Becoming Frozen

by Jill Homer

  “Not all that bad,” I said. “I ended up hitching a ride on the way to work because there was so much ice on West Hill. But I was able to ride all the way home. I even took a short detour to check out Skyline Drive. It’s hard but possible to ride a bike through fresh snow. If I get studded tires, I can’t really see any problem with riding all winter long.”

  “Were you cold?”

  “Not really,” I said. “I over-dressed if anything, although I probably would have gotten pretty cold if I actually had to ride down West Hill in the morning. Plus, I got soaked riding home and was starting to feel cold as the sun went down. But all in all, it wasn’t a bad experiment in winter bike commuting. I think it went well.”

  “And guess what, your skis came!” Geoff said. “I had to wait until the plow guy came at noon to go to the post office, but I went to drop of some packages and your skis were there. I was going to see if you wanted to head out after dinner. Just a short ski; I’ll show you some basics.”

  I looked down at my coat and mittens. I didn’t have any other winter clothing that wasn’t soaked in slush. “I’m really pretty exhausted from all this biking today,” I admitted. “And I was hoping to have some time to write a blog post tonight. But, really, thanks for picking up my skis. Maybe I can join you tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure?” Geoff said. “It’s a nice night.”

  “Really,” I said. “I still have bad associations from trying to ski with Monika like four years ago. I’ll need more mental stamina for my first time in Alaska.”

  Geoff shrugged. “Okay. I kept it simple tonight, just vegetarian tacos, and I made some salsa. If you don’t want to come, I’ll probably head out for a couple of hours.”

  “Great,” I said.

  As Geoff finished cooking dinner, I scanned the planks that he had already removed from the box. They were an older pair of Salomon skis, navy blue, with clunky-looking bindings. To me, they seemed a difficult piece of gear to connect with, almost oppressive in their anchor-like attachment to feet and legs. Memories of my first experience cross country skiing in Utah were still tinged with fear. I remembered the way they always pulled me toward places I didn’t want to go. I had to side-step up every hill because I kept sliding backwards. And then, when we were only a few hundred yards from the trailhead, I accidentally careened down a gully and fell face-first into an icy creek. Skis were a difficult piece of gear to control. They didn’t have the all-terrain utility or brakes of a bicycle, and yet most people accepted that skis were the only way to travel in the winter.

  Still, options were never a bad thing. Anything was preferable to spending every single day languishing in the hot and humid gym, toiling without engagement and traveling nowhere. Why I hadn’t figured this out when I lived in a more temperate climate, I’ll never know. But I did now know the subtle beauty of bike tracks in the snow, and I knew the awe of a winter sunset. I sensed a deeper understanding written in the frozen landscape, and I wasn’t about to go back to the gym.

  _____

  Susitna Dreams

  November 28, 2005

  Scenic drive back down the Peninsula today. A rather rough freeze has transformed the Turnagain Arm into boulders of ice. I looked out at the tortured seascape and thought of Death Valley — a beautiful desolation born of heat, not ice.

  We stopped at a bike shop in Anchorage and bought studded tires for our mountain bikes. And it looks like we’ll have snow cover to practice on for a long time now. We returned home to nearly two feet of new powder on everything. We spent a better part of the clear and cold evening stamping through thigh-deep snow to find the snowshoe trail we’ve been working on.

  Anyway, Geoff and I were so giddy at the prospect of extending the cycling season indefinitely that we picked up a brochure for the Susitna 100 and began planning our training regimen. We thought we were all bad because we even had thoughts of participating in a winter bike race that crosses snow-covered tundra during the deep freeze of subarctic night. But then we discovered the prohibitive entrance fee, regulating the races to those who have, well, a little bit more than blind gumption and gear. But if anyone out there — anyone at all — feels inspired to sponsor us in our efforts as virgin ice bikers tackling a decidedly hardcore bike race in the frozen north, we will proudly display your logo and our gratitude on this blog for as long as it takes. I’m not joking. Really. Why are you laughing?

