I was riding through the nearby woods recently when the setting sun spilled rose-colored light across the snow. It was beautiful but it was also 8 below zero. My hands were curled around warmers inside my mittens, I had toe-warmers in my boots, but still I could feel the wallop of cold on my face. I wondered how quickly the tip of a nose can freeze. My horses fared better – this time of year they look like teddy bears.

It’s been a tough winter. Seems we are either dealing with copious amounts of snow or deep, unending days of cold. We’ve certainly experienced years with one or the other, but rarely has a winter come along with both to this degree. This is the kind of winter we’ll tell our grandchildren about and we won’t have to embellish much to make it a story. (My son was one of the crew in Valdez that shoveled 12-foot snow for $20/hour.)  No matter how much we might like winter, most of us are ready to move from deep freeze mode into something a little more comfortable.

Happily, in February things begin to change. The sun’s rays begin to feel a little warmer with the lengthening daylight. We all know there’s still plenty of winter left.  But in February it seems that energy is renewed. These longer days infuse us with expectation and we start making plans.

Snow enthusiasts know that the best skiing, riding and hiking are still ahead. Fur Rendezvous is coming. The Iditarod is just around the corner. Gardeners begin browsing through seed catalogs. Soon my gardening son will be playing in potting soil and planting  seeds for the plants that will go into the ground come Memorial Day.

The sun’s angle has changed enough to blaze through the windows of the house. My dog sleeps in the sunspots that angle across the floor. The sun’s warmth must sooth her aging bones. I remember when the boys were little – maybe 3 and 5 years old – they would strip off their shirts and lay in those puddles of sunshine, basking like little beach bums, their skinny arms spread-eagle on the carpet.

This time of year the trill of cedar waxwings outside sends me to my window. I watch as they feast on the berries of mountain ash and catony aster. Every year these elegant birds make their appearance, and I always wish that I could entice them to stay awhile. They are the color of fawn and smooth slate with dabs of saffron and hints of red; theirs is a beauty that longs to be lingered over and beheld. But these birds are in perpetual motion as they pass through on their yearly migrations.

When the weather gets above zero my horses frolic with pleasure. (Don’t we all?) They stand broadside to the sun these days, each one at exactly the same angle to soak up the most rays per square inch of winter coat. In a couple of months those coats will begin to shed into summer sleekness. Meanwhile, their heads nod as they drowse in the welcome warmth.

Winter will soon be in the rear view mirror and I don’t know anyone who won’t be happy to leave this one behind. Meanwhile keep the coffee on, the toe-warmers handy, and a ready smile for one another. Surely spring is coming. Surely

            This morning we woke to three additional inches of snow and an updated story in the news about Lonnie Dupre who is attempting the first solo summit of Mt. McKinley in January.  Only 16 men have stood atop the tallest mountain in North America in the dead of winter. Three have died in the attempt. This is Dupre’s second try. Last year he was holed up in a snow cave at 17,200 feet for a full week before the weather let up. By then he was so weak he had to descend. In spite of the perils, the mountain beckons this 50-year-old adventurer from Grand Marais, Minnesota.

Our little mountain closer to home beckons too. Baldy Mountain is a training hill really, a quick 1,000-foot climb that gives lungs, heart, and quads a good workout. Standing on the summit of our local peak on a clear day, you can see McKinley looming majestic on the horizon.

For years Baldy was a summer hike for me. From the time my kids were old enough to pick berries, we delighted in being able to see features of our town in miniature as we overlooked Eagle River from the mountain’s flanks. The boys were just four and six years old the first time we stood on the summit – what an exhilarating achievement for those two little guys. Every year, I looked forward to springtime for the trail to dry up. Later in the fall, with the arrival of snow, I reluctantly put away my hiking boots.

Awhile back, I introduced a friend to Baldy and he has been charging up the hill several times a week ever since. I may have slowed down my pace in the beginning, but before long it was all I could do to keep up with him. Bill liked the climb so much that when winter came, he just kept on climbing. He bought spikes for our shoes and thus opened the door to a whole new world of wintertime hiking.

Winter climbing can be especially challenging – and rewarding. The wind and snow sculpt the landscape daily. Summer’s pre-determined and predictable path now grows steeper as snow fills in the gullies and clings to the angled face of the mountain. We are always grateful for the first hardy souls that kick-step their way up after a heavy snowfall. They leave behind a staircase that makes our climb easier. There are other days when we create our own steps – days when our lungs and legs require an extra measure of stamina.

