Winter: Have any thoughts?

The cold nights of the long dark have returned. The northern lights flare and ripple overhead in the night sky. Stars come out in the clear. Away from the city lights they shine and seem to grow in beyond counting with amazing clarity. Frost has returned. With it, the ground freezes to nearly that of concrete.

The wind is becoming bitter with the kiss of what is to come very shortly. Winter is returning to Alaska — the time of the great white, the time of the endless night.

So how will this winter fare? Are we to endure days of wild, warm windstorms of hurricane strength with little snow to speak of, melted off by winds generated from storms that rise up from far south in the tropics? Or will it be one with a northern twist — deep freezes that test all in endurance, followed by snowstorms that create drifts of snow that bury all under a thickening coat of white, snow so thick it can crush roofs under the weight of tons deposited on them?

Each year the season is differs from the last. Each year we are hit in many ways. Powerful windstorms can rip roofs off in pieces or whole, blasting down trees onto power lines, blanking out thousands from the power needed to heat homes and light our way in the dark. Clear nights can plunge temperatures to a deep freeze of double-digit sub-zero, air so cold it actually hurts to breath it in. And let’s not forget the snow, which can quickly build up into a deep carpet of drifts that can burry roads and a whole lot more.

Now that I scared the wits out of many reading this, I will answer the big question that my friends and family pose to me — “why in God’s name do you choose to live up there?”

Well there many reasons. Here are a few of them.

On those clear nights, with the moon low and bright, the air is still and bitter cold — so cold that even the moisture in the air forms tiny crystal flakes of ice that drift like dust motes on a gentle puff of air. The landscape of bluish white drifts with snow encrusted trees in the moonlight cast deep shadows that turn the entire scene into one filled with surreal sparkle.

Seeing a pair of moose with frosted fur step into the yard with each step they take plunging deep into the snow with an unbelievable grace on legs that look anything but graceful. It is a young cow with a yearling in tow. Helping the young one find those tender willow tips they find so tasty is a thrill to observe.

Taking a walk during a snowfall. I love doing this. There is a peculiar quiet during a snowfall that engulfs all. I like to call it the “sounds of silence,” to borrow from a song I loved as a boy. I find it to be full of peace and wonder.

There are the stars. Something about living so near to the pole seems to bring them down so close. One gets the feeling you can just reach out and touch them. I have never seen so many as I do here. It is easy to get lost looking up into the vault of heaven.

Then there are the northern lights. I could spend the rest of the day talking about them. They shimmer, flare, pulse and dim like a living thing, undulating ribbons and sheets of glowing green light that fill the sky. While still pictures bring out the awesome beauty, they do no justice. The best way to really see the northern lights is to experience the phenomenon firsthand. It is, in my mind, the closest thing to seeing the hand of God in action. It is both thrilling and humbling at the same time.

This may sound like a oxymoron, but it’s very true that the organized chaos of a sled dog race start is something an Alaskan in winter must see. It is loud as the dogs get fired up for a race. Barking, straining on their lines impatiently as their human counterparts struggle to get sleds ready to be hooked up to them. It reaches a crescendo at race start as team after team fly down the launch chute to pit themselves against Alaska’s winter in its rawest and wildest. The ultimate combination of man, dog and sled plunges into the bitter, often sub-zero winter wilderness. The greatest test of endurance, the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race, is a race that is truly Alaskan in nature.

Another example happens best after a good, hard snowfall that blankets everything with thick snow. A powerful windstorm strikes the next day. Gale-force winds strike in waves. There is a roar in the air. Trees are being wracked back and forth as the wind gusts strike, blasting the snow-encrusted branches with enough force to scatter clumps of the white stuff out and away. It is a thrill to see it happen, as long as you are watching it from indoors. Being in it can be far from fun.

I love watching the snow being ripped off roofs and trees, flying across the road at the house in wild waves of white clumps of loose snow and ice.

Sometimes it is so thick to produce a near whiteout. My family and I would go from front windows to the back as wave after wave of snow would fly off and past the house, loose snow coming off the ground like sand in the desert forming large drifts and even dunes that would build up with each passing minute, just like their desert counterparts. The only difference is what they were made of.

Hiking in this is like being caught up in a frigid sand blaster, stinging and ripping at any flesh exposed with skin numbing, freezing pain. Frostbite is now a very big factor. So, the best way I like to see this is from the comfort of the indoors. Sometimes I get masochistic and brave it all just for the thrill of it.

There is much more, from snowmachines to cross-country skiing. Even everyday things take on new meaning as winter progresses; dressing up like an arctic explorer just to get the mail, digging out the driveway after getting bermed in by the snowplow, and after a lot cussing, hacking and shoveling you walk back to the house pleased at all that hard work — only to see it all disappear in an instant as the snowplow returns, pilling up an even larger berm.

Which brings me back to my original thought. How do you think this winter will turn out? Any bets out there?

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