Gentle Forces & Pasagshak Point

MOUNTAIN VIEWS Column
Kodiak Daily Mirror
Published July 1st, 2016

Gentle Forces

A little over a month ago, in a window seat of the back row on a RAVN flight, I sobbed as I looked out on the ocean below. The passenger next to me, someone new to me, put his hand on my shoulder out of concern. Earlier that morning, my mom had passed away in Anchorage and I was on my way home to Kodiak. The gentleman told me he understood my grief, as he had lost his son a year prior. He showed me the silver plated necklace with his son’s name engraved on it. I knew it was ok to let the tears flow.

Unbeknownst to me, this was the start of what is referred to as The Year of Firsts. This was my first time seeing the ocean without my mom in the world. The light hitting the tops of the waves was intensely bittersweet.

“Be gentle with yourself” were some of the first words of encouragement my friend Claire shared early on as I faced an unknown future with my mom. Any chance Claire had, she kindly reminded me of it in texts, emails. Be gentle. Be gentle. Be gentle.

It is this gentleness with each other and most importantly with ourselves that allows us to heal. Some of these most gentle actions hold such beautiful healing powers, as we open our hearts to them.

After the waves crashed with such fury and the eye of the storm passed over-
it is the  soft purple of wild geraniums and the soothing  mosses all different shades of green that will helps me heal and discover a new self.

I explain to my husband and kids that I need time and space. I’m not the same person I was before. I ask for more time alone. It can’t be enough, I feel. One rainy evening, I am running errands while the rain pelts my windshield. I drive by Harborside Coffee slowly and I gaze inside with longing. In the warm interior, people are sitting with coffees staring out the large front window. I am envious of that space and time. I want a day to just sit and be. And stare. For a long time. And drink multiple chais and iced coffees and contemplate the meaning of life.

Waves crashing against rocks. Strong winds. Earthquakes. Nature makes sudden forceful changes. But then with the most gentle of nature’s energy, nature makes progress of a different sort. A gentle breeze. The peace of a small stream.

Quiet, gentle, beautiful forces indeed.

By Zoya


Photos are from a hike out to Pasagshak point~a hike neither Patrick or I had ever done before! We both felt like we were in Ireland or Scotland. Or one of those Kodiak-like British places. It was sunny, rainy but every minute on the point was gorgeous. 

fields of purple lupine

Narrow Cape in the distance

Kodiak Daily Mirror Article: Ouchy deals big and little

MOUNTAIN VIEWS COLUMN
Kodiak Daily Mirror
Published June 17th 2016

Woody Island, June 4, Day 2 of Girl Scout camp.
“Ms. Zoya. This bug bite hurts.” Scout Donavyn pulls up her sleeve to show me her red skin and small, white bug bite on her elbow. I can see that Donavyn has been trying hard to not itch, as it isn’t yet scratched raw.

A painful bug bite. Ahhh yes. I can fully relate. Those suckers enjoy me for breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert. The bugs have been particularly thick this spring.

Donavyn is a newer scout to our troop and this is my first camp on a camping trip with her. I adore her scout enthusiasm, as she wears her green bandana proudly over her head the entire weekend on Woody Island. A fellow leader showed her how to put it on all by herself and I smile when I see her wearing it.

“Lets do something to help cool that bite off.” I open my first aid kit and she stands and watches as I look for a remedy. At Safeway the night before I stocked my emergency kit with some anti-itch lotion for bug bites, as I knew the bugs could be rich on Woody Island.

Lsat fall I took a wilderness first aid class. During the weekend course, fellow attendees and I learned about how to put injuries into two categories: Is it a big deal or little deal? I’ll admit to not being the most instinctively calm person in an emergency situations, just ask my kids and husband. The sight of blood on my loved ones has a history of sending me into slight panic. My hope was that a little education and training could help water down some of that panic.

The class helped me think more methodically in emergent medical situations. Classmates and I learned how “big deals” are injury to the organ systems, the brain, situations where emergency help needs to be activated soon. “Little deals” include things such as more minor injuries to the skeletal system. This made total sense to me. Light bulbs went on. I could do this.

On Woody Island with Donavyn, out comes the Campho-phenique. A piece of tissue paper and onto her elbow I apply it. Dab, dab. Pour on a little more. Do a full circle around the bite to cool that red area. A faint smile of relief comes over her face.

These little deals are big deals for trust, understanding. They are the chance for scouts to let leaders know what ails them, and for us to listen and respond and help if needed. A Mother Theresa quote that has always spoken to me is, “Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love.”

“Come back if it still bugs you.”

Donavyn nods and looks at her elbow, seemingly pleased with the results. I’m glad. And so grateful that Band-aids and anti-itch bug care are the only first aid skills I have to employ with the scouts at Woody Island.

Kodiak resident Zoya Saltonstall is a mother of two and a physical therapist. She loves Labrador retrievers and chocolate.

Kodiak Daily Mirror Piece~ Mountain Views: Best reader helped with ‘marshmellows’

MOUNTAIN VIEWS
by Zoya Saltonstall
June 3rd

Less than two weeks ago, I lost my No. 1 Mountain Views reader: my mom.

My mom passed away after a sudden illness and I was right alongside during her final months and days.

Over the years, my mom always cheered me on from the sidelines about my writing. As the saying goes, “she had my back.” She would occasionally text or email telling me how she enjoyed different blog pieces or newspaper column pieces. Her one main criticism was when I misspelled the word “marshmallow”. On my family blog I went through a period when I routinely spelled it marshmellow. Mom emailed me letting me know I spelled it wrong and the spelling of marshmallow became a running joke between us.

