Adventurers, Nurturers, Skijorers: We Want You!

Yukon Flats School District is looking for a secondary teacher for Arctic Village next year. I am off to graduate school, so my position will be opening up.

UPDATE: As of 5/19/19 my position is still open at Arctic Village School, as is the K-4 position. Please feel free to apply here through ATP and to contact me directly if you have questions about the job or the community.

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We want you! And no, not at all in a creepy, axe-wielding way!

As you can imagine, I’m kind of invested in finding someone right for the job, so here’s my honest pitch:

It’s an impossible job, but it is worthwhile. Teaching here is grueling and wonderful and infuriating and heartbreaking.

Sometimes it is easy to get lost in frustration: there are administrative failures and cultural misunderstandings and frozen pipes galore. There are a million and one things that are out of our control.

Sometimes it is easy to get lost in the pleasure of exploring the wild, magnificent Arctic Refuge that abuts the village and to forget why we must come back to work on Monday mornings when the wolf tracks lead in some different direction around some other mountain and the sunset is creeping farther north every evening. 

But we do come back. The kids have an unbelievable amount of love to give and a tremendous need to see it returned.

If you think that kind of experience might be for you, read on.

I know I am not at all the same person that I was when I began.

What does the job actually entail?

Right now, I teach grades 4-12. My classes are Algebra Fundamentals, High School English, Reading, Elemiddle (4-7) Language Arts, Elemiddle Social Studies, Art, sometimes P.E., sometimes Keyboarding, sometimes Drama.

There are extras that aren’t technically part of the job. Geoff and I both run a detention/study hall for an hour after school gets out each day. One evening a week, I run a board game night. I used to open the school for sewing two additional nights a week.

All of that, more or less, is flexible.

Geoff also teaches 4-12, and we have divided it up by content area in the past. That could be done differently, depending on the skills and interests of the new teacher. Regardless of how the classes are split, you’ll be working closely with Geoff. Don’t be shy about shooting him an email if you’re interested in the job. The school’s contact info can be found on the district’s website.

Now, the job description probably says something vague like this: prepare and provide curriculum-aligned lessons for assigned grade levels and content areas.

The fact is, you will write a lot of curriculum. You will teach grade levels and content areas that you are probably not certified to teach. You will do a million things at once, and you will be derailed constantly, so don’t bother making rigid lesson plans.

The negotiated agreement says our work day is from 8-4, that we get regular prep time, and that we have sick days that we can use at our discretion.

If you’re only planning to work from 8-4, you’re probably not going to do right by the kids. The school has a unique place in the community and in the kids’ lives, and you will be a huge part of that. That doesn’t end at 4:00.

If you want to take a lot of sick days or be rigid about your prep time, you’re going to screw your colleagues over. There is no one else in town who can really cover your classes. Sometimes, there is no one else who can even supervise the kids.

Fair Warning:

The Obvious

This is the bush: Everything comes in on the plane. The small store stocks mostly non-perishable foods. Gas costs $10 a gallon.

This is the arctic: It gets really cold here. Make sure you have long johns.

The Less-Obvious

Water:

Water here comes from the river. It’s filtered and treated at the washateria, then pumped over to the school and the two teacher apartments. Every other building in town is dry, and people haul or pack water from the washateria’s outdoor spigot for home use.

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Most people in town use an outhouse or a honeybucket at home. The school and the teacher apartments have running water and flush toilets. For showers, adults go to the washateria. Students are allowed to shower at school in the afternoons. We provide towels.

The kids don’t have the best oral hygiene and hand-washing skills, and they could, arguably, benefit from more showers.

Geoff and I live in a dry cabin, and I find I prefer it. There’s something essentially cleaner about not having a bathroom at all.

The Vibe:

There are four teachers here: an elementary teacher, two secondary teachers, and a special education teacher, all from outside. Our classified staff is all local. Many of them are quite young and awesome. In the past, we have usually had a pretty genial work environment.

There is a lot of male energy at school right now. Mark and Geoff get along pretty well, most of the time, but adding another man to the mix might be tricky. We could really use a woman in my position, if only to provide an alternative role model for the kids. Besides, someone needs to keep a stash of pads in her desk to hand out in times of need.

At the very least, if you are a man and you want this job, please consider calling or emailing and setting up a time to chat with both Mark and Geoff so that you can get a feel for how you might fit into the testosterone dynamics.

