Eric Smith

A regular feature for “A Fan’s Notes” in which I pull something—a quote, photo, article link, great song, whatever—out of my notebook and share in a quick-hitting take rather than my normal deep dive.

Scroll below for past issues, which appear originally in my email newsletter. You can navigate to the bottom of this page or click here to subscribe.

In addition to the four summers I spent in Alaska, I lived full-time in Anchorage for seven years, including that many winters in the coldest state in the U.S.—even though the city we called home was milder than those at more northern latitudes.

My first winter in the Last Frontier, however, was brutally cold. I even wrote an essay on surviving that inaugural season for a wilderness writing course at the University of Alaska-Anchorage. The story’s title was “A Cheechako No More.” Alaskans will understand.

At one point, it was so frigid that my car froze. I don’t mean the car got “really cold”—I mean, it froze. Solid. The door barely opened, and the key wouldn’t go in the ignition because it had frozen into an icy block of impenetrable metal.

I knew something like this could happen because my wife, Sandy, who grew up in Alaska, had experienced similar woes in years past. One time, her car’s accelerator got stuck due to the cold, and she spun out into a ditch. Alaska winters don’t fuck around, I quickly learned.

I began this latest installment of my Notebook with these anecdotes for two reasons: 1) it’s unbelievably warm in Colorado, and I actually miss those bitterly cold days from 25 years ago; and 2) I’m reminded of the importance of the Winter Solstice, which officially occurs tomorrow, Dec. 21, around 8 am MT.

Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year, is a sacred time in the Northern Hemisphere, especially in locales like Alaska, because it marks the start of longer days. I’m reminded of the Shelley line: If winter comes, can spring be far behind?

Back when we lived in Alaska, I recall the joy of realizing the darkest days of the season were behind us, and we’d begin to see more and more of the sun. It was a time to celebrate—a pagan, ancient celebration—and celebrate we did.

Solstice doesn’t hold the same sway over the “Lower 48,” but in this house, we still honor its significance. It’s truly the “reason for the season” due to axial tilt and a shift in how the Earth faces the sun.

So, to all of you looking for brighter days: They’re coming. And to those of you still waiting for cold weather to hit places like Colorado: It’s finally, officially, winter, and hopefully the colder temps will make it our way soon.

I’m sure ready for it. Even if it means a frozen car.

For the past week, I’ve been scouring my computer folders and several boxes of memories and mementos in search of one elusive photo.

It’s a picture of my friend Jason LaFerny and me at our joint 13th birthday party—the very party I wrote about in my latest blog.

In the photo, Jason and I are standing behind a table covered with presents and cake. We’re smiling as friends gather round to watch us open our gifts, and I’m certain we both look incredibly dorky, me probably more than Jason.

The picture—taken moments before the entire party moved to the living room to watch the debut of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video—was going to be the perfect complement to my blog as photographic evidence of the night in question. But I never found it, and neither did Jason.

Oh well, such is life sometimes. I did find another photo of one of our later shared birthday celebrations, which is the focal point of today’s Notebook.

This one was taken during our 14th or 15th birthday at Benihana in Memphis. That’s Jason on the left with his parents, Bill and Georgia, and me with my parents, Phil and Kitty. Somebody thought to decorate the Polaroid with a birthday cake sticker.

That night doesn’t have a funny backstory like our 13th celebration, as I documented in my blog, but it’s memorable nonetheless, because today, Dec. 3, is our birthday.

I know we’re both wishing our parents were still around to celebrate with us. And I know we’ll both keep searching for that damn photo.

On Saturday, Sandy and I attended the 2025 Warren Miller ski film in Boulder, an annual tradition I wrote about last year for “A Fan’s Notes.”

That blog, “All Signs Point to Ski Season,” was an homage to ski films from companies like Warren Miller and Teton Gravity Research (TGR), which premiere these films across the U.S. to build excitement for the upcoming season.

This year’s Warren Miller film, “Sno-Ciety,” was superb, as was TGR’s “Pressure Drop.” Attendees at both shows seemed sufficiently stoked—aided, of course, by beer, free swag, and being around other ski fanatics.

Unfortunately, there was an uneasiness at these showings—at least, there was for this fan.

When we’ve attended ski film premieres in the past, it’s been cold outside, sometimes even snowing. This year, however, the temperatures were well above normal, as they have been all fall.