The past two months as I spent time with my mom, I took a break from writing my Mountain Views column, but not from writing. Words were scribbled down in my journal book in the form of flash memoirs: moments in time, conversations, sensations. The considerate body language of doctors as they delivered very hard news, conversations during car rides with my mom on sunny days, beautiful art work on medical building walls which brought me peace and sadness at the same time. Support from hospice nurses which routinely wowed me. The kindness of strangers on airplanes who offered caring words or rubbed my back as I cried in deep grief.

Writing this first column after my moms’ passing is a hard column to write, knowing that she won’t be reading it. Not writing the column would be harder indeed, as my mom would want me to continue to write. Writing is a big part of who I am.

On Memorial Day weekend my family and I went to Afognak for four nights of camping. Sleeping on the mossy earth, listening to the sea otters break occasional shells on their chest, watching the tides come and go was just what I needed to rest and heal. The winds in the trees and the lapping of the ocean were a perfect salve for my sad heart.

During that camping trip, I enjoyed many s’mores with roasted marshmallows with my kiddos. There is such simple delight of enjoying the white gooey stickiness that appears from between those graham crackers as well as the smiles that accompany that moment. The joy those simple marshmallows bring. That’s right — marshmallows, with an “-allow.”

That correct spelling of marshmallow is for you, mom.

Kodiak resident Zoya Saltonstall is a mother of two and a physical therapist. She loves Labrador retrievers and chocolate.

 

Battle of the Books

MOUNTAIN VIEWS

By Zoya Saltonstall

Thursday February 25th, 2016

Kodiak, Alaska

8:30 AM

"Good Luck Battle of the Books Team!" The St. Mary's school mates cheer in unison off the porch. I'm picking up four  students from the St. Mary's 3rd/4th grade class to go compete in their  first ever Battle of the Books.  The morning school assembly cheers the students on as competitors  climb into my car.

8:45 The  St. Mary's 3rd/4th grade battle  team arrives to the Kodiak College library conference room. For months they have been meeting, reading, studying, quizzing on a list of 13 books which they'll be questioned on.  This experience is all new to them. St. Mary's hasn't had a battle of the books team for many years. 

The room is set up with conference table, with  speaker phone in the center  grown-up chairs surrounding it. The students try out the padded, wheeled chairs with big smiles on their faces. 

Freshly homemade Blubbery buckle, little cutie oranges and bottles of water sit in the corner table. The students grab books and do last minute flipping through to get final details into their minds. The room is quiet. My digestive system gurgles and I have no appetite.  

8:53 Its audio conference time. We are supposed to do a  practice call in to make sure the line works. The kids watch on nervously  as I attempt to dial in. 

First 9, then the number. Wrong. Abnoxious beeping tone. Try again. 

Still wrong. Deep breaths, I tell myself, trying not to panic.  I try to deny the fact that 4 months of preparations could be lost in a failed dial into the audio conference. Our library support and fellow battle mom,  Sara, arrives and  tells us that prefix  8 will get us out of the phone system.  It works. We're in! 

Amen! The kids looked relieved. I can breath again. 

8:55 AM Official Dial in time for Battle of Books! We hear the voices of adult leaders and kids from all over the state across the speaker phone. Team names are being introduced.  The Amazing Lynx, The fuzzy Lumpkins (I'm still not sure what a lumpkin is), the Superreaders and  our team-The St. Mary's Bears are all ready to go. All off in our various corners of the state, we're coming together to see which team knows these books inside and out. 

9:05 AM After several minutes of rules, the battle begins. The First question is read by the moderator. Mute is activated on our phone so other teams can't hear our discussion. The teams have  30 seconds to discuss the answer and write the question down on their paper. Every battle of the books question starts with "In Which book…." and the team mates scroll through their mental list of books to decide which best answers the question. 

9:30 AM The Kenai team challenges a question. A judge is called in on the conference to determine whether the challenge is granted.  The case is presented and the battle judge grants the points. We all see first hand that battle challenges can indeed be won!

A serving of moist blueberry buckle warms spirits and eases nerves. 

9:50 AM Half time and stretch break. We are slightly behind the leading team- Kenai. There are lots of high fives and excitement at the questions the team got right and the possibility of sliding ahead of  Kenai in the last rounds. 

10:20 AM Its ten questions later and tensions are high. After many missed points, we have fallen out of the top ranking. Only 1 team will be progressing onto the next round-and it won't be us.  Just one question at a time, my co-leader Aileen reminds the team. Looks of despair come over their faces and I'm impressed with how Aileen's encouraging words bring back their smiles. 

10:50 AM "What is the moral of battle of the books?" a student teammate asks. I understand his frustration, the time invested. Its not a question the parents can answer for them, but rather one they have to answer for themselves.  

Perhaps the answer comes in the form of experiences such as time together after school for many months, reading new books and now-  sharing pizza together afterwords at the large conference table.  The kids  gobble away then go outside for a few minutes before heading back to St. Mary's. 

11:30 AM On the drive back to school, the kids ask me when the books for next year will be announced. I look in my rear view mirror and they are 100% smiles in the back seat. 

Kodiak resident Zoya Saltonstall is a physical therapist and mother of two. She loves warm cookies out of the oven. 

