Strange Sounds Are Heard Under the Midnight Gloom

Smoke from a forest fire 150 miles distant drifts over the alder
choked trail ahead sealing us into a surreal tunnel meandering
through the darkening twilight. It is the latter half of the "magic
hour", when daylight quickly fades to darkness and creatures of the
dark emerge to hunt creatures of the light. My son, Jeremiah, my old
golden retriever, Scrub, and I are returning from a late summer
evening of fishing for Arctic Grayling along the Chena River. The
fishing was slow. Only a few small fish were still hungry after
feasting on the boundless supply of eggs delivered to them by
spawning salmon over the past few weeks. Scrub is quite content with
the evenings activities. He wears the aromatic remains of decaying
salmon corpse rubbed well into his fur coat. However, neither Scrub's
stench nor the uncooperative Grayling can sour the pleasant evening
spent alongside my son in the clear swirling waters of the Chena.

Suddenly Jeremiah stops. "What the hell....do you see that?"

I squint into the smoky shadows. At first I see nothing but then
a pair of eyes flash in the moment before melting back into the murk.
"Are you still seeing it?" I whisper knowing quite well
that Jeremiah's younger eyes are much more acute in this dusky
light than my own.

"Ya...they're still there...three of them, whatever they are.
They're looking right at us....Ah, there they go! One ran off to the
right and the other to the left. They're foxes...I think..."

My eyes strain against the white twinged darkness but only
imagine ghost fleeing through the brush. I am relieved
but also a bit disappointed to hear "foxes" instead of "wolves" or
worse yet, "bears". Wolves don't usually pack up and come this close
to town until much later in winter when cold hunger drives them into
backyards to eat sled-dogs right off their chains. I almost expected
to hear "Bear". This is perfect bear country; dense tangles of alder;
small clearings bordered by raspberries hiding clumps of fat
blueberries; a near-by river stinking of spawned out salmon. It is a
virtual bruin smorgasbord. Earlier this summer Jeremiah and I came
across a grizzly killed moose on this trail. Tonight my hip feels
uncomfortably light, missing the bulk of the Swiss & Wesson 44 mag.
that usually rides on it when I find myself in this kind of country.
Was it middle-aged forgetfulness or just carelessness that left it at
home? (or was it middle-age apathy)

We edge our way forward the 50 yards to where the flickering eyes
had departed the trail. To the right the alders break and give way
to a large hay field. We pause to scan the openness for any fleeing
creatures. "There he is! Ya, I am almost sure its a fox...I see his
tail...He is really hauling ass!" My eyes scour through the waving
grasses but make out nothing but shadows. Are my eyes really
growing this dim with age? Maybe Jeremiah is just pulling his old
man's leg....Somehow I know this isn't the case.

We stand in the silence. No birds chirp, no owls hoot. The night
settles upon us silently like smoke settling in a valley or
snow settling over autumn. It feels good to be here, here with my son
and dog and with what ever creatures now run from us. The darkness
seems a long lost companion. It has been several months
since we last stood in its presence but soon it will become an almost
constant companion, a companion with icy fingertips.

"CRaoEEEEE!.......CRaoooEEEE!"

The screech shreds all strands or our contemplation. Jeremiah and
I look at each other and see in each other's eyes the same question.
"WHAT AND THE HELL IS THAT!" The sound is coming from where the field
merges back into forest about 50 yards to our side.

"CRaoEEEEE!.......CRaoooEEEE!" The sound rips through the silence
again like claws slicing canvas. I feel all my hairs stand on end and
I know the hairs of my companions are doing likewise. The sound is
resonating in the air like the sound a baby makes after striking its
head; first the impossibly long inhale which is not really heard
but rather is sensed from the void of silence; then the demanding
anguished wail that follows. Initially we think perhaps a little kid
is being tortured in the surrounding darkness but this notion is quickly
dismissed by the more logical areas of our minds. Besides, the
screeching ends with a note of threat and warning instead of
pleading. It yells of lost souls and unavenged evils. It smells of
terror and blood.

