Two weeks ago I tried to write a column about the triumphant return of daylight, and how some Alaskans are basking in it. But in the early morning darkness my cursor blinked at me a long time. Then I got on a plane and got out of town.
Sunlight does strange things in Alaska come winter. It dials slowly back from June until December until it comes to a grinding halt on solstice. Then it rolls back in. At first, in late December and early January, it's just seconds more of daylight. But by spring equinox in March, Anchorage gets about six minutes more daylight per day. Barrow rakes in lots of daylight after six weeks without a sunrise — initially more than 50 minutes a day in late January.
You'd think that would be enough for me to roll up my sleeves and fire off an exuberant set of paragraphs about how this is a great time of year to go outside and soak up the sun.
I do get outside this time of year because I get outside all year. I'm addicted. I need fresh, sharp air on my face and in my lungs and I need to stare at things that aren't glowing screens. I do whatever "winter" in Alaska allows — run with cleats, walk, bike, go in search of a cookie. There is some classic skiing if I'm up for a drive out of Anchorage. Backcountry skiers are chasing snow too.
With the start-and-stop of snow in Southcentral the past several winters, the weirds have settled in pretty hard for me. My eyes feel tired and swollen as if I had a mild sinus infection. I am cranky and think about sunny places in a resentful "if only" way — as though it's not my choice to live in Alaska. They say if you consistently get outside, it'll help you through this part of winter. Maybe I could feel worse, and I do wonder, but I get outside a lot, and I wouldn't exactly say I feel "better."
Unqualified
So when it came time to write this column about returning daylight slowly improving the collective Alaska mood, I felt unqualified. Seeking inspiration, I turned to the place where inspiration usually goes to wither away: Facebook. I asked friends: What is the hardest part of the lack of light in winter? How are you doing this time of year, as we slowly and then quickly start getting more minutes of daylight?
The responses were varied but many had one theme: This winter has been particularly hard. It's not the lack of daylight so much as the lack of snow.
One person suggested I get a flashlight.
Someone else swore by their Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) light. Everyone stressed how important it is to get outside, even just a little, in order to dodge the worst emotional and physical impacts caused by the lack of sun — even people who said they seldom get outside.
There were several unhappy references to office windows — whether looking out of them and waving hello and goodbye to the sun during the workday, or not having any.
I was jealous of one friend's response. She said exactly what I wish I would feel. In proportion to the number of minutes of daylight increasing, she said she could feel her mood lifting. She knew it would soon be sunny enough to go skiing in daylight after work, which she anticipated.
A born-and-raised Fairbanksian said her determination to get outside — even briefly in terrible conditions — has rewarded her over time: she's never unhappy she went.
I found all of this to be true and wonderful. I also felt my heavy eyelids and scowl.
Plane ride to sunshine
Then came another jealousy-inducing response. A friend said he's doing fabulously because he's not currently in Alaska. He explained that knowing he has a plane ticket out of Alaska for late January or early February is important after the distraction of the holidays, he wrote. "Then a March return brings sunshine and longer days, and I'm all good."
Looking down at my phone just before turning it into airplane mode as my plane boarded, I hoped he was right. Granted, he was somewhere south of the equator and I was heading to the East Coast with a blizzard on the way. Still, I reasoned, a change of pace was a good thing.
A couple days later, this Alaskan brushed some snow off a back porch in suburban Massachusetts and sat in a deck chair. It was 30 degrees outside but felt like 40 in the strong noon daylight. The sun was high in the sky, blazing bright on my face.
I closed my eyes and sat in my puffy jacket, feeling the purest and most unnerving joy. I felt the eyes of my family on me, wondering what the heck had gone wrong with me since I moved to Alaska. I felt like a creature crawling out from under a rock and coming back to life. It was like that time I quit coffee for a few days and glowered about everything until I drank a small cup of what I thought was decaf and my world instantly improved.
In the sun, the backs of my eyelids were red. It was so, so bright out and everything was going to be OK. I could do anything in this daylight — I could run a million miles or read all the books.
I could maybe — maybe — fill up on daylight and return home to Alaska.
It turns out the best cure for a lack of daylight is daylight. We Alaskans are getting it back more rapidly now, and the return will only speed up from here before we forget to notice again because our evenings and mornings are flooded and busy. Still, for those who are like me who have felt that the accumulated darkness is outweighing the sun's return, I hate to say it, but the trick really does seem to be that ticket out.
Alli Harvey lives, works and plays in Anchorage.