The Bike Race

I tried to think of something more clever for a title, but there is nothing clever about it--it's a bike race.

Now what on earth propelled me to enter a bike race? I had never participated in any race before, as competition (especially the physical variety) has never interested me. My experience on bikes up to that point had been limited to one-gear. Growing up on the flat plains of Northern Illinois, if I rode five miles on a flat ribbon of road through a cornfield, I thought I was doing good. I didn't even have any fuzzy warm memories of bike riding, as most memories are of the "blood-mobile" sort (the "blood-mobile being the bike of my childhood, earning its name from the amount of accidents I suffered while riding it). So I ask again--what on earth propelled me to enter a bike race?

Perhaps it was the location.The Kluane-Chilkat International Bike Relay (KCIBR) begins in Haines Junction in the Yukon, crosses over into British Columbia, and then Alaska, ending in Haines. All together, the race is comprised of 8 legs that total 148 miles. Some (insane) people complete the whole thing on their own, but normally teams of 8 race, one rider per leg. When divided up, each leg averages about 20 miles. That doesn't sound so bad, does it? I used to ride 20 miles all the time on an exercise bike. Piece of cake.

I've always loved that stretch from Haines Junction to Haines, particularly the part near the pass. There's something moon-like about its isolation, as well as the otherworldliness of its pure white peaks. To think of experiencing that stretch on a bike, to be in touch with the air, the sky, the land, was to experience this landscape in a whole other way. I also liked the fact that the race was international, starting in Canada and finishing in America. The whole thing sounded impressive.

The idea began budding in my mind, but like most things, I figured it would evaporate. When visiting Chris's relatives up in Whitehorse, we went all out for breakfast, and over organic muesli, I brought up the idea of the race. How fitting did that sound--an international race with a team made up of an American, some Canadians, and a rogue Brit? The idea is what sounded cool. Being Canadian, they politely considered it and said we'd keep in touch.

When we drove back to Haines, we made a note of the contours of the land. Lots of ups and downs, as well as some serious hills. This was certainly no ride through a cornfield. This was serious stuff. Still, I figured plans would dissolve, as many plans do that require organization and energy.

The conversation with Chris's relatives happened in February. As the months passed and the snow began to melt, a team of eight somehow came together. Originally it had been Chris's cousins Sara and Bethan, and Sara's husband Phil. We needed three more riders. Phil wrangled up a few Canadian riders, and Chris recruited one from work. So we had our team. Phil registered for the race. I had suggested the name "Holy Rollers" but due to a typo on the form, we were registered as "Holly Rollers." Money was put down, and all of a sudden this thing became very real. That meant I had to get my butt in gear and buy a bike.

Silvestra

Chris had already bought a bike from Sockeye Cycle (their logo is a salmon riding a bike, which is quite clever when you think about it). I had given him crap over the price, as I've always been more a dumpster-diving, garage sale-perusing, sort of consumer. I never thought I'd waltz into Sockeye Cycle and pedal out on a $900 bike, but there you go--Sarah finally got herself a real bike. A sleek, silver beauty with more gears than I knew what to do with. I named her Silvestra.

And then the training began. I decided to take the sixth leg of the race, a relatively easy leg that starts at Chilkat Pass and gradually descends to the Canadian border. That sounds lovely, and in fact looks good on the race course diagram, but there was one serious hill in there that was no joke. Here's the description for Leg 6, copied from the official race site:

"For riders who like descents, this ride is for them. This route drops riders 200 vertical metres down from Haines summit to the beginning of a steep 100 vertical metre climb past the 3 Guardsmen. Along the way, the Klehini Valley begins on the right and affords some spectacular glacier views. This is followed by a glorious 600 vertical metres drop to Checkpoint 6. The route takes riders down a long and winding downhill as it descends rapidly from an alpine climate into the coastal rainforests. The ride ends with a nice sprint climb up to Checkpoint 6 at the top of the hill on a road corner."

So there you go. Major descent-check. Spectacular views-check. A long and winding downhill section-check. But what was that part about the steep climb past the 3 Guardsmen?

I remember driving this on our way back from Whitehorse, when I said to Chris, "This is a complete bitch of a hill." So this was my hill to conquer, the hill that haunted my dreams for months, the reason why I puffed and sweated up the many hills around Haines.

It didn't bode well for me that I struggled up the hills of the Fort, where Sockeye Cycle was located. I had never experienced something so close to a heart attack before, where I thought my heart would explode on the spot just from the sheer exertion of defying gravity. And this was just trying out the bike, to make sure gears, etc. were in working order.

With Chris living in Juneau and visiting on the weekend, we'd make the most of our time together, training for the race. Chris handled the hills with grace, or something close to grace. At least he didn't cuss his way up the hills the way I did. At times he even helped me, offering encouragement or a physical hand on my back to propel me forward. The worst hill was Cemetery Hill, Haines' own version of a "complete bitch of a hill." Seen as how I had to encounter this hill every time I left home, as it lay between our house and town, if I wanted to bike to town or work, I had to face this hill.

It was always a victory for me to tackle a hill without getting off and walking my bike. Sure, I felt like I was dying, but there was a sense of accomplishment in it. But even when I reached the top of Cemetery Hill, I had to remind myself that it was only a third the size of the hill on Leg 6. That means I had to climb three consecutive Cemetery Hills on the race.

Why did I sign up for this race again?

The Race

June 21st, Summer Solstice. We packed our bikes into the back of Buck and drove the race route in reverse. It was the first time we had seen this stretch in summer. Other than snow at the pass, we observed a completely different landscape, green and lush. We saw a brown bear clambering through brush beyond the pass, as well as a black bear who was ushering her cubs into the trees as we drove by. I wondered if bears would be an issue on the race, as bears have a trigger instinct, much like how a dog will take off after a moving object. We had bigger worries than bears though. The hills, the distances, the sheer enormity of it all.

Cyclists from all over had gathered in the small town of Haines Juction. Luckily we had secured rooms in Kluane Park Inn, a bare bones hotel with mattresses like cement, but luxurious in comparison to camping. We met up with Chris's relatives, which was a quick reunion, and we set in for an early night.

Race day, and nerves aplenty. Besides a blue race shirt, I wore a rainbow tutu and turquoise legwarmers. Why, you ask? Why not, is what I say. If I was going to struggle in this race, I'd do in style. Chris's cousin Bethan was stylin' as well with a wreath of holly in her hair, representing the "Holly Rollers."

We congregated at the start line to see Sara off. And then our day of drive-and-wait began.

At the first checkpoint, we watched as the solo cyclists flew by. They must have been superhuman, the way they whizzed by in a group like starlings in flight. Chris paced, his leg being the next. None of us were prepared to see Sara passing through the checkpoint so soon. Because she had gotten a flat tire, a van had taken her to the checkpoint. Though she was smiling, I know how disappointed she must have been to miss out on crossing the checkpoint on her own.

I was in charge of supporting Chris on his leg. He had opted for one of the more difficult stretches--24.6 miles with lots of ups and downs. My support consisted of sitting at a pull-out, reading a book, waiting for him to pass. Then I'd drive past him and shout words of encouragement. He looked exhausted each time I saw him, but for over two hours he didn't stop riding. The scenery on his leg was gorgeous, with the water from Dezadeash Lake sparkling in the sun.

