Smokemageddon Update

the rising river under my cabin

Part I (8/21)

So many bugs, so much smoke, so much guest food to prevent going to waste.  The bugs were stirred up by a massive brush cutting and removal to clean things up in case the fire reaches our front door.  The smoke is, I believe, hovering between “hazardous” and “highly dangerous” levels.  I should probably be more concerned about this, but it smells like a permanent barbecue/campfire and dims the lights so that I get a solid afternoon nap.  There’s not as much work for us cooks because management wisely decided not to bring guests into the inferno.  But we just can’t stay out of the kitchen, making extra treats, ornate sauces, and, in my case, croissants.  I appreciate the orderliness and relative quiet of the kitchen (all the common spaces are full of underemployed staff).  Also, we all get to stay in the guest cabins to get out of the smoke.  Also also, the triennial melting of a glacial ice dam means the grounds are flooding up to four feet.  A raging river plus a wildfire!!!

Part II (8/28)

I was really getting into the 3-hour work days and long euchre game series when the fire got within two miles of camp.  Our managers coordinated a preemptive evacuation plan so that we could get the maximum number of vehicles and high-ticket items out in an organized fashion.  That time came Monday evening, and before I could quite wrap my head around it I was driving a friend’s car full of hastily thrown together possessions south to Seward.  I’m chagrined that, in the scramble, I only packed pre-sliced provolone and havarti; thankfully, a more collected coworker packed logs of goat cheese and a round of petit basque.

Aside from some emotional discomfort associated with abruptly leaving living quarters with your life shoved in a few bags, things have been pretty nice.  Sympathetic hotel managers have accommodated us and it feels like an awkwardly-executed but well-meant surprise weekend getaway.  Our lodge might burn to a crisp, but let’s eat Thai food and check out the aquarium!

Everything is touch and go but supposedly we head back tomorrow to close up shop and winterize camp.  In a weird and great season it just gets weirder and greater-er.

Where There’s Smoke

I should have taken this thirty minutes earlier, but it’s still pretty.

Bye hot Sam, I’ll miss pretend swing dancing with you.

There are so many distinct burning smells—right when nuts go a little too far in the oven; autumn leaf piles; the metallic tang of welding; a smoldering cigarette; a marshmallow that kamikazes from perfectly golden and gooey to a charred disaster.  From flying sparks spring raging tongues of flame.

The forest fire got worked up again.  There was a bit of smoke, the air took on that campfire scent, but we didn’t think much of it at first.  Summer is winding down and people are leaving already, so a round of salutatory fun has been initiated.  A group of us went out on the river one evening to drink a few beers, catcall a few bald eagles, pretend to be thrown around by the minimal rapids, and (lucky us!) coo at a baby brown bear.  This week also featured our all-staff backcountry camp out/ping pong tournament/fancy dress party.  Sure it was getting smokier, but we motored across sparkling Skilak Lake to revel for a night at our sister lodge.  I sported a purple floor-length satiny gown that was slit and ripped (not by me) to my upper thigh.  I watched my first full sunset of the summer, the pinks and purples intensified by the thickening haze.  Despite a week of crappy sleep and force-feeding myself handfuls of raw ginger to stave off a cold, I tapped into a current of energy and caroused until the wee smalls.

Far too soon, a knock came at my cabin door.  The wildfire that smoked us out all of July has reignited, jumped the river and highway, and highway was closed.  A van and car load of costumed, hungover, wallet-less people headed for the nearest town, where we...went to a brewery and chilled all afternoon to laugh over our fate.  I was one of the lucky few who had spare clothes, ID, and even camping gear as I’d planned to make a weekend of it.

We made it back this afternoon to an intense but as yet unscathed basecamp with friends bustling about in masks clearing brush, and eerie yellow-filtered light of smoke-choked sun.  Grasping for a sense of normalcy, I retreated to the kitchen.  My coworkers didn’t really need help but invited me to chop some veggies, and I decided to make the strawberry-rhubarb pie I’d been hemming and hawing over all summer.  If the garden goes up in flames tomorrow, I’d regret not having made it.

Notes and Rests

Young Chris Young blending hot dogs

overlooking Skilak Lake

On what feels like the 800th consecutive day of sunny, breezy, 75 degree weather, I decided it’s not a waste of a beautiful day to sleep in, eat a big breakfast, read until I fall asleep again, eat some potato chips and sunflower seeds, take another nap, and go to bed early.  I’d like say that I’m good at listening to my body, but it’s really just the natural result of multiple campfire evenings plus birthday plus pouring all my creative energy into a long night of karaoke.

Well, most of my creative energy.  A small portion was also invested in hot dog tots, inspired by my giddiness over pushing meat through the food processor.  It was a fun follow-up to Dorito butter, my impish attempt to have a little fun with our wealthy guests’ dining experience.

Oh, and I spent a while singing little patterns and sequences out on a fallen tree that reaches out to the middle of the river.  Leaves rustled like brushes on a snare, two eagles chirped accompaniment, and the rushing water suggested that Wordsworthian spontaneous overflow of emotion, for me in tones instead of words.  As the poet put it, “With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.”

August Fermentation

blubein’ and drinkin’

Portage Galcier, from the pass

I recently brought my bread back from a sorry state: it was stubbornly underproofed, dense and sad, sorely lacking the fungal joie de vivre necessary for an airy interior and crisp crust.  The sourdough starter knew before the rest of us that summer is waning.  It tried to tell me about the increasingly long and cool nights but the message took a while for me to decipher.  It’s sorted out now, and just in time to complement the panoply of cheese I’ll share on my birthday.

A late summer birthday allows for the perfect sort of reflection—there’s still a good deal of summer and sun and beach left, but you can sense the approach and change of autumn.  Without yet feeling pressed for time, we’re starting to prioritize unhiked trails and unswum lakes.  It’s still light out until late, but fleeting, as yellow leaves replace yellow beams.

A few nights ago, a group of us headed to a local spot flush with blueberries.  We strolled and picked and chatted, slowly accumulating little sacks of sugary jewels.  Smooshed up a bit with gin and mint and simple syrup, they made a sublime cocktail.  We had everything we needed.  Today, as we paddled a surprise free canoe on a backcountry lake, a friend said, “Life is good in Alaska.”

For some time I have felt home-less, that I neither want to nor could possibly make another home.  (A disheartening result of parting ways with the city, dwelling, and man you spent your entire adult life with.)  The only place that’s felt ok is an industrial, temporary, capricious, government-contractor-sciencey-masquerade in Antarctica, where by definition no one can actually live.  I’m not about to buy real estate in Alaska, but I’d consider a long-term rental.