Wet

Even today, a glorious, blue-sky morning bursting with sunshine and windswept clouds tinged pink and gold, the first morning in over a month possessing the faintest hint of fall, even today the air is thick and heavy and wet.



It is yet another in a long string of days laden with the bane of my existence, one hundred percent humidity. As I walk to school each morning, I feel the oppressive weight of it as I breathe in and out. It clings to my skin and clothes and every other available surface. I won’t even mention what a snarling tangle it makes of my hair.





There should be frost on the berries, but instead they’re just wet, wet, wet. Everything is wet and dripping and has been for weeks. September usually brings our first substantial snowfall. Sometimes it melts away, but more often it remains, white powder piled up on fresh sheaths of ice skinning the surfaces of ponds and lakes and eventually the river...just the way I like it.



I know this isn’t much to complain about while Southern regions are still scorching (and plenty humid as well), but…this just isn’t right. It’s not the Arctic autumn that I know and love.

Students have been asking, “Man, when’s it ever gonna get cold?”

I shrug sympathetically and admit that I’m wondering the same thing. I remind them that break-up came late this year, that the river ice didn’t go out until the middle of June and most of the summer was cloudy and cold. August brought lots of rain ensuring muddy boots and juicy berries. The seasons seem to have shifted a bit, abandoning the predictable timing of things that some of us so obviously crave.



September’s chill usually brings dryness. Humidity, trapped as frost or snow, crunches underfoot and leaves the air so fresh and crisp that it seems to snap. It’s something I look forward to—a lot. This year is just different. For now, first frost is still an elusive prospect as we wade through day after day of thick humid air...



...and more wet.

Testing Terror Turns Tasty!

This has been one loooooooong week of state proficiency testing.

Practice tests, official tests, make-up tests...they're all done and should be packed up and on a plane as I type.

Thank goodness!

After such a week as this, ice cream makes perfect sense, even when it's still -6 degrees outside.



What an excellent way to celebrate and soothe those testing jitters!

How We Eat...(Part One)

How do we get food? How much does food cost? What types of foods do we eat in the Arctic?

I get these questions a lot.

And, although I try to answer them in a straightforward way, it's never as easy to do as it seems that it would be. Like many things about life in a bush village, there is no single answer to the question of securing supplies. Personal experiences and opinions vary greatly. There never seems to be one final, authoritative piece of knowledge for anything. If I had to nail down bush wisdom in a sentence it would probably go something like this.

"This is absolutely the way it is...except when it's not."

In fact, part of the local dialect uses word combinations like sometimes/always, sometimes/never, or always/never. For example, one might hear, "I sometimes always go fishing in October." Or, "I sometimes never find any fish in that stream."

Strange phrases to newbie ears, I know.

Maybe phrases such as these are more of an accidental colloquialism than a purposeful use of vocabulary, but I have to wonder if the habit of combining what seems like opposing terms is actually rooted in the ambiguity that one faces in a land of extremes such as the Arctic.

Still, when people ask questions, they don't usually enjoy indefinite jargon like sometimes and maybe. They want facts. And, since facts about the Arctic usually travel in elusive tangled herds rather than standing alone, I often resort to brief responses that shed a little light here and there rather than attempting total illumination all at once. That's not nearly as satisfying as absolutes, I know, but no one walks away empty-handed either.

One of the first lessons that I learned after moving to Atqasuk is that generalities can lead one astray and so can specifics from too many sources.

Arctic knowledge is sort of hexagonal (at best). There are at least six sides to every story, multiple pieces of wisdom to cover every problem, each one valid and correct under the right circumstances. And, yes, it can be just as tricky as it sounds.

So what does all that have to do with how we eat?

Quite a lot.

As a new teacher moving to an Arctic village, I was faced with the challenge of getting food to my new home from over 5,000 miles away. I was given several suggestions, all from well-meaning veteran residents of the Slope.

Some said, "Send as much as you can from home."

Others said, "Wait until you get to Anchorage and send everything up from there."

Still others said, "Wait until you get to Barrow. It will be more expensive, but you can get everything you need."

And still others said, "Don't worry with all that shipping. We'll make a big order as a group before school starts."

