A smile crept across my face as I gazed out the window. 35,000 feet below, glaciers splayed out in every direction with the surrounding mountains towering over narrow valleys. A small winding road led around their outskirts, the black asphalt offering a snaking cleared passage through a land of white. I picked out familiar landmarks. Kluane, the AlCan, Tok. After two and a half months away, we were almost home.
As we flew past Tok, the people in the row behind us began talking. From his aisle seat, a father heading north once more to visit his enlisted daughter spoke with awe of the land’s foreboding beauty. A young twenty-something from Orange County offered an eager ear from the middle seat, making his first trip north in hopes of seeing the aurora. As they continued on, the elder woman at the window couldn’t help but interject. “I’ve lived in Alaska for nearly 40 years,” she said. “From Fairbanks to Anchorage to the bush. I’ve been all over, I live outside Delta now. With the cold, once you go below zero, it’s all the same.”
We were on the north side of the Alaska Range at this point with a clear view to the west of Denali. As I looked out on the foothills and the great one beyond, bathed in soft pastel light, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Talk of extreme cold is a favorite pastime of Alaskans. A pissing contest (akin to how long someone’s been here) that tries to prove how “tough” you are and what you’ve endured. Many people across the US have grandparents who talk of trudging to school 6 miles as kids, uphill both ways. The Alaskan equivalent is the same but with the temperature permanently stuck at 40, 50 or even 60 below zero. The reality is that that statement (that it’s all the same) is more indicative of someone who doesn’t go outside than it is of lived experience. It makes me wonder if people in Phoenix say there’s no difference between 80 degrees and 120. Ridiculous? Exactly. It’s the same with cold. As my former neighbor, Jack Reakoff, in Wiseman would say, “you feel every degree.”
Unlike the tall tales of frigid winters past, this winter has been cold. In December, Alaska went through an extreme cold snap. Fairbanks had 10 straight days where the official airport temperature was at least 40 below zero, the area’s second coldest stretch in recorded history. The month finished as the seventh coldest on record and continued on unabated into January, finally easing after 40 days where the daily high was below zero. All of this occurring amidst a measly three hours and change of daily light, with the sun just a few degrees above the horizon.
It’s the type of cold that wears on you, sapping any remaining morale left over from lighter times. A sense of drudgery will sneak up on you if you let it, apparent to all but those outside its grasp. With such extremes, there’s really nowhere to go. The margin of error is such that even a trip to the grocery store can turn into a life or death ordeal if things go awry. The trails offer no escape either with little snow. Just going outside becomes a chore in and of itself. One’s world shrivels into a cocoon of warmth, quick-stepping between one warm box and another. Hoping the heat stays on. Hoping the pipes don’t freeze. Trying to remember what a bright sun looks like and wishing that the damn cold would go away.
Arriving home January 7th, we missed most of that. My friend Tyler picked us up in our car from the airport at a mild twenty below and ferried us and our too many bags back home. As usual we left our house unheated. In the days before we left, we emptied any water, stored glues, potatoes, and carrots at friends’ houses and let everything else freeze over. A day’s worth of fires prior to our arrival had brought the inside temp to 32 degrees. After adding on another 900 feet of living space over the previous year and a half, we were heating a relative monstrosity. Alana was hesitant, unsure if we’d be able to do so and as I reassured her, I tried to quell any doubts of my own. Living in the Arctic with a similar woodstove, I could heat the 144 sq ft cabin from 0 to 80 degrees within a few hours. And that’s with a blanket for a front door! The 320 square feet of our original house was similar, but heating our new ensemble proved to be a whole ‘nother beast.
I took to loading fresh wood every 3 hours and by the next morning the inside temp had reached 60. The walls still held on to the December cold, but our little haven of warmth slowly advanced. As the house warmed, we settled in and looked to see if we could find anything off from our absence. Vole turds on the counter hinted at an intruder, the first ever. Following their trail led me to the shower, where we left the drain cover off, providing easy access. I checked our glass jars, full of pickled carrots, beets and other odds and ends, noting nothing off. It seems like we escaped any exploding jars or condiment bottles this year. That is until hours later when things thawed out further and an overpowering waft of Worcestershire sauce hit me. It’s always a frickin’ bottle of Worcestershire sauce.
Days later, a few inches of fresh snow brought an end to the cold snap and I returned to the trails. Din and I patrolling with Remi at the lead, out to roam the valley, look for tracks and see what’s moved around in our absence. The usual suspects: tracks from moose, snowshoe hares, squirrels, and voles laid across the snow’s surface, telling their own stories.
As the month continued, the sun steadily rose, giving us an hour more of light each week. Nights dazzle us with the delight of the northern lights. I’m surrounded by a landscape so aesthetically pleasing that at times it pains me. The simple lifestyle with all its joys. A woodstove with a stack of dry wood, the return of the sun and endless trails to wander and a snug home with giggling children. I continue to love this frozen expanse and my place in it. It is home.
