Weekend in Seward

I booked the house in Seward a month ago. I'm a much better driver than he and am at ease going in heavy, wet snow.

The road heading south to Seward from Anchorage, Alaska, is covered in inches of new snow; and in places, my all-wheel-drive Honda Civic was "breaking the trail."

Arly and I are heading for a stress-free weekend of quiet - no visitors and no electronics. I packed pre-cooked meals, a mini crock of soup, some sweets, chips, and our required 12-pack of dark German Weizen beer and Cokes. Coke mixed with beer, called Colaweizen, is delicious.

We told no one of our plans and went invisible for the weekend, agreeing to not answer our phones, or texts. We each set an automated reply for texts saying "I will get back to you on Monday."

Due to the road conditions, our drive takes longer than usual and I find myself slowing under the night darkness. It is never ideal to drive at night in Alaska for fear of moose accidents. My eyes rove the edges of the road continuously, and suddenly I spot an enormous male moose.

Knowing the moose might startle and jump into us, I slow to a crawl. He stares as we pass, and a glance in the rear view reveals him trotting across the two-lane road into snow-draped Spruce trees.

Relief floods both of us as we pull up in front of our rental.

"We have arrived! Wow, it is a pretty cool place, yeah? I'll look for the keypad, and you can grab the bags, OK?" I wink at Arly, and he nods, his green-streaked man-bun bobbing.

The cabin is heated upon arrival; I am delighted to find a mini-Nespresso and a teapot perched next to the old gas stove. The owner has heated the four-person hot tub to a perfect temperature. Fatigued from winter driving, I want to test the hot tub in this mini-blizzard. My tongue is thirsty for the touch of an icy snowflake. I find my swimsuit and parade out to Arly, twirling it from my fingers.

"C'mon, my love, we are going in!"

He grins at me, ready for a frigid Alaskan adventure. "Why the suit, Babe?"

I glare at him.

"All right, tonight with suits - tomorrow, we will know if we need them after checking out the place in daylight."

The steamy hot tub air hits giant snowflakes surrounding us in icy crystals. Tension melts from my neck and shoulders, and Arly scoots over, putting his arm around me. Heads tilted back, we catch flakes on our tongues. "Dang, we didn't bring a Colaweizen out," Arly whispers, planting a dog lick on my cheek.

"Ewww, stop it Arly!" He laughs as always; he never has a sour mood.

The snow lets up, and the silence of the outdoors engulfs us. We are staying at the end of a private road with our rental the only structure. Everywhere we look is dark, except for slight reflections off the snow, and thousands of stars shining above.

We hear some crunching sounds and then low grunting. "Oh, maybe a moose. Crap! Sit still and be quiet," I tell Arly.

Sure enough, a bull moose with a rack of four and a half feet passes by, whistling and groaning as he cuts through the field.

"Sal, is that the Northern Lights?" Arly is pointing up. I see veils of white, and they gradually turn light pink, then green, and float like sheer curtains in the sky. "Yes, Arly, the Aurora Borealis; isn't it fabulous?" We stare upward, awed.

"Should we dress and sit out here?"

"I'm afraid the light show will be over if we go change; we are so lucky to see them! Let's watch for a bit longer right here, from the hot tub."

The Aurora lasts about fifteen minutes, swirling overhead; then we wrap up in our beach towels, put on the felt slippers we brought from home, and race inside.

In delight, we discover our host placed exotic shower gel with matching body cream on an acrylic tray. Oversized Turkish towels in mint-green with matching washcloths hang on a towel warmer—a luxurious end to our frigid night. We saw the Aurora and now we stepped into heaven. The gel foams on our thick washcloths, removes the chlorine odor, and enriches our dry skin.

Arly rubs the cream onto my back, legs, and feet in the long strokes of an expert masseur. "Hmm, Babe, that feels so good. You are hired!" I tell him.

I must rouse myself from dozing to reciprocate. His significantly developed muscular backside catches my attention and I slow my massage strokes, placing kisses down his spine.

In the morning, the Steller's Jays loud ruckus wakes us at seven-thirty; sunrise was almost two hours away, around nine-thirty. Peering out the window, we find moose tracks in new snow. I make instant oatmeal and add in some sugared pecans, then brew two Nespressos with a touch of hot chocolate mix.

All the details in this place show its owner's pride and precision.

