We northerners have developed a finely-tuned obsession with light, given its absence during the long winters. I'll admit that the day after the winter solstice, December 21-22, I began counting the daily light increases as reported in the Anchorage Daily News. If I recall, the gain was about nine seconds on December 23, about 20 seconds on December 24 and as of Jan. 7, it's built up to more than three minutes per day. By late February it will be up to about five minutes per day as the Earth races around the sun, bringing us closer to summer and the exact opposite -- endless daylight.
But in our perennial obsession, we do more than count the daylight gains. Some plot them on graphs. We talk about it with friends and neighbors. About midday we might look south, where the sun rises and sets, and wait for a glimpse of that elusive orb. We might linger and take in a few moments of those glass-filtered photons, hoping that the brightness might kick in some endorphins or activate our hormonally-deprived pineal glands.
My home in Eagle River faces south, and during the darkest days of December and early January, I receive about one and a half hours of direct sunlight through a gap in the mountains, provided there are no clouds. During that brief interlude, if I happen to be home, I am drawn to the window like a moth to a light bulb. In a zombie-like daze, I am transfixed by the brightness. If I break the spell and venture somewhere else in the house -- perhaps to have a cup of coffee -- when I return to the window, the sun has stealthily slipped behind the mountain.
We wait impatiently for full moons. With all our snow, a full moon illuminates the land like flood lights in a football stadium. Between the moon and stars, there is enough light to cross-country ski, snowshoe, or ice skate without a headlamp. Reflected off snow, the light is amplified significantly.
What's really interesting to me is how our eyes adapt to low-level light conditions. I don't know the exact candlepower equivalent, but moonlight is insufficient to activate the cones in our eyes, which provide color. Have you ever noticed that in a full moon one only sees in black and white? Only the eyes' rods are at work. Thus, the lyrics of an old Moody Blues song: "Cold-hearted orb that rules the night, removes the colors from my sight…"
We anticipate aurora borealis displays the way people in the Lower 48 states wait for the announcement of lottery winners. It's not just the excitement of seeing the mysterious, ghostlike colors dancing across the sky. As in our communion with the moon, with its reflected light, seeing the aurora reminds us that somewhere out there in space, there is a sun and it is creating this remarkable spectacle.
I lived in Texas for five years, where daylight loss is at most a couple of hours. I found it nearly impossible explain to someone how captivated Alaskans are with light.
Some people I know have a full-spectrum lighting kit and sit in front of it for about 20 minutes per day. Most report it pumps up their energy level. We all take extra vitamin D. We watch television programs that show warm places, such as the HGTV one about selling real estate in Hawaii. Some of us travel south to get away from the high latitudes for a while. However, with recent weather reports, it sounds as if a trip to the eastern U.S. in early January would not be a good idea. It's warmer here in Alaska.
In winter I go outdoors a lot. I climb onto south-facing mountain ridges that I know receive about four hours of direct sunlight a day, crawl behind a rock that puts me out of wind and, garbed in multiple layers, soak in the low-angled sun. A thermos of hot coffee makes for an enjoyable winter outing. My wife thinks I'm certifiably crazy, and I don't dispute her assessment.
Of course, farther north it's even worse. At Prudhoe Bay on Alaska's North Slope, the sun dipped below the horizon about Nov. 17 last year. After a 56-day absence, it will be first seen again peeking above the horizon on or about Jan. 18. As reported in previous articles, North Slope workers have developed many ways of coping with the endless darkness. One of the key methods, I've learned, is simply staying busy. Many of them don't seem to have time to even notice the absence of sunlight.
So as we move into a new year, our light is gradually returning. Our reward comes in mid-May, when 24-hour sunlight begins.
But until then, we carefully, habitually, incessantly, watch the light. We observe how it reflects off the snow in our yards and how it lights up the distant mountains. We notice how it casts a warm glow on the horizon -- hinting that it is about to emerge, teasing us out of winter's lassitude. It taunts and beckons and we watch, unable to help ourselves. We are obsessed.
Frank Baker is a freelance writer living in Eagle River.