Because I Can.

Some days I wonder if I've got what it takes to sit down and actually write this book. So many details, so much research, so many writes and edits and additions that I of course always think of after I've sent off the section to my editor; and I'm only a teensy way through what will undoubtedly be a long, long year of tap-tapping away at my keyboard. The local coffee roaster will be making a bundle off me, I can tell already.

Combine writing a book with, oh, yeah, my family, then sprinkle in the AKontheGO website and a little radio show called Alaska Travelgram, and I realize once more that I've gotten myself pretty deep into a lot of stuff. It can make a girl rather depressed. At least, it did, me, until the incredible forces of Yukon once again came to my rescue with this:

"If you are meant to cure cancer or write a symphony or crack cold fusion and you don't do it, you not only hurt yourself, you destroy yourself. You hurt your children. You hurt me. You hurt the planet. You shame the Angels who watch over you and you spite the Almighty who created you and only you with your unique gifts, for the sole purpose of nudging the human race one millimeter farther along its path back to God. Creative work is not a selfish act or a bid for attention on the part of the actor. It's a gift to the world and everything in it.

Don't cheat us out of your contribution. Give us what you've got."

- Steven Pressfield, The War of Art

"A People In Darkness Have Seen a Great Light..."

I'm trying to keep that phrase close to my lips this week. Today is December 21, the shortest of the year and one that sends most Alaskans into a tizzy of excitement; not for the extreme non-length of the actual hours today, but for the additional eight seconds tomorrow. Sometimes that's how we must think, here.

Normally, Winter Solstice passes as a peaceful, snowy interlude with lantern walks, evening ski and snowshoe adventures, and hot cocoa beside a roaring backyard fire. It is the night before The Night To Come, and yet another way those of us who consciously choose to live in the Far North recognize the balance between nature and creature.

This year was something else, again. A month of warming, blowing, absolutely insane weather has played tricks on our usual celebrations. Trails are icy, roads are treacherous, and sledding hills are, shall we say, insanely dangerous (although that doesn't seem to be stopping some people).

In the wake of not one, not two, but three storms of 90 mph magnitude, we were tired. Tired of the creaking house frames, tired of picking up trash and chasing trash cans, tired of the darkness created from not enough snow to create the sparkling wonderland we have come to associate with Winter Solstice.

But the sun came out today. It warmed the earth, made the soggy snow to look something special, and gave me a special gift while I was out running on a local trail this afternoon, waiting for Bear to finish winter survival day camp.

The sun started to go down around 3:15 this afternoon, fingerlings of whispy clouds reaching toward my for my tired body and brain, offering energy, respite. Suddenly, the very bland colors of an Alaskan winter changed from gray and beige to orange and red and yellow.

We simply cannot have one without the other.

Be Not Afraid

Trudging slowly through the thick stands of willow and alder trees, my calm exterior belied my shivering insides. I was three miles up a small but vigorous creek in Hallo Bay, Alaska, some 100 miles from Homer and more than 300 miles from Anchorage. A guest of Hallo Bay Bear Camp, I was there to gather material for an article in Alaska Coast Magazine. I'd been there before; a day trip last June left me curious about this camp so far off the grid they used solar, wind, and occasional generator power to function with 20 people in a safari-like atmosphere. I wanted more. What I didn't count on was a whole lot more.

Those who know me best know I have had a strong aversion to bears over the course of my lifetime (I've gotten over the small plane thing; this is Alaska, and if I ever want to get anywhere cool, I've got to fly. So be it.). Bears are big, they are unpredictable, and they are known for doing things on their schedule at their whim. It is not my nature to be in Nature with these beasts, sharing the same trails and creekbeds, and yet there I was.

Hallo Bay guides work endlessly to establish a sort of rapport with these bears, meaning they stay out of their space if at all possible. Guests are drilled on a set of instructions before, during, and after each "encounter" to ensure safety and preparation for the next one; because at Hallo Bay, there is always a next one.

Fortunately or unfortunately depending upon who you talk to, Guide B. and I were the only two-legged people out on the creek that day. It was incredibly stormy, with rain and wind swooshing against our hip waders and rain jackets. It was also noisy; recent rains had left the creek high and water boiled and rushed, leaving us, and the bears, with less warning should the other suddenly appear. My reticence to enter the green, creekside thicket was not unfounded.

As Guide B. slowly led the way over logs, through leafy underbrush, and across smaller stream channels, my brain screamed over and over and over "We.should.not.be.here," an internal monologue I kept up despite B.'s attempts at chatting about our various college degrees, football season, and travel.

Some spots were simply too rough to navigate on land and necessitated a return to the creek where, at our final count, eight bears had been seen fishing or sniffing or scavenging along our three-mile hike. With every bear we spotted and passed on the way up, we knew that the gauntlet would need to be run on the way back, so we ticked off bears; Silver Ears, Scaredy Bear... numbers dwindled as we got closer and closer to the creek's outlet near the beach.

I was nearly there. Faced the giants, even. Damn, I was good.

But then.....

