Bears are fascinating on so many levels. They symbolize all that is raw and wild and beautiful about Alaska. And they are a testament that wild places still do exist.

                Of course there were some decidedly mixed feelings when a bear’s habitat intersects with your own. Last fall, a trio of brown bears loitered around our neighborhood and created quite a stir. On more than one occasion, sightings of this sow and her two nearly-grown cubs caused the principal at Birchwood Elementary to cancel recess and keep the kids indoors. Around that same time Kristie Kuhl, an intern at Our Redeemer Lutheran Church, looked out her office window to see all three of the bears frolicking in the snow.

                My horses let me know we had visitors early one morning when I went outside to feed. They snorted and huffed, looking pointedly at something in the dark.  Moose often amble through the area, but this time the horses’ agitation was decidedly more animated. I stood and watched but beyond the circle of the barn’s light, the shadows fell deep. Whatever had trespassed was gone. A day later, my neighbor called to say one of the brown bears was in my yard, heading toward her place. The bears padded between her house and barn before making their way toward the nearby woods.

                We were all relieved when this bruin family finally decided to go to sleep for the winter. Now we are all wondering if they’ll be back. The sow may have new cubs, which means she would put last year’s teenagers out to fend for themselves. Fish and Game officials are once again entreating residents to keep food sources locked up so that bears have no reason to stick around. We’re a little nervous that they might take a liking to horse meat, but Jesse Coltrane of Alaska Department of Fish and Game says that she’s unaware of any horses being bothered by bears over the years. However, she fully expects these bears will get into trouble if they decide to stick around the Birchwood area.

                Later on the same day that my friend and I saw the black bear, we also met a brown bear in captivity at the Alaska Wildlife Conservation Center in Portage. Our visit happened to coincide with the recent news that one of the Center’s brown bears had escaped its enclosure. Dr. Jordan Schaul, curator and conservation biologist for AWCC, had raised the runaway since she was a nine-month-old orphaned cub. Originally from Kodiak, Shaguyik had grown to 300 pounds and was two years old when she decided to emancipate herself.  The remaining bear, Takquoka, was a little lonely without his partner. He ambled up to Schaul when he called and it was apparent that the handler and bear had a connection. Shaguyik  and Takquoka were slated to move to a large bear facility in Sweden in June. It appears now that only one of them will make the trip.

                Gauging by the popularity of bear-viewing in Alaska, the fascination with bears seems to be universal. Of the top ten things I’ve done in Alaska, a visit to the McNeil River bear sanctuary would rank near the top of the list. It is hard to describe sitting on the gravel beach just a few yards from a brown bear as she teaches her cubs to strip the skin off a salmon before eating the roe. Or watching teenage bears spar and romp and grapple with the finer points of fishing. We humans were no more interesting to McNeil River bears than the squawking seagulls who also shared the beach.

                All of which is to say, its springtime in Alaska. The sun lingers long and languid in a dome of blue. The bears are out. And the promise of summer shines abundant.

]]> http://www.kaylene.us/2012/uncategorized/bears-of-spring/feed/ 0 http://www.kaylene.us/2012/uncategorized/spring-marks-avalanche-season/ http://www.kaylene.us/2012/uncategorized/spring-marks-avalanche-season/#comments Wed, 04 Apr 2012 20:16:34 +0000 kaylene http://www.kaylene.us/?p=234 Continue reading →]]> A decade ago on Easter Sunday, my sons and I argued about what we should do after church on that warm sunny afternoon. They were still teenagers with swagger and they wanted to climb high and ski down the slopes along the ridge behind our home in Eagle River. Instead, I insisted we cross-country ski on the flat surface of Eagle River – the snow had been too unstable lately for the slopes. I remember their grumbling disappointment as we drove to the trailhead at Mile 7.4 of Eagle River.

It was a dazzling day – the best spring has to offer. Our faces felt the warmth of sunshine and the whole world seemed to be waking. Birds chirped, the trickle of open water hinted at the river’s eventual thaw, and a pair of coyotes sang to each other across the river. It wasn’t long before the brilliance of the day blazed away the shadow of our argument. We were on the river for several hours, enjoying the day and each other’s company.

