Surviving Covid-19 Archives ~ Rambling ranger

February 19, 2021February 19, 2021

A Glimpse Into My World – Chill

These days my world is pretty chill. As in –

Chill

1. an unpleasant feeling of coldness in the atmosphere, one’s surroundings, or the body: “there was a chill in the air” synonyms coldness, chilliness, coolness, iciness, crispness,…more

After all, I AM in Alaska this winter. Due to concerns about corona virus and civil unrest I consciously chose to stay here, even though I’ve really come to hate the cold and fear the ice.

It hasn’t been an easy winter. One challenge after another. But I don’t think I made the wrong choice. My concerns were very real. It was a conscious, well-thought-out decision.

There are three ways wild animals deal with winter’s cold – adapt, endure or avoid. I’ve TRIED to embrace the cold. To adapt. Really, I have. But I find I’m just enduring much of the time.

I have avoided winter for the last dozen or so years the same way some birds do, through flight. Call me a snowbird, I don’t care. I paid my dues. Ten winters in Alaska, five of them hauling wood and water for survival in McCarthy. And another fifteen or so in the mountains of Colorado. I’ve simply had my fill.

Palmer, Alaska — Alpenglow on Matanuska Peak

Another way to avoid winter is through hibernation. I’m doing a little of that this winter. Not the sleeping all the time, but I rarely go out and about. I’m definitely more interior-focused. Which brings me to another definition of

Chill

2. A versatile slang word that means calm, relaxed, easy-going, or cool, as well as a hang out. Other definitions of Chill: When used to describe a person, place, or thing, typically means relaxed or level-headed, with no ill intentions. Can be a verb that means to “relax or hang out” together.

It took me a while to really land this year. I knew where I wanted to be when I left McCarthy in October, but for various reasons, the housing situation did not gel until January. But I am FINALLY settled for the winter in Palmer.

Palmer lies in a great glacial river valley right at the base of the Chugach Mountains, which means I have the vertical topography I need and love, but the roads are mostly flat and easier for me to negotiate when they get icy. It means I can stay here warm typing this post while watching the alpenglow on the mountain in my backyard.

I’ve been very introspective lately. I am spending a lot of time learning this winter, and many hours are spent processing images and writing. I spend a lot of time thinking as I contemplate where and how I will move forward into the next chapter of my life.

I’m also spending a lot of time hanging out with an old friend. The last few winters I’ve lived a solitary lifestyle, traveling and housesitting. I visited a lot of friends in my travels but didn’t stay in any one place for too long, or spend much time with any one person.

It’s been rather serendipitous, my hanging out in Palmer for a winter. I’ve been able to help my friend out after a recent surgery and also just be there for her when needed for emotional support. SAD syndrome is real, and sometimes a person just needs company.

Cow moose — Hanging out with one of the neighbors

So even though the challenges continue (this week I had to throw down nearly a thousand bucks to repair my poor little desert truck, who hates the cold even more than I do), and even though the Alaska winter is more than just chilly – it’s searingly, bitingly cold – I’m feeling pretty chill about my life right now. I’m feeling I’m in a good place.

Sometimes you just need to chill.

Thank you, Sheetal Bravon of Sheetalthinksaloud, for this week’s Lens-Artists Photo Challenge, “Glimpse Into Your World”.

January 8, 2021January 8, 2021

Favorite Images of 2020 – A Year in Review

This week’s Lens-Artists Photo Challenge is all about sharing some of our favorite images from 2020. I have a lot of favorites, so for this post, I’ll stick to photos I have not yet published in this blog.

It’s been a rough year. I won’t deny it. 2020 was rife with difficulties, angst, despair, and uncertainty for me. It’s been surreal and dystopian for me, just as it has been for many others. But mixed in with all the challenges were many moments filled with beauty, gratitude, love, and appreciation. I even got some traveling in before things got crazy.

Gold Point, NV — Broke down and falling apart in 2020

I started the year housesitting in New Mexico. I spent a little time hanging out with the birds at Bosque del Apache before heading west to Petrified Forest National Park in Arizona.

Petrified Forest National Park — Petrified Forest is a photographer’s wonderland.

February was the calm before the storm. I landed a dream housesit, 6 weeks in Mendocino County, California, home of redwoods and fabulous wild beaches. I’ve been doing a lot of housesitting the last 3 winters, taking full advantage of my opportunities to explore all the wonders of the West. This one was the best housesit ever. I cherished every day.

