The Wind Blows

Yes, that's a double entendre.

There's a trade-off that gives the frigid outpost of Fairbanks, Alaska, its ability to nestle a reasonably populated American enclave with modern sensibilities.

We take -40 degrees; everyone else takes precipitation and wind. Simple enough.

But you, silly Lower 48ers, you had to have that horrendous cold snap. I'm looking at you, New York, so now we have to endure some actual weather.

For the past few days, we've had about a foot of snow and a whipping breeze to add a little chap to the -10 degree temps. This is a "Hah! So What?" scenario in every other northern city. Not here. There are 50,000 Alaskans freaked out by snowfall right now. It makes no sense.

But enough of the weather. I'd've been outside if it were still the bad side of zero.

Got back on the snowshoeing trails.

My favorite aspect of March up here is the mass of snow atop everything that hasn't moved in five months. Here's a chair on the UAF West Campus trails.

You Conquest (Yukon Quest)

I also love this time of year because the Yukon Quest is back. It finished in Fairbanks this year, which was pretty cool to witness, even though it took some patience.

The end of a 1,000-mile sled dog race is difficult to time. Making matters worse is Eagle Summit -- the steepest and most dangerous traverse on the trail that is shortly followed by another climb, Rosebud Summit -- which is a little more than a day's trip from Fairbanks. The difference between a smooth run over Eagle Summit and one with a few problems can be as long as half a day.

So while it's cooler to catch the end of the race, the start is a bit more fun because, such as 2008's start in Fairbanks, the whole town comes -- on a Saturday with a set beginning time.

Case in point: James and I showed up at the Chena River finish line at 9:30 a.m. -- the frontrunner's earliest estimated finish. He was on a record pace, so we didn't want to miss it if he rewrote the books.

Then we waited, trotting up and down the Chena, keeping out eyes directed east.


Nothing.

I contemplated grabbing a cup of coffee about 10 times, each time resigning myself to the fact that the minute I left, the leader would come roaring 'round the bend.

Around 10:45, Sebastian Schnuelle arrived, early enough for the record.


He was followed by Hugh Neff about 10 minutes later:

Before I finish this part of the story, here's a pup:


Awwww. Next!

Epic Failure at Birch Lake

A buddy of mine who works in the press room, Mark, rented a public-use cabin on the frozen banks of Birch Lake.

It was booked well in advance. We had the cards. We had the beer. We had the guile. We had one heck of a view.


No one showed up, except us and Sam, a photographer, who stayed until 7:30. He had a friend arriving at the airport at 9.

So we took a cruise out on the lake and checked out the ice fishing huts.


And then we drank -- heavily -- and enjoyed the view -- groggily.


We awoke to a refreshing -20 degrees. My car started, somehow.

Make 'Em Say Uhh, Ne-na-na-na

I missed last year's Tripod Days in the tiny town of Nenana, but I wasn't going to skip out on something with my moniker twice. So Joe, Betsy and I cruised down in the Kia.


I don't know why I'm doing the Power Fist there. Just am. Maybe because it's a little bit less aggressive than the Projecting Strength pose. Maybe because I don't have to explain it 20 times a day. Maybe because my earlier Commando pose with Joe was epic enough and I didn't want to tip the balance of a nice day.


Anyhow, Tripod Days is a weekend festival surrounding the raising of a tripod on the Tanana River for the Nenana Ice Classic. The tripod holds a tripwire that's pulled when the ice on the river breaks. People across Alaska place wagers on the minute the wire is tripped (in standard time, not daylight saving, which confuses several people per year).

We walked into the festival. It was just a one-room deal with a bunch of beads and trinkets being sold around a dance floor. There were kids everywhere. Every-where.

It wasn't our scene, so we moseyed across the icy street to the Jester's Corner, where we planned to knock down a few cold ones until the potato race -- just to see what the hell a potato race is.

While tipping back a brew, the locals took kindly to us. One had a batch of moose chili that he couldn't submit for the contest. He was a few minutes too late. We were right on time for free helpings. Mmmm, delicious failure.

The people of Nenana are awesome. I wish it were near Fairbanks, but I guess the fact that it's an hour drive away from the city is what makes the folk so open to visitors. They invited us back. They asked us for weed. They asked if we played guitar (Joe does; I used to a long, long time ago), I said "kind of"and they offered to jam with us, right there at the bar. I didn't -- how do you jam when you know three chords and haven't played them since college?

We headed back to the festival two beers later. What a potato race turned out to be is the most frustrating game on the face of the frozen Earth.

Teams of two must make it back and forth across the dance floor with a potato wedged between their knees. One person crosses the floor and gives the potato to his or her partner, who goes the other way. Exchanging the potato is the ridiculously difficult part. You can't use your hands. Only one group succeeded exchanging and then dropped the potato on the return trip. Joe, Betsy and I giggled on the sidelines, knowing we couldn't do it ourselves.

There was a 40-mile sled dog race each day, which we didn't know was happening until we saw an unexpected dog team coming upriver.

But that was all hubbub leading up to the moment we scooted, slid and stomped across the river to watch the townspeople raise the tripod.

Here's what happens when one great Tripod meets another:

We clashed, but I allowed him to stand.

That's all my adventures as of late.

Grandma: Here's looking at you, kid.