My First Alaskan Summer

JJust when you thought this blog was dead and buried, here I am resurrecting it. To be honest, I have no idea if anyone even checks in and reads this thing. It doesn't matter, though, for writing memoirs is a rewarding process in itself. And if someone happens upon this and ends up taking something away from it, even a laugh or a smile, then that's just icing on the cake.

So I left off in snowy Haines with bears wakening from hibernation. I had officially made it through my first Alaskan winter in a poorly insulated house on the Chilkat River about eight miles from town. As the snow began to thaw and I took the trail into the woods behind the house, I noticed how our daily walk was changing. For one thing, the hard-packed snow and ice which had provided a bridge over a series of streams was melting, which meant that the dog and I had to wade across a wide swath of running water. With snow melting way up in the mountains, the water was gushing, creating a mini–Niagara Falls across the path. At first it was daunting to try and cross it, but like with everything else in Alaska, we adapted and learned how to hop and skip across it.

The landscape was changing. I even noticed it on my daily drive into town. Long, narrow waterfalls thundered down cliffsides near the road. There seemed little transition between winter and summer. The weather warmed, the snow turned to rain, and then the skies cleared all together, and wildflowers burst forth. Trumpeter swans made a temporary home for themselves on the pond next to the house. I was told by the owner of Stone House that they returned every year, just the two of them. They stayed a month, gracing the waters with their elegant silhouettes, before they flew off again.

One night I stood outside in the deep dark, without anyone around, and listened to the ice in the Chilkat break up. It produced a deep, throaty noise, that groaned both far and near. Not long after that, the fish wheel that had been laying dormant all winter alongside the road was put into use. I never saw anyone operate it, but it became a part of the everyday scenery, turning like a mini ferris wheel in the gently flowing water, making splish splash sounds.

The Cathedral Peaks began to shed their winter gear to reveal their sharp rock faces, and inevitably, I began to think of all the mountain peaks I wanted to conquer.

Life in Radio

I had started DJing at KHNS in January, taking the late Saturday night slot. The show was called Rock School, which was not my choice of title, but it was an established show with different DJs taking their turns with it through the years. In January, it became mine for as long as I wanted it. Though I had never DJed before, or even been in a radio station, I was a natural at working the equipment. With some training, sitting in on a few other shows, I was ready to go. The first show I did by myself, I accidentally let a "fuck" get through (not from me, but in one of the songs). This is a big no-no according to the FCC rules. I was told that the station could get heavily fined if someone complained of profanity, so it was something I really had to be careful with, looking up song lyrics beforehand. What I found tricky is that sometimes songs had more than one version, and if you're only familiar with one, but play another, then you might get a surprise, which happened in this case. I felt really bad that happened on my first show. I vowed not to let it happen again.

On my second show, a power outage occurred. I was still a newbie, so it completely threw me. The lights went off, and so did my music, and the radio waves were met with a deafening silence. I was told that dead air is the absolute worst in Radioland, so I came on and improvised. Soon the generator kicked in and I was able to resume my show, but I was still shaking. I was proud that I’d pulled it together, even though I wasn't sure if my show was actually being aired.

I really fell in love with radio life. Preparing for shows was a pleasure, especially putting together the playlists. There's a real art in putting together a show. A lot of times I thought of a theme first, and planned my playlist accordingly. I considered segues, what song would flow naturally into another song. This is a real skill for a DJ, letting two songs run into each other seamlessly. It's an art I tried to perfect and took pleasure in when I got it just right. I was able to record almost all of my shows, so I could go back and listen to them and see how I did. The segues I got right a lot, but my DJ banter was horrible, especially at first. I still cringe when I listen to myself on those early shows. Every four to six songs, I had to come on the air and give a rundown of the songs that were played. I also had to give station IDs on the hour, so everything had to be timed out. There's a lot that goes into putting together a show, especially when announcements have to be made, and KHNS was pretty strict on how these things had to be handled. But there was a lot of freedom, especially for that late night show. After the opening announcements, with the reading of weather and such, I could sit back and enjoy the music. Just being able to listen to music I like through good-quality headphones was enough of a reward for me. Because the studio got hot and stuffy with all the equipment, a lot of time I opened the window which opened onto a residential area. I'd blast the music in the studio and share my show with the neighborhood. It was awesome.

