Because life is as short as the winters are long

The snow came slipping in on the first day of fall. She was the guest that showed up for the party on the wrong Saturday, a month too early. But instead of retreating in embarrassment, walking backwards down the sidewalk in profuse apology, she came right up to the front porch, invited more friends. Next thing I know, we're surrounded by flakes.

It was the earliest snowfall in over 60 years. Alaska really rolled out the white carpet for us.

Can we let this sink in for a moment? I had to send the kids into school with snow pants in September. Also? I had to find the snow pants on a Monday morning with zero minutes to spare. Which did not create a considerable amount of merriment and glee on my part.

When the bus returned that afternoon, the kids came barreling off, begging to put off homework until after they had a chance to play in the snow. Because it might MELT before they could play! Um, you guys? Eight months. You have EIGHT MONTHS to play in the snow.

Oh well. I gave in. Go play. And yes, you can have hot chocolate. And sure, marshmallows too. Because life is as short as the winters are long, and I'm going to try to say "yes" as much as possible.

::

My husband is home after five weeks away. He essentially deposited us in Alaska and then took off for military training. Which was remarkably similar to the pattern of medical residency (times two).

It goes like this. We move somewhere new (Maine, Ohio), and before I can say "honey do list", he disappears into the halls of the hospital for lordknowshowlong. The only differences this time were that he didn't come home to sleep and he did his own laundry. Will I get in trouble if I say it was easier this time?

I'm so glad to have him home. This didn't register super high on the list of difficult things we've done, but it was still on the list. He's already back at the hospital, but at least he's not four time zones away. He's definitely worth the extra laundry.

::

Last Monday, I had to change my running route because a bear (a BEAR!) was reportedly meandering down the bike path that I normally run. So I pulled up my big girl shorts and found somewhere else to run for a few days. I'm faster than I used to be, but I won't be outrunning a bear anytime soon. So 'tis best I continue to employ bear avoidance tactics and leave the 1x10m bear sprints out of my speed workouts.

Why yes, those ARE ice chunks on my hat and fleece

This Monday, the running obstacle of the week was snow. The good news was that I didn't have to spend much time digging out my hat and gloves. They were already in the middle of the floor along with the entirety of the winter gear for our family of four. (See above: locating snow pants in zero minutes.) There's another upside here to snow, maybe two. First, who needs a hydration belt when you've got snow flying straight into your face? Second, it's damn gorgeous and beats the heck out of a treadmill screen.

Yes, I miss crisp fall days and apple picking and outdoor soccer and acorn squash from the farmer's market and watching with my own eyes Giambi's walk-off homer in the thick of the Tribe's hunt for the wildcard. (Shockingly, we don't get the Sports Time Ohio channel in Alaska. Lame!) I could stir up trouble in my heart thinking about how long eight months of winter running is going to feel. But what's the point of that? I've decided to take it a run at a time, to take each day and mile for whatever it is.

Today the sun came out clear, and the snow on my roof went dripping into the driveway. Grass is glistening green again, and the mountains are the brightest white. It's September, and my lungs are filling up with the clean, cold air of the last frontier. I can see my breath, and every morning there are so many opportunities to say yes.

Nine {Just Write}

Oh, there are so many things right now. For one, he's going to turn nine this week. NINE. As in almost ten. My baby.

He has glasses now and we just finished Harry Potter number three. We usually read together, but he got so excited that he couldn't wait for me, and he read ahead on the bus. The first thing he said when he stepped off the bus was "Mom, I have so much I need to tell you."

I'm thinking, oh, field trip info for tomorrow or something happened on the playground, but no, he sputtered out a dozen breathless paragraphs, every last one about Harry Potter.

Tonight as we read the last chapter, I didn't hurry. I glanced up at least a dozen times to see his not quite nine year old eyes twinkling in the soft lamplight. I savored each page. Because it's not every day you get to read the last chapter of Harry Potter number three for the first time.