Hmm.

I spent literally hundreds of dollars shipping things like green beans and pasta from New Orleans (two months before I moved). I spent hundreds more shipping things like dish soap and toilet paper from Anchorage on my way up to the North Slope. By the time I got to Barrow, I had almost no money left. I remember going to the AC Store and filling a cooler with perishable items and, for the first time, becoming acutely aware of their weight. Ugh! Dragging the cooler, my luggage, and my dog crate to the plane, I received my first lesson about Arctic life and food.

Weight is a very big deal.

When I arrived in Atqasuk, I found that none of the boxes that I'd mailed up months ago had arrived. Well, plenty of books and school supplies were there, but nothing I could actually eat. I had only the items in my cooler which meant that butter, cream cheese, and milk would have to sustain me until the rest of my boxes arrived.

Another hmm.

At that time, thankfully, Atqasuk still had a community store. There wasn't a whole lot in it, but that was okay because I didn't have any cash. I remember writing an out-of-state check for a few boxes of macaroni and cheese. What came to be known as "the yellow meal" was just about all I ate until the rest of my supplies trickled in through the mail.

At some point, I realized that everyone who had kindly offered advice about dealing with food had been right...and wrong. Arctic life is hexagonal, at best.

Nothing wrong with that, I guess.

Unless you're a newbie who wants to eat!

Flashback

A nasty bug has invaded my body and made me sick, sick, sick.

So, although there are tons of things that need doing today, I don't have the energy or motivation to move much less accomplish...anything.

This couldn't have come at a worse time (as if there is ever a good time).

Tonight there will be a (first ever) community talent show at school and I am supposed to take pictures. There will also be some guitar music that I've been looking forward to and don't want to miss.

I've heard rumors that there will be a faculty "act" and I've been warned NOT to video tape it.

So...you know what that means, right? :)

I'm hoping that this virus will run its course and I'll be feeling well enough to not only attend the talent show, but grab some photos and (of course) blackmail-worthy video too.

It should be a hoot.

In the meantime, I thought I'd share a little flashback from summer involving two of my favorite little guys who are obviously experts at making the best of a bad situation.

What do you do when your bicycle falls apart? Cry? Curse? Complain?

Let these masters of the half-full glass show you...

Brown-Out, Blackout Blues

The thrill is gone.

Can you hear it?

The thrill is gone.

Can you feel it?

The strum and twang and thump of my soul's invisible guitar?

The hoarse, even course, misery-laden voice of one who's been done oh, so wrong?

Yep, that's me.

Begging, borrowing, not-yet-stealing connectivity.

I've got them "brown out done caused a week-long internet blackout blues."

And I feel so bad.

So downright sad.

Oh, yes I do.

Them brown-out-blackout-blues.

Way Too Buggy!

Spring came early this year.

In fact, for a few days at the end of April, the North Slope experienced a dramatic temperature spike from the mid-20's up to and above 40 degrees Fahrenheit. Everything began to drip and slush and flow at an amazing, completely unexpected, pace. That sort of thing doesn't usually happen until June.

Unfortunately, with early spring comes early thawing and hatching of about a kazillion mosquitoes.

Now, I can appreciate that mosquitoes have a place in the "circle of life."  I can appreciate that many migratory birds feed on mosquitoes. And I appreciate that mosquitoes feed on the nectar of flowering plants and can be credited with some of the pollination of the tundra that occurs each year. I can even appreciate that female mosquitoes need protein for the development of their eggs. But I find it very difficult to appreciate being the source of that protein!

According to this article on Scholastic's website for kids, Ken Philip, an entomologist in Alaska reports that if you are on Alaska's North Slope with no repellent and lots of exposed skin, you could die from loss of blood within three hours! Although I can't verify the accuracy of that statement, my own experience with Arctic mosquitoes leads me to believe that Ken Philip has it just about right.

The movie The Snow Walker has been listed on my sidebar since the early days of this blog. Although the story is actually set in the Canadian Arctic, everything looks and feels extremely familiar. In one of the scenes, the main character, a bush pilot who has crash landed smack in the middle of the tundra in summer, tries to escape a swarm of hungry mosquitoes. I have experienced (many) similar swarms, but never without protection. I was amazed by the realism of that scene and can't imagine how they accomplished it. If you're interested, check out this great clip. There is a short segment in the clip that shows him trying to outrun the swarm. Of course, the movie shows more.

