The Call of the Wildlings

On Saturday morning, I was in the kitchen (with Dinah, strummin' on the ol' banjo... but that's a story for another time) with the roommates, looking out the window, when fluffy flakes started sprinkling from the sky. I was ecstatic to experience my first Alaskan snowfall and ran outside in my slippered feet to be snowed upon.

Here is a driveway with actual fresh snowflakes.

In the early afternoon, Melissa and the kids and I drove out to Fred Meyer for some grocery shopping. With a little trepidation, I checked the price of avocados and jalapenos and... was not as dismayed as I had feared I would be. Yes, they're a little pricier than the ones in California; yes, the selection is hilariously slim in comparison; but considering that this produce had to cross land and sea and another whole country to arrive in Alaska, I'd say Freddy's has done pretty damn well for itself. 

In the parking lot, I saw my first Alaska raven up close. This raven did nothing to dispel my theory that Alaska is in fact Westeros. I looked at this raven and instantly thought of Lola, a surly cat I know. This raven was roughly the size and shape of Lola. Lola is beautiful but she scares me a little, just like this raven did. Have you ever seen a cat-sized raven? I had not. If you have, you probably live in Alaska. The raven was mesmerizing and majestic but it could definitely take me in a cage fight (just like Lola).

Back at home, I went for a walk. Brisk walking has always been one of my favorite forms of exercise, and I can't get my fill of the dazzling and ferocious scenery in my neighborhood.

Look one direction and it's all Last of the Mohicans, where-is-Daniel-Day-Lewis?

Look another direction and it's all NIGHT GATHERS AND NOW MY WATCH BEGINS

I was listening to music while I walked around. Mostly I was listening to "Mandolin Rain" by Bruce Hornsby because it's soaring and majestic and heartbreakingly beautiful, just like the landscape, and sometimes you forget how much you love a song until you listen to it while watching the sun set over the wilderness.

Which is a sight I highly recommend, by the way.

For reasons.

In the evening, Melissa and I had an outing together, resplendent with Moscow mules in copper mugs and prosciutto-wrapped Alaskan black cod and two silent films backed by an orchestra. It was my first time in makeup since getting sick, my first drink since getting sick, my first seafood since getting to Alaska, and my first playdate alone with Melissa in years. It felt good, folks. Really good.

Know what else felt really good? Looking at
this noble salmon ice sculpture in the plaza
outside the performing arts center.

Yesterday morning, Melissa and I watched the episodes of Girl Meets World I've missed because of traveling while I made a massive pan of chilaquiles for the 3 grownups in this house. Chilaquiles are a happy food I used to make with Matt back home on lazy weekend mornings. Girl Meets World is a show I used to only watch with Matt. I missed Matt. I felt a little wistful for L.A. Luckily, Dan and Melissa and the boys had a surprise for me. We all got into snow clothes and went for a walk. A SURPRISE walk.

This is the sort of monstrously beautiful BS you can't avoid
seeing on any ol' stroll in Alaska.

We walked to a bridge. A pedestrian bridge over a highway. A bridge where tattered remnants of banners and signs littered the chain link. And on this bridge... Dan and Melissa hung a huge-ass banner they had made. It said WELCOME TO ALASKA NICHOLE. I was delighted! We walked down so I could see it from the front and get some pictures. Now it greets me on the drive from Anchorage to home. Spectacular. 

What can I say? I'm a boss.

Have I mentioned the out-of-control natural beauty around here? While we walked yesterday, the Alpine peaks, creamy white and frosty as storybook mountains, were butter-yellow and pink and blue from the colors of the setting sun, and a silken cloud hovered around the summits like steam. I tried to take pictures, but they gave a piss-poor representation of the scope and brilliance of what was actually going on.

Use your imagination.

In the evening, I used the steam wand on the espresso machine to make a cardamom-vanilla steamer that tasted so righteous it made angels cry and had foam so luxurious I knitted it into a cashmere sweater. I haven't lost my touch.

Today I went into Anchorage town. It was foggy and foreboding, which I loved, of course. I finally saw the ocean. It's the Pacific, just like the ocean in California. But it's a different animal. This ocean means business. This waterfront is lined with shipping containers and cranes and rocky piers and industrial docks, and the water is grey and choppy. It's like Long Beach with a Boston attitude. I want to get to know it better. The fog was too thick today; I'd have been a fool to wander alone along an unknown shore. The fog steadily dissipated on the late-afternoon drive back into Eagle River, settling into the valleys and leaving the frost-coated trees exposed. Have I mentioned that the scenery here does not bore me to death?

Guerilla pic of the hazy fog out the car window.

And on the way home, I passed a familiar sign.

Well I'll be!