Today was my first full day back on the Kenai Peninsula. After six years of being away, it is thrilling to be reacquainted with the landscape, and although things look quite different now in quiet February from the way they did in the summers when I knew the peninsula well in its infinite spectrum of greens, there are many wonderful familiarities that make me remember that this magnificent place, even in the “bleak” midwinter, is not entirely foreign to me.
I had forgotten how exciting flying into Anchorage can be, and although I have a fear of flying, and particularly landings, I couldn’t take my eyes away from the view from the window of the airplane. We began to descend just as the sun was setting, shedding its beautiful pink light on the tops of the snow-covered Chugach Mountains. Pinks, oranges, and an other-worldly lavender swirled through the sky, and the Sitka and Black spruce that cover the mountains appeared blue to the eye—contributing to the pastel wonderland of the snowy Alaskan landscape at dusk.
On the way South out of Anchorage, darkness had fallen, and there was only a sliver of moon to give light to the night. Still, it was enough light to illuminate the mountains, the dark shapes of which loomed and seemed to protect the winding road. Driving past Turnagain Arm, I remembered being 22 years old and seeing pods upon pods--a herd of hundreds of beluga whales--a rare occurrence--surfacing in the very same inlet. The white of the moon sliver reminded me of the white of the tops of the shiny beluga heads and dorsal ridges that I saw many years ago. They had come into the Cook inlet to feed, as they often do, on silver salmon—they just happened to be in a larger pod than is commonly seen. I pulled over on the side of the road, the first of a long string of drivers behind me that did the same. I got out of the car, and stood there watching, overcome by the magnificence of what we were witnessing. Even now, as I write about this, years later, I am taken aback by the memory of this spiritual experience, and the emotions that flooded into me while entranced by this surreal happening. It is something I will never be able to fully describe to others. I will never forget the rhythmic and natural sounds these beautiful creatures made as they surfaced, finishing their exhales, inhaling and slipping back into the water, seeming to take their time, in a sequence so perfect, it surely somehow had to be timed. It was a dance of the belugas. These creatures were truly connected with one another.
Continuing down the peninsula, it gave me joy to pass some of the old-time cafes, bars, lodges, and businesses that I remembered well in and near Cooper Landing, and were still lit up with Christmas cheer, at the end of dark February. It made me happy to learn that many of them are still here. Wildman’s, Sackett’s, Hamilton’s, The Sunrise, Kenai Cache, and many other places that are symbolic of a way of life that one can’t find in many other places in the United States. I passed by Gwin’s, an old restaurant/fishing lodge, that has a dear place in my heart, and is where I worked and resided for the two summers that I lived in Alaska when I was in my early twenties. Though it is closed now, I have hope that it will reopen, and that it will continue to be a place that many want to return to—visitors of the peninsula, locals, and seasonal workers. There is a lot of nostalgia tied up in that old place, and it has given countless people—Alaskans and visitors from all over the world--many happy memories and meals.
Passing by many familiar trailheads, campgrounds, lakes and rivers, I experienced a flood of memories of exploring this wild and beautiful landscape many years ago, and of the people that I met and knew when I lived here. I still keep in touch with many of them and my best friend John that I met during my first summer in Alaska lives here now and is the main reason I am in Alaska again.
Today we explored Sterling and Soldotna, and took a drive out on Funny Road. It was the first of many attempts at seeing a lynx. We drove for miles, scanning the landscape, looking for signs of the elusive big cat. Though we didn’t see a lynx today, we saw something spectacular. I feel lucky to have witnessed what we did, and on my first day back to Alaska! We were driving along and I saw something dart very quickly from the side of the road into the forest, and it was going so fast I could not decipher what kind of animal it was. However, I became distracted from that streaking, unknown creature when I noticed that right in front of us on the side of the road, was a giant bald eagle. It lifted up off of the ground and flew forward, and we followed behind its gleaming white tail feathers, almost as if it were leading us somewhere--as if we should be so lucky. It was such a large bird—it had an incredible wingspan, and to see it flying from our vantage point was truly amazing. As I was wondering why the bird didn’t lift up or at least fly to the right or left of our ensuing vehicle, I saw that there was a whitish-grayish mammal of some kind dangling from its talons, most likely a snowshoe hare. This was not a tiny mammal or rodent. Here was this enormous, beautiful bird struggling to gain a higher altitude because it was carrying an incredible additional weight, and so it remained in front of us for quite some time, soaring to the right and then to the left with the curves of the road, but staying in front of us, never dropping its prey. Eventually, once it gained enough speed, it was able to fly up to a spruce on the right-hand side of the road, its meal still in its talons, and disappeared into the branches. One of John’s friends that lives here in Sterling, who knows and loves eagles, said that this was a very rare sight (and I believe him)—to see an eagle able to carry prey of that size and weight for that length of time, from right behind and beneath its body and tail feathers. In our quest to see a lynx, we saw something else that we never would have imagined seeing. There is so much life on this peninsula.
Tonight John gave me a lesson on chopping wood. I have chopped wood before, but I am not the most efficient chopper, and I tend to give up too easily on large, knotty pieces, let alone whole stumps. He is a very good and patient teacher, and I learn so much from him. I began to work on a large stump of a black spruce tree. After each attempt at finding the weakness in the wood, John would talk to me about what I had done, and what I needed to focus on in order to become more efficient, and eventually, crack the stump. He says that chopping wood is not about having strength, but about knowing how to use your maul or ax well, and using the momentum you can initiate to your advantage. I found that hitting my target requires a strong concentration, especially when trying to control an 8 pound maul, and trying to find a weak spot in strong, knotty wood such as Black Spruce. I almost gave up a few times, feeling frustrated and out of control when my maul would hit an entirely different part of the stump than I had intended it to, or when I just didn’t have enough momentum to really make any progress. I also had some fear. John kept telling me to hit the outside of the stump, where the wood was weaker, but the outside was closer to my shins, and I was swinging a very large and heavy maul. John encouraged me to not give up, and I kept reminding myself to focus. It is a very meditative activity, chopping wood, because you really don’t want your mind to wander too much—you want to be truly focused in order to avoid getting hurt and to use your energy as efficiently as possible. I worked on this stump for a long time. My body started to feel weak, and I knew that it wasn’t safe for me to keep swinging the maul for very much longer when I started to hear a crackling of the strong spruce. I hadn’t, in John’s words, “let the wood get the best of me”. I was able to chop a knotty and strong stump of Black Spruce that was around 18 inches in circumference into some nice pieces of firewood. I was really glad that I hadn’t given up—I felt a strong sense of accomplishment and it was nice to learn something so important from doing what I have often thought of as simple work. As we were chopping wood in the dark on the side of the house, with lights on our hats to help us see what we were doing, I kept thinking of how sticking with something that is difficult and that I am not immediately good at is a challenge for me—I often give up before I see the fruits of my labor and I often “decide” that I cannot do something when I haven’t truly worked at it. However, chopping a large stump requires that you stick with it. It requires that you find your focus. It requires that you not give up amidst frustrations or losses of control. It requires that you set aside your fears and trust your mind and body, and ability to make good decisions. The focus of mind chopping wood requires reminded me of the concentration, strength, control, courage, and determination of the eagle we saw earlier in the day. To fly that far with prey of that size in its talons—that it didn’t give up—that it didn’t let its prey fall to the ground as it got tired—that it risked flying in front of us to hold onto its prey--This was a nice lesson to be reminded of. In the grand scheme of things, getting through one stump seems like a small accomplishment, and I definitely have a long way to go in learning to become more efficient at chopping wood. But it is making me think about focus and determination, like that of the eagle earlier today.
