Early Arrivals

Something’s not quite right with this picture.

Seconds ago I flipped a wonderfully packed snowball to Chevy, and watched Moses hobble over trying to bite it out of the air. The smell of drying leaves and melting snow fills the air, sunlight streaming in through the bare birch tree canopy.

And then there’s a stinging.

A small pinch at first, quickly dismissed as a leg hair that carelessly wandered in between the fibers of my denim pant leg. A step later the stinging was still there, without looking I tugged at the fabric to free the stray hair. But the stinging persisted. I look down and what do I see? What’s that clinging to my pant, its legs grasping at the cords of fabric, backlit by snow?

The Alaskan state bird.

The mosquito.

 

But not just any mosquito. A big prehistoric looking mother.

I tug the pant leg again and it grips tighter, burying its proboscis in my skin an inch below the surface. I give the whole leg a shake and she* adjusts casually, like a professional bull-rider sitting on a couch.

[I can’t really emphasize this enough. These insects are no trifle. Last summer when the cinci kids and I all came up to visit, we encountered them in earnest on the Granite Tors trail.

The group of us had driven the 50 miles out Chena Hot Springs road and were a bit turned around looking for the trail head so we pulled over to ask a roadside crew for directions. The second we cracked the window a grey mist poured in through the narrow opening and the car filled with a dreadful buzzing noise. Immediately we began slapping at them while Matty did his best to get directions and preserve his dignity in front of the road crew. But he eventually cracked and the window was rolled up mid-sentence. If only one of us knew sign language…

Once on the trail we practically sprinted up the hillside to get out of the boggy mosquito infested terrain. When we finally returned to Fairbanks and could survey the damage, exposed areas were clearly outlined by a patchwork of bumpy blistered skin.

But this comes with a silver lining, these creatures are just one more thing that knits Alaskans together; brothers in arms, united against the unrelenting opposition.]

Back now to my stretch of trail, the thirsty bastard pulling her fill from my leg. At this point I’m staring incredulously, the nerve of this tiny creature. I want to think of ways to make an example of it, make a statement to the other would-be drinkers, but I don’t follow through. I’m not a monster, and wont react as one would.  Without further thought, already having invested too much time in this miserable pile of molecules, I smash is out of existence, scattering it to the wind.  And leave behind an unfortunate smear, an all-you-can-eat sign for the hungry droves to come.

* yes ‘she’. Female Mosquitoes are the blood drinkers, while the males prefer nectar and sugar they also do useful, non-violent things like pollinate rare orchids (http://www.dnr.state.mn.us/volunteer/julaug09/pollinators.html)

Its a well known fact that mosquito bites in mass cause delirium and hallucinations, this is the only thing that could possibly explain this woman's smile; mosquito bite to the brain.

state of the union

According to an undoubtedly wise 8-year old version of myself, I am currently living the dream.


- I can drive over to my friends house WHENEVER I want.
- I am allowed to eat Cream of Wheat to my hearts content.
- The snow NEVER goes away, and everywhere you look is a sledding hill
- Dogs are allowed to come to work
- There are moose in my back yard
- Almost every night there's a laser light show outside in the sky
- With the miracle of technology I can still see my siblings and parents, even 3000 miles away and I'm proud to hear about all of their adventures and challenges
- I get to have a small paper campfire after each visit to the bathroom (but you can't roast marshmallows on it :(
- Across the road from the place I work is: an ice rink, a climbing wall, and ski trails.
- Actively participate in science experiments simply by going outside (at -50)


The state I live in has mountains and hills, streams and rivers, rain forests and tundra; and I've been lucky enough to have friends that enjoy exploring all of those. 


My job (though I hesitate to use that work because of negative connotation) sends me all over the state, to villages and permafrost tunnels. In any given day I help collaborate site information with my project partners, design prototype housing to address drift and flooding, brainstorm with coworkers on graphic exercises and presentations, watch scientists develop new forms of concrete and then explode it, and generally see people excel at what they love to do.


its happy and beautiful here.

Girdwood,AK

 

the BIG sledding hill (taller than Ski Trails in Ohio)

The merry band of adventurers 

 

Here moose!

Buckland, AK

Fun with -72

The Permafrost Tunnel; Fox, AK

gratis light show

and I'm glad I came, but there's always something in the back of my mind; something I'll never forget or cast aside

Checklist for a Fairbanks -49 Sunday morning

 Sat 11:00pm - before bed, make sweeping generalizations about life being relatively easy, and gush about how Larry has yet to screw you over.