::

This weekend we went chasing the sunset and wound up in a place that reminded us of Maine. My birthday boy named it "Mainetown, because it's like Chinatown is for China people, a place you can go that reminds you of home." He's almost nine, and he's an old soul, and he's my baby.

I'm just writing again with Heather. Because of course.

White Hatted Mountain (Just Write)

There are a hundred things I've been meaning to write, and a hundred ways I've been thinking I'd say them. But I've run a hundred miles in these twenty days. And the miles steal my words, quiet my heart. They take away my urge to speak, replace it with an urge to listen (and to eat).

Today I ran a new road. I hugged the curve, pad padded on the gravel shoulder, lifted my head, and bam, I ran right into Autumn.

Fall here isn't so much the turning leaves as it is the mountains putting back on their white hats. The tallest ones go first. They wear them well after Labor Day in the most scandalous unfashionable magnificent way.

From here on out, I'm going to take my cues from the tall, gutsy white-hatted mountain who lives around the corner from me. Today she told me to stop slouching and stretch tall into a quiet rhythm. To stop caring whether it might keep raining, to start seeing the faces in the clouds. To give up hoping to be heard, to bundle up and to lean hard into listening.

Do you know what's beautiful in the rain? (Just Write)

It's not always unicorn-shaped glaciers and rainbows around here. Sometimes it's just the rain, minus the bow, for days on end. The Alaskan clouds aren't so great at reading the social cues. Reluctant to part, they linger long after the proverbial hostess clears the table.

The latest spell of clouds and rain lasted just long enough for me to forget what a sunset looked like. Such that when I caught the orange and pink hues peaking through the pine trees just now, I nearly flipped out. "ohmygosh ohmygosh, I've got to take a picture. I wonder if that's the aurora borealis? Ohmyword it's just so gorgeous! This stupid phone photo isn't going to to do it justice!" And so on...

You learn to appreciate, to celebrate the rarities, whatever they may be, wherever you are.

::

Yesterday, I wanted so desperately to hike to a scenic overlook here in town. But we woke to rain and clouds. And my son complained of a sore throat. And my daughter complained of a severe hiking aversion. And I knew right then that no amounts of bribery and sugary snacks were going to make that hike feasible, let alone pleasant.

I picked at the leftover corn bread and sulked for all of five minutes before it hit me. You live in freakin' Alaska. Quit your pouting and go find something beautiful. Pretty sure glaciers don't melt in the rain, you big whiny baby. At noon, I was googling "glaciers near Anchorage". Two hours later we were standing on the shores of a glacial lake. 

The clouds, the rain, they hung on. But so did I. That's what raincoats and boots and triple shot lattes are for. It's going to rain and snow for most of the year. No choice but to grin and gear it.

But here's what I'm really trying to say:
Do you know what's beautiful in the rain?

So
very
many
things.

The Home Stretch

It turns out Whitehorse, Yukon Territory was perhaps one step above Dease Lake. Which is saying very little. Don't get me wrong. The scenery surrounding these areas was unbelievably gorgeous--even in the cold and dreary rain. It's just that the towns in between were a strange brew of frontier meets ghetto.

Let's take Whitehorse, for example. Our hotel was right next to the "real" Canadian superstore. Which is apparently not Walmart? Because Walmart is the fake American one? I don't know. Whatever. We purchased chocolate drumsticks there, and I can vouch for the fact that they were both real and super. So I'm giving the real Canadian Superstore some points for that.

Anyway, I woke up the next morning to walk the dog and hunt for really strong coffee. Which, without the coffee, might result in me walking the coffee and hunting for a really strong dog. Anyway, when I got back to the hotel parking lot, I caught a glimpse of L's truck and did a doubletake.

The kids' bikes were missing from the bike rack! I'd just assured my restless little ones the day before that as soon as we arrived in our new neighborhood, we'd ride our bikes around the clock until we knew every last cul de sac by heart. And now this?! Stolen bikes! 

