Did you know the sun shines when it rains....

The other day I found my CDs AND my sound system. Played Trio or Trio II and heard those words and realized I'm not the only one who's ever seen nothing but dark at the end of the tunnel. At least in the tunnel, you're out of the rain.


The problem with writing a blog is it's designed for the present tense, but the writer in me can't write until I can use the past tense. If I write in medias res, the mood is vaguely hysterical, and the New Englander in me won't allow the publication of blather. But by the time I've gotten through the crisis or emotion or complication, I've squinted at it from a couple of angles and can usually dredge out of it a positive whatever. That room for analysis and grudging acknowledgement of sunshine is probably why I sound like an incurable Pollyana.


The other problem with my blogs is they arise from spiffy summer experiences that lead to interesting blogbits. Then I append to "Second Summer" posts from the end of January! A lot happens between October and January, a lot that's worth passing along, and a lot that is better left unshared. But it still seems strange to post it on a summer blog.


On October 7, the day after I arrived back in Milwaukee, my older brother (who has Parkinson's without the tremor) said, "I think I need to go into Assisted Living." In terms of affordability, it was better for the two of us to swap residences. Soooo, since October, I've planned and executed two simultaneous cross-town moves, arranged for free social services to assist the bro', activated a website for volunteers providing meals, served as medical advocate (and extra pair of ears) at doctor appointments, cataract surgeries, CAT scans, responded to requests to bring over that table, these pants, the cookbooks, arranged a second move of items not ready for the first one, packed up 11 (e.l.e.v.e.n.) boxes of overflow china from the dining room, and, oh, Lord, lots more.


A friend asked yesterday, "Are you taking care of you!" And I'll admit it's easier to say yes than to explain why you can't think fast enough to do anything but take a nap in the spare time!


Well, that's the rain. But the sunshine is that since October I've done all the above with time for two trips to Atlanta to see the girls (and to share in Kim's graduation with an Associate's Degree in Political Science), hosted the family Thanksgiving, attended Friendsgiving in Washington state with Camp Denali friends, and have even found the time to make soup and English muffins. And I've taken the time to rejoin the choir.


And I think that's better...the pleasure balancing the work, the sun shining when it rains. That's when you see the rainbows. You think about pots of gold, breathe the freshly washed air, and realize that you'd never have experienced that without the rain.


So perhaps I'll just go on sounding like a Pollyana--don't think, though, that I'm without time in the tunnel.

From the sublime to the...

The odyssey is over; I've returned to Ithaca. Or maybe this is my travel place and Denali National Park is my Ithaca. It's all a jumble.

There are the myriad pictures to remind me of the summer, the memories of voices, the sound of nothing but air, the feel of air crisped by a morning frost, the sight of Sandhill Cranes circling, soaring, and finally winging up to continue their flight south.

But running through my mind at odd points on the drive home were all those details that waited for me in Milwaukee: get the tire leak seen to, new muffler and windshield (each trip to Alaska in the car costs you a windshield), call the cable people, grocery shop, where did I leave the bag of tools. Oh, yes, eye doctor (ouch, new glasses). The serenity of a Mesa Verde sunset and moonrise made me stop...and put all the lists on paper. It worked. I thoroughly enjoyed those last several days of the trip--Balloon Fiesta in Albuquerque, dipping into Michelle and Bob's lives for a couple of days, breakfast in Santa Fe, climbing through the Raton Pass, and then the endless flat of eastern Colorado and Nebraska, the endless oscillation in Iowa, and--about 35th Street in Milwaukee, the smell in the air of nearby water. A summer spent in 24% humidity magnifies such scents.

As my Milwaukee life resumes, different details fall into place. The nested glass bowls live under the counter to the left of the sink; the hair dryer plugs into the outlet in the over-bathroom-mirror light fixture; the plants are down in the laundry room. Gradually what needs doing here will override the immediacy of what I just lived through. When you divide your life between two places, you have to create room in each to process what happened in the other. The day-to-day living doesn't offer transition time; that time you have to carve out...or simply delay the moment at which you sit down and put the past into place.

So with more calls to make, more items on the list to see to, I'll sign off for the moment. At some point the last six months will acquire more form. Hindsight, they say, is 20-20. Insight takes longer, and is nowhere near as quantifiable.

