For Charity: Annual Polar Plunge

This past Saturday, folks leapt into Goose Lake to raise money for the Special Olympics. Once again, everyone had a good time, and $350,000 was raised.

Photos can be found here, and here are a few samples to whet your appetite:

And they're off ... er, in!

Just in case you wondered whether it was cold

Post-plunge: "Where's the hot tub?"

And here's the video (note U.S. Senator Lisa Murkowski, at about 50 seconds in):



See what you're missing? :)

Snow, For All the Southern Folks

We barely got up to zero today, and temps are starting to drop again now that the sun is going down. That's life with lots of snow on the ground, clear skies, and little wind.

So in honor of the cold winter's day outside, I proudly present The Joys of Winter. Or Frozen Fails ... take your pick:




These were obviously filmed all over, so don't blame it all on Alaska. We tend to be more snowy than icy. :)

Annual Ice Carving Contest

in Towne Square, downtown. The competition lasts for three days, and the sculptures remain on display through February.

from www.ktuu.com article

More pictures here.

Cold Days Are Best, say Alaska Pilots

Ever wonder what it's like to fly in the winter-time, up here?

The Alaska Star has a great story about some of the guys flying out of the Birchwood airport. (That's about 30 miles northeast of downtown Anchorage ... or, as long-time Alaskans would say, "It's over there," while waving their hands in that general direction.)

Excerpt:

To most of us, flying for pleasure doesn't seem like an obvious thing to do this time of year. If you didn't know better, you might think the snow, rain, ice, wind, darkness and changeable weather would keep local pilots' feet—if not their aspirations—planted on the ground.

You would be wrong.

Chugiak pilot Roger Denny explains it simply: "It's fun. Way fun."

 Denny, who flies out of the Birchwood Airport, also owns a Piper Super Cub outfitted in the winter with a pair of skis.

"Every swamp, meadow, river and mountaintop is a potential place to lay down a set of tracks," he said. "Everything is a runway."

Denny likens his plane to a snowmachine with wings.

"Flying is just playing and sightseeing," he said. "It's trying to land on some lake and make tracks; that's all you're doing."

Hopper prefers winter flying to summer flying.

"The air is so much clearer," he said. "You have clear blue skies, and the mountains are vivid white, and the glaciers are blue."

Read the whole thing here.

Snow & Wind, Wind & Snow

It's 7 degrees with winds gusting from 9 to 15 miles per hour, while snowing sideways with wind chills of -6 to -11.

It's the warmest we've been in a week.

Let's Get Ready to Rondy

The 75th Annual Fur Rendezvous will begin on Friday in Anchorage.

The Rondy, as it's known, has been a fixture since 1936. It began as a celebration of the trappers and miners who came to Anchorage each winter for supplies. The "Trappers and Miners Ball" is still a featured event.

As the fur trade tapered off, the winter celebration continued. It features sled dog races (sprints, actually), a carnival, live entertainment, street vendors with everything from souvenirs to Rondy pins to food - some of the finest reindeer sausage available is served, and you can find those vendors by looking for the largest crowds. There will be craft fairs, Native artists, sales, fireworks, and something that was added only a couple of years ago: the Running of the Reindeer. Somewhat smaller than the bulls at Pamplona, it's still fun to see - and to participate.

Large portions of downtown will become a pedestrian mall, and the sled dog races always draw a crowd. My vantage point for watching won't be as good as in years past, when I managed property at the starting line - no rooftop viewing for me, but that's okay. Half the fun is mixing with the crowd.

Let's see, some of the favorite events: the Frostbite Footrace, dogsled rides, horse-drawn carriage rides, the Miner's and Trapper's Charity Ball (and costume competition - one year it was all duct tape), snowshoe races, outhouse races, beer drinking championship, snow sculpture contest, and I mentioned the reindeer.

A few years ago, the Rondy had grown out of proportion - forgetting its roots - and was spread out all over Anchorage. Events were taking place miles apart, attendance dropped off, and the organizing committee was in the red.

But with a change of leadership, and a new director (Hi, Susan!), the Rondy has come roaring back & is showing a profit again.

It's a good, clean family-friendly event, and runs from Feb. 26 through March 7. For many, the highlight of the Rondy is the ceremonial start of the Iditarod. This year, it's Saturday, March 6.

Be there or be ... well, you know.

Photos downloaded from www.furrondy.net, via their offer of photographic galleries.

Mid-Week, Mid-Winter

Technically speaking, we haven't reached Winter's mid-point yet. The cold, snowy season really doesn't start until late October, and lasts until around the beginning of May (YMMV).

Just the same, mid-January brings its own issues: long nights, cold (okay, it can be VERY cold), snow, and very little activity with which to liven the routine. December has Christmas, lots of displays of holiday lights, parties, and the fireworks on New Year's Eve. January has ... umm ... and then there's ... wait, don't tell me ...

February will bring the annual Fur Rondy (again, not really about the fur trade anymore). There will be rides, exhibits, sled dog racing, parties, craft fairs, sled dog racing, special events, LOTS of food, and sled dog racing. The sled dog racing is particularly popular, and it only takes a couple of seasons for it to get into an Alaskan's soul. "Food, gifts, shopping and fun", to borrow a slogan from a downtown arts & crafts mall.

