I am dreaming. The colors are more vivid, the storyline doesn't make any sense, but I am on an adventure and lost in my sleep. The mind of a 6-year-old processing all the things learned in a day, all the cartoon craziness, all the new senses that come with life experiences make for a slumberland like Oz—magical, mystical, but mine was Alaskan.
I hear the soft and gentle voice of National Public Radio, and it jolts me awake—the opposite of what you'd expect. I hear the sizzle of Spam and the bubbling percolator on the stove. The wood stove roared with warmth, making the upstairs portion of our cabin almost unbearable, but I dare not complain as I look out the window to see dim morning sunlight painting Denali pink and hoarfrost surrounding the cabin on the black spruce trees our home was nestled between. I was lucky to be warm. I was lucky to be cozied up in bed. I should want to stay there, squished between the pillows for hours, but I am jolted awake because I don't want to miss a moment. I want to be awake with my daddy.
I feel that I have overslept and wasted the day. How long had you been up? I pulled up the lid that covered the opening in the second floor, leading down to the first floor. Grabbing the overstretched black-and-yellow bungee cord, I hooked the door to the bedframe so it wouldn't fall onto my head as I made the journey down the steep "staircase" that more resembled a roofing ladder leaned up against a wall. This was my normal, our normal.
As I take my first step down, I am stopped by one of our several all-black Tasmanian devil dogs, aka the Schipperke. Liz is awkwardly perched on the steps made from lumber, painted dark forest green with non-slip strips haphazardly slapped on each one. She looks up at me and gives me a squinty-eye smile, showing her sharp canines. The skips can go up the steps, but down is another journey they aren't willing to make.
"Good morning, Princess, rise and shine in the swamp! Early bird gets the worm!" Your pep would convince anyone that you had already had a full pot of coffee, but I knew that you were energized by the sunrise, by the thought of today's adventure, by your goals and ambitions, and by the backcountry of Alaska. You reached up to the step below me and grabbed Liz by the scruff, lowering her to the floor like a claw machine at an arcade, careful not to drop her too soon. She, too, craved your love, and once her tiny paws hit the ground, she spun in endless circles at your feet, only pausing to stand on her hind legs, batting her front paws at you in a little dance of love.
You were fully dressed for the day. A torn t-shirt with stains from wearing it too many days in a row. Your once-tan Carhartts, dusty brown from oil stains, animal blood, and who knows what else. I rarely have memories of us doing laundry. Your bunny boots are on, with gaiters wrapped around your ankles to keep the cold snow out. For now, your ball cap is on, and your wispy light brown hair peaks out beneath it in every direction, but I know once we've had our breakfast, you'll put on a hat made from animal fur that you trapped. "What is warmer than the animals that live out here?"—you didn't have to convince me to wear mine at that age, but I remember feeling 'different' as I got older and saw that other kids in town didn't have clothing like ours.
Splaying my arms out as if I was praising our creator, I summoned you to catch me and leaped from the second step down to you. I trusted you'd be there, you'd catch me, and you'd keep me safe. You're my backcountry Alaska dad, and nothing was stronger than you. Just like that—whompf—I flopped into your arms. The smell of chainsaw exhaust blew up from your stained clothing. How did I not hear you cutting firewood already?
"PHEWF! Your breath smells like cauliflower!" I giggled and breathed like a dragon onto your face. You frowned and smiled at me like you often did, a way of saying "I love you" without using the words. "Where are your slippers?!" I almost always came down without them, and when you set me on the floor below, instant regret washed over me as the cold poured through the crack underneath the door despite the log of blankets crammed into the seams. My bare feet made me sound like a duck, and I 'plapped' my way over to my chair, straight across from yours.
Your chair was a 'perfectly good' old office chair pulled from the dump. One wheel broken off and replaced with a large screw and bolt. The seat itself was no longer visible. There was a dusty old pillow, shaped from years of sitting in that spot, atop a beaver pelt that was wired around the base. The back of the chair had a chunk of brown bear fur covering it, the bear's golden hump over the top making it feel grandiose, like a throne. Each armrest was covered with a full marten pelt, their dried faces where your hands rested. Your chair was magical, and I dare not sit in it because you, my dad, deserved the best chair. But you must have thought I, too, deserved the greatest. My chair was an old metal chair with missing links in the base of it that poked up, but none of that bothered me because I, too, had a clumpy pillow on top of a beaver pelt. The back of mine was covered in black bear. I had no armrests, but I didn't need a throne because I was still just a princess.
As I pet Liz with my stinky toes, you walk over to the stove and remove a heavy cast iron from its heat and dish up our plates. You made breakfast like it was going to be our last meal, and maybe that was because each day brought the potential for it to be. Living in the backcountry meant we were met with danger around every corner. We could freeze, fall through the ice and drown, or a tree could fall and leave you lifeless. A bear could awaken from the dens they made not far from our den and attack us. A moose could trample over us, their long legs making them a little more nimble in the deep snow. Danger everywhere, but I never felt afraid. If something happened to you, you made sure I knew what to do.
At that time, we had no neighbors on Heart Lake. Mac Schwab had a cabin near ours, but I never once saw him there. If something happened to you, it was up to me to get help. I knew your instructions by heart, and six-year-old Sierra felt confident that I could handle it all if I needed to. I would put on all my winter gear, not missing a layer. I would pack myself up a quick lunch for the unexpected while the Tundra II warmed up. I could start it by myself because if I couldn't start it, I couldn't ride it. Those were the laws we lived by. Once I confirmed the snowmachine was full of gas and oil, I would make sure I put safety supplies in the black sled that was attached to the bumper with a ratchet strap and two bungee cords. Sleeping bag? Check. Hand saw? Check. Water? Check. Snowshoes? Check. Shovel? Check. Extra gas? Check. Extra warm clothes? Especially socks! Check. Rope? Check. Headlamp with fresh batteries? Check. On my back, my .22 rifle strapped with a rope and duct tape over the nozzle to keep water from getting in.
