NorthernEye

Work; 9-5-10

2010-09-05T12:10:00.001-08:00

Village life is filled with many idiosyncrasies (if that is the correct word; right now I'll go with it 'cause I really don't have the time to look it up); the concept of "work", or "working" among them.

Some village residents have "regular jobs". You know, typical employment that resembles what you find elsewhere; going to work year-round, long term, etc. But most work only seasonally, or even not at all. Sounds kinda weird, but there are people I know who basically just don't work.

Others will seek work every year during the summer season; usually in construction or firefighting.

And then there are those who will only work if the right conditions exist. By "right conditions" I mean:

-a job that essentially comes to them, so they don't have to go looking for it,
-a job that pays well, especially in relation to effort required,
-a job that requires little in the way of skills or previous employment history,
and, quite often,
-a job compatible with a substance using lifestyle.

This summer our community has a lot of "work".

The city water / sewer system is being expanded. Our dump is getting something of a facelift. Most of the homes are being improved and made more energy efficient. And our runway will be getting an overhaul.

So there is a lot of "work" this year. Even people "who never work" have jobs, or at least, they had jobs. The last round of U.A.s (drug testing) knocked out a number of workers. Plus there are always those who work until they get a paycheck or two, then hit the liquor store and never return.

It always amazes me how people can take employment for granted. Relatively good paying jobs (18-25 dollars an hour) available for people with little or no skills, and an employment history to match, can end up unfilled before the project is completed. Incredible!

I was basically the last person to get a job. That was by design. I always try to give others the opportunity first; those who really need to work. Then, if no one wants to take advantage of it, I consider the possibility. I have a part-time job already (I got that one years ago because no one wanted it).

So right now a lot of people in this small, remote village are "working". Some have already quit. Some have been fired. Some will quit or get fired in the coming weeks. And some will hang in there until the very end, when the opportunity to earn much needed cash has gone. Those will be the smart ones; the ones who appreciate the opportunity to work.

Super Veggies; 8-7-10

2010-08-07T09:21:00.001-08:00

Check out the broccoli. We all know about Alaskan size vegetables, but it's way more fun when they grow in my own garden. I think I'll eat it tonight.

(I have large hands)

Hands; 7-4-10

2010-07-04T13:54:00.000-08:00

This post will NOT be related to the 4th of July; in spite of last night's "fire cracker".

While walking up the trail to my house late last night, a gun was fired nearby. As my friend and I had passed three parties in a space of about 100 yards, we naturally assumed the gunshot was alcohol related. Neither of us were injured and we did not hear anything to indicate a party-goer was hurt, so we continued on our way. This morning I got a report of two brothers quarreling at that location (one has stabbed the other before) but no blood was spilt last night.

Hands.

They come in different shapes, sizes and colors. Some are young, eager and full of potential. Some are old, withered and wasting away. Some are attractive (for hands, at least). Some are bruised and battered, scarred and scabby. Some don't even possess all the digits they started out with.

Some are equipped with long, slender fingers. Some attached to stubby, chubby ones.

There are handsome hands, homely hands, hairy hands and "horny", calloused hands.

Hands can tell a story about their owners. A simple handshake may convey personal information. A working man will usually respect a firm grip from a hand with a rough feel. The same would be put off by a handshake from a tender hand with a limp grip.

A doctor would naturally have different hands than a carpenter, as would a piano player, rancher or pro basketball player.

I notice hands because, among other reasons, I spend a considerable amount of time looking at hands. I play cards at a teen rec. center several nights a week, so I typically have 5 or 10 other hands nearby by for a couple of hours each night.

I know who has stubby fingers, who has long ones, who needs to cut their nails and who needs new polish (because the remnants of the black polish has been chipping away for weeks now).

And I know who never, ever washes their hands. I see the fresh dirt, the old dirt, the grease from working on the car, the stamp on the back received after paying the admission to last week's dance. While playing cards I see it all.

Some homes in our community do not have plumbing. In such cases the Alaskan Honey Bucket serves as a toilet. That's just how it is here. A honey bucket means no running water, and vice-versa (if a home had water service they wouldn't need the bucket, right?). So home owners without water/sewer service must haul all of their water to their home. This in turn puts water at a premium and none is wasted.

And this, usually, leads to a lack of personal hygiene. Honey bucket users often have the unwashed hands; I know this from countless hours of personal observation. Scarey thought, isn't it. This is a cause for the high rate of hepatitis throughout rural Alaska.

One pair of hands is always dirty...always! The owner likes to play cards too, which can make it interesting. Subtle suggestions to wash them are usually ignored (and in this culture the subtle suggestion is the appropriate way to communicate; embarrassing confrontations should be avoided).

The excuse of "Why? They'll just get dirty again." has been used, repeatedly.

So what to do? Sharing cards with hands that literally have not seen water for days at a time (I know; I recognize yesterday's dirt; and dirt from the day before, and the day before that...) is not desirable, but excluding the owner from playing cards is not culturally acceptable. Hmmm?

Incentive! When "Dirty Hands" wanted to purchase several cans of soda ("pop") I made an offer.

"I'll throw in a free one if you go scrub those hands."

"For real?"

"Yep; but I mean really scrub them; get them clean!"

Several minutes elapsed before "Dirty Hands" emerged from the bathroom, having changed his name to "Clean Hands".

For a day, at least. By now he likely has assumed his old alias.

Long Days; 6-30-10

2010-06-30T08:49:00.000-08:00

Last week was the summer solstice; the "longest" day of the year. Personally, I've had days that seemed much longer; felt like it, anyway. This morning my back is still complaining about yesterday's assortment of activities; crawling around on the ground, climbing ladders, etc. Half-century vertebrae seem as much like an assembly of disgruntled employees as they do a column of bones. Whatever.

There is no darkness now, at least not in the usual sense. The sun will hide for a few hours below the northern horizon, but it's barely out of sight and continues to illuminate the landscape. It will be another month before we have any semblance of "night".

King salmon fishing has begun. I will not be involved; busy with other things, but much of the village is focused on harvesting the run. Fewer fish than normal so far, but looks to improve.

A large run of "dog salmon" (summer chum) is expected, in excess of 1-2 million fish. I will try to catch and dry a few hundred of these, to be used for winter dog feed. That means I need to prepare my fish rack and mentally gear up for war. Everything from bacteria to bears will attempt to spoil the fruits of my hard labor. Last year a black bear and a grizzly were particularly annoying.

Grass and weeds, flourishing in the continual light, need to be cut.

The garden needs more attention.

My firewood supply (or lack of) calls out to me all summer long. But this year I have a "secret weapon" to unleash upon the stubborn logs. Pics will come when it happens.

And the flowers are lovely. Numerous wildflowers are blooming; wild rose, dandelions and a host of others, and our imported petunias, pansies and violas are stunning.
this...

sure beats this...

So enough dawdling. Time get this unruly backbone in line.

5-30-10

2010-05-30T11:37:00.000-08:00

Ignore the iceberg picture at the top /title page. The ice is long gone. The current spell of "hot" (70-80), dry weather, accompanied with the appropriate wildfire smoke, make the ice photo look quite refreshing. Entirely inaccurate, but refreshing.

Last winter provided half the usual snowfall, so now the run-off is all gone and the river is low...way low! Looks like fall before freeze-up. Until we get significant rainfall the river will stay low and the smoke will continue.

All of which fuels my mood to work on the sled. Really, who builds a dogsled in May? Me, I guess. My shop was congested with snow machine repairs (and the snow machine "repairers") all winter, preventing me from making any progress. Now it's all green lights and I'm cruising through every intersection.

Last time I was working on the "stanchions"; the upright supports attached to the runners. Each stanchion has a "tenon" (male element) which fits into a "mortise" (female element) that has been cut into the runner. Actually, I'm using "false runners", which are another piece of wood that lays on top of the actual runner, but you get the idea. If you don't, check out the photos.

The mortise / tenons are all cut by hand using a drill, a hand saw, a chisel and a file.

Once the pieces fit, the stanchions are lashed into place (this is where I was loosing skin in the previous post; today I was smarter and wrapped my pinkie fingers with duct tape)

Then the stanchions in turn are mortised and fit to accommodate the "cross pieces", which space the runners and support the "basket"

So, as you see, progress is being made. I should point out that a lot of work is being omitted here; work that involves this...

...this...

...and this...

More to come in a while.

Break-up; The Finale'

2010-05-15T16:55:00.001-08:00

The water level is dropping steadily, the river has crested, the peak is past and break-up 2010 will soon fade into a foggy memory. Or in my case, it will be forgotten entirely.

In a few days the trailing remnants of last winter's ice will clear and boats will spring into action. The river/highway will support travel once again; only the vehicles will have changed. For the next half a year we will enjoy watching it flow by our little village on its way to the sea.

In the coming months driftwood will be collected (by those with the time and foresight to prepare for the inevitable season of frost), and several runs of fish will pass by. The fish, like the firewood, will be sought, harvested and put away. Life in a wilderness is always dictated by the changing seasons. As in Ecclesiastes, there is a time for everything.

So then why exactly am I spending my days working on a dog sled? Not really the time for dog mushing, is it? If you remember, last winter I began the project (see posts dated...probably...December?) but time constraints forced me to shelve it. My plan is to get it done now before I'm consumed with all the usual summer stuff. The plan appears to be working.

Today I was finishing the stanchions and tying them to the runners. My fingers started shedding some skin, so I had to quit for the day. Next time I'll try to post some current photos.

Break-up; 5-10-10; and a weird thing

2010-05-10T17:27:00.000-08:00

The ice broke last night, ran for a while, then stopped.

Still stopped, 24 hours later. Getting kind of boring, but better than flooding I guess.

The muskrat notice was posted at various locations around town. A dangerous muskrat? Seriously? I know they get a little "wild" this time of year, seeking mates and claiming territory, but c'mon. Just step on it or kick it or something. It's only a rat!

Break-up; 5-10-10

2010-05-10T07:35:00.000-08:00

The ice "moved" late yesterday afternoon. After "running" for a few hours it stopped, and remains so.

Now we wait.

We will not know if there will be flood until the ice runs for a day or two and the break-up "front" has moved further down river.

Break-up; 5-9-10

2010-05-09T18:34:00.001-08:00

The river ice is spoiling fast, like over-ripe fruit in the hot sun. Any day (any moment) the increasing force of the rising water level will overcome the dying ice. Losing its grip on the shoreline, the ice will be forced into motion, carried along on the current. And that, officially, will be "break-up" on the river.

When the ice crumbles and flushes out, the open water / boating season will begin, completing the transition from cold, white winter into warm (relatively speaking), green summer.

Local inhabitants are as anxious for the new season as the migrating waterfowl, passing overhead daily. Cranes, geese, ducks and swans are all looking down upon this riverside community as they move along the sky way, eagerly intent upon reaching their summer homes. More feathered travelers arrive throughout the region hourly; eagles and ospreys, swallows and swifts. Even my dear friends, the robins.

Time to get the boat ready for a busy season of fishing and firewood. But the ice must go first.

Sign of the Apocalypse? 5-4-10

2010-05-04T08:59:00.001-08:00

April 1, 2010:
A man living in N. California, his house adjacent to a forested State Park, relates the story of a wild "boar" (it may have been a "sow"; no one actually determined the gender of the swine) crashing through his sliding glass door and pursuing his cat around the kitchen.

No word was given on how the swine was eventually removed from the premises. Did the pig leave in the same way, did it opt to go out the front entrance, or did the man put the pork in the oven for dinner? Questions that remain unanswered.

What we do know...

-His house was attacked by a wild animal, and
-It happened on the 1st of April.

You may suspect a foolish motive here, but I know the man personally; he tends NOT to play the jester.

May 3, 2010:
After two weeks of Milwaukee Bucks fans chanting their "Fear the Deer" slogan during the first round of the NBA play-offs, the mascot lives up to the hype.

Two deer plunge through the front door on a restaurant and run amok while local patrons are watching their favorite (and "deerest") team battle on the hardwood. Eventually the deer are subdued and returned to the wild, but they made their point. Bambi lives!

(I'm not making this stuff up)

March, 2010:
A local school teacher in Chignik Lake Alaska is out for run a mile or two from town. She is pursued by wolves and attacked. After a considerable struggle she is killed and eaten by 2-3 wolves; confirmed by Alaska State Troopers.

Date...yet to be determined:
A pale horse, whose rider is "Death" and followed closely by "Hades" are given power over a fourth of the earth, "...to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth."

...and I live in Alaska???

"My goose is NOT cooked..."; 4-26-10

2010-04-26T15:43:00.001-08:00

...yet, but it is in the pot.

Spring, just before break-up, is geese season in rural Alaska. Oh sure, local people get a few geese in the fall when most waterfowl hunters throughout North America are thinking about ducks and geese, but around here, spring is the real season for honkers, speckle bellies and snow geese.

Two days ago a guy stopped by, hoping to "borrow" some 12 gauge shotgun shells. He was on his way out to the favored hunting area; a good place to get moose in the fall, wolves and wolverines in winter, and geese, well...now.

I handed him half a box

"You want a goose, if I get some?"

"Sure, that would be great."

Honestly, I never expected to receive anything after the words; empty promises are as numerous as mosquitoes in summer.

"Have a good trip, and be careful".

Today there was a knock on the door.

"Come in!"

The door opens. In comes a Canadian suspended by a man's hand, followed by his arm, then the rest of his body. A subtle smile is on his face. (the smile is on the man's face; who seems to be enjoying the moment more than the goose)

"Here's a nice Honker for you" he says, unknowingly reminding me that some people DO keep their promises.

"Wow. Nice goose. Thanks a lot!"

I spent an hour sitting on a stump, enjoying a beautiful spring day while plucking my goose.

Warm sunshine and a gentle breeze sighing through the tree tops. Birds tweeting their approval of the weather, anticipating the coming season of plenty. And a car cruising the area with Michael Jackson music blaring out an open window. The whole experience was kind of like "Village Alaska meets Hollywood".

Just exactly who is "Billy Jean" anyway?

4-23-10; Oddities

2010-04-23T08:26:00.000-08:00

A few "new" things happened yesterday.

-I heard my first goose of the season. Geese return to Interior Alaska every April, usually when the snow has begun to melt but before break-up. A solitary white fronted / "speckle belly" was winging his (her) way along up high, calling for a friend.

-I saw an eagle. They are usually about the first migratory birds to arrive and the last to leave in the fall. The one in the photo was sitting on the river ice accompanied by an annoying raven; two species that have no great love for each other.

-I got my first mosquito bite of the year. Ridiculous! We still have snow laying everywhere. Hope this is not an indicator of a bad bug year.

And one last bit of "strange" news. A couple of days ago my little Pomeranian ran off. He escaped through an open door and began his version of a road trip, visiting all the neighbors. He got only as far as across the road before trouble struck.

I found him with his fur tangled on a "sticker bush" (the thorny stalk of a wild rose), hopelessly restrained and barking for help. Some dog, huh? Gets over powered by a wildflower and needs to be rescued. I was just happy that he did not get run over, since he his quite deaf and would never hear the truck/snow machine/4 wheeler coming.

Rain; 4-19-10

2010-04-20T08:41:00.003-08:00

Wow, that looks weird. But it's a good weird.

Laying in bed I thought I heard a strange sound. Was it wind blowing? Hard to tell in my groggy, semi-slumber state, but sleep can be elusive so I didn't investigate further.

Now it's morning and a look out the window reacquaints me with an old friend I haven't seen for months...Mr. Rain.

Rain is something of a "snow bird". With the onset of winter he packs his bags and heads south in search of warmer temps. I suppose the harsh cold of the Alaskan winter is a bit much for him.

Yet he does not leave us in a meteorological vacuum; his cousin, Mr. Snow always seems to move into Rain's recently vacated premises. Snow has been our...friend?...tenant?...guest?...how about companion. Snow has been our companion for these past six months. We've enjoyed the time together, but half a year is a long visit; now its time to go.

The problem, this year as every year, Snow never wants to leave. He's like that annoying uncle you see in old movies; the guy who comes for a "visit", makes himself at home and quickly takes over. He'll soon wear out his welcome but it never seems to bother him a bit; he's having a great time and could stay forever. Only problem is, every one else would like to get him out the door. But how?

One hundred and eighty days of winter is fine for us, but when the sun proclaims the arrival of spring, with warmer temps and longer days, we are ready for the transition into summer; eagerly anticipating the change.

I guess Snow never got the memo. He's been spreading himself around like he has no plans on leaving. A fine way to repay our hospitality.

Last fall we welcomed him with open arms, as we do every year. We gave him run of the house and told him to settle in and make himself comfy. We were glad he'd come. We couldn't get enough of him. He just seemed to make life so much better.

But now it would be nice for him to think about moving on. We've been cleaning up after him for half a year, and it's getting a little tiresome. It's spring! He should be packing up and preparing to leave. But not this year. Most days this April he's been acting like he just arrived; dumping his stuff all over.

Frankly, we're all really tired of it!

So when his cousin, Mr. Rain arrived during the night and surprised us this morning, we were happy to see him. Snow wasn't, but we were. We know he'll eventually get Snow headed down the road. Even now they're outside arguing; one minute Rain is cleaning up Snow's mess, then Snow is at it again, scattering his junk all over.

That's OK, we can wait. It's just a matter of time now.

(there are NO flowers, nor are there green plants, but the photo of the flower was irresistible!)

"Morning": 4-6-10

2010-04-06T08:18:00.000-08:00

I love this time; this time on the clock and this time on the calendar. Early morning, springtime in Alaska. In a way it's redundant.

Spring symbolizes the coming year, like a young child, eager and fresh, unblemished, full of possibilities.

Early morning is the same thing for the coming day. It's a fresh start with "a clean slate". Previous difficulties, like yesterday's "pain in the neck" are past. So are the failures, the wasted time and lack of accomplishment. All distant memories.

The "good stuff" of yesterday? Also history. No living on past laurels or previous paychecks; it's time to move forward, to step out into an uncertain future full of possibilities...again.

But I didn't intend to get philosophical, I just like the quiet of the morning. It's nice to be up before the world gets out of bed and starts making noise. The cliches about cities that never sleep are true (just go outside and listen), but rural villages usually do. They can stay up really late, but often there is a brief time between the last gasp of the late night party-goers and the first stirring of the early risers.

This is that time, when the village is quiet, at peace. The seemingly incessant sounds of the community are conspicuously absent. Not a vehicle motor to be heard. Not a dog barking. Nothing. Just a peaceful serenity laying over the settlement like a cozy blanket.

For a while, any way. The early morning plane just landed, on its way to Fairbanks. Then the school bus rumbled by; tire chains on the icy road suggest the passing of a tank or dozer. This peaceful party is over. Time to rise and shine, get busy and make noise.

Oh well, it was nice while it lasted.

"The Wind Blows..."; 3-24-10

2010-03-24T10:44:00.002-08:00

Spring in Alaska; a seasonal label liberally applied, more in reference to the page(s) of the calendar than to the weather itself. March, especially the second half, is the beginning of "Spring". Longer days, increasing intensity of sunlight, and, usually, warmer temperatures.

"Spring" will last through April into May. The end of Spring is always "Break-up"; that uniquely northern season wedged between "Spring" and "Summer". When the snow is melted, the ground thawed and muddy, waterways swollen and river ice on the move, summer is just around the bend. But I'm getting ahead of myself; two seasons ahead.

Now is Spring. Temps are usually above zero (though a return to minus twenty is possible) with few clouds (if any) and lots of wind.

Today I was thinking about Jesus' words to Nicodemas regarding wind; specifically the part about hearing its sound without knowing from where it comes or goes; an illustration He used to explain spiritual birth to the confused religious leader.

March wind around here can surely be heard, gusting with force. And it can be felt. And I think I know where it comes from...out of the north. Spring wind always blows down river, and it feels like it comes directly from the North Pole, 'cause it's a bitter, frigid gale. The local dialect has a phrase for this season; roughly translated it means "...when our feet are always cold". Very appropriate, especially thinking back a couple of generations when people spent so much time outdoors.

Yesterday I was hauling firewood (yes, more firewood; this IS Alaska, remember) with my snow machine. Traveling through the woods wasn't too bad because the trees block the wind, but crossing the river was like running a gauntlet. The wind attacked without mercy, probing for the slightest opening through the many insulating layers of clothing. And it will find any gap, no matter how slight. When it does, you must immediately make a wardrobe adjustment or frostbite will result. Face and wrists seem to be the most vulnerable.

As I endured the crossing, the river appeared to be blanketed by twenty feet of fog. Wind driven snow was creating a slight "ground blizzard" under a perfectly clear sky. If there had been more loose snow to be carried on the wind, visibility would have dropped way down. The video (from last year) doesn't accurately portray the full effect, but you get the idea.

Actually, the video doesn't portray anything, since I can't get it posted. Bummer! Well, you'll just have to imagine. Good luck with that.

Amazing dogs; March 17, 2010

2010-03-17T12:15:00.003-08:00

The Iditarod Sled Dog Race came through our town. And now it has gone, moving on down the trail like the teams that make this race possible.

For several days the checkpoint was a very busy place. Sixty or more mushers, with teams averaging ten to twelve dogs; some as few as eight, some as many as fourteen, one even with all sixteen that he started the race with eight days earlier. That makes for a total of about 750 dogs.

Add to that: checkpoint staff, volunteers, vets, media, spectators, a race judge, trail breakers, trail sweeps, looky-loos milling around in the way, kids playing, drunks intoxicated people being obnoxious, planes buzzing overhead and stray dogs looking for goodies like Templeton at the fair.

It can be several days of chaos.

My job is to help bring order into this chaos. The list of responsibilities I must assume include: finding a parking space for each team, getting them their food, supplies and straw (for bedding), answering questions, raking up and hauling away used straw, hauling water, keeping the fire going (to heat the water), maintaining a ready supply of firewood (to keep the fire going, to heat the water), scooping up a thousand piles of dog poop (diarrhea is NOT appreciated), ferrying people, equipment and dropped dogs up to the airstrip and loading them on planes, hauling trash to the dump, keeping kids out of trouble, keeping drunks intoxicated people from making trouble, keeping the looky-loos and their vehicles out of the way, fixing things that break, replacing things that disappear...

I guess, basically, I spend a fair amount of time thinking for people who don't seem to think very well on their own and doing things for others.

Right now I'm pretty tired, so pardon me if I seem a bit grumpy. You may have noticed some things absent from the list of things I've been doing lately;
-Sleep; I did not get much of it.
-Eating; Like sleep, regular meals are rare during the race.
-Rest; Same as above.

But today all that is in the past; a not-so-distant memory.

The highlight of the race for me? After a couple days of an increasingly cramped up back, I was shuffling around like an eighty year old Quasimodo, half expecting to hear some one shout "Old dude, where is your bell?" So I finally went home, took a hot shower, ate a decent meal, dropped an out-of-date pain killer and slept for nearly eight hours, which totaled more than the previous two nights combined. I awoke feeling more refreshed than I have in years, literally!

But this race is not about mushers or exhausted checkpoint help; it's about the dogs. And the dogs ROCK!

They haul their load for a thousand, miles across the wildest country in North America, through extreme conditions. This year they were confronted with minus thirties and forties, gale force winds, drifting snow in some places and not enough in others, three mountain ranges, and other challenges. They dealt with exhaustion, dehydration, sickness, stress, and around the checkpoints they faced another hazard...people.

Intoxicated and inept drivers make villages a dangerous place. Snow machiners can (and have) run into teams, injuring or even killing dogs. Village cars and trucks are equally dangerous on local icy roads, especially after dark, when most teams are traveling.

But by now the race has been won (Lance Mackey, again) and more teams continue to cross the finish line in Nome. Really, an amazing feat of strength, endurance and perseverance. Regardless of who the official winner is, all are victorious. Even teams that were forced to scratch should be commended for their effort.

So, sled dogs, I salute you! Wether you completed the race and made it to Nome, or dropped out along the way, you are a courageous breed. Your musher may get all the attention, but you and I know who the real heroes are. As you nibble on your piece of frozen fish and regain your strength, bask in the glow of a job well done!

March 8, 2010

2010-03-08T10:18:00.001-09:00

Spring.

Wow! What a busy time.

