It's been thirty years...Part III

Alaska is a beautiful place to live and explore, as I’m sure you’re becoming aware of. Reviewing my list of the best memories I have, many are from Alaska’s vast resources of land, wildlife, and raw untouched nature. I have to thank both my parents for living here, and giving me such a rich place to grow up in.

SOUL OF THE NORTH

In March of 2007 my husband convinced me to snowmachine from Tok, Alaska to Dawson, Canada over the Taylor highway. Called the Trek Over the Top, this event usually has three runs of around 200 people each making the trip. See my blog posting for the full story of this trip – here I’m writing about the sun setting along the top of the world.

As we left Boundary, Alaska and crossed the border into Canada, the sun began to set. The Taylor highway winds along the top of the ridges here, and as it’s covered by a thick layer of snow, and there are no structures, no people, no anything for as far as the eye can see – it feels like you really are on top of the world. The sun sets slowly in the winter, and as it sank below the ridgeline the snow lit up in brilliant hues of red, pink and orange. The alpenglow extended for miles on either side of the trail, dipping into deep purple shadows in the valleys, and glinting off the sharp ridges. Eventually the sun sank, and the trail was enveloped in night.

Snow reflects light very well, so even though it was dark, the light from the moon and stars reflected back a translucent and ethereal glow. After the brilliant sunset this rapid transformation was shocking to my eyes. Reds and oranges gave way to silky purples, silvers, and inky black. I maneuvered my sled along the trail and peered upward from within my helmet hoping the northern lights would appear. Our group had spaced out along the trail, and I was alone. It was probably -50 Fahrenheit…or colder. Shadows from the moon rippled as I rode by them, and the eerie clarity that the cold brings to the night sky made the stars appear closer than I had ever seen. My headlight was unnecessary given the brightness of the moon. I felt deep inside of me that this vision of cold, stark beauty was the soul of the North, and that I was privileged to be one of the few humans who experience this. Jack London knew this intimately, and now I do too.

PICKING GREENS

For many years I worked in rural Alaska, and I have many friends there. On one trip to Nome my friend Dawn invited me to go greens picking on Anvil Mountain with her. For those of you not familiar with Alaska and her Native peoples, women are in charge of harvesting the vegetables, and veges (or greens) on the tundra come from the young plants in the brief spring, and a few plants (mainly berries and wild onions) in the fall. The tender shoots of willow, wild rhubarb, and a dozen other plants I don’t know the names of are all sweet and edible if picked at the right time. My friend is Inupiaq, and learned from her grandmother which plants to pick, so I was pretty excited to go see what we’d find.

When one first looks at the vast tundra, it’s tempting to believe that it is a vast, lifeless plain. It’s mostly light green and tan, and the plants are all under one foot in height. The blandness of the color, combined with the gentle rolling of the hills and tussocks make for an even landscape. However, the tundra is teeming with life. Because of deep snow and harsh winds the plants have learned to survive by laying close to the earth, and developing tough outer leaves to avoid dehydration. Since the ground is frozen the roots spread out in the top few inches of the soil, with root balls resembling dinner plates. I have seen a tundra birch that spread almost six feet along the ground, never sending a branch up over six inches!

Anvil Mountain overlooks Nome, and is distinguished by a large radar site at its crest from the 1950’s called “The Crown of Nome.” These large black curved amplifiers strained to listen to Russian radio signals throughout the post World War and Cold War eras. As my friend and I walked up the mountain, I began to realize that the tundra was dotted with the most beautiful flowers – neon blue forget-me-nots, flowers I don’t know the name of colored in deep magentas, creamy butter yellow, and delicate ivory and pink. You have to get close up, but the flowers are spectacular, even if only one centimeter wide. We began to pick greens, young shoots of willow, the curly edges of edible lichen, young birch shoots, ruby red wild rhubarb stems, and several other small green shoots. I tasted a few, expecting them to be bitter…but instead they had a range of flavors; sweet, tangy, peppery, acrid and so on. All along the Bering Straits it’s normal to preserve greens in clarified seal oil. The greens I picked on this outing I did not eat with seal oil, but later in another village I did get the opportunity to taste this traditional dish, and I was amazed at how ‘gourmet’ the flavor of the greens became when combined with the delicate seal oil. It did have the essences of fish, as that’s what seals eat, but it was not overpowering, and the flavor of the greens shone through the oil. It was worthy of any restaurant – and eaten at a humble plank table along a wild river under the enormous Alaskan sky.

