This time one year ago, I was standing in an empty house recovering from a 16-hour flight with four kids and a cat. And marveling that we'd actually made it to Alaska. Hard to believe it's been exactly one year since we boarded the plane in Virginia and set down in Fairbanks to begin our new lives in the Land of the Midnight Sun.
A friend from church (Gun Totin' Mama, to be exact) reminded me that after having lived here for a year, I could no longer call myself a Cheechako, which is what Alaskans call someone who has just arrived. So to mark our one-year anniversary of surviving our first year in Alaska, I'm changing the blog name to "The Catholic Alaskan."
It occurred to me that I've changed quite a bit since we moved here last December. I've noticed little things, like the fact that I will go out running errands in Crocs without socks at 40 below and nothing but a light jacket on. I never imagined that I'd ever acclimate to that feeling of being chased by biting wolves, but it seems it's happened. And thank God for that...who wants to live in a place where you risk frostbite just to get the mail out of the box?
I'm going to steal a tactic from Jeff Foxworthy here and post a list of "You Know You're an Alaskan If...." witticisms. Enjoy!
You know you're finally an Alaskan if...
...you consider 0 degrees to be "a warm day."
...you get excited when your grocery bill is less than $500 that week.
...you've started referring to snowmobiles as snowmachines.
..."spring" is now "breakup."
...you've been asked how the island of Alaska can be so cold.
...you consider 60 degrees "a scorcher."
...you begin to rate each viewing of the northern lights like other people do vintage wines.
...you automatically take off your shoes the second you enter someone's house.
...you don't blink when you see a schoolbus drop kids off from school under a full moon.
...you don't see stars from June through August.
...you have paid $15 for a watermelon the size of a shrunken head, that tastes like one, too.
...you store your Thanksgiving turkey on your back porch.
...you have aluminum foil over your bedroom windows.
...you earn six figures a year but still can't afford to shop at Walmart.
...you peruse the "Free" section of Craig's List twice a day.
...you've seen antifreeze freeze.
...you find it easier to drive in winter because the snow fills the potholes.
...you keep a survival kit with several down comforters in the back of your car year-round.
...you have considered ingesting Deet.
....you can light a fire with two sticks, an icicle, and a piece of beef jerky.
...you don't pay attention unless is snows more than two feet at one time.
...you chuckle inwardly when people in the Lower 48 complain about inclement weather.
...you know how to pronounce ptarmigan.
...your heartbeat doesn't rise when your car spins 180 degrees on the icy roads.
...you advise your children how to react if they see a stray wolf or bear in your yard.
...you consider a pot roast dinner "livin' it up!"
...you have to wait 24 hours for your Halloween candy to thaw out before you can eat it.
...you take a shotgun to go berry picking.
...school kids in your neighborhood don't know what a "snow day" is.
...you leave your car running and unlocked when grocery shopping.
...you still go out for ice cream when it's 40 below.
...you consider going to the dump "retail therapy."
...your post office has a specific slot for "Netflix movies."
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Friday, December 9, 2011
Burnin' Down the House
If your house catches on fire, you call 911 and the fire department is dispatched. The big red engine races to your house and then a bunch of burly men jump out and start throwing water on stuff to save your belongings.
You pay for fire service through your taxes, the same as you pay for police services. Only in Alaska, a lot of folks live outside of the municipal areas that collect taxes. They don't pay taxes, so they don't get fire service. (Everyone gets police; you just might have to wait a few hours before the troopers can actually get there, though.)
In the remote areas of Alaska, if your home ends up with a fire that can't be put out with a hand-held extinguisher, you might as well just grab the bag of marshmallows on your way out. Because you're going to be watching your house and everything in it burn to the ground.
A few weeks after we moved here, a friend of mine who is a trooper was called out to a house fire just outside the city limits. The forestry department's fire fighters showed up--to make sure the blaze didn't threaten the woods surrounding the house. But they didn't fight the house fire at all. It was a total loss for the homeowner, who didn't have fire insurance, either.