At the top, we sometimes have the pleasure of watching the orange ball of the winter sun sinking into Cook Inlet. And if we’re really lucky, we see the Fata Morgana; mirages on the horizon that create striking images of inverted mountains, shimmering canyons, and towering spires. This optical illusion happens when rays of light bend as they pass through air layers of different temperatures.

           There are other days when the wind is so strong that it is almost possible to imagine McKinley in a storm. Blowing snow stings our eyes and freezes our eyelashes. It steals our breath away; several times the wind has ripped the hats from our heads and lifted our bodies like sails. It’s best to stay low on such days. The last few yards to the summit of Baldy have, on occasion, been climbed on hands and knees. The amazing thing on those stormy days is that invariable on our way up or down, we will see someone else doing the same crazy thing. And above the roar of the wind, we greet one another.

“Nice day, huh?” We shout to be heard above the roaring wind.

“Couldn’t be better!”

Then we hurry along to a place on the mountain where the pitch of the storm is less intense.

There is an entire community of Baldy climbers who make the trek almost daily. There’s the man who sometimes rides his bike from the bottom of Skyline Drive to the trailhead and then climbs to the top and back. There’s the woman with a Carr’s grocery bag who picks up litter on her way up and down. And there’s Tim, my former neighbor, whose grinning Labrador, Aspen, is the progeny of my dog, LC.  People and dogs on the trail are perennially friendly – but no one pauses to visit very long – we’re all on the go, eager to achieve our goal for the day. These Baldy climbers have all begun to feel like old friends.

Meanwhile, I am watching and hoping the best for Dupre’s exponentially more challenging attempt on McKinley. An hour or so after beginning our hike up Baldy, we are back in our vehicles heading for a warm home and a hot meal. Dupre may still have weeks on a perilous trail. The storms he contends with could be deadly. And while we may not understand fully what compels him to his goal, I can understand the yearning to be in Alaska’s wilderness whatever the season or challenge. And Baldy is a reminder that the quest to test our personal limits can come in climbing small summits too.

Holiday traditions are part of what makes this time of year special. The scent of favorite warm-baked cookies fill our kitchens. There is the quest for the perfect Christmas tree, holiday lights to hang, Advent calendars, and children’s Christmas programs to attend. And always there is food – heaping mounds of mouth-watering fare – that we indulge in the fine company of family and friends.

One of our family traditions is making home-made, hand-cranked ice cream. This ritual is played out every season; the youngest in the family use wooden spoons to stir the ice and salt while the older kids take turns at cranking the handle. As the ice cream freezes and thickens, older members of the group take their turn – until the challenge comes down to a contest between who can man-handle the last turn of the crank.

Finally, the canister is opened to reveal creamy white goodness, and we eat until we wince from the inevitable “brain freeze.” Brrrrr. It is a custom we look forward to every year.

Occasionally, it’s fun to step outside tradition and try something completely different. One year, when my sons were 10 and 12 years old, we decided to pack turkey sandwiches and go cross-country skiing on Thanksgiving Day. We wound up in Portage Valley where someone suggested we try skiing toward Byron Glacier. We donned our skis and headed up the valley. We’d never been here before, either summer or winter, and we marveled at the steep mountains and the great mounds of snow covering the valley floor. At one point we crossed the creek and eventually found ourselves at the end of the valley. Erik peeked under a snowy ledge and called out in astonishment.

“Mom, Mark – come here! You’ve got to see this!” he said.

We looked and discovered an enormous ice cavern with light pouring through an opening in the cave’s roof. We ducked inside and took off our skis. The room was as big as gymnasium; it was as if we’d entered another realm altogether. Our mouths gaped in wonder at the blue-ness of the ice. We climbed through a narrow hallway into another smaller ice room, but other passageways were too dark to venture without a headlamp. Eventually we skied back to the car and ate our turkey sandwiches. It is safe to say no one missed, for even a moment, the stuffing or pumpkin pie that year.

This Thanksgiving, more than 15 years later, I retraced our steps with a good friend. On Thanksgiving morning I got up early, made cinnamon rolls, and delivered them to my son and his family in Peters Creek. Snow fell in abundance as a good, old-fashioned snow storm moved into the area. The little ones were still in their pajamas. It was a cozy day – perfect for a big family meal or a day-long ski trip.