Navarro Beach, California — Sunset on a wild Mendo beach

The homeowners came back a week early due to fears about Covid. I decided to stick with my original plan and camp out in the desert for the spring. I made an end run to the Sierras to avoid California’s urban areas, where the very first cases were being reported.

Yosemite National Park — Stormy day in Yosemite

I thought I had a good plan – to stay isolated and healthy and still enjoy the flowers. Then they started to close all the public lands. I ended up in lockdown in Las Vegas. This was especially surreal for me, a woman who had scrupulously avoided urban areas her entire adult life.

Death Valley National Park — Desert Sunrise

I was desperate for a touch of nature. The parks in town were too tame and too crowded. I found my wildland fix in some of the wastelands on the edge of town, the neglected and desperate dumping grounds in the desert where people abandon old tires, refrigerators, possibly bodies ( after all, this IS Vegas we’re talking about here). I tried to look past the graffiti-covered rocks and bags of garbage, cherishing the brilliant wildflowers growing there that thrived despite the abuse of the landscape. They were lifesavers for me, helping to ground me when I was overcome with despair.

The most important lifesaver, though, was friendship. This pandemic really helped me realize that I was loved and that people cared about me, at a time when I needed that support most.

Russian Gulch State Park, CA — I’m thankful for my friends.

I headed north again in mid-April. I wasn’t sure of my destination. Some of the public lands were opening up. At least I could get out of the city. I’d been warned that my summer job was canceled due to Covid and I was torn between going north to Alaska, where I had a home and a community but no prospects for employment, or staying south where there was at least some possibility of finding work.

Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park, CA — Hanging out in the redwoods

I interviewed with Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park in northern California and spent a couple of weeks camping in northern California and southern Oregon, waiting to hear whether or not I’d landed the job. While waiting, I got a call from my boss in Alaska. There WAS a job for me! I could go home!

Favorite Images of 2020 — I love summer in Alaska!

Summer was subdued but a wonderful respite. One thing 2020 has certainly taught me has been to appreciate every day, every moment because tomorrow is not promised. I am incredibly grateful for all the good in my life. Words cannot express how grateful I am for my home, my friends, my family, my community, and the wonderful life I’ve been fortunate enough to live.

Wrangell-St. Elias National Park — I really appreciate my home – and my view!

With fall I faced the uncertainty and angst again. Should I go south where I would be more likely to find work, or stay in Alaska, where I have a safety net of friends? I hate the cold and dark, but I felt travel was irresponsible and the political chain of events I could foresee that is playing out now tipped the scales. I decided to stay.

Denali Highway — The future is still a little foggy…

It hasn’t been easy. I thought I’d landed a job, even filled out the hiring paperwork, then saw it canceled due to Covid. Lodging options I’d lined up fell through twice. SAD syndrome struck, and I’ve had my moments of doubt and despair.

Favorite Photos of 2020 — This image is my visual impression of 2020 – wacked -out, scattered, lost and direction-less – but with many beautiful moments, too.

But once again, the love of my friends is pulling me through. I know I’m not alone and that many of us are struggling. I’m doing much better than I was a month ago and I feel hopeful about whatever the future will bring.

Favorite Photos 2020 — We’re in this together.

I think about the lessons that 2020 has taught me. Lessons about kindness and compassion. Lessons about appreciation and gratitude. Lessons about being present in the moment. 2020 has made me realize how much I love and cherish all the wonderful people in my life. I try not to take so much for granted these days.

There have been many moments of great beauty for me this past year, despite the craziness and uncertainty. All the same, I’m happy to see the end of 2020. I hope we all find better days ahead.

Palmer, AK — The sun has finally set on 2020.

November 11, 2020November 11, 2020

The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow

“Please don’t take my sunshine away.” –Traditional

Wrangell St. Elias National Park sunrise — Autumn sunrise from my bedroom window

The sun will come out tomorrow. Umm, maybe, but not for long enough. I’m about to enter the long dark.

I’m staying in Alaska this winter, for the first time in many years, and I’m dreading it. Dreading the dark. Dreading the cold. Wondering if I made the right decision. I’m already freezing.

Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge — I’d rather be in the desert – or at Bosque del Apache

I’d rather be in the desert, or hanging out on the Pacific Coast. But 2020 is a different kind of year. Travel just doesn’t seem like the wise or responsible choice this time around. There’s Covid, and the strife and uncertainty of a nation at odds with itself. I feel the need to be near like-minded souls and people who know and love me, instead of playing the eternal wanderer. At least for a little while.

