work from home

Beneath the Borealis In Celebration of Women Winter Camping The Confluence

In Celebration of Women

Friday before last, I awoke to the day with a sturdy mix of excitement and nervousness.

Today was the day.

What day, you ask?

A day of firsts.

A few weeks ago, about halfway into our puppy sitting the cutest little dude I know (who goes by the name of Kvichak. Pronounced like “Quee-Jack”), a plan started brewing. It all began with crossed fingers and a lot of treats: we were going to skijor. Until a few years ago, I’d never even heard of skijoring and I’ve only tried it once before and that was a year ago. Yet there I was, locking myself into a physical agreement with a pooch I’d only heard knew what he was doing. Apparently, that clout was good enough for me.

 

Beneath the Borealis In Celebration of Women Huskies in Alaska

That arm…hardcore chillin’.

 

Skijoring is like dog sledding in the sense that the dog wears a harness and pulls the rider. Yet with skijoring, there’s no sled in between. The skier too wears a harness and a mere bungee rope connects the pooch to the skier, entering them into a serious game of trust (hint: the pooch has the upper hand).

After that first squeals of excitement filled run, I was hooked and on the mission to find a setup of our own (as we had borrowed my girlfriend’s and thus couldn’t both go at the same time). In the lovely land that we live, a message board post I put up had us outfitted in no time, thanks to the kindness of our not so nearby neighbors (thanks again, M & P). And so it was that my girlfriend and I could skijor together and hatch our plan:

An overnight.

In the snow.

At a destination attained via skijor.

The plan hatched quickly and then went through iterations too many to count. There was the issue of houses freezing, as my girlfriend’s husband would be out of town on the chosen date and unable to man the house. There was the issue of location and distance and weather and details too many to count but all of those could be navigated.

In truth, the greatest hurdle for me was that of motivation.

The comfort of home can be hard for me to leave and trying new things, especially things that might prove me less than savvy, is hard for this recovering perfectionist. Yet the discomfort I felt around the adventure, before even its realization, was a familiar feeling that told me I had to go.

Mid-week, the plan still relatively unrealized, our momentum sagged. There was a lot to prep, a lot to plan and being that I had never camped in the snow (honestly, I didn’t realize that was even a thing people would opt to do), a lot to learn. The -20 nights had me shaking in my snowboots and so, any easy out started looking nicer and nicer.

Thankfully, after a few more hems and haws, we voted away the easy out.

We were in.

 

Beneath the Borealis In Celebration of Women Winter Camping

Packing quickly took over the house…

 

It was time to get things in order. The night before the big adventure, The Chief and I made some modifications to my sled via a drill gun, paracord and a lighter. Everything we’d need from firewood to sleeping bags was going on our backs or in our sleds. At the night’s end on the eve of our great adventure, weighted down by a few rounds of logs, the pup and I took the sled for a test run. For the first time I too was pulling weight and the short loop around the neighborhood had me winded.

 

Beneath the Borealis In Celebration of Women Skijor Sled

 

Gulp.

The morning came and with it my nerves. The weather had warmed but still, we were sleeping outside! Utter badass that she is, my gal pal, a backcountry ranger, (I mean, how cool of a title is that?!) who has logged days on end backpacking convinced me that we didn’t need tents. We would instead be using the burrito method.

Now, I know my food references but this one I’d never heard. Still, the trust of my dear friend intact, I packed a tarp and did not pack a tent.

Gulp.

The morning nerves were soon accompanied by news. As I logged into work, a headline came up on my computer: today was International Women’s Day.

Today?!

My nerves melted away. I felt blanketed in power. Today was a day to celebrate women and I could think of no better way than adventuring out of my comfort zone in the comfort of my girlfriend’s (and two adorable pups’) presence. As soon as I heard the news Beyonce’s “Run the World (Girls)” was playing through my head (and soon through the speakers). Today was a good day already. The half-day workday flew by and in no time…

It was time.

Despite the sleepover being for merely one night, the multitude of necessities was startling. I stuffed extra layers of all types into a stuff sack and packed a parka, bibs, gloves, scarf, extra socks and a hat for the evening. I donned my ski outfit, composed of much lighter fare due to the suddenly warm weather of 30 odd degrees outside, a swift shift from the day before. After bungy-ing and re-bungy-ing my sled and its contents, we were finally off (only an hour later than our planned departure time)!

 

Beneath the Borealis In Celebration of Women Skijor Alaska

 

No turning back now.

 

 

Kvichak and I breezed along, the weight only seemed to encourage him rather than slow him down. We dropped down out of the woods onto the river trail and promptly…

Threw up.

In his wanderings of the neighborhood, the little dude has earned the nickname Kvichak the Kleptomaniac. He’s returned home with everything from a frozen zucchini to compost filters to an empty milk jug and full on logs, not sticks, from neighboring woodpiles. So, I can only assume he found something that was not quite his but quite delicious nonetheless that perhaps hit back when it hit his tummy.

 

Beneath the Borealis In Celebration of Women Winter Camping Husky

Showing off his compost filter steal…

 

He barfed twice and then looked at me as if I was crazy to be concerned and started to pull again. Apparently, all was well. Less than 10 minutes in, one barf session down and miles more to go. What could go wrong?

Thankfully, not that much. There were some epic falls for us both, on all sort of terrain including flat, up and downhill. Sometimes the dog feels resistance and stops. Sometimes, unfortunately, that’s right at the apex of a hill and you have to fight with all your might to pole yourself up that incline. Or slide down backward and have to try again. Other times, you fall. Hard. Aside from falling, a lot of skijoring when you first are training is spent untangling. While Kvichak has an uncanny propensity for not getting stuck despite stopping often to make puppy snow angels, the eventual snag or two (or twenty) are inevitable and you hobble along trying to untangle the pooch back to his perfect puppy pulling potential.

 

Beneath the Borealis In Celebration of Women Skijoring in Alaska

Skijoring into the sunset (plus a rainbow).

 

Snags and snafus aside, we made it to camp in about three hours. Wolf tracks graced the latter half of the trail and the dogs perked up to follow them across the frozen river we skijored upon. The sun was setting and the moon was rising as we found our home for the night. The place which had been our goal.

The Confluence.

 

Beneath the Borealis In Celebration of Women Winter Camping The Confluence

Mid-bunny hop (Icefall behind)

 

Where two rivers meet and an icefall marks the spot, we found an area nestled between the river and a higher bank that we thought might provide cover from the potential wind tunnel we were in. Running water could be heard nearby and icefall looked down on us in all her glory. We packed down the snow in our home sweet home as best we could, using the sled as a flattening tool though still punching through. Walking about camp we looked a bit like toddling babies, doing our best to stay afloat amongst the uneven terrain.

 

Beneath the Borealis In Celebration of Women Backcountry Winter Camping

Breaking trail to camp.

 

As soon as we had regrouped via a complete change of clothes (Naked in the middle of a frozen river, eh? Never thought I’d cross that one off the list) it was time to build a fire and make dinner. The warming fire kicked right up in my expert gal pal’s, despite the fact that it was built in snow. The light of the flames warmed the dark new moon night. We got out our heating implements and drank tea to warm ourselves as we warmed our dinners. The setting of the sun had brought on a quick chill but still, the night gave no promise of the 20 below nights we’d been having.

Already cold fingers crossed.

 

Beneath the Borealis In Celebration of Women Backcountry Winter Camping Alaska

Hello, moon.

