We arrived home last night. It’s time for me to reconnect to my life here in California.

Here’s the scene: Traveling at some kind of warp speed over highway 17 in the Santa Cruz Mountains, like being shot from a canon and landing in the front seat of a 2008 Subaru Outback in the passenger seat asking the driver, my husband, “Why are you driving with your sunglasses on when it’s dark out?” Well it’s jarring, dislocating.

Before I snapped my fingers, I was walking on the Kuskokwim River on the Ididarod Trail.

Today Terry viewed his day from an invisible perch. Above the real scene below.

When we ascended from Seattle, the hues below were bright yellow, and green. They were so brilliant. The yellows were the yellow lines painted on the roads. All the vegetation was green. It’s funny what you see after two months of black and white and shades in between. To go from moving at pedestrian speed to jetting. From the silence of standing in a boreal forest packed in insular snow where not even a pin makes sound waves. From that to the clamber of a city airport . . .

We really are home.

Well, it’s over. I will bask in the afterglow of McGrath in fourteen days when my test is negative. I thought I was beating the chances of Covid by traveling on an airline with strict distance rules to a village with no cases. But now we’re facing no rules on the plane except masks. Santa Cruz is now orange.

Here we are at the Marriott Courtyard in Anchorage. Dinner with a adult drink.

Our send off at McGrath Airport was sweet.

All of our peeps are the walkers in town. Elsie is 73 and the doctor told her to exercise so she walks about four hours a day.

She asked Terry where his mask was. He said no one is wearing one, so I took it down. We’re not even close to each other. She said the sign on the door says you must wear a mask. He put it back on.

In Anchorage, the little waiting room at Reeve air was beautiful and they had bags of famous Amos cookies. The two pilots were fun, but it all ended when the hotel called and said their shuttle driver was circling the airport trying to find Reeve Air. I ran out to wave him down.

This is from our journal written 20 years ago when I taught in Graying AK.

Muk’s Big Adventure #4

Friday, eight AM, we stand in the storage room behind the Anvik gym buttoning, zipping and Velcroing our clothes. I took care not to leave any of my skin exposed. My mask was tucked under my goggles, gloves cinched inside jacket sleeves, mukluks laced high. Our narrow plastic sled carried a Rubber Maid tub and two plastic delivery bags full of gear. Terry attached the dog’s stretchy blue leash to his gun belt and snapped it to the sled, with its 85-pound load. I wore a light backpack stuffed with the day’s essentials. Also on the sled were a pair of skis—for emergency use—and both pair of snowshoes. The trail was hard packed. There was no need for snowshoes this morning.

We had over-nighted on the gym floor, on a pile of wrestling mats. This is our favorite bed and breakfast. We love raiding the four freezers and having all of the cafeteria to ourselves. Muk loves licking syrup and ketchup from the floor. The gym mats, balls, baskets are ours to play with. We can lounge in the library reading and checking email. Muk had played for hours with one of the daughters of a teacher. She told him she has gold, and Muk is the gold-robber trying to get it. He didn’t mind being bossed around; it was a fun game for him, too.

The staff would start arriving by 8:00 this morning, so we needed to hit the trail.  The school thermometer registered –22 degrees as we started a brisk pace down the hill to Anvik Creek.  Out on the ice the coldest air had pooled, and it was colder.  We didn’t talk about it.  Our masks were layered in ice around nose, mouth and eyes.  Muk dropped to the ground often to bite at the pads of his feet.  

Anvik Creek makes a wide curve around an island that kept us in the shadows.  We were both digging hard with our poles, trekking, trekking, as fast as we could.  Normally, the puppy in Muk would have encouraged him to chase the occasional blowing leaf, or dig for partially exposed, left-behind Iditarod booties, but he, too, was moving fast, pacing up ahead then back.  For an hour and a half we pushed hard.  Just a short stop and eyelashes need to be pealed apart.  In order to do this, gloves had to come off.  My goggles were frosted inside and out.  Through this lace of frost, Iditarod markers were barely visible.  Freezing is painful; movement mitigates the pain.  Even though every step kept us warm, it also pushed our distance past the point of likely retreat to Anvik.  I don’t think you worry about freezing to death until you are really desperate, but I worried about frostbite.  

