Polar Sky

You Might be an Alaskan Sourdough if:

2010-09-06T17:29:00.000-08:00

1. You have driven a highway that requires you to prove that you have enough cash in your wallet before you are allowed to enter.
2. You know that a snow machine is something to ride on and not something only used at ski resorts.
3. You don't think the friend you are chatting with is being uncharacteristically rude when he suddenly slaps you. Instead you thank him for killing that damn mosquito.
4. You contemplate weather you should put on Muskol or Ben's 100 as perfume for your wedding.
5. You wouldn't even consider drinking a bottled water advertised as being collected from a glacial stream.
6. Your grade schooler comes home telling you that they had a special class today teaching him/her how to build a snow cave.
7. Your child worries more about encountering a moose on his/her way to the bus stop than about running into a nasty stranger.
8. You put your beer in a cooler in order to keep it from freezing.
9. You expect your new car to come equipped with Arctic Leash.
10. You think that the song "breaking up is hard to do" is about the changing seasons rather than personal relationships.
11. You don't think anything unusual about your wife yelling "pull over, I need to piss" when driving down the highway rather than saying "pull over at the next rest stop please".
12. As a matter of habit you keep a roll of toilet paper inside your truck.
13. You have ever gone to a laundry mat in order to take a shower.
14. You don't find it unusual that your office coworker's business attire is covered with dog hair.
15. You know that a gang-line is not some street gang initiation practice.
16. You know that a wheel-dog is not a pet that insists on chasing the tires of passing cars.
17. When riding with a friend in an unfamiliar part of town and he/she is about to miss the turn you yell "gee" or "haw"
18. You know that kings,reds,dogs,silvers and humpys can all run in rivers.
19. You attend a city council meeting and notice that a a large percentage of your fellow attendees are wearing sidearms.
20. Being a seasonal construction worker is a more respectable occupation than being a university professor.
21. You have ever microwaved the ice-creme that was inadvertently left in the truck so that it will be soft enough to chisel out with the scooper.
22. You have 28 dogs in your yard and your neighbors don't complain.
23. You know that bunny boots are neither worn nor made out of rabbits.
24. Your bedroom windows are covered with tin foil.
25. Your high school football game is patrolled by guards armed with riffles keeping watch for approaching polar bears.
26. You would never put anything that came out of the honey bucket on your pancakes.
27. You've needed to take a break from surfing the web so that you could go empty the honey bucket.
28. You have ever used a "bathroom" equipped with a ski pole to chip away the frozen mountain beneath the seat.
29. You know better than to tell your kids to be home before dark.
30. You've refused to buy an outdoor thermometer because its temperature bottoms out at -30.
31. You use moose antlers for a hood ornament on your Prius.
32. You've made a kitchen light switch out of duck tape and it worked so well that you put off going to the hardware store to get a real one for months. (and your wife didn't complain)
33. Local stores get into price wars over the sale of blue tarps.
34. Business projects take moose season into scheduled timelines.
35.

User Manual for Living

2010-07-29T23:47:00.000-08:00

I recently heard someone talking about the old adage that "Life does not come with a user manual. Disagreeing with this statement, the person went on to state "Life does come with a user manual and its called The Bible. So if you have questions just R.T.F.M.

Hmmm...so the original was a hodgepodge of notes left by the genius but socially inept Design Engineer after building the first model. These were collected and extensively edited by the Tech. Support staff to answer the operational questions they were facing in their day to day jobs. Of course, a council of representatives from the Marketing Departments from all the companies trying to sell the device then had to publish the manual in a form that would actually sell their product. By the time all this was completed many new versions of the product had been released but hey, it was still the same basic gizzmo. Then a mere 2000 years ago the Design Engineer returned from vacation, read the manual, called the editors and publishers fools and demanded a major addendum be added. The editors and publishers obliged but then killed the engineer so he couldn't cause more problems for them.

So here we are some 2000 years later with multiple versions of the manual, not being read by most, being understood my none, but being quoted by everyone with an axe to grind. Some believe that the engineer is no longer dead and will one day come back to explain it all again. Until that happens I guess we are stuck with just pressing the reboot button from time to time.

Valentine's Day Explosion

2009-02-21T20:57:00.002-09:00

Valentine's Day 2009. A day for lovers and unbridled lust. Unfortunately my love spent the previous day working an 8-hour shift at her job at a school of hormone crazed delinquents followed by another 12-hour shift at a hospital. Needless to say, by the time she came back to my lair of love her unbridled passions tended toward sleep than me. OH well, for a guy of my years, the tern 'unbridled' speaks more of the possibility of of hernias and slipped discs than love anyway. In lieu of risking such injuries I decided to take my two labradors retrievers on a 16 mile skijor and investigate the Nugget Creek cabin inside the Chena River State Recreational Area.

Glistening sunny skies greeted us at the trail-head at about 1:30 PM. The temperature was in the single digits above zero and a couple of inches of fresh snow softened the trail's tread. The trail quickly crosses the main fork of the Chena River and then snakes through the taiga, roughly paralleling the South Fork as it winds its way into the distant hills. It seemed a perfect day, not too cold or warm and the only sign of other human life were two sets of boot prints accompanied by a set of dog prints heading in the same direction we traveled, which I presume were made by the people staying at the cabin. At about the 3-mile mark a skinny bodied and long-tailed cross fox darted across the trail into the surrounding brush but it escaped the notice of my dogs and thus caused no excitement. Except for the gurgling calls of the occasional scavenging raven the forest was winter quiet and devoid of obvious life. I carried my .22 cal Browning pistol which I hoped might bag a ptarmigan or grouse for the dogs excitement but no such opportunity arose. At about mile-6 I noticed my stomach cramping but I chose to I chose to ignore the discomfort.. At about mile-7 the trail took a sharp dip into a ravine and the dogs dutifully broke into a full run so that I would not run them. At the very bottom of the ravine the scraggly arms of a scrub birch reached out and snared one of my skis. I performed a spectacular face plant into the trail, rattling my teeth to their very roots. Hearing all the commotion, my loyal dogs came to a screeching halt, doubling back to see what new game i was playing, rolling about in the snow. This of course tangled me in their leads like a fly in a spider web. Cutting the dogs loose I stumbled back onto my feet and shook my head to realign my teeth to their proper position in my jawbone. It was then that I noticed my stomach writhing like a tortured python. There simply was no more procrastinating allowed! Quickly I began the process of releasing the myriad of buckles that securing my harness to my waist and begin dancing out of my multiple layers of pants. Of course all this hoopla attracted the attention of the dogs which I kept shooing away. Ahh... at last I get my bottom adequately exposed and find some explosive relief. My relief is short-lived and replaced with terror as I realize I had brought no toilet paper with me on this short excursion. Icy agony racks my body as I deel with hygienic matters with the only available tool, vast quantities of now not-so-virgin snow. I might add that this snow is not the soft fluffy kind but rather the sharp crystalline glass-like shards that form at very cold temperatures. Needless to say, any hemorrhoids that may have existed are flash frozen and excised with anguished screams! With snowmelt rivelets streaming down my thighs I quickly set about pulling my multiple layers back over my backside and glance behind me. I am mystified to discover very little 'falloout' littering the snow behind me. "Hmmm...must have been all explosion and little substance" I think. I stoop down to re-attach my skies. I find Duke sitting obediently in front of me staring at me like the complete dope that he is. Perched squarely atop his head, right between his ears, sits a newly installed, very aromatic, Dairy Queen Swirl HAT !!!!. The mystery of the mystery missing substance to the recent rectal explosion is solved, There Duke sits, inches from my nose, seemingly gloating over his newly acquired crown of brown. I could have killed him right then and there but instead ended up giving him a thorough white-washing in the snow.

We continued our journey down the trail about another mile before it became apparent that my gastronomic distress was not a passing occurrence. I turned my team around about a half mile from the cabin which I had established as our our goal for the day. We made it back to the truck by about 6PM...the dogs tired and myself quite drained and feeling washed out. By the time I make it home I pass my lover as she is pulling out of the driveway on her way to another night of work at the hospital. Feeling guilty about not even seeing her for Valentines day, I drop the dogs at home, feed them some chow and then proceed to the health club for a hot shower and warm-up in the sauna. Feeling a bit refreshed, I head to the grocery store where I purchase a cheese cake and mushy Halmark card. While there I also pick up a giant bottle of Pepto. I intend to go home, get on some fancy duds and then to go to pay mom a surprise visit at the hospital, all dressed up and sporting cheese cake surprises for her and her fellow nurses. (cheese cake delivered by a beef cake! ) Unfortunately, I get to feeling so washed-out that I figure I better just make the delivery to the hospital without first stopping back at home to get dressed in fancy clothes. The gifts were well appreciated even if delivered by a shabbily dressed old geezer with a rumbling stomach. I spend the remainder of Valentines night curled up making passionate love to my bottle of Pepto while huddled under a mountain of blankets.

I sincerely hope your Valentine's Day was more romantic than mine! Then again, perhaps mine really reflects 'true love' after time has the chance to strip all the froo-froo fluff from its meaning.

Why Can't Girls Throw???

2007-08-28T23:46:00.001-08:00

"Ahh, its a small roof. Not even very high. How hard can it possibly be to re-roof it?" That was my comment when the wife suggested we hire someone to replace it about 5 years ago. My house was built in 1958, the same year that my wife was created. Both creations of that year have dogged me relentlessly ever since. Judging from condition of the cracked, wrinkled shingles on the roof I thank God that intervening years have not had nearly such a substantial effect on my spouse! However, the way I am feeling tonight I think they both might be due for replacement.) The roof is steep, 10 inches of rise for every foot of run. Five years ago when the wife suggested having it replaced a roofer estimated it would cost about $8,000. My response was typically Alaskan, laugh at the outrageous price gouging, tack a blue tarp over the leaking spot, and promise the wife I would fix it myself. Well the sun has finally rotted the tarp and the wife is again bugging me to honor my promise.

I managed to diddle away most of this gorgeous summer fishing, hiking, canoeing and generally doing important things but winter is coming any day so I guess is time to pay the piper. I started the job about a week ago with help from my eldest son, Jeremiah, and his fiend, Justin. Having more common sense than normal, we tore off only the shingles on the north side of the house, leaving the south side untouched in case winter arrives early. The work was more grueling than any of us anticipated. The steep slope requires us to do everything while roped into climbing harnesses since it is impossible to even stand on the slippery slope without the aid of a rope. Such constraints even make scratching your ass or picking your nose a major operation, let alone carrying around, squaring up and screwing in a 15 foot piece of sheet metal. Luckily Justin is part gorrila so we made pretty good progress last weekend. Unfortunately Jeremiah left to go back to work up north early this morning so I am on my own this evening.

Returning home from a day at the office filled with meetings, financial BS and the general frustrations of modern office work,I feel invigorated at the thought of getting back to some real life physical labor that will make a difference in whether or not I stay warm and dry during the coming winter months. I had spent my lunch hour researching various rock-climbing devices which might make my roofing job easier and was anxious to try them out after I had satisfied my growling stomach. Arriving at home I find my wife passed out on the couch with headache after her hard day tending to the needs of juvenile delliquent middle schoolers. A bit peeved over having no diner to satisfy my growling stomach I change into my grubby clothes and prepare for an evening of work on the roof. I plan to use a new angle measuring gizzmo purchased on my lunch hour to measure the angle of cut I need to make on the sheet metal coming into a valley between a dormer roof and the main roof. We had been making these cuts by using a tape measure up to this point, usually with rather dismal results. I figure that if the new method works well I will cut a template and thus make the job considerably easier. I carefully rope myself in using my newly purchased climbing descender and climb to the ridge top. I quickly realize that carrying my new angle measurer device while pulling myself up the rope is difficult so I resort to holding it in my teeth while I make the ascent. Once in position I whip out my new gizzmo to measure the angle. I discover that the thing is really too small to use properly but do my best to get as good a reading of the angle as possible. I put the gizzmo back in my mouth and drag myself back up over the ridge-top, back down the other side, down the ladder and to my saw horses. I begin to pick out an appropriately sized piece of roofing metal and again am overcome with unusual common sense and decide to make the cut using a piece of scrap material instead. Installing my new metal cutting blade in my circular saw I begin making the cut. Sparks fly into the evening air but the saw does a pretty good job of hacking its way through the sheet metal. Once again I make my way up the ladder, up the rope, to the ridge-top and down the other side, this time lugging a razor sharp piece of sheet metal along with with me. To my dismay I find that my test piece is cut at a totally inappropriate angle. Discouraged I look around to figure out what I should try next. I notice a thunder cloud rolling in from the north so I decide maybe I should call it a night and re-apply the tarping system before the rain starts. I fling the worthless test piece off the roof, and drag myself back up the rope, over the ridge, down the other side and back down the ladder. On the ground again, I retrieve one of my 4 hammer staplers, Thinking ahead, I check to make sure it is loaded with stales and put an extra box of ammunition in my pocket in case I run out while re-applying the tarps. I climb back up the ladder, re-rope myself into the climbing harness, haul myself back up to the ridge, use my fancy descender to work myself down the other side and begin to staple down the tarps. The third whack with the stapler results in it jamming. (a frequent occurence I might add) Happy that my new descender is holding me securely in place I attempt to unjam the stapler. It proves hopeless. About this time my wife and daughter arrive in front of the house. While I had been working they had decided they were hungry and went to KFC despite the fact that the refridgerator is overflowing with food that they bought this weekend to feed my work crew. (they were tired to cook) I figure this is a stroke of good luck and ask my lovely wife to go into the garage and throw up one of my other staplers. I hang suspended by my rope and await her return. She comes back with the stapler in hand and disappears from sight below the roof line. I tell her to stand back farther so that she has a better angle to throw it to me. Her first attempt bangs off the roof edge prompting her to yell for my daughter, Rachel. She instructs Rachel to make the second attempt. My daughter's first attempt has the same dismal result. As Rachel winds up for the third throw my wife warns her NOT to throw it though the living room window. You guessed it!!! The third throw ends with a creassendo of shattering glass punctuated with numerous vocal curses.

As I write this, sipping a glass of scotch, (can't drink beer anymore, doctors orders, but scotch is Ok) I wonder...Why do I even try....Why is my stomach growling but I have no appetite? Why don't I just screw my job tending stupid computers, screw the house, screw the bills and go live by myself in some shack back up in the mountains? Then I remember that the only thing I have left to screw is my 1958 model wife... Most of all, I wonder, WHY CAN'T WOMEN THROW ???...

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Winter River Walk

2007-01-02T21:04:00.000-09:00

(events of Jan. 2 2007)

Today I reconcile with with brother-in-law Mike for the unfortunate destruction of his mail box We meet near the Public Gardens at day-break (10:30AM) and hike up river with the dogs for a mile or so. The morning is crisp but not too cold for this time of year but the river remains a wintertime highway. The dogs enjoy the romp in the snow and are busy filling their nostrils with all sorts of exotic scents as we trudge up-river. Going on a walk-about with a guy, even a talkative guy like Mike, tends to be quiet endeavor, quite unlike the chatty outings which one experiences when accompanied by females. Winter's silence is punctuated with occasional observations about the tracks left by the night's passing animals and a few generalized comments about the current state of world affairs. We come to a spot across from an overhanging tree with a hollow under it.

"Looks like a moose or something might have bedded down under that tree over there." Mike comments as we pause on our journey.
Looking closer at the area in question I remark, " Don't know...but it kinda looks like a spot of bad ice to me." As if Jezz and Duke understand my words, they immediatly go bounding over to investigate.

"Crackkk...Sploosh!" The ice beneath them explodes in verification of my words. The dogs' initial reactions are those of surprised pleasure. "Oh boy! We get to go swimming."

"Jezz. Duke. COME...Come here!" I yell in an authorative voice despite my helplessness. Both dogs swim to the broken ice shelf. Jezz gets her front paws onto the ledge but seems unable to haul her rotundo butt free of the current dragging at it. Duke, with muscles straining, gets himself three quarters of the way out when the ice beneath him crumbles, sending him on a back-flip under the surface. It is an anxious moment before his head again pops above the swirling black waters and I see a flash of panic in his eyes. I remove the small pack I carry and begin digging for the rope I carry within it. I am not sure what I will do once I have it...Will the dogs be smart enough to bite and hold the end of it if I throw it so that I can pull them free or will I need to try some kind of trick at lassooing them? Niether option sounds very promising.

Somehow Jezz gets a block of free floating ice under her rear legs and its boyancy gives her enough leverage to pull herself free. She runs over to me but notices her mate still clammoring in the icy hole beore I can grab her collar. Being a typical canine she immediatly starts back towards the hole.

"Jezz...Come!! Come here girl!"

To my great relief she obeys my command instead of her instincts and I am able to get a firm hold on her. Duke, inspired by his mates freedom, get another surge of adrenalin and pulls himself up onto ledge. The ice holds this time and soon both dogs are rolling in the powder snow drying their coats.