Summer in the Yukon is glorious and green, bursting with life. To stand alongside the road and wait for our teammates to pass was a pleasant experience. But as nice as it was to stand in the sun and look over those green stretches of wilderness, my stomach churned with nerves. A part of me wished I had taken an earlier leg, just so I could relax and enjoy the rest of the day.

My nerves kicked into overdrive when we came to checkpoint 5, at the summit. The optimal weather had turned to gray skies and sleet. I had never ridden in such conditions, and this time I wasn't worrying about the giant hill to climb, rather I was worrying about all the descents on icy roads. I watched with anxiety as cyclists passed through the checkpoint. I was supposed to be ready to go, as soon as the relay stick was handed over. Chris and I waited at the checkpoint for an eternity, watching the weather grow worse. It helped that I knew some of the volunteers from Haines at the checkpoint. None of them seemed concerned about the weather, and nobody was backing out. I knew I'd look like an absolute sissy if I forewent my leg. Besides disqualifying us, I'd never live it down. So when I finally saw the face of my teammate, I shakily took the stick, and to the cheers of my supporters, I took off.

I felt like a penguin at a leopard party, clearly out of my league as cyclists whizzed past me. Though I was freaking out, I pedaled as fast as I could go, even on the descents where my wrists seemed too weak to support me. And then there it was ahead of me--the big bitch of a hill.

Before the race, I had told Chris not to stop on hills on my leg to encourage me. I needed all my concentration on the hills, and he would distract me or cause me to break down. So what did he do? He stopped on that bloody hill, near the top. "You're almost there!" he was shouting while I huffed and puffed away.

It had always been my strategy on hills to look at the road directly ahead of me and focus on pumping my legs, and listening to my breath, or the "fuck, fuck, fuck" coming out of my mouth in pulses. To have to look up at Chris, and break my concentration, I realized that I was dying. "I don't think I can do it!" I called out to him, very near tears. I had just passed by a parked car when I called this out, so it was a nice surprise when I heard cheers behind me, with someone calling out, "You can do it!"

I had to smile at this burst of encouragement from a car full of strangers. I knew at that point that I couldn't get off my bike and walk, not after that. So I conquered that hill and almost cried with relief when I reached the top.

The sleet and hail tapered off as I cycled along, and I began to enjoy the scenery. The treeless area around the Three Guardsmen Mountain is some of the most fantastic scenery on earth. I had always wanted to experience the rawness of this wilderness on my own. For long stretches, it was just me; I was alone in this magnificent scenery, listening to my breath, feeling that cold air on my face and the blood pumping through my veins, feeling more alive than ever.

Ah--so this is why I signed up for the race.

I turned a corner, and the mountains fell away. Ahead of me was a long, gradual descent towards the U.S/Canadian border. I tried to give it my all on this last stretch. Normally, I enjoy descents, taking my time to coast downhill, but this was a race and I was treating it as such. But even as I pedaled hard, cyclists passed me with longer legs and sleeker physiques. They would give me an encouraging word as they passed though, which was very sweet of them. "You're doing great!" I really enjoyed this aspect of the race, how everyone bonded together in sportsmanship. It's amazing what a word of encouragement can do during times where you feel alone.

The checkpoint was at the top of a hill, which seemed like a dirty trick to me, but I completed my leg of the race, all 16.7 miles of it, in just over an hour. I had ridden the whole thing without stopping, which was a personal achievement to me. I didn't rock it, but I did it, and for a girl who used to ride through cornfields with just a one-speed bike, that says a lot.

Relieved that my leg was now over, I handed the relay stick over to Bethan. She was to ride past the border and into Alaska. It might have seemed wrong, but because she was passing by Mile 33 Roadhouse, a group of us decided to sit outside and cheer her on from there. This meant beers on the porch, watching the racers cruise past. It was almost like a taunt, like "Hey, you're sweating and straining, but we're enjoying cold beers," but we were celebrating as well.

What a different world Haines was in comparison to the starkness of the summit, where it was gray and bitter cold. Haines was lush and sunny and full of friendly faces. It was a wonderful ending to our day as we arrived at the finish line. Because we had spent so much time celebrating at Mile 33, we had missed the moment our team had crossed the finish line. But there was a cookout going on, and then a party at the Dalton City, the set of White Fang. A bluegrass band was playing (what else?) and the good hipster people of Haines, as well as cyclists, were dancing. I sat in the blush of a summer evening, watching the scene, basking in the incredibleness of it all.

Big Alaska

I return now to my "travel blog" to focus on travel-related stories. Ever since moving to Alaska, these stories haven't been as forthcoming, as say, the time we lived in Manchester, when we could hop on a plane to Belgium at a moment's notice for $30. Getting in and out of Alaska is expensive and often a hassle. Living in Haines, it involves a flight on a seaplane (or a ferry) to Juneau, and then another flight to Seattle, sometimes on the milk-run flight which stops in Sitka and Ketchikan. It almost always takes two days to reach a destination in the Lower 48.

But why leave Alaska? It's usually seen as the destination--at least it is for millions of tourists each year. In 2015, Alaska was still very much new to Chris and I, and we wanted to explore it first before seeking outside locations.

Now, according to "real Alaskans," life in the Southeast, the panhandle, is cushy. The towns, and the city of Juneau, are often seen as extended suburbs of Seattle. Indeed, the Southeast mentality is very similar to that of the West Coast, as many from California, Oregon and Washington have made the journey northward to settle in more natural surroundings. Xtratufs (the ubiquitous brown boots worn by males and females alike--often referred to as "Alaska's Sneaker") are more a fashion statement in the Southeast (a girl I used to work with even wore these boots with her wedding dress when she got married). Xtratufs, Carhartt pants, Patagonia and North Face jackets, slouchy knit hats--it's a hipster scene, no doubt about it. Don't get me wrong--there are conservatives as well, but the prevailing attitude is very West Coast, with a liberal mindset and a love for bluegrass.

So yes, we wanted to see the "Real Alaska" outside of the cushy coastal communities. Spring had already sprung in Haines, bringing blue skies and wildflowers. The weather was so beautiful that we had camping on our mind. We decided to camp our way around the Interior, making the long drive from Haines through Canada. We scheduled seven days for this epic trip.

Day One:
Cramming Buck with camping equipment, and placing Horton in the very back, we took off from downtown Haines. Our first stop occurred just shy of the Canadian border, at the 33 Mile Roadhouse where we ate a breakfast of eggs, hashbrowns and reindeer sausage. The blue sky sang of open road freedom as we crossed the border and ascended towards the Chilkat Pass. Though the weather was warm enough to stand outside without a coat, the landscape didn't sparkle with Spring like it had back on the coast.

The drive to Haines Junction was a familiar journey through glorious wilderness (there's something about the expanse of Dezadeash Lake that makes my heart soar). We had driven this leg a number of times before to Whitehorse. During past rides, we had been seduced by the sign in Haines Junction, pointing an arrow to the Alaska Highway which led to Anchorage and Fairbanks. The seduction came in the suggestion of distance--epicness. From Haines Junction, Fairbanks is about 500 miles. That, my friends, is a long-ass drive.

Veering off our usual route, we headed in the direction of that arrow and entered completely new territory. We were reminded that Spring had not yet sprung in this part of the Yukon, as the landscape was brown and barren. The waters of Kluane Lake were still froze solid. Our first camping stop was scheduled in Tok, just across the Alaskan border. Crap, we thought. It better be warmer in Tok.

