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A Nice Place, and You Definitely
Want to Live There
By Stephanie Land
 In
November of 2002 I found myself in a place I never thought I would be:
I had just ended a four-year relationship and was a student with no job,
a car payment and a dog who ate $100 worth of food a month. With only
1,000 bucks in my pocket, thanks to the Permanent Fund Dividend (a state
payment to all residents), I had to find a place to live, and it had to
be cheap and ready to move into the next day. Opening the paper to the
classifieds, I looked at the section titled "Cabins for Rent."
Most people weren't too thrilled about my St. Bernard living in their
cabin,
but the last landlord I called was actually excited about it. I told her
I
could move in tomorrow and asked for directions.
"It's out in Goldstream Valley," she told me. "It's actually
a trailer.
Yours is the third one on the left."
I hung up the phone and told my two girlfriends, who were helping me move,
about the place.
"Oh, I know where that is," said Laura Bagley, a bartender and
UAF student. "I don't know if you want to live there, though. It's
pretty nasty."
I didn't care. In fact, I found it hilarious. When you're starting all
over
with nothing, you might as well start in a dump. I was moving to Goldstream
Valley's only known trailer park, consisting of seven trailers lined on
a side street. I would be living without running water, which is a common
sight in Fairbanks, where 10 percent of homes are without any plumbing.
"I'm moving to the ghetto!" I whined to my friend John Harding,
another Fairbanks cabin dweller.
"What part of Goldstream isn't the ghetto?" he replied.
John did have a point. Goldstream is home to many cabins built in the
1960s to 1970s, and most are showing their age. It's common to find a
few broken- down cars in yards, and the howls of dog teams echo at any
point during the night during their feeding time--or whenever a moose
wanders by.
Most of these cabins are “dry” cabins, and do not have running
water, which means you haul your own water in 5-gallon jugs, and the toilet
is an outhouse somewhere in the back yard. “Wet” cabins have
a gray water system where water is kept in a holding tank and emptied
outside after it has been used for dishes or bathing.
During the move the next day, my friends who were helping me pulled me
aside.
"Stephanie, you don't have to live here. Just wait a few days; you
can stay
at my place. There's gotta be a log cabin you can rent somewhere,"
they told me in concerned tones.
 My new home
was a single-wide trailer with an addition, meaning another room had been
scantily added with whatever scraps of plywood were lying around. The
landlords had put in new flooring in the kitchen area, a space that could
only occupy one person at a time. Dusty spider webs hung from the ceiling
that was only five or so inches above my head. Pink shag carpet covered
the floor in the back bedroom, where the upper half of the walls was decorated
with pasted-on contact paper. The entire exterior of the trailer was insulated
with spray-on foam, covering some windows. Old appliances, mostly old
propane stoves, were lined up on one side of my home outside.
"I never thought I'd be a slumlord," said my new landlord, after
apologizing
about the run-down state of my place.
I soon found many of the electrical outlets not working, and then I noticed
a
large black cord, originating at my electrical pole outside and snaking
around the walls to different outlets and fixtures. The cord had been
mended using only electrical tape at one point, in an area that had water
damage. With my Dad being an electrician, I knew enough that this couldn't
be good.
Standing in my kitchen surveying my situation, my dog sitting next to
me with his head resting on the counter, I let out a chuckle.
Then I drove a few blocks down the road to the bar.
There are no streetlights in the Goldstream Valley. Driving at night can
be a
little tricky, since moose often cross the road, not paying any attention
to
headlights racing their way.
Ivory Jack’s Bar and Grill, along with the Goldstream General Store
and Soapy's Laundromat are somewhat of an oasis amidst dark roads lined
with withering black spruce trees.
Bellying up to the bar and ordering a Guinness, I found myself sitting
next to my friend named Buck, and it just so happened to be his 43rd birthday.
A few shots of whiskey later, I told him about my new situation.
"So you're the newest Valley Girl!" he exclaimed.
"Like, oh my god!" I said in my best Valley Girl voice.
A few guys and I toasted to it, while the local bluegrass band started
another set. I spent the night swing dancing and falling in love with
my new home and the community it held.
I also found myself attending sauna parties, where everyone sheds their
winter clothing and celebrates the warmth of fire, sitting tightly together
in little log huts, sweating out the dirt accumulating on our skin. This
did take some getting used to, and I was the only person in the sauna
with shaved legs. After sitting in a sauna at 110 degrees and then going
outside, standing in the snow and gazing up at the northern lights, my
body steaming, I couldn't help but grin. The feeling is so pure, it's
hard to describe, but I have never felt cleaner.
On Sundays, a group of us gathers at Ivory Jack's for breakfast, which
is
served from 11:00 to 4:00, in a ritual we call going to church. The special
is eggs Benedict, and the bloody Marys are slightly wonderful. We usually
sit around for a couple of hours, reading the paper and drinking coffee.
"I'm not going in to town today," one of us will often say with
a sigh.
My Mom paid me a visit for Thanksgiving, flying in from London.
"It's really cute with all your stuff in it," she said of the
trailer, but she
pressured me about buying a smoke alarm.
She was a good sport about living with the dog and me, even though I had
to drive her into town every day so she could shower.
"Mom, nobody showers every day," I told her.
"I'm wearing the same jeans from yesterday," she said in her
defense.
Residents of Goldstream Valley will embrace anyone, and Mom soon found
herself dancing the night away and being invited out back with the band
for a smoke break. She returned giggling, "I just took a break with
the band!" she whispered.
Although it was a mild winter, with temperatures dropping to only 30 below
zero, my little trailer started to lose its charm. Frost started to build
on
the windows, and my electric heaters were on in every room, along with
my
gas-burning heater going. The cheap rent was suddenly not so cheap if
you
included the electric bill.
Towards the middle of January, the sun started to warm my place during
the
day, and my mood started to lighten.
"There's that one time of year that makes living out here worth it,"
says Dina Boles, an engineer and University of Alaska alumnus. "It's
that one winter morning when the sun is just starting to rise as you drive
to work. I love driving over the top of Ballaine Road, and you can see
those mountains in the distance and the snow is sparkling on the trees.
It just makes it worth it."
As I write this, I'm sitting in a different "dry" cabin about
a mile away, where I have been living for the last two months with my
dog, my new boyfriend and a puppy. It's now coming to the end of April,
and the snow is finally melting, revealing a yard that needs a lot of
work. The sun is starting to bring warmth, and a couple of friends and
I sit out in lawn chairs, wearing shorts and sandals with smiling people
driving by and giving us a thumbs up.
My outhouse is starting to fill with water, and flies are becoming unwelcome
guests. My driveway is a mud pit, and my floors are dirty from the dogs
and people tracking it in. At least there aren't mosquitoes--yet.
Soon it'll be summer, the greatest time of year in Fairbanks. The sun
never
sets and people emerge from their cabins, cooking food on barbeques and
spending their days in gardens or sitting on a sunny porch of a friend's
house, drinking a beer and listening to music.
I can say with confidence that Goldstream is the best place to live in
Fairbanks. I have never lived anywhere like it. People wave while passing
on roads and give each other sincere, warm hugs whenever they meet at
the general store. Never have I understood more fully what the word community
means, and I don't think I'll ever be able to find a better one.
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