Deciding we have had enough adventure for the mornings we begin walking towards home. The dogs frolic in the snow seemingly uncognizant of the ice clinging to their coats or their near brush with icy death. About halfway home Mike stops and pointing ahead to the north bank declares "Moose." Sure enough, a cow and calf are munching on the willows about 30 yards ahead. We grab the dogs moments before they pick up the scent and bring them to a sit. The cow pricks her ears and sniffs the breeze. Our odor makes her nervous and she begins herding her calf across the river directly in front of us. The dogs are on high alert but sit like statues as the two animals pass. We continue on our way but the dogs remain preoccupied with the area of the bank from where the moose had emerged. The source of thier interests reveals itself when a young Malamute mix comes bounding out of the thickets. After an ectastic orgy of butt snifing we head for home once again.

Arriving at the back door I order the dogs to "sit" while I open the entry. Jezz, with her insatiatable love afair with her food bowl happily bounds inside. Duke, forever the knothead, decides he isn't yet done adventuring and bolts from the doo. I trail him the block or so to where the subdivision gives way to forest and find him happily laying scent posts on every tree stump he can find. I coax him to come with me back home. It is pretty funny... He saunters with a bull-legged gait because his "male-hood" is encased in two huge balls of ice joined to a tubular ball-bat chunk of ice swinging between his legs. Both dogs are no worse for the wear and still follow my every move in fear that I might go outside and do something fun. As for me, I might go out for a walk yet tonight since the moon is just too nice to waste. If I do, I will go by myself. I have had enough doggie adventure for one day. Who knows, maybe I will even stay inside...That bean soup on the stove tastes mighty fine and its "after effects" are lending a pleasing ambiance to the ol'e cabin.

"Home "sweet" Home!"

Pyrotechnic Traditions and the Arrival of 2007

2007-01-01T11:51:00.000-09:00

Today I welcome the Eve of 2007 by taking the dogs for a 10+ mile ski down the Tanana river. The sun sets shortly after we start, painting the subarctic sky with a subtle purple and blue spectral brush and highlighting its strokes with slender cracks bleeding crimson. A nearly full moon rising in the East pushes these colors off the celestial canvas, replacing them with a sheet of midnight blue speckled by the icy white pin-points of Ursa Major. The river we travel slithers like a fat, luminous, white serpent through the black and grey shadows of the engulfing spruce forest. We run through this landscape silently. No moose emerg from the shadows to interrupt our hypnotic stride. Icicles grow like stalagmites from my beard and eyelashes while frost sprays luminous jet streams along the dark mucsles rippling in the flanks of the dogs. We run like this for a mere few hours but in doing so transcend into eternity.

Returning home to the mortal world, we discover a kitchen filled with the aroma of the beef roast Cindy has started simmering on the stove. We wolf down these tender morsels and retire to the living room where the dogs find a warm corner and I settle down to watch several DVDs about Leonardo Da Vinci. Rachel was heading out to watch the fireworks, Leah is with girl friends soaking at Chena Hot Springs. Cindy sleeps on the couch awaiting an expected call to go work at the hospital. When 2007 finally bursts into reality, I wake Cindy trying to recruit her as my accomplice and get-away driver (since my daughters were not available). She is too sleepy to partake of my traditional conspiracy so I alone boldly accept the mission. I gather up my winter gear, stuff my parka pocket with a roll of 1000 fire-crackers and begin the stealthy stalk of my brother-in-laws mail box. My quarry is no match to my pyrotechnic scheming and is soon reduced to a smoldering heap amid its acrid blanket of steaming snow.

The highlight of New Years Day is walking to the grocery store with Cindy in order to pick up supplies for a batch of bean soup. Once there, we share a hot sugar free vanilla lat'e, and pack our supplies into the small back-pack. Walking home along the snowy streets I try to get a step ahead of Cindy prior to reaching each over-hanging tree. Jumping up, I bang the branches causing an avalanche of white powder to engulf my bride. Soon we are half heartedly racing towards each tree, giggling like teenagers beneath our now white parkas. We stop off for a rest at her sister's house where I am promptly and thouroughly reprimanded for my pyrotechnic hooliganism of the previous night. "Hey! don't blame me for the destruction of your mail box. It's tradition after all and traditions are important!"

Stange Things Are Done Under the Mid-day Moon

2006-12-04T20:13:00.000-09:00

White frost paints my stiff beard as my two Labs and I make our way through the deserted Fairbanks streets towards the frozen Chena river. It is early afternoon but airborn ice crystals distort the rays from the low hanging sun into the mute of twilight. Jezz and Duke stop in dead alert. I squint through fogged glasses into the December sun, trying to detect the cause for their alarm but only see white and the muted rainbows reflecting about in my crystaline glasses.

"Is there a Moose ahead?" Moose often wander into the neighbor from the river. I reach up to remove my glasses in hopes of improving my vision. The effort is futile as my uncorrected vision is as bad as my corrected vision through ice encrusted lenses. I can see no further ahead but I do manage to knock my fur hat from atop my head. I stoop over to retrieve my head gear when from ahead I hear

"Help!!!"

At -20 degrees a cry for help, even if its source is invisible demands attention. My heart pauses at thought that perhaps someone has ventured onto the ice and fallen through. My mind ticks through possible scenarios and required actions. I have a small length of rope with me in case I need to tie the dogs but it is questionalble if it is sufficient to carry out anything but the simplest ice rescue. Charging ahead I make out the blurred outline of a prone body in the snow near the river's edge. Brief relief at the realization that the person is not in the river is replaced by anxiety as I speculate why the person is laying in the snow seemingly lifeless.

I approach closer, until the prone figure is almost at my feet, but my opaque glasses still prevent a logical assesment of the situation.

"Quick! Piss on my hands!"

Now I have lived in this odd state long enough to have heard some rather strange requests but this one takes me completly off guard. Again, I swipe off the blinders covering my eyes and discover a man lying at my feet with arms wrapped around a squirming dog. The Husky's tongue extends about six inches out of its muzzle and it firmly frozen to a metal fence pose embedded in the ground. Blood is streaming from the poor mutts frozen appendage and the man is struggling to keep the dog from ripping it from its own throat. Now the situation is clear! I do a quick status check on my bladder but am dismayed to discover that the cold and novelty of the situation has rendered it usless.

"I don't think I have it in me." I reply to the young man in the snow. "Let me tie up my dogs and I will see if we can't figure something else out."

Jezz and Duke are of course quite agitated by the situation but after a bit of a struggle I get them tied to a nearby tree.

"Do you have a knife with you?

I feel through my many parka pockets and am embarrased when I have to reply that I have forgotten to bring one on this short stoll from my house. Looking around I notice a house along the river with lights burning about a quarter mile away.

"Stay here. I'll run down to that house and see if I can get some warm water."

I take off at a sprint or at least what can be called a sprint when wearing heavy boots and full winter gear. The house turns out to be a big gray mansion, and considering it location, is obviously owned by someone with more money than I can even imagine. An ornate moon of a doorbell glows beside the front door. Pulling of my stiff glove I press the button and hear a two-toned chime within. Soon muffled footsteps approac the door and when it opens I am met by the rather befuddled and obviously nervous stare of a young woman. I suddenly become aware of my strange appearance. Thick ice-cilcles hang from my scraggly beard and fur hat. My snow pants and parka are equally encrusted with powdery snow. When I attempt to talk I realise that my lips and tongue have thickend with the cold.

"Uhh uhh...do you think...uh... can I please maybe get a glass or cup of warm wather?" Puzzled eyes blink back at me. Determined to express the situation before the door slams shut again, I manage to stammer, " There's a guy down by the river with a dog that has its tonge frozen to a metal fence plole and I need it to get get the dog unstuck"

Comprehension replaces the apprehension in the woman's eyes and she rushes off into the warm house leaving me in the doorway. She returns with a tall plasitc glass of steaming water. I had hoped that perhaps she would give me a glass with a lid but being grateful for not being booted onto the curb I take the cup and quickly start back towards the man and dog. My gloves quickly freeze as the water splashes from its container but I make it back to the man with most of the precious contents intact. The warm liquid works as planned and the squirming dog is soon running free.

I turn my dogs free and all three hounds enjoy a good butt sniffing orgy and rambuncious romp in the snow. The young man tells me how thankfull he is that I came along. He had been laying ther for about a quarter of an hour and had just about given up on the possibility of anyone coming along.

I go home and contemplate the days events. I guess it was just another day in this strange place shimmering beneath the noon day moon!

Winter Approach

2006-10-17T16:34:00.000-08:00

Ahh…The rarified clarity of this afternoons sunlight announces the arrival of yet another Fairbanks winter. My eyes drink in this brilliant proclamation with the attitude of one preparing to read a book of many pages . A few months ago, when I turned the final pages of last winter’s saga, I dreaded the mere existance of its sequel. However, the non-stop action novel authored by this summer, with its pages full of spectacular salmon, endless daylight and back-country high adventure, now leaves me yearning for calm poetry of the coming winter.

Dogs, Kneecaps and Russian Vodka

2006-03-06T15:02:00.000-09:00

A welcome warm sun shines upon my back as I throw a stick in the snowy yard for my son's two Black Labrador Retrievers, Jezzebel and Duke. Jez and Duke are orphans under my care. Jez is a smart, young female of small stature with a mischevious dispositon. In contrast, Duke, her mate, is an ox of a dog with nothing but two testosterom balls operating as much between his ears as well as between his gangly legs on. Standing in the afternoon sun I pick up the slobber encrusted stick and prepare to make another throw while conemplating the wisdom of my decision to temporarily adopt these two hounds. Their owners, Jeremiah and his wife Courtnie, were recently whisked off to Anchorage so that Courtnie could give birth to Koa, my grandson. Koa's early arrival means an extended stay in Anchorage for Jeremiah and Courtnie and this impromtu trip is the reason for my canine tribulations.

Jez and Duke spend the first few days of their visit pretty much confined to my garage. I think they would appreciate having an entire garage in which to lounge about all day while I labor earning their food money. Previously they had been confined to their kennels for much of the time and sympathy towards their confinement is what convinced me to take them into my home in. My garage is a typical Alaskan garage, not decked out in a Martha Stewart decor like so many lower 48 garages, so I "assume" they will be comfortable and unable to cause any real damage. This "assumption" like so many assumptions since, is proven a gross error.

Take day 1 of their visit for example. Returning from work I open the garage door expecting lavish doggie kisses in payment for my hospitality. Instead, both dogs almost knock me off my feet in their haste to exit the garage and go piss on my house's back door. "Hmm... Well at least they waited to get outside before they relieved themselves" I think as I enter the garage. My nostrils immediatly inform me this is not the case. Atop the roll of carpet awaiting installion into my living room lies an elephant sized pool of canine daireha, an obvious gift from Duke. Beside this half frozen pool of stench lies the chewed remains of my two new ice-fishing rods, a chunk of gnawed garden hose, several broken beer bottles as well as the remains of my favorite hammer. The garage looks like a bombed-out Shiite masque and smells a lot like the word "Shiite" sounds. So much for canine gratitued!

The next couple days go a little better. I keep the dogs kenneled up in the garage while I work. When I arrive home I release them from the confines and throw a stick for them until they expend enough of their pent up energy that I can allow them entry to the house without them knocking over the kitchen table. They gradually become civilized enough that my own ancient golden retriever feels it is once again safe to make occasional forays out from under the table when the two hooligans are present. Unfortunatly my cat, Spooky, is not as fortunate. She remains cloistered in an upstairs bedroom since Jez and Duke's arrival. Periodically Duke sneaks a peak at her by creeping up the stairs, but when he gets to about the third step from the top he freezes, stretching his neck ever closer towards the mysterious, hissing ball of fur guarding the top landing. After several minutes of stand-off, Duke inches one of his clod-hopper paws up to the second step. This proves too much for Spooky and she errupts into a snarling tornado of claws and teeth onto Marmaduke's slobbering snout. Duke wheels about and comes crashing down the seven steps behind him without laying foot on a one of them. He crashes into the front door shaking its very hinges. All this commotion of course arouses Jez and Scrub and the three of them stand at the bottom of the stairs barking and carrying on while Spooky glares at them from above. Canines may rule the lower netherlands of my house but a fiery feline holds sway over the more hearvenly regions!

Having enough of this gangland commotion in my living room I chase the dogs outside into their dog yard. The dog yard is surrounded by a 4 fence which is more than sufficent to confine old Scub. Heck, I can hardly coax Scrub to venture outside the yard anymore...He knows where his food bowl is and isn't about to let it out of his sight for more than a few minutes. I know the dog yard won't confine Duke and Jez for more than a few minutes but I need a little peace before I bring them back in. This is a mistake. By the time I open the door to let them in I discover the deliquents have already made their escape. I catch a glimpse of Duke streaking through the darkness like a black ghost while pretending to be deaf to my yelling. Repeated attempts to capture the hounds end in failure. I return to my house figuring they will soon return for their dinner. Jezz, always hungry since welping a litter of pups, returns a short time later. However, Duke, having other things on his mind, misses dinner. I retire to the warmth of bed and am drifing to faraway lands of sunshine and warm sands when I detect a scratching at the backdoor. I pull myself from the warm blankets I go to the door. Duke, comes watzing inside grinning from floppy ear to floppy ear. He is dripping with snow, ice, and God only knows what other watery substances and reeks of the pungent odor of bitch. I swear, he would have a cigar hanging from his lips and a half empty beer in his hand if he were human!

"Ahh...I'm sooo glad you had such a fine Friday night." I remenise as I set set his food bowl in front of him. "I remember when MY Friday nights were events to look forward to. Friday nights devoid of kids, jobs and dogs!"

The weekend is wasted in adding further fortifications to the dog yard. Home Depot supplies me with a role of bright orange plastic construction fencing which I use to extend the height of the existing red lattice fence that so adequately confines Scrub. It isn't too difficult to errect since I can attach it to the existing poles frozen into the ground surrounding the yard. Finishing the project I discover that I must crawl on hands and knees through the dog-door into my back porch in order to exit the yard. I walk to the front yard in order to observe how the new addition blends with the overall landscaping. Let's see. The house is a light blue with white paint peeling from its trim. Attached to one side of it is the original dog-fence constructed of redwood lattice. Now, attached on top of this fence is 4 feet of hunter orange plastic fencing. "If that doesn't give the ole homestead a truly Alaskan look nothing will"

Proud of my new landscaping, I release Jez and Duke into the new prison yard. Duke prances out oblivious to the new decor and proceeds to re-mark all his sign-posts, terminating his quest by laying huge steaming pile in the center of the yard. Jez notices the change immediately and contemplates the intracacies of the orange addition. I smuggly return inside and pop open a beer to celibrate my victory. The beer is about half empty when I notice a black shadow streaking down the street outside my window. " No...It can't be!." To my disbelief I see that the dogs have once again escaped.

After another doggie round-up I am once again on my way to Home Depot. ( I should be part owner of that corperation by now since all the employee's know me by name! ) I break down and shell out enough green bills for a roll of 8 ft chain link fencing and the bolt cutters to cut it with. Returning home I am faced with the task of lugging the several hundred pound roll of fencing through the rather small doggie door. Suffering only minor scratches and a moderate hernia in this effort, I take a step back to analyse how to best accomplish the errection of the new fencing. My boot immediatly slips from under me and I find myself lying in the snow beside the smooshed debis of one of Duke's more recent montainous deposits. "SHIT!" I scream, as if I have to explain to myself what the substance is into which I have just fallen.

Sunday morning arrives and the family trundles off towards church. Concern over my grandson, Koa, motivates most of the family to visit "God's house" this snowy morn. While I share this concern, I think my real motivation lies more in the desire to get away from the canine devils which now possess my my home. As I drive pass the front of the house I am greatly impressed with the artfull landscaping created by the 8 ft. tall wall of red, flourescent orange and chain-link gray, all tastefully accented by peeling white trim and an occasional rotting wooden pallet. "God, thank-you for all the material blessings you have so generously bestowed upon this undeserving soul!"

After having the sins excorcised from my soul I return home for a restful Sunday afternoon. As evening approaches I begin to feel repentent of evil thoughts pertaining to my canine companions so I take them outside for a session of stick throwing. We are enjoying a delightfull time when I notice a figure coming down the street. To my dismay I notice that the figure has a leash with a rat-sized ball of white fur skittering along on the other end. "Oh no! Not one of those little Fru-fru dogs. My God, Duke will skewer that thing like a hot dog at a weenie roast if its female!" Duke spies this approaching morsel a moment after I do and streaks towards the street. I sprint like a linebacker in an effort to cut-off his charge. At the goal line I leap into the air for the flying tackle. My hands find their target around Duke's neck but both my knee-caps also find the boulder hidden in my yard beneath a thin blanket of snow. The pain is electrifying, frying every nerve ending in my body. My mouth tastes of metal. My stomach cramps and dark shadows creep into the sides of my vision. Still I hold on. I am unable to stand so I crawl towards the door, dragging Duke behind. The man gives me sort of a disgusted smile and his runtly little fru-fru dog sniffs snottily at my homes fine landscaping. If I could get on my feet I would go over and kick both thier asses but as it is I must simply crawl into the house.

