musings

A friend sent me an email the other day. “How is Alaska?” she asked. “Like, how is it really?”

During a vacation—when you’re gone only a few days or a week—it’s easy to establish a whimsical romance with the place you’re visiting; to build it up in your mind until there isn’t one bad thing you can remember. Months later, you find yourself describing the trip to friends and family with nostalgia.

Travel nursing has given us the rare opportunity to witness Fairbanks at her best…and then wake up beside her the following morning, when she’s rocking yucky morning breath and bed head. I’m guessing that if we weren’t living here now—if years down the road, we visited Alaska as tourists—it would’ve been a weeklong trip and probably have involved a cruise ship, so we could see as much of the state as possible. Our memories would be the whimsical, romantic sort.

Our time here is most definitely not of the romantic variety. We chose one of the tougher states. If we were in Arizona or Kentucky, it still wouldn’t be easy living without car, friends, or family. But Fairbanks, Alaska, presents a unique set of challenges that I imagine most of the other fifty states do not.

Drew, Lukas, and I have now been here almost two months. I keep thinking of my friend’s question: “How is it really?” If I’m being brutally honest…it’s hard. This life—the one with a single car, no job, no family, no close friends—isn’t easy. Locals have promised that summer more than makes up for the winter, but as our small family grows and I look forward to two babies tumbling around this fall, I can’t imagine bundling, carrying, and strapping more than one kiddo into the car multiple times a day while it’s this cold. Daylight is peeking through my blinds by 7AM these days, but when we first arrived and the penetrating dark gloom pressed up against the glass doors until almost ten in the morning, it was hard. Hard to make myself believe it was actually morning. The landscape is stunning, but it also reminds me (on a daily basis) that I can’t simply pull on sneakers and take Lukas out for a walk whenever I want.

If you don’t count family and friends, it’s this that I miss the most: long walks. That was our thing back home. If I couldn’t get to the gym, I’d lace up my Nikes, call a friend, and push the stroller for miles. Fresh air and exercise was practically guaranteed. Here, it’s a complicated dance with the thermometer. If it’s below zero, Lukas and I stay inside. Zero to twenty means a quick walk to the coffee shop, where we warm up for a few minutes before walking home. When it hits twenty or thirty degrees, it’s time to leave the hat and gloves at home—a heat wave has rolled in and we can zip out for a long walk.

There’s a lot to get used to in Fairbanks. But there are perks. I’ve never seen so much snow in my life. It covers everything in a pure, crusty white, from chain link fences and mailboxes to the distant mountains. On days it snows, the sky turns a thick, ashy gray and I imagine I’m living inside a snow globe. Every morning, the sun paints the morning sky in the most splendid shades of roses and lavenders. We finally saw the northern lights a few weeks ago. It was strange and wonderful, just as I’d imagined. And I’ve gotten the hang of driving here. What terrified me at first is now (relatively) old hat.

And then there are those times when I think, “Never in Durham” with a wry grin on my face. Like the day I rolled down my window in the coffee shop drive-thru…and it wouldn’t go back up. Or that time when it snowed 18 inches in two days. Or when my nose hairs froze (epic).

So the answer to my friend is this: it’s not always easy. Sometimes it’s extremely hard, other times it’s awesome. Travel nursing is our way of life until July and I’m trying to soak it in so that I have lots of amazing memories to take home in my pockets.

strap on the snowshoes

I could hear the very faint sound of cars. There was the sound of our snowshoes, crunching in the snow--up, down, up, down--as we traveled the narrow path carved through the snow. Other than that, silence.

Drew was ahead of me, the Ergo on his back. I saw a small head peeking out, bundled in a fleecy brown bear cap. Luko eyes were wide as he took everything in. The evergreens towered above us, their short arms fluttering.

It was 33 degrees and we were following a trail at the University of Alaska Fairbanks' campus. It was our first time snowshoeing and I was in love. The oval shaped contraptions holding my boots in place offered freedom on the snowy terrain. Freedom to take long strides (my jam); to use muscles that had been longing for a walk that lasted longer than twenty or thirty minutes; to wander through the woods without sinking knee deep in three- and four-foot snow drifts. It was marvelous.

We trekked through the woods for an hour that day, and then another hour (different location) yesterday. I'm ready to invest in snowshoes.

