Far North Winter

Snow has fallen continuously for days, and the temperature is in the far extremes that people in the Lower 48 only imagine. Colder than Minnesota and the infamous Chicago wind chills, and colder than I have ever experienced in my entire 29 years living near Denali in Alaska. 12 days straight of heavy snow, dropping about 12 feet, and it’s 36 degrees below zero, and sinking. The two-lane road leading to my cabin is invisible, buried under the deep snow. I used the gas-powered snow blower to keep the porch and door clear of drifts, but the earlier warm-up made me certain the deck was covered in ice beneath the surface. I can’t see out of the windows with the blizzard so heavy, absolutely relentless. I open the door, and a gale spews snow inside; the cold air sucks my breath away.

The kitchen and bathroom faucets are on a slow drip to keep the water lines from freezing, and I had covered the outside faucets with doubly insulated caps.  “Thank you, roof, for being deeply slanted so the snow slides off; thank you for not caving in on me. Thank you, trees, for staying upright and not falling on my house.” I’m speaking the words aloud, a long-practiced habit of mine in the months of deep winter. 

I put on my waterproof, dark gray, lined boots that reach just below my knees. Next, I pull on my almond-brown-and-white quiviat wool sweater, which my great-grandmother made. Wool mittens keep my hands warmer than gloves, but I know my fingers will be frostbitten within a few minutes if I take them off. A heavy, long wool scarf wrapped around my chin and nose protects my face, and I yank the door open, ready to fight the deadly winter storm.

I keep puffing out little prayers of thanks, and my breath dampens the scarf, so I must hurry and get back inside. “Thank you, furnace, for being faithful. Thank you, walls, for keeping the wind out. Thank you, pipes, for not breaking under frigid temperatures and heavy snow.”

I step off the porch and take a few steps, then duck as a huge chunk of snow slides off the roof and makes a loud kerplunk, landing beside the house. My footprints are already covered, and I can barely see the cabin in the blinding snow. I cling tightly to the bright yellow nylon rope I set up around my home in late September, a literal lifesaver in the far north. Its lemony hue doesn’t show through this blinding wall of white. My head has become cold inside the parka’s hood. 

An eerie howl cuts through the wind: wolves. The Denali pack travels long distances and frequently crosses my property.

My litany continues: “Thank you, wolves, for being stewards of the land. Thank you, nylon rope, for guiding my footsteps. Thank you, Papa, for teaching me the skills of homestead living – snowshoeing, building fires, and snow safety. Thank you, Mama, for passing your cooking and artistry skills to me.” Suddenly, a strange moan, like a low-pitched, angry cat, comes from a few feet away, so I yowl loudly into the wind, letting the moose and wolves know my location.

I keep dragging my snow shovel around the cabin as I walk, trying to make a trail, but the snow is too heavy. Looking ahead, I’m face-to-face with a cow moose, towering over me, her broad nose puffing steam and her dark eyes startled. I freeze, holding my breath, sending silent prayers to the heavens. A few seconds later, she turns and strolls away, invisible in this whiteout, before she has taken 2 steps.

Dialing my closest neighbor, I say, “Roscoe, I need help. My driveway is buried under snow, and it’s covered my windows too. I’m not sure you can even find me.”

Shortly after, the roar of Roscoe’s giant snow-cat rumbles through the snow. I inhale deeply, slapping my mittens together to warm my hands. The noise grows louder, and I watch, amazed, as a building-high wall of snow is dumped into the field, dwarfing me. Roscoe blasts his horn twice, his signal to stay clear.

 Copyright © 7/17/2026 by Andrea O. Corwin

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