Icefog. February, Fairbanks. -40˚C/F.First time I came to this town I wondered why anyone would live here. Nestled in a valley, there’s ice-fog in the winter and smog in the summer, with mountains barely visible on the horizon. On a good day. But once I got to know Fairbanks with all its quirks and charm I found it’s inner beauty. It’s a town with personality. It’s where you’ll sit next to a one-legged lady who got the missing leg shot off one night stumbling drunk down a village street when another drunk thought she was a moose. It’s where you’ll happily bounce down the sidewalk while walking your dog and someone will yell from the window of a passing car: Get a yard! It’s where crazy is embraced and normal is shunned, where crazy is considered normal. It’s where all corporations have been delegated to one side of town, contained, so as not to spill into the lives of liberals. It’s where the grocery store has everything you need, from milk to firearms to armchairs. It’s where you’ll meet the old man who used to smuggle weapons during WWII, who had to get smuggled to Alaska when a crazy lady set fire to everywhere he lived.
Fairbanks has personality. It’s the place that fills in the gaps.
Fairbanks has personality. It’s the place that fills in the gaps.
