I have written since I was an elementary school bookworm in Colorado. After college, I traveled to Northern Cyprus, Turkey, and Germany before discovering a home in Alaska. I have self-published children's books, am actively pursuing a publisher for my most recent set of books, and am continuing to write when I am not teaching at a local elementary school.
At first glance, the Lake appears calm, with few seeking pleasure from its waters on this hot summer Thursday. Out on the lake there are a couple of water skiers, and a child sitting in a green tube being pulled mindfully by a boat, but the few other watercraft seem to be heading purposefully straight across from point A to B.
For me, it will be an active work day at the Lake. Today, I am to help finish painting the cabin’s railing and begin on the windows. I am to learn, too, that many others are also working here, but surprisingly… most have wings…
In the birdhouse under the eave, tree swallow chicks wait for momma and papa to bring collected mosquitoes and other protein. The adults’ black wing feathers flash cobalt blue in the sun as the avians dart busily back and forth.
Dragonfly resting on deck railing at Harding Lake
A few prehistoric dragonflies skim through the air near shore, also stalking insects, while out in the middle of the lake a couple of mew gulls wheel, then dip to the surface, catching lunch, or perhaps teaching their young how to fish. There are more mew gulls flying about today than ever seen here together before.
A black military helicopter turns tight circles and buzzes the open water — testing the pilot or perhaps the machine. (I muse later if it has in fact been scouting ahead for the floatplanes.)
Underwater mowing at the lake. (See man on right.)
A neighbor walks out into the lake to do some underwater mowing. He tosses a long-handled T-shaped metal object smoothly and surely like a fisherman tosses out his line. The man tows it toward him with the ease of repetition, then casts it ahead again. The perpendicular blades on the end of the handle cut the unwanted reeds near the sandy lakebed. The man gathers these mown reeds and takes them ashore. Will they become compost or go directly to the transfer site with the rest of his garbage..?
A bald eagle soars overhead to land in a preferred perch, a sprucetop two houses over, from which it surveys its domain for a tasty nibble, perhaps for itself or perhaps for its young.
Bald eagle purveying its domain from a nearby treetop.
The unmistakable whining roar of a two-engine aircraft growls suddenly overhead — so close! The white airplane circles to the opposite side of the lake, and we realize that there are two. The Lake watercraft turn off their engines. The floatplanes come in ostensibly for a landing — but that is not why they are here: water fills their pontoons, slowing their progress across the surface, visibly making it harder for them to take-off (their ascent is markedly more gradual than their approach), but they do lift off. The planes, now loaded with liquid cargo, head in the direction of the forest fire near Munson Creek. About an hour later they are back, flying again directly over the cabin before circling and dipping into the water without a pause.
By the time it is time to call it a day, my work is not done, and I’ll be back again sometime soon to join the others still a-work at their daily labors.
On the approach…
Touchdown!
Scooping up water…
1…
2…
3…
4…
5…
6…
7…
8…
9…
10…and…
Lifting off.
Up, up, and away…
Float plane flying overhead. (Note the hatches on the pontoons that open to collect water — and later drop it on the nearest forest fire, which today is only about 35 miles from home.)
A yummy lunch, a doze in the warmth, the waves gushing at the shore when a boat speeds by: It’s a lovely Sunday at the Lake.
Three hours of helping paint a railing bestowed me a day of sun, diverting conversation, laughter, and the chance to assist good friends — along with the satisfactory transformation of posts, once ragged and peeling, now a pretty grey the color of the deck, a grey that disappears in the mind’s eye when I look out over the water.
Amid the labor of love, the day is full of moments of both tranquility and urgency.
A single sailboat cons silently, softly, back and forth, taking advantage of the gentle wind.
Two motorboats pile on the steam towards a boat vomiting a billow of white smoke — once, twice — but after a brief exchange, the concerned neighbors pilot away and the river boat putters off, unsunk. Four lines dangle off long poles and we wonder if the fishermen (and one woman) have a barbecue unwisely aboard their floating bark.
The blue surface sparkles in the sun. Rays blaze hotly down on our skin as we cruise along the shore in the pontoon boat and take in the relaxing view.