On the drive back home later in the afternoon, traffic on Eagle River Road slowed to a crawl and then stood at a standstill. As we waited, a helicopter flew overhead and then landed on the road ahead of us. We grew quiet knowing something serious had happened. Later in the day we learned that Bill Crouse, 44, and his stepson, Don Zimmerman, 26 were snowshoeing on the very slopes we had earlier argued over. A sugary layer of snow collapsed beneath them, triggering an avalanche that buried the pair and their two dogs. Neither the men nor their dogs survived the slide.

Their deaths shook our community. We’re a small town and if you didn’t know Bill or Don, you knew someone who did. It was about the time of that tragedy that my sons began sporting avalanche beacons, shovels and probes in the backcountry. I can’t say for sure if the guys even asked for beacons, but it made me feel better knowing they had some safety gear as they skied in the Chugach and Kenai Mountains.

Since then, avalanche safety gear has grown increasingly sophisticated. The Avalung allows someone buried in an avalanche to breathe by diverting carbon dioxide away from the victim’s face and drawing on air directly from the snowpack.

Airbag backpacks are another safety innovation. “Avalanche air bags rely on the principle of inverse segregation. If you shake a bag full of sand and pebbles, the pebbles will rise to the surface . . . (this also works with a bag of chips- the big ones work their way to the top). In avalanches, making yourself bigger can help keep you on the surface, and air bags do that by inflating a bag which increases your size,” wrote blogger Nick Thompson on his website http://www.wildsnow.com

This gear is expensive but it never hurts to stack the deck in your favor if the worst should happen. As of this writing there have been 29 avalanche deaths in the United States this season.

My youngest son, who has spent a season heli-skiing and training in Haines, felt a kinship with the men who died in an avalanche outside of Haines last month.  He knows the thrill they felt as they plunged through deep powder, making first tracks on virgin snow. Having skied out of smaller snow slides, he also knows the sick dread of having a slab give way underfoot. It’s like tangling with runaway freight train. The best you can hope for is to get out of the way.

He has been saving up to buy an airbag backpack and recently scraped enough together to finally order one. I’m relieved that he has it, yet we both know that the very best gear will never replace safe route finding, knowledge of snow conditions, and common sense.

To everyone enjoying the backcountry during Alaska’s amazing spring, learn what you can about safe backcountry travel. Take a class and learn how to dig a test pit to evaluate snow conditions. For more information about avalanche safety, visit the Alaska Avalanche Safety Center at http://www.alaskasnow.org/  Most of all just be careful out there.

Three weeks ago, someone with a pellet or air gun shot Denali dead. He was just four years old.

The details are unclear, since no one has come forward or witnessed the shooting. Jen said that the veterinarian who performed the necropsy sees it all the time. Animals that have been shot with pellet or air guns are vulnerable to life-threatening infections, even when their injuries appear to be minor.

“The wound itself can look innocuous, but the (pellets) can definitely cause severe damage especially if it lodges in the abdomen or chest cavity,” said Dr. Lorelei Cuthbert of Ravenwood Veterinary clinic in Eagle River.

Today’s pellet and air guns come in models with power equivalent to a high-powered rifle.

“There are pellet guns made today that are powerful enough to kill a buffalo,” said Jim Kedrowski, owner of Arctic Fox Taxidermy in Wasilla. “People don’t realize how powerful they are.” He is quick to point out these guns – even the lighter caliber models – are not toys.

The guns are not just a danger to pets. A study by the Center for Disease Control (CDC) reports that more than 30,000 people are treated in emergency rooms each year because of pellet gun injuries. Of those, 81 percent are children or teenagers. The majority of these are males ages 10-14 years.

