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Saturday, December 6, 2008
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
change
Now that this election hubbub is finally over...
let's all take a deep breath...
and celebrate our new chance!
Yes We Can!
Sunday, November 2, 2008
525,600 what?
A couple of weeks ago, I arrived back in Pennsylvania to attend the wedding of a couple of friends. A year ago, almost to the day, I was called here for the same reason. A year ago, I left my job and home in Massachusetts to embark on this trip that hasn’t stopped after celebrating the beginning of my friends’ new lives together. That wedding was the omen I was waiting for to help me determine when I should start my adventure, and this one seemed like an omen, too. It marked the end of my internship on Lopez Island and brought me back to my family and home state to sort through the wonders and experiences I gathered like souvenirs.
I thought I owed myself a minute to stop and absorb what I’d seen and done. I wanted to take a slow moment to think about which goals I had met and what aspirations I may have yet to achieve. I’d lived in a foreign country. I tried my hand at farming, new languages, and lived out of a sleeping bag for the better part of twelve months. I drove 7000 miles with a friend to some of the last wild places on this continent. I learned to build houses with straw and mud. I lived in a tent for seven weeks and slept in a new place nearly every night. I figured it was a good idea to give a serious thought to my future.
So I sat and stared my future down, demanding a revelation—some great end-all-be-all moment of clarity. And my future stared right back, just as closed-lipped as ever. Not a clue, not an inkling did the murky days ahead surrender to me. “C’mon,” I wheedled, “just a teensy hint?” And the future said nothing.
Before leaving all stability behind, I figured I’d give myself a year if I could last that long. I left my plans open to finding a new niche to settle into, a new person, place, or skill to fall in love with. Perhaps I’d love the road too much to commit to anything before the end of it, but I wasn’t giving myself that much credit. I figured after three months—six months tops—I’d come loping back with my tail between my legs, afraid of all the possibilities the wide wonderful world had to offer. I counted on having to hold my own feet to the fire to stay out there.
Well, now here I am at the end of that short year. I find myself laying my adventures out like treasures before me and marveling over how... few there seem to be. I suppose this isn’t the time for short-changing myself, but I can’t help but think that I just haven’t covered that much ground in 365 days.
So that’s it then. I’m not done, I guess. The road winds ever onward and I find myself compelled to keep following it. Now, if only I had any idea what it is I actually wanted to do next... The suggestion box is open!
I thought I owed myself a minute to stop and absorb what I’d seen and done. I wanted to take a slow moment to think about which goals I had met and what aspirations I may have yet to achieve. I’d lived in a foreign country. I tried my hand at farming, new languages, and lived out of a sleeping bag for the better part of twelve months. I drove 7000 miles with a friend to some of the last wild places on this continent. I learned to build houses with straw and mud. I lived in a tent for seven weeks and slept in a new place nearly every night. I figured it was a good idea to give a serious thought to my future.
So I sat and stared my future down, demanding a revelation—some great end-all-be-all moment of clarity. And my future stared right back, just as closed-lipped as ever. Not a clue, not an inkling did the murky days ahead surrender to me. “C’mon,” I wheedled, “just a teensy hint?” And the future said nothing.
Before leaving all stability behind, I figured I’d give myself a year if I could last that long. I left my plans open to finding a new niche to settle into, a new person, place, or skill to fall in love with. Perhaps I’d love the road too much to commit to anything before the end of it, but I wasn’t giving myself that much credit. I figured after three months—six months tops—I’d come loping back with my tail between my legs, afraid of all the possibilities the wide wonderful world had to offer. I counted on having to hold my own feet to the fire to stay out there.
Well, now here I am at the end of that short year. I find myself laying my adventures out like treasures before me and marveling over how... few there seem to be. I suppose this isn’t the time for short-changing myself, but I can’t help but think that I just haven’t covered that much ground in 365 days.
So that’s it then. I’m not done, I guess. The road winds ever onward and I find myself compelled to keep following it. Now, if only I had any idea what it is I actually wanted to do next... The suggestion box is open!
Saturday, October 11, 2008
juggle fest
It’s hard for me to believe that three weeks have passed since the end of a fantastic weekend of weirdos. The folks who have given me a room for the summer host an enormous juggling party every year. What began as a small gathering of family, friends, and a handful of strangers from Seattle eighteen years ago has become an island tradition that brings hundreds of performers and spectators alike to the front yard of Carol and Al. The story goes that on their sons’ return from a profitable fishing season in Alaska, they decided to have a party to celebrate. All the kids enjoyed juggling, the boys had sent piles of salmon ahead of themselves to the Island, and decided to see if they could get other jugglers to hang out for the equinox. So they went to Seattle and began handing out flyers to whatever street performers they could find. A few weeks later, a rag-tag bunch showed up at the gate and Juggle Fest was born. There were around thirty in that party. Nowadays, meals and accommodations are planned for upwards of a hundred people for the whole weekend.
For such a “private” party, lots of planning and community involvement happen and everything goes surprisingly smoothly. Jugglers ranging in age from the teens to seniors arrive between Thursday and Friday of the weekend of the fall equinox, and the yard becomes a buzz of clubs, balls, and antics. Tents are tucked away all over the ten acres of the property, and outhouses are set up. Everybody volunteers to help with meals, drinks, clean-up, and housekeeping. Very little actually needs to be done by each person as long as everybody participates, leaving more time for juggling!
And there was plenty of that. Despite the rain, it was hard to walk from the house to the garden without getting clubbed, hula-hooped, or drawn into a circle of flying objects. I learned quickly to juggle clubs and was passing with a fellow novice before the weekend was half-over.
Contact jugglers, the introverts of the group, shared their secrets with me, and soon enough I was balancing a ball on my elbow and passing it from my palm to the back of my hand.
The food was fantastic. Three times a day we were treated to the delicious efforts of volunteers. Giant meals of soups, fresh baked bread (I helped with a giant bake a day before the whole shebang), salmon, and homegrown vegetables kept everybody full and happy.
Conversations with jugglers I met all weekend revealed people who had been coming for years. Word of mouth alone has grown this festival and street performers come from the Northwest, as well as all over (one man was from South Africa this year), to hang out, trade secrets, and have a reunion of sorts. Some of these folk have performed in groups together over the years, and some meet up for the first time, planning to put on shows when they overlap in cities along their tours.
Even after three days, many were reluctant to leave. But soon, the place had cleared out and no longer looked like a carnival. It was just our house, our yard, our garden, with lingering promises of next year’s event hanging in the air like juggling clubs.
For such a “private” party, lots of planning and community involvement happen and everything goes surprisingly smoothly. Jugglers ranging in age from the teens to seniors arrive between Thursday and Friday of the weekend of the fall equinox, and the yard becomes a buzz of clubs, balls, and antics. Tents are tucked away all over the ten acres of the property, and outhouses are set up. Everybody volunteers to help with meals, drinks, clean-up, and housekeeping. Very little actually needs to be done by each person as long as everybody participates, leaving more time for juggling!
And there was plenty of that. Despite the rain, it was hard to walk from the house to the garden without getting clubbed, hula-hooped, or drawn into a circle of flying objects. I learned quickly to juggle clubs and was passing with a fellow novice before the weekend was half-over.
Contact jugglers, the introverts of the group, shared their secrets with me, and soon enough I was balancing a ball on my elbow and passing it from my palm to the back of my hand.
The food was fantastic. Three times a day we were treated to the delicious efforts of volunteers. Giant meals of soups, fresh baked bread (I helped with a giant bake a day before the whole shebang), salmon, and homegrown vegetables kept everybody full and happy.
Conversations with jugglers I met all weekend revealed people who had been coming for years. Word of mouth alone has grown this festival and street performers come from the Northwest, as well as all over (one man was from South Africa this year), to hang out, trade secrets, and have a reunion of sorts. Some of these folk have performed in groups together over the years, and some meet up for the first time, planning to put on shows when they overlap in cities along their tours.Even after three days, many were reluctant to leave. But soon, the place had cleared out and no longer looked like a carnival. It was just our house, our yard, our garden, with lingering promises of next year’s event hanging in the air like juggling clubs.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
autumn wind
The wind is howling outside my window and an inky blackness has settled already at 7:30. A chill has settled into the bones of this place and the autumn is now completely manifest.
Two days ago I helped a friend’s family put up food from their garden for the winter. We processed pounds of cucumbers and piles of green tomatoes into pickles and chutney. By the end, a few dozen glass jars covered the kitchen counter, a testament to our hours of chopping and cooking.
As the rain fell outside, Mik and I diced tomatoes, onions, and garlic while Diana marveled over the bounty the earth provided. The caustic scent of pickle brine permeated the house for more than five hours as we tackled the relentless piles of produce, Mik with an ulu and I with a chef knife. With four sets of hands attending to the several tasks of chopping, brining, and dehydrating apples, the canning went faster than we expected and we had time to sit and share stories. Mik and David compared their lives in Alaska. I chimed in with highlights from my recent trip there. Climate change and its effect on the glaciers, fishing, and landscape was a major topic and with their combined years there, we pieced together a picture of drastic change. The glaciers that they recalled couldn’t even be seen from the centers built for that purpose anymore. Salmon numbers and fishing limits have dropped. But the stories weren’t all bleak—there were plenty of anecdotes about Alaskan winters, the bus drivers that braved the snow, and cheap fun to be had in the dark days. Diana and I chatted about cheese making, an interest I want to pursue as soon as I have a spare minute and a pastime she enjoys as a way to provide wholesome food for her family. We all told tales of the places we’d each called home. Diana and David recalled Texas, Mik told of her family in Minnesota, and I drew comparisons between Lopez and the Farm in Massachusetts. The reminiscences over my childhood on my family’s dairy farm and the woods around my house in Pennsylvania impressed the back-to-the-landers.
David, Mik, and I lingered in the orchard after gathering our payment of potatoes and apples from the season’s harvest. The sun was peeking out on the horizon as it set below the thinning clouds. The slanted autumn light warmed us despite the persistent wind, and soon I was returning home to hot roasted vegetable borscht. The wind wailed like furies on the ride as my housemates reported on their day’s adventures over dinner in our warm little burrow.
Two days ago I helped a friend’s family put up food from their garden for the winter. We processed pounds of cucumbers and piles of green tomatoes into pickles and chutney. By the end, a few dozen glass jars covered the kitchen counter, a testament to our hours of chopping and cooking.
As the rain fell outside, Mik and I diced tomatoes, onions, and garlic while Diana marveled over the bounty the earth provided. The caustic scent of pickle brine permeated the house for more than five hours as we tackled the relentless piles of produce, Mik with an ulu and I with a chef knife. With four sets of hands attending to the several tasks of chopping, brining, and dehydrating apples, the canning went faster than we expected and we had time to sit and share stories. Mik and David compared their lives in Alaska. I chimed in with highlights from my recent trip there. Climate change and its effect on the glaciers, fishing, and landscape was a major topic and with their combined years there, we pieced together a picture of drastic change. The glaciers that they recalled couldn’t even be seen from the centers built for that purpose anymore. Salmon numbers and fishing limits have dropped. But the stories weren’t all bleak—there were plenty of anecdotes about Alaskan winters, the bus drivers that braved the snow, and cheap fun to be had in the dark days. Diana and I chatted about cheese making, an interest I want to pursue as soon as I have a spare minute and a pastime she enjoys as a way to provide wholesome food for her family. We all told tales of the places we’d each called home. Diana and David recalled Texas, Mik told of her family in Minnesota, and I drew comparisons between Lopez and the Farm in Massachusetts. The reminiscences over my childhood on my family’s dairy farm and the woods around my house in Pennsylvania impressed the back-to-the-landers.
David, Mik, and I lingered in the orchard after gathering our payment of potatoes and apples from the season’s harvest. The sun was peeking out on the horizon as it set below the thinning clouds. The slanted autumn light warmed us despite the persistent wind, and soon I was returning home to hot roasted vegetable borscht. The wind wailed like furies on the ride as my housemates reported on their day’s adventures over dinner in our warm little burrow.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
pictures from the roadtrip
I finally got my photos from the roadtrip on my Picasa page! Check them out!
(When you have the time. Seriously, pace yourselves. There are six...)
Super, Natural, British Columbia
The Yukon Territory
Alaska
Denali (which is REALLY BIG)
From Denali to the Kenai Peninsula
The Southeast Islands
(When you have the time. Seriously, pace yourselves. There are six...)
