

10:15 a.m.

Finally, the car is freed. Well, sort of. As soon as I start to reverse, the car stops again.

“Are you stuck again?” he asks, almost as if in disbelief.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’ve never seen snow like this the whole time I’ve lived here!” I respond.

He begins to push on the hood of the car again, and the car reverses. Then he goes to the back, and I put the car in drive. Shockingly, it begins to move, but only in squirrely, jerky movements. I want to say thank you but I realize I can’t stop driving, or else the car will get stuck. And since my windows are frozen shut, and saying thank you would require me driving while opening my door and yelling, I figured I would forgo courtesy. I want to go lock my apartment and get my bags but I don’t want my car to get stuck.

So, I am on my way, past my apartments, to the end of the complex, down Yak Road, where I notice a felled pine tree taking up most of the road. The wind must have knocked it down. I keep driving, finally, until I’m almost at the end of the road, where the steep hill begins. I want to find a spot to turn around, so I can drive back the way I came. Only now there is a snow plow behind me.

I stop the car, get out and flag down the plow driver, who is behind the wheel of the old blue truck, which, by the way, looks like it should have stopped running 10 years ago.

He rolls down the window, cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

“Aw, have you been crying?” he jests, cigarette bobbing up and down as he talks.

“No, I respond sulkily, it’s just the wind.” Which, by the way, was the truth. I wipe at my left eye, unknowingly smearing liquid eyeliner and mascara all over my cheek.

“Go ahead and go around me,” I tell him, “I need to drive back the way I came.”

“Well, don’t do that, you’ll have even less traction over there,” he says.

I look back at the obstacle course of snow and tire tracks and shrug my shoulders. The realization hits me that I’m going to have to walk back to lock my apartment and get my things.

“Hey, did you see me drive over that tree?” he asks, gesturing over his shoulder. “That was pretty awesome,” he laughs.

“Oh,” was all I could muster.

I began my walk back to the apartment, my white fur hood velcroed tightly around my face, like a good little Eskimo. I half walk, half run to make up for time. I was supposed to be at work 15 minutes ago.

Just as I am entering the apartment complex, I hear the noise of the snow plow behind me. It was him again. Once he pulled up alongside me, he opened his window, but I cut him off before he could say anything.

“Are you about to plow our complex?” I yell over the wind. Finally – we’ll be able to drive, I imagine with hope.

“Well, I guess that’s a no,” he said dejectedly.

“Huh?” I respond, still walking.

“Do you need a ride?”

“Oh no, my apartment is right there,” I lie, pointing to my left at the first clustering of apartments.

My apartment is actually at the opposite side of the complex. But there’s no way in hell I’m getting in a truck with that guy, or telling him where I live.

“Well, ok,” he says, “I just live down there, so I’m plowing the street.”

He drives forward, pulls a u-turn and heads off the way he came – toward town, toward plowed, driveable streets.

A curtain of exhaust coats me as the plow drives off.

10:45

I grab my things from the apartment, take a quick glance in the mirror and notice my now red cheek is smeared in black. Lovely. I head back out again, into the snow and wind, to trek to my car. I notice the maintenance man, now helping another tenant free their vehicle. Now if only I had thought this through, I wouldn’t be walking through the snow with my purse and clunky work bag, slipping and sliding as I move.

One positive to the ordeal, now that it’s all said and done? In the future, when I one day have children, I can lecture them about walking a mile in the snow to get to work, and know damn well it was the truth.

Ice Fog

2009-01-11T01:35:00.001-08:00

The plane banked to the left, and all I could see below was icy stretches of white. To my right, some trees sprung up out of the snow, bare branches reaching out like spindly fingers.

Up ahead was supposedly the runway, but it just looked like a field of snow, a lonely tundra. Just then, a dividing line cut across the horizon. It sizzled like the cement on a hot summer’s day, a layering of white, gray, and then white.

And suddenly, we were beneath the line. Below me there were trees, roads, cars – it was as if they materialized out of nothing; it was eerily similar to an episode of the Twilight Zone.

Under the clouds, shrouded in fog, was Fairbanks. Up in the sky, it looked as if the city didn’t even exist. And with Fairbanks being isolated and alone, surrounded by vast stretches of wilderness, it’s as if our goings on hardly matter to the rest of the country. Why should it when no one can even see us?

Reminders of Paxson

2008-12-21T00:31:00.000-08:00

December 20, 2008 :

I noticed her there walking in between the calendars and religion shelves. The pallor of her skin immediately caught my eye, and it only took a moment for me to remember where I had seen her.

June 2008:

The rain had just subsided – now only a gray murkiness remained. I was somewhat exhausted, even though I had only been driving about 2 hours. That leg of the drive from Fairbanks to Valdez seemed infinitely longer, though. It may have been the gray-blue frozen waters of what I think was called Summit Lake, or perhaps it was the trees, which were still barren of leaves, naked in just their gnarled brown branches.

David had fallen asleep, and I was left alone during this stretch of road. I dubbed it “The Land Where Spring Would Not Come.” Although it was early June and “leaf out,” as Alaskans refer to it, had already occurred a couple weeks before, this area did not bloom. It was sparse, barren. Red brown dirt ran up to eroded mountains, devoid of trees. The lake looked as if it had always remained in that frozen state, with a thin sheet of ice covering the top, crusting up into white in certain parts.

Up ahead there was a clustering of wood frame houses with metal roofs. They rose up off the road to my right and left, a random conglomeration of civilization in the midst of nothingness.

We had entered the town of Paxson. And up ahead, the Paxson Lodge. It was already 1:30 in the afternoon, and I was hungry. I pulled into the gravel parking lot, and David began to rouse from his slumber.

We walked up onto the deck, which was decorated with tables with rainbow umbrellas. They were a sharp contrast to the gray sidings of the building, which served as both a roadside lunch stop and a motel.

We walked inside and were greeted by two elderly women. One was tall, and her skin almost translucent. Her eyelids were rimmed in pink. They were friendly, but not overly conversational.

No one else was in the lodge, except for a large man in a back bar area, who appeared to be the owner. When I saw him through the doorway on the way to the bathroom, he just stared.

So did the cook. He peered out through the window-sized opening from the kitchen to the dining area with one good eye, and one eye, either blind or glass, I didn’t know which. He held a spatula in one hand. The cloudy blue served in sharp contrast to his black skin.

David and I placed our orders – a ham and cheese sandwich with fries and a coke for me, and a chicken sandwich with onion rings for him. While we waited for our food, so did the ladies.

The stood quietly, not talking, rooted at their posts – one near the soda-filled fridge, the other at the doorway to the kitchen.

The eerie silence reminded me of the most recent “Texas Chain Saw Massacre” movie David and I had seen the previous fall.

Outside, the phone lines splayed somewhat diagonally over the trees. We had no cell phone reception.

When we received our food I couldn’t help but muse to David if perhaps we were being fattened up to serve as a meal. Yes, I know it was morbid, but it was a strange place.

“Wow, I would literally go crazy if I lived out here,” I said to David. He nodded in agreement, his mouth full of food. When I walked out of the lodge and back out to the car, it was as if a shroud had been lifted off of my eyes.

Now, six months later, the lady was in our territory. This time I felt somewhat more at ease within the comfort of our Barnes & Noble store. Seeing her made me wonder what Paxson is like this time of year. For a place that is secluded deep within the Interior, and boasts one gas station, a lodge, and probably 10 homes, I did not envy her, and the three hours it would take to return to that desolate place.

Drive to Anchorage

2008-10-26T17:15:00.001-07:00

All around us was white. The road was white, the sky was spitting white, and the trees were adorned in white. The snow on the side of the road was even white – a sign that this snowfall was fresh, and had not yet been plowed and polluted with cars.

The sun was out. It was that time when the late afternoon light glows golden. Only through the clouds of snow it gave the sky a strange milky brown color.

Mini spruce trees cropped up on either side of the road – our elevation wouldn’t allow for any taller vegetation. The scene was eery, and it didn’t help knowing that we were practically smack in the middle Alaska’s belly.

I looked down to where my hands gripped the wheel. My knuckles were white, and my right foot shook from covering the break for so long. I had been driving in this mess for about an hour, a little while after we went from paved road to snow drenched obstacle. Kara and I were a third of the way into our 6-hour drive to Anchorage, a trip arranged for some much needed shopping and good dining.

Shortly after Denali National Park, we had switched spots from inside the car, because the snow was so deep it would go up mid-calf, and we didn’t want to get our jeans wet.

Although, as hardy as if we were true Alaskans, we were well equipped with our Sorel boots and down jackets, glove, inserts and hats. It was just that they were in the trunk and why would we want to go to the mess of putting all that on just to switch seats?

And what a treat! Just as we were switching spots, Kara happened to glance behind her and noticed a dark shape in the road. There stood a fox, sauntering down the middle of the Parks Highway. The snow swirled around him as he flicked his tail into the air and moseyed off. Well at least something on the road was in its element.

After checking the weather – yes, it called for rain and snow – (but when after October does it not), we opted to take Kara’s brand new Toyota Corolla sport, complete with a body kit, because we figured the roads were clear. Yes, we could have taken her husband’s 4-wheel drive F-150 or my Pathfinder, but we both agreed those get such bad gas mileage. So not worth it.

At this point, we were both regretting the decision just to drive at all. But we had already committed to this trip, had invested 2 hours. Once the snow began to melt a bit, the slush would ride up underneath the car with a swishing, gurgling noise, then would spit the stuff out from behind us.

My lowest moment was when Kara pointed to our right .

“Look at that!” she wondered aloud.

A 10 foot berm of snow was randomly clustered on the side of the road. It was then we noticed the bit of shiny red paint peeking out from behind some loose snow.

“That’s a car!” she exclaimed,

Instantly visions of us entombed in a 3-foot layer of snow filled my mind.

I could not concentrate on this thought long, as another sight then met our eyes. There, to our left, was tractor trailer on the opposite side of road, in a ditch, but thankfully, right-side up.

It looked as if it was just going to keep on hauling down the side of the highway, save for the fact it was trapped in a good two feet of snow.

Within the next hour and a half, we entered the Trapper Creek area. With the snowstorm gone, the fog set in. On either side of the road was the creek, frozen blue-green with chunks of ice glued to the water’s surface. Steam –or fog – we weren’t sure which - rose from the water and floated out over the roadway.

Just then, we noticed a momma and twin baby moose up ahead. The mother actually appeared to look both ways, and then they all crossed quickly, but cautiously – with the mother’s head darting from left to right as they crossed the median. Then they disappeared into the trees as quickly as they had materialized from the fog.

We actually made it to Anchorage within the six-hour time frame, proud of how we had mastered all varieties of hazardous road conditions, what with snow, fog, moose, foxes …

In other weird happenings from the weekend:

– On our hour long ride to Target (construction detours plague the city of Anchorage) we happened across a squirrel, scaling the side of a stucco building. It squiggled up the side, just like gecko – but larger and with fur. I have to say I have never before seen a squirrel scale up the side of a building with nothing to clutch onto.

On the way back from Anchorage, we saw

-2 flipped cars

-another Momma/baby moose pair, munching on frozen vegetation on the side of the highway.

-2 men building an igloo on the side of the road. They had a generator, and what looked to be construction equipment. Haphazard bars of ice were stacked together in a semi-circular shape, as if the men were building the structure around themselves. Hmmm, how odd., we both mused to one another.

But then again, this is Alaska.

Arctic Circle Adventures

2008-10-06T00:11:00.001-07:00

The grass was white with snow and the roads were slick with slush – the conditions were perfect for two twenty-something girls to take a 7-hour round trip to the Arctic Circle.

The Arctic Circle, that’s right. Last Sunday my fun-faring friend Kara and I decided the Arctic Circle would be the perfect backdrop to our first photos to send to our Iraq-bound husbands. We knew it would take more than three hours each way, but were undaunted.

At first, we enjoyed the adventure. For at least two hours, we didn’t even play the radio; instead, we filled the truck cab with busy chatter and giggles. The landscape around us looked sparse, and in my opinion, desolate.

Kara apparently thought otherwise.

For the first leg of the journey, it seemed every time we rounded a ridge, Kara would blurt, “Ooooh, it’s just so pretty.”

I was just happy to be on a mini-adventure, even though our surrroundings were filled with burnt orange, brown-black tree branches and splotches of white snow.

Every time the elevation rose, it was as if the trees transformed into icy, sparkling decorations. It was actually very pretty.

We did have a random encounter with a couple people at a roadside rest stop near the White Mountain Recreation Area. I went to let Doggy and Courage out to go to the bathroom, and had just finished snatching Doggy (he attempted to run off, blue hoodie jacket and all, into the brush), when I walked back to the car to see an odd-behaving Native man approaching Kara.

“Where are you guys headed,” he asked, closing into her personal bubble. I quickly walked toward Kara – perhaps the Chihauhaus would scare him. Kara didn’t really respond to the man – after all, what would she say – “We’re headed on a road to nowhere?”

We quickly got in the truck, and the man walked back to his mini-van where an elderly woman waited at the wheel.

I decided not to use the facilities after Kara commented on a Starbucks cup on the floor, filled with substances I will not name.

After a while, the paved highway gave way to hard-packed gravel. The only vehicles that shared the road were tractor-trailers, most all headed back the way we had come, back to civilization.

Chunks of snow and ice randomly littered the road – most had probably fallen off the tops of big rigs.

As the miles passed, our enthusiasm waned. I can remember one of the approximate points this occurred. We had just crossed the Yukon River on a wood-paneled bridge, and stopped at yet another rest-stop. A roadside sign to our right showed another 60 miles were left to the Arctic Circle. A conglomeration of weather-beaten trailers was situated a few hundred feet to the left. A large, white-lettered sign that said “Motel,” was hinged above the buildings.

(By the way, at this point I have forgotten to mention that there are no gas stations for about 300 miles – we passed the last one at Hilltop more than 100 miles back. But that’s just a minor detail.)

This bathroom at this stop did not smell bad, but did have some explosive stains on the inside. I wondered how long those disgusting marks had been there, and if it was from just one individual, or a combination of many years of use, with spurratic cleanings at best. I stopped to ponder what would occur if I dropped one of the dogs in the toilet hole, which had about a four-foot drop. Meanwhile, the dogs sat in the truck, content after urinating on one of those trademark shiny green bear-proof trash cans.

“They’d probably die,” Kara gestured, when I asked for her thoughts. “With all the ammonia and lye they pour down there, all those chemicals …” she trailed off.

I pictured myself knocking on the door of the trailer motel, the cross eyed man who would greet me, and having to construct a rope levee to lower myself into the grotesque hole to save my canine.

“Maybe I just won’t ever take them in the bathroom with me, just in case,” I mused, as Kara started up the truck, turning back onto the highway.

“Yeaaah, that’d probably be safest for them,” Kara agreed, as if that scenario were entirely plausible.

We continued around curve after curve, pothole after pothole, (which, by the way, were unmarked.)

The only man-made structure which followed our path was the pipeline, always running alongside the road, sometimes spanning bridges, other times, curving in extreme zig-zags.

At long last we reached the much-awaited Arctic Circle – which really was just a parking lot with a sign labeled “Arctic Circle,” in a marquee of the globe, trailed with a yellow circle noting our latitude. The back side of the sign was littered with graffiti. An educational plaque (which we did not stop to read) was situated on a wooden fence behind it, and of course, there were more port-a-potties.

We took lots of photos, and when our fingers got cold and wrinkled, we shrugged our way back to the truck.

There was a time span, though, on the way home, that I bet Kara will agree made the drive worth the while.

“Look, look at that little bunny,” Kara pointed at one time. I had missed it, but soon saw what she was referring to.

Every minute or so, we would notice a large hare-type animal jump to the side of the road, stand on its hind legs, cock its ears, then run back to the woods. I do not know the exact name of the hares, but they were decorated with black backs and ears, and white haunches and faces.

The creatures were quite cute, and we saw at least 7 of them there along the road – which made us wonder just how many were out around us. It was twilight at this point – the sun had dipped below the rolling mountains, and it was that magical hour of the day where the snow glows with a surreal bluish light against the yellow sky.