Denali was killed with was a .177 pellet, one that coincides with a number of higher powered pellet or air guns. According the website of Airgundepot.com, .177 caliber air rifles can reach velocities of up to 1250 FPS (feet per second). Denali was likely shot in his yard, where he was restrained by an electronic perimeter fence. Tanners didn’t notice the small puncture wound to his abdomen. One evening, he just grew terribly ill. When Jen and Jesse realized Denali was in big trouble, they loaded him into the back seat of the car and Jen rushed him to the vet. He died on the way. The vet believes the pellet was in his body for several days before the infection became apparent. By then it was too late.

An estimated 3.2 million nonpowder guns are sold in the United States each year with muzzle velocities from 350 FPS to 1350 FPS. Despite the large number of BB and pellet gun-related injuries treated in emergency rooms each year, there are no nationally specified safety standards for nonpowder guns.

The Tanners are not opposed to guns or hunting. But they are still stunned that their beloved Denali is gone.

“He was that one in a million dog,” Jen said. “We had so many people who wanted one of his pups. He was perfect.”

The Tanner’s 15-month-old daughter liked to crawl all over Denali, who patiently bore her toddler affections.  Jesse and Jen can’t help but think that if a pellet gun can kill a dog, what about a child? Their concern has merit. The Consumer Product Safety Commission reports that at least four children every year die from a popular holiday gift – the BB gun.

The Tanners don’t know who shot Denali or why. But they, along with other responsible gun owners like Jim Kedrowski, and veterinarians across Eagle River and the Valley, urge parents to teach their children about the dangers of these guns and provide direct supervision in their use. Every gun user should be educated about the importance of gun-safety practices and how to safely handle a firearm. When not in use, all guns in the home should be kept locked up and unloaded.

Meanwhile, there’s a big hole in the Tanner household – a place where a good and faithful dog once resided.

“I miss him every day,” Jesse said.

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

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.

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.

That’s how Susan Dent described our recent ride up the Carle Wagon Road. The purported crazy man was Dick Stoffel, a long-time horseman and backcountry traveler, whose hearty constitution for rugged conditions outdid the rest of us.

The afternoon lay before us like a gem, with the season’s first snow laying lightly on the landscape. Our plan was to ride along the historic Carle Wagon Road. The Matanuska Borough Parks, Recreation and Trails Advisory Board had recently passed a resolution in support of Back Country Horsemen of Alaska’s development of the trail for equestrian use. We’d reconnoitered this trail to a certain point, but were unsure of the old road’s exact location beyond it. So our goal that day was to further explore the area and enjoy a nice afternoon ride.

Our group consisted of a cadre of Back Country Horsemen, Dick Stoffel, Susan Dent, and me. Added to our group were Susan’s 20-something daughter Colleen Fisk and Dick’s friend Chris Johnson – who was riding a horse for the very first time. Dick wanted to introduce the young man to horses before a horse-back hunting trip that they were undertaking – the very next day.

The trail sloped gently uphill for a couple of miles and we commented on the great view as we gained elevation. The Talkeetna Mountains are a treasure and we felt privileged to be there in the company of fine horses, good dogs, and newfound friends. The snow grew deeper and the trail narrower and I was thrilled to realize we’d intersected a slender hiking trail I’d taken earlier in the summer.

Our horses worked hard as we climbed a steep ridge. The landscape fell sharply away on either side. This didn’t much look like a wagon road. At several points we got off our horses and led them, letting them rest along the way. We’d gotten a late start and mention was made as to when we ought to turn around. But no one wanted to be the one to say “Let’s go back.” Besides, on an earlier weekend, Dick had ridden from the start of the trail on Edgerton Parks Road all the way up to Independence Mine and the A-frame chalet where he’d enjoyed a cold beer with the proprietor of the place, “Hap” Wurlitzer. That sounded like fun.

We reached a snowy plateau at which the trail all but disappeared. Here, Dick said it would take just as long to reach the chalet as it would to go back. So we made the decision to press on.

Turns out – between the lack of trail, additional snow, and impending darkness – it would take us almost twice as long to get to the chalet than we expected. And this is where the real adventure began.

