Rain sheets from the sky just before noon on an abnormally warm winter day. On Christmas Eve the temperature had dropped to -24ºF/-31ºC (with a high of 2ºF/-16ºC), and today the thermometer registered a high of 40ºF/4.4ºC. What a layer of ice that is going to make on the roads! Photo taken at 11:57, 26 December 2021.
4:13 p.m. Clickety-click. Click. The lights pop off. Back on. Then off again. Click, clickety-click, say the electronics as juice reaches their systems again. I shut off the treadmill’s main switch and turn off the small light in the living room. The lights flicker on and off and on again until, in the end, they stay off.
I should have guessed that today there would be electricity problems. I first noticed the rain mid morning. The sound of it on the snow was a relaxing susurration, but icicles had already started forming around the base of my truck and along the underside of telephone and power wires.
Rain should not be falling in December in Alaska, especially after a week and a half of regular snowfall. The man who plows my driveway was here on the 8th, 11th, 17th, 19th, 20th, 23rd, and even early on Christmas Day! That was only yesterday.
The snow kept on falling. I woke up at about 2 a.m. this morning because his son was shoveling snow off my stoop while he plowed the drive. I was surprised to hear him here so early (and again), but there was enough snow to warrant yet another visit. He must also have known about the predicted rainfall. My driveway is thick once again with white and with the rain on top… Plowing a thick snow layer with a hardened crust must tear up snowplow equipment. I hope he’s staying at home and off the roads today. They must be sheathed in ice.
Even though the camera does not visually pick up the drops, listen to the water streaming from sky and roof, 12:31, 26 December 2021.
Icicles have formed on the telephone wire due to the abnormal rain, 13:01, 26 December 2021.
Just like everything else — including the power lines and the spindly spruce trees.
The last time there was winter rain was about five or six years ago. I cannot remember the exact year, but I do recall that it happened just before Thanksgiving and the trees bent under the weight of the ice and pulled down power lines. A couple of coworkers who lived further out of town had no electricity for up to two weeks(!) that time.
Kerosene Lantern: Perfect light for a black-out, 15:19, 26 December 2021.
Today, by the light of my hurricane lamp, I pull my headlamp from my backpack and locate the phone book to look up the number for the power company. When there is no internet, an “old-fashioned” book will never let me down. I call in my personal power outage and pull on a sweater.
Friends and I text to check in on who has power and who is safe. One friend is cozying under blankets. One friend, with power, says I can come over if I feel safe enough to drive. Another friend, also with power, tells me that the official outage map shows 14,000 homes without electricity from Healy to Fairbanks in one direction and to Harding Lake in the other. A lot more than 14,000 people live in that number of homes, including her daughter’s and nieces’ families (and me).
This screenshot shows the electrical outages in Fairbanks, Alaska at 20:04, after my own lights had popped back on, 26 December 2021.
As I sit here typing I realize that many people who are ensconced in their own, full-electricity, worlds may not understand the dangers of living in Alaska without power.
The boiler will not flame on until the electricity is restored, and the water pump will not work either, which will perhaps work to my advantage because if the electricity does not come on before the outdoor temperature starts to drop this evening, I may need to drain the water out through the pipes so if my house freezes there will be less risk of bursting pipes. Of course, I will shut off the pump’s breaker on the panelboard anyway if I have to take that step.
Most, like me, do not have a built-in alternate source of heat. I would love a fireplace or wood stove, but installing one would be too time- and cost-intensive for the kind of home I have. If the indoor temperature becomes too low I will dig a path into the shed to pull out the space heater and the tank of propane so I can stay warm enough this evening to monitor the house and get a restless sleep.
My Internet service is of course down at home, so I cannot access news on the computer. I have no Internet access through my phone, other than Wi-Fi services, which of course are currently reacting as if they were never invented. I opted not to install a landline in this house once I learned that all of the telephone company’s services are fully digital, meaning that when power goes out, so does my landline. Thus, once my cell phone dies I will have no way to call if I need emergency services — and I won’t be able to know if friends will need help either.
In the light of the steady glow of a kerosene lantern, the only light source around, 15:46, 26 December 2021.
The radio also naturally does not work. My mother sent me my 1990s ‘boom box’ last summer so I do have its battery-operated option for the radio if I need it, but I’m kind of enjoying the quiet without a backdrop of an electric hum.
The benefit of the rain — if I put a positive spin on it — is that the temperature is relatively warm. The thermometer outside my front door reads 32ºF, which makes sense because the sky air temperature must be above freezing for it to even rain. The house will hold its temperature so much better than it would have done eleven days ago when there was a negative sign (-) in front of that number.
I mull over the idea of driving to my friend’s house, or to see if a coffee shop is open so I can plug in my phone and have a warm meal. The rain is still sprinkling. The rain has soaked through, making the snow too wet to sweep, as I would normally have done. So, I shovel it off instead. The most recent snowfall has created a ground layer as deep as the bottom step is tall.
Water is dripping down the side of my truck, from the rain as much as from the warming-up truck. I do like autostart. The thick blanket of snow, heavy now with moisture, has started to slide off of the hood in broken-off slabs.
The crusted snow crunches loudly under my feet. I can still push the long snow brush along the top of the truck, and the loose snow falls off the other side. The hardened crust is a roof to the hollowed out snow tunnel I have made.
The water that seeped through the snow has begun to set into ice atop the snow hard packed from repeated pressure of driven tires. Shoveling the snow away from front and back of each tire will help prevent little mounds of iced snow from turning into chocks and thwarting me driving the truck (which has happened before! I once had to chop away at the ice with the edge of a shovel in order to get moving again.) Photo taken at 17:21, 26 December 2021.
After the truck is cleaned off and the windows and headlights scraped clean of ice and slush, it’s time to shovel out the wheels. I do this already knowing that I’m not going to head over to my friend’s. The icy layer atop the driveway’s snow glistens too prettily for a safe drive.
A conical pile has developed around the fill pipe to my heating oil tank. If more snow falls, or falls from the roof above, the pipe might be buried, and if the wet snow freezes over night, I wonder if the fuel truck driver, slated to arrive tomorrow, will be able to access it. Plus, I want to reduce the chance for snow and water to dribble inside. I punch through the iciness around the pipe and smoothly brush away the light snow beneath.
Natural light, minus all born of electricity, makes it too dark to see much of my self-portrait, but this is me, wearing a brimmed hat and winter coat, with a plaid scarf wrapped aboout my nose and shoulders, 17:19, 26 December 2021.
5:30 p.m. My cell phone’s battery just died.
What time will the electricity come back on?
