Avoiding Monday.....

For your viewing pleasure, here are some photos taken from our fabulous, sunny, and otherwise wonderful Alaska weekend. I do not wish to discuss Monday, and therefore will pretend it is Tuesday.

Yes, that is a young moose peering through my deck rails. He and his very patient mama arrived in our front yard minutes after our return home from a great day (ironically) wildlife watching in Seward. He walked right up to me as I kneeled on the deck in order to get these and other great shots.

Ah, the wild life.

Easter Joy, and Why I Wore Xtra Tufs to Church

I somehow found joy in the midst of a messy, muddy, snowy Easter weekend.

Anchorage managed to break the previous record for snowiest winter since the 1950's. I think the total was somewhere around 134 inches of white stuff, the last three or so falling yesterday in a frantic, wild, and wet blizzard that caused me to chop kindling, build a fire in the woodstove, and work on the book.

We all had a very pleasant day, resigned to the fact that Easter Sunday might be a slushy mess. I laughed with friends about my intention of wearing boots to church to keep my strappy summer sandals in pristine condition. I didn't even think at the time about a song our fabulous church was performing on Sunday; I just thought it would be funny to walk into the building wearing Alaska's signature footwear.

Mountain High Facility called around 5 p.m. to tell me of an incident involving Wolf. A serious, oh-my-gosh sort of incident that caused Yukon and I to wonder if he has given up. After all the positive work, after the high marks and difficult work, Wolf is decompensating rapidly, and no one can figure out why. He called a few hours later, railing and ranting and swearing that he could do better on his own, or no where at all. Lost. He hung up no happier than when he had dialed, and I was left, again, standing in the middle of my living room, staring at my silent phone, feeling like an utter failure.

Talk about blowing the storm back into the harbor.

I went for a long, long run after that phone call, splashing my way through full puddles and postholing into old, icy drifts of snow along the roadway. That song kept resonating in my head. I ran, breathing in and out in ragged gasps, sobbing at the same time, wiping my nose on the sleeve of a now-filthy shirt. I ran and cried and prayed, all three, and all the while the lyrics to the next day's song flowed through my addled head.

The Mud Song.




So I wore my boots to church, this morning, in honor of Wolf. Life is indeed pretty muddy right now, but I'd stomp in every puddle around if it meant he'd be able to avoid them. In my Xtra Tufs.

Funny thing; Easter Sunday was absolutely glorious, weather-wise. A stunning reminder of better things ahead, after the storm passes.

Why Alaska Weeps, Tonight

This blog is typically not a news and infomation outlet, but this time, I've made an exception.
Alaska is right now embroiled in a bitter, angry, and hurtful battle over a moral issue. We vote tomorrow, so the airwaves, voicemail, and email auto-blasts have been incessant.

All that changed three hours ago when the FBI and Anchorage Police held a press conference to announce the discovery and recovery of who they believe to be a young barista from Anchorage named Samantha Koenig. She was found on the bottom of an icy lake, surrounded by blue sky and snowy mountains that did nothing to mitigate the tragedy.

Her name and smiling, beautiful face have been burned into our memory, first through desperate attempts by her family and friends to find information, any information, that would lead them to her. Posters were everywhere; on cars, buses, reader boards, at the doorway of just about every business in town. One could not go anywhere and not see Samantha. Social media threads became outlets for search parties, hotlines, and a reward.

She was 18.

Anchorage is stunned, angry, and confused. We worked so, so hard to find her. Samantha was as much our child as her father's; that's how we do things up here, most of us. Those of us who are parents cannot fathom the grief he must be experiencing tonight.

Everything else pales in comparison, tonight.

Pie Jesu.

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.

Gimme Some Alaska

This week was long. Still recovering from whatever chest crud is moving among our friends and family, it was hard to motivate. I found myself cancelling things, shifting appointments around, and generally feeling as if I was working in a fog.

Then the Iditarod started.

It is hard not to get enthused by 66 teams of sled dogs, 12 dogs each, taking off for a race that will carry them almost 1,000 miles to Nome, Alaska.

After a two-year hiatus from the Last Great Race, I decided to jump back in and acquired my media credentials and dutifully attended the media briefing last Wednesday, coughing and hacking my way through an hour of Iditarod information. But it felt good.

Things felt even better yesterday as I layered myself with polypro, fleece, and GoreTex and headed for the Starting Line.

Gimme some Alaska and I'll be fine.

Snow On Snow On Snow

I can scarcely think of a better way to help a family grieving one more Christmas without their son and brother than a feathery falling of snow.

Christmas Eve was the perfect excuse to grab snowshoes and dog to head for our favorite community trail system, where my spirits are always renewed by the healing breath of nature. We spied a little hawk perched high in a cottonwood tree, chased each other around the stubby spruce trees, and let Bear show us the snow shelter he built last week at outdoor survival daycamp (yes, given many options for vacation fun, he picked winter survival; go figure).