If I needed to, I would hop on the sled and make my way back to 'the big city' of downtown Talkeetna—20-ish miles of ungroomed trail, across the cold lake, staying close to the edge and away from overflow. Up the swampy hillside as I zigzagged through the trees. "Don't let off the throttle when going uphill; I can't get stuck." Once at the top of the hill, I could look back and see the lake. This was the gateway to the harder part of the trail. On the way to the cabin, I always felt relief and excitement at this point on the trail. Home was only moments away. Warmth, comfort, cookies, and cartoons were within reach from this point. But not when we had to go to town, and not if I had to go for help.
I'd work my way down the steep switchback and hillside that was cut through thick alders, plummeting into what you called 'Sweat Valley.' I may never know if that valley has an official name, but I wouldn't want to call it anything else. You named it. It was yours. You fought the battles endlessly to create a new trail every winter. I had to be extra cautious in the valley.
One wrong move and I could fall below the ice, and while the creek itself was shallow, the current wouldn't have any trouble pulling my small body under the ice, lodging me in somewhere I could not see, breathe, or survive. I wouldn't be found until spring, if someone was looking, and you wouldn't get saved either. That was not an option. If I came to a crossing that had broken and opened up the dark and daunting waters, you taught me what to do. Turn off the sled, but not for too long since the valley was colder than the lake. I needed to unstrap my shovel and saw. First, I would fill the hole with big, hard snowpack as best I could. Then after cutting some alder boughs, I'd toss them in and cover them with more snowpack. Carefully, I needed to slip on my snowshoes, and with a rope tied to the front of my machine and around my waist, I would pack the new path down over and over again until it looked like the trail had never left.
After Sweat Valley, I'd reach the Clear Creek crossing that was even riskier than the smaller waterways in the valley. This creek was deep and often didn't freeze all the way. When I was six, fish camp didn't exist completely yet, so there was nowhere to warm up if I fell in and was lucky enough to pull myself out. Thankfully, the crossings I remember were met with speed and safety, and although I was always nervous, you always made me feel like I was capable.
After the crossing, there was one last hill that could cause a hiccup before I would find smooth sailings. The hill was often covered with alders that smacked you in the face as you ripped up the chute with as much speed as possible. DO NOT STOP. I had no options to turn around, no strength to shovel myself out, and no one would be there to help if I had to go for help.
Once I reached the summit of this hill, there was an old cabin a few turns back. No one was ever there. I didn’t know you owned it, but you always told me if things got bad and I needed to, I could bust into that cabin and build myself a fire until I could keep on going for help. That cabin was always a beacon of hope when we passed it. I knew it was always going to be there should we need it.
After the cabin was a groomed trail from others who enjoyed their magic place in the backcountry but didn’t need to be as far away as we did. They weren’t "true bush folk" in your eyes. The city folk had cabins on this side of the creek. I felt sad for the "city folk" who didn’t get to experience the life we lived. Did they see big moose as often as we did? Could they see Denali from their cabin? Did they hear the wolves howling at night? Did the northern lights dance for them too? How sad, to have a cabin in the woods but not be a part of it.
I’d follow the trail with as much speed as my sled would allow without losing my supplies if you needed me to. Zigzagging through the brush until I met the mile markers you constantly reminded me of. The old upside-down jeep meant take a left to head towards town. I’d go through rolling hills with spaced-out trees—a zone I normally would play a little in if we were riding together and I was on my own sled. Once we got to the birch tree with a hole in the middle of it, I’d take a right for some time, following a small ridgeline that looked down into a marshy creek. Speed. Accuracy. Don’t get off the trail.
Sometimes, when we went through this zone, I would catch myself so far off in a daydream that I would almost miss the little cabin on the right that meant an intersection and decision was coming up soon. Not if I had to save you—I would be on high alert for the cabin, making sure I knew when I needed to pay attention.
After the cabin, I’d have to decide on which way to go. If I went left on Freeman’s trail, it would bring me to the end of Beaver Road, green triangles marking the way. This trail was not as traveled, but it was faster. Had the river frozen all the way? Was it safe to cross? If I went straight, the trail was more traveled and had more bumps, slowing my speeds down. It was longer and would bring me to the railroad tracks, where I would have another five miles of bumpy trail before I got to “the city.” I could cross the trestle bridge safely this way but always feared my skis getting caught or stuck.
On this morning, I did not have to worry about rescuing you, and our breakfast piled high on my plate. Two pieces of French toast with peanut butter and syrup, two fried eggs, a pile of breakfast potatoes, and two pieces of Spam. My hungry eyes lit up with excitement, but my six-year-old tummy would do very little damage to the feast. “Children in Africa are starving, eat your breakfast!” I learned my sass from you, so I’d bark back, “Yeah, Dad, that is because you gave me all of their food!”
We’d scarf our breakfast down, gulping hot coffee in between bites. For whatever reason, you’d always make me a “hot cocoa coffee” with little marshmallows floating on top. That was our special drink—or so I thought. I didn’t learn about “mochas” until I was a teenager and, for a moment, thought the rest of the world had somehow stolen your idea. Another “get rich quick” scheme that slipped between your fingers.
Breakfast was always my favorite time with you. We sat together, we ate together, and you’d tell me the day’s plans. They always started with wood and water. No matter what, you made sure we stayed ahead of the game. We had to—we were too far away from help to be without warmth and water.
I miss you, Dad. I miss you most in the mornings, and memories like this are some of the many reasons why mornings will never be the same.
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