Spring: Lake Breakup in Alaska: From Snowmachine to Kayak in 2 weeks

The end of winter 2023 was S-L-O-W.  We finally put away our snowmachines on April 28.  But after that, the transition from ice to water on the lake took a mere two weeks.

When migrating geese and cranes flew overhead in late April/early May, our dog loped toward them, along the hard packed snowmachine tracks that traversed the lake ice, only to be surprised when he sank several inches as he veered off into the soft and rotting snow on either side of the path. We saw the snow change color as both it and the underlying lake ice melted.  In some light conditions, the streaks of color looked almost Caribbean: sea green, light blue, and sand colors, until the ice got super thin and looked black.

Within a meager two weeks, KAYAK SEASON arrived.  Yea!  Despite plenty of snow on the ground, on May 13, we three kayaked among the ice floes.  To my dismay, Buddy jumped off the bow onto a soft ice floe and sank into frigid water.  We hauled him into the kayak, all 65 pounds of him, and returned home to warm him up with blankets and food.  Two days later though, the lake was ice free on May 15, as usual.  Such a reliably punctual date over many decades.  We kayaked along the periphery of the lake while Buddy ran along shore through snowmelt and soggy bogs, throwing off sprays of water.  He sniffed all the various scents on air, water, and soil, and looked absolutely delighted.  Until mid-Oct, we kayak every day that lacks high winds or heavy rain, accompanied by homemade wine (for me) and homemade beer (for Bryan) and peanuts for all three of us. Each week something else blooms, changes color, and scents the air.

In breakup, we start to see and hear many more neighboring creatures than we did in the depths of winter.  One day in late May, we saw our first moose of the year – a large, blonde one across the lake.  The next day, Buddy startled a river otter or beaver out of the brush which leapt into the lake.  (I caught a mere glimpse of the round, brown head from the corner of my eye, so I am not sure of the species.) 

As a Labrador mix, our dog is attuned to birds.  Fortunately, all water fowl have skills and abilities that exceed his.   Like Wiley Coyote, who never caught Roadrunner, Buddy is eager to chase the ducks but never, ever catches one.  When from shore he spies a pair swimming, he wriggles his butt, circles his tail, makes a distinctive whine, and jumps into the cold water, swimming toward them.  The ducks take his measure, let him approach to a specific distance, and then fly safely to the far shore.  By contrast, loons dive with their strong feet and reappear 100 or so feet away.  Buddy looks left and right, slows down, and then resignedly paddles to the nearest shore.  Foiled again. After a few days of this, the ducks wisely decided to lay nests in the grass and shrubs along the twin lakes behind us, where their progeny can incubate and hatch, unmolested.  But adults still visit here, feeding on larvae and perhaps baby pike and pike eggs.  

 

Before 2015, I used to LOVE seeing loons raise and train 8 - 12 soft, fluffy fledglings on our lake.   The little ones learned to dive and fly in Keystone Cops commotion.  I don’t know why the loons stopped laying eggs here at that time.  Since then (7 years before our dog joined us in 2022), we see visiting pairs of loons and many species of migrating fowl but no resident families.  It was around that year that spruce beetles devastated the region’s forests, so perhaps other elements of the eco-system attractive to loons changed then, too.

Whatever the reasons may be, each year the changes from winter to spring are fast and dramatic both on the lake and on land. (See blog about land changes in next article).

Homesteading in Remote Alaska: What Were We Thinking?

 Here is the link to the Zoom recording of the talk:  https://hamilton.zoom.us/rec/share/l-rMM3HLm0aAT_zYGiE9uAKOyUTIPf8tgQv_AGiLVdCavjOR2I6XfDsEFIx-Rqta.Z3-atrA7BPcnngBK

 

Bryan Emerson describes the thrill of off-grid living while his wife, Laura, sets the record straight. They'll share how they decided to leave their high-rise home in Houston and move to an off-grid log cabin in Alaska, 45 miles from the nearest road. While Bryan had grown up camping, hunting and fishing in Wisconsin, Laura felt totally unprepared to move to bush Alaska. Join them as they share their story and hear how Laura adapted to her new remote environment and now shares words of caution, condolence, empathy, and advice with spouses of other would-be pioneers to America’s Last Frontier.

 

Also, my book was just published today at 

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BZN1FZR9/ref=sr_1_1

Two Health Evacuations from Bush Alaska

Laura on snowmachine with Buddy

A frequent question we are asked about living a 3.5 hour snowmachine trek away from the nearest road is, “What do you do in a health emergency?”  Well, now, after two health-related evacuations, I can answer that question.