The horses traversed the mountain one solid step at a time. We were amazed at their sure-footedness, especially in the places where we got off to give our horses a break on a slope that was increasingly growing steeper. While the horses carefully picked their way, we humans slipped and slid along the hillside. At one point, I slid directly under my horse’s feet. She was agile enough to avoid stepping on me. For the most part, it seemed safer all-around just to stay on board.

Colleen’s horse was side-hilling when the terrain under the snow suddenly turned slick. I looked back to see horse and rider skiing sideways downhill. At this point, Colleen’s mother, Susan, began thinking some choice words about our Sunday afternoon ride. But once again, the horse’s athleticism won the day and no one fell.

It began to snow and it would soon be dark. We still had a valley and a mountain slope to traverse before we would even see the lights at the chalet. Now Susan’s choice words were muttered aloud – and her daughter laughed.

A long beaver pond with dams on either side greeted us in the crease of the valley. The only way to cross was to pick our way over the smaller of the two dams. We dismounted and sent our horses across, who tiptoed quickly over the jumbled mass of logs and sticks. As evening turned into night, the horses were our heroes. We experienced first-hand the great partnership between horse and rider as our afternoon jaunt turned into a more serious challenge.

As we rounded the mountainside, the lights of the chalet finally came into view. All of our spirits lifted – even the horses – at signs of civilization. My horse put her ears forward and her stride suddenly had new purpose. The chalet was still several miles away with a deep wide creek bed in between. Our horses’ exceptional night vision helped them find the best footing through that last valley. By the time we reached the road, we were exhausted but elated that all horses and riders were intact. Cold and hungry maybe, but without a scratch.

Our elation turned to dismay when we discovered a “Closed” sign on the chalet door. Dick knocked and suddenly there stood before us a smiling face. We understood immediately why Dick’s friend had the nickname “Happy Jack.”  We were sure happy to see him. He invited us inside and we shared what food was left from our saddlebags – a peanut butter sandwich and a couple of power bars. Susan checked her GPS. We’d gone nearly eight miles and made 3500 feet in elevation gain in five hours.

It was nearly 10 p.m. when we loaded the horses into Dick’s large stock trailer. Horses will often balk at loading, especially into a dark unknown trailer with a steep wooden ramp. My horse must have known it was her ticket home because she nearly knocked me out of the way to leap on board. “Get me home,” was a sentiment shared by all.

Dick transported us back down the mountain to our own rigs and trailers, telling stories of other misadventures he’d had in bygone days. Was it here that Susan came up with the notion of him being a “crazy man” or was it sometime earlier in the day?  And to Chris Johnson, whose first ride he’ll likely remember as a suffer-fest – keep the faith. The partnership between horse and rider is hard to beat. And the Carle Wagon Road must be out there somewhere.

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.

When I came to work Monday morning, my coworker – who is normally a jocular fellow – growled about his weekend.

“I’m going to make a video of why I hate going to the fair,” he grumbled, “so that next year when someone tries to talk me into it, I can watch and remind myself why I should say ‘no’.”

I laughed, thinking how much I had thoroughly enjoyed my own evening at the fair eating those once-a-year indulgences, watching people, and laughing at the antics of baby pigs.

It seems people either love the fair or hate it – and maybe that’s a reflection of how we feel about the change of seasons this time of year. After the manic daylight hours of summer, many of us welcome autumn for its gentler change of pace. The curtains have finally darkened for at least part of the night; we breathe a little deeper, sleep more restfully. The last of the garden is harvested and the final berries are gathered from the vine. Rose colored sunrises and crimson sunsets hearken a time when the nights will grow colder and the snow will lay its skirt down the mountainside.

On the other hand, with winter comes its requisite hassle. Car tires need to be changed. Garden hoses need to be put away and snow shovels brought out. Icy roads and the darkness will have to be contended with. And (oh glory be!) skis will come out of the closet for a good waxing before snowfall.

We may have strong and sometimes mixed feelings about the seasons changing, but one thing is certain. It will happen whether we are ready for it or not. Author Carol Bishop Hipps wrote that autumn is “the mellow, messy, leaf-kicking, perfect pause between the opposing miseries of summer and winter.”  And so the days pass, the seasons change, and our lives are richer for it in spite of that age-old tinge of melancholy.

