Marital Bliss

Sophie and I have been married 26 years. I'm sure the church we were married in would largely attribute that longevity to our having attended, lo those many years ago, their mandatory marriage prep classes.

These classes taught us things like household finances, sharing the housework and all sorts of other subjects my beloved and I still fight about to this day. Really, they just needed to teach me to say "yes, dear" and I'd have been all prepped and ready to go.

Having been on the road camping now for about ten weeks I have come across another topic that all couples contemplating wedlock should be prepped on. That would be how to communicate effectively while backing a camper or RV into a camp site.

Now if two guys were doing this there'd be some muttered cursing but basically it'd be bada bing, bada boom and done. Asking a man and a woman, especially if they are married to one another, to do this and you introduce a whole other level of drama.

The trick of course in effective communication and presumes both are speaking the same language. And since this feat requires both spoken communication along with hand gestures, well, all bets are off. There's not a whole lot of entertainment at most campgrounds so sitting in your camp chair sipping your favorite beverage and watching all the other couples go through what you and your spouse went through a little while ago does lighten up the evening.

So for what it's worth, here's some of what I've learned the hard way and through trial and error (mostly error...).

Here you have the standard hand signal for "go left". However, I've discovered it can also mean "oh, what a pretty view over there" or "oh, look at the really pretty flowers" (which they indeed were).

So too the opposite. As I look at my beloved in the mirror I think she's telling me to go right but no, she's telling me "grab the camera! There's a (bear, Moose, Caribou, elk, rabbit, pretty butterfly) right there!"

You'd think the universal symbol for stop would be pretty straightforward. Not so. I see this in the rear view mirror only after I've already collided with whatever was behind me (tree, rock, park ranger, you name it). By this time the camper is pretty close to being jack-knifed or one wheel is hanging off the edge of something steep or deep. I'm not happy, Sophie is not happy, ain't nobody happy which is about the time communication starts to improve.

Finally! Something I can clearly understand! Ah, Marital bliss at last! Now when Google finally perfects the self-driving car let's see it back up a camper into a campsite. Until then guys, and gals, make sure in those prenuptial classes they teach you what's really important.

"Yes, dear!"

An Alaskan Love Affair

You can wander around Alaska in a wide variety of ways. The major highways see a steady stream of cars, trucks, vans, motorcycles, bicycles, and RV'S. The rivers and coast are best navigated by boat which can mean anything from kayak to cruise ship. And don't forget winter when you'll see tons of snowmobiles and dog sled teams.

My observation however is that folks up this way save a special place in their heart for another form of transportation. I'm talking of course of the airplane be it bush, float, or ski, vintage (DC 3's and 6's), Piper Cubs, Cessna, Beechcraft - the variety is endless. I've read that more than 1 in 4 Alaskans has their pilot's license and I can understand why. To get many, if not most, places in this State the only feasible way is by air.

Ready for takeoff at the Chicken air strip u

Consequently, you see airfields and landing strips everywhere. You first notice the bright orange wind sock which adds a splash of color against the generally green (at least in summer) backdrop. Often the landing strip is cut right out of the forest and most are not all that long. One Alaskan pilot told me his Piper Cub needed only 140 ft. to get airborne. Some actually slope downhill into the prevailing wind to get that added boost. Regardless, with a hope and a prayer, and a good bit of skill, there seem to be many, many Alaskans in the air at any given moment.

We were bicycling along the 'old' Richardson Highway when we came across this lonely and forlorn plane sitting quietly in the sun surrounded by flowers as tall as its now dormant tires. There was even the old style ladder that had clearly not seen footsteps in decades. We wondered what stories this forgotten craft could tell but all we got in response was the quiet drone of insects. There was a feeling about the place; a little bit of sadness tinged with a healthy dose of serenity. A grand old Dame of the air, her duty done, now resting silently watching the years go by.

When was her last flight? To where was she going? Who caressed her controls to take her aloft? Who were the passengers who marveled at the passing vistas from her windows? Oh, the places she must have visited, the sun-dappled clouds her now missing wings had glided through.

There are many ghosts such as she in Alaska. They come in many guises - planes, cabins, cars, boats, mines - relics of bygone eras. Cast aside, barely remembered, they remain a tangible part of this great State. Though they will eventually rot and rust and turn to dust Alaskans are beholden to these ghosts of the past as they helped shape the Alaska of today.

On to a love affair of a different kind. If you asked the typical tourist (that would be me) what they would most like to see the grizzly bear (or brown bear as its referred to up here) would probably top the list. However, while Alaskans tolerate the great bear I think they save their love for the Moose. We have yet to see a bear - black, brown, grizzly, or Polar- during our time in Alaska, though we saw dozens in Canada.

