Rascle and Riley are getting big. Their original owners have all but given up on them. It's a lost cause now. My landlord would never let them reside on his ground. Here in the summer when the police go around to patrol the dogs, most likely all that will be left is two bitter bloodspots on the melting snow in my front lawn. They're just huge playful puppies- not even full grown dogs. Everytime I walk outside there they are- smiling and running up to collide haphazardly into my side. Then they jump and cry and jump and bite. I've been pulled down more than once. They're less like dogs and more like wolves. I can't help but adore them. They protect my land, they protect me. No visitor can sneak by unknown. It's calming in a way. Even their barks in the middle of the night don't bug me. I merely know that if such a snarl came from the dark shadows of my small caravan walls- no intruder will dare take another step. It's reassuring. I've said it before- I would do anything to keep their company forever. They've become as much a part of my family as my brother. They mean so much to me.
Flying Wild Alaska
We fly around for our job- my darling and I. Little pay, but the adventure is worth the financial hardships. Bush planes are different. It's not the "Flying Wild Alaska" show. Then again, without television I have yet to witness that show. I'm just assuming it's not the same. It's not dramatic. Yes, the wind pulls us around from time to time. Sometimes gusts throw us sideways. It sounds terrifying, but it's not. You see, there's something about flying out here that is calm- always calm. No matter the weather or the conditions, flying in rural Alaska is at peace. The scenery does it, I think. You look below and watch as moose and wolves play. The scenery changes quick. For a while flat tundra swamps, then hills with willow, then mountains with spruce. No two miles are identical. No corn-fields, or roads, or carved out human establishments. Only land- for as far as the eye can see in any direction. And there you are, all bundled up in a freezing cold metal capsule, but yet warm with the idea of witnessing this part of the world in a way so few people will ever be able to.
Four Leaf Banana Tree
I’ve accomplished the impossible! My art room/ gardening room/ library/ collection room, has now filled with the huge leaves of a banana tree. I spoke of it a while back. Unsure whether or not I would keep it alive. I have lemon trees, pineapple plants, lavender… all sorts of interesting non-Alaskan things. And my banana tree has sprouted four leaves and readjusted them to face the bright light I have it hanging under. Wow- it’s magnificent. Who knew that one could raise a tropical fruit tree in the arctic? I love it. I would really like to name it, but I fear my darling would disown me. For I seem to name everything. But this banana tree is a fighter! He deserves a name. Quite a fellow he is. Standing tall and proud in a place that even moss has trouble surviving.
Dance On Ice
Take me to the frozen riverside. I don't know how to skate, but I like the textured ice. It's my place to frolick about. The smooth surface of my mukluk bottoms would typically make me fall, but the ice' jagged edges grip to my toes like hands rising up from the waters. I like the way the sun's rays dance along the crystals the same way my little legs bounce into the air. I've always walked pigean-toed, but I never felt odd. It makes my childlike prance seem a bit more balanced. I can't help but feel if my feet pointed straight I wouldn't be able to play the way I do now. So with my crooked little feet and my careful little walk, I'll play on the edge of the mile wide waters- letting them tickle my toes through my caribou souls.
Pessamistic Cold
Somedays I think the cold is looming because it dwells in places of negativity. My mind has not been as upbeat as usual. I fight quite hard to find the inner peace my brain craves. For the most part I'm content. But alas this cold is eating away my warmth and leaving the coldest parts of me exposed. I shunned children today. How could I do such a thing? They arrived at my doorstep and I sent them away with heavy hearts. I don't know what has come of me. I'm not the kind to think I'm too busy for kids. In fact I typically drop everything around me to spend time in the presence of innocence. I do not know why today I chose to look the other way and busy myself with adult-like stuff. It's quite a shame that I did. For perhaps their company is exactly what I needed...
Cold Toes
The weather is still so cold. It sends chills through my tiny little spine. My mother stands but five foot tall. I loom over her by at least six inches, on a good day eight inches. And although I didn't recieve her genes in that sense, I was not-so-blessed with her unbelievably cold feet and hands. Either I have the worst circulation of blood known to man kind or my feet and hands are just naturally freezing cold. Needless to say my mukluks can only do so much. If there is no body heat to be stored then they shall be just as cold as the snow around them. Needless to say my feet offered no bit of warmth today and in which my mukluks let the arctic air around swarm to my toes. Oh how they sting. I'm warming them tenderly by the woodstove. Fingers crossed they do not turn blue. How dare my mother pass on her cold feet to me. Did she not know I would escape to Alaska and have to live with her defaulted genes in the most unforgiving of enviornments?