Tonight I find myself lying on the couch with both legs elevated on pillows. A glass of icy Russian Vodka sits by my side acting as a fair anelgesic for my mind if not for my knee-caps. I contemplate the purple golf-ball errupting from my left knee and compare it to the 2 inch gash oozing blood on my right one. Three dogs sleep blissfully on the floor, oblivious to my suffering. Jezz momentarily lifts her tail and the room once again fills with the aroma and cozy warmth of doggie bliss. I wonder for a moment how the evening is going for my son and grandson. My life is a cakewalk compared to their current situation...God, thank-you for all the blessings which you have bestowed upon my undeserving soul.....

Mighty Warrior Pictures

2006-02-16T13:12:00.000-09:00

A Mighty Warrior is Born

2006-02-16T01:10:00.000-09:00

This post announces the arrival of my first grandson, Koa Ikiiki Bachert (pronounced Koah E-ki-kah). The name means "Mighty Warrior" in Hawaiian. My son and his wife decided on this name over the last couple of weeks while battling to keep him from arriving too soon. The following is the message I sent to my family announcing Koa's birth:

Sue,Dad, and Fellow Soldiers,

My little "Mighty Warrior" announced his entrance into this world at about 7PM Feb. 15 with a tiny warrior cry. He weighed in at a light but sinewy 1pound 5 oz and is lighting the NICU at Providence Hospital with his rosy pink skin. He was taken by C-section from his mommy's tummy and mom is a bit sore but doing OK. Jeremiah told me that he is a foot to a foot and a half tall and that his entire hand only covers the tip of Jeremiah's thumb.

Koa has all his parts, and is breathing on his own, but they have him on a ventilator because his tiny lungs can not provide enough oxygen for his strapping warrior muscles yet. He has a formable war to fight ahead of him but he is at least the proud victor in his first battles. He is a seasoned warrior despite being drafted into life only 23 weeks ago (2 days shy of 24, but you know how the military calculates things) The next 3 days will be very crucial.

Cindy flew down to Anchorage this evening in order to fight by his side and all of us are calling in "fighter support" from the heavens above.

I am just overjoyed that I had the chance to congratulate my son on becoming a father. I can't know how long my joy will last so I am concentrating on enjoying it for each and every moment that I have it....Something that I think we all should learn to do while floating this miraculous river of life. Turbulence may lie ahead but it makes no sense to waste the serenity of moment in worry.

Will send more info as I get it and JB says he will send pictures as soon as he has a chance to log on thru the hospitals internet connection. Until then,,,smother your little ones in kisses and arm them with the ammunition of LOVE.

Tom

When All The Laughter Dies In Sorrow

2006-02-14T21:37:00.000-09:00

When all the laughter dies in sorrow
And the tears have risen to a flood
When all the wars have found a cause
In human wisdom and in blood
Do you think they'll cry in sadness
Do you think the eye will blink
Do you think they'll curse the madness
Do you even think they'll think

When all the great galactic systems
Sigh to a frozen halt in space
Do you think there will be some remnant
Of beauty of the human race
Do you think there will be a vestige
Or a sniffle or a cosmic tear
Do you think a greater thinking thing
Will give a damn that man was here

By Chicago

Winter in Fairbanks

2006-01-31T13:21:00.000-09:00

Winter in Fairbanks is: Enjoying the warm snuggles of loved ones while sitting around the glowing hearth...My mouth watering over the pleasant tang of last summer's smoked salmon while my nose twitches at the aroma of fresh baked bread cooking in the kitchen...Laughing together at old stories of adventure from summers past. Nestling among warm blankets while enjoying a good book. These images sooth my head as the cool breeze of autumn enshroud me and the sun dips ever lower in the sky. HOWEVER, these anesthetizing images are ALL CRUEL LIES, LIES LIES!! Don't let such BS fool you.

By the time February rolls around the true pain of the season racks my bones. The following is a true accounting of my home-life last weekend. (Really its a long winded RANT that hopefully will expel it from my system.) Read On if you dare...But if you find that I have included you in my accounting of events please realize that the emotions expressed are no more accurate in describing reality than the ones which "soothed my mind" this previous autumn. My hope is that they will bring a laugh to your lips and I certainly don't mean to burn you with my cabin fever steam.

BZZZZZZZzz. Pulling myself from the tropical beach surf I"m fishing in dreamland I grope in the darkness for the aggravating alarm clock. Extending my center of gravity beyond the warmth of my covers earns me a somersaulting tumble out of bed onto my ass along with two nice gashes on my shins as they scrape the corner of the night stand. My fingers manage to find the "off" button on the infuriating, buzzing box before I am able to obliterate the thing with my fist. Friday morning...The beginning of another beautiful day in paradise!

Pulling on my pants and wool shirt I glance to check the outside temperature being displayed on my laptop's glowing screen. Minus 55 degrees, a little colder than when I went to sleep. I stumble into the bathroom, relieve the night's pressures, brush my teeth and take the handful of pills that the doctor has ordered me to consume in my morning ritual of Paying homage to eternal life. I wander into the kitchen, grab a cup of luke warm coffee left over from my daughters' earlier departure and head out the door to feed my Berretta its morning pint of power steering fluid. The blast of cold knocks the sleep from my eyes better than the coffee and I manage to get the Berretta groaning with life. The steering fluid almost lets me turn the wheel but the limited control really doesn't bother me as I drive to work... It is impossible to see more than about 25 feet through the milky ice-fog anyway.

Noon-time arrives...It's time to go home for lunch and let the dog out so that he doesn't crap on the floor. I can tell the sun is shining because the ice-fog is now luminescing and aggravating my low-grade headache. I leave the car idling in the driveway in the unreasonable hope that its interior might warm-up to a point where I won't see my breath when I get back into it. The door-knob of the house burns my ungloved hand as I turn it and Scrub, not recognizing me in my fur hat, barks and sheds clumps of dog hair all over the kitchen as I enter. Kicking his hairy ass out the door to do his bushiness I open the refridgerator in hopes of finding some pastrami and salami for sandwich fixings. All I find is some slimy chicken that has been moldering inside since the last time my wife went shopping. Now I remember...I had asked her to pick up some pastrami but she had returned with only chicken saying, " I looked all over the store for pastrami but they didn't have any so I got this." Grumbling to myself I grab the slimy chicken and head to the bread box. No bread!!! Screw it, I haven't done enough work to deserve lunch anyway. My frustration worsens my headache so I send my boss an email informing her that I won't be in for the afternoon. What the hell.. I have about 1500 hours of sick leave accrued anyway and I won't ever get to use it unless I get lucky and get cancer or some other long lingering malady...Not much chance of that, since the friggin doctor makes me take all those damn pills every morning!

Settling in for an early start on the weekend I turn the radio on. Bush is drawling on in a Texas accent, reassuring all the good Americans that their blood is buying Iraq democracy, not oil for his buddies. Condalisa Rice is babbling that despite all their protests, the Palestinian democracy will elect a government that will kiss and makeup with the Jews rather than nuke them from the face of the earth. Our good Alaskan legislature announces that under the priorities of their agenda they will link pot-smokers with meth-lab managers and thus put them behind bars irregardless of how the state constitution is writtnen. However, they are not sure if they will have time this session to deal with less important issues like the the natural gas pipeline or the billion dollar shortfall in the public retirement fund. Turning off the radio I lie down in hopes of combating my headache.

"Bringgggg...Ring...Ring."

"Where the hell is that damn telephone anyway? Hello..." I say, after finally finding the handset buried under a pile of old news papers.

"Hi Uncle Tom?...This is Chris. My mom and I are working on filling out some application for a scholarship and wonder if you would write a letter of recommendation for me"

"Ugh...Yah...Sure I can do that. What scholarship are you applying for?"

"Ugh hold on a minute...Ma, what's the name of the scholarship?..Mumble,rustle,mumble,mumble...Uncle Tom? Its some scholarship program for tuition at UAF or something and I guess I need letters of recommendation from three people and one of them needs to be from a non-educated...Ugh..I mean a non-educator person, so I thought I would ask you.

"Sure Chris, I will write one for you. When do you need it by?"

"Ugh...Mom...When do they need it by? Mumble, squeak, mumble...I guess they need it by next Wednesday or something. If you could finish before the end of the weekend that would be great."

I hang-up the phone and think, "Hmm...This is the honor student that once pulled a glowing red-hot beer can out of a campfire with his bare hands because his cousin had suggested he do so. This is my nephew that I haven't seen for a couple of years because he has been barricaded in his cave of smelly under-wear playing video games. This is the nephew that avoided taking gym class in high school by taking it as a CORRESPONDENCE class. This is going to be one interesting creative writing project this weekend!! Maybe I should just have his mother write the letter and I can just sign it. " Realizing that such spiteful thinking is probably the product of my foul mood and not really indicative of my true feeling towards the boy, I direct my thoughts to other matters.

My youngest daughter comes home and heads straight to the basement where she dumps her smelly wrestling clothes into the wash machine. By the time she comes back up-stairs she is already engrossed in lovey-dovey conversation via cell phone with her boyfriend who is away at college. (The same cell phone for which I had seen the bill two days prior and for which my wife swears is a much smaller than bill we used to get before we got this "great new calling plan"...As if this will be good news to my ears. ) Leah interrupts her mush talk long enough to inform me that the water is barely trickling into the wash machine and Wonders if our pipes are freezing or something. After making a quick check that our pipes were not on the verge of bursting, I set myself to the task of making dinner.

"What are you hungry for?" I ask.

"Oh...I can't eat. Weigh-ins are in the morning and I need to drop .8 pounds. But can someone bring me Subway tomorrow at the tournament in North Pole? By the way, can you or mom give me a ride to school tomorrow at 5 AM? I don't want to leave my car in the parking lot all day long with it being so cold...It almost didn't start tonight...Oh yah, can you also go out and see if you can get it plugged in? I thinks there is snow crammed in the holes of the extension cord because I couldn't get the little prongs to stay in." She tells me this as she removes her thin jacket and kicks off her tennis shoes that she wore home. "Oh yah...I think I'm getting sick or something. Man I hate getting sick...Especially before I need to wrestle."

The door bursts open and Rachel blows into the house with a billowing cloud of frost. "Where's Mom and why can't Leah learn to park her damn car? She's parked behind you and I can't park on the other side because blah, blah, blahh...And I can't use that extension cord because ...blah blah blah blah! How smart to you need to be figure out how we gotta park? ...blah blahh...My truck heater isn't working worth a damn. Michael is supposed to change the thermostat but he is being a butt...And I can't wait 2 months to get it fixed...blah blah...He won't work on it because he won't let me pay for it but then he blah blahhh. Where the hell is mom anyway? She is supposed to get off work at 4:30 and its after 7."

The door opens again and my gorgeous wife stumbles in with bright red cheeks beaming from behind her frosted glasses. She wears the ratty, gray, woolen skull cap that doesn't leave the top of head between Thanksgiving and Mother's day. Her green uniform pants are tucked into her Christmas-red, Loben felt boots which she sleeps in throughout the same time period. "Any ideas for dinner?" she asks as she plops the newspaper down on the ever-growing pile that already are scattered across the kitchen table.

"Hmm, how about some slimy chicken with noodles that have had the piss boiled out of them" I think but wisely do not say.

"I can't eat." Leah unwisely states.

"I'm going to have you committed for anorexia...blah blah blahh...You can't wrestle if you don't eat. I'm going to email coach Ritchie and tell him that the Alaska Nurses Association says..blah,blah blah..." Mom disgustedly rambles.

" I had a packet of instant oat-meal at lunch and two raisins after practice and...blah blah blahhh...Bring me Subway tomorrow...I am not a freaking anorexic... Why didn't you holler at Jeremiah when he lost 40 pounds in 2 weeks for wrestling??..."

"Where did you park Mom?...Why can't anyone around here learn to park damnit...Now I need to go out and move my freakin truck and the heater doesn't blow any damn hot air...Michael is being a butt...Won't let me pay...I don't have any money but if you or dad pay I'm gonna tear-up the damn check because I already mooch too much off of you guys...bla,blah,blahhh!"

Ahh...The silence of a winter night. I retreat outside to untangle extension cords, shuffle cars and try to get the "little prongs" on one stubborn extension cord to stay plugged into glob of receptacles emerging from Leah's car hood. The "prongs" refuse to cooperate even after I heat them with a lighter and spray starting fluid into the receptacle they should mate with. Frostnip quickly nibbles my knuckles and in desperation I rip the "ground" prong off the cord. The two remaining "little prongs" now happily mate with the icy glob of receptacles. The ruckus in the house has been replaced with the whine of some constipated actor on TV and a pile of slimy chicken and noodles simmers on the stove.

"Dad,,Dad, wake-up. Are you going to take me to Lathrop so I don't need to leave my car in the lot all day?" I stumble out of bed and wipe the gunk from my eyes. I pull on the same pants from yesterday and sniff the arm-pits of my shirt before putting it on. In the bathroom I perform the "ritual for eternal life" but accidentaly drop one pill to the floor. It lands in a clump of dog hair. Ritual is ritual so I pick it up and pop in may mouth. Saturday morning...Just another beautiful day in paradise!

The drive to Lathrop is as uneventful as any drive at minus 50 degrees can be. The seats in Leah' Geo Storm are frozen granite hard and their lack of cushion causes the top of my head to be press against the roof. The breath from the two of us crammed into the small car quicky ice-up the windows but the ice-fog outside is so thick that we hardly notice. Most people instinctively slow down when driving in such conditions but our trip takes us past the main gate of the local Army base. The GIs and their family members must have their eye-balls implanted with infra-red sensors as part of an experimental weapons program and thus can see clearly through even the thickest ice-fog. They race about at a minimum of 65 mph in case Bin Laden or any of his rag-heads are lurking among the snowbanks. ( There must be quit a number of those rag-heads in the area because I frequently observe GI cars spinning about and diving directly into various embankments. ) It's still early in the morning so I manage to avoid any such military missions and drop Leah off at school where she will board a bus for transport to North Pole for the tournament.

Ahh yes...Winter in Fairbanks...Just another day in paradise!!!

You Might Live in Fairbanks if:

2006-01-26T10:15:00.000-09:00

You might you live in Fairbanks if:

You climb into your car in the morning and discover that your half a dozen bottles of emergency DEET have ruptured from being frozzen and are the resulting ice-crystals are eating into yours trucks dashboard.

You know that DEET is the active ingredient in any bug dope that actually repels mosquitoes and don't care that exposure to it causes neurological damage...In fact, you stock-pile bottles of DEET just in case the stupid government decides to ban it.

You take your new Suburu in for warranty work becasue its outside temperature thermometer will not give a reading below minus 22.

When you need beer money you whip out th gold-pan stored behind your truck's seat and begin panning the dirt accumulated on the floor mats for gold.

Your grade-school kid comes home from school complaining because he couldn't go out on the playground at lunch because the temperature was below the minus 30 degree cut-off point.

You get charged an extra 20 percent at the store because you aren't dressed in military fatiques and don't have a military ID..

You read in the paper that the Bourough (county) Assembly barely escaped being lynched at their last meeting because they attempted to pass an ordinance prohibiting having more than 3 junk cars in your back-yard...You wish the lynching attempt had been successful.

The "Police Blotter" section of the local paper lists more females than males for being arrested on domestic assault charges. You hide the "Police Blotter" from your wife so that she doesn't get any ideas.

Your circle of friends includes business executives, a lesbian couple, a couple of auto mechanics, a senator, a few proffessors, several hippies, a couple of VietNam vets, a plethora of construction workers and a preacher. The mechanics have the highest socail standing but everyone gets along.

You recognize that the most dangerous terrorsists in the world are the "big oil companies" and the "tree-hugger" groups that are always fighting them.

Your dress shoes have Vibran soles with insulated camo outers.

Your cell phone has at least 2 speed-dial numbers programed for the "time and temperature" information lines.

The hanger that holds your suit coat has cob-webs encrusting it.

You know that a birch log weighs about 3 times as much as a spruce log of the same size and thus contains about triple the BTU value.

Your passenger seat of your vehicle is occupied by a tangled ball of multiple extension cords.

You warn your teenage children before they drive off to school to "drive carefully because the roads are slippery now that it has warmed up to minus 10."

You curse DOT (Department of Transportation) because they plowed up a snow berm blocking access to the river and your short-cut home. You drop the blade on the front of your pick-up, spend the next half hour plowing a hole through the berm and then drive down the river to your neighborhood. Your neighbors thank-you for this public service by giving you a free guess in the yearly lottery of guessing who will announce the official arrival of spring by dropping their vehicle into the river.(see photo above for this year's lottery winner")

The US Army spends a small fortune to study the environmental impacts civillian airboats might have on the ecological system of their local "live fire" bombing range.

Your bedroom windows are lined with alluminium foil so that you can get some sleep in the summertime.

McMaggots Anyone?

2006-01-05T21:00:00.000-09:00

It's lunchtime and minus 20 outside. The old Berreta's ignition sticks in the "start" position and I manually turn the key back a notch to disengage the starter as I back out of the parking space into the noon-day twighlight. "Hmm, where to go for lunch? I could drive home as usual but I really am not in the mood to gulp a sandwich only to return to an already cold car for a frigid drive back to work. "Hey! I haven't been to McDonald's for a while, maybe I'll just go there."

