Finding the Perfect Christmas Tree… in Alaska

Yesterday's Thanksgiving turkey is slowly digesting in my belly, which can only mean one thing: CHRISTMAS!!!

Unwilling to join the ranks of crazy bargain-hunters on Black Friday, my husband and I have established our own tradition for the day after Thanksgiving: going out to hunt down our very own Alaska Christmas tree.

Before I moved to Alaska, I thought there were only two options for having a tree in your home: buying one from a Christmas tree lot, or having an artificial tree.  My mother, god bless her, insisted we never have an artificial tree, so each year my mother and I would drive to the tree lot on Murray Ridge Road and tried to find the prettiest tree our pennies could buy.

We did pretty well most years:

(Please ignore my brothers. "Sullen Hippie" was very "in" at the time."

And I was always grateful my mother never did follow through on her threats to have a color-coordinated tree. One year she said she wanted a white or silver tree:

Blech! Still, it could've been worse:

Oh my god, can you imagine? Santa would have a seizure.

Our family Christmas trees were always fat and dense, even if they weren't always perfectly shaped. There was never a question whether the branches were strong enough to support our ornaments and lights. -- But I've come to understand that's because all midwestern conifers look like that.

Even after moving to Alaska, sixteen years ago, I was temporarily granted a continuance in my belief that Christmas trees are sturdy. See, my first home in Anchorage had a vaulted ceiling, with a peak of about 12 feet. Like most men, my husband felt we certainly shouldn't waste any of that height, and so we sought a 12-foot tree. Of course!

In Anchorage, you can only legally cut down your own tree by driving about 60 miles either north or south to enter designated legal tree-cutting areas. Well, I should amend that to include the military land here in Anchorage city limits, but to get on base and cut down a tree, you have to have a permit. And in typical military fashion, the permit office is only open every other Thursday from 3:17pm to 4:03pm, being closed all months whose names contain the letter "r."

So, that first year, we set off, south to Johnson Pass, to seek our tree. And, boy, did we find a doozy:

As you can see, the tree was enormous. But it was also absolutely gorgeous. And I blame that tree for every disappointing tree we've had since.

The following year, we moved into a more reasonable house with only 8 foot ceilings. So we set out to find an 8 foot tree. In Alaska.  What we quickly discovered is that most 6-8 foot Alaskan conifers look like this:

Look familiar? Like maybe the older taller version of this guy?

If you think I'm trusting my grandmother's 80-year-old snowman globe to one of those branches, you're sadly mistaken.

Still, there's something to be said for tradition. And sometimes you just gotta deal with what you've got available. I don't have to hang Grannie's ornament this year, after all.

Of course, the selection process is almost always complicated by snow. So you've gotta tromp around (through snow) to look at snow-coated trees and try to decide which one might make a good Christmas tree. Be careful of the booby traps however:

1. Nested Trees: Surely there must be a good tree in that bunch, right? I mean, sure, the first tree is a little big, but look at all those others! 

As it turns out, the other trees are actually the problem. That many trees that close together make them grow up too close to each other, inhibiting branch growth, so you end up with a one-sided tree (if that).

2. The Double Tree: Well, that looks like a pretty good tree, right there in the middle. Kinda fat, nice shape. -- But, look closely: it's actually two trees, growing right next to each other. Cut 'em down and you'll never cram both into the tree stand in any reasonable fashion. In fact, our first tree (the 12-footer) was a double tree, but it was tall enough that it finally converged into a single trunk down low [For all you scientists out there, I do realize I'm saying this backwards. But you know what I mean. Cut a girl a break.] so we were able to use it.

So there's a lot of searching involved:

Searching, and shaking:

Finally, we found our tree:

Next comes clearing the lower branches to cut it down:

(The dogs were very helpful.)

Then the small matter of getting it back to the truck. Oh yeah, and INTO the truck:

My dad used to have a saying: "Ten pounds of sh*t in a five pound bag." Yeah, this was like that.

But we got her home safe. Cashew wasn't too sure about all the furniture rearrangements, but she knows any blanket on the floor is where she's allowed to curl up:

Now the tree is up and awaiting decoration. We really enjoy just having the plain tree up for a couple of days. She's like a lot of Alaskans -- On first glance, she may not look like much, but if you gaze upon her long enough, she's really quite beautiful.

