Low-visibility vision quest

Since the big move, I've witnessed very few "you have to be there" events: the hometown traditions that bring out everyone regardless of their interest in the actual event itself.

Sure, I've watched fireworks on the solstice with half of Fairbanks downtown, but I was only half-there, observing from the News-Miner parking lot with some latecomers who couldn't get a good spot by the river while the echo popped acutely off the office building behind us.

The Yukon Quest start was different. For one, I was actually there, standing on the river as the dog teams hustled by. More importantly, if I wasn't there, I would have a dang hard time explaining why. As far as I know, there was no place else to be in Fairbanks from 11 a.m. to noon. In an arctic town experiencing its longest cold snap in eight years, it was a widespread cure to cabin fever.

Without any inside knowledge on the sport and minimal understanding of the competitiors, there's not much more to notice than "dogs are running with a person in tow." But at least for a while, it didn't matter whether you were into the sport or not. The city finally had some good vibes after a communal low (literally and figuratively).

So Adam, Christi, James (the desker from Key West) and I zipped upour parkas and tromped to the river to see ... well, I didn't know what to expect.

The 26 teams started in three-minute intervals and quicly disappeared into the ice fog (our version of smog).

The race is 1,000 miles long, covering some of the roughest terrain avalable -- we came out to see less than 200 yards of it on well-packed snow. So I don't take anything I saw that day as an indication of what the race is really like.

One thing that's much different below zero at a sporting event: No clapping. That leaves only whooping and cheering as ways to root on the teams, and that requires a a bit of gumption. I let out a couple of loud "Yeah"s, and drew little more than odd glances. Oh well. I kept yelling.

We had to wait about 30 miutes for the first musher to start, so we retreated to the News-Miner (just across the river) to defrost before heading out again to catch the view from the Cushman Street bridge. We watched Nos. 16-20 depart before Adam said, "Yeah, more dogs," and we all agreed that we would rather be inside.

After grabbing some Mexican food, we split ways. I headed to McCafferty's and chatted with some fellow spectators from the Yukon as a folk band played twangy tunes.

The temperature had risen to a brisk -10, so I decided to take the opportunity to walk home. It's amazing how simple things like human interaction and mobility can take the weight off a winter day in Fairbanks.

Later that night, I learned to like hockey.

I had been to UAF games and wasn't that impressed. The Nanooks aren't very good, I'm told, so I expected that coming in. Still, the two times I showed up at the Carlson Center, I felt there was something lacking.

When I went to see the Ice Dogs, Fairbanks' semi-pro team, I found out what that was: aggression.

The Ice Dogs are equally as tepid in terms of skill, as it seems to the untrained eye, but at least they know how to hit somebody and get off some shots, no matter how errant. When Topeka took a daunting lead at the end of the second period, the Ice Dogs took offense and started a four-player scuffle in the corner. "Yup, there they go." the man to my right said.

Also, the Big Dipper Ice Arena may be a cheaper venue than the Carlson Center, but you can have a beer there and you don't have to sit down to watch the game, perfect accomodations for a 6'2" alcoholic.

Will I still go to Nanooks' games? Of course. College hockey is fun to watch in a civilized fashion, but I'll secretly be waiting for some hard hits and dropped gloves. I'm pretty sure I'm not alone.