“What is the idea that something exists, even if you can’t see it, if not the very definition of faith?” – Sloane Crosley in “Grief is for People”. (A wise, funny and moving memoir of grieving for her friend who died by suicide. You should read it.)
April 11. Chilkat Inlet, Haines (Deishu) Alaska. 12:15 pm. 40 degrees, small craft advisory for south winds gusting to 30mph. Rain and snow.
High tide 1:15 pm 16.03 ft., low tide 7:16 pm .7 ft.
Sunrise 5:57 am, sunset 8:09 pm. Gaining six minutes of daylight today.
April is the month of fits and starts. Today it is pitching a fit. But it could be worse. There’s only a dusting of snow in the forecast and the sun keeps breaking through between the fast moving squalls. Because of the high winds, the fire chief has banned all outdoor burns. No brush clearing today. The police advise that there is a moose with calves on the Chilkoot Indian Association trails across from the school, so stay clear.
I like to know the baseline details about life on this patch of earth, this particular air, this inlet where the Chilkat River meets the sea. These animals and plants. This is not the Environment with a capital E to write to our senators about. This is home. Mine and yours. Dirt. Rocks. Trees. Water and wind. It is our (shared) habitat.
April for me is mud and light. Mud in the driveways, mud on the dogs, mud on my boots. Mud in my car. Light through the window at the pool when I swim at six am. Gaining daylight are two of the most beautiful words in my world.
As Beth and I and our dogs, older Trixie and Rosie her pup who is in her first heat, weave our way along paths down and up rocky ledges by the beach about a mile and a half south of my house we brace for the wild gal in heat chasing Trixie every time they barrel by. I can’t wait for this to be over, Beth says. It will be, I say.
There are other signs of spring. Daffodils bravely try to bloom. The beach roses clenched leaves waiting for the wind to quit and a little more sun. Tomorrow?
Beth and I shout even though we are right next to each other. We wear heavy coats, wool hats, neck gaiters, coats, boots (me) running shoes (her). She has a new pair made in China. She has ordered another pair, just in case. Yes, we are aware down to our toes even on this far away shore, of our reliance on the labors of others and the direction the global trade winds blow. But we don’t mention it.
Instead, we talk about puppies in town. They are up for adoption because someone else had a dog in heat, a Great Pyrenees mix that apparently lost her chastity underpants (Beth was glad she didn’t take that advice now) and had a fling with a neighbor’s randy hound. “The puppies are really cute,” Beth says. All puppies are cute, I say. These will be very big and bay. We are holding a rotten stump to keep from being knocked silly or worse as Rosie and Trixie tumble past us again. I pray that this is temporary, hormone-induced insanity.
Up at the top of the cliff stairs, in the woods where everything is calmer, quieter and warmer, the dogs run down a muddy track, and we talk about nature being an antidote to anxiety, stress, worry. There is a specific wiggyness that lands on my shoulders this manic time of year that seems worse this April. Can you imagine, I asked her, how people who don’t get outside like we do feel? How do they cope? Without this time each day, I might be in a straight jacket. We are lucky, she said. We are, I said then warned: “Brace yourself!” here comes Rosie again.
Brace yourself.
That’s good advice even if you aren’t walking on cliffs in the wind with a dog in heat. Or maybe we all are, in a metaphorical way. Brace yourself. In other words, take care of you. I really can see spring from here.
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