I remember this particular outing because while we were hunched over the tundra picking greens and taking pictures the ground began to rumble. Dawn and I both thought ‘earthquake!’ and turned around to head back to the car, when up the side of the hill, probably 200 feet from us, a giant musk-ox bull crested the hill. His black hooves were flashing in the sun, his massive bone horns swung back and forth, and his huge brown and white raggedy rug of fur was flying back over his churning, stocky legs. Behind him were twelve other musk-ox, and amazingly three small calves. Now small is subjective with musk-ox, as the calves were probably the size of your couch at home, and the bull was the size of a van. The ground was shaking from their weight as they ran up the hill.

The herd wheeled as one and swung wide around the rocky outcrop we were standing on, and then slowed down to a walk on the north side of Anvil. We walked along the crest of the hill to continue watching them as they grazed and played in the late evening sun. They made all sorts of snorts, and grunting sounds, and the calves wove in and out of the adults, playing a sort of tag game. They also have horns, but not as fierce and developed as the adults. They had cute pushed up white noses, and they squealed whenever they were ‘tagged’. I had never seen wild musk-ox before, and they are rare in Alaska. They were extinct in the wild on the mainland at one point, and have only recently (in the last twenty or thirty years) been reintroduced from stock on Nunivak Island and from Greenland. Nome and south of the Brooks Range are the only two places in the wild where wild herds have prospered to the point that people regularly see them. It’s much more common to see a young male on his own. To see such a large herd was amazing in itself, and to see three calves was even more special. There are only 2,300 musk-ox in Alaska today.

It's been thirty years...Part II

I recently turned thirty. To commemorate this milestone birthday, I'm writing down some of my most amazing memories from the last thirty years. I'll post them here as I finish them. Remember that I'm no author, and these are my memories, described faithfully as I remember them.

Enjoy!

YUKON CONCERTO
For several summers in college I was a tourguide and tourbus driver with Northern Alaska Tour Company. My first year with them we were taken on a teaching tour of the Dalton Highway (or the Haul Road). During this trip I experienced some things that are truly amazing.

The first was at the Yukon River crossing. We were camping there overnight, and it was late spring. The ice was still firmly in place along the banks of the river, but we’d been told that further up-river the ice had broken. After a few hours at the crossing we began to hear large booms, and crashing echoes. Someone shouted “the ice is breaking up” and we all ran down to the rivers edge to see what was happening.

Slowly the huge sheet of ice (much bigger than a football field) began pushing forward, grating along the rocks of the bank. Then a large surge of water came from underneath the ice and lifted the whole ice sheet up. As the water began flowing, the ice began crumbling along unknown crevices, and huge chunks overturned and tumbled in the center of the sheet. Although smooth along the top of the ice, the undersides had been eroded away by the river into thousands of tiny icicle like structures, and when the ice chunks tumbled over, they fell and the tinkling sound of breaking crystal filled the air. Amidst all the booming, tinkling and crashing, the rushing sound of water was building in volume until it was a mighty roar, and then we saw the ice wall – a huge dam of ice pushed up by the river water and being forced downstream. Much like a snowplow it dug into the sheet of ice and furthered the breakup. The crossing is at one of the narrowest points along the Yukon, so the wall was truly huge, and high. We weren’t sure if the wall of ice would fit under the bridge supports - which are nearly one hundred feet above the river.

