River of Play

Stumbling to Equinox

I’ve lost track of time, I think. How long have we lived in this place?

Part of the losing track comes from recognition of home, learning the rhythms of where we live. We’ve had overnight lows in the 20s recently. It’s finally dark enough to see the auror a when I’m up and getting breakfast ready. Fishing is tapering off, the berries are about done, and people are coming back with moose, caribou, and sheep.

Of course, I like this feeling that I know the equinox is coming and that everyone around me knows it, too. We’re a bit anxious about winter, but we’re also looking forward to skiing, snowshoeing, sledding—the excuses to double the hot chocolate and add a bit more brandy.

The patterns feel like an old rhythm, like patterns any of our ancestors would recognize, even if they wouldn’t recognize the snow tires and gore-tex. Or the planning for ways to protect iPods on a winter ramble.

Maybe it’s the gray that has me feeling expansive. Gray in the sky, gold on the leaves. A little woodsmoke. I think I’ll stop for wine on the way home. Join me, won’t you?

The Ecopoetry Anthology

I've been talking with Ann Fischer-Wirth about this anthology project for years, and it's great to see it's out and available. 

And if you click over here, you'll see a fantastic interview by a fantastic poet, Derek Sheffield. Is ecopoetry necessary? Hell yes!

 

 

Learning the Family of Mountains

Labor Day 2013, and we’re just back from a recent trip down and up to Hatcher Pass, a former gold mining community tucked high up in the Talkeetna Mountains near Anchorage. We learned a couple things on this trip, our first vacation not centered on extended family. 

The first and best thing we learned is that Wendy is a patient and fun car traveler. We had prepared, of course. Snacks, drinks, toys, books, colored pencil, paper: the weapons and armor to fend off tedium. But still, six hours? The last hour had us climbing 3000 feet in elevation, so it was beautiful and distracting. 

Roadside, looking down at the old mine. Note the lack of guardrail.

It was also my most harrowing hour. A steep climb. On narrow, gravel roads. And here’s the detail that had me sweating the sour sweat of rehab or fear: no guardrails. Probably a thousand foot dropoff in places, and I’ll repeat: no guardrails. A bit of a thrill for all of us.

We learned that you need to get your kid—or we need to get our kid—involved in the planning of the trip. She’s happy to roll along, but we got the sense that she would have been happier if she had a hand in the planning. 

We learned more about rain.

Specifically, we learned that rain is not so friendly when you’re in a different city. I had scouted out several parks that offered hiking and climbing (pretty much, a park with trees and rocks offers climbing for a preschooler), and had highlighted a couple of parks with kidfrastructure—slides, swings, and non-organic climbing equipment. Kincaid Park, which apparently hosts world cup cross-country skiing, had a lot of good running space, hills to climb, and even a small network of slides and equipment. It also had a steady

At Eagle River Nature Center. Some Chugach peaks.

drizzle and a constant wind from off Cook Inlet. We could walk a bit, climb a tall hill overlooking the inlet, and play on the equipment. Except for the slide, which had been installed with the final foot heading uphill, making it a sort of spoon. Not so good on a rainy day. 

The rest of the trip featured similar rain events. We could shuffle through rain to museums, restaurants, or shops, but we never got enough of a break to leave our hoods down and frolic. Or, more to the point, let Wendy frolic.

We also learned to cut our losses. Too much rain, not enough frolic makes for an unhappy kid. She didn’t ask for it, but we decided to go home a day early. A little bit sad, but in fact a good choice. We were more relaxed, and we got a chance to go berry-picking that Sunday. 

While we stayed in the Talkeetnas, we crossed the Alaska Range, and ventured into the Chugach Range. The mountains will still be there when we go back. And we'll probably learn even more about ourselves as a family.