Cabin Fever

“That’s the last round for the fall. Time to close down this station. I can’t believe I’m asking this, because your brain is wired backwards. Seriously, though. Fairbanks could use someone like you in the winter. Are you sure I can’t convince you to come back to town?” My partner, Henry, begs.

“Have you ever been able to?” I scoff.

“No. But I’m always going to ask. I hate leaving you up here. Yes, you have a cabin that you’ve poured your blood, sweat, and grit into, because we all know you don’t shed any tears. Hell! I even know you’re capable of taking care of yourself, but it doesn’t sit well with me. It’s prime bear season. If they don’t get you, the trigger-happy hunters might,” Henry admits, shaking his head.

“I’ll be fine,” I reply, winding one of the safety ropes.

We are forest rangers, and we take care of all the emergencies in the mountains. At the end of the season, this station is too remote and will be out of commission until the spring thaw. Henry will head back to town to be with his wife and family, and I know he will check in with me monthly through our radios. He and his wife are the only people I know by their first names. Everyone else is a contact through the military, and I only know them by their last name.

My cabin is inaccessible unless the ground is frozen solid. Even then, it can only be reached on foot. I could go up during the summer months, but previous years have shown that the area becomes thick with sludge-like mud. The one year I tried, I kept getting stuck up to my waist, and it became more of a struggle to get out than just to wait for the ice and snow.

Not even on a snowmobile, unless there is one up there already. Which there’s not. I don’t have a way to keep it fueled. There’s one here at the station, but that’s government property. Another way to access my cabin is if a plane were to land on the flat above my cabin, but it’s small and most pilots say there’s not enough room. Not to mention the fact they can’t see my landing strip.

The only person who is crazy enough to do that is the pilot I met while serving overseas. We called him Johnson, and while he was passionate about saving lives, he was more passionate about his home state, Alaska. He convinced me to give his home state a chance, and frankly, I’m glad I did. This place has become my sanctuary. Johnson respects my desire to be left alone and doesn’t press. Thankfully, we only have to talk once a month through March while he drops supplies and hooks onto the garbage I cannot burn.

I enjoy the hike home, but the vast area does not mean I get the whole winter alone. Occasionally, a brave hunter will be dropped off, or a thrill seeker tries to make it through the Alaskan wild. Most of them hardly last a day, let alone the recommended four most pilots require. Right now, as Henry pointed out, we’re in the middle of bear season, with black bear season ending next week. However, some species allowed the hunting season to go well into December. I’m hoping my bright safety vest will deter those who have wandered up to this area from mistaking me as game.

My cabin is a trek, but it is more centralized to where others end up than this station. Ever since a social media influencer dropped the coordinates for an air-drop sky excursion, more and more dumb followers will try to make their way down this mountain. There’s always one or two that end up off the path and get lost. Without timely help, those idiots would die. As part of the local Search and Rescue team, Henry and I are both against losing a life if we can prevent it. Being closer, I typically find them first, treat them with first aid, and get them down the mountain safely. Then I make my way back to my cabin, hoping my radio won’t crackle again.

“Grizz, come on, man. Sarah has extended the invitation to dinner. You should join us. Just one night. Halloween is a fun time, but any other day is just as good. It’s a month away, but you can think about it. I bet the lights will be easily visible across McKinley Park at that time. You could tell my kids about it, and they could paint you a portrait. You know how much they adore you. Please, we would love to have you for just one meal,” Henry offers.

But that means going down the mountain and facing more than one person. Because if I’m in town, everyone would want to talk to me. They all know me, but I can’t tolerate most of them. I was just in town three days ago and overheard that they were hoping to expand the town again. Some bigshot from Vegas was telling everyone what we needed and how it could be accomplished, but I only wish for more solitude. I wish the town didn’t have to grow, or that people thought Alaska was too cold and wild to settle into. However, that seemed to draw more people in.

“No thanks,” I say, putting the supplies away and packing the rest of the perishable food into his truck.

I’ve had enough social interaction for the year. I’m looking forward to my seven-month seclusion. Man! I love winters in Alaska. Henry sighs but nods as he places his bag in the back seat. Two car seats covered in crumbs fill the back bench, and I wrinkle my nose. Nothing against his kids, but they create messes everywhere. And now his backpack has crumbs all over it, and he’ll have to worry about mice getting in the pack. No thanks.

