Sleeping Through Storms

Winter 2024-25, FORUM Magazine

IT WAS an unusual day.

Outside my trailer the wind howled, barely pausing to catch its breath. The sideways snow quickly accumulated in the corners of my window sill. It was a complete white-out. I could barely make out a faint outline of my neighbor’s house 30 yards away.

I was going through my morning routine, as slowly as possible.

Part of that routine is listening to the same morning news podcast. Today, Tuesday, Middle Eastern journalists discussed what they called “the bloodiest day” of a generation. In the background, subtle sounds of a warzone creeped into the recording underneath the reporter - faint air raid sirens, blasts, and then most horrifying, silence. In my mother’s home country of Lebanon, the New York Times reported that Israeli strikes killed 80 people over the weekend.

Five thousand miles away, here in Kotzebue, the storm wasn't letting up - so I suited up for my one-mile commute to the radio station where I work. For most of my route, I walked backward to avoid the wind and snow hitting my face. Visibility remained low. Three cars passed by me, slowly, craning their necks to stare, so they could see the foolish person that decided to venture out into the weather. I snarl and squint at them because I am miserable and also not wearing my glasses.

Climatologists and most people who live in the Arctic know that the storms we experience are becoming more intense. According to climate data, since 2017 the Northwest Arctic has seen significantly above-normal precipitation, every year except one. Last year was the wettest in seven decades.

In my two years of reporting in the community, Kotzebue experienced four disaster declarations and one commercial fishery crash. Two of those events were directly related to extreme weather.

Scientists often refer to change in the Arctic as a positive feedback loop. Warming temperatures melt sea ice, then less ice means more heat goes directly into the soil or ocean instead of reflected into the atmosphere. The warming speeds up, permafrost begins to thaw at a faster rate. The snowier winters insulate the soil. Beavers, blue-green algae, and more shrubs and trees creep north, complicating things. Numbers for the Western Arctic Caribou Herd are still at a two-decade low.

I enjoy understanding these changes through a quantifiable, scientific lens.

However - despite journalistic rationalism - I have always viewed weather events, especially extreme ones, as originating from more mysterious, mystical sources. Storms often mirror a profound loss or tragedy. Sudden or unexpected storms have accompanied the deaths of several close friends or family members. Storms can feel like teachers who don’t immediately reveal their lessons.

—

My first memory is of a storm – a hurricane, actually. I was five years old and my grandmother and I were alone in her old, timber-framed house in rural Virginia. The house was on top of a mountain and caught every cloud and storm that drifted by. This storm would prove the most severe.

My grandmother grew up in Appalachia and had many folk remedies – most of which did not make logical sense, yet mysteriously worked. She told me if we wanted to survive the upcoming storm, we needed to be asleep as it passed over us.

It was my first time laying on her bed, which was giant for a child. As we lay side-by-side, the house shook violently, some windows shattered and the forces of the storm tested the house’s beams and joints. The crashing boom of wind was the loudest I had experienced in my short life. It scared me, so I held my grandmother tighter. I imagined dying with her which felt better than either one of us being alone if something happened to the other. I eventually fell asleep. I woke up relieved that her Appalachian trick worked and we had both survived.

Her house did not fare as well. After the storm, there were broken windows in nearly every room, a partial roof, flooding, warped flooring, and damage not directly apparent or understood by a five-year-old. The room we slept in was untouched. 

—-

Most people in Kotzebue knew this storm was coming. The National Weather Service had issued warnings several days in advance. But by the time I arrived at the radio station where I work, the wind had died down. Snow and clouds cleared completely to reveal a beaming sun.

I buried myself in news stories, in my dark, cave-like office with its one non-functional window, inexplicably 10 feet higher than any human can reach without using a ladder.

At about 2 p.m. the Northwest Arctic Borough mayor rushed into my office, unannounced. He had pictures I needed to see on his cellphone. This was a first - and I was slightly nervous about what he wanted to show me.

His photos were of a house surrounded by several feet of water. Another showed people using a sled like a raft.

“This is in Kotzebue?” I asked although I knew the answer.

The Iñupiaq name for Kotzebue is Qikiqtaġruk, which means something like “almost an island.” In just a couple hours the water had steadily risen, filling in the low-lying areas around the town’s edges. Qikiqtaġruk was fulfilling its name.

I asked the mayor if he could comment on the flooding, which was his cue to leave.

“I have to find more information, talk to folks and I’ll get back to you,” he said. He never did.

As a reporter, my job in an emergency is to abandon every other irrelevant task and hyperfocus on conveying accurate and timely information to my community. This can consist of phone calls, web searches, writing, working with an editor, tweaking and updating the stories, and several technical tasks that are less exciting and too numerous to mention. The process can involve three to six cups of coffee or tea and pacing the floor as I fixate on a word or sentence. I estimate walking miles pacing back and forth in the station’s tiny hallway.

