my new job

It's -44 today in Fairbanks, and I'm home from work for the third time this winter, the second time this week, because of the cold. Our cutoff is -40, although it's an inexact policy. A few weeks ago, we left Fairbanks in the high -30s to work in Delta Junction, where the first morning it was at least -41 and possibly -56. (The thermometer where we were working had bottomed out.) Cords broke on power tools, motors blew out, a truck froze up. One guy's glasses snapped at the bridge. Humans, I came to think, are one of the few things that continue to function well in extreme cold.
For the last four and a half months, I've been working as a weatherization technician for Interior Weatherization Inc., a non-profit that does the state-sponsored weatherization work in Fairbanks and road-accessible areas of the Interior. Our goal is the low-hanging fruit -- not necessarily the simplest fixes, but the ones that will offer the greatest savings for the investment. We replace a lot of inefficient boilers (subcontractors, actually), seal cracks in ceilings and around windows, and add insulation in attics and crawlspaces. We install bathroom fans to control humidity and ensure a healthy exchange of air.
Sometimes it's hard to understand how our work will help. And often, swimming through a sea of cellulose to seal holes in an attic, I curse the builder for not doing it right the first time. But mostly it's rewarding work with clear benefits. In a trailer, you can feel the difference on your skin between a slatted, single-pane window and the triple-pane windows we install. On a frigid day, it just feels right to blow 20 inches of fiberglass into an attic insulated with a thin layer of sawdust and foam packing peanuts. "I've never got a gift like that in my life," said one man after we insulated his attic, rebuilt the skirting around his foundation, and changed some light bulbs.
It's an incredibly generous project of the state, designed to save Alaskans money by making cost-effective improvements they couldn't otherwise afford. I like to think it helps the environment, too, by reducing energy consumption.
For me, it's a big shift from reporting on state politics. Some tasks require real focus, learned skills, and even creativity. But often it's pretty mindless. Which is not always to say simple -- there's a physical skill involved in stapling cardboard baffles to rafters while lying on ceiling joists in a tight eave. I guess that's one of the things I like about it.
I like the guys I work with, and the jobs I can do completely and well. I like blowing an attic for an elderly woman on her birthday. And I like, when a child asks what I'm doing, answering earnestly, "I'm making your house warmer."

a table

Finally, I have a table! 

I live in a small cabin, where space is tight enough that furniture has to multitask. My timber-framing sawhorses serve as seats, stepladders, and makeshift tables. Anything permanent is pushed to the walls, leaving an open space of about eight by eight feet. I've valued that space immensely. I can swing, or stretch, or lay down a tarp and butcher a moose.

My equivalent of the kitchen counter -- the place I spend nearly all my time, and where a guest would choose to sit -- is the wood stove (not at, but next to). It's an OK set up, but I guess there comes a time when a guy wants a table. I designed at least six in Google SketchUp, some bulky and stout, others with Scandinavian curves, most completely deconstructable. The one I finally made is Shaker-inspired, simple and light, and built with leftover rough-cut 2x6s and finished 1x6s. The frame does not come apart. Now, with the third coat of polyurethane drying, I'm almost ready to like it. My eye still fixes on the corner of the top that's not quite flat, but I haven't wanted to burn or otherwise destroy it like some things I've made that I've later come to like. I mostly eyeballed the shape, with some thought given to usage. When the paint is dry, I'll get to see if it's too wide for cribbage or too narrow for dinner with friends. I think it will be perfect for reading the paper with breakfast.

For crafty readers, an explanation: building a table seems to be a lot about keeping the legs vertical (and hence square). Two or four legs, you either need to brace them near the bottom or make the attachment to the top as sturdy as possible, usually with skirting, as I think it's called. I did the latter, and did it the old-fashioned way, with morticed legs and tenons on the ends of the skirting. (Fred Meyer and Pier One tables use diagonal braces screwed into the skirting and legs.) I glued the joints and tapped in pegs made from an oak dowel. There's no hardware in the frame. 

