Stone House

On the day I moved into Stone House, the weather was miserable. The snow had turned to rain, but it was hard, cold rain, and the wind was blowing fiercely. Thankfully I didn't have much to move; mostly it was just the boxes I had already hauled all the way from Chicago. But still, I had to lug those heavy boxes up a flight of stone steps (as Stone House was built on the side of a hill). I also had already put in a full day of work, so I was exhausted. I quickly had to clean the house I had been renting, to make sure it was up to par, then I had to collect my dog and make the drive out to Mile 8 and faced my first night in my new place.

There was nothing cozy about Stone House. With the rain lashing against the windows and the wind howling through the Chilkat Valley, you'd think that the house would have been the perfect shelter in a storm. But Stone House was dreary and cold on that first night. I had no real furniture yet. The house came with a few choice pieces, namely a fading sofa that smelled of old man ass, an old dirty refrigerator in the bedroom, and a divan where Horton automatically made himself at home. Overhead lights had been installed, but half of the bulbs had burnt out, and one lone lamp failed to fill the darkness. There was a fireplace, but it was too late in the evening to get a fire going. I was tired and longed for that heated bed which had been my refuge for the last couple of months. But all I had was a air mattress. It was a miserable first night.

Prior to the move, I had made another trip up to Whitehorse. This time I had gone solo, but with Horton in the back (there is something glorious about having a dog's smiling face in a rear-view mirror). The wilderness was just as desolate as the first time around, though the temps had climbed into a more comfortable range, so the threat of freezing to death wasn't as prominent. Just past Haines Junction I came across a car in a ditch. Two young girls were stranded, so I gave them a ride to Whitehorse where they lived. It felt good to perform such a good deed, and the girls were great company for the rest of the drive as they filled me in on life in the Yukon.

Finally I got to meet Chris's cousin Sarah and her family, as they invited to me stay the night. Steve, who I had stayed with in Red Deer on my way up to Alaska, was visiting. Primarily I was in Whitehorse for a shopping trip, but the Frostbite Music Festival was on so I went with Steve on the last night to watch some musicians play. I was expecting a concert venue with crowds and loud speakers and whatnot, but found the event to be quite subdued. We sat down in an auditorium and listened as singer/songwriters told their stories while strumming their guitars. This may sound boring, but it was intimate and had me nearly in tears at times, as their stories were so heartfelt. I couldn't believe I was sitting in this room in the middle of the Yukon experiencing such a thing. Every now and then, these moments seem so surreal, like "How on earth did I get here?" As they sang songs of home and of loss and of discovery, I thought of how far I had come. The move to Alaska had been so meaningful to me. It's one of those things that felt like it was meant to be, as if the universe had steered me there. Ok, corny I know, but the feeling was very strong at the time, and I felt I had finally found my resting place in the world.

Just like his uncle Steve and aunt Jane, Chris's cousin Sarah was charming, as was her husband Phil and their little boy. How lovely to find our closest kin in the far North were quality people. As Whitehorse and the Yukon would continue to have a pull on me, as well as Chris, we would be spending more time with them in the years to come.

So, it was time to take care of business, the reason why I had made this journey in the dead of winter. I parked myself at Walmart, treating Buck to a badly needed oil change, and spent the next few hours cramming several carts full of household items. It's amazing how much stuff it takes to set up a home, especially from scratch. Garbage cans, dish drying racks, pillows, mirrors, bathroom mats, toothbrush holders--all these things had to be taken into consideration. I wasn't focused on heavy duty furniture, that would come later. I just needed the basics to make Stone House a home. All in all, I spent over $1000. It would have been much cheaper in the Lower 48, but at least this was a one-stop shopping experience and I was getting all this shopping out of the way. It had been so long since being in a store the size of Walmart and I was quite the kid in the candy store, pulling things off racks left and right. With Buck cleaned up and running smoothly, I loaded up and we made that epic drive back to Haines. I stopped at the US border, expecting the customary "Welcome back" greeting. But I hit a snag in that I had spent too much money in Canada in the short time I was there. I guess this kind of thing is discouraged, and I was hit with a the possibility of a fee. Thankfully the inspector simply explained the situation to me while waiving the fee. The next time I needed to do a mega shopping trip, apparently Juneau was the better option.

So I had the basics. But somehow the basics didn't seem to cut it, especially on that first night when I simply needed comfort. I had bought rugs, but they didn't cover enough of the thin, dirty carpet which spread across the length of Stone House. I changed the filthy shower curtain in the bathroom and put down cabinet liners on the shelves which stood exposed on one side of the kitchen, but it still felt, and smelled, like a hermit's abode. Perhaps that was part of the charm. Looking back, yes, it probably was on the charming side, in a backwoods Alaskan way, but at the time, I was wanting thick shag carpet and radiant heating, not old XtraTufs and rusted tools in the Arctic entry way, and a gas heater which wheezed spasms of heat.

I decided against setting up my bedroom in the back room. The room was big, but it was away from the heater, the only source of heat in the whole house. There was frost on the inside of the windows, and the back door--never a good sign. Plus there was that weird refrigerator that was completely out of place, and that creepy opening which led to the trapdoor which led to the creepiest basement in the history of mankind. Yes, that back room was not for me. I'd be sleeping in the main room that connected to the kitchen and the living room. Horton would be sleeping in his bed which I had bought at Walmart. It was our first night together. I wanted him to crawl into bed with me so I could feel his thick fur next to me, but my bed was simply an air mattress, and for some reason, that really freaked him out. He slept in the living room under those big dark windows, looking out over the expanse of the Chilkat River and Cathedral Peaks, and I felt he was so far away. The emptiness of the house pressed against me, as did the isolation. How in the world was I going to make this place a home?

Roughing It

Ok, maybe I didn't have it too bad. After all, there were people in Haines who lived in cabins with no running water and had to go outside to pee. At least Stone House had proper plumbing and electricity, though these were recently installed. The water was sourced from a stream which ran nearby. Before the plumbing had been put in, residents had to haul their water--not exactly an easy feat. So I had it pretty good in that respect, and also the fact that there was a water heater and the septic system that could handle toilet paper, which meant that I didn't need to resort to a bidet. Also, the lights turned on (most of them, anyway) when I flipped a light switch, so at least I was on the grid. Until recently, residents had to rely on a generator for their light. So Stone House was up to scratch as far as the basic necessities.

Despite these modern conveniences, there was still an element of roughing it. Perhaps it was because I had moved in at the end of February. The place was freezing. It was evident that there was little to no insulation. Though Stone House was indeed made of stone, rock alone is not an adequate insulator against the wrath that an Alaskan winter can bring. The windows which graced the front portion of the house had apparently lost their sealing a long time ago, and the wind whistled through the cracks. The gas heater by the front door ran day and night in a valiant effort to combat the cold, but the cold continuously won out. The only warm place was at the kitchen table in the vicinity of the heater. At night, I slept on the floor, albeit on an air mattress, but I found that the air mattress didn't offer much buffer against the cold. I froze at night, shivering under the weight of my blankets, unable to sleep in my misery. It was almost on par with camping.

There was a large fireplace which took up a good portion of the living room. I didn't rely on it for heat, as I didn't have the resources available. The previous resident had a left a few rounds of logs and an ax in the shed, so on occasion I'd go out and chop myself some wood and start a fire, but only when I really had the ambition. When I did have a fire blazing, I found that I had to sit directly in front of it to benefit from its warmth. The fire failed to heat the house outside of the living room.

It was the cold I mostly battled with. But there were other things as well. There was the pervading stink of the place, as the previous tenant had been a chain smoker. Tar coated the walls, actually running in thick drips from ceiling to floor. It was beyond gross. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn't completely get it off. I can totally understand why landlords don't allow their tenants to smoke. While scrubbing away, I tried to envision what tar could do to a set of smoker's lungs.

Another thing I battled with was the spiders. Now I had done my research, and it turns out that Alaska does not harbor any venomous spiders or snakes. As much of a relief as this was, it didn't stop spiders from invading my well being. On average I was killing about two a day, smashing them against the orange, tar-dripping walls. I felt they'd be sitting there, starring at me, waiting for me to fall into bed so they could trace their tiptoey feet over me. They left me constantly on edge, popping 3-D fashion out of a wall as I walked by.

The spiders weren't the only thing causing me terror. There was a dark hole under the house which the landlord had labelled a "basement." It was like something out of my worst nightmares. It started with a trap door in the floor of the closet in the back room. Pulling on the rope, it was like opening the door to hell. Down some rickety stairs and lit by a lone dim bulb was an area reminiscent of the basement in Silence of the Lambs. You could almost hear a voice telling you "It puts lotion on the skin" while piling laundry into the washing machine. There were corners of the basement which escaped the light, and though I was led to believe it was bedrock. I could picture human skin stretched across the walls. I wouldn't have been surprised. I only went in the basement to do laundry, and I completed that chore as quickly as possible and then hightailed it back into the light. I often feared falling down those stairs and being helpless to climb my way out. I also feared the trap door slamming shut and being trapped in that hole. Living alone, these were all real fears for me.

Another thing I battled with at Stone House was the isolation. It's funny, because this was exactly what I had wanted for so long: a place in the mountains where I could be alone with my books and my thoughts. The nearest neighbor was up a cliff, his house accessible by a road about half a mile away. I really was alone at Mile 8, though the house was located close to the highway. Horton offered some companionship, but his puppy playfulness had evaporated as soon as he walked through the door to his new home. It was odd--he turned into an older, wiser dog overnight. He seemed to take on role of guard dog, and sat on the divan by the window for hours, looking out the window in a severe way, keeping watch on whatever came down the road. In the morning he'd come lumbering into the area of the room where I slept, as glum as a moose, as sit by the bed, waiting for me to get up. The only time he really seemed energetic is when we'd go for our walks, which thankfully were plentiful. If it was a matter of letting him out to pee, there was a fenced yard in the back complete with a dog house. I had purchased straw to put in the dog house, imagining Horton was the outdoor type who would prefer the back yard to staying inside. But he surprised me by eschewing the back yard. I literally had to push him out the back door to pee, and as soon as he had taken care of business he'd be scratching at the door to get back inside. It seemed that he liked my companionship, but kept at an arm's length. Horton definitely wasn't the clinging, cuddly type.