Twinhood

MOUNTAIN VIEWS

By Zoya Saltonstall 

Long confused glances from strangers, psychic moments and strong coincidences are a daily part of my life as a twin. Some of my Mountain Views column readers may not know I have an identical  twin sister, Ella, here on the island.  Ella and I  are of similar height, weight and totally identical voice. Telling us apart is no easy feat.

  

This week is National Twin week (thank you, Facebook!) and I thought that  a perfect time to share a couple  twin anecdotes.

Last Friday  I went into Cost savers to get some dog food and bulk sized processed food. An hour later, I realized I forgot weekend beverages  and went back inside. As I walked by the registers, the cashier with the pink highlights  in her hair looked at me suspiciously. "Your sister was just here." she said. 

 "Actually,  that was me. I was here an hour ago.  I forgot something so I came back." I reply with a slight I-know-where-I-was tone in my voice.

"Okkkkkk" she says. "Unless you did a super fast outfit change it was your sister" she replied-very confidently. She was in the midst of a transaction, and her eyebrows were raised in a very unconvinced angle.  The people in line looked over at me and smiled in curiosity. 

I head back to the beverage section and see a friend, Tom checking out. 

"Hey Zoya! Ella was just in here two seconds ago!" Tom says. 

"You really mean, like, 2 second ago?" I ask?

"Yeah! She just left!" he replies. 

 I was totally wrong. Ella had been there.  

"You were right. It was Ella!" I scream across the store to the cashier with the pink  highlights. Even I am confused on this one. The cashier smiles with a  look of satisfaction that comes with solving a puzzle. 

Twins 0, Cashier 1. 

It can be easy to assume that identical twins would always get along, but  I was recently reminded recently to not take  that for granted. A woman my age in my on-line writing class revealed she is an identical twin and doesn't talk to her sister at all. I read this with some sadness, as I enjoy being a twin and I had a hard time picturing otherwise. She spoke of a whole lifetime of great distance between she and her twin and I wondered what that would feel like. A gap? A chasm?

 I empathized with my classmate, as Ella and I have had our  ups and downs (for only brief months) over the years. I know how it pained our family during the brief periods when we weren't getting along. With twins there is a social expectation to be close. "You must be so close" people ask me. "Yes, we are…we're best friends" I reply. So often we finish each others sentences. We get each other. 

Other moments of twin-hood are rich with coincidence- those "twin psychic" type of moments which people love to ask and hear about. Such was a year ago when I picked Ella up at the airport. She came off the plane and we laugh as  we were both dressed in black pants, grey tops, identical black jacket and black boots. People in the airport must've thought we planned that one. Ella and I just stood there laughing at each other. 

In celebration of National Twin week, Ella and I decided we'll enjoy some home made chocolate chip cookies.  Also, Ella just recently dyed her hair red, which might make telling us apart easier. And we'll also avoid Cost Savers at the same time to keep our super-twin-detector-cashier from having to question who is who!  

Kodiak resident Zoya Saltonstall is a mother of two and a physical therapist. She loves being outside and watching the ocean.

Hospice and Doula work

MOUNTAIN VIEWS

by Zoya Saltonstall

In the past months there have been several well-known celebrity deaths including  David Bowie and Alan Rickman, both of whom leave artistic legacies in their musical and cinematic talents. Here in Alaska, we said goodbye to Eva Saulitis. Eva was  scientist, teacher, writer who lived in Homer and passed away at her home after a long bout of cancer. Eva shared her journey of preparing for death in her writing; her friends and family were there with her as she physically and emotionally prepared for her death. The close timing of these deaths  bring our own immorality to the forefront of our minds, as we think about how we live, how we want to live and how we want to die. 

How these these final days, hours, and moments of life unfold  are crucial for the dying and the living as well. On February 13th is the 5th Annual Heart for Hospice Ball, a major fundraiser for our Kodiak Hospice Organization.  Hospice is a group which supports families during the time of death and dying. Kodiak Hospice offers in-home support, palliative care as well as bereavement classes/groups. People can be supported by nurses, volunteers and community support in their final days. 

It was in my  living room, at the age of 16, when I learned about the importance of the journey of death.  I sat with my dad during his last breaths. 

My dad  suffered from a six month bout of cancer and 3 rounds of unsuccessful chemotherapy in San Diego. When it became evident that the treatment wasn't working, he was encouraged to return home soon so he could die in Kodiak.  

During those final days before dad's death, we watched him slowly pass from this world to the next. He spoke of seeing people around him, of a feast. Of strawberries. Of an elevator which went somewhere. He wanted us to take the elevator, to get the food. In a span of several days we saw him get ready for the next life. 

Dads agonal, final gasps of air scared me. Even though I knew they were coming, it was something one can never be fully prepared for. "We should call the ambulance" I cried to my family near me. It wasn't a rational response. He was prepared to die. We knew this was coming. 

My family shared that space with him, as he  passed from this world to the next. He didn't seem scared. By the end, he seemed ready.  I wasn't ready and never would be ready. I was 16 and just starting life with him.

Our family was supported by the community in his decision to die at home. I remember a doctor home visit and little need for dad to leave the house for palliative care. There was no hospice at the time, but yet an overall feeling of support of dad being at home. 

On the day of dads death, I witnessed how powerful and important this time and space is. Honoring  the sacred passage of life. We're never fully prepared for these life changes. No class or book can fully prepare us. Which is why that support nearby matters so much. 

As one of my life callings, I am a doula-a support person for women in labor giving birth. I  am with women and their families at the time of birth. It was many years into my doula work before I realized how similar this presence is at birth and death. 