A sow with her three-year-old cub came ambling around the corner, he (?) slipping in and out of the chilly water, playing in the grass, like all youngsters do; she carefully watching his every move yet allowing some freedom, since this was likely the last year he'd be under her protective wing.

B. eased us out into a sand bar to watch their progress and ensure visibility, knowing that bears, with eyesight comparable to ours, would be smelling us soon and our popping out from a willow grove would not be appropriate. We crouched quietly on the shallow sand, and waited.

Cub strayed up to the trail we were standing upon minutes before and Mama remained in the water, but both kept heading our direction; she on one side of us, he on the other. B. took out a flare all guides carry for protection (no guns or spray are allowed at Hallo, but flares provide heat and light and are reliable methods of deterrant) and said "Just wait here, and we'll see what she does. I'm pretty sure she'll cross in front of us to get in between us and her cub."

Pretty sure? Unprintable words rose in my throat as I froze, hunched over on the sandbar which suddenly seemed way to small and infinitely vulnerable to something so, so large.

"Good bear. You're a good bear." B. crooned with the smoothness of Bing Crosby as Mama and Cub came close enough for us to smell their fishy hides. "You're sure she'll cross over?" I quavered. "Sure I'm sure," B. replied, his eyes not leaving Mama for an instant. I did notice, though, that his thumb was heavy on the top of the flare and a large raincoat was within reach of his other hand, something I found out later was also a deterrant (bears hate the noise of flapping fabric).

Seconds felt like hours as the two bears indeed met at our sandbar's point and proceeded to pass us at about 20 feet, so close I could look into Mama's eyes as she warily, but steadily, lumbered by.

"Keep on going, bear. Nice bear, good work, keep moving." B. kept up his one-sided conversation until the two were well on their way upstream, then he slowly placed the flare back in his pocket, strapped the raincoat on his pack, and said, "Let's go."

So we went, our footprints seeming more than a little out of place on the wet sand next to the two other, larger sets.

It was only later that night, sitting in front of the woodstove at camp, that I realized something.

If a mother bear could walk past something so potentially dangerous as two unfamiliar creatures very obviously in her space, and with a cub to boot, then would it not make perfect sense that I could do the same?

Be not afraid.

Mom Goes Away

It is fortunate that I had a trip already scheduled for Hallo Bay Bear Camp, today through Saturday. Given everything that's going in our world, the timing could not be better for an off the Grid, cellphone-silenced, computer-void (sort of) experience.

Yep.

Hallo Bay Bear Camp is an hour or so out of Homer, Alaska, down on the Kenai Peninsula. It's lovely, and I'm looking forward to visiting again and staying for a few days. I'm anxious to see if the bears I saw back in June (above) are still moseying around now that fall is upon us and the primary mission is to eat, eat, and eat some more.

Yukon is in charge of the home front, and friends are helping out with Bear. It's cub scout orientation night and an open house at the German Halls of Higher Learning, so it will be a busy evening. But tomorrow is Friday.

Wolf is hanging in at New Facility. Our clock has begun ticking as to future plans, and hopefully the Team will keep plugging away in my absence. It is likely, though, that we are looking at more out-of-state placement, since Alaska has nothing to support a young adult with his constellation of issues.

One day at a time, and right now, I am taking one for me.

My Mother's Day Contribution in Anchorage

I blog for a fabulous radio show called Kids These Days!Radio in Anchorage, broadcast on our local NPR affiliate station. It occurred to me that some of you could care less about my Alaska travel stuff and want more about our family life. The KTD blog is a nice combination of the two, blending travel with Yukon and Bear (and hopefully soon, Wolf), and how we make it all work so other families can make it work, too.

Last Friday I did a post about the most significant Mother's Day to date; and how Yukon and I relied upon a shadowy trail to bring us out of our confusion and utter relief.

Here it is, all about our other mother; Earth.

From the Wolf Den: The Part Where I Hit the Brakes

How does one title a blog post with something catchy and/or meaningful after a 24-hour period such as the one to which our oldest son has subjected us? I have considered "24 Hours and Bottle of Merlot", or "Panic in Salt Lake City" but they seemed inappropriately irreverant to our extremely un-funny situation. Sometimes parents, especially we parents who have children diagnosed with odd-sounding and even odder-appearing disabilities, need to throw caution into the wind and just say what's on our mind. True enough on any given day, but even truer when our kids do things that just make us want to shake our heads and then shake them. So I will commence.

It's a murky line we must walk each and every moment of our kids' lives, for we never, ever know what they will do or say or feel. Ever. Let me reiterate this; Never. Ever. Things can be jogging along, hunky-dory, beautiful-dreamer-style, and suddenly, Plunk. Kid totally throws the car into Park and everybody is left, sitting by the side of the road, feeling like a dope for letting him drive in the first place. Du-oh.

But, parents must allow the children to travel up and down the hills and valleys so they learn how it is in the Real World, yes, and Yukon and I attempt this with all our might. But must the child use us as the bag of sand in the trunk? I mean, seriously. What in the world of Heaven and Hell would drive my kid to take the high of a fabulous visit with his dad where he conducted himself in a manner worthy of admiration, and do something so incredibly stupid?