The best part about Stone House was the location. I could almost forgive the lack of insulation, the spiders, and the dungeon under the house, simply for the view. From the living room, the Cathedral Peaks (the tallest, most dramatic peaks in the Chilkat Valley) were visible, towering over everything else. Stepping out the front door, the river could be seen through a line of trees. In those trees, bald eagles nested. Out the back door, I stepped onto the deck and really took in the view of the peaks and the wilderness across the river. From my spot at the kitchen table I could see clear down the valley, through the corridor of mountains, to the sea. I'd sit there in the morning and watch the sun rise, the light hitting the mountains layer by layer. It was nothing short of magical. As I didn't have TV at Stone House, I spent a lot of time at that window, keeping warm by the heater, drinking cups of tea. There was utter contentment in absorbing that view.

Sometimes the enormity of it got to me. After all, I really was alone in the wilderness. I was connected by wi-fi and a landline, but psychologically I  was alone. Most of the times I relished it, but sometimes the aloneness hit me hard. I remember one night when I was invited out by one of my coworkers. It was someone's birthday and a girl named Jess was performing with a band at one of the bars. Seems like forever I had been waiting for invitations such as this in an effort to have a social life. But I couldn't propel myself to go. I had been struggling with this uneasiness around other humans, something that had been plaguing me since childhood. Such uneasiness has come and gone throughout my life, sometimes in depressive episodes, but had been hitting me particularly hard since I had moved to Haines (or more accurately, started working at Mountain Market where the social dynamics were weird to begin with). This uneasiness, and this desire to be left alone, bothered me so much that I actually did research on it, and for a brief moment I believed I had Asperger's Syndrome. Turns out I didn't have Asperger's but, through my research, I was able to diagnose myself with a textbook case of introversion. It was a huge a-ha moment for me, as I've never been able to get a clear answer as to why human interaction exhausts me so much. (Well, for the record, not all interaction exhausts me, just the chit-chat kind where people overtalk each other and talk just for the sake of talking. I'm not one that talks for the sake of talking, to enjoy the sound of my own voice.) People standing around in groups talking has always boggled my mind. What they hell could they possibly be talking about? It's not like they're not devising ways to save the planet. If I get invited into one of those chitchat conversations, I'm looking for an escape route, just itching to get out. But this has always caused me to feel bad. What was wrong with me that I couldn't enjoy these interactions? Something must be wrong with me. To find that there was a word for it--introversion--and other people like me experience the same things, was a huge relief. Since that time, I've embraced my introversion and do not feel ashamed for it. In fact, introversion is in--seems like everyone on Facebook is claiming to be an introvert. It's nice to know that I was ahead of the trend.

Perhaps Stone House was ideal for my introverted ways, but sometimes I felt a hole in my psyche that I could almost be classified as loneliness. On the night of that party, I imagined everyone out having a good time, with music and laughter and swaying drinks. I didn't want that--see, I knew that--but I didn't know what exactly I did want. Sitting around in the dark seemed so depressing, so I flipped on the radio. There's only one radio station in Haines, and that is KHNS. By this time I was familiar with the station as I had developed my own show, but still I had done little to listen to the other shows. To tune in and hear Allegro Non Troppo, the classical music show, was exactly what I needed for my mood. I'm not usually one who sits around listening to classical music (though I do have my favorite pieces I indulge in every now and then) but there was something in the music that really spoke to me, and I found myself crying. I wasn't sure why, it was just one of those things. Then I looked out one of the windows and saw the full moon rising above the mountain peaks. The whole snow-filled valley was bathed in that light. I wouldn't have traded that moment for anything, and I embraced my aloneness at that point, just me, the dog on his divan, and that brilliant winter moon. Yes, I may have been turning into a weirdo, but here's the real beauty of it--nobody was around to notice.

The part I enjoyed most about Stone House was the hiking out back. There was a well-established trail which led to the stream, about 100 yards into the forest. The stream fed into the lake which lay just south of the property. Following the stream upriver, cascades of water fell over rocks, though it was more like frozen cascades in the winter. The path wasn't as clearly distinguished past a certain point, and seen as how a few trees had fallen, I had to step onto some rocks in the stream to skirt the trees. That was what I considered my safe point--if I made it back from a hike and got to that spot, the trail took me right down the hill to the house. Anything past that point seemed far away, as if escape from a bear or a moose wasn't as certain. There was also a tree I liked right at my safe point, a hemlock that rose straight and proud with no branches until the very top. I don't know what it was about this tree that made it stand out from the others, but I designated it as my tree, and every time I headed out into the forest I would stop and say hi to it. When I touched it I imagined that I was absorbing its strength. I also had the notion that it was protecting me. Some hippie shit, yes I know, but--why the hell not, right? It made my hike more meaningful.

Every time I headed out the door, I faced the dangers of the forest. I had heard stories from the landlord about angry moose kicking her car. From all the moose droppings on the trail, it looked as if I were walking a moose highway. I had also heard about wolves in the area, though they were incredibly elusive. It was only a few years back that a dog in Haines was attacked and eaten by a rogue wolf. Stuff like this is very rare, but it does happen. Coyotes were also about, as were cougars. One time when I was letting Horton out into the backyard, a flash of fur darted into the trees. From the long tail, I could only surmise that it was a lynx. They are the quietest of predators in the forest. And then of course are the bears. Even though I started hiking in those woods in winter, when bears were hibernating, I still feared that I'd break through one of their dens and step on them, arousing them from their slumber. This was a plausible scenario, considering that much of the forest floor was actually decaying foliage that could give away. While hiking, I always wondered where the bears were sleeping. Was I walking right on top of them? And what about the odd bear who woke from his slumber mid-winter, confused, ornery and hungry? There were so many ways to die in Alaska, just by stepping out the door. The possibilities were continually on my mind. But that didn't stop me from hiking every day, sometimes twice a day.

The initial trail led to a larger trail which actually looked like it had at one time been a road. Turning right on the trail could take me to my closest neighbor's house (at least I knew that the house was accessible, even if it was a hike up a mountainside). Turning left, the trail ran through a birch forest and then out to a meadow. Past the meadow, the trail entered into dense forest and then past a sizable creek. After that, it took a few dips and climbs but ultimately ended at a huge chunk of bedrock jutting out of the mountainside. All in all, the trail was about a mile long.

I had different levels of comfort with each section of the trail. Of course, the first part that was close to home was the most comfortable, even with all the moose droppings. I even felt pretty good on the road section, as the trail was wide and open, and if I screamed, perhaps my neighbor would hear. The meadow section was a nice breather as I could see all around me and take in the rest of the mountain that was otherwise hidden from below. Anything past that--I was high vigilant. It was the dense forest which concerned me the most. I made as much noise as possible walking through. Horton would warn me of any danger, running ahead on the trail. I watched the swish of his jaunty pantaloons (the furry part of his hindlegs), glad he was my hiking companion. There was one time when I really freaked out. We were on our way back and I thought Horton had run into the brush. I heard a snort beside me on the trail, and I figured it was Horton--until I saw Horton ahead of me. So--what exactly snorted then? I didn't stay to investigate; I booked it along the trail. I was far along the trail at that point, and far from my safe point. Horton was acting bizarre for the rest of that hike, staying so close to me that I was literally tripping over him. He seemed spooked. I had never been so happy to get to my safe spot, to my tree, where it was a straight shot back to the house.

Just about every time I headed out the door, I prepared myself for danger. And every time I made it back, I marveled at how we made it back safe, without any incident. Nothing bad ever happened on that trail. My confidence in the wilderness was growing somewhat, not in myself, but in my ability to keep wild animals at bay. I learned to trust the forest creatures. I knew they were there. The scat was everywhere. But the fact that they stayed away meant that I was doing something right in the forest, either my giving warning of my presence or having Horton nearby. There was only one time where a bear took interest in us, and that was around May of that year when the bears were coming out of hibernation. There was one night when Horton wouldn't stop barking. I knew that something was outside. It was a night fraught with much worry, as I had heard stories of bears breaking down doors (in fact, after I moved out of Stone House, a bear did break down the back door). It occurred to me that maybe the bear was after Horton's bag of dog food, which I kept in the Arctic entry. I moved the food inside, but Horton's barking continued throughout the night. In the morning, on our first walk of the day, we discovered the big pile of bear scat in the yard. As we moved up the trail, just past our safe place, I found a paw print in the mud on the side of the stream. It was interesting to see that the bear took the same path as me, skirting around those trees. Thankfully the paw print pointed away, meaning that the bear had left, but the print was huge. Judging from the size of the claws, I figured it was a brown bear.

Ok, just a little run down of the different bears found in Haines. There are black bears, and then there are brown bears. Brown bears are the bigger of the two. They are also known as grizzly bears, but are only called that away from the coast. Brown bears are different from black bears in that they are much larger and have a slight hump on the back of their neck. Brown bears love salmon and usually seem content along the coast with the abundance of fish and berries. They usually mind their own business, but can be very dangerous when confronted. Black bears are the less intimidating of the two kinds, as they are smaller and are not known for fatal attacks. On a trail, I'd much rather prefer to come across a black bear. (Just to make it even more confusing, black bears aren't always black. I ran into a bear the other day while out hiking. It was brown, but it was not a grizzly. Black bears that are colored brown are called cinnamon bears).

