Bigger in Alaska

Those of us from Texas think we know what "big"is.

November in Alaska can be pretty cold, especially for a Texas boy who’d never owned a real coat, so it was with some concern that I flew north.

Over Washington the clouds cleared and Mount Rainier loomed, all ice and snow and shiny white majesty. But behind her stood Mount St. Helens, shattered at the top, her symmetrical volcanic dome blown away in a cataclysm of violence and power in 1980. Mother Nature had much more to show than just natural beauty. The rawness on display pushed my thoughts forward to the Alaska Range, part of the Ring of Fire, enormous chunks of ragged stone that spawn earthquakes and some of the most brutal winter weather on Earth.

Alaska seemed very near, yet truly far-off. What I found over the next few days was indeed close, almost intimate, and not far away at all.

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Memory is not usually linear, but visions of up-close Alaska do begin at the beginning: Fairbanks International Airport. It’s small by Houston standards. You see the entire thing as your plane rolls up to the gate. It looks like a boathouse, all glass and warm lights as the sun sets at 4:30 p.m. It’s surrounded by vintage aircraft, WWII fighters and old cargo planes.

Then recall becomes jumbled, more like the sound of an entire band, less like a clear solo:

It is cold. There is snow on the ground from days ago. The entire state is 907 area code, the whole huge state. Stuffed polar and grizzly bears are in the lobby. These people are just like back home, independent, friendly, ready to talk, and a little interested in how the outsiders will react. And, know this, you are the foreigner. Changing cloths in the rest room: long underwear, wool socks and boots. There are hooks on the walls to make this easier. This has to happen a lot. The locals don’t seem to be as bundled. Shoving my big coat back in the suitcase. Stepping out into a dark, clear afternoon, braced by the cleanest air imaginable, heading to a hotel to meet Ben Boyd, a guy with a real raccoon hat.

Several days earlier, I had contracted with the local Northern Lights hunter. When asked if he could guarantee that I’d see them, he said, “Absolutely not!” Like much Alaskan phenomena, the Aurora Borealis doesn’t concern itself with a traveler’s schedule. Magical things usually don’t.

The legendary arcs of light seen in the night sky around the artic circle are the result of ionized particles from the sun colliding with gas molecules in our atmosphere. It can happen at any time, but it’s too light to see during the day. This night had a near-full moon, so it was bright, but around midnight in a frozen field near Pleasant Valley, they showed. And at first I didn’t know it.

Photos of the Northern lights show a stunning swath of color, streaking or twirling across the sky. But, that’s just pictures, the result of leaving a shutter open for several seconds. The reality, to the seeing eye, is much more subtle. The Athabascans, Native Alaskans from this remote interior, describe the lights as the sparks sent up when caribou or reindeer rub their fur. It is a whisper of light pulsing in waves and swirls, and it’s easy to miss. The secret is to stop looking for what you expect and simply take in what is right before you. Be more present.

Another secret is to not carry cold photography gear into a warm room. It’ll get a debilitating condensation build-up and the rest of the night will be wasted. I just stayed out in the weather. About 1 a.m. old Ben slid up to me and said, “You should come back in February. You can see winter. It will be cold then.” Cold? My phone was telling me it was 1° F right then, which doesn’t even seem like an actual temperature. In a couple of months, though, it’d be -40° F. That’s like outer space, or something.

My memory jumps to the next day:

Sunrise at 9:30 a.m. Clear, bright day. A too-obvious sign that read “Bridge May Ice in Cold Weather.” Riding on the only road that heads north out of Fairbanks. Tracks along side of Chena Hot Springs Road where dogs train by pulling ATVs when little snow is on the ground. Looking for moose. Seeing big, round hay bales and thinking how much this place is like home. Grabbing a cup of coffee at Chena Hot Springs.

The Ice Museum at Chena Hot Springs is kept at 25° F, so you can step in there to warm up. There are sculptures of knights tilting, a cheetah, and an all ice wedding chapel. But the highlight for many is the Aurora Ice Bar. They only mix one drink, an appletini, but it’s served in a glass that’s carved out of ice. Everything in there is ice, except the caribou hide that tops the ice barstools. That’s there to insulate them from patron body heat, not to keep your sitter warm.

Outside, as advertised, the springs are hot. Steam partially obscures the people soaking up the warmth before making a dash for the bathhouse. If it’s cold enough, they say you can stand your hair up in a fauxhawk and it’ll instantly freeze there. But you have to be careful or it will break right off.

