• Nonfiction

    Fairbanks in January

    By Martha Amore The day Maura arrived it was cold in the way Fairbanks often is in January, fragile with frost, when it seems that even blowing on the trees will crack them to the ground.  Every breath burns your lungs like smoke, and your Snowpacs squeak in the bright white snow.  Ann was quiet the whole way to the airport, and I knew she was nervous by the way she kept taking her mittens off and then tugging them back on. “A whole week isn’t going to be easy,” I said.  We lived in a one-room cabin with a loft, and having a guest meant setting up a bed…

  • Poetry

    I RECOUNT MYSELF ON THIS

    By Sarah Felder Eyes back, lean back, I haven’t felt The bare boned winter yet,   Your face in circles trailing skin-like Apparitions, parenthetical laugh lines, Twined lips, puckered and alive with Hiccupped laughing;   The Italian leather of your BMW sticks To my thighs, I dream of her there, The yellowing walls of the Ramada, Where we smoked cigarettes all night Between scratchy throws and music Humming against the floors.   Back on the Island I remember you more: The broken stairs to Mconoky beach, Lambert’s cove road winds to me, extends It’s tar limbs to visit for a day, and since leaving That whistle of a place I…

  • Poetry

    Addict

    by Nikolai Windahl The snow out at Turnagain is deep, like really fuckin’ deep. I sit in class and cannot listen because I know when this power point is over I’m free! Running to my room, beacon, probe, shovel, helmet, boots, snowboard, jacket, bibs, gloves, snowshoes, poles, everything. All these items crammed into a specific spot in my backpack. Galloping to the car my things become projectiles as they shoot into the trunk. On the road, snowy, icy, no studs, lame. Death grip on the wheel and too many contracting muscles. Relax. Breathe. After about two hours of this process I find myself in the Eddies lot with one other…

  • Uncategorized

    Born to Run

    by Krista Ruesch Shirtless on my tippy toes, six years old, I stood in profile and stared at the long scar extending from my armpit, reaching around the side of my chest and spreading out across my back. I faced the mirror and the smooth, flat scar stretching down the center of my chest, from the collar bone to the bottom of my rib cage. I turned back and gazed at that mystery scar on the side of my chest and started to feel scared and upset. I started calling my mom, who rushed in the bathroom, sensing the panic and urgency in my small voice. I pointed at the…

  • Nonfiction

    The Cool of an Evening

    by Édouard Ruess Under an evening sky, the faded clouds induce my eyes to open wider, filling themselves with an ocean of luminous flickering. To be alone–to be cool in the night–to be lifted into the sky, through the mind’s eye. Astronauts. Cooler than the stale, crisp air, gliding along the thermal protection system of their shuttle. How cool is an astronaut? How many children have sat at their bay window, peering through the fingerprinted glass, intrigued by the endless field of flickering-flies, wondering what type of flowers would grow on Pluto, if Pluto were to sprout flowers. Questions, they assume, only an astronaut could answer. But, what of the…

  • Academic

    Hooked on Healing

    by Matthew Vos For our veterans returning from service to their country, the public lands managed by the Bureau of Land Management can provide not only a wide variety of recreational activities, but also an opportunity to enhance physical and emotional well-being while connecting with the lands and waters they fought to protect. For many veterans, BLM lands and waters have a truly healing effect.   In, 2013, for the third consecutive summer, I was able to join BLM-Alaska in helping several war burdened individuals experience rehabilitation through fly-fishing in one of Alaska’s most beautiful settings…   Around four years ago, Tim Sundlov, BLM-Alaska fisheries biologist and fly-fishing enthusiast who…

  • Nonfiction

    Let Go and Relax

    by Amanda Montavon It’s estimated that 40-80% of all doctor visits may be directly related  to stress.  When under stress we under go a physiological change referred to as the fight-or-flight response.  The fight-or-flight response was first described by Dr. Walter B. Cannon at the Harvard Medical School in the 1920s and it works as our survival mechanism. Stress induces a surge of stress hormones preparing us to either fight or flee.  Our hearts pounds faster as our blood flow is redistributed from the digestive tract to our muscles, and we enter a state of high alert ready to take action.  In a life threatening situation this is a very…

  • Nonfiction

    Winter Trails

    by Alexa Dobson   When the snow falls heavily, my sleek, black husky mix prances like a horse. Bouncing down the trail as I slowly follow, he pauses here and there to bury his face in the snow as though he might never experience winter again. He pauses, starts digging – what has he found?   He’s earnestly nosing and pawing at the ground, in the same way a child plays with blocks. Deep in his internal programming, something is telling him to dig, inspect, satisfy the drive of curiosity. Triumphantly, he draws a small brown shape from the snow, limp, with a small pink tail.   My dog the…

  • Poetry

    Cold Shoulder

    by Shelby Faulconer The chills straighten the spines of       exposed trees.  Naked branches warm with a       layer of ice, granted thus by humidity’s       last attempt to leave water droplets       on grass blades, already a feet under       snow. And yet, the tree understands,       standing encased by moisture,       turn quick by temperature       to frost-plated statues, erected by       silent melodies of winter. A visible sigh, and one full appreciative apprehension to this spectacle of life. [divider] Marine biology and mathematics. You could say I grew up…

  • Poetry

    A Poem for Burnt Popcorn in November

    by Rosanne Pagano Tell me that some axis has shifted and the whole world is veering and then whisper, “It’s normal for November.” Go ahead, make it up, fib, lie, cross your heart and hope to die (but not in November; the cold earth is hard to dig.) Tell me November can’t last. Pretend somewhere it is spring and sunlight and my mother is working her crossword on the porch before lunch. Let’s forget for now that life is as predictable as applesauce on a cancer ward. Instead you pack the picnic hamper, I’ll take the oars. Let there be a wide sky, a big river, a broad silence. Just…