I was content with 14 inches of perfectly perfect snow already on the ground, and our dreams of a white Christmas would have been fulfilled, easily. But when kid is in bed and all the lights are out except for the Christmas tree, and the eggnog is poured, and Midnight Mass is on the radio (I am a sucker for Christmas and Easter High Holy Mass), falling snow pushes me over the edge of sentimentality. And did it ever snow! Way beyond our bedtime of 1 a.m.

Bear woke up this morning to a new sled from Santa and a deep desire to try it out right away. Obviously.

The only other thing that competes with falling snow for a lump in my throat is the sight of a little boy flopping down on his brand new Christmas sled and belly-whopping down the sledding hill lovingly built by his dad.

It almost made up for the other boy we are missing. Almost. But it sure helped.

"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.

Still, Still, Still?

Ever since last week, when I wrote from Homer while waiting for a flight home after a crazy wild windstorm flummoxed even the most hardy Alaskans, life has been a bit noisy.

Weather in Alaska is noisy, I've discovered. From the grating, grinding of snowplows to the sound of chainsaws cutting up tree limbs that have dislodged from their trunks in a violent reminder from Mother Nature that we are all, by the way, guests here.

Despite all assurances that the storm of last week was but a distant memory, one week later, here we were again, but this time, God Himself showed up. Saturday night winds topped 65 or 70 mph, compelling Yukon and I to make fast the bbq, Christmas decorations, and garbage cans. Power flickered all over town as the southeaster howled until 5 o'clock the next morning. Bear was scared and insisted I sleep in the basement family room with him while Yukon and Dog braved it upstairs on their own.

Yesterday brought temperatures in the mid 30's and snowfall as heavy as I have ever seen, but we were immersed in holiday fun around downtown Anchorage, so, as all good Alaskans do, we simply ignored it. Until, of course, reports from Facebook and Twitter started flowing in talking about 110 mph winds gusting all over town.

We returned home to find carnage; chimneys damaged, fences down, and four trash cans in our back yard that had crashed through our chainlink gate (severely damaging it), spewing recycling/garbage all over the back yard. In the dark and swirling wind, in our fancy "downtown" clothes, Yukon and I alternated between comforting a very frightened Bear, picking up broken glass and shredded documents, and keeping the dog out of whatever the neighbors had had for leftovers (everybody's trash was here, it seems).

After about an hour of futility, we finally left the mess and came inside. We went to bed early, fully planning on picking up the rest in the morning.

But morning came with an uncharacteristic hush. Nobody, it seems, had anticipated the foot of new snow that fell, and was still falling, as I rose from my bed at 6 a.m. Blizzard? I guess that was the right word. At any rate, this stuff was wet, heavy, and practically impossible to shovel. At least it covered the garbage.

We received another blessing, though; no school. Since this hardly ever happens, we took it as a holiday and allowed Bear to sleep in, play outside all day, and take an evening snowshoe around the neighborhood park with both of us.

Still, still, still, it is, tonight. I had forgotten how stillness feels.

What It Is: Writing Words

I think everything happens for a reason. Right now, I'm perched high above Homer, Alaska, at a friend's house, waiting. But I'm glad to be waiting.

Since Friday afternoon my focus has been on Homer, Alaska, and writing. Setting up camp at my favorite bakery/B&B, I've been all about words, words, and more words. I'm writing a book, see. But the weekend has been more than that.

Yukon is a smart husband, and he knows when his wife needs to fly away for a little while. More important, he knows that to me, writing is akin to breathing; vital, deep, and refreshing if I pay attention to it.

So I've been writing; molding words at my fingertips, fact-checking, proof-reading. I set up my "desk," a little table in my room upon which I set my laptop, reference books, pen, water bottle, and a few apples (writing makes me hungry). I had to move the coffee maker across the room in front of the television, because, of course, I wouldn't be watching any TV this weekend.

The weather was wild, with driving rain, wind, and melting snow; perfect writing weather . I'd sit in front of the modest glow of my Mac for a while, until the word count reached another thousand words, then I'd pull on my Xtra Tuff boots and rain jacket and go outside for a break.

I'd planned on returning home late this morning, but Mother Nature had other plans. 100-mph plans. Anchorage was slammed with a Chinook that brought heavy rain, wind, and ice on every surface. As brave as I had been feeling about flying on small planes this summer, I was not ready to fly on one, today.

So here I am, watching the clouds toss each other an occasional sunbeam. Perfectly relaxed, utterly spent, and waiting.