I started my show in winter, but as the days grew longer, I was able to see the view outside the studio window. Because KHNS is located in the Chilkat Center, a lovely, historic building in Fort Seward (the older section of town), the location was prime, overlooking Port Chilkoot and the cruise ship dock. Beyond the fjord lay dramatic mountains and the Taiya Inlet, pointing towards Skagway. I can't think of a more scenic backdrop for a radio station. In summer, I'd watch the cruise ships slide past on their way to Skagway, like lighted cities, each holding more people than some of the towns they visited.

One night, sometime in May, I saw the Northern Lights for the first time. I finished up my show at midnight and walked out into the parking lot. Overhead, the sky was ablaze with morphing green shapes. I had thought I had seen them before, maybe catching a glimpse while driving, something out of the corner of my eye, making me wonder, "Could that be them?" Let me tell you, when you see the Northern Lights, you do not cock your head and ask what you're seeing—you just know. There is nothing else that can explain these long, moving curtains of light in the sky.

I drove out to a point on the water, away from the bright lights of town. From this vantage point, I could see all of Haines, with Mount Ripinski in the background. But more importantly I could see North, towards Skagway, where the lights were the strongest.

The lights danced, they shimmered, they moved as an otherworldly entity. I was entranced, as if watching whale song in visual form. It's on par with a spiritual experience, like the fingers of God extending to draw you into a new plane of existence. Unfortunately, others had come out to see the lights, and a cargroup of kids pulled up next to me, loud and obnoxious, leaving their headlines on. I couldn't believe their irreverence. I soon took off, but the lights stayed with me. You never forget your first time.

There was another celestial event that happened that summer, when I stepped out of Stone House in the middle of night to check on a meteor shower. The meteors were streaming across they sky, several per minute, but the amount of starlight in the sky was staggering. I was looking up at the Milky Way, strewn like a giant spider web overhead. It was so clear, so discernible, so in-your-face, that when I watched Science Saved My Soul on Youtube, I was able to relate. This is the stuff that moves me, that makes me contemplate my existence. Religious people have their places of worship, their prayers to sustain them, to make them feel special. Me, I have nature; the whole universe for that matter.

I see I've digressed. This is supposed to be about my first Alaskan summer, and with that, my life at the radio station. Long story short, I started working at KHNS in Operations. After I had impressed the staff with my DJ skills (or my quick learning of the equipment), I was asked if I wanted to work there, and of course I said yes. This was my way of escaping Mountain Market, a job that wasn't going in the direction I wanted. I thought I was hired on to become a deli manager, but they had me working as a barista, a job I detested. Not only is making coffee not a passion of mine (I don't even drink the stuff), but they were micro-managing me in their typical anal Mountain Market way. I was given a video to watch on latte art, with the making of hearts and such. The guys in this video thought they were too cool for school, as if nobody had informed them that they weren't bartenders at a Vegas nightclub but rather guys slinging coffee shots at a lame-ass Starbucks or whatever. It was hard to take all this stuff seriously. The owners had attended coffee workshops and took so much pride in their product (they even roasted their own beans) that to say anything against their methods was sacrilegious. Well, it turns out that Chris, when he finally arrived Stateside, said that their coffee was crap. I heard others say that the beans were over-roasted and bitter. Indeed, Mountain Market always smelled of burnt coffee beans, not exactly a good aroma. Anyway, I informed the manager that I was going to start working at KHNS and she told me how disappointed she was in me. They had spent all this time training me. Training me? I had to laugh. I was nothing more than a monkey to them. But we agreed that I could stay on part-time, though I'd be on the grocery side. That was fine with me. No more having to be told how to put mustard on bread, or how much froth goes into a cappuccino (horrible stuff). I could now stand at a counter and smile at customers as I rang them up, or go dust shelves when things got slow. Mountain Market became a job to be tolerated. The radio station was my real job and an important step to a satisfying social life in Haines.

