And God Saw the Light, That It Was Good

I try to mark the solstices whenever possible. It's the pagan in me, I guess, but among the ingredients in my personal gumbo of a spiritual life, observing the concrete astronomical and natural forces at work in the universe seems to me like a pretty good hedge.

Edward Abbey said, "I stand for what I stand on." To Ed's sage wisdom I would add: "and also what I stand below." And by that I mean the sun, the moon, the stars, galaxies, nebulae and the like. Those things are real. They're THERE. We are made up of the remnants of other suns and moons and stars and galaxies and nebulae and…you get the idea. That's a fact.

Mimosas, baby! Now THAT's how
you toast the solstice.

So observing the natural patterns of our little dance in the universe makes me feel grounded. Makes me feel like I'm saying "thanks" to all the forces and processes and, well, magic that have led me to what is a pretty cool existence.

From winter camping in the Uinta Mountains of Utah with my pup Spooner, both of us surrounded by coyotes out in the darkness whose eyes were visible in the glow of the firelight, to an early summer morning toast on a hill in the woods of Kincaid Park in Anchorage, Alaska, with an amazing view of the sun rising over the Talkeetna Mountains, I've created some great solstice memories that I cherish.

But not all of the locales in my life have been so pastoral. No matter. The sun is the same sun and the solstice still occurs at the same moment no matter where on this planet you happen to be located. There's no reason NOT to observe a cardinal point in the annual calendar of our biosphere, however subdued that observance might be.

One such subdued observance just took place on the fire escape of my apartment here in Newburyport, Massachusetts. No, it wasn't the Uintas. Nor was it the woods at Kincaid Park. But it wasn't as paved over as one of the summer solstices I observed while living in San Diego: for that one, which occurred while I was at work, I walked out to the edge of the parking lot overlooking the canyon below the office building. You could see the Pacific Ocean off in the haze. I marked the moment, nodded, and that was that. It was enough. Back to work.

Rose on a hot New England
solstice. It'll do.

This year's observance found me out on my fire escape with the sun peeking from behind the chimney of the neighboring multi-family dwelling. And I toasted not with Veuve Cliquot (my toast of choice) but rather with a chilled rose because it's just too damned hot here in New England today. First day of summer? And then some. It feels like the tenth level of Hell. This northerner is feelin' it (although the beach was wonderful today; even had some small waves to play in).

Now I'm back inside, in the air conditioning, praying this apartment will cool down enough by bedtime or else getting any sleep tonight is gonna be a challenge. It's so hot today that I'm wearing my Park City Muckers tank top. A tank top? I haven't worn this shirt in probably fifteen years (and if you've seen the photo, I'm guessing you're saying: Luke, make it another fifteen before you dig it out of the dresser again). But anything beyond a tank top feels smothering.

In any case, the point is: regardless of your religious persuasion, the fact remains: you're a human being, an animal on this planet that is home to ALL human beings that have ever been. That planet that sustains all of us (for the time being, anyway) has patterns that have been going on for billions of years. Taking a moment to observe those patterns is simply paying homage to the forces that have made you YOU. No, I'm not saying God didn't play a part in making you you (if that's how you roll). But if that is how you roll, God still made you YOU within the construct of this universe in which you live. Paying your respects to that teeny bit of God's creation is the least you can do, don't you think?

Comes A Time

19 June
1020
For the first time on this trip -- so, just over a month in -- melancholy has set in. I'm really missing Alaska this morning.

The feeling was undoubtedly set off by our morning motorsail northeast from Å. There, the mountains along the coastline rise steeply from the sea, with a narrow strip of land at the base that provides just enough room for a road and several small villages scattered along that road. The mountains themselves taper from the white of snow at the peaks to the slate and gray of rock forming the upper third, and finally the emerald of lush vegetation covering the lower flanks. Streams and waterways have cut fjords and valleys that provide glimpses back into the heart of the island.

It all recalled Alaska so much that I started thinking about what and whom I've left behind, and what I gave up to come chase this dream. So much so that I even started thinking along the specific lines of, "Well, when I get back to Alaska..." and "I shouldn't have done that" or "I should have done this." It's true: I was second-guessing some of my recent choices to the point where it seemed that I was about to test my theory that I'd rather regret doing something than not doing something.