What to do for dinner…? I’m a little peckish, but I’m sure that I don’t actually need to eat. In 2020, 66.7% of adult Americans were overweight or obese to some degree, and surely that number hasn’t reduced much since then. I can go without food until breakfast. Then, again, there is a sense of exciting adventure to having to cook dinner at home on a camp stove.
I set everything up outside, in part because I hear tales of people who perished because they used propanes stoves indoors (although most likely in smaller square footage and more than just one meal), but mostly because I don’t often get to to sit out on the deck in winter — certainly not at these warm temperatures! It’s too bad the clouds block the starlight.
While I stare into the night and listen to its silence, the water starts to heat up in pot. Bundled up in the camp chair the only sounds are the steady whooshing of the blue flames and the intensifying, but muted roil of the liquid.
6:47 p.m. The blue tinted landscape turns a dirty golden as the light on the house across the road bursts on. I can hear the purr of the boiler from the back of my house. I reenter, turn on the stove to boil water for tea, and plug in the phone, which lights up showing 69%. Replying to texts is the next thing I do in case people were worried about why I had stopped in the midst of conversations. A wise friend asked if I have a charger in my truck. Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?
Probably because I was not too concerned at that moment about being device-less. It’s nice to enjoy the view without the hum or beeps of electricity.
Clickety-click. Click.
Two straining flickers and the lights shut off again. The boiler is silent. The cell phone rings.
The power company’s automated services asks if I have had my power restored, and I press 2 for no.
6:51 p.m. I start the truck’s engine and use the charger to boost the phone’s battery up to 100% before returning to the porch and its camp chair. I eat the yummy re-hydrated chicken breast and mashed potatoes with a bread knife and a long-handled spoon while I try to soak up the grey night.
7:23 p.m. The bulbs brighten and the lights stay on this time, and while I am relieved that I don’t have to worry about the house, I am a little disappointed that I cannot continue enjoying the quiet of the true world. Someone opens a front door and I hear the chatter of a television show through the night. I retreat indoors, closing my own door behind me, and in a matter of minutes, I can, regrettably, barely remember the feel of a natural nightfall.
I lurched out of bed when my alarm went off and staggered across the room to shut it off, which was ideal timing for my second alarm to chirp irritatingly a little further away. I flicked the lights on to prevent tripping over the bag I’d purposely left in the way the night before. Now squinting against the artificial light, I made it to the device before it started into another shrill round of sound. I sighed and stood there for a while, sleepiness pulling on my eyelids.
Ugh. So much for a full night’s sleep.
Outside the snow glowed eerily beautiful from the bluing of reflected scarce light. The silhouettes of tall thin black spruce looked very nearly as dark as their chromatic classification. The overcast sky appeared to have a duller blanket of snow suspended high above. The air itself appeared ‘thicker’, as if minuscule particles of moisture had frozen in midair — which very probably was the case if it was as cold as the view hinted.
I lumbered downstairs to check the outdoor thermometer’s reader. Cold snap still confirmed. [See entry for 13 December 2021.]
I was glad I planned to get up so early so that the truck’s oil pan could have sufficient time to thaw before I needed the engine to start. It was almost 4 a.m. When I first began driving in the state’s Interior, a friend’s husband and knowledgable mechanically-minded longtime Alaskan, recommended one hour of plug-in time for every ten degrees below zero degrees Fahrenheit. This advice has never steered me wrong, and I always use this ratio to figure out how long to plug in my truck — and when to tumble out of bed on forecasted cold days. Why had I decided to not plug in last night…?
As a child, I remember adults complaining about the fallibility of The Weatherman. Even now people make comments about how it was ‘supposed to (fill in your choice of weather event here).’ In my experience, however, when The Alaskan Weatherman reports an approximate temperature, the info is generally correct. If one weather channel says Xº and another quotes Yº, both temperatures are always within a few degrees of each other, and temperature fluctuates constantly anyway, and that’s not taking into account from which weather station in the area the temperature report derives. The temperature around my house can be 5-10º lower than the temperature on the nearby highway in any case, and the reported temperatures of Xº and Yº just help me approximate when I need to wake up on cold winter nights.
After pulling on sweatpants, snow pants, shirt, long-sleeved hoodie, sweater, goose down hooded jacket, thick socks, studded winter boots (rated to -40ºF/C), wool neck gator, wool scarf, felted wool hat, and winter gloves (not thick enough for the temperature but thin enough for me to be able to bend my fingers), I draped the new blue extension cord over an arm, grasping the plugs in one hand, and unlocked the door.
Boiler room, 21 March 2011.
The boiler at the back of the house almost immediately kicked on. The inside of the storm door’s glass panel had frosted over. The pneumatic closer of the door groaned as I pushed open the door and stepped outside. I pulled the front door shut behind me, but it popped open. I had to pull and lift the door to make it stay shut. The house shifts recurrently all year long.
The outdoor outlet I was using today is on the far side of the deck from the door, and far from where I park in the driveway. (I wish I had not plugged the broken cord in to the socket I normally used! But, I had.) As a precaution I hooked the headlamp hanging by the door with a finger before stepping through the doorway, and I did need it to guide the prongs into the socket. The shimmering ground did not radiate enough light to see details.
The storm door groaned through the congealed grease in its closer, grudgingly shutting.
The plug on the other end of the long extension cord glowed orange, causing my shoulders to relax just a bit. I like it when things work. I daisy-chained the cord as I shuffled to the other end of the deck, taking up the slack in the 50 feet so there would be less chance of it snagging a toe and tripping me. The cord was already stiffening up in the cold. I left enough of the cable to cross in front of the door and dangle off of the porch deck.
The orange glow of success! The connected cords are transmitting warming electricity to the oil pan heater, 12 December 2021.
I walked gingerly down the steps, making sure I did not trip on the cord or slip on the frosty steps. I pulled the end section of the cord to the front of the truck and connected it to the short cord extending from under the truck’s front bumper. The plug on the oil pan heater’s cord glowed orange. I sighed and shuffled back up the steps, tripped on the cord yet again <ugh>, and caught hold of the still not-yet-closed storm door. I dragged it shut behind me and locked the main one. Chill drafted through the narrow space near the bolt.
The heating baseboard clicked and the boiler flamed on.
I reset my alarms and sank down on the couch for another two hours of sleep, grateful that Sunday’s adventure had happened on the weekend and not this morning…. I did not fancy the idea of having to consider biking to work today….
As I drifted off to sleep I mused, I will plug in tonight and not worry about the extra electricity use overnight. I like my sleep…zzzz…..