As darkness hit, we approached paved highway once again – the Dalton led way to the Elliot, and we, back to civilization.

Doubts

2008-09-24T11:07:00.001-07:00

The laundry clangs abrasively in the washing machine. I didn’t remember putting anything with a metal clasp in there – then again, there could always be a pen. When I open the dryer door perhaps I’ll be greeted with those trademark blue streaks – a tye dye of sorts.

The dogs twirl in circles, deciding where to lay down. One is by my feet, the other under my legs. They were vying for the pillow on my stomach but my computer held claim to that spot.

The leaves have almost completely fallen off the trees now. The golden-green light of the forest has all but disappeared, and along with it, the soft blanket of leaves along the forest floor, which filled the early September afternoons with a surreal light. Now everything is orange, and a gritty brown. The birch branches weave outward toward the sky, grasping for snow.

I lay here on the couch, writing of pointless things. Writing just to write. Writing this because I’m too afraid to try. Too afraid to try to come up with something original. It’s become a passion and a curse, because I don’t know what to write about. I loved to write but I was not a reporter, so I left that profession. Could it be that I love to write but I have no imagination, so books are out of the question? Shouldn’t I at least try?

My exhaustion has almost become too much for me. My eyelids feel heavy. Perhaps I’ll put the computer down for just a moment …

Leaving

2008-09-20T21:45:00.001-07:00

I had wanted so badly for him to just leave – to get this whole thing over with. I hadn’t liked the feeling lurking in the pit of my stomach. Maybe once he was gone it would go away.

I had no idea it would be replaced by something entirely different, better and yet far worse all at the same time.

____________

It was a cold day. The sky was overcast, a perfect fit for the day’s events – and with it, everything tinged in a muted shade of gray. It was like the depression that comes before the rain, except the rain never came.

The scene on post just a week ago had been so different. That previous Thursday I had stood out on the runway, warm in the sun, despite the crisp Alaskan autumn. Amidst the trumpets of the Army band and the cheering of the thousands in the bleachers, the deployment ceremony had sort of a merriment to it. Between those two airplane hangars, it was almost easy to forget the reason we were there.

Today the reality screamed from the silence. I looked out the passenger window past David as we made our way to his company’s parking lot. The runway stood to our right, deserted. A few chairs and a barbeque pit were slanted over some weeds in a corner of the pavement. Maybe it was left over from last week’s festivities.

There would be no fanfare this afternoon. For two hours, I stayed with David, alternately sitting in his concrete dungeon of an office, on tattered chairs, and following him outside – for formation, to get his weapon, to stack his bags.

The cold wind blew into my eyes. I would have shivered except for my down vest. Everywhere I looked, there were wives, some with eyes red-rimmed, some doe-eyed, some even emotionless, sort of like mine. Many carried babies. They too, filed after their husbands. The ones with strollers stayed outside, chatting with other women, pushing the strollers forward and then backward again absentmindedly.

After a time, the men were ordered to stack their duffle bags and ruck sacks, to prepare for the arrival of the buses. A mountain of pea green bags stood piled on top of yellow parking lot lines. On the bottom of the bags was beige paint, with block letters, each with a name. In it held the contents of someone’s life for the next year, my husband’s among them.

Next to it a was a neatly squared area of ruck sacks – each in its perfect, uniformed row. The names were sewn onto these. David and I had a running joke, because the women at the tailor shop had accidentally sewn an L onto his, where there should have been a U. I’d call him Lt. Fulntes with a giggle and gleam. I didn’t bring up the joke today.

The men stayed busy to their tasks. I’d pass by some, and greet them by last name, because that is all I know them by. Many I knew from David’s and my outings to Kodiak Jack’s, one of the main bars in town, technically a taboo for officers. None of them had the same expression as I had remembered. In its place was a blank, concentrated stare.

After a time, I grew impatient. I thought about the parking lot and its barrage of cars. Once the buses arrived, I’d be stuck in my parking spot. I sighed, distracting myself with this predicament.

David noticed.

“Do you want to leave?’ he asked.

“Yes … and no,” I responded.

“Well, let’s get you out of here,” he said, rising from his swivel chair in the basement office.

What happened next is something too personal to describe to others. No learning or lessons can be gained from my description of our goodbye. The one thing I can relay is feeling literally rooted to the brake pedal. I had turned on the car, closed the door, and put the car in reverse. But I just continued to stare out at him, standing there with his laptop and backpack.

“Go,” I saw him mouth, not unkind, but necessary.

“Can I just hug you one last time,” I pleaded. But the window was up, and my voice was soft. I sat there for a moment, my pointer, middle and ring fingers pressed to the glass, and knew that I could not get out.

Backing up that Pathfinder was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But I did it slowly, and carefully, wiping away the tears. I can still remember the SUV behind me was red.

I looked forward one last time to see him there. No longer could I read the emotion on his face. I wondered if it was still there – perhaps, it was just masked.

The Moose Incident

2008-07-08T22:19:00.000-07:00

It all started innocently enough. Tina wanted to see a moose, and suddenly, one was in view. We noticed it on the side street to our right, grazing on the edge of someone's yard, standing as tall as the cars parked in the driveway.

"Hurry, back up, back up" Tina and I say to Eric. He backs up, then starts going forward down the street. He stops, at what I think is too far behind the moose. "Go forward, go forward" I say. Somewhere in there Tina may have told Eric to reverse. Whatever the combination, our mixed instructions somehow caused the car to end up in the ditch, leaning precariously to the right.

I immediately rolled down my window to take photos, and was instantly met with strong protests from Tina. Never wanting to miss a photo opportunity, I continued to click away, while the moose, aware of our presence, went on munching without agitation.

After a few minutes, Eric attempted to drive out of the ditch, at which we realized the horrible truth: we were stuck. With the moose just 5 feet away, we couldn't risk getting out of the car to push it out of the ditch, lest the animal find our movements a threat. Instead, we were stuck, sitting, at the mercy of the moose, wondering when it would ever finish grazing.

At one point, Eric tried to move the car. The wheels spun, and the noise caused the moose to stop what it was doing, and stare at us for a few moments.

After about five minutes or so, the moose decided to walk further into the yard. It was at this point Eric and I decided to get out of the car and push, while Tina hit the pedals. While I thought I was an old hat at getting us out of ditches (three feet of snow on the sides of the road for 6 months out of the year will do that to you), I realized gravel is a much different matter.

With that I decided to get into the driver's seat.

The next thing I remember, Tina is in the seat behind me, and we have started to argue. The argument concerned my photographic endeavors and lack of regard for safety. Our voices continued to rise, and the moose took notice.

Suddenly, the moose looks up from its spot under a volleyball net, and trots over to the side of the street, staring at us. It is now no longer interested in eating. Then the moose begins to walk toward us. At the point the moose was even with the car, I clinched my eyes shut, willing it away.

Instead, it lumbered right in front of the car, crossing the road, staring at us the entire way.

"Take a picture, take a picture," Eric whispered, but Tina and I were rendered useless.

I guess Tina did get her moose, even if it wasn't how she had envisioned. I'm only glad we didn't follow the Drew's advice, which he texted all the way from Texas throughout the duration of the incident.

"Just kick it in the head - you only live once."

Live once, indeed.

Time

2008-07-07T23:21:00.000-07:00

It seems these days time is suspended. I experience a new alertness, am observing more around me. It's probably because there's more time to do so. I sat on the bed the other night, just staring out the window, noticing the firey evening sun making shadows on the wall. I could see the children playing outside, and the pug at the next apartment over, staring out the upstairs window, every now and then making a raspy bark.

David is gone now, and I will only see him 2 months out of the next 14, that is, if I'm lucky. Time seems to be our only enemy, but in another way, it is our only friend. Each day is a challenge, but each day also brings us closer to when this will all be over.

The Desolate Beach

2008-07-07T23:07:00.001-07:00

The black sand was firm under my sneakers. I ran along the beach in the early morning; it was around 7:00. The sun had already been up for hours, but it was hard to tell the time of day through the gray clouds.

A small plume of smoke rose behind me from the dying embers of a camper's fire. Along the edge of the beach were houses. One was a plain white, with no shutters, just endless rows of windows. Another was well maintained, and had a Victorian trim. Despite this, the place was barren.

The beach at Kenai juts out into the ocean with minimal excess. Out to my right, the land met the sea, with just a dirt sand color topped in green grasses. The water looked frozen. But really, it was the black mud which rose up to the surface, trapping the waves, and preventing them from reaching shore.

The air was cool -the wind hit my face in unforgiving sheets.

Up ahead I heard the calls of kittiwakes. Just while I was thinking this was perhaps the most desolate place I have ever encountered, I noticed a spot teeming with life. Hundreds of the birds had gathered on a sandbar up ahead.

I must have been walking very quietly, because suddenly, I was met with a whoosh of air, and two bald eagles flew out just a few feet from me. They must have still been roosting on the beach. The two flew out to the sandbar, causing a commotion. The kittiwakes flew up into a white cloud, regrouped, and landed, but left a wide circle for the eagles.

Just as I was looking out at the sandbar, I caught another movement from the corner of my eye. This time, two more bald eagles flew from the beach to the sandbar, once again stirring the smaller birds.

Another two eagles flew out then to the sandbar, making 6 in all, with what looked to also be a juvenile eagle.

One pair then decided to leave the sandbar, and flew back in the direction they had come, flying in figure-eights around one another, chirping to each other as they darted back and forth.

In this place where there seems to be no life, the birds must take refuge.

Rainbows in the Rain

2008-05-22T21:59:00.000-07:00

Tiny drops of rain cooled my face as I sloughed along on the gravel road, trying my best to run on the hills. The birch trees hadn’t yet gotten their new coat of green, so the only color was in the alder? trees.

I rounded a corner onto Friar’s Way, the entire Tanana Valley spread before me. Fanning from side to side was a full rainbow – even though the rain continued to fall in a silent mist, the sun still shone above us. The result was a rainbow so clear, that I could see where it ended and its color dissipated into the trees – as I ran forward, the edges of the rainbow did as well – at once it disappeared onto the roof of a house, and then directly after, into the hollow space between two trees.

Spanning out behind the rainbow’s arches was the Alaska Range – and with it, Denali, our nation’s highest peak. Jagged white edges disappeared into the cloud, marking a sharp contrast from the bright hues of the rainbow.

I continued to run, my eyes moist. It may have been from the rain. As I rounded another corner and continued downhill, the rainbow was no longer visible. Perhaps now I was in the path of its color.

You Know The Melt Is On When ...

2008-04-24T00:02:00.000-07:00

You know “The Melt” is on when:

-Suddenly, one day, as if on cue (in this case it was Sunday, April 20) the roadways fill with motorcycles of every kind – Harleys, streetbikes and other varieties weave between cars, and even drive next to them in the traffic lane. (Maybe that’s legal in Alaska?)

-Waist-deep rivers form along the side of the road from all the melted snow. Sometimes, on sunny afternoons, you’ll see families of ducks swimming happily along in the murky, trash-laden waters.

-Trash crews can be seen along the highways picking up all the litter that was hidden in the snow all winter long. (Not to mention the practically fossilized dog poop which has laid out of view for the past 6 months.)

-If you stand on a gravel spot for more than a second, your feet begin to suck into the ground, as if you were on quick sand.

-People begin to open their windows. So what if it’s only 40-50 degrees? (We do it too!) Some people leave windows open that lead to their roofs, where pugs and dachshunds will hop out of and bark at you from the rooftops.

-At any given traffic intersection you can see upwards of ten people along the sidewalks – walking dogs, riding bikes, jogging – even playing the saxophone outside some eateries.

-You take your dogs for a walk every single night – so what if it’s 50 degrees and one of them runs in the opposite direction whenever they see the leash and refuses to go unless you carry him? And despite having to bathe them every time after they get walked, you continue to feel compelled to take them outside. Perhaps it’s the fact that the air is now 90 degrees warmer than it was in February?

-People continually tell you that having these summers makes the winter all worth it. Or could it just be that the summers make life here in the frozen north a little more bearable?

Bald Eagles and Traffic Lights

2008-04-20T12:44:00.001-07:00

I answered my magenta phone to the familiar sound of Caribbean drums. I was driving at the time, about to leave Fort Wainwright. It was David, calling back. I glanced then at the thermometer along the exit gate, which displays the temperature in large digits. We have them all over town, lest we forget our Arctic climate.

It read 19 degrees. Freak, I thought to myself, why will it not get above 19 degrees? It seemed this whole week, whenever I had looked at thermometers, it was a constant 19 degrees.

As I talked on the phone, and pulled up to the traffic light at Steese Highway and Airport Way, and prepared to wait for a long time as usual. I looked out at the fresh layer of snow, complemented by gray and black slush, and immediately felt sorry for myself again. Here it was, April 17, and we had just gotten more snow.

But then there was a movement in the sky to my left that caught my eye. Two birds were flying above the intersection. One, a hawk, or some large avian, soared on the wind, never having to flap its wings. Another black, smaller bird, flapped violently and pecked at the other bird’s head. But wait, with a closer look, did that hawk have a white head and white tail? Why, it wasn’t a hawk at all, but a bald eagle being accosted by a raven.

“Oh my gosh, David, a bald eagle, a bald eagle!” I yelled into the phone. (This was only my second bald eagle sighting, so I still had a right to get excited and scream like a child.)

I watched the two birds, flying in circles over the intersection. I wondered if other people in their cars noticed, or if they did, if the sight of a bald eagle even phased them.

When the light turned green, I hated to go, but I didn’t feel sorry for myself that it was 19 degrees. I had just seen a bald eagle in the midst of my everyday errands.

You Can't Bury Your Pets In Alaska

2008-04-20T12:25:00.000-07:00

It started with a loud crashing in the cage, a rustling of newspaper. When we ran over to see what had happened, I knew it was starting. Cleopatra, my feisty yellow parakeet, had finally fallen off her perch. The vet told me it would happen.

“Eventually, the tumor will get so big, she’ll lose her balance and become so weak, she’ll fall off her perch,” the female vet had told me just three weeks ago, when we had rushed her to the ramshackle emergency vet building on College Road. “And, mind my French, when she gets a look in her eye that says ‘I don’t give a flying fuck,’ that’s when you know she’s going to die.”

I could hear her words ringing in my ears.

I ran over the cage, and there was Cleo, on the newspaper, wings sprawled out the sides. She wasn’t attempting to tuck them back in.

“David, David, Cleo fell off her perch! Get a washcloth and come here!” I yelled.

David managed to cradle her in the blue, starchy washcloth, and held her there on her back. She was still alive, but the light was fading from her eyes. I’d never actually watched anything die before. Now I understand how it looks.

“Yep, she’s dying,” David said matter-of-factly.

“Don’t say it like that,” I scolded.

After tucking her over some towels to make her comfortable, I checked on her every 5 minutes for the next two hours. I knew that night at 10:00, when I covered her and Caesar’s cages with their comforter, it would be the last time I would see her alive. Although I don’t think she was even fully conscious at the time. Her eyes were half closed, and she had managed to crawl into the corner of the cage, away from the comfort of the towels. She was safely hidden under their water bowl, which was perched a few inches above her head.

There’s this song my mom would sing to the birds every night. It was an adaptation of “Good night, Sweetheart, well, it’s time to go,” except “Sweet Birds” was used. Not that Cleo was a particularly sweet pet, but I continued to sing the song to the birds each night. I went only to Cleo’s cage this time, and sang her the refrain. But instead of saying goodbye, I just said goodnight, like in the song.

The next morning at 5:00, I went down to the cage. There was no movement of her breathing, which, at most, had been raspy and faint the night before. Luckily, David was there to scoop her up in the blue washcloth. I refused to look.

“Yep, she’s dead,” he said, in that same flat tone. (Was that also a hint of enthusiasm in his voice?)

“See, her eyes are open.”

Ignoring his comment, I asked him, “So what will we do with her?”

“Bury her?” he responded.

“But the ground will probably be frozen solid.”