Part of my job was to help train DJs and to manage the DJ schedule. This put me in close contact with many fine volunteers, some of Haines' best. Some had been DJing for decades, and had amazing skills, as well as interesting music choices. I felt I learned a lot from these pros, either by the advice they gave, or simply from listening to their shows. As I had to listen to each show as I performed my operational duties (it was my job to run in there if anything went wrong), I considered all the different styles and techniques. I become more comfortable talking on the air and gave station IDs (two minutes exact, down to the last second) during breaks during NPR or syndicated shows. I learned to appreciate different genres of music that I never considered before, like jazz and folk. Because KHNS tries to cover all tastes, each night of the week features a show with a completely different genre. Monday: jazz; Tuesday: classical; Wednesday: folk; Thursday: blues, soul & funk; Friday: alternative; and then the weekends were Samjam and Rock School (Samjam for jam bands like Phish or other crap that potheads go nuts for) on Saturday nights, and a New Age show on Sunday followed by a three-hour Good Vibes, 60s and 70s type show. It seems all the bases were covered, with two general shows for each weekday, as well as a country show every afternoon. Broadening my horizons, I took a turn at just about every show (except the country—though I did learn to appreciate old-time country). And of course I kept my Rock School show.

Because KHNS depends a lot on donations, the radio station held a lot of events in the way of fundraising. Of course there was the annual fund drive (which I personally hated, even if we received a ton of free food), but there were also wine tastings, auctions, and concerts. The staff (all women) at KHNS were ambitious and gifted party planners and made every event a success. Wine and champagne flowed whenever possible, sometimes even in the studio (which led to one of the best shows I ever had—but I'll get to that another time). Stories abounded with activities that had occurred in the studio, with drunk on-the-air DJs and such. KHNS was a fun time. I could write so much more about my experience there, but I really need to move on.

Vlad

It was just Horton the dog and me at Stone House. Chris would be joining us soon. To complete the family, to round it out, I needed a kitty. I was determined to get one for my birthday. I found an advertisement on the community board online for a free kitten in Klukwan, the Tlingit village out near Mosquito Lake. A black male with a white tuxedo and paws—he looked adorable in the photo, with whiskers poking out of his face like antenna wires gone crazy. I took the drive out to Klukwan with Horton in tow. I wanted to see how the two would get on. Sure, Horton had his issues with other dogs, but how would he be with cats? Well, the little kitty took to me instantly, cuddling in my arms, purring away. I then opened the hatch of the car to let Horton out, and the next thing I know, I have a kitten scrambling with its sharp claws to the top of my head. From the crown of my head, this little kitty spat hate and fear. Yes, I guess Horton is a scary thing for a creature so small and helpless. Horton was more or less indifferent to the kitten, in fact, I felt kind of bad for him, being judged so harshly from the outset. The kitty was terrified. I didn't know if this would work. The kitten was young enough, maybe it would adapt. I could only hope. Anyway, I made the decision to take the kitty. I took him home on my birthday, a gift to myself.

I reserved the back room for him. He had the entire space to run around and go nuts, for nuts he did go. He had so much energy, he would run laps around the room, up and down the couch as I sat there, like a calm center in the storm, watching him. He had me in stitches, he was hysterical, with those giant whiskers that were too big for his face. When he tired of running around, he'd fall asleep in my lap, or even better, against my neck. I ended up naming him Vladimir (after Vlad the Impaler—or Dracula, if you will) for his tendency to suck on my neck.

Vlad accepted me as his mommy from the very beginning. I was told that his mother (the biological kind) had rejected him at a young age, refusing to nurse him. They had to turn him onto hard food early on. I don't know what the problem with his mother was, but he was a perfect little kitty, emotionally attached to me from day one. Once, when he fell off the top of the couch from his frenetic play, he came crawling into the crook of my arm with his head down, as if expecting me to comfort him. I wondered if his sucking had to do with the void from not being able to nurse. It was comforting to him, and he'd kneed his claws and purr when he did it. This was cute, but when he got bigger, and he did it at 4 o'clock in the morning, it wasn't so cute. Still, Vlad became my baby. I vowed to take good care of him. And I did the best I could to fill in that mother role.

He didn't get used to Horton overnight. For about a week, he'd hiss and crawl under furniture to hide if Horton came close. But one magical afternoon, Vlad ventured out of the back room while Horton was lying on his divan, looking out the window in his usual way. He crawled to the top of the La-Z-Boy, perching there, keeping watch. Horton took an interest, but kept a respectable distance. As I sat there, I watched the two get closer and closer to each other, checking each other out. I have to give Horton huge props for not overreacting, and allowing the kitty to have his space. The more time I spend around animals and observe their behavior and their interactions with one other, the more I'm blown away. These creatures have more going on than we give them credit for.