I breathed through my mouth through the face covering. I had learned in my first winter here that when the temperature drops below 20º below freezing (yes, more than 50ºF colder than when water freezes) that it hurts when I breathe the air directly in through my nose. Pulling air through my lips the long way to my lungs helps warm it up so it does not freeze my lungs’ alveoli or the inside of my nostrils.
Temperature in Celsius, at 23:37, 12 December 2021.Temperature in Fahrenheit, at 23:37, 12 December 2021.
The forecasted temperature was not expected to rise, and I did not feel like waking up extra, extra early tomorrow to plug in the truck so that its oil pan would be thawed enough for the engine to turn over. So, I unhooked the long outdoor extension cord from its spot inside the house.
The outdoor socket is on the side of the porch directly next to the front steps. As I lifted the protective lid with one hand, I noticed that the cord in my other was bent at nearly a forty-five degree angle down from the back of the plug. My brain absently recognized that this might become a problem and I should think about buying a new cord. Maybe later. I plugged in the cord and let the protective cover relax downwards.
Pop! A cascade of fiery red sparks shot out towards the stairs and I screamed in shock and jumped away. My heart rate rocketed. I whimpered a little, and gingerly, yet as quickly as possible, lifted the metal cover and pulled the plug from the socket, thinking it might burn my hand through the insulated wither glove. The cord dropped to the ground, having been cut away from the plug I was now holding. The metal of the cover had completed an undesired circuit from the socket though the break in the cord’s plastic, and obviously a break in an exposed wire, out into the dangerous shower.
The thinking part of my brain said, huh, you should have trusted me when I pointed out the bent cord. It also noticed the luck of the burst spraying towards the stairs — and away from me.
A lingering electrical burning smell prompted me to action. Heart still racing I dashed up the stairs and pushed open the front door.
A moment to pull the rubber guards over my soles so I could prevent damaging my flooring then I raced through to the other end of the house to check the breaker box. ‘Outside socket, West’ showed a little red box on the panel. I flipped the switch back and forth curiously, and the red disappeared. I breathed out. Does this mean I could still use the socket? I turned on the breaker and headed back outside. The short cord I store in the truck (and use to plug in while at work) should reach, since obviously the long one is destroyed.
Distribution panel showing the flipped (red) breaker. The circled switch number tells me that the previous owners did not keep up on their water deliveries and had to quickly locate the water pump’s breaker in order to shut it off (and prevent the pump from burning itself out while attempting to draw in water from an air-filled tank), 12 December 2021.
The burning smell was stronger. My headlamp showed streaks of soot extending like a starburst from the socket openings. A vision of the house burning down from this point up and back through the wood transformed into me speeding in reality back into the house.
I flipped the ‘Outside socket, West’ switch once more to ‘Off’ and headed back outside. My house will not burn down. Thank you to whichever electricians invented the distribution board and circuit breakers!
I sighed. Now I have to learn how to replace a socket, and maybe (most likely) the cord from panelboard to socket. As a young child I remember helping my father rewire the house, but the extent of my experience was him yelling at me from another room to pull the wire through. “Do you see the wire?” “No!” “Now?” “I’ve got it!” “Well, pull it!” I felt so proud to be able to help him. How to actually do rewiring though I have no idea. I feel a little irritated and a little excited about the need to learn. That can wait until summer though. When it is a lot warmer!
Threading the short blue cord through the railing in order to plug in the truck, 12 December 2021.
The need to plug in the truck remained. I drove the truck to the other side of the house, nose in, and strung the short blue cord from what the electric panel would surely call ‘Outside socket, East’ through the porch railing and down to the front of the truck where the oil pan heater cord dangled.
Plugging in the truck on the opposite side of the porch as normally, in a -32ºF temperature at 23:47 at night, just barely still Sunday, 12 December 2021.
I wondered if a moose might pass through as one sometimes does, and if it would step over the cord or push through it like through clumping grass, pulling it out of one or both of the sockets. Having not seen a moose all winter, Murphy’s Law dictated that now would be the time when one chose to visit. I could envision the cord tangling about a long brown leg and falling off somewhere where I would never find it, leaving me with no cord and only the option of biking to work. Brrr! I used a hand to help lift my snow-panted knee up and over the cord — and my leg sank into the snow up to that same knee. Teetering through the drift I stopped worrying about what a moose might or might not do and just went inside to sleep.
Monday, 13 December 2021:
On the way home from work today I swung by the grocery store and purchased a new 50-foot cord. This cold snap is predicted to be only a short one of three to four days, but I need a new cord today so I can park in my normal spot — nose out— and lay the cord across the deck rather than park nose-in on the other side of the house. I wonder if one day my truck won’t start, even after plugging it in. It will be simpler to reach the battery for a jump if the engine/hood is easily accessible. I know it will certainly be easier, and less expensive, to tow if the front of the truck is facing outwards and not diagonally where there might not be enough room for a tow truck to maneuver. As long as I (or any surprise visitor) doesn’t trip on the cord stretched in front of the door, the set-up will be just fine.
Since, I was outside already and thinking about the bad things that can happen, I decided to check the heating oil. Just my luck to run out again.
I always use the same gloves when checking the fuel: leather work gloves that are far too thin to be worn at these temperatures, but they are the ones covered by drops of heating oil. I’d have to move quickly. I slipped them on and I could feel the cold through them right away. I’ve heard tell that petroleum products can burn flesh through contact at these temperatures. I removed the padlock from the fill pipe, got the dip stick, and flipped open the pipe’s cover. The dip stick’s slide down into the fill pipe was not checked by the surface of the liquid for a long time. I hold my breath. How close was I to running out of fuel? After pulling out the measuring tool and checking the fuel’s exact level (low enough to call for a fuel delivery, but not too low for me to start to worry), I ran a hand down the stick, forcing the clinging liquid to drip back into the fill pipe. Fuel is pricy and very drop counts. Though the leather I felt burning on my fingers from my rings; I could sense the silver sucking in the cold and transferring it painfully to my skin. I hurried to replace cover, dipstick, and padlock then tossed the gloves into the porch corner and pulled on the thick winter gloves. My skin burned. I needed to take the rings off!
Stiff-jointed from the cold, I tripped over the curls of extra cord on the deck, nearly banging my head onto the storm door.
Sigh…
Maybe I should go to bed early tonight…
Sweet dreams, readers. Dreams of working joints and working houses….
One view of my 5th grade classroom, 23 August 2021.
I have had the most intense headaches this year of anytime in my life.
If I have a headache, perhaps once every two years, a single Tylenol will eradicate it — or sometimes all it takes is a cup of peppermint tea and a rest.
