With the start of the New Year came an arctic blast that has chilled us for over two weeks.  During this cold snap, the highest temperature has logged in at -25 F, while the lows are down to -45 F so far.  It is the kind of weather that not only makes us love our cozy woodstoves and curse our frozen water pipes, but also finds us marveling at the frosty, exquisitely crisp days.  When the weather is like this, it is too cold to ski and instead, the frozen Nenana River becomes an inviting place to take a walk.

In this type of deep cold, there is great contrast between the pervasive quiet and the noises that break the silence.  So quiet is the still air, but so greatly every sound does carry: the squeaky snow underfoot of my soft mukluks, the call of a raven overhead, the noise of clothing gone stiff in the cold as I walk.  This is my idea of deafening silence.  

Currently, the sun rises at 10:41 AM and sets at 3:15 PM, but that doesn’t take into account the severe topography of the area.  Here in a narrow pass of the Alaska Range, we see the sun for a much shorter amount of time. I have timed my trip to the river with the height of the mid-day sun.  On the ice, I am out of the trees, in full view of the sun, in a dismal attempt to absorb my daily allowance of vitamin D through the only exposed part of my body—my eye balls.  The sun’s rays contain very little to no warmth this time of year, but I can pretend.  It feels wonderful to bask.

I am not alone in traveling on the river this winter.  There are tracks from a group of caribou that recently crossed and enjoyed the openness to take a rest; a single fox has made a determined path along the edge of the river.  Downstream, a river otter’s tracks reveal its movements: it runs and then slides, runs and slides, runs and slides from one hole in the shelf ice to another, leaving just the distinctive pattern in the snow as a sign of its inhabitance.  In all my layers of wool, fleece, goose-down and fur, it is nearly impossible for me to imagine the otter’s ability to be in and out of the water so naturally throughout the year.  I envy its adaptations to these harsh conditions.

In a few short months, the only way to travel the Nenana River will be by boat, or body surfing if you happen to be a Harlequin Duck or Merganser, in a loud, silty, frothy rush of glacial water.  I lay down on the ice to silence my loud movements and take in the precious stillness of these Alaskan winter days.