Fighting cabin fever in Alaska

It’s official — I have cabin fever. After more than 12 weeks of cold and snow, my routines are ready to be altered with more light, warmer temperatures and accessible roads for cycling.

One typical late winter Sunday begins with opening my eyes at 7:16 a.m. Weeks ago, when the temperature hit 27 below zero, I hauled my queen-sized bed upstairs from the lower level and placed it in front of the woodstove. I look out my east-facing windows and note new rays of light coming up from behind the Chugach Range. Glad we’re gaining daylight!

I’m still in bed on my back in the eighth day of pain after bruising ribs, leg and foot from trying to prevent an encounter between Buddy, the Newfoundland puppy, and a moose. A tree got in the way.

I log roll to the edge of the bed, then slowly and in a twisted way sit up. I painfully get to a bent standing position and walk my hands up my legs while pushing my upper body straight up, then bend down to the floor in pain reaching for booties I should’ve put on when seated. Dang!

While doing the hopping-on-one-foot-and-tugging-a-slipper-on-the-other dance, I finally have them both on and head for the bathroom for the daily rib/torso bruise check in the mirror. I try to gauge if the large purple, green and brown bruises are getting any smaller. Hard to say today, but I convince myself it’s better. I also notice my eyes seem to have dark circles. Have I always had dark circles?

Time to moose check the fenced yard. All’s clear and my three Newfs blast out of the house. I move over to the coffee maker on the kitchen counter; my altar in the depth of winter. I exclaim, as I do every winter morning like it’s a big chore, “Dang, why didn’t I set the coffee maker last night? Wish I had a brain and a memory!” As the coffee percolates, I check email and Facebook, then back to the altar. I’m irritated by so many pop-ups and paranoid that I never hear from any of my sibs 5,200 miles away. I do — occasionally! Then, I load-up with a giant cup of Joe and head to “prayer chair.”

Time for the Rosary. The world needs it.

My morning moves forward with handfuls of dry Captain Crunch consumed like popcorn while watching “Jaws,” because warm wind has extinguished any skiing on the lake. I already prayed for cold and snow, now what? Yes, I’m addicted to Nordic skiing my lakes, at all cost.

Forgot last phrase of “Hail Mary,” and the irritability factor is rising. I give the computer the one-finger salute for being so slow. I’m tired, but don’t want to sleep. Around 1 p.m., I kennel the Newfs as they’re getting on my nerves. Dreaming of a late lunch of pancakes and sausages with a large, cold glass of milk, the house is a mess and smells of dog and drying gear. All kinds of gear is hung to dry — polar tech tops/bottoms, backpacks, gaiters, Italian back-country boots (under the wood-stove lip), snowshoe boots, down slippers, four pairs of gloves and mittens clothes-pinned on string hang above the wood stove.

No wood left for stove.

Around 4 p.m., I notice my buddy and hope, the sun, making its fast track to the horizon. I run for my camera and head outside to a slight hill to catch the bright orange speeding ball as it angles downward. After several of the exact same shots, I begin an “Our Father …” as the sun’s last rounded edge disappeared below the crisp, straight line of the horizon. I make the sign of the cross and head back toward my windowed winter holdout for a mayonnaise, relish and toasted English muffin dinner (too tired to drive to town to shop). Then I grab a synthetic log from the RV.

After watching the 6 p.m. news and criticizing the hairstyle of the weatherman, the dogs are walked. Then, I retrieve a book from carry-on luggage from a Lower 48 trip three weeks ago. Getting ready for my long winter’s sleep, I turn the light on above the kitchen stove to create the illusion that someone with a life lives in my Bradley Lake winter home as I sleep. Before nodding off around 9:30 p.m., I wonder if I should stay up for the 10 o’clock news. Nah, same news as 6 o’clock and still can’t take that haircut. I scan the great room warmed by the glow of the woodstove fire and muse, “What if I died and people came in here?”

Smiling and humored by that thought, I say my last prayer for the day thanking God for loving me another day and drift off to sleep on the non-bruised side, hoping my buddy, the sun, will rise tomorrow and for warm and brighter days to come.

Paul Maguire is a Palmer resident and former professor at the University of Alaska Anchorage. He is the facilitator of the Center for Creating Peaceful Neighborhoods, and advocates for eliminating bullying and fully including all people in community.