If there is one piece of wisdom I have gleaned from others in similar situations, it is this. Expect not only the Unexpected, but the Unfounded and the Unbelievable. Wolf did that (I will clarify, here, without relating the story, that no one was hurt in this incident, in any way). Now we as a collective group; CHYC staff, Yukon, me, and everybody that I sent to their knees in prayer and/or panic last night, must decide where he stands with us.

I'm thinking long and hard about that. This is a parenting crossroads, a clarity-moment, and one that will begin to define our future together. It is not easy, but it is the right place to be.

Nobody Used to Have Birthdays in October!

When I was a little kid, sitting around at recess with my gal pals talking about everything from Dryer's horse statues to the age of our dads (funny how the oldest dad was always the wow factor, haha), the topic of birthdays inevitably came up.

Not only did I have a goofy name (a first name nobody in the 70's recognized, and a second everyone did), I had a goofy birthday. Somehow it appeared in my mind that girls should have birthdays in April, May, or June to be able to warrant the outdoor-themed party. Sunshine, flowers, and little butterflies flitting about gracefully; you get the picture.

Thank goodness my mother had the creativity and patience to plan and implement birthday parties that kept a gaggle of girls busy and happy, minus the sunshine and flowers.

These days I pray for snow on my birthday. Go figure. Matches my graying hair.

Do You Really Know a Word?

A mini-van passed me the other day on a busy Anchorage road. Mom (presumably) and kids were chugging along and eventually passed me on a hill as I became stuck behind a city bus.

As traffic cleared and dirty white van moved right in front of me, I noticed a bland, black-on-white sticker in the middle of the back door. "Tolerance is for those with no conviction."
Huh.

I always think I know what words mean, yet these two, tolerance and conviction, combined in one sentence bugged me. Bugged me enough, in fact, that I went home and chewed on it before finally going to my big dictionary.

"Tolerance: Sympathy or indulgence for beliefs or practices conflicting with one's own. An allowable deviaion from a standard." I went one step further and looked up sympathy, even though Yukon and I refer to the term almost daily with respect to Wolf. "Feel loyalty, support, or sharing feelings of another's. Showing sensitivity to..."

Hmmm, so to be tolerant means sucking up one's own personal beliefs, understanding the feelings beneath another's, even if it conflicts mightily with ours? Heavy.

"Conviction: A strong persuasion or belief, in a state of being convicted, and compelled to admit the truth." Even heavier, man.

I was interviewed by PDX FM a few weeks ago and host Doug Zanger mentioned that my writing style is strongly formed through my convictions of raising a child such as Wolf. Truly I feel compelled to share a story not often revealed by most moms; a painful, gritty roadmap of the life as Erin Kirkland knows it, full of good and bad but ultimately real. In that respect I am convicted to admit the truth that in my heart I am not going to know it all.

But where does tolerance live? I need only to go to my last post to find that. As a follow up, btw, this morning little W. sat in the lobby of school, waiting while his parents met with the principal, nervously picking at his coat, arms resting on a too-big table. My mind drifted back to a similar scene almost 11 years ago when my own son sat waiting outside the school office while I negotiated his return to school after a "fight" that looked, I found out, exactly like the one involving my youngest son three days ago.

W. deserves tolerance, but also my conviction. Conviction to support, believing everybody deserves a chance given the right tools, and tolerance to help them achieve.

Am I weak for believing this? I know my analogy is not the meaning behind the bumper sticker I saw the other day, but it could be. I know politics and religion and morals and ethics take different forms depending upon one's beliefs, but in my opinion, starting with our own little stories of tolerance and conviction lead us toward the bigger ones.

And that, children, is how we are able to believe both. Of that I am convinced.

A New Discovery

I'm wearing an apron. This is a new phase of my housewife-dom, of which my friend snorted with laughter and said "If you're a housewife I'm doomed." I'm not sure what she meant, but I don't think it was good.

Anyway, I've discovered a lot of things over the past four days, things I didn't previously have time for. Things like dust covering the ceiling fan over our bed. No wonder we pop Benadryl like TicTacs. Things like a frozen package of waffles from 2008 (I'm not kidding). Things like my sense of peaceful tranquility that I even have time to discover those aforementioned Things.

I've also discovered useful tips. For those who have only recently become acquainted with me, you might not know I am an out-of-the-closet collector of old cookbooks describing the best in home arts, preferably between the early 1900's and 1960's. They are a hoot, as if anyone would have time to devote to sewing slipcovers for the davenport today. Anyhow, I love to browse thrift and antique stores looking for these gems, and found on last weekend.

It is from 1978, but that's okay. Lots of funny things in it, like the pictures of housewives looking like Carol Brady. I did find a tip for removing baked-on grime from pots and pans, though, and I tried it. The tip? Put a few drops of automatic diswashing liquid in the pan and fill with water. No kidding, it works like a charm and the dang skillet looks better than it ever has, which is quite something, indeed.