A journalist observes life in the far north.
No storm yet. I wait, feeling weirdly giddy. Expected is eight inches of snow followed by freezing rain. If the storm comes, I have a nasty commute tomorrow to the North Pole Chamber of Commerce luncheon. And shoveling at the rental property.
The wind is blowing, nothing serious but enough that I just heard a gust slap the house. The sky is black, the kind of black that makes it seem like anything beyond the front door is an abyss. It’s the sort of black night that makes a person feel alone in the world.
I’m not alone. Alec is across the room, his own clickety-clacking on a keyboard abbreviated by an occasional chuckle about some comment on Facebook.
I checked a couple of weather Web sites, hoping to spy a picture of the storm. Satellite imaging or something. I only saw some Doppler radar with a few green patches and a graphic showing my region completely colored in red.
Waiting for this storm is like waiting for Redoubt to erupt.
I wish I could watch the storm come in but it’s too dark to see anything. In the summer, magnificent storms cross the valley to my house, approaching like runners at the start of a marathon.
This supposed storm seems to be tip-toeing, dawdling perhaps at the Alaska Range before descending on the Tanana Valley. Or maybe Alec is right and the storm isn’t coming at all.