Not that I have regrets. Yet. I'm still very much into this voyage and I'm happy about the direction my life is taking right now; I remain optimistic that the boldness of my actions is creating opportunities and situations that are where I need to be going at this point in my life. And I'm very happy here in the Lofoten Islands, which are truly spectacular (think: outer coast of the Kenai Peninsula or the northern coast of Prince William Sound...only there are fantastically picturesque little villages, a la Halibut Cove, scattered here and there).

It's just that I miss Alaska and all that my life there entailed. The visual cues of this faraway place put my mind and heart back in my homeland.

We Love It!

An Anchorage limosine

People who live in Anchorage are used to being the butt of jokes made by those who consider themselves "real" Alaskans. You've heard the dings ("Anchorage isn't Alaska...but you can see it from there") and the derogatory nicknames ("Anchoragua") and so on, but here's the thing: Anchorage enables those who love it to have their cake and eat it too.

No, Anchorage is not the fulfillment of some Hollywood-cliche Alaskana -- we residents (what ARE we called? Anchorites? Anchoraguans? Anchorage-ites?) don't mush dogs from our log cabins to check the trapline -- but not many of those who actually live out in the Bush have lives like that either (I don't recall many mentions of snowmachines or Gore-Tex in "Call of the Wild," folks). But by living here in Alaska's version of the big city, we get to enjoy most of the perks of modern life (little things like, oh, medicine, income, culture and such) and still have a lot of the Alaska cliches like moose in the front yard, fresh salmon in the creeks and so on. Sure, there are some (let's call them) interesting characters here in town, and the fact that it's a city means Anchorage has some of the negative aspects of any other metropolis. But the bottom line is that Randy Newman was right when he sang "I love L.A.!" It's just that he meant Los Anchorage, not some smog-choked, paved-over desert in SoCal.

So now as I prepare to hit the road for a spell, let me answer the question: "How do I love Anchorage? Let me count the ways…" with the following, VERY incomplete list in no particular order...

* The view from Flattop on a clear day: mountains from Iliamna through Redoubt, Spurr, Susitna and on to the great peaks of the Alaska Range: Foraker, Hunter and Denali; the lowlands of the Kenai Peninsula; the waters of Cook Inlet; the Chugach Mountains to the east
* Evening alpenglow on the Chugach
* Morning aplenglow on the Tordrillos
* Morning and evening alpenglow on Denali...120-ish miles away
* The honk of returning geese each April
* Seeing the flash of white backs as beluga whales cruise Cook Inlet
* Boarding the plane in Seattle
* That feeling as the plane emerges over the edge of the Chugach and descends steeply into the Anchorage Bowl…and you know you're home
* Running into someone you know every time you pass through the airport...and also in SeaTac a lot of the time, too
* Awesome sushi at several different places, especially Ronnie's and Peter's Sushi Spot
* Moose's Tooth pizza and beer
* First Tap concerts at the Moose's Tooth
* Moose, bear (black and brown) and other assorted mega-fauna within city limits
* Seeing outdoor hockey rinks at pretty much every school and realizing that Anchorage is a hockey culture not unlike those in New England and the Upper Midwest…it's just still developing
* Catching a salmon in the morning and then gathering a bushel of mountain blueberries in the afternoon -- and enjoying them both on your dinner table that evening
* Seeing urban streams such as Campbell Creek and Chester Creek as the ice breaks up -- and knowing that in a couple of months those creeks will be chock full of salmon
* The drive from town to Girdwood along Turnagain Arm on a sunny day
* Cross-country skiing under the lights at Kincaid Park
* Watching snowline creep down from the Summit of Sleeping Lady (Mt. Susitna) in the fall
* Termination dust in the Chugach on a sunny September day

Feel free to add your own faves. This post will be ongoing...

Quickie Adventure: The Sweaty Version

The Chugach Mountains cast an early morning shadow over Anchorage. Riding point for the Chugach is Flattop Mountain, LITERALLY Anchorage's backyard and the most-climbed mountain in Alaska. From the Glen Alps Trailhead, it's anywhere from 30 minutes (if you're running) to a couple of hours (if you're waddling). I tend to be more in the middle: my average time runs about 40 minutes.