Little towns along the way boasted a gold rush past, providing kitschy photo opts, such as a giant gold pan in Burwash Landing. The Quoset hut Catholic Church in Beaver Creek was also worth a stop. With the towns so few and far between in the Yukon, to find such oddities are a welcome distraction from the intimidating wild.

Past Beaver Creek, we entered what looked like a bulldozed area. I was the driver for this leg, and I wondered if we had ventured off the Alcan Highway. There were no construction trucks, no flaggers, no signs. Also, no traffic. We had to be on the right track, because we passed the Canadian border. For miles, we drove in no-man's land between Canada and the U.S., spotting a moose along the way.

It was smooth sailing through the American border. Near Tetlin Junction, we got the first glimpse of "Big Alaska" with a sweeping view of wilderness framed by a far-off mountain range. I was already seeing the openness that separates the Interior from the Inside Passage.

I drove into the junction town of Tok, fatigued by the miles. Officer Powell with his mustache was the first to greet me to Tok. He pulled me over for speeding, which I felt was slightly unfair. I mean, we had been driving through wilderness for hundreds of miles. Not only were we used to going fast speeds, but we wanted to get to our accommodation for the night. I'm pretty sure we weren't the first to get pulled over by Officer Powell in this speed trap into Tok--but oh well. I probably seemed nonplussed by the ticket, which I paid on the spot. When he asked if I had any questions, and I'm like "Yeah--where can we buy groceries?" I was honestly more concerned about settling down for the night than being busted for speeding (but thanks to Officer Powell, I've got that damn ticket on my record).

Tourist season obviously hadn't started yet in this part of Alaska. We were pretty much alone in the campground. It was Horton's first time camping. He seemed a bit confused as we bedded down, but he soon curled up in the corner of the tent, tucking nose to tail.

Day Two:
The next morning, we made the decision to carry on to Fairbanks (Tok is one of the points on the great Alaskan highway triangle, with Anchorage and Fairbanks being the other points). We met very little traffic and I couldn't help but think how thick with RVs this route would be in peak tourist season. We had lucked out in a way, as we had the roads all to ourselves.

At Delta Junction, we ran into more kitsch with large mosquito statues, a giant coldest temperature gauge (-72 F for the coldest recorded temp), and a sign boasting the end of the Alaska Highway, giving the distances of different cities from that point.

Our camping spot for the night was at North Pole, a town just outside of Fairbanks. We were told by the campground host that temps were going to get down in the 30s that night, so we'd better bundle up. We hadn't prepared for such cold weather, even in a place called North Pole. It was May, for Christ's sake!

While living in Haines, entering civilization always brought me a certain thrill. Even for Chris, who was living in Juneau, the novelty of chain stores and restaurants created a little twiddle in his heart. We ate at a Wendy's in North Pole and luxuriated in the differentness of the mundanity.

Of course we had to visit the Santa Claus House--Kitsch Central, complete with large Santa statue and real reindeer. I can only imagine what a zoo that place must be in the peak tourist season, with tourists vying for photo ops. Like with everything else, we had the place to ourselves, though we were a bit overwhelmed by the amount of kitsch crammed into such a small space.

For a completely different experience, we traveled into Fairbanks and walked around the campus of UAF. I had just decided to go back to school to pursue a degree in Environmental Science, so anything university-related stirred the juices in my brain. Indeed, UAF has a fantastic campus with interesting architecture, not to mention an ideal location on a hill, overlooking the city. Though the view of Fairbanks was impressive, the city itself lacked any real sights to visit. We went back to our campground and shivered through the night. This plan to camp through the interior was proving to be a dumb idea.

Day Three:
From Fairbanks we took Highway 3, otherwise known as the George Parks Highway, south. Before reaching Denali, we came to the town of Healy, a place that holds significance to Chris and myself. Chris McCandless still lives in Healy, in the replica bus that sits in the parking lot of a restaurant. This isn't the real "Magic Bus" or Bus 142 that he lived in for several months before he met his fate, but it is the bus used in the film "Into the Wild." It's a free attraction, and more of a shrine to McCandless, with pages from his diary framed throughout. I couldn't help but get choked up to see some of his words written out, and of course those haunting last photos of himself. Chris and I both posed in front of the bus, replicating that infamous last photo with him smiling.

I'm not going to go into the whole Christopher McCandless discussion, about why some people celebrate him, and some (especially some Alaskans) despise him. He was a complex character, and I suppose I like that most about him. After all these years (he died in 1992), he still has the world's attention. I guess that gives him legendary status--the stuff of myths.

Originally we had planned to camp in Denali, but after spending a freezing night in North Pole, and hearing that snow was in the forecast for the Denali region, the decision to get a room for the night was an easy one. There was a place right outside the park which allowed dogs, so we settled in early for the night, foregoing a restaurant meal for ramen noodles in bed.

Day Four:
So Denali--the big one. The "Real Alaska" experience. I was a bit let down, to be honest. It could be because the weather was not optimal for viewing majestic mountains. With a low ceiling, there wasn't a chance we would see McKinley (still McKinley at the time--it was changed to Denali later in 2015). We also found out that the peak wasn't even visible, unless you paid some big bucks to take a bus miles out into the park, and even then, a view wasn't guaranteed. We also found that Denali isn't a dog-friendly park because of the wildlife. That meant no hiking along trails with our furry friend. There was one trail around the visitor center we could take him on with his leash, but after following it for awhile, we realized that this is not the Denali experience was had envisioned. We drove down the road, to the end of the line for private vehicles, and hiked a bit and saw some caribou, but all in all, we didn't stay in the park for long.

A bit dejected, we ate lunch in a greasy spoon diner in Cantwell, a town that reeks of loneliness (at least it did under a cold, bleak sky). Just outside of the town, we came across an oddity--a giant, multi-layered igloo. I thought it was another kitschy attraction, but as I walked up to the entrance, I noticed the graffiti and rundown appearance of it. There was something creepy, almost haunted about this abandoned hotel in the middle of nowhere (some of its history can be found here).

I slept as Chris drove. At some point, I felt him slow the car down and pull into a parking lot. "Hey," he said. "Look." When I opened my eyes, I saw that the sun had broken through the clouds. I also saw the highest peak in all of North America. "Is that really Denali?" I asked. The sign in the parking lot confirmed that it was. I had thought the peak to be elusive, but here it was in all its glory under a blazing blue sky.

We let Horton out and took a walk around. Finally we got our moment; injected with sunlight, we experienced the "Real Alaska."

The arrow-straight road to Talkeetna, our next camping stop, was graced by Denali's silhouette. We had heard that Talkeetna was quirky, but we didn't know that it served as the jumping off point for Denali expeditions, with climbers from all over the world congregating there. The town buzzed with activity.

We set up camp and then explored the town, which boasted an old-time grocery store. We first stocked up on canned goods and hot dogs, and then moseyed on over to the liquor store and grabbed some booze. We had a party at our campsite. Yeah, not much of a party--but we were going crazy on campfire smoke and the hippy vibe from the painted hippy rocks in our campsite. It was in the campground that I realized why mosquitoes are reported as legendary in Alaska. Sure there are mosquitoes in the Southeast (I lived in a place called Mosquito Lake, for Christ's sake), but they are nothing like mozzies in the Interior. These buggers were actually biting through my jeans with mouthpieces like straws. They eventually drove us into our tent where we slept off the booze.

Day Five:
Onward to Anchorage--we passed through Sarah Palin territory. I wasn't impressed with the environs of Anchorage. We didn't even make it to Anchorage. We stopped to eat in a fast-food restaurant (can't remember which one--they all seem the same after awhile), and then, dulled by traffic and strip malls, decided over burgers that we would not go on to Anchorage, but head back into the wild, aiming for Tok.