Moose, on the other hand, are everywhere. I think that love stems from two places. One is that unlike bears Moose don't eat people, though get too close and they may stomp you. And two, you can, and should (because it is purportedly very good) eat the Moose. It's no secret that a lot of Alaskans hunt and most seem to eat what they catch at least when it comes to Moose, Caribou, and salmon. We spoke with a guy who had been salmon fishing.  He was feeding three families with his catch of 85 fish. That would last those families for about a year. He was originally from Carbondale, CO, my neck of the country, but hadn't looked back after heading north 35 years ago.

Most of the Moose we've seen have been cows with one to two  calves. It's said that animals know when hunting season starts and make themselves scarce when necessary. The Moose we saw have been unconcerned and tolerated us watching from a distance.

So here's to moose, not number one with tourists but definitely a special favorite with Alaskans. Now if I can only get a good recipe for Moose stew...

The Ghost of the Titan

There is a reason the boats on the Yukon are sternwheelers. Not so the Titan. She was built a sidewheeler, a noble boat that had plied her trade hauling ore, supplies, and people deep into the wild depths of the North.

The captain knew the river well, which is to say as well as anyone could know this wild and untamed river. The Yukon at places is only a couple of hundred yards across while at others the river stretches wide, it's swift flowing current separating the two shores. The season for boats on the river was from ice out, usually in April but sometimes not until mid to late May, to September or October depending on the whim of old man winter. When the Fall was warm men knew to take heed - winters following autumn warmth were often especially brutal. Either way, woe to the captain and good vessel pushing their luck too late in the season. Getting caught in ice up would mean being trapped and only luck and pluck would determine if Spring would see them still draw breath.

The Yukon drains a huge swath of land from its headwaters 25 miles from the Pacific. Born of glaciers it then flows generally North through the interior before turning west towards the Bering Sea spitting itself out across a wide delta of meandering channels 1,900 miles away. A powerful river it's murky water hides what it carries and what lies below. It's silt filled waters hide their secrets well.

In Spring huge rafts of ice chase each other downstream churning, crashing, and gnawing at the shore gouging and tearing at the slowly awakening earth. It scours whatever it touches - earth, rock, and tree are no match for its clawing hand. The earth colors the water, the boulders roll along on the river bottom unseen, but the fallen trees move at the currents pace crashing into each other and anything in their path.

Captains and their boats dutifully wait out the flow of ice downriver. Wooden hulls, no matter how stoutly made, are no match for the power of the still semi-frozen river. Even after the ice had passed the conveyor belt of  floating and submerged trees remained a menace. Sternwheelers, with their paddles mounted behind the hull, we're specifically designed to minimize the risk of riverborn debris snagging the great turning paddles. Thus the Titan was an exception. Either out of stupidity or arrogance it's paddles were on either side of the hull. Granted a side wheeler could turn on a dime. With its port paddle full ahead and the starboard side full reverse the Titan could dance across the surface like a spinning top. The captain  needed only to see obstacles to easily avoid them and thus far the Titan's captain had guided her fair and true with nary a single mishap to bruise her keel.

It was a bright sunny morning. Passengers had been fed and we're looking forward to another lazy day on the river as they made their way slowly but steadily upstream toward Dawson City. Still days away from her goal the Titan was pushing six knots through the water but only 3 of those moved her forward against the current. Fully loaded she drew only four feet of water while her twin paddles swooshed, swooshed, swooshed steadily to the drum of her powerful steam engines.

Far upstream the river current undercut the bank at the outside curve of one of its many meanderings. Gnawing away, slowly but steadily, the earth gave way to the hungry waters. On top of that earth was an outcrop of mighty trees. Imperceptibly they began to lean before one by one they toppled of their own weight with a mighty splash. Some caught on other debris as they fell, their trip down river quickly curtailed. Some however, due to the angle of their fall, drifted right out into the current where, mostly submerged and barely visible, they silently glided along in the roiling waters.

The river brought life and death depending on how it caressed each bank. Silt deposited on the inside of bends where the current slowed allowing new Earth to be born and colonized first by plants and then by trees anxious to spread roots in the fertile soil. Where the current was strongest was on the outside bend and here, no matter how long established, the forest was no match for the river's patient attack.

As logs made their way downstream they slowly became waterlogged almost doubling their weight to the point that many barely broke the surface. Such trees became the river's battering rams, silent torpedoes waiting to find their mark.

Trees and Titan made their unknowing way towards one another that day. The smallest change in course by either would allow calamity to be avoided. Peaceful journey or oblivion weighed in the balance.

At six knots the Titan's port paddle just clipped one of the massive logs as it swept by yet such was the impact that the entire boat shuddered and a chill ran through each one of the crew. Both passengers and crew felt, as well as heard, the massive paddle blades splinter and crackle as they tried to roll over the unseen log. The log, for its part, barely budged in acknowledgement of the impact, dipping just slightly deeper such that no one aboard the Titan quite knew what they had hit.