A lot going on right now. People in our region of rural Alaska are:
-hauling firewood with snow machines (while you still can)
-trapping beaver
-hunting wolves and wolverines
-ice fishing for pike
-finishing up basketball season
-getting ready for spring carnivals
-enjoying the "nice weather" (10-15 below this AM; sunny)
-other stuff, and lots of it

Spring (which is March, April, even early May; until break-up) is a transition; here, like elsewhere. The winter season is drawing to a close. As it does, winter activities and modes of travel go with it. Snow machine season is entering its final stage. When the "sno-go" is put away, access into the wild country made possible only by snow machine will go with it. That's why firewood hauling, trapping, furbearer hunting, ice fishing and a lot of other subsistence activities are top priority right now. In a few weeks the window of opportunity closes.

But the bright, sunny, windy days of spring bring some special times too. "Spring Carnivals", having nothing to with elephants, clowns or cotton candy, happen in spring. Carnivals usually feature an assortment of village relevant events; such as snow shoe races, snow machine races, and my personal favorite...dog races.

The Grandaddy of all dog races also take place in March. In fact, it started yesterday. The Iditarod Sled Dog Race is now underway! This race is generally considered the "Super Bowl" of dog races, attracting contestants and spectators from around the world. I suggest you check it out. Regular updates and more info may be found at their site. It's good stuff.

Phantom Feline; 2-11-10

2010-02-11T19:29:00.000-09:00

Another trip to the woodyard today. Cut down a couple of trees (standing dead spruce), removed the limbs (via axe and sinew) and cut them into blocks; length determined by my woodstove.

A couple of days ago a wolf passed by. His (or her) tracks told the story of a brief visit. He came out of the woods, walked down the trail for, maybe, twenty yards, then back into the woods. Trudging through deep snow clearly requires more effort than strolling along a packed trail, so there was a reason for the quick return into the seclusion of the forest.

A list of possibilities would include: detection of a lingering scent (mine would do it), the sound of an approaching snow machine (maybe mine, maybe some one else cruising down the nearby lake), or something else I can only imagine.

Perhaps this "lone wolf", an outcast with no pack of his own, heard the far-off howling of another wolf. Realizing he was in hostile territory and wanting to avoid a deadly confrontation, he skulked off into the shadows, tail between legs. That's my version, anyway.

But this post is about a cat, not a dog. The photo shows the overnight tracks of a lynx. This kitty has been prowling the vicinity of the woodyard for a couple of weeks now. I believe spring is the mating season so perhaps the tabby is hunting a mate to go along with the snowshoe hares, spruce grouse and ptarmigan he (more likely a she, based on foot size) is seeking while creeping through the willows.

http://www.adfg.state.ak.us/pubs/notebook/furbear/lynx.php

"What's a man to do?"

2010-02-09T12:30:00.000-09:00

My dilemma, staring me in the face like an angry Rotweiller, is the decision of what to do...now.

My morning agenda is was to drive the snow machine out to the woodyard, cut some trees and haul a couple of loads of firewood. But now??? Perhaps I should back up.

It started last night; well it really started a couple of years ago, but we'll begin with last night.

I had a bit of spare time before I was to cook dinner. While pondering the evening menu I got a hankering for something yummy; something...chocolatey! That, naturally, led me straight to the container or Ghirardelli "Sweet Ground Chocolate". (If you are not familiar with the afore mentioned delicacy, I will not attempt to explain it here; words alone can't get it done. If you are familiar with it, words are superfluous; enjoy my friend, enjoy! Life is good with Ghirardelli by your side. Mmmmmmmmm!)

Where was I? Oh. So I decided to make some "brownies". (I put it in quotations because "brownies" is the name most of the poor, ignorant masses of this world would assign to the resulting masterful creation, made possible ONLY by the use of G.S.G.C., confusing this exceptional gastronomical delight with the mundane brown baked product originating from a "Duncan Hines" or "Hersheys" box.).

I won't divulge the recipe here. If you are able to obtain a container of G.S.G.C. for yourself, and I strongly recommend you do, you will find the recipe there. If not, the formula is worthless without the essential ingredient anyway.

So I made them. And they were good. No; they were GOOD! No, that still doesn't do justice. They were...TOTALLYAWESOMELYOUTSTANDINGLYDELICIOUS!!! Yeah, I think that about says it.

These are simply "the world's best brownies", and I'm not too shy to say it. So when my 14 year old friend came by last night I told him so, right to his face, as soon as he stepped through my door. He gave me a weird, confused look in return. Apparently he was not convinced, the poor boy. He obviously had never had the gastronomical delight originating from a container of G.S.G.C.

"Have a seat at the table, boy" I commanded with authority. Never let it be said that I had a fresh batch (well, by now a couple were missing) of "the world's best brownies" and would not share with a lad lacking experience in the higher levels of chocolate comsumption.

He looked even more confused as I pulled out the chair and motioned with my hand for him to sit. Then he saw them. No doubt, by now the aroma had also penetrated his previously dull senses. A smile spread across his face as he settled into his seat, rubbed his hands together and readied himself for what was coming.

About half way through, with chocolate smearing his cheek and crumbs falling (crumbs he would later retrieve; these are too valuable to be wasted) he admitted "they're definitely better than Martha's (his step-mom).

But that wasn't good enough. I persisted, with my wife giving me disapproving looks from across the room. Surely taste would prevail and this young lad would have the revelation which relegates boxed brownie mixes to be left on store shelves; unpurchased and unloved.

"Well? Was I right? Have you ever had a better 'brownie?'"

"Nope. Those are pretty good." (Remember his youthful age, so he has trouble really expressing himself)

Ahhhh; now I could relax and go back to...what ever it was I was doing. And so could he. We parted ways, both happy and content.

That was last night, but it is TODAY in which I have the dilemma. I have just finished my coffee and the final two (dare I say three) servings of the world's best brownies. (Alas, I always feel that certain sorrow which comes when the pan is empty). As I said, my plan was to load up and head out to fall trees, cut wood and haul it home, shoring up my shrinking firewood pile.

But now? My stomach feels like a shopping cart overloaded with holiday baking supplies during a half-off sale. I picture myself as a giant anaconda who just swallowed Sara Lee, Betty Crocker and the Pillsbury Doughboy (except I just googled him and it appears he died a while back, apparently from a rampant yeast infection and complications from repeated blunt force trauma to the belly, but I digress)

So, I suppose I'll proceed as planned. It won't be easy to slither ahead into a winter wilderness with a belly full of cooking icons, but we must do what we must do.

Two men in the wilderness; 1-15-10

2010-01-15T12:28:00.000-09:00

Two men traveled in the wilderness. Both were driving snow machines. Both making their way along the same winter trail. They did not travel together.

The first man enjoyed the pleasant day and the solitude of traveling alone. He had hopes of finding the wolverine which had passed this way a few days earlier. He was familiar with this trail; traveling here most every day, hauling firewood to heat his home or to sell to others. He knew every turn. He knew where the trail drops suddenly down the steep bank onto the frozen lake, where it makes the hard left around the old stump, where it winds its way through the patch of standing dead spruce trees. As the cliche says, "he knows this trail like the back of his hand"; he's that familiar with it.

Which is why the fallen tree across the trail seemed so...rude. He travels this trail all the time. Now, suddenly, with no advance warning, the way is blocked. Last night's wind, accompanied by the sub-zero weather, had snapped a medium sized spruce tree off at the stump. Like a military road block in a war torn nation, the tree barred his way, commanding him to "HALT!". There were no rebels armed with AK-47's. No camo fatigues adorned with hanging grenades. No helmets, berets or floppy hats. But the effect was the same. His way was blocked.

Yet this was not the first time a tree had fallen across the trail. In such cases, the traveler must turn his snow machine around and go back, unless he happened to be carrying a chainsaw. With a saw, the roadblock is quickly removed, the insurgents are disarmed and sent scurrying into the forest, and the way is open for all to pass freely.

But the first man did not have a saw. He did carry with him an axe; all prudent travelers in this winter northern wilderness do. He looked at the tree and mentally considered the work necessary to chop through the log, twice, in order to remove a section blocking the trail. Hmmmm. A considerable effort would be needed. He didn't want to turn around and he didn't want to chop through the obstacle. Hmmmm. Maybe there was a third option.

The tree had fallen upon uneven ground. Small humps in the earth were holding the tree suspended over the trail. If he tried, he might be able to lift up on the log and quickly drive the snow machine under it. It looked possible. Hmmmm. The windshield might get broken as it was forced down going under the log; a strong possibility, but no matter. The snow machine had been battered before.

He lifted the log, drove the machine under, cracked his windshield, added to it's growing assortment of "battle scars" and proceeded down the trail.

Along comes our second man. He too is halted at the rebel road block. Like the first, he does not possess a chainsaw but does have an axe. Just as his predecessor, he mentally assesses the work required to chop through the log. Hmmmm. "It won't be an easy task. The tree is green and frozen, so it will be hard to chop, and heavy. If I try to go under it, I'll break my windshield". Hmmmm.

The second man kills the engine and slowly gets off his machine. Anticipating the work ahead, he removes his parka, exchanges his heavy mitts for a pair of lighter gloves and grabs his axe. Deliberately, like a batter stepping up to the plate, he moves into position. After trimming the limbs out of his way, he swings his axe down upon the log; a motion he will repeat dozens, perhaps hundreds of times.

Eventually, the sweating man dries his brow, dons his parka and mitts (though feeling hot he knows he will cool quickly on the moving machine) and continues on his way.

So why does one man evade a challenging obstacle, even when doing so causes him harm, and another man accept it? Is there a connection between how a man faces a log across the trail and how he lives his life? Hmmmm?

I can tell you which man has a better snow machine, but I think you already know.

Another frosty day; 1-04-10

2010-01-05T21:33:00.000-09:00

Another day out in the cold. Minus thirty-something again. This picture is the apparel equivalent of a mixed metaphor.

The hat is beaver fur. Any arctic resident will tell you nothing works in extreme cold like fur. Hey, it keeps the four legged critters warm, has since creation, so after a while the two legged ones caught on. Beaver, wolf, wolverine, rabbit, muskrat, lynx, fox and otter are just some of the fur that works in the north. Not really a win-win, since the furbearers are the losers, but the borrowed fur has kept untold humans alive in extreme cold for centuries.

The face mask is polar fleece; breathable, an efficient insulator and nearly impervious to moisture. I could remove the face mask, brush away the frost, dry it with a paper towel or hand kerchief and it would be ready to go again (although a spin in the washer is always a good idea as often as possible). Fleece is a modern innovation that has earned its place in the northern wardrobe.

The down parka kind of bridges the gap between old school fur and high tech fleece.

just another lovely sunset

2010-01-02T10:34:00.003-09:00

The sun setting in the south; the moon rising in the north. You shoulda been there!

Oh yeah. The other pic is of an "open hole"; an area of open water on the river that has not yet frozen. Usually they will, eventually, but open holes are obviously very dangerous. Snow machiners can (and do) accidentally drive into open holes, especially at night, resulting in death in nearly every case.

The photo of this one was taken from a well-used trail, so you can see how close the danger lies; about 100 yards off the trail.

working cold; 1-02-10

2010-01-02T10:23:00.001-09:00

It is an interesting thing, to work hard in the outdoors when the temps are cold.

By working "hard" I mean active, physical labor, such as felling trees, carrying firewood, shoveling snow and other similar means of converting your last meal into productive activity.

"Outdoors", in this case, refers to the wide open expanse of Alaska.

And "cold" means, well...COLD. As in thirty below (+/-). As in sixty degrees of frost (+/-). As in look at the guy in the picture.

Active physical labor generates a significant amount of perspiration, along with heavy breathing. The exhalation carries with it moisture (we're all familiar with "seeing your breath" when it's cold). This moisture readily attaches itself to any nearby object, freezing on contact. The resulting frost accumulates for as long as you remain outdoors (assuming you continue to breathe) which is why men with mustaches/beards can develop facial glaciers when they are out for long periods of time. That is also one reason why smart men in these parts do not sport much facial hair (the other reason being the local inhabitants general lack of whiskers; a blessing if you ask me)

So yesterday, when the guy in the photo was out for a few hours clearing a trail, checking a beaver set and picking up a load of wood in temps that measured minus thirties, you know why he returned all frosted up.

"The long and short of it"; 12-21-09

2009-12-21T19:28:00.000-09:00

So that was it; the shortest day of the year? Today was a short day? Really? Well then, thank God for that! But it didn't seem like it.

My day began long before sunrise (OK, the sun comes up really late right now, like 11:37am* late, but still). I knew a mountain of white had descended upon my humble home and village equivalent of my "yard" during the long December night. About a foot of it was waiting patiently for me to begin my struggle to rearrange the pretty snowy blanket into crumpled piles, strategically located in out of the way places. I ruined the lovely Christmas scene, but it makes walking a lot easier.

(My buddy just called from a "neighboring" village. He's on the phone right now, wondering if we got snow? He didn't. For real? Hard to believe. We got buried!)

The snow was so bad I even brought my old plow back out of retirement, and it performed wonderfully, saving a lot of back strain. I still shoveled my porch roof, the back room and the wood shed, which = a lot of hard work. Whew! To say I perspired a fair amount would be an understatement.

In addition, I had to move a lot of snow around the dog-yard also. Slogging my way around the yard in a foot or more of fresh snow gets tiresome.

All in all, it was a very fatiguing day. Seemed R-E-A-L-L-Y long to me.

So tell me again, why exactly was this considered the shortest day of the year?

*according to sunrisesunset.com. (a goofy site called "cityfinders tried to tell me the sun came up at 9:32. I don't want to be disagreeable but it looked real dark at 9:30 this morning)

"Mushing into the sun"; 12-13-09

2009-12-13T14:45:00.000-09:00

Why do they call it "mushing"? And who are they, anyway?

Mushing Running a dog team can be...well, it can be incredibly frustrating, especially if they don't actually RUN. Over the years I've had more than my share of leader problems. Without an adequate leader you don't have a team. What you do have is a tangled mess. But enough of that.

This year I have a TEAM. And I have good leaders. One in particular, who's name is "Mouse". She is much more than the name implies (well, she does kind of look like a mouse, sort of). This dog has changed my whole world, as far as dogs are concerned (my deepest, heartfelt gratitude to Aily Zirkle will remain for years to come).

Running dogs is the ONE thing I do for me; to unwind, to forget about the stresses of living where I do, to just get out and have fun...

...and fun it is! If you like animals (dogs in particular), if you appreciate the cooperative effort of humans and animals working together (those guys in India and S.E. Asia riding on their working elephants are the extreme example), or if you like skiing and the idea of roping up a bunch of animals and hanging on for dear life seems appealing, dog mushing may be the sport for you. It's the sport for me, that I can tell you, and yesterday was a blast.

Today should be more of the same.

More sled; 12-11-09

2009-12-11T18:54:00.000-09:00

Another couple of hours spent ripping birch for the sled. Saw dust is piling up as the second birch log gets chainsawed into rough lumber (and I'm talkin' R-U-F-F).

Now the pieces are in the shop to dry a while before the skilsaw and planer turn them into stanchions and crosspieces (vertical and horizontal structural members of the sled)

The sunrise / sunset pics are included just for fun. Think of them as dessert. The great thing about living at a "high" latitude is the prolonged fun you get when the sun makes its first and last appearance every day. Today was special; real special!

"Fighting the Constitution"; 12-9-09

2009-12-09T09:41:00.001-09:00

I was at a community meeting last night. Assemblies such as this are not uncommon in small, rural communities; a lot like the "Town Hall" meetings that are stylish among politicians serving on a much larger scale; except our's really takes place in our "town hall".

We discussed a number of issues but the most popular topic was the drug and alcohol theme, directed at the three Alaska State Troopers who were on hand for that exact purpose.

"Conditions of release", "probation violations", "bootlegging", "closing the local liquor store when temps drop below minus thirty", etc., were some of the conversational "threads" we pursued.

Importation of drugs / local drug dealing was a topic I wanted to discuss. Around here (as most everywhere) drugs are very easy to get. And, this being a small community, everyone knows who the dealers are. We usually know when they have brought in a new supply too (the steady stream of vehicles and visitors to their house is unmistakeable).

So it should be easy to catch them...right?

Not right. There's just one problem; the "C" word.

I was talking with two of the Troopers after the meeting. I basically said, "We know who they are...you know who they are...they board airplanes in Fairbanks to fly out here...why not just apprehend them at the airport, send them to jail, and we all live happily ever-after.

But there is a centuries-old document that stands in the way; the Constitution. I was reminded we are all protected from "unlawful search and seizure", so "you'll have to change the Constitution." was the man in blue's reply.

"There's a lot of stuff in the Constitution I love to change."

"Yeah, me too. But actually doing it is the hard part."

So there we are, in upside-down America. A land where the document itself is valued more than the people it was written to serve. Where criminals have abundant freedoms to victimize the law-abiding population.

A couple of inconsistencies came to mind.

#1: Border Patrol. They apparently aren't crippled by the same "probable cause" impediments. I've crossed in and out of Mexico many times. Thankfully, the Border Patrol guards at the port of entry can search anybody. They don't have to wait until they see contraband falling out of some one's pocket. They can use dogs. They can detain people. If they don't like the way you look, you get searched. Sure, it slows down the process of crossing, but we all recognize it's necessary.

Why don't they do that in Fairbanks, Anchorage or similar locations?

#2: Rural communities can pass local ordinances to limit or totally prohibit importation of alcohol. They are usually referred to as "dry" communities. With such and ordinance in place, peace officers, Tribal, even local governmental representatives may lawfully search baggage and passengers entering their village.

...but you can't do this to prevent the importation of drugs...which are not legal...anywhere???

"Well, maybe we can just pass an ordinance prohibiting the importation of marijuana and cocaine?" I sarcastically said to the Trooper.

"Yeah. Wouldn't it be nice if it was that simple."

Only in America; where you can legally search people, without probable cause, to stop the importation of alcohol, a legal substance, but not weed and crack!

I'm thinking the Constitution needs to be changed. Who wants to help?

Sled; 12-2-09

2009-12-02T16:25:00.000-09:00

Another day of progress on the sled. Today I trimmed/planed the runners a bit more, then I cranked up the steamer.

As you can see, the "steamer" is nothing more than a "modified" empty 55 gallon barrel. (These things are everywhere around the north, and they get used for everything. I've made woodstoves, a dog food cooker, this steamer and who knows what else). Actually, I'm using half a barrel for the fire and another one for the steamer. Versatile objects, to be sure.

Get everything ready to go, dump in about 15-20 gallons of water (hint; using hot water will save time and firewood), put in the runners, plug the holes with rags and steam away. After an hour or two I put one on the bender and gave it a try. It seemed a little stiff so I steamed them another 30 minutes +/-.

End result; the runners are now bent. I will move the bender into my shop so they can dry and cure, enabling the wood to hold its shape.

The Sled; 12-1-09

2009-12-01T20:22:00.000-09:00

Another day working on the sled runners. Drawknife, planer, chainsaw and circular saw all seeing action this afternoon.

Both runners are ready for bending. The video shows the runners laying on the bender.

The "bender" was made from a spruce log/stump. I shaped it following the natural curve of a large root coming off the stump, using copious amounts of chainsaw and axe.

After a lengthy steaming process, the runners will be bent and fastened to the bender, left to dry and cure before actual sled construction begins. More when it happens

OK, the video wouldn't load, so check out the pics (hope they'll load)

"The Sled"; do-over; 11-29-09

2009-11-29T12:32:00.003-09:00

Yesterday I wrote a post about the historical role of the dog sled in northern culture...and then the computer monster came and ate my post. An hour's hard work was swallowed up right there at my finger tips. Imagine my dismay, or even my anger and frustration. I went outside and stood on the porch in my Hawaiian shirt and shorts to cool off; the temp was a brisk 12 above, so the cooling effect was rapid.

(my wife just admonished me, "Save, save, save", so I will. There, I did it)

Anyway, dog sleds were basic transportation for decades; even centuries. Today they have been replaced by snow machines, a.k.a. "snowmobiles" or "sno-gos", but sleds are still the staple for the official Alaskan State sport; dog mushing (does your state have an official sport?)

In a wild country, lumber yards are hard to find, so the would-be sled maker must obtain his materials from the natural surroundings. Birch is the standard ingredient in any rural sled recipe, and it's readily available. You just have to go out there and get it.

But not just any birch will do.

Yesterday, as I was beginning my own sled building project, a guy looked at my stack of birch logs and asked, "How can you tell good birch?"

("Good birch" is used in sled making; "birch" is just any old birch wood, used for firewood.)

My response, though somewhat lengthy, is an extremely and deceptively condensed version of what real-time birch hunting involves.

"You have to look for a very straight tree; one with no bends, and no punk growing on it either" ('punk' is a fungus commonly found on birch trees). Look for one with no branches on the lower trunk. Not too big or too small. And it can't have a bunch of lumps on it; it needs to be real smooth.

"Then you hew it with your axe. Chop off the bark in an area and then cut into the wood. You have to get a piece that will peel down the tree. As you peel it, make sure it peels straight down with no twist. (Many trees grow with a twist, a little or a lot, and twisted wood will warp, making it unusable).

"If it peels good, then you cut into it with your chainsaw and remove a wedge (this wedge will be the undercut for falling the tree). Make sure there isn't too much brown wood, and make sure it's not rotten inside.

"If it still looks good, drop the tree. Then cut a piece off the end (the stump/butt end) and split it to make sure it splits very straight. If it doesn't it's no good. If it does it's probably 'good birch', so bring it home and start working on it".

And that is about where I am now. After collecting a few logs before Thanksgiving, I began work yesterday. As you can see in the photos, I put a log up on blocks, ripped it in two with the chainsaw, then began peeling bark with a drawknife. In the days ahead I'll use more of the chainsaw, a circular saw, the drawknife and a planer. If you can't tell already, a lot of work goes into making a sled, as they are transformed from a living tree into a usable vehicle...by hand.

The work begins with the runners. Runners are the hardest pieces to make and they are the backbone of the sled, so they are a priority. Once they have been cut, planed and shaped properly, they will be steam-bent and put on a "bender" to dry. Then they will possess the upsweep at the front necessary for smooth traveling over rough terrain.

More on that later.

"Cold weather and the stove"; 11-19-09

2009-11-19T10:13:00.001-09:00

This is the first "cold weather" of the season. Twenty and thirty below (Farenheit) really isn't all that cold for around here, but the first time you face it each winter it seems pretty chilly.

This morning, while making coffee (a decent cup of Guatemalan/Costco beans; not very fresh, but in the wilderness one must make do), my dear wife made a wishful request, to no one in particular.

"I hope this cold weather breaks soon".

At that exact time I was turning the valve on the stove, watching expectantly to see if the propane would ignite. A modest burst of blue flame followed by a slight drop in pressure and a sustained flame meant the 90lb. propane bottle outside was cold, but not too cold. The stove was working and the coffee on the way.

"It's really not that cold; I use the stove as my guide"; an opinion I shared with the stove, the kitchen and a wife who probably wasn't interested. "If the stove works, I figure it's really not that cold. When the stove quits working...it's COLD!

I'm told propane in the bottle is compressed and in a liquid state (lpg); a natural condition for propane at a temperature of around minus forty (much like water below its boiling point). So as northern temps are dropping and the chill approaches minus forty, the propane wants to stay put.

Minus twenty usually means the stove will work; not at 100%, but it works. Minus thirty means it's very questionable; probably won't work due to insufficient pressure, (the liquid propane doesn't want to expand and take on a gas form, forcing it through the line to the stove). And forty below is just out of the question; plan on cooking in the microwave or on top of the wood stove.

So the stove is working and life is still good. Let's hope it stays that way :)

(The guy in the photo doesn't complain; his food is cooked over a wood fire. His main complaint right now is the insufficient snowfall; another good storm and he and his team mates will hit the trail)

My garden is DEAD!; 10-5-09

2009-10-05T11:22:00.001-08:00

What a sad time. A wave of grief washes over me each I time I look out the window. The same thing happens when I look in my fridge. Even more so when when I walk past the grave site. The annual tragedy has struck again, leaving me to pick up the broken piece of my culinary life and move on.

