lutrian dreams

I am sitting in the Central Terminal of the Seattle airport, in front of the big and gorgeous, sometimes concave and sometimes convex wave of glass window. Watching the planes come and go, just finished with a dark mocha and moving on to a drip coffee. It's 8:12 am, and I have been here for two hours. The Alaska Airlines flights from the North Terminal are taxiing by, and it takes a number of these before it dawns on me: I will not be back in Alaska for one month.



Gone, the familiarity of faces, friends, acquaintances, strangers I've encountered before. We flew into Seattle in the dark, and my half open eyes and sleepy brain just barely registered the scale of the lights stretched out below me, rising to meet the plane. Gone, the city of ninety thousand.



Once, Seattle was familiar. It has grown and changed and so have I; and this is not the time for rediscovery of anything but the airport tram, a glimpse of Mount Rainier out the south window, and the Dilettante coffee stand that I always look forward to on these red eye flights. In one hour, I will be boarding another flight, heading yet again east and south. My destination is a place three time zones from home, where Xtra Tuffs and Carhartts are not the garb of choice and ten times as many people whirl and swirl through their day.



My heart is back in Alaska, where my Kaia and Annapurna are being looked after by good friends. Where snow covers the birch leaves recently fallen to the ground, where the smell of wood smoke curls through the air.



I'm stepping into this month now with an open and eager mind and a spirit for adventure. A temporary trade-in on the life I've left behind, perhaps a few thousand miles over due.

Before moving to Alaska, I was a bit of a grasshopper in the summer: too busy enjoying the sun in mostly lazy ways to prepare for fall and winter. I think there were probably two reasons for this, both weather related. First, it was really too hot and humid to enjoy the summer in any way but a lazy way. And just as the summer on the East Coast is perhaps more severe than here in Fairbanks, the winters are more mild. What kind of preparation did a suburban/metropolitan girl really need to do? My winter preparation consisted generally of putting away the hammock, pulling out the hiking boots (as opposed to sandals), unpacking the sweaters, and finding a not-too-crowded leaf viewing spot.



Grasshopper I am not, here in Interior Alaska.



It is only July; and the temperatures have been so hot, I remember why I was so skinny before moving up here. In this kind of heat, who wants to eat? It's hot enough that I am hesitant to bike ride except in the evening, hot enough that I consider leaving my cardigan behind for outdoor shows at the Blue Loon, hot enough that stir fries and salads are the cuisine du jour rather than cheese-slathered casseroles... Yet I have begun to think of the imminent onset of darker days and cooler (understating it) temperatures.



It's nearly berry season, and perhaps this has prompted my slowly changing mind set. Summer solstice has long since passed, and this has certainly heightened my sense of the changing season. I find that in addition to enjoying a fresh pak choi and young onion stir fry, I am blanching extra turnip greens to freeze them for winter. I know I will appreciate the fresh, Vitamin C-packed, dark greens in a soup later on. I have scheduled an afternoon of canning with friends of an earlier generation, to learn a long-time Alaskan zucchini relish recipe that will be fabulous months after the last zucchini has been plucked from its vine. I am stockpiling recipes for good winter soups that will take advantage of my Calypso Farm share; and I am planning a soup-making weekend with my friend Katie, so that we can enjoy the bounty of the harvest on dark nights, when we only want to curl up on our couches and read with furry companions lounging nearby. Even as I buy fans to move around the hot air that is thick with wildfire smoke, I am thinking about lamps and lights for a new cabin, in a season when I rarely turn on a light even in the wee hours of the night.



Summer is on display in all her glory on my walks in the woods and the bogs nearby, and I have not given up on her. The blueberries are pale blue and soon-to-be-ripe, the cloudberries are just peaking, and orchids are peering shyly from beneath moss and shrubs. Low bush cranberries are just barely a thought. There are berry picking adventures yet to be planned, much local produce yet to enjoy, summer trips full of adventure yet to be taken, and my flowers are still blooming on the porch. Although this is a land of extremes- I find that I am always either recovering from winter or busily preparing for winter, like the fabeled ant- I am just as busy having fun as working hard.



Now I'm off to finish baking my cinnamon basil cookies, full of flavor from the cinnamon basil harvested from my porch. And I fully plan to enjoy them hot, rather than frozen.