I read somewhere that the top should be attached in the middle (assuming the laminated planks run lengthwise) to allow movement with drying. I tried to build tension into the tabletop by giving it a slight convex arc, hoping to make the edges tight as I pulled the center down -- and because a slightly rounded tabletop seemed better than a slightly sunken one. The idea might have been sound, but my execution was a little sloppy (nothing is quite planar in my cabin, let alone regularly convex) and I needed a few more screws to hold the top tight.

resurrection pass

Finally I made it to Anchorage for Thanksgiving! For years, Toby and Darcy have skied the 41 miles over Resurrection Pass on Thanksgiving weekend with good friends and a full holiday meal. This was my first time joining the tradition. Seven of us started out from Hope, three of us skied all the way across, two joined from Cooper Landing. The snow was sometimes thin, the downhills fast and scary. But the sun was out, the skiing was fast, and the food and company couldn't be beat.

snowgo

I'd been on a snowmachine exactly twice before I bought one this fall, on a whim, for $600. The first time was several years ago at Arctic Man, a Burning-Man-like gathering for slednecks in the middle of the Alaska Range. The event is centered around a race involving speed skiing and snowmachines, but basically people go to hang out, drink, and ride around on anything with an internal combustion engine. Tens of thousands of people camp out in a glacial valley without even a payphone in the summer. They ride snowmachines up a mountain to watch the race.
I went as a reporter with the News-Miner. The paper rented one snowmachine for me and John, the photographer, and since he had more experience, he drove. His response to any threat -- of bogging down in deep snow, mostly -- was to gun it. Knowing what I know now, his instinct or training was probably right, but at the time it seemed like a jerky ride. After tipping over repeatedly on overworn trails, I tried driving and promptly tipped us over, camera gear, notebooks and all. The thing I remember most was struggling to breathe with the air fouled by a thousand two-stroke engines. 
The second time was last winter, testing out my friend Mark's new-used Polaris. I took it up to 30 miles an hour, nervous as ruts in the snow tugged at the skis. Ian took it up to 60.
I still consider snowmachines kind of stupid, at least for recreation. Moving under your own power is more rewarding, and while it won't get you as far, certainly allows for a deeper appreciation of the landscape, without any of the smoke and noise. "I'm not usually like this!" I wanted to tell the one hiker we passed on the trail this weekend in the White Mountains. (Mark and Ian and I went about 25 miles on Saturday, out on a mixed-use trail from Wickersham Dome until the ruts and tussocks and slush made the riding less fun.)
So why do it? I guess to experience something that's such a big part of Alaska life, used for hunting, trapping, and travel. To open the door for new explorations, or at least gain the skills to make them possible. 
And, I'll admit, it's pretty darn fun.

tracks

Can you see them?

granite tors

I hiked the Granite Tors trail again yesterday. When I hiked/ran it five years ago, it was a dramatic mix of drizzle and sun. Yesterday was so sunny and warm I didn't carry a rain jacket. The blueberries are just about ripe, the salmonberries mostly mush, which is to say perfect. There were lots of hikers, a mother and young bull moose, and lots of bear sign on the trail (they're eating blueberries, too). I couldn't help but run the last few miles on weathered grey boardwalks that gave with each step.