“No, it will be fine,” David said.

“I could call the vet and see if they have pet cremation.”

David shot me a look as if to say “Hell, no.”

“Well, I can’t just throw her in the dumpster, she was my pet for seven years,” I pleaded. I pictured her then, mixed in with Mountain Dew cans, broken lamps, and Taco Bell wrappers.

He looked as if he was almost considering it.

“We’ll bury her when I get home tonight,” he said.

At 8:00 that evening, (more than 2 hours after David had gotten home, mind you) the sun was still high in the sky, but it was cold, possibly 19 degrees, and a stinging wind had picked up.

Even though it was mid April, I wore my down white coat with a huge fur hood for warmth. I skidded down the hill in our little yard towards a birch tree. I thought that would be a nice spot, because in the summer, the tree looks quite pretty. And in the fall, it scatters beautiful yellow and orange leaves all over the grass.

I took my snow shovel to clear the 6 inches of snow from around the tree. Out came David, with his rusty old military shovel, the kind that folds up into itself. Cleo sat on the porch inside her washcloths secured in a Bank of America check box. I looked at it so many times that day I don’t think I will ever forget the slogan on the top: “See What It Means To Save.”

David took one swing at the ground and the metal shovel made a sharp clanging sound. Chunks of ice flew up from the soil. And that’s about as far as he got.

After about two more tries, where he just made triangular cuts in the ground, he gave up.

“We can’t do it, it’s frozen solid,” he said.

“Please, just keep trying, you’ll make a hole eventually,” I begged.

“Yeah, but it’ll take forever, and this hurts,” he said. I didn’t think at the time that perhaps shoveling at the frozen tundra might be equivalent to taking swings at dry concrete.

With that, David turned around and went outside. I stood out there in the snow a little while, the fur on my hood blowing in the wind. By the time I went inside, I decided that maybe the permafrost of the Alaskan soil was not the best place to lay a native Australian bird to rest.

The Northern Lights at Bedtime

2008-03-28T00:07:00.000-07:00

Last night, I let the dogs out for their customary bathrooming time. After screaming “Potty Time!” loud enough so that both Courage and Doggy would come running, I stepped out onto the porch to oversee. I stayed outside partly because Doggy seems to have a fondness for Courage’s defecation, but mainly out of concern for the owl I heard hooting outside just a few nights before.

What I saw then in the night sky served as an undeserved reward.

It was just 9:30, and the sun had just recently set. To my left, a ribbon of green wove itself against a cerulean sky. It moved in mysterious panels, and flowed as if it were a neon sheet.

Someone in the distance lit a cigarette. The glowing bud marked his location. Across the way, a Chihuahua (Bailey – A.K.A. Guy) barked. A large German shepherd responded.

Eventually, Courage stood at the window, barking anxiously for me to come inside. Instead, I picked him up, took him outside, and cuddled him against my robe, but within a minute, he was squirming to go inside. He doesn’t see the aurora, doesn’t watch for it, like I do.

I watch for a few minutes, until I begin to tremble from the cold. By the time I’m inside, my cheeks feel cold to the touch. It seems the cold is our only enemy.

I go upstairs, and peer out the window. The Northern Lights are visible just a bit, peeking up from behind the trees and flowing seamlessly across the sky then disappearing over the rooftops.

I go to sleep happy with the knowledge that there is magic in the skies.

City Girl and the Sled Dogs

2008-03-19T20:59:00.000-07:00

This past Sunday, David and I had one of our Alaskan “firsts.” And for me, it was probably the last.

After a fun morning snow machining, David and I were about to go dog mushing – on
our very own sleds.

We left the warmth of the log cabin Northern Sky Lodge, and walked out to the kennels and dog yard. Immediately, the dogs started jumping on their kennels and running around in circles on their rotating chains. The Alaskan huskies do not look as how people typically stereotype them. They paced and jumped on sprite frames. Some were white, some mixtures of brown, black and white – they were mutts really.

Pascal, the owner of the lodge, read from a crumpled list of the dogs that would be selected for the run. Once Pascal and her assistant started to unchain the dogs, the insane howling began. Some dogs’ barks sounded like long wails from a baby. Others pierced the air like an alarm, or siren. It was a cacophony to the ears.

I should have known I was going to have an interesting run when I noticed two of my dogs getting quite friendly. One, which I would assume to be the male, kept licking the groin area of the other dog, which, I hoped was the female. After a few licks and sniffs, the male began to mount the other dog. That is, until Pascal came over and roughly separated them, placing them a safe distance apart – for 30 seconds, at least. “You, stop!” she screamed in her foreign accent at the female dog, grabbing it by the neckline and moving it further to the left.

After David’s and my sleds were outfitted with four dogs each, Pascal roared her snow machine to life, and led the way. She made the call for us to take our feet off the brakes. Down we flew, down the hill, me clenching my teeth all the way, but somewhat invigorated.

The sensation was not to last.

I noticed David ahead of me, fiddling with his black scarf. He took one hand off the sled to flip the scarf behind his shoulder, and when he did so, I noticed his weight tip off to the right, and down he went, scarf flying off to the side of the trail in the wind.

Luckily, on this turn, I was able to break successfully. Except at this point, my dogs were so hyper, even with all my weight on top of the brake, I was still skidding forward, leaning helplessly on the rail of my sled, knuckles surely white from my grip.

After we got David up and running again, we glided smoothly across the snow. I looked down at my dogs, tongues hanging, some snagging bites of powdery snow along the trail as they ran, and all seemed right with the world.

Then David fell.

This time, we were on a turn, and instead of maneuvering my body weight to handle the curve, I had to slam on my breaks to avoid slamming into David and his team. I put both feet on the break, and immediately, felt the sled lose ground on the right.

“Whoa, whoa,” I said, attempting to slow the dogs. The most response I got was from the male dog in the back, who looked back over his shoulder as if to say, “What the hell?”

That was the last thing I saw before I dove, head first into the snow, the sled bobbing on ahead of me, the dogs never skipping a beat.

“Hurry, Hurry,” Pascal was yelling when I put my head up. She had grabbed both dog teams by the neckline of the lead dogs, and literally had her arms spread to the sides. David and I ran as fast as we could over the snow, although with all my layers, I pretty much felt like the Marshmallow man plodding through the New York City streets in the last scene of Ghostbusters.

Once David and I were back on the brakes with our teams, Pascal explained that we would have two more hard curves, then the trail would go uphill and we should be fine.

I braced myself on the next curve. “I will not fall,” I told myself, as I lowered my feet onto the canvas covering, attempting to slow down the sled, while throwing my weight to the right.

For some reason, I was not successful in this task, and off I flew, to the left, while the sled flew onto its side, and then righted itself, as my dog team disappeared around a corner, blissfully unaware of their lighter load.

Within a couple minutes, we were up and off again. That is, until David fell. As Pascal attempted to right his sled, my two rear dogs took advantage of their free time and once again took to mounting each other. Their thrusting became so vigorous they actually broke their neckline which held the two together. When we started running again, my rear male dog randomly ran off to the side, then up to the front, nipping at my lead dog.

Pascal was becoming more and more of a dot in the distance.

At this point, I had stopped my team, and was turned around, looking at my lost dog, who stood absolutely still behind us.

“Wait, Wait,” I screamed. “I lost a dog!”

When Pascal caught site of what happened, I could tell she was getting increasingly annoyed.

“Sardin, come here!” she said to the male dog. To the female, “Stop, you bisch, you bisch,” she said between popping her on the nose and grabbing her neckline.

“Just leave him,” she said to me. “We’ll go with three.”

The last I saw of Sardin he was grazing among the few weeds that stuck up over the snow, alternately peeing and licking snow.

I found I enjoyed just having three dogs – their power was decreased, so going around corners became easier business.

Then suddenly, my female lead dog, Amber, decided she had had enough. Either her shoulder was hurt from my free flying sled earlier in the run, or she had been spooked by all the goings on, but she decided to stop.

Each time we would start to run, she would stand still, creating a huge knot of line, and dogs narrowly missing being hit by the sled behind them.

With one of my dogs wandering in the wilderness and the other one injured and now in the basket of one of the sleds, we finished out the run with just six dogs between the two of us.

As we rounded that final hill and the dogs caught site of their kennels, they made a final burst for home. I was only too happy to kick my leg as if on a scooter, giving them an extra boost.

When we returned I learned two important facts from Pascal: 1. My female dog was indeed in heat, and 2. Sardin, the lost dog, had actually gotten in front of the snowmachine and led the the convoy back up to the kennels.

Pascal’s assistant put it deftly when she commented, “I knew something weird was happening when I looked at you guys and saw a loose dog leading the teams back.”

Nicely put. We’ll see if I ever climb on a dog sled again.

First Walk of Spring

2008-03-12T00:04:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was Monday, and one of our first days with the new daylight savings time. Since we still had plenty of daylight at 7:00, I decided me and the dogs could go for some fresh air.

At first, Courage and Doggy were quite excited as we took off on the hard-pack snow. They sniffed and whizzed excitedly on the yellow stains, complete with melted holes.

Then the barking started. First it was the neighbor’s husky puppy, which bounced around from the spot where he was tied up, barking and looking rather excitable.

Then yet another bark, this time from a lab who was outside while his owner sprayed the ground with a hose.

One bark came from a beagle staring out from an upstairs window, another from the little white fluff ball tied up to our left.

A brown and white dachshund yelped from the passenger seat of a car.

Courage pawed at my leg, clearly distressed. But not to worry, I just think the dogs were jealous – after all, why should two Chihuahuas be taken on a walk in 36 degree weather when they couldn’t?

Wolf Traps, Canine Diarrhea and Hit and Run Dog Teams

2008-03-12T00:02:00.001-07:00

This past Saturday, David and I decided to go cross country skiing again. Only this time, we wanted to try some trails outside of town. We decided on the trails in the Chena River Recreation area, because afterward, we could soak in the Chena Hot Springs.

It turned out to be quite an interesting excursion.

First off, when we arrived, I realized I had to pee after the 40 minute drive - nothing too surprising there.

“David, I have to pee, I could either go here or at the bathroom five minutes back,” I whined, inflecting my voice on the bathroom option.

“We’re not going back, just go to the woods,” he responded.

I started off toward the trail, to find a suitable spot near a tree or bush.

Immediately I saw the sign.

CAUTION. Trapping Season. Bait and traps may be near side of trail. (This is part of the Interior’s efforts to harvest wolves and kill them, in order to keep the moose population up, so that we humans can kill more of them, but that’s a completely different story.)

I headed back, with images of a maimed leg, and blood-stained Sorel boots.

“David, you have to take me to the bathroom, there are traps all over. I could get stuck in one.”

“We’re not going back,” he responded sternly, not even looking up.

Dejected, I headed off into the 2-foot snow. I plodded along, grabbing trees to keep me from falling.

As soon as I found a decent spot, I noticed a large pile of peanut-butter colored moose droppings, still fresh and shiny, less than 10 feet away. Hmm, sort of looks like the color of our living room walls, I mused to myself.

After I finished my business, we suited up and set off on a snowmachine trail which would lead to the Twin Bears winter skiing trail.

Along the way, we saw a couple empty bullet casings.

“Hey David, are those drops of dried blood along the trail?”

“Maybe,” he said, noting the stains.

It was then the clumps of periodic diarrhea caught my eye.
I immediately remembered the traplines.

“David, do you think the wolves ate poison and got sick and one was suffering along the trail?”

We then saw a spot where a snowmachine had run off the side of the trail – using my best detective skills, I decided this was where the harvesters had killed the animal, and set it on the snowmachine to pack it out.

A couple minutes later, I figured out the source of the diarrhea, and possible stains.

“Trail!” we heard someone yell.

“Trail,” I thought to myself. “What the heck does that mean?”

I swung my head around, and only about 50 feet away was a female musher and her dog team, rapidly approaching. David was already off the trail, checking out a map, but I hurriedly scuffled to get off the trail to avoid being hit.

It was then I realized that perhaps all that diarrhea along the trail was from the dog teams, defecating as they ran. Hmm. Sort of like horses.

“Wow, David wasn’t that cool?” I asked him. “Two years ago, would you ever have thought you’d be skiing in Alaska and getting passed by dog teams?”

“No,” he said, feigning enthusiasm.

The allure of the dog teams was not to last.

Less than five minutes later, we heard someone else yell “Trail!” but this time, the musher was less than 20 feet away. I grabbed onto a tree branch and pulled myself off the trail.

David was not as fortunate.

He fell backwards onto his butt, skis splayed out onto the trail. The musher and dog team, whizzed by, unfazed. The dogs’ heads just barely brushed David’s skis as they ran past, mouths wide open and tongues hanging out to the side.

“Ah, Ah, Jenny help me up, I’m cold, I’m cold,” David whined. Since it was close to 40 degrees, David had been skiing without his gloves, and the snow quickly became cold to his hands.

After warming his hands inside his long underwear and putting on his gloves, we were ready to get off the trail.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” David said, clearly pissed.

And as if on cue, we heard the now-familiar yell of “Trail!”

Yet another dog team silently approached. Within seconds they were past, and I barely missed tumbling head on into the snow.

Can’t they slow those teams down? I wondered.

On our way back, we would periodically be slowed down when we ran over clumps of fresh dog poop, which acted as an inconvenient brake to our skis. (Later, when I would bring my skis inside the apartment, I realized I had some of the brown mess on my skis, as was demonstrated by Courage’s horrified behavior when he ran to kiss my hands, then promptly ran away.)

At one point, on the way back, I was convinced I heard a moose braying, and was met with disagreement when I continued to ask, “Do you smell that musky animal smell?”

The sight of the moose droppings never totally left my mind.

I am not sure if we will return to the Twin Bears Trail.

Skiing Solo

2008-02-17T19:06:00.000-08:00

Today it was a balmy 25 degrees, so I decided to go cross country skiing – it was just my second time, and since no one else was interested in going, I set off on my own. (Don’t worry Mother and Father – lots of men and women go alone on the trails, and at many spots, it is right alongside the road.)

Here is a brief account of what happened during the ski venture:

1. Attempt to attach ski boots to skis. This is actually quite an easy task – the ski boot has cuts in the toe that attach to the ski – but for some reason, this task took me at least five minutes. Three other skiers attached their skis and glided ahead before I was done.

2. Encounter first downhill slope. Even though it is just a mild grade, skis begin to criss-cross in front. I immediately lose control and careen off the trail into three feet of snow. Must detach boots from skis just to get off the ground – then decide to carry the skis down the hill.

3. Encounter second downhill slope. Much steeper grade. Ski tracks are on the hill, so I bend down, put my poles back, and prepare to gain speed. Suddenly, skier appears around the corner right in front of me. I panic, veer to the right to avoid crashing into him, and fall into a spread eagle position. I am inexplicably unable to get out of this position as skier glides happily by. “Don’t worry, it just comes with the territory,” he says. For some reason, I do not feel encouraged.

4. Encounter uphill slope. Attempt to scale it by digging poles deep into snow. Skis will not stop slipping, and I almost slide backward down the hill. I notice a snowshoer to my left. Determined not to look foolish again, I push forward, slipping with every movement.

“Are you slipping?” snowshoer calls out to me. “Oh yeah, just a bit,” I call back, cringing that I was noticed. Snowshoer jaunts over to me, and coincidentally happens to be a former competitive cross country skier and instructor. For the next five minutes, she gives quite an informative mini-lesson.

I learn a few useful techniques:
§ When going uphill, turn skis to the sides, and fan the fronts out to the side. The steeper the hill, the wider the fan. While doing this, keep poles by ankles. (I immediately remember the last time David and I were skiing, and he tried to tell me to do this as I was struggling up a hill. For some reason, I think I can recall me yelling “Just let me do it my way!” Hmm, maybe I should have listened to him before?)
§ Tighten straps on poles and so can use the poles to push up the hills without having to grab them. This keeps your hands from getting sore.
§ When going downill, turn your feet pigeon toed, and face the fronts of the skis toward each other, with the backs fanning out into a V.

