11.5.2016

"Because I can. I have a dog, and I have a reindeer. And if you'll excuse me, I'm late to get to a parade." 

11.3.2016

It's the beginning of November, a month since I left Sitka, the season of fresh snow and already, of course -- nostalgia for summer and home.

11.2.2016

"Southeast feels different," she says. "It feels like the center of things. I mean, everyone feels like the world revolves around them, a little bit. But you know how when the Russians got here, they basically had people all the way from the Aleutian chain to Southeast?"
"Yeah," I say. 
"There are hundreds of Russian loan words in Aleut," she says. "Hundreds. Do you know how many there are in Tlingit?" 
"How many?" I ask. 
"Seven," she says. "There are seven loan words."


 

10.26.2016

At dinner last night with some friends in Fairbanks, it was already cold and dark outside by the time we sat down at the table. 

We ate green garlic chili with fresh cilantro and sour cream, cornbread studded with jalapenos. We made a serious dent in a few bottles of red wine, talking about life in the bush vs. the city, old photographers, the pros and cons of regional boarding schools, concealed carry laws, subsistence networks. The people whose paths we have crossed in common, ranging from Nome to Minnesota, starting before I was born. 

About the time our hostess passes around a plate of cookies for dessert, I end up answering some questions about commercial fishing, which devolves into a highly spirited argument about which fish is tastier: Copper River reds, or blue-and-silver slab cohos from Southeast.

We solve the argument like gentlemen, or maybe just Alaskans: the plate of cookies goes forgotten. Our hosts break out a chunk of this year's lox and fill a bowl with crackers, shaving slices off to pass around the table, with sour cream left over from dinner. I have no trouble admitting that it's completely delicious. 

We do not manage to drink all the wine, but by the time we get up from the table it's past midnight. We are driving out of town in the morning, but an early start feels less and less important. We bundle up in layers of down and gloves, fur-lined hoods, and hug goodnight. The car starts despite the cold, perhaps against its better judgement. 

The northern lights dome up across the highway, tangling up in the tips of the skinny spruce trees as we drive home. We watch out, in case our head lights catch moose legs as they sweep down the back road,