 

The pups too ate their dinner which was accompanied by water in order to get them to drink (a common difficulty in the snow). Kvichak looked at me as if I didn’t know who I was dealing with as he expertly chased down the bits of food, avoiding the water like a bobbing for kibble expert. At first, I was worried he wouldn’t drink. Then, he slurped it down. A purist, I see. He left just enough water to show his rebellion which promptly froze in the bowl.

Finally, it was time to see what this burrito sleeping situation was all about. I heated more snow for drinking water as I watched my girlfriend lay on the snowy surface the tarp we had burrito-wrapped (so many burritos!) around our sleds to keep our goods intact on our journey out. She expertly laid both sleeping pads beneath her two sleeping bags and then cocooned herself and her pooch inside. Then, she wrapped the tarp around them. The burrito. 

My burrito ended up more like a taco. As claustrophobia is one of my less-favorable traits, I couldn’t quite get down with the wrapping action and, with a Husky as my companion, he too needed his space. Husky’s are notoriously independent but this cuddlebug did sleep next to me the whole night through.

My girlfriend and I, perfectly packed into our respective Mexican dishes hooted and hollered “Goodnight! Happy International Women’s Day! I love you!” to one another over the fire. I patted the pup and bid us both a good night and good luck. I fell asleep cozy as could be, though about 60% certain I was about to die of cold in my sleep.

An hour or so later I woke up in an overheated claustrophobic panic. Losing layers in a hurry as if digging myself out from below ground, my temperature and panic dropped. Well, I guess I wasn’t dying of cold. I fell back into a cooler, calmer sleep. An hour or so later, I awoke again, this time cold, as the taco ruffled in the windy night. I zipped down tighter as I gazed at the stars before pulling the tarp overhead. Claustrophobia plays second fiddle to cold.

We awoke in tandem, my girlfriend, the pups and I and I let out a hoot and a holler.

 

Beneath the Borealis In Celebration of Women Winter Camping in AK

Morning, sunshine!

 

We had done it! We had camped in the snow, in tarps! Seasoned as she is at such feats, I had known my gal pal would make it, but me, I wasn’t so sure.

Yet I had.

I had slept overnight in the middle of a river in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness on the shoulders of Winter.

Just a few years ago, I’d never heard of skijoing and certainly hadn’t considered camping in the snow in a tarp. Even if I had, the hurdles I would have had to jump in order to make such a thing happen would have stalled me in my thoughts. That morning, as I looked around at the greatness of nature and the ease with which we could access it, I thanked my lucky stars.

After an exceptional oatmeal breakfast, we slowly packed away the camp. I, upon my girlfriend’s suggestion, had slept with my sweaty clothes from our ski in. Why, oh, why you ask?! Same here. Apparently, this will help them to dry. I’d heard this before and met it with the look of a single cocked eyebrow but trusting her as I do, I tried it and…it worked! Sure, they were still a little wet but nothing like the night before when they had frozen to the tarp within minutes of taking them off. I donned the slightly damp clothes, naked again in the middle of Winter in Alaska, and danced about the still uneven terrain to warm from the self-imposed chill.

 

Beneath the Borealis In Celebration of Women Huskies of Alaska

Returning from the expanse, looking very tough.

 

Soon, with nothing left to pack but ourselves, I showed Kvichak his harness and his tail began to wag. We skied from one river to the next watching the stories of the wolf tracks dance out in front of us and listening to the river flow beneath. About halfway home, the tired set in. I hadn’t felt all that worked over by the day before’s activities but suddenly they caught up. My pack somehow felt heavier, my legs felt like logs but home was in sight.

 

Beneath the Borealis In Celebration of Women Winter Camping GSP of Skijoring

Homeways is rightways now.

 

I returned home to water easily accessed, not made via my melting of snow and veggies not frozen from exposure. The comforts of home wrapped their sometimes excessively enveloping arms around me but that day they felt just perfect. I fell into bed that night, grateful for the warmth of a non-burrito blanket though missing the stargazing and whispered goodnight to my girlfriend, grateful as ever for her.

 

Beneath the Borealis In Celebration of Women Ladies of Alaska

Sunset snowmachine

 

Without her, I wouldn’t have known about skijoring and I certainly wouldn’t have ventured out snow camping. It’s funny how one person can open your eyes, not just to new ideas but to new realities and expanded views of yourself. I know that to some, snow camping is a no brainer, but to me, it was truly daunting and I thank my friend for her guidance into what turns out to be not so scary.

Here’s to the ladies in all of our lives. The ladies who love us, who awaken us to the unknown and who push us just enough to see that our comfort zone is wider than we think.

 

Beneath the Borealis In Celebration of Women Winter Camping Libations

Cheers to you, boo!

 

Happy belated International Women’s Day to all of us, for we all get to experience the wonder that comes from women.

With love,

from Alaska.

 

Beneath the Borealis In Celebration of Women Winter Camping Women of Alaska

Until next time…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beneath the Borealis Potlucky 3-4-19 Alaskan sunset

Potlucky

Last night, in the early evening just as the dinner rumblings began and reminded me we had nothing thawed and nothing planned, the phone chirped an invitation:

West Side dinner party?

There’s few things more magical to me in the Winter than an offering of food cooked communally. Sometimes I forget that for months on end, every meal we eat, every ounce of sustenance we obtain would be purely from our own hands were it not for our friend family. Every dish dirtied and recipe rendered would be by our own doing. The Chief and I break it up so that at times just one of us makes dinner and the other gets to dine without any output. But the restaurant effect doesn’t last long after one peek around the half wall from the living room to the kitchen at the greedily multiplying pile of dishes.

So, when the offer comes, you can’t help but get giddy.

 

Beneath the Borealis Potlucky 3-4-19 Giddy Goldenrod

Giddy as Goldenrod

 

 

For me, our neighborhood feels like an embrace and on this particular night, I longed to be held.

With one question, “What to bring?” the planning began. I found my best produce. My most alert lettuce and least wrinkled peppers sat welcomingly in the baking pan I was using to transport them. In went my tip top tomatoes and a some limes that only had one or less brown spots. Only the best for my neighborhood loves.

Off we went, tromping the 3-minute walk through the crystal clear starlit night. The constellations were out at play and Orion and the dog we are dogsitting put on a show for us to guide the way. We arrived to what I can only describe as dinner heaven.

Potlucky.

 

Beneath the Borealis Potlucky 3-4-19 Alaskan Husky

I felt this happy, to be exact.

 

 

The spread took the entire counter. Taco night. There was brown rice steaming away in the pressure cooker, beans bubbling their earthy goodness into the air and halibut, shrimp and pork all ready to be cooked. I made a design of my freshies and my girlfriends and I grated a mountain of cheese (which we simultaneously began depleting via quick “tastes”. We take quality control pretty seriously).

Dinner was served.

At home that night, minus the invite, we probably would have made something far less regal with far fewer options. Perhaps a chicken veggie stir-fry with meat pulled from a chicken we’d roasted the night before or a pasta something or other. And don’t get me wrong, it would have been great but this was another level altogether. Like going to a restaurant in the middle of the woods. It was as if our reservation day had finally come up. What a feast.

Satiated we sat together, shooting the breeze. My mind had been a flurry of thought that day and it felt good to let it fade into the conversational calm.

After a few deep full belly breaths, the thing that takes me longest to motivate for at home was a breeze. The Chief and I tapped in halfway through and before long, 4 pairs of hands had done away with the mess. Normally, at most restaurants, at least with wallet intact, you don’t end up doing your dishes, and in truth, it was a rarity. Dishes aren’t always something we let others do around here. There’s a know how that’s different for each kitchen here, a different system and perhaps a sense of pride in being able to do them on our own. Yet the intimacy of dishes done together warmed my heart that night.