Fire service is something most of us, even those of us who grew up in rural areas in the Lower 48, take for granted. But in Alaska, if you choose to live in an isolated area away from civilization, that's your prerogative. And your risk.
You pay for fire service through your taxes, the same as you pay for police services. Only in Alaska, a lot of folks live outside of the municipal areas that collect taxes. They don't pay taxes, so they don't get fire service. (Everyone gets police; you just might have to wait a few hours before the troopers can actually get there, though.)
In the remote areas of Alaska, if your home ends up with a fire that can't be put out with a hand-held extinguisher, you might as well just grab the bag of marshmallows on your way out. Because you're going to be watching your house and everything in it burn to the ground.
A few weeks after we moved here, a friend of mine who is a trooper was called out to a house fire just outside the city limits. The forestry department's fire fighters showed up--to make sure the blaze didn't threaten the woods surrounding the house. But they didn't fight the house fire at all. It was a total loss for the homeowner, who didn't have fire insurance, either.
Fire service is something most of us, even those of us who grew up in rural areas in the Lower 48, take for granted. But in Alaska, if you choose to live in an isolated area away from civilization, that's your prerogative. And your risk.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Bad Hair Day, Alaska Style
Every few weeks, we have to bite the bullet and take our trash bags to the local dump. Fortunately with it being winter, having your vehicle crammed full of trash isn't so bad, because the contents are frozen. My biggest problem is trying to figure out how to load four kids, me, and half a ton of refuse into one minivan.
Summer, on the other hand, is downright penitential. Anyone who's visited a landfill on a hot day knows what I mean. For us, trash runs in summer means loading plastic bags of rotting food, poopy diapers, and hunks of cat urine and feces into the back of our van...bags that have been fermenting for a week or more in the never-ending Alaskan sun. Your only hope is to roll down the windows and try to drive fast enough that the wind pushes the stench out the back window vents before it suffocates you.
We have to "take out the trash" every week to 10 days. We try to combine errands and usually end up returning library books and picking up some milk and eggs while out, too. But the dump is always your first destination, since you naturally want to unload the mountain of garbage threatening to crush the kids in the backseat before loading up groceries you actually plan to eat.
A few weeks ago, I was in a hurry to get started on our errands, so I didn't bother to let my hair dry after the shower before heading out to the dump. It had been a while since we'd made a dump run, so it took at least three or four full minutes for me to fling all the bags of trash into one of the dumpsters. It was cold, too: almost 40 below that day.
I quickly unloaded the van, slammed the back door, and hopped back into the driver's seat. I was reaching for my seatbelt when I noticed there was something wrong with my head: it felt like I had a hard shell surrounding it, that crackled when I pushed on it. I realized my hair had frozen stiff! In less than five minutes, my damp hair had frozen into a solid mass on my head. It was freaky. Of course, I showed all our kids and they were equally awed by Mom's literal "helmet head." I can only imagine what the other people thought of us, as all of my kids took turns crawling up to the front of the car and patting my head over and over.
It was over in a few minutes; the warmth of the car quickly melted my cool ice helmet. But it was one of those "only in Alaska" things that I just had to share. One of the coolest places we've visited here is a natural hot springs pool. I can't wait to get out there again this winter and try out the "instant frozen hair" thing again, like this guy:
Minus the beard and mustache, of course.
Summer, on the other hand, is downright penitential. Anyone who's visited a landfill on a hot day knows what I mean. For us, trash runs in summer means loading plastic bags of rotting food, poopy diapers, and hunks of cat urine and feces into the back of our van...bags that have been fermenting for a week or more in the never-ending Alaskan sun. Your only hope is to roll down the windows and try to drive fast enough that the wind pushes the stench out the back window vents before it suffocates you.
