One of the things I love about Alaska, Fairbanks in particular, is that no matter how hard we try to be “civilized” there is a way in which nature “overwrites” our intentions. The white and yellow lines on the roads give way to paths that emerge from the snow. Our best attempts to dress well are covered by bunny boots and snow pants. The rhythms we want to live by are molded by the darkness and the cold or the ever-present light of the midsummer sun. No matter how urban we think ourselves to be, the wilderness creeps in through the cracks, chips our windshields and builds ice-dams in our windows.
In The Last New Land read p. 561-620
“Islanders” by Ben Kostival, a short story published in the New England Review.