This year, poor nutrition, reduced hydration, and limited exercise probably caused my headaches so I adjusted my habits. Knives of pain kept me up at night, and a dull throbbing went with me through the day and through my skull. Could it just be the stress?
The doctor could not find any cause for the headaches. The blood draw gave no reason. I hadn’t banged my head. To all intents and purposes, there was nothing wrong with me. Job stress cannot be the cause of them.
Okay, this year does feel more exhausting than ever. I feel like I am walking along the edge of a cliff balancing spinning plates with more hands than I actually possess, yet….there has got to be something else.
My colleagues also complained of headaches. Plants in a green-thumbed teacher’s classroom were visibly dying.
It turned out that the night custodian, by directive of the school district, was spraying classrooms which had students missing due to COVID-19. (At one point or another every classroom had at least one student’s family call in to say their child was out due to the virus.)
One of my students was out approximately every 8 days due to the illness. (Really? The quarantine is ten days, plus add on a handful of days for verification testing… COVID-19? Right. I scoff harumph, then sigh…I wish I had a job for which I could call out sick whenever I felt like it… How could the parent justify not sending her child to school to do her job of learning?)
Some classrooms have had to be shut down completely or had increased cleaning and masking requirements due to the number of students out. One classroom of at-higher-risk students was shut for two weeks because the teacher and the aides had not been vaccinated, so when too many students/adults called out, everyone had to stay home. (Curse my work ethic and responsibility! I’ve stayed up on my health precautions, both injectable and wearable.)
I have not had a cold all year, which I am attributing to wearing a mask anytime I am on school property. (I do not wear my mask when I am alone in my classroom though, and once a colleague felt affronted when I hastily put it on when she poked her head in. A mask can also help me not spread something to colleagues, you know. Jeesh.)
Another school district employee, who I respect for her determination and skills, said once, “You know masks don’t work, right?”
Oh? I feel a little disappointed in her. Maybe masks are not completely effective, but the only time I have felt ill this year is when I slept only five hours for four days in a row. On night five I made myself sleep instead of think about work, and fourteen hours later I awoke feeling refreshed, and so much better — even despite the headache.
I did not share my cold-less experience with this staff member or ponder aloud why doctors and nurses wear masks even in non-COVID times if they are ineffective…? I can use my energy for so many other things than trying to discuss where who gets what information.
I asked if the custodian could not spray my classroom with the disinfecting and sanitizing agent Brulin BruTab 6S, and she said sure. I can only assume that the district chose this hospital disinfectant purposefully, knowing that it is not detrimental to the students. I wonder if the district thought about the teachers being in the classrooms for many more hours each day than the students… I don’t know if headaches are a side-effect of exposure to the bleach alternative, or if there is any correlation at all between the disinfectant and my health. All I know is that my headaches reduced and then disappeared entirely after the custodian and I chatted.
This has been such a long year!
This school year should be easier than last — after all, students are back in the building like a ‘normal’ year, and the masking requirement is sure to be lifted in January based on the opinions and temperaments of the sitting school board members — no matter the COVID-19 case count. So, why is this year already so exhausting?
Perhaps it is the change in school start time, pushing the work/school day back a half an hour, so that officially my day starts at 8:30. I’m a morning person, so I arrive at work about 6:30 every morning, just as any other previous school year. Many teachers in the building did not adjust their arrival time from previous years either. It’s just half an hour after all, right?
The After School Program, for which I teach fencing and fiber arts classes, while shorter by fifteen minutes this year, still ends at the same time as the virtual classes did last year and the in-person ones from every year previous. This cannot be what is making the year so hard. I am used to long days.
Perhaps it is the apathy and lack of social skills of students (and some parents). They seem to think that school is a place to be, not a place to work to gain knowledge. School should, as it for some reason seems to be believed to be, a “fun” place. Most students don’t want to work hard, or even work. I assign a task, and many look at me in stunned astonishment, their little eyelashes blinking rapidly, and ask, “Do we have to do this?” Older, more experienced teachers, and ones with fewer years under their belts, have both commented that their students ask them, too, “Do we have to?”
Yes! Yes, you have to! That is why you are here! To learn! How can you expect to learn if you don’t work at it? Your brains won’t build new connections, new synapses, if you don’t put in the effort! I don’t say any of this aloud, but I do wonder why — no, I know why they think everything comes easily. After all, all you have to do is Google it or watch a YouTube video…!
I use these resources too, Company websites and videos are how I learned to repair bathroom drywall holes last summer. I had no illusion about my work being perfect. It takes a lot of time to build up skills. And my drywall repair and subsequent paint job were not perfect. But it was mine and I take pride in this, and next time I will do better.
Many of my students get frustrated right away when their result does not resemble what they might have seen in a video, or seen in the provided example. They forget that they haven’t been in fifth grade before so it should not be perfect the first time they attempt the task. It’s okay to struggle! Many don’t want to put in the effort to memorize math facts, for example, because they think can always just look up the answers. Few seem to make the connection right away that if they know their math facts then they won’t be struggling so much now with the process of long division. (Which by the way, I use regularly when comparing prices, figuring out how many yards I need to complete a fiber arts project, or balancing my finances.)
Is this why so many play video games and watch anime? The choices are made for them. They do not have to take responsibility for their mistakes or incorrect choices.
I see only a few students entering my classroom wanting to improve, to work, to do better. It saddens me. I shudder to think sometimes about our youth being the ones who will eventually take care of me in my old age, and make the decisions to run our country’s infrastructure, finance, and law. What makes me sadder is that I don’t know if I can have any effect on getting them where they need to be.
But I try anyway. I have them record and graph their scores so that we can do it again after the next test and they can see their growth (or not) and we can talk about why they improved or didn’t. I ask them to look back in their journals to see how much they wrote at the beginning of the year compared to the middle of the year or the end. I ask them how they felt about a project, and why. I need to get them to connect their effort with their product, and hopefully, connections will be made and they will strive to do better next time. That’s really all I want: for them to work hard at being better at whatever it is the next time. To truly work and try, and not give up.
Most of them don’t seem to understand that Google is a search engine, not a source to cite. I have been combatting this idea all year, and will continue to do so. Anyone can compose a video to showcase whatever they want. I strive to teach my students to think about the info that pops up on the Internet. Does it make sense? So many students (adults, too?) take what they read or watch on the Internet as factuality. Even when personal experience shows differently. Sigh…
Most students don’t seem to want to work hard, or work at, the tasks this year. Where is the urgency to learn? Is this what is making this year so wearing? By the end of the year I hope I have encouraged my students to learn and try and work at learning, even when it is hard.
I’ll keep persevering.