The screeching repeats itself several times over the next few
minutes but even Jeremiah's agile eyes are unable to locate its
source or identify its maker. Silence again settles over the forest
and Jeremiah, Scrub and I contiue homeward. I wish I could end this
Blog entry with a grand climax or at least a definitive answer to what we
heard last night but I can't. I have heard many creatures of the
night, wolf, coyotes, foxes and owls but I can tell you I never have
heard anything as eerie as the sound that split the silence last
night. I hope such a sound never invades my life or my
nightmares again.

Romance Foiled!...or was it?

Twenty-five years! Twenty-five years of love, arguments, happiness
and sorrow. Twenty-five years of adventure, boredom, romance and
kids. Twenty-Five winters...twenty-five summers! We've been married
for over half my lifetime but still I can not come up with a romantic
idea of how to celebrate this anniversary. Perhaps we have grown too
old, too eroded by by the swift currents of every day life. Perhaps
the endless dinners cooked, bags of garbage hauled to the curb, lawns
mowed, leaking pipes fixed, and arguments fought have finally killed
my ability to feel the fire of romance with this woman I call my
wife. Perhaps we have just grown too comfortable, too familiar. I
have toyed with various ideas, a weekend get-away to the famous
bush-pilot, Don Sheldon's "Mountain House", perched on a precipice
near Mt. McKinley. Perhaps a less expensive weekend trip to the Mc
Claren River Lodge. These and other ideas failed to pan out for
various reasons. They all seem kind of contrived anyway. These
thoughts echo in my mind as I finish this day... just another day at
the office...just a day twenty-five years after that hot afternoon
in Chicago's St. Al's Cathedral where I uttered those two words, "I
do" and changed my life forever.

Inspiration strikes!

I am walking across the parking lot towards my
truck when the idea jolts my brain.I jump in my truck and rush for home. The trip is only about 7 miles
and traffic is light but it seems as if every traffic light along the
way is joined in conspiracy against me. I arrive at home and run up
the steps into the house. Rachel, my eldest daughter is sitting on
the couch surfing the net on her laptop. My sudden arrival startles
her. She peeks over the screen acknowledging my presence and greets
me with her usual greeting, "What's for dinner".

"I'm having dinner with your mom tonight...you're fending for
yourself." I mutter as I head over towards the desk-top computer.

" You know that mom has her final exam in Sign Language tonight until 9 O'clock?"

"Yaa...I know...that is all part of my plan" I reply as I sit down at the computer and frantically begin typing.

The mystery is too much. Rachel puts down her lap-top and walks over
to where I sit. "What are you planning NOW Dad?"

" Well first I am going to finish writing this love poem for your
mother. Then YOU are going to teach me how to say "will you marry me"
in Sign Language.... I am going to barge into your mother's class,
give her some roses and then go down on one knee and propose to her
again in front of the whole class . If she says "yes", I will read
her the poem and then wait for class to end. At which time we will go
up to the top of Ester Dome and watch the sun slip beneath the
horizon while sipping a glass of wine."

Rachel smiles and I can tell instantly that she likes my idea. She
leaves me alone to I bang away at the keyboard. I rack my brain and
fingers trying to come up with a poem that captures my multitude of
feelings about that day twenty-five years and so many miles ago. I
tell myself not to worry about making the words rhyme but find myself
doing it anyway. It just doesn't seem like poetry to me unless there
is rhyme. Finally, after about 45 minutes of head pounding I come up
with something that I feel is passable. I read it to Rachel:

To Cindy

Twenty-five years and thousands of miles ago
You stood trembling at father's side.
A jewel of youthful innocence
A slip of a girl, a father's great pride.

Twenty-five years and thousands of miles ago
I sweated in monkey suit before you
A brash young buck of no prominence
A boyish man with adventure but not a clue

Twenty-five years and thousands of miles ago
We spoke the eternal words "I do"
Simple words but words of great consequence
Then off into the wilds we flew!

Miles flew past and gales did blow
Children squalled, bosses yelled
Years went fast and and wrinkles grew
Through all, my love for you did not chill.

Today you stand gracing my side
A diamond polished ever so bright.
A pearl luminescent with time
My wife and eternal delight!