"You are now leaving the 9-1-1 calling area...."

One of the many little voices accompanying me on this road trip says, "Pfff. We don't need no stinkin' cell phone." And I swung onto the Cassiar Highway just west of Watson Lake, Yukon Territory. All my voices had an argument in Whitehorse when we awoke to a low overcast and grimly damp streets.

"OK. No Cassiar Highway. Alaska Highway all the way."

"Well, then you have to cancel the hotels in Dease Lake and Smithers...."

"OK, if the rain stops by Watson Lake, I'll take the Cassiar." N.B.: The rain stopped. But there was a sign: BC 37 CLOSED. For further information....

"Well, there. No Cassiar."
N.B.: Checked with gas station attendant, and road is open with Pilot Car.

So, I turned onto the Cassiar Highway. By now you're wondering what the big deal is. Well, the Cassiar Highway comes with warnings. Bears, road closings, signs like '141 km to the next gas,' no services (well, precious few). At dinner one evening at Camp Denali, a guest listened to my plan to drive "out" via the Cassiar. He then asked if I had a GPS. "No, and there's only one road, and you're on it." Then came the dire warnings about logging trucks speeding at you, kicking up rocks that break windshields. "And make sure to take a tire pump, the kind you plug into the cigarette lighter." I'd heard most of his conversation before; indeed, mostly what you hear is why others would NOT take that road.

Still, it's a numbered, year-round route maintained by the Province of British Columbia. And, still, this would likely be the last chance I had to drive this road. Even with this tentative resolve under my belt, my misgivings filled the car. What if I DID get a rock through the windshield? What if I had to drive 400 miles on the Tonka tire after a flat? How far is the next gas? Where are the logging trucks concentrated.

At its far northern end, the "Highway" is little more than an unshouldered, crowned, paved causeway through muskeg and old forest burns. Turning left here, right there, around little ponds, steeply up little hills, and then steeply down the other side. Maximum speed limit: 80 kph. I thought, "This is gonna take a l-o-n-g time."

After a while the road widened, and at about mile 125, the road climbed up the side of a huge ridge, and the view in the photo above presented itself. The trees flamed brightly against the spruce; whitecaps dotted the lake. The motel in Dease Lake was clean, comfy, and quiet, and in the morning, I set out about 7:00 in order to make the 10:00 pilot car about 2-1/2 hours south. I arrived in plenty of time, snaked through some VERY dramatic areas of spring mudslide and flooding.

It was sort of like driving through that snowstorm in the Yukon Territory back in April. You go until you can't. And so does everyone else. I ended the day richer by six black bear sightings (three were a sow and two little cubs--tiny after my summer's exposure to Denali's grizzlies), a Bald Eagle, and assorted ravens.

And richer by the knowledge that now that I've driven the Cassiar Highway, I know what everyone is talking about. It's narrower than the Alaska Highway, the scenery is more spectacular--because it's much closer to you, and it's 130 miles closer to Prince George if you take it. It's difficult to remember how large British Columbia is, how broad its valleys, how much its mountains bulk up the horizon. It's as big as Texas and most of Wyoming together! I think of the ease with which the plan was made to drive it--again, as I pointed out back in April, plans made with the Atlas in your lap and your seat cushioned by the couch often end up being questioned in the execution! The mind wrestles with the why and the how of the drive, conflicted by the assumption that you will be able to handle what comes along and by the fear that you won't. The drive becomes less about touring and more about just getting there.

But when you do get there, you get to smile inside even as you hold tightly to the milestone the drive represents. I may have gripped the steering wheel a bit hard in places, but I have now driven the Cassiar Highway.

Segue

The summer job is over. Last Thursday afternoon I drove to Anchorage for a couple of days' worth of rest before resuming--tomorrow morning--the Drive Out.

As much as I dislike the word 'transition' (hence the title "Segue"), the three days here at Gail's in Anchorage have been restful and refreshing, and have provided a wonderful bridge from my fatigue to the eagerness to be on the road again. The bulk, and weight, of much of my stuff will find its way to Wisconsin via UPS starting Tuesday; MSCARLT's burden has been dramatically lightened--as has my anxiety at what a fully loaded car does to its tires, let alone the reduction in gas mileage. Yesterday we drove down to Summit Lake on the Kenai Peninsula to gawk at leaves (not yet at their peak), fresh snow (not yet anything serious), and stop in Girdwood at the Bake Shop (not yet overcrowded with snowy skiers) for some delicious Minestrone. I will admit to catching catnaps as Gail drove.