The bear came back the next night. I know this because I found more scat along the trail, close to the house. Needless to say, Horton and I didn't hike for a few days. Eventually the bear moved along and we headed out hiking again. I never took bear spray. Still don't. I rely on my instincts and my trust of bears to keep their distance. I don't know if this is wise or not, but it's worked so far.

There was always a sense of accomplishment when coming back from a hike, like a test of survival. On days off, I'd come back, chop some wood and start a fire. I'd read a book, or set up a writing station by the fire, or simply stare at the fire and think of how awesome my Alaskan life was. And I was doing it all on my own. If that doesn't make a girl feel powerful, then I don't know what would.

My First Alaskan Winter

Having grown up in the Chicago area, I was no stranger to winters. Low temps, heavy snow, blizzards, white-outs, ice, wind and sleet--it's all part of living in the Midwest. Because of this, I felt I was somewhat prepared for a winter in Southeast Alaska. (For goodness sake, I drove around with a shovel in my car--still do!) Though the snow fell hard in the winter of 2012-2013, it was pristine and peaceful and complimented the landscape. Instead of sentiments of hostility and sighs of long-suffering concerning the snow, the locals embraced an optimistic outlook, actually welcoming a snow-filled forecast. My coworkers at Mountain Market would look out the window at the falling snow and cheer: "Yay, I'm going snow machining!" This mentality is so much better than that in the Midwest where most people bemoan the snow and count off the days until spring. Indeed, winter outdoor activities are plentiful: snowshoeing, snow machining (the term used instead of snowmobiling). cross-country skiing, downhill skiing... the list goes on. Winter is playtime, even though the days are short. And for night, well, there's always stargazing or watching for the Northern Lights.

The Yukon

I had set up a place in town, which meant I no longer had to stay at Tamsen's. Before I moved out, there was the matter of taking a road trip into Canada. Irene and Jared were persuading me to drive them to Whitehorse, and although I wanted to go there myself, the 244 mile drive was daunting. Though Haines was in the throes of a snowy season, temperatures stayed mostly in the 20-30 degree range. In contrast, the temps in Whitehorse were in the -20's. I had never experienced such extreme temps--I mean, temps that can actually kill a person! I wasn't sure if I felt comfortable making a long drive through absolute wilderness with temps that could kill (Haines Junction, 148 miles from Haines, was the only gas stop until Whitehorse).

Now I knew that Buck had gotten me to Alaska just fine. We had done our share of driving through open places with few towns in between, but with temps in the -20's, it was a completely different story. If something happened and the car broke down, we'd be stranded along a stretch of road which few cars traveled. Not only that, but I was concerned about conditions at the pass. By this I mean Chilkat Pass, just beyond the Canadian border. Many times the pass would shut down because of conditions. Though the weather looked clear for our trip to Whitehorse, there was no saying what it would be like on the way back. It was possible that we would get trapped in Haines Junction. The whole thing was nerve-wracking. But I suppose there was one last adventure to be had with my fellow helpers, so I succumbed to the pressure and agreed to make the drive.

I had driven up to the border at the beginning of my stay in Mosquito Lake. As it was only 13 miles from Tamsen's it wasn't much of a drive, and I kind of thrilled in the idea of living so close to the border. I mean, if things went pear-shaped in America, it was a comfort to have Canada right in the backyard. Passing through the border is pretty straight forward. We were welcomed with a "Hello" and a "Bonjour." It's to be noted that Canada is supposedly bilingual, with Quebec being one of the provinces. I found this charming, as I've always had an affinity for the French language. With passports checked, we were wished a good journey, and we were on our way.

The road ahead of us was plowed. It was a relief to find that the Canadian part of the Haines Highway was well-maintained, even more so than the American side. The road steeply rose, hemmed in by thick forest. As we rose higher, the trees thinned out and shortened more into bushes, and then we came to just snow, as far as the eye could see. The pass was clear and it offered spectacular views of towering mountain peaks. I don't know why, but I felt we had entered into a whole new territory, even though Mosquito Lake was merely  miles behind us. This felt completely alien, with a white so bright it hurt the eyes.

The drive turned out to be a piece of cake, namely because there was no traffic. I didn't expect a whole lot of traffic in the middle of winter, but this was almost eerie. The odd car that did come our way had what looked like a sheet of cardboard over the front grill. The temperature was constantly on our minds as Buck's display read -22 F. Thankfully it was nice and toasty inside as the three of us finally laughed and talked, free from the confines of the homestead.

The first part of Haines Highway past the border is some of the most spectacular scenery that can be found on Earth. Part of British Columbia, it mostly consists of sharp mountain peaks and yawning wilderness. I get chills thinking about this landscape. I'm thankful to say that I didn't burst into tears like I had in Banff National Park--by this time I had been broken in with wonderful scenery in Haines. But I was in constant awe. How beautiful our planet is! I challenge anyone to drive that stretch of highway and not be moved by it.

About 100 miles into the drive, we came to the Yukon border. We commemorated the moment by getting out and taking a picture in front of the Yukon sign. I didn't dare turn Buck off, in fear of him not restarting. From that point on, the mountain peaks weren't as steep, but the wilderness was just as fantastic with rivers and wide stretches of frozen lake.

We pulled into Haines Junction, population 589. It was like a ghost town under the weight of the cold; nothing moved but a few cars. We made a stop to fill up with gas, mindful that this was the only gas available between Haines and Whitehorse. Pulling out of the station, we found that we had the option to drive onto Fairbanks, or Anchorage, as the Alcan Highway meets up with the Haines Highway (thus the name Haines Junction). It was thrilling to think that we could just keep driving. Yes, Fairbanks was like 500 miles away, but at least we had that option. It takes living in an isolated place, such as Haines, to really appreciate the open road and the opportunities it brings.

From Haines Junction to Whitehorse it was an easy drive. Away from the Coast Mountains, this section the Yukon was merely hills instead of mountains. Still, the scenery was fabulous, offering sweeping views of forest.

As daylight hours are short in this part of the world, it was already getting dark as we pulled into Whitehorse. The capital city of the Yukon is a proper metropolis in the emptiness of the territory. It was a relief to see chain stores and restaurants as we pulled onto the main strip--civilization at last! One thing that impressed me right off the bat was the number of tire places. This was a good thing, seen as how Buck was now reeking of gasoline. I had never had this problem with him before and had me very concerned. The smell was so strong it making us swoon.

We found our hostel off a street in the main downtown area. The hostel, called The Beez Kneez, was the cutest, friendliest place. It seriously felt as if we were staying in someone's house. We were the only guests, but shared a room with bunkbeds. I asked if there was somewhere sheltered I could park the car; after all, most Canadians in these parts either had garages or engine heaters. I hated to think of Buck being exposed to the elements. He had gotten us to Whitehorse, which was good of him, but I didn't want to abuse him further, especially with him leaking gas. The lady informed me that there were no garages to park, but suggested we start the engine throughout the night and let it run in order to prevent the gas line from freezing. Irene and Jared offered to take this on, seen as how I had driven them all this way. They'd be taking shifts through the night.

We headed down the street in search of food, deciding to walk instead of drive. My white poof coat, which had surrounded me like a comforting pillow in Haines, now had turned to crinkle wrap. The cold air bit my fingers through my thick gloves. I kept my face under the collar of my coat, but my breath steamed up my glasses, making it hard for me to see. Wow, was that a cold walk. We walked eight blocks, which was pretty considerable. I guess we didn't drive because we wanted to drink. And drink we did, as soon as we reached the Gold Rush Inn. What a haven that place was, with its comfort food and flowing booze. There was a hint of the frontier in the Gold Rush, though it was mainly a sports bar. With poutine on the menu, and hockey jerseys on the wall, there was no mistake that we were in Canada, especially with Jared talking away (he had been so quiet at Tamsen's, but on this Yukon trip he was a talkaholic), ending every other sentence with a "hey?" as if asking us to agree with his thoughts.

We must have spent a few good hours there, luxuriating in the thrill of being back in civilization, and a bar at that, away from goats and cluttered kitchens. Irene and Jared were so cheery that they decided they were going to find some cigarettes to smoke. They were informed that a convenience store was located about a mile down the road. They actually said they would walk it. I thought they were crazy--there was no way I'd be walking that far--so I left them and headed them back to the hostel. The town was lit up for Christmas, and looked very festive, at least it seemed that way through my fogged up glasses. The sky was cloudy so there was no hope in seeing Northern Lights, much to my dismay. But still, this was quite the Yukon experience, braving killer temps through the empty streets on the way back to the hostel. The walk back was even colder, if that was possible. I worried about Irene and Jared, who were venturing out into the cold night with even less protection than I had. They had been liquored up and in good spirits. Were they in the right frame of mind to be walking the streets in this cold? I got back to the hostel and waited for them. When they didn't come back, I got in Buck (who thankfully started right up) and drove through the streets looking for them, expecting to find their frozen figures on some corner. I found them several blocks from the hostel, still laughing and jovial from booze.

The next morning, my priority was to get Buck seen to. The smell of gas had been alarming, and I wanted to make sure that Buck was in top form before heading back into that isolation. I took him to Canada Tire where they gave him a once over. They informed me that nothing was wrong and that sometimes the cold did weird things to Subarus. They charged me nothing for this service, and I was very impressed by their generosity. I was also relieved that Buck was in good shape for the drive. I was told to try to put cardboard across the front of the car, just like we had seen other cars on the highway. This is to prevent the cold air from freezing the engine. I had never heard of this, but apparently this is true. When the air gets far below zero, it can actually freeze a car in its tracks, even if it's going 60 mph. So Jared, Irene and I went through dumpsters in the back of Canada Tires, trying to find just the right piece of cardboard. The only thing was, we couldn't figure out how to get it under the grill. We left the cardboard off and braved the journey without it.