For a carnivore, life in rural Alaska in a dream. Mammals, birds and fish are always nearby. One or more of the unsuspecting creatures may be slain and feasted upon virtually any day of the year. The hungry resident needs only to follow the advice given to Peter so long ago; "Arise...kill and eat". A bounty awaits. All who are willing to get off their couch and head outdoors may "bring home the bacon" (or beaver, ptarmigan and black fish).

But life for a vegetarian is another matter entirely. Northern grazers are plentiful so we offer an extensive salad bar. The hungry may nibble on willows or munch on moss. Seeds, grass, bark or berries; even tree roots, aquatic plants and spruce needles are all on the menu (seasonal restrictions may apply). You may need to dive under water or burrow through the snow, but the industrious vegetarian can find a wide assortment of produce available.

Boreal vegetarians come in every shape and size, from the plump little vole to the massive bull moose, but whether they are furred, feathered or finned, they all seem to have one common denominator...four legs (OK, not the finned ones, well...not the feathered ones either, but you get the idea).

"What? Are you telling me there are no human vegetarians in Alaska?"

Well, there are now, but if you back up a few years, before the onset of modern technology, arctic vegetarians were all crawling around on four feet. In fact, humans were very, VERY carnivorous. Think about it; How much of your produce do you keep in the freezer? And the northern growing season is very fickle (it can snow up here ANY day of the year). All this to say human vegetarians may exist only within reach of a Safeway store.

So...when my garden gives up it's final breath, my stomach sheds a symbolic tear. Gone are the salads I cherish so much. Gone are the broccoli; fresh and delicious. Gone are the cauliflower that failed to develop. Gone are the tomatoes which only my wife enjoys. Gone are the squash which I don't like, and didn't really grow this year anyway. Gone is the fresh basil which I used to make pesto...twice. Gone are the lemon cucumbers, which enticed me with hope, then broke my heart, failing to exceed an inch in length.

But, saddest of all, Gone is the cilantro; that essential Mexican herb I savor so dearly. Farewell my friend, even though all my many attempts at growing you failed this year; well...except for the 3 or 4 plants that showed real promise...until the visiting summer missionaries pulled you from the earth...unable to see you for what you really are...their eyes were clouded, they thought you were a weed, and cast away the jewel of the season. A gaping whole will remain...in my stomach...and on my tongue, until you return.

Alas, my garden is dead! I'm left to gaze upon my frozen flowers and think of better days.

What a breakfast!

2009-09-06T11:39:00.003-08:00

Wow, that was tasty!

Guess what I had for breakfast. It's a really strange concoction of things; makes me wonder who came up with it.

I'll give you the recipe, just in case you want to try it.

First you gather a bunch of seeds from a very tall specie of grass. Smash these seeds into powder and set them aside.

Then, find a cow with a nursing calf. You must chase the calf away and steal a portion of the milk from the lactating mother. This can be tricky!

Let's see, what else?

Oh yeah, Find some other seed grains, smash those up too and save the oily stuff you get.

OK, that's enough to start. You will need some white mineral, usually found below ground or in dry lake beds, but I'll let you worry about that one.

Take some of the powder from the first grass seeds, mix it with water, then let it sit around 'till it ferments and starts to smell. This may take a while; be patient.

Once it gets smelly, mix in more smashed seed powder and some milk from the angry cow, stir it up and let it sit overnight. Sorry, but you have to wait. I never said this was easy.

The next morning, take your smelly, bubbling mix and add the following: -one unhatched chicken (the mother chicken will be about as happy with you as the mother cow was), -some more oily stuff (I used some squeezed from a certain mediterranean tree fruit, you may use what you like), -another white powder (You'll probably have to buy this one; I have no idea what it is. They call it "baking soda" and I think it's found laying around volcanoes).

Mix it all up and pour into a hot skillet. The skillet needs more of that oily stuff, or you could just melt a hunk of fat from a pig. Either way, pour it into the hot oil and leave it there until it looks like it's starting to burn. Flip it over and partially burn the other side too. Then remove and put on a plate.

Before eating, pour on some tree sap. Make sure you use sap from the proper tree or it will taste like...well, it will taste like the tree. Since you are not a beaver, you want it to taste like...well, like the smelly, smashed seedy, stolen milky, white minerally, unhatched chicken-y thing that you're after.

This was a lot of work, so enjoy it!

"She's packin' heat"; 8-30-09

2009-08-30T10:54:00.008-08:00

Only in a village.

Last night I was at my usual Saturday evening location; in our local teen center. I man the helm of a sometimes erratic ship. My "crew" is not always focused on performing their "duty", so I continually bark out orders. "Don't throw stuff!", "Quit swearing!" and "You guys settle down!" are some of my more frequent commands. I wish I could say the crew is always compliant, but alas, there is rebellion in the ranks.

This is why the "captain" (myself) maintains a vigilant eye, continually scanning the decks for rule infractions or developing situations requiring the proverbial "nipping in the bud". Even with my middle-aged decline in eyesight and somewhat impaired hearing, I'm able to detect an "F-bomb" from across the noisy room, or pick out a kid in a crowd in possession of some forbidden contraband. I regularly impress the kids with my acute perception/detection abilities, and I even amaze myself on occasion.

So what did I think last night when the woman came into the crowded room with a pistol in her jacket pocket? What was my initial reaction? Fear? Panic? A sick feeling in my stomach? Despair and helplessness, knowing we have no useful 911 service?

No, actually I was wondering what kind of pistol it was; obviously an auto, but was it a 9mm, 40 cal or perhaps the classic 45? Fear and panic never entered my mind.

The gun toting "Annie Oakley" is the wife of our newly employed "law enforcement officer"; in quotes because the new local sheriff is not a real sheriff, cop or anything similar. He's basically a curfew enforcer and animal control officer; which means he chases kids home at night and shoots loose dogs (sounds politically incorrect, but what can I say; this is a village in a wilderness , not a suburb)

She had just returned home from an aborted trip to Fairbanks after getting her bag stolen. With the bag went her ID, cash, credit cards; the usual. It's no surprise that the incident was upsetting to her, so maybe that was why she was packing a pistol last night. That helpless feeling of being violated was now receiving treatment...firearms treatment! Weakness and victimization begone! She is now empowered, with an "equalizer" at the ready.

Am I correct in this armchair assessment or am I stretching it a bit? Who knows, but I've never seen her with a pistol in her pocket before. The next guy who messes with her better watch out; she's packin'!

Old hunting stories; 8-23-09

2009-08-24T07:59:00.007-08:00

With the onset of cooler days, the end of the bug war now in sight, and real darkness a part of every evening, my thoughts naturally turn toward the best of all seasons...Fall.

A few leaves are already turning color. The eager show-offs are willow; displaying the early effects of autumn's Midas touch, and a little shrub who's name I do not know; blushing crimson, as if embarrassed by the thought of the coming winter.

This morning is similar to one I experienced years ago; cool, foggy and quiet.

I was laying in my friendly sleeping bag; warm and comfy, drifting wonderfully in that place between unconscious sleep and fully awake, my mind ruminating on the events of the previous evening.

A wolf had been howling somewhere in the vicinity; no doubt attempting to assemble his team and begin a nocturnal hunt. The remains of the campfire flickered it's dying light through the wall of our canvas tent; the popping and crackles long gone. A mouse rustled around in our make-shift kitchen, harvesting a bounty dropped by sloppy hunters. A more pleasant lullaby is hard to find. But this is not a tale of that night. Rather, it is a story of the morning after.

My cot was roomy, my sleeping pad soft and my bag delightful. The cool, frosty air had kept me under cover for hours with only my lower face exposed for breathing. All else was snug and slumbering. And then I heard it.

The sound is unmistakeable once you know it. It is the essence of why I was there, in that bag, on that cot, in that tent, on the bank of that river. It was the grunty-cough of a bull moose, and a more effective alarm clock has never been invented; for moose hunters at least.

Throwing back the top of the bag, I opened my eyes.

"Did I just hear what I think I heard?" I wondered to myself, but it was a wasted thought. There, in the back of my mind, I knew I had heard it.

I lay there, still and quiet, straining to hear. For long minutes all I heard was the rhythmic sound of my friend's deep breathing, lying on the cot next to me.

There it was again, unmistakeable this time. A bull was in the grass lake right behind our camp, within 100 yards of where I lay.

I waited to see if Robert would hear it and wake up, but he just kept on snoozing.

The third was more than I could bear. "Robert, are you awake?" I knew he wasn't but I had to wake him anyway.

"HMMMmmmmm?" The deep breathing stopped.

"Are you awake?"

"I am now."

"There's a bull right back here in the lake."

No response. Clearly, Robert did not have enough faith in my hunting abilities to justify getting out of bed. The sun had not yet peeked over the horizon, the coffee was not ready and his bag was probably just as cozy as mine on this chilly morn.

We waited, in silence; me knowing, him questioning. It was a stand-off, with my limited moose hunting expertise on one side and the comfort of his bed on the other. Obviously he would have to hear it for himself. We were at an impasse. But the impasse was a short one.

With the fourth grunt he was moving.

"I guess you heard it that time?" I commented, with a silent chuckle. It was rare for me to be a step ahead of him where hunting was concerned, or anything else for that matter. He was a master at moose hunting, trapping, fishing, camping, well, basically everything pertaining to life in the Alaskan wild, so this rare moment I would savor.

"You better get Clay up."

Clay was a teen age boy in the next tent; one of several we had brought out here to learn the skills of fall hunting and camping.

"Actually, I'd rather you took him".

"Me? Why me?"

"Because if you take him he's more likely to get his moose. I might mess it up."

He saw the wisdom in my humility, bringing a quick end to the discussion. I quietly roused the boy while Robert dressed and assembled the tools of his trade; rifles, ammo, hunting knife and a roll of bright pink surveyor's ribbon.

Soon they were off, silently making their way through the woods to the grassy meadow behind our camp. A cold drink of water would have to suffice in quenching my thirst; the coffee was temporarily on hold. I sat by an imaginary campfire and waited.

BOOM!

I smiled.

BOOM! BOOM!

I frowned.

More shooting meant a miss and a running moose; not the way it was supposed to happen. In frustration I started the fire and put the coffee on, disappointed that Clay had not succeeded in getting his first moose.

"Too bad." I grumbled to myself as I fed the little fire. "I hope Robert isn't mad at him".

About the time the coffee was ready I heard them coming through the woods; the breaking of sticks heralding their return. Then voices. It was more conversation than I expected from two unsuccessful hunters. Well, at least they were still on speaking terms. I soon learned how wrong my assumptions were.

As Clay excitedly told the story, with Robert interjecting important points now and then, I learned there had been a cow with two bulls. One was very large, the other younger and smaller. The first shot dropped the big bull and the other shots killed the younger bull. The cow was now headed north in search of a new boyfriend.

Clay's bull measured 67 inches; a tremendous trophy, a mountain of meat and certainly larger than any moose I have ever shot. Not surprisingly, Robert's best was in the seventy inch range.

It remains a hunting memory I will always treasure.

"Whatever you do, DON'T LICK YOUR LIPS!"

2009-08-16T17:04:00.006-08:00

Procrastination always seems to have its way of getting you, even when it's not your fault. Sometimes we are lazy and put things off, but other times we are just too busy and can't get everything done. Things like...cutting the grass.

Alaska sun in the summer is NOT normal; there's just a whole lot of it. And it does some crazy things to weeds, grass and wildflowers. Well, vegetables too, I guess. Doubtless you've seen pictures of the legendary Alaskan cabbages, soon to be on display at the State Fair.( For an outstanding example, check out Gale's Blog [click on Gale's photo on the right/followers, then Gale's Blog] and scroll down a few posts until you see it; Awesome photo!) Well grass and weeds grow with similar enthusiasm as they make the most of our short growing season.

A power trimmer (aka "weed wacker") is a good friend to have around. A little gas, a whole lot of line, and some regular time will keep the green stuff under control. But if you fall behind it can be hard to catch up. The grass will just keep going and going; like some kind of lawn from "Jack and the Beanstalk".

Well, as you may have guessed, I got behind. The grass around my house is getting pretty tall, as I have been feeling poorly for a couple of weeks and then I was gone for another. But a bigger problem was waiting for me in the dogyard.

I have a team of sled dogs. Twelve to be exact. I love mushing. I love my dogs. Sometimes I just love hanging around the dogyard; the lot where they live. I cut fish there, make fires and cook their food there, and of course that's where all the dog mushing begins. It's half a mile from my house but it's kind of like my second home. And that home was overgrown with grass, so today I spent a few hours making it look respectable again.

While I'm working alone I have a habit of talking to myself. Hey, I talk to the dogs too. If that makes me psycho, what can I say? (probably nothing I haven't already said to myself anyway). I talk to God too, so if you see me off by myself mumbling, you'll never know if I'm praying or just engaged in a totally one-way conversation. Either way, remember, it's not polite to interrupt.

So I was running the grass cutter at high speed, buzzing through foot high grass like an inverted helicopter, when all of a sudden...WHAP! I just ripped through a considerable pile of very fresh...wait for it...dog poop!

Yeah. Oh yeah!

You know the crude saying about "when the [stuff] hits the fan"? Well this is the real thing, and I felt it splatter all over me. Now, when I say "all over me" I mean "ALL OVER ME!" Especially the most vulnerable, unprotected part of my entire existence; MY FACE!

Cheeks, nose, chin; every part of my face is thoroughly splattered. My safety glasses saved my eyes, but they are now fairly hard to see through.

Not good. Time to plot a course of action. What to do first? Attempt to wipe my face? No, it will smear. Go back to the house and wash up? No, I've got to finish. Hmmm. Just keep going?

And that's when I said it. You do remember the title of this post don't you?

"Imagination in motion"; 8-12-09

2009-08-12T10:05:00.009-08:00

The weasel. An absolutely amazing creature! If you have never seen one moving in high gear, you have missed one of life's memorable moments.

A weasel appears to be a rare combination of different animals. He has all the flexibility of a snake, blended with the 3-dimensional agility of a falcon. He also possesses quickness found in no other animal. Add it all together and you have a near-miracle of creation.

This morning while I was frying some bacon, positioned in front of my stove/kitchen window, I was severely distracted. Mr. Weasel was in a playful mood, practicing his gymnastics in my yard. Thankfully I did not burn the bacon. However I did get a number of mosquito bites when I went outside to get his picture. Clad only in my "pajamas" (shorts and a T-shirt), I spent considerable time squatting by the woodpile, making squeaky noises as I coaxed him into posing for a photo op. If you plan to photograph a weasel you'll need a fast camera and faster reflexes, 'cause he won't hold still for long. He's harder to catch than a young child.

A couple of thoughts always come to mind when I'm watching a weasel.

-Athletic ability. Imagine what an NBA point guard or NFL running back could do with similar speed and agility. Mr. Weasel will make 180 degree turns and airborne flips just for fun. A human athlete with similar capabilities would put on a show that would humiliate opponents in a way seen only in Disney movies. The star would be completely untouchable, incredibly fast and able to score on virtually every play. What a show it would be!

-Ferocity. The playful image of a frolicking weasel belies its predatory nature. On TV I once saw a weasel kill a cottontail rabbit. A weasel weighs what...a quarter of a pound? And a cottontail, 3-4 pounds? That's a predator killing prey 12 to 15 times its size. So do the math; at that rate, if a weasel weighed, say 2 pounds, it could kill a medium size dog (your pet Cocker spaniel could be in trouble). A weasel in the 5 lb. range could probably take out a Doberman or Rottweiler. Add a couple more pounds and farmyard animals such as sheep and goats would be on the menu. And here's the scary part...if weasels weighed a mere 10-12 pounds, you and I would be in serious danger.

I guess we should be thankful God made them small. This way they are fun to watch, and it's the mice that have to worry.

8-8-09; "Cheese and bullets"

2009-08-08T11:47:00.002-08:00

While waiting in Anchorage, waiting for flying conditions to improve, I have a bit of "free" time. Free is in quotes because nothing in Anchorage is free. Everything costs. Just being here an extra two days will probably cost me about 200 bucks; money spent on meals, gas for the car, more shopping which would not have happened if I were not here, etc.

Some reasons I'm WAITING:

Smoke; fires throughout the interior continue to fill the air with smoke. Visibility in Fairbanks this morning was a mere 1/16th of a mile, so planes were parked. Our ride out of Anchorage was therefore cancelled.

Space; a funeral in our village has all flights out of Fairbanks booked (flights that actually fly, that is). So rescheduling for tomorrow would only get me as far as Fairbanks. Since I'd rather be stuck here than stuck there, here I am.

Options; this one's easy; there are no options. Can't drive home. Too far to walk. I left my boat at home. Dog teams won't make the trip until the Iditarod next March. And chartering an aircraft is for...well, lets just say it's a little beyond my budget, since my full name doesn't include "Gates", "Kobe", "Rockefeller", "Jackson" or "Buffet" (though I may be eating at one if I don't get home soon).

So, why did I title this "Cheese and bullets"? Because those are the two main items I'm bringing home with me (If I actually get home). Returning from a trip to town is not complete without bringing home stuff that is otherwise hard or impossible to get. Cheese will always be found in my suitcase, and since hunting season is fast approaching, bullets were also on my shopping list.

It's a good thing we don't have to go through security to board our little plane. TSA would be very interested!

"August"; 7-31-09

2009-07-31T09:57:00.007-08:00

This morning I awoke to discover August had come a day early. The raindrops tapping on my metal roof made the proclamation, heralding the approach of fall. Well, not real fall, as in fall colors and rutting bull moose fall, but "fall" in the sense of no more summer.

This event is a noticeable shift in weather patterns. The high pressure dominated, sunny days of summer have now become low pressure, cloudy, windy and wet. From this point forward, you won't see many people wearing shorts and t-shirts. Jeans and sweatshirts will now rule the days' wardrobe choices.

Some call this season "fall". Some call it "early fall". To me it is "August". The term "Fall" is used only for that most wonderful of seasons, when the woods and hills are alive with color, when a chill is in the air, when the moose are on the move. That is FALL, and it's a pleasure to speak the word. A drippy, rainy, gray day like today is merely August; a season I must endure until fall arrives; a derogatory word I utter in contempt.

It's funny how the worst weather of the year is followed by the best; the most unpleasant season preceding the finest.

Why does August have 31 days? Five or six would be more than enough.

Fireweed; 7-30-09

2009-07-30T09:30:00.003-08:00

Behold the beauty! FIREWEED. The stereotypical Alaskan wild flower. The Forget-me-not may be the official state flower (I think) but Fireweed is the real one. If you check out Alaskan post cards, you'll see a ton of fireweed and maybe zero forget-me-nots.

Fireweed is a weed, but when it's in full bloom (like right now) it's a work of art. Absolutely spectacular!

P.S. This photo was taken at our local dump. Any flower that can make a dump look this good is tops with me!

twitter

2009-07-26T15:37:00.002-08:00

Hope I did this right! If I did, you may now click my twitter link on the right to check it out. The account name is "mynorthernlife". I'll update it more frequently than northernEye. Enjoy!

"He's back"; 7-25-09

2009-07-25T09:18:00.003-08:00

The boy looked better than the last time I saw him. Well, I guess I shouldn't call him a boy. He's two inches taller than me and his voice is as deep as mine. But he's still a minor with much to learn in life, which has a lot to do with the improved appearance.

A couple of months ago he looked worse. I met him in a hallway as he was headed outside; his two escorts walking him to a waiting car so they could catch their plane to Fairbanks. The escorts were dressed in blue. He was wearing his regular clothes. He was also sporting a handcuff/shackle outfit you expect to see on terrorists and mass murderers, not on a minor picked up for under age drinking. His wrists closely bound to a heavy leather waist belt. These in turn were chained to his ankles; also bound, allowing only small baby-steps.

That day he looked worse than I had ever seen him. He feebly offered me his hand, which I shook, as he said "See ya later".

"Take care of yourself" was my parting advice.

After a couple of months in a treatment program he has returned.

"Things are going to be different" he assured me yesterday.

"I hope so" was my guarded reply.

Now we'll see.

7-20-09; random tidbits

2009-07-20T15:58:00.005-08:00

Weird night, weird day.

I put some salmon in my little Bradley smoker yesterday. It took longer to finish than I had anticipated...a lot longer! I was finally able to shut it down and hug my pillow sometime after 4am. So today I'm wiped out.

A barge was due in last night. Currently it is MIA. I'm hoping it shows pretty soon 'cause it's carrying a load of dog food for my hungry buddies. If this becomes my final post you may assume the barge (and dog food) didn't arrive in time to prevent a mutiny in the dog yard, and I shall have become a meal for the rebels.

My wife got hollered at for , well, nothing really. A local airline agent decided to blame her (and me) for a piece of freight that went missing last week. Don't look for a logical reason why he would make this assumption; none exists. This type of erratic and unpleasant behavior is ALL TOO COMMON.

I'm still tired. Perhaps I'll go to bed early and dream of chocolate. Mmmmmm!

"The pain"; 7-13-09

2009-07-13T13:54:00.005-08:00

I sat there, seated in a chair by his side, for three hours. The pretext for my being there, holding his hand, was to prevent him from bending his wrist and pulling on the I.V.. But that was secondary. What he really needed more than I.V. supervision was comfort, encouragement and support.

This young man is a known fighter. He can do more pull-ups than any one I know. And he's tough. He won't back down; from a fight or from a roof deep in snow and needing shovelling. Either way, he's a scrapper, which is why I found myself standing in the clinic looking into his abdomen. The bleeding from the fresh knife wound had slowed but the hole was unmistakable. Aware of his pugilistic reputation and seeing the wound, I had only one question needing an answer...

"Who stabbed him?" I ask the man who had been first on the scene.

"His brother."

"Which one?" I ask back. I desparately hope he does not say the name I now hear...and that's what hurts. Now it's my turn to feel the knife; piercing my emotions and stabbing my heart.

His brother is a young man I know well and care about deeply. He's also been traveling down the wrong road for some time now. We are friends. We talk. We respect each other. But that changes nothing. He is free to make as many bad choices as he wants, and lately he's been making a lot of them. The result of those choices I am now looking at; a hole in his brother's side.

I told you this guy was tough; that's why his bro' needed the knife. So I spend a few hours by his side while we wait on the med-evac plane.

He's in a lot of pain. Every breath, every time he inhales, it's like he gets stabbed all over again. For three hours he endures this suffering, until the plane arrives and the medics shoot a dose of morphine into his I.V.

We load him on the plane and he's on his way to the hospital. Thankfully, he'll make it.

His brother will soon be off on his own trip; to jail. He may be gone for several years. I'll hope and pray this will be what it takes to straighten out the twisted path his life has taken, but it will continue to hurt. Long after his brother's side has healed, I will feel this pain.

"A view out the window"; 7-2-09

2009-07-02T10:13:00.005-08:00

In some ways life is like riding on a train. We are are continually moving ahead on a one-way journey. For each of us this train makes only one stop; when we get off.

Every day brings a new view out the window. Even when life seems mundane and repetitious, each day is new, bringing fresh opportunities. It's a good idea to remember the train won't back up, so we need to grasp every moment and use it wisely.

Living in a "subsistence culture" along a wild northern river brings daily reminders. The driftwood floating by in the spring will soon be gone. The window of opportunity for gardening is very short. A run of fish can come and go in a single night. Repeatedly we live in a "now or never" moment; if the opportunity is lost we may have to wait until next year, if it comes at all.

King salmon are passing by on their journey to their spawning grounds. These fish are the most important specie to local people, making king salmon fishing the biggest activity of the summer. Much work, money and time is invested annually to harvest them. But this year the run is down and the closures have severly limited the ability to catch them.

Last night it was "opened" to fishing. It will close again tonight. Some were out all night working the water, knowing this may be the last chance they get. Others are out there now. Those who are successful will cut the fish and begin the smoking/drying process. A valuable harvest is not to be wasted.

Yet some will fail to take advantage of this opportunity. Laziness, lack of preparation, drug/alcohol abuse and other factors will stand in their way. Will these individuals later regret their poor choices? Or will they look into their empty freezer or smokehouse and blame their lack of fish on the poor run, government controls, high fuel costs or other excuses? Time will tell; I'll likely hear about it, eventually.

I wonder how many similar opportunities are squandered in this life as we ride along looking out the window. A moment, an experience or a day wasted, once gone, is gone for ever. There is no going back; this train doesn't stop.