That would have pretty much been my lunch today, cold, boring and mostly tasteless, if some of the local youths had not interceded to add a little color and humor to my day. I am sitting alone in a booth staring out the window at the ravens hopping about the frosty parking lot when this rather round teenage girl comes in the door and sits at a table across from me. She is lightly dressed in jeans and a semi-transparent white top that slightly hides some HUGE dark colored support garment underneath. I notice that her face is rather pretty and my mind drifts to how difficult it must be to live in her grossly overweight body as female teenager. Soon after she sits down I notice that one of the young boy "table wipers" works his way over near her and begins talking with her. He is soon joined by two other boys who are just hanging-out and it becomes apparent that the three all know each other. From their style of dress and mannerisms I quickly deduce that they are members of what my own kids call "skaters"... You know, that sub-class of kids that hang out in parking lots smoking rawnchy cigerarettes or whatever and carrying around skate-boards plastered with grotesque stickers of Satan and other demonic figures. I always sort of like "skaters". I guess their F-you expressions strike a harmonious cord with that streak of rebelliousness that I haven't quite outgrown. They seem to be the neo-greasers of today...Only instead of riding around in 400 horsepower rusted old cars, gasoline prices now relegate them to wheels mounted on motorless skateboards. Anyway, I decide to pass the time by listening in to their conversation.

Girl (to table wiper): " So...Are you a freshman? "

Wiper (in deep voice): "Uhh..Yah...At least according to the credits...Otherwise I'd be a junior."

All of them: "laugh, giggle, snort, mumble mumble"

Voice from across the room (to girl): "You know Gerald is here? He's right back there!"

I'm not sure who Gerald is but the voice has an inflection as if this is an important piece of information for the girl to know. I wonderif he is the manager and the girl isn't supposed to be here or some such thing. At any rate, the girl kind of slouches in her seat as if to avoid detection but at the same time takes on a defiant expression trying to imply that she doesn't give a F---.

Boy with Chains in his Pants: "Do you work here?"

Girl (with look of disgust): "F--ken NO! Grumble, mumble, I wouldn't work in a F--ken place like this...He's just mumble,mumble..Boyfriend"

About this time the other boy at the table who is as skinny as a rail pulls a can of SlimFast out of his baggy pants and pops the top. The girl puts on a look of extreme disgust and continues:

"You drink SlimFast!? What the F--k for!

Skinny Boy: "Ugh...Well sometimes...Some of it tastes good but not this type, it tastes like F--ken chalk. Some of them taste good though, like some of the strawberry and even some chocolate...But not this one...Its like chalk."

Girl: "I won't drink that shit...I used to,, but not no more! You know they put maggot larvae in f those diet drinks? That's how they work, the larvae hatch into maggots and then they crawl through your body eating fat and shit! I won't drink that shit anymore"

Boy with Chains: "yah...Did you hear about that guy That went crazy?...They found a maggot eating his brain! It crawled out his ear but he died anyway cuz it laid eggs in his head!"

Girl: "yah,,, some of the maggots get stuck in your stomach and they just stay there for years crawling around eating shit and stuff. Can you imagine?...Maggots just living in there? Thats just totally gross! I don't drink that shit no more."

Skinny Boy (as he dumps the SlimFast in the trash): "Ugh...Yah...Some of them taste good though, not like chalk. That's pretty extreme though...Maggots in your stomach...I wonder,,,maybe some of them might turn into flies and buzz around. Like,,, I did hear about that guy who had the maggot eat his brain. I guess its like if you eat a seed or something and then it starts growing."

The really scarey thing is that these kids were serious! My god,,,what kind of drugs are kids playing with these days?? Whatever kind they are using, I suspect it must be infected with maggot larvae. Maybe they found one of G.W. Bush's old stashes that he left behind after his trip to Alaska in his youthfull years. After all, remember, "Today' youth are the leaders of tomorrow.'

Insomnia New Year, Everyone!!!

2006-01-01T05:53:00.000-09:00

You know it has been one of those nights when your awake to hear Bose Wave Radio begin begin i softly start playing its pre-alarm cresendo and your still lying in bed wide awake. You know its another sleepless night when you're still performing imagination gymnastics and the furnace kicks into its programed pre-dawn warming cycle designed to gently ease you gently from slumber back into the wakefull world. Ringing in the New Year with another bout of INSOMNIA!...That is what I have been doing. Maybe it's the shortage of daylight. Maybe its a shortage of physical activity or stress from work. Whatever the cause, I seem to be alternating between an inability to ever fully become awake or an inability to retreat into slumber for the past couple of months.

I spent most of yesterday working on a project for work...trying to calculate the thermal and electrical load of all the computers and network equipment residing in the machine room. Since I do no have the specifications for a number of the key systems this task has proved about as difficult as pulling a rabbit out of my ass without the benefit of any KY-jelly. This has been further complicated by the fact that most of the people who might have the specific documentation are all out enjoying the Christmas break. On Thursday I attempted to directly measure the power consumption of the systems by using an amp meter on the various circuits where they come out of the power distribution units. This proved to be a rather futile effort, despite my precaution of having the duty operator stand by me with a 2 X 4 so that he could knock me loose from any high voltage wires I might get my hand onto, I eventually decided that I could not get accuate readings on most of the key circuits while maintaining any remenant of safety. At one point I told the operator that he probably ought to just let me fry and not bother resucitating since I would probably just be executed later anyway for shorting out the multi-million dollar computers!

I did celebrate the coming of the New Year by lighting off a roll of 1000 Black Cat firecrackers along the fence in front of my house. It would have been much more fun if my brother-in-law, Mike, had been in town so I could have used the fire-crackers to blow-up his mail box again instead. ( It just isn't as much fun if he is not around to come storming out of his house at the sound of the destruction. ) The little girl who lives across the street enjoyed my pyrotechnic display just the same...giggling and laughing with her mother as each of the 1000 mini explosions errupted into the night.

After the firecrackers I retired to bed where my mind continued to thrash around until the Bose radio and new furnace announced that it was morning. Since most of my mental thrashing consisted of an endless list of things I thought would be cool to write about, I decided to get up, make some coffee, and write. However, I thought of far more possible subjects than I can possibly explore today (or probably this year) so the remainder of this post will just be notes of what I thought about. Perhaps I will return to them at a later date and make some scribbles about them. Writing is a demanding compulsion for me... maybe I'll live long enough to explore at least some of the ideas that nag my mind.

Insomnia Thoughts

Writing Possibilities

Sins To Go The Grave--A list of the very few regrets I have about my life, that I will never share with anyone. The list will remain sealed and be burried with me.

Old Lady Emma's Yard---childhood story set in the "haunted" yard of Emma, the old lady who lived/died in the house down the street from where I lived. It should include the huge weeping-willow, the ancient stone fireplace/barbecue that was in the yard and the secret spot where Mark O. and I had behind it. It might also involve the old squirel bones Mark O. and I excavated in that spot, the creaking limbs of the tree and the legend that Emma "willed" herself to death on a specific day.

The Hand---The horor story I used to tell my kids when we would be out camping. Involves Hurds island, being chased by wild dogs, a thunderstorm, hiding in a series of wrecked cars including one where some guy got killed in and his severed hand was left under the seat where I was hiding. A fisherman goes missing the resulting search finds his empty boat with a long green fingernail embedded on the hook of his abandoned fishing rod. The "hand" is after me and is still hot on my trail even after all these years. I have written this before but need to find it again and perhaps edit it.

Biographical Sketches of People I Know---"Gene K. " "Earl V." "Patches" "Benny" "the Fairbanks Bag Lady" "a Fairbanks Hooker" etc. etc.

History of Computer Networking in Alaska or University

History of Chena River--indians,gold miners,early settlers

Something about catching lightning bugs for a penny-apiece

Something about Mastadon Lake and the "swamp": catching tadpoles frogs

TPing adventures...sneaking out of the house at night

Mystery of The Small People---early childhood story about going to Starved Rock looking down at the beach from on top of the rock and being amazed to see miniture people walking around. No one else seemed amazed by what I was seeing.

Journal of Road Trip to Alaska---I wrote this while traveling up here but need to find it again

Fiction story about a man who can telepathacly communicate/control wolves.

Story about government controling all the major computer processor manufacturers so that they can leave a hidden "back-door" into the technology. The discovery of this and the subsequent exposing of this fact (or the decision to let it remain a secret)

My Obituary

2005-12-30T13:39:00.000-09:00

I must be getting old. I notice that I have recently begun reading the obituaries when perusing the news paper... an amusing habit that I used to attribute only to my elders. Having now read several "obit" collumns I am amazed by "fluffy" B.S. written in them. An axe murdering child molester finally gets put to death in a penetentary and his obituary would probably say that "Chester passed peacfully into the arms of his heavenly father while his hundreds of friends dimmed the lights in thier rooms in honor of his passing....Chester spent his life showing love to children in his own special way..." What a crock of crap!! In order to prevent such an abuse of the English language from taking place at the time of my demise, I have written my own obituary. The following is what I have come up with.

Aurora Beacon News---Obituaries--- Date: xx/xx/xxx

Tom Bachert July 4, 1957 -- xxxx #, ####

Hello people of Aurora. I am writing this to let all of you know that I am now dead. Yep, my body and I had a falling-out and now we're going our separate ways. This happened on (Date) in (Location) because ( a brief reference to what killed me. If it was something interesting like I got eaten by a bear or died of an STD it can be a bit longer, otherwise just a sentence will do).

If you think you might know me but can't quite remember who I am here are a few facts about me that might trigger the old gray matter. ( don't feel bad, its been a long time since I've lived in Aurora). I shared my fantastic parents, Kurt and Shirley Bachert with my older siblings, Tim, Sue (Chudzick) and Barbara. I spent much of my childhood attending St. Paul's Lutheran School and was confirmed into that congregation in 1970. Later, I attended and graduated from East Aurora High School with the class of 1975. I led a pretty typical life in Aurora and don't think I have any great accomplishments to brag about nor any terrible screw-ups to be ashamed about. I might have broken the hearts of a few pretty girls (if so, I am sorry..well, not really, but I probably should at least claim I am). I did make some good friends and certainly I have many good memories of growing up in Aurora with all my relatives and other good people that surrounded me

After graduating high school I attended Northland College in Ashland WI where I earned a degree in Environmental Science in 1979. I returned to Aurora to work for a year and then married my Chicago sweetheart Cindy (Cunningham) in August of 1980. She was never afraid of a little adventure so we made a honeymoon of driving my pick-up with all our belongings to Fairbanks, Alaska. We have lived there ever since. Fairbanks winters are cold and dark so it didn't take us long to produce three children, Jeremiah (1982), Rachel (1985) and Leah (1989). To feed my growing family I worked for a short time as a Fisheries Technician with the Alaska Department of Fish and Game and for a much longer time, in the computer networking field, for the University of Alaska and the Arctic Region Super Computer Center. Life in Alaska has been a great adventure and although my occupation has usually had me flying a desk, I have had plenty of free time to enjoy my passion for the outdoors. I have tricked many a fish to strike my fly, have stalked moose and caribou through tundra aflame in autumn colors and have gazed in wonder as the norther lights paint their masterpieces above snow covered mountains. Through it all my wife Cindy has stood at my side and my children's smiles have warmed even the coldest nights.

My future plans are shrouded in mystery as any good adventure should be. My survivors will see to it that my body embarks on its journey back into the earth as they see fit. As for me, I have faith that my creator will show me even greater beauty than I've already experienced along the trail so far. If I'm mistaken, and I don;t think I am, and the trail ahead leads to shall we say a "hotter climate", at least I'll have a chance to thaw-out from all these cold Fairbanks winters!

Fairbanks Daily News---Obituaries--- Date: xx/xx/xxx

Tom Bachert July 4, 1957 -- xxxx #, ####

Hello people of Fairbanks. I am writing this to let all of you know that I am now dead. Yep, my body and I had a falling-out and now we're going our separate ways. This happened on (Date) in (Location) because ( a brief reference to what killed me. If it was something interesting like I got eaten by a bear or died of an STD it can be a bit longer, otherwise just a sentence will do).

Many of you might know me, or at least recognize me as being that big blond guy that likes to wear his hair in all kinds of crazy ways. Maybe you know me as that guy always hanging around Nurse Cindy or that goofy computer nerd up at the university. Anyway, here are some facts about my life that may or may not interest you. On July 4, 1957, at Aurora IL, I was born to Kurt and Shirely Bachert and became the youngest member of a loving family consisting of my brother Tim and sisters Barbara and Susan. I attended grade school at St. Paul's Lutheran School, high school and graduated fro East Aurora High School in 1975. I then traveled to Ashland, Wisconsin where I attended Northland College, earning a degree in Environmental Science in 1979. One year later I married my sweetheart my sweetheart, Cindy (Cunningham) who you probably know as Nurse Cindy. Believe it or not, I was a pretty good looking guy back then and this fact combined with my new wife's adventurous personality led her to agree to the idea of spending our honeymoon driving to Alaska. Fairbanks was still a pretty rough and tumble town back then so we fit in pretty well and have stayed ever since.

The cold, dark Fairbanks winters stimulated the rapid growth of our newly founded family giving rise to three children, Jeremiah (1982), Rachel (1985) and Leah (1989). In order to feed my growing family I worked for a short time as a Fiseries Technician in Pelican for the Alaska Department of Fish and Feathers. I attended UAF to get a teaching certificate and student taught Biology and Chemistry at Lathrop High School (1981-82). Since then I have worked within the computer networking field for the University of Alaska and the Arctic Region Super Computer Center. (the key word here is NETWORKING, so please don't call me if your having trouble with your PC...oh..thats right, I" m dead, so I guess you can't call me anyway.)

I have truly loved my life here in Fairbanks and have met some fantastic people while working and playing in this great land. Hopefully most of you have enjoyed having me around for this time and I have been able to put a smile on your faces occasionally. Likewise I hope the Grayling in the Chena don't hold me forever resoponsible for their sore lips and the moose and caribou are not insulted by my clumbsy attempts at shooting them. ( Truth be known, I always liked the taste of beef better...no insult to your antlered heads intended...its just that a T-bone is hard to beat ) Now its time to bid all of this farwell. Thank-you Alaska for such a great adventure. Thanks for the unbelivable skys, the glistening crystals of your pristine snow and most of all, for your people that are even more colorful than the masterpieces your lights periodically paint above your mountains. Thank-you Cindy, for having to courage to venture with me to this great land and for being forever at my side. Thank-you Jeremiah, Rachel and Leah for brightening even the coldest, darkest night with your radiant smiles.

(this paragraph is to be written by my survivors outlining the specifics of any parties they want to have in celebration of my future adventures.)

Winter Walk

2005-12-29T21:53:00.000-09:00

The silver crescent moon fades behind the pastel canvas of a December dawn. I check the laces of my boots and follow the two lines etched into the crystalline snow by the runners of a dog-sled that passed this way sometime during the night. The snow screeches under the tread of my boots. My mind searches momentarily for the Eskimo word for this type of snow but quickly concludes that I never learned the word. I know I have read the word before...In an article about native languages. Was it the Yupik or the Inupiaq Eskimos that have something like a hundred different words to describe the various types of snow? Sheesh, I can't even remember which people the article was talking about let alone the word! I recently read a different article about a savant somewhere who read an enormous number of books and could quote what was written on any given page in any of the books even months after having read it. I wish I could do that. Ya that would be a nice talent to have, but then again, if I was that savant I probably would not be walking along this trail reveling in the rarefied winter light right now. No, I don't think I want to trade places.

The End (Please ignore the "Read More" link below)

Where The Girls Are

2005-12-22T20:16:00.000-09:00

Sunday, December 28, 2005...The Fairbanks Daily News-Miner front page headlines read, "Where the girls are". The article which follows discusses a recent study that decries the fact that University of Alaska students are 39% male and 61% female. The study is obviously flawed as everyone knows it is impossible to determine the gender of at least 2% of today's university students. Actually the article is rather interesting and probably exposes some serious deficiencies within this country's educational system. Still, I couldn't help but wish the News-Minus would publish anonymous" Letters to the Editor." I would love to compose a letter written from the perspective one of the whiskered sourdoughs often seen roaming the Fairbanks streets. This post is the letter I would love to send. I hope it makes you smile.

Dear Editor:

Sunday's front page article, "Where the girls are" is just another example of those egg-heads up on the hill wasting tax payer dollars on stupid and unneeded studies. If those Lilly-faced, limp-wristed professors had any testosterone or common sense left in their veins they would know that, "Where the girls are" boys will soon be! You don't even need to pass Bio 101 to know this fact...Just ask any father of a daughter and he will tell you I am correct. They need some multi-million dollar super duper computer to tell them that they have more girl than boy students?? Now they need to have multiple lavish and expensive conferences to figure out how to fix the problem?

