It's a Foggy Perspective

Last night, at about midnight, I opened my e-mail and found a note of desperation dashed off by my husband saying that he was stuck in London and needed $3,000. Since he was sitting across the table from me, I asked him how he was enjoying the sites of the city. He said the weather was better in Alaska. He never has enjoyed fog much.

The frustrating part of the whole “stuck in London” scam is that whatever got in and stole his address book also locked him out. Now he can’t get on his e-mail to send out a “DON’T SEND MONEY!” alert. It’s quite a scam they have going. So if some concerned citizen writes back and asks how to help, a real person will answer, pretending to be my husband. Meanwhile, he is sitting here just fine. He’s not stuck in London at all—he’s stuck in Alaska. Help! Send $3,000!

But there is one good thing that has come out of it all. It has made me realize that things could always get worse. For example: the weather.

In all fairness, fog can be beautiful—in short doses. It has an ethereal quality. It lets you fade into another world. One time, it pulled me into a fairy land. A few months ago, my sister Rachel and I ran into a store in Idaho—it was thick fog outside. When we emerged about 20 minutes later, the world had transformed. The moisture in the air had crystallized in the cold, and it made the world look like the inside of a diamond. Everything glittered—even the air. It was magic.

But the only fog we get up here resembles mud soup. And it saves itself for a time when there is a really pressing reason you need to fly in or out of the village. Then it will magically appear…and your flight will be grounded because no bush plane can fly blind. But for the most part, we don’t have to worry about fog. Our 60 mph winds wouldn’t stand for it.

So we may be stuck in the middle of the tundra somewhere around the Arctic Circle. We may have to boil our water, and hunt and trap our food. It may take two days of flying to reach civilization. But at least we aren’t stuck in London. You know—fog.

Pneumonia is Out — Rabies is In

Life is returning to normal. Yay! Although, I’m not quite sure what normal is any more.

My pneumonia is no more. It took two peanut butter shots, enough fluids to sink a battleship, umpteen days of nothing but rest, and a small—OK, a big—miracle. But when I went in Sunday morning (we got a call at 9 AM asking why the blazes I hadn’t come in for my daily recheck yet), I was pronounced pneumonia free! I was now just really sick! Yay! Life is looking up!

So on to other things. Alakanuk is trying its hardest to blow away. No kidding. We’ve been having crazy winds here for two days now — about 50 miles per hour, with gusts up to 70. This might not be a big deal in most cities or towns or desolate places, but here, where buildings are up on stilts, it is. A big deal. It makes houses shake. By the time this is over, we may end up in Oz.

And why are buildings on stilts? Because the Yukon River floods every year. When an Arctic Circle of snow melts around the same time the rain hits, the results can be quite impressive. It even washes all the garbage into the ocean. The garbage dump is cleared out of a lot of stuff, and so is the town. Most people here look at that as being a good thing. Seriously. I’m sure the fishes really appreciate it. But what these people don’t think of is that all the villages up river are “cleaned out” the same way. Yup. It stinks being at the bottom of the trash (and crap) flow. That is why we boil and filter water here.

So—we have now officially entered rabies season. You’ve heard of cold and flu season? Apparently, there is rabies season too. Strange that it coincides with lack of sun. I wonder if it could have anything to do with deficient vitamin D? Anyway—turns out that a crazed fox raced out of the trees and attacked a landing bush plane. Tried to chew the tires right off of the thing. Of course, it had about as much success as a Chihuahua attacking a speeding Buick. But the pilot had enough sense to stay in the plane. No cargo is worth risking rabies for. Now the fox hunt is on. So far, no luck. Either the poor thing has died, moved to warmer climates, or got blown away to Oz.

Mummification 101

Step One: Dump boiling water on your hand. (Why was I boiling water? See "Queen of Boiling Water" below.)
Step Two: Stick hand in a bag of snow. Try to avoid the yellow stuff.
Step Three: Trudge through biting wind in temperatures that freeze your brain, frost your skin and make your teeth ache—with your hand buried in a bag of snow.
Step Four: Bang on the clinic door and beg entrance.
Step Five: Sit for an hour while the health aide methodically takes vitals and a thorough medical history. Meanwhile, repeatedly send husband outside for more snow.
Step Six: Another eternal wait for the doctor to call with treatment plan. Pick dog hairs from bag of snow (or are they wolf?).
Step Seven: Finally! Cream and bandages—and much relief. (Bless the inventor of Silver Sulfadiazine.)
Step Eight: Vow to find an easier and preferably pain-free way of avoiding dish duty in the future.

The Queen of Boiling Water

I have one purpose in life, and that is to boil water. True. I spend all day long boiling water. And then I filter it.

I boil water for washing dishes, rinsing produce, cooking food, making hot chocolate, making juice, and just plain drinking. Actually, I have a complex system. OK—maybe complex is going a bit far, and it’s not really a system so much as a daily routine in drudgery. But hey—it keeps me busy.

My day is complete when I maintain two filtered water pitchers in the fridge, two plastic “standby” pitchers of unfiltered water on the counter, and a big pot of boiling water. Yup. That’s the pinnacle of life.

So basically my day goes something like this: boil water, make breakfast, boil water, do the dishes, boil water, fill the pitchers, boil water, start on lunch, boil water….. You get the picture. I’m the queen of boiling water.

But this past Christmas, the familiar routine took a temporary twist—and I wasn’t even here to see it. I’d had to return home because of a family emergency—so I spent Christmas with my mom.

During one of my more-than-daily phone calls home, I asked my son what he had planned for the day. He replied, “Probably setting up the tree again.” “Again?”

Turns out that when my husband was decorating the school for the holidays, he ran across a perfectly good artificial Christmas tree. The only thing it was missing was the base. Well, base or no base, that is quite a find, considering that we live in the tundra where the closest thing to a Christmas tree is a short, scraggly bush-looking thing. So, following his “waste not, want not” philosophy of life, he hauled the thing home to grace our living room. Getting it there was no problem. Getting it to stay up on its precarious pole was another matter all together. But he is an ingenious soul who can fix most anything. And when it can’t be fixed, there’s always duct tape. Yup. They taped the tree to the couch and the wall. Only problem was that if they made any sudden movements, sneezed, or breathed hard, the thing came tumbling down. And since the house held nothing but active males, there was a bunch of chasing and wrestling going on. So the tree spent a lot of time horizontal, and they went through a ton of tape.

Their holiday routine became: boil water, set up the tree, boil water, set up the tree, boil water, set up the tree…

Isn’t change wonderful!