Super, Natural, British Columbia
The Yukon Territory
Alaska
Denali (which is REALLY BIG)
From Denali to the Kenai Peninsula
The Southeast Islands
Friday, September 19, 2008
houses for nobody
The walls are up. The first coat of plaster was smeared on with little ceremony. Now we must learn again. The second coat is sandier, trickier. We work with trowels now, no longer trusting the rough precision of our hands. Pamela tells us this is where we must be more exact, our building-out must be more subtle, the plane of the wall must be more deliberate. Although we’re still doomed to follow the flow of the straw bale waves, we must produce the illusion that the wall is flat with a smooth and firm stroke of the trowels on the second coat of plaster. But it’s still mud nonetheless.Not many of us, if any, have ever done work like this and the hawks and trowels are foreign in our grips. The first coat was more organic and made more sense even to us novices—all we needed was a firm hand to slather the mud into the straw and build out a rough coat to approximate the look of a flat wall. Even the plaster mixers must be more careful: is there enough sand in the mix, has too much clay been added? We are in near- constant communication about how well the mud goes on the wall but we won’t know the ultimate truth of our application until it has dried and (hopefully not) cracked. That’s why we begin with the house that nobody will live in.
A few of the houses we’re building do not have owners right now. Some folk have backed out long ago when the project was still being planned, others more recently as financial concerns became more looming. So we practice and perfect on these houses for nobody. The experimentation that we all, even the supervisors, are a part of is played out on these walls. We note the dryness of the base layer and look forward to how that will affect the application and curing of this second coat. We consider the proportions in this mix and wait for the cracks to appear or not.
And we sculpt. The houses with owners on-site have their own special touches: niches carved here and there at the whim of the occupant, a truth window shaped like a heart rather than a picture frame. In the houses that aren’t spoken for, we interns have the freedom to curve the window space just so, or cut a crisp corner. We can even put shapes on the walls, and soon a couple of artists emerge from our ranks. Sunbursts, grapevines, moons and stars crop up in the future kitchens and bedrooms that as yet look more like empty garages or warehouses. The whimsical forms on the walls mock the dusty, formal concrete floor and naked wooden frames. The houses for nobody seem to be choosing their own personalities now. Perhaps these homes will call their owners into being just as the current residents fashion the image and characters of their own.
Friday, September 12, 2008
the sour toe
As promised, here's the video of my drink, the Sour Toe Cocktail.
This atrocity took place in the Downtown Hotel of Dawson City in the Yukon Territory.
There are strange things done in the midnight sun...
The story of the toe, as taken from www.sourtoecocktail.com, is as follows:
Toe #1 was that of Louie Liken, trapper, placer miner, and in the 1920's, rum runner. Louie and his brother Otto would cross the border to the United States in a blizzard by dog team to deliver their alcoholic cargo. During one such outing, Louie stepped into overflow and got his foot wet.Fearing that the Northwest Mounted Police were on their trail they had to continue their trip. As a result of extended exposure to the cold, Louie's big toe froze.To prevent the onset of gangrene it was necessary to amputate.
Lacking faith in doctors the brothers had no intention of traveling 60 miles to Dawson and paying one to do what they could just as easily accomplish on their own.The first step in the amputation was anaesthesia. Consuming large amounts of their 180% overproof rum, they soon felt that they were sufficiently drunk to continue with the amputation. Louie stuck out his frozen toe as Otto lifted the woodcutting axe. With one swing the toe was removed. As a reminder of the incident the brothers kept the toe, pickled in a jar of alcohol.
Years later, when cleaning the brothers' cabin, the toe was discovered by Captain Dick Stevenson. After conferring, Captain Dick and his friends decided on the rules of the Sourtoe Cocktail and started serving it at the Eldorado Hotel in 1973. In July 1980, a placer miner named Garry Younger was trying for the Sourtoe record. On his thirteenth glass of Sourtoe champagne his chair tipped over backwards and he swallowed the toe. Sadly, Toe #1 was not recovered.
This atrocity took place in the Downtown Hotel of Dawson City in the Yukon Territory.
There are strange things done in the midnight sun...
The story of the toe, as taken from www.sourtoecocktail.com, is as follows:
Toe #1 was that of Louie Liken, trapper, placer miner, and in the 1920's, rum runner. Louie and his brother Otto would cross the border to the United States in a blizzard by dog team to deliver their alcoholic cargo. During one such outing, Louie stepped into overflow and got his foot wet.Fearing that the Northwest Mounted Police were on their trail they had to continue their trip. As a result of extended exposure to the cold, Louie's big toe froze.To prevent the onset of gangrene it was necessary to amputate.
Lacking faith in doctors the brothers had no intention of traveling 60 miles to Dawson and paying one to do what they could just as easily accomplish on their own.The first step in the amputation was anaesthesia. Consuming large amounts of their 180% overproof rum, they soon felt that they were sufficiently drunk to continue with the amputation. Louie stuck out his frozen toe as Otto lifted the woodcutting axe. With one swing the toe was removed. As a reminder of the incident the brothers kept the toe, pickled in a jar of alcohol.
Years later, when cleaning the brothers' cabin, the toe was discovered by Captain Dick Stevenson. After conferring, Captain Dick and his friends decided on the rules of the Sourtoe Cocktail and started serving it at the Eldorado Hotel in 1973. In July 1980, a placer miner named Garry Younger was trying for the Sourtoe record. On his thirteenth glass of Sourtoe champagne his chair tipped over backwards and he swallowed the toe. Sadly, Toe #1 was not recovered.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
skin
“Here it is.” Chaz unrolled the white and brown goatskin, rock salt clattered to the ground.
“Wow. So what do we do with it?”
“Isn’t it beautiful? Basically, we’re gonna stretch it out in this frame and scrape the fat and meat off of it. I brought a dull hatchet, but claw hammers work well, too. Just be careful not to gouge the skin, though.”
And that’s what we did. We cut holes into the extremities and tied the skin as tightly as we could to the crossbars of the crude wooden frame. It stretched over the open space like a misshapen trampoline with a strong but dubious spring. Here and there along the mostly white skin were stringy chunks of white tissue and easier to spot pink shreds. Chaz explained that this hide was better prepared than the last two he was given.
“Can you believe people are just giving me skins now? I asked for one deer skin and now everybody who kills something on this island is giving me its hide. You should’ve seen the last one. I gouged it up pretty bad; it had a lot of meat left on it and I didn’t know for sure how to get it off.”
We clutched at the white strands and pulled. I took out my pocket knife to coax larger slivers free while Chaz worked with the hatchet. Eventually we met in the middle, having cleared off the fat from the leg and shoulder regions. A thin pinkish band of meat covered the skin where it met the ribs. We found purchase at the edges and pulled with our bare fingers, slick with grease until the flesh came away in one sheet. I remembered doing something like this once, long ago, with a deer. But then, I was helping to remove the skin from the body, not remnants from the hide. A simple slip of the knife blade against the clear membrane was all it took to release the pliable hide from the carcass. This was decidedly more difficult—there was next to nothing for our slimy fingers to grasp and the fat wasn’t giving up without a fight. But after an hour, we cleaned off most of the extraneous tissue just as a light rain began to fall.
I biked home in the drizzle, wondering what Chaz would do with three animal hides. I think he’s still scratching his head over it, too. Hell, we came here to build houses.
“Wow. So what do we do with it?”
“Isn’t it beautiful? Basically, we’re gonna stretch it out in this frame and scrape the fat and meat off of it. I brought a dull hatchet, but claw hammers work well, too. Just be careful not to gouge the skin, though.”
And that’s what we did. We cut holes into the extremities and tied the skin as tightly as we could to the crossbars of the crude wooden frame. It stretched over the open space like a misshapen trampoline with a strong but dubious spring. Here and there along the mostly white skin were stringy chunks of white tissue and easier to spot pink shreds. Chaz explained that this hide was better prepared than the last two he was given.
“Can you believe people are just giving me skins now? I asked for one deer skin and now everybody who kills something on this island is giving me its hide. You should’ve seen the last one. I gouged it up pretty bad; it had a lot of meat left on it and I didn’t know for sure how to get it off.”
We clutched at the white strands and pulled. I took out my pocket knife to coax larger slivers free while Chaz worked with the hatchet. Eventually we met in the middle, having cleared off the fat from the leg and shoulder regions. A thin pinkish band of meat covered the skin where it met the ribs. We found purchase at the edges and pulled with our bare fingers, slick with grease until the flesh came away in one sheet. I remembered doing something like this once, long ago, with a deer. But then, I was helping to remove the skin from the body, not remnants from the hide. A simple slip of the knife blade against the clear membrane was all it took to release the pliable hide from the carcass. This was decidedly more difficult—there was next to nothing for our slimy fingers to grasp and the fat wasn’t giving up without a fight. But after an hour, we cleaned off most of the extraneous tissue just as a light rain began to fall.
I biked home in the drizzle, wondering what Chaz would do with three animal hides. I think he’s still scratching his head over it, too. Hell, we came here to build houses.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
check this out!
I could be writing about kayaking on Puget Sound. I could be writing about dealing with moldy straw bales and musty barns. I maybe even could be writing about potlucks and sunsets on rocky beaches as seals played in the waves. And of course, there's the goat skin that will be needing some explanation...
Instead, I need to take some time to tell you all about something amazing. Three friends of mine from the Farm where I used to live are running a marathon this October. They're leading a relay and raising money for the Farm, and along the way, working to raise awareness for mental illness and the lives it touches.
Living at the Farm for three and a half years gave me an invaluable opportunity to learn how mental illness affects so many lives. And it also brought me into contact with countless amazing people: people of compassion, of courage, of hope. One of the greatest things I learned from living and working there was how important community is in combatting the effects of mental illness as well as the stigma and ignorance surrounding it. I learned how much we need all of the people in the communities in which we surround ourselves and how far we can carry each other through difficulties.
I'm truly inspired by their passion for this run and the cause they're supporting. Please take some time to learn about my friends' project. If you feel so moved, they (and the whole community) would appreciate any financial generosity you could afford. Even taking a moment to learn about mental illness and those who work to help live with it is worth the time. Help fight the stigma!
http://run4gouldfarm.blogspot.com
www.firstgiving.com/run4gouldfarm
Instead, I need to take some time to tell you all about something amazing. Three friends of mine from the Farm where I used to live are running a marathon this October. They're leading a relay and raising money for the Farm, and along the way, working to raise awareness for mental illness and the lives it touches.
Living at the Farm for three and a half years gave me an invaluable opportunity to learn how mental illness affects so many lives. And it also brought me into contact with countless amazing people: people of compassion, of courage, of hope. One of the greatest things I learned from living and working there was how important community is in combatting the effects of mental illness as well as the stigma and ignorance surrounding it. I learned how much we need all of the people in the communities in which we surround ourselves and how far we can carry each other through difficulties.
I'm truly inspired by their passion for this run and the cause they're supporting. Please take some time to learn about my friends' project. If you feel so moved, they (and the whole community) would appreciate any financial generosity you could afford. Even taking a moment to learn about mental illness and those who work to help live with it is worth the time. Help fight the stigma!
http://run4gouldfarm.blogspot.com
www.firstgiving.com/run4gouldfarm
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
kismet and health care, island style
I’m always on the lookout for signs from God, the Universe, Destiny, whatever you want to call it. Mostly, I look for cues to what my next big move should be: where should I live or what work should I do? Sometimes, I manage to remind myself of the little omens and gifts of generosity that land in my path.
The Universe gave me two things today: a trumpet and a tetanus shot.
My wonderful hosts are on an excruciatingly kind but misguided mission to get me to stay here indefinitely. I don’t know what they’re thinking; I work slowly, I eat a lot, and I take a long time in the shower. And I smell funny. However, they believe that if I join a small Latin band I’ll just spontaneously sink roots on Lopez, so they introduced me to a brass player here who happens to be forming one. And today, Al walked in the door with a Conn, on loan for free, from the school. My own horn (affectionately named The Beast), also on loan from my very generous and talented cuz JT, is in PA right now, still enjoying an extended respite from four arduous years of college. But the trumpet seems to follow me around, showing up at the Hacienda Buena Suerte in Spain even, and my lips are beginning to itch...
Ok, so the Universe itself didn’t give me the tetanus shot. A very kind nurse did. Four weeks on a construction sight dealing with power tools and llama excrement hadn’t landed me in the emergency room, but a leisurely day in the garden left me with a gouge from a rusty nail on the back of my heel. After being told over the phone that I could be squeezed in at the end of the day, or the end of the week, I biked my insurance-free self over to the clinic for a tetanus booster.