I say all those over educated pansies should pull there heads out of the pot clouds that drift among their ivy towers and look around. Have they ever looked at some of their students? A good many of that 61% female population are uglier than last fall's moose gut-pile during break-up! They got cheap jewelry (not even gold) piercing through their noses,lips and God knows where else. They adorn their fat roles with kindergarten smears of tattoos and wear jeans that a grub-stake miner would be embarrassed to wear. Christ, any male student engaging in a panty raid on that campus better come with a fork-lift and gas mask if he expects to carry off any of those girl's under-garments. Yes, it is true that boys will appear wherever the girls are but first, you need girls that can be recognized as being girls! If the University wants to get more boys paying tuition then they should institute an acceptance policy for girls that weeds out ones resembling hemorrhoids on the back side of a grizzly. The university could also plan social events and activities which showed off their coeds...Maybe start a tradition of "bra-less Tuesdays" or some such thing. A good old fashioned dress code would also do wonders in getting boys to shell out some dollars for tuition. Maybe they could ban all piercing (unless actively being administered by a member of the male student body of course!) and ban girls from wearing those baboon-butt fanny packs.

Of course my common sense plan will only work in getting good ole red-blooded Alaskan men. If the University persists stupidly recruiting estrogen fed momma boys from the east coast preppie schools and homo infested California even the finest ice princesses won't entice them to go to school here. Hell, I understand that the University currently wastes thousands of tax payer dollars doling out scholarships to students from France and other penis challenged countries. It's no wonder that those scientists spend so much time researching "male enhancing drugs". Maybe if the University spent a little more time recruiting students from the mining camps and fishing boats here in Alaska they would be able to sell "Trojan Magnums" at Wood Center's condom counter instead of those "MiniAsian Flashes". Converting those girlie European style soccer fields into real American style football fields might also attract some non-homo boys to campus...at least if you could keep those California Frisbee fondlers off the grass.

Ya, I know, I don't have an alphabet soup of letters following my name so I surely don't have the credentials to be advising all those smart guys up on the hill how to attract more male students. (ever wonder why those "guys" really want to attract more MALE students in the first place?? I think the Democrats probably laced their wacky-tabacky with a little too much estrogen myself ! ) But hey, there is hope. General Hamilton is now running the place and you know he has experience recruiting young men. He knows the importance of building and maintaining a good infrastructure. He recognizes the importance of good "breeding stock." Maybe he will adopt some of my ideas...if not...He can always just institute a draft!

Sincerely,

Woody Longfello

Our First Meeting---the real story

2005-12-18T21:05:00.000-09:00

Recently my eldest daughter Rachel, posted on her blog (Rachels Posting) two versions of the same story.The story describes how my wife and I first met and goes on to describe our later engagement. The first version is told from my wife's perspective and the second is told from my perspective, Taken together they show the rather humerous differnces between how men and women might view the same events. However, I am afraid there are several factual errors in my daughter's translation of these horrifying events that took place some 28 years ago. This post will hopefully clarrify some of the mis-translations pertaining to our first meeting. Perhaps I will add subsequent posts about our eventual enagement and early romance.

Mom, tell me about the first time you met daddy...

Lets see...it was back in June of 1977 when I first met your father. I am 18, fresh out of Catholic high school and a good girl still confused about this business of love. I had a boyfriend or two before ...the last one of which turned out to be gay! I had no idea until he took me to a party one night and it turned out to be a rather "queer" event if you know what I mean. I about puked and my dad was ready to kill the guy when he took me home, but thats another story. After that I consider being a nun but decide to stick with my dream of becomng a nurse. I am scheduled to start nursing school at the end of the summer but on the day in question I am starting my first day on a summer job at the Gas company where my dad works. The company hires college kids of employees as meter readers to fill-in for the permanent meter readers who often take vacation during the summer months. I am sitting in the supervisor's office waiting for another summer hire to show up so we can begin our orientation. We are about to begin, figuring the other person is going to be a "no-show" when the door burst open and this BIG blonde guy with hair almost to his sholders comes waltzing in. His ice-blue eyes give my body a good scanning and then he turns to the supervisor, shakes his hand, and introduces himself. His presence gives me such a jolt that I don't even catch his name. The supervisor begins the orientation and I do my best at paying attention to what the new job involves but this blond guy just seems bored except for the occasions when I catch him staring at my butt...which by the way...looked pretty nice under the tight white jeans I was wearing...if I may say so myself. Anyway, the orientation finally ends and the supervisor offers to take us both out to lunch. We pile into a company car, the supervisor and the blond guy in the front and me in the back. We get to this cafe and we approach the door to go inside. The blond steps out ahead and holds the door open for me. Well, I figure we are going to be working together and thus should be equals, so I say, "We are going to work together so you don't need to open doors for me!" The next thing I know the door is b slammed in my face. It is a rather rough start but there is something different about that guy. Everytime my eyes lock with his ice-blues, my legs feel all rubbery and my face flushes. Somehow I sense an intertwined fate. That evening when I get home my mom asks me how the job went. I turn to her and reply, "I met the man that I am going to marry!" Grandma gives me kind of a wierd smile and says, "Oh ya, what's his name?" Suddenly I realize that I don't even remember his name!

The rest of June is filled with the hum drum of work. Every morning all the meter readers meet in a big room to be issued our "book" of meters to read for the day. Every morning the blond guy shoots rubber bands at my butt and teases me mercilessly. I do learn his name is Tom and that he goes to college in Wisconsin but he never asks me out and I am to scared to ask him. Every evening I go home talking endlessly about him and dreaming him...especially his cute, tight rear end and playful smile. My chance finally arrives over the Fourth of July weekend. I learne that July 4th is Tom's birthday and also that he has scheduled an appointment to get his wisdom teeth removed prior to the holiday weekend. I summon my courage and call him at home to wish him Happy Birthday. His mother answers the phone and agrees to put him on the line after warning me that he can't talk very well. When he picks up the phone I blurt out "Happy Birthday...I have a birthday kiss for you." (god..I couldn't believe I actually said it!) He mumbles something almost unitelligable but I finally figure out he is saying something about needing to take a rain-check on my offer because his mouth is swelled almost shut and smells like a rat's hemmroid. (such romantic words!) The next week he cashes in on his rain check and we go on our first date...out for Pizza and then to the first Star Wars movie. (maybe this event deserves a seperate posting) Anyway...the rest is history.

Dad, tell me about the first time you met mommy...

Hmm...Lets see...that was back there around 1978 or 1977 I think. "Hey, Cindy...what year was it when we first met?" Ya, mom says it was 1977 so that must be when it was. I think it was June because it was the first day of a summer job I had that summer. It was a job reading meters for the gas company that my dad worked for. I had done the same job the previous summer but based out of a different city back in Illinois. It was fun summer work and I could tell you many stories about working those summers but that is not what you asked me so I will try to stay on topic. I was a bit of a "wild child" back in those days. I had just finished my Freshman year of college and was feeling like or at least trying to act like a real man of the world. During the previous year my long time high school sweetheart had broken up with me and although that had broken my heart for a few days when it happened by the time June rolled around I was on a mission to conquer the world. I had car pooled to work that morning with another guy that I had worked the previous summer with. He owned a delapidated old VW Beetle and we had started the morning by making a "party" of the hour long commute on the Eisenhower Expressway. When we got to the office I learned that I was supposed to go to an orientation in some guy's office so I made my way there and went in the door. There was this chic already there talking to the supervisor. She looked kind of scared and rather "proper" so I flashed her a smile and introduced myself to the boss. The boss launched into rambling on about the job which was rather boring since I had already done a similar job the previous summer so I passed the time by checking the chick out a bit more when she wasn't looking. (this was easy because her attention was pretty focused on the boss man) I noticed that she wasn't bad looking. She had brownish,blondish hair with red undertones, was slim, had nice boobs that she kept hidden too well and a real nice ass. Not a bad prospect at all. I wondered how many other young ladies would also be working there for the summer. Before to long the boss finished his spiel and offered to take us out to get something to eat. The real reason he was offering the free meal was that he wanted to make his daily rounds of the nearby reseraunts to see if he could catch any of the other meter readers gooffing off drinking coffee and eating doughnuts. The company had a policy that no more than 2 company cars could be at any eating establishment's parking lot at one time. If there were more than 2 cars the boss would go inside and "write up" all the meter readers present and they would face discipinary measures. (Ask your mom about this. She has a funny story relating to it.) We drove over to a nearby cafe in a giant Pymoth Fury company car that was about as big as today's pick-up trucks...and which my car-pooling buddy totaled later that summer while I was riding with him. (another story which I will tell you later) Anyway, we got to this cafe and much to the boss man's chagrin there were no other meter readers gooffing off so we decided to go in and get something to eat. By now I was pretty hungry as at that stage in my life I had a perpetual case of the munchies but my mother had taught me well and my hunger didn't cause me to forget my manners. When we got to the door I opened it and held it open for the female in my presence. To my amazement this chick looked me in the eye and blurted out something stupid about us working together and thus she being able to open doors for herself. I thought "Oh God...a woman libber who doesn't even have the decentcy to burn her bra!" and quickly closed the door before I could further offend her.

The next few weeks were pretty run-of-the-mill summer days spent working a summer job. Every morning I would drive through the rush-hour traffic to work, either in my buddies old VW or my dad's extra Odsmobile cutlass. We would spend the first hour in a big room getting our meter reading routes in order. I learned that the chic from the first day was named Cindy and I took great joy in shooting her butt with rubber bands and making her blush. She was cute, the cutest girl working there that summer. I wasn't too sure what to make of her. She was fun but seemed kind of straight-laced which didn't fit the steryotype I had built in my mind of girls from the "city". She rode to and from work everyday with her dad who worked out of the same office and she rarely if ever hung-out with the other meter readers after we finished our "days" work and retired to the nearby parks and forrest preserves to party and play baseball or frisbee. I didn't quite know what to make of her. I never really got around to asking her out as there were other prospects around that seemed to hold a higher promise of success for less effort but she seemed kind of special just the same so I always teased and harrassed her the most when we were together. Around the Fourth of July things changed. I had gone in to get my wisdom teeth removed and the phone rang about the second day after I had them yanked. I was feeling really miserable because the first day after they had been pulled I felt great and ignored my mother's advice and walked the mile or so downtown in the blazing hot sun. That night I got deathly sick and spent the night curled up around the toilet puking my guts up through a mouth that I couldn't even open. So when my mother handed me the phone the next day and told me it was a girl calling for me I was torn between my desire to pursue any and all female possibilities and my fear of sounding like mumbling mummy through my swollen mouth. When I picked up the reciever I was greeted by your mother's sweet voice wishing me a Happy Birthday and then, quite uncharacterisically, promising me a Birthday kiss! "Wow...maybe I had mis-read this chic...maybe she was a 'big city' hottie in disguise!" Not wanting to pass up such an unexpected offer I quickly mumbled something about if I could take a rain-check. She agreed and our conversation continued for several minutes. She spoke sweet comforting words about the agony I was experiencing and I perodically grunted my appreciation. The next week I asked her to go to the Star Wars movie with me. Little did I realize that "the Force" was with her and that my "Evil Empire" was destined for doom. (or is it the other way around...life is so confusing sometimes!! )

Strange Sounds Are Heard Under the Midnight Gloom

2005-08-13T00:54:00.000-08:00

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?

2005-08-09T23:36:00.000-08:00

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

2005-08-09T17:28:00.000-08:00

"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

2005-08-03T14:16:00.000-08:00

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!

Red Rock Canyon Eternity

2005-07-08T17:19:00.000-08:00

July 3, 2005
near mile post 214 of the Richardson Highway
camped in Red Rock Canyon

My lungs gulp for cool air like a fish pulled from water. My ears drum to the rhythm of my throbbing heart. “Man I am out of shape! Why do I do this to myself?” I mumble as I plant one foot up the steep slope and take another step.

“Hey dad, are you O.k.?”

I squint against the bright sky and see my 20 and 16 year old daughters patiently waiting for me about 50 yards above. Their golden hair glistens as it floats in the breeze and their smiles give no indication of the fatigue my 48 year-old bones feel. Sucking in enough reserve air for speech I reply, “Ya,,,I’m just checking out this cool looking plant….I think it’s a Lupine.” Hoping, but not really believing that my daughters will accept this lame excuse for why I stopped, I continue my trek.

Several minutes later I join my daughters atop the alpine ridgeline. All of Alaska seems to open up at our feet. The Delta River valley snakes through glacial rubble and is flanked by tundra, pot-holed with lakes, spreading out like a blanket to the eastern horizon. Directly below, our tents erupt like tiny bubbles from the ocher floor of our campsite. The fluffy green of mountain meadow rolls out behind us paving a dreamy path into the red, jagged peaks guarding the heart of the Alaska Range. The silhouette of an eagle soars on the afternoon thermals against the backdrop of the dark clouds approaching from the south. We lie down on the soft green tundra and are instantly swaddled in its sun warmed, mossy arms and fingers of fragrant lichens. Opening my eyes my mind is sucked into the infinity of the sky. We have climbed into heaven!

It is later now. The southern clouds with their biting wind and threatening rains eventually chased my girls and I from our mountaintop paradise. The descent went easier for me than the ascent. I think the extra weight I carried around my belly on the way up worked to my advantage on the way down! My son and his wife guided us back to camp with a scent trail of steaks roasting over an open fire and the promise of a foamy Guinness beer. We mellowed in the fading evening light playing cards, petting the dogs and watching campfire embers fade into nothingness. It is now after midnight and is officially the 48th anniversary of my birth. I wonder if my mother, at that distant point on time’s highway, had any inkling of a hallucination that her labor would result in me being at this place now. Did she sense the contentment, the peace, the solitary companionship I am experiencing. Did she know that the hard rocks that make up my bed tonight could feel more comfortable than the softest mattress? Does she know these things now?

Fishing the Ribbon of Time

2005-06-20T17:08:00.000-08:00

The polar sun bakes Fairbanks like a roasted salmon. Its rarified light is just as unrelenting as winter's cold darkness. I grew up living amid the humid haze of Chicago’s summers but the savagery of the high latitude sun still drains the energy from my soul like no other. It's late Sunday afternoon when I wipe my sweat stinging eyes and head into the shadows of my house. A cold glass of water dripping with droplets of condensation; a cool shower; wonderful antidotes for global warming I think. I have spent the last two days turning wrenches on my boat engine and plowing seeds into the warm earth of my garden. Now it's time to cool off , relax and to enjoy the remaining hours of my weekend.

I emerge from the shower refreshed and enlivened by the cool sensation of water evaporating from my still wet hair to find my son, Jeremiah, standing in my kitchen. I learn he is in town because his new wife had to come into Fairbanks to attend a bridal shower of a friend. I take one look at Jeremiah’s bored face and instantly realize what must be done. Twelve hours remain of the weekend, my favorite son is visiting with nothing to do, while swarms of Arctic Grayling are calling from the nearby Chena River begging us to come entertain them. "Lets go fishing,” I mutter as I reach for my fishing cap and head out the door. Jeremiah is a good boy and knows better than to argue with his old man on such matters. Scrub, my prehistoric golden retriever lying in a state of deep coma on the kitchen floor, over-hears the word “fishing” and instantly springs back to life.

The three of us sink into the squashed seats of my 1985 Berretta and head out of town. Jeremiah’s house is about 25 miles out Chena Hot Springs road and we need to stop there so that he can retrieve his fishing gear along with his two black labs, Jezzebel and Duke. The Berretta bounces along the frost-heaved highway slicing through heat-snakes writhing above the hot asphalt. Jeremiah turns to me saying, “ I found a new place along the river. Its back along those trails behind HIPAS. There’s a nice deep run along a hillside and then the river breaks across a long gravel bar. The Grayling were splashing the surface pretty good when I was down there the other evening.”

I think to myself, “Twenty-three years of teaching the boy how to read the waters of life are beginning to pay-off….Now he is finding places for me to fish instead of the other way around.” but my only verbal reply is, “Sounds good to me. I’m always up for trying a new piece of water.”

We pull into Jeremiah’s gravel driveway to the excited greetings of Jezz and Duke dancing about their chain-link kennel. Scrub raises his head off the Berretta’s back seat with an expression that tells me he is both happy to have some canine companionship but also dreading the frenzied ruckus that his younger companions will inevitably cause in his life. Jeremiah immediately sets to the task of locating his fishing gear while I quench my dusty throat with an icy bottle of Alaska Amber Ale retrieved from his refrigerator.

“Dad, you know those trails down to the river are pretty narrow…maybe we should take the dirt bikes. I don’t really want to risk scratching the new truck's paint all to hell on the brush.”

I take one look at Scrub’s tired, cloudy eyes and arthritic gait and reply, “I don’t think poor Scrub will survive the run and I would feel too guilty leaving him behind. Do you think the Berretta can make it?”

“Hmm…It’s not very muddy but there are some pretty bad bumps. I’m not sure…. wouldn’t want you to ruin your car trying.”

The gauntlet had been laid. How could I refuse such a challenge questioning the fitness of Bertha the Berretta? “Of course old Bertha can make it! Her shocks have already conquered a couple hundred thousand miles of Alaskan pot-holes. I don’t think another five miles will cause her any trouble” And so the decision was made.

