Tag: Cold weather

Another Cold Morning — But With a New 50-Foot Cord!

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…..

Molten Metal Fireworks

Sunday, 12 December 2021, evening: 

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….

Cold, Treacherous Death (Okay, I’m Being Dramatic)

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!

My House Speaks of a Moose Visit

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.

Moose resource: https://www.adfg.alaska.gov/index.cfm?adfg=moose.main