1)  Last winter, my husband experienced chest pain for several days.  He feared that he was experiencing a cardiac issue and was, therefore, not confident about snowmachining to town to reach a doctor.  Fortunately, we have an annual subscription to a Life Flight company.  For the first time, Bryan called them, described his symptoms, and 45 minutes later, a helicopter pilot and her two burly medics landed on our remote lake to whisk him off to a regional hospital.

Three EKGs later, the doctors told Bryan that he did not have a cardiac problem and, in doctor language, told him to go home and suck it up.  A friend snowmachined him home.  To my relief, insurance paid for the life flight ($24,000). 

2) This winter, my back most molar started to hurt and over three days, grew very painful.  Clearly, I required either an extraction or a root canal. I found an emergency dentist in Wasilla who could see me on short notice.  Unfortunately, we were in the midst of a three day snowstorm of wet, heavy snow!  We did not trust our old, narrow, 660 cc snowmachines to deliver me safely without bogging down several times along the route. 

So Bryan called a reliable and resourceful family that we have engaged over several years for many reasons, including to build about half of our 8 buildings, haul in supplies in March, and sell us delicious frozen chickens.  In fact, we had a delivery date scheduled shortly for fuel.  He asked if they could move up the intended date in order to take me with them on the back haul.  Sure enough, the very next day, the intrepid son and daughter, Anson and Oceana (probably in their early 20s), arrived, coated in snow, but without the expected load of gasoline.  The snow they traveled through was so wet and heavy that it grabbed their skis and tread, adding weight to the machines and belabored the engines.  So they left the sled loaded with 200 gallons of gasoline (about 1600 lbs) on the Susitna River rather than hazard getting stuck on the steep and sinuous woodsy trails to our home. 

A freight hauling sled

We stowed my small overnight bag and then I clambered up onto the comfortable rear seat (with heated handlebars) on one of the two, powerful 900 cc vehicles.

The first half of the trek was gorgeous.  In fact, Anson and I both used the phrase, “Winter Wonderland.” Young spruce trees bowed low under the weight of the snow.  The ancient, twisted trees of the boreal forest suggested fanciful forms, like hunched gnomes and ballerinas with arched arms.  One upturned root ball looked like a rabbit profile.   Other trees, buffeted by wind, careened into others, forming bridges and tripods.   The narrow trail veered left and right, up and down, following a series of little reflective markers nailed into trees.   In the dense woods, we traveled at about 10 – 12 mph and were protected from the wind.  On the flats (ice covered lakes and snow covered bogs),  we sped up to 25 mph through snow and sleet that pelted our faces.

Two hours later, in the waning light of afternoon, we encountered the first little cabins, dotting the ridge above the river, as well as a moose resting out of the wind.  My competent team of snowmachiners hitched the sled of gasoline to one vehicle, and then tethered the two machines together to power the load uphill out of the river valley.  We managed each hill this way.

Overflow, which is a thick layer of slushy ice water on top of the lake ice (and insulated by the new snow)  encumbered our passage across a broad lake that we know is fed by springs.  Oceana dropped me off at the far end of the water way, to shed some weight, and then she and her brother tied the two vehicles together to pull the heavy sled fast and hard through the water to an elevated shore.  There,  Anson lay on the ground to scoop out wet snow clinging to the skis and tread.  A very large moose, which I did not see when he was still, caught my eye as he lumbered away from the noisy engines.

Our plane in overflow on the lake.

After 3.5 hours, I saw, through the sleet and darkness, the first fence and telephone pole I had seen since my prior trip to town in September.  We skirted a small natural gas plant where gas lines from the Cook Inlet connect to other gas lines on this side of that waterway.   Shortly thereafter, we stopped abruptly because a moose was resting in the middle of the hard packed snow trail.  He or she reluctantly moved a few feet so we could pass, and then quickly returned to the marginally warmer spot.  Finally, we reached Anson’s home, from which his parents kindly drove me to a friend’s house to spend the night before my much needed visit to the dentist the next morning.  He extracted the tooth and its roots in a noisy/scary but pain-free procedure.

Because Anson had out-of-town friends visiting the following week, he could not take me home right away.  So, since I was on the road system and could get to the airport, I booked a last minute flight to San Francisco where I was able to visit my father, sister, and brother.  During that week, the Alaska night time temperatures dropped enough to harden up the snow for a faster and easier return cross-country.  When the snow was firm,  I flew back to Anchorage, spent the night, drove 45 minutes north, spent another night, and finally rode home with Anson on a beautiful, sunny day, toward “My Mountain” which increasingly dominated my field of vision, welcoming me home.  I arrived  at 4.30 pm with a load of mail, lots of store bought food, one less tooth than I used to have, and great appreciation for the “can-do” attitude of Anson’s intrepid family.   

All’s well that ends well.