Jeremiah throws his fishing gear into Bertha’s trunk along with several more bottles of icy beer. I hold the passenger door open and call the dogs to pile into the back seat. “Dad, you know Jezz is in heat. Maybe you don’t want her riding back there.”

I look at the piles of paper and other debris littering the back seat and ignore his warning. The three dogs pile into a heap of excited, slobbering fur and Jeremiah and I climb into the front. Bertha settles into a low stable stance under the weight and growls out onto the road. We drive the few miles to the signpost advertising HIPAS (High Power Auroral Stimulation observatory) where Jeremiah works and turn left onto the gravel road leading to the facility. We pass the bunk-house and the field housing the antenna array before we turn left onto the tractor trail which leads to the river. The trail looks pretty tame with well defined tire ruts carved into the sun baked silt along either side. Feeling confident I place Bertha’s wheels in the tire tracks and accelerate slightly. “Schree-bang-crunchhh!” Bertha’s low hung under-carriage immediately begins plowing through the high ground centered between the ruts. Instinctively I jerk the wheel to the left and Bertha drags her wheels up and continues forward straddling the left tire rut. Unfortunately this position places the left bumper well within the surrounding brush. We press on snapping birch, willow and spruce limbs off with little regard. I roll the window up to prevent my face from getting whipped by the passing brush but as soon as I do this a particularly nasty birch branch snags the chrome molding above my door and peels it half off Bertha’s rampaging frame. I roll the window back down and pull the dangling piece of chrome inside. “ Its not much further now.” Jeremiah reassures me as I whip the wheel back over to the right to avoid a confrontation with a particularly large birch tree.

Within twenty minutes the dense underbrush gives way to a small clearing over-looking the clear waters of the Chena. We pile out of the car, the dogs heading straight to the refreshing water while Jeremiah and I go directly to Bertha’s leaf covered trunk. Popping open the trunk we snatch up the can of bug dope and spray ourselves with a liberal mist of Alaskan perfume in hopes of deterring the cloud of winged, black, blood-sucking devils forming around us. Next we struggle into our chest waders which for some unknown reason have shuink a size since last year’s fishing season. “Damn things might not keep the water out but at least they should keep these friggin bugs from turning our legs into hamburger.” I huff as I stuff a beer into the chest pocket of my waders.

We assemble our fly-rods and tie on some fresh tippet material. “What fly are you going to use?”

I look out at the river. A spring green hillside rolls out along the opposite shore and sunlight dances along the bumpy currents of the intervening water. Squinting through my polarized sunglasses I discern an occasional dimple of feeding fish among the currents but am unable to make out any insect activity above the surface. “ It’s probably the wrong choice but I think I will start out with an elk-hair caddis. It just seems wrong to catch the first Grayling of the summer on anything else.” I tie on a #16 tan caddis but fail to take note of Jeremiah’s selection. “Whatever we use, we better be quick about it. That looks like a pretty nasty thunder cloud sneaking up on us from the North East.” As if waiting for this cue the sky rips with a streak of blue-white arc-light and the ground shivers at its thunder.

We huddle among the dense under-brush while initial clouds of approaching storm pour buckets of water and jolts of electricity upon the earth. The dogs seem oblivious to the storm and romp through the nearby spruce, returning to us every few minutes to deliver additional mosquitoes to the already thick clouds blurring our eyes and buzzing in our ears. As the rain drifts into a light drizzle we realize that the dogs have been absent for a bit longer than normal and thus set out to find them. A short distance away we spy them, rolling about in a small clearing, paws waving vigorously at the passing clouds while they ecstatically scratch their backs on the ground. “Oh Shit!!!” Jeremiah and I lunge forward towards the mutts knowing full well that such canine ecstasy can only be induced by the most vile of aromatic evils. We stumble out of the brush and the mosquitoes drop off our face, vomiting their blood meals in hopes of escaping the scorching stench. The three mutts look up at us with intoxicated eyes as they wiggle and giggle atop the long dead moose carcass. Scraps of fur, splintered bones and dried viscera boogers lie scattered about the grizzly killed moose. How nice of the bruin to leave some of his springtime dinner for the enjoyment of our delightful pooches!

We hustle the happy hounds back to the river in the hopeless hope that maybe its clear waters will remove enough of their stink that we will be able to venture within a few hundred yards of them without having maggots infest our noses. “Holy shit….do you see that Dad?” I look up in time see broad splayed wings swooping out of the spruce on the opposite bank. In seemingly slow motion the eagle turns its white head and yellow eye towards us before screeching a warning at the dogs and drifting up the valley against the steel gray sky.

The sky continues to spit rain on us but we decide to fish anyway. I have learned over the years that Grayling seem to dislike rain as much as I, which is one of the reasons I love them so. We work our way slowly down-stream, with Jeremiah lagging behind me by a couple of hundred yards while the dogs frolic in the shallows between. I pause when I reach the head of the gravel bar. The waters pour over a ledge and swirl into a promising looking pool. I see a fish working the surface just off the point of a beaver chewed birch lying off the far shore. Up-stream I watch my son, waist deep in the rushing water, fly-line looping in the air above his head, connected to me by this ribbon of river and time.

Fairbanks to Nenana Canoe Trip

2005-06-02T22:09:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerp from an email I wrote to a friend describing my May 14-15 2005 canoe trip from Fairbanks to the village of Nenana. While this excerp presents the trip as if it were taken by only my friend Gene and I, In reality Gene's son Anthony, another friend also named Gene and his son also accompanied me. Perhaps I will add to it in the future to make a more complete record of the trip:

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times........well. O'k, it wasn't really the BEST nor the WORST but it did have some of each extreme as any good adventure should. The day prior to our departure I informed my friend Gene that I was not going to go if it is raining. He accepts this statement with a grunt implying that I am a sissy for making such an assertion but I know he is secretly relieved. Many years ago Gene, my then 6 year old son and I had embarked on a similar expedition but ignored the bellowing rain gods. That trip involved great misery, a near child sacrifice, hauling a canoe and 20 tons of supplies up a cliff, and almost a helicopter rescue, but I diverge from the topic at hand.

This time, the rain gods hide behind sunny skies and unseasonably warm temperatures at our departure. As I scramble around getting my stuff together before leaving, my wife asks me if I packed any sun screen. I know that I have not but wanting no further delay I make some unintelligible mumbling as I often do in such situations and run out the door. The first few hours are great and it feels wonderful to be riding the mysterious currents again. The Tanana river is fed by glaciers living in the mountains to the south and the river has carved out a hundred mile wide valley in which the city of Fairbanks lies nestled. The water is moving along at a good clip, about 5 knots, but when we are in the middle and no longer have a close visual reference to land, it seems we were floating atop a placid lake. Occasionally we find ourselves traveling one of the river's narrower braids and then we notice the swiftness of our progress and need to take a little care in avoiding obstacles. As the day drifts on the sun is a relentless companion. It is odd to feel like a basted turkey while surrounded by 35 degree ice water. The glaciers birthing the river pulverize the granite mountains in their labor so the waters carry a heavy load of silt and run the color of skim milk. The silt particles slide along our canoe like rosin on a violin bow, playing a constant, barely audible river song. The sun scorches my winter pale flesh and cracks my lips.

"Damn...why didn't I take my wife's advice and bring some sun-screen? Oh well, be a friend and hand me another beer, will ya Gene?"

The above statement pretty much sums up our first day on the water. We see a half a dozen bald eagles, drink several cold beers and let the river provide its musical accompaniment to our many stories of old. At about 5PM we come across a flock of Trumpeter swans sunning themselves on a gravel bar. We pull our canoe up on the rocks across from them and set up camp. There are some tracks which we can not identify in the sand near our camp. Straight lines of track run directly from the surrounding brush to the water. No distinct footprints can be seen in the tracks because the drag marks of a rough haired body obscure them. Gene thinks they are maybe the marks of a porcupine or wolverine, I think maybe a beaver dragging brush to the river but there is no sign of beaver gnawing on nearby trees. There are also tracks left by moose and a lone wolf. There are no human or bear tracks, always a nice omission from a campsite. We start a fire of driftwood and soon are enjoying New York steaks smothered in mushrooms, onions and roasted red peppers and washing it down with river cold Guinness. Life is good!

That night, lying in my tent I sense the approaching rains. The skies are dusky with twilight as the birch leaves begin to rustle under a breeze........................

There is more to the story of course, but I am afraid I am out of time to write about it. The rain gods found us of course, and the next day was quite the opposite of the first. A head-wind buffeted our canoe with no remorse. The temperature lolled around the 40 degree mark, and conflicting currents formed whirlpools where the river braids came together, causing some consternation among the occupants in our canoe. We made it to our destination with no real mishaps. Gene suffered mild hypothermia which was accentuated when he performed a perfect backward swan-dive into the river while dismounting the canoe. ( his legs were stiff with cold and unexpectedly malfunctioned when needing them the most) Even the bad weather couldn't ruin the day. At one point we drifted by some tall cliffs and were engulfed for a time by hundreds of iridescent bank swallows performing a great show of acrobatics. At the village of Nenana we found comfort in eating a Monderosa burger at the traditional road house.

Signs That You've Lived in Fairbanks Too Long

2005-05-16T20:06:00.000-08:00

Do You See Signs? May 12,2005
Fairbanks Daily News Minor
Letter to the Editor, By David A. James
Clifications for non-Alaskan reader placedc in ( ) by me

Here's more signs that you've lived in Fairbanks too long for your own good:

You miss Wally Hickel (right wing radical governor). You still haven't pulled the (left wing) "Fran Ulmer for Governor" bumper sticker off the back end of your Subaru. You read in the News-Miner that North Pole is a town full of "red-necks, renegades and religious fanatics" and think, "Hot damn! Here I come! You used to worry about those people out in Ester; now you live there. You're a right-wing conspiracy theorist. You're a left-wing conspiracy theorist.

You drive out of your way to see what the sign at Bible Baptist Church says. You find yourself agreeing with the sign. The last work you did on your Alaska dream home was when you wrapped it in Tyvek and slapped plywood over the floor joists and then moved in and that was 22 years, two wives, and three live-in girlfriends ago.

The term "getting your meat" which once meant moose hunting in the fall, now means grabbing a pound of chicken strips at Fred Meyer. The only thing you own that's larger than your truck is the NRA sticker affixed to it. Your long hair just can't cover up your redneck...or your potbelly.

While rummaging through a dumpster at the transfer station, you stop to answer your cell phone. You walk into Lowe's without realizing its a new store, you just assume Home Depot has changed from orange to blue. You don't mind the long lines at Alaska Coffee since the wait gives you time to ponder the tattoos on the baristas. The highlight of your day is reading the letters to the News-Miner.

You think "planned parenthood" means having more kids so you can collect their PFDs (Permanent Fund Dividend checks). You didn't know that PFD is also a term for life jacket. You can't get out on the river because your air-boat broke down in 1987 and ever since then has been sitting on a dilapidated trailer in the front yard of your unfinished Alaska dream home.

If any or the above applies to you, congratulations. You are now one of us.

David A. James
Fairbanks

Springtime In Alaska and it's 40 below---not quite

2005-05-01T17:41:00.000-08:00

The bright orb of the sun punctuates ocean blue sky fabric and pushes the mercury past the seventy degree mark. Amid Sandhill cranes basking in sun drenched fields, tree swallows dive in love sick spirals and Morning Cloak butterflies stretch hibernation stiff wings. Humans scurry about fueled by anxiety...anxiety about the possibility missing a single moment of this precious gift called summer. Boats buzz like mosquitoes along the river as engines are tested for soundness. Rakes rattle through the winter dry grasses emerging from rotting snow-pile corpses. Children with rubber boots sloshing at their knees stomp through mud-puddle seas. Smiling parents look on in envy, too bedazzled by the new found sun to care about mud stained clothing.

Here I sit in the bed of my pick-up truck, surrounded in all directions by spruce forests dripping on soggy carpets of snow. Mosquitos pester the snout of Scrub, the aged Golden Retriever resting at my feet. Sipping my pint of Guinness I conemplate the river 30 yards ahead, its coils meandering westward towards Fairbanks some 20 miles distant. I squint at a dimple spreading across its surface...."Can it be? Is an Arctic Grayling already arriving for its summer feeding banquet of crunchy insects?" Instinctively I reach where my fly rod should be stowed, but then I remember my purpose for being here on this fine day. I take another swig of Guiness and pull my eyes back into focus on the text book of Spanish lying on my lap. Final exams are in two days and many verb conjugates remain to be crammed into my head before I can become a danger to that Grayling calling me to river's edge.

All In The Rivers Time

2004-02-18T19:18:00.000-09:00

All In The River’s Time
By Tom Bachert

The old man lurches forward with a slight groan, dragging the canoe bow securely onto the black pebbles of the long-forgotten gravel bar. Salty sweat blurs his fading vision as he reaches for the familiar gritty cork handle of his fly rod. The tattered remains of a small Elk-Hair Caddis flutters in the late afternoon breeze as he trudges through the ancient gravel towards the deep, cold pool at the tail of the gravel spit. His nose wrinkles at the sour smell of the spawned-out King salmon now feeding the gulls from its casket of shoreline rocks. Instinctively his eyes search the shoreline for any sign of lurking bear. Seeing none, he continues his trek towards the awaiting pool…a pool of promise. A pool seething with iridescent fins of Arctic Grayling long hidden from man by lonesome miles. A pool of memories, sealed forever by passing years.

The man pauses to rest and leans his weary bones against the bleached white skeleton of a large spruce trunk deposited on the gravel bar by the spring floods. “No sense in hurrying,” he muses to himself while staring blankly at the dark granite mountains through which the river has cut its course over the eons. “No hurry, all in the river’s time. No sooner, no later…all in the river’s time.” A slight breeze ruffles the white down growing on the tip of a fireweed flower stubbornly rooted at the base of nearby boulder, sending a few silky seeds into the air and reminding the man of the quickly approaching Alaskan winter. “When the fireweed turns to ash, time to make moose hash!” he laughs, recalling one of his late wife’s joyful proverbs about this time of year.

Throughout the many years they had traveled together, Katrina, his Russian-born wife, had always taken special delight in preparing each season’s first meal of moose, garnishing it with the garden’s bounty of potatoes and a dessert of fresh-picked blue berries. Katrina learned to prepare the rich meat with a proper reverence for both animal and taste-bud under the patient guidance of an Athabascan Indian woman who had taken the young, city-raised girl under wing. The beauty of the memory brings water to the man’s mouth as well as his eyes. Embarrassed with himself, he gruffly wipes his eyes and begins walking again.

Arriving at the head of the pool he stops to gaze into the depths of its swirling icy eyes. Its cobalt blue surface mirrors the rarified sky above and jolts his mind with reflections of his daughter’s eyes. She had been birthed into this world on a snowy winter night in a small cabin just a hundred yards or so back from the far bank of this pool, and these waters had cleansed her tiny, pink skin of the rigors of her mother’s labor. The swirling whirlpool of fear, confusion and ecstatic joy blurred the happenings of that night, but the pure blue of his new daughter’s eyes pierced the haze then, just as they burn through the fog of the years now. On that moonless night he declared her name to be Sapphire . During the years that followed her sparkling eyes added more glitter to his life than all the gold he had ever dredged from these lands. Ah, but like the shiny young fingerlings that spend their minnow-hood in this pool, she had long since left these waters to grow large in the distant sea.

The man shifts his gaze deeper into the pool towards a large, flat stone projecting at an angle from the submerged base of the cut-bank. The shadows of the depths obscure the details of the marble slab’s edges, despite the crystalline clarity of the icy water. His eyes strain against the current’s all encompassing movement, straining to detect the slightest movement of life. The autumn’s confetti of yellow and gold birch leaves drift through his field of vision, carried forever seaward by the river’s currents, yet his physical senses pick up no trace of the fish he pursues. Despite this lack of evidence, the man knows the fish is there, lurking among the shadows, waiting patiently in the pool’s rocky lair. It’s been there for years, growing larger and heavier with each passing season, its sail like dorsal fin fluttering like the most delicate butterfly wings amid the turbulence of the passing current. The fish has risen to his fly on several occasions, sucking heavily on his feathery offerings. It has even felt the sting of his hook more than once but has never felt the touch of his hand. The local Alaska natives believe that an animal must choose to give its soul to the hunter before it can be taken, and the man wonders if the same does not also hold true for this fish. “Perhaps you will choose me today…Perhaps today our souls will mingle.”

A loud splash downstream near the tail of the pool jolts the man from the depths of his thoughts. He looks up to see a beaver determinedly dragging a fresh Aspen bough through the persistent current. The animal, so preoccupied with its winter preparations, pays no notice to the man or the current’s constant tug. Despite this apparent lack of recognition, the current imparts an angle to the animal’s determined course, gently directing it to the snag-filled mouth of the feeder stream at the base of the pool. The beaver disappears into the incoming stream as if this was always its intended destination. The man cannot see beyond the mouth of the feeder stream yet his mind knows its rock-strewn course well. Indeed, it was the man’s back-breaking labor of dredging its cut banks and sluicing its gravels that molded it into its present shape. An ache in his knees recalls the hours spent standing in its icy torrents wrestling the working end of a suction dredge as it slurped and clawed at the bottom, churning up clouds of gray silt and puking mounds of black gravel into the top end of the sluice box.