 Sun 7:00am - run out of  #2 Heating Oil. sleep through 20 mins of audible fuel pump protest


 8:00 - pretend you're not really too cold and bury yourself in blankets


 8:30 - wake up with frozen facial features


 9:00 - pack all your liquids into a container and load up Larry

 9:15 - empty 5-gal water jugs out, after soaking one down-bootie foot in water

 9:30 - allow Larry to use his square tires like little solid rubber shovels, to dig himself into the flat driveway

 9:45 - practice trenching techniques and dig Larry out

 10:00 - the payoff

 good morning winter.

A Day in the Life

A day in the life:

So this piece has been a long time coming.
When we left off our hero was struggling with the outhouse. In a surprise twist of events his timed/regimented eating schedule was interrupted by an unexpected gift package: Oreos (mailed by Patrick from GP for the lending of my oreo costume to his son, which won an award by the way!) Well he, I, did two lines of Oreos after 1pm and that resulted in trouble come 11pm bedtime.


damn oreos.
(I think the price of oreos has surpassed saffron here in rural alaska; at the Native store in Buckland AK they go for $8 dollars a bag.... that cost alone makes my lifestyle unsustainable :)


Anyway. The most effective method for conquering a zombie in your outhouse is to (please pardon the bluntness) poop on him. You see, we assume zombies are not hygienic, what with all that rotting flesh etc, but you have to understand they do have standards; if they had their way, they'd opt for a nice washed, simple brain on a clean plate, fork and knife if available. But alas, their food puts up a fight, and so it gets messy. Defecating on them is a sure-fire way to turn their appetite, and ultimately scare them out of your commode.  So thats the way it went down.




no pun intended.

The very night I moved into my cabin the temperature bottomed out (i dont know if you can read that little red box in the upper left corner of my phone, it tells the local temp at the airport: -39); at around 2 am I awoke to my Toyo heater making a large knocking noise, and every light on it flashing like an old star trek clip... the oil had run out.


Good to know Murphys law is a constant.

My cabin is adorably nestled in the woods near the end of a spoke road, about 1.5 miles from work. there are no less than three cross-country trail heads that shoot off my driveway ;)


No moose sightings yet, but every once in a while they walk down the drive and leave a nice kiddie-pool sized pee stain on the snow, just making appearances in the night.

The bike I ride into work everyday is an incredible machine;  burrito powered with awesome studded tires, and easily transports my XC-skis to and from the campus trails.
I try to alternate My weekday activities between ice skating at the Patty Center, and skiing with co workers on the west ridge of campus; at first XCSkiing just seemed like really inconvenient walking but I'm getting better

Fellow commuters on the ride into work - It was an 8-dog-powered sled if I recall correctly

Supposedly this sign only applies to the penned in area of the UAF Agriculture Fields, but I'd argue that the entire city of fairbanks in a work of "Research in Progress"

Little pieces of Ohio up here in Alaska
Taking CCHRC by storm ;)
[I need to locate a dentist soon]

Gnocchi meal; Brought to you by
Corey, Jesse and Christine

I joined Aaron, Jesse and a cadre of ANC people on a trip out to Cooper Landing on the Kenai Peninsula; we took a 7-mile ski into a cabin and stayed over night. The way in was tough going with packs full of food, and water, and primarily uphill. Durning the night there was a crazy storm whipping through the valley; in the morning when I opened the cabin door, I half expected to see a bunch of candy-carrying dwarves dancing around a smashed witch.

I wonder if the bears honor the
property-line of the Chugach National forrest

Obligatory head shot to prove presence

Preferred headshot ;)

The storm in the night brought several inches of water in, to coat the frozen lake's surface

Brad, Sharon, Jesse and the Little Cabin that could

Aaron and Jesse to the tune of a beautiful Alaskan lake

Zombie Poo

Why my stomach hurts [Also] Why I haven’t used the outhouse yet

Because there is a zombie in there.

That’s the short of it.

It’s a nice quiet walk out to the closet sized shed behind my cabin. I've been hesitant to use the beautiful Christmas lights strung along the path because they create two problems. A quick aside: don’t get me wrong I love Christmas lights. The large colorful fat bulbs remind me of holidays spent in Cleveland, around grandparent’s trees, eagerly watching the snow fall in front of the large picture windows. The smaller white bulbs create what I consider to be the holy grail of incandescent mood lighting, second only to a candle, and the instigator of dim romantic kissing across the globe.