A water skier makes the smooth glides to and fro seem easy inside the fringe of refreshing white spray kicked up by the tempo.
Three personal watercraft buzzum by, two each ejecting a stream of water behind. The cloudless azure sky draws my eye, then I gaze leisurely downward to see the third PWC tootling back along the shoreline, while the zippier ones end up bouncing like ping-pong balls on vacation off of the peaked wake of a heavier, larger craft.
The balance between speed and leisure is present all day long, even close to the wee hours of the morning when I am on my way into town. A lithe red fox stands, relaxed, at the side of the road, and, after I have hurtled past, it calmly crosses all four lanes of the Richardson Highway, leaving me with a serene sense of wonder all of the way back home.
I’m not. I’ve lived in those places, but that’s not here.
Here, once weather arrives, it stays. I mean staaayyys. For months…. The weather does not alter — unless you count the 10º temperature changes, say from 13º to 23º F or from -15º to -25º F, or you head out of work to another layer of fresh snow. Never mind these such drastic changes, it’s still winter.
The other three seasons are another matter. The delightfully warm, fresh summer (with a week or so on either side for spring and autumn) is the reward residents earn through the white cold. By this time of year (April) the sunlight has returned a little more each day and eventually so does a little heat too. Summer is enticingly on its way. The only thing the snow has to do is slowly melt.
Sometimes, though, Mother Nature throws out a surprise.
For example, this past April Fools’ Day… No, nothing bizarre or surprising actually happened on April 1st, but it should have. Only two days later, the sky began to snow (see entry “Keeping the White Dress”). The snow-removal crew had cleared out all of the bus lanes in the district’s 32 schools by the time this story took place, but had not had time to plow out parking lots.
I pulled into the staff lot late that morning and saw that someone had taken my spot. Grr! Who took my spot?!
A little clarification: My spot isn’t actually mine. There is no sign bearing anybody’s name anywhere in the lot. This spot just happens to be the furthest from the entrance — a great excuse to get a few more steps in each day, and the ideal place to park a brand-new vehicle. Ten years after purchase, parking there has become a habit, and the “step” rationalization has become more logical, and a good reason to share if people ask about my parking habits. What most don’t recognize because I’ve generally arrived before they do, is that “my” spot has generally been plowed to some degree because it is the closest to the designated snow dump.
This of course was the motivating factor for anyone to park in my spot, especially today.
I hesitated before pulling into the adjacent, snowy, spot.
What I should do, I considered, is dig it out before I park…or flatten the snow a bit… I had already missed the quiet time before most employees arrive and, feeling a bit crunched for time, I nosed in over the snow. A pickup truck has a higher undercarriage than most other vehicles after all: I should be fine, I assured myself. If any snow is too high, the truck will sheer off the top layer, essentially self-flattening it anyway. It’ll be alright.
It would not be until after 5 o’clock that evening that I would think about the snow refreezing into hard ice after the heat from the engine had melted said top layer…
About ten minutes later Mr. X came, unapologetic, to my classroom door to apologize for taking my semi-plowed spot. We chatted and laughed, and I agreed that his tiny vehicle was at a disadvantage compared to mine.
“I’m sure it will be okay,” I concurred.
After a wearisome day, I had forgotten about the parking lot and I was just looking forward to home. I raised my eyebrows in slight surprise to see my truck was the only one in the parking lot. I had half-suspected that my supervisor might still be there, but it was not unusual that she had made it out a little before me. It had been a loooooong day —
—and the jerk and hold I felt when I started backing up was not close to anything I desired at that moment. I drove forward a little and reversed. Another jerk to a stop, and the truck held that position, despite me pressing the accelerator. Sigh.
No going forward here: I have to dig out from below.
I climbed down from the cab and grabbed the snow brush. I had already stowed the shovel in the shed since I had thought snowfall had ceased for the year, and had not pulled it back out when the foot-and-a-half started to fall over the weekend. So, the only usable tool I had was the squeegee end of the snow brush.
