Quinzhee

To the uninitiated, the perception of Alaska is strongly shaped by popular culture, mythos, and one’s own wild imagination. My view was shaped by similar notions prior to becoming familiar myself. What does the land hold within its dark and icy clutches? One can be somewhat forgiven for the common perception cold takes hold of the land all year long. Even further, there are those who believe snow stays for all 12 months and nearly half the state’s population residing in igloos.

The truth of course differs from the myth and hyperbole and some would likely be surprised to learn that within most of Alaska, making an igloo isn’t even possible. Yes, it is true. If the state’s populace had to live up to the myth and move into igloos tomorrow, much of the state would have to declare a housing emergency.

Throughout Alaska’s Interior, the dry climate and extreme cold create an environment where any snowfall has hardly any water in it at all. Unlike regions further south, we cannot form a snowball or make a snowman for most of the winter, let alone cut blocks for an igloo.

The Arctic, where igloos originate, has the same kind of cold and dryness, meaning they have the same kind of snow. However, unlike the Interior, the Arctic is very windy. This wind blows the snow around, sublimating some and piling others into drifts. The movement of the snow from its original state changes the underlying structure of the snow crystals through a process called sintering, breaking the grain structure then bonding together as a solid mass. Instead of sugary snow, it becomes hard packed, historically allowing for people like the Inuit to cut snow blocks and construct igloos as needed.

Despite the lack of wind, areas further south were not without their snow shelters. Sure, there wasn’t any nature assisted way to compact the snow, but that didn’t mean there weren’t other ways of doing so. Enter the quinzhee.

In contrast to an igloo, a quinzhee is made from piling up a large amount of loose snow, then hollowing out an interior. Piling up the snow creates the same sintering effect and after just a few hours at or below 20 degrees F, the snow will crystalize and bond together into a solid mass. The construction process is much simpler and easier  than an igloo, however, the quinzhee isn’t as structurally strong. This led them to be used primarily in emergency survival scenarios. Following completion, the opening can be covered with a piece of fabric or fur.

Ten years ago during my first winter in Alaska, I made a quinzhee while living in the Arctic. This year I was presented with an opportunity to make another. I’ve been helping my friend Tyler become more comfortable in Alaska, teaching him different skills each week to aid in his quest to become less of a cheechako. We first went over how to make a fire before tackling things like winter food strategy and how to deal with overflow. Making a quinzhee seemed like a fun addition to the curriculum, as well as a great way to better understand snow composition. Eager to give it a go, we picked out an area on my property and spent a half hour shoveling snow into one large ovalish mound, nearly 6 feet high and roughly 8 feet in diameter.

 After letting the snow sinter for two days, we returned to hollow out the core. The new snow pack was solid, easily rejecting and deflecting our efforts with plastic snow shovels. Taking turns with a metal shovel and hatchet, we chiseled out an entrance, before digging out our interior burrow. The process was slow going and awkward, until we cleared enough snow out to be able to fit a jet sled in, which allowed us to be much more efficient. In a little over an hour, we had cleared enough snow to be able to sit up without hitting our heads and fully lie down entirely within the quinzhee.

The process became more refined as we tried to even out the ceiling and walls. As we shoveled within a couple feet of the exterior, light began to pour in through the snow, enabling the dome to serve as a diffused skylight. At one point I was shoveling out the side opposite the entrance when there was a loud WHUMPF. Sprawled out, I looked up, half expecting to find the ceiling collapsing on top of me.
“Did you hear that?” I shouted out to Tyler.

“Are you kidding? The whole thing dropped like 3 inches.”

I scurried out and commented that our snow lesson had nearly switched to snow rescue.

In our original shaping, we had made the dome wider than it was tall, likely stressing the arch after taking enough snow away. While it seemed fine, that was enough for both of us to call it quits. After letting it sinter for another two hours in its new state, I went back out with a propane torch to melt the sides and ceiling, to create a glaze that would smooth out the surfaces and help strengthen the dome once more. Surfaces smoothed, I took some caribou skins and a lantern and furnished the new abode.

The soft light seeped in through the ceiling from the snow light above. Snug inside, we had built our own frozen den, insulated against the elements and noises beyond. Given the need for metal shovels, I’m not sure the usefulness of a quinzhee in a true emergency scenario. Nonetheless, we had fun making it and it’ll serve as a great play fort for a certain 3 year old until spring.