At the confluence of creek and river, we curved directly into the sunshine.  The absolutely clear air and total whiteness result in unimaginable brightness.  It was warmer, maybe only a couple of degrees, but each step into the sunshine seemed better.  My breath warmed the frost from my goggles. Thankfully, there was no wind.  I looked back at Terry.  He was totally covered in fine-frost fur from perspiration wicking to the surface and freezing.  Long icicles traced his beard and mustache.  His long white eyelashes look Vegas showgirl-like.  “It seems warm now,” he yells.  “I’ve had to chip the ice off my eyelashes a couple of times.” 

By now, there was no way I could wait any longer; I had to urinate.  Women have to expose so much of their body to do this.  And so many simple things sap warmth.  Just holding the metal part of ski poles instead of the handles—with gloved hands no less—can steal enough heat to force you to put the poles under your arms and pull your fingers into a ball.  This little inconvenience will slow your pace and next you’ll feel the heat leaving your thighs.  Not only does pulling down your pants and hanging your steamy derrière out into the minus-minus air assault the immediate area, but also it pulls heat from your core.  This fact is a constant reminder that you cannot easily escape the cold by going into a car, a building, a store, a house, a garage.  No, this is spending hours with minimal chance of rescue, and it’s on our minds, at some level, the whole way.  I picked up the pace to compensate for my brief exposure.  We were making good time, and my body temperature hadn’t suffered.  By late-morning, we could both relax.  The sun definitely warmed us and only the shadow side of Terry was still frosty.  When Muk lay down, we cupped his feet to warm them.  Earlier, neither of us could have stopped.  Muk got up prancing.  He, too, was happy with the way the day was turning out. 

Up ahead I could make out an animal running.  Binoculars helped identify a single, large wolf heading into an island of willow thickets.  Our trail followed a channel between island and shore.  Willows rimmed this island, and it was where we had seen moose two days earlier.  They survive the winter primarily by munching willow stems and buds.  If you break open their pellets, sawdust spills out.  On the opposite side, a pair of wolves hunted the shoreline.  One stopped when it sighted us and charged our direction.  When it became clear to him that we were not prey, but predator, they quickly disappeared into the woods.  The trail was covered with wolf tracks.  We decided we were dancing with wolves.  The temperature finally seemed above zero, but removing your mask quickly dispelled that notion.  Still, it was a perfect day.  We were both hoping to see more moose.  In the distance was another movement, approaching rapidly  At that pace we knew it was a snowmachine.  An animal was draped over the rear.  Richard turned off the engine and said he thought we were broken down snowmachiners.  The wolf, shot ten minutes earlier, was the first one that we flushed out.  He had run it down as it tried to cross the wide expanse of Yukon ice.  It was hog-tied on his luggage carrier.  Blood spray covered the rear of his machine.  The animal’s tongue hung frozen stiff, eyes still open.  Muk didn’t growl or act surprised.  He looked it over and decided the break was an opportunity to lay down and rest.  The feet on a wolf are huge.  I doubt few dogs have such big feet.  There’s a one hundred-dollar, native only, bounty on wolves, plus the untanned hide is worth another $250.  Wolves have really depleted the moose population, along with illegal hunting.  I had just been considering how sad it is that moose are so large and it’s so hard for them to hide.  Just when they bed down, the wolves come in and rip them apart.  

In the novel Winterdance, by Gary Paulsen, he talks about how brutal it is to witness wolves killing deer. I don’t want to see it, nor do I want to see an Native Alaskan running down a wolf on his snow machine. But out here it doesn’t bother me seeing the dead wolves, the way at home it bothers me seeing cows or chickens being transported to the slaughterhouse. Something, to me, about the scheme, seems more sporting, more natural.