I laid on my side on the ground and began to pull the snow out from under the chassis. I could not see from one tire to the opposite one, or even all the way around the one by my shoulder. Over and over I pulled snow from under the vehicle. I flipped the brush over and used the ice scraper to cut at the hardened crust. I cursed Mr. X, his choice to take my spot, him not even have the decency to find out if I needed help digging out, and people’s selfishness in general.
Laying on the ground to get a good angle under the stuck truck, Fairbanks, Alaska, 6 April 2021.
Wiggling down to the rear tire, I rued the fact that my supervisor had left before me and growled that she had not deigned either to see if I had needed help! I gouged out snow over and over, periodically twirling the brush to the ice scraper side, and occasionally changing arms to give each a rest.
Of course, I fully understood why my colleague had pulled into that last spot. After all, I would have myself if I had been on time (and, I admitted, I would have privately reveled in the fact that it had less snow than any of the others). I appreciated Mr. X honestly coming to say it was he who had taken the spot, and, naturally, since his day had ended two hours before mine, I certainly did not really expect him to stay to see if I could back out! It just felt good to blame someone else for a while as I rolled on the ground and worked my arms.
I pushed myself to my knees, brushed off the snow, and stomped to the other side of the truck. The snow was deeper here. I gritted my teeth together and scraped at the snow.
There was no need for my supervisor to have packed up slowly, like I had today, just so that our departure times could synchronize. I cannot speak for her, but some days I want to discuss the day, and other days I don’t want to see anyone, much less talk. Today had been that kind of day. Plus, I did not begrudge her the longer trip she had to get home, especially on treacherously snowy roads like these! I took a deep breath and readjusted my body. The last bit of acknowledgedly misplaced rancor drew out of me with the next scape of the snow brush.
Dig, dig, dig. The motion was actually quite pleasant. I was getting quality arm exercise and seeing immediate progress for the work I was putting in, not always sometimes a teacher can detect. Very fulfilling.
Gasp. The light at the end of the tunnel! Hope elated. I see it!
If I looked at the correct angle from one wheel to the opposite one, I could now see a glow from the other side under the truck. Yay!
Light at the end of the tunnel! Approx. 6 p.m., Fairbanks, Alaska, 6 April 2021.
It was six o’clock and I was still digging. An orange pickup drove slowly through the lot, and directly by me. The driver’s unneighborliness pricked me. I took a deep breath. This judginess was as fallacious as my earlier complaints. The driver may not have seen me lying in the depression next to the tires. He or she may not have had tools to help, or perhaps there were people in the truck who were immunocompromised and could not risk to help during a pandemic, despite vaccinations. I focused on my task.
Dig, dig, dig.
Finally I could see satisfactorily enough through to the opposite side of the truck, and I had broken down the snow crust near the lowest metal base frame. I stood and brushed off what snow I could, shivered once from the cold, and climbed into the cab. I took a short prayful breath after the engine started, then put the gears in reverse. I had to complete a couple of back-and-forths but — success! I grinned and turned the wheel away from the parking spot.
Free from the unplowed spot at last! Fairbanks, Alaska, 6 April 2021.
I had a fleeting vindictive fantasy of piling all of the snow I had dug out back on to the spot, plus adding more from neighboring spots to trap Mr. X the next day, but I scoffed at myself. Don’t be ridiculous. That’s so mean. The petty part of me born from hunger and weariness whispered that this would take more of my time and effort anyway. Plus, since there were no designated spots, how I could I know who would park there tomorrow…
I frowned and pushed the puerility into the far back of my amygdala where it should stay.
I drove into my driveway at 7:30 p.m., perhaps still a little irked at the lost time, but calm now. I decided not to do anything resembling work, but to rest and enjoy a healthy dinner and a tasty cup of tea after changing out of my wet clothes.
Orange cinnamon roll tea.
A long sigh. A deep breath from a cup of orange and cinnamon. Ah….
Golden daffodils are popping up through the remaining hillocks of sparkling snow. Young girls in Easter dresses gambol about seeking colored eggs among green blades of grass. The sun warms the skin and the heart with the hopes of spring. Somewhere. Somewhere much more southerly.
Here the tiny snow crystals fall — as they have been falling steadily throughout the last eighteen hours. The delicate white flakes blanket the world in another layer of shimmering lace and tug at my truck’s tires like velvet. Mother Nature has decided to keep her white dress.
