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.