Much of the river appears as frozen swells undulating toward shore. A feeling of walking on water progresses to the feeling of being on a boat dipping up and down on the waves.  At times, we were between troughs.  Sometimes the ice peaked up into winter sculptures. Way below-zero snow cracks hollowly under your feet—it’s not the crunch of cold-weather snow or the pad of warming snow.  The Athabaskans have sixteen words for the different types of snow.  We surely have seen it transform today. The distance is marked by high cliffs rising from the Yukon’s western shore.  To the east is flatland.  While in Anvik last summer, one of the Natives had told me the names of the peaks—four mile, eight mile, twelve mile.  Near the high cliffs, the shore ice is devoid of snow.  It’s glacier blue.  The cliff’s snow is glazed and shiny.  Somewhere around here is the open hole, which has claimed the lives of many people over the years.  It is hidden by deep packed snow now, but still dangerous.  We trust the trail gives this area sufficient detour.

As we walk, these cliff markers approach slowly. It reminds me of sailing and wondering what it will look like around the bend. As we get nearer to Grayling than Anvik, white capped hills rise dramatically in the distance. The north wind begins and increases as we head upriver. I slow because of a tightening Achilles. Walking in Mukluks takes its toll after fifteen miles. With no heal or real shoe box to grip my foot, it’s almost like being barefoot. The slight movement of my ankle against wool socks has caused a rash that now flares. For a couple of miles, Muk has been bored and tired. Because I’m in the front, he has been trying to get me to stop. He walks between my poles and me. He looks up pleading. He leans against my leg. He walks up between my legs. He tries to trip me. I know how he feels.

About a mile from home, Terry says he’s going to push ahead to start a fire for us. We had set the diesel burning stove on 55 degrees. I’d like a warmer house. He powers ahead, and as the distance increases, Muk stops and looks at me then runs ahead and continues this until they disappear down the hill that leads to the village. I hear the village dogs going wild. When I get up to the village, I see a sad sight. Aimee and Mike acquired two puppies last fall. One was Muk’s brother, Reno. They gave him away a couple of months after they got him. Two dogs were too many for them. But McGregor, the goofy looking one, remained. He had become a long-legged, silky-coated animal with the ears of a donkey. He looks like no other in the village. They let him sleep on the couch and walked him around the village. But two weeks ago, anticipating their trip home this summer, they talked Fred into taking him. As I came up the hill to the village, the dogs in Fred’s yard, behaved as all the village dogs do. They jump to the maximum extent of their chains. They bark and yelp. They all look like village dogs—huskyish. Remember, they are staked so that they can never touch each other. Their only contact is when they are fed. Perhaps a good owner pats them, but mostly they are knocked on the head or kicked so that the feeding process is quick and unencumbered by dogs so starved for attention that they literally grab your leg with both arms and hold tight. There sat McGregor. He looked to the other dogs and occasionally barked or jumped, mimicking their behavior. His ears stood at attention while his eyes and movements betrayed his bewilderment. Where is the couch, the dog dish always filled, the warm confines?

I reached home about 3:30, shortly after Terry.  He said, “You better go to school and take a shower.”  Why would I go to school for a shower?  It was warm inside compared to outside, but then I notice that I could see my breath. The stove had failed.  It was 26 degrees.  Water pipes were frozen, all the plants dead, even the olive oil had solidified.  The only items to escape freezing were in the refrigerator.  Muk immediately curled tight inside his kennel where he stayed without moving until morning.  We lit a fire and walked to school.  The hot shower I needed turned into a cool one.  Nothing is ever fixed.  Why there is no hot water in the shower is a mystery, but I’m sure it will not be fixed.  Little things in my classroom that Terry had started to fix, but was told not to because he was taking away Fred’s job, have never been fixed.  Only the bare essentials of everything work.  By evening, the house warmed and pipes thawed.  Unfortunately some were damaged.  Water squirted from under the sink and shower extension pipe.  It also dribbled from the toilet bowl gasket.  Using duct tape, a clamp from his bicycle, and numerous tie wraps, Terry has temporarily repaired the breaks under the sink and in the shower.  The toilet leak stopped when the gasket fully thawed.  I know that Fred will never fix these problems. The next tenants will have constant drips.  We’re sorry, but the store doesn’t stock the parts to fix these problems.  Bush living. 