Illuminating Alaska's Winter Light Mystery

We're having an odd autumn this year in Anchorage. Already into our second week of November, there's still no snow in the city. It's plenty cold enough, just no precipitation. No matter, it will come.

In spite of the lack of snow, I found myself pondering the phenomenon of Alaskan Winter while out walking the dogs this morning. Without a doubt, winter survival is the number one topic raised by Outsiders (non-Alaskans) when they find out where I'm from.

What I've realized over the years, however, is that it is the darkness rather than the cold which holds the mystery, perhaps mingled with a soupçon of fear.  But I guess most people have experienced winter cold and snow at some point in their lives, even if only on a weekend ski trip. The perception of round-the-clock darkness, however, is another matter.

Before moving to Alaska, I spent six years living in Wisconsin -- not even northern Wisconsin, but the southern part of the state, down in Milwaukee and Madison. Nevertheless, I probably experienced some of my most brutal winter days living there. Wisconsin winters are like a dirty barroom brawler: they're out to inflict pain from the outset, and with bitter winds and occasional rain, they're poised to do just that.

In contrast, Alaskan winters are more like an elephant that comes into your home at the end of October, slowly sits down on you, and then simply refuses to budge before about mid-April. 

It's nothing personal, and no amount of cursing, poking or smacking will move things along any differently. However, without the winds and rain, it's overall less dramatic and less punishing somehow. It's just something we all suffer through together, so no sense whining about it. 

And, yes, it is dark for most of each day. But even as a little girl growing up in Ohio, I remember going to school in the morning ... and it was dark. Then coming home late afternoon... and it was getting dark. And, in Anchorage, on Winter Solstice, December 21 (the shortest day of the year no matter where you live in the northern hemisphere), it's never completely dark -- it's at least sort of dusky [sorry, I can no longer say the word "twilight" without thinking of sparkly teen vampires -- thanks a lot, Stephenie Whatserface]. 

[Quick note of Disclaimer: As you probably know, Alaska is a big state. In case you haven't seen this graphic, here's the upshot: 

In the state of Alaska, I have lived only as far north as Fairbanks, which has shorter winter days than Anchorage but still has at least four hours a day of winter light. Cities such as Barrow, in northern Alaska, do have still shorter winter days. However, since I have no personal experience living that far north, this post pertains primarily to Anchorage and, a little less so, to Fairbanks.]

Nevertheless, popular perception remains that, somewhere around September, someone throws a big light switch in the sky, and Alaska is plunged into total darkness for six months. 

For some reason, it really bothers me that so many people still believe this to be true. I realize it's probably due more a lack of thinking about the question than actual miseducation, but I can't help but think of school science budgets whenever the topic arises.

So, to correct the misconception, here are some (hopefully) helpful diagrams:

OK, these first two diagrams show the sun's position in the sky at three different times of the year (summer solstice/June 21; vernal or autumnal equinox/March or September 21, respectively; and winter solstice/December 21) at two different latitudes: Arctic circle (first diagram) and Equator (second diagram). 

If you live on the equator, the sun rises due east, to a point directly above your head at noon, then sets due west. The farther north you move away from the equator, the more the sun sort of skirts along at an angle in the sky; it's never directly overhead, not even at high noon on Summer Solstice. The upper diagram of the Arctic Circle (66 degrees Latitude) does a nice job of showing how, in winter, the sun still comes up and moves across the sky, just not as high:

(Taken in Juneau, Alaska [Latitude 58 degrees North], on Winter Solstice)

Similarly, in summer, the sun's path doesn't allow its lowest point to drop off the horizon. Which is why summer's midnight hours look something like this, in time-lapse:

OK, so what does this mean in real life?

Well, here we are in November, about six weeks away from Solstice, and this is what my sunny neighborhood looked like today around noon:

So, as you can see, there's plenty of light and sun -- though the sun can't really be described as "warming" at this time of year -- but it's low in the sky, even at noon, and casting long shadows.

In my house, the light looks like this:

OK, so my dogs are a little spoiled. What can I say? They make me happy, so I'm willing to move their dog beds several times a day so their sunbathing remains uninterrupted. This time of year, the beds are halfway into the kitchen because the sun's rays are so low -- In summer, the beds are right up against the sofa at the front of the house. 