We have to "take out the trash" every week to 10 days. We try to combine errands and usually end up returning library books and picking up some milk and eggs while out, too. But the dump is always your first destination, since you naturally want to unload the mountain of garbage threatening to crush the kids in the backseat before loading up groceries you actually plan to eat.
A few weeks ago, I was in a hurry to get started on our errands, so I didn't bother to let my hair dry after the shower before heading out to the dump. It had been a while since we'd made a dump run, so it took at least three or four full minutes for me to fling all the bags of trash into one of the dumpsters. It was cold, too: almost 40 below that day.
I quickly unloaded the van, slammed the back door, and hopped back into the driver's seat. I was reaching for my seatbelt when I noticed there was something wrong with my head: it felt like I had a hard shell surrounding it, that crackled when I pushed on it. I realized my hair had frozen stiff! In less than five minutes, my damp hair had frozen into a solid mass on my head. It was freaky. Of course, I showed all our kids and they were equally awed by Mom's literal "helmet head." I can only imagine what the other people thought of us, as all of my kids took turns crawling up to the front of the car and patting my head over and over.
It was over in a few minutes; the warmth of the car quickly melted my cool ice helmet. But it was one of those "only in Alaska" things that I just had to share. One of the coolest places we've visited here is a natural hot springs pool. I can't wait to get out there again this winter and try out the "instant frozen hair" thing again, like this guy:
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Winter, Where Is Thy Sting?
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| Another beautiful winter! |
For anyone who may have joined the blog later this year, my inaugural description of living just 120 miles below the Arctic Circle was quite humorous, even if I do say so myself. I could only hope that with time, we'd adapt like the rest of the Alaskans, who don't don a coat unless the mercury dips below zero. And then that's just a light jacket. You don't see the parkas come out of the closet until it's -15 F or so. And it practically has to be a blizzard before you see things like scarves and gloves. A few folks do wear hats all winter, but it's understood those are the state weenies, who are probably just visiting the real Alaskans.
Well, two weeks ago we were out preemptively shopping for gloves and hats for the kids at Fred Meyer. As we walked into the store, I remember thinking it felt positively balmy. Moist and almost...warm. A few people were even wearing shorts, which just confirmed these thoughts. So you can imagine my surprise when I got back to the car and the temperature gauge read 25 degrees. That's 7 degrees below freezing for you science- and math-challenged folks.
This week, it's been hovering between 20 and 40 below zero, hearkening back to our first month here when the area experienced a six-week cold snap. I never thought it would happen, but it has: we've adapted. Instead of dressing up like a tick about to pop every time we leave the house, now we just throw on a coat. All those accessories that I was sure were keeping us alive last winter--hats, gloves, scarves, snowbibs, snowboots, wool socks--don't feel so important anymore. (We keep those things in the back of the van in case we ever break down in winter.)
The cold just is, if that makes any sense. You just set your face like flint into the wind and go, knowing you'll eventually come to another warm space. But that the short distance from the car to the store just isn't worth the trouble of layering up anymore. I'm glad it no longer feels like I'm being chased by wolves every time I leave the house, but on the spiritual side, I'm going to have to find another way to do penance for my habitual sins. (Like blogging when I'm supposed to be making dinner.) The upside is that I'll probably never be tempted to streak again.
Our miraculous adaptation to the cold couldn't come at a more convenient time, either: we installed a woodstove this past fall. Which means daily trips out to the woodpile beside the house.
For the kids, of course.
We've come full circle, weather-wise: we're back to the sun rising late morning and going down in the early afternoon. I've gotten the happy light out again and the Vitamin D supplements help. But it's still a little disorienting. It will feel like nine at night and you'll look at the clock to find it's just six.
The northern lights also are back in all their "green fire" glory, which almost makes the darkness bearable. I marvel at how many people tell me seeing the northern lights is on their "bucket list." I get the privilege of seeing them often and amazingly, I am in awe each and every time they show off. Believe me when I say, they're a worthy item to be on that list. It's like watching God painting the sky in realtime.