As a doula I  honor the moment as well as the overall  journey. 

As a doula I hold hands, comfort, encourage, smile, cry, laugh, listen.  

Birth and death jolt us out of our existence and make us question all we've ever known about living. Birth and death take our breath away and knock us off our feet-in good ways and hard ways. They are times when a loving presence and kindness can be even more important than words. 

Whether it be first breaths, or final breaths, these are the  times when we need our hand held with caring support in more ways than one. 

Thanks to the dreams and amazing hard work of many local citizens, Kodiak now has a Hospice Program. They are here to support us, to help normalize the death and dying process. To acknowledge a more comfortable, quieter, calmer way of approaching death. 

Thank you, Kodiak Hospice.

Dribblers a family, community tradition

MOUNTAIN VIEWS
by Zoya Saltonstall
Published in Kodiak Daily Mirror on October 29th, 2015


The sharp whistle stopped every one in action. You could almost hear a pin drop in the gym. The small mob of basketball-playing elementary boys convened in the center by the adults. The unknowns were hanging in the air. For the players, the parents and the coaches. This was the start of  Little dribbler basketball tryouts.

With paper numbers pinned on their chests, the boys were split into three groups and sent off to various parts of the gym for  drills. They took turns doing layups. Passing drills. Dribbling skills. 

I have to play my cards well so Stuey doesn’t know just how excited I am for him to finally be playing organized basketball. I hear the stories of sports pressure gone bad. Parents who so desperately want their child to play a certain sport and in the end it pushes them away from it.

I’m taking the opposite approach. I’ve tried to be completely chill with how much I love basketball. 

My love for basketball began 30 years ago, as a little dribbler myself. Sweaty, hot games in the middle school. Enthusiastic parents sitting on the bleachers up high, screaming out during games. Cheering. Sometimes yelling at us or the coaches or the refs. T-shirts with awful contrasting colors and team photos where the coaches stand behind us with ’80s hairdos. Painfully learning how to play the game.

I remember it feeling so good to win. And so good to make a basket. 

Then middle school basketball where I have zero memories. Perhaps there is a picture in a photo album somewhere that could jog my memory. Those years are in many ways a memory void. If my middle school basketball coach is reading this, I’m truly sorry. I just don’t remember. Perhaps  we really do spend the rest of our lives trying to recover from or forget what happens in middle school. 

“Do you want to coach?” I  was asked by city Parks and Rec when I signed Stuey up for dribblers. “Oh, no! You don’t want me coaching!” I chuckled. I would have to get Cliff Notes for basketball coaching and it wouldn’t be pretty. 

I prayed to my lucky stars that they found enough coaches so I wouldn’t have to. 

At tryouts, I was glad to see five coaches milling around the gym. My stars came through for me. With clipboards and pens in their hands, the coaches had semipensive looks on their faces as they watched the boys play. They intermingled some, took notes on their papers, and watched some more.    

Three of the five coaches are familiar to me. One was a Kodiak High School classmate back in the 1990s. One was a prior coworker who has a great sense of humor. One was an old boyfriend.

I am curious who will end up being Stuey’s first basketball coach. In real estate they say “location, location, location.” In sports, it’s really all about the coach. The coach is the one who instills confidence, gives the framework, and yet pushes just the right amount. It truly is an art. 

The next 45 minutes were awash with ball handling drills. Chest passes. Bounce passes. Stop-pivots. Dribbling around cones. Layups on the left. Then on the right. Moves that will become so practiced, and so routine for these boys as they learn the art of basketball. These skills that will build their foundation. And becomes threads of their existence and beings. 

Before I know it, tryouts end. The hour flew by. We learn that we’ll find out team assignments at next practice

As we leave the gym, Stuey runs ahead of me to the car.

“I’m glad I knew two people from my class!” Stuey yells. 

“Yes! That was really fun, Stuey! I reply. 

My heart thumps with basketball joy. 



Kodiak resident Zoya Saltonstall is a mother of two and a physical therapist. She loves black labs and chocolate.

Politics take back seat to night drive

MOUNTAIN VIEWS
By Zoya Saltonstall
Published in Kodiak Daily Mirror on October 22nd, 2015

Mom, wait. I’m confused.  I thought our mayor is a girl, not a guy” my daughter, Nora questioned me. 

It was a rainy windy Thursday evening. Nora and I were getting settled into our chairs at the toasty borough assembly chambers. 

We arrived 25 minutes before the borough assembly meeting started and sat in the front left row by the window. The assembly members trickled in, conversed with each other and sat in their executive assembly chairs. Nora asked who everyone was and what their jobs were. 

I explained how we have two mayors in Kodiak: a borough mayor and city mayor. Jerrol Friend is our borough mayor. Pat Branson is the city mayor and that was who she was thinking of. I explained the difference between city and borough and how our family lives in the borough. 

This was Nora’s first time being at such a public meeting. She was curious about what a public meeting is like and since she cares about the future of Termination Point, I figured this would be a good one for us  to go to together.   

I remember my fascination with elected public officials as a child. My very young self saw it all as a little king-queen-ish. My late father, Dave Herrnsteen, was on the Kodiak school board for several terms and borough mayor for a term back in the 1980s. I don’t remember his time as borough mayor, I was too young. On the school board I remember him coming home with super-thick meeting packets he would read through. And he would frequently get pulled aside at the post office to talk with neighbors and friends about school board subjects. 

