Becoming Frozen Page 7

After I secured my Web address, I drew the blog’s header title from another Modest Mouse lyric from “Grey Ice Water.” It was a simple phrase to describe a blog penned by a newcomer in the northern state — “Up in Alaska.”

  “You got a job, up in Alaska. It’s easy to save what the cannery pays cause there ain’t nowhere to spend it,” I sang to myself, grinning as I hit the necessary buttons to secure my tiny space in the World Wide Web.

  I gazed at the blue template that was to become my outlet for storytelling and a record of my life in Alaska. It was simple and blank but glowing with potential. I felt the sense of opening to the first page of an epic novel, about a hero who embarks on a life-altering adventure. “So this is my new online journal about moving to Homer, Alaska …” I typed.

  _____

  Learning to Ski

  November 17, 2005

  So I took the new cross country skis out for a little slide today. It was my second time ever — the first being at least four years ago. That was an experience that left both my ego and my knees so bruised that I put the memory out of my mind to the point of repression. But I remembered today as I snapped into my brand new bindings and started to slide forward ... wait ... I’ve been here before. It was the kind of thing that comes flooding back in a moment of silent dread ... Remembering the borrowed boots that were too small, the pair of battered skis with too much wax, and the small misstep that sent me careening into a creek.

  But it’s funny how much you can learn about something in the space of four years, even when you haven’t revisited it once. Since that humbling first experience, I learned to downhill ski, took up bicycling for the first time since I was a child, learned to ride with sixty pounds of weight dangling from the frame, began riding in mud and gravel and even snow. My balance has improved; I’m a little stronger and a little less afraid of eating snow (tastes much better than sand, you know). So when I started sliding out of control today, I just pulled the other foot forward, and kept going for three miles.

  *****

  Cycling proved to be a difficult habit to quit. I was determined to improve my fitness and maintain the weight loss I worked so hard for in Idaho, but the difficulties of winter in Alaska were discouraging. Geoff had recently added weight lifting to his exercise routine. Two nights a week, he drove into town work out in the student weight room at Homer High School, which opened to the public on weeknights after five. I joined him a few times, but cardio options were limited to two ancient treadmills. The weight machines made unnerving noises, the benches were worn, the free weights were coated in a slimy film, and the entire place smelled as though someone had murdered a dozen high school wrestlers, doused the bodies in ammonia, wrapped them in rubber mats, and stored them beneath the floorboards for the past decade.

  “How can you spend a whole ninety minutes here?” I asked one evening after the fragrance became too much to bear.

  Geoff just shrugged. “It’s cheap,” he said.

  As I awaited mail delivery of my cross-country skis, I discovered another community gym that allowed patrons to pay per visit rather than purchase a membership. The former residential house had been converted to a physical therapy office. A single large room held all of the exercise and weight machines, and there was another small yoga room. The gym even had an on-site trainer, a small but muscular man with a bushy mustache and wavy hair that hung most of the way down his back. He was perpetually enthusiastic and aggressively helpful, commenting on my body position or electronic settings every time I set myself up on the spin bike or elliptical machines. I preferred privacy while sweating — hard to find in that small space — so I often buried my nose in fitness magazines.

  As I flipped through the glossy pages and read trite declarations of well-being, it occurred to me that I was reverting back to old habits. My gym routine in Idaho Falls was a major part of my identity, and yet it became just another method to mindlessly pass the time. I would escape into television screens and magazines while I ran on treadmills, then submit to the commands of my spin class or body pump instructors without giving any thought to how these movements actually made me feel. I enjoyed the physiological benefits — fat loss, muscle growth, and surges of energy and endorphins. But there was no connection between my mind and my body. I conducted myself like a hamster on a wheel, carelessly spinning circles with a vague hope of future benefit. My mindset during these sessions felt manufactured, full of derivative mantras, pulsing beats, and pop music. I understood the benefits of healthy activity, but emotionally, it was difficult to discern how my daily visit to Apple Fitness differed from my nightly retreat into alcohol and superficial human connections. Either way, I was tuning out.