I'm including a little mosquito footage of my own.  Though definitely not an example of high-quality camera work, it's what I have for now. It is difficult to see the LCD or manipulate the camera while hiding hands and every other vulnerable body part inside a nylon mesh bug shirt, but I just couldn't bring myself to sacrifice skin or blood for the sake of better video. 

Sorry about that.

Stumped

Four weeks is a long time not to blog.

It's not that I've been off or away or had nothing to share.

I'm here...haven't been anywhere. I have quite a collection of summertime photos cached away. Some have been on my computer for weeks and weeks, unshared, growing stale, gathering virtual dust.

The truth is, I've been stumped...baffled, discountenanced, disquieted, stunned.

Like the unfortunate comrades of the playground duck, something came along that knocked me for a loop.

And I couldn't write about it. Still can't, exactly.

Let's just say that the buggy side of the dog expanded its borders for a while. The cool summer wind that holds bugs at bay died down and an uncomfortable stillness pressed in heavily against my heart. Then began the irritating buzz of a thousand doubts around my ears, each whining a plethora of reasons to fold it up, pack it in, silently succumb.

How could I write about that?

Thankfully, the wind reappeared before any succumbing came to pass. Huffing and puffing, it sent the bugs packing, back to the grass where they'll wait and hide.

Now, instead of seeing this...



I'm beginning to see this.



I've missed this place, this corner of cyberspace, where the Arctic and the Tropics can be next-door neighbors, where people who've never met can be inseparable friends.

Four weeks is a long time not to blog.

I think I can write about that.

Cold-Hard-Fact # 3

Anything that can freeze, will freeze...regardless of sunlight.

Could that be Murphy's Law of the Arctic?  

If it's not, I think it should be.

The sun has returned with amazing swiftness and magnitude.  In spite of quite a few blizzardy days, we have seen more blue sky in the last week or so than we've seen since fall.  There is every reason to believe that tomorrow's Vernal Equinox will arrive as a white, eye-squinting splash across the snow-covered tundra, though warmth probably won't be a part of the equation.

In spite of increasing sunlight, temperatures have remained in the negative twenties to forties for, well, weeks and weeks.  And that has presented some problems in the housing department.  It comes as no great surprise to anyone, I'm sure, that plumbing and prolonged cold just don't mix well.

Back in January, one notorious section of pipe running under the four-plex (where I currently live) developed an ice plug.   If you're thinking that this is starting to sound just plain gross, you're absolutely right.   (Lindsay's blog documents January's experience as it occurred).

Last night, unfortunately, the system froze up again.  Ugh!

This is the second winter that this particular section of pipe has frozen and last night, for the second time this winter, we were faced with it again.  Needless to say, this pipe is developing a rather nasty reputation.  After all, having your own sewer back up into your house is bad enough, but having other people's sewer overflow your toilet and gurgle up into your bathtub?

  

That kicks the disgust factor up a notch!  Don't you think?

Now, these pipes are not regular, run-of-the-mill sewer pipes.  They are a part of a specialized system that works on a vacuum controlled by a station centrally located in the village.  The pipes are completely encased in about six inches of heavy foam insulation and have electrical heat traces running through them to prevent ice from forming.  They're designed for the challenging conditions of this region and most of the time they work very well (insert Tim-the-Toolman's grunt of approval here).

(These are the components of the vacuum system that can be seen from outside our building.  The monitor indicates whether or not the heat trace is working properly, etc.)

It's something of a mystery that this particular section of pipe continues to freeze and it's a mystery that will not be solved until summer when the snow is gone, allowing maintenance workers to gain access beneath the building.   

Until then, we try to prevent ice from building up by using hot water and not sparingly so.  Hot water is used for washing all clothes and we are encouraged to wash often to keep a flow of warmth in the system.  I even use hot water when brushing my teeth which probably doesn't make much difference, but I'm not taking any chances!  