The "flip-side" is that tomorrow brings more chances; more opportunities. Every day, from this minute until we get off the train, we are blessed with nearly limitless opportunities waiting to be siezed.

The kings are followed by the silvers, giving another chance to fill freezers and smokehouses. If the salmon berries are missed, the blueberries may soon be ripe. And if we fail today, we can get up and try again tomorrow, because, as a woman who made a lifetime of bad choices once said, "Tomorrow is another day!"

Flowers; 7-1-09

2009-07-01T17:42:00.003-08:00

Some photos of our "local color"; Cotton grass, dandelions, wild roses, etc.

"Mystery meat"; 6-27-09

2009-06-27T17:15:00.004-08:00

My neighbor, knowing I have a lot of hungry dogs, called me up yesterday.

"Hey, I'm cleaning out my freezer and I have a couple of tubs of frozen stuff. You want it for your dogs?"

"Its all frozen?" I ask, skeptically.

[side note re: the skepticism. Just a few days ago a different neighbor made a similar phone call. He assured me everything was "good" and, in response to my continued questions, said "nothing was spoiled". I required this assurrance because in the past he also called me to come get some "dog food"; a soggy cardboard box filled with plastic bags which looked bad and smelled bad. When I lifted the first bag, looking for the source of the foul odor, a syrupy goo dribbled out of the bag. Suddenly it all became clear. The "dog food" was what was left from the previous fall's whitefish. After spending the winter frozen, followed by a month of spring thaws, the stinky goo was the result. That dog food might have made good fertilizer, but my hounds weren't getting near it. That was a year ago. Last week he called again, made similar empty promises and the result was the same; a bunch of rotten fish. Ok? Got it? So, armed with these memories, we fast-forward back to the start of this post. Take it from the top]

"Is it all frozen?" I ask, skeptically.

"Yeah, I just took it out of the freezer."

"OK, sounds great. I'll pick it up in a while."

The following list will give you a bit of an idea what you may find in a rural Alaskan freezer.

-a ham hock (nothing weird there)
-a few bags of grated cheese (no big deal)
-a few bags of old berries; picked locally
-a piece of halibut (store bought, but we're starting to get Alaskan)
-one jar of silver salmon
-a couple of jars of king salmon
-one jar of left over stew; moose, probably
-2 moose kidneys
-a bag of moose fat; probably came from those kidneys
-a shoulder blade
-2 pieces of muktuk; gray (if they were beluga I would have investigated further)
-1 whole trout
-several whole grayling
-3 jars of...jam...I think
-a whole pike
-one entire pintail duck, male, fully feathered
-some moose "belly fat"; the netting/sack that holds the entrails
-4 moose hooves
-2 jars of seal oil (don't spill it on your clothes)
-an assortment of zip-lock bags containing beaver meat (the dogs will really love it)
-numerous zip-locks containing moose meat
-a cool-whip container filled with something, bearing an Athabaskan name; looks weird, smells good. Appears to be coarse-ground meat, fat and...I don't know.
-a couple dozen plastic grocery bags containing meat from moose, beaver, maybe some bear
-about a dozen unmarked chunks of fish; some white (pike, sheefish, whitefish) and some orange (king, fall chum or silver salmon)
-and, finally, 4 or 5 things completely unidentifiable.

Bon Apetit!
-

Fishing: 6-23-09

2009-06-23T09:24:00.006-08:00

Bad news on the king salmon fishing; so far, at least. As feared, the run is way down. Not sure why, but very few fish are returning this year.

The feds are doing the job of enforcing the closures and they appear busy. Allowing only one 24 hour period per week open to fishing leaves six days closed per week, or in this case, six days of fining violators. Stories abound: $2,000 fines, nets confiscated, a boat reportedly impounded, etc. The feds are busy up and down the river trying to keep a handle on it.

It some ways it's a bit of a culture clash. People living along this remote river wilderness are not real accustomed to law and enforcement. When you grow up in a small community with no resident law enforecemant, you basically get used to doing whatever you want. This obviously is not a good thing.

I personally grew up in a heavily populated area in the lower 48, so law enforcement to me is a given; like death and taxes. In my mind, if you break the law you get caught (to say nothing of the moral and spiritual ramifications; God, judgement, etc.)

People who have been raised in the remote north see it differently. Not only is the law not around, often times you can't depend upon them any way.

Many years ago I received my first lesson in "No Law; 101". A broken window and illegal entry into my home caused me to call the troopers. After a frustrating couple of days attempting to talk with an officer regarding "my case", it became apparent I had no case. No officer was interested. No one was coming to look into it. Nothing. I cleaned up the mess and moved on.

That day I learned one of the principles about rural law enforcement...most of the time there is none. Unless it's a serious crime (like murder; where is Poirot when you need him?) nothing may come of it.

Troopers come to our village fairly regularly; maybe once a week. In addition to homicides, they look into assaults, some thefts (vehicular), occasionally minor comsuming and maybe a few other things, but most offenses aren't going anywhere.

The list of offenses I have seen go unprosecuted is a long one. Sexual assault (here, as everywhere) can be difficult to prosecute, so most aren't. Probation violations are commonplace. Driving under the influence happens daily. Minor consuming and contributing are common. Bootlegging, drug dealing and selling to minors are daily occurrences. Etc., etc.

All this is to say, people here are not accustomed to a lot of law enforcement; in fact very little is the norm. So when "the Gov" tries to tell people they can not fish for kings, an essential ingredient in the local diet and an important part of the cultural heritage, many are hesitant to comply.

I comply. The video was taken yesterday while it was open to fishing. I was after "dog salmon" anyway.

"Sounds"; 6-16-09

2009-06-16T10:22:00.002-08:00

It's early morning; a time when "normal people" are sleeping. I, being awake, am not a member of that group. This is not a new discovery for me, but right now I'm eager to join them.

There are noises in the night determined to keep me separated from a slumbering normality. Actually, it is "night" in name only; June is a month without darkness. The Alaskan summer is known for midnight sun; 5am is no different.

The warm weather has forced me to open the window for ventilation. Through this portal a variety of sounds assail my tired ears.

A dog is barking...incessantly. This always means one thing; it's owner has neglected to feed or water the poor animal. Perhaps the owner is away from home. Perhaps the owner is in a state of extreme intoxication. One thing is certain, the owner is not trying to sleep as I am.

A raven, probably hatched this spring, is making an annoying racket. "Haaaawwwk! Haaaawwwk! Haaaawwwwk!", calling for parents or trying to locate siblings. I really don't like those birds. In the wilds they are fine but in human settlements they scatter garbage, disturb what should be "the peace" and even commit vandalism. A friend of mine once suffered serious damage to his airplane as they poked holes in the fabric. (Yes, there are still planes covered with fabric. No, they are not WWI biplanes).

I hear robins and other songbirds; sounds I don't mind right now.

There is a light rain pattering on the roof and dripping on the ground. This sound, too, is a pleasant one.

Every so often I hear a four-wheeler off in the distance. If I were new to this village I would wonder "Who can that be and where are they going at this hour?" but I have lived here long enough to realize those questions are pointless.

My refrigerator kicks on about four times an hour. The loud buzzing-humm is enough to keep me awake by itself. A few years ago we had a guest who slept in the front room. (Our house is essentially a one room log cabin with a small addition on the back which serves as our bedroom. The "frontroom" is basically the entire house; living room, kitchen, dining room) The guest slept on a cot about eight feet from the fridge. In the morning, wearing a very tired expression, he said, "Your refrigerator is pretty loud, isn't it". I smiled and nodded my head; mentally estimating how many hours he must have laid awake.

In the backroom (our bedroom) the airconditioner is running. It, too, is loud; a reason I am now attempting to sleep on the couch.

A fan is also to humming in the bedroom. "Why both?" you ask. We are currently under a major attack from mosquitoes. The a/c keeps the room cool and the fan helps blow the bugs away; making it hard for them to land on my sleeping wife. (I wonder, does she know how blessed she is to be snoozing right now?)

The bloodthirsty bugs are blamed for other sounds keeping me awake. We have a "Time-mist" aerosol dispenser. Every ten minutes it makes a mechanical grinding sound as it pushes the sprayer, along with the desired "psssst" when the mist is released. This device makes life possible, so the noise is a welcome one.

The mosquitoes are also known for the sound they make themselves; that high pitched whine of their wings in motion. That sound alone can prevent sleep. When you hear it you know it's just a matter of time before you become a midnight snack. I already have a fresh bite on my knee and one on my toe, both itching badly, so I wait to feel it land, hoping to slap it and get on with the work of sleeping.

The clock on the wall ticks relentlessly. At times like this, it sounds like a blacksmith hammering on an anvil. If I could have a Joshua-type moment and make time stand still, I believe I would use it now. Sleep would be so much more peaceful than war.

Now the water heater kicks on, complete with the vibration the fuel line makes as fuel is pumped to the heater. Be patient; it will stop in a moment.

Now my little dog is getting fidgety. Maybe he'll go back to sleep. As long as he lays back down I'll be OK. Nope. he's headed for the door. I pretend to be asleep and don't move. After a few minutes, I peek at him. He's sitting at the door staring at me. I don't move. Neither does he. This stand-off continues until I give in. Patience won't help here; he's the one in control and he knows it.

I might as well feed him now or he'll be wanting that too. This night is over.

Population explosion?; 6-07-09

2009-06-07T14:20:00.004-08:00

I spend a little too much time on the internet, especially lately. My favorite NBA team, the Lakers, have been doing quite well the past two seasons, so I have enjoyed reading about them on a number of basketball related sites. And that is how I learned about some recent population shifts in rural Alaska.

For example, one such site has a flashing pop-up telling me that I am the "100,000th visitor from White Mountain", and it assures me this is "no joke" and I should click to claim my prize. Wow, imagine that.

White Mountain is a coastal village with a population of...maybe...200 people. I'm not quite sure how I can be considered part of their community, but the amazing thing is that I'm the "100,00th visitor" from there.

Either there has been a huge migration into White Mountain recently or some one there is spending WAY TOO MUCH TIME on their computer; much more time than I am. According to my rudimentary calculations, if every person in their community was on-line, they each have to visit the spurious site...what?...five hundred times? Hmmm. I think perhaps some one is pulling my leg.

A couple of days ago (on a similar site) I was assured by another pop-up that people in my village were making sixty dollars an hour working part time on-line. They even showed me a photo of a nice young lady in front of her computer, no doubt working hard making the wages they were offering.

The funny thing was, I know everybody living here; I even know every house in our village. I didn't recognize her or the setting. Hmmm. Some one has some 'splainin' to do.

6-1-09

2009-06-01T14:23:00.005-08:00

It's out there. It's just layin' in the willows or bobbin' along the shore. And it's waiting.

Others may beat you to it; many already have. They'd say, "By now, all the good stuff is gone", but they don't know where to look. I do. I was looking today.

Properly equipped and attired, I grabbed the tiller handle and pointed my little boat out into the waves; heading upriver. The somber gray skies, blustering wind, waves and spray were no deterrent. Bounce as it may, my little tub is a faithful workhorse. I bet my boat has done more work (and on FAR LESS GAS) than any boat here in town. She's a worker (why are boats always "She"?) and she was free! That, my friend, is what you call a blessing.

A mere mile to the backside of the island and I found it. No, not the ducks. Not the geese. Definitely NOT the swans. Those I left unmolested as I passed by. Well; I wanted to leave them unmolested but my boat scared them into flight. Most of the ducks jumped right up like helicopters, but the swans needed a generous runway to get airborne. Good thing they had the entire river at their disposal. Swans are the B-52 bombers of the waterfowl world.

After the the airlift was underway I found that which I sought...driftwood.

Driftwood is free fuel. Well, wait a sec; it's kinda free. Free if you don't count your time (OK, that's easy). Free if you don't figure in the cost of a boat and motor (I recently was pricing them and a new set-up, simple and small, was over fifteen G's, or as my Dad would say "15 K", and that is on the cheap!). Free if you don't figure in fuel, oil, the chainsaw, an axe, rope, a lifejacket, boots, a raincoat, gloves, bandaids, cold remedies, a heating pad, and whatever else goes into it.

And, oh yes, free if you don't consider the required in-kind contribution of nsaids (over-the-counter or otherwise); for me they are definitely required. As any experienced firewood getter will attest, even "free" wood comes at a cost to the body. But it's still a good deal.

I spent a couple of hours selecting and cutting up logs; expending untold calories (don't worry, I have plenty to spare) and sweating myself into a mild state of dehydration (par for the course).

Then I came home, took a hot shower, recharged my batteries with a cup of tea and a piece of last night's chocolate chip pie, and suddenly I can face another day. Well, I can face the rest of this one, which is all that is required. Tomorrow will bring enough troubles of its own.

p.s. I'll change the icy photo on the title page as soon as I find something of interest.

OK, I found one.

5-31-09

2009-05-31T10:11:00.005-08:00

I'm pretty tuckered this morning. Yesterday I worked in the woodyard and that's always good for a tiring day. A half-century body complains when it's asked to run a chainsaw and swing an axe for any extended period of time (mine does, anyway).

The weather has been unusually cold (mid-thirties at night) for several days, so the bugs are temporarily on hold. But then, so is the garden. Since a plus usually can be found with every minus, my new thing is to look for the benefit of every annoying situation. It's a big job for a guy like me who leans toward the negative, but I'm working on it. Here's an example.

The river continues to stay high; in fact it's raising. Lots of drift getting in the way. Annoying; it makes boating difficult and keeps the fishnet on land; if I put it in, the net fills up with sticks, debris, etc. (I caught a forty foot tree right before I took it out).

The benefit; high water brings driftwood (useable for firewood) and allows access to areas that would otherwise be unreachable; making more driftwood available.

So, starting tomorrow, I will begin hauling wood in earnest before the water drops (more complaints from the ol' body on the way; Thank the good Lord for naproxin).

The coming fishing season looks pretty grim. All the projections indicate a very low king salmon run. I'm not sure how they figure that stuff out, since the kings are currently swimming around in the Bering Sea somewhere, but I guess the experts know what they're doing. We'll see in a month.

Ooooo, gotta go. My sweetie just presented me with a plate of sausage, eggs and hash browns to go with my rapidly cooling coffee.

Tootles!

(the photo was taken in California a couple of months ago; I find it a nice diversion from our situation here; no flowers and barely any leaves yet).

5-25-09

2009-05-25T15:59:00.005-08:00

Summer is now cruising along at full speed. The river has been ice-free for a while (now if all the "drift" would clear out, it would be great), the birds are all here and the mosquitoes are amassing their evil army; preparing for the main assault; there are daily mosquito sorties in search of blood, but the real war has yet to start.

I put in a fish net a couple of days ago; across the river at the slough. An otter was waiting for me when I arrived. He (or she) swam around my boat with a cheerful, expectant expression; no doubt knowing why I was there and anticipating the piscatorial bounty soon to come. I swear that thing looked like it was smiling, but then the bald eagle perched up in the tree would have smiled too if it could bend its beak into a grin. Every one has seafood on their mind.

A couple days later:
The fishing has been OK; some whitefish, a few pike and three small sheefish. Each day the otter has taken his toll, imposed upon all who would fish these waters; one large pike per day. Remembering previous otter encounters, I withold complaint; it's not uncommon for otters to destroy numerous fish by ripping open the bellies in search of eggs or fat entrails. If this aquatic Mafioso is content to extort only one fish per day we can get along. The head was left in the net so I toss it up on the bank under the watchful eye of the eagle. The next day the head is gone.

Subsistence fishing can be an exercise into politics. The key is to keep every one happy; keep the otter happy, keep the eagle happy, keep local elders happy, keep Fish and Game happy, and, hopefully, keep myself happy. It's a bit of a juggling act, but doable (usually).

I enjoy the ride over, in this pleasant weather. Geese and Swans on the backside of the island, Kingfishers swooping and chattering in the slough, peace and serenity when the boat motor is off. The near abscence of bugs makes these days idyllic.

"The Robin"; 5-18-09

2009-05-18T12:16:00.008-08:00

Have you ever heard a robin sing?

I'm not talking about a bird going "Tweet, Tweet" while sitting on your back fence. Not even close. I mean have you ever heard one SING?

Hatched in the wilds of Alaska, reared under constant threat from predators and nasty weather, our robin learns to fly under a midnight sun. And fly he must, for after a short summer he and his kind leave this northern land and make the arduous journey south. Life gives them no option. The northern winter offers a bleak prospect for most birds; few can survive the intense cold and limited food available after freeze-up.

So he travels thousands of miles to a friendlier climate; a climate found in places like...well, I don't know. If you see robins in your area during the winter months you know where they go. All I know is they clear out before things get ugly.

Months later, our robin feels the urge to pack his feathered suitcase and hit the road. Perhaps he sees others of his kind getting antsy. Maybe he looks at the ducks and geese flying overhead and he wonders where they're off to. In truth, I suspect it's little more (and nothing less) than the Creater of all living things irresistibly calling him to fulfil his purpose.

So he takes off and heads north. He wings his way through spring storms, past crowded cities and desolate wilderness, he dodges greedy falcons wanting to feast on his famous red breast, and he goes on and on...and on.

Eventually he shows up here. Is he tired? I have no clue. I do know he must look for food in a forest that still has patches of snow on the ground; where overnight frost is to be expected. Don't these guys pull worms out of the ground like I remember seeing in books I read as a child? Well not here they don't. The ground is usually still frozen...and I've never seen an earthworm in the fifteen years I've lived here. So what do they eat? Beats me.

The weather warms, the snow melts, the ground thaws and the land comes to life. Something stirs in the heart of our little friend. He has purpose that comes clearly into focus. The many thousand mile journey, the hardship, the danger; all these are forgotten. Now he lives in the moment. Only one thing is on his tiny little mind...ROMANCE!

Our little guy must find a mate; he simply MUST! Failure is not an option. To justify all he's been through; to validate his existence, he must find the robinette of his dreams. HE MUST FIND HER!

But what can he do? He can't log on to e-harmony. He can't join the singles group at a nearby church. And he would never hang out at a local bar. His options are few. So he uses the one and only tool in his toolbox; made expressly for him. Brilliantly and beautifully designed for this purpose, it's been tried, tested and proven by his innummerable ancestors.

He draws in a deep breath, lifts his head high...and lets it rip!

Ahhhhh yes! That's what I'm talking about! Can you hear it now? THAT, my friend, is a robin singing!

Few things are more delicate, more lovely, more inspiring. When that half-pound Pavarotti takes his place on the branch and yodels out his love-sick song, the world becomes a better place. Depression is lifted and troubles are forgotten. There is no finer music to be heard. I'm a true Andrea Bocelli fan, but compared to a lonely robin Bocelli is a barking dog.

So sing it little guy! Sing your heart out. We're listening. And somewhere out there, so is she.

breakUPdate:5-14-09

2009-05-14T11:21:00.004-08:00

It looks as though the "monster" has been touted a bit too highly. It is now a toothless beast (think the abominable snow man in the old "Rudolf the red-nosed reindeer" classic).

The head honcho for the weather service/river Watch Team was here yesterday and he gave us good news. A heavy run of ice and higher water levels were in store, but it was all clear sailing for a hundred miles down river. That, coupled with the state of the coming ice (small in size, well crushed) gave a promising outlook; promising as far as remaining above water.

Ahhhhhh! Goodnews indeed.

After the ice clears the river will be suitable and safe for boating. Around here that is the official beginning of summer. Well...that AND the arrival of the mosquitoes (I saw one earlier but remain unbitten so far; a record sure to come to an end shortly).

breakUpdate; 5-12-09

2009-05-12T17:29:00.004-08:00

I spoke with the weather service today. The news was not good. There is a monster coming down river. It's the break-up equivalent of an ocean tidal wave and has already flooded numerous villages (did you look up those pics?) It's currently wreaking havoc on the village of Tanana. In a couple of days we will be served up as table fare for this hungry beast. I'll keep in touch. The videos show some sizeable icebergs cruising the waters in front of our town. One was large enough to carry a Wal-Mart (OK, maybe not a Wal-Mart; how about a corner deli. Mmmm, a hot pastrami sandwhich sounds pretty good right now)

breakUPdate; 5-11-09

2009-05-11T12:13:00.005-08:00

"RING-RING"..."Ice is running; moving fast"...check the clock; 4:30am...back to sleep...get up...check the river...water up four feet from last night...ice cruising by...spectators...excitement...anticipation...lots of activity...vehicles bustling around...community divided into two groups; the majority (living out of the flood zone) enjoying the novelty and excitement...the others (living in the way of the rising waters) scared...worried...packing...moving...continually looking over their shoulder...water still rising...

breakUPdate; 5-09-09 (late evening)

2009-05-09T23:36:00.003-08:00

Well, actually nothing is moving. In fairly typical fashion, our ice moved down about a mile or two, then stopped. And STOPPED it remains.

We have a small area of open water right along our bank, but boating is out of the question. If the ice started to move with a boat in the water, it would be trapped and quickly crushed. Unless you aspire to star in your own version of "Titanic", it's better to wait for break-up to run its course.

No doubt it will get moving again in a day or two, but for now break-up is on hold.

"We're moving"; 5-08-09, pm

2009-05-08T16:42:00.002-08:00

The ice has moved. It moved down a mile or so and is now parked. Updates will come as things develop. (Did you check out the Eagle pics? If not you missed some really interesting stuff)

breakUPdate; 5-08-08

2009-05-08T14:31:00.003-08:00

Still waiting...for the ice to move, that is. Something has happened at every village upriver, so we should be next in line.

The water continues to rise. Makes you wonder how long the ice can maintain it's grip on the shore before it breaks free and slides away. Gotta be soon.

The photos show how much the water has risen over the past 3-4 days.

Break-up; 5-07-09

2009-05-07T08:25:00.003-08:00

This big 'ol river is shedding it's skin like a snake. It works about the same too. Starting up at the headwaters, the river uses friction to remove the "skin" of ice which has confined it for half a year. As the river makes it's serpentine journey to the sea, it struggles to free itself, and free it will be.

Break-up is a violent process. Gravity, arctic cold, friction, solar energy, billions of gallons of water in motion, rigid ice many feet thick; these are some of the players that get involved. It gets chaotic sometimes.

Gravity pulls on the water, but the water is restricted by the ice. The ice is the month's long result of the arctic cold. But now the sun has jumped into the free-for-all and things are heating up. The ice starts to decay. Snow pack melts and makes it's way into the river system, increasing the flow of water and adding strain on the ice. The ice cracks, bends, lifts, but holds on as long as possible. You can actually hear it groaning and making noise right now.

The fight continues until the ice is overwhelmed. It loses it's grip on the riverbank and slips; usually moving only a short distance before the fight resumes. The wrestling match continues to tip in favor of the opposition (ice, cold and friction on one side; water, gravity, more friction and the sun on the other) until the ice crumbles and is swept downstream.

But it's not over! The ice has on last punch and it won't go down without a fight. The "Jam"!

The "crumbled" ice can still be in sheets measurable in acreage and strong enough to carry huge trees and other debris (I've seen a photo of a large moose floating along on the ice; it looked very tiny in the picture). The moving ice has trouble going around bends or negotiating places where the river bank constricts the flow. That often creates an "ice-jam"; damming up the moving water. This in turn causes flooding behind the jam.

Spring flooding is a common occurence along the river. The town of Eagle is getting pounded pretty hard right now; ice bergs floating through their town tends to make things ugly. If you google "Eagle, Alaska" or a Fairbanks or Anchorage paper, you'll probably find some interesting photos (I still haven't had time to figure out the whole "link" thing; someday maybe).

So right now, the river here is at the "ice lifting, water raising, but nothing has moved yet" stage. In the next couple of days it will move down and stop; a couple days later things should really start rolling. That's when it gets interesting because the flood danger is present.

I'll try to keep you informed as we go.

5-05-09

2009-05-05T11:52:00.002-08:00

O.K., I got an early morning phone call regarding the previous post. Here's the deal. A few weeks ago I was sitting around goofing off and just made up the story; my attempt at "fiction", I suppose. Yesterday I posted it to see if any one found it interesting, just for fun.

It's not about any one here (though there are numerous parallels). If you don't like it, or (as my wife feels) if you hate the unfinished ending, what can I say? I figured it was relevant to life here / northerneye. Enough said.

"He went walking"; 5-05-09

2009-05-04T10:19:00.003-08:00

He went walking, hoping to forget the past.