I go to work in the dark and go home in the dark. I leave the classroom blinds open during the day so whatever light from the sun there might be can filter through the glass, but I’m looking forward to March more than I ever had.
Parking lot with bollards topped with electrical outlets (for plugging in a cord connected to a heater for your vehicle’s oil pan so it does not freeze during low temperatures). An ice shelf hints at the hardback that had not quite all been removed. This winter we ran ran out of places to put the snow: Notice the large snow dump near the ‘This is not a snow dump’ sign, 24 April 2022.
Sometime in March I’ll walk out of the school building and stop in surprise in the middle of the parking lot because it will be sunny. I will be amazed at the width of the road because the plows have gone through one more time over the night for hardpack removal and pushed the snow and ice beyond the edges of the roads. That sense of release will brighten my day, but right now my path seems narrow.
Another morning on the drive to work I will be awed by the gorgeous sunrise over the truck’s hood. What is that strange orange-white object cutting above the horizon: The sun! I remember Ray Bradbury’s “All Summer in a Day,” a short story I read as a child. Back then I understood the children were looking forward to the sun, but back then I did not truly understand the yearn for it. The message about the cruelness of children is what stayed with me. Now, living in the Alaska Interior through this enervating year, the poignancy of the story’s many levels sticks me in the gut. I think I’ll reread it, and maybe even cry. I might need the cleanse.
What I really want to do is just sleep. Forget about my duties for a while, ignore the extra ones I have this year, become oblivious to the lack of communication from the district office, disregard the negative commentary by community and school board about teachers, brush aside the increased need of families and students to do the problem-solving themselves, and simply sink into a delightful slumber and wake up when my body wants to, rather than in reaction to a buzzer. Unfortunately I don’t have time to do any of that. It’s too bad I cannot buy even a small vial of supplemental time in the supermarket.
A typical dirt road going through break-up in Fairbanks, Alaska, 30 April 2022.
One mid-April afternoon my truck will growl and the tires’ rubber will grind on the asphalt as I try to turn out from a parking spot. The asphalt will be too dry for four-wheel drive. I’ll let the transfer case do its transfer and then for another couple of weeks pause at either end of the dirt road to/from my house. I will need four-wheel drive to navigate the bumps, ruts, and pools from the combination of melting snow, slushy snow, and still solid ice. Brown mud will slowly replace the dirty white until at the end of April there will only be patches of snow at the sides of the road.
Nice boots! A parking lot has become a pool of the melted snow, 25 April 2022.
Parking lots and roads will be mostly clear except where the drainage is blocked, and then cold, muddy swimming pools will form. The weather channels will warn of possible flooding and recommend that people in low-lying areas move their belongings out of the basements. An advantage of having a house up on post-and-pad: no basement or flooding foundation worries!
By the end of April, time will be blending together, one day rolling into the next with the distant hope of the end of the school year bleeding into the workday. A long line of miniature Dover cliffs will mark the highway medium where the snow is melting from the southernly angle of the sunlight. The enormous snow dumps built over the long winter in parking lots and in the valleys between exit ramps will slowly melt and at the middle of May the gigantic white mounds will begin to develop dark toupees and sideburns as the melting snow drains away leaving the dirt, gravel, and grassy bits of vegetation to come the surface.
This medium-sized snow dump has melted enough to start developing dark ‘sideburns’ of detritus, 29 May 2022.A zoomed-in detail of the medium-sized snow dump, 29 May 2022.
My students will want to be done with school and I will still have district requirements to coax them through. We’ll have a couple of field trips and they will be as much work as the everyday because even at the end of the year there will be young people who have not mastered self control, especially in the looser environment outside of the school. I will want to look forward to summer, but it will still be a month away. I can’t drop my guard! The sun’s energy will transfer to the students and the likelihood for recess and classroom interpersonal conflicts will be as high as those born of the despondency of deep mid-winter.
I am so looking forward to this year being over, but that is still months away…. It is only December! I need to remember to keep myself optimistic, assiduous, and energetic, at least as a model for my students if for no other reason. Come on, you can do it, I try to convince myself. Perhaps the winter break will be long enough to help rejuvenate me. <Sigh…> That break is still three weeks away…
But I’ll do it. There really is not any other option.
The year will get better, I’ll certain of it!
Yet, I have a niggling feeling in the back of my mind that something else will happen, and that the niggle will turn into a bang. This year does not feel like it is not going to end with a whimper….
[Note from 24 April 2022:
In January the school district decided, besides to lift the masking requirement (although I opted to wear masks everyday until the day after my last contract day: I like not having colds!), the district officially decided to change the educational system from a junior high model to a middle school model, which means both the 5th and 6th graders go on to middle school next year. I estimate only 15% of my 5th graders currently are ready for this. There is one who still gets lost when going to a class with another teacher. Poor thing, I worry so! On the other hand, perhaps the shock of middle school is what some of the students need to start taking responsibility for themselves and their learning. I hope they will be able to adjust efficiently — and as painlessly as possible. Middle school is rarely called anyone’s best years as it is!
Sunset over black spruce, 22:15, 20 April 2022.
The district has also decided to close two elementary schools and redo the boundaries. My school is losing more than half of its students to other schools due to the redistricting, which is causing anxiety among the families, especially those whose older children have spent six years at the school and who were hoping the younger ones would too. The new boundaries mean we will receive about 150 new students from the schools that have been closed, which means they may not be happy attendees either. The school climate will change dramatically next year, and, oh, the principal has decided to retire at the end of the year, and my father is having medical issues. Oh, yes, the year is not relinquishing its hold kindly. And there are still twenty-six more workdays to go…]
[Mid-May 2022 note:
Looking around at my students, I nod and smile. I take a deep breath. They are ready. Many of them understand the need to work at a problem or assignment and are beginning to take on the self-accountability. After changing tack in my teaching from January onward, and knowing that of any year, this is the one that the middle schools will be expecting a need for additional support for the incoming 6th graders, I take a deep, calming breath. I am not worried anymore about my students leaving elementary school and heading off to middle school. I do not have any more physical headaches either. Only a few more days of focus and plate-balancing before the summer can truly start for me. I am so looking forward to it.]
Sunlight shining down on ducks, geese, and swans swimming on a meltwater lake at Creamer’s Field, 10:38, 28 April 2022.
Trail into the trees, beneath birch and black spruce, 29 July 2021.
Ever since a friend of mine showed me the Bee Field in the Koponen Homestead trail system, I’ve put it on my summer to-do list. Sometimes I walk down the trails to and from, at other times I bike up to it on the Pasture Path, a gentle enough slope for my fitness level, yet bumpy enough with exposed roots to be interesting. While overcast and cool, today was the first non-rainy day in a succession of downpours.