The nurse was very pleasant after my hour wait, and gently explained all the things that could go wrong after receiving the vaccine. But of course, it’s much better than my diaphragm contracting and my slowly dying of asphyxiation, isn’t it? *Smile* She even made me photocopies of info on the disease and vaccine to take home and ponder with my mommy and daddy. Did you know that all adults should get a tetanus booster every ten years? And that adults who get the shot frequently tend to experience the side-effects of soreness and swelling even more severely than the rest of us? Frankly, I can’t imagine walking into a doctor’s office and asking to be punched in the arm more than once every ten years. But to each his own, I suppose.
After all was said and done, the nurse asked me about my insurance plan. I sheepishly had to reply that I didn’t have one but she just beamed at me. “Well don’t worry; you get 20% off the cost if you can pay the bill today!” So out I walked, armed with this pleasant fact.
“So the vaccine will be $44,” the receptionist said.
“Is that after the 20% discount I get for paying out-right?” I asked.
The woman looked concerned and I was afraid there would be more paperwork or even an investigation into my possibly-fraudulent claim to have no insurance. “Well, we’re not going to give you the discount today, but we’re going to waive the ‘New Patient’ fee. It’s just a charge because you haven’t visited the clinic before.”
I didn’t want to argue, afraid that if I pushed too hard, some miscalculation would give me 20% off the vaccine, but have me paying the likely-to-be-nominal new patient fee twice, so I agreed but asked oh-so-politely what the ‘New Patient’ fee usually is.
“Um, let me see. That would be about... $80. Yes, $80.”
Thank Jesus for traveling karma and connections in small communities.
The Universe gave me two things today: a trumpet and a tetanus shot.
My wonderful hosts are on an excruciatingly kind but misguided mission to get me to stay here indefinitely. I don’t know what they’re thinking; I work slowly, I eat a lot, and I take a long time in the shower. And I smell funny. However, they believe that if I join a small Latin band I’ll just spontaneously sink roots on Lopez, so they introduced me to a brass player here who happens to be forming one. And today, Al walked in the door with a Conn, on loan for free, from the school. My own horn (affectionately named The Beast), also on loan from my very generous and talented cuz JT, is in PA right now, still enjoying an extended respite from four arduous years of college. But the trumpet seems to follow me around, showing up at the Hacienda Buena Suerte in Spain even, and my lips are beginning to itch...
Ok, so the Universe itself didn’t give me the tetanus shot. A very kind nurse did. Four weeks on a construction sight dealing with power tools and llama excrement hadn’t landed me in the emergency room, but a leisurely day in the garden left me with a gouge from a rusty nail on the back of my heel. After being told over the phone that I could be squeezed in at the end of the day, or the end of the week, I biked my insurance-free self over to the clinic for a tetanus booster.
The nurse was very pleasant after my hour wait, and gently explained all the things that could go wrong after receiving the vaccine. But of course, it’s much better than my diaphragm contracting and my slowly dying of asphyxiation, isn’t it? *Smile* She even made me photocopies of info on the disease and vaccine to take home and ponder with my mommy and daddy. Did you know that all adults should get a tetanus booster every ten years? And that adults who get the shot frequently tend to experience the side-effects of soreness and swelling even more severely than the rest of us? Frankly, I can’t imagine walking into a doctor’s office and asking to be punched in the arm more than once every ten years. But to each his own, I suppose.
After all was said and done, the nurse asked me about my insurance plan. I sheepishly had to reply that I didn’t have one but she just beamed at me. “Well don’t worry; you get 20% off the cost if you can pay the bill today!” So out I walked, armed with this pleasant fact.
“So the vaccine will be $44,” the receptionist said.
“Is that after the 20% discount I get for paying out-right?” I asked.
The woman looked concerned and I was afraid there would be more paperwork or even an investigation into my possibly-fraudulent claim to have no insurance. “Well, we’re not going to give you the discount today, but we’re going to waive the ‘New Patient’ fee. It’s just a charge because you haven’t visited the clinic before.”
I didn’t want to argue, afraid that if I pushed too hard, some miscalculation would give me 20% off the vaccine, but have me paying the likely-to-be-nominal new patient fee twice, so I agreed but asked oh-so-politely what the ‘New Patient’ fee usually is.
“Um, let me see. That would be about... $80. Yes, $80.”
Thank Jesus for traveling karma and connections in small communities.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
accolades
It seems I've won an award.
The Golden Delete Key Award goes to bloggers who don't suck. It's for anyone who knows enough to hit "delete" rather than to post worthless crap.
Thanks, Monster Librarian, for thinking that I use the Delete Key with discretion. The truth is, I just don't write, therefore there's a whole lot of crap in my head that would otherwise be posted here if I took the time to sit at a keyboard.
Anyway, I'm glad for the notice and the thoughtful solid gold delete key filled with dark chocolate.
Too bad it's only digital.
The Golden Delete Key Award goes to bloggers who don't suck. It's for anyone who knows enough to hit "delete" rather than to post worthless crap.
Thanks, Monster Librarian, for thinking that I use the Delete Key with discretion. The truth is, I just don't write, therefore there's a whole lot of crap in my head that would otherwise be posted here if I took the time to sit at a keyboard.
Anyway, I'm glad for the notice and the thoughtful solid gold delete key filled with dark chocolate.
Too bad it's only digital.
Monday, July 28, 2008
aqua chautauqua
I want to run away to join the circus.
A couple of weekends ago, a performance group called Aqua Chautauqua showed up in our backyard. They arrived on the south end of the island on a small fleet of sailing ships, their mode of transportation for their Summer ’08 tour. Several truckloads and a couple of busloads dumped this ragtag group of jugglers, storytellers, musicians, and their assorted accoutrements at our front door. The two other interns and I spent the day setting up a stage, lights, trashcans, and parking signs to prepare for the evening’s performance. Poor Lucy had just gotten off the ferry herself that day, not expecting a circus to welcome her to her new home on Lopez.After the dust settled (did it really?), we shared a delicious dinner prepared in our kitchen by Chautauqua’s support team. The buffet’s scope (and it’s whirlwind preparation) was reminiscent of my old job in Massachusetts, and sharing it with such a diverse group of people seemed awfully familiar, too. Dinner seemed to flow seamlessly into clean-up and before I knew it, the band was dressed and lined up and the yard was full of islanders ready for a show.
The Fighting Instruments of Karma band led a parade of jugglers, hula-hoopers, and ragamuffins through our yard to the make-shift stage just at the edge of the woods where tents were pitched for the troupe’s sleeping. The show was kicked off with an acoustic guitar sing-along led by Faith Petric, a 93 (and ¾) year-old woman who had witnessed an original Chautauqua. We sang Acres of Clams (we live in Puget Sound, after all) and my mind was cast back to morning meetings on the Farm. The other interns who showed up were amazed that I knew the words to the simple chanty.So many performances rounded out the night. Jugglers passed clubs back and forth, over and under, and backwards. A group of women hula-hooped on each others’ shoulders.
There were folk songs and spoken word/performance pieces by children. Gags and hijinks, displays of flexibility and low-to-the-ground acrobatics drove the performance to its finale: a juggle of nine Objects of Terror that included a cleaver, a torch, an egg, and dry ice.The whole show was built around entertainment to educate. One of the Chautauqua’s missions is to support community endeavors and build awareness in each place they stop of the community-building issues and resources available. The interns building straw houses were recognized for our work and hats were passed to raise money for my hosts’ 4 year-old granddaughter who had surgery to remove a tumor from her abdomen just a week after I arrived. So many people had come out for the show that I recognized, even after my short time here. There were a gaggle of interns and several resident builders, the people whose homes are being built. I met their families and friends and so many other islanders involved with other community institutions like the four-month-old radio station and the CSA farm.
After the show, as the crowd thinned, Levi and I started a fire in the fire pit in the yard. Those who were left crowded around to fight the chill and guitars appeared. We were regaled with Beatles covers by a band called Abbey Road Live, who had just performed a pay show on the island the night before. Another group, from the Chautauqua, calling itself the Snow Cubs played covers of songs by the Fleet Foxes, the Decemberists, and others. They had tight and haunting harmonies, backed up by guitar, mandolin, and bass. It was a beautiful way to end an amazing day.
Finally, when all the locals had gone home and most of the performers had settled into their tents tucked away in various corners of the property, I headed back into the kitchen. I met a woman named Shine who was part of the kitchen team and she asked me if I was going to run away with them. I suppose my interest was so obvious she could read it all over my face. That night I went to bed to the sounds of pans banging below my room and visions of life in the circus.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
breathing room
Wow, a weekend to sit still. Between island fun, circuses in my backyard, and goodbye parties there has been little time to settle down and process all that's been happening.
I guess the last couple posts haven't really been ultra-revealing about what I'm now up to, so I'll make an attempt at clarification.
I now live on Lopez Island in the northwest corner of Washington. Puget Sound surrounds our fifteen-mile long piece of submerged mountain and provides a mild summer climate of low temperatures and little humidity to this island group, the San Juans. The days are breezy and the nights chilly, but the sun is warm in the cloudless sky.
I'm three weeks into an internship here, building affordable housing with a mix of traditional timber framing, strawbales, and earthen plasters. The organization that I'm with buys land and builds homes for local folk who otherwise wouldn't be able to afford to build for themselves on this island of rising property values and small, mom & pop style businesses. I'm one of almost twenty young people from all kinds of backgrounds who have been drawn here by the prospect of learning to build sustainable homes in a low-impact way. The goals of the organization in the project include minimizing costs with materials and implementing a net-zero energy consumption program over the next several years. We've been spending our days the past few weeks building walls with stacked and cut strawbales, compressing them, and then covering them with plasters made with clay dug from the building site, island sand, and manure and straw from local farms. Most of the work of cutting and placing bales, mixing plaster, and then applying it is done by hand; we crowd into the framed-out houses as the bales rise higher and then huddle shoulder-to-shoulder against the new walls to cover them with mud before each new layer begins to dry in the sun.
My afternoons have been crammed nearly everyday with workshops, information sessions, potlucks, goodbye parties, and even small trips to the beach parks on the island, each more beautiful than the last. When there isn't something to occupy my time in the evening, I'm sharing dinner with my hosts, a generous couple who put up interns in their post-and-beam home they built with friends. They like to cook and the meals are always delicious, usually featuring fresh produce from the garden I help tend as part of my work exchange for my housing.
So that's the paradise I find myself in right now. What's new with y'all?
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
i live on an island
I've been one week on Lopez Island in the Puget Sound. It's been a whirlwind of a week here in Northwest Washington, and here are a few phrases that describe my new life:
- island time
- elbow deep in llama dung
- yes, there are llamas here
- farmer's market: more market, less farmer
- sea kayaking
- straw bale houses
- interns and power tools
- organic EVERYTHING
- sailing on the Sound
- potlucks
- the Lopez Wave
- bicycling everywhere
- fresh veggies everywhere!
- ferry schedules
- free clothes at the dump
- 1500 rubber ducks in a cement truck
Did I mention I've been here a week? My head is still spinning, but as soon as I can slow it down there will be explanations, reviews, summaries.
PS - The Alaska Roadtrip has officially ended.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
the southeast
I haven't posted in a while because I got eaten by bears.
Sorry.
In other news, we finally made it off the Kenai peninsula and crossed through Canada (again) into Southeast Alaska. Our first stop was in Haines, a cute town full of Tlingit art. We spent a day here looking for affordable gifts and native experiences, then it was onto the ferry for a trip down the Alaska Marine Highway to Juneau, the state's capital.
This town is spiffy: small and contained, yet full of activity. Juneau is a major stop along cruise lines, so the place fills with people every day. They hit the myriad Alaska-made souvenir shops and seafood restaurants that run up Franklin Street from the Harbor. Just outside of town are several scenic drives along the waterfront or out to the Mendenhall Glacier, where we plan to hike today. There are trails that take you along salmon runs and out to the glacier itself.
Our next stop is anybody's guess. Possibly Sitka, but apparently each of these communities along the coast has it's own unique flavor and appeal. Our ferry tickets entitle us to three stops between Haines and our final destination, Prince Rupert, BC. But which one?! We're also on the lookout for good kayaking! Maybe we'll see some whales!
Sorry.
In other news, we finally made it off the Kenai peninsula and crossed through Canada (again) into Southeast Alaska. Our first stop was in Haines, a cute town full of Tlingit art. We spent a day here looking for affordable gifts and native experiences, then it was onto the ferry for a trip down the Alaska Marine Highway to Juneau, the state's capital.
This town is spiffy: small and contained, yet full of activity. Juneau is a major stop along cruise lines, so the place fills with people every day. They hit the myriad Alaska-made souvenir shops and seafood restaurants that run up Franklin Street from the Harbor. Just outside of town are several scenic drives along the waterfront or out to the Mendenhall Glacier, where we plan to hike today. There are trails that take you along salmon runs and out to the glacier itself.