  *****

  It didn’t take me long to locate the mystery bus, which turned out to be deliberately not secretive, adorned as it was in blinking Christmas lights and destination placard that read “Visa Quest.” The glittering vehicle was parked next to the Beluga Lake Lodge, a floatplane-themed bar at the edge of town. Muffled melodies from banjos and fiddles carried through the otherwise still air. I shouldered the Tribune’s clunky digital camera and hiked through knee-deep snow toward the log building.

  Two younger men stood on the front porch. One was my height with a buzz cut and a goofy grin. The other was tall with a broad chin, wavy blond hair and blue eyes, and so attractive that I instantly felt weak-kneed and embarrassed. Both men wore the ever-present Homer uniform: Tan Carhartt pants, Xtratuf rubber boots, and flannel lumberjack shirts. Neither was wearing a coat or a hat despite the fact that it was about zero degrees outside. I, on the other hand, was bundled in full snow gear just so I could take a few photos of this supposedly unofficial, underground bluegrass concert. Carey assigned this mission to hunt for a secret bus that was reported to have rolled into town earlier in the day. In Alaska, old-time and bluegrass music is a big deal, and this event — an annual gathering of musicians at an undisclosed destination — included all the big names on Alaska’s scene. It wasn’t exactly undercover reporting, but the secretive nature made me feel like a real journalist. The attractive blond flashed a toothy grin as I approached the door.

  “Um, is this Visa Quest?” I asked.

  “Sure is,” the man with the buzz cut said.

  “And it’s open to the public, right?”

  “Yeah,” the attractive guy said. “What’s with the camera?”

  “Oh, this,” I said sheepishly. My cheeks suddenly felt flushed. “I’m going to take some pictures for the Homer Tribune. Hope that’s okay.”

  “Don’t see why not,” the other man said. He had a strange inflection in his voice, almost like a southern drawl, although he seemed distinctly Alaskan. “So do you want an interview? I’m Nikos Kilcher. This is my cousin, Eivan.”

  My flushed cheeks became hot. “Oh, so you’re the Kilchers! I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Yeah? Well, we’re all over the place,” Nikos said.

  “That’s what I hear,” I said. “Do you know my co-worker, Layton?”

  “Layton?” Eivan interjected. “Of course.” His grin grew winder.

  “So you guys hang out with Layton?”

  “Yeah,” Nikos said. “He’s cool.”

  “I’m guessing he’s here as well, huh?” I said. “I’m mostly here to shoot photos. Are you guys performing tonight?”

  “We play some,” Nikos said. “Eivan is a fire spinner. Were you at Burning Basket on the Equinox? Eivan was the one twirling the fire baton.”

  “That was you?” I said to Eivan, feeling my face glowing like the sun. “I was there. That was a really incredible performance.”

  “Thanks,” Eivan said as he pursed his lips to more of a shy smile.

  “How long have you guys lived in Homer?”

  “Our whole lives!” Nikos practically shouted. “The homestead is out East End Road. There are some good mountain biking trails. You should drop by sometime.”

  My heart raced. I hoped Nikos’ gorgeous, unattainable cousin would think my face was red from the cold, not raging attraction. Of course I had no intention of leaving Geoff to pursue the shallow excitement that was fluttering in my chest, but it was fun to experi
ence these sensations all the same. It had been a while since I had developed a real crush.

  “Sounds very beautiful,” I said. “I’ll have to check it out sometime.”

  “We’re mostly around in the winter,” Eivan said. “In the summer I travel all over the state for an independent film company. We go to Kodiak and the Aleutians, and shoot documentaries.”

  Oh, be still my heart.

  “That sounds awesome,” I said. “That must be a really great job.”

  “It’s fantastic,” Eivan said.

  “So, are you going to meet the elders?” Nikos interjected.

  “The elders?”

  “The elders of Visa Quest. Don’t you know about the elders?”

  I did know about the elders. I had interviewed one of them a few days ago, when rumors erupted that Visa Quest would return to Homer. There were a lot of secret-society codes surrounding the event, but I managed to find the name of a guy who lived in Juneau and was said to be the main organizer. He told me it originated about a decade ago, when he and two friends in Fairbanks decided the Far North was too cold, and they wanted to travel to Homer for a fair-weather jam session. They called it “Visa Quest” because the trip apparently inspired abundant credit card use.

