On April 21, 2000, the high temperature in Anchorage reached 44 degrees, according to U.S. Climate Data. Snow depth on the first of that month was approximately 18 inches, but declined sharply in the days leading up to the 21st, when snow depth was marked as zero. And we all know what rapidly melting snow leaves in its wake: Fragrant reflecting pools, all over town.
Now, there are zero puddles on the ground. Temperatures have been in the 50s this week.
Looking around, I see May. It used to be that I spent April glowering and thinking about how it was the worst month. Then, when the matted, tan ground was finally revealed and dry-ish by May, I started to feel better. But for me, that "feeling better" is happening now.
It's a bit unnerving, but like a sun-deprived plant pushing out of the ground and wondering what time it is, I'm figuring out which way is up. I'm certainly taking advantage of conditions and throwing myself outside, trying not to think too long about what this new normal means.
Biking from soot to sun
Ah, the biking of Aprils past. I recall the weather being hospitable enough for this delicate cyclist to go outside. I also recall not having a fender, and installing a homemade one involving a large plastic soda bottle and electrical tape. That thing got me far.
Riding through April puddles invited the char-colored sand and grit to leap up in a stripe down my back and butt; the water made a noise as my tire tore through that sounded kind of like a zipper.
I would frequently get home (or sometimes, to the office) after riding my bike, too dirty to even step inside. One time at home, I took off my shoes outside, grabbed different shoes through my doorway to wear inside and went straight to the shower, where I stripped, creating a dark, sooty puddle where my clothes lay.
What, that doesn't sound like fun?
I didn't really think so either, to be honest. I had to give myself pep talks about enjoying the outdoors and feeling kid-like.
Now I can ride my bike nearly everywhere. Snow, puddles, and ice are not a concern. My only concern about skinny tires is that some areas of road or trail are still too sandy to ride. For someone with a fat-tire bike, that's not a concern at all.
The daylight is glorious. I can be on my bike as early as I reasonably want and I can stay out, without a need for lights, until 9 p.m.
Evening hikes
Hiking after work is what makes me feel most Alaskan. When I'm out there, I feel like I have an evening alias that transforms me from office person to secret outdoorswoman. It's like moonlighting for a job that is completely apart from the one I have to pay the bills. At 5 p.m, I kick off my (barely) office-appropriate attire, pull on sneakers and a trucker hat, and head into the hills, only to reappear at work the next morning like nothing happened.
Typically, April finds me at my desk gazing out the window up at the snowy mountains blending into a gloomy, gray sky. I wonder if the snow will ever melt and if the sun will ever come.
The mountains taunt me as I see them reflected in the massive break-up puddles around town.
But here in April-is-the-new-May, many of those mountains are perfectly hikeable. Yes, there are muddy spots. Yes, to get really high up you may need spikes. And, yes, people are still skiing. However, south-facing trails along Turnagain Arm, like, Bird Ridge melt fast, and conditions now are May-like. Lower sections of trails are bone dry.
Of course, bears are also waking up, so another habit to get back into when hiking is making exuberant, "I'm Outside Look At Me" noises, and bringing bear spray.
Grills and sunsets
I would be remiss as a would-be outdoors enthusiast if I left out the best, most accessible, tastiest outdoor activity of them all: Cooking food over fire and watching the sky.
The sunsets have been later and later, and glorious recently. I am lucky to live in a neighborhood with a park a stone's throw away from my house, and I like to walk over to see the sun set over Cook Inlet. I am also lucky to have flexibility in where I work — this past week I was sitting in on several conference calls on my sun-lit front stoop.
Aprils used to be all about puddles — hating them, avoiding them, getting splashed by them or rage-driving through them.
This April, we've managed to skip the showers and go straight to the sunny days. I don't know about you, but Alaska is unpredictable enough that I take all of what I can get while it is offered.
I am spending as much time as possible enjoying this April-May.
Alli Harvey lives, works and plays in Anchorage.