Special Needs:

About half of our kids are in Special Education. Almost all of our kids are behind by one or more grade levels in reading and math. It’s a very challenging teaching situation.

Tribal Land and Law:

Arctic Village is located right on the boundary between ANWR and a huge chunk of private property owned by the Native Village of Venetie Tribal Government. Teachers live and work on tribal land by the forbearance of the tribal government. In many ways, we have a different set of rules and expectations from any other residents of the community.

Non-members cannot go out exploring (skiing, snowmachining, hiking etc.) on tribal land without a tribal member as a chaperone and/or permission from the council. It’s easy to get out and enjoy the wilderness in Arctic Refuge, but it’s important to know where the boundary lies.

Non-members are held to a different standard when it comes to adhering to the rules and laws that the council and tribal government have put in place. This is a dry village, but drinking is common. The rules are not enforced except when they are, and if someone in the community has an issue with a teacher, or with teachers in general, or with outsiders, it is easy for them to cause a lot of trouble for an outsider who doesn’t take care.

When you have guests, it’s important to notify the council that they will be arriving. Even following this guideline, my guests have experienced some harassment. It is never the most memorable part of their experience – Arctic is stunning, the kids are charming and sweet, and most people are warm and welcoming – but it is frustratingly consistent.

No one tells you these things. There isn’t a manual or a packet for incoming teachers. Coming from outside, I assumed that I was expected to do what my neighbors do: when in Rome, do as the Romans. That just isn’t the case here, and no one will tell you that straight-up from the get-go. I have learned how to behave by trial and error and observation.

Housing:

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There are two apartments in the old school building. The one-bedroom apartment will be occupied next year. It looks like the two-bedroom might become available, but if that happens, the district will be hiring an elementary teacher in addition to a secondary teacher to replace me. Unless they find a teaching couple or two teachers willing to be roommates, someone is going to have to live in a dry cabin.

Rent for the two-bedroom apartment is $1,150 a month including heat, water and electricity. It’s possible to leech off the school’s internet from there.

Rent for a cabin in town is about $400 a month, maybe less, but you’re responsible for all of your own utilities, chores and maintenance. It’s not easy, but I think it’s worth it.

Most of the homes in town are heated exclusively with wood. It is probably possible to buy your wood from some dudes in town who bring in money that way. It’s also probably possible to pay someone to pack your water, maybe even buck and split your firewood (high school kids are great candidates for this). With a snowmachine and a chainsaw, it’s feasible to do all of this yourself, although it does add an extra heap of chores.

Perks:

Here’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for. I’m going to gush for a little while.

Beauty and Adventure

Arctic is stunning. My pictures can’t do it justice. Photographers, artists and the daydreamy be warned: you may find it hard to focus on school.

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Not focusing on school.

I’ve gushed pretty endlessly about this aspect of Arctic and of Venetie for years now, so if you want to know more, just read some old posts (suggested tags: Chandalar, firewood, snowmachines). If you’re an adventurer, make friends with Geoff (hint: he likes disaster movies and talking about man toys like cordless heat guns).

The wilderness adventure potential of this place is unlimited. I’ve been looking for the limit for years now, and I haven’t found it yet.

People and Culture

Arctic kids are the sweetest kids I have ever worked with, anywhere, bar none. They will hug you and love you and want to visit with you all the time. They’re ridiculous. If you like kids, you will love them. If you don’t like kids, find a new profession.

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The adults in the community are, for the most part, equipped with awesome senses of humor. You won’t see much of them unless you get involved with community events or attend sewing night, but getting to know folks is well worth the effort.

The elders are incredible. They have memories of a time when the Gwich’in were still traveling seasonally and living a mainly subsistence lifestyle here. They can tell stories that make the hair on your neck stand up, and they have skills that are quickly becoming rare. It’s a pleasure to hear them speak to the kids.

If you’re into it and can find the time, there are opportunities to get familiar with Gwich’in culture. The kids have language instruction a few times a week, several people regularly attend sewing nights at the school and do traditional beadwork, and there are people in the community who are glad to teach others to cut caribou meat and ice fish. My classroom is fully stocked with literature by and about the Gwich’in people, and people in town are proud of their heritage.

This is a critical moment for the Gwich’in. Congress has mandated leasing for oil and gas development in the Arctic Refuge, and the leasing area is in a sensitive place for the Porcupine caribou herd. Many adults and elders in the community are active in opposing this development, and you will find that passions run deep on this issue.

