3) Winter Rivers

Alaskan Rivers are fascinating in the winter. Not all freeze, and those that do, do so quite differently. Back home, my house is about 200 yards from the Kenai River as it approaches Soldotna.  The lower stretch freezes more often than not, although it is rare for the section above Skilak Lake to solidify.  Several years ago, a winter ice damn broke in the mountains when it was 20 below 0 F.  The massive release of water froze into a river of ice that didn't quite move at a glacial pace.  It slowly, but visibly, tore through the lower Kenai toward Soldotna and scoured the banks. Metal walks were twisted and ripped out of pilings.  Boat docks and shore-side outbuildings splintered and were carried down in the jumbled ice. There was talk of setting off explosives down by Slikok Creek to break up an ice jam that clogged the ice upstream.

In the lower Kuskokwim Delta, I've lived along the Johnson River in Kasigluk Akiuk and Nunapitchuk.  It was my first experience water-skipping a snowgo.  The packed snow down the mid-channel trail would gradualy become submerged in overflow and melt water.  Locals would take ice augers and drill holes in the remnants of the dry surface and eventually the still solid mass of ice below the wet would float to the surface.  To access the now-floating trail, one had to skim a snowmachine across open channels. There was a short period when you could see boats and snowgos on the river.  As skiffs needed to cross the ever thinning ice trail, the pilot would gun the boat's kicker and slide the bow up on the ice while simultaneously pulling up the prop. The boat driver, and any passengers aboard, would then jump out and slide the skiff across the strip of ice, jump back in and take off.  All the while, snowgos would water skip to the ice and speed away on the floating trail.

Tree years ago, the Kasigluk Senior Prom was held on the Akula side of the Johnson. Students and teachers from Akiuk, dressed in their village finest under snowsuits, hopped in wooden freight sleds behind snowgos and skipping across to the ice trail on one of the last days that it possible to do so.

The Kuskowim River becomes a highway in the winter. A strip gets plowed every now and again and tractors, trucks, cars, snowgos, walkers and the occasional skier travel between villages.  A reality-show film crew, pushing the breakup window, nearly got stranded in Napaskiak last year as their rented 2wheel drive sedan almost couldn't make it up and down the slushy bank.

Here in Tuntutuliak, the Kinak River, a tributary of the Kusko  is some 25 miles from the bay.  The elevation of the tundra here might be 6-8 feet above sea level and like the rest of the delta, there is scant dryish land.  Bering Sea tides reach far upriver and change the characteristics of the Kinak throughout a winter's day.

In January and early February when most of Alaska was gripped by a severely frigid air mass, the incoming tide created jagged pressure ridges parallel to the bank. It was a plate tectonic visual as shelves of ice shimmied some four to six feet  high above the shore ice.  Overflow seeping up through cracks instantly froze in brownish rounded mounds.  In the main river channel, perpendicular cracks, formed like escalator steps to allow for the rise and fall of the subsurface fluid tide. On walks, I could feel the vibrations of the expanding and contracting frozen fault lines and the sound of river flowm stiff now in the cold would be replaced by the creeks, groans and retorts of ice grinding on ice.

Now that more reasonable winter temperatures have returned, the seeping overflow no longer freezes instantly. Depending on the ambient air temperature, the fresh liquid either puddles in small ponds along the river bank, forms thin sheets of ice over the flow, or sometimes crystallizes in thousands of tiny gossamer wings.  I walk or ski the river most everyday and there has yet to be conditions alike one day to the next.

2) Tundra Ski

For my first month in Tututuliak, it was so bitter cold (-30s F) and windy, that I didn't ski at all.  I did manage a daily trudge up and down the Kinak River and sometimes through the village. Getting ready to go outside was an ordeal, requiring a full snow suit, two face masks, ski goggles, hat, hood, insulated boots and serious mittens.  Despite the preparation, the wind was still able to find its way through the tiniest openings in my clothing.  Everyone here has some frost-bitten flesh on their face. The locals call them Eskimo hickeys.  