My friend, her granddaughter, and I were going on a picnic!
I packed up my bike and pulled on a neon-yellow vest for the intersections and the stretch of road where there was no bike path. It was on this road that a car slowed, and the driver and small passenger waved and called my name. I grinned and waved back cheerfully.
“See you there!”
Would I beat them to the Bee Field?
As my distance was the shorter one, I did, which gave me time to tug off my outer layers and walk about to cool off from the ride and stare about in astonishment. What had happened to the Bee Field? Alder saplings from as tall as my knee to my waist poked up intermittently through the ground cover of dogwood.
Alder saplings draw the eye up away from the carnelian-colored berries of the dwarf dogwood (Cornus canadensis).
It appears no one has mown the field this year, sadly. I hope there is someone in charge of doing so because it would be a shame to have the forest reclaim the area. The joy of this open space is the bees. When the dogwood blooms white, the air is full of humming, a delicious sound of focused productivity. The Bee Field was named for a reason. I wonder whose hives benefit from the nectar gathered here.
I really hope no one complained out of fear of a bee sting, prompting the neglect of the field’s care. The human does not have to encroach on the bees’ space and sustenance. Staying on the trail is enough to stay out of their way: even the curious bumblebee prefers blooms to skin. Or, the nervous human can stay off of this trail entirely. There are others just as beautiful.
Because of the obstructing slender trunks, we walked through the trees to the lower grassy field further down the hill. The ground rolled gently, the manicured grass verdant around the handful of solitary trees which would have thrown wonderfully cool shade on a hot sunny day.
The end of the smaller spruce’s branches bend upwards, marking it as a rare white spruce in Fairbanks, 29 July 2021.
Atop the adjacent gentle rise was the perfect backdrop to our picnic: a patch of tall fireweed all in the pink. We sunk onto the blankets we spread upon the grass and shared and nibbled our noonday meal. The little girl complained of crawling nature. We chatted and laughed. In moments of silent, we could hear the breeze in the treetops and the hum of the nearby bees. Eager for the blossoms’ ambrosial awards, the apian insects did not visit us, and we respected the margin of their angustifolium in turn.
Magenta fireweed, enticement for bees, 29 July 2021.
Rested and well fed, we gathered up our items, checked that nothing had been left behind, and headed back up the gentle slope. The dirt path curved between the tall stately trunks. In the midst of the trees appeared a wooden bench, and, delightfully, an old-fashioned lamppost.
Today I found peaceful balance from picnicking with friends in a beautiful purlieu.
I was curious about the Bee Field’s care, so I contacted the Friends of the Koponen Homestead and received a very nice reply to my email. I learned how I can volunteer to help keep the space beautiful. I would like to share my enjoyment of the green space with you, while respecting that the area remains privately owned. I am a guest in their neighborhood each time I walk the trails and breath in the space.
A young bull with velvet on his growing antlers visits my yard for the tasty fireweed, 19 July 2021, Fairbanks, Alaska.
Mother Nature surprised me today while I was cleaning the kitchen. I glanced out the window and saw movement. I gasped when I saw the velvet-covered buds on the young moose’s head. Never before have I seen a bull in the process of growing antlers. The ungulate’s size and his smooth hide, free of nicks and discolorations, made me guess the moose was a youthful one. I stayed by the window to watch and awe while he munched on fireweed. He noticed me watching and after a while the attention was too much and he moved on into the stand of willow behind my house. The lucky wonder left me feeling serene and blessed, as Nature’s charm always does.
A young bull moose with velvety new antlers enjoys the fireweed growing in my yard, 19 July 2021, Fairbanks, Alaska.
This season I’ve packed my pickup with as many maybe-needs as possible and headed over to my friend’s place to collect her and all of her multiple items before driving to our chosen campsite. There, we’d set up our tents and head off on the hike of the day or week. Everything we could possibly need would be safely stored in the truck.
Car camping is enjoyable and convenient, but we do tend to bring everything except the kitchen sink (unless you count my fabric and wire washing tub that holds nearly as much water as an actual sink).
Our next challenge was to pack as lightly as possible for a one-day backpacking trip. We have never been on a one-dayer before. After all, if we’re going to go backpacking, let’s go! The novelty of this trip prompted us to choose Granite Tors, despite having hiked the 15-mile (24.1-km) trail in a single day many-a-time before. The destination is close to Fairbanks, not a far drive for only one night. It would be perfect for a test backpacking hike.
Smoke on Chena Hot Springs Road during the Munson Creek forest fire, 5 July 2021.
Our only concern as the day of the trip approached was the Munson Creek forest fire, which was still at 0% containment. Started naturally by lightning, the flames were spreading in the hot, dry weather. Black spruce is wonderfully flammable and prevalent — not making for an easily contained fire (unless you start it purposefully in a campsite fire ring). Many forest fires in Alaska are allowed to burn because fire is a natural part of the forest’s lifecycle and they are usually also so far away from human habitation.
The older sections of forest are filled with standing dead and fallen trees, and the duff has built up several layers. Not only is this age of forest great for finding campfire kindling but also great fuel for the igniting heat of a lightning strike. The fire clears out the debris, prompting different plants to grow in the now freed space, plus some seeds need the burst of heat to germinate in the first place.
I wonder if the legend of the phoenix came from a forest that was once burned and charred reclaiming the ground with fresh, bright green new growth. Maybe with red and orange flowers dancing in the breeze…
When a natural fire (or one regretfully begun by a foolish human being) nears manmade structures, however, firefighters step, drive, fly, and jump in to protect life and property.
Even if I had not listened to the news, or pulled up info online, I still would have known that a fire burned nearby. For days, smoke has hung over Fairbanks and the surrounding area, carried here by air currents and kept here by thermal inversion. A goodly wind would have blown it away, but fanned the flames as well: A double-edged sword.
The morning of our scheduled trip, a posted air-quality alert firmly suggested that residents stay indoors to protect their lungs. The sky looked like it was heavily overcast and smelled like a campfire.
Might the air be clearer as we drove out of town?
We doubted it.
But our curiosity wanted to find out anyway, so off we drove, down the road towards the end where a fire crackled and snapped.
On July 1, Alaska State Parks had closed the Angel Rocks Trail (the next trail over from the one we chose), and now the Department of Forestry had issued an evacuation advisory for all residents beyond the 48-mile marker of Chena Hot Springs Road. The Granite Tors trailhead is at mile 39.5.