It's a gift to be able to say, "Winter, where is thy sting?" And mean it.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Halloween in Alaska
Yeah, I know...it's been ages since I've written for the blog. I'd like to promise this last dry spell will be my last, but I have four kids and a body that turns on me daily, so just be happy you hear from me as often as you do. That means you, Ross.
We just spent our first Halloween in Alaska and holy moly...it was an adventure. According to locals, this was an exceptionally warm Halloween: it was a balmy 5 degrees F when I took the kids out trick-or-treating at 6:30 pm. Our neighborhood is new, with about 30 large houses sitting on a short, closed loop of paved road. With few neighborhoods sporting paved roads, ours was a hotspot in summer for kids riding bikes. Half the kids roaming around like packs of dogs did not even live here.
I thought the closeness of the houses might make it a similar draw for Halloween and I was right. The funny thing is, Alaskans don't trick-or-treat like everyone else, due to the extreme cold. You load up in the warm car and then drive to the end of each driveway. Your kids jump out, run like bats out of hell to the porch, the owner cracks the door a few inches and throws a bunch of candy at them, then they run back to the car like they just robbed a Piggly Wiggly and you're the getaway driver. Then you drive 20 feet and do it all over again. For another 90 minutes.
By the third house, our son sounded like he was having an asthma attack. "I think...I'm losing...most of my candy...on the way back...to the car," he managed to huff while looking into his still mostly-empty bag.
We went out a little after six and by then, the entire street was lit up with dozens of cars. Some folks, though, were pretty clever, as you can see from the video I took. They dress their kids up in arctic gear, strap a small trailer to an ATV, and pull the kids from house to house.
That would never have worked with my kids, however, who refused to sacrifice the "coolness" of their costumes by covering them with essentials like coats and gloves. Half an hour in, they were fighting each other for heating vents in between candy runs.
Most residents, though, were smart enough to wear costumes that were either large enough to be worn over winter gear or that required lots of layering to stay warm. Then there were the Darwin Award contenders (mostly teenage girls), who wore mini-skirts accented by fishnet hosiery and high heels. With no coats, gloves, or hats. I kept wondering who they were trying to impress, given that everyone was racing around so fast, usually with heads down against the wind, that they couldn't possibly have had any admirers.
We finished the neighborhood circuit and then went home, where I gave out candy for a while. I couldn't help but give huge handfuls to the kids that came to our door, as a reward for their hardiness. Trick-or-treating is one thing...trick-or-treating in Alaska is another: Those kids EARNED that candy.
We just spent our first Halloween in Alaska and holy moly...it was an adventure. According to locals, this was an exceptionally warm Halloween: it was a balmy 5 degrees F when I took the kids out trick-or-treating at 6:30 pm. Our neighborhood is new, with about 30 large houses sitting on a short, closed loop of paved road. With few neighborhoods sporting paved roads, ours was a hotspot in summer for kids riding bikes. Half the kids roaming around like packs of dogs did not even live here.
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| Halloween: Get in Line |
By the third house, our son sounded like he was having an asthma attack. "I think...I'm losing...most of my candy...on the way back...to the car," he managed to huff while looking into his still mostly-empty bag.
We went out a little after six and by then, the entire street was lit up with dozens of cars. Some folks, though, were pretty clever, as you can see from the video I took. They dress their kids up in arctic gear, strap a small trailer to an ATV, and pull the kids from house to house.
That would never have worked with my kids, however, who refused to sacrifice the "coolness" of their costumes by covering them with essentials like coats and gloves. Half an hour in, they were fighting each other for heating vents in between candy runs.
Most residents, though, were smart enough to wear costumes that were either large enough to be worn over winter gear or that required lots of layering to stay warm. Then there were the Darwin Award contenders (mostly teenage girls), who wore mini-skirts accented by fishnet hosiery and high heels. With no coats, gloves, or hats. I kept wondering who they were trying to impress, given that everyone was racing around so fast, usually with heads down against the wind, that they couldn't possibly have had any admirers.
