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August 2, 2025
Life on the Tundra: The Land Cloud and the Elusive Lake
This weekend, Carlos, one of his coworkers, and I set out on a tundra trek with high hopes and foggy outcomes.
On Saturday, we braved a land cloud, that eerie phenomenon when the dew point and temperature meet just right, causing the sky to descend onto the earth. Think: a cloud on land, thick and disorienting. Our mission? To find Kittiwake Lake and the lava tubes.
What we think might have been the lake was, well… a rather underwhelming puddle. Standing around it, we all exchanged a glance that quickly turned into laughter. "This is the lake?” The kind of humor you can only find when you're standing ankle-deep in mystery and moss.
Not yet ready to give up, we hiked up a nearby hill, possibly McKay’s Folly, to see what we could see. The climb wasn’t easy. The ground here looks flat but isn’t. Hidden crevices, jagged volcanic rocks (we’re still trying to remember what they're called—T-something?), and crumbling lava boulders make each step an act of strategy. Thankfully, reindeer tracks gave us a path to follow. If it’s good enough for the reindeer, it’s good enough for us. We leaned on our walking sticks and trusted the hooves that came before us.
The summit offered us... fog. No lake. No lava tubes. But maybe—just maybe—we were close. According to the map, the hill was just west of our destination. We left with a promise: we’d try again.
And we did.
On Sunday, Carlos and I made a second attempt—this time from a different angle, approaching from the quarry. The land cloud was back with a vengeance. We could barely see 15 feet ahead, and without clear visibility, we didn’t want to risk wandering too far off course. In weather like this, the land disorients you. Every boulder looks like the last. You lose all sense of direction. In places like St. Paul Island, you don’t mess with fog.
So once again, no lake. No lava tubes. Just two hikers (plus one on Saturday), some laughs, a few good stories, and a growing appreciation for the mystery of this place.
We’ll be back. The tundra doesn’t give up her secrets easily—but we’re learning she rewards those who keep coming back.
July 29, 2025
Life on the Tundra: Tsunami Warning on the Island
Last week brought an unexpected reminder of just how closely tied we are to the rhythms, and risks, of the Pacific. Following a major earthquake off the coast of Kamchatka, Russia, our island received a tsunami warning. By around 4:00 p.m., the village safety officer, ambulance drivers, and city officials were driving through town with sirens blaring and the emergency loudspeakers echoing through the streets: evacuate to higher ground.
Residents responded quickly. Some made their way to Telegraph Hill, others stayed safely at home if they already lived on elevated ground. Many of us gathered at the Civic Center, which became the main evacuation point for the community.
Inside, the mood was steady and calm. Children were kept busy with art projects and storytelling, a testament to the strength and gentleness of our village members. The clinic staff stepped in and did what they do best: take care of people. They rallied groceries from the store and whipped up what will forever be remembered as Tsunami Stroganoff: a warm, comforting meal shared in a moment of uncertainty.
As the hours passed, we waited, talked, colored, ate, and looked out windows into the dim, foggy summer evening. Around 9:00 p.m., the tsunami warning was downgraded to an alert, and we were given the all-clear to return to our homes.
It was a long evening, but a powerful reminder of the resilience, care, and coordination that define our small island community. Emergencies like this are never easy, but here on the tundra, we meet them together.
July 21, 2025
Life on the Tundra: Mail Day, Wildflowers, and a Warm Breeze
Welcome to Life on the Tundra. This is where I’ll share slices of our days: the little triumphs, the odd rhythms, and the magic of living where tides, weather, and supply planes set the pace of life.
We’ve been in Alaska for five months now, slowly finding our footing. The house feels more like home, the pantry is finally stocked, and I’m starting to return to some of the projects I lugged out here with me. But today wasn’t just about projects. Today was about a small victory: we got mail.
The morning began with a hike, first along the stretch of Lukanin Beach that’s currently open, then up to the top of Tolstoi. I’m on a bit of a mission these days, gathering wildflowers before the last blooms vanish for the year. The air was unexpectedly warm, so I lingered longer than usual, taking a moment to watch the northern fur seals from a distance. Watching them tumble and bark along the shore feels like seeing a bit of wild magic up close.
After filling my basket with petals and stems, I stopped at the post office, hoping for good news, and for the first time in weeks, we had a delivery. Mail might feel routine elsewhere, but here, it’s an event. Across the region, islanders have been facing long delays, sometimes waiting months for things to arrive. But when it does finally make it, it feels like Christmas. Today’s “gifts” included a weighted blanket jacket I’d been impatiently tracking, and a new packet of yogurt starter, this time with probiotics.
From there, I swung by the store for a few odds and ends we needed for dinner (Carlos took the lead on cooking tonight), and finally made my way home to sort through the flowers I’d collected. That’s when I realized I may have been a little too enthusiastic — the scent of some of them reminded me just how close I’d been to the seals. Lesson learned: not all wildflowers are meant to be pressed. I separated out the questionable ones to return to the land and set the rest aside to dry.
To keep their colors bright, I use a Catcan Microwave Flower Press Kit*: a huge improvement over my old method, which involved sandwiching flowers between two Corelle plates with bits of felt and muslin. It worked, but only for a handful of flowers at a time, and the plates were always sliding around. The new press keeps everything neat and lets me dry a large batch quickly, which is perfect when you come home with more blooms than you expected.
I’m still not sure what I’ll do with this season’s pressed flowers — maybe collages, maybe something for Moss & Moonflower — but for now, it feels good just to preserve these fleeting bits of color before the tundra fades back to brown and gray.
* commissions earned
Pictures taken on Lukanin Beach. It was a little bit foggy and my zoom is limited but what a sweet moment that was captured!
Busy seals doing what seals do best.
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