  Even here, three thousand miles away in Alaska, I could still find a climate-controlled gym, an elliptical machine and a convenient fitness routine. And here the magazines still told me this is everything I should want — “Get Killer Abs in Six Weeks” … “Lose 40 Pounds by Christmas” … “Make the Perfect Cocktail.” I always believed the magazines, because why shouldn’t I? My friends went to the gym, showed off their biceps, chatted about protein sources, and got wasted at parties. Magazines and media reinforced these activities as habits of successful people — get a good body, get some more friends, get a good man, and get some money. Only then will you be on the path to happiness. I liked to think of myself as immune to popular culture, and yet here I was, pursuing these things because I didn’t know what else to pursue. Even as I fantasized about a tight butt and six-pack abs, I could still see these desires for what they were — glossy images on paper, lacking depth and substance. I looked down at my white cotton T-shirt, saturated in sweat and nearly translucent. Were six-pack abs even what I wanted out of life? I highly doubted that.

  “It’s not nearly as bad as the high school, but it’s still kind of depressing to work out at a gym,” I told Geoff after I returned from my first visit.

  “Oh, I agree,” he said. “But it’s good for variety and it’s convenient, too. How much does that gym cost?”

  “They have these ten-visit punch passes,” I said. “Sixty dollars for ten.”

  Geoff shook his head. “That’s pretty steep.”

  “Yeah, but I figure I won’t go there all that often. Hopefully those skis come soon and I can start going out with you some evenings. Also, I’ve been thinking more about riding my bike.”

  “All winter?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I was reading online about these mountain bike tires with carbide studs, that have good traction on ice. When the weather’s not too bad, I could go out and ride on the roads, even if they’re packed with snow.”

  “Studded bike tires, huh?” Geoff said. “Where did you find out about those?”

  “People talked about them on my blog,” I said.

  “Up in Alaska” had been up and running for just over a week, and it already acquired a small readership. Some readers even left comments at the end of posts. I wasn’t sure how random strangers were stumbling across my blog already, but their advice was useful.

  “A lot seem to live in Alaska — Anchorage mostly — and the other day one sent me a link to these tires,” I said. “They’re made by Kenda. Kind of expensive, sixty-five dollars each. But if I could ride my bike all winter long, it would be worth it.”

  “A hundred thirty for two? That’s expensive for tires, but it’s a good idea,” Geoff said. “Maybe once I get my ski trail in place we can pack it down and widen it to singletrack for the bikes. Now that would be fun, riding snow singletrack.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “That might be doable.”

  The following day was Tuesday, deadline day. At 5:30 a.m., I stepped out of my cabin to a blast of single-digit cold and a foot of new snow.

  “Oh no,” I groaned. Geoff had recently contracted the services of a snowplow driver to clear our driveway after every snowstorm, but he rarely showed up before nine in the morning.
On Tuesdays I was supposed to arrive at the office by six, and my only means of transportation — bike or car — were blocked by deep powder. Driving the Prism out of the driveway was going to be next to impossible unless I spent the next two hours shoveling. Walking six miles was also impractical under my time constraints. I looked at my mountain bike — a three-year-old Gary Fisher Sugar, built for riding rocks and dirt — and sighed.

  “Worth a try.”

  Without waking up Geoff to warn him of my plan — to save myself embarrassment just in case it backfired spectacularly — I pulled on an extra pair of cotton socks, changed into a thick pair of hiking boots, and pulled ski pants and my Burton shell over my work attire. I put on a pair of mittens, a fleece balaclava, and for good measure, goggles. Now I was ready to bike commute in the snow.

  I shoved my mountain bike down the porch steps, and the wheels promptly sank to their hubs in snow. The small handlebar headlight and blinking red taillight cast jarring reflections on the white surface. A half mile from our cabin, Trail Court intersected with the main corridor of Diamond Ridge. That road hadn’t been plowed yet, either, but enough trucks had driven down the center to cut smooth ruts into the uneven surface. I wheeled my bike into one of the ruts and began coasting down the hill. Every time I turned the crank, the pedals skimmed against the hard-packed walls of the rut and the front wheel started to shimmy. But by simply coasting, I could make forward progress through the snow. I smiled as though I’d just discovered a new method of motion, like learning to fly.

