Twenty years ago, I was teaching in the village of Grayling AK. Yesterday’s ski outing reminded us of those days. I looked through my Journals and found this entry.

Terry and I had been talking about skiing to Anvik (the closest neighboring village) for months, but I hadn’t had much time to train for the distance.  The farthest I’d skied was 9 miles and that was two weekends ago.  Friday night was promising a warm Saturday, and the days are long enough to travel distance, so I suggested getting up early and leaving for Anvik by 9:30—about ten minutes before sunrise.  Terry never questioned whether I could make it. He jumped right into action and started packing the sled.   

At 9:23 the next morning, amid extremely giant flakes of falling snow we headed for Anvik.  The sled, towed by a rope around Terry’s waist, was packed with emergency gear including a pistol in case of moose attack.  I carried a daypack and Muk was unencumbered, trotting happily alongside his “daddy” for just another ski outing.  One of my students stopped us on the way out-of-town and wanted to know our destination.  She said we were crazy to be heading out in such a storm and that a couple from Anvik was holed up at her house right then.  They felt it was dangerous to be out in such poor visibility.  They might get lost and end up stuck in the overflow or diving into a river hole.  Most locals cannot imagine that there’s a big difference between skiing and snowmobiling, having never skied.  We don’t need much visibility when we’re traveling only a few miles per hour. So off we went with the blowing snow driving us along.  It was relatively warm, 20^o and beautiful.  We were happy to be outside, doing something not connected with school.  Muk pranced ahead of us, having no idea that we would be out long past his limit of endurance.  Perhaps we should have listened to my student.

Our first landmark was a bluff 8 miles out from Grayling called Jonah’s nose (Is it Biblical?).  The snow was still blowing, and we were totally alone breaking trail, but we seemed to reach the bluff in no time.  By mile 14, however, I was really started to tire, plus, I could feel the blisters forming on my heels.  Every time we’d stop for even a minute to adjust things, Muk would walk around in concentric circles, kind of stamping his feet as he went.  We thought he was trying to spell SOS in the snow, but soon realized that he was making a bed.  He could burrow down and be tight in a sleeping ball in less than 30 seconds.  But as soon as we started anew, he’d jump up and plod onward.  

At some point during the seventh hour, we were met by the first snow machine of the day heading toward us from Anvik.  A woman in her early 60s, Betty, and her son, late 30s, Spud, slid off to talk to us.  She and her son were inebriated. They were amazed by the sight of skiers, though she called us snowshoers several times.  She shouted out, “are you tourists?”  She told us she’s lived in Anvik her whole life and never skied nor seen anyone ski as far as we were.  Her son was standing beside her, teetering back and forth like a thin tree in a strong breeze.  His coat was wide open, and he had no hat on.  His inside pocket revealed his secret for staying toasty warm, a bottle of Windsor. Betty tried to pull his hood up and tie it, but wasn’t quite capable of that, especially with all of his bobbing and weaving.  He said his scarf blew off somewhere, pointing back over his shoulder.  Fortunately, in our morning’s skiing, we had collected 3 hats and a glove along the trail.  Terry dug out the best hat and pulled it down over Spud’s red ears.  He gave a grin of thanks, but didn’t fasten the velcro, so it probably soon blew off. Betty ended the conversation by declaring that she didn’t know that other people would be as crazy as her to be out in such weather, and Praise God that we had broken the trail for her.  She hugged me and beaming a large smile took off toward Grayling.  Muk was taking advantage of every second, snug in his sleeping ball.  

After seven hours, we hoped we were near to our destination.  Betty said we were halfway, but Spud said we had 4 miles to go. We hoped Spud was right.  All accounts had said that Anvik was 18 miles, so we figured it was just past the next bluff.  After the bluff, the riverbank flattened to marshland and it seemed that this was the shore of the Anvik River.  So, we slowly trudged on.  By then, my heels were so blistered I was moving like the Tinman after a light rain.  An hour or so later, we had made little progress.  Another snow machine headed our way.  This man was sober and friendly.  From him we learned that Anvik was now four miles away and that it was actually 22 miles from Grayling by the trail, or 18 miles by air.  He also said that it was above freezing.  We knew that it was warm, but we didn’t know it was that warm.  He headed off to Grayling to break trail for Martha (local bootlegger), who was planning to ride to Holy Cross for a funeral.  

We had a hard time starting again.  The snow was thawing and sticking to our skis.  Terry cleaned mine off, but they immediately iced up and I couldn’t push them.  Finally, I took them off, and stumbled along in the soft snow, sorry that I had neglected to bring snowshoes.  Our speed seemed to be down to about one mile an hour.  It was late enough to start worrying about whether we’d make it by sundown. Terry gave me his skis and put on mine.  We pushed on slowly.  About half mile out of Anvik we were overtaken by the same guy returning from Grayling.  He promised to call one of the teachers and have her meet us at the shore for a ride up the mile hill to school.  It was now after six, and the light was fading it seemed, though we had not seen the sun all day.  Not that that stops people from snowmachining, but it was also raining.  

When we angled off the river and entered the town the streetlights were lit, but no one was in sight.  I was crestfallen.  I had depleted all my energy and could barely stand the blister pain.  It was torturous pushing up that long hill in the growing darkness, though Muk was happy to see and hear other dogs.  Now if he ever wants to run away, he has a home away from home.  Terry stopped the first person he saw, and she called the principal on her VHF.  The teacher came racing down on the school’s snowmachine.  She said they were just about to sit down to a dinner, and we could join them.  The teacher took me first, then returned for Muk and Terry.  We warmed up on ginger cookies just out of the oven.  Muk relaxed in the Arctic porch, eating the other dog’s food.  

Saturday already? February 6, 2021

The Iditarod starts tomorrow. We’re thinking we might see the first team on Wednesday.

Today’s big event was skiing to the top of Cranberry hill. My ski boot is falling apart after only twenty-five years. The top hook for the laces disappeared. So it was tied crooked. Cranberry hill is four miles out of town. At the top I realized, I was developing a blister from my cattywampus boot. I always love seeing what’s around the next corner, but with a four mile return, I lost interest in the next corner.

View from the top

We made it to the dump and back before ukulele Zoom. Instead of playing ukuleles, we talk about who has had the vaccine, how they scored to get the vaccine, which one they got, the process, second doses, the rules after vaccination. It’s all sour grapes for me, since I can’t score.

It was beautifully warm and sunny when we skied across the Kuskokwim River to a pristine environment of ice & snow, solitude and quiet. Next week fifty-eight dog teams will race over this same trail.

The report for the Aurora Borealis was high activity. After a dressing frenzy, we greeted the – 28 air at 4:45. I’ve lived in a number of small villages but the only place we’ve lived without street lights is Corralitos. You can’t see the Aurora without dark skies. We moved away from the street light, but the waning gibbous moon was bright enough to interfere.

I settled into writing and Terry reading. By 2:00 the temperature was up to -3. It was time to get out of the cabin and ski. Can’t do anything without first checking the message board app. It appeared that when we had our heads down working hard they posted that our veggies had arrived. I frantically called the airport, but no one answered. They have never answered that damn phone. How do we know if anyone is there so we can get our produce? So instead of going across the River to explore, we headed to the airport pulling the sled. The terminal door opened. No one was there. I searched around and found the box. This was our first time picking up the veggies without help from Brett. This was major!

What a difference direction makes. Going out of town on this 1 degree day was pleasant enough, but apparently we had a 2 mph tailwind. Not much you say, however walking at 3 mph into a 2 mph headwind makes it feel 5 degrees colder. We were lucky that wind wasn’t 7 mph, because then you would be feeling 21 degrees colder. This is my explanation for returning twice to the cabin today for extra clothing. Deb, after being here a month already, correctly dressed the first time.

Of course he won’t listen to me. Deb here.

We have almost 11 hours of daylight. Three weeks to reach the equinox. But before that wonderful pagan celebration on March 14th, with the help of each of us, our clocks will spring forward, plunging our sunrise one hour later which is my mid morning. It’s time for my second cup at sunrise. It’s torture. How is it everyone goes along with this messing around with time, making us lose an hour which our god-given circadian rhythms can never recover from, putting us in a murderous mood, yet people won’t accept the polite edict to wear a mask for the simple reason it’s a small price to pay to same lives. And everyone knows you look a damn-site better behind a mask, and if you don’t believe me, study someone’s nose, anyone’s, stare at it and you’ll see how ridiculous they all look.

Back to our lovely time in McGrathland. Today I challenged my engineer husband to make something practical and brilliant from a piece of string, a wood chip and a stick of margarines. Here it is. Brilliant.

The Iditarod Air Force is going strong. We have a constant stream of take offs and landings. They deliver an enormous amount to supplies to each of the checkpoints including 400 bails of straw for dog beds, and 62 tons of dog food.

Terry brought our skis. It is an incredible treat to ski right from your door.

We came indoors long enough to make Irish Soda bread.

This is all about the vegetables. With all the air activity, it’s really hard to guess when a delivery has arrived. NAC is our 727 jet carrier. It’s scheduled arrivals are Wednesday and Friday at 6:00 PM or whenever. I received a text from Brett at 5:30 yesterday, Tuesday, that NAC was in. I spent the whole month of February figuring out the contact for my Full Circle order was Ben. Well now that the air traffic has ramped up, Ben has left town. His replacement is Squire. I learned of this change because it was Sharpied on the styrofoam replacement for the window on the door at the air terminal. I was there picking up Terry. So I called Squire. He was going through the pallets of items. He didn’t know if my Full Circle Veggies were on the plane. He’d call me back in twenty. When he didn’t, we decided to pull the sled down to the terminal. At 7:00 PM we arrived back home with an empty sled.

The weather app shows visibility in Anchorage at 1426.7 meters, and McGrath at 3 miles. Not good enough. It must be at least a mile in both Anchorage and McGrath simultaneously or the little planes don’t fly. So we wait. In the tiny shed of a terminal. There are 6 of us, plus the pilot and one helper. The pilot is Mike Reeve, owner of Reeve airlines. The plane waiting in the hangar is a shiny King Air that normally seats 10 passengers, but on this trip, 4 seats have been removed. Three of the passengers weigh over 250 pounds, precluding the normal passenger load. From around 1:00 until 3:15 the pilot monitors the weather. Suddenly, visibility is 1.1 miles in both places, and we quickly board and race down the runway. For the next 20 minutes visibility is near zero as we climb just over 19,000 feet where the sun appears. Thirty minutes later the process is reversed until McGrath appears with just 3,000 feet of descent remaining. In the terminal Deb stands beneath the wolverine, smiling brightly. I see good times ahead.

By Terry Miller

Moose lose their antlers in late fall and regrow them in spring time, of course. Calves stay with the cow until she comes into estrus 18 month after the birth of the calves. Then she chases her calves away.

Moose are huge. Their height is 4.6 to 6.9 feet at the shoulders, and their weight is 840 to 1545 lbs. Their proboscis is huge and the nares, nostrils, can seal shut for aquatic grazing. Other than the time a calf shares with their mother, they are solitary and slow moving. Just don’t run into them at high speed, and don’t piss them off. Because they are lethal.

Tomorrow my prince will come. I know it sounds like a dog. There is something better than a dog.

Planned to get out earlier this morning. The sun rose at 8:28. Under snowy skies, I ventured out at 9:20 for a run. At the road, I looked right and there was a moose down about 1/2 a block. I walked a bit closer, and she just looked at me. The snowplow was soon on the scene. And finally she retreated.

I shoveled for about an hour, when I noticed a moose bedded down in my back yard. She got up to eat, I took pictures, talked to her and continued with my shoveling. When it was clear she wasn’t leaving, I decided to get a good view from the loft and show her off on FaceTime. Eventually her two young ones joined her. What a blessing to have the time to watch a moose’s ear.

I’m sure you’ve heard writers say their book wrote itself. I say, I have no problem with that. Go for it. Ask Siri for help. He’ll show you the ten tips he found on line.

Snowed all day. The plow didn’t quite keep up, so it was a good day for errands. I started with the dump. Can you be nostalgic for something you’ve never done? My grandmother was impoverished. She didn’t drive. My brother told me she pulled her groceries in a wagon. I have my multipurpose sled. Both my brother and I talk longingly of our weekend trips to the dump with our dad. Unfortunately, my brother couldn’t join me on this one. Sorry, Bro. This is the way we always talk to each other.

I was dressed for falling snow. I was focused on contours of shades of white. In the distance the white looked like a sheet of silk floating toward me. And then there they were, in front of me. Two huge moose. They picked up the pace and in a few steps they were in the woods. I took my camera from my jacket pocket and walked up closer. The largest one was waiting for me to catch up. I snapped two shots. We blinked a few times. We looked at each other long enough to know we have no relationship. He went his way, and I went mine.