You have to earn "Alaskan" status in January

Resslin' Around, by Casey Ressler

The calendar hanging on my wall shows that January has 31 days, but ask any Alaskan, and they'll tell you it feels like January has about 73 days, making it by far the longest month. In fact, I believe this is my 31st column this January alone, or at least it feels that way.

Two weeks ago, a friend of ours helped move his girlfriend to Alaska. That's called taking a chance in my book.

Moving someone new to Alaska in early January is a risky proposition, because they could be gone by the time the Super Bowl gets here -- and I know that's not what he wants.

I've seen a sports editor, a reporter and a managing editor all make it through the summer just fine, but when the calendar turned to January, suddenly, they quit and headed south. I don't think it's coincidence, either.

January is just plain long, and if you aren't prepared for it, it feels twice as long. This is the time when you earn that title of "Alaskan," a title that brings a lot of pride and is thrown around with a lot more gusto than, say "Floridian" or "Oklahoman," and sounds a whole lot more rugged than saying "Mississippian" or "Tennesseean."

Sure, it's easy to call yourself an Alaskan when you are catching giant salmon and rainbow trout wearing shirtsleeves in the summer, watching the sunset around 3 a.m.

It's easy to live in Alaska when you are watching the crisp fall air turn the leaves vibrant colors, and it's just as easy to enjoy the holidays with a light blanket of snow and Christmas carols.

It's even easy to call yourself an Alaskan when you are following the Iditarod in early March and the snow begins to melt a week or so later.

In all of those cases, you may be a person who lives in Alaska, but you certainly aren't an "Alaskan." That takes some time to earn.

But in January, that's when you pay your dues. You know, when it doesn't get light until 10 a.m. and it starts getting dark about seven seconds later, when the snow piles up and you get so lazy you don't even want to run your snowblower, even though you had to have the biggest and best NASCAR-sanctioned snowblower when you were rich in early October, when the dividends were mailed.

Coincidentally, or maybe not, this time of year is when I unknowingly add that extra layer of winter fat like a hibernating bear. My house is 72 degrees, but for some reason I feel like I should put a few extra pounds on for winter warmth, or at least that's what I tell myself. It's like I wake up in February and I'm even bigger than I was when I went to bed Jan. 31.

The only difference between me and that hibernating bear is that I don't lose the layer of winter fat come summertime like I say I will, and by the time I'm 40, I'll probably be pushing 575 pounds as a result. If that happens, I'll be living with the bears because my wife will have thrown me out of the house.

The term "cabin fever" was probably coined by someone who was going crazy, right around Jan. 23. If they thought about coming up with an official seasonal-affective disorder week they should consider the third week in January, because they'd get more bang for the dollar, so to speak. That week feels like an entire month itself.

My buddy is a good guy, and his girlfriend is nice, too. They'll make it through January and become "real Alaskans" if only for one reason -- it's better to experience January here, than in North Dakota, where they are from.

Casey Ressler (valleylife@frontiersman.com) is the Valley Life editor. As a Broncos fan who is crying during the playoffs, January seems six times as long this year.