Feeling my Way Foward

I feel like I've been searching for a light switch in an unfamiliar dark room these past couple months - arms outstretched and groping as I shuffle along the walls - trying not to panic before I find a source of 'enlightenment.'  Returning home to Alaska was like finding a door.  The door opened to a familiar room already lit up, so when I turned around to look at where I came from a few objects took shape in the dimness, but the room is still mostly dark.  I still have to find that light switch!  But, for now, I'm in a bright and familiar place.

I came back to Alaska, on July 1st, after spending two and a half months solo in California learning a new job at an outdoor science-based school.  That is the dark room I've been groping my way through!  My mind and body became more relaxed the closer I got to Alaska, and it easily slipped back into its original mould almost the instant I stepped out of the airport in Anchorage.  My whole history in Alaska, from before my birth to now, fit into all my nooks and crannies perfectly and made me feel at ease.  It all felt 'right' again.  I allowed myself two weeks of soaking in family quality time like a sponge before I began gearing up for the next leg of my adventure: the return trip to California.

This time, I will be driving my little red car down the Alaska Highway - a first for me by myself - but at least I will have the company of my son.  We will be embarking on a major life adventure together, to live near family in California and see what we think of it. We will be navigating the dark room together, using each others experiences and thoughts to get a fuller picture of that strange-to-us place.

I arrived in Alaska with the whole month of July ahead of me to enjoy being home, which felt like a lot at the time.  But two weeks goes by quick and then I had to start thinking about how I would live when I got back to California.  I had searched for two months for a home, but never found a place that felt right.  Funding was a problem too, because California, even Redding, ain't cheap.  Two days before I left California, I was set to make an offer on a home, thinking I'd be able to swing it with my income.  By some cruel (or kind) coincidence, I also found out that day that California would be taking a bigger chunk out of my paycheck next year than I had planned.  I had to throw my budget out the window and figure out how I would manage with less money than I thought.  So, I began thinking of alternative ways to live there on my even more modest budget. The idea of building a tiny framed house on wheels seemed like the perfect solution.

Living tiny was an idea Izak and I had toyed with before, even sketching plans for our 'dream tiny house.'  I dedicated more than a week to setting things in motion toward this exciting new idea.  I designed a dwelling, planned out the storage, contacted builders, priced out a truck to pull it, and researched how to make it super-efficient but with all the creature comforts.  The benefits and simplicity of owning my modest home and being able to move it wherever I went seemed the perfect solution.  Izak and I really loved the idea of our own cabin on wheels and started imagining it as a reality.  We just needed to hold out a few more weeks with our California family while it was built.  We even planned to do some finish work ourselves with some help from my Dad who could build Japanese-style stairs full of storage compartments.  It would be another house that our family built together, and I would never have to leave it.

Alas, on the day I was to sign a contract with a tiny builder in the lower 48, information came to light that made my plan impossible.  It turns out that while having a tiny house built is fairly simple and inexpensive, finding a legal place to live in it is far more complicated.  Many places consider a dwelling less than 200 sq. feet 'too small' and, thus, it's not allowed.  For many tiny house dwellers, working around the rules is a way of life they get used to.  Tiny-house-friendly neighbors also go a long way toward making it work, and I was learning that finding neighbors like that weren't as easy to come by as I thought.

Within the span of a couple days, my need to arrange a new home in California became both imminent and dire!  I had no viable plans and no place to land.  I began to feel the weight and stress of blindly heading back into a very dark room, and I was scared.  Three more days passed as I resorted to looking at used motorhomes and calling RV parks in Redding.  We adjusted to this new plan and started to find virtues in it.  Izak was excited to finally have a vehicle he could freely move about in while moving down the highway!  I test drove a motorhome in mental preparation to make the 3000 mile journey through Canada with 40 feet of cabinetry and metal behind me.  The driving didn't scare me nearly as much as hooking up the septic!  I arranged a tow-dolly for my car and decided only to pack what I needed to survive for now.  My search narrowed to two motorhomes and I made offers on both, but my stomach churned.  Something didn't feel right and my mind swirled frantically as the deadline for my departure raced toward me.

Then my new plans fell apart.  Neither of the two motorhomes would be ready in time for me to pack them properly.  There was too much to do and time was too short.  I was too emotionally scattered to deal with it.  Two days before I needed to start driving south, I was in full-tilt panic as my heart ached with the thought of leaving my family again, and my mind ached with the pressure to figure out how I would make a life in California with no place to live.  I still hadn't packed a single box!  I wanted to quit life, to crawl into bed, to take back everything I ever said about adventure and just rest in the comfort of the life I knew and loved so well.  What the heck was I thinking trying to make such a bold move and leave all my support system behind?  I couldn't stop crying and my chest felt like a boulder was sitting on it.