That mostly describes the final day of our trek.  Our original plan was to visit Anvik, then Shageluk, then triangle homeward, spending four days to cover the 83 miles.  This overly ambitious plan was cut short by a very painful first day.  I had not spent much time training and by mile 15, the snowshoe bindings had nearly crippled me, constantly squeezing my Achilles.  Mukluks have no heel stiffener for protection.  A limpy pace is a slow one, and I could no longer maintain body heat.  Hand warmers were not enough to keep my hands from going icy.  Terry and I swapped gloves several times so that I could benefit from his warm hands.  With five miles to go, I was struggling with a falling core temperature.  Feeling your spine growing cold is eerie.  Terry was constantly urging me forward, “help yourself, pick up your pace, shake your hands, we’re almost there”.  Unfortunately I was going as fast as possible, but the landmarks never came closer.  

In my pack was a VHF radio and considered calling for help, but who would answer? And what would my class and peers think of me? Finally, Terry, sensing that I was really fading, came close, putting his arm around me, holding me tight, pushing me forward. The closeness added heat and security. As we walked in lockstep, my core stabilized, albeit below normal. Adding more handwarmers to my gloves failed to produce noticeable effects, but the buildings of Anvik were coming into view. It is almost a mile up the hill to Denise’s house. Due to my condition, Terry flagged down a snowmachiner who carried me to her door. She was expecting us, but was surprised at my icy touch. For several hours I snuggled on the couch wrapped in heavy blankets as heat from her blazing woodstove toasted me back to normalcy.

Denise is a cute, petite, 40-something woman.  Carl, our special education teacher, has told me repeatedly how foxy he thinks she is.  When we were in McGrath last week, he was prodding me to see if he stood a chance with her.  She’s from MT.  Her husband is at home.  The plan was that she’d work here for two years until he took his sabbatical—he’s a teacher too.  Then he’d join her with the idea of maybe moving.  Her 22-year-old son is with her and may remain in Anvik.  She has decided to leave at the end of her first year for many of the same reasons that I have outlined in earlier letters.  I assured Carl that she was indeed married and not looking for anything else.  

For a short time, Carl was a glassblower in Seattle.  His personal mythology is that he’s a cultivated, eccentric artist, with joie de vivre—at times debonair, at other times Paul Bunyon-like. In truth he’s a likable fool.  Sloppy, fat, whiny.  He’s stuck in jr. high mode.  When he feels insulted, he’ll say, “You guys wait.  Just wait.  I’ll lose weight and show you all.”  

Near the end of our two-day inservice, Carl decided he had to make a move.  He inched down the lunchroom table toward her.  I was seated across from them and watched this tragicomic play of Carl’s.  He put on his oh, so sensitive voice.  He asked her about her troubles in Anvik.  He told her how brave she was and how well she was handling things, and by the way, had he mentioned he was a glassblower in Seattle?  Even though he loves the bush, he knows the finer things in life—coffee mostly.  

When he returned to Grayling, he couldn’t stop himself from emailing her.  He confessed his attraction.  Carl always does stuff like this.  At the McGrath meeting, in front of the entire school district staff, he would raise his hand and whine about this and that.  The speaker would politely cut him off.  Then for the rest of the meeting, Carl told everyone that he should have kept his mouth shut and that he’s always embarrassing himself and putting his foot in his mouth.  Of course, everyone said,  “It’s OK.  You shouldn’t feel embarrassed.  You were just speaking your mind like we all want to do.”  In truth, everyone thinks he’s a goof ball.  

Denise emailed a response that she’s happily married and she’s sorry that he couldn’t understand that.  Both Terry and I picture Carl banging his head against the wall and repeating “Why me? Why me? Why do I always embarrass myself?”  That’s Carl. 