Before leaving Whitehorse, Irene and Jared wanted to see more of the town. I was concerned about getting back to Mosquito Lake before dark, but because we had spent so much time at Canada Tire, they felt they hadn't seen enough. I understood, so I allowed them an hour in town. The downtown of Whitehorse is really charming with trendy cafes and an old-time train depot (there's a train that runs between Skagway and Whitehorse called the White Pass and Yukon Route). The town echoes with the history of the gold rush, with the frontier-facades of the buildings and the Yukon River (frozen then) running through the town. I loved the place, and knew I'd have to come back. After all, Chris had relatives that lived in Whitehorse, and we had yet to meet them.

The drive back was very long. I hadn't slept well the night before, ironically worrying about the car and the drive. I don't know why I didn't let Irene or Jared help with the driving; I suppose I felt I wanted the safety to lie in my hands. By the time we reached the pass, the dark had set in, and so had some bad weather. The wind was blowing fiercely, producing almost white-out conditions. Thankfully the road was very wide at the pass, with high rods in place to mark the shoulders (for the snowplows I can only surmise). It was a relief to pass through the US border and make the short drive to Mosquito Lake and sit before the fire.

It was one last hurrah with Irene and Jared. It had been a great little trip, and I was glad I had seen a bit more of Irene and Jared and their unfettered personalities. We had all been so polite with each other at Tamsen's; it was refreshing to experience their loud, talkative side. I think we all needed that trip. But I had to say goodbye to them, for I was soon to become a townie.

The Easy Life

It wasn't comfort I came to Alaska for, but it was certainly welcome after a month's worth of shivering at Tamsen's. Instead of a wood stove, I now had radiant heating. On top of that I had soft carpet to lounge around on, and--get this--a heated bed. No more sleeping with a hot water bottle; instead, I slept in the nude. This was the height of luxury for me. No having to get out of bed to stoke a fire, no dogs howling through the night for their owner, and no housemates to tiptoe around. Oh, and no more bidets. I was back to living the bachelorette lifestyle with frozen pizzas and junk TV. After all these years with Chris and in the UK and abroad, I was back to simple living, my version of the American dream.

I loved it, especially because everything was taken care of. I had paid three months' rent up front, and there were no utilities to pay, so all I could do was spend my money on clothes, movies and music. The house felt more like a cave, as I kept most of the shades drawn. Seen as how I was at work for most of the daylight hours, there was no reason to try to let sunlight in. I had absolute privacy, which was good for I was back to exercising to workout videos. Someone would have to steady themselves on a ladder to look in the only unshaded window (the kitchen window) to watch me work on my Pussycat Dolls routine. I probably will never have such a cushy existence again, and I relished the time spent in town.

Mountain Market was still my place of employment. Instead of a hour and half roundtrip drive each day, I now could walk to work. This was ideal on snowy days when I couldn't be bothered to unbury Buck. I found it strange that so few Alaskans had garages. This made no sense. If there ever was a place to park a car inside, it would be Alaska. But like everything else in Haines, corners are cut in the way of construction, and this could very much to due to the price of materials. There are no building codes in Haines, and this can be both a good and bad thing. Good in the way of saving money--bad in the way of slapdash building. The variety of houses to be found in Haines is very interesting, to say the least. Some people live in teepees, some in chalets, some in one room cabins without running water; some people even live in tents year round. I thought this was absolutely crazy, but then again, many people move to isolated towns like Haines to break all the rules of society. I kind of admire that kind of living.

But living rough was not for me. The roughest it got for me that winter was my walk to work. As all residents are responsible for their own safety, none of the shops shoveled their sidewalks, so many times after a heavy snow I 'd have to walk in the road. And even that wasn't easy, as the borough wasn't interested in salting. These Alaskans were tough, both when it came to walking and driving. Everyone had AWD vehicles with studded tires. And when walking, they wore "grippers," chains to wear on the underside of your boots. I had brought my collection of high-heels to Haines; I was beginning to see how utterly useless 3/4 of my shoes were. A good pair of boots, grippers, a heavy coat, and good gloves--that was all that was needed. Nobody was impressed with fashion; nobody cared if you wore the same clothes ten days in a row. Many Haines residents lived in cabins with no running water, which meant they only took a shower once a week at the laundromat. Many of these people you could pick out from the smell of their clothes and their unwashed hair--but it was ok! This was Alaska!

My job at Mountain Market was alright, but nothing terribly exciting. I was surrounded by a cast of interesting characters; some of them were quirky, but many of them clearly had social disabilities. My spirit had been broken from the first day, when I realized just how anal and micromanaged the place was. Not just the management, but the workers who only had one way of doing things. To give an example, though I had spent many years working in a kitchen, apparently I didn't know the appropriate way of spreading mustard on bread and was told I was doing it wrong. This is just one example of the many things I was corrected on. And here I was supposed to be trained to be a manager? Somehow I got the sense that I would never be manager in a place as regimented as this. So I spent many days with my head down just doing my work. My favorite part of work was burning waxed cardboard outside in a burn barrel. As the fire had to be supervised, and stand there and enjoy its warmth and crackle while looking at the mountains. These were peaceful times for me, like I was in the middle of camping.

Another thing that crushed my spirit is that  none of the younger workers (by that, I mean my age or younger) cared about my story--where I came from, my life experiences, my humorous anecdotes. At first this stung, as I had been used to attention in the UK for being an American, and in the Midwest, of course, everyone is interested in hearing your stories. I'm used to exchanges in conversations, with questions of interest being asked, followed by questions of interest back. I did my part in asking questions, but had no questions asked in return. If I tried to tell a story about myself, I'd be overtalked, or one-upped with someone else's story. The social dynamics in the kitchen really set me back, and I retreated inward. This is something that definitely affected me from the outset and drove me on a course of isolation. I felt it was easier to keep silent and protect my thoughts rather than to face disinterest or disdain. I felt very alone at Mountain Market, but back in my cave with my heated bed, things were lovely.

The In Crowd

There was one guy at work I really got on with, and that was Ashley, the first guy I had met in Haines. He was more or less a free spirit with a booming voice and a shaggy, beardy appearance. He was always good for laughs. One day when he was eating lunch, I heard him laughing about his radio show. He said it was so bad that he had to apologize for it on air. I was impressed with the idea of DJing and asked how he had gotten his own show. He told me it was voluntary and the local station KHNS was always looking for DJs. I had never thought of doing a radio show, but I wasn't doing a whole lot else through the winter, so I considered volunteering at the station.

There didn't seem to be a whole lot to do in town in the winter. Most of the restaurants were closed down, and there was no bowling alley, movie theater, or mall. What did people do for fun in this town anyway? Well, as Christmas was approaching, the town came alive one day. I was finishing up my shift, the sun had already gone under, and I was ready to go home, but there was a commotion out on the street. "It's the parade," one of my coworkers told me. I thought it was odd that a parade would be held in the dark, but apparently it was a parade of lights, complete with a Chinese-style dragon--the Snow Dragon. Irene and Jared came into the cafe, all aglow with holiday spirit. They said they were going to the library for the town party. Seen as how my shift was over, I joined them. The library, located next door to Mountain Market, was the best library I had ever seen (indeed, it has won awards for the best small-town library). Decorated to the hilt for Christmas, it was a warm and cozy place with a winter backdrop showing through the huge picture windows. The whole town seemed crammed into a small space, and I found it amusing that the number one hot spot in town was a library. This should say a lot about the town. (I've been told that per capita, Haines has the most college-educated population in America). I was beginning to see the town outside of the workers and customers at Mountain Market. The thought crossed my mind that I should make an effort to get out and meet people.

Around this time, a poster was put up on the front door of Mountain Market. It was promoting a Masquerade Ball for New Years. Like Cinderella, I really wanted to go to this ball. I ended up asking Ashley, and to my surprise he didn't have a date set up, so he said yes. I was over the moon, and spent hours online trying to find the perfect outfit.

Though my Christmas was spent alone in my cave (with music and rum to keep me company, as well as Chris on Skype), I got out soon after as I was invited to my boss's birthday party. Though others at work had been invited, most wimped out. I got the feeling that the elite of Haines would be at this party, so I wanted to make a good impression, dressing up in a skirt and heels (yes--heels!) Driving into the dark woods, I searched for a house with a long driveway. Well, my luck with Buck ran out on that long driveway as I backed into a snowbank. Actually I was lucky, as I had been within inches of missing the bank and almost ended up in a ditch, but as it was, I was stuck. This was my great introduction to Haines society, as I sought help from party goers. My first rescuers were the town's newspaper editor and his wife. Because Buck still wouldn't move, no matter how much I spun the tires, a group emerged from the house, offering advice and frivolity. My suede heel boots were destroyed, but this was great fun. Finally, the owner's husband had to pull a tractor out of his garage and pull Buck from the snowbank. I felt like an idiot but nobody seemed to mind. This kind of stuff apparently happened all the time. I spent the rest of the night drinking expensive wine and engaging in conversation with the town's elite. Finally, I had found my kind of people! We were talking religion, we were talking travel, we were talking politics. This was the kind of stuff I had been hungering for, and I was so happy to see that the workers at Mountain Market had been but a sad representation of Haines folk. Everybody I talked to had fascinating stories to tell. By far, most of them were from somewhere else (very few people in Haines were born and raised there) but had moved to this far corner of Alaska to experience something different. Haines was not boring, not by a long shot, as I found the town to be full of intelligent, creative, progressive-thinking, adventurous, life-loving people. Without any pretensions, I might add. I left that party feeling that I had turned a corner somehow, and I had so much to look forward to in this place.