Learning Yup'ik
I've began to delve into the language of Yup'ik. It's not nearly as hard as most native languages are. In fact it's quite simple. I appreciate its simplicity. Unlike English it's actually quite a pleasure to learn and almost natural to memorize. There are very few language books for Yup'ik in the world, and coming by one is truly a stroke of luck. But alas, my luck is speaking good karma and I have come to possess two wonderful books written by some lovely elderly ladies from Bethel. I've self-taught myself many a tounges so the idea of learning yet another neither discourages nor terrifies me. I know it will take time. But I have a memory made for talking- I am quite an avid talker outside of this little diary as well. The pronunciation will be the hardest, but I am determined and by lifes end will have achieved the perfect dialect. I am but nineteen now. That gives me eighty more years to become fluent in Yup'ik. I assume it shall take me three.
Fireweed Blackfish
My blackfish are doing wonderful! I haven't updated on their life in a while. They're quite peaceful fish. They get a little antsy before a big storm hits- they swim around quite quickly a few hours before the strong winds begin. But that's really the extent of their excitement. From then on they nestle into the rock I have carefully placed on the bottom of their tank. I've learned their favorite foods are fly larva (which is actually advertised for wild birds, not fish) and bloodworms. When I feed them most of them hide away. They're naturally skeptical. But one is daring- I call her Fireweed (a really vibrant 'daring' pink flower). She swims right up the second I drop the worms into the water. Without fear she begins eating and almost even thanks me with a smile. She's one of the smaller fish, so it's her only chance to eat before the bigger ones push her out of the way. I like that she's smart and trustworthy. Her little eyes speak the soul of wild-heart.
Wind In Feathers
Early morning this morning. The wind has been ravaging the house and landscape for three days straight. All of the snow along the river has faded to the banks leaving a glossy coat of textured ice. And then there’s the ravens. Ohhh the ravens. I love them. They never seem to really understand the force of the wind. Up they fly high into the air only to be caught by a wisp so strong you can see the panic in their movements as they try to fight it. And then they swoop down to safety. One gust later and up they are again- flailing wildly with the force too strong for their feathers. I can’t help but laugh. It’s almost a game to them. I wonder if they sit on the ground and challenge each other of whom can fly higher. For as one flies the rest seem to sit safety and laugh amongst themselves.
Woodstove Water
We keep a pan of water atop the woodstove for a variety of reasons. It keeps the air warmer with humidity. But it also provides the necessity of hot water for dishes, mopping the old wooden floors, and washing our hands and clothes. I’ve become accustomed to the ways without running water now. It’s a bit more difficult. We take more trips to the spring well with our bucket than we used to. But it’s also simpler. There’s something about being so connected to an element that you must use it sparingly and thoughtfully that just makes the day seem more meaningful. I’ve become a lover of melting snow for dishes and washing my hair. My grandmother used to tell me her mother would do that. I can’t help but feel I’m making my elder- whom I never met- very proud.
Eye of God
The wind has hit a chill again. Picking up gradually over the night and turning to a storm by the day. The sky above is clear but you wouldn't be able to see it through the blowing snow on the ground. The sun is beautiful nevertheless. The blowing snow creates an eye- takes the suns sides and pulls it outwards with reflections. It's beautiful. My darling teases it's the eye of God. I correct him with my belief in more than one diety, but then agree- for in my beliefs the sun is the God. And as the sun ravages it's glow and creates a pulled circle, to me it really is an eye. I like the idea of being witnessed. Gives way to action of good karma. Wish more of the world could be reminded to do good merely by the sight of the sunshine on a windy day.
Trap A Wolf
I slept well last night. I awoke energized and beautiful, ready to greet the late Alaskan sunrise. I should have known the wolves made an appearance once again. I have my fingers crossed someday the trap my darling set along his line will snap a wolf. I often wonder what color they are. The curiousity of their appearance eats away at me. Their tracks leave no trace of their howl or their fur. I care not to hear their songs to the moon- but visualizing them is getting exhausting. I'd like to meet one- just once. See it for it's physical self. But in all reality I'm not sure it would live up to the fantasy I've portrayed it to be. Honestly, I don't think it'd be right of me to see it alive. I don't want to know its soul through its eyes. I just want to know its color. That's all. The rest is a place I dare not venture. Tieing ends with a wolf is a trail not worth trekking in my mind. I never quite know where their hearts lie- or what exactly their intentions would be towards me.