I had my two babies. Now it was time for Chris to come join the family.

Chris at Last

After nine months of being apart, and a separation that went beyond miles (we had emotionally grown apart in that time), Chris received his Green Card. This was a huge relief, as he feared for so long he wouldn't get it, and I feared that his anxiety would be the death of us. Upon receiving his Green Card, the energy changed and he suddenly seemed enthusiastic to be coming to Alaska. He booked a cheap flight on Pakistani Air and had to stand with a long line of "questionable" people when he landed at JFK, but they let him in. It was official. Chris had made it to America.

He flew from New York to Seattle, and then Seattle to Juneau. As if that wasn't enough flights, he had to board a seaplane to Haines. As I drove the four miles from Stone House to the airport, I watched as his tiny plane took a turn over the Chilkat, dwarfed by the massive mountains. I thought of my hubby as a dot amidst that immensity, and what must be playing in his head, looking down at such grandeur.

As a sidepoint, I'd like to say how much I love the simplicity of the Haines airport. No security, no baggage claim, no muss, no fuss. All you have to do is show up half an hour prior to departure. You don't have to pay for parking. Once you land, you step onto a wheeled set of stairs and collect your baggage from a cart, or directly from the hold. The only stress one might find on one of these flights is the fact that you can feel everything in these tiny planes. There's also that realization of how little separates you from a gruesome, horrible death.

I had taken several of these flights for doctor appointments in Sitka. On a clear day, there is no money in the world that can pay for such beauty, to be flying over a ribbon of water between dramatic mountain chains, with glimpses of glaciers and waterfalls along the way. Well, I suppose money can buy it, and many people do pay good money to see such sights on earth, but for residents of Southeast Alaska, this beauty is commonplace, to be seen while being transported between locations. To live here, to experience this, is still like living in a dream.

Anyway, what a way for Chris to be entering his new Alaskan life. It was a clear day in early July. The weather was warm and flowers were out in full bloom. Alaska was bursting with life. I was excited to see how Chris would respond to his new surroundings.

It was another reunion at an airport. But this time Chris stepped off the plane and met not only his wife, but his new BFF, Horton. They weren't buddies from the start though. Horton didn't know what to think of him and was on guard for the ride home, talking loudly from the back seat. But it didn't take long for Horton to warm to this intruder. Vlad took a liking to him as well, making a habit of sitting on his shoulder. Chris nicknamed him "Carrot" (a cross between "cat" and "parrot").

I took pride in showing off Haines: the trails, the Fort, the restaurants which were now open for business. I took him to Dalton City to see the set from White Fang, the setting for the Southeast Alaska State Fair, which we volunteered at briefly. Though these things were deemed cool, Chris was most concerned about obtaining employment. He's not exactly a Mountain Market type of guy. He tried to find accounting jobs, but it was the middle of summer and the town was overflowing with seasonal workers. It was a new source of stress for us, as Chris is very proud about his employability. It ended up that he scored a good job in Juneau. So after a month of living together in Haines, Chris moved to Juneau, and we began the next chapter in our lives living apart.

But it was all good, for Chris only worked four days out of the week and visited on weekends, taking that ferry trip up Lynn Canal. This was a win-win situation for us both, for I had my space and Chris loved that weekly trip. Our weekends were like date weekends, and we always did something fun and interesting. This situation of living apart continued for over a year, and it worked well for us. Eventually I made the move to Juneau, but Chris still yearns for that ferry trip, and I still yearn for Haines.

Alaska the Beautiful

For those who associate the Last Frontier with igloos and piles of snow, I really encourage you to visit in summer when the fireweed is abloom and daylight extends to twenty hours or more per day. Of course, along the coast, it rains more often than not (after all, most of the Southeast consists of a rainforest), with May and June being the driest months. However, for that first summer, it was unseasonably warm with many sunny days. In summer, in general, it's quite rare for temps to go above 70, but there were a few days that summer where the temperature crept into the 90s. As many Alaskans have thicker blood and are used to a cooler climate, there were many complaints about the heat. Nothing is air conditioned in these parts, and working at Mountain Market was a sweat feast with ovens and roasters going. Stone House was stifling hot, but because the windows didn't have screens, I couldn't fully open them without fear of letting in monster mosquitoes. Stone House seemed to attract a lot of mosquitoes, possibly because of the wooden deck (I heard mosquitoes are lovers of wood). There were less mosquitoes in town due to proximity to the ocean (I'm assuming they're not fans of salt water), but out the road, towards the interior, the mosquitoes can be quite ferocious.

