Surrounded by serenity in frozen Fairbanks, Alaska

But here, in the absence of electronics, a good cellphone signal and anything important to do, I loosened my grip on my schedule. I stretched, read my book in a hug of an easy chair, and tromped up another mountain on snowshoes, stopping to contemplate the slanting light and the evidence of moose and fox.

In late March, Alaska is slowly emerging from the dark dormancy of winter. The sun already lingers until 9 o’clock, and twilight stretches for hours. It felt almost as if time were lengthening, dissolving the sense of urgency that perpetually nags at me.

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I began to realize the power of quiet, and how sometimes the best way to truly understand a place isn’t to go and do but rather to sit and be. In the quietest moments of that day — as when I stopped to feel the prick of the wind on my face only for it to abate in a brief, perfect moment of stillness — I began to understand, in my bones, the north, with its spectacular extremes, wildness and long, sinuous light, all of which chases some people away and forever seduces others.

An enduring mystery

A couple of days later, I drove to Chena Hot Springs. Sixty miles northeast of Fairbanks, it was originally discovered by gold miners in the early 20th century. Now, there’s a small, casual resort with guest rooms, dog-mushing tours and ski rentals. But the place remains a pilgrimage site for locals in winter. After cross-country skiing up a frozen riverbed, I changed into my swimsuit and slid into the mineral pool, ensconced by boulders. Closing my eyes, I let the sun warm my face and the steam soften my hair.

There was almost no one there except an elderly Alaska Native couple, who said that they made the schlep every year from their home near Anchorage. As they leaned back against a rock, I watched the calm wash over their faces, as if the water had the power to rinse away the stiffness of winter. I let my back soften and my arms float, watching the spruce and birch trees for stirring wildlife.

I was flying out of Alaska later that night, and sitting in the pool, I reflected on my trip. I realized that I never had gotten to see the northern lights, which reportedly travel through the sky like phantoms on clear nights.

In a way, I was glad, not only because it meant that I had a reason to come back. It also seemed fitting that this place, a mind-bending mix of big landscapes and delicate beauty, would retain a shred of mystery.

Siber is a freelance writer based in Durango, Colo.

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