Things just got better as the Masquerade Ball approached. I felt like Cinderella, emerging from the kitchen at Mountain Market to be escorted to the ball by the handsome Sir Ashley. Well, actually, Ashley came for me in his car, and although I was dressed like some kind of pirate wench, Ashley was wearing a ballgown. The look worked for him in an ironic way, as he wore this purple frock with heavy winter boots. He looked a bit Trent Reznor from the 90s, slightly goth and edgy cool with his beard. Together we made a fine pair.

The ball was held in the Chilkat Center for the Arts, a huge barn-like building in the fort (Fort Seward is the historic part of the town with large white houses and buildings layered on a hill). Located up a tiny street called Soap Suds Alley, this building was quite impressive for such a small community. The ball was actually held in a large auditorium. Though there is no movie theater in Haines, the residents get their fill of plays and other artistic productions. Again, this should say something about the people in the town and the things they value.

Ashley informed me that the radio station was located upstairs in the Chilkat Center. I didn't check it out that night, but I had already set up an appointment with Amelia, the music director, to start training for a show. In fact, it was KHNS who had put the ball on. The decorations were outstanding, particularly on the stage, where the bands were playing. Parachutes were hung like a chandeliers over the stage with all sorts of drapery. It felt both elegant and creative and really gave the impression that this was the coolest event in town. It seemed that everyone had put an effort into dressing up, which I really appreciated. More and more I was realizing that this was my kind of town.

The Masquerade Ball of 2012 was one of the best nights of my life, particularly because it was New Years, and it was the best New Years experience I had ever had. The bands were good and it seemed that half the town was up there on stage dancing. The booze was flowing, and though Ashley was often off, crashing around the stage with his big boots, I found I could dance with a number of groups. There was a real community spirit, as if everyone were friends. It's that feeling you long for at a concert or a show--sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. But this was a whole town that had come together. Well, not the whole town, just a particular demographic of the town, but it was a demographic I could relate to, and my life in Haines got so much better from that night on.

Though I had drank and danced the night away, I was up at a decent hour the next morning, for I was to start the new year right with the Polar Bear Plunge. I had heard about it from the newspaper editor at the birthday party. He informed me that every year, on January 1st, the town had a polar bear plunge down at the cruise ship dock. I had never envisioned doing such a thing, but naturally I was intrigued. After the few parties I had attended in short succession, my confidence had grown and I was down for anything. I had invited Ashley to come, but he had had too much fun the night before and was down for the count. Proud that I wasn't suffering a hangover on New Years Day, I still felt the need to punish myself with this strange ritual.

The air temp was around 35 degrees, which is rather warm for winter in Alaska. But the sea was cold--very cold--I was told. Though seawater doesn't freeze this far south, it is still on the chilly side, enough to give a person a heart attack really. I was nervous standing there on the beach with all the others. A Tlingit elder offered a prayer, and then there was a countdown, and then everyone ran into the ocean. It was a shock to the system, particularly when I put my head under. My muscles froze up, and I sincerely worried that I wouldn't be able to stand back up. But my frozen legs heaved me upward and numbly stumbled back onto to the beach. Somehow I ran, my eyes focused on the blazing bonfire. Though the water was a shock, it was easy to warm up with the fire and the cups of hot chocolate being passed around. I went home and took a nice hot shower, feeling triumphant. The Polar Bear Plunge was an experience, displaying another example of community participation. I'm glad I did the plunge, but seen as how I had been inducted into the Polar Bear Club, it's somewhat of a relief that I never have to do it again.

What a way to start off a year. I had turned a corner in Haines, Alaska, and now there was so much to look forward to. I was sending emails to Chris, telling him how cool this place was. Though he sounded interested, he was set on creating his own adventures, planning a trip around Europe, which I yelled at him for. Weren't we supposed to be saving for life in Alaska together? We were oceans apart, literally and figuratively. I couldn't place him in Haines. He wasn't sure if he could either and was noticeably nervous about the whole thing. Though I squashed his dreams of backpacking around the Baltic, he still spent a month in Poland, where he did his share of Help-Xing. The issue of his Green Card was unresolved. He felt he would never get it, and I was tired of trying to reassure him. There was a gap in communication, and in this time, my security in Haines grew. With or without him, I was here to stay.

About a Dog

That December and January, I sat out the worst of winter. But in the back of my mind, the end of February loomed. My house-sitting/renting gig would be up, and then where would I be? Places were hard to come by in such a small town, especially in the winter months. A lady at work told me about a place that would be available around that time, a place called Stone House, just 8 miles down Haines Highway. I was told it was historic, a one of a kind house built entirely of stone. The location, though right off the highway, was directly across from the river and the Cathedral Peaks, some of the most impressive peaks in the area. Not only that, but it was located on five acres of land, all which I could hike and make use of. This all sounded wonderful, and the rent was reasonable. But when I went to check the place out, it was very run down. The front section of the house, all windows, looked out over those Cathedral Peaks, but the glass was thick and streaky with age. Also, the previous tenant had been a smoker; every inch of wall and ceiling and furniture were covered with tar and there was a stale smell coming from the carpet. Though there was a separate cabin on the premises, it was completely trashed. Garbage had been left behind and everything seemed really run down. But my options were limited, and there were a lot of pros about the place, namely the location, and also, the fact that I could have a dog. A dog! It was time to get serious about my Alaskan existence.

Getting a dog is serious business for me, particularly because I had to give up my six year old husky/malamute when I moved to the UK. This was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, and it was done only as a last resort as I couldn't put my dog through that move and possible quarantine. I swore I'd never give another animal up again. So getting a dog meant that I was in America to stay. I didn't entertain the possibility of Chris remaining in the UK. If he did, that would be his choice. I for one wouldn't be moving back.

It's funny because when I was staying out at Mosquito Lake, I was captivated by the two beastly dogs which regularly assaulted my car. I was told they were akitas, though with a touch of something else, possibly husky. They might have come across as aggressive, but when I met them outside of the car, they were friendly and lovable. They were basically big balls of fur with big smiley faces. I started doing some research on breeds and found that the cutest mix of dog was actually a Sheptika, a mix of German Shepherd and akita. I had it in my mind that I wanted a Shepkita.

A guy named Steve was a regular customer at Mountain Market. I was told to talk to him about adopting a dog, as he was the director at HARK, the animal shelter in Haines. He informed me that he had a dog available for adoption, one that had been brought in with a group of other dogs from the Yukon. He said that the dog was an akita/husky mix, but in the pictures the pup looked like a German Shepherd, only extra fluffy with short, adorable ears. Basically he looked like the dog of my dreams. So I headed down to HARK to check him out. As I walked through the door, it was more like him checking me out, as he was very curious about me, jumping up and putting his mouth all over me. It was a bit disconcerting with me sitting on the floor with his teeth grazing every inch of me. Steve said he was feeling me with his mouth, but I had never seen a dog do this before. He was adorable, no doubt about that, but he seemed to be a lot to handle. His story was patchy: he had been handed over to a shelter in Whitehorse with some other dogs that had been neglected, but much of his background was unknown. Had he been abused? Did he have trust issues? How did he get along with other dogs? He and one of the other dogs brought in had been fighting, and Horton (for that was his name) had ripped the other dog's leg upon. He was a big fella too, about 80 lbs. They didn't even know his age; they guessed around 3 or 4, so he still had a lot of energy. I wondered if I could handle of dog like this. I had raised a husky/malamute from puppyhood, and that dog had taken up so much of my time her energy and issues. This was a full-grown dog with a sketchy background, with some potential problems. Did I want to take this on? Was I ready for a dog like Horton? There was only one answer: Yes.

I came to visit him a second time, and his mouth-feeling proved to be a one time deal (I've never seen him do that with anyone else). We played out in the fenced area behind the shelter, and though he was enthusiastic, he was rough. It was as if he didn't understand his boundaries. He jumped and bit at my big puffy coat and nipped at my gloves. I found that if I took my gloves off, he wouldn't bite down on my bare skin, yet he figured any fabric or material was fair game for nipping and tugging. He also made me nervous, the way he'd run around almost spastically with bursts of energy. This was a dog that could do serious damage. In fact, I came home from our play date with all kinds of scratches and bruises.

I had my concerns about Horton, but I was resolute in my decision to adopt him. Though I wasn't a fan of his name, he came when I called it, so figured I had to keep it. The name has grown on me over time, and is quite cute when you consider he's a Canadian (Tim Horton's is a chain restaurant in Canada). Most people associate his name with Dr. Seuess's Horton Hears a Who, which is ok by me. Chris and I decided his full name should be Horton of the Yukon, and we often sing to him using that name. Chris likes to remind me of an email I sent to him, telling him of dog I met, "His name is Horton, but his name should be changed to Awesome."

Horton proved his awesomeness when I took him out of that fenced area and onto a proper trail. He was a snow dog through and through, but he stayed close to me on the trails, coming to me when I called him. His energy was directed at the snow, and this worked well as he wasn't jumping and roughing me up. He would have these crazy bursts of energy on a trail where he would turn and face me, a devilish look in his eye, and just charge me at full speed. Of course he would brush right past me, but then he'd turn around and do it again from the other direction. He would continue this charges until he wore himself out. This is something he still does on a hike, like he's got so much energy he can't contain it. I wonder where this game came from, but it never fails to bring a laugh. That crazy dog.

Because Horton was so good on our hikes, I knew I had made the right decision. Horton is the perfect hiking dog. I dare say, he's the reason why I've been able to hike as much as I have in Alaska, as his presence serves as protection against bears and other predators. Or more like a deterrent, as bears don't want to mess with dogs, especially big ones like Horton. After being scared by the stories told to me at Tamsen's, I wondered if I'd be able to hike alone, but with Horton, I knew I'd be in better shape in the wild. A girl and her dog: this was meant to be.

