Tag Archives: seasonal life

Alaska Snapshots

Even though I’m in Minnesota right now, I’ve still got Alaska on my mind. Here are some snapshots from the summer:

 

I sleep in late, then staOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAgger to the outhouse through bright sunshine. Dogs raise a ruckus up the hill, and I pause on the porch. Movement through the aspen just above – a big moose. The dogs howl again, engines rev, and the moose clops down the road, gangly legs akimbo, before crashing off through the brush and into the pond with a splash.

 
Soup bubbles on the stove. Britta leans against the counter and gazes outside at the spruce trees. The dwarf birch bush at the corner of the cabin is illuminated with ripe summer eight o’clock sunshine, and its round shiny leaves seem to give off light, not just reflect it. Spider web silk transects leaves and limbs, light traveling its length in glancing ripples. Insects catch the light as they swarm.

dry cabinPhoto credit: Britta Baker

 

I spent a pleasant few minutes this afternoon burning used toilet paper in the old paint can in the outhouse. I worried about flames leaping from the can and licking at the old snags of black spruce, so I stayed and babysat the fire, side-stepping the thick curling smoke as it wound through my legs and poured into the aspen stand.  Though I now smell like sweet smoke and my eyes sting and burn, these are some of the few moments I can spend outside without mosquitoes swarming. Instead of their fleeting gray shadow-bodies, the light floating shadows of ash.

 

The night starts to get darkish by 12:45am. Still eerie dusky-white skies outside, but reflections grow in the windows and lamps are needed. Starting to get an idea of how quiet and spooky this cabin can be, as the cat stares out the window with an unblinking concentration, body tense. I peer out. All is blue shadow layered on gray, my reflection clearer than what is outside. A big moth flaps at the screen.

Dusk in denaliPhoto credit: Britta Baker

 

An evening layered in gray and white. Rain on my windshield, blackening the road in two tire stripes. A gulf of white off north and east as I drive to Healy. A gray owl flaps to a spruce, pinions and pinnacle.

Just off the phone with Lauren in DC. Behind her voice I heard the city – sirens, car horns, people, traffic. Movement and texture and color: a different world, so far away from my rain and owls, spruce and mountains. Outside, what I hear: the gritty sound of a car going up the gravel road. “Matzo! Matzo!” the girl calls her dog. A plane low in the sky. The roar of a four-wheeler. The rain has stopped, though the clouds are still white and wet-looking. Mostly I hear dense silence.

lousewortPhoto credit: Britta Baker


Midnight and we are drag-our-feet tired as we get out of Ol’ Blue and slam the doors. A white and brown spotted horse stands in front of the cabin across from us. “A horse!” we whisper to each other, delighted. One hoof is delicately raised as it looks at us through the dim gray light, ears forward. We pet its damp neck, its soft rippling nose. It feels sweet to lean into a large animal, warm skin, the solid weight, and feel it brace you.

 

Labrador tea and dwarf birch paint my bare legs with rain as I walk down the path to my cabin in the midnight July cloudy light. Eggs cupped in hand at this hour glow like the moon in the blue dusk.

 

Old guys in Rose’s Café wear camo jackets and baseball caps and button-downs.
“I don’t like living in Anchorage.”
“Stankorage,” chortles his pal.
They joke with the waitress, the only one I’ve seen when I come here. There is an ease, a long familiarity of people with the place that I like.

 

I hear a strange sound outside – a chirring, a high kikiki, distant cooing. Movement embedded in sound. It makes me restless and avid to see what is making the noise. I step into boots then go out on the porch and look up. Ragged lines of tiny black silhouettes, close enough to see wing beats, and the long outstretched necks. Hundreds of sandhill cranes passing overhead, skeins of bird yarn unraveling in the wind. My neck grows sore from craning.

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Scrape Ol’ Blue at 5:30am, then drive south to work. Stars hang like pendulums in the clear pre-dawn sky. The sky lightens incrementally, by degrees. The mountains are black, and a thick white bank of fog is suspended above the Nenana river, tracing its contours below the mountains.

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Filed under Alaska, Cooking, Denali National Park, Home, Nature, Seasonal Life, Snapshots

Transitions

I haven’t written in a while. It’s been months, in fact, months of upheaval and transition. When I wrote last, I lived in a small apartment in Missoula, Montana, was surrounded by an abundance of dear friends, and worked several part-time jobs, none of them enough to make ends meet. The last time I had a chance to think, the lilacs were heavy and purple in my backyard, and I stared at them from my yellow couch, which at the time sat on the porch before moving to a new home. The late spring sun soaked into me, and I let it roast my shoulders, imagining that this was all the summer I would get.

Since then, I have moved out of my apartment of five years, packed away most of my belongings, said too many goodbyes, drugged my cat, and driven 2,000 miles (cat in car) from Montana to interior Alaska. I don’t know when I will return to Montana. I drove north into winter, from flurries in Jasper the first night, up into the high mountains of British Columbia, to cold nights and frost heaves in the Yukon, and into a blizzard and two feet of snow in Denali. I have moved into a dry cabin, purchased my first car, and started two jobs. I have watched the snow recede from around my cabin into deep yellow puddles as the weather went from twenty degrees to seventy-five. From icy wind whistling through the cracks in our log cabin, we’ve seen an influx of mosquitoes and flies. In the last two weeks, the aspen have greened with sticky buds, and the puddles have soaked into the tundra, and flowers have exploded everywhere. On a hike recently, we found rich purple Pasque flowers – harbingers of spring! – wind flowers, rock jasmine, alp lily, the beginnings of Lapland diapensia, pink wooly lousewort, mountain avens, low-bush cranberry blooms. Even better than the flowers, though, more fitting with my mood, was a large mound of coyote scat, white with hair and chipped bones. I leaned over the scat and poked at it with a stick, touched the hard ivory fragments of bone.