While at the fair, I spent much of my time in the barn at the farm exhibits. The piglets were all awake, scampering around their mother who was snuffling down dinner in the manner that has given gluttony its namesake. The babies romped with enthusiastic abandon. Pink, black and spotted piglets tumbled with glee, little ears flopping. While the babies surely made me smile, what was even more remarkable were the people who gathered around the pen. Folks of every shape and ilk – people who might not acknowledge each other on the street, all of whom carried some burden or another – stood shoulder-to-shoulder grinning and laughing at the unabashed silliness of those piglets. There wasn’t a sad face in the bunch. Not one. And I thought to myself, these are moments to savor – moments when the world seems good and right, and oh-so-tender. Surely these latter days of summer are a place to linger and smile.

Trouble is I’ve had no luck whatsoever growing the stuff. I love rhubarb. Pies, jams, crisps, sauces – anything with even a hint of rhubarb is delicious. But my plants are anemic and have rarely produced more than a stalk or two – and hardly the big rhubarb swizzle sticks of my childhood. In fact, it’s given me a bit of a gardening complex. Many friends have given me rhubarb starts – all of which eventually fail to produce. How can I grow a profusion of flowers, baskets full of blossoms, and still fail to raise this so-called resilient, hardy plant? A friend, who is currently enrolled in Master Gardener courses, suggested I may need to have my soil tested. I’m sure she’s right.

Meanwhile, I’m always grateful for the abundance of rhubarb patches other than my own. One of the best rhubarb gardens I’ve ever seen is at Jon and Myra Nauman’s in Chugiak. Owners of the Horse Drawn Carriage Company, the couple dig up their rhubarb plants every few years, plunk in a few shovels full of horse manure, and reset the plants back into the soil. Their rhubarb stalks grow thick as fists with leaves the size of elephant ears. (Yes, I’ve tried this trick with my plants but to no avail.)

The history of rhubarb is long and colorful. The Chinese had been cultivating rhubarb for medicinal uses since 2700 BC. Marco Polo talked about Chinese rhubarb at length in the accounts of his travels. In 1778 rhubarb was recorded as a food plant in Europe – its earliest use was as filling for tarts & pies. Rhubarb was first grown in America between 1790-1800 by a Maine gardener who managed to get seed or root stock from Europe.

My family’s history of the plant is, as mentioned, scant. Yet there is one “rhubarb” that currently abounds. My son’s family just so happen to name their puppy “Rhubarb.” An energetic lab, she is the daughter of my dog “LC” and now a happy one-year-old. She is the family’s friend and protector. (She excels at warning the family about bears in the yard.) And she is as sweet as the sugar I used for dipping rhubarb as a kid.

As for next year’s attempt at growing the stuff, I will get the soil tested and try it again. For now, the rainy days of August put me in the mood for Rhubarb Crisp. I may have to ask around if anyone has rhubarb to spare.

Rhubarb Crisp

4 cups chopped rhubarb

3 tablespoons orange juice mixed with 1 tablespoon cornstarch

1 cup granulated sugar

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 tablespoons cold butter, cut in small pieces

1/4 cup melted butter

1/3 cup brown sugar

2/3 cup sifted all-purpose flour

dash salt

1/4 teaspoon baking soda

2/3 cup quick cooking rolled oats

Heat oven to 375°. Butter an 8-inch square baking dish. Arrange diced rhubarb in the prepared baking dish. Toss rhubarb with the orange juice and cornstarch mixture, then sprinkle with the 1 cup sugar and the cinnamon; dot with the 1 tablespoon of cut up butter.

Combine melted butter with brown sugar. Sift together the flour, salt, and baking soda; mix with oats. Combine the flour oat mixture with the brown sugar and melted butter mixture until well blended. Spread the crumb mixture over rhubarb. Bake for 40 minutes.

Serve warm, with ice cream or whipped topping.