Trek Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself

There is a land so much more elaborate and mystical than Wal-Mart.

A land with a damn near decent gluten-free-foods section.

A land where hothouse peppers and tomatoes spring eternal.

A land more than 3 1/2 miles away from where I live-- in other words, a land only a true adventurer would have the gumption to walk to in the dead of winter.

This land is Fred-Meyer, and on Thursday, I journeyed by foot to this land.

The trek began under mysterious skies, as a low grey fog over the peaks hinted at snowflakes to come. I, bundled to the teeth (and beyond) and armed with cough drops and tissues against the sharp air my Los Angeles lungs and nostrils have not yet fully adjusted to, set off into the night (it was in fact midday, but still far darker than my Los Angeles eyes have yet adjusted to) seeking adventure.

My initial goal was somewhat more manageable. My initial goal was a little coffeehouse about 2 miles away from home, which would have been a 4-mile round-trip walk and a good little workout. To get there, I followed the footpath through the woods. I crossed a semi-frozen creek.

You're nailing this winter wonderland thing, Alaska.

I came out of the woods where the path rejoined civilization and soon was near the coffeehouse. I realized that I was still highly caffeinated from my morning latte (I may have mentioned that there is an ESPRESSO MACHINE in this house) and that I was still feeling rambunctious enough to keep walking. My phone's map informed me that in just 1.7 miles more, I would be at Freddy's. Did I need anything at Freddy's? NOPE! I needed a destination! And I realized that, if nothing else, I could check out the sweet chili sauce and kimchi situation, in case there is ever a kimchi fried rice emergency (highly likely). 

On the way to Fred Meyer, flakes began falling. I was delighted, until I passed a sight that threw my surreal life into harsh perspective:

I can't.

The snow fell on this icy kingdom as I peeked out over the top of my turtleneck (which was pulled up to cover my nose) and under the brim of my fleecy hat (which was pulled down low over my forehead) to see a nursery advertising LEMON TREES in the brightest colors it could muster.

Toto, I've a feeling I'm not in Hollywood anymore.

What is this land? What actually IS this land of Alaska?

In Fred Meyer, I slowly defrosted while I browsed. It turns out that the sweet chili sauce is far more pricey than I'm used to, and the kimchi "selection" is a jar of spicy and a jar of regular by the same brand. I really hope there are no kimchi fried rice emergencies in the near future, because I was too disheartened to buy supplies. You never know, though, when an emergency is going to strike. In the wise words of Winnie-the-Pooh, you never can tell with bees.

It's a good thing the Wal-Mart view is so breathtaking, because as you can see, the Fred Meyer parking lot view is boring as heck-- nothing but ridges of pine-covered foothills rolling up to a fog-shrouded, snowy peak. Lame. Lame like the rest of the scenery in this state.

Eh.

It had snowed a good deal by the time I got to the woodsy part of my walk home. 

It's Narnia.

And by the time I got home, I was tuckered out from having walked 7.5 miles in full snow gear. I barely left the house on Friday (it's possible I didn't leave the house at all). But on Saturday morning, I woke up to see that it had snowed through the night, and the backyard was blanketed with a whole bunch of raw crafting material. Well... I saw snow; Matt saw the picture I sent him and challenged me to sculpt an octopus rather than the customary snowman.

Do you all know about Matt? Matt lives in Los Angeles. He wears cool boots and has perfect hair and sings songs and plays a keyboard. He loves jalapeno kettle chips and he has one tattoo. Matt is my favorite boy and I used to have a lot of adventures with him when I also lived in Los Angeles.

Matt and me, having an adventure.

I accepted Matt's challenge and, without hesitation, got out of bed, bundled into snow clothes, and went to the backyard to build a SNOWPHALOPOD. It was hard work, because the snow was so fresh that it was basically dry powder. It would've been great for skiing; it was less great for sculpting, since it barely stuck together. Either a slightly wet snow that falls when the temperature is just below freezing, or a snow that has been sitting around for a few days and has seen a little sunshine, is best for making snowballs and snowfolk. I became so daunted as I tried to assemble the mantle and ocular area of my snowctopus that I nearly quit and resolved to try again after a few days. And yet... I managed to assemble a nice bulbous mantle and eye ridge. Surely I could power through and sculpt some legs?

It took me at least an hour, but by George, I finished my snow ceph and it looked fantastic.

Very proud of self.