We leave tomorrow. This is a difficult move. We have stuff in every corner. Our luggage hasn’t gotten larger, and I’m leaving the tub that I mailed. When full it weighed 61.83 lbs and cost $151.05 to mail. Unfortunately, the size and number of the piles of stuff seems the same.

I was on high octane this morning. Yesterday afternoon, I missed a call from the clinic. The message wasn’t specific but requested a call back in the morning. I told Terry I wasn’t going to get my hopes up that they had a cancellation and were calling me to get the shot.

I started the morning waiting to call Teresa at the clinic who has the sweetest voice and nobody could be upset with her. Terry was sitting across from me at the table. I told him this is about his mix up getting his Covid test yesterday. He said I was getting the vaccine.

Yesterday the tech came out to give us the swabs and vials to administer our Covid tests. We requested them because we’re flying. They are no longer required, but it seemed prudent.

The health tech said to me, Deborah? and to Terry, Charles? “My name isn’t Charles.” She showed him the appointment with Charles listed. “See. Isn’t that you?”

“No.” She handed him the kit and waited for him to follow her instructions on swabbing and depositing the contents into the vial. She requested of him, “Ok, give me your name and DOB.” She had nothing to write with or on. We were outside. Terry provided the information.

She said, “Terry Miller, I’ll remember that. “ and what’s your date of birth?”

“7/24/52.” Terry told her.

“I’ll remember 4:20 because of pot smoking time.”

I said, “Well that’s a clever way to remember the date, but it’s 7/24/52.”

She repeated 7/24/52 until she said “got it.”

Will this morning’s call to Teresa be inviting me to get my shot or to clear up Terry’s information?

“McGrath medical clinic, this is Teresa.” Sweet. “This is Deborah Hansen.” Terry looks hopefully at me. “Thank you for calling me back. Can you clarify Terry’s birthday?”

Crestfallen, I walked around in circles. Deciding that I didn’t like any of my stuff, and I’d just leave it all behind. Then I sat at my laptop ready to get lucky and actually get an appointment for tomorrow in Anchorage or for a future date in Santa Cruz.

Of course nothing had changed, there were no appointments available even though the websites promised the vaccine was in stock. While I was searching, Terry read me the scathing reviews of these websites.

Vindication that it wasn’t just me, got me away from the screen. The weather was 32° warm. A perfect goodbye walk on the road to nowhere. Two miles out my phone rang, and I managed to get it out of the stretchy pocket on my running tights. It was the clinic, could I get there in forty-five minutes? Someone cancelled. Sure.

It was 3.5 miles to the clinic, and I needed to stop by the house to use the bathroom, get my mask, and put on a short sleeve shirt. I ran with the theme song of Chariots of Fire playing in the background. The slick packed snow roads felt like running on moving walkways in airports. My running pace was Olympic qualifying. I was Pee-Wee Herman passing snow machines instead of bikes. Just made it!

All smiles and sore arm, now.

A curious sight near the middle of the frozen Kuskokwim caused us to edge closer. There was a large murder of ravens jostling for position. Standing among them was a tall, white headed stranger. There was a lot of activity that appeared to be drinking and bath taking. Ravens and eagles normally do not practice peaceful coexistence, but on this one day, the rules were different.

Much of the day saw temps above freezing, and winds gusting. Most roofs are steeply pitched metal that snow somehow clings to. At 7:32 pm, our south facing roof dropped its load. Like glacial rebound, our house walls and foundation instantly sprang upward. The feeling was familiar – earthquake! Elsie told us that her house, built in the 80’s, is falling down. Heavy snow loads are tough on a house.

Terry

In the light snow of the morning, we talked to a friend walking. It turned out, her son had just turned 40 on the 26th which is Andy’s birthday, too. In Ak, if you live in bush, you go to a city, most often Anchorage, one month before the baby is due. Our friend lived in the small village of Nikolai. She had not seen a doctor or any health care worker. She didn’t know when the baby was due, making the birth a surprise for her and the untrained women who assisted the birth. All she remembers is one woman asking the other,” where are the scissors?”