You Can’t Beat the Food

Everyone in town goes bananas for blueberries in August. I believe one woman picked thirty gallons of blueberries last summer. Lingonberries, known around here as cranberries, are harvested a little later in the fall.

There is very little, in my opinion, that rivals the taste of fried caribou meat and lingonberry chutney.

Throughout the fall and spring, sometimes even through the winter, caribou are active in the area. Caribou meat is lean but tender, and very flavorful. If you are a hunter, as a resident of Arctic Village you are entitled to take ten caribou in season. If you are not a hunter, you will have the opportunity to buy or trade for meat.

 

In the spring, holes are drilled in the Chandalar where it bends just upriver from town. Everyone enjoys ice fishing as the days warm and lengthen. Sometimes we take the kids up on skis and spend the afternoon making too much noise on the ice. I’ve never had any luck, but I hear grayling is delicious.

Other locally available foods include waterfowl, moose, ptarmigan and rabbit.

Flexibility

I have a dog that will cry incessantly and eat my boots if he’s left alone. We’ve worked it out so that he can be in a kennel just outside my classroom window all day long, which seems to work for him.

When the weather’s nice, we often take the kids skiing. It doesn’t necessarily have to happen during their thirty-minute P.E. block: we are able to retool the schedule to work with whatever activities we have planned, even on fairly short notice.

When I wanted to do stained glass with the kids, we were able to order the supplies and build a class around it.

Our secretary has been bringing her baby to work since she was just a little smushy bitty thing. Now she’s three and sometimes appears in the classroom doorways, asking for her mommy, wearing nothing but a diaper. It’s charming.

There are advantages and disadvantages to living and working in the bush, but you can’t beat it for flexibility.

Compensation

The pay and benefits are decent (by lower-48 standards).

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We Want You:

If you have a sense of humor.

If you are someone who likes to play board games with kids.

If you have an imagination.

If you are interested in getting outside.

If you are someone who is willing to give others the benefit of the doubt.

If you can think on your feet.

Interested?

If you think you might be interested, get in touch. I can answer your questions frankly or put you in touch with the folks who can.

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Field Repairs

It was twenty-below or so when we rode out from camp, and the ride was smooth. Geoff broke trail ahead of me, the Skandic plowing up a bank on either side of the trench it cleared in the tundra snow. The sun still hasn’t come up since November, but we’re getting alpenglow that creeps a little farther down the slopes each day, and the cold blue light that filters over the ridgeline to the south lasts a few hours. We headed north toward the mountains, breaking the trail that we hope will take us up into Smoke Creek and toward the divide.

When we reached the river, I decided to take Daazhraii and turn back to camp. I didn’t want to push the dog too hard – large as he is, he swims in the mire of a fresh trail – or be out after full dark. It was only a few miles of backtracking, and Geoff planned to be right behind me after pushing the trail a few miles more across the Chandalar, so I wasn’t worried about riding alone.

I turned and took a long detour through the extra-thick buttercream tundra just to revel in the way the Bravo seems to lift up and ride on plane like a flat-bottomed skiff. The dog bounded behind, wallowing a little in the deep powder, but grinning and glad. It was just after that, maybe only two miles from camp, that my sno-go came to a halt, headlight dimming and then dying, the insulation of the engine’s roaring suddenly vanishing, so that I became, all at once, a part of the landscape rather than a traveler just moving through.

I tried to start the Bravo – no dice – then lifted the cowling. The spark plug boot had popped off, taking with it the little nut that screws onto the plug itself. It was wedged up inside the plastic cap that connects to the wire.

Shit.

No Geoff, so no tools.

Oops.

I know I should carry some basics, but I don’t. This situation is so improbable: Geoff is always with me, fully-loaded down with probably fifty pounds of good stainless steel, and, when he’s not, we carry a pair of UHF radios.

I pictured the second yellow hand-held, tucked under feet of snow blanketing the riverbank just south of Chandalar lake where we left it in an airhead moment on a packrafting adventure this summer.

Shit.

Dismounts are not elegant in full winter outerwear. I plunked into the deep snow beside the trail and opened the seat compartment of my Bravo: plastic bags, spare spark plugs, no tape, no tools at all, not even the scrench that had been in there for weeks. Definitely no needle-nosed pliers, which is what I really needed. What did I have? My emergency box, behind the seat, was full of dry clothes and firestarter. Not so useful. In my pockets I carried a lighter, some hand warmers, a headlamp and a knife. Bust.

