Wassup, Alaska?

It was the first day of Spring on Tuesday, and I celebrated by spending a few hours shoveling the hardpacked, grainy snow away from our 4' fence line to keep the dogs from daintly stepping over the remaining 4 inches of chainlink visible to us. Riley, the worst offender,  was less than impressed by my efforts.

Temperatures have been below Zero at night, but rising to a glorious 32 or so with brilliant sunshine during the day. I'll take that as a message from Mother Nature that she's at least thinking about releasing us from our wintertime bondage.

Alaska is like that, some years. I think it's a reminder of just how far north we live, and why we choose to stay.

We're lucky, that's what.

Winter is Here.

At least in Alaska....

Winter arrived with a bang this year after a prediction of "cold and dry" from the folks at NOAA. We woke up to 1" of snow Sunday morning, much to the absolute delight of Bear, who guessed the first day of snow dead on and won the Family Bet. Doubly exciting for him since this year was the first time he had chosen a day other than his birthday. (He is, right now, cashing in on that winning bet; pizza and Clone Wars DVD, btw.)

Halloween was an interesting day as well, with temperatures hovering around 22 degrees, causing my little Hansel to wear long underwear beneath his costume at school. Then, right as Yukon and Bear were heading out the door to canvass the neighborhood last night, a blizzard hit. And how. Sideways snow, gusty wind, and of course the now-Mummy-Skeleton-Zombie wouldn't wear a coat.

It was a very cold duo who showed up at home 30 minutes later. Took me at least 10 minutes to dust the top layer of snow off the remains of his costume. Yukon needed a hot toddy, too. But Halloween in Alaska sort of follows the US Postal Service motto:

"Neither rain, or snow, or gloom of night..."

Keeps an Alaskan kid from Trick or Treating..

Mass Exodus

Of Biblical proportions, I would imagine.

Alaska schools begin their spring breaks over the next two weeks, and already the airline terminals are filling with overanxious, overeager, and definitely over-wintered 49th state residents ready for a respite.

We witnessed this phenom last weekend while walking toward terminal C at Anchorage International. C1 was leaving for Honolulu, our friend H. the First Officer, and he said flights had been full lately. "We're outta here" is the general mantra, he told me, clutching his passenger manifest and glancing at the crowded gate area. And we were going to Fairbanks. Bummer.

Weather wise, winter 2010/11 hasn't been particularly brutal to Anchorage-ites. No -40 degree nights, lots of sunshine; our only complaint was not enough snow rather than too much. But health wise, it's been a tough one. Between Bear and I, enough cough, cold, and flu medicine has been taken to assure stocks in such pharmaceuticals for a long, long, long time. The same can be said for much of the state. H1N1 reared its ugly self, Influenza of other types came to visit, and the usual coughs and colds left many a classroom down many children at a time. It, for lack of a better descriptor, sucked. Badly.

So we're leaving in search of green grass and flowering things and bare sidewalks. Quite the irony that our destination seems determined to be white instead of green. But Grandma assures us it will merely be raining when we show up on Tuesday. And, for once in my life, I'm ecstatic to hear it.

Ten days of lounging around, hiking familiar trails, running without spikes in my shoes and mittens on my hands. Bliss. Bear is excited to bring his Christmas scooter along to get a jump on pre-summer riding, making his pals jealous.

I do know, however, that it won't be long before Alaska joins the rest of the nation in thawing out, melting down, and greening up. I can see tired, brown grass underneath the tree wells of spruce in our neighbors' yard, and birds are starting to show up in greater numbers at the feeder. The days are longer now, and The Dog has begun curling up in his favorite late-afternoon "patch of sunshine" at the back slider. He does this every year about this time, it lets us know spring isn't really that far away.

We're ready this year. Boy, are we ready. But first, the exodus.

Quiet Winter Night: Remind Me

When Wolf was at home and our family was at the peak of its unsettledness, I started running after a years-long hiatus. Working part time for a local social service agency and raising two children of vastly different ages and stages left me little free time during the day, so my running took place at night. In the winter.

With headlamp, flashing tail light, warm clothes, and spiked shoes I departed almost every night into the dark Alaskan evening to run the day's frustrations into the ground. This wasn't too difficult, the timing, I mean. I'm not a morning exerciser, just ask my high school swim coach who kept me on the team for about a day before realizing that a.m. is not my m.o.