We finished the neighborhood circuit and then went home, where I gave out candy for a while. I couldn't help but give huge handfuls to the kids that came to our door, as a reward for their hardiness. Trick-or-treating is one thing...trick-or-treating in Alaska is another: Those kids EARNED that candy.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
My First Autumn in Alaska
One of our friends from the Lower 48, who follows this blog, has been staying with us for the past few days. And since he's been riding me like a used bicycle about putting up new content, I figured it's time to stop slacking and start sharing some of the experiences we've had during this fantastic Alaskan autumn.
My favorite season in Virginia was fall and that hasn't changed here in Alaska. The autumn really started in early August for us, as the rain finally cleared up and the days became cool, crisp, and sunny...in a word: perfect. Though it did startle me. One day my husband said something about the "autumn weather" and I freaked out. "What do you mean, 'autumn weather'??" I was stunned to realize that summer was actually over and it was only going to get colder from that point on.
I'll admit, though, it may be worth the long winter just to see the leaves change here. It started in August, which was startling in itself, because I'd usually had to wait until October to really enjoy fall foliage. And instead of a patchwork of red, orange, and yellow, the prevalence of birch trees here set the landscape aflame with vivid, banana-yellow leaves, punctuated by the strong greens of the spruces and balsam poplars. Yellow is my favorite color, so naturally my soul was soaring during the times I drove through whole valleys sporting the color of sunshine as far as the eye could see.
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| Chena Lakes in summer. Beautiful, but... |
Only problem is...fall is just too damned short! The leaves turned to that buttery color and within just a few short weeks, they were gone. Most of the deciduous trees are now naked, awaiting their annual donning of winter white (which will happen any day now, I'm told). It's been especially fascinating to watch the lake system near our home, Chena Lakes, transition from winter to summer to fall.
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| ...more beautiful in autumn, I think. |
Here are some great photos (some mine, some not) of autumn in the interior.
Satisfied, Ross?? ;)
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Being Eaten Alive
A couple of folks who read my berry picking post have expressed surprise I would bother to take a gun during that "harmless" expedition. While some people had just sincerely never thought about the real dangers of competing with bears for food (on their turf), a few folks expressed their disbelief in that "Talk about overkill!" sort of tone. I almost wanted to ask if they wear seatbelts or if they just assume that's "overkill," too. And surprisingly, the people who said this were mostly homegrown Alaskans.
I submit for your reading horror this story, about a young woman who was eaten alive by a bear and her cubs. She and her companions had been fishing by a river and had left, but returned to retrieve a pole they'd left behind when they encountered the bears. The young woman's hour-long phone call to her mother about being eaten alive by a bear is one of the most harrowing things I've read in a long time. A British teenager was killed about a week ago, too, after encountering a polar bear. From the story:
People just assume that Timothy Treadwell got what he deserved for being stupid and pretending grizzlies are pets. But these people, like most people who are killed by bears, were simply enjoying a day in the great outdoors. Which is fine when the biggest thing you're likely to encounter is a timid deer, as is the case in much of the Lower 48. But when you live with predators three times your size with the teeth, claws, and strength to literally tear you to pieces, I don't think it's overkill to even the playing field with a gun.
I submit for your reading horror this story, about a young woman who was eaten alive by a bear and her cubs. She and her companions had been fishing by a river and had left, but returned to retrieve a pole they'd left behind when they encountered the bears. The young woman's hour-long phone call to her mother about being eaten alive by a bear is one of the most harrowing things I've read in a long time. A British teenager was killed about a week ago, too, after encountering a polar bear. From the story:
The father of one of the injured boys previously told the BBC that some of the bear's teeth were embedded in his son's skull during the attack and had to be removed.
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| Does this look like something you want to meet WITHOUT a gun?? |
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