“It’s all just about learning how to get up and down the hills, then you’re all set. Have fun!” she called as we parted ways.

5. Approach extremely steep downhill grade. I observe five foot dropoffs on either side of the trail, but decide to try the new technique anyway. Cannot master new technique and feet begin splaying outward. I dig my pole into the ground, attempting to stop myself. Body continues to go forward, and pole digs sharply into my ribcage. I then decide to detach skis and walk down. It then takes another five minutes before I am able to get my skis back on. Meanwhile, a pair of female skiers pass, and make it up the extremely steep hill in less than 10 seconds, never losing speed.

6. Approach another hill, and as going down, yet another skier is going the opposite direction – I turn my skis inward to slow down, and glide diagonally across the trail, having no control whatsoever.

7. After a few more falls, approach another downhill grade. Having 15 minutes before I need to turn back, I decide to go down it. Begin to gain speed, but wait, why is the trail turning? Not able to maneuver my skis into a turn, I tumble into the snow, land on my butt, and a warm glob of snot lands on my face, coating my mouth and nose. With that, I decide to turn back. By now, I’m feeling rather pissed. I decide that when I drive home, I will stop at corner Tesoro Station and get an ice cold bottled coke.

8. Approach hill where met cross country skiing instructor. Begin to go down hill, lose control and fall. This time, I cannot seem to get up, and the boot will not detach from my ski. My leg slips to the left, then under, then how did my foot bend backward and end up in the front? How can my ankle twist this way and I not feel any pain? I decide to take off my boot entirely, and realize my poles and gloves have flown across the width of most of the trail. Skier goes past; I don’t even raise my head to look.

9. Continue back on trail to car. By now, a sharp thirst has developed. I can almost feel the envisioned coke burning my throat. And why, exactly, I begin to wonder, did I tell our friends we could go again tomorrow?

Total Ski Time: 1 Hour, 45 Minutes
Total Falls: 8

You Know it's 20 Degrees Below Zero When:

2008-01-29T18:16:00.000-08:00

You know it’s 20 degrees below zero when:

Your nose is suddenly filled with bugars everytime you walk outside. Or wait, possibly it’s not a coincidence, there’s a chance it could be your nose hairs freezing, and swaying with your every breath.

The water heater clangs constantly. Perhaps ice has formed on the pipes?

The steering wheel in the car locks up, and the process of turning becomes a rather efficient arm workout.

The car brakes have a one or two second delay.

The extension cord to plug in your car becomes stiff, and you must maneuver a cumbersome, ice-hard tangle of wires.

It stops snowing.

People actually wear jackets and stop wearing shorts, and you no longer see women at Chili’s wearing open-toed sandals. (That’s reserved specifically for days that are zero degrees and up – otherwise, it’s a Fairbanks faux paux, don’t you know?)

Your Chihuahuas refuse to go outside – and if they do, they stand helplessly, alternately licking each paw, then cry until you run out to bring them inside. If by chance they make it inside on their own, they will run, err, hobble to the nearest couch.

Your slightly frostbitten pinky toes sting as they defrost in the warm air inside your home. You brace yourself for those purple-hued toenails when you rip off your sock, and breathe a sigh of relief when your precious digits are only waxy, red and swollen.

An eerie frost forms on the inside of house doors, doorknobs and car windshields. (Special note: If you are not careful, and do not wipe the remnants of snow from the hood of the car, as you drive the snow will fly up onto the defroster vents, causing the entire windshield to fog up, at which you must adjust the heat as you drive, ducking to see out the tiny area where you have vision, causing you to careen off the road into three feet of snow, at which your angry wife and tow truck must come to save you. But luckily that only happens on -40 degree days.)

You begin to contemplate if people were really meant to live in this climate, and then think to yourself, “WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HERE??!!”

Fairbanks Welcome Home

2008-01-13T23:24:00.001-08:00

My suitcases slid along in the snow and ice as I walked down the sidewalk at the Fairbanks airport. Courage, snug inside his sherpa bag, was draped over my shoulder. I hailed the first cab I saw, eager to get out of the cold, even though for locals, it was just a mild ten degrees below zero.

“Are you waiting for anyone?” I asked a large man with a cap and splaying gray beard.

“Just you right now,” he responded good naturedly.

We loaded the luggage in the trunk, I took my customary spot in the backseat, pulled the seatbelt over my shoulder, and we were off, towards Chena Ridge Road, to David’s and my apartment. I was ready to be home after 10 hours of traveling.

During the cab ride, the driver and I made small conversation.

“It sure was nice to get a little snow, just covers up all the gray stuff,” the driver said. I agreed, nodding my head and noticing the two-foot mounds of snow which lined the side of the street.

As we started up the hill, he asked how I liked our apartments.

“Oh, they’re not bad, it’s mostly families, so I feel pretty safe,” I responded.

Just then, the driver cursed, slammed on his brakes, and something slammed into the windshield – hard.

I immediately covered Courage and put down my face as a shower of glass and fur flew in at us.

“Are you alright?” the driver asked me.

I look up, and the entire windshield was gone, with a large chunk hanging in on the front seat.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re fine,” I responded, “but what the hell was that?”

“Oh, it looks like we just got clocked pretty good by a moose,” he responded.

I didn’t believe it, at first, until I turned around, and there, on the side of the road behind us, was a large black shape. I could see the steam of its breath, rising up in small clouds, as the moose panted.

Immediately other cars stopped.

“Are you ok?” all would ask, before continuing on. A few people stopped, got out, and circled the moose. The driver crossed the street to meet them, and never wanting to miss out on the excitement, I got out and stood with them.

Things looked grim for the moose. Between groans, it would try to move its legs in a fruitless effort.

“Well, it still can kick,” one person said.

As if on cue, the moose sat up then, then exasperated, laid its head back down.

“Why don’t you go back to the cab, that’s probably the safest place for you,” the driver said.

Back at the cab, Courage sat, like a good little boy, in the back seat, blue snowflake turtleneck and all. I immediately wondered, just how many Chihuahuas have been involved in car accidents with moose?

After waiting a few minutes for the State Troopers to arrive, I received another ride, and couldn’t help but wonder if this was perhaps a Fairbanks welcome home.

Fairbanks Welcome Home

2008-01-13T23:23:00.000-08:00

The Story of Digger

2007-12-04T21:12:00.001-08:00

I first encountered Digger in the upstairs smoking room of The Marlin, a local hangout on College Road, complete with hippie influences and free spirited types. Nikki, one of the people I was out with, told me this Digger, a dog, by the way, was at the bar every time she went. When we started petting him, he walked toward the door.

“Who is his owner?” I asked Nicki.

“The guy with the dred locks,” she motioned her head to the left while taking a long drag on her cigarette.

I leaned over and asked him, “Does your dog need to go to the bathroom?”

“Oh, no, don’t worry about him, he’s free, free to do what he wants. If he wants to go to the bathroom, he’ll go from the other door,” he said with a placid smile.

Hmm, even half drunk, I was a little amused. Was the dog so free he could reach up and open the door handle to go outside?

The dog wandered and periodically sat contentedly in the bar. Sometimes he’d want to check out the downstairs scene, and would make his way up and down the caddy-corner wooden stairwell. Digger seemed completely at home amongst the music, which was mixed with loud guitustics, trumpets and occasional guttural screams.

He looked like a mix of rottweiler and Saint Bernard. In his owner’s words, as he’d say later that evening, “he looks like a small grizzly with yellow markings above the eyes.”

At one point, Digger’s owner, this guy with the dred locks, sat down near Nicki and me.

“What would you like,” the bartender asked him. “Whiskey?”

“Oh no, just Sprite tonight,” the man with the dred locks responded.

Turns out this man, who goes by Auto, lived in the hostel upstairs, and he and Digger were scheduled to leave late that night on a flight to Sitka.

“I was supposed to go last night, but instead, I drank too much, and fell asleep,” he told us.

“I had to change my plane, and geez, that’s expensive, they told me it would be $100.”

Nicki and him started talking. For most of the conversation, I just listened.

Auto talked about his art.

“I use everything as my canvas. Mushrooms, tree bark, I just paint drawings of ravens, wildlife, anything I see, and sell it to the tourists.”
The plan now was for him and Digger to head to Sitka, where Auto would use his money to buy a boat, sail the Alaskan coast, and continue creating his art.

“You wouldn’t think it, but doing that art can make you a good living, I’ve been able to have plenty of money to live comfortably,” he said, while patting his side pants pocket.

I listened, and wondered to myself if this was true. His plaid flannel shirt was old and faded. There was a small dime-sized hole in the button-down right above the elbow on his left arm.

His brown dred locks were unkempt and went past the shoulders. His beard was also long, and unruly. I wondered if perhaps there may be small food particles visible were someone to part the dry black-gray hair of his beard.

Perhaps he chose to live like this, here in the hostel, with the bare minimum, with his shaggy pet dog, and the bar’s regulars to keep him company.

Auto continued his with his story, which, of course, included Digger.

Auto came to Alaska years ago. After paying the fare for the ferry, he had just $20 in his pocket. Luckily, he encountered a couple, also headed to Alaska, with plans to start an oyster and potato farm.

“I said to them, ‘Hey, you don’t have to pay me, just give me food, clothes and a roof over my head, and I’ll work for you.”

So the couple set Auto up in a “floathouse,” as he referred to it. It was supported by five-foot thick spruce logs.

Two months later, the couple decided to abandon their business proposition, and sold to another couple.

These people brought with them a puppy. It didn’t belong to anyone else, but they didn’t exactly want it, either.

“So they ask me, ‘Hey, Auto, do you want a puppy?’”

“I told them no, because how can I take care of a dog while I’m living on a house that’s supported by five-foot tall logs?”

The puppy seemed to like Auto, however, because he kept roaming over to the floathouse.

He’d fall between the logs, splashing and thrashing about, trying to get out of the water.

“If I wasn’t there to look out for him, he would have drowned,” Auto said.

“And did he just follow you anywhere?” I asked him

Auto responded with another mini, sub-story, if you will.

One day, as he headed to the beach to dig for clams, the puppy followed him. Just as Auto started digging in the sand, he saw sand flying out beside him.

He gestured with his hands – cupping them into the air, tongue hanging out –
how the puppy looked as he mimicked Auto’s movements.

“And that’s how he got his name – Digger,” he said with a satisfied grin.

Periodically people would interrupt and ask Auto why he and Digger were still there. At this point, it was 12:00 a.m., and the flight was slated to leave at 6 a.m.

Auto continued with another story.

Like the time he and Digger were on a kayak, and all along the shoreline, was a lone wolf, following them, boring out at them with his eyes.

Or the story of the time Digger ran away. Auto thought for sure he had lost him forever, and had made a drawing of a raven, beating his wings against his chest. Four days later, Digger returned.

Just then I feel a rough brushing-up against my legs.

It is Digger, but he doesn’t mind me any attention, or Auto. He is free. Now I understand.

Auto mentions how he pays a price for this freedom he and Digger share. He tells us of his two sons. One is in Iraq. He says he pays a heavy price, because will never return to the lower 48. He hardly gets to see his family.

Before we headed for home, I said my goodbyes to Digger. He never fully paid attention to me. It was almost as if he was always searching for the next best thing, searching for more.

Sitka, perhaps.

But would they really go? Was there a ticket for that following morning at 6 a.m.? If not, does that make the story any less beautiful?

Frozen Water, Auroras, and the Japanese

2007-12-04T17:29:00.000-08:00

I looked down at the spread before me. There was orange juice, a flute of champagne, steaming coffee, and then the food. Since it was brunch, I had opted for more of the “lunch” selections: pasta salad, pineapple, deviled eggs, spinach mini quiche, seasoned country potatoes, and similar fare.

“Perfect,” I say aloud to David, as I open my hands, gesturing toward food.

It was Sunday at the Pump House, and time for their weekly champagne brunch, something which has become more or less a ritual for us.

I looked outside the window next to where we sat, and watched the snow fall for a moment. A 6-inch layer had built up on the banister lining the dock.

“Ah,” I said to David, “Isn’t it nice this time of year, when there are no tourists. You can just tell everyone is local.”

“Mm hmm,” David responded, half listening, and more intent on inhaling his Eggs Benedict.

I looked out the window again, and immediately ate my words.

There was a group of Japanese tourists headed into the building. While they were still outside, they ensured to take at least five photos of each other, all the while constant smiles plastered on their faces.

Yes, the Japanese tourists, I almost forgot. When the summer hustle and bustle of tour buses and cruise ship land tours has ended, there’s a lull for about a month. Once the cold sets in, so come the Japanese.

They come here for the cold, the snow, and most of all, the Northern Lights. Myths have it that if one conceives a child under the auroras, it will mean good luck, and possibly, the chance for a male child.

These consummations happen mainly at the Chena Hot Springs Resort, where the Asian tourists flock. With the privacy of the steam rising from the springs, many feel comfortable to make waves in the water, so to speak.

There’s also the tourists’ enthusiasm at what happens during the coldest part of winter. I have read in newspaper articles of many of the wintertime tourists opening their bottled waters and splashing the water into the air, just to watch it instantly freeze.

The group made their way inside. The stop for a moment to take some photos in front of the 9 foot tall stuffed grizzly at the entryway. They walk right up to where our table is, then stop. One of the girls felt the urge to take a photo of her male friend walking to their table. He walks, then stops, then turns around and gives a huge grin. The constant camera flashes provided somewhat of a strobe light-esque feel to our meal.

A Moose on Monday

2007-12-04T11:33:00.000-08:00

The drive to work started out like any other winter morning. I bounced and slid over the speed bumps in our complex and continued onto Yak Road, which was plagued with frost heaves.

It was dark, around 6:15, and I was on my way to our Monday morning manager meetings at Barnes and Noble. That morning I had brought coffee and a bagel, which was hastily slathered in cream cheese.

As I approached the steep hill, which, in wintertime is notorious for stranding cars, I slowed down. I had cream cheese on my fingers, and didn’t want to take the hill’s decline at normal speed as I wiped off my fingers.

It was then I saw her.

A female moose bounded out from the trees to my left, right in the spot where our street’s sand stores are kept.

Once she hit the street, and saw the glare of my lights, she stopped, and tilted her head toward me inquisitively. Her eyes gleamed in the headlights.

I slowed more, then stopped, for fear of getting too close and being charged.

She then turned toward the hill, and trotted down it along the side of the road, as if she was the same as any other pedestrian. She took her time, and I followed along behind at a safe distance, choosing the other side of the street.

At some point she disappeared into the forest, where she went I’m not really sure.

Extension Cord Stealers

2007-11-15T16:32:00.000-08:00

Women throughout the United States know never to leave their purses unattended in a public place. And I’d hope that most men know not to leave out their wallets for others to grab. They’re common items that can be stolen, and we take the necessary precautions lest our possessions fall into the wrong hands.

Well, here in Alaska, people like to steal extension cords.

That’s right, extension cords. And I’m not talking about your basic, run-of-the-mill bright orange cord you attach to leaf blowers and vacuums.

The most coveted of the cords are the blue, Arctic-grade cords, made especially for cold weather. They’re upwards of $50 and made to stay flexible, even when it’s 20 below, so that you can easily bend the cord the throw it back in the car. Most importantly, these extension cords light up when they’re plugged into a reliable power source. That way, you won’t hear the engine choke when you attempt to start the car.

Sometimes, people will steal the yellow, shop-grade cords, which also light up, but aren’t as highly visible or flexible in cold weather.

Yesterday both my yellow and beloved blue cords were stolen, right off my own patio. I had left the apartment in a rush, and since the temperature was already at zero, and would get up to a balmy five degrees, and since we haven’t yet been given permission to park at the back of the store, with the plug-ins, I threw my cord onto the pebbles in our little yard and tore off to work.

Seems even fenced-in yards don’t stop some extension cord stealers.

Ironically, as I was on my way home last night, I was begrudgingly thinking of how I would have to plug in my car once I got home. (Any opportunity to get out of the icy cold weather faster is quickly taken, and even with gloves, my hands still feel like ice after touching those metal power sockets.)