On Highway 1, following the Matanuska River, we came across some epic sights. The most epic was the Matanuska Glacier, a valley glacier that runs for 26 miles. Never had I seen a glacier that ran so flat that it looked like a river. The suddenness of it around a corner was enough to shake me out of my road lethargy. Most of Highway 1, or the Glenn Highway, runs through a valley, so there are a lot of twists and winds. There's also a lot of traffic, at least compared to other Alaskan highways. I couldn't wait to get to our camping site for the night--ideally somewhere around Glennallen.

We hit a fork in the road: south, the highway led to Valdez (location of the infamous Valdez oil spill), and northeast, to Tok and the Canadian border. Although we would have loved to visit some of the coastal towns, the miles wore on us and we concentrated on making it as far as possible towards Canada, for the Yukon was the longest stretch of our road trip.

The immensity of Wrangell-St. Elias National Park pulled at my attention as we skirted its edge. This area is the largest National Park in the U.S., covering about 13 million acres. Within its borders lie some of the tallest mountains in America (Mt. St. Elias is the second highest after Denali), the largest glaciers in North America, and also volcanoes--some active. It is the least explored park in America and isn't tourist-friendly. There's a road to McCarthy, the largest town within the park, but its gravel. I like the sense that this area truly is wild, with only a few settlers living off the land. My intrigue with this area has only increased after reading "Pilgrim's Wilderness" by Tom Kizzia, a true story of Papa Pilgrim, a religious fanatic who settled his large family in the Kennicott Valley within the park. Not only did he isolate his family, but he abused them, both mentally, physically, and for one of this daughters--sexually. The story is quite engaging. Though "Pilgrim's Wilderness" gives a sense of isolation in the wild, it makes me long for a place away from society. Living off the land is tough--I don't know if I could make it, but to be surrounded by nature with no one around sounds pretty awesome. As long as I had books to read, I think I would be okay without human interaction, at least for a month or so (Papa Pilgrim kept his children illiterate, and only read the Bible to them--no thanks to that).

We found a campground near Gakona that had nice open sites along a river. The weather was clear and on the warmer side, so it was a comfortable night of sleep. The only real drawback to camping, besides the cooler weather, was the smell coming from our air mattress. Our kitty, Vladimir, had apparently peed on it and the smell pervaded, even in the car. So even though Vlad stayed behind, he was still with us (and still is to this day, thanks to all the things he peed on in the closet).

Day Six and Seven:
The next day was pretty straight forward: drive, drive, drive. One can hardly complain about driving in Alaska, though--the scenery never gets old. I can't recall anything significant happening along this stretch. It seems like on most of our road trips, we're fatigued by the end and things start to lose their epicness.

The weather was too cold to camp, so we rented a cabin somewhere in the Yukon. We were told that a brown bear frequented the area, so we were on the lookout. Chris and I walked Horton down a long strip of grass that ran behind the cabins. We were told that this was a landing strip for planes. It was a great place to exercise Horton, to have him running up and down. Good for us too, to get us moving after so many hours in a car.

The next day we set off on the final leg home to Haines. The drive between Haines Junction and Haines never fails to impress. That stretch is the most inspiring scenery on earth, in my humble opinion. Epicness--even at the end of our trip.

We spotted a coyote near the Chilkat Pass, and then stopped at one last piece of kitsch--a rundown shack near Mosquito Lake, with a sign reading "Honeymoon Hotel" nailed to the top. We had driven by it countless times before, but seen as how we were officially on vacation, and roadside kitsch was more or less the theme of this roadtrip, we stopped and took a picture of ourselves sitting there. Tacky--yes, but absolutely necessary.

We were back in Spring, with wildflowers and greenery. We were also back in a tightly-packed landscape with drama on a smaller acreage scale. Sure, the Southeast may seem cushy, but it's my kind of cushy. You don't have to go far for something spectacular, whether that be glaciers, wildlife, a mountain summit, a private cove. What the Southeast lacks is roads, and that's something I long for. You can never venture far. In Big Alaska, you can drive forever if you want to, doing the giant triangular loop, or venturing off into remote communities. There's even a highway that follows the pipeline to the Arctic Ocean. You never know--maybe we'll follow that someday!

Mud Bay Road

We had enjoyed a warmer than usual summer in Stone House, but as the days grew shorter, and the fireweed reached its peak (Alaskans can tell how far along summer is by watching the fireweed), the concern of an encroaching winter propelled me to look for another situation. The owner of Stone House tried persuading me that insulation was on its way, but I had a hard time believing it. Because part of my job consisted of writing ads for Radio Market Place, I was first to hear about an apartment for rent on Mud Bay Road. When I called the number, I found that the apartment was the bottom floor of one of the tri-level houses along the beach, where the Chilkat meets the sea. I'd seen these houses while out with Horton, and I always thought they looked like vacation homes (perhaps because they had steep chalet-style roofs and balconies on each story). The price was right and the location was more than alright, so I went for it.

I was kind of sad to be moving out of Stone House. I had felt like a real Alaskan there, "roughing it" while still having the convenience of indoor plumbing. I'd be giving up personal space to be living beneath several other couples. I think it was the cherry trees which convinced me I was doing the right thing. After seeing the new place had a side door which opened to private patch of lawn with a babbling stream and cherry trees, I knew I'd be happy there.

Mud Bay Road is the road which runs down the Chilkat side of the peninsula, past the one mile beach and Pyramid Island, past the trailhead of Mt. Riley (the highest mountain on the peninsula), past Letnikov Cove (with its bright red cannery), past many properties belonging to old hippies, past Chilkat State Park (where one can view the Rainbow and Davidson Glaciers across the water), and ending at Mud Bay, on the Chilkoot side of the peninsula. It's a lovely stretch of road with a reputation of housing hippies, both the young and poor type living in one-room patchouli-infused cabins or yurts, and older-type type hippies with ideals, talents, and education. It's to be noted that Haines' unique flavor, if you will, comes from these hippie-types who keep big business and cruise ships at bay while keeping cultural and conservation interests strong. Though there's also a conservative side to Haines, with the camo-wearing, gun-toting, crowd, I became most familiar with the Mud Bay crowd. This was mostly because of working at the radio station, and also Mountain Market, the closest thing to a hipster hangout in Haines. 

Now I've never been one to try to categorize myself. I suppose that comes from my weird background of peers pressuring me to be something I wasn't, like trying to force a round peg into a square hole (but that's a story for another time). Since I had never been allowed to openly form my own identity, I kind of fell upon the idea that I was my own person, belonging neither here nor there. Haines was the first time I could say, "These are my people." The more I got to know these individuals, the more in awe of them I became, particularly the older ones who had done some serious living. Many were scientists, such as marine biologists or geologists, who had done work stints in exotic locations like Antarctica. Their wealth of knowledge and experience were staggering and yet they walked among us--the salt of the earth.

Across from my new abode lived Heather Lende, an author who ended up on the New York Times Bestseller's List. Sometimes I'd run into her on the beach, where our dogs would play with each other. Here's someone with enough money to live anywhere, but she writes and blogs about Haines, appreciative every day of living in the world's most perfect location. There's something to be said of that.