During those endless summer days when the sun neither rose nor set, he labored, scarcely noticing the eagles soaring overhead and hardly tasting the food, which Katrina and Sapphire brought down for him. On particularly warm days, wife and daughter would beg him to take a break and join them for an afternoon of frolic and grayling chasing at the cabin’s pool, but he seldom accepted their giggling offers. There was gold in these rocks, and he was determined to find it! And find it he did, or at least so he had thought. It lay nestled behind boulders, embedded in the dark gravels and hiding between the rust-colored garnet layer and underlying bedrock. Tiny yellow flecks grew into slender, sand fingers between the sluice baffles. Occasionally, molten-shaped nuggets fell out of the garnet-laden gravels at the top of the sluice, waiting to be hand picked. His poke of gold grew while his young family’s poke of memories increased each day along the shores of the cabin’s pool. His wife Katrina had taken up the art of fly fishing when Sapphire received a Christmas gift of dyed feathers, caribou fur and a fly tying vise from T-bone Tom, the family’s upriver neighbor. On borealis-lit winter nights mother and daughter delighted in their colorful creations at the vise as much as they marveled at the metallic rainbow-painted fins of the Grayling that swallowed their winter creations under the summer’s midnight sun. Meanwhile, he delighted at the color accumulating on the bottom of his gold pans. Both palettes of hue painted their lives. Gold paved the road to good schools for Sapphire and comfortable living in nearby Fairbanks. However, it was the softer fish pastels that endured the inky blot of that sooty night and the smoky years that followed.

An almost imperceptible movement within the murky depths draws the man’s eyes. There, beside the slab rock, the fish moves. Its impossibly long dorsal fin floats among the current like the sail of a ghost ship. The fish’s silhouette rises from its shadowy lair. Its purple outlined spots grace its bronze sides and wink into the autumn’s light. The silky white underbelly flashes amid the murk as the fish sips some hapless insect from the surface. The fish sinks effortlessly back into the shadowy shroud of the depths with but a small dimple on the river’s surface left to testify of its passing. The man’s eyes search the current’s flotsam for any indication of the identity of the insect just eaten. Was it a tiny mayfly pupa struggling to burst forth with one last generation of new life before winter’s cold fingers seal the river? Was it the spent body of a caddis trapped in the surface film’s sticky coffin after a summer of flying free? The river reveals no answers to the man’s tired eyes.

The man’s nose twitches at the sweet scent of ripened labrador tea and blueberries drifting on a breath of a breeze floating down from the surrounding hills. The breeze ruffles the light tan caribou fur of the fly attached to the end of the man’s gossamer leader. Grasping the fly in his large sandpaper fingers, the man examines the fly. It is one of the few patterns he has learned to tie, a variant elk-hair caddis, made almost exclusively from caribou hair. It is equipped with tented wings, a flared head, and a thick body ornamented with gold ribbing. Katrina had shown him the steps for tying such a creation on a rain soaked spring afternoon. She had explained that it is a rather simple pattern but it floats high and is easy to see amid the confused ripplets of the river’s surface. It imitates an adult caddis fly, living free in the summer air after spending its juvenile years encased in a tomb constructed of river’s golden sands. When she described the caddis fly’s life cycle and the larvae’s propensity for constructing homes from the river’s sand, he had laughed and suggested that perhaps they could be trained to only select the gold dust to use in building their encasements.

“ Guess this tattered fly will work as good as any, “ the man mutters as he steps forward into the pool’s edge and prepares to cast. The back-cast loop straightens and the caribou fur softly whistles along its path to the far side of the pool. The trailing line is caught by the tugging current and the resulting u-shaped loop sends the fly skittering across the surface like a nervous female caddis eager to offload her eggs into the river’s water of destiny. The dancing fly entices no movement from the depths, so the man lifts the rod tip and sends the fly back into the air. The man performs a few quick false casts in order to dry the fly’s wings and contemplates his next strategy.

“It’s a bit late in the season for egg laying…perhaps a more subtle approach is in order.” The man allows the fly to settle onto the surface and then attempts to throw an upstream mend into the line so that the current will not drag on his offering quite so vigorously. Unfortunately his attempt to mend the line is a bit too energetic and the fly lifts off the water and settles into a back-eddy that will not carry it through the fish’s feeding lane. While the lifeless body of the fly drifts uselessly through the eddy, the fish once again materializes like a sulking submarine in the main pool and plucks something from the surface before disappearing back into the depths.

Feeling the frustration with his ineptness building in the pit of his stomach but not wanting to reveal it in his next cast, the man lifts the rod tip and lets the line flow into a backwards “D” off his right side. Just as the fly is about to again become airborne, he pushes the rod tip forward causing the fly to roll out behind him and then travel a circular path back out into the head of the pool. As it settles back into the swirling current he again throws an upstream mend, but this time with summer breeze gentleness. The still wet fly begins a sodden drift directly towards the gray shadows of the submerged slab of rock. This time its drift is unaffected by any current tugging at the trailing line.

The shadows of the pool begin to stir as the fly approaches. A dark silhouette emerges from the murk, taking on the sleek form of the fish as it angles upward towards the hairy offering. The surface boils as the fly vanishes from sight. The man leans back, setting the hook point into the soft mouth of disappearing fish. The rod tip vibrates for a second before bending towards the water as the fish struggles to return to the dark lair beside the submerged stone. The pressure of the rod turns the fish, changing tactics, the grayling surges towards the surface. It erupts from the water into the air spraying gem stone droplets into the autumn’s golden sunlight. The intensity of the display causes the man’s legs to stumble among the rocks. He back-pedals in an attempt to regain a purchase on the steep bank, but the marble-like gravel gives way beneath his boots, and the current’s cold grasp pulls him into the pool. The man raises his arms in an attempt to stem another aerial escape maneuver by the fish. This action causes his head to plunge beneath the entrapping currents.
Air explodes from his lungs as the frigid waters invade his waders and jab at his chest like boxing gloves of ice. For a moment the man thinks of releasing his grip on the rod and all the memories it embodies. Memories of Katrina and Sapphire’s laughter spilling out of the cabin’s walls while they tried to secretly assemble the rod whenever he left. Memories of his wife and daughter’s faces when they presented him with the product of their secret labors on that snowy Christmas morning. The thought letting go of all this is more painful than the watery blows pounding at his life. He clutches his rod’s cork handle even harder. The currents of the pool pull at his feet, dragging him ever closer towards the slab of marble implanted in the river’s heart. The slab that he at erected along the forest’s edge long before the river’s devouring currents had reclaimed it as one of its own. His boots bang against the slab’s algae-slicked surface, sending green strands of detritus into the currents and uncovering the letters he had engraved into it so many years ago through tear-blurred eyes and fingers numb with grief. The river pushes the man ever onward toward this pillar of fate. Through liquid haze, the man’s eyes behold the silt-tarnished letters, “KATRINA …” and the man’s soul leaps with a yearning deep within to forever join this submerged slab of stone. The liquid kaleidoscope engulfing the man rotates and the man again sees the thick smoke rising through the forest in the direction of the cabin site. Once again he feels the mining tools drop from his frozen hands as he sprints from the mine site down the snow clogged trail towards the flames devouring his home. His lungs again burn under the weight of the acrid smoke and his fingers tremble as they probe for life signs on the body sprawled in the crystalline snow. His ears wilt at the sounds of his daughter’s sobbing song emerging from beneath the blanket beside her mother’s corpse. Within the watery tomb the man’s mind screams. “Oh, let this be the day that river chooses me! …The day that it carries me home.”

The fish, angered by the hook’s sting and oblivious to the drama unfolding in the pool depths, streaks down river. It knows not its destination, but only that life lies in action. It bangs the stinging insect imbedded in its lips against boulders and flings it back towards the cobalt sky from whence it came. Yet through all these antics the insect maintains its aching pressure on the fish’s jaw. In desperation, the fish darts into the tangle of branches gyrating in the current beneath a dead-fallen birch. Suddenly, the pressure on its jaw becomes insurmountable, stopping any further progress of retreat. For a moment the fish lies motionless, held fast as the river and leaves wash past its scaled sides. Then driven by its lust for life the fish explodes into frantic flopping and writhing. Its lips of spongy flesh sear with the pain of fire and then go numb as the hook-laden insect pulls free. The river pushes the fish through the remaining tangles and the fish slowly settles back into the cloak of the rocky bottom.

The bend in the rod grasped by the man’s blue hand goes limp causing the man’s eyes to turn skyward. There, rising above the comforting shroud of hallucinogenic memories, burning through the enticing ghosts drifting in the river’s currents, a sapphire sun calls down to him. Unable to resists its song, the man pushes with numb legs against the entrapping stone and lunges towards the shimmering surface. His head breaks into the world of sunlight and cool air rushes into his parched lungs. With the rod still firmly embraced by his hand the man stumbles onto the rocky shoreline.

That night, warming his bones in the flickering campfire light, the man gazes into the colors painted on the river’s surface, reflections of the colors dancing in the sky above. As he reflects on the day’s happenings, a single Boreal Owl glides silently through the darkness and alights on top of the tall spruce tree standing sentry over the old cabin site. The man’s eyes grow heavy and he lies back into the warm folds of his awaiting sleeping bag. As he drifts towards sleep the owl begins a soft series of hoots. Within the bird’s soft serenade the man is sure he hears the words, “All in the river’s time …all in the river’s time.”

Bears & Bones

2001-10-12T18:59:00.000-08:00

The ink of the night presses in upon us. Scrub and I huddle behind the shadowy hulk of my boat resting forlornly on its trailer in our driveway. Moments before we had been part of a different world….a world with televisions blaring harsh reports of terror and disaster to audiences of dirty dishes rotting in sinks. A world of kids complaining of unfair homework assignments. A world where beepers buzz electronic complaints issued from distant computers and electric lights obscure the Alaskan night. Scrub, being of the canine persuasion, never really fit into such a world and thus nuzzled me into taking our nightly walk in his world. Now we find ourselves in the darkness of the approaching winter listening with a mixture of fear and curiosity as teeth or claw shredded lumber and metal just outside our field of vision.

“Who goes there?” I demand, trying to sound like the confident king of my world. The night’s sudden silence was my only answer.

“Is it a bear?” I whisper to Scrub but his only response is a wet lick of my hand reassuring me that I really am the king and thus all must be right in the kingdom as far as he is concerned.

“Geeezz! I live in town. Certainly a bear wouldn’t be stalking me here. Then again this is ALASKA, and this certainly does seem to be the year of the bear.” It began in spring when I watched the “bear” market eat any hopes of an early retirement. This was followed by that June night when my boat broke down miles from the nearest road and those giant grizzly tracks marked off the area where my son and I would be pitching our tent. August had brought that whole family of bruins which raided our backpacks while chasing my son and I away from the best salmon fishing holes along the Talkeetna river. “Hmm, maybe the bears are even stalking me in my own neighborhood now.!

Gathering my courage I reach into my boat and retrieve a flashlight. Boldly I step forward into the darkness and stab at the light's switch. Much to my relief the batteries are still good and a bright yellow beam shoots into the darkness. My heart stops as I see two red eyes mirrored back at me along the edge of the cone of light but it restarts a moment later when I realize the eyes belong to my neighbor’s dog. His chain is tangled and his bowl of moose bones is stuck just out of reach under the corner of his wooden doghouse. Feeling much more like a king I walk over to him, untangle his chain and retrieve his food bowl.

Scrub and I continue our walk under the darkness of the approaching winter once again confident that all is well in the real world as long as one is not tangled in chains and has in possession a warm bowl of bones.

Chena Tales

1990-09-01T20:01:00.000-08:00

September, circa 1990

The First Time

Tonight I find myself camping on a lonely gravel bar. Its bed of dark, igneous stones scratched out over eons from the hills to the south by the fabled waters of the East Fork making their way towards the distant sea. The waters originate deep inside the tangled spine of granite ridgelines separating the Chena and Salcha rivers. Long before the first woman walked these valleys, the backbone’s jagged knuckles jabbed angrily upward at cobalt skies, propelled by turbulent upwellings deep in the earth’s raging mantle. This battle of mountain and sky raged unwittnessed for millennia, the mountain leaking blood of gold while the sky pummeled it with an arsenal of water and ice. By the time woman arrived to sooth the wounds, the battle was nearly complete. The backbone lay slumped over with age, its golden blood dribbling away into watery rivers. Some defiant bones still poke upward several thousand feet, and the beast’s hot subterranean heart continues to pump sulfur broth from a few pores, hinting of a possible counter attack, but for the most part it seems the war has moved elsewhere. The flesh and gore of this archaic battle make up my bed tonight. Upon this bed nestled beneath dark September skies swirling with colors from the earth’s pole I contemplate the landscape, its history, its smells, its future. I ponder my past, my future and yes, even my smell. Most of all, I contemplate the welcome warmth of my sleeping bag as my eyes drift off into the beckoning “other world” called sleep.

Burnt coffee floating on misty morning air wakes me. The warm, womb of my sleeping bag begs me to slumber but thoughts of moose and tangled antlers call to me louder than any alarm clock. The world outside the womb is cold and wet, still untouched by the warming fingers of dawn. Jeff Harrison, a coworker and friend, hands me a steaming mug of the bitter brew. Hot coffee stings my tongue and brings this world back into focus. My eyes clear and at long last behold the majesty of the East Fork country. Until now this landscape had been an ever-changing sketch in my mind’s eye. Its lines etched and tinted by panoramic storytellers wielding word-dipped paintbrushes. Stories of a land uncut by road, accessible only by boat, plane, or soggy boot. Stories of clashing antlers, claw-raked trees and clear, deep pools of finning grayling. Tales of crumbling cabins sinking into frozen forest floor graves, guarded by ghosts of gold seekers, bootleggers and fiery wolf eyes drifting among the fog. The East Fork, the least accessible of the five tributaries that come together to birth the Chena river.
Jeff had been here before so he is a bit less awe struck at being here than I. He and his cousin had taken a nice bull from the hillside directly behind this very gravel bar last hunting season. He owns a 16-foot johnboat with an attached jet unit outboard. A vehicle suitable in providing transportation into this country if also equipped with an adventurous heart and kindly river spirits. The river had treated us kindly last night, allowing us to steak through her snaky twists with mere inches of water cushioning our aluminum hull from the can-opener bottom. No logjams hid behind her many curves and no “sweepers” decapitated us as we sped through her narrow channels. Riding a jet boat in these “skinny” waters is a balancing game between speed and control. Speed is needed in order to plane over the shallowly covered rocks while control is necessitated by narrow curves and ever changing fields of obstacles. Ah, but the river smiled on us last night, sending an eagle to screech directions from above and an icy blanket of water to cool the jagged edges of her soul. Like a virgin she called me to enter but also like a virgin she will never allow me to forget the trespasses I commit in so doing!

June 22, 2001
Reunion

Like a seafarer of old returning to his young bride after a long voyage I return to the East Fork. My ventures have carried me to distant ports and I have cavorted with other lovely ladies, some even sisters and cousins of my bride. I have fought battles, looted king’s castles and spilled blood and tears on distant seas. Seas thrashing with the concerns of modern life, roaring with job responsibilities and shimmering with family intricacies. Through the best and worst of it, the East Fork’s deep, clear water eyes and the sweet singing of her riffles have echoed through my thoughts and dreams.

I present the East Fork with treasure and gifts won during my wanderings on these far off seas of complexity as I cross into her waters from that of her sister’s, the North Fork. I present to her a newly obtained air boat, the Sinful Cindy, which trembles briefly as the two sisters pause to mingle and bicker in swirling counter currents. However, I also bring a gift far more precious than the aluminum and steel of the Sinful Cindy. I bring the universe wrapped in the flesh and blood of my youngest daughter. Like a diamond Leah’s golden hair glistens in the river breeze. Her hair contrasts sharply with the black, oily hair of the stranger seated beside her. It is the hair of a sinewy man of 30 plus years, which we met while refueling my truck about and hour earlier. His name is Bill Bohan, a prospector by trade, and a school bus driver and substitute teacher by necessity. He comes to the East Fork to dig the golden blood from the river’s mucky veins. He lays claim to the portion of her bank where Otter-tail creek slices into the river’s flesh from the north. Bill attempted to reach his claim several days ago but the fickle river rejected the advances of his small jet boat with an angry logjam. His hard won knowledge of the river and offer to attack the impeding logjam with a chain saw earned him passage on my boat. He travels with his Husky mix, Joe, who bothers my dog Scrub with his persistent humping for dominance.

The Sinful Cindy slices through the ice clear waters, sometimes skimming black, white and green poke-a-dot gravel beds and sometimes sliding through dark pools where shadows of grayling scurry for cover. I recognize it as the gravel bar on which Jeff Harrison and I had made moose camp many miles and years ago. It looks strangely familiar with only a few wrinkles cut into its face by the passage of time and water. Does it still recognize my face? Have I endured the years with as much wisdom? Grayling still rest among the spruce shadows in its pools along the northeast cheekbones. Do they remember my hook? Their iridescent purple and green spotted dorsal fins swim through the years of my dreams with the scent of fresh cut sage. Familiarity begs me to stop and stay but the howl of unknown land drags me further into the East Fork’s dark embrace.