I got out of my car, trudged through the snow, getting a thin layer of it on the bottom of my work slacks, and opened the door to the gate. David, who had taken just one of his wires to work, had already plugged in his truck. But where were mine?

That jerk, I thought, and immediately looked in David’s truck. Just two days before, David had taken one of his wires to work, and when he came home, instead of attaching his, he just used mine, leaving me to plug in his two wires so I could keep my car warm.

There was nothing in the cab, save for an Army ruck sack, which was partially buried in the snow drift.

“Daaaavid!”

“Yeah,” he responds softly from the living room couch, not even changing his position. I was lucky he looked up from the TV.

“Did you take your extension cords to work today?”

“No, just the one, but I plugged it into my yellow cord when I got home.”

“Shit.”

My mind reeled back to the time I talked with Erin, a large woman with long hair and spray-painted t-shirts, who worked behind the counter at the place where I had my car winterized.

“Carry extra cords,” she cautioned me, “because people will steal them.”

“Really?” I had asked incredulously.

“Depends on where you park. When I worked out at Fred Meyer last winter, I got mine stolen a few times” she said.

Today, needless to say, my cord was thrown into my car when I left for class.

A spare is folded up in the back, just in case.

Anchorage Airport

2007-10-29T22:46:00.000-07:00

It’s quiet at the L2 baggage claim in the Anchorage airport. Just 10 people linger around the area. It’s not too surprising; after all, our twin-engine plane only had 30 seats.

Just a few minutes before, as David and I had walked across the tarmac, we both commented on how warm it felt outside. After dealing with Fairbanks’ single-digit temperatures, 39 degrees felt mild. We had both immediately shed our coats, and David even complained about not bringing his flip-flops.

Apparently another woman shared David’s opinion. She stood to my right, wearing thick-soled black sandals, the kind in style five years ago. Her toe-nails were painted alternating orange and black.

To my left was a man with mussed blonde hair. He was dressed for cold weather, however, with the trademark “Bunny boots” worn by military members and some Fairbanks locals. The rubbery white shoes are oversized, and heavy, and give a slightly clownish look.

Towards the corner of the baggage claim were two hunters. One opened a large animal crate, and a shiny-coated black lab pranced out.

“Hey girl,” the one man said as he grabbed her collar and the two shared a lick.

The other man had a black lab puppy. As the men walked away, the puppy popped its head out of the carrier.

“She’s only 14 weeks. She’s got a lot to learn,” the man says. They each carry rectangular gun cases, emblazoned with Duck Head stickers.

I glance outside the windows of the airport and can see the snow-capped mountains jutting up above the highway.

When I turned around, I noticed the McDonald’s sign behind the baggage claim belt, with a logo that read “Everything is bigger in Alaska. Try the Mt. McKinley Mac.”

So much for a Texas Quarter pounder with cheese.

Footwear

2007-10-07T23:05:00.000-07:00

We sat with our desks in a circle in the sterile classroom. I had just removed my jacket and scarf and took a moment to notice the other students. I counted only two other jackets, one of the leather variety, belonging to our teacher, a New England transplant. Only one other student wore a jacket.

It was in the 30s on that particular Thursday in October, and I couldn’t help but wonder, was the lack of outerwear a trademark of ill-prepared college students, or were they perhaps acclimated to the cold?

The class bantered back and forth from across the circle, with frequent laughs. Once I set out my things, I caught one part of the conversation that was rather curious.

“No seriously, this guy never wears shoes,” I heard one guy say. I glanced to his feet, and he was actually wearing sandals.

“Yeah, he even goes into the bathroom that way,” another student responded.

Our teacher asked if perhaps the young gentleman is a hippie.

“Well, I think he’s autistic, guys,” one girl offered. She also had on sandals, but remarkably had worn socks under them.

I glanced down at my own high heel boots, and my feet felt cold just looking at her.

The class was speaking about one notorious student who doesn’t wear shoes, year round. Through rain, sloshing through snow, in public bathrooms, on the campus sidewalks.

But is it true?, I thought. If so, that young man’s feet must be black with frostbite, since in -40 degree weather, exposed flesh can freeze within a minute.

Even so, I’ll keep my eyes out for a barefooted, possibly autistic student as I travel from the shuttle bus to my class in Duckering Hall.

Mornings

2007-10-06T20:02:00.000-07:00

Small snow crystals hit the windshield. Immediately, they’d melt, leaving behind a light film of water and dust. The car rounded the curve on Chena Ridge Road, and below, the city of Fairbanks. Today it was covered in a blanket of clouds, leaving only the tops of the foothills visible.
On the left of the road stood a fox. His orange fur stuck out from the dying grass behind him. He crouched over an object, probably some trash or small road kill. His eyes darted out toward the road in narrow slits. It was a Tuesday.
Thursday was a clear morning. The Alaska Range was visible behind the airport, and the ice-covered mountain peaks seemed to cut into the sky in a knife of blue and white.
Friday was slightly cloudy, and everything seemed saturated with a tint of blue. The aroma of white chocolate mocha filled the car. The range could be seen this morning as well, but streaks of snow clouds blocked the view of the peaks.
On Saturday morning, a bright light filtered in from behind the sides of the curtains. They were pulled aside to reveal snow; snow on the ground, on the car windshields, and on the tops of tree branches. Sometimes it would sparkle like silver flecks in the sunlight.

Oktoberfest and Pool

2007-10-06T20:01:00.001-07:00

The sound of loud trumpets echoed off the stone walls of the brewery. The smell of beer and sauerkraut filled the air. Nearby, someone spilled a beer, and three people at the table attacked the wet spot with a pile of napkins. A sign at the brewery’s entrance read “Anyone visibly intoxicated will be asked to leave.”
It was Oktoberfest at the Silver Gulch Brewery in Fox, Alaska, and from the looks of the patrons it was obvious the Oktoberfest keg had already been tapped. The band was clad in shorts, embroidered stirrups, white shirts and German-inspired hats. Some of the female bartenders wore wench dresses which emphasized their cleavage. Others stuck with the t-shirt emblazoned with the message, “Fairbanks. Where the people are unusual and the beer is unusually good.”
Outside, the heartier Alaskans huddled around a fire in a stone pit. Some were smoking, some were drinking, but none seemed to notice their breath surrounding them in the cold air.
We stayed inside, where the walls were a dark red, coppery rust color. The paint looked fresh, as if it had just recently been painted. And although renovations inside were almost complete, the wooden steps leading upstairs were bare and had not yet been coated with stain.
At times, the band would play an ethnic song, which ended with everyone hitting their chests with their fists in Nazi-like fashion and then holding their beers up, creating foam which would slosh over the edges of the cups.
After a time, some of the guys in our group jumped up, threw on their jackets and announced they were going across the street to the Howling Dog Saloon, a ramshackle bar with red clapboard sidings.
Once I finished my Lindemann’s Peach beer, those of us left decided to join them. We scurried across the street, me cursing the cold the entire hundred feet. Once inside, it was classic Alaska. Dollar bills covered the beams above the bar, and an array of bras, in satiny pinks, lacey blacks and reds hung from the wooden chandelier.
A lone guitarist played from a corner behind the dance floor. He would intermittently lay down his guitar for his harmonica, which served as the sole instrument for some frames.
On the other end of the bar, past the photograph of the grizzlies humping in a mountain stream, to the right of the foosball table, was the bar’s only pool table. Our group was gathered around it, some playing pool, others chatting, the women standing against the wall.
One of those in our group, Roman, bid his time instigating. An older man, say in his 60s, stood nearby, leaning against the bar, beer in hand. His gray beard was messed and overgrown, at several inches long. The tips of his fingernails looked black, as if he had just come straight from the mines. He had a wandering eye, a hat perched on the top of his head, and a bellowing laugh.
Every few minutes I would hear Roman yell to him, “Whoever wins, you get to play, old man!”
At the close of the game, the man walked over, a little excited but still amused. Apparently, he could overhear Roman saying that he said we were chumps.
“Now, I don’t even know what the word chump means,” the man says as he saunters my way. “Why would I call them chumps if I don’t know what it means?”
He continues.
“I’ll tell you what that guy is,” he says, gesturing to Roman. “That one there, well, he’s a fabricator of tales, a fabricator of tales that one is,” he says with a pointing finger.
At this point, I cannot help but laugh. How could a man use such terms as “fabricator,” but still would not know the meaning of the word “chump?”
Nevertheless, the old man was up for a game, and David became his lucky opponent. The game was quite close, aside from the man getting easily distracted. At one point he wandered off for close to five minutes. Seems he had run out of beer, and couldn’t wait for a refill.
“Wow,” I said to Roman, “that guy really can’t stay focused.”
Playing the instigator as always, Roman replies, referring to the man’s wandering eye, “Yeah, seems he can’t stay focused on much of anything!”
At one point, the old man leaned into David.
“His pride does not do him justice,” he says of Roman, in a voice loud enough so that others can here.
Then he adds, “But I did tell him that when I played you guys, I would kick all your asses!” he booms. He then laughed, and laughed and laughed, clutching his down vest with one hand. It sounded like a mix of good humor combined with the slightly insane.
After the old man won, he came over, pool cue in hand, and told David he did a good job.
“You guys in the military?” he asked.
“Yes sir,” David said.
“Oh, well I think that’s great. I wanted to go to Vietnam, but because of my eyes I couldn’t,” the man adds. “But the American fighting man, that’s the greatest thing on this earth, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. If they do, come get me, and I’ll come and beat their ass,” he jested, then followed with his great belly laugh. As we walked away, we could still hear “Ahahahah, Ahahhaa” emanating from the pool table area.

The Horizon

2007-09-20T23:27:00.000-07:00

I glanced to my left as I waited for the shuttle bus. The university sits on a hillside, and today, a clear day, I could see the Tanana Valley stretch for miles. The sharp detail of the snow-covered mountain range lined the horizon.

I kept looking out to the distance until the shuttle bus arrived, and wondered if any of the other students look out over the horizon, or if perhaps they are used to the alder-filled valley and jagged mountains. Perhaps in time I will no longer look either, I thought.

As I was boarding the bus, I noticed a young woman, shuffling along with a cane, her eyes boring straight ahead. She wore jeans and a leopard-print pea coat with a matching thick headband. Her backpack was red, and so were her shoes. Her outfit was cute, but she could not see it.

The trail of her breath was visible in the cold air. I thought then, even though she cannot see the horizon filled with mountains, can she feel it on a day like today?

Fairbanks Mixed Breed Dog Show

2007-09-19T00:04:00.000-07:00

The fawn-colored Chihuahua was the first canine I noticed when we walked into the civics center at Pioneer Park. Hmm, I thought. Maybe that purebred dog is just here to watch. After all, it was a mixed breed dog show.
Within a few minutes, though, I realized the little cutie was actually in the show. He walked around and around the circle of dogs and their owners, for a variety of categories, actually, including “Perkiest Personality,” and “Most Bounce in his Step.” The dog would prance along as large mutts sniffed at his butt. He’d turn around, then with a little scooting action, continue along.
At one point, I actually thought the dog may win for the coveted “Best in Show” award. His owner, a robust man with graying curly hair and a short beard, made an interesting combination with the tiny dog.
After the show ended, the dog’s owner immediately came over to where Sherri and I sat, each a Chihuahua in lap. He had his dog, complete with two ribbons, tucked under his arm. He wanted to know if Courage and Doggy were females, because he was interested in breeding his. (Obviously he hadn’t glanced at Courage’s underbelly.)
I then found out the little dog is named Choco Taco, and is a mix of long-hair Chihuahua, and short-hair Chihuahua. So even though he is a purebred, he is also technically a mutt.
The man told me that he’s been trying to get AKC paperwork for CT (we’ll call him that for short), but can’t.
Just then, the conversation got a lot more interesting.
“See, his dad was mauled by one of my sled dogs, and his mom, who looked just like this one here (pointing to Courage), died giving birth. So I couldn’t get his papers.”
He pulled up a chair and turned it so it would face us, and sat down with CT.
With an animated expression, he asked if he started a Chihuahua club in Fairbanks if we would be interested in joining.
“Be looking for it in the paper,” he said. “I’ve asked a lot of Chihuahua owners in town if they’d want to start one, and they all seemed receptive to it,” he said. “Basically we’d meet at parks and have our dogs play and we’d all sit around and talk, sort of like we’re doing now.”
Figuring I had found an informed Chihuahua owner, and always having the impending winter on my mind, I asked him if he’s able to let Choco out without gloves or jackets, if only for a minute.
He said yes, but added that if Choco is going to be outside for extended periods, like when he rides in the truck to the dogsled races, he has a “real cool little leopard suit.”
He’ll buy him little booties if he knows the dog will be in the snow, and also gets sweaters for him. But one time, when he had to walk from his truck to a cabin which was a good distance away, Choco had to brave the cold.
“I held him real close to me like this,” he said, cuddling Choco to his chest. “He kept going ‘mmmr, mmmmr,’ with every step I took.”
“Does he ever get near your sled dogs?” I asked him.
Choco will go around the females, he said. That’s how he always knows the females are in heat, when the little Chihuahua can be spotted loitering ‘round their kennels.
“I try not to give him Red Bull so he doesn’t get wings,” he said laughing. “He’ll look for every orifice in their bodies.”
We ended the conversation by jotting down the man’s name, which, by the way, is Bill, and his email address, in case we ever wanted to go riding out on the dog sleds. The only stipulation: “You have to bring your little guys so the three of them can play.”
With a final congratulations on Choco Taco’s awards, (Perkiest Personality, and one I can’t remember), Bill set off to Wal-Mart, to show his wife the ribbons and certificates. I set off to run some errands and Sherri went to run hers.
A little while later I received a phone call from Sherri.
She had gone to Wal-Mart and as she was walking into the store, Bill was just leaving in his car.
He gave a huge wave as he pulled away into the rainy afternoon, Choco in tow.

Autumn Birch

2007-09-13T22:23:00.000-07:00

I pulled out from the gravel driveway of our apartment when I caught sight of it.

The fiery orange glow of the birch trees was impossible to miss. The sun shone on the rows of trees, illuminating their autumn hues. A blanket of yellow and orange leaves covered the ground.
September 13

As I drove down the ridge toward town, I could see the mosaic of color. There was the dark green of the alders, immune to the dropping temperatures, mixed with yellow and orange, and even some ground cover in a deep shade of purple, already starting to curl up into itself for the winter.

Small rain drops hit the windshield, and the sun immediately cast a glare, making it hard to see. But by the time I got to work, a full rainbow had formed in the sky. I kept my head cocked to my left as I walked into the hospital, never taking my eyes off it.

It was a good morning.

Kodiak Jacks: Not Your Normal Club-Going Experience

2007-09-02T02:08:00.000-07:00

August 25

Note: Angelica Fuentes Lynch contributed to parts of this story.

At first glance, Kodiak Jack’s seems like the normal country bar found near any military installation. The kind where young, attractive military men settle for 30-something sub-par women to the tunes of overplayed redneck songs like “Before he cheats” and “Copperhead Road.”

But in Fairbanks, there always seems to be some sort of twist on the ordinary lurking around every corner.

Here are some of the finer details of the evening.

After passing the fake bull pit and crossing the dance floor, David, Angelica and I settled down at the edge of a long table. Our eyes were immediately met with the sight of a drunken woman in a red dress. While no makeup adorned her face, she did complete her ensemble with a white scruncii and black sandals, which she would often hold in her hands as she danced. A large fan blew into one part of the bar. She seemed to stand in the direct path of the fan, mimicking the movements of the blades in animal fashion, her permed hair always ‘a-blowin.

Just the thought of it makes me need a drink.

Which brings us to the first toast of the evening: Safety – that’s right, we toasted to safety. As the night wore on, the topics became more and more bewildering. My suggestion for the second toast was Courage. Not the virtue, mind you, but my Chihuahua, who is named Courage. It was immediately dismissed. Subsequent toasts included:

Texas, Courage (it was accepted, but after 3 rounds of drinks), and Merman.

