Columnist Susan Snyder: E-mails bring home winter peril

Friday, Jan. 14, 2005 | 4:53 a.m.

Susan Snyder's column appears Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursday and Sundays. Reach her at snyder@lasvegassun.com or (702) 259-4082.

WEEKEND EDITION

January 15 - 16, 2005

It's been about eight months since my cousin Dawn dropped off the face of the earth.

The eldest child of my mother's sister lives about 60 miles south of Barrow, Alaksa, in Atqasuk, which she describes as "an interior village far enough away from the coast that polar bears are usually not a problem."

Polar bears?

Anyway, thanks to the same Internet we blame for ruining society's personal connections, I have more contact with Dawn than with relatives who live much closer.

Without the demanding commutes, trips to Wal-Mart and other urban entrapments, Dawn has time to write and tales to tell. Her e-mails are like letters used to be, vividly showing us people and places we never have seen in person.

So when the type of winter storm most of us can't fathom slammed the Alaskan village of Kaktovik last week, I anxiously waited for an update from my far-flung relative.

After all, about 320 miles separates Dawn from Kaktovik (as the Bush pilot flies). But it's pretty much on Mars for those of us in the Lower 48.

Phone and Internet service returned to Atqasuk on Tuesday.

"By now, most of you have heard of the perilous conditions in Kaktovik. I have wondered the last few days just how the village stays put together in the face of hurricane-force winds," Dawn wrote. "The answer is, it doesn't."

Many residents huddled for warmth in Kaktovik's public works building without electricity, which meant without heat.

"The rest are staying in their frozen homes, attempting to keep warm using propane stoves. I won't be surprised to hear about deaths due to overwhelming fumes," she wrote. "Listening to the story on CNN, I realized that the people down there (aside from being unable to pronounce the names of people and places up here) have no clue as to the power and danger of wind chill."

People die. Fast.

Dawn also told of her husband, Paul, a police officer, who hit white-out conditions Monday afternoon as he returned from an investigation. His Ford Expedition lurched, then stopped as it burrowed into a drift that covered the road.

In minutes, fierce wind bonded the snow crystals like concrete. A front-end loader finally dug out the truck, then Paul parked it. The region's sole police officer was on foot for the duration.

Down here we'd be demanding more money for fleets of Hummers so it would "never happen again." Up there, they waited.

People who live in places we can't pronounce, such as "AT-ca-sook" or "KAK-toe-vic," must let nature be itself and demand the patience to endure its freaks.

It's an intriguing concept to ponder as we investigate the means to stop future Charleston avalanches and Muddy River floods.

"People seem to think that all this wild weather is a sign of the Apocalypse," Dawn wrote Wednesday. "They forget that they inhabit such a large land mass now, that it is impossible not to get in the way of the places and things that were once wild.

"You can shoot the wolves," she added. "But lots of luck taming the weather!"