This beats Planet Fitness any day of the week. 

Excuse the slightly fuzzy quality. This go 'round, photos were taken by my iPhone. I wanted to scope out the snowshoeing situation before bringing Canon along for the adventure.

building a tribe

Friends and busy weekends make the world go ‘round.

Moving to a new place, it’s the weekends that turn me into a puddle of nostalgia. I like to pack our calendar. Dinner with friends; the farmers’ market and donuts on a Saturday morning; errands; a co-worker’s party to dash to in the evening; and then Sunday there’s mass and usually somewhere to head to in the afternoon. I feverishly plan and fill up our weekends like it’s my job (meanwhile, Drew’s there to nudge me to build in an empty day here and there).

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that moving 4,240 miles away puts a definitive cramp in my busy social calendar. 

As in, the social calendar didn’t exist when Lukas and I first arrived in Fairbanks. And that was hard. I spend most of the week at home (especially if Drew’s working a lot of 6AM shifts) and by Friday afternoon, Lukas and I are usually itching to hit the town.

This past weekend I was almost back in familiar territory. On Saturday, Lukas and I had a play date with a mommy & daughter that I had connected with online. That evening, Drew, Lukas, and I went to a hockey game, where we enjoyed free hotdogs and chips while watching the game with Drew’s co-workers. Lukas stayed up way past his bedtime (he had to be woken up the next day at 9:15AM!). Sunday, we failed to track down the Catholic mass at the UAF campus (thanks a lot, Internet) and ended up at the cathedral, with lunch at a pub after. The burgers and grilled cheese sent all of us into a food coma, so one baby and two adults went down for a nap.

It was busy and great.  

Life is always better with a community; a tribe of people to call when we want to try snowshoeing. Or grab a coffee. Or just sit around, playing cards and snacking on chips & salsa. Ours is a small tribe but it's slowly growing, person by person. Give us another few months and we might be back to those crazy, jam packed weekends (Drew's reallllly hoping that's not the case, though).

;)

part II {not-so-great}

It was getting dark. Not twilight dark, but hey-it’s-legitimately-dark-outside dark. It was about 4:45PM when we pulled out of the park and headed north, back to Fairbanks. Drew and I had had a large lunch at around 2PM. Back in Nenana (pronounced like ba-na-na), when we made the decision to keep searching for the elusive Denali, neither of us gave a thought to dinner. Someone else was though.

Fifteen minutes down the road, Lukas started squawking. It’s what we affectionately call his“gentle reminder.” He was hungry, but he was being nice about it. If we stopped the car and fed him in the next fifteen to twenty minutes, all would be forgiven and forgotten. Drew and I glanced at each other. We had brought his backpack, full of extra diapers, wipes, a few toys, and I had even remembered his pacifier. But there wasn’t a jar of food or a squeezie bag of fruit to be found. I hadn’t even grabbed a banana. The only other bag in the car was Drew’s emergency backpack, full of water bottles, KIND bars (the really hard sort) and a blanket.

“Okay, “I said confidently, “we passed a decent sized gas station on our way here. It was about twenty minutes from the park. We can stop there.” The squawks were becoming a little more insistent. We zoomed past a gas station.

“I think that was it, babe.”

“No, I’m pretty sure there’s another one,” Drew said confidently. We passed a second, much smaller gas station.

“I think that first one was it,” I said.

“I’m pretty sure there’s another one coming up. It has a huge sign in front of it.” At this point we had left the first gas station in our dust. I didn’t push the issue and Drew didn’t want to turn around. I consoled myself with the fact that Tenana was only thirty minutes away.

Thirty minutes later, I realized that Tenana was not, in fact, thirty minutes away. And Lukas had entered the “guys-I’m-going-to-starve” phase. He was crying in earnest. There’s a reason spas don’t play soundtracks of crying babies. I started to get this weird, tight feeling in my chest. My baby was crying and I hadn’t brought food. Lukas is a pretty chill kiddo. He doesn’t cry unless he falls and bumps his head; you take the PS4 controller away from him; or…he’s hungry. A neon sign was flashing in front of my eyes: “Worst Mom in the w-o-r-l-d.”

