Dear family and friends,
It's been a while since I sent one of these
out. In my second year I haven’t been
writing as much because, well, this is my life and I’ve moved from “study
abroad mode” where everything is spectacle to “settle in” mode.
Don’t read
“settling” as “normal”. I still don’t have a car, electricity, or
running water and have to drive 7 hours to purchase underwear from a mall. This week I am wrapping things up at my
non-profit job in Fairbanks (leaving non-profits is like a pop music break-up),
helping my Crocodile Dundee-esque boyfriend transport hundreds of salmon, wood,
and gear by boat and truck (which just broke), identifying and moving anything
in my cabin that will not enjoy 40 below zero (see liquids in glass), and
otherwise outright scrambling madly to
get on a plane on Tuesday and head to the lower 48 to visit many of YOU.
If you’re not going to be around here’s some life
updates:
Pictures should be credited to Glenn Helkenn. Sorry for stealing, Glenn.
Summer Split
I have split my summer between working in Fairbanks and
visiting my boyfriend, friends Jeff, Glenn, Thomas and a stream of visitors at
our summer camp on the Tanana River. The
camp is located about 40 miles downriver of Fairbanks and jokingly called “the
camp on the river that flows from the land of many women.” Camp consists of an open-fire hearth communal
cooking area, usually covered in spruce bows, two Saami-style Lavvu tents (think
tipi), two wall tents, Jeff’s newly built earth lodge, a fish-fertilized
garden, very beautiful fish rack, and many squares of logs that may one day
grow into cabins—or planters. At camp we
basically do what we want. Most
activities are associated around subsistence (aka: getting food, clothes,
shelter, and sustenance directly from the land). My friend Laura explains it as “summer camp
for adults with no rules.” Enough of
that, here’s what its like:
River Eyes
The Tanana is a squinting river. The water is big. The sky is big. The sun converges the two so that even a slow-moving
canoeist has to squint to make out the rolling topography. On a clear day, Denali sometimes emerges
like a distant ghost.
David is a practiced squinter. His crinkle-cornered eyes have read the
script of many seasons. The
hieroglyphics of bent twigs and shaved tufts of hair. The onomatopoeia of bird calls. He constantly scans both banks for the
unusual- and sees things that are gone by the time he points. He makes a good boat captain.
Though David’s way is admirable, its actually the dogs that taught
me how to see from the boat. The dogs love boat rides. To them, the boat means a break from the
stagnant circles of their dog yard. They
perch as high as they can, front paws up on the bench seats and push their
faces into the wind like teenage beauty queens receiving an airborne love
potion. Their soft noses twitch subtly as
they drink in the details of untold stories.
Since my eyes fail me, I practice sitting in the boat like
the dogs, nose up. Scents and stories
jam into my nose and though I cannot discern their details, I know the regal
feeling of bathing in this connecting wind.
Fish Phobia
Some people fear rational things like heights, sharks, or broccoli.
I fear fish. Always have.
This is not something a good Alaskan would EVER admit. Not even on their deathbed. On a trip on the
Colville River last summer, I responded to my canoe partner catching an absolutely
GIANT northern pike and trying to place its still-beating heart in my bare palm
by backing into a cliff, nearly puking, and screaming “It’s like a horror
movie!” Aside from that episode, I kept
it secret, fearing that fish-pobia would be probable cause for the state to
deny my residency, take back my PFD (oil money), and kick me over to
Russia.
Luckily, I make up for my phobia by my true blue love for eating fish. But alas, my desire to practice the fish love
I preach has got me in a slow “treatment program” administered by my fish-phallic
friends. I started with the dead
ones. Not so bad to pick a net of dead
fish. I just really don’t like how they
move. Slimey. Squirmy.
It makes my skin crawl. Since dog
food costs $50/bag and we have 5 dogs, we need to catch about 600 fish to get
the dogs through winter. I carried LOTS
of fish up the bank and cut even more.
Cutting and carrying dead fish, check.
Then for the live ones, I tried some anti-stress
breathing. The climax occurred one day in August when I sat
on the front of the boat, gloves on, heartbeat steadied, and boyfriend just
inches from impressed….and the very first fish in the net was another GIANT
NORTHERN PIKE, head up, alive. I ran to
the back of the boat and weighed the pros of and cons of jumping off. Still working on that one.
Becoming a Witch
Doctor
In my kitchen there is no more room for cups. This is the result of an herb-sprawl that
came from my realization that lots of fantastic herbs grow right outside my
door and that drying them is easy. Add a
bunch of good friends and bible-like book called the Boreal Herbal and I’ve
become a very amateur herbalist. I made
tinctures, salves, and lots of teas. I
also dragged all the cool women I know in Fairbanks into the process by forming
a group called the “Local Harvest Ladies Night” in town. We meet once a weekish at varying locations
to partake in whatever is fun and local food-wise that week. We’ve even got a website with recipes: https://sites.google.com/site/localharvestladiesnight/
Added to the Estrogen
Levels of my Household
That’s right, I got a female dog. Her name is Ursa (as in bear, not the Little
Mermaid villan, Ursula), she is 3. She
is adorable. And she’s a badass, she
pulled me up Pinnell Mountain on my birthday backpacking trip. That makes the count 2:5, Jenna and Ursa
versus David, Skookum, Polar, Minto, and Tanana. We still have a long ways to go, but at least
I have a female ally who thinks she is a lap dog.
Tanana Silt
The river has had a lasting impression on me this
summer. Literally. Everything is covered in silt. Here’s a more poetic version….The first time
I met this river, I was immediately entranced by its silt. Swirling like the oil in perfume, popping and
fizzing like rolling rocks on the river bed, this river is a river of
glaciers. When I first paddled the
Tanana it was a sticky-hot day. Like a
good Midwestern child, I jumped in at our first break. My body warmed to the silt, soaking it into
my pores like shimmery lotion. The river
bottom oozed away like a gentle beach and I emerged bare-face smooth.
These days I can smell the silt—iron and porous and
temporary. I can taste it in my
teeth. It sticks to my hair, giving the
curls a brittle consistency that I savor upon my return to town. I often forego a shower for just one more day
of that metal earth smell. The silt
makes me feel like everything is slowly becoming a statue—reverently posed to
watch the river flow.
I hope that this silly update finds you healthy, happy, and
facing down your own fears and loves.
Cheers,
Jenna
