toolik

The trip north to Toolik was a bit of a disappointment.

My shuttle did not consist of a handful of eager young scientists happy to chat about their research and travels to wile away the ten hour drive. Instead, there was a semi-comatose Coldfoot truckstop staff member catching a ride north, a young but mostly silent professor from the university who answered my questions in monosyllabic grunts that did not invite further conversation and a quiet young firefighter from Ester who works maintenance at the field camp year round and would much rather have been driving himself north in a company rig. It was a long, silent and at times uncomfortable ride. Although the road wasn't bad south of the pass, the last forty miles were some of the worst washboard I'd driven on. I was sliding all over the road at fifteen miles and hour, rattling everyones fillings out. It went on and on, and the thick fog only made the distance drag out. My exhaustion from trying to stay awake in the silent van and manhandle the vehicle through the ruts and bumps overcame my elation at finally adding a few more numbers to my latitude bragging rights.

[dusty sign]

Much of that exhaustion was allayed by walking into the mess hall and smelling the sweet tang of dahl and lintel masala. I could have closed my eyes and opened them in a hole-in-the-wall off of Devon in Chicago. But I was on a tiny research station perched on the tundra north of the Brooks range, looking across a few tables of young scientists in various stages of grime accumulation and beard growth (water conservation dictates relegates showers to two minutes, twice a week) - although the statuesque Danish scientists were somehow above it all in their perfect 'natural' make-up, trendy boots and close-cuts coats. On the far wall was the requisite push-pin map of resident locations, a "vegetarian sign-up!" for meals (the list consisted of three quarters of the camp) a reminder to never, ever leave the premises without signing out and taking bear spray, a typed note about registering the GPS coordinates of new research plots, and a scrawled note on the black board announcing "There is a VIRUS IN CAMP: Wash Your Hands." The back windows overlooked a deck, the ice-filled mass of Toolik Lake, snow-dusted still-brown spring tundra and the miles and miles of thin plank walkways put up over the years to allow researchers access to their plots without destroying the delicate plants.The opposite wall was a mess of shelves carrying candy, cereal, fruit and refrigerated leftovers bearing the warning "NO FINGERS. Get a spoon." Summer camp for grown-ups. Smart ones.

I was shown to my room in the heated quarters currently occupied by the few early-season researchers and students. Tents were already set up for the influx of researchers due to hit in the next few weeks. Although winter staff can dwindle down to a handful, the research station houses over a thousand researchers for the brief Arctic summer between June fifteenth and August. Toolik doesn't advertise itself. There is nothing but dusty "Toolik Lake" sign on the road, and a mailbox. The research station is a mile away from the highway, and hardly noticeable. This is not a place for people who don't belong.

[deserted tent city]

[still-icy toolik lake]

Nobody spoke to me after a quick orientation by a camp manager. I ate by myself, shuffled off to my room, called Peter and went to sleep. The next morning dawned just as foggy. I had wanted to get an early start to make it back to town before Sarah's flight arrived that evening, but the LTC office said I needed to wait until at least eight thirty to leave, just in case somebody decided they needed a ride. I poked around a little bit with the camera, but the midnight sun was doing nothing to the fog bank hanging over the research station.

[research station in the distance - blends well]

I got a few pictures as I drove away, and a few more on the drive south. Once nice thing about an empty van is that it is much easier to stop for quick pictures or decide on a twenty minute nap beside an icy river. I talked much more to myself on the drive south than I did to my Northbound passengers the day before. It was a nice drive, with a stop in Coldfoot for lunch and an unexpected run-in with a friend at the Yukon River. And best of all, I got back to Fairbanks just in time for Sarah's flight.

[pipeline & brooks peaks]

[rainbow over the koyokuk]

[sukakpak - deadfall mountain]

sprout

I made it through eight hundred odd miles of washboard haul road driving to pick up my sister at the airport tonight. We drove back to the cabin and discovered this in the longboxes:


I am elated!

shuttle

I am taking a van-load of scientists to Toolik Lake in the morning. It will be the furthest north I've yet been (68.38 N.) Toolik is a UAF research station perched in the northern foothills of the Brooks Range. Two winters ago, I nearly adopted a sled dog named Toolik. He lives with a dog team east of town now, but I'll get to see his namesake tomorrow under the midnight sun on the arctic coastal plain.

day

Today dawned sunny and warm. A few scattered clouds. Slight breeze. There were moose in the ponds at the bottom of the valley, munching away on spring growth. Ducks swam in their wake. I took the day off work, to be woken at seven by the woodpecker drilling on the roof. The dog and I sat on the porch in the sunshine talking to my folks on the phone.

There was a mocha early in the day. Brownies were made. A new CD was received, and a gift card for milkshakes at the local ice-cream place. New fake crocs from my down-the-street EMT friend - now my official summer outhouse shoes - were used with much success to navigate the marshy path to the facilities. The rest of our vegetable seeds were planted, and plastic covers made for each of the longboxes to protect against sudden summer chills. A box for Peter's record collection was made with the scrap wood. So was a handle for the outhouse hole cover. Thank goodness.

A long summer nap was taken, all four of us in close proximity. Co-napping is the best kind.

Many good wishes were received by friends and family by phone and over the internet.

It was a mellow day. A beautifully sunny day. A perfect day to celebrate being.

Thank you all for making it what it was ...