Snowpocalypse

It was an easy drive to work, leaving from one side of the peninsula, up Cemetery Hill to the Fort area, then down the hill to the Chilkat Center on the other side of the peninsula. Every day that I did this drive, I couldn't believe how friggin lucky I was to be living in such a place, how much beauty resided in a seven minute drive. It must seem like I'm laying it on thick, but I don't know how else to convey the paradise that Haines is. It is simply the most beautiful place on earth.

Anyway, the drive did have its problems, especially when the snow began to fall. That December, Haines received a record amount of snow. During one week, about a foot of snow fell each day. I knew I was in trouble when I was leaving work one afternoon and I couldn't move my car. The parking lot hadn't been plowed and the snow was almost higher than the tires. Thankfully a theater troop was rehearsing at the Chilkat Center and pushed my car out. I thought I would be alright while out on the main road, but I found that it hadn't been plowed either. It was about 5:00 and the plows had given up for the day. Seen as how only three plows operate in the whole Borough, when they're done, they're done. It was every man, woman, child, and dog for themselves out there.

I was cocky enough to think I could get up Killer Hill (yes, that's its name). Killer Hill runs behind the Fort, leading to Mud Bay Road. If I could make it up that, I could trust gravity to take me down Cemetery Hill towards home. Building up momentum, I tried to tackle that hill in the dark. I give myself major props for trying, but I don't know what I was thinking, attempting that hill with bald tires. I was doing good, considering, until I neared the top. My tires started spinning and I was desperately trying to steer clear of the ditch. I had to admit defeat and reverse the entire way down into town where I parked at the liquor store. I went into the store, not for booze, but for a flashlight, for I was sure I'd have to hoof it home on foot. A customer in there took pity on me and gave me a lift. As he drove me in his big truck, I saw how high the snow was on Mud Bay Road. There was no way Buck would have made it the entire way, so I suppose I was fortunate to have parked my car safely in town.

The next morning I had to hike into town to get my car and pick up the disabled DJ who did the Saturday morning show. The roads had been plowed by that time, but the snow had turned to rain and ice was forming on the roads. After picking up DJ Bill, I tried to make it up Soap Suds Alley. My tires were no match for the ice. I made several attempts, only to find out that the parking lot of the Chilkat Center hadn't been plowed. By this time I was in a pretty bad mood, so I parked the car nearby and had to help Bill across an ice-encrusted road to the back door of the Chilkat Center. I had to hurl myself through the hip-deep snow to get to the front door so I could go around and let Bill in. How we made it on time for the show that morning was nothing short of miraculous. After the show, I tried to move the car, but Buck wasn't having it--the ice was too slick. Chris came to help me, hiking into town. He was going to meet me anyway for the parade later that day. We had volunteered to be part of the Ice Dragon. Together we tried to move the car, but Buck was there to stay, at least until the ice melted.

We spent the day in town. First we had several drinks at the Fogcutter, and then we made it down to the Visitor Center where Santa was giving out cookies and big jolly hugs. We found out that the parade was called off due to treacherous conditions. I was both disappointed and relieved. As much as I wanted to be part of the Snow Dragon, I wanted to go home and be done with this day. Thankfully the rain and eaten away at the ice, and we were able to move the car at last.

Soon after that, I bought studded tires for Buck, and proceeded to drive like a muthafucker through the snow.

Events and Other Goings-On

I had volunteered as a stagehand for a Chekhov-inspired play at the Chilkat Center. This was my attempt to be part of theater-life, something I'd never experienced before. It meant dressing in black and rushing onto stage between scenes to grab or put items in place. It also meant having to listen to every word of one of the boringest plays ever conceived, four nights in a row. I say boring, but it was interesting as well, particularly the spirited ten-page monologue given by one of the actors. On the last night, I had to hurry from the radio station (thankfully in the same building), flushed from the rush of finishing our fundraising auction. I had scored two trips to Skagway and a gorgeous pair of mammoth ivory earrings. I was quite buzzed physically as well, as booze accompanies any event at KHNS. Somehow I made it through the play without messing up or knocking anything over. Then I made my way upstairs once again to do my radio show.

Because there was still booze laying around the office, and because I felt I needed something to help me through this marathon-long day, I filled up a red Solo cup with the good stuff and settled into my show. I had planned a Donny Darko themed show. Inspired by this movie, which had grabbed me right from the start with Jake Gyllenhaal wakening on a mountainside, I played tunes that reflected the mood of the film--The Church, Echo and the Bunnymen, that kind of stuff. The SamJam DJ who was still hanging around in the studio informed me that the Northern Lights were out. I didn't think it would be possible to see them from the studio with all the lights in the Fort, but by my second glass of wine, and my second set of music, I could see them morphing in the sky over Chilkoot Inlet. By this time, everyone in the Chilkat Center had left, even the crew from the play, so I turned all the lights in the studio off, with only the Christmas lights left on, and cranked the music. I think the real pinnacle of the show came during Phil Collins' "In the Air Tonight." Sipping my wine, I leaned out the window and listened to the eerie buildup of the song while watching the light show over the water. It was a perfect combo of music, visuals, and drunkenness. It was my best show ever.

That winter KHNS put on the Second Annual Masquerade Ball. As usual, they went all out with decorations. The auditorium was turned into a winter wonderland with layers of handmade fabric icicles and a giant painted masks. A visual wonder, it really created an atmosphere. Chris and I dressed in matching his and her costumes that can only be described as "Southern Belle and Gentlemen Spirits" with plain white masks that were creepier than anything. As usual, the good residents of Haines went all out with their costumes as well. It was a night to be enjoyed by all, even if another snowstorm had kept a good number of the population away.

The next morning was the Polar Bear Plunge. We had planned to partake in this New Year's tradition, but the snow was piled up in our driveway. I honestly don't know if Chris chickened out, or if he really believed we were snowed in (I was impartial, seen as how I had done the plunge the year before), but we decided to strip down to our underwear and jump into the giant pile of snow built up on the side of the drive. Chris went first as I recorded the event. At the end, I threw a glass of ice water on him while he blubbered like a baby. Then it was my turn, but instead of jumping into the snow, I climbed to the top of the pile and then rolled down, with Horton jumping all over the place, excited and confused at what we were trying to do. It wasn't quite the same as jumping into the freezing cold ocean, but at least we got some good videos.

The snow that winter was crazy. It built up on roof and then slid off in big chunks that would end up in our front yard. When this happened, it would scare the crap out of us, like the roof was collapsing. I also remember waking to several earthquakes that winter; nothing major, but big enough to shake the bed and startle the animals. One earthquake (one I didn't feel) occurred about 90 miles south, just outside of Juneau, cutting off internet service to all of Haines. That created a ton of problems in both my jobs, making me realize just how dependent we are on the internet.

The snow that fell in December was gone by the end of January. And then it rained, rained, rained.

The Hiking Group

Sometime that winter I joined the Hiking Group in Haines. Hiking events were hosted by the Sheldon Museum and guided by historians and geologists. It was a good opportunity for Horton to play with other dogs while I gained knowledge about the area. For instance, I learned that the land along the coast is rebounding from the Ice Age, something called isostatic rebound. We went in search of an old Native village named Yendeisk'akye and walked an old miners' trail in snowshoes. We hiked in the snow, we hiked in the rain, we hiked in the snain--the elements couldn't stop this group that was mostly made up of older folks. Did I tell you that I love the people of Haines?

