Arriving in Denali early meant coming to the Interior of Alaska while it’s still in the grip of Winter. While the rest of the country experiences Spring, what Alaskans look forward to is Breakup. It means the snow is melting, the ice is turning to puddles (or lakes…or rivers…) and there is mud everywhere. Unfortunately, we’re told by the TV weather people that this is the coldest April in the Interior since 1927. I believe it.
When it comes to the Aurora Borealis in Alaska right now, there’s good news and there’s bad news. The good news is that it’s still winter in Alaska. That means it actually gets dark so you can see them. The bad news is that it’s still winter in Alaska. Which means that while you stand outside in awe, the cold seeps into your hands, your toes, and eventually every part of your body.
Thanks to a sun event, the likelihood of seeing the Northern Lights has been high the last couple of days. I set my alarm and crawled out of bed at 1 AM and bundled up to venture outside and check on the show.
The sky in Healy, if you get far enough away from the lights around our building, is an inky black velvet with glitter scattered across it. When the lights are mild, the sky turns into black silk, with a sheen across it that can be mistaken for light clouds. But on a good night you can see ribbons of light, dancing and changing, moving as you watch. Last night I didn’t get to see the rarer red lights, but they were white ribbons, silent and beautiful. I stood outside for about an hour, and at the end the lights faded to that cloudy look. I kept hoping they might return, but the cold finally chased me inside. Well, the cold and the dark figure I heard approaching on the road. It was too dark to make out what it was, but moose are known to travel on the road just like we do. I began to make my way back to our housing, and was happy when the figure, approaching fast, turned out to be a fellow worker who was out enjoying the lights.
Soon the nights will begin to shorten to the point where we won’t see dark again until September, and seeing the northern lights won’t be possible. So I guess standing outside in the cold in the middle of the night is worth it right now.
I arrived back in Denali on April 3 this year. I’m hoping to do a better job of blogging the summer this year; I finally gave up last year after struggling with the Internet service. The good news is that my Internet connection is working MUCH better this year.
We drove up from Anchorage on a beautiful sunny day in the 40s, and The Mountain (Denali) was out in all her glory. So I was thinking, “Great! Breakup is upon us and Spring is here!” Wrong. The next day it started snowing and continued for a couple of days, with the temperature dipping into the -20s every night. Yesterday we woke to no water and no heat, but that was fixed very quickly. The first day I worked in my office it was 55 degrees in the room, but fortunately Maintenance found a space heater for me and that made it very comfortable. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in weather this cold, and I’m starting to relearn some things I forgot: ALWAYS wear your hat and gloves, don’t bother with earrings because they’re pretty cold in subzero weather, walk carefully because there’s ice under that snow.
It’s a small crew up here getting ready for the season, but it’s growing almost every day. We’re all stuffed into the Stampede housing until they open up the other building, so it’s starting to get a bit crowded. We have a great group of people working together here, so I’m really looking forward to the season.
My only wildlife sighting so far has been a huge eagle feasting on a baby moose carcass. The biggest eagle I’ve ever seen! There were several ravens standing by, but none of them seemed interested in challenging the eagle for a meal.
This is the scene behind the main lodge of the Denali Princess Wilderness Lodge. It looks a lot different now than what our guests will be seeing this summer.
This bear in front of one of the gift shops at the Denali Princess Lodge greeted me on our first day of work. Notice that he’s hip deep in snow.
Well, not ACTUALLY halfway…but halfway in time. Sunday was the midpoint of my commitment here in Denali, and it caused some mixed feelings. I’m happy the mid point is here and it’s time to start thinking of being home-of sleeping in my own bed, hugging my hubby, petting my cat, being able to sleep in, having days when I can just relax, and being able to get in a car and go wherever I want!
On the other hand there’s this panicked feeling: Oh, dear, what haven’t I done that I want to do here? How many weekends are left to be able to hike, to see wildlife, maybe take a fun excursion? I came with ideas of visiting Kenai, Homer, Talkeetna, the Arctic Circle, yadda yadda yadda. Didn’t do any of that. Without a car it just seems like too much trouble. Besides, there’s so much to do and see right here. Maybe next year…
As a child living in Alaska, I remember seeing Fireweed everywhere during the summer. It grows wild and loves areas that have been newly cleared or burned. Since most of the populated areas of Alaska were newly cleared when I was growing up, there was a lot of it.
This summer, living in Denali has given me the opportunity to get reaquainted with my old pal Fireweed. It seems as though there was none in evidence just a couple of weeks ago, and suddenly it’s everywhere, two feet tall already.
As wonderful as the Fireweed is, there’s a sad side to it. You see, Fireweed blooms from the bottom up. All Alaskans know that once it reaches its full glory, with the blooms going all the way to the top, it tells us the first frost is nearly due and winter isn’t far behind.
That’s OK, Fireweed, I’m glad you’re here anyway. You make me smile every day.
In the last week I’ve been listening-really listening-to the sounds of the wilderness. Well, this isn’t exactly wilderness right where I’m living-not when you have 90,000 of your best friends coming to visit during the season. So at times there is a need to filter out the cars and buses and airplanes, not to mention the guests and several hundred employees who are in the canyon where we live and work. But most of the time, there is an opportunity to stop, to listen, and to hear the sounds that are not man-made.