Yesterday the birds sang, the sun shone brightly in the cerulean sky, and it felt like spring was truly coming. Today I am brushing snow from the truck and scraping ice off of its lights once again.
A female Arctic redpoll alights atop a spruce leader, 13 March 2021.
Spring comes slowly, sometimes stubbornly here. Two weeks ago the birds wheeled and dipped and darted. Water dripped from eaves. Two little healthy avians alit atop the leading branch of a small spruce, using the stiff needles as ladder rungs to walk up and down, around the conifer’s leader and each other. One flitted away but the female hung out for a bit to allow me to snap some photos. Then, she too flew off to continue her aerial dance, singing a rapid vibrato chirp. Their perky excitement lifted my own heart. Now, sounds are hushed by the veil of white. Icicles point downwards, and the snow brume blurs the boundary between the hilltops and the muted sky.
Perhaps some years Mother Nature is just not ready to select her garb from the the browns and dirty yellows of snow- and ice-melt in her closet. Pristine pretty white makes the world look so much more aesthetically appealing. The trade-off for us is more snowfall, and even more…
One of two finches pausing in the bright sunlight, 13 March 2021.
I wake up in the morning chill and decide to click the snooze button. I should get up, I remind myself, and drive to the garage for my truck’s check-up…but I’m not keen to get out of bed this morning. Another hour of sleep, I think wistfully, a doze already opening its arms to me, and I’ll have met my sleep goal for the night. Having thus decided, I reach out and change the alarm to a new wake-up time. I can drive there tomorrow morning instead. Ah, the benefits of spring break…
A rare Fairbanks wind creates lovely morning music.
A tintinnabulation weaves into my sleep. I hear the sound for a while before my mind consciously recognizes it as music from the generally silent chimes hanging by my front door, just below my bedroom window. Will the wind blow in more snow?
Once out of bed, I cannot seem to warm up. Shiver, it is chilly this morning. It must be the wind licking heat off of the house. At the back of my mind I know this cannot be true. That is not how modern homes work.
I putter around the house, making breakfast, putting away the clean dishes from last night’s dinner, boiling water for tea. I start feeling my toes. I never notice they are there unless they are cold. I put on a different pair of slippers. The foot-digits’ iciness continues to spread. I add a sock to each slipper, and, suspicion tightening my throat, start wondering…
The living room thermostat says sixty degrees. The boiler should have gone on long before now. I push a couple of buttons to encourage heating. Nothing, so I walk to the utility room and peek at the little box where I can sometimes see the hot-blue flames of ignition. A little green light diagonally above the dark window always comes on at the same time.
Now, the green light blinks. It never blinks. My breath becomes a little more shallow. The light is either on or off, never blinking. Isn’t a blinking light always a warning?
I press the reset button, and the green light goes off; the boiler clicks on like it always does just before ignition — and the resulting heat. There is no ignition this time. Thank goodness an expert is coming tomorrow afternoon to do a boiler maintenance check, I think in my firmly-not-panicking mind.
The house temperature drops another degree. Upstairs the thermostat reads 58ºF. I pull on boots and a warm coat, and retrieve my leather gloves from the porch on my way to the fuel tank pipe next to the house. The dipstick goes in, down and down, and I do not feel the wood entering the liquid. When the stick touches the bottom of the tank I draw it upwards and there is way too much dry wood. My pulse beats once, twice, hotly loud in my ears.
This is the afeared problem. I stare at the moisture that coats only the bottom two inches of the dipstick.
I wipe the stick clean with the palm of a glove, letting the residual drop fall back into the opening even though I know that saving this drop is not going to help me now.
The former house owners had not installed gutters, so the roof’s runoff each spring caused erosion next to the house, and the fuel tank tilted. Two inches of fuel would not last me long as it is, but perhaps these last two inches never will be able to flow from tank to house anyway if the tilt has caused the remaining fuel to collect away from the tank’s exit valve.
I deliberately close the hinged fill pipe cap — and not put the lock back on. Then I ring up the fuel delivery company, but they are closed!