“Okay, pull over,” I said to Drew. I rummaged in the back for the box of KIND bars. Lukas looked at me hopefully, alligator tears swimming in his eyes. I broke off a piece of the peanut butter bar and offered it to him. It was hard—pretty unforgiving stuff for a kid who only has two teeth (two bottom teeth, at that). So I winced, and popped a big chunk of KIND bar in my mouth, chewed, and spit it back out. Yep, that was where we were: mama bird feeding baby bird. Drew was laughing to himself in the front. I know, I know, this will make a great story for when Lukas is a teenager. But at that moment, I was feeling all the guilt for forgetting to pack my baby food. Who does that?

“Remember that time in the middle of Nowhere, Alaska, when your mom chewed up KIND bar pieces in her mouth and fed them to you?” 

Lukas ate the entire KIND bar, baby bird style, than started whimpering. He has a huge appetite and one peanut butter KIND bar was not going to do the trick. Twenty minutes later, we pulled into a gas station on the outskirts of Tenana. I felt like the world’s worst parent as we carefully examined the little gas station’s stock of packaged food for something relatively healthy that would appeal to an almost nine-month-old.

“Cheese sticks!” I crowed. “These will work.” We also found a package of Fig Newtons (fruit, yo) and a box of animal crackers. Lukas was happy as a clam. I guess gas station food is his jam.

Moral of the story #1: Apparently, gas station food won’t kill your kid. 

Moral #2: Be prepared, dummy. His backpack is now stocked with paper towels, a spoon, several jars of baby food, a few fruit squeezies, and a baggie of Cheerios. No more mama bird situations here!

part I {that-was-cool}

“I’m going to run into the library and return a book. You can keep telling the story, I just won’t be able to respond.”

I was in the middle of telling my sister about our adventure this past Saturday. It was an unexpected mixture of that-was-cool and ugh-not-so-much, in that order. She was my captive audience, on a walk with her kiddo, as I began the story with the highs of the day.

Drew, Lukas, and I had piled into the SUV, ready for an adventure. We were going to explore outside of Fairbanks: head down George Parks Highway towards Denali National Park, where we were hoping to get a glimpse of the elusive Denali (formerly known as Mt. McKinley). The highway did not disappoint. As we slowly wound our way up, following the snowy tracks of truckers, lugging their heavy loads six hours south to Anchorage, we spotted mountain ranges in the distance. Drew swung the car into an overlook and we gazed at the beauty stretching out in front of us. It was like nothing we had yet seen. It reminded me of an overlook on the Blue Ridge Parkway, but instead of mountains in varying shades of blue, nestled cosily together, I was gazing at a large valley bordered by a chain of white mountains. It felt very vast and open.

The Parks Highway was the very best sort of surprise. Every inch of it is scenic. It’s the sort of road that compels you to keep going; it’s that beautiful. Drew and I joked that if he hadn’t been on call the next morning, we would’ve been tempted to just drive the six hours to Anchorage. We had extra diapers for Lukas and the clothes on our back. What else did we need?

I hadn’t read up on Denali before we left or seen any pictures. So I mistakenly thought that it would suddenly present itself in a BAM! moment. It would rise up majestically, leaving us shocked, eyes wide in amazement. Five years ago on a drive from Bend to Seattle, Drew and I spent a good hour or so with Mt. Hood in our line of vision. Wikipedia describes Mt. Hood as, “…one of the loftiest mountains in the nation based on its prominence.” That’s what I expected: one prominent mountain, rising grandly above the rest. Denali is North America’s highest mountain peak, after all, at a whopping 20, 156 feet tall. I had prepared myself to be impressed.

So sixty miles later, when we rolled over the bridge into the town of Nenana and neither of us saw a giant mountain looming in the distance, Drew and I agreed that, of course, we should push on a little farther. We were bound to see Denali soon. Leaving the tiny town behind, we passed acres upon acres of evergreens, the ever-present snow capped mountain range teasing us with a game of hide’n seek. Every time we got a little bit closer, the road would curve and the mountains would disappear.  

Soon we were at the base of the mountains, getting ready to drive through them. At this point, we were almost at Denali National Park. Both of us were convinced that the coveted peak had to be just around the corner. The mountains were much bigger now, dark and rugged. The sun had started its slow descent, casting elongated shadows over the snow packed ground. In a few minutes, we were driving through the tiny town of Nenana Canyon. Bursting with tourists in the summer—there to enjoy white water rafting, hiking, and other outdoor adventures—in the winter, the streetlights were covered, the buildings boarded up, and the electricity turned off. It was a ghost town, waiting forlornly for the snow to melt and the tourists to start arriving.

