Forecast: Winter

It was still dark when I woke. I could hear the surge against piling below so the tide must have been up. Several times during the night the wind had tried to peel off the metal roof, the screeching making it impossible to sleep. Eventually, though, I must have dozed because things were quiet now other than the slap of water against wood.

Days ago the cold had settled in and frozen the surface of the bay. An undulating cover of ice moved sluggishly up and down according to the moon’s pull, an eerie sight in this saltwater world. Everything was muffled; even the birds seemed suspicious of the silence, and the only sound to be heard was the swish and creak of the soft ice bending and breaking on the rocks. Yesterday morning, though, a breeze had begun to blow, increasing in force throughout the day until, by nightfall, gusts were roaring into the bay, the rushing wind a locomotive that smashed into the hillside and mountains beyond, creating a cauldron of salty slush that clumped up on the rocks and boulders until everything on the beach was covered in a thick, briny rime, a blanket of slickness covering the jagged beach underneath. Now I could hear water; it must be warmer.

Under the bed, the dog stirred and I heard a bony part hit the wooden floor. She heaved a big sigh and settled into a new position of comfort. I reached down and a tail thumped, then silence again. I could feel the air was cold and knew the fire had gone out so I laid there, savoring both the darkness and the nightlong warmth of the bed, until the dog groaned and stretched. Straightening one leg, then the other I followed suit, then pushed off the covers and stood, barefoot, on the wooden floor that held no hint of heat leftover from last night’s fire banked in the woodstove. With a shiver, I grabbed the heavy flannel shirt from the arm of the chair and walked into the kitchen.

The old propane refrigerator rattled as I pulled the handle. Every morning it was the same thing: check to be sure it still worked. It did, and I closed the door and reached for my mug. It was a faded salmon-rose color, a slender handle fitted into the full height of it, the imprint of a building the only barely discernible decoration. I liked the weight of it, the way it fit my hand and held just enough that by the time I got to the bottom whatever I had been drinking was still warm. Here I found a slipper, kicked in the night to skitter into the kitchen. I slipped a foot inside and went looking for the mate, which lay under the rocker by the stove. Reaching out, I felt the metal side and was grateful for the residual warmth. I tugged open the door to find a good bed of coals. In went the kindling along with half a dozen thicker pieces of dry wood, and fire sprang to life. Pushing the door almost shut, I sat down in the rocker to watch it blaze up, hoping there was at least cup of coffee left in the pot to rewarm before I would have to brew a fresh batch. Five minutes later, one lone perk bubbled up and I poured what was left of the strong, dark liquid into my cup and drank.

Before long, the room was warm, and darkness began to fade. Inky blackness gave way to an impenetrable gray, then shapes, and a quickening sky silhouetted mountains on the other side of the bay. By the time the fresh pot was perking, I could see down to the water where the tide and surge had nearly cleaned the beach of yesterday’s ice shroud. The big wind was gone, leaving behind straggling gusts to rattle remaining snow from the branches of spruce and hemlock. A lone eagle has perched atop a dock piling, surveying what the night’s windstorm had shaken out of place. Standing at the window, the marine forecast for inside waters was a familiar one this time of year – northwest winds 15 knots shifting to southeast late; gusts to 35 knots near ocean entrances; seas 3 feet except 5 feet near ocean entrances – nothing to get excited about. In the winter you could expect heavy weather at night letting up during the day, and today was beginning to look like it might return to normal. As long as everything holds together and I have heat, I don’t mind if things get carried away – but I only say that because it’s been worse.

…and miles to go before…

Took a drive the other day, headed north with the windows down and the radio silenced; nothing but wind and road noise to keep me company. It’s been hot here, hotter than usual and I’m not complaining because I see the signs that portend an early winter, the most ominous being topped-out fireweed. I would guess haphazardly that a good 90% of what I saw along the roadside had only the top petals or nothing but glorious pink stalk. The other 10% were just a fistful of color at the very top.

