Sea Ice in Kotzebue

Kotzebue in October: The Chukchi Sea is on the left

Here in Kotzebue, they tell me that the snow is late this year. It is so far west of Juneau that the light is different. We are in the same time zone so it is darker in the morning and stays lighter into the evening.

When I first saw the frozen Chukchi Sea from the wide road that faces the sea in Kotzebue, I couldn't quite take it in. How can a sea, the margin of the ocean, be frozen? But there it was, right in front of me. Ice that went on forever. People talk about feeling small in front of a mountain. I had never understood that feeling until I stood at the edge of the frozen sea, feeling small in the immensity of the sea ice. There is so much of it. And even though high school chemistry tells us that salt water can freeze, albeit at a lower temperature, it is still disturbing. Every fall, the ice covers the Chukchi Sea, sometimes up to 6 feet deep in places. Standing on the edge, I can see mountains far away to my right. To my left, the sea stretches into tomorrow. 

Ice defines Alaska. It is white and sometimes blue and sometimes black. It is always cold and hard and, to my mind, unforgiving. In this picture below, the ice meets the sky and it all seems to be one. Soon people will be traveling on it. Where do you get your bearings when there is so much of it?

Chukchi Sea Ice

 

I Voted Today!

I felt good when I voted early this morning before going to work. It was still dark before 8am and big drops of rain pelted the street. The church where my polling place is was lit and inside, the familiar red and white striped curtains were hanging to give every voter the privacy to vote for candidates and propositions and judges. What a system we have! I knew almost all of the election workers, and when I signed in, I recognized about half of the names on the page. I was PK - that means "Personally Known." That is one of the virtues of living in a small town. I took my paper ballot and pulled back the stiff curtain and there, on the metal stand, was a pen to fill in the ovals. Once I had finished voting, I put my precious ballot in the cardstock cover that again guarantees my privacy. I brought it to the machine that sucks ballots into its locked box. One of the election workers handed me an “I Voted Today!” sticker and I could go back into the rain, quietly satisfied that I was doing the same thing as millions of other Americans,  protected from those who might force or bribe me to vote a certain way. I don't take it for granted, knowing that women had to fight for the right to vote. I treasure every bit of it.

Do Alaskans Have Less Hubris When It Comes to Nature?

This afternoon, the rain let up for a little while, long enough to take a walk on the Flume Trail near my house. It has been raining hard for several days, and the water in Gold Creek that runs next to the trail was so loud that I seriously thought a jet was flying overheard. Waterfalls had appeared where none had been before and those that always flowed had swollen considerably. And a couple of those waterfalls brought debris and water down off the mountain across the trail. The water, instead of flowing under the flume, now was flowing over the flume, flooding the trail. All of this change had happened quickly - in a few days - as it often does in Alaska. The power of nature is constant here: torrential rain, high winds, snowstorms, ice, earthquakes, and now the effects of global warming. 


Almost everyone has at least one story of a hike or fishing expedition or camping trip that, due to lack of preparedness, almost ends in disaster. I think it does make us more respectful of the elements. Hubris leads to risk taking, and in a place where the weather can change in an instant, risk taking can have tragic consequences.  I have a hard time leaving the house without a jacket even when it is sunny. I wear ice grippers in the winter. I listen to the flight attendant describe emergency exits as if I have never heard it before. I don't take much for granted. Does it mean Alaskans don't make stupid mistakes? No. What it does mean is that we pause long enough to remember the time we came to grief because of not being prepared - and then we take precautions. Today, I paused, remembered, and still didn't wear my rubber boots. Should have, I guess...

Juneau Weather Pathology

The Octopus, Paul Allen's yacht, in downtown Juneau recently.

The other day it was raining sideways, typical fall weather. We have been waiting for this to happen after an eerie stretch of warm sunny days. It feels right to be wet and cold again. When it is sunny for too long, I hear people say to one another that "we are going to pay for this." Somehow, the pleasure from good weather is not for the likes of us, at least not for long. Where else in the world do people have such a personal relationship with weather that we think that we don't deserve good weather? A friend of mine said that "we all feel guilty" when the weather is good and when the rain comes (punishment), we think we deserve it. But here is the truth about rain: it falls on us all, whether we deserve it or not. I rarely refer to the Bible, but here is part of an apt quotation: "for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust."

Berry Picking: Is It Really an Addiction?

Point Bridget Trail: Photo by Matt Klostermann

Although I wouldn't put berry picking into the DSM IV (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders IV), there is an addictive quality about it. Last weekend, I went hiking with a friend on the Point Bridget Trail, one that is stunningly beautiful most times of the year.

