Alaskans emerge from winter on their hands and knees.
The dark, cold, wind, rain and snow beat down on us until, by spring, we squeeze out from under them and can start to walk upright again.
In varying degrees, winter freaks us out. Under its weight, we say and do crazy things we would never say or do in July. The burden is worst in March and April, a time of year, an old-timer once told me, when cabin fever spreads into a full-blown epidemic of shack nasty.
Daylight returns, but not warmth. Or temperatures will climb into the 50s on a blue-sky afternoon, followed by a foot of snow the same evening. A man rages at his wife. His wife rages at the kids. The kids rage at the dog. The dog rages at the cat. Who knows where it ends?
In Haines, you can mark your calendars for it. Last year’s recall. The 1993 school board recall. The bruising civil wars at KHNS. The battle over the Windy Craggy mine proposal. All springtime punching matches. If we learned from history, we’d cancel all public meetings between March and May and dump valium in the water supply.
But we don’t learn. Apart from that joke equating spring break-up to divorce, we’re too proud to acknowledge winter’s toll on us. Part of the myth of Alaska exceptionalism is that we love winter, that we’re like sled dogs, all fluffy and optimistic, just raring to run in the snow.
In our house, we ski and skate and snowshoe. Each winter we strap on those things and go for jaunts that are refreshing, invigorating and rejuvenating. Certainly they add joy, but they don’t make winter any shorter.
If winters weren’t long, painful trials, we wouldn’t use the expression “getting out,” or feel resentment toward friends who spend winters down south. We wouldn’t preface our comments at public meetings with how many years we’ve lived in Alaska or downplay our tropical winter vacations with friends who didn’t have one. And we wouldn’t be as euphoric as we become each May.
The flip side of professing to love winter is the shame we attach to leaving it behind. Even the legendary John Schnabel, who spent most of his 96 winters in Haines and earned his vacations as much as anyone, suffered embarrassment about getting out.
About five years before he died, John spent a few weeks in mid-winter visiting relatives in Texas. When I phoned him for a Duly Noted item about his trip, John was sheepish and reluctant to talk about it, explaining to me that he typically didn’t leave Alaska in winter and hadn’t for years.
Alaskans wear their winters like generals wear medals – as a testament of their courage and combat experience, including battle sites. “I spent 30 years in Alaska, and 27 of those were in Fairbanks,” someone will say at a dinner party. But if enduring an Alaska winter is a medal, it’s a Purple Heart, the symbol of a wound.
Let’s acknowledge that. Let’s talk about how harsh winters can be and how to soften them. Let’s start discussing how to make our town and state more livable in the winter months. The Scandinavians faced up to winter eons ago. They developed saunas and put full-spectrum lighting in their homes and businesses. A few years ago, a Norwegian town built a huge mountaintop mirror to reflect sunlight down into its streets.
We could put more public money into winter public recreation and activities, those things that bring joy and light to the heavy, dark season that dominates our year. With activities like River Talk and revival of city league basketball, we’ve made some progress. But more could be done.
Summer is a cinch. We could shut down the government and this place would still thrive between May and September.
Winter is our issue. We should own up to that, then address it.