She also recalled her high school years at Chemawa Indian School in Salem OR. What she liked most was that they provided breakfast, lunch and dinner everyday which she didn’t have at home. Of course these “Indian” boarding schools were instrumental in the death of native languages and culture as well as families. But in the 1960s it probably was a good choice. Her other option was to move to McGrath. There was no school in Nikolai. It’s current school, with only ten students, will face closure if they lose one student. Online schooling will prevail.

We headed out on Goog’s Haul Road in the warm 30° weather. The snow fall increased and a combination of flakes and fog shortened our visibility. We had to strip a layer because trudging increased body heat. When our path arced to the south, the razors of pelting snow lashed our faces. You know that wind you can lean into. This was fun. But we had heard that Matthias had headed out on foot heading up the Innoko to a cabin. It would be easy to lose a trail, or, soaking wet, become hypothermic.

When you don’t drive or need to fly, a blizzard doesn’t pack the same wallop it once did. I read The Children’s Blizzard by David Laskin a couple of years ago. Two hundred thirty-five people died, many of them children, who couldn’t make it home in the driving snow when they were released from school early, due to impending bad weather.

We brought cookies to Paul the GM of KSKO. He wanted me to remind people, out of the listening area, that they can stream the station. He always tells people that when he has a bad day everyone gets to witness on air. He’s not shy and often self-effacing. They have some good indigenous music and news feeds from around AK and the lower 48.

As I near the end of my tenure here, I reflect on the two month journey. I have not talked politics with anyone. I believe I have met people who might view me as their worst enemy and vice versa. But if so, I don’t know who they are and don’t care. The delivery system is crazy. But things get delivered or they don’t. Life goes on just the same. People are starved for gossip. There’s not much here to gossip about. When one of the fishers asked Terry why he was here and he replied “to fish,” she told people that Terry was a “smarty ass.” We heard this from several people who heard it from people we don’t even know. People like to tattle. It’s good to leave now when all of this still seems fun.

Down the street the dogs are barking and ululating their dissonant chords, a chilling reminder that spring thaw lifts the veil.

As I pulled our sack of garbage to the dump, I kept a close eye. Ravens were studying my movements. Would it make sense to swoop on this bag of garbage when they could get fresh organically grown vegetables straight from a farm box by hanging around the terminal?

The State Trooper pulled up to give me an update on the injured moose. It was a first year bull who appeared to have a compound fracture of his left front leg. They will keep an eye on him, he told me. If he hadn’t moved on in a couple of days, his chance of survival would be slim, and they would shoot him and provide meat to the elders. We had opposite ethics on the killing of wolves, but from the little I know of the Trooper, I like him.

This afternoon was the running of the ‘Mini Iditarod’ hosted by the school. There were seven teams of 1st and 2nd graders. Each mini musher had a sled and was pulled by a single dog. The handler, a younger child, rode in the sled while the musher stood on the rails. A high school student was assigned to lead each dog so everyone was safe.

A second dog would have provided a little more excitement. At least two of the dogs were former Iditarod runners. Their owner was narrating some of their history. A woman commented on the incredible blue eyes of the blond dog. The owner claimed the dog was the most photographed dog on the Iditarod. Another one of his dogs had to be added because they were a dog short. This former athlete was retired and now was a couch potato. The dog begged his owner to let him take a pass. But he was coaxed and took off like it was his idea.

At last, a night out on the town to the restaurant at the Roadhouse. It’s owned by a French man who, a couple years earlier, skied for six weeks into McGrath from Willow AK on the Iditarod Trail. He had planned this trip to remote AK from France, a feat in itself. Then in November 2019, he bought the Roadhouse. This possible French restaurant mostly served burgers and pizza. He said nobody was interested in French food. The interior of this old rustic bunkhouse appeared to be a pan abode cabin kit, the same as our home in Corralitos. We were home.