Thankfully, we have a great maintenance crew that knows how to handle this recurring problem.  Yes, the coffee creamer can is standard equipment 

(I asked).

They work in collaboration with maintenance guys from the city and use a nifty little machine that snakes down the pipes and shoots hot water into the plugged area, clearing the ice.  








Let me tell you, after breathing the aroma of sewer for a day or two... 

...maintenance guys are my heroes!

That's the Way the Cookies Crumble

For literally months now, my internet connection has ranged from sketchy to non-existent and, at times, the frustration has worn my patience uncomfortably thin. I've spent quite a bit of time on the phone with my internet service provider. In the process, I have become intimately acquainted with the hierarchy of personnel dedicated to "handling" customers in need of technical support.

The first tier consists of individuals armed with a scripted manual from which they are forbidden to stray. The manual tells them exactly what to say and exactly how many technical hoops the customer must jump through before they may be passed along to a tier-two guy.

Tier-two guys are the real techno-wizards. Seriously, they are. Through a series of "ping tests" (think, The Hunt for Red October, but digital) they can determine whether the problem being experienced is the fault of your computer or their equipment. These guys know things that tier-one guys have only seen in movies. They know exactly how many "packets" of information are being lost between your computer, their satellite dish, and the actual satellite orbiting the planet. They even know when and from what location that satellite was launched and about how long it will accommodate the customer load that is increasingly being oversold. Yes, I said oversold. Anyway, these are smart guys and I'm thankful they're on my side.

The only problem with the tier-two guys is that they are usually parked in an office about 800 miles away and are not really able to do very much about the problems they diagnose, but they can talk about it and sympathize with your plight. While that may not sound like much, sometimes it's just comforting enough to keep you from disconnecting your service altogether. Hmm.

Then there are the tier-three guys (see photo). Tier-three guys know everything that the tier-two guys know, but they actually have guns, will travel. Well, not guns, but techno-wizardry stuff. And, as you see in the photo, they do it all under rather challenging circumstances. These guys travel from village to village, sleeping bags in tow, not knowing when or where they will lay their heads for weeks at a time. I appreciate that. Really...I do.



All those boxes in the photo look impressive, don't they? I was certainly impressed. In fact, I was thrilled! I thought surely my internet woes were coming to an end. Surely, with of all those boxes, a techno-wizard would be able to work some digital magic and...POOF!...my connection would be decent again. Visions of checking email without hitting "refresh" six or seven times swirled through my mind. I was practically giddy with anticipation.

What wasn't initially apparent was that those boxes had nothing to do with residential internet connections. And, although the tier-three guys were aware of the problems occurring with residential service throughout the village, they didn't have a work order to address those problems at this time. No work order, no work. No exceptions.

So it turns out the problem with tier-three guys is that they have to have permission to do stuff. Just knowing what needs to be done and how to do it and being in the actual location where it should be done isn't enough. Someone has to say, "Do it" like a director on a movie set. The props are all in place. The actors all know their lines and cues, but no one makes a move until the director says, "action." I guess that would take a tier-four guy. I haven't had the pleasure of speaking with one of those and it's not very likely that I ever will.

I have no doubt that the tier-four guy stays very busy...busy not writing work orders...maybe even busy enjoying a reliable internet connection...like the one his customers pay for every month, but still don't have.

First Things First...Almost!

I guess this should have come first. I should have started with an explanatory post before thrusting The Buggy Side of the Dog out into cyberspace. It has prompted more than a few emails from family, friends, and new acquaintances, all inquiring minds who want to know. They want to know...what in the world does that crazy title mean, anyway? Well, I am a big fan of curiosity. So, I'm sort of pleased to have inspired a little curiosity here. But I do want to explain how the title came about and what it means...at least to me.

There are, of course, some obvious associations between dogs and bugs. So, I know what you're probably thinking. But fleas and ticks have nothing to do with this arctic anomaly. No, this is something different and far more disturbing. This is about...mosquitoes. Being a transplant from the South, (the deep, deep South) I have experienced plenty of mosquitoes. I've slathered on bug dope and sprayed myself in the eyes (accidentally) more times than I can count. My senses are intimately acquainted with both the aroma and the flavor of Deep Woods Off. I've been bitten in every conceivable location of my body and have even slapped myself awake in the middle of the night (on more than one occasion) because some relentless mosquito couldn't resist my ear. I have real, tangible experience with mosquitoes. What I didn't understand right away is that Alaskan mosquitoes...tundra mosquitoes...are not the same.