Half an hour into Thursday’s meeting, Nora started showing signs of fading — slumping over tired and sending me looks of disgust for still being there. Her eyebrows were furrowing at me. The clock was approaching 8. It was a school night and she (thankfully) relishes her 8 p.m. bedtime. 

On the drive home, Nora was very much convinced that borough assembly meetings were the most boring things on earth. What was exciting to her was that it was her first “night drive” this fall. Seeing the street lights and oncoming headlights of traffic was a novelty. Simple joys for 10-year-olds. 

I tuned into the meeting on public radio KMXT as we drove home. By the time we left the meeting, the Termination Point testimony hadn’t yet started; there were several awards and reports presented. Not terribly exciting. But important, yes.   

After Nora was tucked into bed and as the rain hammered against my kitchen window, I  followed the assembly votes on the Termination Point negotiations as they rolled in. The next morning when Nora woke up, she was curious what the outcome was. 

I explained how the four votes in favor of negotiations were reflections of the people who filled the borough assembly chambers two weeks in a row. The two votes opposing the negotiations left many puzzled. 

That rainy Thursday night was an eye-opening borough assembly meeting for Nora and me, but for different reasons. 

For Nora, she learned about the difference between the borough and city mayor. She saw first-hand how meetings can be boring.  

For me, I became even more grateful for engaged, responsive borough assembly members. These elected officials who can look constituents in the eye, email back and have dialogue and interaction. 

And most importantly, assembly members who vote on behalf of the  wishes of the community. 




Kodiak resident Zoya Saltonstall is a mother of two and a physical therapist. She loves black labs and chocolate.

Porthole offers a view of magical boat rides

MOUNTAIN VIEWS
Published in Kodiak Daily Mirror on July 22, 2015
By Zoya Saltonstall 

When I was in my shed looking for camping gear recently, I came across a boat porthole in a box. It was the porthole from the boat I spent a very memorable part of my youth on — The Anna D.

The boat was a green, 48-foot Kodiak commercial fishing boat. I loved being on it. My bedroom and my house were OK, but I really treasured the time on the boat.

The Anna D had a ladder going from the crew deck up to a flying bridge — an up top outside steering area where dad could see for miles. I would go to join dad up there and just sit and watch the ocean and dad navigate the boat. It was like being on top of the world. The exhaust smokestack was loud up there, which meant not lots of talking. But I didn't mind. It was the joy of just being together and being outside that mattered.

The Anna D had a small galley with a table and a bunk where dad would sleep right adjacent to the table. An oil stove, sink and small fridge filled up the rest of the small space. There was a heavy, thick door that sealed the room shut in rough weather.

A medium-sized porthole sat right above the galley sink window. Slightly ajar most of the time, it let in the cool refreshing ocean breezes. On the rough crossings, I would lay on my dad’s bunk and gaze out the pothole. I could see the rise and fall of the boat, as well as the endless waves. It took some of the edge of the seasickness off. Ocean spray splashed across the windows and my gaze would be fixed on the salty circle window.

Standing there in my shed, I touched the porthole's weathered brass rim. It seemed surreal to have it here, in my next world of marriage and my own kids. My continued life in Kodiak.

In many ways, 23 years feels like a wrinkle in time. It was 23 years ago that my father passed away from a battle with cancer. I was still in high school. The Anna D was sold several years later to family friends. When the boat was renovated, the porthole was given to my sister and I as a gift. At the time it was given to me, I was appreciative, but not ready for it. It was waiting in the corner of the shed until I was ready.

The porthole brought me back to the young girl who enjoyed the magic of being on the boat. It reminded me of the feel of climbing up the ladder to sit next to dad. Or laying on the bunk in the storms, hoping that the waves would soon pass and seeing dad give me a reassuring smile. It brought me back to how hard dad worked on the boat, how much he loved the ocean and how much I felt his love for me on those trips.

These sentimental objects — sometimes they work themselves into our lives. Objects, letters, mementos. The porthole reminds me to slow down with my own parenting and treasure the magic of the ocean breezes.

As much as we don't want to become attached to items, is it possible for items to become attached to us? For when we are ready, they are there — to guide us in whatever way we might let them.

Kodiak resident Zoya Saltonstall is a mother of two and a physical therapist. She loves black labs and chocolate.

Blue Moon Mania

MOUNTAIN VIEWS
Published in Kodiak Daily Mirror on August 5th, 2015
By Zoya

Last Friday night was all sorts of blue moon crazy.

July started with a full moon and ended with a second full moon, which is called the blue moon. There were national headlines in newspapers all about the blue moon and astrology blogs were buzzing with excitement over it. Some astrologists say that the blue moon brings out angst, anxiety or tension in people. Others argue the opposite, that it has no affect on people.

It seems that Kodiak was definitely struck with a case of blue moon fever. Several friends spoke of conflict and misunderstanding with others. Another friend spoke of deep reflection on recent losses, prompted by seeing the moon. I went to an art opening that evening only to discover out I had the date wrong. All dressed up and nowhere to go with the blue moon rising.

Who knows — it could be coincidence, but it sure did seem that people felt out of sorts.

Also on Friday night was a gathering of people to watch Sandor Katz speak.

Mr. Katz is a fermentation expert and author who wrote “The Art of Fermentation.” (In full disclosure, I didn’t go. I was in a state of disappointment after discovering I had the date wrong on the art opening. But several friends went to the presentation, so I got the details.)