chitina

I went to Chitina this weekend with some friends. We knew the fishing might not be good -- the dipnetting hotline said as much -- but we figured we might catch it before it got bad, or have a relaxed weekend and hit it when it got better, or maybe just power through and put in all the hours it took.
Now, even with hindsight, I'm not sure if we were foolish or just unlucky. As many times as I've gone to Chitina for dipnetting, there are some things I never learn, the largest of which is that it's impossible to have a pleasant weekend at Chitina. You can camp, with a car, but there are none of the luxuries of car camping. You're hiking, on a trail of sorts, but it's dusty and windy and you're carrying an awkward load. After we got skunked on Saturday, it simply did not seem worth it to hang out Sunday and try again Monday, despite the hundreds of miles we'd driven. Such is Chitina. You come, you fish, you go home -- whether you got your fish or not. Last year a friend and I caught 65 fish in 4 hours. This year we fished 10 hours and got one.
There are two main variables, it seems. First is the fish -- are they coming up the river? Are there lots, and are they passing the right spot at the right time? Second is the water level -- when the water rises too much, the fish stop moving upriver (even at low water, it's a wonder they can beat the current). One can monitor these variables with sonar and river gauges.
Then there are the gray areas, the art in place of science, the stories we create to explain the unknown. As we sat on the rocky bank, nets in the water, I imagined the fish moving upriver. (The water is so thick with glacial silt it's impossible to see anything under the surface.) I imagined them hugging the shore, slipping into eddies as they find them, following some chemical trail to their natal streams. I reached my net toward the eddy line, where the main current met the swirl of the eddy. Is the current less, the eddy stronger, at the bottom? I remembered a Native fisherman in Galena describing the narrow "trails" fish follow up the Yukon. Kings take one trail, chums another. Moving your fishwheel a few feet to one side can make all the difference. When Mark caught our one fish, I imagined it a forerunner. Then a straggler. Or maybe an independent fish that battled the current when others rested.
Other people invent theories, too. That silvers run at night. That the fish will start moving again when the shade reaches the right bank (that's how it worked for someone last year).
The week had been warm and sunny, and the water had been rising from snow and ice melt; one gauge measured 14 feet on Tuesday, 15 on Thursday, 16 Friday, and 17 Saturday. The fish seemed to stop moving sometime Saturday morning. When we arrived around midnight on Friday, we'd pitched a tent and slept 6 hours. (Scrambling on loose rock next to a raging river in near-dark seemed foolhardy.) The man who parked next to us had gone straight to fishing and had his limit by the time we woke up.
On Saturday, we watched the water rise hour-by-hour, moving up the bank as our perches became inundated. We knew some fishing spots were better than others at high water, and we figured the fish in the river had to go somewhere. From the trail, we looked down on a giant, slow eddy. People were fishing from a pair of boats. Maybe this is where the salmon rest. We crashed through alders to the eddy. Now there was one boat, drifting slowly upriver in the eddy, motoring back down, drifting again. The boat was close enough that we could talk easily with people on board. They were pulling in multiple fish on each pass. 
I nearly ran back up to get my gear and down again to start fishing. We fished one hour, two hours. We moved spots. We tied our nets to rocks and logs. I waded in. And we caught nothing. Was the banana I ate for breakfast bad luck?

WEIO

The World Eskimo-Indian Olympics started today in Fairbanks. I went mostly to check out the crafts -- the incredibly soft sea-otter-fur hats, the homemade ulus -- but stayed to watch the preliminaries of the one-hand reach. A sealskin ball is hung from a line at a specific height, and the challenge is to touch it with one hand while balancing your whole body on the other hand. Some made it look easy. Others strained, fell flat on the floor, jumped up shaking their wrists. Contestants and spectators clapped not when someone succeeded at a given height, but when someone gave it their all for three tries and failed. The ousted contestants jumped up with smiles. Over and over, when someone reached and missed, or couldn't get high enough, another competitor would come offer tips -- where to place the bottom hand, how to arch the back. It was amazing to watch.
From my seat in the stands, I figured I could do this, at least at the low heights, where it seemed you could rest a hip bone on the arm bones. I've know for years that I could balance on my hands; getting to one hand seemed mostly a question of strength. I got the sense there hadn't been much training among the contestants. One bounced like a boxer to warm up, and a few others stretched, but most just waited their turn and competed.
Now, having tried at home, I am humbled. Whether it's a lack of strength or technique I don't know, but I cannot imagine balancing on one hand, let alone reaching 46 inches into the air with the other. Power to the tall guy in Adidas soccer shoes. Power to the girl in beaded moccasins.