Eventually the ice wall met the bridge, and collapsed around it. As it collapsed the water along the bank rose almost three feet in just a few seconds. With a last canon-like boom the ice wall fell, and the ice was swept from sight in a matter of minutes. All that was left was relatively placid water with a few small chunks of left over ice. This whole experience lasted maybe twenty minutes in total…and I felt as if I’d heard a full concerto from Nature herself.

HAMMAMS
I traveled to Morocco in 2005 with my good friend Lee Hendricks. There were many amazing memories from this trip, but the most amazing by far, was an experience I was reluctant to do. In many middle eastern and African countries a public stream bath is a traditional community structure. Probably influenced by the Romans, the steam baths are large stone structures, with heated water flowing through the floors and out of spigots in the walls. The roofs are usually open cupola's to let in lots of light, and the interior is clad in light marble or stone. Baths are segregated by sex, with the youngest children going with their mothers.

I wasn't too keen on going to the Hammam because the guidebook said there was no modesty - you stripped down and got a bucket, and for a fee you could hire a lady to scrub and massage you. After traveling for two solid weeks across Morocco, I just didn't feel very safe getting naked in public!. Fortunately for me, Lee was insistent that I do this - and walked me there and back through the streets of Fez. He also insisted I hire the lady to scrub me down.

So, very nervous, I stepped inside the Hammam. I didn't speak any Arabic and little French. The front counter was staffed by a very nice looking young woman in the traditional headcovering - hijab or veil. Morocco seemed pretty liberal, as the women always wore veils in public, but not the full burkas (which cover the face and leaves a sheer panel or slit to see through). Once the hostess figured out what I wanted (with a little help from Lee at the door) she showed me where to hang my clothes, and got me all the stuff I'd need. They use a soft plant based soap for hair and body, and a mitten made of scratchy fabric for exfoliation. A small round comb with lots of teeth scrubbed your hair. My masseuse came to get me, and she was grinning because I insisted on keeping my glasses with me - if I took them off I was worried that I'd fall down some steamy steps and break my neck!

Unlike an American swimming pool - steam baths are a very social place. We walked down a long hallway and all along the way you could see into different steam rooms off the main hall. There was so much talking and laughing! The women were scrubbing their babies and catching up on the latest gossip. Totally different ways of expression than what I had observed in the souks and streets! Put a Starbucks to go cup and they could have been soccer moms waiting for the game to be over. This was somewhat of a revelation to me, as previously the women I had seen were grim, hurrying through the streets, looking neither left or right, and they had their veils tightly wound to obscure most of their neck and lower face. In the hammam they were open chatty, playful, and happy. It was their world.

When we got to the steam room we'd be using there were older women already sitting along the benches. This room didn't have any children in it, although I don't know why. Most of the women there were dark skinned and dark haired. The exception was a striking woman who was at least a foot taller than everyone else and had bronze skin and the most pure, glowing silver hair I'd ever seen. She had several lengths of it, and it wound across her shoulder and spilled onto the seat next to here. She wore probably hundreds of silver bracelets, rings, anklets and necklaces. They were not chains or gaudy silver like you'd find in the Walmart jewlery section. These were plates of silver carved into animals, flowers, script. They looked like armor. She held her head fiercely, even though her eyes were closed and she was relaxing in the steam - I don't know who or what she was, but she held herself like a queen.

I found out later that she was probably a Berber, as the women accumulate jewelery, often silver, and that it is their property, and so is not often removed from their body - even during baths. The woman I saw must have been rich indeed. Her face and beauty is what struck me the most about the Hammam. On the outside world, in the street she probably wore a plain dark robe and veil, indistinguishable from any other woman, but in the hammam she was like a lioness among sheep.

It's been thirty years...

I recently turned thirty. I’m no longer in the ‘twenty-something’ age set. I’m absolutely within sight of the top of THE HILL. I’m thirty. Three Zero. Honestly though, I think this year will be better than any other year in my life so far.