Spilt tea and shattered crockery was giving the first class passengers purser fits while up above in the wheelhouse the captain's face went pale as he feared in his heart that the Titan had been dealt a mortal blow. The unknowing engines continued  to churn full ahead. The pitman arm that drove the paddle wheels, much like the cranks of a bicycle, on the port side was suddenly out of balance as the big paddle, or what remained of it, finally cleared the log. The Titan lurched and then tilted precariously to port as the starboard side paddle, undamaged, propelled the boat in a circle.

The tilt of the deck  was sever enough that it was suddenly awash as fast flowing  Yukon water cascaded over the rail so fast that to the crew at least it was clear their beloved Titan was doomed. The order to abandon her never came. It was clear that it would be each man for himself. Lowest bred to noblest gentleman found themselves equal as they pleaded for mercy from the chilling waters. The starboard engine drove the Titan in a tighter and tighter spiral waiting for that moment when ice cold water would embrace steaming hot boilers. If the boilers blew there would be no hope for the Titan and the explosion would take care of any man left aboard.

Crew and passengers leapt for their lives into that turbulent stream and we're swiftly swept clear. As they bobbed downstream they expected the Titan to quickly lose its battle with the unforgiving river. To their amazement they saw the Titan continue to circle, round and round as a bee might circle a summer flower. They could still hear the starboard paddle wheels swoosh, swoosh over the din of the torrent. Some were lucky enough to reach shore and as they clambered up the muddy banks they watched their comrades and the good ship Titan sweep around the river bend until they were lost from sight never to be seen again. Lucky, or cursed, were those on shore for there was no one but them that knew of the calamity that had befallen the Titan and they were yet a long, long way from salvation.

Now this all happened a long time ago in the days that even your grandad's dad would struggle to remember. Yet to this day the fishing charter captains swear that at a certain point on the Yukon still, when they shut down their motors to let their paying customers cast a line, if the wind is just right and you listen very carefully  you can hear it, the swoosh, swoosh, swoosh as the mighty Titan continues to make her eternal rounds.

I Left My Heart

I left my heart in Dawson City
It's riverboat Queens
And dance hall girls so pretty
With people strong
And river long
Its winter determines who belongs

Pride of place
Earned through effort hard
They still harvest gold by the cubic yard
And though too soon I had to go
It's your warmth and charm I'll remember
When it's all of 40 below

With Caveman Jim
And unpaved street
From around the world
People come to meet
And get a glimpse of ages past
The best preserved,
May it always last

Of midnight dome and midnight sun
Where bear, Caribou, and salmon run
Of sourdough and sour toe
I left my heart in Dawson town
When time came I had to go

Best Chicken Dinner Ever

With apologies to Colonel Sanders of KFC fame the best chicken I ever saw was the town of that name up the Klondike loop out of Tetlin Jct. near Tok, Alaska. Chicken, AK is not so much a town as an excuse for a break in the wilderness before getting to Dawson City via the Top of the World Highway. The distance to Dawson City is only about 160 miles but it's the road conditions that determine the time it takes to get somewhere and word is to allow about 7 hours to make the journey.

Chicken boasts a summer population of maybe 25 and a winter count of 3 to 5 who make it through the long nights and cold temps when the road closes in the fall. Ski equipped planes can reach them bringing in the U.S. mail and other supplies two days a week but other than that they are on their own to enjoy the Aurora  Borealis all by themselves. The town's name came about because the early gold miners couldn't spell the original name of Ptarmigan. Ptarmigan are also referred to up here as chicken, thus the name. The Willow Ptarmigan is officially the Alaska State Bird and apparently filled many a hungry miner's cook pot.

Yes, that is a Moose strolling by... good moose.

We stayed at the Chicken Gold Camp which is a bustling place during the short summer season. It can host 30-50 RV'S as well as accommodating tenters. There are also nice looking rustic cabins available for the cream puffs out there. The clerk at the counter was from Kentucky, and the owner spends his winters in the wilds of Tuscon, AZ.

There is still active gold mining going on and some cater to the discriminating tourist who wants to spend the day recreating the life of a '49er during the gold rush. We chatted with some folks who actually came out with some impressive vials of gold and unlike our gold panning in Fairbanks the gold was truly earned the hard way by washing down a slope with high pressure water, shoveling the rocks into rockers, and then panning for the elusive flakes and nuggets.

The road out of Chicken to Dawson is pretty challenging according to those coming in that way so the plan is to leave early and take it slow.

The inevitable gift shops have all sorts of items playing on the town's name. There are shirts with chick's breaking out of shells proclaiming "I got laid in Chicken, AK" as well as 'University of

Chicken' sweatshirts proclaiming a "Grade A education with the team nickname - the Packers- emblazoned on the back. You get the idea...

One of the ladies we met, Cheryl, was from Pennsylvania. She was in Chicken for the day having driven up from Tok where she had moved, bought land, built a house, and was now living, as so many are up here, off the grid. Her husband, more a fan of creature comforts, had elected to stay put back in PA which seemed OK with Cheryl.