  Since then, Visa Quest had grown to an annual tradition involving a reunion of old friends, a beer-fueled bus trip from Talkeetna, a few hundred participants, and dozens of musicians awaiting their turn on a stage that purported to make room for everyone. From an outsiders’ view, Visa Quest was just a large party with bluegrass music. Insiders, however, treated it as a mythical journey, an annual quest for enlightenment through old-timey music and copious amounts of whiskey. The event wasn’t advertised. The elder I interviewed wouldn’t even disclose where they planned to play, but he did tell me to find the bus and come inside.

  “Oh, of course, the Visa Quest elders,” I said. “I talked to one of them already, the one who lives in Juneau. Can’t remember his name right now. Anyway, they seem like interesting guys.”

  “You should go in,” Nikos said. “I think he’ll be playing soon.”

  I purposely avoided eye contact with Eivan as I shuffled through the door. The temperature instantly shot up at least eighty degrees as I squeezed into a tight crowd of dancing fans. There must have been two hundred people in the bar, and I was baffled by how so many knew about Visa Quest when I was a journalist and had to jump through a dozen hoops just to get there. I supposed you had to be one of those “real Alaskans.”

  I unzipped my outer layers and pushed my way through the roiling mass to the front of the stage, which was simply a carpet laid out on the wood floor. The crowd was characteristically eclectic, featuring everyone from aging hippies to black-leather-clad teenagers to a man wearing a medieval jester costume and guiding a similarly dressed wooden puppet across the floor. Nearly everyone was twirling to the melody of a frantic fiddle player and clapping along with the drummer’s erratic beats.

  I raised the camera and began shooting portraits. In my opinion, the music was the least interesting aspect of Visa Quest. The rampant popularity of old-time music in Alaska was confusing, given the geographic distance — four thousand miles — from the American South, and the fact that many of the themes — farming, 1930s nostalgia, Appalachia — had little to do with the culture of the Far North. I was admittedly not a fan of the music; I found fiddle and banjo harmonies to be fun in small doses but grating after five minutes. I couldn’t get past the notion that the music all sounded the same and the lyrics had no relevance to modern life. But Alaskans love their old-time, and the music does bring together the most interesting people.

  As I held my camera over the swirling mass, I caught a glimpse of Ivan’s blond mane a head above the crowd. He turned and smiled at me, or at least at my camera. I blushed again and looked away. What was wrong with me? I didn’t think harmless flirtations were particularly bad, but I did wonder what it was about Eivan that ignited this rush of hormones. Amid the loud music and sweat-soaked dancers, I felt like a teenager again, floating through an electric storm of music and motion, with the thrilling sense that anything could happen, and might.

  Still, I was older now, and becoming more content by the day about my simple life with Geoff. I wondered if, on some primal level, Eivan represented a wistfulness for the youth I was leaving behind. But as I continued to steal glimpses of his flannel shirt in the crowd, I realized that one of the reasons Ivan was so attractive was because he was a Kilcher. He was handsome, but my interest hadn’t been fully sparked until I learned his family status. The Kilchers were the locally famous progeny of Yule Kilcher, a farmer and statesman who immigrated from Switzerland to Homer in 1940. He built a homestead that is an ancient relic by Alaska standards, and raised eight children, who in turn raised numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren. One of those grandchildren was Jewel Kilcher, who, after growing up on a six-hundred-acre Alaska homestead without running water or electricity, went on to sell millions of records and become a folk superstar. As far as I could tell, Nikos and Eivan were probably Jewel’s cousins. But beyond that, they were part of the storied dream of starting a new life in the Great Land. Yule came to Alaska with nothing, hauled fish out of the sea, constructed a home, got involved in politics, contributed widely to the budding culture of the state, and built an empire that now spanned four generations. His grandchildren were the reflection of that pioneering spirit.

  So I didn’t necessarily harbor a crush on Eivan himself, but more on the idea of Eivan — the freedom and opportunity of Alaska. Maybe someday I would travel the Alaska wilderness, and be paid to work on nature documentaries in beautiful landscapes. For now, I was paid to lurk at bluegrass concerts and shoot newspaper photographs of quirky Alaskans. Still, it was an engaging assignment. Why would I want more?