There are the raucus ravens who hang out around here. Earlier in the season it seemed as though the seagulls had taken over the territory, but apparently the ravens have recaptured their traditional place in the heirarchy. This afternoon I watched as three ravens chided me for infringing on their territory. Unfortunately, I’m not as easy to get rid of as the seagulls were.
We also have a healthy population of Columbian ground squirrels in residence. They run and chase each other from tree to tree, and when they realize I’m watching they move around to the other side of the tree and squeak at me. How brave.
There are plenty of other, smaller birds besides the ravens, and of course the river nearby and the wind in the trees cooperate to bring the counterpoint to the animals and birds. I love it in the early morning, before the tourist trade gets into full swing. It makes for a wonderful walk to work.
One thing I’ve always enjoyed about the wilderness is the silence. Well, the wilderness isn’t really silent. But it’s quiet.
There are few places you can go in this country today where you can hear nothing but the sounds of the wild. Even most of our national parks ring with the cacophony of cars, trucks, people, airplanes, and all the other sounds of civilization. But there are rare times when I’ve been able to find that corner of quiet, where the only sound is the wind, the water, the birds.
Last weekend I had the privilege of going on a heli-hike. One of those noisemakers, a helicopter, took a group of eight of us to the top of a mountain and dropped us off for a three-hour hike through the high tundra. For a number of reasons, it was an experience I’ll cherish all my life. One of those reasons was the silence.
Yes, there were eight of us. But all were lovers of the outdoors, and the conversation focused on the experience we were sharing. There were also some opportunities to walk up over a ridge and find a few quiet minutes. The wind carried away the other voices, and the only sounds were those made by Nature herself. Definition of magical: one of those moments when the world seems to expand, when you can look around you and feel a part of something greater than yourself.
I stood at the top of a mountain and looked across the valley, two mountains tied together by a rainbow. I could hear a bird calling, and the wind murmured back. The ground was soft under my boots, a cushion of tundra decorated with tiny alpine flowers. Yes, magical.
After fifteen years of desert living, I almost forgot what it was like to experience the seasons. Here in Alaska, especially interior Alaska, the seasons change with a vengeance. Summer is short, and winter is long and harsh. And dark. The wildlife and the plants know that, so summer is like walking down the streets of New York City: everybody is in a rush but not quite sure where they’re going. Where they’re going is Fall…and then Winter again.
I arrived in Denali on April 30. There were snow patches on the ground and everything was brown and gray. Alaska welcomed us the next day with a white world. Hey, I haven’t owned snow boots for years! It continued for the rest of the first week, with temps in the daytime hovering around 40 degrees. As we snuggled in temporary quarters and crossed our fingers hoping for warmer weather so they could turn on the water in our housing, the weather teased us with warmer nights, then freezing nights again.
Suddenly in mid-May the weather warmed up and the sun came out, and we took off our jackets in the balmy 60 degree heat.
I walk up a hill to my office every morning, and I watched day by day as the bushes along the road first showed little buds, then hints of green, then bright green new growth. Now they’re in full leaf, celebrating the rain and the sun and warmth. Just to add to the celebration, wildflowers are jumping up. Yes, I mean jumping up. One day there will be a cute little flower peeking up, and the next day there’ll be a whole bouquet waiting to greet my day.
So for the next few weeks the animals and the plants will be reveling in the heat (it was 78 yesterday) and the long hours of sunlight (21 hours a day as of this writing.) They’ll be busy feeding for the winter and reproducing for next year. Then before I go I’ll see the whole process in reverse. One day the plants will start to turn orange and yellow and red. The animals will begin looking for winter quarters, and so will the seasonal workers here in Denali. The chill will be back in the air, and termination dust will start decorating the mountains. And I’ll start packing my bags to go back to what will likely still be 100-degree heat in Arizona.
Living in Denali has brought me back to a memory of my childhood. I grew up in both Alaska and Montana. Please don’t ask me how much time I spent in each-I’m getting old and having trouble remembering what I did yesterday, let alone what happened fifty to sixty years ago. The bare bones are that I was born in Montana and first went to Alaska when I was six. From then until my Junior year of high school, where I lived depended on what stage of marriage my mother was in. I did spend my last two years of high school in Anchorage, and graduated from there. But I attend the Cut Bank, Montana high school reunions. Go figure. But I digress.
Growing up in Montana, I grew itchy feet early on. Inherited from my much-married mother, I suspect. We lived in a house on the edge of town overlooking the railroad trestle off in the distance. I spent many hours sitting in front of the big picture window watching the trains go by. I’d count the cars in the long trains pulling the oil tankers from the refinery outside of town. And I’d watch the Empire Builder, wondering where the people on board were going. Were they headed to Chicago? To Seattle? Somewhere even farther and more exotic? Like Minneapolis? (I was a kid. My geography wasn’t always accurate.)
So that’s a long intro to the trains of Denali. I’m again living in a place where I can see the trains go by-now they are Alaska Railroad trains and the river is the Nenana River. And my bedroom is situated so I can hear them rumble by. Those trains are the lifeblood of this area. They bring the guests for the hotels and the National Park, and they carry the coal from the coal mine in Healy. The trains during the day are the people movers, and at night the coal train starts its trek to the coast for shipment. I can lie in bed at night and hear the train rumble by, sometimes for a long time-lots of coal going somewhere. At first it was a little disconcerting, but then I started remembering the trains of Montana. Now I can listen to the rumble and know how lucky I am. Now I’m in one of those exotic places I wanted to go.
Travels with Billie 