The embrace tightened.

Eventually, I made my way home but not without a hug and an “I love you” with each goodbye. What a beautiful rarity to find in the middle of nowhere.

To find a family of friends willing to let me in. A hodge podge mix of lovelies for whom I’ll always go to bat and always pick the best produce to share with.

Potlucky.

With love,

from Alaska

 

Beneath the Borealis Potlucky 3-4-19 Historic Alaska

Sunset preparations

 

 

Dedication

This morning, I awoke with an urge to make something. I started with kombucha (with a scoby from a girlfriend) and made my way to an apple crisp (with a can donated long ago) and hardboiled eggs (brought in by a friend) all before The Chief came down from the loft. Midway through my burst, realizing I’d need to thaw more butter for my next round of food goals, I stopped and felt the embrace again, but this one was older. This one was familiar in a way that made me feel childlike and my eyes welled with tears. This one was my godmother, telling me to feed the ones I love, even from her recent and devastatingly unexpected move to the other side of the living. She was my first introduction to friend family, to pulling together every last person you know who needs a warm plate of food and a kind word around one table. To always being able to squeeze in one more. She rooted me on with unfailing love, she had adoration for me even when I felt I least deserved it. She blessed my gifts and made less scary my shortcomings. She adored me when I didn’t adore myself. She’s the reason I went to Italy and changed my life after my heart was broken, the reason I know what a wishbone is and save them every roasted chicken and the reason I’ve ever even thought to whisper myself an artist.

She was a beautiful soul, artistic as can be with a masterful way of pulling all of the pieces together and last night, on the night of her funeral, I needed to feel those come together more than I knew.

Thank you, Auntie El for your presence, your reminders and for your love. You were and are a driving force in my life and I thank you for visiting through busied baking hands today. I miss you dearly, think of you daily and love you always.

 

Beneath the Borealis Potlucky 3-4-19 Alaskan sunset

Sunset date with a girlfriend, tea toasting to you.

Beneath the Borealis, Triple R, 2-18-19, DIY recycling tips

The Triple R

Growing up, the three R’s were a mainstay in my house.

Pretty much.

Recycle, Reduce, Reuse (though for this post the last two will be switched in order).

We Recycled without pause, hauling our goodies to the Recycling Center on weekends and returning with cold hard cash (which usually was only a few dollars but to a kiddo seemed a beyond lucrative exchange for doing something like recycling. I mean, where else would it go? The trash?) I don’t even think I understood that recycling could go in the trash, as if its sheer recycling potential would protect it like a forcefield from the landfill.

We Reused in the form of yogurt containers for leftovers and plastic grocery bags as our small trashcan liners. I truly think everyone I knew growing up had Nancy’s plain yogurt plastic containers in their cupboards and drawers in lieu of actual Tupperware.

And we Reduced…a bit.

I’d say that last R got rolled in with the others, checked off by association like 20-year-olds trying to get into a bar by surrounding themselves with older friends. Legal by association. Right?

I wouldn’t say we were gluttons by any means, and the excess was probably less on my parents’ parts and more on mine. Let’s just say my Dad wrote a song about me titled “More Daddy, More” which basically just highlighted all the things I consistently asked him for from a horse (obviously) to smaller things like this really cool plastic wallet my 6-year old self just couldn’t be without to more ice cream, more headbands…more.

 

Beneath the Borealis, Triple R, 2-18-19, DIY

These days it’s more food-focused than headband headstrong.

 

So, the two R’s held strong and the last one tagged along like the third wheel it was.

Over the years, my relationship with The Triple R’s has held steadfast but I wouldn’t say it necessarily grew any wiser. After moving out of the country, it became even easier to fulfill my triple R duties and in some way that distanced me from them.

Still, I ticked off the Triple R checklist or at least most of it. On Sunday nights, out the first R would go. I’d watch the recycling fall away with little more than a few beeping backups down our long hill. The second R came in the form of reused wrapping paper and second-hand shopping and the third R stared me down as I bought things I didn’t always need.

Moving here, I gained a whole other appreciation for those familiar R’s as their execution got much harder.

Sort of.

Unlike the happy to see me Recycling Centers of my childhood, there was no payoff waiting for me in Anchorage, and sometimes there was even a charge. There certainly wasn’t a trash service waiting to back down my 60-mile driveway.

 

Beneath the Borealis, Triple R, 2-18-19, DIY trash

Year one’s recycling haul…I’d say it’d been a while…

 

The ease of the first R had significantly changed but hey, I’d grown up driving an hour round trip to recycling, a few pesky extra (8) hours weren’t going to stop me! So, we spend the months between Town trips storing and sorting our recyclables. Placing them into their respective collections of 1’s, 2’s, 5’s, aluminum, tin and glass and then eventually making the 16-hour round trip to take them to their recycling heaven.

Despite the sticky mess the sorting game makes, I have to say, I like the process of reliving our consumption. A really good bottle of wine will pop up its empty top and remind me of a great evening or a plastic pill bottle from a round of antibiotics will remind me to be grateful for our health.

The second R (and yes, I know I’m still saying these out of order) has, due to locale, truly come into its own. Reuse. I’ve said it once and I’ll keep saying it: scarcity and need is my personal key to creativity. When living in a city, where the touch of a button or the press of a pedal gets me what I want or where I want to go, need is such a relative thing. If I ran out of all-purpose cleaner, I’d just go and buy more. Here, I remember the first time I ran out of cleaner. As the spray bottle wheezed its last spritz on this still bachelor pad, I realized that I hadn’t stocked up. I also realized that I had never thought of what exactly was in an all-purpose cleaner. I also knew this bachelor pad wasn’t near clean. And so, as the store was 8-hours away, I did a little research instead of a little drive and realized I already had everything I needed: oranges and vinegar. Well, orange peels and vinegar, to be more precise. With a little research, I realized that:

  1. Cleaners don’t have to be made of harsh chemicals
  2. I could make my own natural products

So I did and boy oh boy were they not kidding when they said all-purpose. This stuff can clean everything from windows (heck, it even could clean our sapped up, smoked out, sooty fireplace glass) to our wooden shelves and our stovetop.

 

Beneath the Borealis, Triple R, 2-18-19, DIY Cleaning tips

Squeaky clean top, soot-filled bottom.

 

My second R fire was relit by scarcity. Suddenly, everything around me sparked my attention. How could I best use that again or repurpose it to become something new? The Chief used my finished face lotion containers to hold nails and screws. I used old cans to hold my pencils and flowers and old egg cartons to start my seeds in the Spring. Before something went the route of bye-bye via the trash or the recycling, we took a good look at it to see if it could breathe life anew.

 

Beneath the Borealis, Triple R, 2-18-19, DIY gardening

They also make really great ice cube trays. Thanks, M!

 

And just like that, the third R peeked her head around the corner and smiled at me. She’d been there all along, walking hand in hand with the other R’s. Before, I would have bought something to organize our tools, to hold my pencils, to grow my seeds. I would have brought in more to address a need instead of looking at what I already had but just by doing the opposite, just by not having easy access to an “easier” way, I found that the third R had been right there. By reusing I was reducing.

 

Beneath the Borealis, Triple R, 2-18-19, DIY recycling tips

Original inspiration

 

Hallelujah!

That third R was sneakier than I thought.

So, we wash and re-use our Ziploc bags and turn old shirts into rags. We wear and hand down hand-me-down clothing and use junk mail and cardboard boxes for firestarter in fires composed of dead trees we’ve harvested for firewood.