Flattop Mountain from between the first and second saddles

Last week I took two jaunts up the snowy slopes. On Thursday, I cruised up on frozen snow under a wonderfully warm sun. Three days later, my Sunday hike took part in a slushy snowpack that was noticeably thinner. I wore Yak Tracks though they provided no more grip than the vibram soles on my shoes (boots on Thursday: excessive; ankle-high hiking sneakers on Sunday: a bit ambitious as the snow softened).

Can you see Denali through the haze? Look how big it is...and it's 125-ish miles away!

It's interesting how the snow changed the trail. In some ways, it made for a quicker hike: switchbacks were eliminated and a straight route taken. But that straighter route was often steeper, require a bit more sweat equity. For me, the difference was minor: 45 minutes to the top, both days.

Anchorage's backyard: the Chugach Mountains

The route down on Sunday, however, was much quicker. Rather than follow the boot-kicked stairs down the ridge from the summit, I opted to slide on my ample butt and made the descent to the second saddle in a couple of minutes. As I walked out from the Flattop bowl, I sank to my crotch at times: clear sign that the snowpack was too soft and should be avoided. And true to form: a couple of days later, a hiker/sledder was killed by an avalanche on Bird Ridge.

Looking out over Alaska's population center
So my forays to Flattop are likely over for now. I might squeeze one more hike in next week, but if I go, it'll be on the ridges and in avalanche-safe areas, for sure. But as with hiking the peak in the summer: as long as you're smart, it's a hike anyone (in reasonable condition; the final push to the summit can be a bear) can and should do. The views from the top -- from Denali and the Alaska Range up north to Mt. Illiamna down to the southwest -- are spectacular, and as you sit on the edge of the flat summit that gives the mountain its name, you'll get a glimpse of Alaska's population center just over the tips of your toes. It's a grand view, and one I'll miss…until I return again.

Quickie Adventure

Looking east up Turnagain Arm toward Portage

A friend was chastising me recently, wondering where the blog accounts of my adventures in Alaska were. I had to reply that, sadly, there hadn't been much in the way of adventure since I returned north. Rather, I've mostly been preoccupied with the punch list for my house, playing beer league hockey and the various aspects of my job search.

Well, hockey ended this past weekend (we lost in the championship game, 1-0) and the punch list is in great shape (got most of the insulation up in the basement yesterday). So following the quite-encouraging lunch I had today with some folks regarding a potential job opportunity, I took a drive out the Seward Highway to Girdwood and back.

Looking due south across Turnagain Arm near Girdwood

The drive east-southeast from Anchorage to Girdwood is about 35 miles long or so, and winds alongside Turnagain Arm, the eastern fork of Cook Inlet, which leads up from the Gulf of Alaska and the Pacific Ocean to form the triangle at the base of the Chugach Mountains that is Anchorage. It is, without question, one of the most beautiful drives in North America, if not the world -- especially on a sunny day after fresh snow. Mountains leap up on either side of the arm, which is transited by fierce tidal currents daily. Glaciers wind down toward sea level at the head of Turnagain Arm and winds equal in ferocity to the tides often race the length of the fjord. Dall sheep bound around their craggy cliffs above the roadway.

The south-facing slopes above the Seward Highway with minimal snow for March

And in winter, the scenery is even more impressive. The mountains are swathed in snow, even in this thin-snow winter, and form brilliant-white teeth biting into a sky that is that unique-to-high-latitudes shade of blue. Streams of snowmelt cascade below retreating avalanche deposition. And the mudflats at low tide are gouged by the retreating and advancing current, while the flats are littered as far as the eye can see with huge blocks of iced mud tilted in all sorts of non-right angles.

It was, today, quite exactly what the doctor ordered.

Mt. Spurr and the Tordrillo Range visible through the haze across the mudflats and Cook Inlet

As I ponder various opportunities -- both in and out of Alaska -- for the next stage of my life, it's always rewarding to get out into Alaska, even if it's just for a Sunday drive (on a Thursday). And as much as Anchorage is home and is comfortable, it's not capital-A Alaska. But all it takes is an hour-long drive along Turnagain Arm to make me wonder: why in the hell would I ever think about leaving Alaska? What a wonderful, special place.

On a bluebird day after an overnight snowfall, it's THAT good a drive.

(Thanks, Sam, for the kick in the ass to get outta town.)