Many southern states actually claim the mosquito as their unofficial state bird. Yes, I know they're kidding...sort of. I don't know if they all got together and made a uniform decision or if somebody came up with the idea and the others simply jumped on the bandwagon, but I've seen tourist shop merchandise in no less than five southern states, all claiming that the world's largest mosquitoes reside within their borders. I won't try to dispute their claims. I'm just saying...Alaskan mosquitoes are different. Alaskan mosquitoes don't just happen upon you. They hunt you down. They swarm you in a pack, hundreds at a time. They dig into your clothing and drill for blood. Wearing bug dope will keep them hovering a few inches from your skin, but it doesn't make them go away. It's like they know that the repellent will eventually wear off and they want to be there when it does. And they aren't content to just hang around. They will pelt you from every direction imaginable, so that it sounds like rain is hitting your hat or hood or jacket. I know it sounds like I'm exaggerating. I would think that too if I hadn't experienced it for myself. So, what does all this really have to do with The Buggy Side of the Dog? I'm getting there.

The one thing that sends Alaskan mosquitoes packing is a really stiff wind. Thankfully, we have a nice supply of that here on the tundra. I know there are some individuals who do not enjoy wind. It can be irritating, after all. Wind picks up sand and deposits it into your eyes, ears, nose, and your mouth if you haven't learned to keep it shut. In Atqasuk, wind is almost constant. There's really no question about whether the wind will blow, only from what direction and how hard. In the winter, when snow is blowing in my face at 45 or 50 mph during my half-mile walk to school, I will agree...wind is annoying. But, in the summer, wind can be a respite, a refuge, a blessing in disguise. If the wind is strong enough, the mosquitoes will hide down in the grass. If it's not quite windy enough for them to hide, even just a hefty breeze (at least 15 mph) will keep them behind you. That's why I coined the term "buggy side." It means just what it implies. If there is sufficient wind to challenge them, mosquitoes will hide...behind a person...or a dog...anything to stay aloft and near their potential smorgasbord.

While walking my dog one fine July afternoon, I noticed that the wind was not blowing hard enough to send the mosquitoes into the grass. I looked down at my dog, Rudy, walking ahead of me on his leash and was astounded by the sight of hundreds of mosquitoes clinging to his fur on the down-wind side of his body! It was as if an invisible line had been drawn straight down his spine and the mosquitoes dared not cross over! Of course, it was the windy side that was mosquito-free and the other side that was buggy. That got me thinking.

Wind has always fascinated me. I see a lot of symbolism in the creative and destructive power of a forceful wind. There is imagery there that I can appreciate and find meaningful. As I looked down at the buggy side of my poor dog, I thought about how extreme life often is. There's a buggy side to life that has nothing to do with mosquitoes. There are things in an average day that will suck you dry. A month, or even a few weeks, on the buggy side might be more than we feel we can bare at times and even the best repellent won't keep us safe for long. But then there's the wind. Irritating, sometimes. Dangerous, potentially. Blessed relief from the buggy side, always! Here's the important thing. There can only be a buggy side of the dog if there's a windy side to draw the line. That's what the image of my dog's ravaged fur means to me...the buggy side is real, but it's only half of the equation. The wind is just as real and it's much more powerful! I guess the trick is to find the wind and embrace it. Instead of hiding from its unpredictable nature...face it! Let the wind's forceful nature do its work, clearing away the bugs...the blood-suckers in our paths. My title, The Buggy Side of the Dog, isn't meant to focus on the negative elements in life, though I will acknowledge them. But I'd rather focus on the wind, that powerful positive, that keeps the "buggy" elements in life at bay.

So, that's where the title came from and that's what it means...at least to me.

Take a gander if you dare...


Remember, these are just the ones you can see!


Click on any photo to see more...