 

Beneath the Borealis, Triple R, 2-18-19, DIY lumberjack

Stihl in love with you.

 

And still, there’s certainly a long way to go.

Despite the presence of our rule to take something out of the house to donate every time we bring something in we don’t always follow it. We still buy things we don’t need (ok, but try a milk steamer and tell me it doesn’t drastically improve your life. Not joking). We still have trash. We still have a footprint.

Yet we try, we aim, we sometimes fail, to make those three R’s proud.

Thank you, Mom and Dad for teaching me the three R’s like they were law and thank you Alaska for teaching me via the lessons of scarcity, just how to abide by that law…most of the time.

 

P.S. You didn’t think I was just going to tout an amazing recipe and not share, did you?

 

ALL PURPOSE CITRUS CLEANER

Ingredients:

Orange peels (you can use any citrus you like, I just love the smell of oranges)

White vinegar

Directions:

Peel your favorite citrus (this is especially helpful if you bought in bulk and now find your citrusy friends starting to fade. Peel them all and either juice them and freeze into ice cubes or freeze them whole to use later) and place the peels into a jar. I use a one-quart mason jar.

 

Beneath the Borealis, Triple R, 2-18-19, DIY all purpose cleaner

Whole oranges to freeze and ice cubes made of lemon juice plus the cleaner in progress behind.

 

Pack the peels in tightly but don’t give yourself carpal tunnel over it. Just a cozy bunch of peels packed purposefully.

Pour the vinegar over the peels, filling the jar until all of the peels are submerged.

Put a lid on it!

You’re pretty much done. Shake the jar every couple of days and within two weeks, this puppy is ready to go. You can remove the peels at this time or keep them going but they get a little mushy gooshy so it’s best to remove them and strain the liquid. Again, if you don’t, the sky will not fall. I’ve left them many times out of laziness or forgetfulness and the concoction turns out great but just a little grainier.

Enjoy!

Use this for glass, countertops, etc. As with anything, do a small test spot first if you feel this might not work on something but I have yet to be disappointed.

You can do this process continually by simply putting peels into a jar as you get them and adding more vinegar as you get more peels. Or, you can do it all at once. I typically have a couple of jars going at once and will pass them along to share the citrusy bounty with friends.

Enjoy!

Please let me know how your citrus goodness goes and feel free to share any of your triple R tips!

With love,

from Alaska.

Beneath the Borealis - Do the Hustle - 2:11:19 - Shopping in Alaska

Do the Hustle

(The moment this title, “Do the Hustle”, came to me, I’ve been singing the tune of the classic “Do the Hustle”. Wanna sing along? Do it, do the Hustle).

Here, the Hustle (Alaskan name: The Shuffle Hustle) is a dance even those with two left feet know well. In our cabin, from the moment we return home to the next time we leave to resupply, the floor of this cabin looks like a jumble of Arthur Murray dance diagrams. You see, the dance is always changing.

The First Dance: The Big Haul

Shopping.

 

Beneath the Borealis - Do the Hustle - 2:11:19 - Shopping in Alaska

Heaven…unless I’m in a hurry.

 

Returning from Town is a trip of endless possibilities and outcomes but in most cases, especially in the Winter, no matter how early our start, we tend to return in the dark and the cold. Headlamps light our way as our sleepy though psyched selves haul in everything that can’t freeze. And what might that be? More than I realized. Everything from bottles of wine to bags of produce and even some sauces (I’ve even had vinegar explode). What can freeze? More than I originally realized as well: bananas, peel on and all, kale (though be prepared for tiny kale pieces and spread about your freezer in a sort of healthy confetti), cheese, tortillas, guacamole even.

If you’re smart, which occasionally we are, your totes (in which you haul your Town booty) is organized by freezables and non-freezables. Yet often, your Town bounty overfloweth and cannot be contained by totes alone. You return home and despite your best Tetris efforts, the back of your truck might look like this:

 

Beneath the Borealis - Do the Hustle - 2:11:19 - Tiny House Alaska

Let the panic ensue.

 

You open the back door slowly to reveal a crumbling mountain of goodness which, despite your caution, often tumbles out towards you, out of the truck and into the snow.

As you know by now, a Town trip is basically a continual reconfiguration of things, a process of stacking and re-stacking, packing and re-packing. Messes made, messes cleaned, messes eventually just lived with for another hour or two. But now, that you’re home the process can stop, right?

Wrong.

The packing and re-packing of Home though at least comes with a theme song: Do the Hustle.

Finally, endless trips up and down the Ramp of Doom and you have finished. The anticipated (read: idealized, unrealistic) 8-hour trip turned 12-hour (duh) trip due to extra stops and groceries and packing and re-packing and finally unpacking at home is now complete.

 

 

*Year one’s haul on the left (Kitchen: two-burner camp stove, chest freezer, desk, no oven, no room). The evolution on the right (stove, refrigerator, lots and lots of fresh veggies, still not a lot of room but better utilized).

 

The Hustle, however, has just begun. Your first dance steps are tracked upon the floor where countless others will follow.

The Second Dance: The Shuffle Hustle

You’ve brought the first wave in, the non-freezables and you’ve secured them in their respective safety zones…for now.

 

Beneath the Borealis - Do the Hustle - 2:11:19 - Tiny House Alaska Organization DIY

After. Shelves, water buckets, and fridge all full.

 

You see, everything has its place here until it doesn’t.

Since we don’t have a pantry or a fridge large enough to store all of our goods, our house becomes our perma-pantry and perma-refrigerator where the Shuffle Hustle begins (cue the music please). Different corners of the house serve different purposes at different temperatures so the cold corner from one night where the low was 10 degrees Fahrenheit turns to the frozen corner the next night when the temp drops to -10 degrees Fahrenheit. Which means, that if the cold corner had delicates (lettuce especially), it’s time to get those precious dainties on the move. Do the Shuffle Hustle to find a new home…for now.

Our goodies storage, in order to make up for a small pantry and even smaller fridge,  consists of the hodge-podge following:

 

 

4 totes on the floor stuffed underneath a counter’s shelf

1 mini fridge/freezer combo

1 wall pantry measuring about 2 cans deep, 3 ft. wide and 7 ft. tall (shower hardware at the ready)

 

Beneath the Borealis - Do the Hustle - 2:11:19 - Tiny House Alaska Pantry Organization

Oh, the meals into which you’ll go!

 

3 large totes, 5 mini organizers in the loft upstairs (aka our bedroom)

Multiple cold to potentially frozen corners of the house

1-2 (weather permitting, meaning, it stays below freezing) totes outside.

 

Do the Hustle.

The initial landing places of most things will inevitably change as the goodies get eaten and the rest of the truck gets unloaded. From one day to the next, the fridge can go from chock full to half empty and then right back to filled to the brim again. As one thing moves or proves hearty enough to shift, another, perhaps more delicate flower takes its place.

But this doesn’t just happen with produce. The beans and canned good and frozen fun, they too get in on the dancing.

Let me set the scene of a typical evening:

The dinner of choice: Pasta with Pesto, Shrimp, Peas and Carrot Ribbons

The Dance: Shuffle Hustle (Techno Remix)

As the water comes to a boil, The Chief might ask me: “Babe, do you know where the pasta is?” I might say “Totes!” and point him towards the milk crate in which we store “grab-ables”, AKA, the high touch items like pasta, tuna, canned tomatoes, chocolate (when we have it) and snacks. Needless to say, this is my favorite spot of the house. But alas, The Chief replies the dreaded response: “Nope”.

