Taku Winds

On Mt. Robert's overlooking Gastineau Channel on Thanksgiving Day

It’s almost 8:30 am on a Sunday and Juneau is blanketed in fresh white snow. Finally. Snow in Alaska. It’s still falling from an overcast sky which is keeping the sun at bay. It doesn't feel like morning - it just feels like cold darkness over everything. 

I let the dogs out, which makes me nervous. If it’s just Lota, which it usually is, I don’t worry. But with Cooper, our second dog for the past week, I foresee disaster. But, actually, right now, they’re playing in the snow in the backyard, like kids. If all goes as planned, we’ll go back to being a one-dog household this evening when Cooper’s owners return.

I wish the snow would make me feel trapped and still, as if all I need to do is stay inside and watch the snow accumulate. Instead I feel restless and anxious. I hate this feeling. I hate that lately I can’t seem to relax and not worry. It’s not worry about anything in particular, except a feeling that I’m not accomplishing enough. I had this feeling when Scott and I were traveling for those six months and not working (as we had been for two and a half years while abroad) - the urgency to return so I could get back to doing what I loved, which was making pubic radio. And now that that’s exactly what I’m doing, it’s not enough. And I don’t know what would be.

It was enough to go snowshoeing up Mt. Robert’s above the tram on Thanksgiving Day. We set out late in the morning but hours before we needed to be anywhere. As usual Scott rushed up the “easy” section to the Tram, the snowless trail, and I did my best to keep up. It was windy and only getting worse with Taku winds supposed to be up to 60 miles per hour, but below the tram the trees protected us for the most part. Above the tram was a different story. As soon as we left the forest the snow got deep enough for snowshoes and I immediately layered up - a thin down layer, a shell over that, gloves, hat, and my hood cinched tight. I put on sunglasses more for the wind than the sun. 

It hit us like a train, hard and fast, and I thanked god for outdoor gear. We persisted up because of Scott. If it had just been me and the dogs, I would’ve happily turned around - wind is not one of my favorite weather traits - and most people would’ve as well. Being above the tram with Taku winds blowing is not most people in Juneau’s idea of a good time. But this is why I’m with Scott. 

We kept going higher. I thought Cooper, being a smaller dog than Lota, might blow away, but his proximity to the ground helped him. It was the kind of wind you lean into, that takes your breath away. The snowshoe itself is challenging, but usually not a problem. With the wind, I paused before taking each step up. Scott and Lota weren’t fazed. At one point, Cooper ran to me whimpering, ice chunks in the hair around his eyes. The wind kicked up to the point that I had to sit in the snow and I tried guarding Cooper with my body. All I could hear was wind and whimpering. And then, “We should keep going.” So we did. 

The sky was a bright dark blue and, in the stiller parts of the mountain, small trees had become snow people. In the windy areas, ice formed sideways from branches.

It was our first snowshoe of the season and sometimes it felt like learning to walk again —breaking through snow unexpectedly, twisting ankles, falling. 

The wind got stronger the higher we went. The wind picked up the snow, whipping it in my face, which I was positive would be wind burnt, aging my skin ten years. Usually it was snow powder, but sometimes it picked up big chunks and I shielded my face with my hands. I saw Scott above me on the mountain, standing up strong, looking toward Gastineau Channel, likely enjoying the view. At that point, my body was no longer blocking the wind, it was going through me, like a million eager ghosts, and I couldn’t bear the thought of taking one more step higher, exposing myself any longer than I already had. When Scott looked toward me, I motioned with my arm that I was heading down. Lucky for me, he immediately came in my direction.

I wished there had been some button to push to make the wind stop - not for good, but enough to get us back into the woods. But isn't that the beauty of Mother Nature - our inability to control her.