By far, my favorite hike was the one out to Pyramid Island. Now this island, named for the pyramid-shaped hill which dominates it, is one I'd look directly at each morning when taking Horton for his walk on the beach. There was something mystical about this island, especially when engulfed in mist. During low tide, it was easy to imagine walking to it across the mudflats, but there was an art to doing this crossing, and it had to be timed just right. Early that April, when the outgoing waters of the Chilkat were at their lowest, and the tide which met the Chilkat was at its lowest, was the best time to walk to Pyramid Island. It became a community event, with about fifty people showing up. I had some banged up boots with holes that I put duct tape over. I had heard that there were still channels of water we had to cross, so I tried preparing, but nothing could properly prepare me for the depth and the chill of this water. Even though the island was located directly across from where I lived, I had to start with the group about a mile down the beach. This was because of the channels and how to avoid the deepest portions. I like how there was safety in numbers, and how the dogs all played together on our way out there. The water though, it shocked me how cold it was. The duct tape soon came loose and water was freely pouring into my boots. My toes soon turned to popsicles. I worried about them, but at the same time I was wrapped up in the excitement of visiting Pyramid Island. Once on the island, we climbed to the top of the top of pyramid, and got a whole new visual of the area. It was kind of surreal, knowing I was standing on that piece of land I gazed upon every day. We couldn't linger long though, for the tide would be coming in, so we crossed back over. Only this time I took a shortcut. My toes were frozen already, so I didn't think I could do any worse in the channels closer to home. So I separated from the group and aimed for home. Dumb idea. I ran into some pretty deep channels that were flowing with fast water. "This is how people die," I thought to myself as I waded across a channel, looking at how far away the group was. I stumbled upon the beach outside the Lende residence and aimed my frozen limbs home.

One time the group met past the Canadian border, near the Chilkat Pass. We hiked up a treeless mountain to a lake. Lichen squished under our feet with plants and flowers I had never seen before. It was a landscape out of a dream. Even the colors were surreal, swirling like layers in sand art bottles. On the way back down, Chris and I tried to find an old mining road which would lead us back to the highway. We found the road, but unfortunately followed it in the wrong direction, bringing us to a quarry. We had to pick our way down a steep mountainside, but we made it safely back to the car, stopping at the Mile 33 Roadway on the way back to Haines for some well-deserved pie.

Of course I hiked on my own as well. Mt. Riley was just down the road from us. It was on this trail that Horton and I met the moose. I don't know we had avoided the big beasts of the forest in all the times we were out, but on this one particular hike, the moose took us by surprise. This was a big one, with a Bullwinkle rack of antlers. Horton began a barking frenzy and I shouted for him to come, getting his leash out of my pocket. The moose ran off and Horton went after him, but thankfully came back after I had screamed my head off. Disaster was somehow averted. I had been warned about moose by the hiking group. Moose were somehow scarier than bears.

We never ran into any bears. This was incredible, especially after seeing how much scat was around. When the scat was recent, I'd be scared enough to turn around on a trail. I took a lot of chances, I suppose, hiking on trails without letting anyone know where I was (Chris being in Juneau, I didn't bother him with my whereabouts). I relied on Horton to raise awareness of bears, keeping them at bay at the same time. It must have worked. The first bear I ever saw in the wild was on a car ride up to the Yukon.

As if moose and bears weren't enough to watch out for, there were porcupines in those woods. To be honest, this is the creature I fear the most, as they are everywhere and for some reason like hanging out on trails. Though Horton has darted into the woods many times (with me screaming for him to come back), I can usually hear squirrels chattering up in a tree. If he chases squirrels--fine. I never want to see him go after a porcupine though. One time he picked up a quill in his paw while running around and Chris and I had to pull it out with pliers. Not fun. Some of those videos of dogs with quills through the face are horrific. And there were no vets in Haines, another thing to worry about if anything were to happen.

Still, nothing deterred us from hiking. There is simply no better joy than going for a hike with a dog. I was thinking this today, hiking the Lena Point Trail just outside our house. Watching the dog bounding along a trail, his tail wagging with pleasure, and the pure joy of being outside, breathing fresh air, listening to one's own breath in the wilderness--this is being alive.

My First Alaskan Summer

Just when you thought this blog was dead and buried, here I am resurrecting it. To be honest, I have no idea if anyone even checks in and reads this thing. It doesn't matter, though, for writing memoirs is a rewarding process in itself. And if someone happens upon this and ends up taking something away from it, even a laugh or a smile, then that's just icing on the cake.

So I left off in snowy Haines with bears wakening from hibernation. I had officially made it through my first Alaskan winter in a poorly insulated house on the Chilkat River about eight miles from town. As the snow began to thaw and I took the trail into the woods behind the house, I noticed how our daily walk was changing. For one thing, the hard-packed snow and ice which had provided a bridge over a series of streams was melting, which meant that the dog and I had to wade across a wide swath of running water. With snow melting way up in the mountains, the water was gushing, creating a mini Niagara Falls across the path. At first it was daunting to try and cross it, but like with everything else in Alaska, we adapted and learned how to hop and skip across it.

The landscape was changing. I even noticed it on my daily drive into town. Long, narrow waterfalls thundered down cliffsides near the road. There seemed little transition between winter and summer. The weather warmed, the snow turned to rain, and then the skies cleared all together, and wildflowers burst forth. Trumpeter swans made a temporary home for themselves on the pond next to the house. I was told by the owner of Stone House that they returned every year, just the two of them. They stayed a month, gracing the waters with their elegant silhouettes, before they flew off again.

One night I stood outside in the deep dark, without anyone around, and listened to the ice in the Chilkat break up. It produced a deep, throaty noise, that groaned both far and near. Not long after that, the fish wheel that had been laying dormant all winter alongside the road was put into use. I never saw anyone operate it, but it became a part of the everyday scenery, turning like a mini ferris wheel in the gently flowing water, making splish splash sounds.

The Cathedral Peaks began to shed their winter gear to reveal their sharp rock faces, and inevitably, I began to think of all the mountain peaks I wanted to conquer.

Life in Radio

I had started DJing at KHNS in January, taking the late Saturday night slot. The show was called Rock School, which was not my choice of title, but it was an established show with different DJs taking their turns with it through the years. In January, it became mine for as long as I wanted it. Though I had never DJed before, or even been in a radio station, I was a natural at working the equipment. With some training, sitting in on a few other shows, I was ready to go. The first show I did by myself, I accidentally let a "fuck" get through (not from me, but in one of the songs). This is a big no-no according to the FCC rules. I was told that the station could get heavily fined if someone complained of profanity, so it was something I really had to be careful with, looking up song lyrics beforehand. What I found tricky is that sometimes songs had more than one version, and if you're only familiar with one, but play another, then you might get a surprise, which happened in this case. I felt really bad that happened on my first show. I vowed not to let it happen again.

On my second show, a power outage occurred. I was still a newbie, so it completely threw me. The lights went off, and so did my music, and the radio waves were met with a deafening silence. I was told that dead air is the absolute worst in Radioland, so I came on and improvised. Soon the generator kicked in and I was able to resume my show, but I was still shaking. I was proud that I had pulled it together, even though I wasn't sure if my show was actually being aired.