My outhouse path has both; but even that doesn’t soften the edges of the terrifying experience that awaits me.

The problem that these lights create in my personal piece of Fairbanks wilderness, is that they illuminate only a narrow portion of the woods; a glowing yellow brick road to doom. They create shadows deep into the woods that I can’t see, and I imagine the bears intently watching me walk outside to the pee-tree¹, like a nice warm rotisserie chicken on a spit, all ready for the plucking. The other issue is that it spoils your night vision, their brightness sending your pupils into a state of shock when you arrive at the gaping mouth of the out-house hole. On the plus side the lack of lighting doesn’t allow you to see what waits inside.

This is where the trouble starts. First and foremost, I am working on a shoe modification that doesn’t create such a ruckus when I walk on the fresh powder; my boots crunching on the snow rings like a dinner bell for predators in my ears. Secondly, I can deal with animals sneaking up on me while I visit the pee-tree; I tuck my trusty 18” Columbus Clippers mini wood bat under my arm – this, I endearingly call the “Bad-Bear-Bat”. And as for the outhouse itself its actually designed with strategy in mind, enclosed on three sides with an open door for you to prospect anything that might approach from in front of you during a seated position.

The construction is simple 2x4 wood frame, with light ½ plywood on the sides and a translucent corrugated plastic roof; currently holding no less than 9 inches of snow atop it. The walls inside are covered in photos from occupants past, license plates from states away and a little wood birdhouse shack for keeping TP dry. All-in-all a very quaint structure. The latest revolution in frozen-hole-in-the-ground-for-pooping is Extruded Poly Styrene (EPS or endearingly ”blue-foam”); incredibly this foam, when against chilled cheeks, immediately reflects your body heat back to you giving the impression of a heated seat.

So we’ve got a potentially beautiful path, bear protection, a quaint closet, and heated seat. Whats the problem you ask? The zombie in the hole of course. I don’t want to look into the hole. I know that rationally² all I’ll find is dirt, and some processed food in the form of a poop-sicle (apologies to those of you eating). But what I picture in there is a medium sized zombie pressed against the walls of the hole, flattened to avoid nervously curious eyes. I’m not quite sure how he climbed in through the seat of the outhouse, a mere 12 inches across, but that’s just a talent of this particular zombie. His³ red eyes smolder in the dark and breath comes out as cold as the winter night around him. As he hears his victims snow pants softly drop to the plywood floor and the moonlight illuminating the hole wall across him is eclipsed by his next victims buttocks he leans forward and slowly raises his arms to reach up.

The hands are the most terrifying part. I’ve seen these hands before.

In the basement of 244 w. Como in Columbus Ohio. These hands are responsible for the tremendously fit and shapely thighs that I sport today. These hands are dark and shadowy. The skin on them is simultaneously cracked and scaly. The fingers are long and wiry, crooked and broken from the struggles with previous victims, and terminate in sharpened black nails. They move quickly and dart between open stair treads with a frightening skill and accuracy. But they burn in light, and so getting myself into well-lit areas is what propels me up the stairs and out of their reach. The electrician of this house clearly was not certified to wire zombie ridden households, foolishly placing the light to the stairwell at the bottom of the stairs. This forces one to linger in darkness at their own peril once they break the circuit and plunge the basement into inky black.

Those hands have followed me 3000 miles to the frigid north. They clung to the underside of the plane out of Chicago and transferred with me in Seattle to the final destination of Fairbanks. While I looked for cabins they were there on the under carriage of Larry, patiently waiting to find their next opportunity to catch me unawares.

And now here I stand looking into the darkness. A stalemate reaching a quarter century back to a 3-year-old-superman-cape-wearing Corey, cowboy boots poised over the top lip of the basement stairs, staring into the dark unknown.

There is no clear outcome for now.

Only two pairs of fists in the darkness, one clenched in fright and the other in eager anticipation.

NOTES: 

(1)   Thankfully you don’t pee in the outhouse – this explains my current liquid-only diet and self imposed cut-off time on solid foods.

(2)  Rationality is the key word of this piece, and essentially the missing element

(3)   No self-respecting female zombie would be caught dead (get it? Zombies are dead? Badump-cha!) in an outhouse hole preying on victims

Today is a big day. Today is OFFICIALLY the best day I've ever spent engaged in a vocational activity. I know I need to tread lightly here because I have had some great opportunities and experiences in the past. But today... Amazing. 