Mostly what I've done for the last couple of days is process the summer's experience. About halfway through the summer I'd come to the conclusion that I'd accomplished what I set out to do in committing two summers to working at Camp Denali/North Face Lodge. This would wrap it up. I was done. As August went on, my resolve weakened. The rain let up and the sun shone, the tundra came alive with the most spectacular display of autumnal color I've ever seen--and I'm from New England!

Then the first wing of migrating Sandhill Cranes flew over. If there is a signature moment that says to me, "It's Autumn," it's the rattly gobble of the cranes overhead. While waiting for the guests' arrival on a Friday evening, we watched a huge flock rise from the nearby tundra, their cluster enlarging, tightening, winging up, circling ever higher--we were transported as we watched. It's not something you can capture in a photograph, or record; it is an experience. And it simply fills you up.

And being full of the experience, I started to think: what are the things arguing for ending my stint here after two summers. Blasted mosquitoes. Those mornings when the room is freezing. Walking up that hill. Walking back down that hill with the knee that doesn't like descents. The more I thought, the more I realized that my dark spells came when I recognized that I'd performed at less than my best in the job. Hmmm. We're getting somewhere here.

Then came the morning that the last guests left. I checked in with the breakfast servers and kitchen staff to congratulate them on the summer being over, and I realized just how hard they'd all worked, and how well they'd done. Double hmmm.

Two days later, staff were boarding Happy Bus for the trip out of the park. Engines revved, gears meshed, wheels turned. We waved them out of the yard even as we wiped tears that kept falling...and they were gone. Then I put the last couple of things in the car and began my own cycle of departure hugs. And the awareness hit me again--as it did last summer: we really are like a family. We live in the same small community, we work side-by-side for several months, we grow to know each other so well we can laugh heartily as all our foibles and frustrations appear in the staff spoofletter.

That's when it hit me. All the reasons I cited for this being the end were just annoyances. Do the mosquitoes drive me nuts? Yes. But can I live with them? Yeah, most likely. That's why there's insect repellent. Is it cold in the mornings? Yes. Does it warm up? Yes. Well, kind of. But can I live without that nighttime view of stars peeking through the aurora? The company of laughing co-workers watching the display from the roof, all wrapped in down garments and blankets? The golden glow of the leaves flaming above brilliant red bearberry and orange dwarf birch? The friendships, the shared work and purpose? Most likely not. These are the important parts. They're what I remembered from last year;they're what will warm me through the winter.

So it took me a couple of months, but I finally got it into words. You can live with the annoying parts. But you can't live without what's important. Something not to forget.

Small World

We have staff children this year. Danika and Silas are the third generation of family on the ridge; Oliver and Lilly from Tasmania, and who, with their parents, are with us; Maggie is the daughter of a woman who has been a naturalist guide here for years. The youngsters spend a lot of time together here in organized kidcare, and staff members recognize them as their own family members, too.

Working in the office, I get a clear view out the window of the lawn in front of Potlatch and just east of the lodge--the log structure that Woody built back in the early 50s. On Wednesday, Jack, a first year staff member, had stopped washing the outside windows for a moment, and Dan, whose father has been one of our visiting naturalist-lecturers for years, took a moment from his trash-emptying rounds. All of them were cavorting! Kicking a soccer ball, waving a stick, showing handfuls of Australian coins, practicing handstands.

We are really lucky here to be such a small world, to be a community where the youngest has something to offer the oldest, where we can all play together with spontaneity, and where we all look out for each other. Especially the kids. If we're lucky enough to return for a second year, we see the growth in the kids--even Silas now toddles up to Jack, slaps hands in a two-year-old high five and says, clearly, "Hi, Jack!" Danika (4) stands up at staff meeting with an announcement about and invitation to her kids party that will last "until there's no light," and everyone pays attention. Lilly charms us all with her pink mini-wellies and play clothes over which she sports a tutu and fairy wings.

