Alaska November: Snow, Food, Predators

November temperatures varied from the +30s F to below 0 F. During surprisingly warm periods in the upper 20's F, a 25 hour storm dropped 3 feet of snow over the weekend of Nov 7/8, and then again over Thanksgiving weekend. (So I made a big batch of snow ice cream each time) Because of the soft, light snow, we lumbered about in the yard in awkward snowshoes almost all month, patting out paths, shoveling out doorways at the coop, outhouse, and greenhouse, and digging out the burn barrel.

Snow shoes don't skate along the top of soft snow. They spread out one's weight so a large area is pressed down, after which you lift the snowshoe up over the next two feet of snow and press down again. This is tiring – like climbing a stairmaster in a gym. I feel the exercise at the top insides of my thighs. A clear work out! We widened each path four snowshoes wide to provide a firm surface for the snowmachines, but the temperatures remained so high (20s and even 30s) that the upper layers never hardened up for our (admittedly old and heavy) machines. After they got stuck twice, we ignored them and continued to strap on the snowshoes for the rest of the month. (“Why fight a...xxx?” I think about this every season.) 

The mostly windless and temperature stable days and nights retained the pretty white layer above black branches and angled tree trunks. I find this so beautiful. But this also meant that the roofs retained their load of snow, too. Fortunately, half of our buildings have 45 degree roofs (1”:1” rise), so they shed snow easily. But the 30-33 degree roofs (1”:3” rise) needed some early attention to slough off the heavy load of precipitation. I found a website that helps one calculate the increasing weights of fresh, settled, wet snow and ice over a given expanse of roof. Yikes! A two foot snow dump can weigh 15,000 lbs on a 20 x 12 roof! I pity the families and work crews attending to the surprisingly shallow roofs I spy throughout this part of Alaska. Sure, flatter is cheaper to build, but... 20 years of maintenance?

Silence and Solitude at a Remote Home

Contemplating kairns on bench at lake

After living in the silence and solitude of our pretty little cabin in the woods, I find trips to towns something of an assault on my senses, so I routinely go four months without seeing anyone other than my husband, and sometimes six months without a flight to a town.  Bryan says that at home, if we want to hear a human noise, we have to make it.  We enjoy the quiet – no hum of electric appliances, no whiz of passing cars or blaring horns.  Instead, we hear the wind in the trees, the slap of water on the dock, the effortful wing work of a raven overhead. 

Some people find this quietude deafening.  One friend looked forward to “getting away” to a remote cabin but discovered that she needed to turn on her radio the whole time to fill the void.  A few of our visitors have talked constantly – perhaps they found the silence unnerving.

One disconcerting aspect of silence is the company of one's own thoughts.  Maybe we rely on various forms of entertainment to keep them at bay.  The first summer I painted and stained all of our buildings, I found my mind drifting toward topics of regret and recrimination.  At first, I, too, pulled out a DVD player and watched old Perry Mason episodes, in which, of course, all muddled conflicts are wrapped up neatly in 50 minutes.  Toward the end of that summer, it occurred to me that perhaps I SHOULD contemplate those issues that were bothering me, to resolve them in some way, rather than evade them.  I apologized to three people and, voila!, I learned that my misdoings bothered me more than the other people.  This allowed me to go a bit easier on myself and to avoid some mistakes of he past.  Silence helped me do this. 

Solitude puts the onus of entertainment on you.  Obviously, this can involve passive forms, like listening to music or playing games or watching TV.  My general impression is that the rural people I know tend to have more creative, productive, and outdoor hobbies than many of my urban acquaintances.  Military spouses are also exemplars of  embracing “making do” when alone for extended periods.  

Silent winter walk

Now that so many people are isolated, and social interactions are so limited, I can understand why extroverts, in particular, may find the constraints so emotionally challenging.  I have become more introverted, myself, since living in the boonies.  Some of the experiences and insights I have gained from silence and solitude are almost spiritual, especially those gained from a walk in the woods, or a kayak around the lake watching ducks teaching their fledglings how to fly and dive. These are not pleasures I sought much in the city, but ones I savor now.  I hope that readers find some peace and contentment, or creativity and productivity, from intentional choices they can make in their isolation, too.