Several blogs ago I had mentioned meeting Greg and Pablo the dog who were hoofing and pawing it from Prudhoe Bay to Austin, Texas. When we took the turn to Chicken off the Alaska Highway there they were still plodding their way south and east. Actually Pablo, perhaps the smarter of the two, was still contentedly riding in style in the trailer although I suspect he does periodically get out for a potty or num num break...

The Alaska Highway?

I know that it was America that built the Alaska Highway during WW2 due to the Japanese threat of attacking and invading through the Aleutian Islands and Alaska. And Lord knows hundreds if not thousands of Americans just like me make the trek along its length on our way to the 49th state. However, the title "Alaska Highway" is something of a misnomer. Perhaps it's obvious to you, but it wasn't to me, that 3/4's of the Alaska Highway is actually in Canada. Only a couple of hundred miles from the border to Delta Junction are in Alaska. So folks taking a vacation driving to Alaska are actually taking a Canadian trip. The only reason I'm pointing any of this out is to acknowledge how beautiful this part of Canada is and how worth the time it is to take your time driving to Alaska and really enjoying the Canadian part rather than rushing through it. Just sayin', eh?

Anachronisms

There are several military bases in Alaska. In a hundred mile radius of Fairbanks it's not unusual to hear the roar of a fighter jet flying overhead. Driving east out of Fairbanks you pass

Eielson air force base and there are rows of fighters visible from the highway. The military might is impressive and harkens back to the cold war days when Russia posed the major threat to the U.S. Certainly Mr. Putin  seems willing to flex his country's  muscle but an attack on America over the pole seems a long shot.

Internet access and cellular coverage is spotty in Alaska to say the least (thus the delay in getting some of these posts up) and all we've heard in the last ten weeks have been snippets of news stories from the lower 48. It seems the violence has ramped up considerably not just in the U.S.  but overseas as well. No country appears to be immune. Still, as we drove by those multi-million dollar aircraft sitting on the tarmac I had to wonder how effective they would be in dealing with the terrorist acts that seem to be today's norm. They seem anachronistic in the modern world of IED'S and suicide attacks. Military hardware, however impressive and awe inspiring seem impotent given the current challenges. Still, military spending drives a chunk of the Alaska economy and with oil prices depressed I'm sure Alaskans would be loathe to see those dollars disappear.

On the drive from Denali to Fairbanks one passes a turn to the left. There is a standard green street sign indicating you are at Stampede Road. I'm sure 99.9% of folks never even see the sign and even if they did they'd probably have no idea of its significance. If you've  ever read the Jon Krakauer book "Into the Wild" or seen the movie you might recollect that it's the story of a young man, Chris McCandless, who in trying to find himself died 25 miles or so back on this road on what's known as the Stampede Trail. In 1992 he had hiked in, set up camp in an abandoned school bus (given the difficulty of the terrain how it got there I can't even imagine) and was trying to experience his ideal of living off the land, off the grid. He didn't make it much more than one hundred days. To this day Alaskans don't seem to have adopted Chris as one of their own. Perhaps he was too extreme, too much on the edge, even for people who have to balance on the edge all the time to survive  up here. It's a fight to live up here and Alaska is unforgiving; unlike the fighter jets that practice at war many Alaskans depend on their own wits and skills to survive from day to day, season to season. Perhaps Alaska is itself an anachronism in that regard- it clearly doesn't reflect the reality of daily life for most of us. Maybe that's the attraction, what keeps a steady stream of folks heading north, looking for their own ideal of life in the great north. They may not be as out there as Chris was, but their certainly distant cousins. Sophie and I did share a quiet moment in contemplation of a young man's life cut short too soon. It seemed the least we could do.

Is IQ a Matter of Degree?

The university of Alaska at Fairbanks has a beautiful campus and hosts a wonderful museum  aptly named the Museum of the North.

Before you conjur up images of your typical museum, think again. This place is a must see. It's more visitor and information center and the native artwork on exhibit is amazing. Hey, they need something to do to while away those long winter nights when they're not craning their necks at the Aurora Borealis.

Students are the U of A at Fairbanks are known to boast how cold it gets by posing in their skimpies in front of the time and temperature sign. There are some very smart people at the University, some of them students, but I'm not so sure how smart it is to wander out in 50 below weather in my undies. So no need to worry about that picture from me. So if intelligence is a matter of degree (71 of them to be precise) I'm feeling pretty high on the mensa scale, albeit not as brave as the U of A students, by sharing what I think is the more appropriate image.