  *****

  Thanksgiving was my first major holiday away from home. In my twenty-six years, there had never been a late November that didn’t involve a crowd of extended family members wedged into my grandparents’ small house, my mother’s pies, or my grandmother strong-arming every child into a draw-out speech about thankfulness over a table full of rapidly cooling turkey and stuffing. I didn’t anticipate longing for these family gatherings, but as the holiday approached, I felt tinges of a cultural crisis. Why acknowledge holidays at all when everything they represent is so far away? How much value does beauty and adventure have without the people I love? What is more important, a sense of place or a sense of belonging? Despite brave intentions, homesickness crept into the cracks.

  Geoff’s and my best friends in Alaska lived two hundred and fifty miles north of Homer, in the Matanuska River Valley. Craig and Amity were old friends, part of the “D Street” clan from the communal house in Salt Lake City. The couple moved to Alaska a year before Geoff and me, after Craig graduated from law school and landed a clerkship at the courthouse in Palmer. They loved Alaska so much they decided to stay. Craig found a job with the state attorney general, and Amity worked part-time at a bookstore in town. The distance was far enough that we only had visited once since we moved to Alaska, so we made plans to spend Thanksgiving together.

  Amity went back to Utah for the holidays, so Craig took on the bulk of the cooking. An admitted anti-gourmet, he served up several dishes that were mainly variations on potatoes and dairy fat. Geoff provided stuffed mushrooms and salad, and I purchased rolls, soda and pumpkin pie at the grocery store. Craig also invited two other couples who contributed a turkey breast and booze, which Craig, a Mormon, didn’t condone but also didn’t forbid.

  As the seven of us sat down to a spread of foil-wrapped food, I couldn’t help but smile at the strange family we had compiled for the holiday. There was Libby, another young lawyer, and her boyfriend, Geoff, a Jewish couple from New York City; Zion and Nevhis, other recent law school graduates from New England; Craig, the temporary bachelor; and Geoff and me, whose families lived in
upstate New York and suburban Salt Lake. These divergent paths managed to meet on a ice-coated gravel road that dead-ended in a veritable wall of the Chugach Mountains, branching out toward the wilderness. We compared Craig’s side dishes and discussed major league baseball as a blizzard ranged on the other side of the kitchen window.

  On Friday morning, Craig guided Libby, me and the two Geoffs to his favorite ski trail. It was morning in the Alaskan sense of morning, which on weekends begins bleary-eyed and saturated in coffee well after the 10:30 a.m. sunrise. If an Alaskan asks you to meet them for breakfast in the morning, they most likely mean sometime around noon. In the Matanuska Valley, Craig told us, the winter sun never quite rose over Pioneer Peak, so the region was perpetually bathed in shadow if not darkness. As we drove toward the Crevasse Moraine trailhead, the streets were as dark and quiet as the pre-dawn hours of more civilized latitudes. It was 12:30 in the afternoon. The temperature was one below zero.

  My “new” cross-country skis were both split down the center, a major flaw I failed to notice before it was too late to return them. On top of that, my ski boots were European size 44, which apparently translated to four sizes too large. The tips of the skis curled up and frequently caught low-lying branches. No matter what I tried, I moved like a lame duck on roller skates every time I used them. I awkwardly shuffled after the group until we reached the first hill along the otherwise pancake flat shoreline of the river. Crevasse Moraine was the lumpy bed of a disappearing glacier. For millennia, the land had been crushed and compacted under the considerable heft of its occupant. A rapidly warming climate sent the river of ice recoiling back into the mountains, and the land sprang back up like a rebounding mattress.

  This ripple of earth was adorned with a young forest of skinny birch trees and alders coated in frost. With my focus all directed toward keeping my skis on the ground, it was difficult to discern the lines between trees and the trail. As I stopped to gather my bearings, I noticed a strange configuration of brown ornaments perched near the tops of the tallest trees. I squinted until I could see black eyes staring right at me, attached to camouflaged white heads. Bald eagles. There were at least a dozen occupying one tree — yet another Alfred Hitchcock scene that sent shivers down my spine.