We did not truly believe we’d be able to hike there — and at about mile 18 on Chena Hot Springs Road, we pulled off onto a side street. Being outside was like standing in a column of smoke from a campfire, but without the stinging of ash in the eyes. Neither of us wanted to walk in this atmosphere, much less exert ourselves.
The smoke from the Munson Creek forest fire gets thicker the closer to the end of Chena Hot Springs Road we get, 5 July 2021.
Laurie pulled up a list of trails on her cell phone and we tossed out the ones we had already hiked, and the ones with creek crossings or a ‘difficult’ rating. Not that we couldn’t do these, or hadn’t, but the purpose of this trip was to test our packing skills, not our trail-navigating prowess.
At milepost 42.5 on the Steese Highway, McKay Creek Trail looked promising. A long parking area and a dogsled-unloading sign were visible from the highway. Around the curve of the drive an ATV trail led into the trees, which I noted were predominantly deciduous, not the typical spruce or boreal forest we hike in.
Smoke followed us for several miles then sunlight burst through the windshield and the sky became blue once more. I smiled.
We walked up to the trail info signs, but there was no map, just the general warning signs and a couple about there being dog teams on the trails (the first 1.5 mile was private property). Yes, the trail looked acceptable to our purpose. Back at the car, we hitched our packs to our backs and headed uphill.
If I’d been thinking actively, I would have lightened my pack right there at Laurie’s car. Her pack weighed twenty pounds, mine forty. What?! Already I’d failed our goal to keep the packs as light as possible. The majority of the weight was in water, and I’d packed with Granite Tors in mind. A lot of that 15-mile trail loop was exposed, significant parts of it demanded exertion, and it was supposed to be a hot day. Each time I had been on that trail, I had consumed a couple of liters, and that was without cooking meals or boiling water for morning tea. It had also scared me that we had run out of packed water during a previous summer when our three-day trek turned into five days. There had been water sources along the trail which we had planned on using, and which we did, treating it with filters and chlorine dioxide tablets, and we still had water at the end of the trip, just not what we had brought with us. Still, the experience unnerved me. The sources on Granite Tors were either close to the trailhead or dried up by this time of the summer. These details combined to have me over-pack on water, especially considering the current plan was now quite different:
We would walk in 5.5 miles, find a camping spot for the night, and walk back.
I should have left a 3-liter bladder in the vehicle — or even on the side of the trail as we walked up since we would be returning the same way. I did not think of either of these ideas until I was already at the top of the hill. [Note to self: reasonable amount of water = a light pack] On the plus side, I was developing muscle tone and stamina….
The McKay Creek Trail was a wide four-wheeler trail the entire way. It was not the prettiest we’d ever been on, but not because it was designed for ATVs. After only a mile or so we realized that we are used to hiking at higher elevations: the trails are generally above the tree line and lend us wide vistas as we walk.
This trail cut a line through aspen and alder. The cooler space under the trees and our warm presence enlivened winged arthropods. I sprayed my bare arms and legs with insect repellent and tugged my mosquito net over my fisherman’s hat. I like the wide circular brim. It keeps the net and perching bloodsuckers away from my skin.
Laurie retold the plot of a book she had recently read, I think to distract us both from the fact that we were in an uphill walk with nothing grand to look at. It was an interesting story, but we were still heading uphill among the trees when she had shared the book’s conclusion and we had dissected the characters a bit.
Within the first couple of miles four hikers approached from the opposite direction. Laurie always knows what questions to ask. If it were just me, I’d wish them happy hiking and plod on by. Laurie found out there were some good camping spots ahead — not just closely growing trees as here — and the man said the trees would open up in “just a bit”. Be warned that ‘just a bit’ means something different to people walking uphill from those walking downhill. It was several hours before the tall trees changed to scrub and more open space.
We chatted for a while.
I occasionally sipped from the tube of water attached to one of the bladders, absently thinking that my pack would get that much lighter each time.
We were silent for a while, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
I could feel the skin at the back of my heels begin to burn. I wanted to stop to put on moleskin, but I did not want to stop and dig anything out of my pack until it was time to pitch camp. The blisters steadily developed.
Were we ever going to get there? It was only 5 and a half miles…
Mosquitos buzzed about, not liking the ‘perfume’ on my skin, or landed on the net, only to still be thwarted from a meal.
The trees were beautiful, healthy and green.
I hoped we would see a team of dogs pulling a four-wheeler set in neutral as part of their summer training, but we never did. Perhaps it was too warm a day?
I had not seen or heard any birds. Why not?
Why had I packed so much water?
My mind shut off a little as my body focused on the uphill, so I can’t remember when or how the trees gave way to more open space. The trail split a couple of ways around a meadow-like area by a lone spruce, although there was only one clear main trail. We opted to leave our packs in the bushes at the base of the stout spruce and scout for a campsite. A few steps and I had the sense that my body would rise off of the ground I felt so light and free without the pack! What an odd, uplifting sensation.
The first lightly traveled trail we explored had a box on a tree near it. We had seen a similar one on the side of the main (uphill) trail — or, rather, we’d seen half of the box on an angled tree at the side of the trail, and another part, gnawed, in the middle of the trail. Near this intact box on the side trail, a cluster of signs drew my eye. Strangely, someone had suspended a silver bear bottle from a nearby branch. Two signs were weather-worn, but the third’s laminate kept it legible: a couple of ecology-minded families had trapped the area for the last several decades and no trap had been set in the main trail, only off to the sides of it, and only occasionally in the side trails. The notice listed the names of the trappers’ and pled that hikers respect these established traplines.
I would have loved to explore more, to see how the men had set their traps, and what kinds, but I’d respect their sustainable legacy. I also respect the image of metal teeth snapping shut on my booted ankle — and was careful to watch my step back to the main trail, even though I remained firmly on the dirt of this side trail.
…What is the significance of the wooden box fastened to the 45º-angled pole? Is it a special trappers’ signal?….
The two of us headed down the main trail once more, still pack-less. Clumps of thick brush alternated with sparser, shorter vegetation. Nothing called us to camp.
A slightly muddy section of trail had captured a paw print as big as my open hand. Oh, great.
A thrill of excitement and a shiver of fear made me glance about warily, and I was glad Laurie and I had made our presence known by talking. Bears tend not to want to sully their reputations with human fraternization. It’s the element of surprise that concerns me. I don’t want any of us to be surprised by the other. The bear might strike out with its mighty paw, and I might scream and pee my pants. I don’t like either of these scenarios.
A wooden ‘H’ on a small rise drew our eyes, then our feet. A trail led to a ring of stone encircling ash and char near the man-made framework of spruce trunks.
