Category Archives: Alaska

Alaska to Texas

Posted on by

Summer ends quickly in the arctic. By early August clouds obscured the sun, and rainy days brought a close to my time spent on the tundra or the beach. For the last three weeks I got more writing done than I ever have in my life.

One desire for this year off work has been to learn more about myself as a writer, to push myself and grow and give myself a chance to complete major projects that I’ve just never had the time to work on in more than small spurts. I wrote about that in my “Texas to Alaska” post before coming up here.

The weeks in Alaska have been wonderful in seeing that desire fulfilled. I came here with the vague goals of “nail down the main storyline” and “start writing the book.” I’m leaving with over 30,000 words of the first draft—about half of what I anticipate the total length to be—and a solid outline of what the second half will look like.

The process of getting to this point hasn’t been what I expected. I didn’t sit down and write a complete, detailed outline before fleshing out the setting and dialogue and beautifully sketched characters. The process was much more fluid. I brainstormed a very basic outline. I wrote a couple thousand words. I outlined more. I wrote a couple dozen more pages. I scratched out half the outline. I wrote a new opening scene. I added a bit more to the outline and tried to write the next couple of scenes. I gave myself a headache for five days straight because my own book was boring me to tears and I couldn’t imagine anyone else ever wanting to read it. I moved from the couch to my bed to the downstairs couch to the couch of the lady I was housesitting for. I stared at the wall or the back of my eyelids for hours, begging my poor creative self to come up with a way to make this thing more interesting, have a little tension, be building towards a climax with even a smidgen of excitement. I decided to forget it, just write the next scene, let the ideas flow and trust that the storyline would eventually come together—well, that’s what I told myself, but I didn’t fully believe it would actually happen that way.

But it did. It wasn’t easy, it’s still not finished, but the ideas are there. The potential for a climactic scene that resolves the tension of the previous 150 pages definitely exists now, where it did not exist in days and weeks previous.

That’s all I wanted out of this time in Alaska. To get to this point, to understand more what it will take for me to write this book and possibly others. I’m happy to see what it’s going to take and to have a sense that I can do this, can actually make it work.

I’m leaving for Texas today, a month early. Plans change, especially when you’ve set out to spend a year flying by the seat of your pants. In many ways my time in Kotzebue has been all I could have dreamed of for a summer in Alaska. Took a flight up the Kobuk River in a bush plane. Helped pull in salmon nets.  Saw an arctic tern.  Picked blueberries on the tundra. Ate Alaskan king crab fresh from the sea. Camped on the beach to watch the sun set after midnight. Drove a Honda 4-wheeler around town. And made memories with great friends who have included me in their family this past two months.

But the 4-wheeler gets old when it rains for days on end, and I miss my car and so many other conveniences that just can’t be found here in the arctic. You’d think that after 10 years in rural Asia I’d not have a problem going without convenience—but I guess I just wasn’t prepared to jump back into that lifestyle so soon after returning to America. That’s not the reason I’m going back to Texas early, but it’s the reason that going back early is perfectly fine with me.

So, I’ll be in Fort Worth for a few weeks. Next stop after that: Wyoming.

Post to Twitter

Housesitting

Posted on by

At the half-marathon the other day, I met a lady who was looking for someone to house- and dog-sit for a few days so she could “go to town” to do some shopping—”town” being Anchorage, a 500 mile plane ride from here in Kotzebue.  Needing a fresh place to write for a few days, I said yes and moved across town to hang out with Hadyn the golden retriever for a while.

Bright and early Monday morning, I put Hadyn outside to bask in the fact that it really was bright (the rain had kept us both cooped up the whole day before), and I put the water on to boil for coffee.  Of course, the doorbell rang right then.  It would ring before I’d had coffee on a Monday morning.  And it would ring while I was still in my pajamas.

I opened the door to a guy in a hardhat and fluorescent orange vest who I’m guessing was a good four to five years younger than me and who had, I must say, the nicest blue eyes I’ve seen in Alaska.  “Is your mom here?” he asked.

Ha!  She’s in Texas.  I explained that I was housesitting.  I’m not sure who was more embarrassed—him for thinking I’m a kid, or me for answering the door in my fuzzy pink pajama pants with polar bears.

Turns out the homeowners had forgotten to reschedule some repairs, and we got everything straightened out for the construction crew to come back later in the week.  I went about the rest of my morning routine and settled down to write my novel.  Hadyn the dog was quite disinterested in the entire event.  I suspect he thinks I’m a kid, too.

