July 26-28: The season finally ends

Most of the crew went out on July 26. The Alaska Airlines jet was on time, but the smaller Pen Air planes were socked in by the fog. But eventually, everyone made it out. Then it was just Jean and me.

These last few days were spent mostly in final cleaning, darting between all the little things I'm afraid of forgetting, like emptying the tundra-ator, packing my neglected earrings and mascara, winterizing the tools, tacking closed the outhouse doors so the wind doesn't tear them off, or sending out the last of the Alex's and Debby's ashes that I brought to leave here.

There's also sorting through the food to determine what can freeze well enough, what needs to be protected from rodents, and what needs to be protected from condensation. Most stuff freezes well enough (except milk and mayonnaise - both separate and become hard to use). Cans may rust, so they need a sprinkling of rice to absorb the moisture. Dry goods may be spoiled by rodents, so they need hard containers. Other rodent defense requirements include trying to block potential entry points (like the sink drain); emptying standing water (if they get in, I don't want to find their drowned little bodies in the spring); turning over buckets and pans (if they get in, I don't want to find their starved little bodies in the spring); and covering all cooking and eating utensils (if they get in, I don't want to have to wash everything before I use it).

Finally, after all the cleaning, organizing, preparing, protecting, and boarding up... it's time to go. When all the frantic busyness subsides, I begin to feel the emptiness from leaving all this behind for 10 months. Usually, that emptiness gives room for lovely things like friends, music, making mosaics, the ability to wash my hands in running water, and women's bathrooms. And if I'm not careful, deadlines, pavement, telemarketing calls and traffic will rush to occupy that emptiness. Every year, I tell myself that I will find a way to bring into my Seattle life more of what I love so much about my Naknek life. Thinking about it as I write this makes me wonder if maybe a different goal would be better: being conscious and deliberate about what - if anything - I permit into that emptiness.

Have a good winter - see you next summer.