He awoke with the echoes of last night's whiskey resounding loudly through his body. The sick feeling in his stomach and the ache between the ears kept him from eating breakfast; kept him from even desiring it. He washed his face, drank some water and started to dress.

He was wearing the briefs and undershirt he had slept in. He over these he put on long underwear and heavy wool pants. Then the red plaid flannel shirt his sister had given him at Christmas, followed by three pairs of hand knit socks; the gaudy yellow ones, the brown, then the green striped; always in that order. Over these he pulled canvas boots his Auntie had made, with the moosehide soles and beaver trim at the top, and tied them snugly.

The brown wool sweater next. He always felt comfortable in that sweater so wearing it today made sense. His down parka over the top, zipped up. Grabbing his beaver hat and yellow cotton gloves, he headed out the door.

As he passed through the porch, he stopped, looking down at the floor. He stood there for half a minute; thinking, not moving. Then with a sigh he reached up on the high shelf and grabbed the .22 pistol. He knew it was loaded and looked at it soberly, then stuffed it into a large, inside pocket. Opening the porch door, he stepped outside.

Overcast skies with a light snow drifting down. It had the look of heavier snow coming. That would be good.

Somewhere up the road a chainsaw was laboring its way through a log. From the sound of it, probably Charlie. "He'll never sharpen that thing" he mumbled to himself, shaking his head with a frown.

He turned left and walked the frozed dirt road leading out to the river bank. Past the last house; the vacant frame house with the weathered siding and boarded up windows, remnants of decades old yellow paint clinging stubbornly to the gray wood, he caught the breeze coming upriver.

To the south the sky was much darker. No doubt about it, a heavy snow was coming. Maybe the storm would arrive before the Troopers. That would give him more time to decide. No, probably not. He turned back for the house.

He went around to the back of the house and grabbed the snowshoes hanging on the wall. Carrying these under his arm he took the trail leading to the slough. Angie's little white dog barked at him as he went by, like it always did. He lunged at it, as he frequently did when he walked by, and the scared dog dove into it's house, growling. Laughing, he walked on. The dog sprung out again, barking. Some things never change.

At the slough he slipped on the snowshoes, stepped out into the deep snow and moved on toward the trees on the other side. The tracks would tell the story of where he went, unless the storm did its work and covered them before the Troopers arrived. Either way, no one would be coming after him; they'd all just wait 'till he came back.

He smiled. He knew he wasn't coming back

5-03-09; "Your move"

2009-05-03T10:49:00.005-08:00

Yesterday I was slogging through some of the mundane details of life; janitorial work in a small public building. The menu for the afternoon included vacuuming, mopping, a basic bathroom make-over, taking out the trash, etc. I was in the midst of my "etc" course when he walked in.

"What's up....?"

"Not much; just cleanin' up. What are you doin'?"

"Headin' downtown"

After a few more pleasantries we steered the conversation in a direction of substance. He noticed a few photos taken last month while beaver trapping. That was the catalyst.

"I used to go trapping with my Grampa." He said with a far off look in his eyes. He was wearing the hours-old look of marijuana, not uncommon for him, but this was different. Well aware of his past, I moved ahead.

"I know. I knew your Grampa pretty good...used to see him out all the time; getting wood...checking his sets...fishing...whatever. He was always doing something."

"Yeah. That was my Grampa."

We talked about it; all the outdoor skills his Grampa possessed and how he tried to pass them on.

"You know, he taught you those things for a reason."

"Yeah...I should get back into that stuff."

"Umm hmm." (Sometimes saying less is saying more, so I was letting his own words sink in. He was working on it.)

After a few moments I cautiously made a few points; things like...

"Your Grampa wouldn't be happy if he knew you weren't doing the things he taught you"

and

"He wouldn't want you to just lay around doing weed all the time"

and

"A good way to show your respect for him would be to carry on the ways he showed you"

...I proceeded carefully here; very carefully. I've known him for over a decade so I knew how far I could go, and when to stop.

We said good bye and he continued on his way. I gave him what he needed to hear. He listened. Now it's up to him. The ball's in his court.

5-2-09; "Break-up"

2009-05-02T08:45:00.005-08:00

The ground, where it is visible through the remaining snow, is soft, squishy, muddy.

In the fall when things freeze-up, the world beneath our feet basically freezes from the top down. That is, the cooling air is colder than the earth, so the air freezes the ground at the surface initially. As winter progresses the ground continues to freeze in a downward direction, eventually freezing to a depth of 3, 4 or 5 feet.

Months later, spring arrives. The days grow long. The sun climbs incrementally higher in the sky and sheds it's radiating warmth upon this frozen land...and we soak it up.

Just being outdoors can feel like...I don't know...like sitting in a hot tub. The brilliant sunshine reflected off the snow is a welcome treat after the many months of darkness, twilight and overcast skies. The warmth of solar radiation on your skin feels sooooo good; you feel like a lizard, belly-down on a rock in the cool of the morning, waiting for your blood to warm up. In fact, everything is kinda like that; the land, the water, the forests, all living things. We're all just sitting here like reptiles in sun, waiting for it to do it's job. And it's working.

Where the snow has cleared, the ground thaws, an inch at a time, top first, while the ground below remains frozen. And that makes for a muddy mess. Surface water can't soak in so it either runs off or just sits there. In a marsh, "just sitting there" is great; the birds love it. But in my yard it's a bummer. We'll be dealing with the mud of break-up for weeks. That's just part of the annual cycle.

Creeks start to flow with the increase of surface water; many of them flow on top of the ice covering they've had all winter. Eventually that ice will melt and flow downstream, but right now a lot of it remains. It's not uncommon for a creek at this time of year to be gushing rapidly with spring run-off; the water racing over the winter ice, under which is another layer of water. It's weird. That's the case in the video.

"Life's not fair!"; 4-29-09

2009-04-29T09:19:00.003-08:00

Let's face it, life just isn't fair.

Last night I was watching play-off basketball. Another nail biting close game; I was on the verge of losing another finger. The young up-starts vs. last year's champs (whom I loathe; my feelings for the "greenies" is equal to how I feel about the terrorists and those sickos who poison candy at Halloween).

Final seconds...game on the line...an easy score coming to tie the game for the up-starts...and then it comes...a cheap shot to the head! The greenies mugged the up-start on his way to the basket. Clearly that was a flagrant foul; the penalty for which would give the win to the upstarts. But no! The refs wimped out. In the face of a very hostile crowd they don't make the call. Greenies win. Make a dirty play and win the game? Life's not fair.

We see it everywhere. Life's not fair.

I wrote previously about traveling to another country to see the dentist when my neighbors get a dentist who comes to them...for free...and many don't even care to go. Life's not fair.

Two young women each have a baby. One labors, seemingly without end. Another drives up to the window and hollers at the speaker "I'll have an epideral with an easy delivery...and make it snappy; I'm in a hurry!" Is that fair?*

Where you live, I bet you have an unlimited choice of restaurants and coffee houses to choose from. Any time you and your sweetie want to spend some time enjoying a romantic dinner or linger over a cup of high-priced brew, you simply drive down to the corner. Starbucks awaits.

Here we must use our imagination, put a candle on the table and cook it ourselves. (I must say though, my brew's not too bad.) We live in a wilderness, and the new definition of "wilderness" is "a location exceeding 50 miles from the nearest Wal-Mart, or lacking cell phone service".**

Side note here; when I returned home last week, I really had a good laugh. Our plane flew from Fairbanks to our regional hub village (look up older post regarding "hub"). Three people who were on the plane with me got off and all immediately attempted to use their cell phones. Imagine the smirk on my face as they kept pushing buttons and scratching their heads in confusion; attempting to get a signal that was three hundred miles away.

Where you live, hundreds, thousands or perhaps millions of people dream of "getting away from it all" and long for a place that is Wal-Mart free, Starbucks free and cell phone free. The expense and difficulty for them to get there is roughly equal to me going grocery shopping. What can I say...life's not fair.

So get over it! The greenies will likely win this play-off series and move on. Both women had healthy babies (But I know which one is cuter!). You're stuck with Wal-Mart and cell phones. I'm stuck with canned food and migratory waterfowl. Life's not fair, but who ever said it was?

My advice is to make the most of what you got. I don't think the Lord is overly concerned with our circumstances; I think He's a lot more concerned with how we handle those circumstances.

* Attention family members! This was meant in fun.
** My defintion; not found in any dictionary I'm aware of.

4-15-09

2009-04-15T07:39:00.008-08:00

It's a little tricky blogging about northern life while I'm here in So.Cal. My computer is telling me it's minus six back home; I look out the window and here it's sunny and nice.

So I just thought I'd pass on a link to something I just read. I've never attempted a link before so let's hope I can pull it off.

Don't forget, today is tax day.

Nope. I can't get it done. Sorry.

4-07-09; "In the land of Oz"

2009-04-07T11:09:00.009-08:00

Today I am somewhere over the rainbow. Two days ago I spent a clockful of hours in planes and airports, traveling thousands of miles to get here...and here is nice.

I haven't seen any witches, fair or otherwise. No houses are falling out of the sky (though some look like they may have). There are a couple of little people (I can't remember what they were called in the movie; "Lilliputians" I believe go with Gulliver, the original "little people" belong in Ireland, the "Lollipop Guild" is the best I can come up with). Anyway, the two shorties here are loads of fun.

It's a weird thing to go from village Alaska to Mexico, by way of places like Anchorage, Seattle and San Diego. A rapid sucession of cultures, climates and clothing (to name only a few of the variables) streak by with little time for the viewer to make adjustments. For me it went something like this...

Leave home (several feet of snow on the ground, temps still below freezing, warm clothing required), fly to Fairbanks (where it is slightly warmer), then to Anchorage (where it is warmer but feels colder), then to Seattle (where lots of people are tanned and wearing shorts!), then to San Diego (sail boats and aircraft carriers in the harbor, warm temps, palm trees, here I expect shorts) and today I was in Mexico.

This is a great place for food, cheap gas, kidnappings and (one of my favorites) "Bonafont" con limon (flavored bottled water; really hard to find in rural Alaska).

Yesterday I went to the dentist (Dr. "Raoul")) to get a tooth fixed. That right there is really weird. People in my village have a dentist who comes to them, it costs them nothing, and even then many people don't care to go. I travel thousands of miles to another country, visit a dentist who speaks little english, and I'm thankful for the opportunity, happily paying him to fix my tooth. Go figure.

Today I was waiting in line to cross the border, in an old black car with no air conditioning (mercifully, it was not hot). As usual, numerous "vendors" approach the car, selling food, beverages, even crucifixes. One guy wanted to clean my windows, but there was no point, since the car was really dirty. Where would he stop?

A few things made a memorable impression. The first was a guy carrying a black trash bag over his shoulder (Santa Claus style) and giving me his sales pitch. My Spanish is very limited; all I could make out was "tacos". Hmmm, tacos in a trash bag?

"No gracias" was the appropriate reply.

Then there was the slow approach of a car with a loudspeaker mounted on the hood, procaiming something about "Tamales", interspersed with lively mariachi music. Now, I love tamales, and mariachi music is OK once in a while, but the tamale version of my childhood ice cream man is not my style.

"No gracias".

Then there was the smartest guy in the lot. He strategically located his cart close to some portable toilets and under a tree providing some scant shade, his large unbrella took care of the rest of the sun, and his folding chair leaned back comfortably against the wall that separates these two nations. He appeared perfectly content in life.

It reminded me of a passage, in Job (or is it Jonah?) about each man sitting in the shade of his own vine. He wasn't doing a booming business, but then who was? Had I felt compelled to shop, he would be my choice of vendors.

I smiled, took another sip from my chilled bottle of Bonafont (con limon) and creeped ahead in the slow line of cars waiting to make the transition from one world to another.

3-31-09; "The Promise"

2009-03-31T09:19:00.005-08:00

A pretty picture greeted my sleepy eyes this morning. Stumbling through the groggy motions of grinding coffee beans and putting the kettle on, I raised the blinds, squinted my eyes in response to the glare invading my kitchen, and peeked out into a brilliant world.

Ahhhhh...now that's what I'm talkin' about! Things are looking up. The sunshine on the far hills offer the promise of better days ahead.Winter is now slipping through the tight-fisted grip of day-to-day existence. Spring is coming; nope, spring is HERE!

Never mind that it was a few degrees below zero this morning. Never mind that we have several feet of snow on the ground and not one flake has begun to melt. Never mind that the river ice won't break-up for another six weeks. Don't bother me with the mundane details of life.

Today is a new day!

Those hills, capped with snow covered tundra, their flanks draped with timber protruding up through the blanket of white; those hills...there's just something about them that inspire me today.

Are the caribou making their way through them on their northerly journey? Is there a wolverine rambling around over the crusted snow in search of a mate? Are the big grizzlies poking their heads out of their dens, blinking in the brilliance as I did out my kitchen window, wondering "What's for breakfast?"

Now I'm thinking about a trip to visit family, with the abundance of slobbery kisses on fat little cheeks. Tiny clothes, little shoes, toys on the floor that I'll trip over and the arrival of a new life. Ahhhh yes, things are looking up!

3-28-09

2009-03-28T09:56:00.002-08:00

Light snow drifting lazily down to earth. Low clouds. Temps in single digits; likely to raise into upper teens or twenties as the day wears on. The typical spring winds are wonderfully absent.

This afternoon I hope to make what will probably be the final trip of the season out on the trap line. One or two high school boys may go with. Last night both of them expressed the desire to join me, but getting out of bed and actually going is the tricky part (as my old friend would say, "We got the talkin' part done").

I'll make the 15 mile trip standing up on my snow machine. A recent axe wound to the knee cap, along with the requisite stitches and swelling, prevent me from bending my knee enough to sit down. I suppose I look like some kind of arctic surfer, cruising along on my Ski-Doo surfboard, but since I really can't see what I look like, who cares? I just need to be sure I can dodge all the tree branches and other hazards as I negotiate the many portages through the woods. Getting whipped across the face by willows at 25mph is no fun.

Our town is relatively quiet this weekend. Lots of people headed upriver. One neighboring village will have a funeral today for an elderly woman who passed away a few days ago. Another is in the midst of their spring carnival (dog sled races and lots of other festivities attract spectators and participants from around the region).

I enjoy these quiet times. Loud snowmachines roaring all night and crowds of "out-of-towners" are not my idea of a good time, so the other villages can have it. I'll savor the sweetness of a peaceful day outdoors, mentoring a couple of young men while harvesting the winter bounty of this northern land. And I'll appreciate it just a bit more than usual, as this will be the last time.

...until next year.

"Dry-meat"; 3-22-09

2009-03-22T10:57:00.006-08:00

While digging around in my large freezer the other day I found something of interest.

Last fall, when we got our moose, I processed it as usual, cutting and wrapping the meat for frozen storage. Part of the usual process includes preparing some of it for "dry-meat".

A northern moose, coming as a surprise to no one, is a large animal. Large animals make for lots of meat, so local people have come up with a variety of ways to use it ("Soup" is by far the most common menu item, but a little variety is nice). Dry-meat is one such way.

As I put away our meat in the fall I anticipate making dry-meat and cut a generous supply accordingly. I then bag it up and freeze it, for two reasons. This will allow me to make it at my leisure, especially during colder weather when the wood stove is in constant use (more on that shortly) and a period of freezing eliminates the concern about...I shudder to think...PARASITES. (As with most wild game, parasites can be an issue; freezing takes care of that concern so I can sleep soundly and not worry about becoming a modern day Agrippa*).

Where was I? Oh yeah, the woodstove. The actual drying process is to simply hang the meat up in the house and let it dry. A woodstove gives a nice dry heat in does the job beautifully. O.K.? On to the recipe.

Dry-meat is just as the name implies; it is meat that has been dried. Now, a lot of people make it following that simple two word recipe (dry...meat), but I'm of the opinion that recipe makes the finished product just as delectable and exciting as the name ("Hmmm, this stuff tastes a lot like dry meat") Who's gonna' get worked up over that?

So I came up with my own version. I call it "dry-meat ala Yoshida's" (If your life has crossed paths with a bottle of Yoshida's marinade like mine has, you're probably equally thankful, and you will never be the same). I thaw the frozen stips of meat, then marinade them for a day in Yoshida's. Then I tie a string to the ends, joining two strips, and hang them to dry. Newspaper on the floor catches the drips and my Pomeranian maintains a constant vigil, keeping the drips under control and racing me for any meat that falls down.

One time he was apprehended gulping down a strip of meat. The meat was forcibly removed from his greedy little throat. "Shocked!" is the word to describe the reaction as the meat returned to daylight; he had eight inches of a foot-long strip already down the hatch when he was busted. Disgusting, but then Poms are known to be greedy little monsters. Bad breath too...but now I'm way off the subject.

A few days hangin' around and the meat is done. I then cut it up, put it zip-lock bags and put it back in the freezer. That way, whenever I get the notion, I can take out a bag and enjoy. It's pretty good stuff, if I do say so myself.

Next time you come by, feel free to ask if I have any on hand. If I do, I'll be happy to let you try it. If I don't, I might just give you some muktuk or something else. You never know.

* read the last part of Acts chapter 12

"Spring" in the north; 3-17-09

2009-03-17T10:01:00.005-08:00

Winter up here is long, dark and cold; not exactly "news" to any one. Who doesn't know about those three elements of the northern winter? Yet it bears repeating; winter is L-O-N-G, it's DARK and it's COLD.

By the time the March page of the calendar is showing, we're ready for something different. Any change in those three elements is welcome, and a change comes; it's inevitable.

The L-O-N-G part of winter may hang on for another 4-6 weeks, the COLD part may show similar stubbornness to relent, but the DARK must yield. As Momma used to say "The world keeps on turning" and that turning (along with its orbit around the sun) make for longer days...and longer days are good!

By now we get a "normal" measure of sunlight each day; equi-distant between the long dark of the winter solstice and the "midnight sun" of summer. The days are not only longer, they are brighter too, as the sun climbs higher into the sky.

This increase in solar radiation causes people to do weird things; like yesterday, for example. Three of us went out to the trapline to check our "beaver sets" (snares and bait set under the ice near beaver houses; the dome-shaped "lodge" where they live). Now this, in itself, is not weird; in fact it's a very common activity in rural areas in March.

What made for the weirdness was the combination of the weather and our attitude. Yesterday we were under yet another weather alert/advisory/warning; this one due to the wind. High and low pressure areas often have trouble working out their differences, especially over interior Alaska in March. Yesterday was no exception.

So the three of us were out in the Arctic hurricane, getting sandblasted by the ice crystals riding the 20-30 mph winds, and playing a cat-and-mouse game with the elements. The game goes something like this.

The wind says "I'm going to freeze the tip of your nose" and you say "No you won't" while you make the necessary wardrobe adjustments. Then the wind says "OK, I'll freeze your wrist"; you say "Huh-uh" and close the gap between your mitten and sleeve. "How about above your eyebrow?". "Nothing doing". "Your left cheek, right below your eye". "Not a chance". And on it goes. 99% of the time you win, but you lose once or twice during the day. I lost on the left cheek; my buddies had trouble with the back of a hand and above the eyebrows. It's all part of the game.

The "weird" part came during the middle of the day. We had just driven our snow machines to the next set and shut the engines off. The fierce wind was at our backs and the driven snow was roaring by at about 30mph. One of my buddies, parked right next to me, looked over, smiled, and said "It sure is a nice day to be out". I chuckled because I knew he meant it. I kind of enjoyed the challenge too, and replied "Yep, it is".

And we caught a couple of beaver for our trouble.

"Run dog, run!"

2009-03-08T19:26:00.007-08:00

The Iditarod started today. Well, actually, it started yesterday, but that was the "Ceremonial start", which is a parade, a tourist attraction and a bunch of fluff all rolled into one. The fluff happens in Anchorage; the real action begins in Willow, on the first Sunday in March.

So the race is officially on. Let 'er rip, boys (and girls, they win it too, sometimes).

A while back I was asked to write something about the Iditarod and how God has used it to work in my life. That's what comes next, in a slightly altered version to work here at NorthernEye. Hope you like it.

Unheralded Heroes

The relationship between man and dog is well known. In the north, it has been mutually beneficial for generations; even millennia. Indigenous northern peoples have relied upon their canine companions primarily to assist with transportation needs in an environment legendary for its challenging, even life-threatening conditions. Deep snow, bitter cold, gale-force winds, trails that are primitive at best and often non-existent; these have always been the daily challenges facing the northern wilderness traveler.

The Iditarod Sled Dog Race, as many know, sprang from this history. The diphtheria epidemic in Nome, the rush to deliver the serum, inclement weather and lack of viable alternatives all set the stage for the dog musher to step into the spotlight. The wilderness was crossed, the weather overcome, the epidemic halted and the children saved. Risking their lives and surpassing all obstacles, the mushers who carried the serum were heralded as heroes.

The modern race continues in that tradition; pitting today’s musher against the hazardous wilderness and following much of the historic route. They compete against the other mushers, they struggle with weather and trail conditions, they fight off exhaustion and sleep deprivation. And they race. Only one will arrive in Nome ahead of the others. Only one will be the winner. But all are recognized for their accomplishment; all are applauded for their heroic efforts.

Well…no; actually, not all. There is a group of contestants largely overlooked. They are the forgotten ones.

I thought about this when the race came by our village this past March. My personal involvement is on the level of what you would call “grunt-work”, and I must confess, that’s how I like it. I work behind the scenes hauling water, keeping the fire going, making sure the mushers have their supplies, and my favorite…scooping poop. With nearly a hundred mushers in the race (and each starts the race with 16 dogs) our checkpoint gets littered with an ample supply of doggy-doo, so scooping is a big job, and that job "falls" to me. As a recreational musher myself, I spend ample time around the back end of a dog team, so I guess that makes me adequately qualified to deal with “dog exhaust”.

This year, as in previous race years, the checker, myself and other local volunteers worked for days to make sure all was ready. We handled thousands of pounds of dog food, straw and other supplies. We met planes, picked up vets, the race judge and other race personnel, and consulted with media crews who were following the race. We set up the checkpoint and the “dog yard” where the teams would bed down to rest. And we anticipated the arrival of the first musher.

That is always the big deal as far as every one is concerned. “Who is in the lead?” is the question on every one’s lips. We check the race updates for the latest info. “Is Lance Mackey still in front?” “Has Jeff passed him?” “Where is Martin Buser?” “What happened to DeeDee?” And on it goes. “The frontrunners are on the way”. “They should be here any time.”

As anticipation builds, rumors and misinformation gain momentum. “Lance is only three miles out.” “No, he’s camped upriver.” “I heard his dogs quit on him.” “He turned back.” And my personal favorite (I hear this one every time) “He passed by and is on the way to the next checkpoint”. Any follower of the race knows, as do Lance and the other mushers, passing a checkpoint means disqualification. Whatever else is going on, one thing is certain; he did not pass on by.

Eventually the much anticipated moment arrives. Film crews rush into place to record the event. Vehicles and spectators threaten to block the way and must be pushed back. Then, with all the excitement of a bride entering a church, the first musher rounds the bend and approaches the checkpoint. Cameras are rolling. Spotlights glare. Throngs of fans press in. And his name is proclaimed by all. “It’s Lance!” “Lance Mackey just came in.” “The first musher in is Lance Mackey”

After signing in with the checker, the musher parks his team and gets to work feeding, removing booties from 50 or so feet, laying out straw bedding, responding to media questions and trying to keep spectators out of his way. Like summer mosquitoes they swarm around him, but he is entirely focused on caring for his team. He knows who the real heroes in this race are.

The course is more than a thousand miles long. If they are to finish, each team must cross mountain ranges, deal with water and overflow on the trail, avoid tangling with moose, find the trail when it is obscured by snowdrifts, and march headlong into howling winds. Oh yeah, one more thing; they will do most of this in darkness.

They must travel with minimal rest, consume huge numbers of calories to ward off weight loss and drink more than they want to avoid dehydration. Every time they sleep it will be in a strange place. At every checkpoint they will be groped, poked and prodded by vets. Their feet will be sore, their muscles will ache, and their joints will stiffen. But they wouldn’t have it any other way. THIS…is what they live for.

