A winter storm arrived in Seattle early this morning, and it's expected to deposit more snow than we've seen for many years. When I awoke at 6 am, I saw only a light dusting, but by 7 am, about an inch had accumulated and the snow had begun to fall faster. I listened hopefully to the radio to find out whether the University would be closed today, but it has stalwartly insisted on remaining open. So I dressed in my warmest winter gear, wrapped my laptop carefully in a plastic bookbag, and tromped down to the bus stop.

By the time the bus dropped me at the bottom of the hill below campus, there were about three inches of snow on the ground, with more still falling fast, and the line of students working their way up the steep hill to campus reminded me of old photos of the Klondike gold rush.

Because I grew up in Alaska, today's snowy commute reminded me of my experiences making my way first to school in Anchorage and later to college in Fairbanks. My brothers and I used to walk to elementary school together, making our way through the neighborhood and along a trail up over a wooded ridge, then down the other side and through another neighborhood to our school. Mom and Dad had trained us in what to do if we encountered a moose--above all, avoid getting too close--so we kept a sharp eye out.

Later, I took a bus to high school from our new house up on the wooded foothill above Anchorage. I had to walk a half mile or so to the bus stop, still watching for moose. By then, I'd adopted the standard Anchorage teenager's dress code. On the coldest mornings, Mom would entreat me to dress more warmly: she hoped that I'd at least wear tights under my miniskirt ("You could take them off at school and leave them in your locker, dear..."). That idea was utterly horrifying to me, so, each day, I crunched along the snowy trail to the bus stop in my own choice of dress: usually street shoes, nylon stockings, and a miniskirt, topped by a down parka. At the bus stop, I waited alone in the early morning darkness, listening to the squeaky tread of moose grazing in the willow thicket behind me.

At the University of Alaska in Fairbanks, in Alaska's cold interior, far from the moderating influence of Cook Inlet, I encountered temperatures as low as -60 and -70 degrees F. Fortunately, the college student's dress code didn't include miniskirts: both women and men wore jeans, wool shirts or sweaters, and leather, rubber-bottomed boots. We could be told apart because men wore beards.

At UAF, I lived in a dorm on a hill above the main campus, and walked or skied to my classes and labs. As a biology student, I usually attended labs in a cluster of big institute buildings located about a mile from the main campus, because that's where the nearest sizable patch of permafrost-free ground exists. In midwinter, I arrived to classes and labs about 10 minutes early on winter days to leave myself enough time to lean my skiis on the back wall and to take off the three or four layers of winter clothing I'd needed to avoid frostbite. Eventually, spring would come, and the sun on the trunks of the alders along my route would strengthen enough to start the sap running again. The smell of that sap, after months of winter, was enough to make a person drunk...

While my Alaskan experiences may sound rugged (unless you're from Montana or Siberia), life is more rugged elsewhere. Inside the student union, I overheard a conversation between a new student from the Phillipines and one of her professors. She had called home the previous night to tell her family that a storm was on its way. She explained to the professor that to the people of the Phillipines, a storm is a fearsome event: elemental, powerful, and destructive. She had expected something along the same lines, and now was feeling greatly relieved to see nothing more frightening than a peaceful snowfall.