Our next stop is anybody's guess. Possibly Sitka, but apparently each of these communities along the coast has it's own unique flavor and appeal. Our ferry tickets entitle us to three stops between Haines and our final destination, Prince Rupert, BC. But which one?! We're also on the lookout for good kayaking! Maybe we'll see some whales!
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
signs of life
A month on the road has put me into a kind of travel funk. KT and I have both reached a bit of a saturation point with seeing things and making decisions, so rather than actually writing anything worthwhile about our visits to Talkeetna, Anchorage, or Homer, I thought I’d do something a little different.
All along the road, we’ve seen signs of all types of things. The further north we reached, the more varied and exotic became the signs warning us of the local wildlife that would likely be walking out in front of the car. Here are some examples.
The antlered animals are pretty standard, right? Here we have deer, elk, and then caribou:
Even before the moose started appearing, there were sightings of bison!
Then we got into moose country. Exciting!
And when we saw our first moose, we sure knew how to recognize it! However, we then started seeing signs for a new variety of moose. Our eyes were constantly scanning the woods and shoulders for this poorly-proportioned and pigeon-toed freak of nature, lest it should amble into our path and obliterate the car.
Thankfully, we never encountered this pitiful creature.
Of course, all along the way we were being warned to beware of wild Canadian coal trucks that could bound into our blind spot at any moment!
And we’re still on the lookout for the elusive wild Northern arrow. It’s habitat has been nearly everywhere, but alas, though we’ve caught sight of all the others along the way, this creature has succeeded in completely avoiding us at every turn.
PS - Do yourself a favor and check this out if you want to know more about our time in spiffy, little Talkeetna.
All along the road, we’ve seen signs of all types of things. The further north we reached, the more varied and exotic became the signs warning us of the local wildlife that would likely be walking out in front of the car. Here are some examples.
The antlered animals are pretty standard, right? Here we have deer, elk, and then caribou:
Even before the moose started appearing, there were sightings of bison!
Then we got into moose country. Exciting!
And when we saw our first moose, we sure knew how to recognize it! However, we then started seeing signs for a new variety of moose. Our eyes were constantly scanning the woods and shoulders for this poorly-proportioned and pigeon-toed freak of nature, lest it should amble into our path and obliterate the car.
Thankfully, we never encountered this pitiful creature.
Of course, all along the way we were being warned to beware of wild Canadian coal trucks that could bound into our blind spot at any moment!
And we’re still on the lookout for the elusive wild Northern arrow. It’s habitat has been nearly everywhere, but alas, though we’ve caught sight of all the others along the way, this creature has succeeded in completely avoiding us at every turn.
PS - Do yourself a favor and check this out if you want to know more about our time in spiffy, little Talkeetna.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
the new pet
Because we didn't get a husky puppy, and we thought we needed SOMETHING to pay attention to, and care for, and feed, we bought...
...a sourdough starter.
Yes. We fretted for a half-hour over whether or not a kitchen tool made with a piece of caribou antler would make it across the border, but it only took five minutes to decide that what we really needed to make this trip exciting was a plastic drink-cup full of fermenting mystery batter.
The sourdough starter comes from a culture that is claimed to be 106 years old. We bought it at the Roadhouse in Talkeetna for $2.50.
We have not yet named the sourdough.
The suggestion box is open.
...a sourdough starter.
Yes. We fretted for a half-hour over whether or not a kitchen tool made with a piece of caribou antler would make it across the border, but it only took five minutes to decide that what we really needed to make this trip exciting was a plastic drink-cup full of fermenting mystery batter.
The sourdough starter comes from a culture that is claimed to be 106 years old. We bought it at the Roadhouse in Talkeetna for $2.50.
We have not yet named the sourdough.
The suggestion box is open.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
denali is REALLY big
This and the next two posts are my account of our trip through Denali National Park.
“When I come back to Denali…”
I can’t believe I heard myself saying these words only minutes after entering the Visitor Center. This place is so big! Too big, actually. 6 million acres big. How do you experience this massive park in two and a half days?
Well, this is how we tried.
Day 1
We checked out the Visitor Center with all its massive displays and 18-minute film of all the things we could’ve been seeing in the park if we weren’t in the Visitor Center.
Then we shuttled out to see the sled dogs. Since the 1920s, the park has maintained a kennel of about 30 dogs—all Alaskan huskies—that aid in winter patrols. The dogs are worked hard during the snowy months, 6-7 days a week, pulling patrol officers, supplies to researchers and campers, and breaking trails for winter recreaters.
In the summer, the dogs are worked far less, performing a few demonstrations a day and taking walks every night. The dogs are so socialized they bear our company with resignation. Some completely ignore us, their great fluffy tails curled over their noses as they sleep on the roofs of their houses. Others lope to the ends of their chains or the doors of their kennels to give us a sniff before offering their backs for a scratch.
After a quick hot chocolate we were ready to conquer Mt. Healy, a 3-4 hour strenuous hike that climbs 1600 feet. The trail was well-maintained, but the switchbacks and hefty inclines were a little more than we were expecting. We reached the lookout, huffing and puffing, looked around and saw… more climbing. The trail looked well-established and there were two other hikers off on a distant peak; how hard could it be? So we set off along the stony backbone of the mountain, following the exact slope of the ridge (no switchbacks this time). The ground squirrels followed us with precocious curiosity, skittering within feet of us for a closer look. We rejoiced with many photos and jokes when we reached the crag at the top. And then we remembered that we had to go back down again…
“When I come back to Denali…”
I can’t believe I heard myself saying these words only minutes after entering the Visitor Center. This place is so big! Too big, actually. 6 million acres big. How do you experience this massive park in two and a half days?
Well, this is how we tried.
Day 1
We checked out the Visitor Center with all its massive displays and 18-minute film of all the things we could’ve been seeing in the park if we weren’t in the Visitor Center.
Then we shuttled out to see the sled dogs. Since the 1920s, the park has maintained a kennel of about 30 dogs—all Alaskan huskies—that aid in winter patrols. The dogs are worked hard during the snowy months, 6-7 days a week, pulling patrol officers, supplies to researchers and campers, and breaking trails for winter recreaters.
In the summer, the dogs are worked far less, performing a few demonstrations a day and taking walks every night. The dogs are so socialized they bear our company with resignation. Some completely ignore us, their great fluffy tails curled over their noses as they sleep on the roofs of their houses. Others lope to the ends of their chains or the doors of their kennels to give us a sniff before offering their backs for a scratch.
After a quick hot chocolate we were ready to conquer Mt. Healy, a 3-4 hour strenuous hike that climbs 1600 feet. The trail was well-maintained, but the switchbacks and hefty inclines were a little more than we were expecting. We reached the lookout, huffing and puffing, looked around and saw… more climbing. The trail looked well-established and there were two other hikers off on a distant peak; how hard could it be? So we set off along the stony backbone of the mountain, following the exact slope of the ridge (no switchbacks this time). The ground squirrels followed us with precocious curiosity, skittering within feet of us for a closer look. We rejoiced with many photos and jokes when we reached the crag at the top. And then we remembered that we had to go back down again…
day 2
Day 2
The second day, we decided to take a bus 65 miles into the park, try to see Denali, and take a hike on the tundra
The four-hour trip out wound along the only road that runs through the park. This 90-mile road is paved only for 15 miles, beyond which only park busses and specially registered private vehicles are permitted. The park decided to preserve the original single lane gravel construction to maintain Denali’s wilderness character. Our driver gave us an informed nature tour, telling us about the animals and their winter habits that they are just now breaking. The road was only opened a few weeks ago and great piles of snow still rest in the gullies on the mountainsides. Snowshoe hairs were everywhere, even squashed in the road.
The only other animal we saw in relative abundance were caribou. We had a few instances of Dall sheep, showing up as distant white specks against the emerald and tan mountainsides. A sow grizzly and her twins also graced our ride, and for a brief, shining moment, a black and brown fox trotted alongside our parked bus. We even saw a ptarmigan, that ill-fated bird that seems to be the primary prey of every creature with teeth.
At the end of our journey waited the newly opened Eielson Visitor Center and a stretch of tundra. We were among the first visitors to the new complex which replaced a much older and more intrusive building. This updated version was recessed into the hillside and was mostly invisible from the road; our bus pulled up and parked on the roof. Down below, the rest of the center housed art exhibits, a great diorama of the mountain, its glaciers, and the many climbing approaches, and a section devoted to the experience of the great mountain in many people’s words and stories. In order to be low-impact, much of the construction was done with recycled and renewable materials, as well as materials reused from the former center. This building, once inspected, is hoped to achieve the Platinum level of LEEDS certification, a green building system.
We rode the bus, saw the building, and then were ready to hit the great outdoors. Just outside of the center was a trail that took us out onto the hillsides of the tundra. We walked along established gravel paths to avoid damaging the fragile permafrost vegetation. Because the latitude and elevation, only a thin layer of topsoil manages to thaw even during the long daylight hours of the summer.
This causes the plants to adapt if they wish to thrive, even survive here. Most species are dwarf to begin with, carpeting the ground with tight, fuzzy leaf-cover and blossoming into miniscule fireworks. Larger species manage only to produce shallow root systems and short crowns, only growing to waist-height. Our trail led us to a couple of forks and since we had time and really wanted to see the gravel Thorofare Riverbed, we chose some less-traveled trails, possibly game trails, down into the ravine. As we descended, we realized that what goes down must come up, and also that the riverbed, massively close as it appeared, would take much longer to reach and probably twice as long to return from than we expected. And that’s just how things are here. Everything appears so close—the mountains, the rivers, the crags—that you can just reach out and grab them. But the proximity is one of the parks many great and humbling deceptions. All these things are so massively huge that they can’t help but seem at arm’s length, even when they are several miles away.
Our last great goal for the day was to try to catch a glimpse of Denali, Athabaskan for “the great one.” The highest peak in North America at 20,320 feet, should be hard to hide, but because of its utter mass and height, the mountain is often said to make its own weather. Warm, moist air is driven north from the Pacific Ocean to run smack into the Alaskan range and the huge mass of Denali, only to be quickly condensed into heavy clouds. 75% of the time, the mountain enshrouds itself in billows of white, and people can visit the park several times without ever catching a glimpse of its crown jewel. Alas, we too, were thwarted in our efforts, but we expected this. And I had a nice time amusing myself listening to all the binoculared visitors around me exclaiming and pointing at some phantom slope or dubious peak, that “just disappeared behind that cloud!”
The second day, we decided to take a bus 65 miles into the park, try to see Denali, and take a hike on the tundra
The four-hour trip out wound along the only road that runs through the park. This 90-mile road is paved only for 15 miles, beyond which only park busses and specially registered private vehicles are permitted. The park decided to preserve the original single lane gravel construction to maintain Denali’s wilderness character. Our driver gave us an informed nature tour, telling us about the animals and their winter habits that they are just now breaking. The road was only opened a few weeks ago and great piles of snow still rest in the gullies on the mountainsides. Snowshoe hairs were everywhere, even squashed in the road.
The only other animal we saw in relative abundance were caribou. We had a few instances of Dall sheep, showing up as distant white specks against the emerald and tan mountainsides. A sow grizzly and her twins also graced our ride, and for a brief, shining moment, a black and brown fox trotted alongside our parked bus. We even saw a ptarmigan, that ill-fated bird that seems to be the primary prey of every creature with teeth.
At the end of our journey waited the newly opened Eielson Visitor Center and a stretch of tundra. We were among the first visitors to the new complex which replaced a much older and more intrusive building. This updated version was recessed into the hillside and was mostly invisible from the road; our bus pulled up and parked on the roof. Down below, the rest of the center housed art exhibits, a great diorama of the mountain, its glaciers, and the many climbing approaches, and a section devoted to the experience of the great mountain in many people’s words and stories. In order to be low-impact, much of the construction was done with recycled and renewable materials, as well as materials reused from the former center. This building, once inspected, is hoped to achieve the Platinum level of LEEDS certification, a green building system.
We rode the bus, saw the building, and then were ready to hit the great outdoors. Just outside of the center was a trail that took us out onto the hillsides of the tundra. We walked along established gravel paths to avoid damaging the fragile permafrost vegetation. Because the latitude and elevation, only a thin layer of topsoil manages to thaw even during the long daylight hours of the summer.