I ducked into the bushes with bear spray while Laurie perused ahead for a suitable campsite. The relatively level ground was dotted with ground cover and the occasional spindly alder. After hefting on our packs, we returned here to pitch camp, each of us on a patch of berry plants and semi-crunchy leafy lichen — a softer pad than the hard dirt and the partially-embedded lichen-spotted rocks.
Tents pitched in an open space off of the McKay Creek Trail, 5 July 2021. Photo by Laurie L.
Wisdom and the bear track prompted us to cook and eat our dinner away from our tents. We scanned the vista as we ate. The rolling hills extended into the bands of greens, blues, and grey that indicated distant mountains. Off to our left we could see sections of the pale brown ribbon that was the trail winding up and onto the next tree-covered hill. Always in the trees. So, there would be no wide landscapes to see from the trail. It did not entice us. We really were used to the panoramas of higher elevations.
I would have to look at the closer beauty of the trees on our return tomorrow. It should also be appreciated. The wide expanses with their ever-changing shades of color hold awe-inspiring beauty, but so too do the fine veins in a tiny leaf on the smallest bush.
We might not have hiked as much as we had on past trips, but this was our first backpacking trip of the season — if only for one night — and the trail had been consistently uphill. We had hiked from 1:30-5:30 p.m., and it was only 8 o’clock in the evening, but we were both ready for bed.
After evening ablutions and hanging our food and toothpaste in bags from the support by the stone fire pit, we bid each other good night and I spent the next several minutes arranging things inside my tent. A light rain fell on the tent as I closed my eyes.
I woke at half-past midnight. Now awake, or perhaps awake because of it, I unzipped my tent to find a private set of bushes. I sucked in my breath sharply as I pulled on my boots. The blisters on my heels burned, and I walked stiffly to avoid banging the boot leather against them as I walked. I knew I should have prepared my heels before going hiking. I normally do. I’ve yet to find boots that don’t give me blisters. I wish I could purchase a bespoke pair from a cordwainer.
I strolled about for a while, gazing at the landscape. Above my head the beautiful night blue sky was clear, but still too bright for stars. In the distant the darker slate grey clouds were edged golden pink by the sunset. It’ll rain tomorrow, I thought. But not now. I breathed in the moisture-hinting air and felt the calm of Nature’s grace.
A glimmer of reflected light caught my eyes. Surely that could not be the flash from someone’s binoculars. Why would anyone be out in the middle of the woods away from a visible trail? I was drawn to investigate, but logic and memory stayed my feet. The silver seemed to be hanging from a tree — not unlike the beer bottle. Perhaps that was another one, or some other reflective visual marking a trap line. I was satisfied with just looking at the view.
I wondered if our food bags were still suspended, so walked in that direction. Something brown moved close to ground level by the fire pit. I stopped.
A porcupine!
It nosed in the ground by a stone, and did not see me. I wanted to approach, but wisdom stopped me. Bears aren’t the only danger in the wild.
Hmmm… How does one remove a barbed quill from a body part?
I did not want to find out.
Back at my tent I read the section in my small first-aid book on dressing wounds and drifted back to sleep, confident with knowledge.
After 3 o’clock: Zzzip…! Zzzip…! I heard Laurie open tent and rainfly; then, what might have been a few minutes later… Zzzip…! Zzzip…!
I moved around in my tent looking for my watch to check the time.
“Are you awake?” Her voice travelled to my ears and inwardly I groaned.
“Yes…”
“I checked the weather. It’s supposed to rain in a couple of hours.”
“Do you want to get up?”
“I think we should.”
After a pause, while I grumbled silently to myself (I really did want to try for another couple hours of sleep), I said, “Okay.”
The logical course of action was to pack up.
Getting up was the right decision. The problem with wanting to try to sleep right now was that I did not feel sleepy, or tired, at all, so it would have been me just laying on the air mattress looking up at the inside of my tent. Plus, I did not want to hike in the rain. One of the items I’d opted not to pack was the rain cover for my backpack.
First, I spent several minutes layering on moleskin around my blisters. Laurie and I said “Good morning” when we both had emerged from our tents, and we decided to nibble on nuts and granola rather than make a hot breakfast. Last night’s pasta primavera had been filling.
Looking out over the landscape, McKay Creek Trail, 5 July 2021. Photo by Laurie L.
At 5 a.m. we were walking down the path towards the vehicle. The cool morning temperature was pleasant. We were both glad that we had chosen to head down the trial so early in the morning. We had gotten a full night’s sleep after all, and there really was a lovely morning of fresh air and beauty to enjoy.
Some of the trail angled upwards. (Yesterday, on the way out, I had not noticed going down for even a little bit. It had all seemed up.)
We knew now, when we came to the wooden chewed-on box in the middle of the trail what had caused the toothmarks: porcupine.
I liked going down. Today my knees did not hurt like they normally did on inclines. Perhaps it was due to the regular biking I have done this summer.
Among the trees the mosquitos awoke, but there were not as many, at first, when compared to yesterday. Suddenly we were at the bottom of the hill.
Rain did not fall, not a single sprinkle until we got to the car and had loaded our gear and gratefully changed out of our hiking boots.
We each texted our in-town contacts to inform them we had safely finished our trip and were heading back into town. Laurie was driving back by 8 a.m.
“Well, now what?”
“How about breakfast?”
Yum! What a great idea!
Who knew so many restaurants were closed on Tuesdays…?
Down the Elliot Highway, the Hilltop Restaurant was only doing take-away: the large seating area blocked off, with chairs flipped over atop the tables. A sign said Management was not responsible for the decision to block off the seating area. Confusing: because if Management was not in charge, then who…? With it being such a high-traffic truck stop, I would have preferred they had written they were looking out for the health and safety of patrons and employees. (It is a time of COVID-19 after all.)
Wanting to sit and enjoy a meal after our trip, we hit the road again. Our next stop, Little Richard’s Family Diner in North Pole: closed on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.
We drove into North Pole seeking a cafe we both knew was there — except not any longer.
Fifth time’s the charm! We drove back into Fairbanks, navigated construction, and found a seat at the Wolf Run restaurant.
If I had checked my cell phone each time after we had pulled up to the door of a restaurant, it might instead have been only three because my in-town friend had texted, “Try Wolf Run.”
Of course, if we also had had the modern-times idea of calling first, before driving to each place…sigh…
Thank you, Laurie, for all of your driving — on both days!
What a fabulous, relaxing breakfast, with friendly service, and portions large enough for the rest of my day’s meals. A yummy relaxing finale to an overall lovely, successful trip.
Yikes, what a lot of driving to find breakfast! (Mapquest.com map of our Tuesday food-search trip [retrieved 2021.07.30].)
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.