And Maggie, at 9, is an accomplished fiddler. She played with the other musicians at FallFest, serious face, tapping toe keeping the meter. If we see paper airplanes and artwork hanging in the "Smithsonian" staff room at North Face Lodge, we know that Maggie has been holding court with her crafts. While waiting for the incoming guests last Monday, we test-flew the various models in the upper lot. Anya and Jonathan helped pitch the planes, Jack and Tate (on the roof) helped gather them in. And Maggie ran circles around the lot of us.

Yesterday after a half day in the dish pit at Camp, I returned to my room bent on taking a nap. I'd been up since 5:00 in the morning, my feet were killing me, and I was looking forward to lying down. A note was taped to my door, from Maggie and her mother, Maria, asking me over to their cabin to talk beads and have tea. Suddenly I realized how much I wanted to do that, so I packed up my bead supplies, put on my jacket (early Fall here, and it's chilly), and tapped on their door.

Maria put another log in the stove, heated some water for tea, and the three of us showed each other our beading projects, talked about different patterns and techniques. I taught them how to make a star, and Maria showed me an Athabascan-style snowflake pattern that I'll work on this winter. Then as I started gathering stuff to head back to my room, Maria suggested that she and Maggie play the song Maggie wrote, the January Moonlight Song. Maria played melody on her violin; Maggie played the harmony she also composed on hers. I could see in my mind animals and people swirling and pirouetting in the January night as the tunes filled the 60-year old log cabin. Then Maggie played a couple of French Canadian songs--jigs or reels, I forget which. Lively, spirited, and outside the leaves danced on the wind.

And then I thought...in that head-shaking, how-could-I-have-missed-this way...it's not just a privilege to live here in the National Park all summer. It is a privilege to live within this small world, this place where we can leave i-pods and headphones behind, this community where age and youth are equal, where earth--not pavement--supports your feet, and where you rely on your talents and caring to create your joy, where you all--together--are part of this incredible string of once and future generations.

FallFest

The sun has definitely heeled over into autumn, and mornings here at North Face Lodge have started to get routinely frosty. Staff members start to think of what the next season holds--employment, return to school, on to graduate school, back to the winter job. To celebrate the summer and the staff and the place we throw a party for all staff.

The celebration used to be called Christmas. There would be a tree, carols, cookies, and a gift exchange. Staff would draw names earlier in the summer, and make--yes, make--a gift for that person. The recipient's identities would be about the best kept secret in the place next to who writes Ptarmigan Pturds, the staff spoofletter. In an attempt to be a bit more inclusive and to defuse some of the religious significance, we've made a shift from Christmas to Festivus to, finally, FallFest. No tree, different sorts of music, but we've retained the moose-shaped iced cookies, the lingonberries scattered down the center of the table, and the gift exchange.

Last night was the night, and because the job falls to someone on the offie staff, I was the appointed coordinator. We'd had some sun during the day, so we hoped that the rain would stay away. So when we gathered to take the staff photograph, the sun shone, but the rain fell, resulting in another spectacular rainbow. With the group photo taken, we moved back into Potlatch's dining hall decorated with construction paper cutouts of Sandhill Cranes, local berries, and colored leaves. And a few assorted snowflakes.

There was music, too. Three violin/fiddles, two recorders, one flute, three guitars, a cello, and a washtub bass. The musicians ranged in age from 9 to 87 and included a mother and daughter from Fairbanks, one of the founders of Camp Denali, and a cook from Tucson. This group set the tone for the evening, playing simple reels and jigs (after one rehearsal), some of the tunes set out from memory by the fiddlers. Toes tapped, staff children danced, Jack even played the spoons.

But the gift exchange, like last year's, was the highlight of the evening for me. The creativity and resourcefulness shown by the giftmakers, the attention to who is receiving the gift blows me away. The thoughtfulness, the painstaking searching for ideas, the humor shown.... There were metalwork candle boxes, an outhouse bank with seeds for Alaskan wildflowers, hand-painted tee-shirts, a huge exquisite quilt, appliqued pillow, caribou antler bracelets, jewelery boxes, picture frames, jams, an iron pot rack, even a porcupine hat for one of the guides.