I gathered my family around me one last time for an outdoor meal.  They watched me with pitying and confused eyes while mine blurred with tears.  They must have thought I was truly crazy, especially since I refused to give up on my plans despite the absolute the mess I found myself in.  But, on the day I found out that the motorhome I needed would not be ready in time, a miracle happened.  With an outside hope, I called about a craigslist ad for a one-room cottage for rent on private acreage in North Redding.  The place had a pool, looked clean, and seemed too good to be true.

Within 24 hours of my initial conversation with the female property owner, whose kind heart made me feel at ease, I was promised that the space would be held for me and Izak, despite there being many others in line ahead of us.  We could take residence upon our arrival and could stay on a month-to-month basis.  The property was gated, with only female residents (a couple of them lived in motorhomes with RV hookups!), and it was recently renovated.  My chest pains subsided and I sighed with relief that I had found a solution.  There would be a safe place for us to land in California.  I Googled-mapped it and showed it to my family.  It was even slightly reminiscent of our Alaskan homestead in its rural location and rustic charm, which made me feel even better.  With not a moment to spare, I dried my tears, packed my tiny car to the roof, loaded two kayaks on top, and hoped against all odds that this was a good omen for what is to come.

Experimental Trails

I wasted an entire day of sunshine indoors.  It's an embarrassing admission.  This self-proclaimed sun-worshipper and solar-powered lover of California, doddled about inside the house while the sun shone its glory on the world outdoors!  I did appreciate the golden sunlight streaming through the windows and curled up in its warmth next to my cat lying in a beam on the carpet.  I basked in its cheery glow while I baked muffins, did chores, and read a novel.  However, at the end of the day I had regrets.  I wished I'd taken a walk, or pruned my raspberries, or in some way allowed the sun to brush against my skin with its soft fingertips.  I vowed that if the sunshine graced my Alaskan landscape again that I would run toward it with open arms.

And I did.

Here I come, sunshine!

I desired to go somewhere new.  I remembered a friend mentioning the trails at the UAF Experimental Farm, part of the Mat-Su Greenbelt in the heart of the Valley, so I made haste in that direction.  I don't know why I never visited the trails before.  Maybe it's the curse of being a local that I never explored all of my own back yard.

The Johnson Lake loop trail starts just behind the farm outbuildings.

A beautiful barn is a thing to cherish.

I feel so countrified already.

I love the green marshmallow hay bales.

I parked in front of Kerttula Hall and walked around the left of the building toward the barns and fields behind.  I admit to feeling a bit lost, trying to find the head of the actual "trail".  Following intuition and the most heavily used road (backtracking just once), I eventually wound up on a two-lane track that led me toward some gloriously sunny solitude on the Johnson Lake Loop. It's just one of the myriad of trails connected in a mixed-up spider web system that could confuse the best orienteer.  I suggest carrying a map with you, or leaving a trail of breadcrumbs (http://www.matanuska-greenbelt.org/trail-maps).  I also suggest supporting the non-profit groups in the Valley that make the creation and preservation of these trails a priority. If you want to get involved, check out Matanuska Greenbelt Trails, or Valley Mountain Bikers and Hikers (who are looking for board members).

The bends in the trail are marked, though not always helpful for orientation and way-finding.

When my mother was a young teenager, she worked at the Experimental Farm.  It was, and is, best known for its services as the Cooperative Extension, run by the University of Alaska Fairbanks.  They provided agricultural assistance and extensive resources for local farmers and hobby-agriculturists alike.  My family homesteaded in the early days of Alaska's statehood, so the extension was a familiar and useful part of their lives.  You could learn about how to make yogurt, how to smoke salmon, or what seeds grow best in our climate.  The farm's array of fields provided both hay and foraging grounds for cattle and migrating Sandhill Cranes, and still do.  On that day, for me, the fields were a blank canvas for my mind.  Fall colored trees alternately shadowed the trail or framed bucolic vistas of serene beauty.  I experienced a feeling of discovery at every turn.

The fall colors are stunning along the trail.

There's something deeply peaceful about a farm and its vast green fields. Must be the Laura Ingalls Wilder in me.

