When I first brought up my intention to visit Fairbanks, Alaska back in 2019, I was met with a singular question:
Why?
“My mom calls it the armpit of the earth,” my friend told me. But having gone to school in Nebraska and traveled for tennis tournaments across Alabama, Oklahoma and Texas, I had trouble believing a small city in central Alaska is what would push me over the edge.
I’d never been to Alaska. So, as a result, I had very little expectations outside of my friend’s endearing description and what I’d read in Kristin Hannah’s The Great Alone:
“Alaska isn't about who you were when you headed this way. It's about who you become.”
In reality, I was visiting on assignment, which required me eating my way through the city’s 30+ Thai restaurants (one for every thousand people)—an insanity that I couldn’t resist. If I was lucky, I’d maybe even gather some additional story ideas along the way.
If I was lucky.
It was late November and the roads were already sheets of ice. As soon as we exited the “city” (population 32,702), I immediately felt a shift in the air. The trees felt taller. The breaks between side roads felt longer.
Everything simply felt more immense—like we were at the mercy of our surroundings.
We passed a pair of large trash bins and I noted the crowd of crows that had congregated, digging through them and making a mess. It was only when we drew closer that I realized I’d been mistaken.
“Are those…”
“Ravens, yes,” my guide said. “You’ll see them everywhere here.”
What followed was an amalgamation of plowing through the city’s Thai cuisine, vodka tasting, dog sledding, visiting museums, chasing the Northern lights, and attending a comedy show tucked inside an industrial venue, food truck and all.
It was a place full of dichotomies. Just miles away from where I was sledding alongside caribou and watching for the Northern lights, I was drinking local beer inside a garage, listening to jokes about Christmas tree-shaped butt plugs.
So it was only natural that I found an excuse to return.
When I came back about a year and a half later for a story on dog mushing, I was immediately struck with a sense of familiarity. Only this time, I was entrusted with an actual vehicle.
Despite being what I would call a “fairly good” driver, I was admittedly nervous, given my memories of the ice-covered roads during my first visit. It was now March and I expected the weather to be even more unyielding.
So I was both surprised and relieved to find out I would be driving a Toyota Sequoia. (I decided that “Visiting writer has unfortunate collision with adult moose” was a more common headline than I’d originally anticipated.)
When I departed for my early morning mushing, still half asleep, I marked a spot where I’d be able to grab coffee. I couldn’t trust my cell service, so a minimal amount of planning was required.
As I crossed a frozen stream on Chena Hot Springs road, I glanced to my left. The clearing would have been beautiful on its own, but it was the prehistoric-looking creature slowly sauntering in my direction that made time stand still.
I had never seen a moose in the wild, let alone one less than a couple hundred feet away. It was at least two feet taller than I expected (and the car), yet moved with a grace that rivaled the serenity of its surroundings.
It was a moment that couldn’t have lasted more than four seconds, yet I was wide awake for the rest of the drive.
When I returned to the hotel that afternoon after a full morning of mushing, my options for TV were Fox News, Olympic figure skating reruns, and a man’s vasectomy reveal party (not that I lingered on the channel long enough to let that one sink in).
I turned off the TV and examined the list of activities available to me: the hot springs, a geothermal energy tour, and an on-site ice museum with a full-service bar.
Of course, I enjoyed them all.
Because that was Fairbanks: finishing your greenhouse tour with an Appletini in an ice cave, or returning to your cabin after a day of mushing to find your hand soap presented in purple Crocs.
For a place that was so often characterized by its long summers and winters—always either too much or too little light—I instead thought of Fairbanks by its color. As if the lights everyone came to view each season were reflected in the snow and embodied by the people who resided there.
Having still never seen the Aurora myself, everyone was overly apologetic when it was time for me to leave. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to see the Northern lights,” they’d said. “Having been here twice during the season, you’d think you would’ve seen them. Just bad luck, I guess.”
But for me, there was nothing to be sorry about. Because I knew what it meant:
Third time’s a charm.
Very nice! I've been waiting patiently for these to start turning up in my inbox. Already eagerly awaiting the next. Cheers!