One afternoon, even though the sun was shining, I felt electricity in the air. "There's a storm coming," I told my coworkers, my Midwestern senses kicking in. A storm seemed unlikely, as on average, Southeast Alaska receives one thunderstorm every ten years (so I was told). Well, that day was one of those times, for I watched the storm move up the Chilkat Valley as I stood in Stone House. There were a few flashes of lightening followed by growls of thunder. I relished the sound, even though Horton was cowering behind the couch. I heard later that one of the DJs on the air got electrocuted from a surge moving through the equipment in the studio, getting zapped on the lip while speaking into the mic. This wasn't the only storm of the summer; a few days later there was another thunderstorm. All the locals agreed that this was not usual weather.

When it wasn't storming, we spent almost all our free time outdoors in the sunshine. Haines has many well-maintained hiking trails. My favorite was Battery Point Trail that threaded through the rainforest on the Chilkoot side of the peninsula. It led to an outcrop of rocks where you could sit and whale watch amidst tall grass and wildflowers. There were also some beaches where Horton could romp around in the aquamarine water. On a sunny day, there is no better place on earth with those warm sea breezes washing over and the color contrast of bright pink fireweed, the green fuzzy mountainsides, and the shimmering blue of the fjord. There was only element of this hike that concerned me, and that was the way the giant hemlock and spruce trees were leaning, probably due to the intense winds that barrelled down the Lynn Canal. Walking through this forest, I'd hear creaks and groans and have to assess whether a tree was about to crash on my head. There were certainly enough fallen trees around. I spent a good hour one time waiting for a giant tree to fall. With its trunk cracked and leaning, it toyed with gravity. I thought for sure it would come crashing down, but it didn't. As far as I know, the tree is still standing.

We did our biggest hike at the end of summer. We decided to climb Mt. Ripinski, the mountain which lumbers over downtown Haines. We knew it was an all-day hike, so we set out early. I had hiked sections of this long, meandering trail before, but nothing had prepared me for the sheer rambliness of it. Trees on top of trees on top of trees. Finally, we reached a meadow where we could see just how far we had climbed. The trees shortened to shrubs, and then disappeared all together. We rested at a point that offered sweeping views of the whole area, Haines, the Chilkat Valley and beyond. As we were contemplating our stamina, a guy I knew named Alex walked by, on his way back from the peak. "Oh yeah, it's only ten minutes," he told us in that nonchalant way of his. It looked as if he were out for a stroll, no big deal. We figured we had ten minutes left in us, so we continued on. We aimed for a false peak, and found we had to cross a large slab of snow before reaching the real peak. Ten minutes, huh? I love these people who scramble up and down mountains as if they're nothing. So many times I had hiked a section of the Ripinski Trail, turning around from sheer exhaustion, only to be met by this guy who I recognized from the gas station who was on his way up to the peak to paraglide off. Not only was he completing the whole hike, but he was carrying his gear. Another time I met him on the trail, he said he had started off at Battery Point, adding at least five miles onto the hike. These people are hardcore, but not in an extreme "bro"-type way, but rather a sandal and sock sort of way. That kills me—it seems whenever I'm struggling up a mountain I think is killing me, someone will pass me wearing flip flops.

Chris and I made it to the summit. A large green bottle fly greeted us there, orbiting our heads. The views were stunning. If we looked closely over the edge, we could see Stone House, so small in that vast wilderness. It seemed we could see all the way to Glacier Bay, and perhaps we could, over the layers of mountains.

We limped our way back down the mountain. Even Horton was exhausted, sitting down whenever he could. In all, it took us 9 hous to hike Mt. Ripinski. Some people do it in 2 1/2, which blows my mind (unless they're Alex-type people, who underestimate their time). There's a Ripinski race every summer where people actually run the trail. Are these people superhuman? Anyway, we had conquered our highest mountain in Haines, which is symbolic I suppose. This is the stuff I came to Alaska to do. Me, my dog, and my man, conquering the world one mountain at a time.

Life was good.