I came inside to a fresh, warm latte and discussed cephalopods with the curious boys while they ate breakfast. Then I cleaned up my hard-workin' artist body so Melissa and I could go to Anchorage for brunch. I was very excited about brunch. Brunch to me means the same thing it does to all Los Angelenos: Endless mimosas. Mimosas for days. And, y'know, food.

The transformative snowfall had turned every branch of every tree into fairy-worked filigree, and the drive to downtown Anchorage left me breathless as the road wound through an endless forest of perfect white-lace sylvan beauty.

While Melissa and I waited for our table, I trotted across the street for my first clear view of Anchorage Harbor. What I saw instead was clearly identifiable as Blackwater Bay in the land of Westeros. The grey water stretched out before me in a great expanse that mirrored the soft grey blanket of clouds overhead, broken by a long band of sunlight low on the horizon, perfectly highlighting a misty, mystic chain of frosty mountain peaks looming like a mirage across the water. I don't mind living in an obviously made-up place-- "Alaska" is a fairytale told to the rest of America because they'd never believe the truth, that this is a fantasy fairy-kingdom whence sprung all the great folktales of wild lands and wilder beings-- but it's downright confusing to wake up in Middle Earth, journey through Narnia, and be in Westeros by brunchtime.

We brunched, we Costco'd, we grocery shopped, and, after dinner that night, Dan and Melissa and the boys and I made wishes on dried-out Christmas tree branches and threw them into the fire. I inhaled the earthy, smoky scent of the blaze, sat close to the hearth to warm my skin, drank deeply of pinot noir, and prayed my wishes would come true-- the voiced ones and the unvoiced ones. After the kids went to bed, my grown-up roommates brought out the massage table and the lavender oil. I ended the night with deep chuckles at "Monty Python Live (Mostly)" on the TV screen, 3/4 a bottle of red wine all to myself, a delightful back massage in front of the fire, and a bowl of fresh-grilled pineapple (cooked with butter and sugar in a dutch over over the embers) with vanilla ice cream. THAT, kids, is how you win at Saturday.

Yesterday, Sunday, I walked with Dan to take my "Welcome" sign down from the bridge so I can keep it. I mentioned that I was keen to visit the banks of the river for which this town is named. There was a way, Dan said-- a way I could come to know that very afternoon, if so inclined-- but he warned me that it would be quite the trek, and I would be so killed to death by the end that I'd need to cancel my workout plans for the next three days.

Of course, I couldn't wait. "Oh please, let's go!" I begged.

So Dan and I gathered the children, bade Melissa farewell, drove the boys to their Grandma's house, and began our hike. The sun was shining-- which meant that it was COLD. The absence of insulating clouds dropped the temperature to under 0º Fahrenheit. I was bundled to within an inch of my sanity; much more clothing and I wouldn't have been able to move. Still, ice crystals formed on my eyelashes and eyebrows and my breath formed frost on my neckwarmer. The payoff was the brilliant sunlight and water-blue sky crowning the snowy woods and mountains.

We finally reached the frozen river, where gashes in the ice showed where water still flowed and the faint trickling sound floated above the snow-muffled surface. 

We walked through the woods along the bank, passing animal tracks (jackrabbit, ermine, moose) and making our way through a thicket of branches until we came to the wide, flat, open place under the bridge, where the river ran in earnest and steam rose from its surface. Then we headed back toward our greatest challenge: A 40º pathless slope straight up a mountainside to get back to suburbia. I was already jelly-limbed and weak-legged from having hiked a couple miles in foot-deep snow by the time we got to the base of the wooded slope. It was so cold that the water bottle in Dan's pocket was rapidly freezing. My face was covered in frost. My gluteus was aching. My lungs were working overtime. But we had a mountain to conquer. So, using our gloved hands and snow-panted knees and booted feet, we crawled up the side of the hill, one trembling limb after another, pulling ourselves upward to the patch of sunlight that was so close and signaled home. I noticed dead birch trunks with fat round fungi growing on them. I noticed crimson berries decked in hoods of snow. I noticed how much pain I was in. Pausing only when necessary, we crawled ever upward. It couldn't have been more than 15 minutes before I was wheezing and pulling myself up over the lip of the hill, standing almost upright as I dashed as fast as my slowly liquefying legs would take me to Grandma Karen's backyard gate. I walked with Dan to the front door and, immediately upon entering the warm house, began shedding my myriad lumberjack layers. I felt more like a cephalopod made out of snow than the one I'd made the day before. I revived with a mug of hot chai; then we gathered the boys and all our clothes and headed back home.

Last night, I slept nearly 10 hours.

And today, I haven't so much as attempted to get a lick of exercise.

I am a champion!