When I was a kid in Washington and it snowed, we'd always take a walk at night to savor the differences made by a few inches of white precipitation, and I savored the quietness.

After Wolf departed for CHYC I made a point of allowing myself to exercise like regular people, during the daytime, now that I had the opportunity. But time, like so many things, seemed to grow shorter and shorter until last night, in the wake of packing and preparations for my departure today, I simply ran out of it.

With a few whispers of snowflakes in the air, I grabbed The Dog, found my headlamp, and left into the inky blackness that is an Alaskan Winter Night.

Everything seemed unique; the tangy scent of woodsmoke, the sound of cars muffled by snow, my own breath curling around my face as we jogged up, around, and across the neighborhood.

I had forgotten this and the feeling of utter contentment at seeing others living their lives; parents doing dinner dishes while looking over shoulders of teenagers working on homework, small children getting ready for bed, televisions turned to the evening news. All of it.

My own home looked particularly cozy, Yukon and Bear on the couch reading a story, artificial candles flickering in the windows and jazz music softly filtering down to Dog and I standing in the driveway.

Need that reminder once in a while...

We Have Us a Different Sort of Groundhog

While the rest of the country is concentrating its efforts on a certain rodent by the name of Phil, we Alaskans are taking a more laid-back approach. Winter? Yes, what about it?

We have groundhogs, too, but ours are called something else, which is fine by me, since the name 'groundhog' seems to imply ugliness. Maybe its that 'hog' part. But we call them marmots here in Alaska, a name shared by most of the alpine Pacific Northwest and Europe.

As large members of the rodentia family, marmots are cute, curious, and in our case, lazy this time of year. Alpine marmots are all about missing the second day of February, mostly due to the fact they probably can't get out of their den yet. While America flashes the spotlight on Pux. Phil, Alaska is not watching the activities of our own furry friends because we know better.

The marmot in the photo above is probably mad somebody took his stash of trail mix, since the marmots I have met in my lifetime of hiking are usually quite amicable. Or maybe he/she is yawning.

I Learned to be Still

One of the things I enjoy most about running is the utter, complete and transforming power of stillness. This was not an automatic pilot sort of thing; based on my past running experiences, almost all of which centered around a goal of creating fitness as a sidebar to soccer playing or skiing. Running was a chore that had to be done as part of the process to achieving and feeding my naturally competitive nature. Thus, I did not, and never intended to enjoy running as a sport of choice like some crazy people I knew and know. I changed my mind one freezing cold night.

When Wolf was here, our home was a cacophony of words. Talking, reminding, cajoling, and yes, shouting all presented an environment of unrest and confusion. One snowy night I took to the streets in an effort to simply take a breath and get out. And something happened.

With no distractions, everything became simple. The snow simply fell, the dark simply closed around me, and my breath simply went in and out in a quiet rhythm only my body knew. So I ran on. And I felt better when I arrived back home almost an hour later, legs quivering and eyelashes white with frost.

I had forgotten about the act of being still; of listening to and becoming a part of every little and big thing around me, and what those things might be able to say without any words at all. Stillness has become precious.

This morning I ran a forested trail just around daylight. At about 12 degrees, the snow was dry and creaked beneath my feet. My breath clouded the air in front of me and froze on my face; my jacket swoosh-swooshed with every stride I took. Every sound came from me and my presence in this vast outdoor space.

Then, from a tree somewhere in front of me, I heard the unmistakable chortle of a bald eagle who had seen me coming and announced his presence. The sun peeked over the Chugach mountains as this enormous bird and I stared at each other for a minute or two, then I ran on.

And he, too, was still.

A Really Useful Dog.

We were not sure about Jasper the Nut Brown Dog when he first arrived in Alaska almost two years ago. Shy (almost aggressively so), I had my doubts about his tenure as part of our family.

After a number of incidents involving he and just about any young adult male that arrived in our home, I found myself down at the local bookstore one morning, searching desperately for any book covering topics related to dog psyche. From the Dog Whisperer to Carol Lea Benjamin, I read them all.

I am glad to say that, thankfully, after much hard work and a lot of love, Jasper, while still harboring interesting behaviors and mental issues, has come a long, long, loonnnggg way towards proper doggie behavior.

The photo above illustrates the ultimate in dedication to his Boy. Not to mention his desire to assist us in any way possible. I only hope his teeth hold out. Some of our sled hills are killers.