The dance begins, the music gets louder. Up I head into our Loft where I try to remember the clues I left myself as to where everything was last year. I know both totes are freezable (or at least hope I know that otherwise, I’m likely about to discover a mess). I know one tote is mainly freezable (fingers crossed) condiments and canned goods while the other tote is filled with grain-type goodies: pastas and noodles of all varieties and some coffee to top it off. Which one? Does it really matter? Just open them both, right? Well, the thing is, it’s not just the opening of a tote, it’s the dance, the constant moving of one thing to gain access to another. In this case, it’s the moving of one large tote or five smaller totes off the food totes held captive beneath them. I close the hatch to prevent a spill. I choose the one with the one large (and I’d forgotten, very heavy) tote atop it.

Wrong.

I proceed to move the heavy tote back and unearth the other. With everything finally up and off of the tote, the true tote of my desire is now exposed. Pasta! I grab a couple of bags in order to stave off having to do this particular Shuffle for a while and make a mental note of the contents of both totes to speed my next foray into the “pantry” as I put everything back in order.

Downstairs I head. This dance is almost over, there’s dinner to be had. Until…

We need the shrimp and the peas. Out The Chief goes to dive headfirst into the frosty haven that is our new freezer. Despite our best efforts to catalog just what lies beneath, still, disorder sneaks her swift paws into our frozen bliss. Finally, he finds the shrimpy pals and heads in. Onions and garlic going, I move to toss in the shrimp and ask for the peas for the shrimp’s cooking company.

“Shoot!”

Out again The Chief heads, this time to the frozen totes near the house (which only the week before had to be completely emptied, goodies stored elsewhere, due to a three-day stretch of warm, sorry “warm” weather. 33 degrees Fahrenheit I don’t think should be so nonchalantly labeled as warm. But here, it is as it’s simply too warm to keep a frozen handle on things). The peas smile up at The Chief as he collects them and delivers them to his bride to be. Yet, just as soon as he starts to take off his boots, I toss them back his way, realizing that due to our recent lemon juice ice cube making marathon (due to lemons who wanted to go bad within a week of purchase. What gives?!) our inside mini-freezer can’t spare the room. Again out he goes to put them back into their frozen holdings.

The Chief finally un-boots and prepares a movie for us as I put the finishing touches on dinner. Carrot ribbons spun, it’s finally time. The pasta is twirled into bowls, the shrimp and peas plop atop and the pesto…

The pesto.

I go to the cold northern corner of the house, a wonderfully consistent corner for cold-hearty condiments and champagne alike.

The pesto is not with its chilly friends. The champagne looks up at me with a shrug.

The pesto, we realize, we forgot to replace (by bringing a new one in from the freezer) when we finished it the last time we made our pesto shrimp feast and now, we are about two hours too late.

This time, figuring this evening had tortured The Chief enough,  I head out to the freezer to do the deep dive to find the pesto and find it I do, but not until I’ve dove to the depths. Oh joy! Chickens and vegetables and frozen fruit get tucked back in again and I bring my pesto prize proudly into the house ten minutes later to the presence of now cooling pasta. Back everything goes, into the pot as I fight to scoop the frozen pesto onto the awaiting pesto pasta dinner.  A little warmer and much more of a pesto pasta than before, the meal goes back into the bowls, preparing for their crowning glory: carrot ribbons. They prance atop the highly anticipated twenty step dinner and as I head into the living room/dining room, I reflect on what seems ages ago when I ventured into the loft to start this pesto pasta process.

Dinner, my friends, is served.

 

Beneath the Borealis - Do the Hustle - 2:11:19 - Tiny House Living Alaska Champagne for Everyone

I felt approximately this happy. Champagne for everyone!

 

The final dance of the night is the cleanup step. Thankfully, there’s room in the cold corner next to the champagne for her newest pesto friend and room in the tote under the open cabinets to keep the leftovers. Yet, tonight it is cold, in the near -30 Fahrenheit range and so, in order to prevent the pasta from freezing (the texture of brown rice pasta once frozen is lacking, to say the least) I take one of my puffy jackets and wrap it up like the present it is. A present into which a lot of work and a whole lot of Shuffle Hustle dance steps went.

The music dies down.

And just like that, just as you get comfortable with your jacket wrapped leftovers and your pesto placed just right. Just when everything has its place and your tiny world is contained enough that you don’t feel overwhelmed by it all, a friend calls…and asks if you need anything from Town.

Let the tumbling crumbling mountain of goodies dance begin again.

The things we do for love (of food).

Do the Hustle.

 

With love,

From Alaska

 

Beneath the Borealis - Do the Hustle - 2:11:19 - Backcountry Alaska

 

Beneath the Borealis - Snowtime Stories - 2-4-19 Tracks

Snowtime Stories

People always wonder at me how it is I stay entertained in this blank canvas. Without the bustle of business, the tremor of transactions, nary a Starbucks in sight, how does one fill the void left by the sudden loss of the familiar hustle of humans?

Yet, without the clamor of a consistent chorus, the songs are still there. They simply play a different tune.

The quiet here opens up the possibilities to hear the faintest stories.

A vole scampering by on my way to the woodshed, diving out of my footstep into a snowy cave below.

A chickadee, grateful for our (or at least our seed’s) return.

And still, sometimes, the loudest song stories are those which require you to see, not hear.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis - Snowtime Stories - 2-4-19 Tracks

Lou and I deciphering human tracks, 2016

 

 

A little over a week ago, while on a mid-day ski to the River, I happened upon a story I’d only ever been told, one I’d never read myself: the story of the Wolf.

You see, vole tracks, with their heart-shaped happiness dart about with the Arctic Hare in the arsenal of tracks I hold in my mind. Bear and moose too make easily identifiable imprints (though, much to my chagrin, I mistook a hare for a moose my first Winter. “Moose have been all over the yard!” I exclaimed as we jumped out of the truck that first night of my first Winter, so proud to identify it, incorrectly, first. The Chief gently suggested a bunny might be the more likely culprit, considering the print’s depth. I love that guy).

 

 

Beneath the Borealis - Snowtime Stories - 2-4-19 Bear tracks

Summer bear track bounty

 

 

Yet the wolf, I’ve always been second on the scene to identify. Mostly because every time I’ve seen the tracks I’ve been in the company of my best guy friend who is a tracker extraordinaire. The day I beat him to identify a wolf track, I will probably pass out from giving myself too many high-fives.

The odds of identification were stacked in my being second to notice them for years until this year when, suddenly, I stopped in my tracks to notice…tracks.

And not just any track, a track that stuck out all its own.

This time of year, the neighborhood can get quite quiet (and truth be told, my tracking pal was out of the area when I spotted this find so I don’t think I’ll pass out from high-fives just yet) and this year is no exception. The only dogs in the area on the day of the tracks were tracks I knew. Full grown pups who leave what seems like a big print.

This was something entirely different.

As I stopped to take a picture, The Chief rounded the corner on the snowmachine on his way to Mail, his machine threatening to sweep away all the clues that lie ahead. I flagged him down and pointed, certain enough to be the one to say it first (à la the bunny tracks of that first Winter) yet still a little uncertain in my qualification:

“Wolf tracks.”

He nodded and gave The Chief “Yep” and then mentioned that our neighbors too had just told him that they too had wolfy suspicions.

Bingo! Bunny mishap no more. My confidence was on-track (sorry, that one was too much but I couldn’t help myself).

I took a picture, using my glove as a reference point like a pulled splinter next to a penny, steered The Chief to the right of the tracks and kissed him “adieu” as he smiled a mischievous smile at me, knowing I’d be tracking the Wolf the rest of my woodsy wanderings.