I wandered the Johnson Lake loop trail until I found the perfect place to picnic on the dewey grass in full view of both Pioneer and Matanuska Peaks.  I unpacked a slice of cake from my birthday, which was the day before, and I savored the moment.  I recalled the quote by Marie Antoinette, "Let them eat cake!"  And life is short, so I took her advise.

Birthday cake, of the carrot variety, with a fabulous view.

Curried tuna and red grapes, just to show you I didn't ONLY have cake for lunch.

During my walk, I crossed paths with just one person that Tuesday afternoon: a woman walking her three dogs, who were keen to my snack crackers and tuna.  The trails and fields were a paradise for dogs, who could be off leash everywhere except by the barns and livestock.  And there were so many offshoots and alternative routes that one could easily find themselves completely alone, especially if you aimed to make it that way.  The only thing I found wanting on the trail, besides a map, was an occasional bench to sit on and take in the view, a luxury that would simply be the cherry on top of this pleasurable walk.

The experimental trails were the perfect companion for a sunny Fall afternoon, like wine and cheese, or like chocolate and peanut butter.  The open expanses gave me room to breathe.  The changing vistas kept it interesting.  And, despite being right in the heart of freeways and the busiest part of the Mat-Su Valley, I felt hidden.

It's like town & country for cows around here.

Clearly, my experiment to try a new trail was a success.  The only downside was not having enough time to explore further.  The trails in the Mat-Su Green Belt are open year-round, though, so I could come back for a winter stroll in the snow if I wanted.  I could walk to Matanuska Lake from here, or to Mat-Su College for lunch, or even into the Crevasse Moraine maze if I felt very enthusiastic.  The possibilities are practically endless in this multi-faceted jewel of public space.  One thing's for sure, I'll be back.

April Bowl Trail in September

My bones needed to get outside and move.  The rainy Fall weather kept me indoors for far too long and I was ready to get out and explore.  It was years since we climbed up the April Bowl Trail in Hatcher Pass, so many in fact that my husband forgot doing it.  Our son was an adorable 4 year-old then, and now he's 12 (and still adorable).  It seemed time to revisit the trail for a quick afternoon hike.

The first leg of the April Bowl Trail is the steepest, but the zig-zag trail makes it a cinch.

The hardest part of the trail is the first 1/4 mile, which starts at the upper parking lot at Summit Lake.  On the two or three times I climbed the trail before I always went straight up the face of that first steep slope, which acts like a gateway to the rest of the trail.  But there were improvements since then.  A lovely zig-zag trail now adorned the hillside, making the ascent easily manageable.  I started out following the kids, heading straight up the original bee-line for the crest.  Halfway up I opted to use the zig-zag trail, because it seemed like a shame to waste it. I mean, it's there, so why not? My couch-potato thighs thanked me.

Sometimes, the Alaskan sun is only an eraser-smudge in a gray sky.

Ice crystals along the muddy trail.

The trail was a bit muddy thanks to a thin blanketing of snow and its surprising popularity that day.  A young father descended with his preschool-aged daughter and their dog as we headed up.  We later crossed paths with at least two other hiking groups, both with very young kids, before our short hike was done.  Thankfully, most of the numerous visitors to Summit Lake that day were merely stretching their legs and taking in the view - including watching the para-gliders launch from the knoll above the lake - or they were exploring other attractions of the area.  It must be something in my Alaskan blood, but I prefer to experience at least some solitude when I venture outdoors.

We crested the initial challenging bit of the trail and continued onto the meandering bit.  The trail followed a soft ridge to where there were three frozen tarns (small mountain ponds).  These ponds were formed by snow melt and fed the larger Summit Lake below all summer long.  The official trail didn't seem readily obvious, especially in the snow, but it continued around the left of the first tarn and up the steep ridge to Hatcher Peak.  We opted to veer to the right, off the trail, to explore the rest of the mountain cirque (ladle-like depression nestled against the mountain).

The thin ice on the tarns drew the kids like moths to a flame.  My son was first to venture out on the frozen water, shuffling his feet and listening to the sharp cracking sounds.  No need to worry (all you worriers) he was wearing waterproof boots and the water was very shallow.  He eventually broke through the ice, however, and made a prize of it.  He hauled out an angular chunk of frozen water that looked like a thick piece of vintage plate glass with bubbles trapped in its layers.  He gifted the treasure to a 3 year-old girl who had been throwing rocks onto the ice with her parents.  Then we ascended to the upper tarns.

It's kid-nature...risks must be taken!