Making more sense now? Like I said, I'm not really sure why it bothers me that Outsiders sometimes have difficulty grasping this concept. I think, for me, part of it is because the quality of winter light in Alaska is so beautiful, it's unlike anything I've ever seen before. Maybe it's because the sun is closer to the Earth that the light so brilliantly illuminates everything in its path, turning even mundane objects into works of art:

So next time I'm talking to an Outsider, and a dreamy look crosses my face when they say, "Alaska?!? But it's so cold! And dark!!! Aren't the winters just awful??," it's because this is the image in my mind:

... and I reply, "No, they're actually quite lovely."

The Body's Betrayal

When I was younger, my body was a remarkable thing. Even though it wasn't the most aesthetically perfect body, it was nevertheless a wonder. It was lean and muscular, from years of dance and gymnastics, and it mostly did what I wanted it to do, down to the most minuscule of movements.

I refer to my body in the third person, because we are no longer on speaking terms, my body and me. Our relationship has become similar to that of an old married couple: my body is angry with me for some reason that I cannot discern, and no matter how many doctors I consult, my body still isn't giving up the goods in the form of presenting a fixable problem (or, again akin to a long-suffering spouse, an improvable problem -- I'll take what I can get at this point).

Furthermore, as I prepare to start my fifth decade on this planet, I find that I get little sympathy from my fellow humans who have already passed this milestone. All along, I've been told by them, "Just wait. It only gets worse!"

Well, aside from taking their advice with a huge grain of salt -- respecting my elders, and all that -- I thought I would do my best to try to stave off the ravages of Time in whatever way I could.

I exercise. I run and swim and hike in the summer; in the winter, I haul my sorry butt either up a mountain just to ski back down, or across a mountain range on cross-country skis.... AND swim. Go ahead and throw some yoga in there, as well.

I eat right. -- OK, "right" is a strong word here. Let's not go overboard. But in my defense, I eat a far greater proportion of vegetables and grains, maybe a lean meat or fish occasionally, than I do refined sugars (Mmmmm, coooooookiieeeeeeeessss!!!).

I take multivitamins and Calcium and Vitamin D.

I sleep my eight hours a day. Sometimes not all at once, but there's an irreplaceable soul-satisfying component to mid-afternoon dog naps that isn't covered by traditional overnight sleeps.

I see a doctor regularly, obediently holding my breath and smashing my breasts between plexiglass plates once a year. I have my cholesterol checked ("Yep, still high -- Let's check again next year."). My body weight has wavered only about five pounds in the last twenty years or so. (Of course, as an American woman, I'm always struggling to lose those Last Five Pounds [LFP], which shows that sometimes wisdom and aging do not necessarily go hand in hand.)

Ever the scientist, I can't help but wonder what's happening to my body in the parallel universe, where I didn't bother trying to take care of myself and just sat around watching TV and eating bonbons. Alas, my life is not an episode of Fringe (though it does, at times, bear more than a passing resemblance), so I'll never know.

But what I do know is that, in spite of my best efforts, my body is betraying me as I get older. For no good reason.

My first brush with an Unfixable Problem was about ten years ago with some suspected food allergy issues -- I say "suspected," because in spite of being looked at inside and out (Word of Advice: Drinking the Go-Lytely sitting on the toilet; you'll never make it from the kitchen), I was normal normal normal, healthy healthy healthy. The doctors said there was nothing more they could do and wished me good luck. So, with some self-sleuthing, that problem is better but still not fixed.

Most recently, however -- let's say the past five years -- my body has come resemble a old jalopy trundling down the road: suddenly, a hubcap goes flying off into the ditch. Or the muffler falls off. Or there's a persistent little squeaking noise coming from the dashboard that doesn't seem associated with any problem per se, but you can't seem to figure out what's causing it or get it to stop squeaking, either.

It started a few years ago as a mild hip pain that plagued my running. No big deal, I probably strained something, right? Of course, in the way of an aging body, there's no particular event that occurred -- it's not as if I tripped and fell --  suddenly one day the pain was just... there.  So I experimented with a few self-fixes, I mean, I am a doctor, after all: rest, gentle stretching, some strengthening exercises, different running shoes, running flats instead of hilly trails,.... Nope. Now it's a sharp shooting pain.

