The post-it with tiny squares on my desk shows one week until I leave Coldfoot. It's a difficult science to try to map out the "right" length of time for most anything -- do we really transform into adults at 18? Do we learn all the foundations of chemistry in two semesters? Is our playing complete at the end of recess? Does sleep come when darkness blankets the land? I find a great deal to do and enjoy here, and a happy month is a gift. Always better to leave wanting to come back...
I'm glad to have witnessed the changing of the guard here, and be assured of some continuities. Even though the staff almost entirely turned over, we still have a nice manic guy who smokes too much weed and cooks fun side projects; a relentlessly positive middle-aged cleaning lady; an underachieving night cook who blasts music incongruous to a truck stop diner; unqualified heavy machinery operators; and a hermity outdoorsman who suffers our bohemian group dynamics to share salvaged caribou roadkill.
It's just about the slowest time of year. No hunters, no construction crews. Daylight burns so long the sky is too bright for stars, and the aurora (the source of most winter tourism) has all but bled away into transparency. It's still wintery cold, but out of the wind the heat of the sun is life-giving. Outside of moseying around to construct the occasional bacon and egg sandwich and form logs of ground beef into burger patties, I've skied or snowshoed almost every day. All that bracing fresh air stirs within me a primal urge to consume breakfast sausage and giant cookies. Luckily, the beast in my stomach is also placated by Jared's handmade ravioli, and our meager supply of kale is stretching to last through my duration.