The Family Regroups: It's Just Different

It's been difficult to post, lately. Yukon and I have, all of a sudden (or perhaps not) been thrust into this crazy, vortex-like salad spinner of emotions that leave us a little bit confused.

We have been told by those in the know (it's lovely to be friends with doctors and spiritual advisor-types) that this is not uncommon following a traumatic event. Since we've had several this past year, we can expect to multiply the subesequent meltdowns by two, or three, at least.

Seven months have gone by since Yukon dove into a pot hole of ice and mud. He is back on Nordic skis and is able to return to his flip-turning, machine-like swimming regime at the local pool; the dedication on his face, and within his very spirit, is palpable. It's good, but it's also different. Bear, in particular, notices that Daddy is not home right at 5 p.m. on some days because he's at the pool or on the ski trail. It's not bad, mind you, for Yukon would never sacrifice his family for his fitness; it's just different.

Wolf is returning to old patterns of behavior at Mountain High Facility. The staff are exemplary in their reactions and consequences and incredible sixth-sense of getting to the bottom of whatever set Wolf off, this time, or that time. The phone rings and I hear the report, and I listen to Wolf tell me all about it when he calls. But here's the thing: I'm done validating and commiserating. Wolf knows by now what to do, and all he needs now is to ask for help doing it. But he won't. In one month, he will turn 18. We, and a choir of supportive voices have made so many opportunities possible, but we cannot sing the solo for him.

"Elituq" too, is ready for a re-group, too, I think. But I'm not sure just what that will look like, or how, or if, things you read will change. So stay with us, if you like, and continue to be a part of our virtual support system. But know that we are reconfiguring our lives as we go, and sometimes that regrouping, that "not-bad-but-different" can look a little messy...

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..

And So It Goes...

Alaska and the Kirkland family are playing a waiting game.

Alaska's is seasonal; ours is situational. Both are important.

This is the time of year when our weather swings between rain, snow, and sun, and sometimes all three together. Nature holds it breath until the day the rain turns to snow and stays that way, with sunbreaks relieving the darkness that threatens to undermine the little bit of light we do receive. It's a harsh but beautiful time of year, this, and I love it. Alaskans congregate indoors to get used to this shift in both temperature and atmosphere; we bake more, we sleep more, and we tend to accomplish indoor sorts of tasks we put off during the busy (and light) summer months. But we're still waiting for the day when we wake up to the muffled sounds of the snowplows and shovels, scraping and sliding along the sidewalks and driveways, signaling the beginning of another long winter in Alaska.

As a family, we are holding our breath on a number of fronts. Yukon is recovering from his second surgery and spends most of his day enduring physical therapy and home therapy, both of which bring him pain. Wolf waits, still, for a final referral to a facility out of state for, we hope, the last time. Bear is waiting anxiously for his seventh birthday on Sunday, not totally understanding why we can't invite the entire class over but at the same time understanding our need to keep things mellow this year.

And me? I just wait for everything to be thrown up into the chilly fall air and return to earth in a fashion I hope will not look as haphazard as I feel.

More coffee, please.

Autumn in Alaska

The AK Fam took a trip to Fairbanks this weekend, during which was intended to be a visit with Wolf. Even though he has returned to Anchorage, and given that arrangements had already been made, we went anyway.

I'm glad we did, for Life, in its unexplicable and unpredictable ways, manages to go on.

From the Wolf Den: Full Circle

Wolf and his escort landed in Anchorage last night around 9 p.m. Wolf was anxious but willing to go along with things, thankfully. During the course of our day I reminded him that he likely had an advantage; he had been through residential treatment before and would be generally familiar with procedures and routines.

That said, it was a nervous teenager who called us from the airport, saying he'd safely arrived and was headed to New Facility.

We're again so thankful to our friends, T & J, who sat with Wolf over the weekend and were parents-by-proxy for Yukon and me. What a blessing to have people be in the right place at the right time.

Upside-Down in Mother Nature's Arms

The photo above shows a clump of moss and lichen clinging to the skeletal branch of an old spruce tree. Not very unusual at first glance, I suppose, especially since it was taken in southeast Alaska, where moss grows like grass and spruce trees are numerous.

No, what is unique about this beautiful, mossy image is that it was taken from nearly 50 feet in the air by a wet, slippery, and unsure photographer; me. I was lured to a ziplining excursion in Ketchikan on a day even most southeast Alaska residents would call "too wet," along with a group of adventursome (or foolish) other people gathered to propell, rapell, and zip our way from treetop to treetop in a sort of Tarzan-esque experience.

I'm not afraid of heights but I do possess a number of control issues, just ask my kayak instructor and the pilot who flew me out to Hallo Bay last month. The very idea of sliding rapidly down a mountain with nothing but nylon butt straps between me and the forest duff below was not really my idea of a great time. But I did it, and ultimately loved it.