“At least take this radio. I know it’ll have enough juice to get you to your cabin until you can power up the CB. I can hear the beeps - even if we can’t talk. One to get my attention, two for help, and three that you made it safe,” Henry pleads.

The same code as always. I concede and hook the radio to my belt; I was planning on taking it regardless. I had a charger at my place for one of these standard-issued radios and extra batteries in my pack. However, the distance was not great, and needed to be connected to my CB radio port if we wanted to talk. I made a habit of taking it with me everywhere.

“I won’t have the CB working until Sunday at the earliest. And once winter fully hits, I’ll only get about an hour or two of sunlight,” I warn.

Three days to hike to my cabin, check and charge the solar panels, and check on the antenna. And about a month or two before I lost most of my daylight. It didn’t take much to charge that CB radio, and it was my only source of electricity in my cabin. However, it brought comfort to those who worried about my welfare over the long winter with no communication. A small comfort in my mind, too.

Then after that, I had about two months before the Yukon River froze over, taking away my fresh water supply. Since the water keeps flowing under the ice cap means, I had means to acquire more. It would be tedious work, but that’s how I preferred it.

“I know. Are you sure you don’t want a gas generator? It would be more effective than solar panels,” Henry says, trying another way to convince me not to go.

“No,” I reply, shaking my head.

I hardly had anything to say to anyone, but Henry understands that I don’t often elaborate. Not that it would stop Henry from worrying. It was nice to have a native worry so much about me. In a way, it meant that I was welcomed here.

A gas generator would be helpful, but it’s also more expensive. My panels are paid for, and I don’t have to refill them. Plus, I’m not going to smell like diesel every day. Not to mention, there’s no way to transport the fuel up there without losing a significant amount. It’ll slosh out on the journey.

There’s no room in my cabin for such a thing. The fumes would quickly overtake the area, and I’d suffer from headaches all the time or fear my place burning down. Not to mention the noise! And if by chance I could move the generator outside, I would have to build a new building and keep it warm to prevent the fuel from freezing.

“I know. I know,” Henry sighs, shutting his vehicle door and playing with his keys.

All of his stuff was now packed, but he still was hesitating. Guess it was time to placate him.

“I’ll let you know when I make it to my cabin. I’m going to winterize the station before I head out,” I reply.

“Do you want help?” Henry asks.

“Nope. You promised Sarah you’d be home by nightfall. That happens earlier and earlier every day. You have to go while you still have light,” I state.

“A two-hour drive back to town is still better than your walk to your cabin. It wouldn’t be so wrong to accept a ride at least half way there! Sarah would never forgive me if something happened to him after I left. Wait, that means we would have to cut a road in. Jesus! Always so stubborn. I’m not winning this one. Wife or friend. Wife or friend? Which one do I support?” Henry mumbles under his breath, but loud enough I know he intended me to hear his internal dilemma as well.

“Sarah’s waiting,” I remind him, taking the choice away.

“Take care of yourself, Grizz. I’ll see you in April, or, most likely, May. It’s nearly two hundred miles back to Fairbanks from your cabin,” Henry states.

Mentally, I correct it to about a hundred and twenty miles since I just follow the headings and there’s no need tweave through the land like a snowmobile or truck would. A human on foot can go in places machines can’t.

“I can’t do anything from that distance, but please, check in. You’re a great asset to our team, and I’d hate to lose you as a partner and friend. Also, I would really hate to put in a missing person’s report for Barrett ‘Grizz’ Young. That would be a headache with the authorities,” Henry resigns.

“You’ll see me in May,” I agree, and he laughs.

“That’s the best I’ll get. Take care of yourself, Grizz,” Henry orders, and I nod.

Every year was the same song and dance. You would think after a decade of doing this, that Henry would be a little more accepting of my decision.

Reluctantly, he makes his way over to me. We hold each other’s gaze before Henry finally pats my shoulder, giving me his final yet silent farewell, and I watch him drive away before marching back up the steps. I would leave in the morning.

Tonight, I would finalize everything and check the radar one last time. Snow already covers parts of the mountain, but heading out in a storm will never be wise. Then, at first light, I would make my way to my cabin. No work or pressing concerns. All my anxiety and stress will melt away as I work the land and make my cabin livable. I won’t worry about what day it is until Henry reaches out to work at the ranger station in the spring and the thaw threatens to take my cabin away.