Hibernation
Seward, Alaska - May 9, 2022 Photo by Margaret Burke
When I first landed in Anchorage, I came at what most locals would say is the worst time of the year to come. "Break up Season" is affectionally known in the 49th state. The weather hovered 30 degrees and below as the lower 48 began to experience the first signs of spring. As I scrolled through my timelines. Friends with their lovers, people having sun gazed picnics and taking cute Instagram photos as they lounge on the grass.
Meanwhile, I felt rather sorry for myself as I woke up on an inflatable mattress in my parent's condo to snow pelting down in early April. Feeling as though I had officially hit rock bottom.
Over the last few weeks, I have been told countless times that Alaska is better in the summer. Numerous, I say, because this isn't just my parents. New coworkers have managed to live here for years on end. Random strangers, I encounter and other well-meaning Alaskans can tell from a mile away that I am a newcomer.
For a few long weeks, I was trying to figure out some way to summarize this hibernation. One thing that Alaska is perfect for is running away from your problems, or rather, it forces you to face them. Because of the brutal weather in March, not having a friend group here, and limited internet access (It is done by data use per household.) It forces you to get creative with what to do with your time.
I started to read. A lot, actually. Within the first few weeks, I managed to polish off five books. A few that I had struggled to finish months ago. I was immersed in them. It is a feeling I haven't had since I was in college and when I read Gone Girl in two days.
During my teen years, the books in school did contain stories set in the north. Of course, Jack London's Call of the Wild. I still remember barely reading it because I thought the story was so dull. A story about a dog joining a sled team. Snooze. A few years later, I read Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild. Like many idealistic teens, I fantasied about pilgriming to the rundown Fairbanks city bus that sat in the Alaskan bush. The same bus where Chris McCandless spent his last days in total isolation. Thankfully, I grew out of that fantasy, especially after reading about various horrific deaths and accidents to fellow well-wishers.
The thing that nature provides is peace but also a brutal reminder that you are not exceptional. Neither in your intellect nor the fact that you are another species surrounded by other species that could kill you at some point. The further reminder is when it is quiet, it reminds you that while you are small in scale, it makes the other issues in life even smaller.
The loneliness is the other crushing reminder while being up here. While I live in the largest city in the state, both in population and scale, it is still desolated in many ways. Being three timezones behind others makes it hard to connect back to people. When I go on to Google Earth, I remember stretching the points between Anchorage and Lawrence. Seeing how far north this place is crushed me.
As I lay in bed after a night of reading poems from Yung Pueblo and sobbing my eyes out, I couldn't sleep. Ruminating repeatedly to those I had hurt, my reserved demeanor that kept people at arm's length, and my self-worth tied to others.
I start thinking about Anna Marie Tendler's photo series "Rooms in the First House." When she began to show these photographs, I felt a bit of a kinder ship to them as many other people have all over the internet. I relate to one photo of Anna lying cascading on the stairs inside her home. She is wearing a vintage Titanic t-shirt while staring at her phone with emotional turmoil. Seeing how people have been able to move on while being stuck in this perpetual hibernation is perfectly expressed in this photograph. That is what this period has been. Hiding away as I sort myself out. As I navigate a new place, I try to heal myself like everyone else and their therapist recommends.
I go for walks daily as I observe the rapid growth of leaves on trees. There is almost no time for blossoms here since the number of daylight increases daily by five minutes until the summer solstice. Sidewalks, where ice covered them, are now wholly cleared, while snow still covers parts of the Chugach Mountains.
On a whim, I sign up for a climbing class, only to find out it is a belaying class. The purpose of the course was to make sure we knew how to hold our climbing partners as they rope climbed. Instead of leaving, I learned how to tie a Figure-8 knot to my harness as my climbing instructor asked me if I trusted my life with this knot. By the end of the class, I had a rope burn on my right hand and a popped blister on my ring finger. Much like playing on the playground, Climbing feels more like playing. It requires stamina and presence within own body. The things that have been missing in my life for some time. I ended up buying climbing shoes from REI a week later.
I watch old episodes of Dallas and Northern Exposure with my mom as we comment on weird plot points and costumes the characters wear. I sing along to Sheryl Crow songs while making pasta for my visiting brother and mother. Somehow her songs transport me back to when I was a kid riding in the back of my mom's van in 1998.
As I finish writing this at 11:12 pm, the sun has begun to set. Like the brown bears emerging from their dens, I can feel myself slowly climb out of hibernating. There are days when I want to pull the covers over my head, not wanting to be in my own head again. A carousel of ruminating memories, thoughts, regrets… the whole shebang of depressive thoughts. Then I get up and try all over again. Over and over.