The laughter moved easily to the close of the evening. Musicians played the dance tune Simple Gifts--so fitting for what we all gathered to share--and staff stood to sing through to the end of the song. While we cleaned up Potlatch and returned it to dining room status for guests' breakfast, the musicians continued to play. Silas toddled up to watch Jack play the spoons, four-year old Oliver hugged his father's neck while drowsing. Brian, the washboard bassist, picked up Anya's cello and added a deeper thrum to the melodies, Marshall--on someone's shoulders--pulled down the snowflakes we'd hung on the highest beam earlier in the day. All joined in, all made the evening complete.

About 11:30 I slipped out the door to start the walk down the hill. It was cool out, some clouds silhouetted against the silver sky, and over above Cranberry Ridge the moon was out. First moon we've seen since April. As I walked, I hummed the tunes we'd listened to, added a few of my own, and enjoyed the fresh air, the almost-dark night, and the joy of a rousing evening with folks I didn't know in June but who have become treasured friends.

Occasions like this change you. Those uncomplicated moments we've forgotten to notice once again gain importance, and things like presents, loosely assembled musicians, rainbows, moonlight and kindness remind us again of the blessing of simple gifts.

Cuppa Java

There's something about a cup of coffee first thing in the morning--the aroma, the warmth, the steam, the rich flavor. Even the mug...the thick white diner cups, that hand-thrown mug you found at a thrift shop, or the souvenir mug from Amish country. Whatever that cup of coffee is, in Alaska it seems to be obligatory.

Yes, we have tea drinkers, here at Camp Denali/North Face Lodge although I find tea in the morning lacks...well...a lot. Being from Boston, where drinking tea smacks of Royalism, I find I mostly drink tea in private, in the afternoon, in the winter. But coffee? The morning doesn't start without coffee. The drive doesn't start without coffee. Judging from the stream of guests entering the lodge before breakfast, their day doesn't start without coffee.

I shoehorned a trip to Anchorage into my last two days off. Not a particularly relaxing pair of days, but the trip was productive. The list for Wednesday left little time to spare--battery for MJ's watch, contact lens solution for Sarah, thread and fabric for a FallFest gift, meet Carley (for coffee) and pick up some stuff to bring back to Camp, stop by the bead store for supplies, run by Nordstrom for skin care products, swing into Starbucks for some Pike Place Blend--Decaf, and be done in time for dinner with friends. The next morning at 7:00, I was in the car (with a travel mug of coffee) and on the way back north.

But on the drive I was impressed by the sheer number of small coffee shacks one sees here in Alaska. These are little more than ice-fishing structures, taller than they are wide, with a door on one side for the proprietor, and a window on the other side where you drive up and communicate your order. Some sport hand-made signs, others blink brightly with neon. Nenana Coffee is, predictably, in Nenana. Right by the side of the road on the south side of town, and the only decent coffee between Healey and Fairbanks--roughly two and a half hours of driving.

Driving south to Anchorage that morning from the entrance to Denali National Park (withOUT a cup of coffee because nothing--that is, the Chevron station in Cantwell--was open at 4:45 a.m.), I was distracted first by the beauty of the drive, even on a rainy morning, but second, by the presence, every so often, of coffee shacks. At Trapper Creek, there is a huge building where you can get everything from a shower to liquor to propane to coffee; at the Talkeetna turn-off, there is a Subway that carries Seattle's Best Coffee (yes, I did, it's a four and a half hour drive). Then in Houston I saw a vehicle license plate: XPR-SSO. Then a sign for Aroma Borealis. In Anchorage there are Common Grounds, Terra Bella Coffee, Kaladi Brothers Coffee, Kobuk Coffee, and (I'm not sure why) Bustin' Ass Coffee. Walking through the Town Park in Anchorage, you almost can't hear conversations for the sound of milk steamers chorrrrrrffshshs-ing.

Maybe this is one of the reasons I love Alaska--pretty good coffee no matter where you look. Maybe the puns tickle the English major in me. Perhaps it's the entreprenurial spirit that resonates--Eklutna Coffee even has an E-Z return to expressway sign. Zip off the highway, swing through to get your coffee, back on the road again. You can set up business for the cost of a commercial-grade espresso machine. Demand and supply. Add a clever name? You've got cash flow.

Next time I drive south, though--in September after my last work day here--I will stop at Aroma Borealis. The name draws me in as surely as the olfactory promise.