Arctic light

Sun setting on ferns in Anchorage

There's something about the quality of light up north that's difficult to describe. Ethereal might be a good adjective. Constant is another. I especially love the summer light at dusk - say, around 11: 30 p.m.

Watching the sun cast the mountains in a shade of pink, called alpenglow, is an amazing sight. The garden loves the light too, and there's nothing like the sun setting on your ferns and flowers at that peaceful time. Very hard to capture with a camera. I took the photos shown here in early June, a few weeks before solstice (when we had over 19 hours of daylight).

Some people here start their descent into depression right on June 21, knowing that we are getting less and less light each day. I prefer to enjoy what we have and appreciate the quality, as much as the quantity, of light.

Tulips at 4 p.m.

Tulips at 10:15 p.m.

On weeds

I'm fairly ignorant about weeds. In fact, I've been known to carefully transplant a volunteer to a flower bed and dote on it before finding out that it's classified as such. Suddenly, instead of taking pride in nurturing, I feel like someone who's harbored a criminal.

But who has made this classification, and why?

In school, when reading the "classics," I often wondered just who had decided these particular books were so great that they would stand the test of time. In the same way, I wonder about weeds and why some plants are worth spraying gallons of herbicide on or ripping from the soil, while others should be carefully fertilized and coddled along.

When a plant becomes too successful at reproducing and moving into a new area, it's no longer welcome. In the act of dominance, it has become the enemy, to be eradicated. And we don't feel badly about it - there will always be more.

Several non-native plants have made their way into Alaska and are thriving. The Alaska Committee for Noxious and Invasive Plant Management has a strategic plan to raise awareness of more than 20 species that threaten Alaskan plants. Every June, volunteers dig out hundreds of pounds of dandelions in Denali National Park in order to protect the native plant species there, which animals in the park rely on as food sources.

There as in the home garden, weeding out the "bad guys" carries a great measure of satisfaction. We've now protected other plants so they won't be overrun by the dandelions, the chickweed, the clover. But if you were left with the last dandelion on earth, would you happily extinguish it forever, or lovingly nurture it along?

Nowhere does this distinction seem more arbitrary than in the tiny kingdom of my own backyard. In my ambivalence about weeds, I've discovered (too late maybe), that invasives have made decisions for me. My back yard, like the yard of MissoulaChick's neighbor, is a crop of dandelions. The front is a haven for clover.

Last year, on my side embankment where I don't venture too often, my neighbors found a lovely orange flower. They admired it, and even wondered about taking cuttings. A few weeks went by and the plant multiplied. Then someone discovered it on the "invasive plant" list. Now I've got a bit of work to do - not because I dislike it, but because I know my neighbors have put lots of time and effort into their own yards, and are a bit less ambivalent about weeds than I.

As I dig it out this spring, I'll feel good about helping protect their flower beds and the native plants of Alaska, but I'll also wonder about whether it's right to kill orange hawkweed just because its ability to survive has given it the "weed" label. I'll also be wondering about native peoples and the historical invasions that have so changed native cultures all over this country. Can native and non-native species, plant and human, ever co-exist successfully?

After all, there are beautiful flowers among us all.

Related:

• Alaskan students help advance science on invasive plant
• Native plants at Denali National Park and Preserve

Springtime in Alaska

It's finally springtime in Alaska. I know this because I saw my first mosquito last week. Oh, the injustice - there's still snow on the ground and the little buggers are already here.

This "little" guy tried to munch on the baby's head within 10 minutes of our going outside on a nice April afternoon in the Anchorage area. No need to Photoshop it - this is an Alaskan mosquito, after all.

I also know it's spring because people have started emerging from their homes like bears out of the den, HUNGRY! We're hungry for light, hungry for green, and anxious to make the most of our short summer.

This week, as larger and larger patches of earth begin to appear from under the snowmelt, we're all puttering about outside trying to make spring come even faster. It will be a few weeks before we can put anything in the ground, and in fact, we aren't really uncovering perennials yet due to low temperatures at night.

Of course, this is a repeat from a few weeks ago, when we were duped by a few sunny days and the appearance of all the usual spring displays at the grocery store. Then came a few more snowfalls and the only things growing in our yard were dinosaur snow sculptures.

Typically in this part of the state the rule of thumb is to begin planting the week of Memorial Day, or even as late as June 1. That leaves just a few short months before "fall" hits, but glorious months they are.

Where else can you be out so late communing with your greenery or checking out your neighbors' displays while on a midnight bike ride? We have so much light in summer that it's easy to lose track of time and begin mowing the yard at 10 or 10:30 p.m.

Summertime is also about reconnecting with community. In my neighborhood there are several gardeners with years of experience and I'm grateful for their knowledge. I would not call myself so much a gardener as a "hoper." I dig around, plant, and hope that something happens. I'm easily overwhelmed by the too-many variables that affect why and how something thrives.

However, this summer should bring about a little more growth on my part, as many of my posts will include highlights from our neighborhood master gardeners. I figure I'll learn a few things along the way, and we'll have fun sharing our unique experiences from the Land of the Midnight Sun.