Weather moved in without us even noticing.  The sky became an impenetrable graying blanket hovering just over our heads.  Ice crystals glittered in the air and adorned our hats.  My son and his two cousins were just getting warmed up to the exploration part of our hike and were skipping rocks across the thicker ice of the highest tarn when the first icy crystals began to flutter down.  My husband started a rock game of tossing heavy, sharp-edged pieces of stone high in the air, spinning, so they would impale the ice like a dagger.  While the younger kids were distracted by this new game, the teenager quietly embarked on a solo traverse across the frozen pond.  Her developing brain - lacking that crucial self-preservation mechanism (scientific fact!) - was lured by the adrenaline-causing snap, crackle, pop of the ice and the pride of being first across.  Again, allay your worries.  The ice was plenty thick enough that little danger existed.  Plus, what is a life, unless a little true adventure be had?!

After my teen cousin made her traverse safely, and without ado, the younger kids took their turns, tentatively at first, then with much ado and flair.

Finally, we circumnavigated the second tarn to peer down on Summit Lake.  It's a pretty awesome thing to look down on something that is already at a great height.  We were alone on the ridge and now noticed how much of the valley below was obscured by pure white clouds.  Snowflakes materialized before our eyes, small at first.  We ate our snacks in the shelter of a rock overhang, taking in the view of the lake and micro-sized cars below.  The snowflakes grew bigger and melted on our noses and cheeks.  The kids examined the unique details as the crystals fell on their coats and gloves.  The wind picked up and a chill seeped in.  The warmth of the car beckoned.

Looking down on Summit Lake.

We descended the ridge through our first snow of the year.  The flakes accumulated silently on the ground, our shoulders, and our hats.  There was a wonder in it, despite that I've experienced snow countless times in my life in Alaska.  It still evoked a sense of reverence for its beauty and awe for its mystery.  Additionally, for me, it instilled a gratitude and awareness in the power of contrasts.  I recognized my ability to be thankful for snow, in spite of my aversion to cold.  I appreciated that the present discomfort of my numbed fingers would enhance my enjoyment when I warmed them.  Though I worship the sun, I would hate to be denied the experience of snow.  Further, a clear sunny day is made more spectacular by weeks of rain preceding it.  Sometimes, I've learned, the smallest pleasures can multiply their value when viewed beside contrasting details.  To that knowledge, and to a lifetime of snow, I am indebted.

Alaskan Crystal Anniversary

I had an awesome wedding anniversary this year.  It was the big 15 for my college sweetheart and me! It sounds smaller when I write it, but it's still nothing to sniff at.

In the classic tradition of anniversary gifts, fifteen is the year to give crystal.  Since my husband and I aren't the type of people to use crystal glassware or need a crystal photo frame, I bought him Ice Breakers breath mints with flavor crystals!  If I could afford it, I would have bought him a Rolex with a sapphire crystal face.  This year, on a tight budget, breath mints would have to do.

I also sent my husband on a scavenger hunt down memory lane.  We visited many places, and talked with people, that have been most significant to us over the last 15 years.  It was a fun adventure that kept him repeating, "I was told to get a clue..." Our final destination was Hatcher Pass Lodge, a favorite wayside stop for us after hiking in the gorgeous mountains of the state park.  But Alaska had something special up its winter coat sleeve for us this year: snow.

Hatcher Pass Lodge in my favorite Alaskan wonderland.

Snow is a type of crystal, right?  Ice crystal.  So, I suppose it was appropriate (and maybe generous) of Alaska to grant us such a beautiful blanketing of one-of-a-kind crystals over the rugged landscape.  Few times of the year are as breathtaking as the change of season from Fall to Winter around here, and I felt privileged to view it.  It was our first touch of snow this winter. But, I admit I was happy to leave it behind when we descended back into the Mat-Su Valley.  Leaves are still green in our yard and I can wait for winter a few more weeks.

What else is there to do with the first snow of the season?

Upon awakening the next morning, however, Alaska informed me that SHE is the boss and will bring winter into my yard whenever SHE darn well pleases.  Every bit of vegetation outside was coated in another gift of crystals, this time frost.

I like this type of crystal a little better than snow, because it's more susceptible to melting when the sun comes up.  And it is very interesting to look at.  For that, I thank you, Alaska, for such a thoughtful anniversary gift.  And on that note, since year 16 calls for Silver hollowware as the modern anniversary gift, maybe I can hope for a meteor shower, or possibly UFO's falling from the Alaskan sky?  Just thinking out loud.

UPDATE: September 23, 2013 - It's snowing in my yard!