  As the descent became steeper, the front wheel jumped out of the rut and sliced through the deep snow. After negotiating the icy rut, plowing through powder felt weightless. I wondered if this is what Alpine skiers felt as they carved turns in a white cloud. Still, the mountain bike was hardly an alpine skier, and after a few seconds I began swerving wildly out of control. The bike tipped over and hurled my body into a snow bank, where I landed in a soft pillow of powder. With snow packed into my collar and pant legs, I laughed and stood up. That didn’t hurt at all. The rest of Diamond Ridge passed with more of the same — flying, swerving, launching, laughing. However, when I reached the intersection of West Hill Road, the pavement was recently plowed and icy. Fear returned.

  “I need studded tires for this,” I thought. West Hill Road was covered in thick, black ice that had been scraped clean of forgiving snow. On top of that, the road lost a thousand feet of elevation in just over two miles — a considerably steep descent that was frightening enough when it was dry. I walked my bike to the edge and pushed the tires over the surface as a test. The front wheel slid out almost immediately and I nearly lost my footing trying to right the bike.

  “Oh, it’s impossible,” I grumbled. I looked back toward Diamond Ridge. I was only a couple miles from my house, and could walk or attempt to ride the bike back. But my car was still buried in snow, as was Geoff’s, and short of shoveling for hours, there was little he could do to help me.

  The only solution I could see was to hike two miles down the slippery road while cars streamed past in the dark. I wheeled my bike onto the shoulder of the road and waded through knee-deep snow drifts left behind by the plows. I had walked only about fifty feet when the first truck to pass pulled over.

  “You need a ride?” asked a gruff-looking man with an unwieldy ginger beard. In any other part of the world I would have been frightened of him and his intentions. But this was Homer, Alaska, the epitome of small-town values, where everyone not only knew each other but unconditionally helped each other. A few weeks earlier, when I asked Carey why Homer residents were so extremely helpful, she told me, “It’s really like this everywhere in Alaska. I think it’s because everything is so dangerous here. In a place like Ohio, if you see someone stranded on the side of the road, you’re inclined to keep going because chances are they’ll be fine. But in Alaska, leaving someone stranded could mean leaving them to die. And no matter how self-involved we are, all of us are hard-wired to try and save somebody who’s in trouble.” I had no doubt that the red-bearded stranger’s intentions were purely altruistic. After all, I was a solo woman walking a bicycle in knee-deep snow at 5 a.m. It should have seemed obvious that my pathetic life was in need of saving.

  “I’m going to work,” I said. “My car was stuck. I thought I could use my bike, but it’s too icy.”

  “No problem!” he bellowed. “I’m on my way to the harbor. Fishing for winter kings, should be a good day for it. Throw the bike in the back and I’ll take you to town.”

  As the truck screamed down the icy road at butt-clenching speeds, the red-bearded man expounded on the fine art of fishing for salmon in the winter. He spoke rapidly while waving a hand that I wished would stay on the wheel, pausing only long enough to ask me, “Where was it you said you were going?” I pointed him to the office of the Homer Tribune, thanked him, and moved the bike from the truck to the streetlight where I always locked it.

  “Did you bike here?” Carey exclaimed as I brushed snow off my ski pants and stepped inside. She had a horrified look on her face.

  “Kind of,” I said. “My car was buried so I didn’t really have a choice. I made it to the bottom of Diamond Ridge, and then it was too icy to ride. Luckily, this nice fisherman took pity on me and gave me a lift the rest of the way in his truck.”

  “Oh!” Carey said, laughing. “If you ever need a ride to work, just call me. You know I live right next door.”

  “I know,” I said. “I got a late start and you were probably already gone. I could see your tracks on Trail Court. Anyway, sorry I’m late.”