Oh. It’s only 7:30 a.m. They don’t open for another half hour. I make myself breathe.
During my first winter in the house, when an unforeseen plumbing issue caused the main drain line under my house to freeze, and therefore prevented me from using the system at all, I absently wondered what it would be like to also lose heating. At every stretch of low temperatures and during every ice storm and power outage, I have wondered, ‘How quickly will the house freeze up without heat…?’
I have not ever really wanted to know this firsthand — and especially not from something as preventable as running out of fuel. Grrr. I have to remind myself that this is the first time I’ve owned a house, the first one I’ve lived in, since I stopped having roommates, even, that had real plumbing. So what if it’s normally twenty-somethings who have this cringeworthy experience. Sigh…
I always strive to be prepared — if only to make a what-if plan when my sometimes overactive imagination keeps me from a good night’s sleep —, so I do have a couple of hopeful (and hopefully pulse-steadying) actions to take. I close all upstairs doors and shut off the water pump in the utility room. I don’t know if closing off rooms will help trap heat in, but I do know that if the temperature drops too much, I will let as much of the water in the house’s holding tank out through the drains, then cross my fingers that this will prevent the pipes from freezing.
On the phone, I have to swallow my pride to admit that I am out of fuel. I’ll even pay an emergency call-out fee, but surprisingly there is none. I wish there were because that might ensure a fill-up today. The receptionist calls the dispatcher, who cannot contact my area’s delivery truck. Maybe the driver will get to me today, maybe tomorrow, she says. I thank her and wish her a good day, because doing otherwise would not change the fact of my own foolishness.
On my spring break to-do list I had written “check fuel”. I generally don’t have to purchase any heating oil so early in the calendar year, but Fairbanks did have 30º below temperatures this winter, as well as several additional days of -20ºF. I thought checking might be sensible. I should have listened to myself on Monday.
The outside temperature is -5ºF. Sun on the siding might help warm up the house, yet the sky is overcast like the firmament has been wrapped in layers of tulle and gauze, and the sunlight does not look like it will be able to break through. I have a propane heater, and I think a bottle of propane, too, in the shed. If the indoor temperature drops to 50ºF, I’ll dig them out and heat up the bathroom that separates the kitchen and the utility room, the two places which hold most of the pipes. At night I can move the first chair I bought for my new place, a lovely, comfortable cushioned seat, to the kitchen as my “bed” up off the cold floor. Although…Could the camping air mattress and my sleeping bag (supposedly rated to -40ºC/F) be a cozier place to sleep? It would be a good test for the bag. This is optimism poking through more than the sunlight.
My poor little toes! Yesterday, while re-organizing my camping equipment, I pulled out all of the expired hand and toe warmers left from my days of regular winter biking. (The thought of that at the moment makes me shudder even more.) I can use those warmers now, and some of them do work just enough for a chilly house.
It’s only 9 o’clock, and the inside temperature has dropped a full degree in the last hour. Where is that sun? Will the fuel truck come today? Would the sun help at all anyway?
My bedroom is noticeably cooler than the kitchen. I try not to think about the sinking temperature. My sister once told me she had turned on her stove when her heating had been shut off. I never asked why her cooker still worked if her heat was off, but her resourcefulness comes to mind now. I bake a batch of “Jiffy” corn muffins and leave the oven door open when I turn off the dial. Moving keeps my blood warm, and the temperature on the thermostat is now up one degree. Yay! I don’t check the ones upstairs because the last time I checked, the bedroom panel read 55ºF, and I’m not brave enough right now to see whether it has dropped.
A couple of warm muffins raise my body temperature and my hopes.
I have a plan. I might not enjoy the next, possibly twenty-four, hours, but I have a plan that makes sense, and I know that if I need to get warm today, I can go in to work for a few hours, and if the house is still too cold this evening to be bearable, despite my Pollyannaish camping plan, I could beg a night’s stay at a friend’s house — even though I don’t want to have to admit the reason.
Beep, beep, beep!
I gasp and stand stock yearning still. Is it..?
I dash to the window and peer out. Yes! The fuel truck is here! I love those guys.
