Her Secret

I'm often asked how I like living on this fog-shrouded island, amidst the cold sea and ice, after growing up in the dry, heat-stricken desert of the southwest. I smile and reflect, "I must love it because of where I'm from."

Locals and visitors agree summers here are magnificent; yet this could be said of many places. Alaska holds a secret, revealed only to those who stay after the summer frivolity has waned - her true majesty is in the heart of winter. The best descriptor I can manage is dramatic. In all of 360-degrees, I'm awed by the atmosphere and sensations of this winterland.

The striking beauty of the pointed granite peaks jutting into our horizon is multiplied when shrouded in snow; towering cliffs of glistening white plunge into the sea. During our scant six hours of daylight, the sun barely peers over these peaks, creating the wondrous illusion that from early morning, the day progresses directly to evening, thereby wholly skipping the usual noon-time ennui of the lower latitudes. The penetrating rays of a summer sun have softened now to a more affectionate, diffusive candlelight glow. The air is crisp, and the colder the better; if it warms above freezing, fog and rain settle in, unsure of what to do next.

My senses are heightened and delighted - the sparkle of snowflakes and icicles, the crunch of snow beneath boots, the warmth of a pocket, the scent of woodsmoke, the splash of seabirds, dazzling northern lights.

The hustle and bustle of the endless days of fishing season are gone; God makes winter days short, for recuperation of body and soul. I bundle in thick socks and a blanket, steaming mug of coffee in hand, and delight in the magic.

Though apparently, my windowsill plants feel quite differently.