Spent a good hour brushing out some of the undergrowth. I didn’t notice the heat until I stopped. I noticed how much I was perspiring, though, as lifting the long hair off my neck left my hand wet with sweat. You know you’re warm when evaporation is what cools you down in the shade. By the time I decided to take a seat, the slightest twinge of nausea was hitting and so I headed to the truck and the two liters of water I had stashed. The absence of mosquitoes was gratefully acknowledged – who cares if they thought it was too hot, as well; it was nice to sit with the door open and catch a little breeze. Didn’t take long for me to decide it would be a whole lot nicer if I just shut the door, rolled up the windows, and turned the air conditioner on full blast – it was delicious. I laid the seat back til I was darn near reclining, chucked my baseball cap into the seat beside me, and set the sunglasses on the dash. One more swig and I was ready for a brief session of shut-eye. I must have extended it a bit because next thing I heard was a slight tap on the window. I opened one eye to find a bearded fellow peering in at me. I rolled down the window and allowed as how I’d let him speak first since there shouldn’t have been anyone in my neck of the woods on a day like this. Lo and behold, I knew the feller and he was there with a load of rock to improve the primitive road I was blocking. So much for a quick afternoon siesta.

Hitting the highway again, I decided to keep heading north where, 30-some miles later I took a sharp right and left the pavement. I had traveled this section of road so many times, I knew exactly how long it would take me to reach the end at whatever speed I chose. There’d been a few changes made – the bridge had been raised, narrowed, and festooned with signage. The quag ponds where the dogs loved to romp were as I’d left them some years ago, and the little cabin at the end of the road hadn’t changed a bit so I felt obliged to take a picture.

Having accomplished my trip down this memory lane, back I went to the highway. A short distance later, I took a left and headed down a hard-packed dirt road that, come September, will be thick with hunters. It’s already a well-traveled thoroughfare for those with a particular destination in mind, but I wasn’t going that far so took my time. I passed the place where two youngsters, full of drink, tumbled themselves off the side of the mountain on their 4-wheelers. They felt no pain – that day, anyway, and seemed none the worse for wear despite ignoring my advice to get xrays. A week later they trekked into town and were not surprised at the pictures of a shattered cheekbone and somewhat bent collar bone. There was the air strip, lonely and long, a silent place of waiting. Past the fences and the gate, the lonely camp that once bustled with activity, dust clouds absent and a padlock in place. There was a time when I’d taken my banjo and strode out those gates, headed down the road to the river. Not that I needed time alone to play, but that I was so bad I was afraid someone would chuck my instrument in the river before I could practice and make perfect. Ah well, it kept the bears away so I didn’t care. Cross the bridge and take your leisure down by the riverside. There’s nothing better than a shallow, flat-bottomed river on a hot summer day, and I was exactly where I wanted to be after a hundred-mile drive.

There aren’t a lot of places like this anywhere else but here. It doesn’t have to be the West Fork of the Tolovana River where you find peace in the afternoon sun, but it’s as good a place as any if that’s what you’re looking for. Some days I’d take the yellow dog just so she could watch a stick float by. She was easily entertained if you had a tireless throwing arm, but a floating stick was not as attractive as a thrown one, so she was content with the peace of it and rested comfortably at my side. Vigilant as she was, I couldn’t turn and head for the trees without her on my heels, and the panting would begin in earnest: throw the stick, throw the stick, throw the stick, throw the stick! She’d begin to dance and drool, watching every movement of my hands, and earnestly searching my face to be sure she hadn’t misread my intent. Surely I was finding a stick to throw – surely?! Ahh, Annie-girl. Then, you were a pain. Now, I’d give a lot to have you back.

If you started at the Fox water spigot, you might trust the 75 mile marker. My trip begins before then, so I’m not fooled into thinking I’ve only put 75 miles on the odometer this fine Sunday afternoon. It serves, however, as good an indicator as any that the trip can end here as well as anywhere, so around I turn in the middle of the road, a perfect 3-point maneuver. I look down the road leading into the woods and to some cozy home out here in the boonies, one where coffee or tea is seldom wasted and good company is reason to pour. Back I go, through the road construction and the young lass devoted to her 11-miles-per-hour pilot car lead. Back, across the fresh asphalt and oil, down the winding road and up the hills, around corners and dodging the heaves and sinkholes that appear soon after paving. Back to the edge of civilization, speed traps, turn signals and a lack of curiosity for what we pass by.

Chill 18 degrees

(These were a few thoughts from the end of a mining season north of Fairbanks one winter.)