Other toasts of the evening that were rejected came from another Texan, also named David, who sported a UT baseball cap. He suggested we toast to his belly button. Even I immediately waved off his idea.

The drinks were a necessity as Angelica and I braved the route to the restroom multiple times. One such excursions we had some odd encounters. One was from a woman with blue hair extensions and a black, ‘70s-style, one-piece jumpsuit. Angelica later reported that the woman scowled at me and then followed us to the bathroom. It was there where Angelica observed the zig-zag cutouts, which ran along the side of the woman’s pants, spanning from her hips to her ankles.

It was also in the bathroom we saw a Caucasian girl with a bandana around her head. It came to a Tupacesque point above her eye. She topped it all off with white eye shadow, black eyeliner, light lipstick – and a matching purple shirt – size small, for an extra large body.

A final fashion highlight came in the form of a man in a fitted red jumpsuit with a large mustache that made him look like he once ran with Pancho Villa’s crew. At one point, our friend, Texas David (not Husband David), asked him if the mustache was real. Even though the man insisted it was authentic, he invited Texas David to pull upon it to confirm.

Shortly into the night, we realized that dancing at country bars in Alaska isn’t quite the same as it is in the South. For starters, two-stepping music in Fairbanks is synonymous with bump and grind. It was common to see girls shaking and jiggling to such songs as “Redneck Yacht Club.”

When line dancing music came on, people did actually get into lines and perform a dance – only they used hopping and jumping movements similar to Riverdance, sans kilts.

Throughout the night, I made it a point to ask every military man I talked with about the impending winter. I couldn’t help myself, it’s been on my mind lately. Here is some of the feedback:

- “Look for picnic tables. They are the only places where green grace actually still grows.”

- “It’s depressing. I hate Alaska.”

-“Man, I thought people in Alaska would be cool, because they hunt and fish,” but they’re just f****** weird.” (I know the answer was off-topic, but what’s a girl to do?)

At one point, I asked a young man by the name of Dan if I was to let my dogs out to pee, if they would get frostbite. He looked at me with a perplexed expression and replied, “Well, I don’t really know, because I’m not a girl.”

I repeated my question, and he laughed, looking relieved. “Oooh, I thought you asked what would happen if you went outside to pee.”

Oh, the challenges of bar room banter.

A few minutes later, the sounds of “Pour some sugar on me,” resonated from the rock climbing wall. (For some reason, I don’t think drinking and rock climbing mix.)

In the usual fashion, Angelica and I paraded onto the floor, confident in our dancing abilities. But our pleasant dancing dream shattered before our eyes when our nightmare emerged, clad in white t-shirt, with arms outstretched like a grizzly bear. Angelica gave him an adamant shake of her head, and said, almost as if in slow motion, “Nooooooo.”
We turned the other direction, only to have a military man in a pale blue polo also trying to get his dance on.

At that point, the surprises became too much for us. Instead of telling the man no, I just began screaming, at which point Angelica and I clutched each others’ arms and turned in a circle again, only to see the first dance suitor waiting for us. It felt the world was spinning around us, and there was no way out.

I looked over to where David sat to find some comfort, and instead saw a large man with thick, curly, long hair. My thoughts raced. Had David been swallowed by the masses? Did the aggressive blond girl who enjoyed tapping (punching) young men in the chest accidentally knock David off his barstool, leaving him to wonder, “Who was that guy?” Suddenly, someone on the dance floor moved, and I saw David in the same spot as always, the curly-long haired man towering over him to his left.

Other bizarre encounters of the night included the man in the fitted tye-dye henley with long blonde hair. Every time we passed him, he’d cock his head to the side, flash a big smile, and say hello in an animated tone.

Around 2:45, right before we left, two young Canadians insisted Angelica and I show them how to two-step. I initially refused to dance with one, who held out his hand in invitation and danced in a strange polka-like jig. Even though I deflected his request to Angelica, insisting I had lost my voice, we found out the blonde-haired, blue-eyed boys are sophomores at the University of Alaska Fairbanks, and play hockey for the schools’ team, the Nanooks. (Later in the week, I will see one of the boys at Wal-Mart, but will show no indication that I recognize him.)

The next day Angelica reported that as I talked to people in the bar, I would press both sides of my throat with my hands, announcing my sore throat. It was quite painful to talk, but the image is rather embarrassing.

“How odd,” I responded to her, shocked at my strange behavior.

I couldn’t help but wonder, instead of just mere observers of the eccentricities at Kodiak Jacks, were we participants? And just how long can you live in a strange community until you take on its traits?

The Pump House experience

2007-08-21T00:04:00.000-07:00

We sat down in the glass-enclosed dining area of the Pump House, and I was immediately accosted with the loud echo of voices and clangs of plates. Mother and Father sat back in their chairs, and it was only a moment before we ordered our drinks.

Our waiter, a quirky fellow with a large nose and sprouting mustache, was very prompt with our order, that is, at first.

After moving to a table on the deck, with a view of the Chena River and unfortunately, the enveloping cold, we ordered our meals. I chose an alder-smoked ribeye with Yukon potatoes and green beans.

After arguing a little, Mother and Father each ordered a clam chowder and agreed to split a large seafood sampler.

The real interesting events didn’t begin until later on in the meal, by which time the air had dropped to a cool 50 degrees, and our waiter started to appear less and less frequently. When he presented Mom and Dad with their sampler, a combination of seafood salads, salmon, prawns and Dungeness Crab, he promised to bring the crackers for them to split the shells. More than 15 minutes later, Mother and Father were still painstakingly tearing at the crab legs.

When Dad stopped eating, he experienced the customary runny nose with which his family is all too familiar. I guess he was feeling at home, because he chose to blow his nose into this handkerchief right there at the table. Mother and I grimaced and a couple behind us, with both red and white wine (and an expensive camera which they used to take photos of each other eating – my guess is they were Europeans), looked over with an expression mixed with surprise and disgust.

A few minutes later it was Father who was disgusted. Mom and I had decided to get dessert, but we didn’t want to share. I ordered a crème brulee, and Mother opted for the flourless giant truffle.

Dad was confused at why mom could not finish their seafood sampler, but could attempt to eat a monstrous truffle.

“That’s different, George, it was all rich seafood,” Mom replied in defense.

“Oh, and that’s so different from a chocolate mountain?” Dad retorted.

We immediately held our napkins to our faces to stifle the laugh at Dad’s descriptive language.

A few minutes later, Dad asked if we’d like to put the ¾ of the truffle that remain in with the seafood sampler leftovers.

“George, no,” Mom says.

I wonder to myself why Dad, a man of great grilling and food-seasoning skill would suggest contaminating such a delicate dessert with the taste of cold seafood.

I guess it is not much worse than when he wanted to stuff the individually wrapped crackers in the doggy bag with the rest of the sampler.

By the time we left, our waiter had managed to forget our dessert coffees and messed up my order amongst other mistakes. We were happy to get out of the cold, and get Father and his hanky out of the glare of the public eye.

Cooking for 10

2007-08-08T21:15:00.000-07:00

August 7

I was sitting at my desk at work yesterday when my cell phone suddenly vibrated. It was a 907 number. I picked it up, very professionally, because I thought it may be the University of Alaska calling about a job for which I had interviewed.

"Hey there, pretty lady," David's voice greeted me.

Although it wasn't a job offer, I was still happy to hear from my husband, who had been doing field training at Fort Greely for the past week. We still had one more week until he would come home.

I must admit, although I was happy to hear from him at first, my joy quickly disappeared at the words that came out of his mouth next.

"Darlin, the wives have been cooking food and bringing it to base so it can be driven over here. Do you want to make something?"

"Well, what kind of stuff are they making?" I asked.

"Oh you know, chicken and rice, pasta, that sort of thing," he responded nonchalantly.

"And, do we have to make something?" I asked, feeling deflated.

"No you don't have to, but you can if you want to," he said.

"What kind of things are the wives bringing this food in? Coolers? Crock pots" I ask. Fort Greely is 2 hours away, and I immediately think of my college roommmate Rachel and her lectures on the "danger zone" for food. (Nothing should be left out for more than 2 hours, lest the harmful food-borne bacteria build up on the dish and cause stomach upset.)

"Oh, you know, in foil dishes," David says.

"So is it hot when it gets to you?" I ask

"Mmm hmmm," he responds, as if cooking early in the morning, dropping the food off on base before 9:00 a.m. still hot to have it arrive to the middle of nowhere 3 hours later, without going rancid, is no spectacular feat.

For anyone who hasn't been through Army 101, a.k.a., unwritten military mores, you must know that an officer's wife's behavior reflects on her husband. If she is graceful and holds herself in a classy manner, the officer is most certainly a man of high esteem. If she doesn't participate in military functions, (doesn't RSVP to events, DOESN'T COOK for her husband in the field), then the officer must be a man of little character.

I immediately felt angry. I would have just as much let them eat MREs all week if it was up to me. Don't get me wrong; it's not that I'm unpatriotic, but I was bitter because I knew I had no choice in the matter.

So, $80, 20 enchiladas, 2 bags of chips, a large jar of salsa, 20 Lofthouse cookies and one tin of Altoids later, I found myself sweating in the heat of the kitchen until after 10:00.

Since dropping off the food at 8:25 this morning and arriving 10 minutes late to work, I have not received one phone call. My thoughts race: Did someone else get the food? Has it not gotten to them yet? Did David receive the food and just not bother to call and say thank you? The nerve! I will just have to continue sipping on my glass of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay until my nerves are calmed so much I can laugh about the 3 hours I have spent spoiling my husband and his work friends.

The Cold, the Wind and the Rain

2007-08-06T22:37:00.000-07:00

August 6
I felt a stinging sadness as I looked on the Ann Taylor Web site. Models wearing cute fall fashions, from sharkskin suits to sophisticated dresses for social events, all seemed to be looking up at me, taunting me with the cute clothes that I longed for but could not reasonably wear.

The three-quarter length sleeves and even t-shirts are now out of the question for me, considering it will start snowing in just a few weeks. I learned that blue is the trendy color for fall, but will I be able to find it in thick wool sweaters and vests?

I started to come to grips with the reality of my cold weather city this morning, as I sat in the dark at the dining room table, eating my honey-nut cheerios with freshly cut banana. I would alternately look at the new artwork I had hung on the wall just the day before, and then glance outside, to the sight of swirling birch trees and spastic rain. It was just 50 degrees, and on that morning, as with so many other mornings, I had stood on my porch in my robe waiting for the dogs to go to the bathroom, amused that I could see my breath in the August air.

At work a few hours later, I crossed over from my office in the Imaging Center to the hospital. Instead of taking the indoor walkway, I walked the short jaunt outside. People were bundled in raincoats and windbreakers, heads down, walking against the incredibly strong wind.

I asked Sherri, my work friend, about the wind that day at lunch. “Would it be stronger in the winter?” I asked. Like me, Sherri just moved here from the Dallas-Fort Worth area, but her boyfriend is from Alaska, so I figured she may have some insight.

All she could say is that she has been told it’s “Not windy here compared to Anchorage.”
We both rolled our eyes, because we knew it wasn’t at all comforting.

After work that night, I took a short nap on our couch. I looked up at the tall trees, and wondered if they might break under the wind and come crashing through our windows.

For some odd reason, I felt compelled to take a run outside after I woke up. The wind was still as strong as ever, but the rain had temporarily subsided. I walked out of the complex, and noticed a truck with two small fighting men glued to the hood. I also noticed a decorative sash hanging from the rearview mirror with the words GUAM emblazoned upon it. A large US ARMY AK base sticker was in the middle of the windshield. I will admit, I have never seen someone display military pride by sticking figurines on the front of their car.

As I ran past the pink and purple wildflowers which were still in bloom along the road, the wind seemed to roar. It made me wonder, is the wind any louder here than back home, or is it just that there are more trees for it to blow through, so it sounds louder?

Within a couple minutes, my lungs were burning from inhaling the cold air. It was yet another reminder that I was indeed very, very far from Texas, which at that moment, was probably 90 degrees.

I went past the house with the mailbox titled P. and A. Rounds. The yard, as always, was full of plants and large wooden black bears standing on their hind legs. Despite their inquisitive carved faces they never fail to startle me as I go past. The two small dogs in the yard yipped and chased me as far as they could until the edge of their fence. It seems ironic that along the Chena Ridge, the people who have small dogs always restrain them in fenced-in yards, yet the residents with large, menacing dogs who look as if they want to eat Doggy and Courage for lunch are always out on the loose.

I continued on my run back along Yak Road, down Lingonberry Lane, up the hill and back over the familiar yellow speed bumps into our trashy community. I went past the soldier, still in his ACUs, working on his truck, past the apartment with kiddie pools and a perpetual garage sale out front, past the unit with a large stuffed panda bear on the front porch, all the way to the back of the complex, to our unit. By then, a light rain was falling, my calves were aching, and I was ready to be inside, out of the cold.

So long, Loft.

Prize winning Studs and heartless owners

2007-08-05T01:44:00.000-07:00

July 14

I’ve never liked the couple that lives next door.

Even though they’re also military, since the day they moved in a month ago, they’ve never been friendly. The husband, a robust man with a shaved head has an intimidating appearance matches his gruff disposition.

The first day they moved in, I said hello as he unloaded his car.

He just stared at me in response.

The only time he did want to initiate conversation was a rainy Wednesday in late May.

The movers were unpacking their belongings, and he stood outside with his checklist.

I had let the dogs out, and I heard him ask, “Are those Chihuahuas?”

“Mmm hum,” I said.

He then proceeded to tell me how his dog is worth more than $1,000 dollars, and how was given the prize winning dog for free from a friend.

It was the most animated I had ever seen him, and the only words he ever spoke to me.

In subsequent encounters, he and his wife resorted to their cold demeanor, even when I complimented their dog a few days later as it ran outside and jumped in the backseat of their car.

This past Saturday, I let the dogs out in our little yard for a routine potty break. I noticed a small, blonde, long hair Chihuahua at the other side of our fence, excited to see Doggy. Although he sported no tags and had a little mud on his bottom fur and feet, he was obviously well-groomed and well socialized.

I immediately recognized the dog and called it to me. It ran up, jumped in my arms, and I walked it next door.

I rang the doorbell once. Nothing. I rang it again. Still no response. Odd, their car was in their driveway.

David and I left a note with a phone number, and went to dinner. By the time we returned an hour later, the note was off their door. But for that entire night, we received no phone calls.

In the meantime, the gorgeous longhair Chihuahua took an instance liking to Doggy. The two played and sniffed each other spastically.

Since we didn’t want to become attached to the creature, and we couldn’t call it Dog, or Doggy, we started referring to him as Guy.

As the night wore on and still no phone calls, David and I became more enraged at their heartless action. If they had gotten sick of their dog, they could have at least taken it to a shelter, instead of kicking out a Chihuahua into the Alaskan wilderness.

Some people are such scum.

That night, Guy slept between David and me like a pro. I quickly realized he obeys the “sit” command. That’s more than I can say for Cur and Doggy.

Anyway, back to the tale.

The next morning, around 11:00, I heard the neighbor’s familiar loud music, complete with rumbling bass. I could also hear the cries of their baby through the thin walls.

I immediately went over to talk to them. Getting used to the routine, I rang the doorbell and left, angrier than before that they did not bother to answer.

Around 12:30, I returned to the apartment from picking up some Pazzo’s Pizza, and noticed their front door was open, with the screen door still shut.

I immediately grabbed David and we both went next door.

I rang the doorbell.

“Who is it,” a cool voice called from inside the apartment.

“It’s your next-door neighbors,” I said.

The young Asian woman came to the door with her baby on her hip, but stood safely at a distance behind her screen door.

“Did you lose your dog?” David asked.

“No, our dog is right here,” she responded coldly.

I looked at her for a moment, trying to look in her eyes to see if she was lying.

I didn’t have to look very long, because just then a small, long-hair Chihuahua came running excitedly to the door.

“Well, that was embarrassing,” David commented as we walked back into our apartment.

So now, David and I have in our possession a long-hair, non-neutered male purebred Chihuahua. It’s probably worth at least $800.

