North of Nowhere

     I've been to towns, and I've been to the backcountry, places that required multi-day hikes to visit.  I've never really been to a town in the backcountry, or Bush, as it's known here.  Nome is only accessible by boat or plane.  It lies on the Seward peninsula, wedged between open tundra and the Bering Sea.  It is just south of the Arctic Circle, but that seems an arbitrary line given what I've seen here.  There are places in Scandanavia that are north of that line that are so warmed by remnants of the Gulf Stream that they have a temperate climate, suitable for boreal forest.  I have seen exactly one tree since I've been in Nome.
     At first glance, the town feels dreary and depressed.  Even the gulls seem to feel it, just sitting around in the dirt instead of flying or poking around in garbage.  There are a lot of dogs tied up outside houses, all mean (I would be too, if I were chained out in the cold and snow).  I saw a drunk stumble out of a bar and it wasn't even noon.  Once the afternoon sun finally broke out and washed the town in sidelong gold light, the whole character seemed to change.  These are just first impressions, which just touch the surface, so I'm looking forward to getting around and seeing more.  One thing is that people say "hi" and smile when you pass on the street, which I haven't seen since I left my small hometown in the San Gabriel Mountains.  I also saw a six-dollar pineapple (I kid you not).  The preciousness of fresh produce is something I'm going to have to get used to.
     There's much more to Nome than what appears at first glance.  For example, there's a film festival happening this weekend, which I hope to go to.  Also, the surrounding lands are devastatingly beautiful. In the summer they're awash with wildflowers, but even now, covered with snow, they call to me.  I'm going to go out there somehow.  I was at the library yesterday using the internet, and a window looked out over the Bering Sea.  It was smooth as slate that day, dark blue-gray, at once welcoming and frightening in blue winter light.
     There's so much to see here, probably more than possible for one lifetime.

     Last night in the rooming house I'm staying I met an older couple from Savoonga, a village on St. Lawrence Island.  They were in town for an appointment at the regional hospital.  They spoke to each other in gentle Yupik.  I think people in California sort of expect everything to come to them, to be within an hour's drive at most.  But I'm seeing things I wouldn't imagine there.  It's not every day you meet someone from Savoonga.  That is special.