Frosted Cheeks
I suppose there are days I'm just not cut out for the cold. Even with my parka, mukluks, and fur mittens. Today was one of those days. A sixty mile trip by snowmachine into a windy freezing abiss is one I usually enjoy. But today the wind was mean to me. It scolded my toes and bit my cheeks. I tried to fight back- I cursed it once or twice. But alas the wind spirits do what they will without any remorse. Darn you Jack Frost- you're a mean one. And my burning cheeks will remind me of your strength for days to come. I love the cold. But it's nip is sometimes too cruel for my tender white cheeks.
Skinning An Otter
To skin an otter sounds gruesome. Taking the fur from something just seems... unappetizing. And yet it's a skill I've wanted to acquire for quite some time. How exactly does one go about harvesting their own luxurious fur? The trapping part I leave to my darling, but I've decided it's time I learn to skin the animals myself. Otter are supposedly some of the hardest animals to skin. It's a long tough process. But, my darling being the absent-minded teacher he is, put me on an otter for my beginning lesson. And wa-la two hours later I had slowly stripped away the entire pelt from the never-ending fat. One tiny knick is all I left. My darling is quite impressed. For he himself tends to put holes in his otters- even after the hundreds he's practiced on. I feel quite accomplished. Next up- moose.
Three-Foot Fox
Today my darling and I came across a fox. It's not unusual, when on the rural tundra, to drive right up to an animal on your snow machine. Most of them have never seen a human and are not frightened. But this particular fox sat curled quite skeptically on the side of a snowey drift. We drove up slowly, and were soon to notice he had a broken leg. The poor thing struggled to stand up and then sat back down again to keep his foot from freezing. Pitying him, my darling did something that makes my heart skip a beat. Misconceptions of trappers are many. But I can tell you right now, my trapper is not your animal-hating blood thirsty man. My trapper is the kind who would slowly sneak back into his sled to find half of our year's supply of dryfish to throw on the ground for the starved creature. My darling is the trapper, who without thought, would give anything he has with him to help an animal in need. And I have no doubt the spirit of the fox will bless him for his good deed.
Fur Rondy Patch
I sewed a Fur Rondy patch on my darlings parka. Now a patch is no feat to accomplish in the sewing world (and yet I take pride even in the littlest things such as this). But a Fur Rondy patch in particular holds a dear message to my darling and I. Fur Rondy is an Alaskan celebration of trappers. And what more beautiful tribute to my darling, his livelyhood, and our passion for fur- than a patch on his parka? It features a wolf from the year 1987 I believe. Perfectly matches his wolf ruff. I find him quite handsome- of course. And his new patch- carefully positioned like a boyscout's first accomplishment- makes him look so much more professional in my eyes. To most women such a thing is odd and out of place. To me... well it's my world in a simply sewn design.
Warning Wolf Hunters
I warned them not to hunt the wolves. Eskimos are natural born hunters. You'll never meet a village man who doesn't have the overwhelming urge to stalk and kill. But on the first hours of the full moon it's not a deed to be done. In Celtic beliefs killing a wolf at such a time combines its soul with yours. And in return you will be physically tortured for every full moon from that point on until death. A gruesome thought, but my superstitions lie in Irish folklore. I've told them my peice. I hope they listen. for the one who ventures out with that intent is surely in for more than a wolf pelt on their wall. Dare I say that they may become a werewolf. Don't believe me? Would you really risk that much pain for one bullet and some fur?
Wolf Moon
A nights ago was the first full moon of the year- the wolf moon. In Ireland it's a night of werewolves. In Alaska it's a night that howls are heard outside the village. The native's superstitions are there for a reason. My mother, a lover of... interesting facts, made me aware of the moon. I myself would have forgotten it's appearance. And the oddest part of all- that very night wolves were spotted in the village. Their tracks are still present on our streets. I sleep quite calmly in wolves presence. My bedroom is full of wolf pelts. My darling, on the other hand, is not so tranquil when faced with their howls. He seems to have nightmares ever since we moved the furs into the bedroom. I can't help but feel connected to them. I fear them and respect them. Most would say they're cruel- the way they kill is a devilish act. But I see them for intelligence and power. And because of my odd beliefs I feel when they are near I am at more peace with the world than ever. Like they give me this sense of confidence I don't otherwise behold. I sleep so solemnly on the nights when they are seen. And during the days they're prowling near I have a skip to my step that isn't any other time there.