Mr. Katz spoke to a full house at the library on his experience working the fermentation process. He gave a presentation on his experience with the process of making fermented food — the birth and life of micro biomes; a process with a huge list of health benefits for the much talked about intestinal flora. He talked about the fermentation process that people have utilized for thousands of years, in so many cultures all over the world. Not only is fermenting food a health benefit, but also it helps preserve food for months without refrigeration.

In this world of social media and being electronically plugged in, people are starved for re-connection to the Earth. Electronics and instant everything does nothing for truly recharging our zest for life. I’d argue it does the opposite. It pulls us farther away from our true organic selfs and can leave us feeling drained and alone.

The appreciation of these greater Earth forces can take form in so many ways. It can be in the form of making homemade sauerkraut or kimchi or beer; the microbiomes are born and work their magic to create food. Or in the form of fascination and appreciation of moon cycles; recognizing the potential power of their forces on people, farming, tides, etc. Or gardening, digging into the soil and watching life grow. Or picking berries; the process of harvesting and then using them in yummy creations. The list is endless.

Or, it could be in simply appreciating the slower pulse on which Mother Nature functions. Where the Earth changes oh so slowly. Her pulse is slow and to appreciate it, we must in turn slow down.

My kids and I went berry picking for more than an hour last weekend. I picked some and laid in the moss some with the sun on me. It was a beautiful slow pace and I was grateful to not be in a rush. When we returned home, I spent several hours listening to music and making a pie with the fruits of our labor. It had been years since I’d made a crust and I was grateful to the berries for bringing me back to this buttery flakey goodness.

Whether it be on the celestial or cellular level or somewhere in between; it’s about finding elements of the Earth that captivate us. Those elements that bring us wonder and engage us in our earthly existence.

(Oh, and mark your calendars. The next blue moon is in January of 2018.)

Kodiak resident Zoya Saltonstall is a mother of two and a physical therapist. She loves black labs and chocolate.

Learning Camping skills one stake at a time

MOUNTAIN VIEWS Kodiak Daily Mirror Column
Published August 13th, 2015
By Zoya

Sitting on the beach of Woody Island next to a big stack of camping gear, I was excited for the Girl Scouts to arrive on the seiner F/V Silver Fox. The weather and transportation plans were cooperating for our weekend camping trip! The state park campsite was vacant. I could breath a sigh of relief as the final pieces of trip planning had fallen into place.

Eleven excited scouts, five leaders, five tents, food, supplies and lots of cute stuffed animals in backpacks arrived on shore via zodiac. Together we packed up gear from the beach to our campsite. Without much prompting, the girls helped each other haul their big bags up the beach.

Alaska Troop #118 had patches to be completed, camping skills to be honed, trails to be explored and a geocache to be found.

Four other leaders and I helped guide the girls with the morning tasks to get camp set up. The girls drew colored straws to break up into what Girl Scout tradition calls KAPER groups. These are small groups who would do chores around camp. One group set up the fire pit. One group helped with tent setup. One group gathered wood off the beach. The excitement built as the tents went up and the reality of our trip set in.

There were challenges the leaders had to face together; a scout who came down with a stomach virus, enforcing strict safety rules around the camp fire and teaching the girls how and where to “take care of business” in a leave-no-trace manner.

These are the less-glorious, unavoidable aspects of taking a troop camping.

After dinner the scouts took turns sharing something new that we had experienced. For many, it was eating Sprite Chicken — a greasy Dutch oven dish with chicken, carrots, potatoes and lots of bacon. For others, it was geocaching. For the adults in the group, the trip was an experience of firsts, as well. First time geocaching, first time to Woody Island. First time camping on the Woody Island State Park land.

My “camp firsts” had less to do with new foods consumed or new lands explored, but more to do with beginning to understand the culture of Girl Scout camping and the importance of rituals in the troop. I saw the principle of Girl Scout sisterhood in action; when a scout on our outing was struck with a sudden stomach virus, several scouts offered to help pack up her sleeping gear for departure.

We learned new silly fun Girl Scout songs, showed how to leave a place better than we found it, and made banana boats — once again a Girl Scout classic. My co-leader and I were reflecting on how, years from now, with these repeated camping trips, the girls will become very adept at camping and how fun that will be to see! One tent stake at a time, one fire at a time — skills were practiced this weekend.

And now, I have a few Girl Scout songs stuck on repeat in my head. Just need to somehow turn those off and I'll be officially recovered from the weekend!

Kodiak resident Zoya Saltonstall is a mother of two and a physical therapist. She loves black labs and chocolate.

Dutch Oven Magic

MOUNTAIN VIEWS

by Zoya Saltonstall

It can be easy to put aside the things that are the most rich with possibility in exchange for  newer, shinier options. Cars, appliances, clothes-out with the old, in with the new. Thinking it will be better.   But in the end, its  these tried and true  relics which become  part of us, our story. 

 In our home,  our dutch oven is such a relic. 

A dutch oven is  large heavy cooking pot with a lid. It is often made of cast iron and can be used in an oven or over the coals of a fire.  My first dutch oven memory is on the first date I had with my husband, Patrick. He invited me over for a deer stew dinner. A fire was going in the woodstove and it was the warmest place on earth. I sat on a stool at  his kitchen island, both of us seemingly nervous. We made first date small talk and drank wine until dinner was ready. 

 Patrick pulled the stew out of the oven and it was love at first sight. There were carrots, chunks of tender deer meat and mushrooms-my favorite stew ingredient. It was the best stew my faste buds had ever landed on.   Over the years, that stew became one of Patrick'd wintertime classics. 

