I’m in the best seat in the house. Alone, in the dark, front and center on the M/V Malaspina. It’s a February evening and the view from beyond the railings on deck is completely invisible in the night, save for a series of blinking and steady lights guiding our captain through the Wrangell Narrows. A crew member cut the inside lights a while earlier, explaining that any ambient light from inside the vessel may hinder the captain’s navigation through the channels.

I feel the vessel twist and turn, as if meandering through a parking garage or snaking through rabbit tunnels. A spotlight is flicked on, the light hitting an island maybe forty feet off the starboard side. We twist again in darkness. The spotlight comes on again, this time pointing straight ahead at yet another island. Another twist.

The buoys flash with green and red lights; red on the right, green on the left. As we navigate the narrows, we come closer and closer to the buoys, sometimes only ten feet on either side of the ferry.

I’m no longer alone. A few fellow passengers have come to watch the show as well. One of them explains to the others what we’re seeing, and luckily I’m within earshot.

“This is one of the most intricate channels that I’ve ever seen,” he says. “Sixty-two marks from beginning to end.”

The range marks, he explains, are pairs of orange lights on individual towers coming out of the water or on land. Depending on where a range mark is viewed from, the lights may line up vertically or at an angle. When they’re vertically in line, the captain knows he is on the right track.

“Okay, now he’s going to have to veer left,” the man predicts. The vessel veers, seemingly never slowing a single knot.

More onlookers have gathered, fascinated by the array of blinking spots that seem to continue endlessly in the distance, like an 8-bit video game.

The glow of Petersburg illuminates the clouds ahead, allowing us some perspective as to the landscape around us. We press on until only one more pair of red and green blinks before us, continuing long after we’ve passed.

My journey began at 3:45 a.m. on Thursday as I rolled aboard the M/V Taku with bike, fiddle and camera in hand. It would be my first visit to Wrangell and my expectations were blank. My first priority: catching up on sleep.

I slept…

…and slept…

…had a meal and read a few pages of my book…

… and slept some more…

…until they called my port.

Then, the adventure began.

We can’t find any local events in honor of Marmot Day, so we’re celebrating in our own way in the office.

My skin is crawling. Everything itches. I can’t keep my eyes on the computer screen–they are busy scanning every inch of my body in a cyclical pattern, from the back of the arm to my knee pits.

As carefully as I checked each log before loading it into the box to come inside, I missed one. A big one. And it’s not the first time. A few weeks ago, I caught one crawling on the floor in the bathroom looking for a place to nest. Luckily, I had a CCW in hand and smashed her to smithereens with the health section.

It was a healthy move, for if my suspicions are correct, my newest roommate longs to kiss me with a venom I won’t soon forget.

It’s difficult to determine for certain, but I’m open to the fact that I may be living in the midst of the poisonous brown recluse spider. They are commonly marked with a violin-shaped black spot on their back, though other spider species contain similar markings as well. I think I saw a violin shape, but it all happened so fast…

I’m not a freak about spiders. I have set household spiders free many a time for less courageous roommates. But it’s a different story when a spider has the potential to kill me if I accidently sit on it.

I’m pretty sure I’m rid of her. After taking numerous photographs (only one of which actually turned out) while trying not to lose her or allow her to climb on me, I flushed her. I’m normally not a flusher, but to be honest, I panicked and didn’t know what else to do. However, knowing the audacity of these spiders, she’ll probably swim her way to safety and make her way into my wood pile again.

Tonight, the firewood stays on the porch.

Several of my male acquaintances have shaved their beards off in the last few days. Some even went as far as to shave their heads. I wonder if they consulted the mighty groundhog (or ground squirrel or marmot, depending on your locale) before making their decision. Who anointed an all-knowing rodent to determine our weather patterns for us?

Tomorrow morning, we’ll learn what Phil the groundhog/squirrel/marmot has to say. Until then, shave at will.

I was a bit overzealous on an evening trail run last night. En route, I failed to see a little root that sent me down hard. Even though my flesh is scraped, all my gear survived.

Next purchase: brighter headlamp.

It’s hard to get lost on Sheep Creek Trail.

Directions are clearly marked…

…to get back home.

Traction tools are strongly advised,

unless you’re a dog

or deer.

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Lovely day for a stroll, eh?

Check your laces, Aaron…

…the trail’s icy.

Lou finds some beautiful frozen formations…

…then instructs me to smash them.

I do it for the sake of art,

and for fear of the threat posed by the fuzzy rodent that lives atop his camcorder.

Thanks to everyone who decided not to go to Eaglecrest today for fear of being tossed around by the wind. It was pleasantly uncrowded for a weekend and, though icy, fantastic.

In other news, downtown Juneau experience a miniature tornado this morning…

…which left as quickly as it came. Hold on to your hats, folks. It’s wild out there.

Why not?