I waded off through the deep snow to the lake’s edge where a few dead trees stood bare and raggedy. My feet were cold already, even in my bunny boots, and I needed to keep busy and warm if I was going to have to wait for Geoff to show up. I broke off low, dead branches and kicked down a few scraggly dry spruces. Winter outerwear is like chain mail: you can just throw yourself at a tree, or half-climb it and try to pull it down on top of you without worrying too much about taking a branch to the ribs in any serious way. The small branches burned quickly, so I had to keep at it. I hung my neckwarmer and hat by the fire to thaw out while I worked to gather more fuel. The moisture of your breath condenses on your outerwear in the cold, so you wind up with ice buildup, which eventually gets uncomfortable.

As I was dragging an armload of twigs back to my fire, something clicked in my brain: sparkplugs.  I hustled back to where the Bravo waited, open like a clamshell in the trail, and tried unscrewing the nut from one of my spare plugs so that I could use the plug itself as a tool to remove the jammed nut from the rubber boot. Gloves on, I couldn’t loosen it. I tried taking my glove off and got nothing but a cold-scalded hand for my trouble.

Frick.

I gave up and went back to trudging heavily through the sometimes thigh-deep snow on the perimeter of the lake, wishing for snowshoes and gathering fuel while I waited for Geoff to turn back around.

When I got cold, I’d squat in the snow by the fire, then get up again to gather more fuel when the fire burned too low.

For two hours, maybe, I fed the fire, waiting. He didn’t appear. I did jumping jacks and added a bit of wood.

Night began to fall from the north and there was no sign of a headlight in the distance, no whine of an engine.

In the near-dark, I reevaluated my assets. I thawed the ice out of the elastic band on my headlamp, thinking maybe I could use it to clamp the rubber spark-plug boot to the engine and hold the nut in place long enough to make the short ride back to camp. Failing that, I could start walking. It wasn’t far, but the trail still hadn’t set, so it would be slow, difficult going, like wading in the surf, and I didn’t want to have to come back for the Bravo later. I took the spare spark plug out of my pocket and heated it, too, thinking maybe if I warmed it up the nut would come loose.

Not wanting a tongue-to-the-flagpole incident, I waited until the spark plug was really warm before sticking it in my mouth, then gripped the nut between my back teeth. I turned, and it came loose.

Just like that, I was back in business.

I screwed the spare plug into the nut jammed in the cap, popped out the nut, returned it to its rightful bolt and fired up the bravo.

Just like that.

While the Bravo muttered and churred in the trail, warming up, I threw the last of my wood on the fire. I was hoping it would burn long enough for Geoff to see it and realize what I’d pulled off all on my own. Night came as I drove away, turning my head to watch the live blaze of my campfire recede into the darkness.

(Geoff arrived at camp thirty minutes after I did, rimed with frost. He’d broken trail almost to the mountains, maybe another ten miles, and gotten stuck for a while in overflow.)

Scarcity and… not that

346DCE4F-3FE7-4704-A038-1E9F6217DE2CI’ve heard it was a great year for blueberries. Rumor has it someone in Arctic picked thirty gallons. I mostly missed the season, thanks to summer break and teacher inservice, but I put away three quarts before hard frost.

I was stoked for September to roll in so that I could pick cranberries (they’re lingonberries, really, but everyone here calls them cranberries). They’re my favorite: I make cranberry bread and chutney to eat with caribou fry meat, and I’ll eat them plain Jane just for the sweet tart bite and the memory of fall. These past two years they’ve been easy to pick and abundant during my time here, far more so than blueberries which begin to shrivel and sag toward the end of August, so I was prepared to pick and process gallons.

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Two years ago, the berries were fat and juicy and everywhere.

It didn’t work out. I have only two quarts of cranberries, and I’m saving those for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I searched and searched, and I stood in banks of the juicy green leaves, stymied. The plants weren’t bearing. The fruit just wasn’t out there. Maybe it’s a pollinator problem. Maybe we had a too-hot or too-cold or too-wet or too-dry summer. I don’t know, but I’m sure glad I’m not relying on berries as a source of winter calories.

