Two Roads Diverged In a Bog

There's a cabin out there that I was supposed to camp in this past weekend. Kathryn, Jones and I left Friday afternoon to find it. Three first year grad students, none of us Alaskans (we haven't made it through a winter yet). We piled our 40 pound improvised backpacks into Kathryn's car and hit the road around five. We guesstimated having about four hours of daylight left to drive fifty miles and walk three miles into the cabin. We should have made it just as the sun was going down with time to build a fire in the wood stove. We stopped on the way and bought wine at a gas station, stuffing the bottles into our already busting backpacks. We're practical people.

We hit the trail about 6:30, slightly later than planned. We read the map - two trail possibilities. One went up into the hills and looked much longer. The other, looked like a straight shot to the cabin through the valley. So, we ignored the advice of an email and the signs that said "Winter Only Trail" (we soon found out that actually means "Only When Frozen"), and we took the straight road.

It was easy going for a while, our only concern being that we might run into a moose or a bear. We even thought out loud to each other that we would be at the cabin in no time. And then the first puddles came. They were easily dodged for the most part with minor complaints. Then, suddenly, the little puddles of mud turned into a full-on bog - something resembling the moors out of Wuthering Heights according to Kathryn, or the Dead Marshes of Mordor out of The Lord of the Rings for me. Jones refused to make a literary allusion in her head because it would have made it creepier. (Yes, we're all lit nerds.) Even the ground that looked solid was really a sponge of gush when you stepped there. The only "bright side" we could point out at this point was that there were no snakes or alligators lurking in the swamp. Reptiles aren't fans of Alaska.

Soon, we gave up on keeping our feet dry, and actually started finding it a relief when the mud and water only came up to our ankles instead of our knees. The "trail" would sometimes split, and we would choose to take the side that looked less like mire only to find ourselves sloshing through guck thirty seconds later.

At each split of the trail, I grew more concerned. I looked over my shoulder and saw nothing but bog, not even the trail we'd just come down. But we kept pressing on towards the western sun knowing we couldn't get too lost while the sun was in the sky and we were in a relatively narrow valley after all. One way in, one way out.

So, we stumbled along, nearly twisting our ankles at every step, our backpacks digging into our shoulders. Then, Kathryn got stuck - one leg up to her knee in gooey mud that refused to give her foot back. I tried to pull her out, but I couldn't get good footing in the spongey wasteland and was afraid I'd fall into the pit as well. "Is this really how it's going to end?" she said.

But she somehow pulled herself out using one of the only trees in the entire bog. We trudged on, the sun fading fast. And then the trail completely disappeared. Nothing but bog for as far as we could see. This was the point I thought to myself: We are going to have to spend the night in this swamp. At this point, we deemed it foolish to continue, so we turned around in hopes of finding out way out.

We made it back to the car just as the sun disappeared behind the mountain and we were enveloped in Alaskan darkness. We drove back to my apartment, had a picnic on my living room floor, and drank a bottle of wine a piece, toasting to our escape from the bog.

And that's how I almost got swallowed, quite literally, by the Alaskan wilderness.

Two and a Half Weeks

I live about five miles from campus, and every day on my way to work/school, I drive past this outdoor eating facility. There are a few of these places around town. They're seasonal obviously - they open for the summer, then close whenever it gets cold. This one in particular hung up a sign yesterday that reads "2 1/2 WEEKS LEFT!" I'm assuming it means two and a half weeks until they close down for the season, but I'm also looking at it as a countdown to winter.

People here are really friendly. They'll strike up a conversation with you about anything. But I've noticed that when they talk about winter, they talk about it like it's an event. They make it sound like one day you're gonna wake up, and it's gonna be 40 below and a foot of snow on the ground.

At my graduate student orientation, almost ever speaker talked about how it was fall, 50 degrees in the middle of August. How it only lasts about two and a half weeks. Then, it's winter.

I got my car winterized last week - because yes, you have to plug your car in in the winter here so it doesn't die. There is now a cord hanging out the front of my car. But the lady who shuttled me from the dealership and back lectured me about staying active, about watching for seasonal affective disorder. "If you suddenly find yourself getting depressed about the lack of peanut butter...don't ignore it."

One of my professors learned I was from Texas today. He used to teach at SFA in Nacogdoches. He told me tonight after class, "Come talk to me when it's 40 below. We can talk about how we're not in sweating in Texas."

So yeah, it's like people have a countdown. I can see it too. The mountains are on fire with yellow leaves interspersed with evergreen. Autumn is definitely here. Ane we're all waiting for winter to come. For this big event to take place. For the river to freeze, and for your breath to freeze before it can escape your mouth. They're waiting for it, but not with a sense of dread. It's almost like they're looking forward to it because I think that's when the real community comes alive. I'm learning how to be an Alaskan everyday, and so today, call me crazy, but I'm starting to look forward to the winter. Even though it's only September.

I'm Making This Place My Home

I've been in Alaska for about a month now. I've settled into my apartment with my perfect roommate. I got an amazing non-retail, flexible schedule, relevant-to-my-life job at the university press. I've been to exactly one class...and spent all weekend doing homework for that one class. Grad school is going to be tough but also incredible. Everything is coming together, and I have to say...I'm really happy, and I love it here. So, my first impressions? Okay, here we go...

1. I had to use lotion on my hands for the very first time in my entire life!! Maybe this isn't an exciting fact for you, but 12-year-old Natalie with the sweaty-hand - people wipe their fingers on their pants after touching me - anxiety complex would be thrilled. My life would be so different now if I had grown up here using lotion instead of leaving slimy trails across piano keyboards and erasing the blue lines on notebook paper.

2. I had my first class on Thursday night, and we were talking about our expectations for the class. There are 16 of us in the class, and we all agreed that we hate when people don't come to class prepared. i.e. they haven't done the reading. At first, I was laughing at how nerdy we were, and then I got really excited about how nerdy we were. It suddenly clicked...everybody in my class wants to be here; they want to learn, and they want everybody else to want to learn too. The community depends on this. It's incredible.

3. I'm getting the beer process under way. First challenge: pumpkin beer! I went to the farmer's market today to get me a pumpkin, and I was a little disappointed when I found that squash were being sold for $2.50/pound...and we couldn't find any pumpkins. But my roommate and I struck up a conversation with a farmer about his different squash, and when I said I was making pumpkin beer, he suggested I use a Boston Marrow squash instead. I asked him how much he wanted for it, and he said, "Nothing. Just bring me some beer when you're finished and let me know how it turns out." What?

4. I have a knack for choosing the same town to live in...just dislocated. They're all variations on the same theme. Small town. Close-knit community. Generous and friendly people. Everybody knows everybody. A black hole in one way or another. And a little on the po-dunk side. All five towns I can claim as "home" fit most of these descriptions. They may have different scenery: snow-capped mountains instead of mosquito-ridden bayous. They have different characters...but they're all pretty much the same. Fairbanks is the latest stop in my tour of small towns, and maybe it's too soon to tell...but I think it might end up being my favorite.