We have had a relatively calm spring up until this evening. In fact it's been lovely. The sun shining on a blue sky, painted with those light fluffy white clouds. The dandelions bloomed and the summer came fully into life. Trees are green, grass is tall, small light rain showers have kept everything healthy. And it's been very peaceful. But tonight, we saw a change of pace. A storm, more so of wind rather than rain. But a storm nevertheless. Something in me loves storms. I couldn't explain why. I think it roots back to my life in the Midwest, where there was thunder and lightening- cracking tree branches and a loss of electricity. We don't have that here. The tundra offers up no trees to crack. There's never thunder, never lightening, and our electricity is minimal- so losing it is never a big deal. To most here a storm isn't exciting. But to me, it takes me back to a place in my childhood where my heart would race. A place of pure wild intrigue. A place of a loud crack of thunder, followed by hard rain pounding against an accidental open window sill.
Napping With The Wolves
Sometimes I lay, just sprawled across the ground, with Coho and Rascal. It's not a common thing here. Eskimos think of dogs as work animals, not pets. Laying with them would be an embarrassment to say the least. To most it would be a disgrace. But, alas, the old English in me cannot help but undeniably adore my wolves. So I don't care what anyone thinks. I don't mind their stares and whispers and odd looks as they drive by. Rascal's usually sitting above me. Coho lays her head on my chest. Within a few minutes they're both curled into me and all of us will fall asleep for a moment or two. Most people would call me ridiculous. No person here would dare lay with a dog. But I couldn't find happiness any more pure than my simple moments with those two furry children. I never fall asleep more soundly than I do when I lay with them. The mosquitos are of no bother, the sun doesn't ting my eyes, even the rain won't fade away my smile. Because those two simple little animals, with their wagging tails and comforting eyes, are worth every moment of I spend with them- no matter the weather or the looks of those who pass by.
Speaking The Language Of Animals
I find it endlessly intriguing that humans can speak the language of other animals. I don't mean imitating their sound, but rather having that mutual understanding of respect and love. Any human who does not make the effort to befriend an animal, live in harmony with an animal, and permanently place an animal in their heart is missing out on one of the most beautiful abilities of being a man. How blessed we are to be able to live so closely with any living creature we take the time to earn the trust of.
Still A Princess
I'm still a princess, in case you're wondering. When we fish, I mean. I'm kidnapped by pirates and I am a princess. Working to keep my kingdom free. It makes the miserable rain seem a bit more majestic. Splashing waves are easier to work through when you're working for your royal stand rather than your modern bank account. I've played this game for three years. Every year, when we fish, I am a princess. The rest of the crew and the captain are pirates. And the only way to survive is to work as hard as I can. On the days when the fishing is slow and the work is hard, this one small act of imagination keeps me light in mood. So I pretend, just as a five-year-old would. And such a child-like action leads me to the easiest of pennies earned.
First Drift Of The Net
We set our salmon net for the first drift of the season. I know it by heart now. The river. I've spent three summers on it. That time seems so miniscule to most, but to a twenty-one year old it seems like a near lifetime. And I've made a point to pay close attention to each little sandbar, knook of trees, and swerve of the water's edge. I know it now. I know where we're going, where the waves will get rough, and where we'll be blessed with calm sees. I know each turn, each cabin, each grove of willow. And I knew exactly where to set the net. Between a shallow sandbar and a rocky beach- next to a long-abandon fish camp of a Yup'ik elder. We caught 15 our first drift. Enough for enough dry fish for the winter. A blessing, to say the least. And an ever-so-welcoming addition to a dwindling supply of the nature's gifted dinners.
Melting Ice Moving
It was exciting. In a matter of minutes the village awoke from it's winter rest and became a bustling summer town. It was the first spring, in the three years I have resided in Alaska, that I was present for the break-up of the Yukon River. A late spring made for thin ice this year, but that didn't stop it from pushing itself into towers upon the shore. The strength of the melting mountain snows upriver creates a current so full of wrath that it tosses breaks of ice against anything in it's wake. This causes a rush of people to run to the beach as the ice begins to move. A procrastinator's panic ensues and everyone frantically tries to pull their boats from the water before the ice takes it away. Rouge children escape the playground and run to watch the ice build up- sometimes ten times taller than them. And I, stood in awe among the chaos. People yelling, pulling, children weaving in and out of it all, and the ice, deaf to the village sounds, pushing itself into it all. After a long, quiet winter seeing the town so suddenly come to life left me feeling every so welcoming to summer.
Think Of Me?
I have searched up and down for you, but I suppose it's time I just quit looking. I feel like if I see you, and you see me, then you'll think of me. I'll cross your path, and then cross your mind. And then maybe you'll remember some spark, somewhere inside, and you'll not be able to get me out of your mind. I really shouldn't hope for such things. But I really can't help it. You're utterly extraordinary and you haven't left my train of thought for many many days. I only wish that the thought of me could play the same tricks with you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)