This causes the plants to adapt if they wish to thrive, even survive here. Most species are dwarf to begin with, carpeting the ground with tight, fuzzy leaf-cover and blossoming into miniscule fireworks. Larger species manage only to produce shallow root systems and short crowns, only growing to waist-height. Our trail led us to a couple of forks and since we had time and really wanted to see the gravel Thorofare Riverbed, we chose some less-traveled trails, possibly game trails, down into the ravine. As we descended, we realized that what goes down must come up, and also that the riverbed, massively close as it appeared, would take much longer to reach and probably twice as long to return from than we expected. And that’s just how things are here. Everything appears so close—the mountains, the rivers, the crags—that you can just reach out and grab them. But the proximity is one of the parks many great and humbling deceptions. All these things are so massively huge that they can’t help but seem at arm’s length, even when they are several miles away.
Our last great goal for the day was to try to catch a glimpse of Denali, Athabaskan for “the great one.” The highest peak in North America at 20,320 feet, should be hard to hide, but because of its utter mass and height, the mountain is often said to make its own weather. Warm, moist air is driven north from the Pacific Ocean to run smack into the Alaskan range and the huge mass of Denali, only to be quickly condensed into heavy clouds. 75% of the time, the mountain enshrouds itself in billows of white, and people can visit the park several times without ever catching a glimpse of its crown jewel. Alas, we too, were thwarted in our efforts, but we expected this. And I had a nice time amusing myself listening to all the binoculared visitors around me exclaiming and pointing at some phantom slope or dubious peak, that “just disappeared behind that cloud!”
day 3
On our last day, we checked out the Murie Science Center and learned about Acute Mountain Sickness and the current research surrounding it. This mysterious illness strikes climbers and Denali is the premier place for its study, but it’s a hard nut to crack. Only willing participants can participate in trial studies, and even then the danger level is high, as AMS can quickly lead to fatal syndromes on the frozen, desolate mountain. Much of what has been learned has come from studying climbers who’ve gone through the painful symptoms and syndromes themselves and have had to make emergency descents in the middle of their ambitious climbs.
Our final stop was another short jaunt into the park to picnic on Savage River. This is the last point that private vehicles can drive to along the Park Road. Here are trails into the hills and alongside the gravel riverbed. We took a loop that wound through the bottom of the ravine, and crossed the river twice. There were so many people here it was hard to remember we were in the middle of one of the largest stretches of undeveloped wilderness left in the country. But the path was beautiful and we had our first chance to see some Dall sheep rams from a much closer vantage point. The sheep are entering a funny-looking stage, shedding their heavy winter coats in great patches. The rams, with their regally curved horns, perch on the nearly vertical hillsides and survey the valley in tattered cloaks.
And that was how we said goodbye to Denali, with promises for many return visits.
Our final stop was another short jaunt into the park to picnic on Savage River. This is the last point that private vehicles can drive to along the Park Road. Here are trails into the hills and alongside the gravel riverbed. We took a loop that wound through the bottom of the ravine, and crossed the river twice. There were so many people here it was hard to remember we were in the middle of one of the largest stretches of undeveloped wilderness left in the country. But the path was beautiful and we had our first chance to see some Dall sheep rams from a much closer vantage point. The sheep are entering a funny-looking stage, shedding their heavy winter coats in great patches. The rams, with their regally curved horns, perch on the nearly vertical hillsides and survey the valley in tattered cloaks.
And that was how we said goodbye to Denali, with promises for many return visits.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
pioneer park & moose attacks
So today we tried to leave Fairbanks.
Our first stop was the grocery store to exchange some questionable cheese. A half-hour later (it was a sixteen-ounce block; I shudder to think what any more items would’ve taken), we found ourselves in Pioneer Park, an all-things-Alaska-culture-based theme park. I couldn’t help but think TOURISM CENTRAL when the 19th Century model train ran behind the billboard letters at the main gate. But KT assured me that it was a popular attraction among the locals, too, as a friend she made last night told her. Her friend decided to settle in Alaska three years ago after living in New York most of her life. Not convinced, I made KT ask some random passers-by, one of whom actually was from Fairbanks. Apparently, the locals get their kicks there before Memorial Day weekend, and then laugh and point as the tourists fill the place up and get gouged for the rest of the summer.
Anyway, we toured a steam boat that claimed to be the second largest wooden boat in existence, wandered around original cabins that had been moved to this park and converted into souvenir shops and restaurants, and found bubble tea. This was the only place in Fairbanks that sold it, so said our restaurateur. “But there are two in Anchorage! And there’s sushi everywhere. Just don’t get any from Tokyo Express! Oh, and if you want, I can give you some bubble tea mix! I used it once for a class I taught. But if you want to order your own, don’t get it from this company! It’s too expensive!” And that’s how I walked out of a gold rush cabin pretending to be a tea house with a package of expensive lychee-flavored tea mix (“And you can even have the scoop! I only used it once!”) in my pocket. The customs officials are going to have a field day, I can just see it….
All oddities aside, however, we did find a couple interesting exhibits on the native culture. One cabin was a museum of artifacts made from skins, bones, and birch with descriptions of their uses in Athabaskan life. We learned a bit about traditional qayaqs (think kayak) made by stretching seal skins over wooden frames. It’s surprising and a bit discouraging to learn how few people actually still know this skill. Another cabin was devoted to the World Eskimo-Indian Olympics, a competition began in the 60s based on native skills such as a two-footed high kick, leg wrestling, a one-armed reach, and nulukatug—throwing someone high into the air from a blanket in search of whales and game. The games were formed as a way to help keep some native culture alive and instill unity and pride. They’re held yearly in July; I’d love to see them someday.
We left the park on a mission: find a place to dispose of our empty propane bottle. We tried the obvious places first. You know, campgrounds and gas stations that sell propane. And of course, we ran into a lot of “you can’t just throw that away, you know! Oh, no, we don’t accept them either; we’d just throw ‘em out,” before getting lost in backwoods Fairbanks. Finally, after a fifteen minute drive in a circle, we found a noisy, filthy transfer station just outside of the city on the opposite end that we needed. I crossed my fingers as I placed the bottle in a cardboard box labeled ‘propane tanks’ with permanent maker and told KT to get us out of there.
We reached Denali National Park at around 7:30 this evening to discover that their campsites were full, so we needed to find a campground among the thousands in the Denali Resort Ghetto just outside the park. The nice young man at the help desk gave us some phone numbers but DEFINITELY DID NOT suggest a nice one right on the river, so we made a call and found a nice place right on the river with some sites open. On arrival, we were greeted by two people who I’m pretty sure weren’t old enough to have work papers, let alone be managing the evening shift at a campground. Nonetheless we were directed to the sites and we picked our way down to the river.
We were making quite a ruckus and only marginally paying attention to where we were going in the crowded campground when quite suddenly about twenty people all shouted, “Look out! Move!” all at once. Not ten feet from us were a cow moose and her calf. Not one second from then was she upon us and nearly crushing KT beneath her hooves. I had just enough time to catch the great lumbering brown shape come crashing through the trees and I heard the snorts that KT surely must’ve felt on her own face. And that quickly, we were out of the way and she was plodding back down to the waterside next to her calf. We were very lucky and very shaken up—moose attacks account for more deaths than encounters with grizzlies.
The moose decided to hang out on the bank for a while and we decided to pitch our tent a little further inland.
Our first stop was the grocery store to exchange some questionable cheese. A half-hour later (it was a sixteen-ounce block; I shudder to think what any more items would’ve taken), we found ourselves in Pioneer Park, an all-things-Alaska-culture-based theme park. I couldn’t help but think TOURISM CENTRAL when the 19th Century model train ran behind the billboard letters at the main gate. But KT assured me that it was a popular attraction among the locals, too, as a friend she made last night told her. Her friend decided to settle in Alaska three years ago after living in New York most of her life. Not convinced, I made KT ask some random passers-by, one of whom actually was from Fairbanks. Apparently, the locals get their kicks there before Memorial Day weekend, and then laugh and point as the tourists fill the place up and get gouged for the rest of the summer.
Anyway, we toured a steam boat that claimed to be the second largest wooden boat in existence, wandered around original cabins that had been moved to this park and converted into souvenir shops and restaurants, and found bubble tea. This was the only place in Fairbanks that sold it, so said our restaurateur. “But there are two in Anchorage! And there’s sushi everywhere. Just don’t get any from Tokyo Express! Oh, and if you want, I can give you some bubble tea mix! I used it once for a class I taught. But if you want to order your own, don’t get it from this company! It’s too expensive!” And that’s how I walked out of a gold rush cabin pretending to be a tea house with a package of expensive lychee-flavored tea mix (“And you can even have the scoop! I only used it once!”) in my pocket. The customs officials are going to have a field day, I can just see it….
All oddities aside, however, we did find a couple interesting exhibits on the native culture. One cabin was a museum of artifacts made from skins, bones, and birch with descriptions of their uses in Athabaskan life. We learned a bit about traditional qayaqs (think kayak) made by stretching seal skins over wooden frames. It’s surprising and a bit discouraging to learn how few people actually still know this skill. Another cabin was devoted to the World Eskimo-Indian Olympics, a competition began in the 60s based on native skills such as a two-footed high kick, leg wrestling, a one-armed reach, and nulukatug—throwing someone high into the air from a blanket in search of whales and game. The games were formed as a way to help keep some native culture alive and instill unity and pride. They’re held yearly in July; I’d love to see them someday.
We left the park on a mission: find a place to dispose of our empty propane bottle. We tried the obvious places first. You know, campgrounds and gas stations that sell propane. And of course, we ran into a lot of “you can’t just throw that away, you know! Oh, no, we don’t accept them either; we’d just throw ‘em out,” before getting lost in backwoods Fairbanks. Finally, after a fifteen minute drive in a circle, we found a noisy, filthy transfer station just outside of the city on the opposite end that we needed. I crossed my fingers as I placed the bottle in a cardboard box labeled ‘propane tanks’ with permanent maker and told KT to get us out of there.
We reached Denali National Park at around 7:30 this evening to discover that their campsites were full, so we needed to find a campground among the thousands in the Denali Resort Ghetto just outside the park. The nice young man at the help desk gave us some phone numbers but DEFINITELY DID NOT suggest a nice one right on the river, so we made a call and found a nice place right on the river with some sites open. On arrival, we were greeted by two people who I’m pretty sure weren’t old enough to have work papers, let alone be managing the evening shift at a campground. Nonetheless we were directed to the sites and we picked our way down to the river.
We were making quite a ruckus and only marginally paying attention to where we were going in the crowded campground when quite suddenly about twenty people all shouted, “Look out! Move!” all at once. Not ten feet from us were a cow moose and her calf. Not one second from then was she upon us and nearly crushing KT beneath her hooves. I had just enough time to catch the great lumbering brown shape come crashing through the trees and I heard the snorts that KT surely must’ve felt on her own face. And that quickly, we were out of the way and she was plodding back down to the waterside next to her calf. We were very lucky and very shaken up—moose attacks account for more deaths than encounters with grizzlies.
The moose decided to hang out on the bank for a while and we decided to pitch our tent a little further inland.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
north pole
“Where the hell are we?!”
We just turned off of Santa Claus Lane to someone crooning “Chlamydiaaaaaa” over the first radio station we’ve been able to pick up since leaving Tok.
We are in North Pole, Alaska. Population: Tourists. The first thing we saw from the freeway was the giant papier mâché Santa at the entrance to the Santa Land RV Park.
North Pole was established in failed hopes that toy makers would be drawn to the town. Instead, tourists have flocked here to see real-life reindeer, year-round ornament gift shops, and lampposts painted to look like candy canes. The place is now a suburb of Fairbanks and a frightening twilight zone to become ensnared in. The spirit of Christmas, after all, lives here all year long!
We just turned off of Santa Claus Lane to someone crooning “Chlamydiaaaaaa” over the first radio station we’ve been able to pick up since leaving Tok.
We are in North Pole, Alaska. Population: Tourists. The first thing we saw from the freeway was the giant papier mâché Santa at the entrance to the Santa Land RV Park.
North Pole was established in failed hopes that toy makers would be drawn to the town. Instead, tourists have flocked here to see real-life reindeer, year-round ornament gift shops, and lampposts painted to look like candy canes. The place is now a suburb of Fairbanks and a frightening twilight zone to become ensnared in. The spirit of Christmas, after all, lives here all year long!
Friday, June 6, 2008
new posts!
I really need to get a better handle on this...
We've stopped over a day in Tok, Alaska, to do some housekeeping and updating. When the Alaska highway was constructed, Tok ('one toke over the line...') sprang up as a camp for the construction crew. It's often hailed as the "Gateway to Alaska!" because of it's position on the highway.
And that's all I have to say about Tok. Seriously. Chicken was cooler.