We will check with the apartment tomorrow to see if anyone has lost a dog, and then we will take it to a shelter after work. After 72 hours, if no one claims it, we can legally adopt the creature.

We are still trying to figure out our plan of action.

Any interested parties?

The next day: After repeatedly ringing the doorbell of not-nice couple next door, the wife calls from inside - "Who is it?"

"It's your next door neighbors," I yell back.

She comes to the door with a baby on the hip, and David asks if they lost their dog.

No, she says, cooly.

I ask, "Are you sure?"

I really did not believe her.

As if on cue, a small Chihuahua comes running to the door.

Huh.

"Well I feel embarrassed," David says, as we walk back into our apartment.

Two hours later, we have a ring at our doorbell, and two military couples with a leash and a photo of Guy appear on our doorstep.

They ask if we have seen a dog, and I happily open the door wider for the Chihuahua to run out.

"Bailey!" the scream, and the dog jumps into their arms.

Well, at least a happy ending there. But that doesn't mean I like my next-door-neighbors.

Tanana Valley Farmer's Market

2007-08-05T01:39:00.002-07:00

July 14

It was 2:00 in the afternoon. I had more than an hour before my hair appointment, and figured it might be nice to visit the farmer’s market in town. I’d been meaning to go, what with my accidental expedition to the Fox Farmer’s Market the previous month.

As I turned left onto University Avenue, I caught site of a young couple in a gold Honda sedan, very much involved in an open-mouth kiss. At first I thought I spotted something unusual as I glimpsed left to make my turn. Then I noticed the girl was almost completely out of her seat, and very passionately kissing the teenage male, who, more than likely had a face full of pimples.

I was a little grossed out by their display. After all, they didn’t even have tinted windows. But I guess over-hormonal teenagers are nothing out of the ordinary.

Back to the story.

I pulled up the gravel drive to the Tanana Valley Farmer’s Market. A large wooden building stood surrounded by white-tent booths. The parking lot was almost completely full.

I started to walk toward the booths, and noticed a car with a bumper stick which read, “Wear wolf, eat moose.” Hmm, I guess the driver of that car is not an animal rights activist.

Immediately my senses were intoxicated.

Homemade soaps, handbags, tye-dye hippie wear, tiny organic strawberries filled the tables – were those night lights covered in jade?

I strolled around to each of the booths before buying anything.

I noticed everywhere groups of adults were talking, mingling. It seems the farmer’s market is also a place to catch up with those you may not have seen for a while.
My attention was drawn to a man in an intense conversation. He had pure white hair which ran to the middle of his back. It was longer than mine, and I couldn’t help but wonder, was it thicker? He interrupted his sentence to cram a piece of freshly-made zucchini bread into his mouth.

When I shifted my gaze to the booth where he stood, I became enchanted. There were spoon rests, complete with a wooden spoon. The interesting part was, the spoon rest was made of a contorted beer bottle.

“That’s really interesting,” I said to the man behind the booth. “How do you do it?

“I put it in a kiln. All it takes is fire and gravity,” he responded matter-of-factly.

They were only $18. I made a mental note of the product, so perhaps I could fetch it on another trip.

My next stop was to an older man who makes honey. He had all his small honey jars out.

I stopped to ask him how much they were.

“$8. Where are you from?” he asked.

“Texas,” I said.

“Oh, you must be used to it being much hotter there,” he responded.

We talked for another moment, until I was distracted by his hat, which sat perched on his head in the trucker style so popular among young alternative types.

It had the words, “I’ve been there,” in the shape of Alaska. There were other small drawings but I couldn’t quite figure out what they were.

Everyone was more than happy to tell me about their wares. Like the Russian lady, was her name Ulyana? She wrote, illustrated and bound her own children’s books and native tales.

She told me about this from her stool, where she sat, wrapped in a flower-print scarf over her shoulders.

Then there was the woman who makes embroidered sleeves for hot coffee.

It’s to cut down on all the waste, she told me. “I’m hoping it will catch on,” she said. There was a whole variety of designs, from paper clips to puppy prints.

I stopped by one booth which had some bright pink jam in mason jars.

“Would you like to try a bite?” a friendly woman asked me as she held out a canister of spoons.

Without hesitation, I tasted a sampling.

It was strawberry rhubarb jam, and absolutely delicious.

A few minutes later, my hankerin’ for the jam returned, so I went back to purchase a jar.

My only predicament was I didn’t have enough cash left to purchase the jam. Just like me, always thinking ahead. I could purchase it with a check, though.

When I returned to the counter, a tall fellow in bright-colored suspenders, a t-shirt, jeans and hat greeted me.

I asked him if they took out-of-state checks.

Instead of a response, he gave me a long, penetrating stare. I didn’t know quite what to make of it, so I just looked right back at him.

“Yeah, I think so,” he said with a chuckle.

“See, I can always tell if I can trust someone by the look in their eye. And when I gave you that stare, you didn’t look away,” he said confidently.

I wrote out my check, tour it from the book and handed it to him.

He took it in both hands and read out loud, “Jennifer M. Eure.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Well, Jennifer M. Eure, I’m John B. Pinkley.”

He is the owner of the company which produces the jam. It’s called Think Pink Farms.

“And anyway,” he added. “I know a lot of people around the state, so if I did get a bad check, I could always find you,” he said, pulling at his suspenders and giving a sadistic laugh.

As he handed me my bag, he reminded me to bring back my empty jar, and I’ll get $1 off my next purchase.

A few minutes later, after purchasing some hot Alaskan-made mustards, locally-manufactured soaps and a bear-print key ring, I decided to be on my way.

I had to watch my step among the teenagers on wooden stilts and owners with dogs.

I will definitely be back before September, when the weather pushes people indoors, away from the refreshing zeal of this open-air market.

A Third Encounter

2007-08-05T01:39:00.001-07:00

July 1

It was Sunday and time for yet another dreaded bi-weekly Wal-Mart excursion. I set out, (begrudgingly) to the megastore, and braced myself for the throngs of Fairbanksians that would await me – the mothers with their whining teenage daughters, the part-time residents, those summer-only foreigners who will ask you questions in thick European accents you can’t understand, and the strange goth crews with purple black hair and bullet shell belts, who, more than likely, have recently done some illicit drugs.

I also braced myself for Floyd. After an hour workout and a sit in the sauna, I was really just ready to get home, and didn’t want to get into a long conversation. It was around the same time as the last Sunday when I had seen Floyd, so I purposely went into the garden entrance to avoid a chance encounter. And of course, there he was, on the other side of the fence, pushing some flowers and peat moss bags in a cart. It didn’t look like he saw me.

Phew.

Later, after I had left Wal-Mart, and attempted to go to Sam’s, which was closed, I went back for the rest of my much-needed items. As I entered Wal-Mart for a second time in just two hours, I saw Floyd, greeting customers at the garden entrance and pushing carts as they walked by. I realized I must show some sign of recognition, so I looked right at him and smiled.

Nothing.

I got absolutely no look of recognition from Floyd’s face. He literally had no idea who I was. Needless to say, I admit I wasn’t completely surprised, based on my previous interactions with him. I was also glad to have the ability to remain anonymous, and slipped sheepishly past to run my errands.

Later, when I tucked my hand into my wallet for my Fred Meyer rewards card, I saw Floyd’s roller skating business card and wondered, would I regret my decision to avoid a conversation with the kind but off-kilter geriatric?

A Man and his Dog

2007-08-05T01:38:00.002-07:00

July 5

It was a warm July day as I drove home from work. We had been lucky, and the ominous storm clouds which often form in the summer afternoons had not broken through. As I was driving past Pioneer Park, aka Alaskaland, I caught sight of the car next to me. The driver seemed to be a young man, and he had a nice, black Ford truck. He hauled a boat behind him. That’s not a very irregular sight here, as it’s common to see people driving with canoes and kayaks tied above their cars, ready to spring a trip to the river at a moment’s notice.

The interesting thing was his precious Cargo in the “bitch” seat, if you will. (You know, the seat in the middle of a truck seat entitled only to clingy teenage girlfriends.) Anyway, in this case, the rider in the middle seat was his dog. It looked to be a rather large breed, maybe a Lab or Retriever.

The thing that caught my attention was how he had his arm around the dog, just like a man may do with a woman. He stayed in that position for quite some time, longer than one would think for a man and his dog. As we drove through another light, I had to make myself pay attention to the road. It was a little comical, but I think even more endearing.

A Walk in the Park

2007-08-05T01:38:00.001-07:00

June 25

Yesterday I decided to take the dogs on a walk. Only this time, instead of sticking to the woods and streets around our complex, I decided I would bear the 20-minute drive to the Noel Wein Park, located directly next to the city’s library.

The park has sidewalks, pretty flowers and native plantings. There is also lots of green space. The dogs were immediately excited. Before we excited the car, Doggy further damaged my hearing by emitting one of his new sounds. It resembles a mix between a woman screaming and a baby crying. When you watch him make the shrill noise, his little mouth just barely opens. I hurriedly untangled their leashes so I wouldn’t have to bear it any longer.

As soon as we got to the sidewalk, the dogs immediately peed on the side of a trashcan. Courage was so worked up he started snorting. I felt happy because I think this place reminded them of home, and the paved streets and perfect landscaping to which they are accustomed.

The walk was interesting. There was a local group of about 10 teens. At times they would throw a football, and then they would just all sit around in a circle. One of the kids had hooked up his portable Play Station to the power outlet in the nearest parking space, which was really meant for block heater plugs in winter time. One of the teens sported a full Boy Scout uniform. I wonder if he was going for that alternative geek look, or if he had really just left a meeting. A girl with peroxide-white hair clung to him, as if after that day they would never meet again.

A thin man with a mullet and denim shorts sat on a bench, where he flew his American flag-print kite. It waved nicely in the strong wind.

At one point, I heard strange bird calls in the trees above me. I looked, and listened, and heard the foreign guttural coos, but could never spot the avian.

The most interesting part of the walk was when I decided to take the bridge, which leads through a few trees and a ditch. It was there I saw a clustering of Alaskan natives. They were standing in the ditch, talking and laughing boisterously. I wondered, was this a sort of bible study?

Then I spotted the man with a bandana wrapped around his head. It was similar to the ones sported by the Asian break dancers at the summer solstice festival. Then I wondered if perhaps they were about to practice Tai-Chi, or some other mind-body integration workout.

I walked further away from them, but as the sidewalk wove around it became parallel with Airport Way, one of the main thoroughfares in town. The people’s laughter was immediately drowned out by the unbearable roar of traffic. I turned around to head back and it was then I noticed the people looking at me.

A woman yelled a question to me. After having to ask her to repeat herself two times, I finally was able to understand the word, “Chihuahua.” I’m not sure if I couldn’t understand her because of her strong accent, or because I was distracted by the man standing immediately to her left. Was that a beer in his hand? Were they having a booze fest in a wooded ditch by the library at 4 in the afternoon on a Monday?

I responded, “Yes, they’re Chihuahuas.” “They’re cute,” she yelled back. As I walked away, I heard the phrases, “Taco Bell dogs,” and realized they were still talking about my little treasures.

If they were to hear Doggy’s woman/baby death scream, they probably wouldn’t think he was cute anymore.

Having encountered enough oddities for the day, I lead the dogs back to the car and headed for home.

Another Encounter with Floyd

2007-08-05T01:37:00.001-07:00

June 24

Do you ever go to the store, and end up leaving with something you didn’t even have on your list? Sometimes it can be the most random of items. You know what I’m talking about – the radio alarm clock you didn’t really need, or the cool squishy gel candle that would make the living room smell nice, even though you have about 50 Party Light candles in the cabinet.

On Sunday this happened to me. Only it wasn’t an item I bought, it was information I gained, and believe me, I never thought it would be on this particular subject.

I had just walked into our local Wal-Mart and grabbed a cart when I looked back and thought I spotted a familiar face, an old man with white hair. Walking away, I realized the man in the blue Wal-Mart polo was Floyd, the kind, off-kilter gentleman who had helped David and me just a couple weeks ago, when we ran out of gas at 1:00 a.m.

I walked to the restroom and resolved that if he was still out there when I returned I would go say hello. Of course, as luck would have it, there he was, straightening the carts and greeting customers.

I walked up to him.

“Hi Floyd, I’m Jenny, you helped my husband and I a couple weeks ago when our truck ran out of gas,” I said.

He remembered, and immediately abandoned his efforts to straighten the carts. He then commented on how it was interesting the Alaska State Trooper let him tow us with a line. Apparently, it became illegal a few years back.

I thanked him again for helping us.

I had barely finished my sentence when Floyd launched onto a new subject. (I had a feeling this would happen, given our previous conversation.)

He began to tell me about how he promotes roller skating rinks all over the country, since they encourage family togetherness and help decrease drug and alcohol use in cities. He said how he’s been trying for years to get one in Fairbanks, but to no avail. However, he said his support for a roller skating rink was not a business venture, just something he wanted to see happen. Nonetheless, Floyd chose to share with me he has in excess of $12,000 wrapped up in his efforts.

Just when I thought the conversation couldn’t get any stranger, he told me how back in his early days, he was a professional roller skater.

“Ah, but I haven’t skated in more than 40 years,” he recollected.

He pulled out a business card complete with roller skate clip art, his name and address, and a few choice logos:

Fun, Recreation
Keeping Rollerskating Alive
Will promote new or existing rinks anywhere in the USA
Boost your attendance in existing rinks
Keeping attendance in new rinks with new ideas, old ideas and special promotions.
Member: National Museum of Roller Skating

I began to tell Floyd how I thought his efforts would make a great newspaper article. It was the only way I could think to help raise awareness to his cause. He said in the past there have been a few “Letters to the Editor.” And indeed, when I googled his name, I did find a broken link to the Anchorage newspaper which mentioned his name.

Denali and Dave's Sprained Ankle

2007-08-05T01:35:00.000-07:00

It’s known across the United States that Alaska is a wild place. And it goes without saying that if you don’t treat this wilderness with respect, it may just kick your butt.

This past Saturday, David and me, err, David, all too painfully learned this lesson.
After a two hour drive to Denali National Park and more than 30 minutes of walking along the park road, we had finally arrived at the Taiga trailhead. We were to take that for the next 30 minutes to the trailhead of Mount Healy, the steepest of the park’s entryway trails, with an elevation increase of 1,800 feet. We climbed for almost four hours to reach the top of the 5,000-foot mountain.

When the trail got steep, we took frequent water breaks, me panting and feeling the increasing sweat between my pack and the back of my shirt. About ¾ of the way in, I couldn’t go on. We had to stop so I could change back into my sneakers. I had the brilliant idea to buy brand new hiking boots right before we left and then break them in on the trail.

But the real kicker came when we reached the top of the trail. I was exhausted, and since I was wearing sneakers, decided I would sit instead of walking along the trail on the mountain top. I figured this was a wise decision since that part of the trail was extremely narrow and had steep drop-offs, and my Adidas didn’t offer the best traction. David, being adventurous, wanted to keep going. It probably wasn’t my best judgment to tell him to go alone, considering just 30 minutes earlier he wanted to climb vertical rock formations (in his jeans and combat boots) instead of following the trail.

Close to 10 minutes later, I became more and more concerned about the looming storm clouds in front of us. We were above tree line and I knew we had to get to a lower elevation. I started calling for David. Nothing. Great. I started off on the rest of the trail to find him. Just over the next crest, I saw him, walking rather slowly. When he got closer, I noticed he was hobbling.

Seems when he was on a steep downhill section on top of this mountain, he decided he would let the energy of his body carry him into a run instead of using slow, controlled footing.

Yep, David twisted his ankle at the very top of the mountain. Part of me wonders if he was inspired by Bear Grylls, the agile outdoorsmen of the Discovery Channel show, Man v. Wild.

The descent down was quite eventful. Between David scuttling along on his butt down half of the trail and me looking for walking sticks for him, the storm descended on us. I started to wonder if maybe we should have taken the man with the English accent up on his offer to help us down. After all, he had looked at us as if we were crazy for laughing at our situation.

