My car battery is, evidently, undead. The cold discharged it several times this winter, but always it rallied after being jumped. And the first few days of Denali roadtrip-ski-trip it was like a clever little magic trick: turn the key and WOW! It just starts! Good job, Hond-y.
There were other strange wonders in and around the park. It was a balmy 45F when we arrived and crazy windy. Krista and I side-stepped up a nearly 12-foot-high plowed snow bank to access a trail near the sled dog kennels. This winter has seen some wild fluctuations in temperature, resulting in very deep snow glazed over by a layer of ice from freezing rain, forming an almost groomed surface for backcountry skiing.
Our little dry cabin was selectively cozy; somehow, despite always being set to 70F, the heater was lackluster during the day but over-enthusiastic at night, to such an extent that we threw off blankets and opened the door to air it out. I was grateful to return to it, though, after a night camping out, fully clothed in ski gear inside two sleeping bags.
After lots of tea and cookies and storybooks such as "Folktales from Soviet Russia -- Baltic Region," "The Nurse from the Black Lagoon," and "The Eleventh Hour," it was time to head back to Fairbanks and make final preparations for Argentina. I left my car and skis behind, spent a magical evening at the ice sculpture festival, and tried to collect enough apples and cheddar for five flights. It's a long way from the Brooks Range to the Andes.