Perhaps grasshopper, I still am.

I had lunch with Melissa today. We met on the corner by the bridge, as we often do spur-of-the-moment now that we both work downtown. After our standard greetings and pleasantries, Melissa said, "Did you cut your hair again?" I replied in the negative, and Melissa noted that it had a lot of body, more flounce than usual. It's the humidity. My usually fine, straight hair takes on a life of its own in the humidity. I'd forgotten.



Photos of me from the summer my family moved to Northern Virginia sport a distinctly different 'do than previous or later photos. I had long chalked it up to my hair being quite a bit shorter than normal and having quite a bit more volume to go with the loss of length. But my hair was still below my shoulders; and the truth of the matter is that having newly encountered NoVa humidity in the range of 80 percent, my hair reacted in a BIG WAY. After a month or so, my hair adjusted. Such hair volume without the help of curlers and hair spray (for strictly theatrical purposes) I did not again encounter until Lauren's wedding in Montgomery, Alabama. Dealing with super-saturated air for over a week, my hair took on a life of its own. Each successive picture from the week I spent down there shows more hair, less Megan.



This week in Fairbanks, our temperatures have been hovering around 85 degrees Fahrenheit, give or take a few degrees. Humidity has been climbing as high pressure and wildlfire smoke seem to have combined forces to keep moisture trapped low. Humidity currently sits around 33 percent. I feel like I am melting or wilting or some combination of both. I think most Fairbanksans feel much the same way. Temperatures right now are a full 135 degrees (F) higher than they were for chunks of the winter. As a former East Coaster, I tend to scoff at calling anything less than 80 percent humid; but as a Fairbanksan, my hair is betraying me! We're used to percentages closer to 3 or 7 most of the year.



I do declare that it's humid and hot; and since there isn't air conditioning to be found in the majority of Fairbanks, I'm using this as an excuse to drink gin and tonic or mint juleps or some other ice-cold summertime drink. Cheers!



5:00 update... 91 degrees. I think this may be the first time we broke 90 in Fairbanks since I moved here...

Another hiatus, more temporary this time, from my blog, while my content switched over to a new domain name. Thanks to everyone who made that happen.






It's a hot and sunny day in Fairbanks, and I've hardly been outside to enjoy the weather; exhausted from spending a week out in the weather until yesterday evening. Exhausted but content. Field work is hard physically but mentally rejuvenating.



This trip took me across the Tanana River to identify wetlands on the south side, where I had not been before. The area is not accessible via road; we commuted out in the morning and back in the evenings in an R-44 helicopter, with a few hops during the day. In between hops, there was plenty of bush-whacking through black spruce scrub forests and slogging through boggy wetlands, swatting away mosquitoes and flies, and searching for the next LZ (landing zone). A few tight LZs required my field partner and I to "step" out of the helicopter from eight feet in the air and load from a hover.



Unlike the last time I went out into the field, all too long ago last September!, the vegetation was nearing its prime. Flowers were blooming and many of the sedges had spikes. It was a week-long treasure hunt to see what new species we would identify at each site. Amongst our findings were fragile fern, shy maiden, green-flowered wintergreen, rattlesnake orchid, and the rare moonwort and Calypso orchid. Miles back from the mighty Tanana, we also found thick sediment deposits in some of our sites, deposited during the major flood of July 2008. The ground was still sopping wet, even in deciduous tree uplands; the silty sediment is slow to drain, and perhaps the ground froze last fall before the flat terrain could dry out. Heavier-than-usual winter snows piled on top of the saturated but frozen ground, melting suddenly in May's hot weather. These sites, flooded one year ago, have yet to dry out. Water marks can be found three feet high on the trunks of large trees, vegetative debris caught in the forks of high branches.



Wildlife were out in full force, although we saw mostly signs of animals passing rather than animals themselves. Moose scat, hare scat, grouse droppings, bear scat and tracks, wolf scat. An upset mama grouse feigning injury, trying to distract us from her brood. Gray jays and juncos, a northern harrier, bald eagles, a common loon, a myriad of diving ducks, red-tailed hawks, ravens. Moose- cows with calves and bulls growing antlers- seen from the air. And a black bear. Not from the air.