The A-frame window with a partially obscured view of Resurrection Bay is centered above the featherbed.

The cooking range is an old Tappan with a warming drawer and crisper chest. When I open the door to the crisper, I find tiny Tupperware canisters with flour, salt, sugar, and a box of Saltines (expiration date seven months out). There are unshelled walnuts in a peach Lucite bowl, complete with a white Lucite nutcracker.

"Arly, look at all this! The range is amazing; I wonder why they don't make them like this anymore. I love it!"

"Now, don't get any ideas. We are not buying an old range. They don't make them like this now because people want huge ovens with many burners and a grill on top. Dry goods go in the pantry!"

It is an ongoing discussion regarding the plans we are drawing up for our own 1800 square foot house; some of my ideas for the interior are sore points; in fact, bruises.

The A-Frame has tall windows, a sloped Kelly-green roof reaching almost to the ground, and a front door painted a deep peach. The painter let paint drip down the door like candle wax, adding to its charm. Two hand-hewn log rocking chairs sit on the porch with twelve-inch-thick peach cushions, and a boot tray is at the door. The logo above the front door is forest green with peach lettering, matching the color scheme.

Once we have eaten, our bellies full of steel-cut oats and coffee, we are ready to explore. Our location is near Army land, and after admiring the cabin from the yard, we appreciate how thoughtful the owner is because most of the snow before our arrival was cleared.

We decide to cross-country ski. We are used to the groomed trails in Anchorage; these Seward ones are wilder. "More interesting," I tell Arly. We find a freshly brokend course through the trees, heading out as the sun rises low on the horizon and brightens the day.

I glide smoothly, watching the trail, and spot hare and moose tracks. Arly huffs in exertion behind me.

Stopping for a breather, I listen to rustling in the snow-covered shrubs; my polarized shades help me find the two-foot hare nibbling on some greenery cleared of snow by his powerful legs.

Silently, I point, then circle my hand around and point ahead to the moose tracks. We continue for a bit and stop at a junction in the trail.

In front of us stand five caribou munching on shrubbery and moss. Arly quietly snaps some photos. "Reindeer, like Rudolph," he calls out. I grin at him.

The woods are silent until a red squirrel decides to disturb the peace and squawks non-stop. I find him chittering and jerking on the edge of a tree trunk until he takes an incredibly long leap to another tree, climbing to the highest branches at breakneck speed.

I turn my head, searching for what the squirrel had seen, and pick out a horizontal dark line. Flat equals an animal; this line is forty feet off the trail. I freeze in place. A bull moose is strolling toward us.

My hand shoots up in warning, hoping Arly will notice and hush. I unhook my skis and move further from the moose to the left. His ears are up, likely curious and not angry. I wait for the hackles on his neck to rise.

"Arly, unsnap your skis. Shhh, be extra quiet and move slowly. Don't panic; he seems calm right now."

I look over my shoulder between him and the moose. Arly's ski binding clicks, and the moose turns toward him, ears alert.

Now, talking in my normal pitch voice, I hope the moose will leave in peace. "Arly! We need to move off the trail behind a tree. I'm hoping my voice will make him want to get away. Listen, we will never be able to outski him if he charges because he is offsides to us."

I peer at the moose; his head is down while he searches for goodies to munch. I side-step and stand behind a tree, keeping eyes on the monster moose, eyeing my skis lying in the trail. Arly carefully mimicks what I did. He is new in Alaska; I grew up here and am using every outdoor skill I have learned to keep us safe.

Bullwinkle is taking his time. As the biggest creature out here, not much is a threat to him, certainly not us. He enters the trail, a leafy branch hanging from his mouth, snow on his antlers.

Arly manages to snap a photo as the enormous bull steps over the skis without disturbing them, and veers diagonally into the trees.

When nervous, Arly huffs noisily; now he is huffing and blowing so loudly the harbormaster could hear!

"Can we go now, Sal?" he asks me. I see his face is beet red, and his green man-bun has come loose; the long locks cover his face, and I can barely catch his eyes.

"Hold on, Hon, Bullwinkle is almost out of sight."

The damned squirrel again begins his annoying chittering. I search the canopy of trees and spot two squirrels where the moose had passed - a good sign for us.

"Yes! We can leave now. I suggest we ski back as fast as we can. We can go into town later for some baked goods. Did you want to kayak?"