  “You really need to get a better car,” Carey said.

  “I know that,” I said. “Tell that to Jane. I’m not exactly raking in the dough right now.”

  “True,” Carey said. “But seriously, a Subaru is a good investment.”

  “I’m thinking about getting some studded tires for my bike,” I said. “They would have really helped me out this morning. My problem wasn’t the snow, it was the ice.”

  Carey shook her head. “West Hill on a bike in the winter is a death wish. I don’t want to have to write your obituary.”

  “I can see the headline,” I laughed. “Crazy cheechako on bike mowed down by truck driven by real Alaskan. Driver sues for damages.”

  “Exactly,” Carey said. “I don’t want to be the one responsible for that headline. Until you get a truck, or at least a Subaru, call me for a ride when the weather’s bad.”

  After we put the weekly paper to bed and the crew had finished up their Tuesday margaritas, Carey asked me if I needed a ride home.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “The weather has cleared up, and I still have about, what, one and a half hours of daylight? Might actually be a nice afternoon for a ride.”

  “Are you serious?” Carey said as I grabbed the last tortilla chip, mouthing the words “bike fuel.” “Fine, it’s your funeral.”

  Most of the morning’s ice had melted in the afternoon sun, even though the temperature remained a few degrees below freezing. Gray goo covered the road, and a steady spray of slush coated my mittens and face as I pedaled down the road. Sweat pooled beneath my sweater and trickled down my back. Even though the same layers had barely blocked the chill during the morning hours, they were too much in the relative heat of the day. I was learning valuable lessons about the effect of physical effort on body temperature, and the importance of layering.

  I stopped to remove my balaclava and unzip my coat. I didn’t take it off for fear of ruining my clothes in the slush shower. This proved to be a poor strategy, as most of the slush spray erupted from the front, and my sweater was soon soaked anyway. A cold wind needled through my wet clothing. Instead of stopping again, I just pedaled harder. On the switchbacks of West Hill, I studied the road for patches of black ice and stole brief glances toward Kachemak Bay. The surface reflection appeared especially shimmery that afternoon, as a snow-cover
ed shoreline intensified the contrast. Fresh snow clung to the tiniest surfaces of spruce needles and chain-link fences, adding an ethereal dimension to their ordinary shapes.

  At the intersection of Diamond Ridge, I saw that the gravel road had been plowed and was now covered in an inch of packed snow. But to the right, Skyline Drive was still covered in deep powder broken only by vehicle ruts. I still had daylight to spare, so I decided to practice the technique of riding uphill through snow.

  I steered into the fresh powder first and immediately stalled. Instead of hopping off the bike, I pedaled harder. The rear tire spun in place as gravity began to pull me sideways. I leaned into the handlebars, furrowing my brow in determination. The crank resisted even my hardest strokes, and the bike balked and stalled as though I were pedaling through quicksand. I avoided tipping over, but forward motion happened at a rate slower than crawling. I knew logically that adding studded tires would do nothing to alleviate the resistance of deep snow. Yet, this whole winter biking thing no longer seemed impossible.

  At the top of the hill I turned around and let gravity carry me back on a cloud of powder. As I carved downhill, I passed a couple on cross-country skis. They looked up in surprise as I pried my clenched fingers from the handlebars for a split-second mitten wave. The sun had settled behind the trees, casting pink light across the frosted forest. By adding a simple white veneer, winter had painted a scene that was almost impossibly beautiful. The silence and serenity of the landscape was so absorbing that I became almost completely lost in it, until the skiers jolted my mind back to the human world. I gathered the skiers hadn’t seen anybody else on Skyline Drive that afternoon, as I had not. We were among the few who ventured beyond our heated buildings and vehicles to immerse ourselves in beauty. Even though I was a weirdo on a bicycle, the skiers seemed to appreciate our solidarity, and waved back. Or maybe they were just being friendly.

  Geoff came down the stairs as I wheeled my slush-coated bike into the cabin. “So you rode to work today? How did it go?”