Riley and Rascle
Slowly the air is warming. It isn't so deadly cold anymore. -10 isn't nearly as bad as -40. In fact it feels quite warm to me now. I forgot to tell you about my sleddog- Riley and I. She's doing well. The young girl who is her owner doesn't really know how to care for her, so I still feed her fish. More stray sleddogs have made their way to my home. Rascle, our other neighbor's pup was small and starved when he made his way to our yard. But now he is big. With proper nutrition he's become larger than Riley. He's fully black. I've come to adore him as well. They're both big dogs now, not puppies anymore. If their owners don't chain them up the police will come by and do the deeds of pest control. I hate the thought. I've fallen madly in love with the both of them. My heart dreads the forth coming day. But I'll take the time I have and love them wisely.
Edgar Allen Poe
Edgar Allen Poe. A name most famously associated with things such as poetry and horror stories. And yet, within all of his gothic words lies tales that speaks to few. For the most part, humans are intrigued by his imagination. And yet, within a small percentage of the population lies a group of people who see his reality. Perhaps his illusions are merely creative endeavors met to tell tales that put chills up your spine. Or maybe, his devilish way of thinking is a philosophy so overlooked by most. I feel his pain- his words- his meanings. There's something amidst them that neither comforts nor terrifies me. Instead it's almost as if they give me this unwanted feeling I am not alone in a place of insanity. His confessions tell secrets that I already knew. Doesn't anyone else read his words the same way I do?
Indian Hill Villages
Today I wondered up river in the search of Indian friends. For the most part, I reside with Eskimos. But living with, working with, and being a furbuyer has lead me to venture all around these beautiful tundra hills. A little ways upstream and the hills get higher. That's where we fly by bush plane sometimes. Once or twice a year. It's my favorite place to go because unlike here, there are big trees. I gather up my warmest clothes and venture off into their village on the back of a sled to infuse their economy with precious coins. $50,000 worth of coins in fact. It's mostly marten we buy. They're one of my favorite spruce tree dwelling animals. I'd like one for a pet someday. They're much like ferrets, but larger. But alas there are wolverine, wolves, and the stray lynx as well. And so we see all sorts of fur-blessed treasures. I've never been a killing hunting soul- but the adventures such an act takes me on is more of a blessing than a curse. We travel all over, but in the Indian hills are my favorite. The villages there are of a different aura than my flat tundra acres. In a way, although I hate to admit it, they speak secrets to me that make my feet want to stay planted on their sacred ground.
Gaining Sunlight
The days are growing longer. In most parts of the northern hemisphere humans walk aimlessly unaware of the fact that sunshine is growing around them. But here, in a place so far removed from typical seasons, the changing of the light is more noticable than ever. A hint longer each day makes the heart more weary of the forthcoming spring. The idea of summer is unsettling. I feel as if my dear winter friend has only arrived. Fortunately, in the subarctic home I call my own, my January company won't leave me until May.
Dressed In Winter
Place my mukluks on my feet and let joy run through my soul as the crushing of freshy frozen snow makes my body melt into the ground. Let my parka ruff wave in the wind as my blond hair wraps around the furs of a fallen wolf and past wolverine. Watch as my heart and the leather of my beaver fur mittens find themselves enveloping the landscape around them. Take the snowfall and hold it dear. There's no more comforting home than the twisting trails of a long forgotten winter willow stream. Let the lynx trace my path. And warm my mind with the comforting thought of never truly being alone.
Finance Hell
Finances are the least of my worries. You may see me fret, be mad, cry for no reason- but you shall never, under any circumstances, see stress in my eyes with money on my mind. I am very well the least materialistic person you may meet. For a variety of reasons. But first and fore most, I am determined to walk the walk. I have told countless people how much I pity them for being so obsessed with cars and mansions. They pity me for my dwindling bank account. And yet, admist their big pay checks and my small caravan- I always seem to be more often blessed with a smile. Obsessing over the necessity of a small rectangle paper with green ink is the very first way to pull yourself into a living hell. Obsessing over dainty little butterflies and snowfallen sunsets is the very first way to find heaven without even a dime to your name.
Village Children
I have big dreams. Too many big dreams. But what does it hurt to want with every part of your soul to change the world? Perhaps I don't want to alter the face of the planet. But I dearly hope that by the time I leave I would have impacted at least a small percentage of souls. This village, for instance. The beautiful young children with a life most people couldn't imagine. One so different that it's hard for them to find contentment in it. But I'd like to show them. They are looking for invisible happiness, which is odd, because they have the most obvious beautiful life anyone could imagine. I hope I can teach them that. If one thing, of anything, I hope I can change the lives of these village children. For my heart truly lies in their little parka-wearing smiles.