They are sled dogs, descended from sled dogs. The blood of a thousand ancestors flows through their veins, and, like them, they live to pull; it’s why they exist. No amount of coaxing can get these dogs to do what they do. There are no whips in the musher’s hands. Bribery, intimidation and promises; all are without effect. Sled dogs pull because it is in their nature to pull. It is the result of who they are. And they certainly don’t do it for recognition.

When the first musher reaches Nome, he/she will be heralded as the champion. History will record names such as Lance Mackey, Susan Butcher or Rick Swenson, and rightly so…but who were their dogs? No one will proclaim the names of the four-legged heroes that pulled these mushers to Nome. The athletes who actually ran the race will remain anonymous. As with all heroes who carry on in obscurity, they are unnoticed and unknown.

I’ve thought on this a lot since the last race. And I often find myself wondering, “Who are the “unheralded heroes” in our two-legged world?” A little reflection and they begin to come into focus, but you must look for them. They do not command the spotlight; by their very nature, they go unnoticed. Even so, the sled dogs will give clues in discovering their human counterparts.

The dogs pull because it is their nature, not for reward or recognition. So what is the human equivalent? Some one who works faithfully at the task God has placed before them. They understand who they are and what God wants to do through them. They have a sense of calling; a conviction about what they do and why they do it. They have a “mission”; whether that mission is raising their children, leading a small group, volunteering their time cleaning the church, or serving on a foreign field, the key is having a sense of purpose and deep conviction. They probably understand Ephesians 2:10 and similar verses. If you find some one laboring faithfully without the enticements of wealth and recognition, you may have found a hero.

Sled dogs endure hardship. These are not pampered pets, so Poodles and Pomeranians need not apply. They are focused on the goal, even to their own detriment, which is why dogs are dropped at every checkpoint. Their human counterparts? They won’t be characterized by self-indulgence. Their appearance may resemble a working husky more than a Yorkshire terrier because their commitment to task takes priority over trips to the groomer. A sled dog’s bed is straw scattered on the snow, not a fluffy pillow next to the fireplace. And working dogs often carry with them the scars and injuries resulting from a lifetime of labor. If you know some one has endured hardship, they likely have physical or psychological scars that bear testimony. Heroes give of themselves for others, and this giving is costly.

Sled dogs have incredible perseverance. They rarely ever give up. Dogs will be dropped that are weak, malnourished or dehydrated, and they simply can’t keep up. Even then, many of them utter a forlorn howl of dismay when the rest of their team leaves the checkpoint without them. They want to continue the race; to be a sled dog is to persevere, mile after mile. Human heroes carry on in obscurity; day after day, year after year. Long after the initial excitement has faded, long after the crowd has lost interest and dispersed, the hero perseveres. They carry on, even when hope seems lost and the odds are stacked against them. They continue. When others tell them to give up and do something “more productive”, or that they are “wasting their life”, they carry on. They know they run this race to win; giving up is not an option.

This is what the Iditarod has taught me about the unheralded heroes in life; #1. They have a sense of calling in what they do, #2. They endure hardship, #3. They persevere.

A time will come when their approach will be heralded and their names will be proclaimed, when hardship is no more, when they have attained the goal. But for now, they carry on, step after step, faithfully moving ahead, in spite of all difficulty, pressing forward, focused on the goal.

It makes me chuckle to think I had to learn this lesson from a bunch of dogs.

3-04-09

2009-03-04T22:27:00.003-09:00

Well, that's it. The test results are in. We now know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, it is NOT possible to flush beer cans down the toilet.

Try as he might, a local guy (or perhaps one of his buddies) has proved it. What goes up will not necessarily go down.

I know, you're thinking that should be a no-brainer. Yeah, me too. But then I suppose Benjamin Franklin flying a kite in a rainstorm seemed a bit strange too, and look where it got him. Maybe this guy might be on the verge of some great discovery.

The good news is now the spurious inventor will stop dumping his honey-bucket on the ground in the the vicinity of his house. Too bad the local "plumber" (wishful thinking, here) had to be called in before the cause of the non-draining drain could be determined. But now it's all good...at least until he tries to flush a soup can, pizza box or maybe even a passed on pet (well, a small fish should be OK)

3-02-09

2009-03-02T09:32:00.004-09:00

Take a look at the new photo on the title page and you can see why I've been whining about all the snow. The view out the window is just what you would expect; a wall of white.

I'm hoping March will bring clear weather with the increasing daylight. (Yesterday I was able to successfully break trail to the wood yard and it was a beautiful ride; manageable powder, another fresh wolverine tack, lots of moose sneaking around in the willows along the trail; it was cool)

Yesterday I measured the ice thickness on the river; a task I perform monthly for the National Weather Service. The ice was very thin (relatively), measuring 23". That is the thinnest it's been in the 10+ years I've been doing it. There were 27" of snow on the ice, which explains it. Snow acts as a blanket, so a thicker blanket insulates more than a thin one. 27" of snow is the deepest it's been on the ice in the same 10+ year span.

Don't get the wrong idea, now. We have MUCH more than 27" of snow on the ground, but on the river it is wind swept and either packs down or blows away, or settles down into the overflow (water) frequently found on top of the ice (yesterday there were 3" of water).

So the question now is...(drumroll, please)...will the deep snowpack cause flooding when it melts this spring, or will the thin ice make for an easy break up? Tune in around the middle of May to find out.

Today I need to haul a couple loads of wood, find out why the truck won't start, then assemble a team of guys to help break trail into the beaver trapping country. Lots to do.

2-27-09

2009-02-27T15:50:00.003-09:00

Ok, I gotta make this fast; the power is supposed to get turned off in about 10 minutes.

Another winter storm warning / heavy snowfall tonight and tomorrow am. (No, this is NOT normal!!! This winter's weather is berzerko!) More shoveling again tomorrow. Maybe I should start looking into relocating to...Arizona? No, it might snow there sometime. How about the Sahara? Yeah, now we're talkin'.

I got stuck a couple of times today trying to break open the trail, again, after the last snow and heavy winds. Lots of snow drifts. And now it's coming down hard, so tomorrow I'll do it all over again.

Better shut this down before the power goes....

2-25-09; Some things I've seen lately

2009-02-25T09:58:00.008-09:00

A few days ago I drove my snow machine past a moose. Laying down in the deep snow (probably reworking the breakfast of willows it been munching on earlier) it appeared as a brown hump in the corner of my eye when I zipped by on the way home with a load of wood. Yet I recognized that particular color of brown, so I stopped the machine and walked back for a second look (it takes a while to stop a 500 lb. sled full of wood sliding over the snow at 30 mph).

The big, apparently pregnant cow laboriously struggled to her feet and began wading through the snow, heading for the cover of the nearby woods. The snow is so deep now that moose are often up to their bellies in it (and they do have rather long legs); making even a short walk a lot of work. She plowed along for about twenty feet, then looked back, grudgingly. I don't know if this second look was to make sure I was really there, warranting the effort to keep moving, or as if to say, "Come on, pal; your're killin' me here. Can't you see how deep this snow is?" Which ever the case, I left her alone and continued on my wood-hauling way.

This deep snow has caused me enough trouble (necessitating the use of cumbersome snow shoes, the snow machine frequently getting stuck, and shoveling, shoveling, shoveling) so I didn't want to add to hers. She already faces a daily struggle to survive. As I drove away I thought of warmer weather ahead, and possibly rain, which will eventually form a crust on the snow that will support the weight of wolves, but not that of moose, and I frowned to myself, shaking my head. Moose will experience a high mortality rate before this snow melts.

Another day...another load of wood. I drove to the woodyard, stopped the engine and got off. Quickly startled by a swooping shadow overhead, I looked up. A great gray owl, unknown to me, had been perched atop a dead spruce tree; the one I had just parked next to. He disapproved of my presence here and let me know by leaving. He (or she; I think the "she" maybe be the larger of the two) is North America's largest variety of owl; when one suddenly flies overhead, it can get your attention.

This was the second owl I've seen here in as many weeks. The wildfire three years ago appears to have helped the owls and the humans. We come to harvest the dead timber. They come for lunch. Not sure if the preferred menu items are voles (think large mice or lemmings) or rabbits (snowshoe hares). The first one I saw was a hawk owl and I don't know if they're big enough to tackle a rabbit. Come to think of it, I don't recall seeing many rabbit tracks, so it must be the voles they're dining on. Bon Apetit!

On my way to the dump I passed a house with two people working; a man and a woman. Neither lives there, but the woman (OK, try to follow this)...the woman is the mother of a young man who often stays there with a young woman, who rents the house.

I'd heard the story (stories circulate quickly in small communities) about the young man (which would be the woman's son, if you're able to keep up) getting drunk and "busting up the house". He apparently was unhappy with his sweetheart so he overturned the fridge, tore out the heater, etc. He reportedly even pistol-whipped a neighbor who came to the aid of the young woman. Now he should be facing a felony assault charge, among the other problems he has to deal with. This is where restraining orders come in handy, but that's a decision for the young woman.

My lap top just made a simulated thunder sound, which, in this case, means another winter storm warning. It also means more shoveling tomorrow. Things are not looking up for the poor moose, or for my back either.

And then today. Breaking trail across the river into beaver trapping country, I come across a fresh wolverine track. Wolverine's are pretty adept at dealing with heavy snowfall. Their feet make decent snowshoes and they are tireless travelors. Yet even a wolverine will jump on some one else's trail and enjoy a relatively free ride. The roaming bear-cat followed my trail for a few miles until we parted ways; me to the north and the wolverine to the south.

I was reminded of stories I'd heard of wolverines preying on caribou in similar deep snow conditions. The wolverines supposedly climb onto the caribou's back and go to work, gripping with their claws and tearing into the caribou with their legendary jaws. Initially I was skeptical of a 30 lb. predator bringing down an animal ten times its size, but no longer. The bear-cat can easily stay atop this snow; a caribou would flounder, so getting on the back of the animal would be a cinch. After watching the cow moose struggling the other day, I suspect a determined wolverine could even conquer a moose.

(the moose photo is from the internet; the one I saw was much farther down into the snow.)

2-21-09; Passing out "awards"

2009-02-21T12:04:00.007-09:00

The Troopers were here yesterday. One was the typical, run-of-the-mill law enforcement variety and one was the regional fish and wildlife enforcement officer; something of a game warden on steroids.

The latter was here to pass out citizenship awards; the other serving in the capacity of assistant/back-up/moral support/etc.

Among the categories recognized for special acheivement were:

-Hunting out of season; a couple of guys were getting firewood and found an unlucky moose who wandered into their woodyard about the same time they began to see the bottom of their freezers. The moose was quickly relocated to the nearly empty freezers, filling them up...until the Troopers, alerted by an anonymous tip, inspected the freezers, confiscated the moosemeat and issued the "awards". The freezers are empty again...for now, atleast.

-Failure to comply with regulations; a guy who shot a large bull last fall under a subsistence permit failed to follow the requirements (which included sawing the antlers in half and turning them in). The Troopers (following another tip, apparently) visited his house, admired the huge rack, then awarded him the appropriate certificate of recognition. He will probably be issued a special invitation to share his hunting story with the local magistrate as well.

_????; I'm not sure what the exact title of this award was. The Troopers took the time to hand deliver it to the recipient, but there may have been some confusion. The honored recipient seemed upset at having been selected for the award and wanted to decline (perhaps it was out of humility). The Troopers were insistent he accept the award, even promising him a free trip to Fairbanks, all expenses paid (well, maybe not ALL expenses, but they were going to be sure he got a free one-way trip). They were even offering him a shiny pair of bracelets as a special gift. In the end he accepted the award. I never did learn what he was being recognized for.

Local people have a real hard time with the whole award/recognition thing. They prefer to be left alone to carry out their lives in oscurity, avoiding the spotlight, but sometimes it's inevitable. Personally, I hate to see some of my friends get special recognition, but over-all, it's a good thing. Which brings me to the next post (which, I guess, actually, was the last post...)

(No, the Troopers did not come in the car, in case you were wondering)

Crime and Punishment; 2-18-09

2009-02-18T09:05:00.008-09:00

More weather issues. Today we're under another winter storm warning. "Another" because we had one a couple days ago, and a day or two before that, and I can't remember before that. What I can remember is all the hours I've been spending on the end of my snow shovel. Bitter cold or heavy snowfall seems to fill nearly every day on the calendar this winter. Hmmm...is it just me or did we do this last year too?

Well, how about a change of pace? I've never attempted to read the book by that name (Crime and Punishment). I should, and likely will some day. I've read some other works by classic Russian authors; they seem a little cumbersome and plodding, but generally I've enjoyed the experience. "Anna Karenina" is a good one. The two key figures offer great life lessons, for those who have "an ear to hear" (or should I say "an eye to see/read?".)

Yesterday I noticed a headline about the ongoing drug wars in Mexico. A police officer was killed...along with ten of his family members. TEN!!! Imagine that for a moment. Who were the ten? I doubt they were all brothers. Wife, mother, children, in-laws; the carnage probably was made up of those, I assume. America's insatiable lust for drugs is murdering innocent people every day in Mexico and elsewhere...every day. The heroes in this war are often unnamed individuals who take their stand against crime and are murdered as a result; frequently with their families. And it's not looking to change any time soon. As long as Mexican men must choose between honest poverty or a wealthy life of crime there will be an abundance of criminals.

I grew up hearing the adage "Crime doesn't pay", but I'm not sure that holds true any more. Internet crime is rampant, seemingly with impunity. Identity theft appears about the same. It seems everywhere you look, crime is on the rise while the punishment is decreasing.

Another item I read was a California judge ordering the release of 50,000 prisoners; I suppose it was due to overcrowding in the jails, but what a way to deal with crime; open the doors and let them go. I have a sneaking suspicion Californians will reap a bitter harvest from these seeds they are sowing.

Yesterday I was sitting at my table drinking tea with an Alaska State Trooper. He was paying me a visit because I had reported an incident involving intoxication, a public disturbance, attempted theft and vandalism. He basically informed me that there was nothing to be done. The perpetrator had violated the conditions of his probation, but "...they're not going to take any action on that" (they being the state/DA's office/etc.). The attempted theft and vandalism weren't serious enough to take any action on either.

The Trooper was more frustrated than I was. He was here working on a number of cases involving minors consuming (alcohol), most of the cases will apparently go nowhere. A lot of his efforts end up getting dismissed by the judge or prosecuters. So basically, crime pays.

I had a youth tell me a few weeks ago that "everything [he's] ever been charged with was dropped" (and I can tell you he's been in trouble a lot). For him, crime pays. Same for the drug dealers here in our village. Same for the bootleggers who sell to minors. Same for the young man who stole the snow machine last weekend. Same for a lot of people.

It caused me to think about the difference between the rich drug lord in Mexico who can order the murder of a local cop and ten of his relatives, and the northern village resident who sells weed or alcohol to minors. Basically, there is no difference. Neither has concern for right and wrong. Neither cares about the welfare of others. Both do what they do for their own financial gain, to the detriment of others. And neither is concerned about their own soul, God, Heaven and Hell, or eternal matters.

God has instituted human government to maintain order and keep sinful human behaviors in check (well, at least I think that's the general idea). The relationship between crime and punishment is an essential part. It's my feeling that He gives us an earthly example to continually remind us of the eternal principle; we will all be held accountable for our actions. If we forget or ignore this principle, we do so at our peril. Sadly, when crime pays, it becomes much easier to forget or ignore that principle. But, regardless, the principle applies, and the result is the same.

p.s. Posting this video was tricky for a technical knuckle head like me. It obviously has a lot more to do with the first part of this post than the last.

2-05-07;

2009-02-05T09:02:00.007-09:00

The snow has returned. After a prolonged period of cold weather (which means weeks of thirty to forty below) the temps are rising, as is the overall outlook of most people here. Weeks of -30 or colder begin to weigh on you.

It's uncomfortable to be outdoors. It's hard to get things done, because everything takes a lot more work. Machines are harder to start, harder to keep running, they take longer to warm up and don't run as well. They break down more.

Other chores are harder to do. Hauling firewood becomes more necessary and at the same time, more difficult. Not only do you get a lot colder when you are driving the snow machine at thirty below, as compared to zero, but the chainsaw is harder to start and tends to ice up more. Same with the snow machine. Same with your fingers for that matter.

You need more wood but it gets harder to get; an arctic version of the "vicious circle".

So when the barometric pressure starts to drop, the clouds move in, the temps rise and the snow starts to fall, you feel like an old friend has returned after a long abscence. The sight of the drifting white flakes warm your heart like manna from heaven. Well...sort of; I don't want to get too carried away, but it's a welcome sight and I'm relieved to see it.

Now the down side. The change in the weather comes at a price; a "winter weather advisory" issued by the National Weather Service, which means we'll likely get 4-6 inches in the next 24 hours and wind chills can be minus forty five.

Oh well, you can't have everything. Today I'll try to get out for a load of wood and take care of some other past-due chores. Tomorrow I'll shovel "my old friend". And if the snow keeps up for a few days I'll probably start reminiscing about the good 'ol days when the weather was clear. That's why I usually tell people "zero is perfect" as far as winter weather is concerned.

(I just threw in the photo because I thought it was cool.)
(Actually, I didn't throw it in because it wouldn't cooperate.)

The "city", the "hub" and the "village"

2009-01-31T15:20:00.013-09:00

Life in Alaska is generally lived on one of three levels. Well, actually there are four. The fourth would be completely isolated, as on a homestead or out on a trapline, at a fishcamp. etc. But we'll skip the fourth and focus on the other three.

Living in the "city" refers to urban areas. Keep in mind we are talking about Alaska here; a state with a total population roughly equal to the city of Boston, so "urban" is a relative term. The urban areas in Alaska are basically three. Yep, three; that's about it. There are more than three incorporated cities, but three urban areas is really all we have.

In order of population, you have the Anchorage/Mat-Su area (where most of the state's residents hang their fur hats), Fairbanks and Juneau. Calling Fairbanks "urban" is a stretch (37,000); Juneau even more so(about 30,000), but it is what it is; for us that's urban.

Numerically, most Alaskan's live in the "city". More are moving there every day, driven cityward by the tough economic conditions. Like elsewhere on the planet, it is easier to find employment in the cities, and a dollar (or a peso, tenge or yuan) tend to go a lot farther where the people are.

The "hub" refers to communities that serve as something of a middle ground between the city and "the bush" (bush = rural Alaska, off the road system). Hub communities come in large or small versions, determined by size, and are found throughout the state. Some of the large ones are Bethel, Nome and Barrow. Small hub villages are communities like Aniak and Galena.

Most services run through hubs; a sort of "trickle-down" system from cities through the hubs to smaller villages. Mail, social services, State Troopers, air travel; all these and more "trickle" through the hubs. If you get into trouble for a minor offence, you'll probably appear before the magistrate in the hub. If you need medical/dental services on a minor level, the hub may be where you go. If you need a Trooper, the hub is where you call. Fish and Game, mental health, regional events; these things happen on the hub level.

Hubs tend to be growing in size also, since they offer more than villages. More employment, better schools, more of this, better that, etc., etc. A couple of examples.

I was in our hub yesterday, flying from the city (where we had gone for medical services and to attend a conference) to my home village. While I was waiting four hours to make my connecting flight, I talked with two men; both currently employed as construction workers. Winter construction work just doesn't happen in villages, but these two were enjoying year-round work because a housing facility is going up in this hub (the housing facility would NOT be built in an outlying village).

Hub schools are also a cut above. This hub's school (actually there are two; one is a boading school with students from all over the region. You'll note the boarding school is located in the hub too), aside from offering better teachers, a wider variety of subjects, being equipped with an indoor swimming pool, etc., gives student a bunch of choices when it comes to sports. Their students can play basketball, run cross country, ski, wrestle, play volleyball, and probably other stuff too. That's a pretty sharp contrast to our village school, where kids can play basketball...and that's it. Even that is a financial strain on our school and community.

Village residents are cut from different cloth when compared to the rest of the state (or the county for that matter). New Yorkers are silk. Californians...microfiber. Cotton seems to work for the south. Maybe...denim for Wyoming or Nebraska. So village Alaska? Hmmm, how about burlap. Or maybe just fur.

Village dwellers tend to live very close to the environment around them. Food is often harvested from the surrounding land and waters, so they spend considerable time there harvesting it. "Store food" is secondary.

Weather conditions affect them much like it does farmers and ranchers. An untimely frost or a prolonged spell of rainy weather can adversely affect their "crop". That's not even considering other variables like if the fish run is down this year or if the increasing numbers of wolves are making moose hard to find.

Law enforcement is usually a long way off, as are other things like stores (real ones, I mean), jobs, churches, emergency medical services, cell phone service and lots of the other things that most Americans take for granted.

So think of northern life as lived on three levels. City life, which is probably similar to what you are used to; hub life, which, to you would seem primitive; and village life, which is primitive.

First big storm of '09

2009-01-17T13:29:00.004-09:00

Our bitter cold morphed quickly into a thaw (well, a partial thaw. Up here it takes a while for a complete thaw, known as "break-up"). Temps hit the forties. All the snow became wonderfully glazed, turning the entire outdoor world into one big skating rink. Skates are in short supply and golf shoes are hard to find in a 10" insulated boot version, so we must hope for more snow and colder weather to cover the ice.

Then the wind came last night. It's the latest variety of weather sent to us from Hawaii. Most people would love Hawaiian weather, especially in January, but it just doesn't work in the sub-arctic.

The blow knocked down trees (about one per household; we missed out but my neighbor made up for it with three), killed the power twice as two homes lost their service connection, turned a couple of roofs into kites (one dog house suffered the same fate and this morning the mother and pups were snowed under) and generally wrought havoc. As you can see, one family had their truck remodeled, same for their snow machine, and their cache (aka "shed") was threatened.

A drive down to the river bank became a Wizard of Oz type trip, only instead of leaving Kansas we went to North Dakota. You can see the white out. Just beyond the two houses is an entire river, obscured in blowing snow.

I don't want to seem like I'm complaining though. The rest of the country has been hard hit with extreme weather of late; the northwest especially.

1-15-09; "Warmer?"

2009-01-15T19:21:00.002-09:00

Just a quick thought on the "warm" thing. Last week our temps were in the mid-fifties...below. Today the temp approached forty above. That's a swing of what?...ninety degrees?

Imagine a winter where your temperatures can vary by 90 (sometimes 100) degrees. Not to get pedantic* here, but if a "cold" winter day where you live is zero, imagine next week you hit ninety or a hundred. That would certainly be "warm". So, compared to minus fifty, thirty five or forty above is definitely warm. Today some people even used the word "hot" to describe it.

* not sure if I used the word correctly; I heard an NBA coach use it and thought it sounded pretty cool, so I thought I'd try it out. Forgive me if I'm now being pedantic, or perhaps even ostentatious. Or perhaps I should quit playing with the dictionary altogether.

1-14-09

2009-01-14T15:44:00.006-09:00

It finally warmed up and snowed. Yes, you read that correctly. In this region, during winter, clear weather is cold weather. Low pressure systems (which usually contain clouds, wind and precipitation) bring snow. So think of snow as warm weather and you've got it. I realize that's a twist for most people, but it works for me.

It's been piling up all day. I drove the 4-wheeler plowing my yard and a couple of other places today. One was the driveway of the oldest man in the village. He's my buddy and a guy I've learned a lot from, so I like to help him out when I can. You'll find some photos of him in the post "Lush"; 10-23-08 (he's the older one, in case you weren't sure).

There is the threat of freezing rain tonight. That can be a real bummer, especially if you have a lot of snow sitting on your roof. The snow soaks up the rain like a sponge and the weight goes up fast; which is why I shoveled the roof yesterday.

Rain can really help travel; not at the time but in the long term. We have a couple of feet of snow on the ground (less than normal, due to the clear, cold weather) so "breaking trail" is still doable but hard work. Put some rain on it and let it freeze and you get a good "crust" which helps support the snow machine and gives the track something to bite into. All that means snow machine travel greatly improves.

Lots of wildlife receive the same benefit. All the small game can run around on the top of the crust. Even animals as large as wolves and wolverines can stay on top of a good crust. About the only animal who won't be happy will be the moose; they punch through, so a crust is bad news for them. Picture in your mind a dozen hungry wolves scampering around on top of the crust as if it were pavement. Now picture a half-ton moose in their midst, breaking through the crust, struggling, trying to stay alive.