But for me, the highlight was the dogs, sled-pullers with long legs and big feet and great spirits. They were in the training season. Ten-mile workouts ready them for races that come when snow is deep and sleds can run. Sled dogs are like any dog, fun, wanting to see you happy, ready to love on you. Only, they regularly do the incredible, racing through brutal weather in contests like the Iditarod. I hated to leave the dogs, but I had to get back to Fairbanks. The Athabascan Fiddler Festival was closing that night.

The Chief David Salmon Tribal Hall, which sits next to Chena Bingo, has a wood-burning stove at each end and a low stage against one wall in the center. Fiddlers and guitar pickers and fans and friends filled the hall with dancing and laughter, coming from across the state to celebrate music and family and life. This is an alcohol free event. The hall was filled with all ages, from babes-in-arms to respected elders. Almost all of the faces were Native Alaskan, but I was welcomed like it was old home week. On my last night in the interior, I didn’t feel like a foreigner at all.

Recollections, on too little sleep, and strong coffee:

Waiting for a taxi. Cabbie is from Fox, fishtails around a corner after hitting ice, even though he had “squeegee” tires. Arrive alive. Alaska Railroad station is beautiful in bright blue and yellow paint scheme. Can’t believe I’m boarding a train to cross the Alaskan bush.

The seats on a train are far better than on a plane. The food is better. You’re not all crammed in, and it’s a much slower pace. Win, win, win and win. If your goal is to see the countryside, take the train.

The Aurora Winter Train runs from Anchorage to Fairbanks on Saturdays, then turns around and runs back on Sundays. It’s booked at 11 ½ hours, but my trip was longer. We had an unscheduled layover in Talkeetna while they switched the order of the locomotives. The horn on the original leader had stopped working. The stop gave us all time to haul off the train and visit with some of the locals in this town of about 900 souls. It reminded me of a small central Texas town, with its lit up catchall establishment, Nagley’s Store.

A couple of young ladies joined us as we finally hit the rails toward Anchorage again. They’d spent the night in town after traveling there for a baking class. They shared blackberry pie with all takers.

The land that slid past the train told stories as it went. There were the rugged mountains, but from this viewpoint they seemed less foreboding and more beautiful. The light played over them in subtle blues and pinks, punctuated by the deep shadows of a low-angled sun. I kept thinking of Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring.

There was a trapper’s cabin, with its door designed to open outward. (That’s a hassle in deep snow, but better to keep the bears out.) There were chunks of ice floating down streams, moose bounding beside the tracks, and the empty station of Denali National Park depot, closed now for winter. Shannon Cartwright, the illustrator and author, rode with us for an hour or so, signing a book if asked, but mostly just visiting. (TheDancingLeafGallery.com) But the star of the show kept a moody distance. Mount McKinley stayed shrouded in clouds. Even so, the massive size of Denali (The High One), as the Athabascans call the mountain, was apparent. Her cloud cover created a mountain shaped contour that massed above the rest of the range. She was there, just beyond view.

The train pulling into Anchorage. Walking up an embankment and being immediately in downtown. The hotel lobby, welcoming and empty, like much of this great state.

Typhoon Nuri was still sending rough winds toward Anchorage, so all flightseeing was grounded. Lake Hood Seaplane Base was still and quiet. Much of my last day is a blur of trying to grab souvenirs for folks back home before catching a very early flight out. The Ulu factory makes truly original knives. The Alaskan Native Heritage Center showcases crafts made by natives from across the state.

But the Musk Ox Producers’ Coop, Oomingmak, has stayed with me most. Qiviut, the underwool of the musk ox, is said to be eight times warmer than wool. It’s nothing special to look at, light brown and downy. It weighs almost nothing. Put a beanie on your head and can barely feel it there, but it’s warm.

The manager explained how Native Alaskan women spin the qiviut into yarn and knit caps, scarves, tunics and headbands, all with symbols of their tribal heritage. Then he handed me some of the raw fleece. I felt it in my hand in the same way I’d seen the Northern Lights: a whisper. It was there, but just sort of. How could something so delicate serve in such harsh conditions as an Alaskan winter? It is remarkable. And the wonder must have shown on my face, because he posed a question that has repeatedly asked itself since my visit:

“Did you know what you were walking into here?”

No, I guess I didn’t. I expected nothing so subtle and charmed. Alaska is so vast and rugged, so big, it might well dwarf the visitor. Instead, it lifts you up with it, daring you to experience the elusive and audacious life that surrounds you there, to bring it back home with you.

Notice. Appreciate. Acknowledge.

Joe Center is a photographer and writer based in Houston, Texas.