Emergency or breaking news stories are not as challenging for me. There's less nuance, and more concrete information conveyed quickly. Most of the time, officials recognize the immediacy of the situation. They are easy to track down and don't have enough time to think of an excuse to not talk to me.

I begin typing. I have three hours to finish my story. But deadlines, like rising water, can creep up fast.

‘The airport is now closed because of ice which complicates the flood response… water levels are 3-4 feet above the normal high tide line … up to 55 mile an hour winds … the storm is expected to continue until tomorrow morning … flooding is occurring in the north, south and east areas of town, near the lagoon and dock… the water has washed out several graves in a neighboring village…’

My thoughts are interrupted by a co-worker yelling at me from another room.

“The city just called,” he said. “They are asking residents to shelter at the high school. The police are helping folks evacuate.”

“Great, I’ll add it to my story,” I said, a little too enthusiastically. “Wait, how are you getting home? Are the cabs still running?”

I have two sudden realizations.

Both my coworker and I - while focused on broadcasting emergency information - could also be affected by the flooding. I live on the north side of town, near the city’s technical center which had already been evacuated, with crews shutting off the building’s power.

I have no idea if my trailer is flooded or how high the water has risen. I fantasized about spending the night at the evacuation shelter, mostly out of journalistic curiosity, because I knew I would be able to talk to the people most affected by the flooding. It could be a great story.

“Don’t worry about me, I live a few blocks away,” my coworker said. “It's some of the highest ground in Kotzebue.”

The sky is completely dark again, despite being several hours before sunset.

Just above my cave-like office, the wind rocks our radio tower side to side, unsettlingly. A wind storm uprooted one of our station’s previous towers from its concrete foundation. While the station engineer assured me that this tower had more reinforcement, I was still skeptical. I decided it was time to go home.

My coworker and I share a cab, which is nearly full. The crammed ride is jarring. The driver slowed to a crawl detouring the flooded streets and maneuvering cautiously before suddenly shifting gears and gunning it to try and plow through feet of water.

Red lights flickered from side streets lying on their side as ambulances and other emergency vehicles helped residents evacuate. The red lights and dark sky created a surreal ambiance. Around town, we saw just how high the water had risen. Certain streets were now unrecognizable, others didn’t exist at all, and nearly all of them were now rivers.

The first passenger to exit the cab was an Elder. He exited the car carrying large, heavy-looking grocery bags in each hand, before turning back with a defeated look. The water was too high for him to safely access his home. He returned to the cab and requested to be dropped off at the school where people had begun sheltering.

Another passenger ranted about the new snowmachine he bought for the winter, now most-likely ruined by several feet of standing water.

When the driver drops me off, there's only about a foot of water around my house, no major damage. A block away, however, the water is knee-deep.

According to the weather alerts, severe winds and flooding are still expected until tomorrow morning, so the storm might not have peaked. I know I will have to wake up as early as possible to report on the flood tomorrow. Several agencies encouraged residents to have backpacks ready in case of an evacuation or power outage.

Except for the wind, by 9 pm, Kotzebue was eerily silent. Everyone had settled in for the night, sheltering in place. I, like the majority of the town, was unable to sleep that night. Ignoring my grandmother’s folk wisdom, I stayed up and waited until the sun rose and the wind died down.

The vibrating hum of my phone woke me up from an intense, yet instantly forgotten dream. My bones ached because I had passed out on my couch in the most contorted way imaginable, on top of a notebook, a stack of homework from a college class I was failing, my laptop, a bulky sweater, and — inexplicably — an empty mason jar.

In a fog, I fumbled to reach the phone’s light. 8:45 am, I overslept.

The message was from my close friend Alex. They had just gotten back from a remote spot on the Yukon River, studying salmon that were no longer there, at now-vacant fish camps. They had heard me on the morning news, talking about the flooding, and wanted to check-in.

I ignored their message, threw the sweater I used for a makeshift/impromptu pillow and looked outside. The flooding had turned into sheet-ice and my only ice cleat snapped last week.

I called into a flood emergency response meeting, taking notes and writing my next story while I slowly walked to work, occasionally slipping.

I wrote:

“Representatives from an emergency response team say at least one home has collapsed into Kotzebue Sound because of the flooding. City officials say with winter quickly approaching, multiple homes may also be too damaged to live in.”

Reciting it the words were stuck in my throat, and I began crying at the enormity of the collective situation, at my personal situation, because I was tired and forgot to eat, because I didn't have ice cleats. Still, I have to report the news.

After I recorded the story, in the most professional, public radio voice I could muster, I collapsed into my desk and cried more. This time it was triggered by a more existential thought that more storms were coming and my own voice could do little to change it. This could be just the beginning. ■

Desiree Hagen is a journalist living and working in Kotzebue. She gains inspiration from the potency, resilience, strength of Arctic plants, animals and residents. She hopes her work mirrors it. Desiree is a 2024 FORUM Writing Fellow.