The Colorado Front Range is experiencing one of the warmest autumns and longest snow droughts in years, and it’s depressing the hell out of me. It doesn’t help that my new skis just arrived.

Yes, some resorts are open, but it’s mainly manmade snow, and terrain is limited. The real stuff has been elusive (though I heard a few freshies fell overnight). It got me thinking: Have we done enough to appease Ullr, the Norse god of snow?

ICYMI, I wrote about Ullr in that blog about ski season traditions, including how diehard winter sports enthusiasts often pay tribute to Ullr throughout the fall at season kickoff parties:

“At massive, raucous events, like the inimitable Ullr Fest in Breckenridge, Colo., superstitious skiers and snowboarders toss old skis and gear into a gargantuan bonfire as a sacrifice. True believers think these offerings will yield a powder-filled winter.”

Perhaps we as a community haven’t sacrificed enough. So, I implore all of us who love winter sports to pray for snow and make a sacrifice, however small, to honor Ullr. If so, hopefully my next Notebook will be a celebration of our answered prayers and sacrifices—and a proper kickoff to ski season.

“We close our eyes and go spinning back to those old haunted falls,
the happy-sad bittersweet drunk Octobers.” –Walker Percy

Today’s Notebook looks at my favorite season, autumn, through the eyes of Southern novelist Walker Percy. I chose the above quote as the focal point for several reasons.

One, I’m on a Percy kick after revisiting some of his works while researching my newest blog (linked here).

Two, this quote is timely because it’s from his 1971 novel “Love in the Ruins,” which depicts the U.S. as an apocalyptic hellscape—something this country seems to be flirting with at the moment, based on the current political turmoil.

Three, and perhaps most importantly, this passage offers a perfect and poignant description of how I view autumn.

As someone who fondly reminisces about those old haunted falls and who finds October both happy and sad—and, yes, a month filled with both celebratory and sorrowful drinking—I wanted to honor this most melancholy of seasons.

My original plan was to write a full-length blog about why I love fall. I spent a few weeks working on a lengthy tribute to the hallmarks of autumn: changing colors, dropping temperatures, football season being in full swing, baseball playoffs well underway, ski slopes opening soon, and more.

I filled my notebook with books, movies, quotes, and poems about a season that’s at once sad and sublime, but the story never came together like I hoped. Such is life sometimes. When I gave up on it, I narrowed my focus to the one nugget that stood out during my note-taking and turned it into this latest Notebook item.

That’s because the line from Percy’s book captures the spirit of the season as vividly and pithily as anything else out there. It’s simultaneously uplifting and depressing. Bittersweet. Much like autumn.

Today’s edition of Notebook uncovers the backstory of this new feature, which I didn’t fully explain in my previous email.

When I was a sports reporter for the Anchorage Daily News, several editors and colleagues, including my friends Matt Nevala and Van Williams, introduced me to an easy story idea commonplace at most daily newspapers: the so-called Reporter’s Notebook. This format is named for the literal “reporter’s notebook” (see photo) that journalists use to take notes in the field.

The general idea for this article is that a reporter empties their notebook of leftover quotes, facts, tidbits, and stats that didn’t make it into a story for some reason or another. Perhaps there wasn’t room for additional context. Or a quote didn’t quite fit the story’s thesis. Or deadline arrived and you had no time to type in one more supporting stat because a copy editor was yelling at you to file the final version.

Those extra items sitting in your notebook might not warrant a standalone article, but they were important enough to jot down. And, when stitched together as nuggets relevant to your beat, they provided an informative and breezy read. All you had to do was organize your notes, add an intro, and voila, you had another byline to your credit.

Watch this space for future Notebook items that may not become full-fledged blogs but which I still find interesting and noteworthy—much like today’s fun fact about newspaper reporting.

I’m introducing a new feature for my occasional newsletter called “Notebook,” a brief look at things I’m a fan of that didn’t make it into a blog (or haven’t yet) but are worth mentioning.

“Notebook” will include links to articles I find fascinating, songs I’m listening to, shows I recommend, extra info from recent posts, and more.

The first installment is a tribute to my uncle, Rick Smith, who died last month in Tucson. Here is his obituary. To the left is the photo that ran with his obit from his National Park Service days, and a picture of him teaching me to ski at Sandia Peak in Albuquerque, N.M., in 1992.

Every time I step into my skis to make turns, I thank him for passing a love of skiing down to me. He was simply a great man, and I miss him.

RIP Uncle Rick, 1938-2025

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