The Sun's Gonna Shine Again

It's hard for me to remember things as a server such as who ordered Diet Coke because I don't give a shit.  I'm oddly fascinated by this lack of attention to detail as Editor Claire was formerly so invested in the proper employment of punctuation, page layout, and index development.  I'm trying to perfect my technique handling biscuit and potato roll dough, and I clean with adequate enthusiasm -- but my hosting/serving is mediocre at best.

There are many diverting things crowding my brain and reducing its interest in recording whose burger gets tomatoes on it.  The river steamed mythically for a few days as it iced over; the sun crept lower and disappeared below the horizon for the next two months; moonglow lit the trail for night skiing; a horde of dogs whipped our sled over the tundra; Cleo and I gossiped over a glass of wine in the ladies' bathroom; I transformed butter reserves into 500 cookies; and a bush plane carried off my favorite bike hobo.

No more polar bear plunge access.

See you somewhere soon, comrade!

Doggies pulling like beasts.

Wintopia

After a few flirtations with hypothermia last year, I committed to always taking extra layers skiing.  A couple days ago, we finally plunged down to proper winter temps; -1F isn't too bad for these parts, but somehow every ten minutes I went from toasty to chilled and back, resulting in a slow-motion fashion show, pulling on and peeling off to briefly parade assorted tops and gloves.  Today I achieved a dual-shirt equilibrium and was able to enjoy the view through unfrosted glasses the whole time.

Biking is a beast of a different kind.  We have a small fleet of fat-tires to grind through powder.  Churning over sand dune-like hills calls for, unfortunately, the opposite of the technique of standing for extra leverage on single-speed trash bikes that I've been honing over the last decade or two.  I'm learning to quell that instinct, downshift, and keep my butt in the seat for adequate traction.

A lot of tourists ask (incredulously) what draws us to live and work here, particularly when buffeted by wind on cold dark nights awaiting the aurora.  When I say there's good skiing, it's both an honest and deflective answer.  I'll flip your burgers and wash your plates but I won't try to explain what Thoreau so aptly wrote: "The snow lying deep on the earth dotted with young pines and the very slope of the hill on which my house is placed, seemed to say, Forward!"

shared moose path

Krista pet all of Dan's dogs that day while I stayed just beyond chain's reach.

Dalton Drive II

The distance from Coldfoot to Anchorage is the same as from Detroit to New York City.  A long drive, but significantly less than the 4,000+ miles from Michigan to Alaska.  I don't need a car for the winter, but I really want one for next summer.  So my dad identified some promising wheels in Anchorage; I choked back the bile that accompanies purchases over $200 and commitments longer than six months, and drove a big chunk of the latitudinal distance of this big ol' state. (Thankfully, with a pause in the middle courtesy of my Fairbanks friend, whose cute cat and myriad assortment of tea did much to dispelled the town's dingy dreariness.)

I'm settled back in at Coldfoot, treading the (very) well-worn floors, dancing between the fryer and flattop and fridges, chanting to myself the components of breakfast plates and burger orders.  And I'm hosting/serving, so awkwardly hunting and pecking around the computer screen for the button that adds chicken tenders to customers' salads and inventing the extra charge based on how amiable they are.

My two favorite truckers remembered me, which was nice.  I'd put them both at about late 50s, though its hard to tell with weathered faces.  One remarked on an uncharacteristically southern herd of caribou I'd seen on the drive up, noting it's been over twenty years since they'd chomped trough their favorite lichen all the way down to Livengood.  Maybe on the next clear day I'll drive a bit to see if I can spot them again.

The cafe has its tables back this year.

It's still in the 30s and Slate Creek is barely beginning to freeze over.

The season ends with Lego Batman and lots of lox

In a normal year the lodge becomes The Cottonwood Club: for one night as many of the company staff as possible crowd into camp to dance, drink, and play ping pong.  Cocktail attire and eccentric outfits are strongly encouraged, and dedicated attendees coordinate multiple costume changes.  Because of covid, the remaining ten or so of us turned the evening into a tent-pub crawl: in festive garments, our happy mob traipsed from tent to tent for a beverage and a surprise.  We drank grape-juice mimosas and watched anime; sipped Dark & Stormys while learning our love languages; fired off postcards to our future selves with hard spicy kombucha; scribbled poetry with watermelon gin; played Pass the Face, contorting our expressions 'round the room with rummy ice cream; performed an impromptu talent show with red wine + Coke; and stuffed our mouths with marshmallows after hot chocolate with whiskey.  And after all that, tipsy ping pong to keep up tradition.

The next day we moved out of our tents, cleaned up a bit, and read and dozed in the woodfire-warm lodge.  A feeling of slack tide prevailed -- sated from a full summer, we paused before a long exhale, then departure, flowing outward in disparate directions.  Clean up, put away, talk over the season now passed, last hike, last kayak, last dinner, goodbye.

September is a transitional month.  Already the Chugash mountaintops had frosted over.  Back in Michigan it has been beach-summery and chill-rainy and in between.  I'm glad that when I get to Coldfoot it will be definitively winter, the drear death of autumn already mercifully cloaked by snow.

great wig on a great boss

I still like you even if you barely work, Stove.

TWO 'bows

Courtesy of Trevor and Kait's loan of a perfectly equipped VW Westfalia camper van, and the friendly Berkeley family that adopted me for a weekend, inviting me to hike, kayak, cook and eat with them on Tutka Bay.

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