Other than the oddity of daylight hours at our northern latitude, the winters here really aren't any worse than in the northeast Iowa home of my youth. Oh, the days are shorter, the snow piles up deeper, and the winter lasts longer; I'm fond of pointing out to people that we have four seasons in south-central Alaska: June, July, August, and winter, which is a bit of an exaggeration but not all that much. Up here in the Great Land, we do tend to hunker down in the winter; while snow-machining and dog-sledding are popular pastimes, a lot of us settle for blankets, hot drinks, and movie nights. Hibernation is one of the hallmarks of being Alaskan. As the snow piles up and the temperature falls, our winter guests arrive; for the past three years, we have had a bull moose, sans antlers in winter, move into our rural neighborhood and hang out until spring, when he heads back into the bush for the summer feeding.

When I was a lot younger, the winters in my Allamakee County, Iowa, home weren't all that much different. While summer was for fishing and fall for hunting, the arrival of winter had me getting out my traps, checking the chains and triggers, scouting places for sets, and checking fur prices. When the snow fell I was out along the creeks, in the hills, and the valleys, making sets and checking them, twice daily, for as long as the season lasted; from the time I was about 12 until I started working at regular jobs at 16 or so, my trapline kept me in pizzas and .22 shells. I still have all my traps, although they are rarely employed these days except to remove the occasional pest.

Then the Army sent me to San Antonio, Texas, to attend my Officer's Basic Course and then the Medical Logistics school, which stint had me in south Texas over a winter. I had an apartment out "on the economy," and as summer slid away I asked a neighbor the question we get so often now; "What are the winters like?" He assured me they were bad - "It gets down into the 40s sometimes." I barely wore a jacket, although one day, while up at the training area at Camp Bullis in late November on a land-navigation exercise, I experienced what Texans informed me was called a "blue norther," which featured cold rain and driving winds; I don't think I've ever been that cold in my life. Other than that day, though, I enjoyed the t-shirt weather of a San Antonio winter, which pretty well bollixed up my upper-Midwestern seasonal expectations.

After a brief sojourn to Virginia, I moved to Colorado, where I lived for 30 years. Winters in the metro Denver area were generally mild, although in the mountains, conditions could be severe; my wife and I once got snowed out of a Grand County camp on Labor Day weekend. After we packed up and pulled out, we later learned that over a foot of snow had fallen on our Gore Range campsite.

Then we moved north after 20 years of planning, saving, and research. The winters are, yes, long and cold, but we love them even so. It's winter again now in the Great Land. The land has pulled a blanket of white over itself and will sleep until spring. The days will bring the still, clear, clean cold air that is bracing to the body and mending to the spirit. At night, the Northern Lights whip and flicker overhead.

Spring will come soon enough. The snow will melt, the sun will return to our northern skies; our summer birds will return and the wildflowers will bloom. The red of the fireweed and the purple of our roadside lupines will bring us color again, while in the rivers, the salmon will return to give rise to another generation. In the meadows, the moose calves will frolic and the spruce grouse will lead their chicks to food, as the bears lead their cubs to the streams and the berry patches. That's the great thing about country life, being close as we are to the environment that big-city liberals always go on about; we daily see that great wheel that never stops turning.

I've always loved winter. I suspect a big part of that isn't the winter so much as feeling proof against it. We have a big tank full of heating oil for our Toyo heater and a couple of cords of firewood stacked up; our house is snug and our freezer full. We are prepared for the worst an Alaska winter can toss at us. And in the meantime, unlike the Denver suburbs where we lived for so long, here the snow stays that beautiful newly-fallen white until it melts in April and May, and the air is of crystalline purity, bringing health with every breath.

Winter's a great time. Alaska winters are lovely beyond compare. The Great Land may not be everyone's cup of tea, but if you favor winter weather, you'll never find a better place to settle.