Summer in the (Midnight) Sun

Come Alive

The word summertime, for me anyways, has long evoked the nostalgic smell of sweat, chlorine, and watermelon. I'm reminded of my childhood, where I spent many a summer break riding bikes all day in the sweltering heat or swimming in the murky brown creeks of Southeast Texas (you know, the ones nobody has any business swimming in).

Alaskan summers are different. The sun stays out practically all night and the clear water looks inviting but it never quite gets warm enough to swim. But more than that, summer up north is a feeling. The air just buzzes with life.

Salmon migrate upriver in sparkling streams, bringing in brown bears and anglers alike. Moose mamas are seen trotting around town with twins in tow - their legs disproportionately long and lanky (and this is one of my favorite sights to see). Black bears seek out residual spring-time bird feeders and rummage through neighborhood trash bins. In fact, we have our own cutie trash bear, who the boys have affectionately named Burger.

This constant hum of activity is echoed in the usually quiet small towns that now bustle with tourists. And the people awaken. While most Alaskans at least tolerate the winter, they live for the summer. For about 3 short months, the entire state feels like it's in a rush to celebrate life before winter's return. Sunny days are never wasted (it's a rule, probably). Trails fill with hikers, paragliders hover over mountaintops, and pack rafts float downstream. Everyone just generally soaks up every ounce of sunlight - while they can. And for us, endless summer daylight means endless opportunities to explore.

The Things My Eyes Have Seen

I could almost swear that June in Alaska is the best experience this side of Heaven. Warm sunshine and cool breezes practically obligate a person to be outside. Unsurprisingly, our hospital saw a surge of staff call-ins this month, with the house supervisor calling it "an epidemic of sunshine headaches." The weather was just that good.

If you know me, you know I love to tent camp. There is a certain je ne sais quoi about getting poor quality sleep in the great outdoors. Unfortunately the all-night Alaskan twilight does illuminate the inside of the tent, making sleep even even harder to come by. But, the good news is that peeing outside at night in bear country isn't so scary - so, it's a win. On our first morning in the campground at Eklutna Lake, Cameron woke up and saw a black bear meandering through the woods across from our campsite. Shep and I lay tucked away in our sleeping bags, none the wiser. The next morning I ventured out alone to photograph sunrise on the lake - bear spray in hand, singing loudly to announce my presence. I love knowing we share the land with such beautiful creatures (who I would like to simultaneously see and avoid).

Now later in summer we rented kayaks on this very lake, on a perfectly still and pristine day. During the safety briefing we were reminded that the water stays around 40°F or less and not to fall in (I hadn't planned to). "Muscles don't work so well in cold water," she said, " so don't try to swim, just yell for help." Cam and I shared a glance that said "yeah right, I'm swimming." We paddled peacefully to the other side of the lake and explored around for bit, climbing back in our kayaks just in time for the wind to pick up and whitecaps to form across the water. Suddenly, the middle of the lake felt like the scariest place in Alaska. You better believe I was REMINDING THE LORD that He had calmed the wind and waves before and could certainly do it again. And then, as if the sky had melted and poured itself onto the water, the grey clouds were perfectly reflected in the silty blue waves. My kayak looked as though it was rippling through a pool of molten mercury, a swirling blend of blue and silver. In this moment, even the chaos felt surreal. I could not believe my eyes.

Gone Fishing

It should come as no surprise that fish here are sort of a big deal. And as Texans, we sure have a lot to learn about fishing in Alaskan waters. But, a little late in the season, the boys thought they would give it a try. So, we packed our small amount of gear, drove a few hours, and camped on the bank of a river full of sockeyes (well, supposedly full). I once made the mistake of telling the boys I wanted to be remembered for my camp meals and they have NEVER LET IT GO. We could be eating a hot dog and one of them will sarcastically add "Wow, mom, we will always remember this." On night one, I made homemade chili on the camp stove while they fished, but they returned empty-handed. On day two, they weren't the only ones fishing the river - an eagle soared feet above Shep's head and landed in the tree above us. He never took his eyes off the water. Just as they were ready to throw in the towel, our sweet, retired camp neighbors ran down to tell me that it looked like we'd be having salmon for dinner. Unfortunately, filleting looks a lot easier on YouTube, and our filets were, well, a little sad. We thanked the salmon for donating its life to science and I'm just sure that eagle was judging us from above. Even still, this was a camp dinner for the books.

The watchful gaze of the eagle, the endless flow of the river, camping in the shadow of a massive mountain - out here, we are only one small part of a much bigger picture.

I'm Blue

(Da ba dee da ba di)

Summer in Alaska is as sweet as it is short. August ushers in noticeably shorter days, crisper air, and millions and millions of acres of wild blueberries. The end-of-summer blues.

A bit of a foraging frenzy starts just after the first juicy photo is posted on the "Alaska Berry Pickers" FB group (inevitably, the serious pickers also pick fights over requests to give up their favorite patch locations). But as soon as word gets out, people flock to the hillsides with buckets and Xtratufs and visions of berry cobblers - ourselves included. Now these blues are wild, plump, organic. But this ain't no easy U-Pick farm. If you want the goods, you have to be willing to work for them. I mean, we walked straight up the side of a mountain to get these babies. We also fell all over the mountain, slipping and sliding on the wet, steep trails. At one point, Cameron went down, blueberries went airborne, and I questioned why we hadn't just gone to Fred Meyer.

But berry season is more than just sore calves and pancakes. It's a deep part of the culture here, serving as a cherished resource that ties people to the land and its traditions - and every jar of jam also bottles up that feeling of the fleeting Alaskan summer.

Fall is in the air now, and fresh snow has committed itself to the highest peaks, indicating that winter is on its way in a hurry. But summer memories play on repeat in my mind like a vintage slide projector: flickering between sticky s'mores and road trip games, and giant ice and playful otters, and of course, Shepherd's sunny smile.

Yes, this summer was special - and there was nothing blue about it.