End Notes

Our last few days in Alaska again proved its bountifulness.  We skied up a new creek, flowing open in the middle but bordered by thick shelf ice, and ascended into ever more rugged and narrow passages.  Every angle of light newly cast into relief the rocks and trees and water.  Just days after the equinox the sun seemed a dozen times brighter, warmer, and everlasting.  Along with the sun returned old coworkers, punctuated by hesitant, awed new ones.  The seasons wax and wane, and we with them.

We went south by van, which although time-consuming allows the enormity of the landscape and the change in one's circumstances space to unfold.  Passing the Arctic Circle, Finger Mountain, the Yukon River, the Enchanted Forest, the old trading post, and winding down into the foothills of Fairbanks is a sort of ritual, and each stop serves as an observance of past markers -- other springtimes with their own anticipations.

Fairbanks flaunted its grunginess (as always) but Jean-François is a man not easily discouraged.  When the bus refused to come he suggested we thumb it, for which optimism we were promptly rewarded.  Later, we repeatedly circled a metasticizing strip mall before finding the unmarked door of an actually charming wine bar.

I had been increasingly nervous about Jean-François staying through the 90th and final day of his tourist visa, given recent events.  So, we cut short our visit with his cousin in Salt Lake City, but managed to hike surrounding canyons, revel in blooming flowers and leafy trees, and thoroughly enjoy each other's company, in a mix of French and English.

Thus my re-immersion began, and continued with a week in Montreal.  Now, way back when, Jean-François and I met about the tenth day of walking the Camino.  But he already had buddies, including wonderful Fiona, a young nurse from Alsace.  She was tiny, her backpack was enormous, and her wildly mobile face was cartoonish with expression.  We were thrilled to see her again, and she and her boyfriend made us perfectly at home.  We cooked together, walked all over the city, and ate gratuitous amounts of maple syrup for a solid send-off from North America.

sugar shack with Fiona and Théo

Emma Creek, just after a section of boulders

the melting commences

a wedding invite collaged by our pals

Packing It In

The sun is back with a vengeance, the moon is full, the aurora is streaming across the sky.  The landscape is transfigured by light.  Though the snow and ice have barely begun to melt, the alders have taken on an orange sheen and the spruces are photosynthesizing a dark luxuriant green.  Broad swaths of creek, still solidly frozen beneath, are topped by slush and overflow, which inundates the trees on the banks and, overnight, forms a blue veneer somehow both spongy and brittle.

The parking lot has been plowed down to the gravel, thereby starting mud season.  The first few winter coworkers are leaving (and us next week), and summer returners arriving.  It hits just above freezing in the afternoon, and I can ski without gloves.  We're all shocked to step outside and feel the warmth of the sun, and have been obliged to prop open the kitchen door and run the window fan.  If this sounds premature, consider that from my coldest day in January at -48F, we've warmed up 80 degrees.

Along with truly superb skiing and snowshoeing, camp life is going strong with puzzles and crafts, poker, and movie nights.  Months ago, we had agreed that as our wedding will be pretty small and informal, and friends and family already know the details, actual invitations weren't really necessary.  But last week I thought it would be fun to ask everyone to collage postcards, just to send fun little momentos.  A few nights later I baked quiche and brownies and lemon bars for an (early) going away party.  After mutely clinking our paper cups of champagne, Jean-François shared a slideshow extolling the natural beauty, special sense of community, and select English words he picked up here.  I had to leave early for work and sported my faded t-shirt and bleach-stained chef pants, but he wore a blue button-down -- decidedly "spiffy," and not "kinky."

 easing onto the creaking ice at Brock Creek

Layton takes a load off after breaking trail for us

aurora too hot for my phone to handle

(water-)skiing on Minnie Creek

atop Big Sepp, a nub just south of Mt. Sukakpak