 

 

 

 

Wolf of the left, Dog on the right. Same glove.

After my first foray into following tracks, one might think me a bit of a fool to follow in the footsteps of a furry non-friend (I mean, we weren’t friends yet), but I had read the first sentence and I was hooked on the story. Plus, it was mid-day and the wolf was probably long gone by now ((two things I wasn’t totally certain of at the time but have, after some research, verified. Wolves are indeed night-time prowlers and they move on through quite quickly minus the presence of an unearthed invitation to stay and thankfully, I didn’t think it had found one (trash, etc.)).

I followed the tracks along the trail that I myself meander each day, honored to walk in the prints they had lain the night before. That much I knew, these were fresh. The snow here sets out like a blank page upon which is written the stories of a secret world. We may often miss the first showing, but at least we get to read about it the next day.

But wait…

I thought about the night before.

I too had been on the River Trail.

At nightfall.

 

 

beneath-the-borealis-snowtime-stories-2-4-19-sunset-ski.jpg

Fire sky sunset

 

 

A non-stop day at work had left me sequestered inside and so, despite the falling of dusk, I decided to take a quick ski.

Strangely enough, despite how distracting that ski had been (I had actually been on the phone with a girlfriend had some verrrrrrrrrrrrrrry good news) I had kept stopping to look over my shoulder.

I just felt like I wasn’t quite alone.

Perhaps I wasn’t.

The tracks headed down to the River and led right out onto the River’s frozen surface, which was now shattered by the breaking of Hidden Lake (a glacial lake, which normally breaks in the Summer but for the last four Winters has also broken in the Winter). The path back was no longer but never you mind because the backtracking was not the goal of this endeavor.

 

Beneath the Borealis - Snowtime Stories - 2-4-19 River Crossing

River crossing

 

The tracks continued…

Back to our neighborhood.

I followed the storied imprints towards home until our trails divided and I tucked myself into homeways while the Wolf continued on. As we parted ways I dreamt up a tale of the wolf’s passing through, its certainty in its steps, confident and steadfast.

From then on, I visited the tracks every day to see if I could unearth further clues. I visited them in better lights of day and photographed them, I found scat and photographed that too (because I am a weirdo and because it’s a clue!). Every day I returned until one day, I found a new clue: more tracks.

I quickly checked with our neighbors to make sure they hadn’t ventured in this direction lately (even though I knew the tracks were too large to attribute to any pup I knew).

They hadn’t.

A return visit.

 

Beneath the Borealis - Snowtime Stories - 2-4-19 Wolf tracks

Well hello again.

 

 

Perhaps the Wolf had found something of interest in our neighborhood? When I consulted the interesting options, the neighborhood dogs as a snack were at the top of the list. We collectively kept a closer eye on the pups who roam about laissez-faire here from cabin to cabin visiting and exploring on their own free time.

Still, the tracks never led directly up to our houses and other than natural instincts, the Wolf didn’t tell me of ominous plans.

I visited the tracks every day again, looking for old clues and waiting for new ones.

And then, just like that, the book was closed. It started to snow, washing the tracks away, tucking them beneath the layers of stories already told and those still to come.

That’s the thing: out here, the story whispers at you to listen, to follow, to imagine and just as soon, before you know it, that whispered invitation is gone.

I guess that is the long answer to a short question of how I stay entertained. I like the stories this place tells and the urgency with which they arrive and depart. The scarcity makes each story louder, the closeness makes each one more personal.

Today, as I write, the snow falls thick again hiding all the tales since its last frosted ancestors fell, leaving a blank slate for stories anew, waiting to be explored.

With love (via heart-shaped vole prints),

 

from Alaska

 

Beneath the Borealis - Snowtime Stories - 2-4-19 Animal Tracks of Alaska

 

 

beneath the borealis - work in the woods -1-28-19 graduation

Work in the Woods

Long ago, before Alaska, before my life turned topsy-turvy into the wonderful woodsy wilderness it is today, I wanted to work in an office.

Yep, you read that right.

At the time, I was in my early twenties, recently graduated from UC Berkeley and waitressing at a local restaurant and feeling that every day I was falling farther and farther behind my cohort. You see, I had gone into Berkeley thinking I’d come out well on my way to becoming a world-renowned Sociology professor. However, I quickly realized during the first class of my first semester that perhaps the research I’d done around my future job (none) had been lacking, at best. Apparently, one was suggested to budget 10 years for a Ph.D. in Sociology.

“If I’m not able to perform surgery after spending 10 more years in school,” I thought to myself, “then no, gracias.”

I couldn’t believe it. Yet, there I was, knee-deep in my first semester headed towards my “job”, bills to pay stacking up, enmeshed in a subject that  I was interested in yet held no clearly laid out professional path.

Nice work!

Gulp.

I worked my way through the next 3 semesters and graduated with not a clue of what to do for a career.

 

beneath the borealis - work in the woods -1-28-19 graduation

Who knows?!

 

And so, when a dear friend who too had battled her way through Berkeley asked if I wanted a job with her at a local restaurant, I said “Yes”.

Thank goodness.

That job taught me about a sense of urgency, it taught me never to judge a book by its cover and perhaps not even by the first chapter. It brought me into a family of friends who all helped one another and it taught me to multitask and organize my workflow in the face of a restaurant full of patrons, all wanting you. I truly think waiting tables should be a mandatory occupation for everyone. It changes the way you see the world.

 

beneath the borealis - work in the woods -1-28-19 waitressing

Dress up day at work. Love you, dear.

 

Still, I felt the breath of Berkeley hot on my back in the form of my own pressure and, of course, in the form of all too nosy patrons.

“You went to Berkeley? And you’re my waitress?!”

Yes, doll, your first statement is true but I’m not yours.

(*Sidenote: Somehow, in all of this, I seemed to have forgotten the lessons I learned from the year I lived in Italy where waiting tables is a career. Some of my best friends have made it a wonderful career. Days free, cash tips, thinking on your toes, every day a different day, shift drink? Hello! Plus, what could be a more noble profession than bringing nourishment and warmth and happiness to those around you? I have a lot of respect for those who can do that on the daily. Love to you all).

I felt pressure from the world and pressure from myself and as my cohort found their respective posts in the work world, I felt as if I was falling behind.

I needed a new job.

An office job.

Growing up, I had spent hours on end with my Dad in his office building. The cubicles with their padded walls with pins stuck into them holding up pictures of family and drawings from kiddos seemed so cool to me. Even cooler was my Dad’s office. A room all his own, shut off from the bustle and even a printer all his own to boot. He wore suits every day with ties I helped match and pockets that held a wallet with business cards. I thought it was the cat’s meow, the wolf’s howl.

I had applied at countless jobs for years for marketing, research, think tanks, anything! So, when I was offered a job one night from a table I was waiting on I felt that my answer had come. They loved me. They were so excited I was considering their offer. A few weeks later, I left my post and my family of friends at the restaurant and promised to return for Happy Hours and “hellos”.

I was a Happy Hour person now.

9-5? Sign me up.

Weekends off?

Holidays too?

Count me in, boogaloo!

I was a businesswoman, a woman in heels, a woman with a cubicle all her own with business cards and a phone line and a corporate email. I had meetings and off-site visits and goals to meet.

I had arrived.

 

beneath the borealis - work in the woods -1-28-19 - office life

My view, with a little love from Miss E.

 

Right?

A few months in, red-lipped smile fading, heels starting to hurt (despite their absolutely fabulous cheetah print), cubicle closing in on me slowly, my co-worker said to me: “Sweetie, you are a flower, but you are wilting here.”

She was right.