I had stuffed a small Ziplock in my backpack just in case there were a few late blueberries still on the trail. That's like a gambler bringing 10 bucks to the casino just in case there is a blackjack table going. At first we strolled along, oblivious to berry possibilities, warming our faces in the sun, until we saw a woman with a gallon sized Ziplock, slipping from bush to bush like a wraith. Her bag was chock full of high bush cranberries. Once she identified them for us, we saw them everywhere. 

High Bush Cranberries on Point Bridget Trail

It was harmless at first: a few berries here, another few there. They were so seductive. Each patch yielded more than we expected at first. It was like hitting the jackpot. The more we picked, the more we saw. Soon we were plunging into the thickets of cranberries and the Devil's Club with their prickly stalks that seemed to grow near them. My arms got scratched up, but I hardly felt it. The little Ziplock was filling up... and still there were more berries. Time slipped by as we stopped again and again on our way to the beach at the end of the trail. We felt a little desperate. There were so many berries and around each corner, another luscious patch, smelling so spicy and earthy.

Point Bridget Trail

We finally said "OK, one more bush, and then no more." (We had to say this more than once.) Our bag could hardly hold any more berries and I was considering emptying out my water bottle to fill it up with berries. But instead, we walked to the beach, and then sedately returned along the same trail, stopping only once to cram in "just a few more" to the bag, now bursting and weighing several pounds. It took a supreme effort of will to stop, but we did. We quit cold turkey.

At home, when we poured them out to clean, we couldn't believe how many we actually had. Now those berries are in the freezer. We are considering what to make with them: Cranberry Catsup, Cranberry Jelly, or Cranberry Chutney. We don't have enough to make all three. I know another place that is pretty close by that has high bush cranberries. I find that my thoughts keep turning to that place. I'll bet there are plenty there. It wouldn't take long to pick them...

Texas in Alaska: The Lone Star and The North Star

If Alaska were the United States, the Kenai Peninsula would be Texas. I should say that it would be a Texas with lots of water. Like Texas, there are pickups everywhere and glory be, there are roads, very good roads. (That is quite a treat for a Southeast Alaskan used to fewer than 100 miles of road.) Here's another similarity: it takes a long time on the Kenai Peninsula to drive from one end of it to the other. If you have ever driven across Texas, you know exactly what I mean. There are other reminders of Texas on the Kenai. I passed roads named Chevron and Tesoro and Halliburton.  That says something right there. During the pipeline years, when crowds of Texans worked in the oil industry in Alaska and many Alaskans even started wearing cowboy boots, one of the jokes told was that if you divided Alaska in half, Texas would then be the THIRD largest state. Bet you can tell who told that joke.

However, there are differences. I doubt that Texans are exhorted by road signs to brake for moose. With the number that are killed on the roads, it's a mystery as to how there are any left for hunters.

Another difference: I doubt that Texans are as crazy about fishing as Alaskans on the Kenai are. The Kenai is all about fish and fishing. Everywhere at this time of year, people are enthusiastically catching them, freezing them, smoking them, and canning them.  They operate charter boat operations, fishing lodges and cabins, stores selling gear, smoking facilities, and even real estate agencies touting "sportsman properties."

Although there is some Texas there, the Kenai is its own place, another kind of Alaska where enough people need the kind of service that this sign advertises. I'll bet you wouldn't see this in Texas.

Politicians Flying Coach

Scott McAdams

This week, I flew to Anchorage for a meeting. Unlike other places, in Juneau there is no choice when it comes to airlines. We fly Alaska Airlines. It reminds me of British novels, particularly mysteries, in which traveling up to London always takes place on a train. And there is only the one.

Governor Parnell

On my way up to Anchorage, Scott McAdams, the Democratic candidate for U.S. Senator was on the plane.  On my return to Juneau, Governor Parnell and his family were on the plane. In both instances, they rode in Coach. Fact: I have never seen an Alaska governor ride in First Class. I never saw Governor Murkowski on a plane that I was on because he purchased a plane with State funds and used it for his own transportation. In this egalitarian state, it proved to be one of the reasons he was soundly defeated. I remember once seeing Governor Knowles in a middle seat, thinking at the time that it could have been a campaign poster. "I have to endure middle seats sometimes, just like you. I feel your pain." Even Governor Palin used to fly Coach. She certainly doesn't now.

In Alaska, at least, First Class for a governor looks too hoity toity. Political winds depend on symbols. And First Class is a powerful symbol. As is Coach. Maybe it has something to do with "so the last will be first, and the first last."