My field partner, Jeff, and I left our first site of the morning, in an open meadow, and entered a spruce forest. Mid conversation, I heard a twig snap. A very small twig; and, thinking it was a squirrel, I casually looked up and to my right. There, fifteen feet from me with no vegetation in between us, stood a black bear. A small (probably 250 to 300-lb), dark bear with a tawny face. The bear had its head low and was staring me down. "Bear," I said loudly, warning my partner. "Seriously?" he asked, as I began to back up steadily, hands in the air, saying, "Hey, bear. Hey, bear," over and over. Jeff, realising I was serious, began to scan far into the forest for the bear, following me backward with his hands in the air, joining me in my mantra. "Hey, bear. Hey, bear." We stayed side by side as we backed up, trying to appear larger than we were. The bear charged at us several times, leaping forward at us. Silently. No teeth clacking, no jaw popping, no grunts or growls or roars. No rearing up on its hind legs to intimidate us. Jeff and I both realised this bear meant business- it wanted us gone. And we wanted to be gone just as badly. As we backed up, Jeff got caught up more than once on thickets of willow in the understory, and I had visions of this bear leaping onto him as he fell backward. I called out more than once, "Jeff! This way! You have willow behind you!"



We were both certain that an attack was imminent, so we stuck close together to better our chances of fighting back. I had our soil shovel in my hand and was sure I would have to use it. We had left our bear spray back at our lodge because the safety clips had fallen off, and we didn't want to endanger ourselves and our pilot with unsecured bear spray in the helicopter. This was our first day without the spray, and we both realised the implications of having left it behind. One less line of defense. We don't carry fire arms in the field because of corporate policy.



We paused behind a thick growth of willow after about three minutes of the pursuit, not having seen the bear in several seconds. The bear had been backing up to charge repeatedly, so we were not sure that the pursuit was over. After a short period of time, we realised it was not, seeing the light brown of the bear's face coming forward through the trees. We continued to put distance between ourselves and the bear, passing our first LZ around the edge to avoid the opening, finally arriving at the edge of thick, stunted spruce. Positioned behind thick trees but with good line of sight, we had found a safe place to stand our ground while we called our pilot. It had been a full five minutes of pursuit by the bear.



I had been radioing our pilot repeatedly, but our air band radios don't work without line of sight. Fortunately, our cell phones were receiving intermittent signals; we were able to send the pilot a text message: "Need pick up now." Followed by a second message, "Aggressive bear, need pick up same LZ." Within twenty minutes, our pilot called out on the radio; and we were soon in the air, moving to a new site miles from the bear.



Neither Jeff nor I had ever experienced a bear encounter like this one. Most bears will ignore people or run away; but this bear persistently followed us, essentially stalking us. Black bears can be predatory; but Jeff and I think that this was not likely the case here. This was a young bear, probably just kicked out by mama, confused and scared and defending its ground after having found some not occupied by other, higher-ranking bears. Maybe the bear was on a kill. Perhaps that was why it didn't see, hear, or smell us before we were almost on top of it.



It ended well for us and for the bear. As the trip continued, I ate my first blueberry of the season, tart but delicious; enjoyed a lunch-time delivery of curly fries by helicopter while sitting in a sea of tussocks; took a swim in Blair Lake and enjoyed its relatively warm water and sandy bottom, serenaded by a loon; and saw my first lynx, from a low hover in the helicopter.

... and Interior Alaska in particular. How many places are there in the world where you can enjoy good friends, pudgie pie pizzas, beer and vodka tonics, and the warmth of a bonfire underneath the watchful aurora?

It was a chilly night, with temperatures dropping to -10F in the hills. Our beers froze solid, and our vodka tonics turned to vodka tonic slushies. Despite cold noses and the need to act like rotisserie hot dogs to keep our backsides from freezing solid, there was no denying that this was a spring night in Fairbanks!

The aurora danced across the expanse of starry sky, bending and spiraling in vivid green. Red tinged the bottom edge. This was the best display I've seen in a couple of years.

Thanks, Tom and Melissa, for hosting a wonderful night! Kelly, Jonathan, and Kristen, it was wonderful to catch up! And Ken, thanks for driving me home so I could enjoy my slushy!