And so, almost as quickly as I had arrived, I found myself departing.

Thankfully, at that time, the women’s gym I had been pulling doubles with teaching classes in the evenings after my 9-5 needed more of me and so I moved into my next career of a personal trainer and eventually the role of a business owner when my partner and I opened our own gym.

 

And then, I gave it all up.

 

My partner bought me out of our gym. I quit the waitressing side job I had needed to supplement the bills and I left a relationship of 7 years.

It’s funny looking back how we slowly align things for ourselves, isn’t it? The whole process of my subconscious slowly freeing me of my responsibilities took close to a year. The untangling of the ties that bound me and the final cutting of the last thread was not something I knew I needed to do, not consciously at least. And in that final cutting of ties, I awoke.

And I was free.

Free enough to go full circle.

Back to waitressing.

My second Summer, I was still working for the Food Truck I’d started at my first Summer and also the Restaurant. Waitressing is a skill I’m beyond grateful for that made my jump to Alaska possible.

 

beneath the borealis - work in the woods -1-28-19 food trucks of alaska

Big Red getting all set-up.

 

Still, as an extroverted introvert, it takes a toll on me. I don’t always recharge by talking to people the way true extroverts do. I found myself rushing home after work just to be alone and I let myself realize for the first time that it was ok if this wasn’t for me. I wasn’t one of those people who could feel replenished by serving. It drained me. But what else was I good at? What was there to do? I started to think about other options. Could I have a career in the woods? Did I want one?

The Chief and I brainstormed about ways to make money year-round instead of seasonally. How could we stay home and still make money when all of the businesses left and it was too cold for construction? I told myself that by the next Summer I’d be working at least part-time out of the restaurant business. But where and how I didn’t know.

Having started the blog I was back to my writing roots. I had helped a few friends with wording on their websites, marketing, editing, etc. So, that second Summer when a local non-profit asked me to donate to their silent auction, I realized that writing was my skill and time was what I could donate.

And so I did, and then I promptly forgot about it.

A few months later, I got a call. It was from the auction winner, a CEO in Seattle who had come to our town for a backpacking trip at the time of the auction. He wanted to set-up a time for me to edit his website for a new business he was launching.

I was in California at the time, transitioning back to AK for my second Winter and I saw the requirement as a mild imposition but something I had agreed to nonetheless.

The three hours I had donated turned into four, then five as I worked my way through the texts, listing my recommended changes. I submitted them and brushed my hands together as if to clap off the dust of computer work well done.

That was the end of that.

Still searching for a career.

Or so I thought.

The edits, apparently, were a hit and the auction winner asked if I had any interest in picking up a few hours a week to help with editing and what not.

Of course!

Right?

At the same time that my heart lurched forward towards the pint-sized pinch of stability this offered, it also jumped back.

Wasn’t this what I was getting away from? I had found happiness in a simple life and now I was going to muck it up by bringing my old life into my new life? Was I to be a wilting flower or a wild rose, surviving through Winter with my Summer stores?

I decided to see where it led.

 

beneath the borealis - work in the woods -1-28-19 digital nomad

All the way to Ecuador.

 

Two years later, after slow times and busy times, I have become the head of Market Research for this company. A company far away with a boss and co-workers I’ve never met face to face yet talk to every day.

It’s a strange dichotomy to live amongst the trees and type away. To conduct business meetings in the dark of a quiet Winter morning, stationed close by the woodstove to fend off the cold with a laptop instead of a book in hand. To have my day planned in advance with meetings and deadlines instead of being open to the whims of what have you.

A strange full circle it is.

It’s taken The Chief and I a moment this Winter to get used to it again. In California, everyone is busy, busy, busy. It’s often the first thing we hear. “How are you?” “Busy.” So my new position faded into the buzzing about.

 

beneath the borealis - work in the woods -1-28-19 work from home sunset

The work from home sunset.

 

Here though, in Alaska, that buzzing is awfully loud. And so, these last few weeks, we’ve begun to adapt to my first full-time working Winter. Mornings start early, sometimes at 5 am (the only downfall to Alaska being far to the left in the timezone scheme of things. 5 am here is 9 am EST. Ouch) and work weeks can far extend the 40-hour average and spill into the weekends. Yet those work weeks are conducted in my own home, definitely not in heels with lunch breaks filled with cross-country skis (sometimes) or at least a home-cooked meal. It’s the oddest compromise I’ve ever been a part of (and I live with someone in less than 400 sq. feet) but it also makes a lot of sense.

I want a career.
I also want to live in the woods.

That’s who I am.

I love order and organization and planning. I can’t help it. I tried my first few years to just go with the flow, to have zero scheduled and to let myself ride on the whims of the weather alone. And I learned a lot about myself. Namely, that while I shouldn’t plan everything, I should plan some things. For me, it makes me value the time off I do have. It gives me structure. I love waking up early to a house to myself. Even if some of those pre-Chief waking hours are spent working, they are also filled with pre-work rituals that I might not do otherwise: stretching, journaling, reading. When time is more scarce, I tend to make better use of it.

Plus, even on the longest of weeks, I’m still working less than the life of constant doubles I worked in California. For almost ten years, I worked doubles most days of the week. Weekends always meant work, holidays too. It felt like it never ended.

 

beneath the borealis - work in the woods -1-28-19 adventure together

Like by going on a snowmachine ride and ski with my love and our neighbors.

 

I went from so much responsibility in California that I felt I couldn’t budge to few responsibilities greater than feeding and warming myself in Alaska. Life went from buzzing busyness to absolute calm and now, to somewhere in between. And this somewhere in between won’t last forever either. For now, it’s another addition to the list of dichotomies this life holds. Another lesson in learning who I am, how I thrive and how to shed the ideas that we and society (both in the woods and out) hold of how we should be.

Cheers to the whispers of the subconscious guiding us and to those whispers turning to shouts when we decide not to listen. Here’s to the utter serendipity of a businessman in small-town Alaska and a girl looking for a career in the woods. Here’s to whatever comes next, but to never again wilting.

May you be blooming.

With love,

from Alaska.

 

beneath the borealis - work in the woods -1-28-19 follow your own path

Isn’t she beautiful?

Beneath the Borealis A Straddling Heart Heads Alaskaways Home Polar Bear Alpaca

A Straddling Heart Heads Alaskaways Home

We’ve arrived.

After two weeks of shuffling and switching between sleeping spots, packing and unpacking and repacking again, we’ve arrived home.

Home.

From the moment we left California, everything was different (other than shipping a case of wine for free, that was the same. Thank you STS + Alaska Airlines).

 

 

Beneath the Borealis A Straddling Heart Heads Alaskaways Home CA view to AK.jpg

The goodbye glow.

 

 

 

For the first time, we returned to Alaska saying “Yes”.

For the first time, we returned with clear work plans for the Spring and Summer months.

For the first time, we traveled in our own truck with a working heater.

For the first time, we returned in late Winter.

For the first time, we returned just us two.

 

Once on the Alaska side of things, we were smoothly skating along.

Pre-Alaska wasn’t as easy. Our last day went a little like this: high stress, filled with rain, a broken car defroster + windows that won’t roll down = no visibility, locked out of our storage unit where ALL of The Chief’s new tools that he needs for the season were stored, soaked in rain trying to get in and then running my face into my car window in an effort to jump quickly inside, resulting in a sweet little shiner.

