Remember

It is very important to have all the facts personally verified if one is going to attack. As in almost every other sport, there are those who make the majority look bad. And the Iditarod is no exception.
Most people who attack the race as inhumane have never seen one. Have you been to a race track? Watched a dog show? Lived vicariously through your children? Wake up and walk your talk.

Mush On!

As any good Alaskan knows, there is little that embodies the sense of fierce Northern independence more than the Iditarod Sled Dog Race. The Iditarod, a race of over 1,000 miles from Anchorage to Nome, tests dogs, mushers, and equipment through ice, blizzards, and incredibly cold temperatures. Good mushers know they are nothing without their dogs, and the best ones pamper their pooches year 'round.

The 2008 race starts March 1st with the ceremonial send-off in downtown Anchorage. And I get to be there, press pass firmly attached to my parka.

The start is a frenzy of dogs, sleds, and crazy people dressed in fur. Teams take up howling and barking as start time nears, and pretty soon they all begin a chorus; with over 1,000 dogs, that's a loud choir of yips and yelps.

My coverage of this race actually begins now, with the creation of the Fur Rendezvous guide for Coast Magazine, based out of Anchorage. http://www.coast-magazine.com/ My participation on start day is purely reward for hundreds of phone calls and interviews with mushers, veterinarians, and other bigwigs of the race. This race has intriqued me for years, and to be invited to move among the chosen few is the opportunity of a lifetime. Our family will also travel to Willow the next day for the "official start" of the race, about 90 miles North of town. From the front row we'll watch sled dog teams begin their odyssey, and hope everyone makes it under the burled arch of Nome.

I'll provide links to the race and other interesting tidbits of information as they are garnered. In the meantime, check out the guide to "Fur Rondy" as it is called, in case you are thinking of a mid-winter trip to the North. http://www.furrondy.net/

Let it...

Dear God it is finally snowing in Alaska!
The naked snow dance by Bear out on the front lawn last night seems to have worked and we have large, fluffy snowflakes falling, covering up the two inches of ice and slush that almost prevented anyone in Anchorage from getting to work this morning...
The Anchorage Daily News www.adn.com published an interesting article this morning about the doldrums that have set in among Alaskans. I believe the best comment was from a resident who said that she "wanted to eat a tub of lard and crawl into bed."
That about sums it up.
Burp.

Ice Capades

Alaska is full of outdoorsy people. Usually this time of year, we are all out on our skis, happily schussing along the trails or runs in a state of wintry delirium. With a distinct lack of snowfall for December, running is replacing skiing as the most available mode of outdoor activity. (Photo at left is from Jan '07)
I mentioned previously that ice has made even walking down the sidewalk treacherous, so to some the mere idea of running (on purpose) during such a cold snap is unthinkable. But ice or not, getting outdoors, especially during our dark days is imperative.
Before I moved to Alaska, ice and snow was an excuse to stay in, as moving about could prove fatal, or so we were told. But Alaskans, like many others who live in snow and ice-prone areas, have a solution in the ice cleat. But until about a year ago, I didn't know we could actually run in them.
Almost every evening, after the kids are in bed, I dress for my half-hour of solitude (depending upon the temperature, this could take a half-hour itself). But the final touch is my shoes, permanently affixed with spikes similar to golf shoes. I scritch-scratch my way across the deck and down to the driveway and street, where the spikes confidently grab the icy surface. Nighttime, besides bringing the thermometer to zero, also brings quiet, and the only sound I hear is the crunching of my shoes.
Stars are out, and sometimes the Northern Lights, giving me all the visibility I really need. Occasionally I have to slow down a bit to navigate a slippery turn, and sometimes the wandering moose, but generally I run faster in the winter than other times of the year. My spikey shoes and their sound byte also give me cadence, and I jog along like a Marine recruit, enjoying the regular sound of my feet hitting the ground.
I am always almost sorry to round the corner to the house. My husband, who doesn't always like the fact that I run at night, suggests that perhaps I might run during the daytime after my tenure at work is finished. Perhaps. But there is too much hustle, too much bustle, and not enough quiet contemplating.
Night. All is calm. All is bright.