I stormed into the hotel, breathless and two seconds away from a total meltdown, and asked the front desk attendant for the phone number to call the police. Did you know that they call police officers "Constable" in Canada? I would've found this amusing if I hadn't been so worked up about how these heartless criminals had just swiped the one form of entertainment that we'd brought with us for the kids.

Lucky for us, my husband has a somewhat disconcerting ability to think like a criminal. After we broke the bad news to the kids, shed a few tears and discussed the problem of evil in its entirety, L decided to make one last check of the property. Turns out the perps had stashed both bikes in some shrubs near the hotel, perhaps hoping we'd drive away after which they could claim to have "found" them.

Once the bikes were safely back on the rack, we gassed up the cars and got the heck out of Dodge.

The further we got from Whitehorse, the closer we got to this....

The day's drive was as spectacularly beautiful. It helped too, knowing we had just one more night on the road before we could sleep under our own roof.

Getting ready to leave our cabin and head HOME!

We crossed into Alaska that afternoon. Three hours later we were gulping down delicious Thai food on a table in our very own cabin while the kids ran around like monkeys who'd eaten through the inventory in a Fruity Pebbles factory. Then we chatted with some fellow travelers in the cabin next door who had also braved Whitehorse and lived to complain about it. (By now, our kids were old friends and had played about three dozen rounds of tag.)

The next morning, we got up, walked the dog, packed the car, grabbed some strong coffee, and then we drove home.

The most beautiful part of our 4600 mile journey was through the state we now call our own. It was worth a thousand Dease Lake moments (and it took at least as many!) to get here. 

It's so very good to be home.

Then we drove and we drove and we drove

Have you ever wondered what lies between the towns of Smithers, BC and Whitehorse, YT? No? Well, I'll tell you anyway.

That little red dot in the middle of nowhere = Dease Lake

Nothing but fireweed, my friends. And a random Jade store that also sells fuel. Oh, and also, a little horror movie setting of a town called Dease Lake, heretofore referred to as the place in which we will not stay, like ever again.

We repeatedly reminded the kids that this 4600 mile journey to the last frontier was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Because, yeaaah, after Dease Lake and Whitehorse, once seems like it's going to be enough.

This Jade store was perhaps the only sign of civilization for hours.

Aside from camping under the stars, there's one place to stay for roughly 800 miles, one little town that boasts no more than a motor inn, a saloon and a "restaurant". (More on those quotations later.) The day we drove to the aforementioned town of Dease Lake, it rained all day and continued to rain after we arrived. The motel itself was....(if-you-can't-say-something-nice-don't-say-anything-at-all)....dry.

We were all quite hungry after the long drive and our paltry granola bar lunch. So we went across the street to the only food joint in town. It wasn't crowded. Friends, when it's the only food joint in town and there's still plenty of seating, this will serve as your first clue. 

We ordered a pepperoni pizza. I mean, really, you can't mess up pizza, right? Right?!

Wrong.

I don't know what they put on it, but it wasn't pepperoni. Thinly sliced spam, maybe? Bologna? Slimy unclassified deli meat? Oh lord, where was Papa John when we needed him?

We got back to the motel and tried to settle the kids into bed. At this point, it's safe to say L and I were not our "best selves". I sulked as I sorted through the back-up suitcases in search of warmer clothes (did I mention it was 51 degrees out?). I felt at odds with my husband and annoyed with my children. And I swear my face was already breaking out from that damn pizza. 

Both L and I would later look back on that evening as the colossal low point of our journey, even coining a new phrase from the experience: "having a Dease Lake moment." Which translated into the vernacular means: No bueno / Me no like this / I freakin' hate my life right now.

The next morning we got up, took the dog to do her business, commandeered the lobby coffee pot to make our own respectably-strong brew (oh yes we did), shared said brew with a few other guests in exchange for their silence, and then hit the road for Whitehorse.

Then we drove and we drove and we drove. You might not guess it, but the Yukon Territory is kind of expansive. Forget the moon, kids. I love you to the Yukon and back. Now that's love.