triathlon

It's a luxury of summer in Alaska to on a Friday mull plans for weekend adventures. Mark and I considered a hike/float trip off the Denali Highway, a hike from the seldom-visited Elliot. In the end, we planned a multi-leg adventure: drive to Nenana, bike back to Fairbanks, canoe to Nenana, drive home. Each was adventure enough for a day, but we decided to do both in one day.
To complete the triathlon, on Saturday we hiked the 16-mile Stiles Creek Trail -- nice enough, but best left to the 4-wheelers. Sunday we headed to Nenana. 
The ride back was pleasant -- nice weather, little traffic, some good downhills -- and my knees handled the 60 miles with surprisingly little complaint given my complete lack of training.
We feasted at Lulu's, then changed clothes and got in the boat. It's the fourth time I've done the 50-mile float to Nenana. Once I did it in 9 hours; another time, we took three days. It can be an easy float, but it's big water, with whirlpools and fast current and hard eddy lines, and I approach it with cautious respect. Around 8 at night, after an afternoon of patchy rain, the wind started to howl, kicking up waves as it blew upstream. The mid-July breeze turned an otherwise relaxed float into a wilderness trip. We pulled over, added layers, made a hot dinner. We were maybe 10 miles from the highway, 20 miles from the nearest village. After an hour or two from Fairbanks, we'd seen no boats.
Recharged, we tried again, and later stretches of water proved less susceptible to the wind. We followed lee shores, took side channels when they appeared. Banks I remembered from three years before were radically reshaped by erosion. Birch with green leaves still on leaned at all angles from crumbing shores. Beaver had mowed down rows of thick cottonwoods.
I was surprised, I guess, by the number of active camps. We never saw people, but did see a handful of boats tied up, wall tents, even some teepees. On a rainy night, it's still a wild place. Near Nenana, it was nice to see a big smokehouse going up, and a new fish wheel in the river with its spruce poles still golden yellow.

brooks range

I'm not sure why the Brooks Range feels so different from the Talkeetnas. Maybe it's the distance from urban areas, or the high latitude and its real midnight sun, unpredictable weather, and effects on flora and fauna. It's a place of lore, of magazine photos and trips-of-a-lifetime. Gates of the Arctic park prides itself on a complete lack of amenities -- no roads, no trails -- and the whole range remains inaccessible to most through the high cost of getting there and the skills needed to travel there safely.

I've been to the Brooks Range half a dozen times to hunt caribou, hiking the obligatory five miles from the road in an act that seems adventurous enough to warrant leaving emergency info at home. But I would never have attempted the adventure I had there this summer without my friend Toby, whose wilderness skills and enthusiasm are rivaled only by his fitness. Toby taught me how to travel and camp up there, and helped me experience some of the most beautiful places I've ever been.

Our trip was actually a combination of trips. Toby was part of a crew -- mostly from Anchorage, but also Homer and Colorado and beyond -- that set up a base camp in the upper Alatna River drainage, near the Arrigetch Peaks. Led by legendary adventurer Roman Dial, they were there to packraft mountain streams draining into the Alatna, some of which I would not have gone anywhere near with a boat. I joined the crew for the second week, indulging in base-camp life (fresh food, river-chilled beer) and exploring a few of the creeks, boating the mildest among them. One cloudy day we hiked into the high peaks -- huge slabs of dark, sheer rock rising nearly straight up for hundreds or thousands of feet. The creek we followed tumbled down over rock ledges, making slides and waterfalls that tempted the more experienced rafters.

After that week, those who had to fly home did -- on a vintage Beaver with soft tundra tires for landing on gravel bars -- and five of us started hiking. Look at a map. Deduce. Ask those who've been. Roman recommended a route up the Pingaluk, rather than the Nahtuk, and so we did that. We walked 10 hours the first day, stopping near midnight, when the near-constant stream crossings had started to numb my feet. The next day we crossed a pass and headed down the other side, following Kevuk Creek now. (Even walking, the rivers are the best way to travel up there.) Toby and I stopped after 12 hours, at my request. The others, one of whom was trying to catch a plane, pushed on toward Anaktuvuk Pass, another 50 miles away. Two were Alaska Wilderness Classic champs.

Toby and I made it to Anaktuvuk Pass, about 100 miles from the Alatna along our route, in four and a half days. We visited the museum, picked up the food Toby had had delivered, and packed up again the next day. I'd worried about my fitness, the ability of my joints to handle 20 miles a day of bushwhacking and tundra walking, and it was a huge relief to arrive in Anaktuvuk, a Native village perched high in a mountain pass, with regular air service to Fairbanks. Somewhat refreshed that next day, it calmed me to think it was only 60 miles to the Dalton Highway. I knew I could do it, whatever the terrain. And that's when I realized my sense of what's possible had changed. We made it to the road in four days.