HARK was good to let Horton stay with them until I was ready to move to Stone House. I've never known a shelter to do this before, to hold a dog like that, but they felt it was good match so they invested extra time to make sure it would work. This meant that he stayed at the shelter for a month longer, but I came to visit him every day, no matter how bad the roads were. With the sun setting at 4 in the afternoon, I had to drive out to see him directly after work and make use of the daylight. I would look forward to these visits, taking Horton on little trips, either to the beach or to a snowy trail. Sometimes I'd take him back to the house I was renting, but those times were few, as I didn't completely trust him in another person's home. Indeed, the first time through the door, he peed on the rug by the entrance. This was done so matter-of-factly that I got the impression that he was marking his territory. Yes, Horton certainly had his quirks. He still played roughly, but I tried to get him to play with my shirt sleeves pulled up. I would also bop him on the nose to get him to stop biting. I've done this with puppies before, but it's more challenging with a full-grown dog. For the most part, he listened to my corrections and eventually gave up these bad behaviors. For instance, he used to be obsessed with my feet; he'd bite at them and carry my slippers around his mouth, but after some strong reprimands, he's given that up. I've been able to deduce that Horton hadn't been properly exposed to things as a pup. There were so many things he didn't get, like what to do with a ball, or a bone. He seemed to suffer from insecurity, like he didn't feel worthy to be on the couch or the bed. I can only imagine that his interactions with humans must have been very limited. But it didn't seem like he had been abused, as he took discipline well. More likely he had been neglected, deprived of affection. Til this day he acts like he's being molested if we give him hugs or kisses. He doesn't know what to do with affection, how to receive or return it. It's one of his quirks, I suppose. But he's a lovable boy all the same, and I adore my Horton of the Yukon, my Shepkita.

The Long Snowy Road

So I had arrived in Haines, Alaska. I was both nervous and excited, as my new life was officially beginning at this point. Joining the caravan of cars off the ferry, I headed into town, which was located approximately seven miles from the ferry terminal.

I had arrived on a crystal clear day. The snow sparkled against the bright blue sky. Everything was pure and pristine. It was also very cold. I had been smart to make that expensive Kohl's purchase--a long, two-layer puff coat. I may have looked like a marshmallow, but I felt toasty warm, bundled in my downy layers.

The town didn't look like much as I pulled into it. I had committed the town map to memory, so I had no trouble at all finding Market Market. Located on a corner, it stood out as one of the only food shops in town. I made a quick call to Tamsen to tell her I had made it into town. She was at the homestead, 26 miles down the highway at Mosquito Lake. I told her I'd stock up on some provisions before making the drive. She sounded excited that I had made it off the ferry and was on my way to see her. Good old Tamsen. Without her, I never would have ended up in this remote place.

First Impressions

Having exchanged correspondence with the owners of Market Market for over a month, I thought they'd be thrilled to see that I had arrived. Nobody really paid attention to me as I stepped into the cafe/shop. This was unusual. As I had been in customer service for so many years, I'm used to the standard eye-contact and greeting from workers to a customer when they walk through the door. But the workers at the deli counter just kind of ignored me. Finally, some shaggy-haired guy greeted me. He worked in the liquor section. I fell into conversation with him, telling him I'd be working there. I was full of bubbliness, as I was looking at this experience as a real adventure. I couldn't have been more happy to be in Haines. "Be careful," the guy told me. "You might like it so much, you'll decide to stay here." The guy's name was Ashley--the first decent person I met in this town.

The manager, on the other hand, didn't seem so open to talking. A short, stocky woman with glasses and purple hair--she looked cool and quirky, but she was obviously busy. "I made it!" I pretty much heralded when she stepped up to the counter. Her response? "Oh...I see," almost confused, with what seemed like a forced smile. I guess it was kind of a let down after that enormous buildup. Not everyone was sharing my enthusiasm of being there. Little did I know at the time the turn-around rate at Mountain Market, and how new workers are a common occurrence. That lack of enthusiasm kind of served as a warning though--Sarah, you're no longer in the Midwest. Here, the people were hardened.

Another thing I learned from my first experience at Mountain Market--prices are high in Alaska. I had somehow prepared myself for this. I mean, I knew I wouldn't be popping into the nearest Walmart (especially seen as how the nearest Walmart was over a hundred miles away). I also knew that Haines received freight from barges which traveled up from Bellingham, Washington. So yes, everything was going to be a little higher priced than say, something you'd pick up from a shop in Northern Illinois. I knew this, and still I was unprepared. My grocery list was small, but came to over $30. Yikes. I guess it was good that I'd be working at food place where at least I'd get a discount. $2 for apple? An organic apple, yes, but still--$2? Yowza.

As I pulled out of Mountain Market, I traveled a few blocks up the highway and came to a 2-pump gas station. An attendant came out and sought to fill up my tank, but I had already started. I'm not used to having attendants pump my gas, and it kind of threw me for a loop. I felt kind of useless, standing there, so I made conversation with the guy. It was disheartening to find that the price of gas was over $5 a gallon. This is a staggering price compared to the Midwest, where it was around $3 a gallon. With all the oil being pumped out of the North Slope of Alaska, you would think that gas would be cheap in the state it comes from. Well, this clearly wasn't the case. As I was to find out, even though the oil is pumped in Alaska, it has to be sent down to the Lower 48 to be refined. Then it gets shipped back up to Alaska. It doesn't make much sense, but there you have it. At least Alaskans benefit from the PFD--the Permanent Fund Dividend--the payout from oil production. This is dispersed equally to every Alaskan each year, sometimes as high as $2000 at a time. This provides a nice offset for the high cost of living (though with oil prices plummeting, and Alaska in a financial crisis, the PFD may be a thing of the past).

Past the gas station, the road heads out of town. The name of the road is Haines Highway, and from the town of Haines, it extends 40 miles to Canadian border, and then onward to the Yukon and the great beyond. Mosquito Lakes (a small community) lies 13 miles shy of the Canadian border. Closer to Canada than to Haines, I knew where I'd be staying would be the furthest of civilization I'd ever been.

I immediately got the sense of the wild while heading down the road. Haines Highway follows the Chilkat River, a braided river running thick with glacial silt. A line of mountains towers over the side of the road that doesn't hug the river. There isn't a lot of wiggle room on either side of the road--it's pretty much mountains and river, with a sliver of road in between. I saw that very few houses were interspersed with dense forest which blanketed the mountain sides. The Chilkat Valley is very wide, as the river has widened it considerably over time. On the other side of the river stretched a vast wilderness, edged with even higher peaks. Just beyond those peaks, as the eagle flies, is Glacier Bay National Park.

The highway read 55 mph, but it was hard to even go that fast, as I rounded sharp curves. Thankfully I had much of the road to myself. The few cars that did come my way had drivers which waved at me. This was something new to me. I've never lived in a community where everyone waves to each other. I came to love this about Haines--the waves and the smiles, with everyone assuming that every person was a neighbor.

At around Mile 20 (how distance is measured on Alaska roads), I came across my first eagle. Perched high in a tree, he served as a signal that I had entered Chilkat Bald Eagle Preserve.  I had no idea what I was in store for. I nearly lost my shit just seeing that first eagle, I nearly crashed the car. I started laughing crazily when I came to tree after tree of them, lining the river. So many of them, just chilling in trees--I don't know how I kept the car on the road. Thankfully there were a few pull-outs for drivers like me that were overwhelmed by the sight of so many eagles at once.

Haines boasts the world's highest population of bald eagles. Though they flock to Haines at all times of the year, they're especially populous in the winter months, when other Alaskan rivers freeze over. Because there's a section of the Chilkat River which is fed by warm underground springs, it doesn't freeze, and therefore salmon spawn and die, leaving plentiful food for winged creatures. Where there's salmon, there's wildlife--that's the general rule in Alaska. And the stretch of the river between Mile 18 and Mile 24 is a haven for these bald eagles, who hang out in the trees, often ten to a tree.

It was hard to process that this was going to be my every day scenery. For real, I'd be driving this highway back and forth between town and Tamsen's each day. I'd be seeing this river, these mountains, these eagles--with almost no traffic! I wanted a place that was different from Northern Illinois and Norther England; I guess I got it!

The road, with all the beauty it revealed, was also daunting to drive. Though it seemed well-maintained, it was long and windy, with few houses alongside it. You got the feeling while driving it, that you could go off into the river or crash into a cliff if you took a curve too fast. Also, there were signs for avalanche zones--something to bear in mind. I always held my breath while driving through these areas, especially after a fresh snow. There was evidence all around of rock slides and downed trees. The idea was never far from my mind that Alaska could very easily kill me if it wanted to.

But Alaska rewarded me more than it ever scared me. Even on that first drive, the reward of the scenery was well worth any of the apprehension I felt in driving through a vast, dangerous landscape. Though the land had a somewhat humbling effect on me, it also empowered me. I had conquered the long drive to Alaska, and now I was going to make it in Alaska.

The Homestead

Past the Tlingit community of Klukwan, and a bridge over a rushing tributary of the Chilkat River, the valley narrows considerably. There's a different feel to this part of the river, as if you're climbing towards something. In fact, the road is climbing towards the Chilkat Pass, just miles past the Canadian border. The coast is left far behind, the trees close in, and you get the feeling that you're deep in wilderness. The snow is deeper than it is in town. This makes sense, as the further away from the coast, the more difference there is in climate. Along the coast is a more moderate system, with less range in temperatures and more rain; further inland, there's more of a range and less rain moving over the mountains. Ok, this is the weather geek in me, but I thought these changes over a small distance were pretty cool. Also, many micro-climates exist along the Haines Highway, with pockets of calm, and pockets of bad weather. To experience all this along one road is pretty damn cool.