I took some time to write about my last few days in the Yukon. They're posted in blogger chronological order, so if you want to read them as they happen, they are listed thus:
And yes, someday there will be some more pictures to go along, but until then, take your time and enjoy the posts. I don't know when the next will come, but I'll try to give you time to digest these ones. Seriously. PLEASE read them!
Thursday, June 5, 2008
dawson city
I'm beginning to notice a trend.
The further we push north into the Yukon, the smaller the towns get. And the dustier. And the older-looking. And the younger?
Dawson city is the last town in the Yukon before you reach the border by the Klondike Loop, and the end of pavement. There isn't even a bridge across the Yukon; you have to drive your car off a gravel pile onto a flat ferry which then cuts a drunken arc across the River to drop you onto another gravel landing on the other side. Once across, the asphalt peters out and you're driving on the Top of the World.
But before all that, you HAVE TO experience Dawson. This town of 1300 in the winter more than doubles with the summer. Youth come from all over the world to fill this anachronistic town. The streets are dirt and there isn't a chain establishment in site. I think it may even be an ordinance to build with clapboard falsefront and paint in garish shades of avon-lady.
Dawson has been meticulously preserved from its gold rush heyday and I think the people who live there actually would be confused if it were any other way. The businesses have names like Klondike Kate's, Diamond Tooth Gerties, and the Triple J Hotel. If you squint (and ignore the cars), it wouldn't take much to see this place as it probably looked a hundred years ago.
But anyway, like I was saying... The deep Yukon cities are peopled with twenty-somethings. College students, travelers, and drop-outs from life find their way into this town and dance for, serve, or guide the gold chasers and RVers of the summer. It's kind of surreal to enter a town and see the crazy-old buildings filled with grungy looking kids ready to feed you schlock or sourdough bread.
And good bunch of them live just a ferry-ride across the river at the Dawson City River Hostel, a cabin rental/campground/giant pit toilet run by a German who spent fifteen years wandering the world on a bike. This place has several rental cabins and a ton of tentsites all over the hillside, along with all-outdoor kitchen facilities, outhouses, and even a wood-fired bathhouse (and was THAT something else, let me tell you). Our host told us that he had 70 campers who were part of the city's platoon of seasonal employees. And the season is just beginning.
And of course, when in Dawson, do as the tourists do. KT and I had read a weird article in an Australian paper about a special drink that you could only order in the Downtown Hotel. By imbibing, you are inducted into the Sourtoe Club, an exclusive organization who's members can claim they've touched their lips to an actual amputated human toe. An old legend spurred a ridiculous tradition that now claims tourist dollars like wildfire. I haven't time for the whole legend, but the long and the short of it is that KT and I each drank a shot of Yukon Jack (major yum, by the way) with a brown, shriveled, dead toe swimming on the bottom. Don't believe me? Here's a pic:
Be on the lookout for a video.
Afterward, the vaudeville at Diamond Tooth Gerties Casino just wasn't quite as impressive...
The further we push north into the Yukon, the smaller the towns get. And the dustier. And the older-looking. And the younger?
Dawson city is the last town in the Yukon before you reach the border by the Klondike Loop, and the end of pavement. There isn't even a bridge across the Yukon; you have to drive your car off a gravel pile onto a flat ferry which then cuts a drunken arc across the River to drop you onto another gravel landing on the other side. Once across, the asphalt peters out and you're driving on the Top of the World.
But before all that, you HAVE TO experience Dawson. This town of 1300 in the winter more than doubles with the summer. Youth come from all over the world to fill this anachronistic town. The streets are dirt and there isn't a chain establishment in site. I think it may even be an ordinance to build with clapboard falsefront and paint in garish shades of avon-lady.
Dawson has been meticulously preserved from its gold rush heyday and I think the people who live there actually would be confused if it were any other way. The businesses have names like Klondike Kate's, Diamond Tooth Gerties, and the Triple J Hotel. If you squint (and ignore the cars), it wouldn't take much to see this place as it probably looked a hundred years ago.
But anyway, like I was saying... The deep Yukon cities are peopled with twenty-somethings. College students, travelers, and drop-outs from life find their way into this town and dance for, serve, or guide the gold chasers and RVers of the summer. It's kind of surreal to enter a town and see the crazy-old buildings filled with grungy looking kids ready to feed you schlock or sourdough bread.
And good bunch of them live just a ferry-ride across the river at the Dawson City River Hostel, a cabin rental/campground/giant pit toilet run by a German who spent fifteen years wandering the world on a bike. This place has several rental cabins and a ton of tentsites all over the hillside, along with all-outdoor kitchen facilities, outhouses, and even a wood-fired bathhouse (and was THAT something else, let me tell you). Our host told us that he had 70 campers who were part of the city's platoon of seasonal employees. And the season is just beginning.
And of course, when in Dawson, do as the tourists do. KT and I had read a weird article in an Australian paper about a special drink that you could only order in the Downtown Hotel. By imbibing, you are inducted into the Sourtoe Club, an exclusive organization who's members can claim they've touched their lips to an actual amputated human toe. An old legend spurred a ridiculous tradition that now claims tourist dollars like wildfire. I haven't time for the whole legend, but the long and the short of it is that KT and I each drank a shot of Yukon Jack (major yum, by the way) with a brown, shriveled, dead toe swimming on the bottom. Don't believe me? Here's a pic:
Be on the lookout for a video.
Afterward, the vaudeville at Diamond Tooth Gerties Casino just wasn't quite as impressive...
whitehorse
Here we are, in the capital of the Yukon: little Whitehorse. We’ve checked in at a neato campground just outside the city along the Yukon River. This place reminds me of a hostel with its funky signage, espresso bar, and internet center in the office.
I think the population of this city must double in the summer with the influx of foreign summer labor. KT and I have been walking around for two days and all we run into are tourists or very young workers who are “just here for the summer.” I guess I can understand. With the twenty-two hours of daylight and beautiful landscape, why wouldn’t this be a summer paradise?
Much of the place is tourist-focused with gold-rush themed shops and souvenir outlets. But the town has a hip scene all of its own away from the mainstream bustle. Coffee shops, new age health centers, and spiffy little shops are tucked away on every block. Bike travel is big here and a walking/biking path lines the Yukon as it passes through town. There’s even a recording studio here, which puts out albums by artists from all over the territory. While KT and I were looking for some home-grown tunes to sample, we were introduced to songwriters who were also Whitehorse teachers, or who drove a bus in the town’s transit system!
The town definitely capitalizes on its history. Museums cover topics from the First Nation groups that live in the area, to transportation, to life in historical Whitehorse. The S.S. Klondike, a paddlewheeler, is beached on the gravel shore of the Yukon and is viewable daily. There are even two vaudeville/cabaret musical numbers that run nightly. We asked if they were geared more to the tourist set, but were assured that the locals get their kicks there, too. Of course, just how local are the locals when they’re all actually from Ontario?
Hot town! Maybe I’ll wend my way back up here someday for a summer job spot. I sure love the sun, and wouldn’t it be worth something to tell people I lived in the Yukon?
I think the population of this city must double in the summer with the influx of foreign summer labor. KT and I have been walking around for two days and all we run into are tourists or very young workers who are “just here for the summer.” I guess I can understand. With the twenty-two hours of daylight and beautiful landscape, why wouldn’t this be a summer paradise?
Much of the place is tourist-focused with gold-rush themed shops and souvenir outlets. But the town has a hip scene all of its own away from the mainstream bustle. Coffee shops, new age health centers, and spiffy little shops are tucked away on every block. Bike travel is big here and a walking/biking path lines the Yukon as it passes through town. There’s even a recording studio here, which puts out albums by artists from all over the territory. While KT and I were looking for some home-grown tunes to sample, we were introduced to songwriters who were also Whitehorse teachers, or who drove a bus in the town’s transit system!
The town definitely capitalizes on its history. Museums cover topics from the First Nation groups that live in the area, to transportation, to life in historical Whitehorse. The S.S. Klondike, a paddlewheeler, is beached on the gravel shore of the Yukon and is viewable daily. There are even two vaudeville/cabaret musical numbers that run nightly. We asked if they were geared more to the tourist set, but were assured that the locals get their kicks there, too. Of course, just how local are the locals when they’re all actually from Ontario?
Hot town! Maybe I’ll wend my way back up here someday for a summer job spot. I sure love the sun, and wouldn’t it be worth something to tell people I lived in the Yukon?
watson lake
We’ve entered the Yukon Territory! Our first stop in this beautiful territory was a small dusty town called Watson Lake. The Visitor’s Center was very helpful in directing us to places to stay in the Yukon, as well as neat sights to see.
The Signpost Forest outside the Visitor’s Center was our primary attraction in this windswept village. What began as a utilitarian signpost pointing the directions and mileage to key points along the new highway became a traveler’s tradition after some of the troops included signs pointing the ways to their hometowns in the States. Ever since, visitors to this otherwise unprepossessing town have been hanging their own signs, license plates, or whatever indications they could to leave evidence of their passing. KT and I wandered, trying to see who could find the most evidence of our home states. Then, we tried to find the sign that came closest to our actual hometowns. KT managed to find one for Reedsport, OR, but I was pleasantly surprised to find one from a town in my own little school district in Central PA. Anybody know which McGarveys from Irvona these may be?
All in all, Pennsylvania didn’t do too badly. Of course, nobody could compare to Germany. I don’t think Germans stay home very well, however. Here’s a representation of the Keystone State, here in little ol’ Watson Lake:
(click the picture for more detail)
The Signpost Forest outside the Visitor’s Center was our primary attraction in this windswept village. What began as a utilitarian signpost pointing the directions and mileage to key points along the new highway became a traveler’s tradition after some of the troops included signs pointing the ways to their hometowns in the States. Ever since, visitors to this otherwise unprepossessing town have been hanging their own signs, license plates, or whatever indications they could to leave evidence of their passing. KT and I wandered, trying to see who could find the most evidence of our home states. Then, we tried to find the sign that came closest to our actual hometowns. KT managed to find one for Reedsport, OR, but I was pleasantly surprised to find one from a town in my own little school district in Central PA. Anybody know which McGarveys from Irvona these may be?
All in all, Pennsylvania didn’t do too badly. Of course, nobody could compare to Germany. I don’t think Germans stay home very well, however. Here’s a representation of the Keystone State, here in little ol’ Watson Lake:
(click the picture for more detail)
liard hot springs
Liard Hot Springs may have been the best camping situation of the trip. The provincial park is home to two thermal springs that create bathing pools of 80 to 127 degree water.
We arrived in time to just miss the last available campsite, but the park officials were so kind they allowed us to pitch our tent in the day use area, just off the parking lot for the same price as a campsite. Money-grubbing bastards.
With our tent pitched, we were off to the springs. And so were 2183 retirees. It was like a scene from Cocoon. We wandered to the far pool which was much less crowded—only one other person showed up before we left—and also cooler. Eventually, we decided to throw in with the older and wiser bunch and check out the near pool. So hot! The heat from the vent that enters the pool is so great you can’t approach it directly. In order to reach the spring, you must direct cooler water up from the bottom—the hottest water is in the top six inches—and mix it up. Even then, it was too hot for me, so I contented myself to sit on the last bench before the hottest section.
The springs here provide a microclimate different than the surrounding area. The ground thaws sooner and with the warmth of the springs beneath, more warm-weather species of plants can thrive here. There are even sixteen varieties of orchids that grow wild around the springs!
One of British Columbia’s great natural wonders, Liard Hot Springs is well worth the trip. I’d even consider staying an extra day here if I had the chance in the future.
We arrived in time to just miss the last available campsite, but the park officials were so kind they allowed us to pitch our tent in the day use area, just off the parking lot for the same price as a campsite. Money-grubbing bastards.
With our tent pitched, we were off to the springs. And so were 2183 retirees. It was like a scene from Cocoon. We wandered to the far pool which was much less crowded—only one other person showed up before we left—and also cooler. Eventually, we decided to throw in with the older and wiser bunch and check out the near pool. So hot! The heat from the vent that enters the pool is so great you can’t approach it directly. In order to reach the spring, you must direct cooler water up from the bottom—the hottest water is in the top six inches—and mix it up. Even then, it was too hot for me, so I contented myself to sit on the last bench before the hottest section.
The springs here provide a microclimate different than the surrounding area. The ground thaws sooner and with the warmth of the springs beneath, more warm-weather species of plants can thrive here. There are even sixteen varieties of orchids that grow wild around the springs!
One of British Columbia’s great natural wonders, Liard Hot Springs is well worth the trip. I’d even consider staying an extra day here if I had the chance in the future.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
alaska and my 100th post!
Wow! There is not enough time for this!