To commemorate this milestone birthday, I'm writing down some of my most amazing memories from the last thirty years. I'll post them here as I finish them. Remember that I'm no author, and these are my memories, described faithfully as I remember them.

Enjoy!

CAMP DOGOYAMA
When I was 14 I went to Japan on a summer exchange through 4-H and the Labo program. During this time my host sister Mami and I went to a summer camp in the mountains called Dogoyama. The mountains in Japan are full of birds, insects, and bamboo forests. The first evening we had a huge welcome bonfire – fifty feet square of burning logs, and Japanese drummers hit enormous drums as we danced and whirled in circles around the fire. You grabbed red streamers from the adults, and you said a wish or a prayer into it, rolled it up with your wish inside, and threw it into the air. I remember the air being full of red streamers being thrown lit only by the flames of the bonfire.

After the bonfire, as we walked back to our cabins. The night was dark, with millions of stars, and the air was much warmer than Alaska’s. There were hundreds of moths as big as our hands, attracted to the huge bonfire light. Some of the moths were very pale, and in the reflected moonlight appeared to glow in the dark, and one of those moth’s landed on me – I remember that it only glowed on the top side of the wings, and when it closed its wings the glow was cut off.

LIPPIZANER STALLIONS
When I was a girl, I avidly read all of Marguerite Henry’s horse books. I was friends with Misty, knew King of the Wind’s true heritage, and could recite all the moves of the Lipizzaner Stallions of Austria. When I was ten the most amazing thing happened –the Lippizzaner Stallions came to FAIRBANKS, ALASKA. This was a miracle similar to Santa Claus making it around the world in one night. Our family didn’t have much extra then, so I was excited, but also knew deep down that I probably wouldn’t get to see these mighty horses in person. I remember how much jealousy I felt when my friend Charlie Jo on the school bus proudly told us all she had tickets. Fate stepped in though, and my dad, being on the maintenance crew for the building the horses were to perform in, somehow got us all tickets (good, up close seats too!) and we saw the amazing horses spin, jump, hop, pirouette and strut up and down the tiny Big Dipper ice arena. In my imagination they were in the fancy palace in Vienna, with the opera style seating and the crystal chandeliers pictured in Henry’s books. I promised myself then that if I ever made it to Vienna I’d see the horses on the stage they were meant to perform on. Many years later, when planning a trip to Europe, I remembered my promise to my ten year old self, and got tickets to the Spanische Reiteschule morning practice. I couldn’t afford a full performance, but the morning practice was reasonable and a dress rehearsal for the actual performance.

When we lined up outside the ornate yellow stones of Hoffberg Palace and the doors to the Reiteschule, I could smell the distinct smell of the horses. When we were let in I saw for the first time the inside of a specially designed ballroom, with green velvet seats, three enormous crystal chandeliers, and a large, richly decorated royal box for the ruling family to enjoy the show. The seats were high up, and the ballroom floor was lower down and covered in a thick carpet of sawdust. Each groom wore the smart historical outfit, and the horses were so strong, powerful, and shockingly graceful as they launched their 1200 pound bodies into the air. The horses I saw in my childhood were younger stallions, and not all of them were white. They were part of an American touring company, and had not been trained at the Reiteschule. The horses in Vienna obviously had the benefit of hundreds of years of training and knowledge to go along with the breeding. The average age of the horses I saw in Vienna was 20! These horses had been performing their ballet for 15 or more years and it showed. The horses were playful, and in tune with their riders and grooms. They were snowy white, and rarely mis-stepped while doing complicated dressage patterns. I remember the shifting bodies of eight great white stallions and the crisp military red of their riders coat as they criss-crossed the ornate and majestic ballroom to classical music written just for them by the great composers of the 18^th century.