There were a few too many last-minute chores and odds and ends but, in the end, the skies cleared and we sat at the kitchen table, my Brother, my Nephew (the fearless, toothless wonder), my Mom, The Chief and I eating tuna salad and laughing it off. It was good and hard to leave. My heart straddles the states with neither part taking or leaving more. It’s good to arrive and hard to leave each time, each place.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis A Straddling Heart Heads Alaskaways Home Fresh Squeezed Lemonade

The simple joys of California living: making fresh squeezed blood orange lemonade in March.

 

 

But leave we did in the smoothest of fashions and arrived just the same. We were back to our well-oiled machine Alaskan selves.

I wait for luggage, you pick up the car (already running and warm inside. Pure luxury).

You drive the icy streets, I navigate.

We arrived at The Musher & Hula’s Anchorage abode around 2 am, you know, the normal hour for guests and immediately, I felt Alaska sinking in. After being gone for so long, I was missing that connection.

The smooth continued on into the next day when we gazed upon the two lists I’d made:

 

 

Beneath the Borealis A Straddling Heart Heads Alaskaways Home Blood Orange Lemonade

List magic. The Chief is in the background pondering my superhuman abilities…

 

 

One listing everything we had at home.

Another, listing everything we needed.

The Chief congratulated himself on being genius enough to have caught such a genius fiancée.

Arriving at 2 am and leaving one day later sounded ambitious, but as we floated through our chores 12 hours later, we became giddy with the reality that we were indeed heading home tomorrow.

 

 

 

Beneath the Borealis A Straddling Heart Heads Alaskaways Home Costco.jpg

Just one basket!

 

 

 

After dinner at R&J’s with even more Alaskan friends, we were getting more and more excited to head home.

And, an early rise and a blood draw later (we had to at least throw in some medical issues) and we were off.

 

 

 

Beneath the Borealis A Straddling Heart Heads Alaskaways Home Alaskan Men.jpg

My moon, my man.

 

 

We’d heard tales of The Road, 60 miles of ice covered in slush and so we steadied ourselves for a tough journey but 6 hours later, as we laid our first tracks, it still felt easy, breezy.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis A Straddling Heart Heads Alaskaways Home McCarthy Road

Easy, breezy because I wasn’t driving, that is.

 

 

After a few quick inhale moments (on my part, The Chief was relaxed, as always while driving in insane conditions) crossing through some tougher road glaciers, we were home. We arrived at our snowmachine, with the sled attached, at the end of our driveway, ready to haul our goods to an already heated house with working lights.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis A Straddling Heart Heads Alaskaways Home Snowman.jpg

Snow aliens.

 

 

It has never been easier.

Lordy, I love our friend family.

The hard part came in heart form when we awoke from our warm bed the morning after to the quiet. I quickly awoke, worried that I’d slept too long and Lou would be hungry. But, of course, Lou wasn’t there.

 

Just the quiet.

Just the two of us.

 

Through all of the beautiful, growing up life changes we’ve welcomed since we’ve left from and returned to Alaska, that jarring sadness still remains. It followed us through California to Ecuador and back, all in different forms, despite the thought that I might escape it. It’s smaller but it’s there.

Thankfully, so are our friends.

After a cry and a realization that we needed the house to fill up with more than just our own sounds, we heard a call. Just like that, our needs were met, as our neighbor (who had set our house up so cherry for us – which was no quite feet given the inch of solid ice under all the snow. That’s a lot of Ramp of Doom chipping…) hollered as he walked over. An hour later, another neighbor followed with his pooch and after him more and more of our family (canine and human) arrived until we found ourselves amongst half of the valley, at a bonfire in our backyard.

We’ve arrived.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis A Straddling Heart Heads Alaskaways Home Polar Bear Alpaca

My favorite spot. Patterns, much?

 

 

 

 

 

Home again, home again, different as it may be and same as it always was, joys and sadnesses set in balance by those we share this place with and are lucky enough to call our friend family. Thank you for making it easy, physically and emotionally, to snuggle in so sweetly again.

Welcome home.

Love,

Winter & Friends

 

 

 

 

Beneath the Borealis A Straddling Heart Heads Alaskaways Home True Romance.jpg

With love, The Scribe & The Chief

 

 

Beneath the Borealis The Last Day 02:26:18 Flowers of Ecuador

The Last Day

It’s belonged to others so far, others I’ve wished to join in the title, others I’ve felt sorry for that they bear its impending exit.

Yet today, it is ours and ours alone.

The last day.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis The Last Day 02:26:18 Hotel Canoa Ecuador

Amazing art everywhere you look.

 

 

Tomorrow, we depart from a place once foreign now familiar to a new unknown.

In our time here we’ve found an ever-changing yet ever-present family. We’ve fallen into a schedule and habits never before formed. Sunset surf? A trip into another world. Trivia Tuesday? One must defend one’s title.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis The Last Day 02:26:18 Surf Shak Canoa Ecuador

The ominous blank page.

 

Beneath the Borealis The Last Day 02:26:18 San Vicente Ecuador Coco Bongo Trivia Champs

Thursdays in Bahia.

 

 

We’ve cycled through schedules from early to bed, early to rise to late nights and lazy mornings and back around again and again. Even I, with my propensity for planning, have learned to let go and just be. A little bit.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis The Last Day 02:26:18 Workspace Work from Home

Plus, when the work kicks in, it could be worse. Work from wherever happiness.

 

 

This month in a place once unknown, now like home has been full of the ups and downs of, guess what? Life. Yet life in a very different setting.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis The Last Day 02:26:18 San Vicente Ecuador Coco Bongo Trivia.jpg

Amazing.

 

 

It’s funny how wherever you go, there you are. Pardon the inspirational kitten poster, next to its philosophical counterpart behind my High School Guidance Counselor’s desk but it does ring true, doesn’t it? That kitten sure is cute (“Hang in there” she says, whilst hanging from a branch) and the philosophy? True.

We may live a life on the opposite side of the Equator but just like us, it too arrived in this polar opposite of places. It’s been wonderful to watch a life develop in even the most drastically different of places.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis The Last Day 02:26:18 Flowers of Ecuador

Flowers in Winter make my heart sing.

 

 

A place where clothes are a necessity but only for social graces and even then, arriving in a bathing suit and flip-flops is sometimes accessible. In Alaska, clothes are our partners in survival. They serve to spare us in our fight with the cold. Here, clothes create as small a layer as is deemed decent between oneself and the heat. In Alaska we chase the sun all day, here we find moments of respite in shade and prepare for the sun’s might. In Alaska we fight to keep groceries from freezing on the 8-hour drive home, here we fear they’ll spoil or melt in a ten-minute walk. Here, we run to the water to cool off, in Alaska our submersion might kill us.

Yet in all of the opposites, there is a similarity, an Ecualaska or Alascuador or whatever you might come up with of similarities in these drastically different places and within that strange, unexpected similarity we’ve found our rhythm. We’ve found our life in a place so far from where it lies.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis The Last Day 02:26:18 Sundown Hotel Canoa Ecuador

Sunset in swimsuits? Not advisable in AK…

 

 

Now, we bid it adieu.

Today will be spent soaking up the last rays we can absorb, surfing at sunset (hopefully, since I decided to throw my back out in a triumphant sleeping matching with a too big pillow gone wrong yesterday) and toasting one last time with the family over a shared dinner. Or not. Maybe, it will be spent reading. Either way, I expect a Goodbye Sunburn (check).

Adios, Canoa. You’ve been lovely. You’ve been simultaneously otherworldly and completely the same, drastically different and as familiar as my middle name. We adore you and hope to see you again soon.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis The Last Day 02:26:18 Sundown Hotel Canoa Ecuador

I love you.

 

 

Alaska, we are one step closer to your embrace.

But until then, onward, to Baños, Ecuador!