The truck finishes backing up into my driveway and I hear the clunk of the hose being drawn out. After a few minutes, I press the reset button under that annoyingly blinking green light, the boiler clicks on, and then… ignition!
A solid, steady, green light and the delightful, blue-hot flames of caloric ignition.
I don’t know how much fuel a working furnace uses but if I can get a few more drops of the powerful liquid out of the truck, I am all for them.
490.4 gallons and $1,452 (yikes!) later, the fuel truck driver hangs a receipt on my door and heads to his next gig. I wave thank-you from the doorway. I don’t know if he sees me in his mirror, but I want to show my gratitude in some non-contact way.
It’s 10:21 a.m. The heating registers click once, twice— cautiously, as if they are afraid to pour all of their effort into the work in case there is not enough oomph behind them to allow them to finish.
The boiler runs for 16 minutes non-stop, a light whiff of exhaust hanging like invisible ice fog in the house. I don’t mind it. The heating system is working to catch up from what I’ve put it through! Two minutes later the ignition kicks back on because the thermostat’s temperature still reads 59ºF. Six more degrees to go! I wonder if keeping my house at a more tropical warmth would have prevented me from knowing as soon as I did that potential death was on its way. (Too dramatic, I know.) Certainly I would have used up fuel faster, and perhaps I would not have known the bitter danger until I had returned from a long day of work to a cold, deadened home.
Good thing for spring break!
The boiler clicks on and off about ten more times before each room is back up to its set temperature. When I turn on the hot water faucet, warm water actually comes out. I take a long deep breath.
I am glad I had a reasonable plan that I did not have to follow in the end. Now I know what it is like to run out of fuel. Been there, done that, won’t do it again!
The sky crackles and thunders with short rolling pops: Colors explode and spiral, both afar And terrifyingly close — Merely across the road, opposite the silhouetted trees That separate me From the neighbors Who shoot off combustibles In this deep cold of winter To celebrate the death of a year And face forward like Janus Towards a new life of hopeful health and change.
The sky crackles and thunders With short rolling pops: Colors explode and spiral upwards From the ground, Towards the clouds, Lighting the dark sky with vivid flashes, And creating their own cloud Of spicy smoke residual Against which the luster bounces Reflecting the light’s absorption deeper into the sky Burning with vibrant color coruscate.
Firework photos capture the light and movement in the night.
All year long my house creaks and groans. For about nine months of the year the heating registers click and pop in tune to the mini igniter-explosions and puffing whir of the boiler. Occasionally a boom ricochets through the house. I used to strike out on a search for a new crack or void that must certainly have resulted from the house’s movement — especially when the sound woke me from a deep-night sleep. Now, I blink it off and go back to whatever I was doing and let my heartbeat slow naturally to its normal rhythm.
A blue jug I keep around in case I have water problems and need to go back to 5-gallon fill-ups.
It’s no surprise that the house speaks its own language. I would moan too if I had to endure the annual temperature change of, in a mild year, 100 degrees Fahrenheit (55.5 degrees Celsius)…
During my first year living here in Fairbanks, Alaska, the winter temps dropped under 50ºF below zero — which is 82º below the freezing point of water (ºF)! The summer was a warm one, even getting a couple of times to 90ºF. I was living in a dry cabin that year (meaning my home had no plumbing: the only running water came from the blue water jug by the sink that drained into a bucket below), so I do not know what havoc the low temps could have wrecked on my current ‘wet’ home — or its cries of pain during the 140ºF-temperature change (77ºC-change). Still, I always listen to my house speak, no matter the temperature. I listen for a sound that is out of place because I believe that will be my home’s first warning gasp that something is wrong.
As I listen to the walls and beams around me, there is a special bang that always makes me drop what I am doing and turn off the evening lights so I can clearly see outside. The bang comes from the back the house or the side, just below the windows. Sometimes I see nothing when I peer outside. Sometimes I see the willow tree dip towards the kitchen window or hear it rub against the siding. I stand on a chair or press my check against a wall by a window. I stare towards the outside. I wait. Always I am rewarded with a wide dark back or a sturdy elongated head.
A moose outside of my kitchen window.
