Life slows down a bit around a campfire

Resslin' Around, by Casey Ressler

Crack. Sizzle. The noises of the campfire were luring me to sleep gently in the darkness of the evening, as the cold snapped at my cheeks and reminded me that yes, it was winter in Alaska, and camping then is always an adventure.

The five of us sat around the fire and pondered life's big questions -- if you were trapped on a deserted island and could have only one kind of beer with you, what would it be? -- and life's bigger questions -- if that deserted island had a trout or salmon stream and you could only have one fly, what pattern would you choose?

The calmness and solitude of winter camping had set in.

"See, everything worked out, huh?" my dreamy-eyed dad said.

"Yeah. It got a little crazy yesterday," I replied to no one in particular. "No snow. Can you believe that?"

The campfire we had gathered around was about 60 miles from where it had been planned, months in advance.

We had rented a public-use cabin in the Nancy Lake area -- one that is six miles off the road system and requires snowmachines to get all the gear back to it. No problem, we thought back in October after making the reservation. Snow certainly won't be an issue come January.

Last Friday afternoon, the day after all of the gear was packed and about 14 hours from when we were planning on meeting, we were reminded that snowmachines had been banned in the park for the time being. In true Alaska fashion, it was because there was a lack of snow.

Our plans had been thwarted, and it was time to snap into action. After talking about the Nancy Lakes cabin for two months, we had to put a new plan in place in two hours.

A quick check of other public-use cabins turned up nothing -- they had all been booked for months, when other people obviously thought snowcover would never be an issue in January in Alaska.

With the cell phone burning up one ear as the regular phone burned up the other, back-up plans were trickling in from the five campers.

Finally, we decided on a small, somewhat little-known cabin in which not having a woodstove wouldn't matter, because with five guys sleeping in what amounts to a phone booth, heat wouldn't be a problem. At least that was what we told ourselves prior to waking up early Saturday, when it was -20 degrees.

We made the drive and unloaded the snowmachines, filled the sleds with gear, and zipped across the lake to the cabin, which, thankfully, was not being used. Through all the winter gear, the cold still could be felt.

Much to our surprise, a makeshift stove had been put in the cabin, and as some of us ice fished unsuccessfully, others gathered wood and started the woodstove.

As evening settled on the lake and the darkness was interrupted by our campfire, the worries of trying to get a back-up plan in place suddenly didn't seem to be a major issue. Not like it was when it was happening.

That's how camping is. Whether it be in the dead of winter or when the fish are running in the summer, worries tend to fade when sitting around the campfire with friends and family.

Work is miles away -- both literally and figuratively -- and stress suddenly doesn't seem to exist as the hot coals crackle.

As the pace of life slows down, you are reminded that life is too short to worry about the fact you couldn't go to the cabin you originally planned for, that there are bigger things to think about than one plan that went haywire.

After settling into my sleeping bag and starting to drift asleep, it started to snow, appropriately enough. Looking through the frosted window of the tiny cabin, I thought to myself, "I bet Nancy Lakes has enough snow now," but at that moment, it really didn't matter.

Casey Ressler (valleylife@frontiersman.com) is the Valley Life editor. He was asked not to mention that his dad fell in an ice fishing hole on the trip, much to the amusement of everyone. So he didn't.