Winter Mirages

Why the Rose-colored glasses?

Reading over my letters, I realize that I paint an impossibly sunny picture of my life up here.  Sure, there are lots of double rainbows here, but the exceptional natural beauty that surrounds our little valley does not dissolve all ills.  I do not wish to portray that Alaska is a magical pocket of the world unaffected by economic depression, corruption, homelessness, climate change (which is actually happening 4 times faster in the arctic then elsewhere) racism, sexism, and boy trouble.  All of these things are real here.  Nor is it the case that my personal orbit is utterly free of obstacles, self-doubt, and fear.  In the last twenty four hours, for example, I  shattered a ski binding, our dog was hit and killed by a car, and our cabin nearly caught fire.  How tenuous is the pivot that changes life as we know it.  So why, when I sit down to capture my experiences of this place does everything come out like cotton candy?

Reason 1: Be practical: when you are 22 years old and live thousands of miles from home in a cabin without a lock, its best to not freak out your audience.  Especially if this audience includes your grandmother and a host of family and friends that you are subtly pressuring to drop $1,000 on a visit.  For example, when I called my mother (the only cell phone number I have committed to memory) from the inside of a car repair shop after getting lost on skijor trails and locked out of work for four hours without my phone, wallet, or a worthwhile pair of pants in negative twenty I explained it in terms of a “slight miscalculation.”

Reason 2: I am generally determined to use humor to make the best of whatever comes my way and learn from challenges.  These letters are about sharing the good that comes out of my experiences, even if they aren’t all ephemeral when actualized.

Reason 3: Fairbanks is technically a desert.  I often see things through the sheen of my bright red hair.  The result of this combination is that lately I’ve been seeing mirages.  Mirages are created when the air next to the earth becomes warmer than the air immediately above it.  I think they must also happen when fresh dry snow performs synchronized swirling, skating before the car in sheets, disguising and bedazzling the road below.  And when I light a candle to watch the light dance.  The world that each us sees is the creation of our minds.  The world that I’ve always seen has been nothing short of magical. 

In order to illustrate this, I offer a literal picture:

This is a shot that Kyle took of the stars and moon over a river in Denali.  I was present for the inception, and I remember it well.  The smell was windswept and lonesome.  The sound was humming liquid tranquility. The feeling was that of being pulled forward by your clavicle by some universal beckoning of the starry night.  If you were to look behind the camera lens, you would find me, wrapped in a scarf, eyes half closed, absorbing these details.  Back home on a computer screen, the picture looked comparatively bleak.  The river was flowing glass, but the starts lacked their twinkle, the feeling was lost.  On Photoshop, he adjusted levels of tone, light, coloration and to my amazement, the picture came alive.  “There!” I exclaimed, “that is how I see the world.”  This is what I try to capture for you.

Lately my mirages have been focused on the rotation of seasons.  The sun has returned in earnest, in nine-hour shifts, to banish the frigid chalky tone from the sky.  March is a sweet reprieve from the harsh temperatures of February and the darkness of December.  We can feel the sun again.

Skiing along the valley trails

The summer flashes arise

The sweet snow lanes before me

Transform to dew drops

In a murky marsh

Full of bugs and sun

The world bumps and bustles

With light and lithe

We lighten ourselves

Narrow down our loads

And begin to twirl

So in this letter I have attempted to address some of the challenges and how I convert them to joys.  In case I was getting too poetic and mushy…we do have a real problem on hand.  This section is about the latest developments of our outhouse, read on at your own discretion. 

Battle of the Poopsicle:

I first became aware of the danger looming behind our cabin when I came home from my lower forty eight trip in January.  I was excitedly slipping on boots to head to the outhouse when Sara’s face stopped me in my tracks. 

“Erm-be careful…” her expression threatened to implode to laughter or crying.

“There’s quite the-er- look in the hole.”

I did so.  And to my surprise I encountered a veritable stalagmite of frozen excretion, decorated like a Christmas tree with whisps of toilet paper.  The popsicle was menacingly close to the foam seat.  Impalement was a clear danger.

“Aaaah!” I ran back to the cabin laughing explosively.

What to do?  Naturally, I sought advice of locals at work, social events, and the supermarket.  Lori suggested that we melt it out with hot water.  Sara wanted to with a shovel.  We don’t have a shovel so I suggested a ski pole.  Marla advised us to hold our attack until it was cold and brittle, as in –40.  Liz suggested we invite a polar bear over for tea.  Our ever-practical executive director suggested adjusting our angle when using the facility.  An unmentioned comrade told us to move our outhouse, set up a shrine, and have people throw pennies at it and make wishes.  Thus far the only action taken has been to laugh a lot.  I tried to knock it down using an old board, but to little avail.  We are still collecting suggestions if you’re feeling particularly clever.

This is from the world ice carving championships.  Put here to illustrate how tough the ice is!

Dancing off Burnout

In the non-profit line of work, we have to remain ever vigilant of the looming possibility of burnout.  In a brainstorming session for our 40^th anniversary, we decided that the Northern Center is the smallest group of people (8 staff, 13 board) working to defend the largest territory (arctic and subarctic Alaska) with the smallest budget.  I have driven by the Northern center on more than one Friday night and seen the telltale lights of overtime.  There are days when the problems, corporations, and risks seem incomprehensively huge and I feel acutely inexperienced and underprepared.  At times like this, I turn to the advice of the fantastic generation before me. 

“That’s what I would say to you, in the midst of these difficult times.  If you are going into that place of intent to preserve the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge or the wildlands in Utah, you have to know how to dance.”- Mardy Murie

This is a different kind of dancing.  It is the kind that you do when its negative thirty outside and you’re antsy.  The kind where you walk straight from the door of the bar to the dance floor.  And spend your week’s grocery funds on a Rusted Root concert (very worth eating oatmeal for lunch).  It’s the kind of movement that is born from moments of exasperation where you realize that your options are to laugh, cry, or dance and you choose all three. 

Dancing in Snowshoes is Not Advisable

            A similar thing happened with the snow.  Even the worst of Michigan snow days could not prepare me for the effects of our latest snowstorm.  The trails vanished.  Cars vanished.  Mailboxes were nowhere to be seen.  The lake that I generally run across became a depository for extra snow, and I sunk in over my waist and had to break the trail for Chandalar by crawling on my elbows.  Baby steps.  Having no shovel, I snowshoed, then skied, then walked my trails clear.  Sara crawled on top of her car and log-rolled it clear with her body. 

The only real course of action is to laugh in exasperation and make snow angels.  They are my version of graffiti, and I have been marking the trials with them.  Each day on my romps, I make a point to fall straight back into the snow and swish my arms and legs like windshield wipers.  I love the feeling of the snow molding around and supporting the curve of my back like tempur-pedic foam.  Relish the chance to listen to my heart beat and feel the blood circulate through my limbs.  Lying in my little dip of snow, I can meld in with the world and take a moment to get the snow’s view of the birds.