Mendocino Coast near Westport — Or hanging out on the Pacific Coast

There are some good aspects to a winter in Alaska. It’s pretty. Actually, pretty damn beautiful. I’ve been aching for the aurora. The warmth of good friends is most definitely the most important reason to stay. But still, I don’t think I’ll make a habit of it.

Winters in Alaska are pretty – pretty damn cold!

Little darling, the smile’s returning to their faces
Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been here

Here comes the sun,
Here comes the sun, and I say
It’s all right

-George Harrison

Thank you, Ana of Anvica’s Gallery, for this week’s theme, The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow. The symbolism of this topic for me on this day is not wasted. I do feel hope.

Saturday I kept breaking out in tears, tears of joy and relief. I didn’t realize how much I had been sublimating, how deeply the despair and anxiety of the last few days, of the last four years, had penetrated my soul, until I turned my computer on that morning and saw 290 on the electoral vote count. Prayers of gratitude. Especially in these times, we need leaders who feed our hopes, not our anger.

Sunrise in Mendocino County — Sunrise in the Redwood Forest

“Minds that seek revenge destroy states, while those that seek reconciliation build Nations.” – Nelson Mandela

Wise words. Words for our nation to heed. Words a true leader should live by. Remember these wise words as the events of the next couple of months play out. It’s always darkest before the dawn. I hope our democracy survives the transition. If it does, the sun WILL come out tomorrow.

Long Beach, Washington sunset — The dark clouds won’t last forever. The sun WILL come out tomorrow.

June 28, 2020

A Quiet Moment

I’d like to share a quiet moment I recently had on the McCarthy Road. I was chasing rainbows, looking for them, knowing the light was right. Trees blocked my first glimpse, but if I could make it to the pond before it faded…

I caught the tail end for just a few seconds before the shower came back and blocked the sun.

Rainbow on the McCarthy Road — Caught the last glimpse

Usually, this spot is all about the birds. It’s a favored Trumpeter Swan nesting place most years. But this year it’s the flowers.

I was hunting for orchids. They love that moist mossy patch of roadside. I hoped I’d get lucky and spot one or two. What I found was a whole hill just covered with them. (I wished I’d brought a better close-up lense.)

The Roundleaf Orchids were my favorites. I guess you might say the Roundleaf Orchid is a quiet flower. Like some people I know. Tiny belly flowers, easy to overlook, but if you really focus on them, a priceless treasure.

There were other flowers, too, over a dozen different varieties. Not big fields like a Mojave Desert superbloom, but scattered here and there through the grasses and the willows.

But I guess it wasn’t a quiet moment after all. A symphony of birdsong filled the air. It was more of a peaceful moment.

What was quiet was the road. I stopped for at least 20 minutes and not another car came by going either direction. On solstice weekend!

It reminded me of the old days, before the rest of the world discovered McCarthy, when it was never-never land.

Sparrow's Egg Orchids — The hillside was covered with orchids!

It’s pretty quiet in McCarthy so far this season. There are a few visitors, mostly fellow Alaskans, but no crowds. I like that. It’s the tiny silver lining in the increasingly black cloud of our present-day reality.

But this quiet moment definitely feels like the calm before the storm. Travel restrictions have been lifted. The 4th of July will bring a huge influx of visitors.

A Quiet Moment — Sparrow’s Egg and Roundleaf Orchids

Alaskan villages are haunted by the specter of the last epidemic, the 1918 flu epidemic. Alaska was one of the places hardest hit by that scourge. It completely wiped out entire villages. And it wasn’t the first wave that got ’em, it was the second.

The first wave hasn’t even hit here yet. It could happen again. We’re very far from medical care.

McCarthy, Alaska — Quiet days in McCarthy

But this is also a town with an economy based entirely on tourism. What is the balance between economic survival and the lives of others in your community? That is the question that our village, along with the rest of the nation, is wrestling with now. Even in a community as remote and close-knit as ours, neighbor is pitted against neighbor in this struggle between economic prosperity and keeping people safe.

Personally, I feel that the lives of my friends and neighbors are priceless, much more priceless than that beautiful roundleaf orchid. They’re worth taking a few precautions for, making a few sacrifices.

If you love McCarthy, maybe for this year’s Fourth of July you might consider giving us a pass and recreating closer to home. If you must come out, do your best to keep us safe. Avoid the crowds. Keep socially distant. Please, please wear a mask. It’s not about politics, it’s about being considerate to others and not passing on a deadly disease that you’re not aware you’re carrying. It’s about keeping all of us here for each other for just a little while longer. Take a quiet moment and think about our community, which like that orchid, is so beautiful but so very fragile.

