LIFE IN ALASKA NOT SO FAR REMOVED FROM VALLEY.

Byline: Jill Widdicombe

MY big sister is coming to visit. She lives in Fullerton, and this will be her first trip to Alaska.

All week we've been phoning each other, discussing flight numbers and arrival times, speculating on changes in the weather up here and what she should pack.

October/early November is dicey in Anchorage. With October usually comes our first snowfall, but we're never certain exactly when that snow will appear, and whether it will merely be a short-lived preview of coming attractions or the first real storm of the winter season requiring snowplows and insulated boots.

This year, early October was windy and cold with daytime temperatures in the 30s and 40s, but the only ``precippy'' we had was rain.

Today, however, it began snowing at 7. By 9 a.m. the flakes were falling thick and steady with no sign of a letup, so I left a message on my sister's answering machine: ``Bring your parka - it's SNOWING.''

I know she'll be thrilled. Even though she has lived and worked in the winter snowstorms of Washington, D.C., and Virginia, snow - especially Alaskan snow - still holds an exotic appeal for her, just as it does for my little sister and brother in Simi Valley and for my mother in West Hills.

My husband and I, on the other hand, are 6-year veterans of Anchorage winters - practically old-timers by Alaskan standards.

We have, we sometimes believe, seen it all.

So at noon as I watched the snow piling up on our newly planted lawn, freshly laid paths, and carefully tended wild roses, I didn't reflect upon the pristine beauty of the wintry landscape. Instead I thought, ``Damn. Now my sister won't have any idea how great our back yard looks.''

But my nonchalance didn't last very long. It never does. I have, after all, spent most of my life under the warm, snowless skies of the San Fernando Valley: first in Northridge, then in Canoga Park.

So I'm still amazed every time I see - can actually see - the six intricate and fragile points of a real snowflake. And I'm startled whenever I spot a moose and her calves browsing on the birch and alder leaves beyond our back fence.

Each year at this time, I have to remind myself that soon, the sun will set at 3 p.m. and won't rise again until 10 the following morning. And each January when I step outside for a walk, bundled over the eyebrows and up to the chin in fleece and goose down, I'm still impressed by the bitter, dangerous cold of minus-5 degrees.

All the same, it annoys me a little when people say that Alaska is the back of beyond. Especially since our remoteness is frequently used as an excuse for undelivered goods or faulty service. A customer service representative in Iowa once informed me that a replacement part for our washing machine hadn't yet arrived because Alaska's ``pretty remote.''

And several holiday catalogs offer luscious displays of Christmas goodies along with the warning that perishable items are available only in the contiguous 48 states.

My response is: ``Hey, this isn't the North Pole.'' More freight passes through Anchorage International than through any other airport in the world. Plus we've got grocery stores that sell fresh produce year-round.

We've got flavored lattes and a Barnes & Noble. We've got those little virtual pets-on-a-chain, a nine-screen movie theater, five malls, a symphony orchestra, and a Nordstrom.

We even have smog. We're not so remote.

It's 2:45 p.m. and the snow is still falling. I'm beginning to get worried. Our little car has studded snow tires, but it doesn't have four-wheel drive. My husband and I were hoping to go see a movie this afternoon, but the snow on the hill beyond our driveway looks pretty deep - someone in a car the size of ours just tried to drive up the hill, got halfway up, and then slid ever-so-slowly back down.

Any travel today is out of the question. But what about tomorrow? We need to buy groceries before my sister arrives. We have to pick her up at the airport. Will we be able to do any of that with our car in this weather?

Of course we will. Overnight, while we're tucked warmly in bed, the city snowplows will clear the main roads and neighborhood streets.

By morning, all we'll have to do is shovel our front stairs and use that incredible-looking, prehistoric monster of a machine known as a snow blower to clear our driveway.

Then we'll go out on the city streets, past strip malls, fast-food chains, and the splendid Chugach Mountains to our local grocery store where we'll pick up everything we need.

After that, we'll pick up my sister and show her Alaska: the crassness and beauty, the blandness and majesty that make this state a continuous puzzle for me.

It's not like anywhere else, although it's very much like the place where I grew up.