Yes! A moose has come to visit!
Minutes pass as I watch it pull down the willow to reach the leaves atop. It closes its mouth around a branch or narrow trunk then uses the tree’s willowy springiness to its advantage, letting the tree right itself while teeth and tongue strip off the tasty leaves and side-twigs as the tree passes through the moose’s mouth on the willow’s way back to its normal standing. The moose chews as it walks to the next willow or interesting-looking plant. If it is spring or summer (and I had no lights to turn off), I can watch the moose top the fireweed growing along the side of my house, detach the bright green needles from young spruce, or nibble on other new growth. I learned my lesson the first year I tried to grow veggies: neighboring hare might devour parts of my plants, but moose can remove all but a stump of a plant with one eager chomp. I am glad that the herbivores appreciate the taste of my efforts, but after the hard work I would like to be the consumer of the harvest. I now raise all of my plants on the deck behind its fence-like railing.
Today the moose I watch looks small. Its head does not come up to the base of the window. Odd.
[Please note that my house is built up on pilings so I walk up seven steps to reach my front door. The lower window sill therefore is 7 feet 10 inches (2.4 meters) from the surface of snow-covered ground.]
Ah. It’s a calf.
Is this young moose solo or does it still travel with mama…?
Found her.
Mama sitting on the snowy ground.
Mama is resting on the ground in a depression made by her much larger body, by a telephone pole, feet tucked under her, head up, eyes and ears alert. I watch her. She looks like the same moose who has voyaged by my house since I moved in. An abrupt sound from the road makes her lurch up and trot to the spruce stand. She stops there, head and neck blocked by the tree trunks. All I can see is her body from withers to rump.
For a moment I wonder if she is like a human tot who thinks that when her eyes are covered then no one can see her. I rather doubt that. If I were a prey animal (like her), walking near the residence of a potential two-legged predator (like me), I would be careful to protect myself and the little one with me. And that is probably what she is doing: watching out for her child. From her angle she probably has a very good view of her babe.
Look closely, and you can see the twigs hanging from the munching mama’s mouth.
I continue to watch. Mama moves forward to snack on a small cluster of short vegetation and I lose track of the baby since it is so close to the side of the house.
Another distinctive bang. I do not see a bouncing willow. This time perhaps the calf’s shoulder has knocked against the side of the house.
Calf seen through a screened second-story window.
Two calves.
I dash upstairs to look out of a second-story window for a hopefully wider view of them both. Yep. There they are. My brow wrinkles slightly. Both moose look exactly the same height. I guess the angle from below made them look differently sized. It’s all about perspective. But why are the two traveling together still? And then mama steps forward into view.
Mama moose nibbling on spruce tips.
It’s a cow with two calves!
I am so excited. Two! Usually moose bear only one calf each spring. There must have been a lot of food this past year since she has borne twins. Come spring these two will be off on their own as mama’s attention turns to her next newborn.
She watches them still as together they climb the hill created by the house’s leech field, tugging on the smaller willow as they go. Mama lets them move up and over as she takes the long way around to the other side of the mound, and within only a few breaths, all three ungulates are out of view, and I am left with a peaceful smile on my lips.
As the cold dry air sucks moisture out of the skin, my hands first they look like a cracked mudflat in a drought, and then without moisture they begin to split.
I have my mother’s hair and knobby-knuckled hands, and my father’s eyes and skin. In very dry weather, my hands tend to crack at the joints and at the edges of the tips of my fingers where my nails stop their protection. I have never had delusions of becoming a hand model. This year especially, lotion and I are waging a war against aridity and hand sanitizer.
Last week I noticed three, four, (or was it five?) gray hairs: Delicate white sitting among the mousy brown, perhaps like a ptarmigan just starting to change color for the season — but in the mirror my head did not look nearly as beautiful as a wild ptarmigan might.
With horror I realized yesterday evening that I could not see the road signs clearly until I had approached closer — akin to that of a computer screen distance from my eyeballs. I think my brain has forgotten how to focus further than that. Thank goodness roadsigns are standardized according to color and shape. Plus, I know where to turn and what the speed limit is — and I doubted any of that information had changed since the last time I was able to read the large lettered signs. Never before have I noticed such a dramatic change in my vision, not since the day my parents took me to pick up my new beautiful red frames. When I put on those new ‘80s specs, the ground shifted. I had had no idea the floor was where it actually was.