Once A Week Owl
Wol, our owl, has made his appearence once again. He comes around quite often now days. I try to leave feed for the rabbits and voles once a week. Chipper of course, takes his fair share. And when the feed is first dropped, the next morning we awake to our nighttime visitor sleeping with a full stomache on a post of our smokehouse. He usually goes inside by the time the sunrises- for it's dark enough in there to escape the light and find solitude. Our voles are of plenty so I don't mind him around. And he seems quite content with our company as well.
Hypocrite I Be
A bit about my intimate self. This may be more than you ever intended to hear. I am a menstrual wreck during that certain "period". Typically, or shall I say, always until this moment- a bath was my cure to the endless pain that I endure when being a woman. Without running water, or a water heater for that matter, a bath is impossible. And so the suffering I have withstood over the past 48 hours is unbelievable. One would think the wrath of God was upon me. I refuse to take medicine, the idea of such an unnatural human-made thing irritates me. I've thrown snow into my hair to keep myself from vommiting from pain. I've burnt my skin around my back and stomache with hot rags in an attempt to release the tension. I've barely eaten, hardly moved, all but become a living dead person. Curse you life without running water- how dare you not spare me the two days out of the month when I suppose I cannot function normally without you. Hypocritical I may seem. But hypothetically speaking, if you were a young female paralyzed by blood-loss you too would be asking for forgiveness of the 'modern day conveniences' spirit.
Laughing Ancestors
Fixing water pipes in rural Alaska can go one of two ways. Surprisingly well or expectedly bad. Obviously, we had what was expected. And everything went south. Right when we finally melted down that -40 degree ice in our pipes came a flood that is never fun. Allll over the bathroom. There were a lot of lovely curse words exchanged. Some panic-y sorts of running for tissue, towels, and bowls. Nothing humbles one down like cleaning sewage on your knees. I almost feel exposed- like that was a certain part of me that my darling should have never saw. He's seen me at my true worst, but this... well this was just disgusting. I'm fairly sure he won't be able to exchange a kiss with me and enjoy it for, at least a week. I feel, humbled to say the least. I feel exhausted. I feel like 2012 is starting in a way that is a comedy act for the angels that watch over me. I'm sure my ancestors who never had running water are smiling big watching me lose all dignity over so-called 'modern day conveniences'. They seem much more like inconveniences in this remote setting. I've decided to just rid myself of running water- it's too much of a pain. I'd rather handwash clothes than have this entire ordeal occur ever again. Hello, my name is Lone Alaskan Pioneer. I hate running water and you would too if you were me.
Bye Bye Furnace
Well, as if my excitement wasn't already on high- last night we ran out of stove oil (our heat). Remember, it's -40 F outside right now. Just a trip to the Post Office causes frost bite. So obviously my darling felt horrible. The fuel truck in town broke down (that delivers this much needed item). And one must have a lot of patience to live out here, because nothing ever gets done on time. So, obviously that truck is never going to get fixed. Hand delivering stove oil is a tough feat to accomplish. So we didn't accomplish it in time to spare ourselves a dead furnace. Luckily, we have a woodstove. And so the fun of 2012 begins. If this is the end of the world and everything goes dead- I'll be experienced in the living-without department. So I'll survive just fine. I'm already living without heat and running water. So if the ancient predictors of the future are correct and rural Alaska is spared the wrath of mother nature- I feel like I could really make a good life for myself. I already garden, gather, hunt, and fish most of my food. My banana trees may not survive, but my potatoes and salmon will never run out. Not to mention it's kind of sweet to curl into the body of my darling next to a woodstove for bedtime. I think I almost prefer it over an actual bed with a running furnace.
Honey Bucket
If our water coming in froze, we should have assumed the water going out would freeze too. This only poses a problem for one thing- our toilet. Now, I was raised a child who couldn't even step near one of those out-door John toilets. My mother was a high-class charity-working outdoor-loving (with a camper) sort of lady. So I've never quite had an experience with... well, a honey bucket. A honey bucket? Yes, a bucket with a seat that you, well as my young Eskimo friend explained it- pull down your pants and sit on. I'm really not upset about the entire ordeal. I suppose it's kind of exciting in a way. But to be honest the idea of 'dumping' such a thing is going to humble me in a way I could have lived without. Nevertheless, I've never been a woman who needed the of modern day housing arrangement. In fact, if I've survived some of my precious first years as an adult in a climate so out of my elimate, I most certainly can pee in a bucket. If anything, this is the best thing that could have happened to start out the new year. I like excitment, spontaneous happenings, unexpected hiccups in an otherwise perfect life. It makes memories and the much needed 'change' that seems to never really occur in these timeless parts. I like it. And I welcome my new honey bucket with open arms. I look forward to getting to know it... kind of.
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