All the good meals of our earlier years together were cooked in the dutch oven. It was Patricks go-to; he cooked stews, spaghetti, soups in it.  A few years later-at my suggestion-  we put it away for a cooking pot "upgrade". Something with color and seemingly snazzier.  The Dutch oven went off to the shed. For 10 years its been sitting in the shadows on a deep shelf.

Several weeks ago my girl scout troop co-leader, Erica,  texted, "Do you have a dutch oven?" she asked. 

 Hmm, where was that dutch oven from 10 years ago? We needed it for an outdoor cooking day, where the girls were going to make salmon in foil packets and cook a berry cobbler in the dutch oven for dessert. 

When I asked, Patrick knew exactly  where it was. Which dark of corner of which shelf-he knew its whereabouts. 

He brought the dutch oven in and began the process of re-seasoning it. For those who avoid using cast iron skillets because food sticks, its because the pan hasn't been well oiled and perhaps someone used soap on it. Cast iron needs very particular treatment to be non-stick. Nothing complex, but if someone washes it with soap, it can strip the oils from it. We oiled the dutch oven, put it on low heat to let the oils soak back in. There were a few small patches of rust which Patrick scrubbed off. The house smelled of a faint cooked oil smell. The dutch oven was warm.  

"Its ready to go Zoya!" Patrick said. There was a sparkle in his blue eyes. He was incredibly proud and I was impressed. The dutch oven sat all shiny and ready for use again. I looked down at the more modern Le Cruset pots in our kitchen cabinet and thought, "Sorry, guys. I've been reunited with an old love." 

None of my girl scouts knew what a dutch oven was, but they were all about   buttering it up in preparation for firecooked blueberry ocobbler. They rolled up there sleeves and eagerly slathered the interior with a thick coat of butter.  We put in frozen berries, topped them with strudel and onto the fire it went. 30 minutes later, the berries were bubbling and the cobbler was served. 

The dutch oven is back at home in our kitchen. Patrick cooked up  yummy  hashbrowns and eggs for breakfast out of it the other morning. "The sausages were moister than normal, Zoya" Patrick said, and I agreed. The lid on the oven helped retain the moisture from the sausages. 

 I'm eagerly looking up  more recipes to cook in the dutch oven, with a warm fire somehow in the picture. Whether the fire is in the wood stove on a winter night, or putting the oven on an open camp fire-its all about a fire. Enchiladas, casseroles, breads…. The possibilities all involve  a slow cooking time and a wonderful burst of steam when the lid is taken off. 

Kodiak resident Zoya Saltonstall is a mother of two and a physical therapist. She loves black labs and chocolate.

KDM Column~ Archaeology Friendships

Printed in Kodiak Daily Mirror July 2015

MOUNTAIN VIEWS

By Zoya Saltonstall

This week the  Alutiiq Museum community archaeology dig begins. For Kodiak, this means a chance to participate in a free, public site excavation and learn about Kodiak history. For our family, this means an influx of visiting scientists to our home.   My husband Patrick is an archaeologist and leads the community dig as well as remote digs every summer. Early on, I learnt  what this time of year meant for our home. 

My first taste of archaeology season was shortly after I met Patrick. I had just returned on the morning jet from a trip out East shortly after meeting Patrick.   As I walked up to the house I noticed  tents on the lawn and I tiptoed over the sleeping bodies in my living room. This, I realized,  was to be a classic scene at our  home during  archaeologist during field season.   These 15 students and a professor  were on their way to Old Harbor for an archaeology trip  and needed a place to crash for the night. As the group  awoke, they were all very friendly and appreciative for the sleeping quarters.  Patrick explained to me  that this is how it is when learning how to be an archaeologist. You camp out, crash on couches, for days, weeks or months. And then you repay the favors to the new crop of budding scientists. 

 For the years that have followed, the scene was indeed a very similar one at our home. Students fly in from various corners of country as well as local community members to participate in the digs and surveys.   Some experience their "firsts" here. First trip to Alaksa. First time kayaking. First time camping. First time on an archaeology dig. First time eating goat. First time eating fresh salmon. Its fun to be part of those firsts and that energy which comes along with it.  (And archaeologists are way more fun and entertaining as a whole then I ever imagined they would be!)

 Every year the survey  locations and crews are are slightly different.  But one thing is the same-our home becomes an archaeology stomping grounds of sorts . 

There have been some unforgettable guests-the ones whom I can chuckle about as I recall the moments.   There was a student from Texas who was camping in Fort Abercrombie. She would come to our house occasionally to shower and after one long stint in the shower, I discovered the walls were stained red. She had died her hair red in the shower. It took some scrubbing to get the hair dye off.    Or the older gentleman who took to occasionally walking around his house in his underwear. Or the one who left rotten halibut in our fridge and it took months for our kitchen to recover. There were times when I resented the  responsibility of housing archaeologists and I would be so ready to have the house to ourselves come the fall. The last guest would leave and I would breathe a deep sigh of relief to welcome the change of seasons.   

Then there are   house guests whom I have grown to treasure, such as Catherine West.  Catherine is a professor at Boston University who has been coming to Kodiak for as long as I've known Patrick. We drink tea and coffee and summer drinks together, giggle and quickly catch up on life every few years when she is in town. We share in the ups and downs of life with kids, relationships, life and death. When my dog, Roxy,  died- she wrote a beautiful card. When she lost a close family member, I shared in her loss. Although thousands of miles separated us, she was very much on my mind during her time of grief.   The summer archaeology experience has allowed our friendship to grow. 