Drew turned into the national park. It was our last ditch effort—we were giving Denali its final chance. I wish I could tell you that the wow moment finally happened; that our mouths hung down so far we had to use our hands to close them back up.

Nope.

Later, Drew told his co-workers about our road trip and it turns out that we may have never even seen Denali. Or we may have. Who’s to say? Denali is the sort of girl who often has her head in the clouds—li terally. Apparently, she’s only visible about 20% of the time. Alaskans like to tell tourists that Denali creates her own weather.

Lesson learned. Our optimism was on point, but the actuality of seeing Denali was never high. So even if it takes multiple trips, we'll keep trying to get a glimpse of the elusive peak. After all, that means rolling down the Parks Highway a few more times. You're not going to hear me complaining.

lukas tomas | eight months

Lukas turned eight months old on January 16th. At this point, he’s solidly halfway to nine months, but shhh. Who’s counting?

Everything seems to have happened at eight months. He crawls now. He pulls himself up (but only next to this one side table…it must be a special table). Lukas pulls open a kitchen cabinet door and, if I’m extremely lucky, practices opening and shutting the door, a look of wonder on his small face. If I’m not so lucky, he rummages inside, emerging triumphant with a cooling tray in one small hand, a white trash bag, or a pair of yellow kitchen gloves. Electrical outlets are a thing of beauty to be touched reverently, even though Mama says, “No” firmly and rushes to move him. His stash of brightly colored toys will only entertain him for so long—some days, it’s like he doesn’t even know they exist. Why play with blocks or a snazzy Vespa, gifted by your godmother, when you can tug on the dining room curtains or attempt to scale the fireplace ledge?

Lukas loves to eat (loves it). If he has to wait an extra ten minutes for a meal, you’ll find him shoving food into his mouth like a starved animal. He always makes a funny face when we introduce a new food (it's hilarious to watch), but gamely tries everything--and almost always ends up loving it. At the top of his list are bananas and peanut butter & jelly smeared on whole wheat toast, but he just as happily devoured tonight's dinner of spaghetti squash. The wash machine here is a stackable unit and Lukas adores sitting on the floor, watching the colorful diapers spin round and round, soapsuds flecking the glass. Any time I press “Facetime” on my phone and it starts ringing, he looks at me excitedly, then glances quickly back at the screen, waiting for the mystery person to appear. Will it be his cousin? Possibly his friend Henry? Or maybe Mamele (Grandma) and Vukas (Grandpa)? He can’t ride his Vespa by himself yet, so the next best thing is Drew sitting at one end of the room, me at the other, and we zoom him back and forth. He holds on tightly, smiling as he’s propelled from one parent to the other, and back again.

Eight months is a crazy age. Lukas usually doesn't stay where I leave him and so, every fifteen seconds or so, I’m going from the kitchen to the living room, checking to see what sort of mischief he’s getting into. But at the same time, it’s such a FUN age. We introduce new foods, new experiences, new toys, and he’s able to appreciate them. He chatters to himself, crawls to one of us when he wants something, and smiles so happily when I come to get him in the morning. 

He's a pretty cool little dude.

driving me crazy

It’s very strange living in a place that perpetually looks like a winter wonderland. I’m used to the (very) occasional snowfall—I’m talking twice in a winter, if we’re extremely lucky. 

It usually goes like this. The weather forecasters announce a snowstorm. Depending on who you are, you either a) panic and run to the store to stock up on milk and bread, b) you’re from somewhere other than North Carolina (or just an experienced driver), so you calmly sit back and watch all the locals run around like crazy, or c) you get extremely excited (after all, it’s SNOW!). The flurries fall during the night and everyone wakes up to a pristine world of clean, white snow. It’s usually melting by the next day.

But here in Fairbanks, the view out my living room window hasn’t changed in two weeks. If anything, it’s gotten snowier. The grove of trees in the neighbor’s yard wears the thickest coating of powdery snow—anywhere from 1 inch to 4-5 inches. The small snow hill on the deck stays stubbornly at 3 feet or so. The roads fluctuate from being entirely white to showing off some blacktop; it just depends on whether it’s snowed recently and if the snowplows have come by.