(Side note: I forget to mention in my blog about volunteering at the half-marathon—a man saw the camera on loan from a friend and asked me, “Did you borrow that camera from your dad?”  I’m torn between being offended or flattered when people say these things.)

Post to Twitter

Half-Marathon Volunteers

Posted on by

Quite a few cold and rainy days back, I said here on the blog that I wanted to run the half-marathon in Kotzebue.  Well, that race was last Saturday, and I participated but did not run it.

My excuse for not running it is that I didn’t have enough time to train properly and didn’t want to push myself too hard.  Honestly, this just wasn’t a good time for making myself run.  If it were sunny and delightful outdoors, running would be a good way to let off steam after being cooped up indoors in front of the computer.  And there were a few days like that over the past few weeks, but there were more days of rain and wind and chill.  I ran one day for 50 minutes in the rain at 46 degrees, but that was truly the most I had in me.  I couldn’t muster the discipline to continue something so unpleasant right now.

And I’m totally OK with that.  I’ve been very disciplined with my writing, which was my main goal for these weeks in Alaska.  I’m in very good shape to reach 30,000 words on the first draft of my work-in-progress by the time I head back to Texas next week, and I’ve also revised and submitted a couple of articles to online magazines while here.  I feel good about this progress and don’t at all feel like I missed out by giving up so quickly on the race.

I especially don’t feel like I missed out because of the gale force winds the day of the race.  A couple of friends and I volunteered to help at the race—all for the sake of getting a windbreaker jacket that says Mosquito Haven Half-Marathon—so we got to experience the freak weather conditions without the extra joy of trying to run against that wind.  It was hard enough trying to stand upright in it—I can’t imagine trying to run against it.

Our job was to take photos of the event, and we spent the day cruising around on a 4-wheeler stalking the runners and walkers and bikers at various points along the route.  I started out with a scarf tied over my hair to keep it from blowing out of control, but that only lasted an hour or so.  The rest of the day I looked like Medusa, and that evening I had to use half a bottle of conditioner to work my hair out of the one huge knot it had tied itself into.

I will say, though, that being the event photographer was way more fun than working at a water station, which was our original plan for getting a race jacket without running the race.  We borrowed a fancy expensive camera which we could barely figure out how to use—but no one knows that when you’re walking around with it hanging on your neck.  One guy came up to me before the race and said, “Hey, that’s a really nice camera, what kind is it?”

I looked down at the brand name on the neck strap to check.  “Umm, it appears to be a Nikon of some sort.”

A few minutes into the race I jumped in front of a group of walkers to snap their photo, as per the instructions of the race coordinator who wanted shots of all age groups, all modes of transportation.  One of the guys in that group asked me, “Am I going to be in USA Today?”

We rode back to the finish line on the 4-wheeler to document the order the runners finished in.  It turns out there were only two female runners, so I would have been guaranteed a third place finish if I’d run—but would that be as impressive as my first place finish as the only female runner in the half-marathon in Jinghong a couple of years back?

One of the slower male runners lit up a cigarette within a couple of minutes of crossing the finish line.  At a half-marathon in conjunction with a health fair.

Ah, arctic Alaska.

Post to Twitter

Berry Picking and Life

Posted on by

Picking berries on the tundra is like life.  Draw your own conclusions…

If I picked as many berries as I could all day for the rest of the summer, I would still barely make a dent in this one little corner of the tundra.  The berries are, essentially, limitless.

***

I have to walk past patches of thousands of berries to get to the spot where I can pick while looking out at the sea.  It’s hard to resist stopping to pick the berries closer to the road, but those just aren’t the berries I want.

***

Berry picking is best when I go with a group of friends and talk while we pick and combine our efforts in one pail at the end of the afternoon.  Berry picking is also best when I go by myself and soak in the silence.  It is best when we take a pail-full home and have blueberry cake with coffee the next morning.  It is also best to eat as I pick.

***

Sometimes I see the blue patches of berries right away, clinging to a clump of spongy tundra grass.  Other times I scan the area, looking for a new patch, when my eyes suddenly come to focus on the berries right in front of my own two feet.  One step further and I would have crushed them under my boot.

***

Sometimes I think of how I’m gathering berries from the tundra the same way countless hunter-gatherer Eskimos have  done before me.  “I feel like I’m becoming a good little gatherer,” I say from my berry patch.

“I feel itchy,” Kiana says from a cloud of mosquitos.