The restaurant was empty except for a man who was settled in at the first booth. John was large, bearded, youthful looking middle aged man. He greeted us. He let us know he had arrived shortly from his cabin up the Innoko River where he had been for a couple of months. He was fascinating. One of the many things he owned and ran was his survival school, Feral Forest Alaska. We’re interested.

Terry in conversation with John while socially distanced, of course.

We are not going to get our Denali view. We don’t know why but the snow machines have ceased going up the road to nowhere. We don’t really want to share our time and space with them, but we are thankful for the way they make tracks for us. It was 23° when we left at 8:00. Most of the day it hovered around 32. We had fresh snow. It was deep and mushy, forming ice clumps on the bottom of Terry’s skis. My running shoes sank with each step greatly increasing my work load.

Three miles in, we saw a moose lying on the road. She was reluctant to get up. She limped off the road, something was wrong with her leg. I texted the state trooper, my landlord. Terry and I decided it was probably a bad move. Basically there is no good outcome for an injured animal. But I’ll assume it was just a Charlie Horse. And the trooper won’t find her because she’s probably out giving birth to twins.

As we slogged and stumbled in this gorgeous scenery at about two miles per hour, we realized that that view we are seeking is covered by black clouds. Terry asks what I want to do. Of course, continue. Why? This is just painful and there is no possibility of a view. Terry reminds me Denali is 100 miles away. You can walk anywhere if you have enough time. That’s BS. Like what about food? This whole plan is foolhardy. And I’m letting myself get deeper and deeper. We go to the exact same spot we were two days ago. Today it was twice as hard. We will never make it back.

We drag ourselves back for four more hours. When you have snow, you can’t sit or lie down. You just drag yourself. Our moose was standing in the spot we left her. Terry tries to encourage her. But she flattens her ears. We were just reading that this is not a good signal. We’re sure the injury saved our lives.

This is our last opportunity to complain about veggie delivery. They arrived today, and Terry picked them up at the NAC terminal. We had 2 boxes. The larger had a big hole in the side. Egg shells were visible. Squire, the only worker for McGrath NAC, agreed to fill out a damage form. Terry said it looked like a misguided forklift stab, but Squire shook his head and said, “raven ate the box.” A few minutes later he said, “how do you spell raven?” Circle Farm boxes are stout, and cold weather strong. The average muscle man cannot tear one open, but they are no match for the mighty raven bill. Then I noticed several other boxes had holes torn in them. Squire said that if he doesn’t get them inside quickly, ravens will inspect every box. We lost 4 eggs.

There were a lot of very expensive snow machines sitting outside the terminal. Squire said they were all shipped over for the Iditarod, and were waiting to go back to Anchorage. Fifty pounds of cargo coming into McGrath costs $50. Fifty pounds of cargo leaving McGrath costs $25. Vehicles up to 17 feet long can be flown on the NAC jet. Anything larger must come by barge on its once yearly voyage.

All the days are quiet. Noise comes from the whine of snow machines, and the baying of dogs. There is a frequent hum from the electrical generator. The snow plow passes through town on snow days. Distant prop planes fly over. Occasional jets pass thousands of feet above leaving behind a dull roar and the twice weekly NAC attack gets our attention.

But there is no traffic. No sirens. No loud music. No music. No loud voices. No booming bass. No skate boards. Few things hijack peace.

Yesterday, when Margie walked in front of us, stopping to complain about her mean cousin, she talked in a hushed voice. I had my hood up and couldn’t hear much. But we all understand feuds and the need to explain our side of the story. As aliens to this town, we have the perfect ears for gossip. We have the perfect ears to hear the lack of noise. Snow dampens everything, maybe even feuds.

This is why I get up hours before Terry. The solitude, the soundlessness. The loft is mine. Warm and low ceilinged. With my journal and coffee.

The verisimilitude of a simple life. Waiting for Terry to wake with no hurry in mind. From my perch, breakfast is always made below, warm oatmeal and Terry claiming my loneliness.