DIPNETTING ON THE COPPER RIVER
Although my husband is the big hunter, I love to dipnet for salmon as my contribution to the freezer. I started going regularly with our friend Paul three years ago. Some folks dipnet by standing in the water and using the strength of their arms to sweep the large nets against the current to scoop up salmon migrating upstream. That is basically exhausting, and Paul showed me a secret spot (although I’m sure there are hundreds of secret spots all over the Chitina drainage). This spot in particular follows a narrow trail etched into the hillside that meanders along a bluff overlooking the Copper River for just about half a mile before ending in a rocky outcropping perfect for dipnetting the ‘easy’ way. Along the trail is an abandoned trappers cabin, only sagging logs and the cast iron stove are left being too heavy to remove.

Every year that we go we spend all night driving to get there, and then at first light, around 3AM we hike the trail and begin fishing. By 5AM or so the sun is rising over the mighty Copper River, and the delicate pinks, golds, and bronzes of the sunrise paint the faint clouds. The pinks gradually deepen to red, and the whole river looks as if it has caught fire – for just a second as the sun crests the Wrangell mountains. Silhouetted by the craggy bluff, the sunrise reveals the vast width of the river and paints the water crimson and gold. As the sun continues to rise the river gradually returns to the slate gray of the silt that is carried in those turbulent waters, and the sky evens out to a pale blue. These early morning sunrises, combined with the crisp morning air, and the effort of netting thirty or so salmon is one of my most beautiful memories.

The Grinchies

Today was a crazy mix of happy holiday preparations, and the GRINCH. For most of the day I hung garlands, tied bows, finally got all the Christmas stuff out and up onto our walls. At 2PM I pried Rich off the couch and outside to help hang the lights. He wasn't feeling to good, since he's been very sick the last week - but I wanted to get the lights done while we still had light. Well we got the lights up and were testing them, when somehow...

I stapled my ring finger with the staple gun. Right into the flesh and the joint. It was GROSS. I was very calm at first, told Rich I had a problem, he took me inside. Then he pulled out the staple with a pair of PLIERS and I darn near fainted away. Then I almost puked. Then I cried a bit.

Now it's better, and with lots of ice and tylenol, I'm doing okay.

I felt a little grinchy after the whole staple incident, so I'll be finishing the rest of my decorations tomorrow.

Love,
Shan

Donna Reed - Eat your heart out!

It’s winter again, and my hair started bothering me. It was too long, it didn’t fit well under hats and my snowmachine helmet. It had split ends, and was dry. So CHOP CHOP CHOP I now have a bob.

Donna Reed ain’t got nothin’ on me!

Will Rich find me vacuuming in heels? Probably not.

Kids?

So I took my niece and nephew this weekend to help out my sister. I'm left with a few lessons:

1. Projectile vomiting without drinking liquor is not only possible, but happened in my living room.

2. A bottle of milk just doesn't fix everything.

3. Carving pumpkins is a lot more fun and interactive if everyone is healthy.

As you can probably guess, my 8 year old nephew and my 18 month old niece had the flu, not as fun a weekend as I had expected. I realized how much work goes into kids. I feel old, and not ready for kids yet. I'm almost 30, and Rich and I have been talking about taking the plunge next year around this time. OMG.

You are so free without kids! You don't have to worry about pointy objects being left out, you don't have to fear deviation from bedtime. Rich and I don't really bring home viruses. Neither do the dogs. Oh yeah, and diapers are 40 cents each. I don't use anything ten times a day that costs 40 cents per use!!!!

I'll probably still be more than ready to pop out kids next year, but man this was a rough weekend.

Shan

PS I will say cuddling with a baby and your husband is a good thing. It feels right, and good. Neither Rich or I had ever done that before...

Free to be ME!

I'm starting my own blog, separate from the blog my husband and I created so that I can share my life with my friends both near and far. Having recently moved, it's become more important to stay in touch and up to date with all of you. Look here in the future for updates on my life, my projects, and pictures of what's happening with me.

Drop me a line or post a comment.

Miss and love you all,

Shan