I’m not tired of the view. Even the cold doesn’t bother me too much. But the lack of exercise does. I’m going stir crazy. I was desperate enough the other day that I started walking circles inside our small house. Five minutes, I told myself. Once the clock on the stove announced that yes, I had spent a solid 300 seconds wearing a crease into the carpet, I decided on another five minutes. Apparently I was stomping, since Drew then tried to convince me to step lightly so I wouldn’t irritate the downstairs neighbors. I switched to walking on my tiptoes.

It’s so hard to convince myself to go to the gym after Drew’s come home; to pile on the outerwear, spend ten minutes in the car, and motivate myself to bike, or lift weights, or bounce up and down on an elliptical.  But after a weekend of inactivity due to a cranky baby, a husband on call, and (let’s be honest) pure laziness, I’m convinced. I’m a pretty active person and I know myself: I’m happier when I have a routine of lifting, cardio, and yoga. I will not let the Alaskan winter turn me into a soft, flabby couch potato!

So I’ve given myself an ultimatum. It’s either the gym or running for 30 minutes outside…on the snow packed road…in -15 degree weather (oh yes, I’ve seen several crazy people out there doing exactly that). 

So, I'm telling myself…take your pick.

the walk to nowhere

All I wanted was a chance to go outside and take a walk. I wanted coffee: a piping hot latte, or maybe a mocha, that I’d curl my gloved fingers around. Oh, and possibly a big fat cinnamon bun. My sister had purchased one earlier while on the phone with me and just hearing her describe it had made my mouth water. Plus, it was only -15 degrees today. Tolerable walking weather, I imagined.

I got the process started: pulling on my fleece lined leggings, plopping a red knit cap on Luko head. As soon as I started to stuff one chubby leg into the blue snowsuit, he got upset. As I’ve said before, he’s not a fan. And I can’t blame the kid. He looks like the Michelin Man when all is said and done: very fluffy, very soft, and with almost zero range of motion.

Once we were set, I grabbed the Ergo from the closet and buckled it around my waist. The fun part started when I tried sliding a strap over my shoulder. It went over, but barely. Once Lukas was in and I tried sliding on the other strap, I noticed it wasn’t going all the way over. And darn it, the first strap was starting to slide back down. My coat was too big and slick, I had on too many layers, and the Ergo just didn’t want to stay put. I was in the bathroom at this point, staring at myself in the mirror and trying to figure out how I’d get the back strap buckled without a second pair of hands to help me out. It wasn’t looking good. Lukas was fidgeting. I imagined a drop of sweat running down my back. Standing around in a toasty house while wearing outdoor gear suitable for negative degree weather…not so fun. 

I stared longingly at the back strap, willing it to buckle itself. Or move slowly in the right direction. Neither of those two things happened.

“It’s okay,” I told the fussy baby, “I’ve got a back-up plan.” He stared at me skeptically, not convinced. I started pulling out suitcases, in search of the Baby K’tan my sister had sent me. If the baby carrier wouldn’t work, maybe a soft, unstructured wrap was the solution. Of course, I had completely forgotten how to use the two circular pieces of cloth, so I plopped Lukas on the floor (more angst) and pulled up a YouTube video. After several tries, I got him into the sling. Sort of. 

“Dude, I think the coffee just isn’t going to happen,” I said to the baby, who was halfway in the wrap, halfway out. He just stared at me. “But we ARE going for a walk,” I said determinedly. “We’ve got all the gear on.”

That first step outside was heavenly. I turned right out of our driveway, ready to explore a section of street I hadn’t been on yet. What I had assumed led to a river instead took us to a dead end and posted, “No Trespassing” signs. 

“Okay, not a problem,” I said to Lukas, who was slipping slowly from the wrap. I don’t think I had it on right. I hoisted him up and made a silly face. He stared solemnly back at me. “Let’s go the other way.” We made it a hundred feet down the road before I realized it was more icy than I expected. The kiddo also kept slipping out. I think all my outerwear was making the wrap too snug. It was much tighter than when I last wore it in a tank and shorts and the fabric wasn’t stretching out far enough to provide the warm cocoon that Lukas and I were expecting. 