What a year so far.
I think tonight I will rub another layer of lotion into my hands and practice not looking at a screen. Maybe, just perhaps, that will help me not see any more silver among the brown for a very long, stress-free time…
Unhurried, and almost regal in bearing, the Lynx canadensis walks silently confident atop the snow-covered garden of wild grasses and determined wild roses. Tufted ears and luminescent eyes remain alert. The body, although rounded by thick, fluffy fur, nonetheless exudes a dangerous sleekness.
The lynx pads calmly through its yard — which just happens to be where my house is built. I have chanced to see it through the kitchen window as it appears from out of the boreal woodland behind my house. After a stunned and awed gape I scramble to tug my camera out of my backpack, but the batteries are dead! I grab up my old iPod and low-tech flip phone and fumble to open both cameras.
Unhurried, and almost regal in bearing, the Lynx canadensis walks silently confident atop the snow-covered garden of wild grasses and determined wild roses. Tufted ears and luminescent eyes remain alert. The body, although rounded by thick, fluffy fur, nonetheless exudes a dangerous sleekness.
I try to steal as quietly as possible to the front window where I peek out between the slats of the blinds, snapping furtive photos. As I gaze in continued wonder, I can understand why some Native American cultures view(ed) the lynx as a guardian of secret truths. Watching the feline stare perceptively focused into the spruce stand by my driveway, I also grasp why a person with good eyesight can easily be described as ‘lynx-eyed’. I chuckle at the reason that Polish astronomer Johannes Hevelius named a configuration of 19 stars “The Lynx” in 1687: only the keen-sighted could truly see the faint constellation. The first time I glimpsed a lynx — about a month ago, and for such a brief moment that I mused if I should doubt my eyes — it was on the other side of the George Parks Highway from which the spruce woodland separates my home. I wonder if this one is the same carnivore.
I stay cautiously inside until the grimalkin has moved down the length of the driveway and I feel brave enough to take photos from just outside the front door (but still up on the porch). The wild cat pauses, ponders, and prowls onward. I let several more minutes pass before I venture down the steps and peer at the impressions in the snow. The wide prints are clearly different from the hare and fox tracks I have not seen since the lynx first graced the neighborhood with its presence.
If you’re not from Interior Alaska (or even further north), you might not think winter could start so early. But it’s October: time to prep for the next six cold, white, winter months to come!
Last week, deciduous leaves created colored circles around the bases of their grey and white trunks. The thin spruce trees appear tall and stately because their neighbors now stand bare. Today a light snow fell, but did not stick. These silent details, and the crisp, tinny smell in the air, are my hint that winter is on her way. It’s time for me to pack away my summer bike and pull out the long blue extension cord.
An outdoor extension cord?
I don’t own an electric car: the plug dangling from under my front bumper leads to the oil pan heater. To ensure my truck starts on winter mornings, I plug it in a few hours before it’s time to head to work. One -20ºF (-28.8ºC) weekend last winter I stayed indoors and when I tried to start my vehicle on Sunday evening, a tortured moan escaped from the truck. It was not about to do more than that. After I had plugged in for a couple of hours, the truck started, roughly grumbling, but still it started and took me cautiously where I needed to go.
I doubt I’ll need the blue extension cord for another month, but nevertheless I hang it by the front door — inside so that it is pliable when I need it — and check that the switch to the outdoor socket is turned on.
Tomorrow the snow, if it falls — and sticks — the dirt driveway poking out from under the snow will look like powdered sugar at the bottom of a bag of crumbles left from Mexican wedding cakes. If it’s been an agitating workday, a vision of a bag once containing rum balls rolled in white will be more apt.
Tomorrow if snow does stick — and it likely will (as a forecasted high chance of freezing suggests) — I’ll move the much shorter, stay-in-the-truck, blue cord to the floor of the front seat, and it will be within easy reach when I need to plug in to a bollard marking my parking spot at work.