Fairbanks Times Two

The first time we were in Fairbanks we stayed at the Chena River campground off of Airport Road. We should have known by the street name that there might be an airport nearby and sure enough we had been treated to a bird's eye view of the sights and more importantly the sounds of airplanes and helicopters landing and taking off. As wonderful as that experience was we were not anxious to repeat it (you know, been there, done that) so on this jaunt through town we went looking for a nicer (quieter) place to lay our heads. Heading east out of town one quickly reaches the North Pole. Seriously, there is a town

called North Pole and as you might imagine the theme is very much Christmas. The town boasts a remarkable gift shop (only 180 days 'til Christmas!). The Milepost, that bastion of guidance to northland travelers hinted at a campground ahead called the Chena River State

Recreation Area.  Compared to the campground in town this place was Shangri-la. It's on a beautiful Lake with swim beaches, non-motorized boating (great kayaking/canoeing), wonderful single and double track bike trails, and pristine campgrounds. This is actually

where my wife Sophie tried out her mosquito net enclosure for the first time. Like in so many  other of these Alaska state campgrounds not many out of state plates but it was clear that this was the hidden gem locals flock to in the summer. So if your looking for a great place just outside of Fairbanks  to spend a couple of fun days swimming, boating, biking and camping this is a place we'd highly recommend!

Sophie's Best Souvenir of All

Mosquitos in Alaska are problematic; they have to be acknowledged  and dealt with. When we first came up we had a couple of cans of bug spray but quickly realized we were under armed  and out gunned. So we stopped and got some heavy weapons - citronella candles (55 gallon drum size), bug nets (full body - "Alaskan camo"), and heavy duty Deet repellant (Alaskan gain in the economical 55 gallon convenience barrels). Still not enough... so what to do? I'm not a hunter but was contemplating getting a mosquito hunting license which only seemed fair as they - the Mosquitos- clearly had their human hunting permits with no bag limit.

As is often the case, my lovely wife Sophie  had other ideas. So armed only with credit card she troops off to a Fred Myers (much like a Walmart  except it's not),  heads for the Outdoor Living Center and scores what will likely be our most treasured souvenir of the trip. A screen enclosure, 11ft. X 11ft. of enclosed bliss. Big enough to cover a picnic table, two huskies, and

two very itchy human occupants.

Of course there was "some assembly required" but I let Sophie have the full pleasure of erecting her new purchase. Heck, it was up in no time and it's amazing how fast an hour can go by while watching your not mechanically  inclined spouse assemble something one handed while swatting the very same mosquitos she was attempting to defend herself from.

Once up I was more than happy to join her in her new abode. Short of a real cabin or igloo it did the trick of keeping the Mosquitos out and us in. A purchase any woman would be proud of. For me, I still regret not getting the hunting permits. I already had a special  place on the wall to mount that mosquito I was going to bag...

Roadside Sign Primer

In the lower 48 road signs mean one thing while in Alaska they often mean something completely different. So to enlighten all you southerners here is a quick primer on what Alaskan road signs really mean.

One of the first signs that might have you scratching your head is the triple hump. When you see one of these your blood runs cold as you quickly learn this is the warning of a rough road with bumps fast approaching. The trick to negotiating these rough road sections is knowing how fast, or slow for the feint of heart, you need to go. Some of the bumps are quite daunting - we've seen 40ft. RV'S  high centered on the middle hump due to a speed miscalculation. Alaskans seem to prefer the ballistic missile approach thinking that the first hump is really a launch ramp that will send them flying smoothly over hump number two before landing quite nicely, thank you, on the back side of hump three. Only problem is that many times there is, though not pictured, a hump number four and sometimes six, seven, and eight. Alaskan vehicles are not new for very long.

Next up is a sign you might misconstrued to warn of an upcoming downhill section. Hah! It really means there is a monster pothole ahead capable of swallowing full size trucks. There often filled with water so you can't really see how deep they are. If they'd only put in diving boards there's some Olympic swimming records waiting to be broken. Motorists beware: fear ye all who enter these.

This one is obviously a warning to cyclists. Where you live you may have a similar sign meaning you are about to cross a railroad. Not in Alaska. Here they denote you are about to climb a hill or pass so steep you're going to need a ladder to get your sorry assistance up it.

Next up we have the fast food sign for bears sign. Bruins aren't the most adept readers but when they come across these signs they really start salivating as they know there's going to be lots of tasty meals ready to eat just up ahead.

Finally, we have the Dog Team Crossing sign. Yes I know you can read but this one's probably not too common in your neck of the woods. Most places have all sorts of sports teams - football, softball, basketball, hockey - the list is endless. So it's good in Alaska that they celebrate their teams as well. I've already blogged on why Alaska doesn't have an NFL  team but they make up for it by more than a four to two paw ratio. Gotta  love those canine athletes. Speaking of which, when we swung through Wasilla which is home to the Iditarod  headquarters we met and chatted with Mark Nordman, the race director and former musher, who was nice enough to take a picture with one of this year's real race sleds that had broken a runner during the race. These broken sleds are valuable, $4,000 or more, so when they break down they get flown back, at musher's expense, and reunited with their owners. The canine athletes? They had already caught the red eye out of Nome  in March.

So there you have the basics of Alaskan road signs. Safe travels and if you happen to drive into one of those notorious potholes your car's seat cushion may be used as an emergency flotation device.

