(No snow on even the highest mountains, which usually have snow all year around.)
Last week it sprinkled lightly for two days and I got such a rush! I felt energized for the first time this summer and ready to take on the world, blog it up like mad, write entire chapters in my book, put new logs in my float, re-build the dam....
And then, just like in that horrible Terminator-type song "Here Comes the Sun" it all went south again.
Yep. More sun. Non-stop sun. Sun even where the sun doesn't shine sun. It's been everywhere this summer, and it refuses to go away for more than a few moments at a time--and only then with a Teutonic, threatening "I'll be back" promise--and the oppression is wearing me down.
This is a rainforest! Or it's supposed to be. I grew up loving the sound of rain drumming on the roof, of roaming the beaches on a windy, rainy day. I have always loved the rain. And now that I can't drink the water in our dam, I'm reliant on rainwater for my very life.
("Here comes the sun!" Even the wildflowers have given up smiling about it.)
Yesterday when we crossed the strait to do a grocery, fuel, and bottled water run there were only the barest hints of snow on even the tallest mountains. In the store, one of the employees told me, as he brought out cases of water to put on a barren shelf, that he can't keep the water stocked. My dad was told by a local that they're rationing showers.
In one of the last great rainforests on earth!
At least we're not dealing with the fires that some of my friends in California are coping with. One friend, who lives in northern California, has been facing possible evacuation, and so has her sister. Alaskan firefighters have been flown down to help with the blazes.
Meanwhile, back in the "rainforest," in addition to unheard of temperatures every day in the Eighties (F) and higher, we had smoke from fires in British Columbia being funneled down the Inside Passage causing respiratory problems. One evening my dad came home and saw a spectacular sunset due to the smoke. He came and got me to take pictures of the enormous, cherry red sun just hanging there off one of Prince of Wales Island's headlands.
Unfortunately the tablet wasn't able to capture the scene the way the human eye experienced it, as you can see. In person, the sun looked as big as Jupiter hanging above the strait and made me feel like I'd transported onto another planet.
So, yes, the sun is being like the worst guest possible, paying no attention to that scripture that says "Make your foot rare at the home of your friend" and instead is waaaay outstaying its welcome in the rainforest. But at least the sunsets are glorious.
While there are a lot of wildfires burning in British Columbia to the east and south of our position, we were puzzled by the fact that the smoke seemed to be coming from the northwest and we've had weeks of northerlies blowing. My brother Robin just shared that the smoke haze we're seeing is actually coming from Siberia, Russia, where vast fires there are creating massive plumes of smoke that have crossed the Pacific to inundate Alaska, Canada, and states in the northwestern U.S.
I once had a kid's book rejected by a New York editor who insisted that my description of teenagers running around in T-shirts in Alaska in the middle of summer was unrealistic. Everyone knew it was far too cold in Alaska to EVER wear T-shirts. I explained that I'd lived in Alaska for most of my life and I knew from first hand experience that T-shirts were common wear at all times of the year here. She refused to believe it.
It's too bad I couldn't have sent her these pictures of fifteen-year-old Julian, who's been staying with us for the last week, wearing shorts in below freezing weather. Our first walk of his visit took place during a storm with 70 mph winds with the temperature at around 29 degrees F. The windchill was brutal.
At his blank refusal to put some pants on, I took him over to the beach that has southern exposure. It was a clear day and with the trees blocking the wind and the sun shining on us we were ready to break out the tanning lotion.
Looking at the frothing strait, Julian said, "I knew the waves were big, but I didn't realize they were THAT big." We watched as a large ship of some sort on the other side of the strait was hammered by giant seas. It was cloaked in spray, explosions of white water continually bursting at its bow.
Both of us were glad we weren't on board and said as much.
"Do you see that line of white going all the way down the strait that looks like haze or smoke?" I asked him. "The wind is blowing so hard that it's whipping the tops of the waves into the air and that's a curtain of spray."
Julian looked at it silently and for a moment I didn't think he heard me. Then he said, "Wow! We live in an amazing place."
The beach we were on was speckled white with quartz, which I showed him, and told him quartz could sometimes be an indication of gold. Instantly, Julian was infected with gold fever. He hunted down large rocks with veins of quartz in them, lifted them over his head and crashed them down onto bigger rocks hoping to break one open on a nugget of gold. It didn't work out the way he fantasized, but it was good exercise.
On our next walk, with him still insisting on shorts despite no warming of the temperature, I led him to a comparatively protected beach. "What's that?" he exclaimed, pointing at an alien looking artifact.
"The wall of a boat that wrecked," I said.
He investigated it more closely and I added, "You're standing where the pilot house door used to be. Look at that, you can see wiring still on the wall."
He shook his head and continued to circle around it. He'd watched or read something about the Titanic recently and he was impressed to find himself face to face with the remnant of another wreck.