But I wasn't to know all this while driving to Tamsen's for the first time. I just let the landscape wash over me, everything larger than life. I came across the sign for Mosquito Lake, and I pulled off onto a road. There to greet me at the entrance of Mosquito Lake Road was a rusted bus--Chris McCandless style. I found this fitting, as Chris and I were both McCandless fans; his ideologies and love of nature had influenced our decision to move to Alaska (Chris's blog Bus 142 is an overt tribute to McCandless, celebrating wanderlust). Of course, this wasn't the Chris McCandless bus (that bus is still on the Stampede Trail outside of Healy), but the idea that buses can be used for something other than public transport is very much an Alaskan concept.

Just before I reached Tamsen's, two fierce-looking dogs jumped in front of my car, barking and circling. Fluffy, big brutes, they looked like sled dogs to me. Though I didn't see them as real threats, I was thrown by the idea of dogs left to their own devices. I come from strict-rule doggy land, where it's illegal to have dogs off leashes, unless they're in designated off-leash areas. Already I was sensing that Alaska was very much "we make our own rules" territory. This was awesome. Never having been a big fan of "The Man," I knew I could breathe a bit easier in this part of America. Yes, people had guns here, but they used them to hunt, and perhaps to even to take justice into their own hands, but that was fine by me. After living in the nanny state of Britain for years, and experiencing the liberal, constantly-offended, white-guilt, side of America for so long, some Ted Nugent types were a welcome change. See--I'm open-minded!

Tamsen's house wasn't far down the road. I recognized it instantly from Google Street View. Split-level and red-sided, it stood out brightly against the snow. The driveway was more of a parking lot, as it shared space with the country store next door. Thankfully it had been plowed, and I was able to cruise right in, parking behind another Subaru (Subarus are king in Alaska). Tamsen met me out on the porch and we embraced, happy to see each other in the flesh after all this time.

A big, sturdy woman, Tamsen looked every inch an outdoors woman. Even though she worked two jobs in town (a baker at Mountain Market, and a dispatcher at the police department), she lived as self-sufficiently as she could. Not completely off the grid, she still chopped her own wood, milked goats, raised chickens and geese, and made food completely from scratch. She had a deal with one of the grocer's in town, where they gave her all their outdated produce. This was both a good and bad thing, I was to find out, especially as I stepped into her abode. The place smelled of rotting fruit and veg, and the boxes were everywhere. It threw me a little bit, but then I realized why Tamsen had been requesting helpers. This was a place where nothing went to waste. Indeed, Tamsen informed me that there was no garbage pickup in Mosquito Lake (and in most of Haines, for that matter) so residents had to take their own garbage to the dump. For Tamsen, this was event only happened twice a year. By far, every scrape of garbage was either made useful or composted out in the backyard. I admired this--how resourceful. I knew I'd be learning a lot from Tamsen in the way of self-sufficiency.

I was the first helper to arrive, she informed me. I wasn't sure what she meant by this, as I had believed I'd be the only one. Oh no, there were two more helpers on the way: a young American girl named Irene, and a young Canadian guy named Jared. This news left me speechless; I was led to believe that it would be just me and Tamsen. Having grown up in a house where personal space was sacred, communal living wasn't exactly my thing. At least I was given the loft--the upstairs portion of the house. This space was generous, and truly felt like a haven away from the cluttered downstairs. Tamsen had gone to lengths to clean this portion of the house, and I truly appreciated this. I made myself at home, lugging bags and boxes through the door and up the stairs, figuring this would be my home for some time. I had originally planned to stay with Tamsen for six months. This would give me until April. Because I had already secured a full-time job, I'd only be helping her on my off time, but I'd be making up the difference with rent. It seemed a perfect arrangement until I knew what I wanted to do--to stay in Alaska or to travel down south. This also gave me time to see what was going on with Chris. It was still up in the air whether or not he was getting his Green Card. There was constant anxiety about that issue.

As I was getting settled in, a visitor came to call. One of Tamsen's friends--Randy, a true mountain man. He looked like something off the Discovery channel, on one of those real-life Alaska shows (which are superfluous, thanks to policies put down by Sarah Palin, encouraging networks to come to Alaska to film). Randy took a seat by the fire--by that I mean the woodstove, which was the only real source of heating at Tamsen's. Pulling up a chair--a log, actually--I listened to Randy's stories. He was the real deal, with his long beard and Mad Max-style truck with a beast of a dog the in back. I wasn't sure if he was there to make conversation with Tamsen, or if he had been summoned to woo me with Alaskan tales. I was visibly impressed by this guy, as he regaled tales of living off the land and his close brushes with nature. What especially got my attention was his mention of White Fang, the Disney movie rendition of Jack London's tale. Starring Ethan Hawk, it had been shot here in Haines. Randy had played a large part in the filming process. Sets from the film had been saved and used to set up a makeshift town--Dalton City--on the outskirts of town. I had only seen the movie once before, but my interest in the story had been renewed. This definitely was in Jack London territory. I hadn't seen much of Haines, just the highway really, but was looking forward to seeing so much more.

That night when I went to bed, feeling like I was living in a Laura Ingalls Wilder book. The heat from the woodstove failed to reach the heights of the loft, so I went to bed with a hot water bottle. I had changed in front of the uncurtained window--"Don't worry, Tamsen had told me, "Nobody can see you." The dark panes of glass stared at me. Beyond them were miles and miles of spruce and fir trees, and mountain peaks. I wondered if the Northern Lights would be out, but I was too tired to investigate. I crawled beneath the quilts and curled up with the hot water bottle, trying to keep the cold at bay.

In the morning, I woke up with a bus out in the driveway, one of those short yellow ones. Another of Tamsen's friends had come to call. This one was a bus driver, and the wife of the police chief in town. As I got my breakfast ready, I listened to more tales. These ones dealt with wildlife in Alaska, and quite frankly, they scared the crap out of me. Haines not only had brown bears, but moose. And the moose were all angry as hell, according to this women. They were big enough to take a bus down. I was advised that if I ever came across one in the road, to wait until it passed. A vehicle would only enrage them, and they'd kick and butt, toppling the vehicle over. If you were on foot, too, they'd chase you down. I was advised to run in zig-zags and hide behind a tree if this ever happened. I had never been afraid of these massive, clumsily-looking beasts before, but after some of those stories, I was now seeing Bullwinkle in a different light. I seriously wondered if I'd ever be able to hike in Alaska with the threat of all these death machines on the prowl. Most people hike with guns, I was told. Well that's just great, I thought. All this land to explore, and I had to explore it with fear. It didn't seem fair.

After Tamsen's friend left, I learned the ropes of life on an Alaskan's homestead. Warmth was primary, that much was clear. I learned how to build a fire and keep it going. As Tamsen worked five nights a week as a dispatcher, it would be up to me to rise in the night to rekindle the fire. At the time, I knew that would be a problem, I'm not one to rise various times in the middle of night, especially when I'm snug under the covers. I also had to learn how to chop wood--a definite first for me. Having never held an ax before, I felt out of my depth as I swung away, picturing me amputating a leg. It turned out that I was good at splitting wood, as long as there was a wedge in the log, but when it came to the actually chopping, I was crap. Good thing Jared was coming.

In the kitchen, Tamsen showed me how to go through the various boxes of produce, separating the bad stuff from the really bad. Then we took the moderately bad stuff out into the backyard to the goats. Cheeky creatures, they seemed genuinely happy to munch away on anything. Off to the side of the yard was a shed in which the ducks and goose lived. None of them wanted much to do with us, though we threw rotten veg in their direction. Since I was a very little girl, and being chased by a goose at a resort in upstate New York, I've always had an unhealthy fear of these winged creatures.

With the goats, the geese, the ducks, and Tamsen's three dogs and two cats, it was very much a small farm out on Mosquito Lake Road. I was somewhat glad that we were getting two more helpers, as there wasn't much I could do while making that long drive into town for work.

There was also the issue of the bathroom at Tamsen's. At least she had an indoor bathroom with running water (a lot of places don't even have these luxuries in Haines). Because her septic system, wouldn't allow for toilet paper, she had installed a bidet. A state-of-the-art bidet too, I might add. In all my bum-splashing in Asia, I had never encountered a device such as this. With its own remote with various buttons, it would heat water up and aim jets of this heated water in various directions. Though this took some getting used to, I found it quite nice to have hot water spurted up in my bum area. Perhaps I enjoyed this because the bathroom was so cold, just to have some heat was appreciated. Still, you had to dry your bum off with a towel, and those towels added up. That meant laundry needed to be done almost every other day. The new helpers certainly had their work cut out for them.

Having just a few days to adjust to life at Tamsen's, I was scheduled to work at Mountain Market. On that first day, I was due in for work at 6:00 in the morning. Of course, it had snowed overnight, so I had to face the 27 mile drive, not only in the dark, but on an unplowed road. My headlights caught scant tire tracks in the snow, and I tried to follow them, but I was never quite sure where I was on the road. At one point, I saw headlights coming directly at me. A plow! Thank goodness, I could follow it the rest of the way. The only thing was, it was on my side of the road, coming directly at me. I had to swerve around it, risking driving straight into the river. I was shaking. Never having been a fan of driving in snow, this was nerve wracking to the max. I was crawling at 30 mph, with the odd car or SUV passing me. I had risen at 4 in the morning, predicting the drive would take me 40 minutes or so. I had underestimated the time, and on that first day, I was late into work. I was shaken to the core by the impact of this drive. Not only did I have to do this once a day, but twice. This was major stuff. Was I truly badass enough for this?

Tamsen told me to always drive in the center of the road when there was snow. It would help drivivng off into a ditch or the river. Also she told me of times where she couldn't make it home. As there are only three snow plows in the whole borough, sometimes they couldn't keep up with the snow. There were nights when Tamsen would try to get home, but the snow was too deep, so she'd sleep in her car and wait for the plows to come. She told me to always be prepared, to have food, water, and a sleeping bag in my car. And also a shovel. Because of her advise, I always drove with these things in my car, even well after I moved into town.

