McMaggots Anyone?

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!!!

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

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.

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!

(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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Romance Foiled!...or was it?

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

Inspiration strikes!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Cindy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peat Pond Ponderings

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


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

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

Alaska Loses a Good One

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



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

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

Red Rock Canyon Eternity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.