Boom and bust is the name of the game. Before I went to town last week, we were in a lean time: there was one very old tub of hummus in the refrigerator, but that was about it; we’d run out of fresh foods and frozen veggies and were eating into our stash of dehydrated camp meals; I didn’t have yeast to make pizza dough or butter and eggs to make cookies.

It wasn’t all bad: the freezer was full of Kenai reds, we were overwhelmed with caribou from our trip upriver over Labor Day weekend, someone gave us some moose ribs, the store had potatoes, so dammit it wasn’t worth doing a Freddy’s order with only a few days to go before a town trip.

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Lyra loaded down with three fat caribou after a beautiful weekend in the refuge

Now scarcity is not the problem. It’s really the opposite: Geoff’s gone to town and I’m overwhelmed with plenty. There is too much fresh food: there’s fruit in the fruit bowls and there are boxes of salad in addition to a flat of microgreens I started in the lean weeks. I hardly know what to cook to use it all up before it goes bad.

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corner microgarden

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FRUITS!! (and stuff): neato neato neato

One of the things I love about Geoff is his confidence in me. This week, he left me home alone with a chainsaw I’d never used (the one I’m familiar with is broken), a pile of full-length logs, and an empty diesel tank. It’s getting colder now, so we’re lighting fires twice a day to keep the house cozy.

It was Saturday afternoon, and Geoff had already hopped on a plane for Fairbanks when I realized I didn’t know how to start the other – bigger – chainsaw. It has a weird choke and switch thing that I hadn’t seen before. I called down to Fairbanks and Geoff and John talked me through it and damn if this big monster chainsaw didn’t feel like sudden-onset superpowers. I had a couple days’ worth of wood chunked in no time flat, so I got down to business and chopped enough to see me through for a few days. Plenty again.

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It feels good to be rich in fruit and firewood and puppy-dog snuggles.

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Why Development in the Arctic Refuge is a Terrible Idea and What You Can Do About It.

I attended a BLM scoping meeting at the community hall the other day. Folks in Arctic were asked to describe specific concerns about the development required in the Arctic Refuge by the Tax Cuts and Jobs Act of 2017, and to suggest ways that the required development can be done sensibly.

The unanimous position of the speakers was this: any development, regardless of location and timing, will disrupt the porcupine herd and the migratory birds that nest in the 1002 area. Disruption of the herd will mean catastrophic cultural and economic disruption for the Gwich’in.

It was fascinating. I learned a great deal about caribou: the scent glands in their feet that allow them to relay information about trail conditions and hazards, the vital nutrients that the cows and calves glean from the unique ecosystem of the coastal plain, and the cultural, economic and spiritual relationships Gwich’in people have with the caribou and have had for millennia.

Developing nonrenewable resources on the coastal plain is shortsighted. Attaching this provision to unrelated legislation was deceptive. I am disappointed in my government and disturbed by the speed with which all of this is moving forward. I am humbled by the activists in this community, some of whom have been fighting this battle for decades. I am hopeful that the voices of this community will be heard, that this process will be slowed and ultimately reversed, and that eventually the coastal plain will be protected as wilderness.

If you’re interested in learning more, please read the expert opinion of a former and long-time employee of Alaska’s Department of Fish and Game who also served as a lead biologist for caribou studies.
To have your voice heard, submit comments here.

The tribe has requested an extension of the scoping period and that meetings be held in other Gwich’in communities, such as Fort Yukon, Beaver, Chalkyitsik and Circle. They have also requested a careful examination of the 1987 treaty that protects the Porcupine caribou and an invitation to the planning process for impacted Canadian communities.

Please consider lending your voice to theirs and seconding their very reasonable requests.

If you are an Arkansas duck hunter – as many of my former students are – you should be aware that the health and migratory patterns of waterfowl may hang in the balance as development moves forward.
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A spring snowshoe hike in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge

 

April Came Early

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April in March

April came early this year. Weeks ago, we had the long, snow-bright evenings and the warm afternoons with slick trails that characterize my favorite month in the Arctic. There has to be a word for this time of year in Gwich’in. I will ask Albert, someday. Birds start to appear, the little songbirds that seem to erupt from nowhere – how do they survive the winter? – and it’s finally time to ski – I have the bruises to prove it: I wiped out spectacularly last weekend.

Right now, my tent overlooks the Junjik valley. It’s positioned so that we can spy on the overflowing river valley with binoculars, can see Nitsih Ddhaa from our sleeping bags, and so that every pop of the lively ice below echoes through our camp. It’s also halfway up a little mountain.