Communal Life

Irene and Jared arrived in town on the same day. Both in their early 20's, they were both ready to take on life at Tamsen's. Jared was eager to chop wood and Irene was Tamsen's helper in the kitchen. It almost felt strange, me coming home from work, having dinner prepared for me. It was always something interesting that had been rustled up from the dredges of the produce boxes. One thing was for sure, Tamsen was innovative. And she made everything from scratch, even milling her own flour. She had a massive pantry where she stored staples, huge bags of grain, sugar, beans, rice. Her refrigerator was packed full of canisters of goat's milk, which she would either drink or make into butter, cheese, or sometimes, even ice cream. I have never been overly fond of goat's milk, and was put off by the film of milk which covered everything in the fridge. It's to be noted that Tamsen didn't own a microwave. This was actually good, as it challenged our cooking skills. But for someone who just wanted to heat something up after a long day at work, I found my options were limited. Sometimes I wasn't turned on by the food that had been made from scratch, especially because I had seen the before product of rotting fruit and vegetables. Still, this was a kind of living I appreciated, though I found myself longing for comforts and conveniences I had once known.

I'd eat my dinner directly in front of the fire, on the log I had claimed. If I wasn't in front of the woodstove, perched on that fine line between toasty warm and burning, I'd be shivering. Irene and Jared seemed adept at living this lifestyle, as they had been in the Help Exchange program for many months before heading this far north. They seemed willing to endure anything. Irene slept in the small bedroom off of the living room, and Jared slept on the couch. The responsibility fell on them to keep the fire going through the night, but when I rose at 4 in the morning to get ready for work, the fire was almost always out and the air was so cold you could see your breath.

They were quiet, the helpers. Thankfully Tamsen had shelves upon shelves of books to read, so we'd find ourselves many evenings just reading books in front of the fire. There was no TV, though Tamsen did have a radio that she'd turn onto KHNS, the local radio station. Every now and then, a local DJ would do a brilliant show. Classic rock seemed to be the music of preference at Tamsen's, and this provided some background noise, as I was feeling overwhelmed by the silence of my roommates. They didn't seem interested in drinking, or in swapping tales; instead they seemed content to wrap themselves up in blankets and read. Or Jared would go out and chop wood, providing a thump-thump to our evening. Sometimes I would join him, and we'd wordlessly whack away. It was a good way to release energy, and offered variety to those otherwise quiet evenings.

On clear nights, we'd go out onto the road in an attempt to view the Northern Lights. The darkness was absolute, with civilization so far away. We'd stand out on the road, waiting for the sky to start morphing into shapes, listening to the sled dogs howl several houses down (on my first night, I had mistaken them for wolves). One night, the three of us walked a mile or so down Haines Highway, to an overlook at the river. There were massive piles of snow built up, so we climbed them and looked up at the stars. We sung out at the top of our lungs, free of the quiet solitude of the homestead.

Tamsen had said on several occasions that she had seen the aurora driving into town late at night, but those lights eluded me. I thought I may have seen them over the mountains, but often it was the light of the moon glowing off snow. As I often drove home in the evening, when the sun had long gone under, I kept my eyes peeled on the sky. The light was always changing. Sometimes I caught the sunrise while driving into work, with that majestic light shining down on mountain peaks. At times like this, I felt I had arrived in some corner of heaven--the beauty was almost too much to register. I loved that drive. The distance no longer intimidated me. With music blaring and the ever-impressive scenery, I owned that road. Still, I'd find it a relief when making that drive in the morning. I knew as soon as I hit the airport, around Mile 4, that I was safe. The highway was always maintained from that point on, and road was bare. Also, the valley opened up and you could see all the way to Lynn Canal. This was the most majestic of views, that corridor of water leading to the sea. In the morning, the sun would rise between those layers of mountains, hitting the peaks with shafts of light you swore were beamed straight down from heaven.

My drives were the most peaceful parts of my day. The quietness at Tamsen's was confining, as I couldn't laugh and sing and joke around--basically I couldn't be myself. I had to be a more polite, subdued version of myself. Even at work, I found myself surrounded by coworkers who weren't interested in talking to me. Mountain Market was a sanitized environment, with everything in its exact place and everyone on their best behavoir. There was no exchange of ideas, no imagination. Everything was robotic, as if working on an assembly line. I had been hired on as deli manager, but found myself at the bottom of the ladder with workers who didn't give a shit about me or where I had come from. Maybe arriving in my pristine white poof coat and fur lined boots hadn't earned me any points. I don't think anyone took me seriously. They probably didn't even believe I'd last the winter.

After a day of not talking at work, I'd make that long drive home and eat my dinner in front of the fire. Sometimes I go up to the loft and try to write. I had internet only some of the time, as I was using the wifi from one of the neighbors who had been lazy with their password (yes, shame on me for stealing). I found myself looking up all kinds of weird stuff. When Jared and Irene decided to talk, they'd be talking about really deep stuff, such as "What is truth? How do even we know?" I'd read sites such as "The Truth Contest" just so I could offer a voice on the subject. I've always been one to discuss serious subjects, but this was almost too much. I had done a lot of my deep pondering on my way up to Alaska. How much more could I explore the meaning of life? I missed Chris and his dark humor.

Thanksgiving arrived and we had the most interesting of meals. I played my part by going out to the shed with Tamsen and capturing the main part of our meal--a duck. What a commotion that caused! Feathers were flying. The ducks were panicking and the geese were being protective. I really appreciated the geese, even though they were hissing and snapping at us. They were acting as the duck's guardians, which definitely made me feel guilty for being an accomplice to this crime. But once Tamsen had one of the ducks thrashing around in a heavy sack, we were out of there.

Irene helped Tamsen prepare our Thanksgiving dinner (I had pretty much given up in the kitchen at that point, as there was no counter space or floor space, due to all the incoming produce). Along with the duck, we had eggplant parmesan, and for dessert, persimmon pudding. Everything was tasty, but it was eaten in the usual quiet manner, in front of the fire. It was over before we knew it, and there was nothing else to do for the rest of the day. Seen as how the weather was clear, I decided to go for a walk. I had never walked to the end of Mosquito Lake Road. The temperature was below zero, but I couldn't stand another minute of looking at the fire, so I bundled up and set off down the road. It was a long walk, several miles. I came across a fire station, a school, and scattering of houses. Packs of dogs came out to bark at me, which was truly scary, but they seemed more bark than bite. I also passed by Steve Kroschel's Wildlife Center, which was closed for the season. This place is world famous, Steve having worked with National Geographic and various film companies (Chris and I went to visit this place sometime in 2013, and yes, it is quite amazing). The end of the road was anti-climatic. I thought there'd be an awesome lake where kids were skating or playing hockey. But the lake was covered in snow and couldn't be reached due to the line of houses surrounding it. I did find a road which led off into a campground. The snow was incredibly deep here, but I staggered through it to the lake. From a pier, I looked out over the expanse. The wind was blowing way up in the mountains; I could hear it, even though the air was still on the ground. That sound was the most haunting sound ever, reminding me just how far away from home I was. I wondered if that land up there had ever been touched by human feet. How many bears were up there right now, hibernating beneath the snow? The sheer size and remoteness of it all left me feeling very small.

I saw Jared on the way back. He had needed to get out as well. I told him to watch out for the dogs.

Jared and I had gone for a walk another time together. We went snowshoeing on a trail down the road, up the side of mountain. I had wanted to do this alone, but Tamsen had said it was better to hike with a partner, due to moose encounters. The moose thing was really scaring me. The hike was good, but I was clumsy in snowshoes.

Despite spending time together, I couldn't say I really bonded with Jared and Irene. Not that there was anything wrong with them (they're lovely human beings) but they were so quiet, as if holding their true personalities back.

I felt in limbo. Though I had made it to Haines, I wasn't really settled in. As long as I was living at Tamsen's, I wasn't settled. The thing is, I didn't want roommates; I didn't want communal living. Also, I couldn't put up with the clutter any longer (I love Tamsen, I really do--but she is a hoarder). I wanted nothing more than to be able to relax in my own skin. The writing was on the wall--I needed to get out of Tamsen's.

I started looking for places to rent. In winter, this was a real challenge, as most everyone was settled, having either come or gone for the season. I did see that a hotel in town was renting out rooms for $600. This sounded fine for me. A TV, mircrowave, heat--bring it on, I said. I could do with some convenience. I especially wouldn't have to make that drive anymore. Not that I didn't love that drive--I did--but it would save me both gas and time.

Just when I was considering renting this hotel room, an opportunity came up. I found it on the Haines Community page online. Some guy was renting his house out for three months. The rent was approximately the same as the hotel, only this was an actual house, with an actual kitchen, and a bedroom, and a laundry room. How could I possibly say no to that?

I had to break the news to Tamsen. This wasn't easy. I knew she was counting on me to stay until April. But there were signs of unease at Tamsen's. She was stressed out by so many things. One day I hadn't properly shut the woodstove door, and the logs had been burning faster than they should have. "No no no no!!!" Tamsen had cried in such a way that I thought she had found one of her dogs had died. I was longing for some proper heat though, and I confess that times I did open that door to let more heat out. Things were also breaking, like the washing machine, with the overload of our dirty bidet rags. But what got to me the most was the clutter which continued to pile up, despite the help from three helpers (no matter how we rearranged things, Tamsen would fill up any empty space with more stuff). Yes, peace of mind was coming in the form of a semi-detached house downtown, just two blocks from work. I had already talked to the guy, and we had already made a deal. I'd be spending the rest of the winter in town.

I told Tamsen it was the drive--I just couldn't do that drive everyday. She took it well, saying she understood. She already had more workers lined up. I was relieved to hear this.

Still, I knew I'd miss that drive, that long snowy road which scared me and enthralled me at the same time. What a way to break me in to life in Haines!