So now I think what all doctors think when the pain doesn't go away: Oh god, I have cancer.
Time to see a doctor who isn't me.

Skip to the end: A year of physical therapy doesn't help or even diagnose the problem. It could be this or that, these exercises might help or they might not. You might need surgery, or maybe just Advil ... for the rest of your life.

Well, the medical profession did little to earn my confidence, so I just chalked it up to age. It got better for about a year, now it's back. So now I've had two fairly serious health issues which have come about with no discernible cause, which have been thoroughly worked up, and which have failed to resolve or even, really, improve.

However, the current #1 on my Body Breakdown list is some lower spine problem, and you'd have to either live in a cave or be younger than thirty years old -- probably both -- to not understand right away how difficult and complex that issue can be! For the past four months, I've been waking up in the morning with lower back spasm that hurts so badly, I'm afraid if I move I'll end up paralyzed.

So of course, there must be a cause, right? Fell off the roof? Tried to lift a horse? No??

Near as I can figure, the closest I can come to naming a culprit is one of the two following coincident events:

1) Biting off more than I can chew in a Beginning/Intermediate adult ballet class -- Initial blame goes to the instructor, who is young and errs more on the side of Intermediate than Beginner, especially when there are cute boys in the class; however, the fault is ultimately my own for not saying, "What the f***?!? I canNOT do that!!" and bowing out of class, instead of sticking around, doggedly pursuing what surely must have at least slightly resembled the hippos in Fantasia -- I can't remember: Were any of the hippos drunk? Yeah, that one.

And:

2) The Wild Thing -- To this day, I still don't understand what place a pose called "the wild thing" has in any yoga class, but how could I possible refuse to at least try to convert my adapted Half-Moon pose into something called the Wild Thing? Just by trying the Wild Thing, my mind was instantly transported back to fond memories of my bleach-blonde wild child self showing up in tank top and cut-offs, drinking a beer, for her high school graduation (Good thing I wasn't Valedictorian, eh?). Alas, my body elected not to follow my mind and chose instead to stay put and accept reality, also known as pain.

Still, it's not as if I woke up the next morning after yoga class with the pain, nothing so straightforward as that. Just a persistent low-grade pain that occurs every single night for the last four months.

So now I have the hallmark of middle age: a back problem.  And so far, no one can tell me what I'm supposed to do about it. The doctors and radiologists agree it's common "at your age," but if it's so common then give me some good advice!

Do I keep running, or stop? Swimming? Strength training, or rest?

Of course, what's at the bottom of all this isn't my back problem. It's the betrayal.

My back problem is only the most recent betrayal my body has impinged on me in the past ten years. It's the sum tally that's aggravating: sprained left wrist, twisted left ankle, right knee pain, right hip pain, hand-cramping, ... Surely, some of those should be traceable to a specific event? Nope. They seem to be on their own schedule, like a timing belt at sixty-thousand miles. Replace it, or risk a breakdown. Doesn't matter whether you've been driving the car like Mario Andretti or a little old lady from Pasadena, it just happens.

I'm willing to take my lumps for something I've done -- A bigger ski day than I trained for, a longer run in cold weather, etc. -- but what I truly resent is this slow steady crawl toward the junkyard as pieces and parts start to break down without any real hope of ever being completely back to "normal" again.

Gone are the days when my body was carefree -- nimble and limber and oh-so-forgiving for minor transgressions. Flew over the handlebars on your mountain bike yesterday? That's OK, you'll be good as new by tomorrow morning!

Ultimately, I realize Someone out there is laughing at me. I can't tell if it's old Father Time, with his hourglass, counting his grains of sand. Or maybe it's my grandparents, whose factory worker lifestyle must surely have led to more aches and pains than I can possibly imagine. Or maybe it's some third-world farmer who's never even heard of yoga, much less "the wild thing" pose.

Maybe it's Future Me, shaking her head and imagining how on earth I'm gonna respond to the changes in the years ahead. Because I'm sure my elders are right on this one: "It only gets worse."