Day Fourteen: Fairbanks, Alaska

Sunday 6 October -- I woke around midnight, sleepy and warm, with a nervous feeling that maybe the front desk people weren’t watching for the Northern Lights, or maybe they’d forget to come wake me, or or or.  But sleepy and warm.  But unable to sleep.  Eventually I rolled out of bed, dressed in layers and walked outside.  I guess it was freezing, or thereabouts, but the cold didn’t seem bitter the way it can sometimes.  From the resort lawns I could see the Great Bear or Big Dipper, but not much else.  I could, very faintly, hear howling.  When I stepped away, just a bit, toward the (unlighted) road, the sky turned nearly black and the stars emerged like Christmas lights on an over-decorated house.  There were clouds low on the horizon, which can block the aurora, but toward the south or maybe west, the clouds glowed with a greenish flicker – so I’m calling that a Northern Lights sighting.  Saving you any suspense you might be inclined to feel, that was the closest I came in my four nights in Fairbanks.

Figuring a little drive might get me to a better viewing spot, I went back to get my keys, walked to the parking lot, and drove about five miles on Chena Hot Springs Road to a pull-over site.  By the time I’d done all that – 20 minutes at most – the sky had clouded over quite thoroughly.  I heard one persistent owl, and stood on that patch of gravel, looking everywhere, in a stillness so profound I could feel it wrapped around me; weight on my skin.

I slept really deeply, back at the hotel, for a few more hours.  Once dawn broke, I layered up again, drove a few miles up the road, and hiked along the Angel Rocks Trail.  This is a 3-4 mile loop that includes about a mile of flat ground along the Angel Creek, then ascends about 1,750 feet over the next half-mile or so, to a hilltop crenellated with Angel Rocks, which are composed of granite and basalt.  There’s a rather amusing sign at the trailhead warning amateurs that rock-climbing is not always as easy as it may look.

Tammy, Jon:  Remember, "when you are partway up the rock... The ground is suddenly a scary distance away."

Cold enough for snow in the not-too-distant distance

It was quite chilly – this was the sixth of October – but of course walking is very warming.  I wore thick socks and hiking boots, long johns and jeans, two or three technical-fiber shirts including one with a chin-high neckline, a fleece hat, my winter parka, and two pair of gloves.  The warmest I got was undoing two parka snaps and removing my hat, briefly.  Everything I wore had to go into the wash when I got back, as it was all pretty well stewed in sweat, but I never felt warm enough to take off my outer gloves.  Not bitter cold, and little wind, but a kind of creeping, omnipresent chill with no intention of backing down before April.

On my way up the hill, I’d seen two people, walking together.  When I got back to the stream for the walk back out, I passed seven parties in about half a mile, totaling 14 adults, four children, one baby and one dog:  rush hour at Angel Creek.

The views from the top of the hill were glorious, of course, but the view low down, in the riverine landscape, was wonderful as well.  I took 19 photographs of the moss by the creek, and put them in a Picasa site so those of you interested can look at them here.  It’s amazing to me how many species and colors and shapes of moss there are in that brief stretch of woods.

More hot springing and lap swimming and journaling back at the resort.  Then I stepped over to the resort restaurant for another order of stir-fry tofu and veg, but this time with the red curry instead of last night’s yellow curry.  The same bartender was working, and she recommended a lager from Anchorage that I quite liked, and very, very different from yesterday’s oatmeal stout.  Her name is Stephanie, and she’s from Indiana – the southern, hilly part.  And she came all the way to Fairbanks for a bartending job.

Stephanie has a friend who wound up working at the resort, and she came up for a visit in June.  She loved the long days so much that she applied for a job, flew home, packed her car and headed northwest.  She would work until midnight and then go out for a bike ride with a friend, and she loved that.  She’s not sure how she’ll do when the days shrink (in early October, sunrise was about 8am and sunset sometime between 7:00 and 8:00pm), but so far the cold hasn’t bothered her much.  “It’s cold,” she acknowledged, “but it’s a dry cold.”

Her drive up was complicated by a moose-related catastrophe.  Her dad didn’t want her driving 4,000-plus miles alone (“even though I’m 23”), so he came along.  They did the shared-driving, sleep-in-the-car, push-along-as-fast-as-you-can-without-going-over-65mph-’cause-it’s-better-for-the-gas-mileage kind of drive, so very different from my current approach.  Somewhere south of Great Plains, Alberta, they stopped at a rest area for a quick nap, then Dad took the wheel and headed them back on the road while Stephanie lolled snoozily in the shotgun seat.  She snapped awake when Dad said, “Is that a moose?” and indeed it was, standing by the road with its rear half in the travel lane.  Stephanie screamed, “Stop!” and, “Swerve!” but Dad did neither (her version, remember, of the story), and the moose, hood and windshield collided to the detriment of all, but especially the moose.

DO NOT READ THIS PARAGRAPH IF YOU’RE SQUEAMISH.  The moose was, per Stephanie, essentially ripped apart by the impact.  Its innards, including bowel contents, splattered the car.

Awful in every way.  Moose killed on impact, driver and passenger terrified and horrified, daughter pretty ticked off with Dad for not CHANGING LANES when he saw a GINORMOUS MAMMAL in his lane, and two-and-a-half days to kill in Great Plains, Alberta, whilst awaiting a new windshield.  (“Believe me, there is nothing to do in Great Plains, Alberta.”  “Well, you could have spent the time learning to field dress a moose.”)  And yet, and yet – the car still runs.  New windshield in place, dent in the hood, shards of glass unexpectedly emerging at irregular intervals, but it’s still going, 1,000 miles and a dad’s-treat carwash later.  At this point, a couple who seemed to be regulars, at the other end of the bar, called Stephanie over to them to get the whole story straight, as they had only heard bits (“MOOSE,” “SWERVE!” “NOTHING to do in Great Plains, Alberta”) from where they were sitting.

Anyway, that’s who moves to Fairbanks for a job as a bartender.

And here's one small example of the diversity of moss.