Thank you, Patti of Pilotfish, for this Lens-Artists Photo Challenge. I’m a day late and a dollar short due to connectivity issues, but better late than never.

April 29, 2020November 4, 2020

At Home – Where My Heart Is

For this week’s Lens-Artists Photo Challenge, Amy invites us to share photos taken at home. I’m one of those wayward drifters stranded by the coronavirus. I’m really far from home right now. And I miss it.

When this emergency first started to unfold, I made the decision to tough it out by camping, relatively isolated, in the desert. That’s what I usually do in March and April anyway. I obviously didn’t realize then just how bad things were going to get.

Wrangell Mountains — Part of the view from my front porch

When all the public lands and campgrounds closed, I thought about going home to Alaska. I did more than think about it. I made 2 false starts, desperate runs north, panicked, ruled by a desperate heart.

Stairway Icefall is my favorite feature in the Park and the centerpiece of my view.

But home is nearly 4,000 miles away. The road home would take me through dozens of very remote towns and villages, far from any medical care. I felt it would be irresponsible and selfish to go home and possibly expose all those vulnerable people, a modern day Typhoid Mary, to the virus. Shelter in place means shelter in place, right? Not drive thousands of miles.

Goat Hair Ridge — In a slightly different direction…

A friend’s daughter offered me a place in her home to shelter in place. I am eternally grateful for the kindness of strangers. I really am. Words cannot express.

Kennecott national Historic District — I can see the Jumbo Mine from my upstairs window.

But this is in no way anything like home. Home is McCarthy, in the heart of the wilderness, and it’s been home for 25 years, no matter how far I might ramble. I am sheltering in place in Las Vegas, the antithesis of McCarthy. So no, I am not staying at home.

So for this post, you don’t get pictures of where I’m at. You get the view from my front porch. Home. In McCarthy. It’s the most beautiful place in the universe. It’s where my heart is. And I miss it.

(All these photos were taken from either my front porch or my upstairs window)

April 3, 2020

From A Distance

Tina of Travels and Trifles chose Distance as this week’s Lens-Artists Photo Challenge theme. It’s a theme I can relate to.

Talk about social distancing. I am well over 3,000 miles from my home as I wait out this emergency. There are a lot of us gypsy travelers, far from home, who have had to make difficult decisions as the crisis has unfolded. When confronted with the choice of possibly carrying the virus through many distant communities with extremely limited medical care in both Canada and Alaska to my very remote and vulnerable home, I chose to stay put. But it wasn’t an easy decision.

I miss being able to go “out there.” My mother, 91 years old, in an assisted living facility with a touch of dementia, can’t leave her room, and it is hard for her to understand why she isn’t allowed to go out, even for a breath of fresh air. Her sacrifice is far more difficult than mine.

Those people working the front lines – medical staff, custodial workers, grocery store employees, care givers, truck drivers, all of those in essential jobs, are making far more difficult sacrifices than those of us sheltering in place. They are risking their very lives every day. To all of you, my eternal gratitude for the sacrifices you are making.

McCarthy Fourth of July — Music is important. Sing, play, dance. It’s good for your soul.

We are all making sacrifices. I’m not alone. We are all in this together.

All the same, I miss home, friends, and family. I find myself already grieving the loved ones I will lose to this virus, even though I don’t know who they are yet. None of us will pass through this trial unscathed.

Get outside, wherever you can. Stay healthy.

But we are fortunate. We live in a time when there are tools that help us feel close to those we love, even if it is from a distance. Can you imagine being in lockdown without the solace of easy communication available in our digital age?

It’s up to us all to help each other weather the storm. Be kind. Be gentle. Be supportive. Be patient with one another. We will all have our bad days before this is through.

Russian Gulch State Park — Listen to the birds sing.

Don’t let fear and despair, anger and frustration conquer your spirit. Take care of yourself. Get outside if you can, even if it’s just for a walk around the block. Stretch. Eat your fruits and veggies. Listen to the birds sing. Dance. Laugh. Play. Dream. Above all, be grateful. For every little thing.

This too shall pass. It may feel like forever, but it isn’t. And we’re all in this together. There is comfort in that.

Category: Surviving Covid-19

A Glimpse Into My World – Chill

Chill

Chill

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Favorite Images of 2020 – A Year in Review

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The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow

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A Quiet Moment

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At Home – Where My Heart Is

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Chill

Chill

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