Quite the Lifestyle

On any trip you come across hidden gems along the way. We've noticed the RV'ERS   to head to the RV park's that cater specifically to their needs - power hookups, showers, and the ability to step out your door and shake the hand of the RV'ER  next to you. Sophie and I have gone a different route and have found the Alaska State Parks and campgrounds to be generally great places to stay, we must be on to something because we see more Alaska  plates than from out of state, locals always know the best places and we follow their lead heading to a commercial campground only as a last resort.

The other night saw us heading north out of the Denali area. Crossing the bridge over the Nenana river we noticed to our right a nice log giftshop with beautiful flowers and all sorts of nice items to be seen. Turning in we noticed that it was also a campground so we thought we'd check it out.

The Tatlanika campground turned out to be one of those unexpected gems. For $15, about half what the RV park's are charging this year, we had a quiet, clean, and spacious site with a nice river view and they also had warm showers, free Wi-Fi, and power at our campsite so we could charge our electronics. We saw the owner out front mowing grass ("in between rain storms") and found out  he's kept the business running after losing his wife with the hope of someday turning it over to one of his daughters. He's a retired airframe and power plant  (aircraft) mechanic who still flies his own plane from the grass strip next to where RV'S  park for the night. As we do with most Alaskans we chat with we asked "how 'bout those winters?" And like many we speak to he heads south to warmer climates. In his case winter, which is October through April for him, finds him in Belize. In his words, after 50+ winters of dark and cold, "the sun and water ain't  bad."

Out front he had a spectacular garden going. Apparently he's letting some friends who are "living off the grid" do some organic farming. They must be pretty good at it as they have students come up to learn organic farming techniques from them. They sell the produce to the hotels and restaurants serving the crowds in Denali and apparently do well enough that they spend their winters on their sailboat down in Florida.

Inside the gift shop he has a huge Polar bear mounted. It drives home how large Polar bears can be. The mount was a gift from a friend he met while attending airframe and power plant training. He described this friend as appearing to not having two nickels to rub together yet had a beautiful log home full of mounted animals he had hunted around  the world. Turns out his friend had made his fortune in oil and owned lots of 7-11's on the east coast. When leaving Alaska one year he offered up the polar bear on the condition that it came with all the other mounts to the point where the new owner had to build a special building to hold them all.

Outside there were mounted more Moose racks than we could count. The campground  owner had bagged them all over the years. He professed that Moose meat is very delicious and that one full grown Moose can provide for three families. One of the folks I worked with, Todd, is a big hunter and he would be in heaven in Alaska. I know that Todd eats what he hunts and many Alaskans  bank on getting at least one Moose or Caribou  to provide much, if not all of their red meat. The other staple of course is fish and for those in interior Alaska that usually means salmon.

As I mentioned, the owner was also a pilot. Next to his plane were floats that could be fitted to convert to a floatplane. I wondered how they got the floats on the plane and he explained it was about a half day job that entailed trucking the floats to a company that had a 'gin pole' next to a river. He'd fly down and land on their grass strip, they'd lift the plane, switch out the tires for the floats, and the now float plane would be lowered into the adjacent river. He made it all seem very easy. More than 1 in 4 Alaskans has a pilot's license so I guess they get a lot of practice!

All in all, quite a lifestyle and it's hard not to be envious. And next winter? Maybe I need to check out Belize...

Wolves in Denali

She was a beautiful wolf. Nearly 6 feet from tip of tail to velveteen nose. Alpha as men would describe her, she was mistress of her domain leading her pack over lands her forbears had trod for millennium too many to count. Boundless was her domain though on man's maps she was approaching a line beyond which she was no longer safe.

It had been a good summer thus far and the pack was healthy and we'll fed. Rib cages were only still slightly protruding as reminders of the lean times of spring and winter just past. At the pack's slow lope they still covered an enormous amount of territory floating on paws almost the size of a man's hand that seemed to barely touch the earth as the pack glided by.

The shot rang out starkly in the quiet stillness. She sensed the impact but felt no pain. Entering behind her left shoulder the bullet was in her just for a moment before exploding from her side.  The hunter would later speak of having made a clean shot but from her perspective there was nothing clean about it as her life blood pooled on the mossy ground. She knew none of this as she was dead before her stumbling fall drew her to earth.

Unbeknownst to her she had crossed the Park Boundary beyond which she was deemed fair game. Park publications make clear that there are no fences and animals remain free to roam as they have through the ages. Protected within the Park she was as safe as man could keep her; outside the park boundary she was legal quarry.

Her pelt was destined to grace the hunter's wall or perhaps adorn a hood or jacket keeping hands and faces warm, but never again would she trod this great land. She and her kin were marked for the kill if they left the Park.

When last in Denali we had seen a large wolf pack eyeing us from a distance. They faced no threat from us that day but so many have been legally taken through the years that the chances of seeing a wolf are less than that of seeing the Park's namesake mountain.

