lake girl

By the shores of woodsy lakes: I grew up.  I learned to swim.  I learned to paddle and row.  I learned to fish (a bit).  I sang and talked to myself.  I played with frogs and toads and pollywogs and minnows and shells and rocks.  I splashed and dove with friends and theorized about people and the future.  I made out with boyfriends.  I read, and walk, and watch sunsets and fireworks.  I said yes, and I honeymooned.  I visited the Transcendentalist's cabin.  I thought there was still a way; I knew all was lost.  I enjoy the sun-sparkles reflecting off the water.  I try to absorb good engineers' advice.  I washed off the sweat from tramping.  I got a long-awaited hug.  I stare at the light, the dark, the stars, the moon, the shadowy branches and boughs that fringe the sky and the lake, connecting the liquid realm below with the boundless blue above.

Skilak Lake on a shifty morning.

Is it another kind of biscuit?

The zombie fish arrived about two weeks ago.  These are salmon on their last legs, exhausted and physically deteriorating, with white leprous patches and milky eyes.  They swim lazily near the surface, often with dorsal fins cutting above the water like sharks.  Their resounding smack! as they catch a final snack in our silty water punctuates all hours, day and night.  Occasionally, one will porpoise, leaping repeatedly for a hundred feet, as though the frantic spasms will propel them up an imaginary waterfall.  Eventually some wash up on shore, an easy meal for the eagles, ravens, seagulls, and bears.

Us humans gleefully tucked into the spoils of a successful day in the kitchen for me, with buttermilk biscuits, super fudgy brownies, and frozen custard.  We don't have electricity to spare for an ice cream machine, but a memory percolated through my brain of, I think, my 25th birthday, recreating at home the then-novelty of Shake Shack's "concrete" dessert.  This batch was quite nice, and true to its name required slicing with a knife.

And to round out the week, I finally accomplished my solo bear-country backcountry camp out.  Happily, nothing attacked me or went amiss, but I did writhe around, heart pounding, when coyotes called to each other and particularly loud fish-plops made me fear a curious moose was approaching my tent.  Perched on a gravel bar where the glacial outwash meets the lake, I felt as vulnerable and resigned as when I had to pass the night in a rural Italian train station my first time alone in a foreign country.  This time, my transport was ready early, and the toilet paper was free.

Past his prime.

Gray but calm; my trusty paddler at rest in the muck.

Fun Time Days

Summer is chugging along, with autumn nipping at its heels.  We had Christmas in July, with almost all of us in the staff lounge opening thoughtful, artistic, funny homemade presents.  Another developing tradition, a couple of us have been quietly stoking the sauna some evenings to enjoy post-dinner roasting, accompanied by lake relief dips on now-awkwardly slimy rocks, as the lake level and sunshine are optimized for algae.

Last weekend, some extra days off (aka fun time days, aka adventure opportunity days) aligned with a friend visiting, and we drove north a few hours to an absurdly scenic hike.  Gold Mint Hut at Hatcher Pass transported us to New Zealand: classic u-shaped glacial valley, countless clear creeks to quench your thirst, craggy alpine peaks with giant granite boulders at their feet...!  We walked miles alongside a river, hillsides slathered with wildflowers -- violet monk's hood, magenta fireweed, tall nodding grasses.  Who knew all that fresh air could make five-day-old grilled hot dogs taste so good?

And since it was my birthday, later we had some grocery store cheesecake in the Hope Point trailhead parking lot.  Later, when we finally came back home to the lodge, it was windy and cool, I was dirty and damp, there was a pleasant surprise.  Years ago, dozens of times, Matt and I returned from long days sailing to his mom's pasta sauce and meatballs.  It's distinctly satisfying and comforting to come in from the glorious and exhausting ocean salt and sand and sit down to a giant pot of food made by a loving Italian woman.  So I was really pleased that upon my return a nice little staff dinner was waiting, of spaghetti and meatballs with homemade sauce.

Maybe the cutest hut in this hemisphere.

Krista contemplates