I really fell in love with radio life. Preparing for shows was a pleasure, especially putting together the playlists. There's a real art in putting together a show. A lot of times I thought of a theme first, and planned my playlist accordingly. I considered segues, what song would flow naturally into another song. This is a real skill for a DJ, letting two songs run into each other seamlessly. It's an art I tried to perfect and took pleasure in when I got it just right. I was able to record almost all of my shows, so I could go back and listen to them and see how I did. The segues I got right a lot, but my DJ banter was horrible, especially at first. I still cringe when I listen to myself on those early shows. Every four to six songs, we had to come on the air and give a rundown of the songs that were played. We also had to give station IDs on the hour, so everything had to be timed out. There's a lot that goes into putting together a show, especially when announcements have to be made, and KHNS was pretty strict on how these things had to be handled. But there was a lot of freedom, especially for that late night show. After the opening announcements, with the reading of weather and such, I could sit back and enjoy the music. Just being able to listen to music I like through good-quality headphones was enough of a reward for me. Because the studio got hot and stuffy with all the equipment, a lot of time I opened the window which opened onto a residential area. I'd blast the music in the studio and share my show with the neighborhood. It was awesome.

I started my show in winter, but as the days grew longer, I was able to see the view outside the studio window. Because KHNS is located in the Chilkat Center, a lovely, historic building in Fort Seward (the older section of town), the location was prime, overlooking Port Chilkoot and the cruise ship dock. Beyond the fjord lay dramatic mountains and the Taiya Inlet, pointing towards Skagway. I can't think of a more scenic backdrop for a radio station. In summer, I'd watch the cruise ships slide past on their way to Skagway, like lighted cities, each holding more people than some of the towns they visited.

One night, sometime in May, I saw the Northern Lights for the first time. I finished up my show at midnight and walked out into the parking lot. Overhead, the sky was ablaze with morphing green shapes. I had thought I had seen them before, maybe catching a glimpse while driving, something out of the corner of my eye, making me wonder, "Could that be them?" Let me tell you, when you see the Northern Lights, you do not cock your head and ask what you're seeing--you just know. There is nothing else that can explain these long, moving curtains of light in the sky.

I drove out to a point on the water, away from the bright lights of town. From this vantage point, I could see all of Haines, with Mount Ripinski in the background. But more importantly I could see North, towards Skagway, where the lights were the strongest.

The lights danced, they shimmered, they moved as an otherworldly entity. I was entranced, as if watching whale song in visual form. It's on par with a spiritual experience, like the fingers of God extending to draw you into a new plane of existence. Unfortunately, others had come out to see the lights, and a cargroup of kids pulled up next to me, loud and obnoxious, leaving their headlines on. I couldn't believe their irreverence. I soon took off, but the lights stayed with me. You never forget your first time.

There was another celestial event that happened that summer, when I stepped out of Stone House in the middle of night to check on a meteor shower. The meteors were streaming across they sky, several per minute, but the amount of starlight in the sky was staggering. I was looking up at the Milky Way, strewn like a giant spider web overhead. It was so clear, so discernible, so in-your-face, that when I watched Science Saved My Soul on Youtube, I was able to relate. This is the stuff that moves me, that makes me contemplate my existence. Religious people have their places of worship, their prayers to sustain them, to make them feel special. Me, I have nature; the whole universe for that matter.

I see I've digressed. This is supposed to be about my first Alaskan summer, and with that, my life at the radio station. Long story short, I started working at KHNS in Operations. After I had impressed the staff with my DJ skills (or my quick learning of the equipment), I was asked if I wanted to work there, and of course I said yes. This was my way of escaping Mountain Market, a job that wasn't going in the direction I wanted. I thought I was hired on to become a deli manager, but they had me working as a barista, a job I detested. Not only is making coffee not a passion of mine (I don't even drink the stuff), but they were micro-managing me in their typical anal Mountain Market way. I was given a video to watch on latte art, with the making of hearts and such. The guys in this video thought they were too cool for school, as if nobody had informed them that they weren't bartenders at a Vegas nightclub but rather guys slinging coffee shots at a lame-ass Starbucks or whatever. It was hard to take all this stuff seriously. The owners had attended coffee workshops and took so much pride in their product (they even roasted their own beans) that to say anything against their methods was sacrilegious. Well, it turns out that Chris, when he finally arrived Stateside, said that their coffee was crap. I heard others say that the beans were over-roasted and bitter. In deed, Mountain Market always smelled of burnt coffee beans, not exactly a good aroma. Anyway, I informed the manager that I was going to start working at KHNS and she told me how disappointed she was in me. They had spent all this time training me. Training me? I had to laugh. I was nothing more than a monkey to them. But we agreed that I could stay on part-time, though I'd be on the grocery side. That was fine with me. No more having to be told how to put mustard on bread, or how much froth goes into a cappuccino (horrible stuff). I could now stand at a counter and smile at customers as I rang them up, or go dust shelves when things got slow. Mountain Market became a job to be tolerated. The radio station was my real job and an important step to a satisfying social life in Haines.

Part of my job was to help train DJs and to manage the DJ schedule. This put me in close contact with many fine volunteers, some of Haines' best. Some had been DJing for decades, and had amazing skills, as well as interesting music choices. I felt I learned a lot from these pros, either by the advice they gave, or simply from listening to their shows. As I had to listen to each show as I performed my operational duties (it was my job to run in there if anything went wrong), I considered all the different styles and techniques. I become more comfortable talking on the air and gave station IDs (two minutes exact, down to the last second) during breaks during NPR or syndicated shows. I learned to appreciate different genres of music that I never considered before, like jazz and folk. Because KHNS tries to cover all tastes, each night of the week features a show with a completely different genre. Monday: jazz; Tuesday: classical; Wednesday: folk; Thursday: blues, soul & funk; Friday: alternative; and then the weekends were Samjam and Rock School (Samjam for jam bands like Phish or other crap that potheads go nuts for) on Saturday nights, and a New Age show on Sunday followed by a three hour Good Vibes, 60s and 70s type show. It seems all the bases were covered, with two general shows for each weekday, as well as a country show every afternoon. Broadening my horizons, I took a turn at just about every show (except the country--though I did learn to appreciate old-time country). And of course I kept my Rock School show.

Because KHNS depends a lot on donations, it held a lot of events in the way of fundraising. Of course there was the annual fund drive (which I personally hated, even if we received a ton of free food), but there were also wine tastings, auctions, and concerts. The staff (all women) at KHNS were ambitious and gifted party planners and made every event a success. Wine and champagne flowed whenever possible, sometimes even in the studio (which led to one of the best shows I ever had--but I'll get to that another time). Stories abounded with activities that had occurred in the studio, with drunk on-the-air DJs and such. KHNS was a fun time. I could write so much more about my experience there, but I really need to move on.

Vlad

It was just Horton the dog and me at Stone House. Chris would be joining us soon. To complete the family, to round it out, I needed a kitty. I was determined to get one for my birthday. I found an advertisement on the community board online for a free kitten in Klukwan, the Tlingit village out near Mosquito Lake. A black male with a white tuxedo and paws--he looked adorable in the photo, with whiskers poking out of his face like antenna wires gone crazy. I took the drive out to Klukwan with Horton in tow. I wanted to see how the two would get on. Sure, Horton had his issues with other dogs, but how would he be with cats? Well, the little kitty took to me instantly, cuddling in my arms, purring away. I then opened the hatch of the car to let Horton out, and the next thing I know, I have a kitten scrambling with its sharp claws to the top of my head. From the crown of my head, this little kitty spat hate and fear. Yes, I guess Horton is a scary thing for a creature so small and helpless. Horton was more or less indifferent to the kitten, in fact, I felt kind of bad for him, being judged so harshly from the outset. The kitty was terrified. I didn't know if this would work. The kitten was young enough, maybe it would adapt. I could only hope. Anyway, I made the decision to take the kitty. I took him home on my birthday, a gift to myself.