Now I sit at my table and stare out at white spruce and my outhouse and green aspen. I sip wine and try to think about transitions. But there is something indigestible about the move I just made, something that sticks in my throat. I swallowed this move whole, both the parts that I needed, and the parts that claw me on the inside until I bleed. It is wrong to leave friends I love, friends who sustain and nurture me. It is impossible to turn my back on the low golden hills of Missoula, the towering cumulus clouds, the easy camaraderie of knowing a place well. I hug Alaska friends in greeting, but the goodbyes are still too fresh, and I tear up though I should be joyful. Oversized mosquitoes buzz my head at night and I curse their blood-lust, though my brief pain is their sustenance.

So here I am. Still reeling. Trying to figure out where I want and need to be.

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Filed under Denali National Park, Home, Montana, Nature, Seasonal Life, Self, Uncategorized, Work

How to Say Goodbye

1.
You always know when to say goodbye, in Denali. When the aspen leaves turn to crisp gold coins and flutter on the sides of the road. When you watch the snowline sagging lower and lower on the mountains. When you can’t seem to shake that headache and you realize you are hung over, yet again. When your heart is weary from too much living. You bow out, make your exit as gracefully as you can, and head south.

Seasonal life comes with a set of parameters. You are here for one brief season. One season to absorb what you will, be it place, people, or alcohol. You live in this community of vagabonds and seekers, each drawn to this northern place by the promise of jobs or perhaps something more elusive. The spongy promise of tundra, the bite of glacial fed rivers, the sense that here, something is still whole. Maybe it’s you.

You come here as a kid in your twenties. Adult summer camp, you hear, and your ears perk up. A place to party, to drink with abandon, to dance around the solstice fire like a pagan, as cold rain baptizes you into something bigger.

You keep coming back, summer after summer, to work in the coffee house. You forgo a tan, stay winter white all year, because the place is magnetic. You start to feel a part of the community, recognizable, one of the returners. “She’s one of the coffee girls!” you hear on top of Mt Healy, and you secretly thrill. When you are pulled over on the park road for speeding, the ranger recognizes you too, and lets you off with a warning. “Slow down! You are here to see stuff, not just pass through,” she tells you.

You return each year to the same place, the airstrip with the tiny green cabins where you live. The coffee shop with the cool local vibe where you work. The cookshack where Wiley presides, cook and emperor and demigod. Where you drink with him by nights, and Sailor Jerry sets sail to a sea of prophecies and omens. Wiley is bawdy and irreverent, wicked and sweet. He turns up the music with a fierce flick of the remote. “Don’t Cha” throbs through the logs of the cookshack, and some nights, you can’t help but get up and dance. You feel it deep in your hips. Outside the spruce trees scratch with clawed fingers at the windows. Inside, you are home.

Night by night, it grows colder and darker. Paths you learned in the early summer light, you now have to trace by memory, by foot-feel, in the dark. Sometimes you trip and tangle in the spruce. You know that soon, it’s time to go.

2.
I am leaving tomorrow, but tonight I dance like this is it. Hair wild, rollicking into strangers and friends alike as the band plays under the yellow spotlights. The singer smiles at me; I make her lattes every day. Higher up, the stars spin. I orbit between here and there, not really anywhere.

Kantishna: the end of the road in Denali National Park. Literally. An old mining town, now inhabited by tourist companies and lodges. And home to the best damn music festival ever.

Earlier, we crowded into the Skyline lodge, pressed together hip to hip, Carhartts and fleeces, Sitka slippers stacked by the door next to hiking boots. Folk musicians charm us from the stage below; they have traveled from across Alaska to be here tonight.

The music twitches in my toes, taps in my fingers. I am surrounded by friends. And I’m leaving. I watch faces, I lean into shoulders, I memorize the profile of spruces out the window. I memorize the feel of wildness all around me.

And before I slip up the mud-slick road to the tent, under black spruce silhouettes, under the possibility of aurora, I am drawn to a circle of glowing faces. A large white paper sphere is lit on fire and gently let go to drift up into the night. It is illuminated, it eats itself alive and sheds sparks as it fades into night. It lights the way for us as we leave.

3.
Leaving a place you love is a kind of death. It changes while you’re gone in ways you can’t imagine or want.

Wiley died last weekend, flipped us all one last bird and left us behind. I remember his skin warm against mine as we sat in the cookshack holding hands. I remember his voice as he sang in the bathroom. I remember him sleeping in the armchair by the door.

Wiley, I hope it’s better than we can imagine. I hope you are without pain. I hope you know how much we love you. Goodbye.

Wiley, by Wendi Sims Schupbach

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Filed under Grief, Nature, Seasonal Life