After hugging the grandkids, I loaded up skis and we took off on snowy roads to Portage Lake. The snow was untracked so we had to break our own trail – which was often thigh deep. Bill felt sorry for the heavy-laden spruce and stopped often to gently shake branches with his ski pole, letting avalanches of snow tumble down. He had no notion of the treasure that lay ahead. And I had no idea if the ice cavern of yesteryear even existed. After all, glaciers are moving, ever-changing creatures.

We pressed on until we rounded a curve in the valley and then we saw it. Half a mile ahead, at the base of the glacier, was an opening like a big blue amphitheatre. Jagged, Volkswagon-sized chunks of ice cluttered the dome’s floor. From a distance the cave could have been the mouth of an ice dragon. Suddenly we were infused with new enthusiasm. The going didn’t seem nearly so tough with our destination in sight.

When we arrived, we took off our skis and explored the cave. A trickling stream ran across the gravel floor and disappeared again underneath the snow. Icicles hung down like crystal stalactites. Bill touched the ice walls and claimed it looked like dinosaur skin – after all the ice itself was prehistoric. We could not stop grinning. This place was just as magical as I remembered. And like the first time, I wouldn’t have traded any amount of pumpkin pie for the experience.

Traditions are a wonderful place to begin the holiday season. I plan to make ice cream with the grandkids over the Christmas break. And the hunt for an Alaskan Christmas tree will begin any day now. Meanwhile, however, I’m also watching for new adventures and interesting ways to celebrate this enchanting season of hope.

Here’s wishing you and yours a Merry Christmas with many fine adventures in the New Year. May lasting joy be yours now and always.

It’s the time of year that frost sinks deeper into the ground and parents are looking for Halloween costumes that fit over snowsuits. ‘Tis also the season for carving fall pumpkins.

On a crisp Saturday I brought bright orange pumpkins to my grandchildren’s house to enjoy this autumn ritual. Elias, who is six years old, himself looked like a jack-o-lantern with his two front teeth missing. River, who is four, couldn’t wait to start carving with little tools that looked like mini-swords. And Aurora, who is nine months, found that her pumpkin was just the right size to pull herself up to stand – a feat she managed with a grin.

My son grew pumpkins in his garden, but like last year, they had to be rescued off the vine before freeze-up – even on a sunny windowsill, they didn’t turn orange until sometime in November. So by necessity, pumpkins for carving had to come courtesy of the grocery store this year.

We started by carving the top around the stem to make a lid and opening. Peering inside their pumpkins, the boys wrinkled their noses and said “Eeewww!”

These are boys whose parents rightly believe that dirt and sunshine are all necessary to become healthy, grounded human beings. The kids help Dad clean fish, peel carrots for Mom, and take out the trash. But to look inside a pumpkin was enough to make them both grimace with disgust. I laughed remembering how my son, two dozen years ago, used to gag as he pulled the seeds out of his pumpkin.

Elias steeled himself for the task and did an excellent job emptying his pumpkin of its contents. River enjoyed some help getting his gourd ready for carving. Aurora was relegated to the backpack so that her Dad’s two hands were free to prepare pumpkin seeds for roasting.

According to pumpkin-patch.com, every continent in the world except Antarctica grows pumpkins. The self-proclaimed pumpkin capitol of the world is Morton, Illinois, home of the Libby Corporation’s pumpkin industry. And the largest pumpkin pie ever made was over five feet in diameter and weighed over 350 pounds; it used 80 pounds of cooked pumpkin, 36 pounds of sugar, 12-dozen eggs and took six hours to bake.

It turns out the Irish brought the pumpkin carving tradition to America. The practice originated from carving turnips and placing embers inside to create a lantern. In the United States, the carved pumpkin was first associated with the harvest season, long before it became an emblem of Halloween

Brothers Elias and River are the whirlwind of the household – all motion, noise and joyous rumpus. But as they finished carving happy faces (no scary monsters please), the house grew oddly silent with their quiet concentration. The scent of roasting pumpkin seeds filled the house.

In the end, we lit candles to place inside their jack-o-lanterns and posed for photos. I had to laugh at the resemblance of the boys to their own grinning pumpkins. Next year, the gaps in Elias smile will have closed, River will be nearing kindergarten, and Aurora may well be talking. And these are the rituals of family that create the snapshots we hold dear as the years pass. One autumn after the next.

Happy Harvest to All.