The weather broke and warmed to just below freezing about ten days ago and I've skate skied every day since.  For a class assignment, I had my students draw maps of the community and from that information, was able to find the snowgo trail to Bethel.  I have no delusions about skiing the 50+ miles to get there, but the trail is varied and packed down by the snowmachine traffic, however sparse that .  It makes a good out and back workout.  The fact of skiing on the tundra is that there is always wind.  It's going to hammer you either coming or going

I did ski a bit this weekend, maybe 6 miles on Friday, 4 on Saturday, and then 10 on Sunday.  The winds were too much Saturday and I went out right into the brunt of it.  The turn around was great though.  I skied like I was Kikki Randal on my return - just as fast as one can possibly go with boards strapped on your feet!  

Sunday's ski was like no other.  The light was flat and there was absolutely no definition in the snow.  I could discern the trail about a foot beyond my ski tips, but no further. The white gray of the trail became the gray white of the sky, especially as I crossed the flatness of the lakes and sloughs where there was no vegetation to provide any depth to vision.  It was like skiing into nothingness and mostly exciting for the mystery. 

Maybe that's a metaphor for where my life is at.

I almost didn't ski after work today as I had to shop and do laundry and had a small window of opportunity open for that.  Skiing couldn't be denied however and I'm glad I convinced myself to head out for a bit.  I was able to get a significant ski on the river for the first time since the bitter cold left.  There's been too much wet overflow along the banks as the tides rises and seeps though the cracks and pressure ridges. Today there was at least an icy approach to the main channel.  I went up river about 4 miles before turning around.  It had been foggy all day and as the sun set, the low mist thickened into the darkness.  No worries however, as it's impossible to get lost on the river.

1) Working For A Living

The door to my classroom after a snowy windstorm

At the moment, I live in Tuntutuliak, a Yup'ik village in western Alaska some 450 miles from the closest road that actually connects to the rest of the world. I'm an interim teacher filling in for someone who became too ill to work any more.  There are rumors of a newly minted teacher willing to come out soon and take over my class of seven 7th graders. I'm booked to fly back to the Alaska of trees, traffic, commerce and friends in three weeks.  I may not have to change that reservation.

As a semi-retired teacher, long-term substituting provides the time and funds necessary to maintain a certain lifestyle . I've remodeled my house, traveled on five continents, and have what toys that I need to enjoy the skiing, kayaking, biking and other outdoor activities abundant in Alaska. This is my second assignment this school year.  With the proceeds,  I hope to get to Africa and then maybe to India, Bhutan and Burma.  We shall see.

For better or worse, I am starting to daydream about my post-village life.  When I return to the Kenai Peninsula, I hope to have a good month or two of being a ski bum.  I'm thinking about being able to have a glass of wine for dinner, an option not allowed in this dry village. I want to enjoy mornings of unrushed coffee and unlimited laughter with friends.

But I'm here now and that's good too.

You can't stumble upon Tuntutuliak, Kasigluk Akiuk, Goodnews Bay or some of the other villages where I have worked. There has to be some sort of intention and purpose. There are no roads, no cars, no restaurants, no theaters. Nothing.  It's tundra here; spin around and for all 360 degrees, there is no vertical to mar the horizontal. Surprisingly, at some 20 miles from a bay of the Bering Sea, tidal changes are very evident in Tunt. Before we escaped from the most bitterly cold stretch of winter that the area has had in decades, the hydraulics of the incoming water constantly changed the Kinak River.  Twice a day, as the ice would rise and then fall again, perpendicular cracks would hinge the surface and allow for expansion and contraction.  The banks provide a visual representation of plate tectonics in action with pressure ridges jutting as razorback teeth some 2 meters high.

Now that normal winter temps have returned, the overflow seeping up from cracks no longer freezes instantly.  Channels of overflow make it difficult for those on foot or skis to access the ice trail in the middle of the river.  The perimeter ice forms as crystallized gossamer wings. The river takes on different characteristics hourly.  The locals don't have running water and everyday you see fathers and sons chopping ice into sleds or skimming the overflow into buckets for use at home.

As soon as I post this, I'll put on my skate skis and travel the snowgo trail towards Bethel.  Maybe I'll make it out five miles before I turn around.  It's rare that the wind isn't the deciding factor determining time and distance out on the tundra.  I'm hoping to fight the wind early, making my return, well, a breeze.