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We headed out to camp last Saturday night after Geoff welded his snowmachine back together (His Skandic has been falling to pieces this spring. Every time we go out it’s something new – a swing arm, a belt, an exploded bearing, a broken exhaust… Sassy Bravo has been reliable, except for – ehrm – user error and the headlight thing, and what’s the point of fixing that now, anyway, when we have some fifteen hours of daylight?). I skied out ahead with the dog loose beside me. The creek at the border of the refuge was overflowing and drenched with the pink of the evening sky. I picked a path across, careful to keep my skis dry, and slogged through the thigh-deep drift on the far bank to regain the trail. Daazhraii and I skied on – I love how I lose myself in the slip and glide of it all as the light fades from the snow – and I changed into my heavier gear when Geoff caught up, a few miles down the trail on Cargo Lake.

The moon rose full and yellow in a notch to the east as we floated up the Chandalar valley. It vanished behind the mountains and then rose again above them, irrepressible as a hot air balloon. In the long moonlight, I alternated staring out into the crosshatched night-woods, looking for caribou, and resting my cheek against Geoff’s back. It is still thirty below at night, and the wolverine ruff of his jacket is a soft shelter from the wind of travel. The lullaby hum of the engine, the glide of the track and the perfect unreality of the landscape in the moonlight make something like a magic carpet ride of the arctic night. Refuge indeed.

We crossed over two rivers and passed the open water in the Junjik, then climbed the steady, messy trail up the hill to the tent. At camp we discovered that someone had been there in our week’s absence, at least long enough to build a little fire and warm up. They zipped the tent all the way when they left, and added to our wood-pile. Later, Geoff found their trail to our north: two or more people hiking with sleds.

On Sunday, the wind blew steadily all day. Geoff took off to the north to break trail up the valley, and I stayed in camp, stitching a little on my beadwork, chopping firewood, listening to the wind hissing through the cold, skinny trees, and packing our gear. When he got back, Geoff went into the tent to thaw out and I slipped off on my skis toward town.

The wind was at my back, and on the better sections of trail I flew. It’s just that it’s such a long way down the mountain. Most of the downhill bits are ruts, paired with a little uphill at the end, so you don’t go too fast. There are sticks and willows that can snag skis, and bits where the trail splits or wavers over gullies. There was one long, straight section of trail that had no speed bumps. I saw it coming, knew I’d get going too fast, but I felt agile and bulletproof in my heavy winter gear and didn’t care. I kicked off and glided out and down, the wind pressing my blue windbreaker into my shoulders and my headlong rush pressing it into my chest. I accelerated, and the light glared hard off the snow into my squint. For long seconds I was rushing over the trail at what had to be the hull speed of my poor skis. I could feel every twig in the trail punching the hard soles of my boots. I made the first little curve, barely, and whistled on over another long, straight stretch. I dodged a willow wicket, a pothole. I pounded on and down, faster and harder until my knees ached. The wide valley below rose up, white and splendid, and then the second curve came, too sharp, too fast, and I bit it like a rhino on ice skates.

The valley floor was in my face, down my front. I stood up and the snow still reached my hips. I’d lost a ski. I had to unzip my bibs to empty the snow from my pants. The radio had flown out of my fanny-pack and landed down the trail a ways. The dog looked on, a little perturbed, the wind ruffling his pricked, concerned ears. I stagger-waded over and climbed up to the trail, picked up the radio, and dug around in the deep snow until I got lucky and unearthed my ski. Clipped in, I skied on across the flatter, more ski-friendly valley as far as the Junjik. Geoff picked me up on the river ice.


Some of you out there might know that I applied to the University of Alaska, Fairbanks, for an MFA in Creative Writing. Some of you might also know that I was accepted and offered a TA-ship, with attendant tuition waiver, stipend and medical. A few of you know how hard it was for me to decide what to do with that choice. In the end, after grappling with it and getting nowhere, I flipped a coin.

Tails.

I’m teaching in Arctic for one more school year; teaching, skiing, sewing, writing, cooking, kissing, fighting, chopping, boating, picking, building, shooting and living for one more year. I deferred, and I will be a student at UAF in the fall of 2019. With luck, I’ll be able to reapply for a TA-ship and receive a similar funding offer. And I am awfully lucky: look at where I get to spend the next year of my life.

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