Post to Twitter

Other People’s Thoughts: Rewriting

Posted on by

“I don’t like to write; I like to have written.  But I love to rewrite. I especially like to cut: to press the DELETE key and see an unnecessary word or phrase or sentence vanish into the electricity.  I like to replace a humdrum word with one that has more precision or color.  I like to strengthen the transition between one sentence and another.  I like to rephrase a drab sentence to give it more pleasing rhythm or a more graceful musical line.  With every small refinement I feel that I’m coming nearer to where I would like to arrive, and when I finally get there I know it was the rewriting, not the writing, that won the game.”  —from On Writing Well by William Zinsser

I spent several hours rewriting an essay recently and was reminded that much of the time I, too, enjoy the process of rewriting more than writing.  The word count on Lydia’s novel goes up and up as the days in Alaska go by and by, but as I reread short sections to refresh my memory on the previous day’s work, sometimes I cringe at how bad the writing seems.  I have to remind myself:  this period of time in this book’s life is not for rewriting and polishing and beautifying.  It is for exploring the story, getting the basics of the book out of my head and onto the page.  The time for rewriting will come later.

(Side note: I also think that the first sentence of today’s quote often works with running, as well.  I don’t like to run; I like to have run.)

Post to Twitter

Acclimated

Posted on by

I have adjusted to Alaska time.  Arctic Alaska summer time.  Stay up late and wake up late.  That’s what the locals do.

At first I thought, This is silly—it’s just a matter of discipline.  If people would go to bed earlier, they could wake up earlier.

Now I know.  It’s not a matter of what you could do if you had to, but what makes sense to do in the situation.  You go outside when the weather is nicest, when the wind is calmest.  And for reasons I don’t understand, that’s at night.

In Texas we talk about summer weather according to the heat index.  People in the arctic talk about the direction and speed of the wind.   The temperature is secondary during the summer.  Wind is more important.  Wind determines temperature.  Direction and speed of the wind tell arctic travelers—who go onto the sea and then upriver by boat, or out to villages by plane, never by car because there are no roads—whether or not it’s safe on the water or in the air, whether they will be traveling off this peninsula at all today.

The days are often foggy and cloudy, and then around 9pm the clouds make room for the bright, sideways glare of the evening sun.  And everyone takes to the outdoors.  Down to the beach to cook hotdogs over a fire.  Or to pull in the salmon nets and see what today’s catch looks like.

I’ve become accustomed to waiting for phone calls when the weather changes.  When it changes and the call comes, everything else gets put aside, and I go.  Work hard and write fast while it’s raining and windy, and then make the most of the sun.  Run to the plane to take off for an afternoon of flying, ride out to the tundra to pick berries, sit by the water’s edge and watch the seagulls and barges and fishing boats.

Now I, too, stay up when it’s sunny and still.  I would feel guilty telling people from the Lower 48 what time I get up most mornings.  But I’m not in the Lower 48 right now—I’m just trying to live as the locals do.

Post to Twitter

Other People’s Thoughts: Do This Despite Fear

Posted on by

“Write every day, line by line, page by page, hour by hour.  Do this despite fear.  For above all else, beyond imagination and skill, what the world asks of you is courage, courage to risk rejection, ridicule and failure.  As you follow the quest for stories told with meaning and beauty, study thoughtfully but write boldly.  Then, like the hero of the fable, your dance will dazzle the world.”  Robert McKee, Story

I will be honest and admit I haven’t read the book this quote comes from.  But I have the quote in my little file of passages about writing that challenge and inspire me, and today I’m using it to remind myself to have courage and keep writing.

Total word count so far on the first draft of the first book in the series on Lydia:  10,498.

Goal:  55-60,000

Post to Twitter

In the Kobuk Valley, Pt 2

Posted on by

(Continued from yesterday’s post…)

After taking a bunch of pictures of young Kiana in front of various signs around the town that is her namesake, we packed ourselves back into the plane and headed out for a little sightseeing.  It was windy at this point, and the pilot asked if we were up for a bumpy ride or if we wanted to go back.  As long as he thought it was safe, I wanted to see more of that area, so we took off with the intention of either going along the nearby mountains or heading toward the sand dunes at Kobuk Valley National Park, whichever seemed more feasible once we got into the air.

It turned out to be quite choppy once we’d flown a few minutes out of Kiana, so our pilot decided not to head to the mountains.  We stayed in the river valley in the national park, looking for animals along the water—we saw quite a few moose, three swans, and what we think was a black bear.  The pilot circled the plane back around to get a closer look at the possible bear, but it had gone into the willows and we couldn’t find it again.

