Instead of the four typical seasons, Alaska has winter, more winter, winter again, breakup, summerfishridegetoutsidequickbeforeitsgone, and the freeze. "Breakup" is the time of year when a few feeble rays of afternoon sun try valiantly to melt ten feet of snow while sub-freezing nights work relentlessly to refreeze the water into a thick, slick sheet of ice that covers the entire state (or at least the entire parking lot). The sun’s long-anticipated return tempts otherwise hermit-like introverts and dedicated gamers to brave the slippery streets in desperate and clumsy attempts at restoring the nearly-depleted vitamin D reserves.
For three hours during select late afternoons, there is no ice. Instead, the sponge that is Alaska's bedrock reveals itself; footprints follow everyone on each walk; water stands in pools and collects in a glazing layer on all but the steepest ground. Mosquitos stand by as nature prepares a storybook breeding ground for them across America's largest state.
Though tempting, going outside this time of year is gross and disappointing. So, Aubrey, Sam, and I have spent additional time on indoor projects. Aubrey has started up the bakery for the season, I have painted and built a bicycle for commuting around town, and Sam is working on his dinosaur impression. Aubrey and I also purchased our first game system: a Nintendo Switch.
We did attempt to get outside yesterday. Aubrey and I packed two bikes, a trailer, a kid, and a dog and drove to Westchester Lagoon to meet a friend and his dog. After herding cats for fifteen minutes, we rode onto the trail and immediately sank in. The afternoon's sun had turned the once-hardened snowpack into eighteen inches of mashed potatoes. Every pedal stroke pushed us as far down as it did forward. We tried in vain to ride, but I caved and suggested we try the temporarily dry neighborhood streets.
The streets were far easier, though suboptimal for Aubrey's still-studded tires. We rode past gorgeous houses that overlooked the lagoon and Cook Inlet. Many homes had windows the size of walls through which one might take in the sight of Mt. Susitna or even Denali whilst sipping coffee by the fire. One house featured a two-story tree house under construction by some inspiring father. Another offered the feel of a cottage lost in the woods though it was within walking distance of downtown.
Dotted throughout the neighborhood were Little Free Libraries. I dutifully checked each and found a cardboard children's book called Vehicles. This I gave to Sam in his trailer. He squealed with delight and spent the balance of the ride pointing to various machines and yelling "Look!"
Life has been on the mellower side for the last few weeks, but that's ok with me. Having a bit of routine allows one to focus further into the future; to prepare for bigger obstacles and to plan for grander challenges.
Every day I walk in the door, Sam shrieks with joy as he runs up to hug me. Aubrey is right behind him with a kiss for me. The dogs swarm around, thrilled I'm home. No greeting from the cat yet, but we'll get there.
This is the life I couldn't imagine I was missing before I had it. I thought that I was special in that I just wanted to be an adventurer; that settling down wasn't part of what I wanted or who I was. It's an attitude I hear echoed regularly in my generation:
"No, we don't want kids; we want disposable income!"
"I plan to start having kids when I'm forty."
"Normalize not wanting to have kids."
I don't blame my generation entirely; we were lied to by many of the activist movements of the past half-century. Lies I bought into for decades.
But blame is irrelevant; one has only to zoom out to a slightly longer time scale to see that all of evolution is predicated on the ability to cast one's genes forward into future generations. To assume that one can gain deep satisfaction and true joy from anything short of fruitful reproduction is to believe that one's psyche is uniquely maladapted.
Please, take it from someone who has experienced much of what the world has to offer: children don't interfere with life's adventures, they are life's adventures.