On Jan. 2, I was hit with a clinical condition known as being sad the holidays are over, with a touch of light deprivation. Many Alaskans face this malady every year. Smart people adapt over time through the generations -- or they buy big "other-end-of-the-tunnel" white full-spectrum lights at Costco.
Others book a direct flight to Hawaii.
My husband and I hopped in the car and drove north last weekend from Anchorage to Fairbanks to Chena Hot Springs.
Perhaps this seems like a counterintuitive way to battle winter blues. Why drive nine hours so we could very slowly stroll around a giant outdoor bathtub with at least 20 other strangers, possibly when it's minus-30 outside?
That's why. Chena is weird and wonderful, like so many things in Alaska, and if nothing else, the trip north is a great way to break free from a mid-winter funk.
En route
This is not a column for hardcore adventurers. We did not mush from Anchorage to Fairbanks (I could blame the snow conditions, like I blame them for everything else right now, but we both know that's not the real reason). We also did not decide on taking the road (even) less traveled to visit Tolovana or Manley hot springs. These would all be great adventures for another time, but this column is dedicated to the avid road tripper. This is for anyone who loves the outdoors as much as I do, even if much of the time it's framed by a windshield and experienced from the comfort of the driver's seat.
All that said, some road trips are long. It's important to stretch your legs. For me, I grudgingly decided to give winter another shot when we arrived in Fairbanks, which was a balmy (for Fairbanks) 16 degrees. I pulled my skate skis out of the car and watched my husband take off on the University of Alaska Fairbanks trails, grumbling to myself about how I had taught him to ski last winter and now he's faster than me.
Then I started. I was on real snow, not the icy mess we see in most of Anchorage now. I was surrounded by spruce trees weighed down with snow and icy fringe that an inversion deposited. I felt like I was in an Alaska postcard. Of course, the skate skier in a postcard wouldn't fall down quite as much as I did, but hey, I've barely skied all winter. All in all, I was elated.
Chena
The thing about driving north for a weekend in January is, even if you leave on Friday night and drive halfway (we did) you still don't get much daylight to play with. By the time we drove through the Chena River State Recreation Area, a 50-or-so-mile stretch from Fairbanks leading to the resort, it was 3:30 p.m. and the sun was setting. We saw numerous trailheads on either side of the street and bookmarked them as places to explore later.
At the very end of the road is Chena Hot Springs Resort. We passed under a western-style arch and parked the car, hopping out and taking it all in. Chena is surrounded by the rolling hills that are the signature of this part of the Interior, and there are many great names for them -- tors, domes, and rocks. The resort is on a flat parcel of land though, sprawling enough to include a short runway right next to the lodge. The low-lying buildings that comprise Chena include a log-cabin-style check-in and restaurant/bar, several glowing greenhouses, the geothermal power plant that powers the place, and, yes, a palatial ice museum in the approximate shape of a Quonset hut.
People don't flock to Chena to go inside, though. We quickly checked in and ditched our things in our room, marveling at this place that is almost as far from anywhere you can drive. Parts of it (our room included) are relics of a different era. We bee-lined it to the hot spring entrance, a brightly lit locker room reception room with wooden shelving for shoes and a glowing vending machine. Once through the locker room, there was an indoor pool with screaming children as well as a koi pond.
We turned at the koi pond and walked through a dark hallway that became progressively colder (and quieter) as we neared the spring. We found the edge of the water at the top of a ramp leading down into the main pool, or as the resort calls it, the rock lake. Several red and green lights illuminated the fog that constantly shifted across the springs, slowly obscuring or revealing parts of the pool. We got in.
It's hard to argue about how awesome it is to be in a hot spring. It's even harder to argue about hot springs in the winter. Yes, many of them smell like rotten eggs -- it's sulphur -- and Chena is no exception (insider's tip: bring your own drinking water). Sure, it's also a little weird to share a bath with a bunch of other people, although it is fun to eavesdrop on their conversations.
However, I am a fan of contrasts. I hated skiing all winter until I dragged myself onto the trails at UAF and euphorically remembered how much I love to ski. The false promises of snow in Anchorage really had me down, and the sight of snow on northern trees made me feel, in the most simple way, happy. Then at Chena, we stood up in hot water and let our hair freeze.
Sure, there is probably a beach somewhere with white sand, rum-infused beverages, and this thing I vaguely remember called the sun. I'm sure I could escape there and I would come back with a tan, a tank full of vitamin D, and a nagging worry about the decision-making skills that led me to Alaska.
Then again, there is a place a day's drive from Southcentral that is unlike any other place I've ever been. Getting there is half the fun. Staying there is worth it. It's an outdoor adventure that is uniquely Alaskan, and that anyone can appreciate.
Alli Harvey lives, works and plays in Anchorage (until a road trip beckons.)