We landed twice on gravel bars along the side of the river, just to stretch our legs and take a break from the turbulence.  Just before we landed the second time, we saw two moose on the other side of some trees from the gravel bar, and the pilot decided to go get a closer look once we were on the ground.  He started climbing through tall grass, then thick willows and trees, all buzzing with hordes of mosquitos.  Kiana and I went with him to the edge of the willows before she and I decided that we didn’t really want to see a moose up close—I had read a while back that moose are actually more dangerous to encounter than bears, and I just wasn’t up for the mosquitos, either.

After the pilot had satisfied his curiosity, we started to take a few pictures by the plane before taking off again, and I realized that we were about to start a two hour flight home and I really needed to pee.  No problem—those willows offered way more cover than a lot of places I’ve gone in southeast Asia.  The main difference was that my overactive imagination pictured that moose crashing through the willows and trampling me while I was squatting.  I went fast.  And I found out after I got home that night, I went so fast and pulled my pants back on so fast that I trapped and killed four mosquitos in my underwear.  What a way for them to die.

The return flight was bumpy, and I felt pretty sick the whole way home.  But it was worth the sickness to be able to experience the remoteness of an arctic village, to fly in a bush plane, to go to the least visited national park in the U.S.  To see the Brooks Range, a few hundred miles in the distance, yet crystal clear.

It was a dreamlike break from writing for an afternoon.  This is why I came to Alaska.

Post to Twitter

In the Kobuk Valley, Pt 1

Posted on by

When I came to Kotzebue to spend time working on my novel about Lydia, I came in the hopes that I would see grand Alaskan scenery while also having a quiet place to focus on writing.  The land right around Kotzebue, I found, isn’t as grand and majestic as the images usually conjured up when you think of Alaska—I quoted a passage from a Nick Jans essay in my “Other People’s Thoughts” post after I arrived here because his words conveyed so well how I felt.

I’m mostly over my disappointment now.  I enjoy going down to the rocky beach to look out over the water, seeing the changes in light and color reflected in the ocean throughout the day as the sun moves across the summer sky.  The mountains are further in the distance than I had imagined before coming, but I can still see them across the water from this peninsula when the fog clears.  And the tundra does have its own beauty.  It’s not as flat and desolate as I first thought—I’ve gone running on the dirt road just outside of town enough times now to know, the tundra is definitely not flat.  Gentle up and down hills, covered with the green willows of summer, wildflowers in white, yellow, and purple surprising me in the arctic.  Everyone says the greatest beauty of the tundra is still to come, when the berries and fireweed change the colors of the landscape completely in one last blaze before everything is submerged in the darkness of arctic winter.

The friends I’m staying with arranged for me to go with their 11-year-old daughter Kiana on a trip into the bush last week, so that we could see an Eskimo village and have an afternoon away from town.  We flew in a tiny, tiny plane to the village of Kiana, more than 70 air-miles up the Kobuk River from Kotzebue.  Throughout the afternoon, I felt like I was in a dream, like I was living someone else’s life.

Flying in a bush plane was an adventure in itself.  I’ve always been afraid of heights, though in recent years I’ve pushed myself further and further to try things that once scared me, and this trip was my first time in a small plane.  Having an equally nervous 11-year-old with me helped—I was so busy trying to say calming things to her as we got buckled in and started to roll onto the runway that I almost forgot my own fear.  Within ten minutes of being in the air, all fear was gone.  The sensation of flying in such a small plane, the quick take-off, the feeling of floating and gliding with the landscape unfurling before us for miles and miles, it was all so amazing that I regret now not having tried it before.

Our first landing was at the airstrip at the Eskimo village of Kiana.  Deja vu, showing up in a village where I’d never been, wandering around looking at the local school, the clinic, the post office, the store, getting stared at for being the white strangers in such a remote place.  If the houses had been made of bamboo instead of pre-fab and there were tractors and motorcycles instead of 4-wheelers and snowmobiles, I could have been in Yunnan or Laos.

(To be continued tomorrow…)

Post to Twitter

Other People’s Thoughts: You Don’t Need It Now

Posted on by

“What you don’t have you don’t need it now” – U2, “Beautiful Day”

“God has promised to supply our needs.  What we don’t have now we don’t need now.” – Elisabeth Elliot, The Path of Loneliness

God provides, and He provides in His own timing, and He provides what He knows in His all-knowingness to be best.  Lord, I want to trust You more today.

Post to Twitter