I am the daughter of a forester who taught uhis kids to look up. Up at the sky beyond the tippy tops of evergreen trees, up at the frosty green leaves and branches whose arms stretched to the heavens. I never believed one day I'd be standing among them, on their terms, held tenuously within their generous hands.

That clump of moss with the little sword fern growing out of its deteriorating branch would not have been found near the ground. It grows only there, and in that way, and I would have missed it had I said "no thanks" to the ziplining invite.

It was quiet up there in the trees; the rain made tentative taps upon my helmet and against the decking of the 5' X 5' platform we stood upon as we waited our turn to zip. Occasionally, the wind would gently move each individual tree back and forth with a rhythm that was, surprisingly, not scary at all.

Perhaps Mother Nature is less scary than we think, if given the proper respect. Perhaps Life is, as well.

From the Wolf Den: I'm Me and Nobody Else

How we've worked so hard to get here. Being Wolf, all day and all the time, is not easy.

I called him yesterday to check in from southeast Alaska, where Yukon and Bear and I are still ferrying around the Inside Passage.

Wolf was doing his morning chores, washing dishes along with another kid. He took a time-out to tell me that he wanted to get some clothes for school. Of course he does, and I said I'd help him take care of that when I got up there.

"Uhhh, well..."

I found this fascinating.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Well, nothing, exactly," came the reply. "I'm just trying to find a way to say something in a way that won't sound disrespectful."

Wolf wanted to buy his own clothes.

I high-fived him over the phone.

Independence Day at Independence Mine

We took a break from the stress and excitement of Wolf's transfer back to Alaska by immersing ourselves in a little Alaska. Nice huh?

A friend went with us (single mom without her son all summer, so she was lonely and wanting a little AK Fam excitement; we gladly provided!) to Hatcher Pass and Independence Mine, high in the alpine lakes area of Palmer, Alaska. Palmer is the site of the 1935 Colonists/New Deal by then-President Roosevelt to hopefully jump-start the economy and their farming lives. It sort of worked. Now the area is prime farming land (in an Alaskan sort of way) and one of our favorite destinations.

We climbed high to a mountain lake, ate a yummy lunch of smoked salmon, crackers, and cheese, then came back to our house to enjoy cocktails in the back yard. A pretty nice day. Very nice, actually.

How was yours?

A Much Needed Respite

I've been awake since 5 a.m., partly due to the eagle out on the beach chattering away at some early morning find, and partly from a chronically overactive mind.

We're down in Homer, a favorite spot to annually recharge the family batteries. A group of family and friends have gathered at the Homer Seaside Cottages to continue celebrating Yukon's 50th birthday.

Arriving from Anchorage yesterday, we were happy to see the sun as we drove south along the Sterling Highway, and, this morning, it looks about as perfect as Alaska can get for mid-June. The photos above are from our late-night stroll along the beach at around 9:15, and you can see Bear is sufficiently enjoying himself.

It's been a crazy week in the AK Hacienda; Wolf continues to backslide and as a result I've had to cancel some presentations and projects and schedule an impromptu visit to Salt Lake. Since we arrive home on Sunday and leave again July 14 for our mega-ferry trip around southeast Alaska, I'm understandably a little frazzled to add one more trip to the agenda.

But more on that later.

For now, I'm drinking coffee and taking this moment for what it is; simple, quiet, and utterly refreshing for mind and soul. I'll deal with the other crap later.

Amen.

From the Wolf Den: Oh *&%#%

My favorite aspect of Wolf's return to the Original Unit at CHYC has been Unit Director B. A charming lady who understands a) me and b) my son, B has been my biggest ally and most prominent figure in the never-ending quest to save Wolf from himself.

However, we have not yet had the chance to talk in person since Wolf's return to the Unit. Well, until this afternoon, that is. And it was not a good chat. Wolf is continuing to exhibit impulsive behavior that ended him up with a fat lip because somebody else ticked him off. Sigh. Such a tangled web of misunderstanding is Asperger Syndrome.

The kicker came when B and I were discussing Wolf's impending discharge in August. B wanted to make sure the group home in Fairbanks would still take him given his last few weeks of not-so-nice behavior. I had assumed people would be talking amongst themselves (lesson learned, they don't always do that. Gah.).

What do I know as of this afternoon? We don't know if Wolf will go to this group home. We don't know if he'll go to a group home in Alaska at all. We need a Plan B. I need a valium.

Regrouping. Reassessing. Yet eternally grateful for Unit Director B and her pragmatic, no-nonsense approach to this. Solve the problem. Make something happen.

And Wolf? Hopefully having to nurse a fat lip will cause some deep pondering about the meaning of his life. But I can say that, I'm not the one with poor impulse control.

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.