At the worst part of our journey down, I remember yelling at David to stop whining as I raced ahead to the nearest tree to stay out of the rain. He told me that was the first time in his life he had ever been told that.

Later, when the trail seemed completely deserted, we noticed fresh animal tracks. They were large, and in a hoof shape. I also noticed places where the brush was beaten down right off the trail. From the shape of it, they seemed to be animal trails. Better yet, at this point it was 9:00 in the evening, when all the animals start to come out. Highlights included David walking, hunched over a walking stick, like an old, feeble man. My nervousness finally settled down when we reached the railroad tracks near the park’s main road.

In all, it had taken us more than 3 hours to descend the mountain.

The next day, as David sat with his ankle extended on the coffee table at our apartment, we could hear the voice of Bear Grylls, the seasoned adventurer on Man v. Wild. As he slid down a hill in the Hawaiian wilderness, he warned in his English accent, “Now be careful with your footing when you run down steep hills, or you could twist your ankle …”

“Great,” David says, “you tell me this now.”

Ironically, David asked me today where we would hike this upcoming weekend. I hope he was joking.

Summer Solstice Celebration

2007-08-05T01:33:00.002-07:00

June 21

Ah, the summer solstice. If my theory about the excess of sunlight (and darkness) has anything to do with people’s behavior, then my guess is that on this day Fairbanksians are at the peak of their weirdness.

David and I planned to go to the Midnight Sun Festival (which lasts all day), after he got off work. I had a feeling I was going to see some eccentricities when Leo Zeek, the director at the Fairbanks Job Center, recommended that David and I go.

“You’ll see some things that you’ll just say, ‘oh my gosh, what is that,’” Zeek said with a chuckle.

We arrived downtown around 8:00. The first sight to meet our eyes was a street dancing/break dancing competition. I saw a number of guys who looked to be Asian ninjas, but I think were just some native people dressed in bandanas, karate kid style. Some of them were watching, and others were doing a synchronized dance on the checkered dance floor which was laid on the street. Some white guys in baggy shorts and plaid button-downs would occasionally join it. I was actually enjoying myself when David piped in, “Remind me just how boring this is …”

So we continued on. Within a minute, I saw a young boy riding on what looked to be a mechanized bull – the kind which dot Fort Worth’s streets and nightclubs. But when we got closer I realized the child was actually being thrashed around on a giant salmon.

I immediately reached for my camera, and then winced in anger. I had left it on the TV in our bedroom from the night before, when I took sneak photos of David sleeping in one of my eye masks.

I didn’t have much time to contemplate my loss, because I became distracted by a loud whistle right in front of me. A man in a red-cut-off sleeve t-shirt with a mullet and bangs was blowing obnoxiously into it.

“Mark, get rid of that whistle,” his wife scolded.

“I like it, huh huh huh,” I heard him muse as he walked past, shoving the whistle back into his plastic bag.

We rounded a corner, and immediately saw a man in a pinwheel hat and Hawaiian shirt. He was standing by his wares, which included about 20 satin, sequined bras, some of humongous proportions. One even had a decoration of hands grabbing it.

“They’re handmade,” he said, as if that would lure us into buying one. David was already distracted. He was leaning into the window of a classic Ford truck which had been restored. I looked with him for a moment, and then saw movement on the sidewalk across the street. A teenage boy on springing stilts was running down the sidewalk. As he darted ahead, his body would hunch forward, I guess to balance out the stilts.

A few minutes later we came across a booth with arctic fox pelts. They hung on round hooks, and it made me sad to think of how they were killed and stripped of their fur. A woman who reminded me of mom, who looked fit and well dressed, was fondly admiring one.

As we walked forward, the sounds of Caribbean drums began to fill my ears. We stumbled across Cold Steel, Fairbanks’ very own steel drum band. The name itself makes me think Zoolander. There were about 20 people playing. Some wore bandanas, others tie-dye, and many had on their Cold Steel t-shirts. One woman who looked to be in her 50s was very into the music. As she played her drums and danced, her silvery hair would bounce off her shoulders. When the band was done one of their songs, the large audience clapped enthusiastically. I clapped as well.

After a while, David’s ankle started to bother him. And then we ran into someone he knew, but didn’t really like. I wasn’t sure what to make of him and his wife. They seemed rather pensive and his wife gave me one of those dreaded fish handshakes.

“Come on, let’s get out of here before I run into anyone else I don’t like,” David said.

Later on that night, I passed the bedroom where David was sleeping. The curtains were fluttering in the wind, and every few seconds, a glimpse of golden sunlight would sneak in. It looked as if David was taking a late afternoon nap. But it was actually 11:30 at night, and he had been asleep for an hour.

From this point on, we will lose a little more sunlight each day, until the winter solstice, when we’re completely enveloped in darkness. I wonder what the people of this city will be like then.

Running out of Gas

2007-08-05T01:33:00.001-07:00

June 10

It goes without saying that ‘Ol Blue, Dave’s 1979 Ford F-150, has a few quirks. One such quirk is a fuel gage which always point to Empty. As a solution, Dave usually ensures to get gas once every few days. I think you know where this story is going.
Last night around 12:45, Dave and I were on our way home from a movie. We were 5 minutes from home. He looked over at me and said he was going to stop and get gas just up ahead, at the corner of Chena Ridge Road.
No more than 30 seconds later, Dave starts yelling, “What the freak!?” As if on cue, the truck ran out of gas. It didn’t even sputter, it just stopped moving forward. We pulled the car to the side of the road, contemplating our situation. Dave would just have to push the truck while I steered. Our goal was the gas station, about a half mile ahead.
After about five minutes, a pale blue GMC Sierra pulled up behind us.
A tiny, spectacled elderly man jumped out. He had on his Wal-Mart vest and a nametag which read Floyd. The sprite man wanted to help us. He offered to pull us to the gas station with, well whatever it is that is used to pull one car behind another.
Dave accepted.
Just then, an Alaska State Trooper pulled up behind Floyd. He assessed the situation, hit his night stick against the palm of his hand, and seeing that we didn’t need help, left.
When we got to the gas station, David braked his car as Floyd stopped, but the yellow cable wrapped around ‘Ol Blue’s front tire.
As David worked to detach the cable, Floyd gave us grandfatherly advice and said we should get a gas container. (He was going to give us his, but couldn’t find it in the back of his truck.)
He then proceeded to tell me how last winter, after living in Fairbanks for 28 years, he also ran out of gas, and had to walk in negative 40 degrees to the nearest gas station. He then paused, anticipating our reaction.
Floyd then launched into the make and model of every old truck he’s ever owned and what went wrong with it.
After the episode last winter, Floyd said he decided to get a newer truck.
“That’s when I got this truck here,” he said, pointing to his 1995 Sierra. “It was the first one I ever had credit on. All the other ones were only four or five hundred dollars, because they were so old,” he laughed.
By the time Dave was done detangling the cable and pumping his gas, he and Floyd were both leaning against the tailgate, arms outstretched in the same way, as if they were having a manly chat. Only Floyd, with his slight frame, was barely visible over the back of the truck.
I think we will follow the hearty Alaskan’s advice. Today we will buy a large gas can.

Farmer's Markets, Pipelines and German Shepards

2007-08-05T01:32:00.000-07:00

June 10
There are three things that signify it’s summertime in Fairbanks: bike riders which dot the sidewalks, throngs of tour buses which congest the city’s streets (Holland America, Princess, etc.) and finally, the farmer’s market, which is open Wednesdays and Saturdays from June to September.
I wanted to go yesterday, so I googled Fairbanks Farmer’s Market, scribbled an address onto the back of a crumpled receipt and set off on my way. I was alone because David said he hates farmer’s markets and would only behave terribly. Knowing he was probably right, I didn’t protest.
I drove to Old Steese Highway, looking for the ever-elusive Fox Farmer’s Market at 2502 Old Steese. I passed Cold Spot Feeds at 1109 Old Steese. But then a minute later, I whizzed past The Northernmost Girl Scout Council, at 431 Old Steese.
I figured maybe the directions meant Steese Expressway. On my way back to the highway, I came across a man riding his motorcycle. He was moving his neck very quickly to the left and right, in a jerky movement. Maybe he was listening to the radio, and jamming to an old rock tune. Perhaps he had turettes, or maybe he was being attacked by one of Fairbanks’ overly-aggressive dime-sized mosquitos.
The car in front of me had an eclectic array of bumper stickers – “Hold the rush, pass me now,” “My cat is smarter than your honor student,” and “Drilling is not the answer,” were among some of my favorites.
Within minutes, I realized perhaps Fox was not just the name of the farmer’s market, but maybe an actual town. The Fox – 8 miles sign may have given it away.
It’s ironic to have seen the drilling bumper sticker, because within minutes of leaving town I happened across the Trans-Alaska Pipeline, or Alyeska Pipeline as it’s also called.
Tour buses hogged most of the spots on the highway pull off. I decided to take a look. Tourists were enthusiastically taking photos. Some would stand in groups under the pipeline, while others would reach their arms up, as if they could touch it. A woman in fuzzy moose antlers and circular green-rimmed sunglasses stood out from the crowd. I hoped she was a tour guide and not dressing in that fashion by choice.
I spotted a sign that read “Please don’t climb on the pipeline, you could be injured in a fall.” I am glad they posted that warning. I was just considering how easy it would be to scale my way up the side.
After leaving the tourists behind, I set back out on the highway, which was plagued with frost heaves. Bump after bump in the road left me with a feeling of nausea similar to what you would experience on a kiddie roller coaster ride.
All I saw was abandoned gold camps and factories, and a German Shephard (pictured), meandering down the side of the highway. He didn’t seem to mind my presence as I drove slowly by, which is why my photo of him is so blurry.
I then saw a sign for Fox, turned, and after passing the dilapidated Howling Dog Saloon, saw the sign for the Farmer’s Market. The parking lot was abandoned. The sign read: “Open Fridays, 10 – 6.”
Huh.
I drove back home, perplexed. The whole trip took more than an hour, and I was still void of fruits and vegetables.
That night, as I chatted with the woman in the quaint soap shop at Pioneer Park, I finally solved the mystery of that ever elusive farmer’s market. The shop keeper said it was not in Fox, but on College Road, which is less than 10 minutes from our apartment.
Nice.

Hiking at Chena State Park

2007-08-05T01:31:00.000-07:00

May 31
Sunday Dave and I went hiking near the Chena Hot Springs. We chose a trail that was quite steep. It was called the Ridge Trail and went for miles. Dave and I only made it about two miles into the trail, since the climb was so steep. We had to stop every five minutes and break.
After three hours of hiking, we were ready for some relaxation. So we went for a soak in the hot springs. I enjoyed crawling onto the rocks, and would attempt to sun myself like a lizard. I would then get too cold and flounder back into the water.
When we were done and ready to leave, David and I saw a curious site. An elderly woman walked past. She had on a bathing cap, and portrayed the usual sagging and wrinkles that age can bring. The funny part was, she had trouble walking, but instead of using a walker, she opted for ski poles, and would stab the wood deck with each step. Maybe she was an alpine outdoorswoman in her youthful days.

Traffic jams, baby-blue bikinis and parking lot urination

2007-08-05T01:30:00.002-07:00

May 31
I had three firsts last week, when I headed off, unsuspecting, on a simple outing to Sam’s Club and Wal-Mart. First, when I was cruising down Johannsen Expressway, the traffic suddenly slowed. I looked ahead of me, and noticed the highway was backed up way ahead. I glanced at the clock - it was 5:15. So I guess there is a rush hour in the arctic desert after all.
A few minutes later, as I was perusing the aisles at our local Wal-Mart, I caught site of something which made my eyes widen and my mouth fill with bile. I think I was in the back of the store, near the electronics.
A couple walked by. There was nothing unusual about the man, save for a mullet.
But the woman was sporting cutoff denim shorts and a baby-blue bikini top. Unfortunately, it was not a pretty site to see, as the top flattened her breasts in triangular shapes. I guess it was too much effort to put on a shirt. And where was she planning on swimming? In the icy Chena River?
The third site met my eyes as I unloaded groceries at Sam’s Club. I noticed the man, two parking spots away, facing his truck with the passenger door open. I heard his wife coaching him, “Honey, turn this way so no one will see.”
It was then I noticed the puddle, and the splattering between his feet. His wife then walked toward the store and I glared at him through my oversized sunglasses. As I drove away, he turned and gave me a thumbs up sign, as if I was in on their disgusting little urination secret.
I guess there’s a first for everything. Except in Fairbanks, I suspect the firsts may be just a little more bizarre.

Church

2007-08-05T01:30:00.001-07:00

May 20
This morning was the first time Dave and I went to church since arriving in Fairbanks. We chose the 10:30 service, at Syndoulos Lutheran Church, a modest A-Frame building on Geist Road.
The first thing I noticed when we took our seats was all the wood - wooden walls, wooden pews, a log alter and a log pulpit. Notebook-sized banners filled the spaces between the narrow stained-glass windows, and bright shades of yellow, pink and purple fake flowers decorated the alter. A simple wooden cross draped in a white cloth served as the sanctuary’s focal point.
Then I took in the people surrounding me.
In front of us, a couple, probably in their 50s. The wife, with short white hair, sported a navy blue sequined hat, similar to the ones you might see in a 1980s Paula Abdul video. Her shirt was a color explosion in the image of a small village street scene, complete with shops and hanging flower baskets. Her socks, a vivid orange and pink combo, added to the flair of the outfit.
Partway into the sermon, the woman reached over to smooth her husband’s unruly grayish-brown hair. He had combed it over to one side, but a sizable chunk would continually work its way over to the right.
Then there was the elderly couple a few rows up, to our left. They sat, backs hunched and faces withered, with their heads barely visible over the backs of the pews. It was as if time had shrunk their frames back to the size of young children.
Since were weren’t allowed to take communion, I was able to soak in some of the other 60 or so people partaking in communion.
Bright sundresses, perms, tattooed arms and banana-print shirts were some of the characteristics observed.
All this time, you must wonder, was I paying attention to the service? I was, to the minister, that is.
I’m not sure if my difficulty concentrating was due to his receding white hair, which was brushed over his forehead like a monk, or if it was his wandering eye, on which I could never fully fixate my gaze. Each time we would sing a hymn, he would disappear behind the pulpit, only to pop up again for a rehearsed prayer or liturgy.
David and I couldn’t help but notice the number of pregnant women. Whether in a flower-print dress or slimming black piece, their bellies protruded, one after the other.
Accordingly, babies’ cries resonated throughout the sanctuary. Once one would stop, another would begin, as if the youngsters had synchronized their efforts to keep us non-child-bearing adults from being able to hear our own thoughts.
It was a nice, simple service, with some friendly people. But we will probably not be back.

Fairbanks, City of Oddities

2007-08-05T01:29:00.001-07:00

May 3
I’m not sure if it’s the sun that just won’t go down, or the city’s remote location, but there’s something about Fairbanks that seems a bit odd, perhaps removed from time.
Maybe it was the man I saw riding his bike down Airport Way, sporting parachute pants in a black and white checkered pattern, sort of like the flags in NASCAR races. They waved in the wind as he peddled down the sidewalk.
Or perhaps it was the car at the library parking lot, with stuffed animals that lined the back window.
And what was the deal with one of my neighbors? He was outside yesterday cutting wood. It was 40 degrees, and as I walked by in my turtleneck and goose down vest, I noted he had on shorts and a t-shirt.
Today, when it was 61 degrees out, David I noticed a girl in shorts and a spaghetti strap tank top walking up the hill which leads to our apartment complex.
I guess the eccentricities will become commonplace, in time.

Plane Ride to Seattle

2007-08-05T01:26:00.000-07:00

April 30
Small ice crystals have begun to form on the plane windows. I look down, and see miles of snow-covered mountains. Now that Doggy’s screeches and Courage’s cries have subsided, I have calmed down a bit. I look at the birds, and see that their chests move quickly, revealing their stress.
The air against the windows feels cold, and we haven’t even reached Seattle.
A new adventure awaits.