It's a "good news, bad news" thing; good for the wolves, bad for the moose. That's just how it goes.

My computer just gave me an update on the weather. My wife has it set up to notify us when there is a weather alert. We continue to be under a "winter storm warning", with total snow accumulation for this storm estimated to reach 12". That means tomorrow will be a replay of today; shovel snow, plow snow, etc...snow.

What fun!

1-7-09

2009-01-07T10:00:00.008-09:00

Alaska is a land of harsh realities. The long dark of winter. Brutal cold. Geophysical isolation. Wild animals. Even the tiny insects of summer are HARSH!

It seems to follow that Alaska is also a land of resolve; of persistence, determination and stubborn perseverance. Examples are prevalent in the natural surroundings.

The solitary bull moose standing resolute in a driving snowstorm. He squints his eyes to shield them from the stinging snow. His back, neck, even his head and horns are heavy with accumulated snow. But he stands there firm; holding his ground against the storm.

The sockeye salmon returning to waters of her birth. Relentlessly she overcomes the current and moves upstream, day after day. Far behind are the familiar ocean and the food it provides. Ahead she can expect hunger, fatigue, danger and the unknown. Yet she perseveres.

The Alaskan husky, leaning into the harness, working in concert with rest of the team, moving down the trail. Seemingly forgotten are the miles behind, the injured shoulder and the sore feet. The day the trail was obscured by snow drifts, and the one when they hit overflow and got wet up to their bellies; distant memories. This dog lives for the moment. He pushes on. He perseveres. He won't give up. He goes...on and on.

It's surprising to me that the local inhabitants don't possess more of these same attributes. Their ancestors did. They were a people who were tough! In generations gone by they spent the frigid winters in canvas tents on the trapline. They caught fish year-round; even keeping a net or fishtrap under the ice. They cut wood by hand; using an axe and hand saw.

When a fresh moose track was found, men would drop everything to go after it. Equipped only with what they could carry on their backs, they would strap on hand made snowshoes and pursue their quarry, literally running it down. Hours or days, the duration of the chase was no matter. But perhaps the greatest example of how tough these people were, they endured summer mosquitos without "bug dope".

It is a mystery and a controvery to ask "What changed?" Years of drug and alcohol abuse, government subsidies / "free money", loss of culture, loss of language, lack of employment, the decline in trapping, boarding schools, "the white man", changes in the home/family, abusive priests; all these and more are possible reasons. But what is certain is things have changed.

A key factor may be rapid advances in technology. A couple generations ago life was lived a lot closer to the edge. A poor fish run, an unsuccessful moose hunt or even a minor injury could result in death. Starvation, disease, hypothermia and other monsters were always lurking just outside the door. Life was uncertain. Local inhabitants faced that uncertainty much as the bull moose faces the snowstorm; with resolve.

Today we have med-evacs, village clinics, energy assistance, housing programs, a variety of food assistance programs for seniors, women with children and the poor. We have a plethora of other government subsidies as well. We have oil heaters in addition to wood stoves in energy efficient homes. Snow machines have replaced dog teams. Many communities have indoor plumbing; all have electricity and phone service and satellite tv. Most have internet access.

In short, life today is easier. It may require more cash, but modern life is less demanding. Hauling water and wood, feeding the dogs and checking the fishnet were once daily chores. Now they are basically optional, if needed at all.

Chatting with an elder ten years ago, we talked about how village life has changed. The gist of it came down to two things. Life now is easier (less physical work, no threat of starvation, more money) but life today has more problems (drug and alcohol abuse, lack of motivation, suicide, loss of cultural values, etc). The two seem to go together, and he admitted, "There's no going back".

Today you can still find the modern counterpart to the tough, resourceful ancestor, but sadly, they are the exception rather than the rule. And they appear to be a dying breed. When they are gone, the moose, the salmon and husky will mourn their passing.

"The dump tourist" vs "the dump shopper"

2008-12-29T15:30:00.006-09:00

The wind has been brutal. With the air temp in the minus 20-30 range, any wind results in a significant wind chill. We've been facing a wind out of the north that slices exposed flesh like a razor, prompting one to cover up as much as possible.

Today, when I went out to feed my dogs, I was adequately protected from the arctic blast, except for that little place between my eyes. As you may imagine, that unnamed place was cold. This weather will likely continue for a few days.

In our village, as in many others, there is no trash pick-up service. Residents either burn their garbage in a barrel (a filthy habit which pollutes the neighborhood and stinks up the town; see older post about this heinous crime against humanity), or, like myself, they take their garbage to the dump.

A village dump can be an "interesting" place; you never know what you'll find. Dump scenery may include a few dozen ravens, smoldering heaps of trash, dead dogs in various states of decay/consumption, seasonal items such as fish heads in summer, moose hide in the fall, etc. (this is trapping season so you'll often see marten carcasses; they look a lot nicer with their clothes on), and human waste; the previous contents of the infamous "honeybucket".

Today, when I went, I saw the ravens, the remains of my old sled, partially burned, lots of charred cans, and one "tourist". A tourist is not to be confused with a "shopper". This tourist visits the dump numerous times per day. He's a loney old man who's favorite pastime is riding around the village and checking out what every one has been up to. So naturally he makes semi-hourly dump visits.

He saw me driving in to drop off my garbage, so he waited out on the road. As I unloaded and set fire to my refuse (this is the approved procedure as it discourages foraging by stray dogs and ravens) the tourist attempted to appear disinterested, pretending to focus his attention on something else. But I know better; I'm familiar with his intelligence gathering techniques, as I have been for years.

When I finished and drove out from the dump, he drove his snowmachine in. He clearly did not have any trash with him, so he was not here on official business. This was a recon mission. I smiled as I watched him in the rearview mirror and drove away. The rapidly spreading flames were thwarting his investigative efforts.

If you find it...amazing, or dumb, or completely trivial, that a guy would actually drive by the dump simply to see what every one is throwing away, and that he would do this numerous times per day, I completely agree on all counts. What can I say; that's village life.

Now, as I said earlier, a dump tourist is not the same as a dump "shopper". As the name implies, a shopper visits the dump hoping to find a "bargain". Since we are a long way from Home Depot, recycling can be a good way to go. For example, in the next week I will be making a hitch/tow bar for a new sled. The materials will be reclaimed steel, originally part of the "bleachers" in the school gym. I got these "supplies" when I was at the dump a couple of years ago, so you could say I was a "shopper" on that day.

One woman here has a collection of "stuff" she has salvaged. Many people get snow machine and four wheeler parts there. In the past I have reclaimed everything from used lumber to old moose heads (used for trapping bait; one was the key to obtaining a very nice black wolf pelt).

There is an art to dump shopping. You can't just go barging in like you would at a Wal-Mart. You've got to watch where you step (remember the honey buckets) and you must possess visual appraisal skills. That is, you must have a discerning eye to tell you what trash is "treasure" and what trash is truly trash. Without the visual appraisal skills a dump shopper is forced to rummage around in the dump like a stray dog or lazy bear; a somewhat hazardous activity that can also give you a bad reputation.

I'm reminded of my early days as a shopper when I was ignorant and unskilled. I needed some pipe (two inches in diameter) to fix my trailer. A visit to our local hardware store (that's the dump, in case you haven't figured it out yet) was in order. And I quickly found what I needed. There was a large plumbing apparatus that had been dicarded when they updated our water plant. Jutting out from the top was a length of pipe which would suit my needs. I returned with a hacksaw and got to work.

I found something to stand on so I could reach the pipe (it was 7-8 feet off the "ground", not really ground because we are talking about the dump here). I climbed up and started sawing. A few people passed by and gave me some quizzical looks, but no matter; I knew why I was precariously perched on rubbish with both arms over my head sawing away on the pipe. Eventually I was sucessful and returned home.

In hind sight I would definitely say that was not the work of a skilled dump shopper. Here's why:
-#1; Discretion, or in this case, the lack of. A veteran shopper operates with the skill of a Navy Seal, seeking to perform the required operation in secret. Balancing on a pile of garbage while sawing overhead is anything but discreet. Like I said earlier, bad for the reputation.
-#2; Poor location. The needed pipe was very hard to reach. A basic rule of dump shopping is watching where you step; climbing up on a garbage pile is out of the question for veteran shoppers.
-#3; Visual appraisal. This is where I really blew it. A savvy shopper would have accurrately assessed the situation and deemed this pipe unacceptable. As a rookie, I plunged right in, to my subsequent shame. The discarded plumbing apparatus of which my selected pipe was a part, had not been previously used for water supply. No...I can only wish it were so. The truth is, (and here I cringe just thinking about it) the pipe I salvaged was part of the sewage system. (And I thought the color was from rust; so gross!)

Things are looking up

2008-12-22T20:54:00.004-09:00

Unless I'm mistaken, we had a wee bit more sunlight today. The Solstice is behind us so the days are now getting longer; probably only a few seconds, but we'll take what we can get. I didn't really notice much improvement; it was snowing pretty hard all day. I'm sure the sun was out there, somewhere, but I didn't see it.

Today I headed off across the river to get wood (firewood). With my fully functioning snow machine (one, at least) and a new chain on my saw, I drove off feeling like a kid on the way to my first day of school...but the vision was quickly shattered.

While driving "down the bank" (which means I was going down onto the frozen river) I met a guy who was also getting wood. His appearance was enough to strike fear into the heart of any "kid" on their way to their first day of school. Good thing I'm a grownup. My wave brought a smile; well, a partial smile. He has lived a rough life and some of his teeth have not survived the journey. His face told the tale of a scuffle, probably about 3-4 days ago. There were old abrasions and a so-called "black eye" which was anything but black. Red, purple, orange and a bit of green and yellow. All the colors you would find in a good Italian produce market. And those colors would look a lot more attractive there than around his eye. Alcohol doesn't wear well.

He was scrounging around for anything remotely resembling wood. On his make-shift sled rode some tree roots and pieces of a stump. He was pulling it himself; his life does not accomodate a snow machine for any length of time.

As I approached the island I came upon an oddity; a man walking. Odd for a guy to be walking a half-mile from town on a soft snow machine "trail". Suspecting a mechanical problem I stopped to inquire.

"What's goin' on Mo?"

"I'm stuck on the other side, in water."

"Where at?"

"Right where you go up the bank on the middle trail."

"How deep is it?"

"Not too bad (he illustrates with his hands) but I couldn't handle it myself."

"You want a ride back to your house, or do you want a hand getting it out?"

"I hate for you to get wet."

"It's not like I've never been wet before." (he smiles) "And I'll probably be getting wet again before too long." (he chuckles)

A mile ride and we're there. After 15-20 minutes of pushing, pulling, lifting, digging, shoving and sweating he's free. He waves as he goes on to check his traps and I drive off to the north.

A few miles later I come upon a BULL MOOSE; capitalized because he was BIG. I watched him chug his way up the lake through the snow, swiveling his head from side to side as he kept an eye on me. WOW! After all these years I still marvel at the size of those guys. A massive body of muscle, sinew, blood and bone, hide and horns. There's a lot of power jogging up that lake; his dewlap swinging pendulously as he goes.

A few hours later and my work is done. Two loads of drywood have been delivered; payment for the rough-sawn birch she gave me last month. She'll have heat for many nights and I have a new table. We're both happy. I threw in a fresh beaver carcass just to be nice.

(The photo was taken a few days ago with the sun at max height. It gives you and idea how low it is at this time of year. You can probably imagine why clouds are no fun right now.)

12-13-08

2008-12-13T20:01:00.006-09:00

Not really sure where this post will go. Usually I "feel" some kind of inpiration about a subject or a current event. Today I just signed on...hoping it will come to me.

Maybe I'll just tell you what I did today.

The day starts off a little weird. My wife hurt her shoulder at work yesterday and the pain kept her from sleeping very much. Most of her night was spent sitting up in a La-z-boy. She's tired, hurting and frustrated, so I pamper her a bit with a nice breakfast. Then, once I know she will be ok, I move on to other things.

One of my snow machines is now fixed...Ohhhhh-yeah! I got it running last night so today it's ready to roll. And roll it does!

I go for a ride (after stopping by the dogyard to prepare soup du jour for my dogs; Brazil and the others really appreciate it if I fill the empty spot once a day). I check out the trail in hopes of running the team tomorrow. Out of the dog yard, through the woods, across the little lake, more woods, more lakes, etc., etc. Not too cold (10 above) which makes it comfortable. Sun would be nice, but we're fogged in.

I follow some one's old trail* (*a "trail" is often nothing more than the track left by a previous machine. In a remote location such as this, most of the snow is undisturbed, which can make travel difficult; especially when the snow gets 2, 3 or 4 feet deep. Driving through untouched snow is locally referred to as "breaking trail"). So I follow the old trail up the local river to a logjam where the driftwood has been cut for firewood. This massive tangle of once-trees, now-fuel doesn't look too good to me; there's a lot of mud and sand on the logs which dulls the chainsaw. I continue on, in search of...nothing really, just cruising.

I enjoy the meandering ride upriver, the hoarfrost coating everything in sight, and the animal tracks. That's the great thing about snow; it tells the tale of all the recents happenings.

I see where the wolves came out of the woods to travel on the trail (animals have trouble breaking trail too, so like the rest of us, they take advantage of another's hard work and follow old trails). I can't make out how many there are; 2-3 is my guess. They go in and out of the woods a few times; one spot might be a good place for a snare (sorry, I don't mean to be a jerk, but trapping is a way of life up here. Wolf fur is used for parka ruffs and for memorial potlaches).

I also see innumerable fox tracks, some mink tracks and one that looks like wolverine, but it's unlikely considering I'm only a mile or two from the village. If snow conditions were different and the tracks fresher, I would be able to tell for sure. There is even an otter track (beautiful, amazing animals, but they can be a REAL PEST when they start raiding the fishnet).

Now I drive down to "Two-mile"; a likely place for me to turn the team around if we run tomorrow. At Two-mile there's a trail going over to "Two-mile Island".

"Hmmm...where does that go?" I wonder to myself. My woodyard is in that very direction, and not many people go down that way, so I'm curious. Raiding woodyards is for locals what raiding fishnets is for otters. I better check it out.

The trail crosses part of the river, then climbs up the sandbar to the island, but not much further. Some one has been getting driftwood on the island. No trail continuing on across the river, so my woodyard is safe.

I head for home, taking the trail back to the dog yard. After feeding them I go back to the house. Man, that was a nice ride; my first of the winter.

More pampering for the injured sweetie. I act like it's an inconvenience, but she knows I'm happy to do it. Laundry, a dinner of frijoles and fajitas (pretty good too, just sayin') and a quiet evening at home. These don't happen much on weekends, so I'm soaking it up.

'Till next time.

12-07-08

2008-12-07T08:07:00.006-09:00

I'm having a breakdown! I guess you could say it was bound to happen, considering all the stress and rigors of living here. If you know me and my situation you may have seen it coming. Perhaps you knew it had already started. Where were you when the first domino fell? You saw this coming and you said nothing?? Why didn't you tell me?

Oh boy; this is serious; it's a "major breakdown", leaving me immobile and seriously incapacitated. Not surprisingly, it affects my wife too. Actually, I guess you'd have to say it's a "total breakdown" because I'm left with no options, no alternatives. I have no way of getting back to life as I've known it until I deal with this situation...and it won't be easy. I hate mechanic work!

For the past couple of weeks the truck has been dead. I'm sure it's probably nothing more serious than the battery, but getting a new battery is complicated. It must be purchased over the phone from an auto parts store in Fairbanks, delivered to an air freight company who will handle "hazardous" stuff, and then, eventually, I'll get it here. That will likely be sometime between Christmas and New Years. (Sniffle-sniffle)

As I mentioned previously, I just got the four-wheeler repaired and back in service. Yesterday, while plowing snow, the rocker-switch burned up. The switch operates the winch, which raises and lowers the plow. Not only that; I can't even turn the engine on until I take everything apart or the switch starts smoking. That will be my first chore today, after it gets light outside. (Sob...sob...more sobbing)

My wide-track snow machine, which I depend upon; much like Zorro and his sword, Robin Hood with his bow, Tarzan and his...I don't know...his monkey? Or his knife, that's it. Well it's the same with me, winter and the wide-track. Well, it's down with a tranny problem. I took it apart a few days ago, and...uh...well, that's where we're at. Get the picture? (Boo-hoo)

Which brings us to today. Well, yesterday, actually. My relatively new "Tundra" (which is my other snow machine; it's basically a "Toyota" whereas the wide-track is a "Hummer") quit working. I'm not sure if it's serious (please Lord, no) or just a simple inconvenience (like the carb icing up). That will be my next chore (WAAAAAA-WAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!) .

So there you are; my complete and total breakdown. The only thing I have that works is my boat, which is covered with a foot of snow. I suppose my best option may be to combine all these broken vehicles into one hybrid that works!

12-4-08

2008-12-04T21:26:00.003-09:00

It's REALLY coming down! Snowing buckets out there; has been for about 24hrs. The weather wizards say it will keep up for another couple of days.

That's good news as far as snow machine travel is concerned. Bit of a bummer as far a shoveling is concerned, but I'll take it. Now we have enough to smooth out the trails and rough ice on the river. Enough for running dog teams ("Caveman"'s been doing it for a while, but what can I say; he's a caveman). Anyway, I'm REAL HAPPY I got the fourwheeler fixed and I'm able to operate the snow plow. Woo-hoo!

Tomorrow it looks like I'll be helping set-up trail markers. It's the way we identify the "trail" on the river, going up or down to "neighboring" villages. Tomorrow night a lot of our residents will take off to play basketball in the next gym down river, which is nearly 40 miles away. Driving a snowmachine on a river, in a heavy snow storm, in the dark...hmmm; I think trail markers are a good idea.

Well...time for me to turn in. Looks like a busy day tommorrow.

An even 100!

2008-12-01T17:02:00.006-09:00

Whoa! Unless I'm mistaken, this makes the 100th post for northern eye. Wowzer, that's a lot of gibberish for an old guy who can't even type (ok, maybe I'm not so old, but it sure feels like it some times; like today).

I was thinking about "the glass half-full, half-empty" thing. If you know me you're well aware I lean ever-so-slightly toward the glass being on the empty side (quit laughing; you mean you think I understated that a bit. To that I reply "Pessimists are actually Realists and Optimists are delusional"). But in the interest of fairness, I will strive for objectivity in the following post.

Life in a remote northern village; the limitations are obvious (at least they should be obvious if you've been paying attention), but with everything considered, is village life a glass half-full, or half-empty?

First off, it's REMOTE. That is a plus or a minus depending upon your preferences. Perhaps you like the idea of unspoiled wilderness right outside your door. Moose, bears, eagles, wolves; would you like them for neighbors? Solitude just around the bend. Unlimited country to explore. Sound good? How's that glass lookin' now; filling up?

Or would you miss your Starbucks, restaurants and stores (ok, we have a "store", but get real; village stores are a joke). How do you feel about cutting your own hair, cause it's a long way to a Supercuts. You can't pick up dinner on the way home from work, so forget about KFC and Domino's. Ever try buying clothes and shoes through the mail? Odds are, most of the time it won't fit (Case in point: I just got three birthday presents; one fit, one doesn't, the third I have yet to try on...I let you know in a while). So, does remote = bummer? Is the glass running low?

How about...food? Do you like the idea of healthy, wild meat and fish? It's all available right here. You just have to step out the door and get it (limits and licenses where applicable). No preservatives, no hormones, low in fat, plenty of those Omega fours, fives and sixes (or whatever they are). Fish as fresh as it comes; right out of the water. Ahhh yes, the beauty of a nearly full glass.

Oh, what? Did you want something else? You're not a wolf you say. A salad??? Sorry, that's not in season. You can get your salad in July...if you planted it in June. Fruit...no problem. Here's the can opener. Fresh veggies? Sure, right out of a freshly opened can. Ben and Jerry's? Hmmm...I don't think they live here. A guy named "Jerry" comes every summer, but now that I think of it, he may spell his name with a "G". Oh, you wanted ice cream! No problem, we make it ourself. Crisco, Wesson oil, sugar and some boiled fish. You can add some frozen blueberries, if you picked them last summer. Yeah, that glass can get pretty leaky when food is the topic of discussion.

Let's try...transportation. You're gonna like this...no traffic...EVER! No jam-ups. No rubber-necking causing a 45 minute delay to your commute. In fact, no commute, so you can stop feeling guilty for not carpooling. And no need for spendy insurance or registration. (oooo-baby; look at that glass filling up) No worries about washing the car. Maintenance is less because you drive so few miles*. This whole transportation thing is a win-win. Hey, what was that Asterisk for?

Glad you asked. Miles driven are less, but around here we get a lot more "bang for the buck" (well, for the mile, I guess). Did I mention we don't have paved roads? I'm talking about zero asphalt; it's all gravel, so when I say "bang" I'm talking about "BANG!"; one for every pothole. In a village, maintenance is a loss. Ball joints wear out, shocks break, tires suffer a high mortality rate, etc. Another thing you'll want to know; YOU are the mechanic. It's hard to find a Midas or Mr. Goodwrench along the river.

Sorry to drain your glass here, but it can't be helped. If you don't like cars, don't buy one. But you will need a snow machine, a boat and probably a 4-wheeler. Add that up and it will cost considerably more than the car. You won't burn a lot of gas commuting to work, which is nice, because gas costs $5-$10 per gallon, depending on where you live. If you like the idea of saving gas/money by just staying home in the village, I'll admit, that has it's benefits. You will save. One small problem though; that's kind of like saying you'll save gas/money by spending time in jail, because never getting out of the village starts to feel like being in jail. Hmmm, transportation is a bit of a trade-off, like everything else.

One more. How about...people. Do you think village life would be great because every one knows every one. The people are all friendly and live together in a close-knit community where every one helps their neighbor. No gangs, no crime. It's just like one big family. Just look at that lovely glass; it's nearly full.

Not for long! Actually, a village is one big family, since every one is related (except me) and families don't always get along; perhaps you've discovered that. A "close-knit community"? Yep. So close it's impenetrable. Just ask the State Troopers, which brings us to the "no crime"...yeah, like I just said, ask the Troopers. "The people are all friendly"? Village people are basically the same as every one else; some are nice, some are not-so-nice. And some are a major pain!

So there you are. You decide if the glass is half-full or half-empty. As for me, my perspective remains the same, and what troubles me is the glass looks like it wasn't very clean to begin with.

p.s. The third one didn't fit. One out of three is about the average.

loose ends; 11-25-08

2008-11-27T15:38:00.006-09:00

OK, time to take care of some old business.

First off, Brazil Lives! If you were wondering about the end of the "dog tale" (who spends time thinking about dog tails?), I apologize for leaving you out there in the cold, dark land of uncertainty (is that a word?). I suppose my utter embarrasment at having failed to draw any useable conclusions, combined with the shame of my...uh...what's the word? Hmmm, it was right there on the tip of my...well, not really on my tongue, 'cause I'm writing, but anyway....uh...what was I saying again? Oh yeah! my forgetfulness. See, there is hope for me!

So I forgot the whole point of the post, which is why I've been hiding in shame. But now I will face the music. Brazil eventually swallowed the meat, after a few token gestures that faintly resembled chewing, and he only did that because he HAD to, but he swallowed and survived. Thanks to you who made comments. I probably should thank those of you who didn't; comments like "Good one!", or "Way to waste my time with a meaningless story" are better left unsaid.

OK, so #1 is done, Brazil lives!

#2. The Caveman has NOT returned. Well, like his brother said...he's a caveman! He's been out there for what, a couple of months now? And he's lovin' it. Rumor is he's been enjoying some good marten trapping, probably spending a lot of time training his dog team (yea! another team in our village) and whatever else he's doing. A couple of months without real laundry facilities or a shower???? Hmmm, maybe he's been rolling in the snow like a husky. Good thing he's camping solo.

Alright, #3...coming up as soon as I remember what it was going to be. Hold on while I check some older posts for clues...

Ahhh yes; I got it. The Postmaster.

Keep our setting in mind; isolated, no roads, only one so-called "store", about the same size as a very small house or a large living room, so everything depends heavily on the U.S. mail...got it?