Ma, I'm thinking I may have found out that "work" can and is in fact fun 

Today I had my first (and hopefully not last) Chainsaw meeting. It is exactly what it sounds like. I went for a stroll, with a merry band of CCHRC's finest, 400-ft down our front driveway to a small spoke road where, in a mere eight months, four University of Alaska Fairbanks student homes will be located, nestled amongst the trees. 

The site is beautiful and largely untouched. I should mention here that each particle of snow, on every surface here, is delicately stacked as if it were a game of Jenga; even the narrowest of twigs can carry a stack of powdery snow an inch high. Just as the ice storms of the midwest create beautiful frozen crystal palaces, the sifted confectioner sugar snow here is amazing in its own right. The tree coverage on the site ranges from medium-well to medium-rare depending on the area. But nonetheless everything is coated with a fine white sheen. The sinking noon sun of a November sun throws soft shadows through the trunks and is further lightened by diffusion of the snow on the ground.

The ground is a mix of seasonal marsh and permafrost. The trees that hazard to stake a claim here do so with a mixed success rate; the number of toppled and decaying trees challenging the number still standing to face the harsh climate swings. The vast majority of the ground cover here is scraggly but hardy, enthusiastically spreading across the site. And then theres the forest floor. Serta doesn't have shit on this luxury plushness... Every step is a dream, the mosses, leaves and pine needles delightfully supporting and softening the load on your knees. Bag it and I'll sleep on it. 

After some reflective wandering through the site, snow slowly drifting to the ground, the sound of chainsaws splits the air. within moments there's a flurry of activity around the woods and road as trees are felled and pulled to a growing pile running the length of the site. The sunlight comes and goes in flickers, casting light into areas of the woods untouched in years.

By Midday we reach a pause for pizza, planning and warm up back inside, and with the next hour are back feeding trees into the chipper. And at days end the woods are silent again as the cutting teams return to their respective garages and desks. The ground of the house plots now seeing the clear sky above them, unblocked by needles, work boots,  scraggly pine, or felled trees.

As the sun settled back into the horizon after its low arc, I walked away from the site, eager to begin planning the next steps in the lands transformation.

There’s a new Toyota in my life. The original TOY was a good little car. It got me all over Ohio without complaint and even humored some trips out to the coast and up to the great lakes. I loved that toy up until the day it was sadly abducted. Abducted at the sprightly young age of 75k miles old… tragic really.

Years later I have once again found myself clutching the wheel of a much aged and wise Toyota: Larry. Larry is 279.5k miles old. Larry has seen more miles than I can imagine. I bet if he wanted that would get him somewhere to the earth’s upper-outer atmosphere before panicking and tumbling back into orbit. Larry is battle hardened by Fairbanks version of salting the road: scattering crushed mountains all over the street. There is apparently a surplus of mountains in this state, so much so that its easier and cheaper to pull pieces from them rather than dig up salt or have it shipped up from the coast. So Larry’s windshield is a little clouded from cracks and cataracts courtesy of the hard road miles. Larrys knees and CV joints are also growing old and tired a result of his travels through rough and unpaved territory; wash-boarded ground has not been kind to his underbelly.

Despite all of these challenges, and the nearly 150 degrees of temperature variation that he unwaveringly faces year in and year out, Larry is an engineering masterpiece (and so help me God, Larry if you break down on me tomorrow in some ironic fashion….). He’s an assemblage of systems that have far outshined his human counterparts in both strength and endurance. Larry. Is. A. champion.

But no great story comes without conflict.

Larry has a drinking problem.

After getting Larry a little gas and a new battery we were just about to pull out of the pump station when I felt a shudder course through his frame. At first a low guttural complaint that rose to a cacophonous banging with in feet. Screaming words of encouragement over his banging we tore into a U-Turn and raced back to the station grinding to a halt inches from the metal bollards protecting the glass entry way.

Under the hood I found no fluids.

Zip zilch nada.

Prior to my arrival Larry was enjoying retirement in a parking lot, a mere 4 months into his R&R I showed up. He must’ve been slowly hemorrhaging out during that time.

From left to right: Oil; Transmission fluid; power steering fluid; brake fluid; coolant; windshield fluid (not pictured: 87 unleaded gasoline)

At some point in Larrys history he dented his oil pan. This has produced an interesting situation: he is constantly drinking oil, and releasing it, he will never need an oil change because he is constantly flushing his system.

But despite this I love Larry.

His little manual 5-speed transmission, 4 cylinder, dented and aged self.

Oh the places we’ll go ;)