Her remains will provide for other scavengers. Nature generally wastes very little though to what purposes man may not comprehend. A new Alpha female will  take her place though the pack continues to dwindle. The new Alpha's future too is uncertain by man's intent. I for one will feel lessened if someday wolves no longer wander this great land.

Fifty Shades of Grey Alaska Style

I'm standing in the pouring rain cooking water for breakfast. It's been raining for three days and it shows no sign of stopping. I'd be contemplating my navel but it's safely ensconced under three layers of clothing. By this point my raincoat is more akin to a wetsuit, my wool socks are wishing they'd never left mother sheep, and the water is taking its sweet time coming to a boil.

Oatmeal, preferably hot, is our morning staple as is a hot mug of tea. My lovely wife Sophie, who is several iterations beyond having a bad hair day, is sitting in her camp chair getting an Alaskan facial by blowing in her mug and enjoying the hot steam wafting on her face.  Such are the joys of camping in Alaska. It's the 4th of July weekend and we're at the Byers Lake Alaska State Campground. We have it almost to ourselves as most of the other residents - campers, RV'ers,  out of state tourists and even the Alaskans - have conceded to the rain and headed elsewhere to drier and warmer pastures.

Sitting under our campers awning we ask each other deep philosophical questions such as "What do you want to do today?" And then burst out laughing. The best joke we've heard up here is "What do you call a sunny day in Alaska? Arizona." I can picture my former boss Barbara looking at me with a quizzical expression and asking "So this is why you retired?" And I'd say "Absolutely, positively yes!"

We're trying to wait out the weather in hopes of biking in Denali National  Park in the next year or so rain permitting. From the Visitor Center we'll catch the camper shuttle and take the 3 hour trip 80 miles in to Kantishna at the end of the Park Road. From there they'll drop us off, wish us bon voyage, and allow us the pleasure of cycling back out. Hopefully on a day dry enough to observe  more than just the rain drops dripping from our noses.

Alaska is many things but we have found it, much like on our first trip, nothing so much as a test of patience. Last week we did have several

unexpected clear days and were able to ooh  and aah as Denali made itself visible. Sixteen years ago, during that first trip we had ridden the camper bus back to the Wonder Lake Campground where we stayed for three days with the hope of catching a glance of the mountain. She had graced us with about 15 minutes of clear viewing. Anyone who loves the mountains would consider that a fair bargain as only about 30% of visitors ever see Denali. On the plus side they get some absolutely fantastic (and close up!) pictures of clouds - grey ones, dark grey ones, light grey ones. There must be millions of these photos hanging on walls around the world proudly proclaiming "I was there! See the cloud!"

Mt, McKinley was changed back to its native name of Denali to respect native sensibilities. Naming Mountains is a frivolous effort at best reflecting only man's desire to lay claim to everything on the planet but in Denali they got it right - the "Great One" towers over its neighbors and commands attention and respect even when not seen. It's said that at over 20,000 feet in elevation she makes her own weather so I guess I have her to thank for making me feel like a salmon swimming upstream as I write this in the pouring rain waiting for a window of opportunity that may, or may not, come.

Looking for the Elusive Artic Circle

They call it the 'Haul Road' because that's why it was built to get supplies from Fairbanks  to Prudhoe Bay. It's also referred to as the Dalton  Highway but either way it's a long way to haul anything to the northern end of the earth.

Given our tire adventures earlier in the trip and the reputation  of this stretch of non-payment we were not quite sure we would attempt this part of the journey. Still, when this was still a bike trip in my mind's  eye Prudhoe Bay had always been the goal so after some soul searching  and automotive angst we decided to give 'er a go.

We elected to do it on a Saturday when hopefully the truckers would be all down in Fairbanks enjoying the sites. We were told when busy the Haul Road would see more than 200 or more big rigs all vying to set the land speed record. The road was in remarkably good shape  compared to the gravel sections we experienced in Canada. Perhaps that makes sense - the sections in Canada were gravel because they were tearing the roads up while on the Dalton they apparently work hard to maintain their dirt road. I guess they do that in part so as not to slow those trucks down from making their appointed rounds. Also, with the price of oil being so low drilling and producing activity on the North Slope is somewhat depressed to the point that the Trans-Alaska Pipeline, which runs from Prudhoe Bay in the North to port of Valdez in the South, is running somewhere around half capacity.

The landscape starts in the great Northern Forestdale- mile after mile of unending  trees. As you make your way north at anywhere between 30-50 miles an hour the trees become noticeably shorter and farther north still sparse until you are crossing great sections of open tundra. After several hours you see a sign announcing you have reached the Artic Circle but as hard as we looked we never did find the actual circle. Instead what greets you is a forlorn sign by which everyone has their picture taken as proof that they were HERE.

