We all live in places — in houses in neighborhoods within communities such as Anchorage, Eagle River, Peters Creek, Chugiak, Birchwood and beyond. But we sometimes live elsewhere — in places of the heart and mind and spirit.
Despite the fact it has been probed and studied for years and astronauts have left footprints on its surface, our moon still retains much of its mystery and magic, kindling deep emotions within us as it wanders slowly across the night sky.
Head and eyes down, I walked south on the ridge between Blacktail Rocks and Vista peak in the Chugach mountains in an almost meditative trance, kicking steps through about seven inches of snow overlain by a tough crust. I heard a “shhhhhh” sound in the distance. I stopped instantly and looked at Vista to see if an avalanche was scouring the face. I saw no movement and was confused. I shrugged to myself and plodded onward. A second later I again heard the “shhhhhh” sound. But this time the sound was much louder and closer. I stopped moving and looked up. Instantly I froze. A grizzly bear and two cubs were bounding directly for me at high speed.
The darkest days of the year on and around Christmas are often the brightest for us spiritually, as we adorn our homes with lights and decorations and draw closer to loved ones and friends. In one way or another, whether through church activities, prayer, or in communion with nature, we begin to experience a deeper, stronger bond with God and each other.
At first it was a passing thought. Then it took hold as an idea. Finally, it became an obsession: I was going to ice skate before it snowed and closed what I term the ice skating “window.” It all started Nov. 21 during a hike into Eagle Lake over a snowless trail.
These snow-free Novembers don’t roll around that often, and with unseasonably balmy temperatures (compared to some Lower 48 states), we should be getting outdoors as often as possible to enjoy the sun before it begins hiding below the horizon.
Eagle River resident Andrew North is waiting for snow. “It’s very strange,” he said of the unusually warm, low-precipitation winter Southcentral Alaska’s been having. “I normally would appreciate if there was snow down. That means there’s more activities to do outside.”
It was a clear and cold morning of Oct. 7 as friend Radu Girbacea and I began a 14-mile traverse of the Lost Lake Trail on the Kenai Peninsula, in Chugach National Forest. After stashing a car at the south end of the trail at Mile 5 of the Seward Highway, we drove back to Primrose at Mile 18, by Kenai Lake, to begin our hike.
Autumn seems to rush past us like a gust of wind, and try as we might, it’s difficult if not impossible to prolong it so we can savor the brilliant colors, brisk mornings and snow-dusted mountain tops.
During this transition from summer to autumn and then winter, the rapidly diminishing daylight can sneak up on us. As we lose more than 35 minutes of daylight per week, it’s not uncommon to find ourselves scurrying and stumbling along the trail in an attempt to beat the darkness.