We crossed the border just this afternoon into Chicken, Alaska. Population: 21 in the summer, 6 in the winter.
Our time in the Yukon Territory was just too short. Whitehorse and Dawson City, two gems in the wilderness will beckon me back, I'm sure. There's just too much to say about each (and everything in between) to write now, so I'll hopefully compose something coherent about them later and post it at my next hotspot. Who could've guessed a dirt-road town in the mountains on the Alaskan border (called Chicken, for heaven's sake, because its original settlers couldn't spell 'Ptarmigan') would have free wi-fi? This place doesn't even have power lines or a human waste management system; the restrooms are pit outhouses and all the electricity for the handful of businesses come from generators.
After exploring our camping options ($90 for the only cabin in the whole settlement or tent camping on the rain), we've decided to push on to Tok, where our road brings us back on to the Alaska Highway, which we left for Dawson City. There we face our next big decision: south to Anchorage and the Kenai, or north to Fairbanks and Denali? We'll hit 'em both eventually, but which do we want to do first?
Friday, May 30, 2008
inching north
In Dawson Creek, BC, mile 0 of the Alaska Highway (or the Al-Can) has become a tourist attraction. A white milepost has been erected in the center of an intersection in town marking its original location, but for convenience’s sake, a more ostentatious marker has been placed along the highway that most travelers take through town, nearly two blocks away. After several false starts, the war in Europe provided the impetus for the construction of the highway in 1942 as a means to connect important military bases in Canada and Alaska. The project wound up costing nearly $150 million.
Our progress northward is becoming more evident in the world around us. The sun is setting after 9 pm now, the trees are aging in reverse, and the beautiful weather that we’ve grown accustomed to is apparently arriving just days ahead of us at each stop. Moose crossing signs are appearing at smaller intervals, though we have yet to spot the great, lumbering creatures.
At our last campsite, another traveler told KT some tales about the Al-Can. He claimed to have seen eagles steal small pets from their unwitting, RV-driving owners—just swooping out of the sky to tug them, leash and all, from the astounded grasps of their masters. He said also that the Al-Can destroys relationships and that friends should never make the trek together. I’m interested in seeing which scenario we come upon first.
Tonight, we’re camped 145 miles away from Dawson Creek, at a small campsite/store/post office called Pink Mountain. I feel like we’ve stumbled upon an abandoned lumber camp. This small outpost has gas, a fully stocked shop and a meat locker out back. Although it opened at the beginning of the month, it won’t see much business until mid-June. The pipes in the camp showers won’t thaw until then, either. Most of the sites are empty with a small handful of RV’s strewn about and only three other tenters, two of which arrived just as we were winding down for bed. This was a four-hour drive from our last stop, and I marvel over driving through miles of wilderness and then passing small isolated collections of people.
PS - Check out some pics on the first days and oh, canada!
Our progress northward is becoming more evident in the world around us. The sun is setting after 9 pm now, the trees are aging in reverse, and the beautiful weather that we’ve grown accustomed to is apparently arriving just days ahead of us at each stop. Moose crossing signs are appearing at smaller intervals, though we have yet to spot the great, lumbering creatures.
At our last campsite, another traveler told KT some tales about the Al-Can. He claimed to have seen eagles steal small pets from their unwitting, RV-driving owners—just swooping out of the sky to tug them, leash and all, from the astounded grasps of their masters. He said also that the Al-Can destroys relationships and that friends should never make the trek together. I’m interested in seeing which scenario we come upon first.
Tonight, we’re camped 145 miles away from Dawson Creek, at a small campsite/store/post office called Pink Mountain. I feel like we’ve stumbled upon an abandoned lumber camp. This small outpost has gas, a fully stocked shop and a meat locker out back. Although it opened at the beginning of the month, it won’t see much business until mid-June. The pipes in the camp showers won’t thaw until then, either. Most of the sites are empty with a small handful of RV’s strewn about and only three other tenters, two of which arrived just as we were winding down for bed. This was a four-hour drive from our last stop, and I marvel over driving through miles of wilderness and then passing small isolated collections of people.
PS - Check out some pics on the first days and oh, canada!
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
oh, canada!
Our first night in Canada passed pretty uneventfully. We’ve been staying in provincial parks (think state-run camp sites), which have been anything between a parking spot in the woods to a lakeside picnic site with flush toilets and a store. Thankfully, they’ve all been pretty cheap and I highly recommend this method if you’re traversing across BC. We’ve met a bunch of friendly camp attendants and scoffed at the myriad RV’s that have surrounded us in the parks. Of course, I suppose one day we, too, will be retired and used to the creature comforts. Seriously, doesn’t ANYBODY under the age of 50 make this trip?!
Some of the more exciting points:
Our second day through Canada brought us up through the gorgeous Fraser River Valley, a lush, mossy Pacific Northwest forestland enclosed by craggy, snow-capped mountains. Coniferous forests blanket the walls of this valley, that is sometimes so narrow it only fits the river and the highway. Midday found us passing Hell’s Gate, a rugged crossing of the Fraser River. It was named thus by the explorers for its dangerous passage through the valley. Today, it is marked by a tourist trap—a cable car that descends into the ravine and deposits you on the opposite bank. A four minute ride to a gift shop and suspension bridge back across the river to nowhere, all for $16.
Who knew British Columbia had a desert? Ok, probably all of you. Anyway, the valley eventually opened into arid ranchland. Those parts that are irrigable serve as pastureland to cows and as fields of alfalfa and mysterious swaths of black fabric, later explained to be ginseng. KT compared the space to Wyoming. Scattered pines cover the dusty mountains that run along either side of the river and patches of scrub speckle the spaces between. Although rivers and lakes exist all along the valley and are fed by snowmelt in the higher mountains, very little rain actually falls here.
The towns in this part are dolled up in Wild West, Gold Rush fashion, featuring old-style facades and names such as 90 Mile House. One town, Clinton, claims to be the Gateway to the Cariboo and hosts a collection of “traveler’s trees” in the center of town—15 foot poles covered head to toe with wooden slats listing names and hometowns of passersby. There was nothing to mark the spot, but any sign would’ve been unnecessary. KT caught a glimpse of the poles as we jetted past and thought they deserved a second look. On closer inspection, we found records of visitors from Quesnel, BC, to France, marked in any way possible: blue magic marker, nail scratches, and even carved out with a router.
Day three brought us into the Canadian Rockies and across the Continental Divide. The mountains surprised us as we pulled off to a lookout point for Bijoux Falls. Here, snow was still on the ground and just ahead were the Rockies, great stony pinnacles still white with the fading winter. Just a month ago, the ski resorts in this area were still operating.
The little town of Chetwynd claims to be the chainsaw sculpture carving capital of the world. We paused only long enough to admire the line of champions outside the visitor center. 2006’s winner was carved by a Pennsylvania resident!
The towns were getting smaller and fewer the deeper we drove into BC. Signs warned us to check our gas, as refreshment was getting to be 150 km or more apart. But we arrived safe and sound at the luxurious Mile 0 RV camp in Dawson Creek. We’re here for the night, hoping to regroup before hopping on the Al-Can tomorrow. Here we bid adieu to convenient towns and unending paved road. Alright, that sounds a little sensationalist. Dawson Creek isn’t the last bastion of civilization between us and Fairbanks, but it sure is fun to play that way!
Some of the more exciting points:
Our second day through Canada brought us up through the gorgeous Fraser River Valley, a lush, mossy Pacific Northwest forestland enclosed by craggy, snow-capped mountains. Coniferous forests blanket the walls of this valley, that is sometimes so narrow it only fits the river and the highway. Midday found us passing Hell’s Gate, a rugged crossing of the Fraser River. It was named thus by the explorers for its dangerous passage through the valley. Today, it is marked by a tourist trap—a cable car that descends into the ravine and deposits you on the opposite bank. A four minute ride to a gift shop and suspension bridge back across the river to nowhere, all for $16.Who knew British Columbia had a desert? Ok, probably all of you. Anyway, the valley eventually opened into arid ranchland. Those parts that are irrigable serve as pastureland to cows and as fields of alfalfa and mysterious swaths of black fabric, later explained to be ginseng. KT compared the space to Wyoming. Scattered pines cover the dusty mountains that run along either side of the river and patches of scrub speckle the spaces between. Although rivers and lakes exist all along the valley and are fed by snowmelt in the higher mountains, very little rain actually falls here.
The towns in this part are dolled up in Wild West, Gold Rush fashion, featuring old-style facades and names such as 90 Mile House. One town, Clinton, claims to be the Gateway to the Cariboo and hosts a collection of “traveler’s trees” in the center of town—15 foot poles covered head to toe with wooden slats listing names and hometowns of passersby. There was nothing to mark the spot, but any sign would’ve been unnecessary. KT caught a glimpse of the poles as we jetted past and thought they deserved a second look. On closer inspection, we found records of visitors from Quesnel, BC, to France, marked in any way possible: blue magic marker, nail scratches, and even carved out with a router.
Day three brought us into the Canadian Rockies and across the Continental Divide. The mountains surprised us as we pulled off to a lookout point for Bijoux Falls. Here, snow was still on the ground and just ahead were the Rockies, great stony pinnacles still white with the fading winter. Just a month ago, the ski resorts in this area were still operating.
The little town of Chetwynd claims to be the chainsaw sculpture carving capital of the world. We paused only long enough to admire the line of champions outside the visitor center. 2006’s winner was carved by a Pennsylvania resident!The towns were getting smaller and fewer the deeper we drove into BC. Signs warned us to check our gas, as refreshment was getting to be 150 km or more apart. But we arrived safe and sound at the luxurious Mile 0 RV camp in Dawson Creek. We’re here for the night, hoping to regroup before hopping on the Al-Can tomorrow. Here we bid adieu to convenient towns and unending paved road. Alright, that sounds a little sensationalist. Dawson Creek isn’t the last bastion of civilization between us and Fairbanks, but it sure is fun to play that way!
the first days
Wow, has it really been seven days? KT and I left her front step on May 19, passed through Portland, OR, Seattle, WA, and then into Canada and have today arrived at Mile 0 of the Alaska Highway. That’s more than 1000 miles in a week. Ok, so our time hasn’t been great, but we’ve been having a great time! Some highlights:
Portland:
We’re hanging out with Katie’s friends, and today’s itinerary included a reading at Powell’s, the country’s largest independent bookstore. We’re here to hear Jen Lancaster, a non-fiction author who’s currently promoting her latest book, Such a Pretty Fat. The reading was held on the third floor in the Pearl Room. This place is so ridiculously large one needs to pick up a map at the front desk in order to have any idea of where to find anything. A compass wouldn’t hurt, either.
The Pearl Room houses Powell’s rare books collection and a little piece of ludicrous called the ‘Velveteria.’ As KT put it, this was “everything that ever was terrible painted on velvet.” A painting of Kiss was positioned directly behind the podium, and just to the left of that, a depiction of Jesus gazing forlornly upon a pair of torpedo-like knockers framed next door. But the Lord could’ve had his pick of boobs—they were everywhere interspersed between jaguars, unicorns, and celebrities all on fields of black velvet. Just a tad distracting, these pictures did somehow seem to fit the tenor of Jen’s reading—an excerpt on her mortifying foray into Yoga and Barbie cosmetology. Her style had a confessional, yet familiar quality to it and her audience was devoted: the Q & A section following involved a lot of esoteric questions around her other writings, past life-experiences, handbags, expensive shoes, and somebody named Fletch. I may need to scope out one of her books, although I was told I had to hate her first in order to love her through her first work.
Seattle:
We’ve finally made it out of Seattle, after zigzagging north and south along I-5 for two days. I have one question for you Seattle: is the freeway ever free?! Rush hour lasted approximately from 1:30 pm to 1:15 pm. Of course, this is only important if you’re driving along the interstate within the city limits. Which we where. For three days. Don’t ask. But I got to see the Emerald City.
We were hosted by KT’s cousin and her roommate, and their two cats, one of which was antisocial and possibly homicidal. Our visits to the city involved a few romps.
Our first stop Queen Anne Hill for a nighttime view of the famous Space Needle dominated skyline. Although the night was cloudy, the view was clear and the Space Needle was lit up as it loomed above Puget Sound.
The next day brought us to Pike’s Place for the large public market. We lunched on smoked salmon belly from the famous flying fish
market—the mongers shout your order through the whole stand before sending it aloft from the iced barrow to the scale and back. After a dessert of a dozen fresh baked doughnuts, we trekked up the street in search of the original Starbucks coffeehouse. Just outside the door was a group of men singing soul acappella and we sipped our macchiatos at the counter to the soulful grooves.