“Well, darn.” Our adventure was turning out to be oh so short; like of the ten-minute variety. “This is just ridiculous,” I announced, before stomping (carefully) back into the house, my slippery baby in tow.

Before you start feeling sorry for us and imagine me and Lukas holed up in this house until the first thaw, I’ll tell you that this post was written last week. Since then, my mom came up with a brilliant solution. 

A SLED.

There’s always snow on the roads here, so it’s the perfect plan. Plus, I’ll be able to tuck a blanket in around the wee chap for extra warmth. It’ll be great. 

Unfortunately, I’ve quickly learned that unlike in the lower 48, Alaska doesn’t enjoy the complete Amazon Prime experience. We get the free shipping, yes, but there’s no such thing as 2-day shipping. It’s a hard first world pill to swallow. Luko snazzy toddler sled has been ordered, but last I checked, “We need a little more time to provide you with a good estimate,” Amazon said. That was three days ago.

As soon as that sled arrives, there will be a photo of Lukas in his sweet new ride, with me smiling in the background, coffee cup in hand. Pinky promise.

snapshots

The sun was starting its slow descent and the sky was tinged in the prettiest shades of pink. 

I took a few steps away from the road and all of a sudden, my boots are gone; sunk in the snow like so much dead weight.

Alaskan men (apparently) don't wear scarves. On fa-reezing days like this, the jacket gets zipped to the very top.

This car is crazy large and handles like a truck. When I glance into the rearview mirror, I'm surprised there isn't a gaggle of kids behind me. But this tank gets the job done and plows through the snow like nobody's business. It's a seriously excellent snow mobile.

That rosy pink sky I was talking about...

I wish I could take a few of these fir trees and stick them in my pocket for the trip home. They're everywhere and so incredibly spectacular. 

Drew was encouraging me to have a seat on the bench so he could take my picture. HECK no! That small trip would've required waders to get there and a giant shovel for snow removal. 

Note the frost.

A stunning side road, just waiting to be explored.

Everything here is sleeping under a thick blanket of snow: big, fluffy evergreens, bushes, even the smallest twigs.

the visitor

7:16AM

The little man is sleeping, lulled back into the world of dreams by milk and a pitch black room. I’ve been up since 5AM. Once the clock rolls forward another few hours, I decide sleep is for the birds and I may as well enjoy the quiet. And the darkness.

I pad into the kitchen, pulling a worn university sweatshirt over my head. The gray one with raggedy cuffs and a stretched neckline really is the best. I will the water to pour out of the faucet quietly. Lukas hasn’t adjusted to the time difference yet (who am I kidding? Neither have I) and he’s been sleeping a lot the past few days.

For as long as I can remember, my morning ritual has consisted of pulling back the curtains, opening the blinds, doing whatever it is I need to do to let the sunlight come flooding in. The problem I’m facing in Fairbanks is that there is no sunlight in the mornings (duh). The best I get is a faint milky glow, assisted by the colorful strings of Christmas lights shining cheerfully from my neighbor’s chain link fence.

I plop a tea bag into the tiny earthenware mug I find and decide to check out the outside world. I’d prefer a milky glow to the plaid, country style curtains covering the sliding glass doors. I quietly move one curtain, then the other, only to squint at the dark thing laying in my yard. A moose is using the snowy yard as her snowy bedroom. She’s about ten feet away from me. I stare hard for a few minutes before I realize that the moose is actually staring back at me. I tug the curtains shut.

All I’ve heard from friends and family is how dangerous moose are; that there are more deaths by moose than by bears or sharks. Yikes. What if this thing decides to charge the sliding glass doors? I go back to the computer, only to hear a light tap tapping on the glass. Moose don’t tap at glass doors, do they? I check outside again, noticing that the moose has switched positions (she’s closer now). Great. It’s almost as if she thinks she’s found a friend and wants to engage in conversation. What does a person talk to a moose about? 

When I check yet again, minutes later, I’m half expecting the moose to be only inches away this time, staring at me from the side porch. But no, she’s gone: on to the next snowy yard, the next conversation with a person in a sweatshirt and pajama pants.

                            Excuse the grainy photo, taken by an iPhone in the darkness.