Did I mention the sled dog racing?

March brings the Iditarod, "the Last Great Race", where the sled dog teams have a ceremonial start in Anchorage on the first Saturday. The teams run a few miles down the road to Centennial Park, then unhitch, pack up & travel to Willow, Alaska. The official start is the following morning, and the teams light out for Nome.

The Iditarod Trail is somewhat over 1,100 miles long, but advertised as 1,049 miles. Why? I'm glad you asked: somewhere along the line, somebody decided it would be good for the race distance in the 49th state to end with "49" ... and so it does. There are actually a couple of different routes that the trail might follow, depending on the weather & how much snow has fallen.

An interesting tidbit about the destination: The name of Nome was generated, well, inadvertently. A mapper made note of the location, but didn't know what to call it. He marked it with "Name", indicating that someone needed to find out what it was. The clerk to whom he gave the map thought it said Nome (bad handwriting much?), and so it remains.

A resident of Nome recently remarked to a reporter (a bit alliterative, there) that the Iditarod is a one-day event to folks in Anchorage, while Nome considers it a two-week long party. But many Alaskans follow the racers' progress, which is posted on-line. Many volunteers work along the trail at check stations, and some blog about it. Several of the racers have GPS transmitters in their sleds, although like many a good Alaskan, most are reluctant to allow the "intrusion".

The winners of the Iditarod become instant heroes to Alaska, and are wined & dined, amply rewarded, and their names become part of a rich history. I've had the good fortune to rub elbows with a few of them (Jeff King, Martin Buser, and Mitch Seavey), and I know a number of folks who have run the race once or twice.

It's hard to explain the mystique to Outsiders, but just imagine: running along with a team of dogs, in temps of -30 F., with blizzards, white-out, ice fog, frost, hunger, sleep deprivation, etc, for well over a thousand miles. We respect the men and women who have run the race: they're ALL winners.

* * * * *

I didn't make it downtown for the races last year, but this year I shall. Oh, yes ... bundle up, and bring a thermos of hot chocolate. I can steer you toward some good food vendors, so be sure & say hi.

See you there!

Snow Day, 12/15

The fog finally moved out, pushed by strong east winds which also brought snow. Our temps have remained about where they've been, but that is changing, too. The weatherman guesses we'll have single-digit highs for the next few days.

This picture was taken around 10:30 a.m., because I was waiting for daylight. (click for enlargificationism)

I like it when the snow flies, as do many others.
There's something ethereal about snow, I think, because of its ability to absorb sound. I love to walk in fresh snow, with the world bright and clean, and quiet. A sound that intrudes becomes an event rather than background, but soon passes, leaving that sense of quiet & unspoiled nature once more.

Snow comes in many forms - some of the Native languages here, I'm told, have 13 different words for snow, depending on its nature. I've experienced snow pellets (my great-grandmother called it "hominy snow"), wet, dry, powdery, granular, crystalline, feathery & fluffy ... I like them all.

Well, the wet stuff ... not so much. Too sloppy. There have been some memorable storms, back in the Midwest, which presented wet, wind-driven snow that built up on the windshield, wipers, and headlights - requiring me to get out and clear them by hand every few minutes. I'm grateful we don't get the wet stuff here.

Years ago, on Adak (halfway out the Aleutian Islands chain, 1330± miles southwest of Anchorage), the snow used to pile up quickly: I saw it go from bare ground to car-door-handle deep in less than 90 minutes. The Navy used Caterpillar D-8s to clear the roads; that might give you a better idea of the volume, because road graders got mired in the drifts.

One Friday evening, I set off to hike to a nearby lake - perhaps two miles from the barracks - as snow was starting. Drifts grew to knee-deep before I'd gone a quarter mile, and I had to turn around. Snowshoes were available, but I feared the snow would cover my little tent during the night.

On Adak, and on the plains of Iowa, I've seen snowdrifts as tall as the buildings they adjoined. A frozen wave of snow, nearly 20 feet high, seems slightly unreal. Perhaps because it looks as though it's in motion, but frozen in a moment.

I don't know how much snow we'll get out of this weather system, nor how much we'll get through the winter, but I promise to enjoy it for you.

Stay warm, folks, and thanks for stopping by.

Weekend, Part One

Good morning.

It's 25 degrees, and light snow in the forecast. Or so "they" say; yesterday "they" announced we'd get 4" to 10" of snow - after we'd already gotten 3" - and the snow promptly stopped.

This morning's tasks include shoveling the snow out of the driveway before it gets deep enough to prevent the car doors from opening. The girls are going mall-hopping, braving the cold, snow and crowds of zombies. On the other hand, it does make for a target-rich environment (for the members of MHI).

The shoveling will wait until the sun comes up - at 9:39, today - so there's plenty of time for another cup of coffee.

And for those of you who can't imagine what you'd do in an Alaskan winter, here's a suggestion from today's paper: