It's On, and on and on

When it's still snowing at sea level

Here in Juneau, Alaska, we’re back on the rainy side of the winter seesaw. Or more accurately, seasaw in our dense rainforest between the ocean and an icefield.

But as I write, we’re going on three weeks of the best coastal mountain conditions for those who like to play in the snow. There’s so much snow on the steep curve of our street that the neighbor hounds are finding work as pack animals. A wolf hound attached by a leash is pulling a five year old in a sled down the hill. The other night, as my husband Karl and I pushed snow off the driveway for the umpteenth time, the other neighbors hooped and hollered on snowboards all the way down, then relied on their blood hound to haul the boards back up.

Over the forty-eight hours before the road in front of our house was plowed, we watched what Karl called a “rally” out the living room window. Vehicle after vehicle got stuck on the steepest part of the bend at the corner. Drivers called in reinforcements armed with shovels and maybe a PBR or two.

At the mountain, also known as Eaglecrest Ski Area, snow riders slid through silky vanilla pudding. That first glorious Saturday of below 20 degree temps my lifelong ski buddy and I found effortless turns in places that aren’t always effortless.

“It feels like I died and went to Utah,” quipped my long time ski school colleague Tom. As Karl and I glided up to the base lodge at the end of the day, our friend Stuart realized he has a “winter vacation home”, also known his house downtown.

Yes, the driving can be nerve wracking and the shoveling back breaking. But on a mere walk through our South Douglas neighborhood on the second day schools were closed in less than a week, a poem came to me amidst the beautiful silence that only unending snowfall can bring. And like the start of this missive, it ends with a dog.

Snow Day

The school doors locked,

public library shuttered,

and gym class cancelled.

The backyard an ensconced fortress,

cushioning the hubris of humanity,

voices on the radio.

The neighborhood falls almost silent,

save the gentle hiss of falling snow,

scrape of shovel on driveway,

and yearning howl of the would-be sled dog

down the street.

Happy New Year All!

Thanks for reading and subscribing to my newsletter all year long. Your comments are more than welcome. And if you liked it, please help grow our readership by clicking on the heart and sharing your comments. -Katie B.