This week at the community dig the shovels will be lifting off the sods, putting those top rich layers aside to discover the treasures hidden below. The trowels will come out. These are the metal implements will  push the dirt into dustpans and put into buckets. The dirt is screened through a screen to look for any missed artifacts. The process takes time,  but it ensures that no teeny tiny artifact is lost into the dirt pile. For myself, and my kids who aren't at the dig every day, these next few weeks holds treasures for family. Treasures  in the form of  time  with wonderful souls who have traveled from afar to learn about and explore Kodiak. And a chance to discover new layers to old friendships.

Kodiak resident Zoya Saltonstall is a mother of two and a physical therapist. She loves black labs and chocolate.

Bows and Arrows

MOUNTAIN VIEWS-

Kodiak Daily Mirror Article 

Printed July 1st, 2015

By Zoya Saltonstall

This summer the archery bug has definitely hit our house. (And shed. In more ways than one!) 

In front of our red shed rests an archery target-a big foam square with large pink dots painted on it. Around the foam target  are 6 hay barrels to help absorb the stray arrows. Around those barrels are a few pieces of plywood. And yet we still have many hits into the shed from stray arrows (but we really don't mind too much).   In the evenings my son, Stuey, and husband, Patrick, take turns with the bow. Sometimes its chill and other times its competitive. Stuey loves the bow and has to painfully wait his turn as Patrick takes his turn shooting their five arrows. Then, its Stuey's turn again. 

The bow and arrow fascination isn't  a recent one for Patrick. As a kid he was hooked on wrist rockets and later used  bows and arrows. When  Patrick was in his early 40's and living here in Kodiak, he learned to hunt with a bow and arrow.  For goat hunters, bow and arrow hunting means you can hunt on the road system without drawing a  permit.  That said, it is  more challenging than rifle hunting.   Goats are often perched on cliffs- icy, snowy cliffs. To hunt those goats with a bow, one must be perched on those same icy cliffs. The hunter must be also be ready to go retrieve them when they tumble off a cliff after their death. 

 Eight years ago during winter, Patrick and his  hunting buddy John B. would disappear for many Saturdays and Sundays. Off they went to mountain tops to go after goats with their bow gear. In the early hours of those cold, snowy November  mornings I was just grateful it wasn't me heading up mountains in the near darkness. 

I found their mission to be so manly. Like ultimate manly. Guys chasing after goats with bows and arrows. How much more primal can it get, really?    That winter was  a particularly snowy and cold one.   They wore white "camo" suits to keep their presence from the goats more hidden. 

Every weekend, for about 6 weeks, Patrick returned from his hunts with a similar story.

 "Honey, we were SO close. I had the goat right there, in my sights, and then a gust of wind came, and…" Patrick would say,  or "Honey, This time we really almost had one. He was 5 yards away, I had arrow pulled back and then he dashed around the cliff"

The sexy primal-ness of the bow and arrow hunting  really started to wear off. My patience for bow and arrow hunting was wearing thin.

"Ummm hmmm. Ok." I began to reply with less empathy, as I bounced baby Stuey on my hip and toddler Nora was clinging onto my leg. I wasn't sure who was more challenged-him chasing after goats on snowy cliffs or me trying to appease an infant and toddler. (For you moms in the mix-you know what I mean. Just having an extra set of hands on those weekend days can help so much!)

At the end of those 6 weeks, Patrick and John did get their goat. When he walked through the door telling me they shot one, I was in disbelief. It really happened. 

The other evening after dinner, I went outside to check out the bow and arrow time with Patrick and Stuey. I sat on the lawn with a cool summer beverage and soaked it all in.  Patrick and Stuey were taking aim at 10 and then 20 yards. Stuey carefully drew the bow back, elbow by his ear.  He would look over at me and smile, glad to finally have an audience. 

"I want to try shooting" I told the guys after almost 30 minutes of watching. 

"Ok, Yeah! Stuey,  lets let mommy shoot one round of arrows." Patrick said, "How about we start mommy on the 5 yard line?" I  got the sense that the guys were skeptical about my abilities. I understood. I hadn't practiced at all. 

So I started at the 5 yard line, pulled the bow string back. Took aim. And wham. Into the target my arrow landed. I moved back to 10 yard and same result. Wham.  I wasn't too far off, for never having practiced in my adult life. 

"Wow, Zoya!" Patrick said. I tried to act chill but inside I was screaming with delight! "You're pretty good!" Patrick remarked.

I was channeling my Camp Woodsmoke energy. Camp Woodsmoke was a sleepover summer camp my twin sister and I went to in 4th and 5th grade. It was  on the shores of Lake Placid we went there for 2 week periods, two summers in a row.  I was particularly fond of sailing, archery and canoeing. I got a little plywood carved award for archery. At some point many years ago before college I threw it away. The award may be gone, but the muscle memory for that bow and arrow shooting somehow stuck. I took myself by surprise shooting that first set of arrows. 

Drawing the bow back, aiming, releasing. Watching  the arrow fly through the air.  Then the satisfying thump as it lands into the target (as opposed to the whack as it hits the barn!). Its good to be reunited with these arrows which bring challenge, and pleasure. And the joy of knowing that archery is  part of our family and  that those Camp Woodsmoke skills are with me still. 

Kodiak resident Zoya Saltonstall is a mother of two and a physical therapist. She loves black labs and chocolate.