We headed on down the beach toward a towering cliff with trees on top of it. "Look," I said, "a tree blew down." It was lying on the beach, its foliage still fresh and green.
Julian studied it. "Did it break?"
"No, it was uprooted." I showed him where its roots had been torn away from its cliff top perch.
During our most recent walk, Julian still in his shorts, we were graced with a gorgeous day. The strait was a deep rich blue, practically Mediterranean--looking, that is. Neither of us was tempted to swim in it. We hiked around some rocks and came across a field of gravel that the tide was swiftly claiming. It was apparently the favorite haunt of land otters--I found two giant sea urchin shells that the otters had left behind after having made a meal of the urchins inside them.
Julian searched diligently, and spotted a couple shells the same size as mine under the water. He waded out to retrieve them, nearly going over his boots. He carried them back triumphantly, knowing to be very careful with them. They crumble easily.
"I wonder how they eat the sea urchins without breaking the shells?" he marveled. "They're so fragile."
We lined them up on a log and I took a picture of them. Who knows what treasures we'll discover in our next walk?
Ice and I have established a mutual understanding, a social contract, if you will. As long as I photograph it and admire it respectfully from a distance...it won't hurt me.
It wasn't always thus. There was a time when I loved seeing our floathouse, once surrounded by water, encased in ice. I'd run, slip, and slide on it in my rubber boots on my way to school. I loved that what once was liquid and impossible to stand on, now I could defy the physics of friction with the crisp breeze in my face. With this attitude you'd think I'd be headed for life as a skating prodigy.
The scene where my Olympic dreams were (unknowingly) shattered took place in a tiny, one-room school in the Alaskan bush when I was a bright-eyed, pig-tailed, rosy-cheeked 7-year-old.
It was a stormy day so our teacher, who ruled over all grades, K-12, decided that we would do P.E. class inside. She set up an obstacle course that involved a balance board, hopscotch, and climbing over desks.
It was right in the middle of my epic assault on the desk when a schoolmate, apparently with visions of future Iron Man glory, shoved me so he could scale the desk. I fell to the floor, hitting at exactly the right angle to break my tailbone.
At the time I didn't know that this was where my chance to medal at Nationals ended. At the time my greatest dismay was over not being allowed to go on a family trip to visit my Uncle Rand and his girlfriend Linda at their isolated cabin up Wolf Creek. My entire family was headed out in the skiff on an adventure into the wilderness, but I couldn't go because it was feared the rough skiff-ride would be too painful and cause more harm.
Instead I stayed at school all alone except my grandmother, who was teacher's aid and in charge of Halloween decorations. I was put to work crumpling strips of orange and black confetti paper and glueing them to pieces of construction paper cut in the shape of an owl.
Feeling completely abandoned and in pain, bitter tears rained down on the paper making it soggy and hard to glue as the windows turned black and the school generator rumbled, keeping the electric lights going as they glared down on paper witches and goblins tacked around the chalkboard. To this day I hotly despise Halloween with the heat of a 1,000 suns.
Tangent: As I grew up I came to wonder at the peculiarity of parents teaching their kids to never take candy from strangers, but then turning around on one arbitrary day of the year to escort their kids to stranger's doors and take candy from them. This observation, by the way, did not improve my opinion of Halloween.
Now returning you to your regularly scheduled program: It wasn't until a few years after the tragic Waterloo-Desk Affair that I had an opportunity to tap into my champion-skating potential. My sister and I were visiting my Uncle Rory and Aunt Marion and their two small daughters LeAnn and JoDean at their log cabin in Saltery Cove one November. During the course of our visit the lake above the cove froze and we all went on a skating party.
I don't know how it happened, but I found myself off by myself. At first I exulted in the freedom of moving over the ice with the brisk breeze in my face. But as I did a Bielman--okay, it was a simple turn--my foot shot out from under me and I landed hard on my backside.
There was no pain. In fact, there was nothing at all, just me lying spread eagle on the ice staring up at the wintry, overcast sky. I could see the tips of the evergreen forest that encircled the lake. I don't remember hearing anything and I couldn't speak.
I also couldn't move.
I flashed back to the boy shoving me and then me falling on the floor curled up in pain. I'd been surrounded by people then and hadn't been allowed to feel fear.
Now, though, all alone and completely immobile, I wondered how long I would lie there before anyone found me. And then what? Would I be able to move ever again?
Fortunately, after ten to fifteen years--okay, minutes--I found feeling returning and I was able to get back up and very shakily and carefully make my way off the ice. I decided, the moment I was on firm land again, that Olympic figure skating glory was overrated and I vowed to never step onto the ice again.
Today I restrict my interactions with ice mainly to photography, as you can see in the accompanying photos.
Tara Neilson (ADOW)