TheBanyanTree: What a difference ...

[Snowgoose]

What a difference a week makes.

Last Friday (a week ago yesterday) Jer and I were standing atop our pick 
up truck in the middle of a sun drenched hay field, deciding if we 
should quit at 46 bales or try to go one tier higher. It was 9:00 PM, 
the sky was as blue as our State flower; the "Forget-Me-Not" and the 
smell of freshly cut hay was strong in the air. The heat of the day had 
mellowed to a comfortable 75F, with just enough of a breeze to dry the 
sweat we had built up tossing and stacking 70 pound bales of lush, green 
brome hay.

Deciding 46 bales was enough of a load for this trip, I let Jer strap 
the load securely while I sat atop the stack admiring the scenery. "Tiny 
Moose Farm", where we bought our year's supply of hay, sits at the base 
of Pioneer Peak, a landmark mountain at the eastern end of the 
Matanuska-Susitna valley of South Central Alaska. On a clear day like 
this one, the mountain looms high overhead, standing out in stark 
granite contrast to the unbroken blue of the sky.

To the right of Pioneer Peak, the Chugach Range creates a jagged ridge 
of mountains from Palmer to Anchorage; creating a boundary between our 
green valley and the thousands of miles of ice fields we know press 
unseen behind them. It's hard to imagine on a hot, sunny day like this, 
but the Chugach Range is all standing between the ice fields of Prince 
William Sound and the more temperate, agricultural valleys of Cook 
Inlet, on who's shore stands the city of Anchorage and the Mat-Su valley.

Although it's the last week of June, there is still snow visible in old 
avalanche chutes and shadowed areas near the top of the mountains.

Glancing off to the left, a reminder of how close those ice fields lay 
is clearly within sight; the Matanuska Glacier. Less than 20 miles from 
where I sit, wiping sweat from my brow, the land locked glacier looms 
between mountain ranges, looking not quite real as it gleams in bright 
blue-white silence. The glacier marks the end of the Chugach range and 
the beginning of the Talkeetna Range, which borders our valley to the 
north and west. If I were a bit higher up, I could probably see the 
Talkeetna glacier too. It's a bit farther away and blocked from view by 
foothills.

Once Jer finishes securing our load of hay, I take the opportunity and 
treat myself to a short "hay ride" high atop the truck as Jer drives to 
the edge of the huge, neatly mowed field. The air is fresh, the sun 
glorious on my face and soaking into muscles tired from unaccustomed 
work. I grip the twine of the uppermost bales tightly as we cross a 
bumpy section, laughing in delight at being up so high, knowing the 
days' work is done and our little herd of sweet Pygmy goats will have 
plentiful, good quality hay during the coming winter. I look around once 
more before sliding down off the hay, over the roof and then the hood of 
the truck to where Jerry waits to help me down off the front bumper. 
We're both slightly sun burnt but smiling - at a job completed and in 
sheer exuberance at such a beautiful, summer day in Alaska.

Friday, one week later (yesterday). . .

It was late, well after 10:00 PM and I was standing on the upper deck of 
our house, watching the sun, glowing ominously dark orange through a sky 
partially obscured with low clouds and partially by smoke. There are 
wild fires burning unchecked in the Interior of Alaska.

The fires are far away, much closer to Fairbanks than to us, but the 
smoke has made it's way clear to the coast and is slowly choking the sun 
into submission - much earlier in the day than would be normal this time 
of year. It has been gloomy and unnaturally dark here all day. Everyone 
prays for rain.

We had plenty of rain here in the Mat-Su valley in May; in fact, more 
rain than normal, but the past three weeks have been unusually dry and 
hot. It made for an excellent hay season here - farmers and livestock 
owners were grateful for a bountiful harvest. But there was little rain 
in the Interior of Alaska. Add several weeks of high temperatures, 
culminating in severe thunderstorms and multiple lightning strikes and 
the stage was set. There are now at least five large wildfires blazing, 
  one of them threatening the outskirts of Fairbanks itself. Several 
others are near smaller towns or native villages. Hundreds of homes have 
been evacuated. Scenes on the television show few people on the streets 
of Fairbanks and those who have ventured out walk with scarves over 
their faces through streets thick with smoke. High winds and 
temperatures hovering near the 100F mark make fighting the fires even 
more difficult.

Even in areas where people are not immediately in danger, some animals 
ARE. The Anchorage Bird Club has put out a plea to anyone with room to 
spare be available to take in displaced pet birds from budgies to Macaws 
being brought in from the Fairbanks area - the smoke is killing them.

The only friends I have who live in the Fairbanks area live quite a ways 
to the North of the fire zone and have (so far) been spared the worst of 
the smoke, but are nevertheless having difficulty. I can only imagine. 
The haze of smoke from these fires (the closest one is over 500 miles 
away) is beginning to burn my eyes and affect my allergies even here, 
with hundreds of miles and a mountain range between us.

I stood last night, watching the sun, still high in the sky, as it 
fought a losing battle to brighten a smoke blighted land. I looked 
around at beautifully blooming wild flowers, green trees and grass, all 
oppressed by the ever present if slight tint of brown smoke. I prayed 
for rain to fall far from where I stood. We could use it here, too 
(although, since Jer has a back hoe rented for the weekend, I'm supposed 
to contain my prayers for rain to the Interior) - it is very much needed 
in Fairbanks!

DARN.

I awoke to the sound of rain this morning. Pioneer Peak and the 
surrounding mountains are completely obscured today but it's impossible 
to say just yet how much is by smoke and how much by rain clouds. The 
rain has cleared the air somewhat, at least temporarily. I turned the 
television on, hoping for good news. No rain yet in the Interior, but 
the winds have tapered down and seem to be beginning to change 
direction. This may give exhausted fire fighters the opportunity they 
need to turn the fires back. Still, they need rain.

Today I watch water glisten on green leaves outside my window. A light 
sprinkle falls from a dark sky to be soaked up by land happy to receive 
a drink. The fire danger here in the Mat-Su valley is dropping. The 
fires still burn hot in the Interior. Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

What a difference one week makes.

-Deb
-- 
Deb Frost / snowgoose
Spring Promise Pygmies; Meadow Lakes, Alaska
dfrost at customcpu.com
http://www.customcpu.com/dfrost/mypage.htm
Pygmy owner since 1976, breeder since 1988
Member NPGA since 1991

  We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark;
  The real tragedy of life is when adults are afraid of the light.

                      - - Plato