"Oh Dad, I hope that who ever I marry can write like you! Or at
least I hope that who ever he is, that he is as romantic as you. You
do know that Mom is going to cry when you read her this?"

She hits a nerve... The thought of my daughter settling for any
man short of a sensitive super-hero is almost more than I can bear! I
THINK, but do not say. "well if you want these things from a man then
YOU make sure that whomever you marry does these things...you
deserve no less!". Verbally I only grunt out laugh and acknowledge
that yes, Cindy will probably end up crying. But hey...that's the way
it is supposed to work...women LIKE do cry don't they?

Rachel quickly instructs me in the proper hand signals to use in
making my proposal. The signals are easy, even for a klutz like me to
learn. I then dive into the shower to remove the 5 O-clock shadow and
the day's stink. I got to look good for my big moment...after all...I
probably won't do anything romantic for another twenty-five years.

I get out of the shower and give my hair the first combing of the
day. (it's a lot shorter today than it was when I got married...also
much more unkempt! ) Rachel gives me one quick refresher lesson in
Sign Language and I run out the door. I drive like a mad man to the
store where I hunt up two dozen red, long-stem roses. Looking at my
watch I decide to hold off on buying the wine until after the
proposal when we are on the way to Ester Dome. I might get in trouble
for having booze in a classroom and besides...what if she says "no"
....No sense in testing fate by being over confident.

The Gruening building is pretty much deserted when I arrive. A few
clumps of college students mill about but its normal bustling crowds
have pretty much left for the day. This builds my confidence. I know
that Cindy's class meets in this building but I have no idea in which
room. The building has six floors, two of which are under-ground.
Immediately upon entering I run down the four flights of stairs to
the bottom floor and begin my search. Walking swiftly through the
floor and finding no Sign Language class in session, I run up the two
flights of stairs to the second floor and start my search all over
again. By the time I hit the fourth floor I am feeling pretty ragged
and people are beginning to wonder what a perspiring middle-aged man
carrying an armful of roses and a crumpled manuscript is doing
running from room to room. At the sixth floor my lungs are in full
rebellion and I begin see images of myself collapsing on the floor
dying of heart failure. At last I notice a woman professor of East
Indian descent working alone in her office. I enter her door,
doubtlessly startling her, as I instantly detect an element of fear
in her eyes. "Could you please tell me what room number the American
Sign Language class meets in?" I ask between gasping for air.

She is not sure what to make of me...a strange, sweaty man with a
bunch of roses showing up at her office door at almost 9 PM. I can
see in her face that she is torn between calling Security or being a
helpful University professor. She decides on being helpful and turns
to her computer where she calls up a university class schedule. "Room
410...downstairs." she finally replies.

I yell a hasty "Thank-you" and tear off down the endless stairs for the fourth floor again. Figuring out the room numbering scheme I head
directly towards room 410. The room is empty!! Its door is closed and
the lights are out.

Dejected, I return to the parking lot and I try to located Cindy's car but have no luck. I stand there, roses hanging in my arms, poem on my lips, a jilted lover if ever there was one. Several coeds notice me. I tell them "I've blown it! My life is ruined!....I came to propose on bent knee to my love...only to find my love has already departed." ( I leave out the part about already being married for 25 years.....it makes a mudch better story with this ommision ! )

"Oh...that's the saddest story I have ever heard." they sympathize as they moon all over me. For a moment I think about continuing the game but then I remember that I AM married afterall and I have a mission to accomplish. Still, the interest expressed by these young, cute things does give me a bit of adreneline rush. (something even old guys need now and then)

Eventually I find Cindy as she pull up in from of the house. Her class had decided to move to the College Coffee House because the classroom was too hot and this change of venue allowed them to practice there Sign Language in the real world. I manage to get her to meet me at Lavells, a classy Bistro downtown, without letting her know what I have planned. I find her there waiting patiently for me to arrive. I approach her table, present her with the now wilting roses, drop to one knee and offered my proposal in both sign language and English. She of course accepts, the other patrons applaud and the rest of the night is history.