Winter’s settled in up here rather subtly, but with determination. What little summer we had seemed mighty thin, but we’ll make it. A nearby renowned dogmusher has a young new dog-handler who’s gung-ho to learn and help and add to his resume; they passed through my neck of the woods on their way to Fairbanks earlier in the week before the snow flew. I wonder if the old driver has an in with the weatherman – they were planning to work the dogs on some practice runs.

Some days the old forklift just refuses to start, no matter if she’s been in a warm shed. Thought I was doing her a favor, but all she did was cough and sputter like an old smoker. Turns out she had a bit of a sticking problem and flooded out every time I tried to get near her. Problem solved, and now I can get back to business.

Need to head to the river, take a look see if things are freezing up yet or just the soft spots are covered up and dangerous. Last time dog went in after the stick she came up with a rather surprised and breathless expression so it’s probably time to retire the idea of swim and fetch. Still need that water hole, though.

Sure am glad I don’t have to deal with winter water down there this time of year. October was always a nasty month for the boat; that and February. Old Bimbo..actually, I think one of his fights coming around the corner was in December and that’s not far off, but I’ll trade that water for this cold stuff for a change. At least I don’t have to get wet just to do business off the back deck – now that it’s attached to my cabin on land.

Speaking of land, got myself some. Have a pretty good-lookin outhouse about 30 years old, or maybe it’s 40. Whatever, it’s not full yet so no complaints. A little blue board might be a nice addition, especially if I want to stand up without leaving a patch of hair behind on one of those cold days when I might create a little steam. Hmm. Maybe that’s not too dignified a topic. Movin on..

Well, guess I’m ready for some shut-eye. Tough ending a day that doesn’t find you anchored up somewhere, listening to the creaks and ticks, the occasional thrum of a passing boat, and the otters investigating your gear on the dock. Hope I get used to it, have something besides a blue ring around my behind to show for the switch. Guess I’ll figger it out. Til next time ~

But We Both Don’t Know How To Do That!

It’s crisp, it’s clear, and it’s cold. Minus temps, down to 47 below, keep us all appreciating what heat we’ve got to get us through the winter.  Today it’s more than 20 degrees warmer and, as I sit beside this stove, a fire crackling its merry winter tune, I’m very glad the frost is outside the windows and not on my sill.Two little boys swathed in snowsuits, gloves, hats and boots, are packing firewood. A small thing for small muscles, repetitive and not exciting, but a worthy effort and (how I love this term) character-building activity. Along with the firewood, few chunks as may fit in the woodbox, is a garage floor decorated with “oops” from four large dogs – a weekend’s worth of oops, in fact.  There are two shovels up to the task, and I’ve assigned two budding operators to the end of each. Such surprise that they should be responsible for firewood AND oops, but they’re well into it and I can see the character sprouting; I can hear it, in fact, from inside the house as they urge the processed leftovers out the garage door and into the snow. The sound of enthusiasm mimics that of my own girls’ in their games of Kick the Can and Pick Up Sticks – the cleaning up of garbage left by summer tourists and packing firewood from beach to boardwalk and onto the woodpile inside. Winter was long, and chores seemingly endless to a kid whose experience and perspective had spanned only a decade.

Sniffs and snuffles, a few scratches behind the ear and two dogs are singing along. One little boy with two hounds in his lap, the other with a snout pressed nose-to-nose to catch the tears – all the concern and attention warranted to get through the moment. In six minutes, toes should be warm and cheeks dry, and then back to the money end of those shovels. I’d guess the chore slips might be worth an extra fifty cents, at least, if for nothing more than the drama of it all. They’ve informed me that “every last reward is just money,” so perhaps this afternoon we’ll figure out another form of gratification. Too soon, perhaps, to expect delight in watching that stack of dollar bills grow; I’m thinking a trip to the library later might take their minds off the morning’s indignities.

I remember two daughters presented with a goose to pluck. Enthusiasm for the unknown was replaced with disgust at the thought of bird bugs, guts, seeing AND touching anything repulsive, and a great, big pair of serious rubber gloves “just in case.” It took them at least 4 hours, likely 6, and at least all the available daylight, along with protests, tears and an impressive display of theatrics to get the feathers off that bird.

It has been many years since I had to be Mom the Enforcer, and I’m wondering to myself:  Did I have as much fun then as I’m having now?