The river splits. The channel to the north is wider but has little current while the south channel spills through a narrow winding, gash in the forest floor. Bill signals to stay to the south and I oblige, picking my way through tight curves studded with spruce pongee sticks waiting to impale any unwary traveler. I learn later that the channel in which we now travel was born two years previous, after the spring flood jammed the main channel with so much dead wood that the water was forced to cut a new path through the forest. The channel narrows even further and the waters scream obscenities at the confining banks. We encounter the first serious logjam along a spiral twist in this forest-eating torrent. Our port side scrapes grooves into tangled stumps gurgling with heads of angry froth while the starboard side rasps against the clay of a cut bank. I mash the throttle to the floor and jam the rudder to port. Sinful Cindy roars in anguish and pops free like a champagne cork. Three more curves and we find ourselves hovering below “log jam point”, a narrow finger of land jabbing into a boiling broth of ice water and spruce corpses. Opposite the point lies a vast expanse of gray and white gnarled tree parts entombed in ever accumulating river silt. This is the distal edge of the logjam that diverted the river two springs ago. It is birthing new land as it strains silt and gravel through crooked fingers of branch and root while the East Fork gnaws hungrily at the old earth beside it to reclaim her channel. Oceans of water and anything caught in their icy grip hideously pile into the upstream buttress and then seem to disappear into the shadow world beneath the pile of broken tree bones. Three towering spruce trees stand guard over this tumultuous, life sucking portal, watching with wooden faces as the world below swirls to its cold, wet fate. I steal a glance backward at Leah. Her young face is tight with tension but her eyes reflect total confidence in Dad. I wonder if my eyes betray the bile in my belly and fear in my mouth. At that moment I realize one decision made too hastily or one made not hastily enough could sacrifice her beautiful, young spirit to this hungry, lonesome place. I ease back on the throttle and let the boat slip slightly back from the boiling maw and then gently nudge the nose into the quieter currents swirling in indecision behind the finger of land. Bill jumps ashore and secures the bowline to a birch and I kill the engine.

“You think she can make it through?”

I look at the angry froth pouring through the white teeth of the jam and then at the weathered form of Sinful Cindy resting in the backwater. Just a few miles previous, her throbbing 383 Chevy engine had been ripping the twin 78 inch wooden propellers through the river’s silence with adolescent abandon. Now she seems tethered with uncertainty amid her adversary’s roar. The numerous scratches in her rust, red paint and the occasional imperfections distorting her once smooth curves speak of wisdom won from previous battles fought under the command of previous captains, but I have no way of tapping this reservoir of knowledge. I am her captain now; a privilege paid for by months of toil, and a distant uncle’s inheritance. Sinful Cindy is a dream birthed into stark reality after years of yearning pregnancy. A pregnancy conceived between my own hard work and the life of my uncle, which I know too little about. She is also a liability, which no insurance company underwrites. Her name stems from a playful combination of my Lutheran feelings of guilt about spending the money to purchase her and my wife Cindy’s encouragement to do so anyway. (She used to be Catholic so there is no guilt as long as you pay the required tithes) Yes, I am now her captain, no matter how blinded by inexperience I may be, and she will gladly follow me to whatever fate I command.

“I think we should lighten her load. Off-load all our gear except for the ropes and chain saws. Then we can scout the upstream side and figure out what we want to do.”

The lines of Leah’s face visibly relax on hearing this decision and she jumps from the bow into the reassuring arms of dry land. I begin handing gear to Bill, 40 gallons of gas, a cooler of food, 5 gallons of water, dry bags of clothes and Bill efficiently stows it among the trees. The final item, an oddly shaped black leather case, I gently hand to Leah and she carries it like a baby far from the water and lays it on a soft mossy bed.

The dogs are already ashore. Scrub protectively keeps one eye on me as I finish securing the boat and one eye on Leah as she arranges the piles of gear. Joe bounces on spring loaded legs among the trees, sniffing at the myriad of new, forest scents. I discover the spit of land we now occupy, has been used in the recent past by others. A triangular plywood frame has been erected between the three large spruce trees guarding the river’s swirling abyss. These sentries don’t seems quite so stern when standing at their feet beneath the shelter of their sweet smelling needles. The platform is about six feet above the ground with equidistant sides of about eight feet.

“ That’s Ron Richard’s bear baiting stand. He put that up a couple of years ago and hunts it in the early spring. You’ll probably run into him sometime if you come up here very often. He runs a big silver airboat called the Mothership. He seems kinda arrogant…first time I met him I was walking up the ‘cat’ trail that runs behind Munson’s Creek up to Van Curler’s bar. He asked me where I was going and then told me that he had some stuff ripped-off from one of his caches up near Van Curler’s. It almost sounded like he thought I might know something about it. I think he was involved in law enforcement somehow. He’s a bailiff or something now. Anyway, I’d like to sit down and talk with him sometime…try to get off on a little friendlier foot with him if I can. This isn’t good country to share with an enemy if you know what I mean.”

Pondering Bill’s words I quickly scan the forest floor for fresh bear piles but see none. A few trees do seem to show claw scars but nothing too fresh. Still the hard weight of the .44 on my side is reassuring. I glance down at Leah but she seems unaffected by the conversation. Perhaps she missed the part about this being a bear hunting stand or maybe she is just reassured by my close proximity. Either way, this point of land which minutes before seemed a reassuring refuge from the river’s sucking throat now seems haunted with unseen danger. Is it the spirit of the bears, which spilled their lifeblood into these soils, which I feel? Or are other spirits tethered to this piece of land by ropes of hardships endured in more distant times? Ah! It’s just my imagination, perked by the knowledge of this being a bear hunting ground…yet somehow, deep in my gut, I know that this hunk of land is somehow book-marked in the index of my fate.

The three of us make our way through the forest under story towards the roar of the logjam. The hulking forms of upended spruce and birch trees litter the bank. Their bone-white trunks knife into the snarling current while their hairy root balls grip the torn shoreline with black tentacles. Deep pools swirl with crystal ball images of the icy depths between root ball boulders. A large grayling vertically paces in the water column of one pool waiting for the next insect morsel to be delivered by the current. A 10-foot wide channel of froth bumps a path over the backs of most of the logs, curving between islands of tree limbs that forever scratch and grasp at the air with bony fingers. The channel snakes it way to the tail of the jam, where it gushes between the dead torsos of three huge spruce trees damming its path. The ends of the trees are jammed beneath the tentacles of two truck sized root balls stationed on opposite sides of the river. These are the “king-pins;” the locks imprisoning all that lies upstream; very literally the “root cause” of the river’s rage.

“If the boat can get over that dam she should make it through the rest of the shit. We’ll need to watch her rear end though… if the bow gets hung up on those damn trees the back end might get forced down and it will be all over. If it looks like we can’t climb up over them I can idle her right at their face and maybe you can try to cut through one side so that boat can push them below the surface.”

“Do you want your daughter to wait on shore or in the boat with us?”

Decisions, they’re both the reward and the curse of adulthood and what a wonderful set of choices I have from which to choose! My first instinct is to leave Leah on the shore away from the dangers of the river but what happens if a bear materializes out of the woods while we’re battling the river? What if something happens to us in the boat? She would be up the proverbial “Shit crick without a paddle,” a flesh and blood Little Red Riding Hood lost in the deep, dark forest. I suppose I could just give it up and head back down river like a whipped puppy to camp on the same gravel bar that I had hunted several years previous. It is a beautiful spot. A place not haunted with the foreboding spirits that linger here. But I have already told Bill that I would try to help him get his supplies to his claim. What would he think? Hell, I really hardly know him other than the little he has told me so far, that he is an ex-marine, a school bus driver and a prospector. Still, I told him I would help him and I don’t want to wimp out now.

“She can stay on the shore with the dogs.”

“Leah, I want you to stay here in this clearing. We’ll be able to keep an eye on your from the boat and you’ll be able to catch a rope from us if need be. You could tie it of on that birch if you have to.”
Bill made his way to the boat while I linger with last minute instructions for Leah.
“Don’t worry…but if something does go wrong…If you were to end up here by yourself… there is an old trail back in the woods behind us. It would probably take you about a half- hour to walk back to it. Once you get to the trail turn right, towards that hill over there. The trail leads down river and will eventually lead back to the road but it would probably take more than a day. The flare gun is in this box. If something does happen and you loose sight of us, stay here for today and tonight. There probably will be an airplane coming over by evening because I noticed it heading up river this morning towing some kind of magnetic mapping device beneath it. You could use the flare to signal it…”

I give my daughter what I hope to be a reassuring hug and climb into the boat. Sinful Cindy’s engine sputters to life and Bill releases the bowline. I let the current carry us a bit down stream and work the throttle and rudder to set a clear line towards the 3-foot high dam of spruce bones. Having a good line of attack I increase the throttle and a violent whirlwind of mist streams from the dual props and races down river. Sinful Cindy shudders under the load and begins fighting her way up the ever-increasing current. The three “king pins” seem to rise up to meet our attack. The first one disappears beneath the bow curve and I feel Sinful Cindy lurch upward. The second log grabs her underbelly sapping our forward momentum. I floor board the throttle and the engine screams above the river’s roar. We begin to lift even higher but then the third log grabs our chin and halts our progress. I work the rudders among the maelstrom of propwash trying to break free. To our aft trees dance and shake under the force of our man-made hurricane but it soon becomes apparent that our attack is thwarted. I ease off the throttle and current propels our retreat. Sinful Cindy slides down to a more horizontal angle, resting atop the first log. Still wearing his ear protectors Bill scampers out onto the bow and secures us with a line.

I join Bill at the bow to size up the situation. Water is pouring through the logs with a turbulent roar along both sides of the boat making conversation difficult. The boat is resting on the first log and is in no immediate danger. The second log looks as if it could be mounted without too much trouble if it were not for the third log sitting just high enough above and behind it to prevent the bow from rising up over it.

“ I might be able to make it through if I hit it faster but I am afraid that the last log might catch the front and drive it under.”

Bill wipes the sweat from his eyes with a callous hand and yells above the roar, “Do you want to drift back down and give it another try or do you want to try to cut some of this out?”

“ I think we should see if we can cut some of it…If I do get past, it might be a real bitch to get back through on the return trip. I won’t have your help then and since the boat doesn’t have any brakes or reverse I’d need to hit it just right the first time. Going down stream is always scary enough.”

“I think we should cut the bow line free before we start cutting. If you can hold the boat up against the jam with the engine I might be able to cut that third log from the bow. We’ll want to keep the boat out of its way when it comes on down.”
I start the engine and Bill releases the bowline and secures his Stilh chain saw to it. I “goose” the throttle a bit trying to position the bow at an angle that will put the log within reach of the saw bar. I gray puff of exhaust shoots from the side of the saw announcing that it has started though I can not hear its scream above the roaring water and throbbing boat engine. Bill climbs out to the very end of the bow but can’t quite get a good angle on the log. He carefully steps one leg off into the swirling currents and finds a footing on the second log lying in the froth beneath the bow. His second leg hangs over the tip of the bow. With his butt pressed against the leading edge of the boat for leverage he begins cutting. Wood chips stream into the air like snowflakes driven from a ridgeline by a gale. I hold Sinful Cindy steady in the current, nervous but I am sure much more comfortable than my partner hanging over the icy currents with a roaring saw in his hands. Leah anxiously watches the endeavor from her clearing on the shore while scrub paces at her side. Joe, upset at not being in the boat, scours the jumbled logs along the shore, determined to find a path out to us.

The work continues for the better part of a half-hour before the log succumbs to the chain’s bite. The victory is rather anti-climatic. No loud crack of defiance proclaims the event. The severed trunk simply bobs under the strain of the river rather than stoically resisting with rigidity. Bill shuts down the Stihl and soothes his hot face with a splash of the icy water. He signals for me to ease the boat to the other side of the channel where he can begin attacking the opposite end of the now decapitated spruce. This side of the tree rises higher above the water and is even bigger in circumference. I angle the back of the boat away from the main current in hopes of keeping clear of the massive corpse when it’s sucked to its grave down river. This time he doesn’t need to climb half way into the river to commence with the duel. However, the added girth of his adversary combined with the current’s death grip at the severed end make for a technically difficult cut. He begins with a stress-relieving wedge cut on the underside of the trunk. This necessitates cutting with the topside of the saw’s chain bar, a practice warned against in chain saw manuals because of the increased risk of “kick-back”. To make matters more difficult, the cut had to be made well beneath the water’s surface. I make a mental note of where the first aid kit is stowed; not that I relish the idea of attempting to treat an amputated limb under these or any other circumstances. The Stilh roars to life and in an instant the atmosphere becomes one of stinging liquid icicles as water jets back from the saw bar into my face and boat. Bill slides his torso to the right, intercepting the frosty geyser and is instantly soaked despite the limited protection afforded by the rain jacket he wears. This battle of chain-tooth, log and water continues under darkening afternoon skies. The smell of gasoline fumes infused into atomized river blood nauseate my gut while the screaming of saw blade and water pound at my head, threatening to distract my attention from the dangers of the task at hand. I glance to the shore and see Scrub bothering Leah to throw a mossy stick. Joe is still scampering like a cat along all the shoreline logs looking for passage to his master at the head of the boat. No mass of fur, claw or teeth appears to be lurking in the shadows behind Leah’s shoreline lair. A water muffled groan vibrates from the place where saw meets kingpin log and I notice the kingpin’s opposite end begin to swing under the force of the relentless current. The river erupts with a loud “crack”. The huge log, along with several attached islands of mud and debris, slowly swings into the river’s flow and accelerate past the boat’s port side. I wiggle the rudder and tenderly increase pressure on the throttle.

Sinful Cindy shudders and begins moving through the newly opened channel, sliding over subsurface logs and bouncing between small islands of silt glued spruce bones. Soon we are around the end of “Logjam Point” and out of sight from Leah and the dogs. I nose the boat into a current swept clearing along an inside curve and Bill jumps ashore and ties the bow to a white birch. Joe comes bounding through the underbrush as we begin our trek back to where Leah and our gear awaits.
Lunch consists of a menagerie of crackers, gorp, sausage and cheese, all of which tastes like the finest gourmet cuisine. The tensions of the previous hours drain from our souls as we munch down these treats while the dogs beg food and frolic about the shoreline clearing. The summer sun adds to the festive spirit, parting the clouds and smiling upon us with golden rays.
Lunch ends and we begin the murderous task of humping our gear through the underbrush to the boat. Bill has cached several heavy boxes of camp supplies in the nearby brush and we drag these, as well as the gear we had already barged to this point, through the tangles of Logjam Point. Despite Bill’s rather average size, he displays surprising strength and tenacity throughout this labor. I wonder about the time he spent in the Marine Corps (or simply “the Corps” as he calls them). He strikes me as being a man I would not care to fight. A man with a calm surface hiding a knife hard inner edge. The type of man who often is pushed to the outer fringes of modern civilization to either thrive or whither on its ragged frontier. I wonder if he did time in Vietnam. He seems much to young to be an artifact from that national “cluster-fuck” and he doesn’t have the hollow look common among so many of the Vietnam ghosts haunting Alaska. No, something else is driving him to the solitary months of labor at his gold camp. I choose to be a good Alaskan and not probe this matter too deeply. A man’s past is his own to build or stumble upon, and besides, we all have a “gold camp” of one kind or another.

Bug dope stings my eyes, carried by the sweat dripping from my forehead as I load the last box into the boat. Sinful Cindy lies low in the current under the heavy load. This is a worry but Bill assures me that the worst water is now behind us so I fire up the engine and continue our easterly voyage. The river is much happier now and I feel as if I am now sliding through a universe apart from time and its companion, mortality. Logjam Point is the portal between this universe and another. This portal relentlessly sucks both river and life into time’s reality. On this side, time exists only in the crystalline present tense with clarity equal to the waters flowing through it.

We glide past the mouth of Munson Creek, a tributary known to me through stories passed to me by renowned fly-fisher and friend Guy Lee. Stories of huge, beautiful grayling eager to devour a variety of dry flies. I also know this creek by its obscure meanderings inked on well studied, topographical maps. Maps which communicate great mystery shrouded in the upper reaches of the creek with terse symbols labeled simply as “ruins”. A few miles further to the east the sharp bulk of a granite bluff guards the entrance to Delmare Creek which I know winds its path into the hills to the north which separate us from the road’s end at Chena Hot Springs. A substantial sand beach lounges opposite the granite cliff, looking quite enticing in the warm late afternoon sunlight. We travel still further east and I am surprised to see a dilapidated cabin hiding among the trees on the right-hand bank. An oxbow lake graces the cabin’s side as if painted there by a master artist of old. A bit further upstream another creek tumbles through quartz boulders into the north side of the East Fork. I learn later that his is the Otter-tail and Bill is soon signaling me to pull up along a steep cut-bank. We’ve made it! This is Bill’s camp of gold.