Hey, Unto You a Child is Born!

As everyone knows, the mommies who have the least amount of time always end up baking the cupcakes, driving on the field trips, and directing the Christmas Play. This phenomenon, harkening back to my own mother's participation, has now resulted in email conversations consisting of "we know you would be perfect", and "it really isn't all that hard". Who could resist the personal kudos and warm fuzzies emulating from such praise? A sucker, that's who. And you're reading about her.
I have just returned from a meeting at which I was delegated (and half-volunteered) to write the timeless classic "A Baby is Born on a Farm in a Box", to quote Bear, who is just beginning to notice the fuss over this Baby Jesus guy. In little more than 24 hours, I am to come up with a script, characters, and music for our Christmas Eve family service, all without damaging any pint-sized egos, parental expecations, or church furniture.
I wonder if I could just play "Christmas Karaoke Dance Party" and let the kids boogie down the aisle, no memorization required, and we do have a big screen to project the words. As long as they are in English.
Hey! Unto You a Child is Born!

A Jetta Prison

Yeah, so I have been griping about how warm the weather has been in Anchorage lately. What was I thinking?
Took the Jetta to the Monster Car Wash (Sasquatch Wash, $11) yesterday because I could not see for the two-inch layer of dust accumulated on the windshield; coupled with blinding sunshine, an accident waiting to happen.
Sat in line, listening to the Sounds of the Holidays on our local silver-hair a.m. radio station, watching some idiot in a 16-passenger van attempt to go through the wash's height-limit bar.
Had a lovely car wash, spent the time engulfed by "Spooky Soap" cleaning out my bag to the tune of "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas", drove out of the Wash, and dripped my way down the road to pick up Wolf from school. I parked, donned my wool gloves and hat, and pulled the door lever.
Nothing.
I tried again, this time with a slight push on the door itself. Hmm, no movement, but a slight cracking was heard. Smiling at the man in the car next to me like this happened all the time, I jockeyed around in the driver's seat, pulled my leg back, and delivered a kick worthy of Bruce Lee. With a loud "boom" the car blew open and showers of ice crystals fell upon me as I, too, blew out of the car and into the ice-covered parking lot.
Reminiscent of Yukon last year making the grave mistake of rolling down the window (in the same car) after emerging from the car wash to discover moments later that the window had frozen in the down position. Only -10 that day.
Fool us twice......

Half-Shell Nirvana

Yukon loves oysters. Really, really, loves oysters. So when a friend had two dozen delivered to our home last week, you'd have thought Yukon was going to roll right over and die with glee, he was so happy. I think I saw him do a little dance on the back porch.
We all know that oysters are a love-them-hate-them sort of seafood item, as mysterious in flavor as they are in physiology. People either screw up their faces in disgust or light up in delight when oysters are mentioned as part of the menu at our house. References to snot and other mucus-related terms have also been heard around the table. At any rate, my husband would miss the little bivalves should their presence be eliminated, so I try to humor him and just leave the room when the oyster knife comes out of the silverware drawer.
Yukon is a man of true culinary ecstacy when it comes to two things; beer and raw oysters. A friend who owns a restaurant taught him how to shuck oysters a few years ago, something that must bring out the wild in a man, for Yukon can stand all day over the sink or out on the deck, depending upon the season, to pry open an oyster shell, suck out its contents with a dash from his ten selections of Tabasco sauce, and toss the shell into a bucket.
The best oysters in Alaska are found for the most part around Kachamek Bay, near Homer, a 5-hour drive from Anchorage. Our wonderful friend, upon hearing of Yukon's pining for oysters, made a special trip down to the Coal Point Seafoods and ordered 24 fresh-from-the-cold sea, in-shell beauties. (They also have outstanding packages of other seafoods native to Alaska; halibut, salmon, black cod, and the like) www.welovefish.com; of course.
After almost eight years of Yukon's acquaintance, I am used to his oyster binges. In fact, even from our first date, where we attended a book signing for the acclaimed "Heaven on the Half Shell", our lives have been shared by oysters.
Aren't they an aphrodisiac?