Peat Pond Ponderings

"The late summer sun dances through the crags and valleys of Murphy
Dome's hulking presence behind me, illuminating a ghostly image of
the radar site watching over the world from atop mountain's elevated
perspective. In front of me lies the tangled waters of an ancient
peat bog, dotted with tiny islands of tussocks with hairy mantles of
sedge grass and cat-tails.


I come to this spot on this evening to relax and to gain perspective on my days thoughts of computer network
complexity, office dynamics and modern family life. I also come in
hopes of learning to better identify the various waterfowl that share
this part of planet with me.

The pond service is glass smooth and mirrors the soft evening sky
above. Innumerable V shaped wakes distort the reflection, etched
there by the plethora of ducks paddling through the channels like
self-propelled toy boats. Occasionally a noisy fracas of quacks
erupts and flapping wings carry a pod of disgruntled participants to
a more peaceful section of the marsh. I sit excitedly fiddling with
the focus knob on my spotting scope, trying desperately to bring
individual birds into focus for proper identification. I watch a
given individual for a time, forcing its many distinctive markings to
be recorded in my optical cortex. Then I drop the scope and quickly
begin thumbing the pages of my bird book hoping to find a photograph
matching the quickly fading image I'm holding in my mind. I find this
process difficult. My mind seems better wired to hold abstract,
verbal descriptions than actual images....perhaps that is why I am a
network nerd instead of an artist. Images, like melodies, are
composed of innumerable discrete components which blend together
forming a "whole" of more significance than all its parts. My poor
brain seems incapable of reconstructing images or melodies but can
appreciate the magnificence of both.
--

Alaska Loses a Good One

I awoke this morning to the sad news that Alaska's former governor, Jay Hammond, had died in his sleep. Last night. Alaska lost a good man and I feel I have lost a friend. I don't recall the exact years that Jay served as governor but I know that he was in office when I arrived in this great land in August 1980. I didn't pay much attention to politics in those days as I was much too busy trying to establish my new family in this far away land but I do remember frequenty seeing his bearded face on TV and being impressed by his down to earth friendliness. This impression was strengthened a year or so later. My new wife was frustrated frustrated by a screw-up with her student loan and was exasperated by the state's beuracratic bungling in getting the matter resolved. I half sarcastically told her to "call the governor". To my surprise my new wife took the advice and placed a call to the capital. Astonishment only begins to describe my reaction when Cindy informed me that she had spoken to the Governor himself and he had promised to straighten the matter out! Indeed the matter did get resolved.



Jay also is the creator of the "Alaska Permanent Fund". As he was nearing the end to his time in office Jay became concerned that all the money generated by the oil pipeline and Alaska's newly developed oil resources would end up being pissed away by government and do little to help the average citizens. In an effort to prevent this he sponsored legislation which would take 50% of the royalties collected by the state and place them in a permanent, idependently managed investment fund. The program is a huge success! Although the state has managed to piss away much of the oil money, the Permanent fund has grown to hundreds of billions of dollars, and a percent of the dividends it produces annually now are distributed to every individual Alaskan in the form of a Permanent Func Dividend (PFD) check. These PFDs have been for as much as $1600 and vary in amount according to how well the fund's investments have performed over the last 3 years. Every Alaskan citizen gets one of these checks, even small children, so the program is quite poppular. I and many other Alaskans put their children's annual checks into savings accounts thus building a nest egg for their kids to use when they get older and are confronted with college tuition costs or the need for a down payment on a house or car. The program has worked so well at insurring that all Alaskans (and future Alaskans) share in the wealth generated by the states non-renewable resources that in recent years Jay has been asked to explain the program to the governments of several developing Central and South American countries. Jay even teamed up with former President Jimmy Carter in an attempt to have such a program established in Iraq after the US invasion but so far Bush's oil industry buddies have pretty well squashed that idea.

Yes, Jay Hammond was many things; the son of a minister; a World War II veteran; a bush pilot; a wildlife manager; a wise politician; an author and a film-maker. Most importantly he was a man of great integrity and an even greater zest for life. I wish him well on his journey and hope he finds eternity full of big fish, howling wolves and pretty girls. I will miss you Jay!