[twenty eight]

soil

After a whirlwind weekend of building and hauling and spending much more money than we can currently afford, we are ready to plant. I've wanted to grow veggies for years, but we've spent most of our last few summers moving. This year I am determined.

We discovered permafrost about six inches below the tundra mat, making any kind of garden - even a raised bed - a little ambitious. Not to mention I don't really want to invest in a raised-bed garden in a place we don't own, although Peter is planning on putting some potatoes in the little tree-free patch behind the cabin where the permafrost is further down. Given the local moose population and the experimental nature of this, our first year attempting to grow things, I decided long boxes on our super-tall porch would do the trick.

We've made three trips to the hardware store and spend most of the weekend (and my convalescent week at home) creating what I hope will be a satisfactory vegetable home. I also made a last minute purchase of buckets and black-eyed-susans. Although it will be weeks before we see any green, the nice black topsoil edging our porch is making me just as happy for the moment.
I finally did get eucalyptus oil and started adding it to my steam-pot for a little DIY respiratory therapy. One day later, I'm feeling normal for the first time in over two weeks and only have some residual drainage to deal with. Which means back to the kennel tomorrow, and back up the haul road next week. Ah, mixed blessings. But given how much we shelled out for wood and nails and soil and seeds, it's about time.

And then, my little baby sister will be here for her first visit to the North Country. And have we got a wild ride planned for her ...

snot

This morning, I went down to the Department of Natural Resources office to turn in my paperwork for the much anticipated Red Card. While I was waiting at the information desk to be directed through the cubicle labyrinth, I eavesdropped on the couple ahead of me in line. They were a down-to-earth looking pair that were probably in their early fifties. She had long gray hair pulled back simply and well worn tennis shoes. He was wearing busted Carharts and Xtra-Tuffs, the Alaska State Uniform. They looked like the kind of folk who grow their own tomatoes and have a couple of old dogs sleeping in the truck. They were putting in the final paperwork for their remote gold mining claim. I love this state.

After being assured that the Fire Medic program would have my card on file by the end of the day, making me officially eligible to be called up, I scooted over to the fire station. Hoodies and shirts were in, and sucker for good design that I am, I wanted to get my paws on the stash:

Although I don't get my patch until I've been on my first fire, I can tell you right now I will be wearing these two items out in the mean time.

On the personal medical front, I have not pulled a shift at the fire station since the first week of the month. After the LTC training trip, I came down with a minor cold that has turned into a nasty fifteen-day ordeal. I am absolutely to blame for not taking a little time to recover when I first got sick, but be that as it may the little bug is thoroughly entrenched now. I've done garlic-and-ginger tea, neti-pots, sudafed, nyquil, mucinex and theraflu. It won't go away, although a steaming pot of water under a towel has given me some relief tonight. (Can't find the eucalyptus, Nello ... health food store tomorrow.) I am nearly at the point of going to the doctor [state of American health care ... rant, rant ... insurance, copay, deductible ... blah, blah] but we'll see how I feel in the morning. In the mean time, I feel like the front of the medic shirt should be a broadcast warning whenever I leave the house with my tissues and lozenges and sniffles and walloping hacks:


Biohazard indeed.

neighbors

We live in a little subdivision of cabins north of Fairbanks. We can see our nearest neighbor through the trees in the winter if we look really hard. We usually don't. In the summer, we can hear folks sitting out on decks talking or music drifting over the spruce trees from a party on the next street over. Now that we are getting to know more and more of them, it's nice having neighbors near but out of sight. Borrowing a cup of sugar can be a mile bike-ride to my Little Tour Company coworkers down one road or fellow EMT the other direction. This negates the calories the sugar will add to the cookies. It works out perfectly.

Last weekend, however, one of our neighbors began using the nice weather to do some home repairs. I woke up at six AM none too pleased to hear a cacophony of pneumatic drilling and hammering echoing through our cabin's open windows. Since I had to be somewhere, and because the days are long now and it was one of the first nice weekends, I shrugged it off and left for work at seven. Sunday was no different, and the early morning wake-up call did not make me happy. My patience was worn out on Monday when I woke to drilling and hour before I needed to be up to take a friend to the airport. I was determined to find out who was making all the too-early racket, and (uncharacteristically for me) give them a piece of my mind. A girl needs her sleep! And I wasn't getting much to begin with last week.

I walked outside and stood on the porch to locate the direction of the sound, and hopefully determine which offending cabin deserved my wrath. Hearing the drill again in the quiet morning air, I walked to the back of the cabin and peered into the trees It sounded like it was coming from our landlord's other two cabins on the next road back, a hundred or so yards through the woods. I stood still, waiting for the noise again to confirm my suspicion. But when the drill went off, it sounded like it was coming from the road on the other side of the cabin.

Confused, I walked out to the street. I stood still, watching one of the millions of snowshoe hares around this spring plop its way down the verge of the road. Up on our roof, I saw a mid-sized bird perched just on the crest looking around quietly. I waited. And waited.

Suddenly, the little bird arched his neck and began hammering away at our metal roof, producing the ear-shattering racket we had been living with every morning for three days. It was a misguided woodpecker, and I was - in my exhaustion - furious. I have never wished harm on an animal more than I wanted this little woodpecker to pay for domestic disturbance.

I stormed down the road in disbelief, heading for my friend's house to take her to the airport. When I returned an hour later, the little bird was still up there hammering away. I dragged Peter out to the driveway to have a look. He threw a rock at the roof and scared the beast away, laughing. He says he thought it sounded like a woodpecker all along.