Thanksgiving week arrives. It's Monday morning. There's a lot going on in Fairbanks (basketball tournaments, etc) so local people are wanting to cash checks (or get their checks in the mail) so they can travel. Others are expecting groceries to arrive so they can cook their holiday meal, etc., etc. The Postmaster is a thousand miles away visiting her sister, but, not to worry, she has an alternate who will be here to keep the village ball rolling smoothly.

At least that was the plan. "Alternate" has a baby, who gets sick, so she hops the first plane out of town. Not Good! We are now faced with an entire week of NO MAIL!!!

If you want to get only a partial idea of the magnitude of the problem, imagine you woke up on Monday, walked out your front door and saw a fifty foot high wall down the street, confining you to your neighborhood; nothing comes in, nothing goes out. If you hadn't got your turkey, or your sweet potatoes (who cares?), or those french fried onion rings to put on that dumb green bean casserole (so what?) or the ice cream to go with the Tollhouse chocolate chip pie (Ouch!, that one hurts), well now it's too late; the wall is up and commerce has screeched to an abrupt halt! That's kinda what NO MAIL feels like. Except NO MAIL is worse.

Village solution? Have some one else open the post office. And that is what happens. You can't pick up COD's but you can get letters and some parcels. You can't cash your check, but you can take it to Fairbanks. Woo hoo! Where else can a federal building be opened for business by a totally unauthorized person? Gotta love village life.

OK, that's it. Hope you enjoyed your turkey, and that dumb green bean thing, and some delicious pie. If you can learn to be thankful in all things, in every circumstance, you'll be way ahead in this life!

All quiet on the northern front

2008-11-23T10:13:00.007-09:00

This morning (well, it's 10:15, still twilight; sun won't be up for about an hour, but it's "morning")...where was I?...This morning all is quiet, peaceful, even "tranquil", you might say. Outside is a brisk minus 28, but inside there's a nice cup of coffee (Cafe Del Mundo / Papua New Guinea), a fire crackling in the woodstove, and a tired wife still snoozing (shhh, don't wake her. She works hard and can use this rest)

Last night was similar. After the Teen Rec Center shut down and the kids made their way home (or wherever else they went) the town got quiet. No snowmachines racing around; just quiet. Unusual for a Saturday night. We went to bed around 1am.

Right about the time I was entering "the zone"; you know, when you're just drifting off into a perfectly relaxed sleep...BOOM!

Uh-oh!

"What was that?" (I think I was a bit further into the zone, since I wasn't sure what the noise was)

"That was a gunshot!" (never a good thing late at night; during the day it could be some one shooting a stray dog, or perhaps even a grouse, but not now. I'm reminded of a time when a guy across the road was under his house [houses here are elevated, so being "under" one isn't an activity exclusive to small rodents and feral cats] late one night and attempted to shoot himself. Thankfully he was not successful. I'm also reminded of the time the guy next door attempted to shoot his brother, late one night. Unfortunately he was successful; he's now doing time for murder)

A little detective work (i.e. open a window and listen) revealed more clues; a couple of male voices in the area shouting/argueing, but it's unclear what is happening. No screaming; so that's a good sign.

"What should we do?"

"We'll go back to bed. If they need us, they'll call."

I don't want to seem too callous (cold hearted, unfeeling, etc.) but that's really how it is...trust me, I know. If I got out of bed and ran outside every time I thought something serious might have happened, I'd get even less sleep than I do now.

And, like I said, it's now morning and all is quiet. Probably nothing more serious than an alcohol induced argument spiced up with a gunshot to emphasize some point or other (think western movie, a couple of drunk cowboys hollering at each other with an occasional "BANG!" here and there; you'd probably be pretty close.

11-21-08; the end of the tale

2008-11-21T17:02:00.003-09:00

OK, time for me to 'fess up. Well, first of all, this blog is legit. If I cut off a post before I get to an acceptable conclusion (like the previous one), I'm not making it up. I really did have to stop. As I said, I needed to go feed the dogs (I often cook their food, as mentioned, and if left too long it will freeze; last night was around minus twenty). So, when I say I've got to go, I gotta go!

Now for the true confession...(gulp!) The reason I left this "dog tale" post hanging without finishing it up right away...is...because...you're not going to believe this...Well, I totally lost my train of thought. I honestly can't remember where I was going with that one (how lame is that?)

I mean I could come up with some lessons we can learn from Brazil / "Knucklehead", and hopefully it would be something a little more helpful than "Chew your food" or "Mind your manners", but I lost the whole idea. I'm sure it's rattling around back there in my 50 year old cranium, but I can't seem to shake it out.

How about we make a deal? If YOU can think of something appropriate, post it in the comments (please remember to keep it anonymous, well...how about "semi-anonymous".). If it works I'll post it. And if I can remember the point to the whole Brazil-eating-like-a-crocodile story, rest assured; I'll post that one too. Deal?

(Hmmm, I wonder if Thanksgiving had any relevance?)

"Dog Tales" 11-18-08

2008-11-18T13:03:00.008-09:00

I am of the opinion the we humans have much to learn. My father once said, "The more we know, the more we realize how much we don't know." He was speaking in terms of scientific knowledge, but I think the maxim applies universally.

Potential instructors are everywhere...if (and that is a big "IF"), we are willing to humble ourselves and take on the attitude of a learner; not an easy thing for Americans, we usually think we already know everything and are "on a mission" to enlighten every one in our path. If you feel I'm being unjustly harsh, I encourage you to seek out the opinion of the first non-American you meet; see what they say.

Regardless, I propose we apply ourselves to learning. If you are with me, humbly bow down and acknowledge today's instructor. (you're going to have to bow down because the teacher is a lot closer to the ground than you are). "Ladies and Gentlemen, It's my pleasure to introduce to you...Professor Pooch!".

OK, now, don't freak-out. If King Solomon, in all his God-given wisdom can suggest bugs as our teachers (Pr.6:6), I should be able to recommend "Man's Best Friend". And that is my intent with "Dog Tales". If you think it's too corny, be glad I didn't go with "Lassie's Lessons", "Canine Conundrums", or "Piddles Riddles", or how about "Sessions with the Salivating Sage" (Ooooo, I kinda like that one).

Consider if you will, Brazil; the largest country in South America, home to the vast Amazon River basin, tropical jungles abounding with wildlife....Whoa! Wrong Brazil.

"Brazil" is a dog. He was born during the last World Cup (as in football, well...soccer; you know, "the beautiful game"...??? Never mind.). That makes him...a few years old. His littermates have similar names like "Argentina", "Mexico", "Ukraine" and "Sam" (go figure). Now, I must say, Brazil is a complete knucklehead. Definitely not my favorite dog, which is why he is today's teacher.

Among his many annoying traits; even heading the list, are his "table manners". If you happen to be around him at supper time, you'll be hard pressed to find them. That's because he has none...even for a dog.

Brazil is a complete and utterly disgusting PIG! I have been around a lot of dogs in my time, and I have never been so appalled. He's totally gross. When I feed him I serve it up and clear out, because he will dive into his food with such reckless abandon it will fly. I'm not overly squeamish around dogs, but he is gross. One example was the time I fed him a large chunk of moose meat.

"Moosehunting" basically requires that the hunter shoot the moose. This in turn often produces what hunters refer to as "blood-shot" meat; meat that contains excess blood, resulting from the wound(s). Blood-shot meat is not edible for humans, but dogs have no complaints, so I save this meat and cook it for my dogs.

One time when I cooked up a pot for my dogteam, some of the meat was in large chunks. Brazil just happened to get the largest. I spooned it into his dish and watched, already aware of his "eating habits". Brazil basically doesn't like to chew his food, or maybe it's more accurrate to say "he doesn't like to take the time to chew it". He just wolfs it down, literally (actually I don't know if that's literal; I suspect even wolves chew their food to some degree. Brazil is in his own category here).

So anyway, he gets a big hunk of meat in his dish and he's on it, instantly. Like an African crocodile with a small antelope, he throws his head back and attempts to swallow it...whole. Now, this hunk of meat is so big he can barely get it in his mouth, let alone down his throat, but that doesn't stop this dainty little prince.

The meat lodges about half way down. Brazil starts stretching out his neck, rhythmically, like a snake trying to swallow a rodent. So there he is, head back, neck outstretched, throat obstructed, unable to breathe but unwilling to give up. A "Mexican Stand-off", Brazilian style. His eyes are starting to look a little bulgey and I'm starting to worry. If he were a human in a restaurant, some one would be doing the Heimlich on him by now. At last, his pea-sized intellect overcomes his pumpkin-sized greed and he relents, coughing it up and spitting out his treasure.

For about three seconds.

Replay the tape 'cause here we go again. Saaaaame thing. Snap it up, head back, start the neck/snake thing, and...nothing. Plugged up again. Only this time he takes a few steps while he's working his neck, as if he's trying to walk it off or something. Same result; bulgey eyes, an over-all look of distress, wait about twenty seconds, then...PLOP! Back out on the ground.

Another three seconds, another go-round. Add in a few more steps but the rest is identical...

It's kind of ironic, but I have to stop right now to go feed "Mr. Manners" and the rest of the dogs. I'll finish this in a while...

11-10-08; the Postmaster

2008-11-10T11:20:00.011-09:00

I've been scolded for not updating northerneye more often, and I've been admonished to update my profile to reflect the current number of grandchildren. Any guesses on who may have given me this recent "encouragement"? If you guessed the mother of the new addition, you'd be right.

Time is like...Nutella; you can only spread it around so far before you run out. And my jar of time has been scraped pretty clean of late (my jar of Nutella is non-existent; such a pity). But right now it's time to check the post office.

The Post Office in a northern village is the equivalent of the country store in old movies. You know, the place where people meet and share news and gossip. You won't find a couple of ol' boys playing checkers on a cracker barrel, but you will find them chatting with the postmaster (the Hollywood storekeeper's counterpart; think Mr.Olson...Little House) discussing current events; such as the weather, the latest hunting/fishing/trapping reports, who got med-evacced, who got a new snow machine, who has been hauling wood, from where, whether it's drywood or birch, etc. It goes on and on.

The postmaster is usually the authority on most subjects. She (or he) is "in the know", keeping current on the local happenings and usually dispensing the news faster than the mail. Letters must be sorted and placed in the appropriate box (we don't have home delivery, in case you were wondering; pardon me for laughing at the thought), whereas "news" can be passed freely over the counter to anyone. Well, almost anyone.

If you are not on friendly terms with this local gossip guru, you may find yourself out of the loop. And this could have ramifications far beyond the scope of information. The local postmaster is a very...how should I put it?...a very "influential" person. She not only knows all, but she touches all as well.

In a remote community where nearly everything of importance comes via the U.S. mail, the postmaster is in a very strategic position. The adage about the two people you don't want mad at you applies; the "two" being the person who delivers your mail and the person who prepares your food. An angry postmaster probably won't spit in your soup, but your mail could be mysteriously misplaced.

Postmaster "knowledge" is pervasive; not limited to local gossip. By handling virtually every piece of mail and reading the addresses, she knows everything about everybody, and what she doesn't know she can deduce. Think of her as a human hybrid; part Wizard of Oz and part Sherlock Holmes.

The postmaster knows your finances. She knows who gets checks in the mail (social security, unemployment, retirement, AFDC, payroll, Alaska PFD and public assistance, to name only a few) and when these checks come. She knows how many different checks you get, and the amount, because you probably cash them at the post office. (The only "bank" around here is the river bank, and "Teller" is the name of a village off to the northwest.)

Since many people use postal money orders to pay their bills, she knows what you spend your money on. If you buy a lot from Cabela's, Amazon, Eastbay, or whatever, she'll know. If you love to buy stuff from all those dumb home shopping channels, she'll know. And if you purchase "male enhancement" or "adult entertainment" products, she'll know that too. No secret is safe from her. If something crosses her threshold which her scanners don't recognize, she'll casually ask you what it is; this information is then filed in her mental database.

She'll know if your car, boat, four-wheeler or snow machine breaks down, because you'll be waiting for the parts to arrive at the post office. She'll probably know how extensive the repairs are, since most people have things shipped C.O.D. and the amount is right there on the box; plus, you have to pay her the C.O.D. amount. It's probable that she already knows if those vehicles are financed or paid for too.

She knows if you are in debt (she sorts the credit card bills), she knows if you have been turned over to a collection company (certified mail), she knows if you have investments (statements), who your investments are with, and how many. I suppose if she were interested, she could even check the financial pages to see how your investments were doing, but right now everyone knows that.

She knows who must appear in court, how often, and with the local gossip she already knows why. She knows if attorneys are involved. She probably knows if you will be going to jail and for how long, since you will have to tell her what to do with your mail while you're away. She knows!

And she's not ONLY a postmaster. She's a counselor, a social worker, a financial advisor, a surrogate parent, and would probably make a pretty good poker player. Let me explain.

Let say "Wife" is away while "Husband" remains here in the village. Wife knows "the check" (could be any check) is due to come in the mail any day now. Wife calls the postmaster to tell her NOT to put the check in the box, because Husband will cash it and spend it at the liquor store. (The postmaster already knows all this anyway, but you can't be too careful) So the postmaster "holds" the check until Wife returns, ensuring the money will be spent in a more sensible manner (like gambling, perhaps, or maybe for food or fuel). When Husband asks if the check has come, the postmaster must answer accordingly, which is why I think she'd be good at bluffing in a card game).

She helps people pay their bills. She discourages unwise purchases by those who can't afford them. And she won't cash your check if you are intoxicated; especially when you are accompanied by a group of unsavory characters who are known to separate the vulnerable from their pocketful of cash. She knows!

This encyclopedic database possessed by the postmaster obviously benefits the entire community. Naturally it follows that her replacement can't measure up when she is away. The sub postal worker is truly "sub-postal", lacking the village omniscience of the real deal.

My wife spent several years working as our postmaster's replacement. On numerous occasions she was bawled out by customers. The reason? Simply sorting the mail. Who knew you could get in so much trouble for reading an address and putting an envelope in the appropriate box?

To keep things running smoothly, every community needs a postmaster who has this "higher knowledge"; one who knows all and, quite often, tells all. It's a lot of service for the price of a stamp.

10-28-08

2008-10-28T21:29:00.008-08:00

The river froze up two nights ago. Keeping in mind that the river is the primary highway in these remote parts, try to imagine what freeze up means.

During the summer and fall transportation needs are met either by aircraft or boats, as I've pointed out. But that is weird. You use a BOAT as your primary vehicle (since air travel is limited and very costly). We're not talking about going fishin' on the weekend with the boys or spending a day at the lake skiing. This is basic stuff; obtaining food, heating your home, etc.

When winter rolls around and the temps drop to something below, we simply exchange "snow machine" for "boat" and it's more of the same. (Actually, there are some differences, but I think you get the idea) So winter or summer, the river is the highway. Whether it's boats or snow machines, warm or cold, green or white, it's all about the river. If access to your neighborhood was provided by a river instead of a paved thoroughfare, you'd get it.

River...river...RIVER. To live here is to be completely dependant upon the river. Now it may come into focus. It follows, then, that when the river is in transition, morphing from a liquid into a solid, you have problems. And "problems" translates into "you are stuck". Using your neighborhood again for comparison, imagine you have only one road that connects it to the "outside world". What would it be like if the pavement turned into jelly for a few weeks every spring and fall?

It can be very hazardous to your health if you attempt to rush things while waiting for the river to freeze. People can die that way, so you must be patient. And that reminds me of a story one of my "lush fishing friends" (see earlier post) told me. He's an old guy (the oldest in town as a matter of fact) and he's a walking achive of stories about village life and culture.

As we were checking his lush hooks, standing there near the edge, watching the ice go by, he told me about a guy who needed to travel hundreds miles down river. It was many years ago, but at this same time of year; late fall ("late fall" to us is winter and a half to most people). He made it this far by boat and stopped here to visit with friends; something people along the river do all the time. (Friends would likely be offended if they knew you passed by without stopping.)

As he liesurely enjoyed his respite here, the ice started running, which, to my way of thinking, is a real problem, but not for this intrepid (insert "insane" here) adventurer. He wasn't ready to leave and didn't want to be zig-zagging around ice with his boat, so he stayed a while.

As the temperatures continued to drop and the passing sheets of ice grew larger, people just assumed he would be spending the winter here. He was still a hundred miles short of his destination, and his boat, like the rest, was pulled up out of the water, safe from the tons of ice rumbling by. But he had made no such plans. He was merely waiting...until conditions were right.

When the moving ice was deemed acceptable, our some-what loco traveller assembled his friends down at the river bank, telling them he was going to continue his journey. They thought he was joking, but he appeared in earnest. Then they thought he was crazy.

At his request, they helped him slide his boat out onto the shore ice, right up to the edge, then loaded it with all his gear. It was about then that one of them said what they all had been thinking; the moving sheets of ice would certainly crush his boat shortly after they pushed into the water.

He laughed and said, "Of course it would, which is why I'm not putting my boat in the water". And he waited, watching the floes grind against each other, like gigantic northern lily pads, drifting by.

"Alright; get ready" he told the group, as a large sheet came crunching along, pinwheeling in slow motion along the shore. When the floe was directly in front of his boat, inches away, he yelled "Now, PUSH!", and they shoved his boat forward, easily sliding it onto the passing floe.

The southbound traveler then stepped across to the moving ice (in the same way you would step onto an escalator), turned and waved good bye. "See you in the spring" said the grinning man to the dumbfounded crowd, who limply returned his wave with their mouths hanging open. And they stood, frozen with that expression, as he drifted away, not really sure they had seen what they thought they saw.

I just shook my head and muttered "Crazy". My elder lush-fishing friend nodded in agreement.

"Did he make it?" I asked.

"Yep. When he got down to his camp, he just pushed the boat off into the water and drove to the bank. He was true to his word and came back the next spring."

But the rest of us mortals must wait for the river to freeze adequately. Now that the ice has stopped it should go quickly, as long as the weather stays cold. Then, in a couple of weeks perhaps, we can try to cross the river. The "Caveman" will be returning then too. So that's what we need; some more cold weather, then add about a foot of snow to smooth things out, and it's all green lights for travelling.

p.s. today sunrise was at 10:07 and sunset at 6:15; we are losing more than six minutes every day.

"Lush"

2008-10-23T10:28:00.005-08:00

"Lush" is not a label for some one who drinks too much; at least not around here. A "Lush" is a fish; one which the Department of Fish and Game refers to as "Burbot" (aka "fresh water ling cod").

A lush is a strange looking creature. Largest at the head and tapering down to the tail, it looks a bit like a catfish and a bit like something you'd see on an old Star Trek episode; trying to swallow up the starship "Enterprise". It is greenish-olive in color with a white underbelly. Lush are favored eating around these parts, but not so much for their flesh; people like them for their livers, which are very large.

Now, if the idea of eating fish liver doesn't sit well with you, you're not alone. I don't care for beef liver, I don't eat moose liver and I've never been interested in chicken livers, so I'm sure not tempted by fish liver, lush or otherwise.

Perhaps my "liver aversion" stems from the fact that a liver is a filter. Filters, when they do their job, filter out bad stuff, so who wants to eat that? (If you ate car parts, would a used oil filter be first on your menu?)

Or maybe it's because of a story a co-worker told me years ago. He was Viet Namese and had fought during the latter part of the war. Among the many acts committed during that war and later regretted was cannibalism. There were reports of soldiers eating the livers of the enemy; after a battle. As he told it, a meal of human liver would make you a fearless warrior. (Yeah, I'll go with that. If you're not afraid to eat another human being, what is left to fear; in this world atleast).

OK, my digression was not intended to be some kind of Halloween thing; I just don't like liver.

But people here do, especially from a lush, and a good time to catch lush is now, before the ice gets thick. You can make holes in the ice and drop in weighted hooks, one at a time, or you can run a line under the ice with a series of hooks on it. Either way, the technique is to use baited hooks, sitting on the bottom. If you selected a good spot (and that, as in all fishing, is the critical factor) a lush will find the bait, swallow up your free meal, and get caught. When you come by the next time, he should be there, patiently waiting for you to haul him out and dine upon his liver (if you are so inclined).

When I have caught lush in the past, I always give them to an elder who appreciates them much more than I do. But they're fun to catch, even if they are kind of creepy looking.

The photos were taken a few days ago when I stopped by to help a couple of guys check their hooks. No lush that day.

10-18-08

2008-10-18T09:16:00.005-08:00

This is the time of confinement. Once the ice starts running on the river, boat travel is impossible. In a village like this one, with no roads linking our community to any others, we are dependant upon air travel. Planes are the means of getting in and out. And planes are very expensive.

Aside from air travel, we use boats in the summer and snow machines in the winter. These are actually used much more than planes, since they afford the freedom to go where you want; the local "airlines" can only take you to the next village, Fairbanks, etc. With a boat you can stop where ever you want along the river. Snowmachines afford even greater freedom. The whole country is open and available by sno-go.

Imagine for a moment living in a remote community, in a wilderness area with no roads. You are on a waterway which serves as both a means of transportation AND a source of food (it's now pretty obvious why you need a boat and how important one is). To you, the water is part asphalt and part grocery store. You can even add in some recreation and a source of energy, as the river is the means of getting out of town for a break and provides driftwood to fuel the woodstove, heating your home. So that makes it part campground, park, B&B, etc. (whatever fits here for you), part utility company, and actually, it is a whole lot more. It's hard to understand the importance of the river until you live here. It's enough that you just imagine the river as an ESSENTIAL element of life here. The river is why this village is located here.

With the coming of winter (and this far north, winter comes early and stays a long time) the essential waterway begins to freeze. Your boat, faithful friend and helper these past 4-5 months, is now put away. As you watch the ice drifting by, you can only wait patiently for the river to freeze up. You know the time will come when the ice stops and enough snowfall will allow the use of your snowmachine, but that time is not now.

For now you wait. You are basically trapped in the village; "landlocked", as it were. If you need firewood, it will be very hard to get, so you better have enough. If you want to visit another village, you will have to fly, which is very expensive (over $100), so you better wait. If you feel like you need a break...too bad; you can't get one. So, for now, you wait.

The "Caveman"

2008-10-12T23:22:00.005-08:00

He's out there, lying alone in the dark. The cold air pressing in around him is held at bay by a thin layer of canvas; a wall tent, the staple of Alaskan camp life. A fire is crackling in the small wood stove, throwing a flickering orange glow that escapes the confines of the stove through cracks around the leaky door, vent and stovepipe, giving only the hint of illumination.

Outside, in the cold, the moonlight reflects off the new snow. It is actually quite bright. The woods remain in shadow but the river is lit up. Earlier, when he went outside to look around, he was surprised and pleased with the view.

The ice started running today on the river. The passing sheets grind against each other and along the shore, hissing as they go. He will hear this sound for days, continually, until the ice stops and the river surface freezes. After a couple of weeks of constant friction, all will go strangely quiet when the ice stops. But that is yet to come. Tonight he lays in the tent, zipped in his bag, listening to the passing ice.

It is the sound of a great battle; the force of a mighty river resisting the onset of the northern winter. As the arctic cold attempts to halt the flow, the water struggles to keep its freedom. Lakes and sloughs yielded quickly and are now covered in ice, but the moving water fights on. It will take days, even weeks, before the river submits. But submit it must, eventually, and he will stay in his camp until it does.

The frozen waterway will be his road back to the village. He left that home a couple weeks ago to "fall out" here at Nine-mile. He came down by boat, set up camp, laid in a supply of firewood and made himself comfortable in the wilderness. Sufficient groceries have been stored and more food is nearby. He can hunt spruce-chickens, cook the now frozen whitefish he caught in the net, even go after a moose if one comes near his camp. And water is just down the bank; an entire river at his disposal.

He brought his sled dogs with him, now chained to trees nearby. They will provide him some company and alert him if a grizzly stalks the camp. He knows quite well, he's in bear country. The blacks may have entered their dens for the winter but the grizzlies are still in search of a late meal before turning in. That's why he keeps the 30-06 loaded.

Tommorrow he'll put in some more work on the trapline. Marten fur will be improving with the snow on the ground so he'll try a few sets in another week or so. He'll need to cut some more wood too; the woodpile is getting low. It's amazing how much work there is to do in camp. But all that can wait. For now he'll just lay in bed and listen to the passing ice, to the owl calling over on the island, and the crackling in the woodstove. His brother calls him a "caveman" because he enjoys the simple life in camp, but he wouldn't have it any other way.