The trick to surviving a winter that lasts from October to May is that you need to stay busy. Luckily, we are pretty good at making our own fun.
We started off with the first birthday gauntlet of the year--four birthdays in roughly five weeks. Somewhere in the chaos, Rick took several trips, Aeryn got baptized, and the girls finally managed to teach Claudia how to walk. We all lived and were mostly satisfied.
Yet again, I had grand designs to go to the annual Bardathon hosted by the Fairbanks Shakespeare Company and yet again managed to miss the entire thing. I had the best of intentions, but when it came to actually finding a babysitter and getting in the car, I couldn't do it. Next year we'll try again. Or at least talk about it.
I've never expected to associate dogsledding with spring, but now I do. People run sleds as long as there is snow, and the hybrid kennel-trucks are a common sight during the winter, but they're ubiquitous in February and March. Handmade signs at intersections advertise dogsled rides, and multiple community venues offer free mushing-themed events with sled rides and puppy petting zoos. There is even the occasional sled lashed to the top of a Camry, on its way to one race or another.
The two biggest races up here are the Iditarod, which everyone has heard of, and the Yukon Quest, which everyone outside of Alaska and western Canada has not. The Iditarod runs roughly 1000 miles from Anchorage to Nome, retracing the 1925 run from Nenana to Nome to deliver diphtheria antitoxin (yes, Balto is based, however loosely, on a real story). The thousand mile trek covers every sort of arctic terrain, and is accomplished by one musher and sixteen or so dogs over 8-15 days.
We started off with the first birthday gauntlet of the year--four birthdays in roughly five weeks. Somewhere in the chaos, Rick took several trips, Aeryn got baptized, and the girls finally managed to teach Claudia how to walk. We all lived and were mostly satisfied.
One kid wanted a unicorn, the other wanted a pika. You guess who wanted what.
Yet again, I had grand designs to go to the annual Bardathon hosted by the Fairbanks Shakespeare Company and yet again managed to miss the entire thing. I had the best of intentions, but when it came to actually finding a babysitter and getting in the car, I couldn't do it. Next year we'll try again. Or at least talk about it.
I've never expected to associate dogsledding with spring, but now I do. People run sleds as long as there is snow, and the hybrid kennel-trucks are a common sight during the winter, but they're ubiquitous in February and March. Handmade signs at intersections advertise dogsled rides, and multiple community venues offer free mushing-themed events with sled rides and puppy petting zoos. There is even the occasional sled lashed to the top of a Camry, on its way to one race or another.
The two biggest races up here are the Iditarod, which everyone has heard of, and the Yukon Quest, which everyone outside of Alaska and western Canada has not. The Iditarod runs roughly 1000 miles from Anchorage to Nome, retracing the 1925 run from Nenana to Nome to deliver diphtheria antitoxin (yes, Balto is based, however loosely, on a real story). The thousand mile trek covers every sort of arctic terrain, and is accomplished by one musher and sixteen or so dogs over 8-15 days.
I know you can't tell, but that is totally a river.
Like the Iditarod, the Yukon Quest is run in February regardless of weather. The Quest stretches a thousand miles from Fairbanks to Whitehorse, Canada (or Whitehorse to Fairbanks, depending on the year), covering the old Gold Rush and mail delivery routes from the early 1900s, and takes approximately 10-20 days to finish depending on conditions. Due to the extremely remote route, severe weather conditions and harsh terrain, it's actually considered by some to be tougher than the Iditarod. This year the Quest started in Fairbanks. The first leg of the race ran up the Chena River, which bisects Fort Wainwright, so naturally we bundled up and waddled out to the river to watch with the rest of the people lined up on the river to whoop and cheer and catcall the racers. Jane was less than impressed, but was mollified by getting to play with the camera.
Our next adventure was to visit the Ice Park. Every year Fairbanks hosts the World Ice Art Championships, where international teams compete in carving huge sculptures out of thousands of pounds of locally harvested ice. Last year we missed out because Claudia was all of two weeks old and Rick refused to let me take her out into single digit temperatures (something about being "a good parent" or some such tosh). This year, the championship had been canceled because of a building that burned down, but there were still plenty of sculptors at work. There were also a ton of slides, including one two-story beauty that was my personal favorite. Some of us were less than enthusiastic. I dragged them along anyway.
I used Rick for scale. The ice is cut from local lakes and is referred to as "arctic diamond" because of its clarity. Isn't it gorgeous?
The best part of the park.
The injustice of having to go to the ice park can be crushing.
A few weeks ago Rick and I ventured out for some Fairbanks haute cuisine. (Haute or not, I still can't say enough good about the gyros at the roadside stand called, appropriately enough, Gyros.) The Turtle Club sits off the old highway north of town, across from a quarry and next to a construction company. It's got what I'm coming to consider the Alaska flavor--eccentric and pragmatic, and a certain "we didn't ask for your opinion" charm. There are candles and glass goblets on the tables, turtles of every conceivable material and design in cabinets and on shelves, and bear traps on the wall. They serve prime rib and lobster and that's it. It was delicious, and the best part was the giant tray of homemade desserts that was brought around at the end. The meal came with an Alaska-size price tag, but was probably some of the best food I've ever had. So, you know, if you are ever up in Fairbanks and need to spend all of your money before you go home, stop by The Turtle Club. You won't be sorry, especially if you like cheesecake.
The next adventure has technically been a couch adventure, but maybe next year we'll go see it in person and help put up the tripod. The Nenana Ice Classic is an international gambling event that takes place in April, and marks the "official" start of spring for many Alaskans. Every year Nenana, a small town about 50 miles south of Fairbanks, erects a giant tripod in the middle of the frozen Tanana River. The tripod is attached to a clock by a trip wire. Once the tripod is standing, the town starts taking bets on the date and time that the river will finally break up and send the tripod plunging to its icy doom. The purse is split between the winner(s) and the chosen charitable recipients of the year. Since a winner can expect anywhere from $4000-$12,000, I will definitely be entering next year. Worst case scenario, I don't win and inadvertently donate to Nenana Elementary.
Aurora season is drawing to a close. A couple more weeks and the nights won't get dark enough to see it. Fortunately Lady A and Steve have put on a good show lately. (Tangent: yes, it is actually called Steve--a new vertical aurora first so named by a bunch of aurora chasers who were being funny, and then given a backronym--that's a wonderful word--by the people in charge of such things: Strong Thermal Emission Velocity Enhancement. STEVE. I don't know what I love more, the fact that it's called Steve or that the scientists retroactively fitted the official scientific name to the popular one.)
This isn't Steve, just a cool picture from my porch.
That's all for now, folks. This summer's shaping up to be busy, so stay tuned. If your interest has been piqued--or you're a homeschool parent grasping for end of year social studies material--check out the sites below.
http://www.yukonquest.com/about
http://www.icealaska.com/www/en/about-us/history-a-benefits.html
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