A short drive brought us back to Queen Anne Hill where we strolled along
the locks toward Fremont. The neighborhood of Fremont has a tradition of peculiarity and it wasn’t long before we found a giant troll eating a Volkswagon beneath an overpass. We also saw the center of the universe, conveniently denoted by a street sign, and an old soviet missile that had been erected atop one of the buildings near the center of the universe.
Trying to leave the next day, we wound up getting stuck in REI trying to run some short errands. Ok, we didn’t get held up; we were drooling over the merch. But eventually we made it back onto I-5 to leave the city before....
“Oh, KT, I think I left my camera at the house!”
So, back down the freeway we went, ultimately staying an extra night in order to skip the traffic. We even got to see Prince Caspian in the deal!
Canada:
We made the border soon the next day and met the strangest situation we could’ve never expected. No, our piles of canned goods were not confiscated. No, we weren’t questioned suspiciously about our loose itinerary (“I guess we’re hoping to be in Alaska in a couple of weeks....”). It was, apparently, our employment histories that raised some eyebrows. OK, it wasn’t even my employment history. Here’s how it went down:
Border Officer: What are your occupations?
Us: We’re unemployed.
BO: What had you done previously?
Me: I worked in a kitchen in a therapeutic community.
BO: *nods* And you?
KT: Biology.
BO: *eyebrow* Can you be more specific?
KT: I worked in research.
BO: What does that mean?
KT: I was a research biologisit... I did biological research.
BO: You’re going to have to clarify that for me.
And on it went. Poor KT left the border now questioning not only the reasons for this crazy trip in the first place, but also her entire existence and purpose in this life.
So those were the first days. This post is getting long enough, so I think I’ll break the rest up into more for later. Enjoy! Oh, yeah, and stay tuned for pictures!
Portland:
We’re hanging out with Katie’s friends, and today’s itinerary included a reading at Powell’s, the country’s largest independent bookstore. We’re here to hear Jen Lancaster, a non-fiction author who’s currently promoting her latest book, Such a Pretty Fat. The reading was held on the third floor in the Pearl Room. This place is so ridiculously large one needs to pick up a map at the front desk in order to have any idea of where to find anything. A compass wouldn’t hurt, either.
The Pearl Room houses Powell’s rare books collection and a little piece of ludicrous called the ‘Velveteria.’ As KT put it, this was “everything that ever was terrible painted on velvet.” A painting of Kiss was positioned directly behind the podium, and just to the left of that, a depiction of Jesus gazing forlornly upon a pair of torpedo-like knockers framed next door. But the Lord could’ve had his pick of boobs—they were everywhere interspersed between jaguars, unicorns, and celebrities all on fields of black velvet. Just a tad distracting, these pictures did somehow seem to fit the tenor of Jen’s reading—an excerpt on her mortifying foray into Yoga and Barbie cosmetology. Her style had a confessional, yet familiar quality to it and her audience was devoted: the Q & A section following involved a lot of esoteric questions around her other writings, past life-experiences, handbags, expensive shoes, and somebody named Fletch. I may need to scope out one of her books, although I was told I had to hate her first in order to love her through her first work.
Seattle:
We’ve finally made it out of Seattle, after zigzagging north and south along I-5 for two days. I have one question for you Seattle: is the freeway ever free?! Rush hour lasted approximately from 1:30 pm to 1:15 pm. Of course, this is only important if you’re driving along the interstate within the city limits. Which we where. For three days. Don’t ask. But I got to see the Emerald City.
We were hosted by KT’s cousin and her roommate, and their two cats, one of which was antisocial and possibly homicidal. Our visits to the city involved a few romps.
Our first stop Queen Anne Hill for a nighttime view of the famous Space Needle dominated skyline. Although the night was cloudy, the view was clear and the Space Needle was lit up as it loomed above Puget Sound.
The next day brought us to Pike’s Place for the large public market. We lunched on smoked salmon belly from the famous flying fish
market—the mongers shout your order through the whole stand before sending it aloft from the iced barrow to the scale and back. After a dessert of a dozen fresh baked doughnuts, we trekked up the street in search of the original Starbucks coffeehouse. Just outside the door was a group of men singing soul acappella and we sipped our macchiatos at the counter to the soulful grooves.A short drive brought us back to Queen Anne Hill where we strolled along
the locks toward Fremont. The neighborhood of Fremont has a tradition of peculiarity and it wasn’t long before we found a giant troll eating a Volkswagon beneath an overpass. We also saw the center of the universe, conveniently denoted by a street sign, and an old soviet missile that had been erected atop one of the buildings near the center of the universe.Trying to leave the next day, we wound up getting stuck in REI trying to run some short errands. Ok, we didn’t get held up; we were drooling over the merch. But eventually we made it back onto I-5 to leave the city before....
“Oh, KT, I think I left my camera at the house!”
So, back down the freeway we went, ultimately staying an extra night in order to skip the traffic. We even got to see Prince Caspian in the deal!
Canada:
We made the border soon the next day and met the strangest situation we could’ve never expected. No, our piles of canned goods were not confiscated. No, we weren’t questioned suspiciously about our loose itinerary (“I guess we’re hoping to be in Alaska in a couple of weeks....”). It was, apparently, our employment histories that raised some eyebrows. OK, it wasn’t even my employment history. Here’s how it went down:
Border Officer: What are your occupations?
Us: We’re unemployed.
BO: What had you done previously?
Me: I worked in a kitchen in a therapeutic community.
BO: *nods* And you?
KT: Biology.
BO: *eyebrow* Can you be more specific?
KT: I worked in research.
BO: What does that mean?
KT: I was a research biologisit... I did biological research.
BO: You’re going to have to clarify that for me.
And on it went. Poor KT left the border now questioning not only the reasons for this crazy trip in the first place, but also her entire existence and purpose in this life.
So those were the first days. This post is getting long enough, so I think I’ll break the rest up into more for later. Enjoy! Oh, yeah, and stay tuned for pictures!
Friday, May 23, 2008
passing through
Ok, we're on our way for real this time. We've made a couple of stops in Portland and Seattle. So many distractions!
More later!
Next stop: Canada
More later!
Next stop: Canada
Sunday, May 18, 2008
are we there yet?
Wahoo! The time has come! Today is the day we leave for Alaska!
Yes! Here we go! After a few frantic days of gathering, running errands, and stuffing everything (including a foldable kitchen sink) into KT's subaru, the afternoon has arrived for our departure.
It's just about time...
Any minute now...
Sigh. It's always the small, last-minute details that catch one up, no? So while we plan to leave TODAY, no man knows the actual hour. KT's been running around like her head's on fire trying to lock all the doors and windows, cancel the mail and newspaper subscription, and unplug all the curling irons. I've been making smaller and fewer piles that need attention trying to do SOMETHING to help, and in the meantime, more things have snuck into the cracks and crevices of the car. I think we may eventually tick off everything on the "before you go..." list, however, some of it may need to wait until we get back.
So, if you're in the neighborhood, do us a favor and check on the goldfish. Thanks.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
if i grow up...
I’m never going to grow up and be something with all these distractions around! I have too many choices!
First were the tall ships. KT and I drove down to Coos Bay, another of the small coastal towns near here with a river outlet to the Pacific. Moored in the harbor were two historic sailing vessels, the Lady Washington and the Hawaiian Chieftain. Although these ships have diesel engines, they are built with masts and rigging to be wind-powered under sail. The ships sail up and down the West Coast, pulling into the harbors to offer educational tours and sometimes short cruises.
At Coos Bay, there was an hour-long opportunity to climb on board and see the ships while asking questions of the costumed crew. Later that evening, a “battle” cruise was offered. This means people could pay $60 for a three hour sail up and down the river’s mouth while the Lady Washington and Hawaiian Chieftain fired their canons back and forth. I suppose they were also maneuvering under sail in an impressive fashion, but it just looked slow to me.
Upon talking to three of the deckhands, we discovered that these ships take on volunteers at different times of the year. Total landlubbers can pony up $500 for a two week cruise. But this isn’t just a pleasure cruise: volunteers are literally taught the ropes. After a full immersion program, the new recruits have the opportunity to volunteer for another go ‘round with more responsibilities. After some time, participants have gained enough experience to apply for jobs aboard these vessels, or others in the tall ship community. One deckhand was planning to sign on with a tug boat company—work six months on, then crew on a tall ship again during his six months off. Not a bad set-up.
These ships didn’t hold half the draw, however, as the city of Eugene. Oregon’s second or third largest city (apparently, it changes on a regular basis), is just small enough to be manageable. Very bike friendly, this town is flat enough to be laid out in a grid with plenty of parks and trails wide enough for pedestrians and cyclists to share. Eugene prides itself on its liberalism and progressive viewpoints, and the Eugene Weekly (the town’s free culture and event guide) contains a large section dedicated to political discussion and local affairs. The Willamette River runs through the center of town and is lined on both sides with a public green. Citizens are even discussing turning the old Mill Stream, a small creek that winds through the city, into a kayak path to the Willamette. Just off the river is another park that encompasses Skinner’s Butte, an abrupt hill on top of which is a reservoir for the city. The butte itself holds several hiking trails up it’s wooded sides, lookouts of the city from the top, and even a small series of columnar rock formations that make a popular climbing park for residents.. South of Skinner’s Butte and near the center of town is the University of Oregon and plenty of affordable housing options. Apartments can run as low as $350 and several families list rooms and small apartments for rent in their own homes. The downtown offers several businesses, restaurants and shops. Several farmer’s markets spring up during the growing season, owing in part to the number of organic farms that have surrounded Eugene since before they came into vogue in the rest of the country. The rest of Oregon’s great outdoors aren’t far from the city limits, either—just outside of Eugene are plenty of kayaking waters, public campgrounds, and a short drive to the Pacific coast or Portland. I quite think I’d like to call this town home for a while.
But first, as KT keeps reminding me: ALASKA!
First were the tall ships. KT and I drove down to Coos Bay, another of the small coastal towns near here with a river outlet to the Pacific. Moored in the harbor were two historic sailing vessels, the Lady Washington and the Hawaiian Chieftain. Although these ships have diesel engines, they are built with masts and rigging to be wind-powered under sail. The ships sail up and down the West Coast, pulling into the harbors to offer educational tours and sometimes short cruises.
At Coos Bay, there was an hour-long opportunity to climb on board and see the ships while asking questions of the costumed crew. Later that evening, a “battle” cruise was offered. This means people could pay $60 for a three hour sail up and down the river’s mouth while the Lady Washington and Hawaiian Chieftain fired their canons back and forth. I suppose they were also maneuvering under sail in an impressive fashion, but it just looked slow to me.
Upon talking to three of the deckhands, we discovered that these ships take on volunteers at different times of the year. Total landlubbers can pony up $500 for a two week cruise. But this isn’t just a pleasure cruise: volunteers are literally taught the ropes. After a full immersion program, the new recruits have the opportunity to volunteer for another go ‘round with more responsibilities. After some time, participants have gained enough experience to apply for jobs aboard these vessels, or others in the tall ship community. One deckhand was planning to sign on with a tug boat company—work six months on, then crew on a tall ship again during his six months off. Not a bad set-up.
These ships didn’t hold half the draw, however, as the city of Eugene. Oregon’s second or third largest city (apparently, it changes on a regular basis), is just small enough to be manageable. Very bike friendly, this town is flat enough to be laid out in a grid with plenty of parks and trails wide enough for pedestrians and cyclists to share. Eugene prides itself on its liberalism and progressive viewpoints, and the Eugene Weekly (the town’s free culture and event guide) contains a large section dedicated to political discussion and local affairs. The Willamette River runs through the center of town and is lined on both sides with a public green. Citizens are even discussing turning the old Mill Stream, a small creek that winds through the city, into a kayak path to the Willamette. Just off the river is another park that encompasses Skinner’s Butte, an abrupt hill on top of which is a reservoir for the city. The butte itself holds several hiking trails up it’s wooded sides, lookouts of the city from the top, and even a small series of columnar rock formations that make a popular climbing park for residents.. South of Skinner’s Butte and near the center of town is the University of Oregon and plenty of affordable housing options. Apartments can run as low as $350 and several families list rooms and small apartments for rent in their own homes. The downtown offers several businesses, restaurants and shops. Several farmer’s markets spring up during the growing season, owing in part to the number of organic farms that have surrounded Eugene since before they came into vogue in the rest of the country. The rest of Oregon’s great outdoors aren’t far from the city limits, either—just outside of Eugene are plenty of kayaking waters, public campgrounds, and a short drive to the Pacific coast or Portland. I quite think I’d like to call this town home for a while.
But first, as KT keeps reminding me: ALASKA!
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