One couple we met at the sign had driven all the way from Fairbanks  solely to take a picture holding their Trump For President sign. I blogged earlier about the Farthest North Packer Fans but these folks were intent on being recognized as the Farthest North Trump Supporters. They were going to dutifully send their picture into Trump headquarters. Not sure the Trump staff will quite know what to do with it as I'm not certain the Donald quite realizes Alaska is part of the U.S. ("isn't that where that crazy lady could see Russia from her front porch? What was her name?").

One cool thing happened while we were enjoying enjoying our bona-fide 24 hours of sunlight (that's what the Artic Circle represents). It had been a gorgeous day driving up but upon our arrival we were treated to a homegrown, True Blue, Artic Storm - the kind you always hear your local weather person  warning you about. If I could have I would have attached a postage stamp and sent it to all you southerners with hugs and kisses but with the rain, wind, and cold (the stuff Artic storms are known for) it was kind of hard to lick the stamp. So instead Sophie and I did a hilarious version of a Polar Rain Dance and soaked and frozen made it back to the car just in time for the rain faucet to be turned off.

At a BLM cabin 40 miles back at the crossing of the Yukon River (still flowing it's 1,900 miles to the sea) a very nice volunteer lady who winters in the Carolinas gives you an official certificate as proof you had been THERE and back. We didn't get to Prudhoe however which means, you guessed it, we've got to come back. Haven't got her fully convinced but maybe can get Sophie to do the Dalton on two wheels. If there's  anyone else out there who'd like to join us, summer 2017 is less than a year away.

On our way back, about halfway to Fairbanks and about as in the middle of nowhere as I thought I could find we come across a young guy walking the highway pulling a trailer in the back of which was riding Pablo the dog.

Greg was the name of the intrepid hiker, and though he didn't look old enough to shave he had flown to Fairbanks,  hitched a ride to Prudhoe, and was now doing the slow walk South. Ultimate destination? Austin. Texas. A long, long way away. Greg planned to be in Austin (Alaskans  like to point out that their State is 2 1/2 times the size of Texas) by November which means he'd better get a move on. Pablo the Dog was a little the worse for wear finding it tough to handle 30 miles walkies day after day after day. Thus his being tucked quite comfortably in the trailer snoozing away the miles. If you ask me, which you clearly did not, sounds like Pablo the Dog has Greg the Hiker whooped. Either way we loaded Greg up with water and fruit (not much fruit for sale along the Dalton) and gave Pablo one of our pups new dog bones and wished them bon voyage. My feet hurt just thinking about what Greg's attempting but by the time he hits Austin he'll have earned a shave.

Riverboat Queen

As I mentioned in my last blog , my wife Sophie and I had booked two tourist excursions in Fairbanks.  In the morning we toured Gold Dredge #8 and in the afternoon we embarked on a riverboat excursion on the sternwheeler

Discovery. The Discovery is not a historic sternwheeler, having been built specifically for the arduous task of hauling paying tourists 900 at a time. Still, how often do you get to hop on any sternwheeler let alone one hailing from Fairbanks,  Alaska?

The Discovery cruise is as well choreographed as a Disney production and delivers quite an entertaining show. Just a couple of minutes away from the dock and we're treated to a floatplane that 'just happened' to be doing touch and go's. They're even in radio communication with the pilot who gives a play by play of landing and taking off on water with a big ole' stern wheeler bearing down on you.

Next up, a dog kennel featuring the daughter of legendary musher Susan Butcher who won the Iditarod race from Anchorage to Nome 4 times before succumbing  to leukemia  in 2006 at age 51. Her daughter, Tekla, does a great job maintaining the family kennels and puts on a quick mushing demonstration with8 sled dogs pulling her at warp speed on a ATV.

Continuing down the river the guide points out the Alaska way of home construction- million dollar log homes to die for next to riverside shacks not fit to die in. Live and let live is the Alaska credo but even up here it's harder and harder to keep up with the Jones'. Rounding the corner what does appear but a little sleigh and eight tiny reindeer. Well, at least their grown up relatives the Caribou who just happened to be in the neighborhood  as the Discovery paddles by. Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain who let them out of their pen - better to imagine they magically appeared after conquering the majestic  tundra to grace us with their presence.

Finally we get to the Chena  River Village supposedly representing an Athabascan village post introduction to the white man. So it's mainly log cabins and caches but the real Alaska Native guides, high school students earning some cash for college, do a nice job of talking about their culture and answering questions from the tourists. The village even has an old log

cabin post office where Tekla, of the aforementioned Butcher dog kennels is back on hand signing autographs and selling books to pay, not for college, but upkeep of all those dogs who will still need to be fed long after the tourists depart and the river freezes once more.

All in all they do a nice job with the Discovery and it's slow tour along the banks of the not so mighty Chena River  (it's been dammed upstream to help avoid flooding). It's actually rated as one of the top tours in Alaska and as long as you go in expecting a little of the Disney-like touch it's well worth the price of admission.