Alaska Fall Farewell

Summer in Alaska has officially slipped away, leaving us with the kind of silence that feels both heavy and inevitable. The trees become bare with each passing day, their golden crowns scattered on the ground, their branches stripped to face the long winter months ahead. The cold lingers in the mornings and refuses to leave in the evenings, your breath rising in soft clouds, your shoulders pulling tighter into the familiar weight of a hoodie you’ll practically live in till spring. Fall in Alaska is a fleeting guest, arriving suddenly, leaving just as quickly, and winter is already at the door, knocking louder with every chilled night.

Here on the homestead, the change of season means work. It’s the bittersweet ritual of preparing for what’s coming, of saying goodbye to the warmth of summer days. The cabins are being closed down and winterized: drained of water, filled with antifreeze, faucets removed and stored away. A special thanks goes out to our Maintenance Manager, without his steady hand and skill, none of this would be possible. He is the quiet constant that allows both us and our guests to enjoy this land as long as we have.

Inside, small changes are taking shape, adjustments that will carry us through the dark months, one detail at a time. Outside, the homestead demands its own kind of care. The chicken coop is being mucked out, fresh bedding laid down in double measure to shield against the cold. This year, we’re even looking into experimenting with Black Soldier Fly larvae in the bedding, hoping they’ll offer the chickens both enrichment and a measure of cleanliness through the long winter.

Hay bales are stacked, a bag of barley is waiting to be picked up, and the firewood is piling higher each day. The forest gives its deadfall to the chainsaw, the truck hauling out load after load. The work leaves behind its marks, the scent of cold clinging to your skin, the smoky bite of diesel lingering on your clothes and in your hair. These are the small reminders that winter is not just coming, it’s already here, pressing at the edges.

But that’s the rhythm of this place. To live here is to know that preparedness makes all the difference. It is what turns winter from something merely survivable into something that can be borne, and even thrived in. There’s a kind of hope in this cycle, even with the bitterness of farewell. For as much as we brace ourselves now, we also carry the quiet knowledge that summer will return again, unexpected, fleeting, and beautiful, and when it does, it will feel like greeting an old friend we’ve missed too long.