Onward to Borealis-LeFevre

Feb. 19

“It is 43 below in Fairbanks this morning,” Jim reads from his cell phone. Somehow we are able to get a signal, almost 50 miles from Fairbanks. Ed, a weatherman friend back in town, texts us a forecast. “High of -20F, light wind.” The second day of any trip, whether summer or winter, always feels the worst. I’m no longer fully rested and slightly pooped. After a leisurely breakfast and collecting more firewood for the next user, we head off down the ridge to the main trail.

 It will be another 10 miles to the Borealis-LeFevre cabin. We overdress for the mile-long downhill to the valley floor then shed layers when we arrive at the bottom. It is always a delicate balance to staying warm. Overheating will mean wet, useless layers. The sun is already high in the sky as we ski along the trail.

Jim skis ahead at his own pace to stay warm, while we slowly follow behind. He stops for treacherous spots of overflow (look it up, it is fascinating that water can be liquid and flowing at this temperature), trail intersections, and steep downhill portions to ensure we stay together. Then he stops at a benign spot in the trail and turns to face us. “Do ya feel that?” he asks. Puzzled looks form on our faces. “The sun actually feels warm.” This time each winter is exciting, the sun not only brings more daylight but the sun’s heat and diurnal temperature fluctuations return. Matt and I take turns skiing in front of each other, careful not to cast a shadow and block out our “butt warming” sunlight. I always have the toughest time keeping my fattest areas warm and suffer from frozen butt syndrome. (I could probably use a down skirt about now!)

Liquid overflow bubbling up from under the snow.  There was an entire hillside of the icy stuff.

We ski into the wind, climbing ridges and descending back down. Inside my cocoon of fleece and polyester, it is cozy warm. The only place I feel cold is on my eyes. Thick layers of clumpy frost cling to my eyelashes and freeze my facemask to my hat. I blink once, twice, and then there’s a tug on my eyelid. My eye freezes shut. Sometimes holding it shut for a moment releases the frost, sometimes it doesn’t. Beneath my face mask, the air is warm and tropical.

Throughout this entire trip, I have had no allergy symptoms. I’ve used my inhaler just twice. Through the 4-5 hr. ski days, my nose runs the entire time and it feels like the steam inhalation I use when I am at home to break up the congestion. Despite the continuous salty taste, it felt good to be free of symptoms. (Yup, I think relocating is in the near future for us.)

 As the sun lowers and the afternoon light begins to wane, the magic hour begins. The snow turns from pink to purple and then a deep blue as a lowering light reflects off it. Again we find ourselves at the top of a tall ridge and looking into the valley and Beaver Creek below. A jagged mountain comes into view near a bend in the river. Matt and I ski down the hill, staring at this magnificent formation as we descend into the valley. It is vantage points like this one that remind me of how truly wild this area is. Back in California, I’ve become an expert at cropping out power poles and lines, homes, and road signs. Here I don’t have to worry about that. Everything has been placed here by nature. Contrasting with yesterday’s encounters, we have seen nobody. I really love that.

On the shores of Beaver Creek, the cabin finally comes into view. Jim has skied ahead, started a fire, and follows us up the hill dragging a slender Black Spruce tree behind him. One of the best things about traveling with a faster buddy is that we don’t have to stand still in a frozen cabin, trying to light the stove. We enter the cabin and I quickly begin the task I assumed at the last one: melting snow. Throughout this trip, I’ve become the water person. I’m an expert at packing the snow in tightly enough to get a full pot with each melting. I’ll do anything to be able to cozy up next to the stove. Matt and Jim head out to get more wood before it gets dark while I prep for dinner.

I stoke the fire and then remove my boots. The duct tape and creative lacing on the rental boots were no match for blisters and bruises I tended to that morning at Eleazar’s, new puffy blisters formed outside of the duct tape borders on all but one previous blister. My feet steam and I realize how damp they are. I still haven’t figured out how to keep my feet comfortably warm without becoming horribly sweaty, surely what helped contribute to the blisters on my heels.

I change into fresh socks and booties and my feet breathe a sigh of relief. This was one of the few pieces of comfort gear I was debating leaving back in Fairbanks. I gaze out the window and a setting sun lights up that same jagged mountainside.

The temperature sinks with the sun and soon it is -40F outside. The cabin is reluctant to stay warm and requires a lot of those little toothpick Black Spruce logs to maintain a meager 60F inside. We enjoy our dinners and treats while Jim tells us stories about a summertime packraft trip he did nearby. He stretches out on his bunk, interrupts his own story to comment on how nice it is to lie down. Moments later, mid-sentence, he begins to snore loudly. The day has taken a lot out of all of us. Jim has to head back to work in a couple of days, so he plans to make the entire 20 mile ski back tomorrow. It is nice to have crazier friends than us, it keeps us aiming higher and higher, dreaming bigger dreams. We consider kidnapping our Fairbanks friends so they can come play with us in California.

Thankfully, Matt and I decided to stay here two nights so we could rest or go for a pack-free hike on our off day. Personally, I was most looking forward to the baby wipe bath and hair washing next to the stove. Then maybe I’ll be luxuriously lazy and give myself a foot massage too. Matt always jokes that my girlishness comes out at the strangest times; he likes to take credit for how he’s taught me to rough it. I’m pretty sure Alaska had a hand in that hygienic shift. Either way, the day’s plan sounds perfect.