Musings on a winter wonderland

It covers everything, blankets all it touches in the Valley. Thankfully, the mountains block most of it here. Without those peaks we could be measuring it in feet instead of inches.

As I look out into my backyard from my desk while writing this, I count the blessings and look out at the wonders of last night's snowfall.

I see the shapes created by lawn furniture left out in the cold. Tables resemble large, round mushrooms of fluff and white. The barbecue resembles a cartoon that elicits a Saturday morning memory from childhood. Pink flamingos are now just rounded humps buried in the depths of many snowfalls. The central round garden with its statues of frogs and other hopes of whimsy is now a faintly rounded mound of snow, asleep for the warmth of summer. All this is seen under the house lights. I can't wait for dawn and the wonders it will bring out in the light of the cold winter sun.

Winter is Alaska at its most beautiful. Too bad tourists who flood the state in the warmer months cannot see this. If they did, there would be a flood of new immigrants to what I affectionately call the land of the Winter Queen. It is our best-kept secret.

Oh, we tell all down south of the harshness of it all, inform them of the deep, bitter sub-zero temperatures that strike us, the wild Chinook winds of the storms that slam us. But we all know it is a plot to keep this land of the midnight wonder to ourselves with a wink and a nod. If only they knew the real truth.

The truth is about to reveal itself with the sunrise, a winter wonderland that many like myself have grown to love more with each passing year. It is with impatience I await the coming dawn to see how Thursday's snowfall has graced the land. I will dress up in my best thermals, snow boots, a brown sweater and green shirt made of the best Army wool. I will top it all off with black Army issue gloves and woolen watch cap. I like to call my winter fashion statement as something coming from 1910, the pioneer look. But it works for doing my chores outside, like cutting paths and feeding the host of critters that live with us.

The bird crew was waiting for me when I stepped outside. Nuthatches and black-capped chickadees flitted in the tree that held an empty feeder. They are voracious, going through a feeder with two cups worth of birdseed in three hours of nonstop feeding. And if the Redpoles show up, oh lord! The feral rabbits that choose to live with us snatch up the leftovers on the ground. Out of eight from last summer, only four survive.

My neighbor James calls me the "rabbit rancher." I call myself the "reluctant rabbit rancher" as I pour rabbit food for that crew. Then I'm off to feed the backyard critters; a pair of red squirrels with peanuts and sunflower seeds and more birdseed for the small collection of feeders scattered about. Then I cut paths for the front landing and the cars that sit outside. James comes out with his toy, an ATV with a plow, and goes nuts doing not only his driveway, but mine, too. (He has way too much fun with that thing.) Just as we get done, the sun appears from behind the grey clouds.

It paints all with a mellow, warm glow. The trees covered in thick mats of snow glisten with the bright light. They take on a yellow of old bone as the sun, low on the horizon, fills the sky and strikes their snow-blanketed branches. It makes for a moment of quiet winter drama of light and snow.

I stand there in the quiet and solitude and drink it all in. The cold, fresh air is clean and pure. The sounds of the birds add texture to the moment with their flitters and tweets. I see squirrels hopping from tree to tree like rodent Tarzans, shaking snow off the trees in a series of mini avalanches and racing to beat the magpies for their prize - fresh peanuts. All I need now is a moose to complete the scene.

They show up out of the woods like ghosts from another age and everything stops as they glide into the yard on ungainly legs that disguise their grace. I have seen tracks all over the place and on the trail when I hike. Sadly, none appear this day; they only show up when they want to.

It is the sights and sounds of the Alaska winter that make this place a wonderland. The Valley is full of the wild and full of life. Its beauty is our best-kept secret. Now, after a hot cup of soup, I'm going out for a walk and take in its wonders firsthand. Life here is good for this old GI. Who knows, maybe I'll run into that moose.

Wasilla resident Daniel D. Grota retired from the U.S. Army after more than 21 years of service.