"Hell no! It is freezing; this was enough experience for one weekend. A whale or a giant fish might flip us in kayaks, and it's even colder on the water. I want to soak in the hot tub!"

I laugh at his ridiculousness.

We drive into town and walk around. The Bay is beautiful, and we have some cookies and decaf at a small bakery, then return to our cozy abode.

"We have to try out the rockers, Arly! They're so cute."

"Sal, it is damned cold! I don't want to sit out in the cold."

"Well, this is Alaska, Arly. Maybe stop wearing thin clothes? Put on a hat, wear some Arctic gloves?"

"I have on layers."

"So do I, and I'm not complaining of the cold, you big weenie!"

I grin at him and smack him on his chin with a hard-packed snowball. My aim is excellent, but I don't want to hurt him by aiming for his full face; his jutting chin is a great target.

He is athletic in the water because of his San Diego childhood. With no snowball fighting history, he makes a loose snowball, and his feeble throw misses me completely. I make a mental note to show him how to pack a good snowball.

He sits on one of the porch rockers, so I straddle him in the chair, kiss his forehead, and wipe the snow off his face and neck. We rock and enjoy the silence of the snowy Alaskan afternoon. Now close to four in the afternoon, the sun is going down, and dry pellet snowflakes swirl out of the gray sky.

When the sun sets, I heat the soup crock, and we eat soup out of coffee mugs with some saltines. Peanut butter brownies with hot cocoa are dessert.

"I'm ready for hot tub time! Birthday suit style!" Arly strips down and wraps in two beach towels, one around the waist and one over his shoulders. His hair is back in the man-bun. He mixes two Colaweizen into metal tumblers. "These will hit the spot while we soak."

Once I am draped in my heavy robe, towel in hand, we climb into the tub. I snuggle against him, then straddle him, pushing strands of hair that escaped his bun away and nibbling his neck.

"A drink to my lovely warrior woman," Arly declares as he sips the Colaweizen; then he holds the tumbler to my lips. He deliberately dribbles it down at the tender spot between my collar bones, and across each breast. So cold, I gasp, but I'm warmed quickly by his superheated hands and tongue.

We try hard not to slosh too much water out of the tub.

Hands intertwined, my head on his shoulder, Arly speaks softly.

"Sal, gosh, when that big dude looked at me, I felt the adrenalin racing through me. You know, I would have run, and then died under the moose's hooves or horns! Thank God for you."

Smiling, we clink our tumblers together and kiss, encircled in steam.

"Just a regular day here in the far North. You know, we kids were required to go outside for recess all year round, but teachers rushed us inside whenever a moose wandered through the schoolyard."

"How often was that?" he asks, looking spooked.

"Often...several times per week. All the schools up here have ice rinks, and daily we brought our ice skates to school. Sometimes in the Spring, black bears come out of the woods and visit the schools near the mountains."

She giggled as she felt shivers run through Arly. "Are you cold?"

"Not the part that is in the water! But man, it sounds scarey growing up here. Always having to be on the alert for huge dangerous animals. Raising kids here could be stressful."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. I survived. And raising kids, I hear, is stressful no matter where one lives. Also, what about sharks? They are worse than bears or moose!"

He considers and shakes his head no. "I don't agree."

"What? You can't see the shark until it attacks you. Usually we see a bear or moose, or hear them coming."

"Usually? I rest my case! The lifeguard spots the sharks and clears the water. Who warns Alaskans about a moose hiding behind a tree, or a bear curled up near the path?"

I roll my eyes and finish the Colaweizen in a huge gulp. Snow melts on my frigid nose and I remember the fun of growing up in Alaska - so many adventures.

"Look, Sal, the Lights are out again!" Arly is yelling.

I laugh out loud at his excitement. The sight is so special, his enthusiasm overtakes both of us. Our hot tub session ends under the Northern Lights and we go to bed when nature turns off the Aurora nightlight. We sleep sleep soundly; we are worn out from skiing, the moose encounter, our love making and the one-hundred-five-degree soak.

Over Nespresso in the morning, Arly tells me he dreamed he was surfing, and a moose swam by. I counter with my dream of that giant hare sharing quarters with a porcupine under our deck. Thieves, both of them, gobbling vegetables from my midnight sun garden which grow to massive proportions under the twenty hours of daylight in an Alaskan summer.