I reserved the back room for him. He had the entire space to run around and go nuts, for nuts he did go. He had so much energy, he would run laps around the room, up and down the couch as I sat there, like a calm center in the storm, watching him. He had me in stitches, he was hysterical, with those giant whiskers that were too big for his face. When he tired of running around, he'd fall asleep in my lap, or even better, against my neck. I ended up naming him Vladimir (after Vlad the Impaler--or Dracula, if you will) for his tendency to suck on my neck.

Vlad accepted me as his mommy from the very beginning. I was told that his mother (the biological kind) had rejected him at a young age, refusing to nurse him. They had to turn him onto hard food early on. I don't know what the problem with his mother was, but he was a perfect little kitty, emotionally attached to me from day one. Once, when he fell off the top of the couch from his frenetic play, he came crawling into the crook of my arm with his head down, as if expecting me to comfort him. I wondered if his sucking had to do with the void from not being able to nurse. It was comforting to him, and he'd kneed his claws and purr when he did it. This was cute, but when he got bigger, and he did it at 4 o'clock in the morning, it wasn't so cute. Still, Vlad became my baby. I vowed to take good care of him. And I did the best I could to fill in that mother role.

He didn't get used to Horton overnight. For about a week, he'd hiss and crawl under furniture to hide if Horton came close. But one magical afternoon, Vlad ventured out of the back room while Horton was lying on his divan, looking out the window in his usual way. He crawled to the top of the La-Z-Boy, perching there, keeping watch. Horton took an interest, but kept a respectable distance. As I sat there, I watched as the two get closer and closer to each other, checking each other out. I have to give Horton huge props for not overreacting, and allowing the kitty to have his space. The more time I spend around animals and observe their behavior and their interactions with one other, the more I'm blown away. These creatures have more going on than we give them credit for.

I had my two babies. Now it was time for Chris to come join the family.

Chris at Last

After nine months of being apart, and a separation that went beyond miles (we had emotionally grown apart in that time), Chris received his Green Card. This was a huge relief, as he feared for so long he wouldn't get it, and I feared that his anxiety would be the death of us. Upon receiving his Green Card, the energy changed and he suddenly seemed enthusiastic to be coming to Alaska. He booked a cheap flight on Pakistani Air and had to stand with a long line of "questionable" people when he landed at JFK, but they let him in. It was official. Chris had made it to America.

He flew from New York to Seattle, and then Seattle to Juneau. As if that wasn't enough flights, he had to board a seaplane to Haines. As I drove the four miles from Stone House to the airport, I watched as his tiny plane took a turn over the Chilkat, dwarfed by the massive mountains. I thought of my hubby as a dot amidst that immensity, and what must be playing in his head, looking down at such grandeur.

As a sidepoint, I'd like to say how much I love the simplicity of the Haines airport. No security, no baggage claim, no muss, no fuss. All you have to do is show up half an hour prior to departure. You don't have to pay for parking. Once you land, you step onto a wheeled set of stairs and collect your baggage from a cart, or directly from the hold. The only stress one might find on one of these flights is the fact that you can feel everything in these tiny planes. There's also that realization of how little separates you from a gruesome, horrible death.

I had taken several of these flights for doctor appointments in Sitka. On a clear day, there is no money in the world that can pay for such beauty, to be flying over a ribbon of water between dramatic mountain chains, with glimpses of glaciers and waterfalls along the way. Well, I suppose money can buy it, and many people do pay good money to see such sights on earth, but for residents of Southeast Alaska, this beauty is commonplace, to be seen while being transported between locations. To live here, to experience this, is still like living in a dream.

Anyway, what a way for Chris to be entering his new Alaskan life. It was a clear day in early July. The weather was warm and the flowers were out in full bloom. Alaska was bursting with life. I was excited to see how Chris would respond to his new surroundings.

It was another reunion at an airport. But this time Chris stepped off the plane and met not only his wife, but his new BFF, Horton. They weren't buddies from the start though. Horton didn't know what to think of him and was on guard for the ride home, talking loudly from the back seat. But it didn't take long for Horton to warm to this intruder. Vlad took a liking to him as well, making a habit of sitting on his shoulder. Chris nicknamed him "Carrot" (a cross between "cat" and "parrot").

I took pride in showing off Haines: the trails, the Fort, the restaurants which were now open for business. I took him to Dalton City to see the set from White Fang, the setting for the Southeast Alaska State Fair, which we volunteered at briefly. Though these things were deemed cool, Chris was most concerned about obtaining employment. He's not exactly a Mountain Market type of guy. He tried to find accounting jobs, but it was the middle of summer and the town was overflowing with seasonal workers. It was a new source of stress for us, as Chris is very proud about his employability. It ended up that he scored a good job in Juneau. So after a month of living together in Haines, Chris moved to Juneau, and we began the next chapter in our lives living apart.

But it was all good, for Chris only worked four days out of the week and visited on weekends, taking that ferry trip up Lynn Canal. This was a win-win situation for us both, for I had my space and Chris loved that weekly trip. Our weekends were like date weekends, and we always did something fun and interesting. This situation of living apart continued for over a year, and it worked well for us. Eventually I made the move to Juneau, but Chris still yearns for that ferry trip, and I still yearn for Haines.

Alaska the Beautiful

For those who associate the Last Frontier with igloos and piles of snow, I really encourage you to visit in summer when the fireweed is abloom and daylight extends to twenty hours or more per day. Of course, along the coast, it rains more often than not (after all, most of the Southeast consists of a rainforest), with May and June being the driest months. However, for that first summer, it was unseasonably warm with many sunny days. In summer, in general, it's quite rare for temps to go above 70, but there were a few days that summer where the temperature crept into the 90s. As many Alaskans have thicker blood and are used to a cooler climate, there were many complaints about the heat. Nothing is air conditioned in these parts, and working at Mountain Market was a sweat feast with ovens and roasters going. Stone House was stifling hot, but because the windows didn't have screens, I couldn't fully open them without fear of letting in monster mosquitoes. Stone House seemed to attract a lot of mosquitoes, possibly because of the wooden deck (I heard mosquitoes are lovers of wood). There were less mosquitoes in town due to proximity to the ocean (I'm assuming they're not fans of salt water), but out the road, towards the interior, the mosquitoes can be quite ferocious.

One afternoon, even though he sun was shining, there was electricity in the air. "There's a storm coming," I told my coworkers, my Midwestern senses kicking in. A storm seemed unlikely, as on average, Southeast Alaska receives one thunderstorm every ten years (so I was told). Well, that day was one of those times, for I watched the storm move up the Chilkat Valley as I stood in Stone House. There were a few flashes of lightening followed by growls of thunder. I relished the sound, even though Horton was cowering behind the couch. I heard later that one of the DJs on the air got electrocuted from a surge moving through the equipment in the studio, getting zapped on the lip while speaking into the mic. This wasn't the only storm of the summer; a few days later there was another thunderstorm. All the locals agreed that this was not usual weather.

When it wasn't storming, we spent almost all our free time outdoors in the sunshine. Haines has many well-maintained hiking trails. My favorite was Battery Point Trail that threaded through the rainforest on the Chilkoot side of the peninsula. It lead to a outcrop of rocks where you could sit and whale watch amidst tall grass and wildflowers. There were also some beaches where Horton could romp around in the aquamarine water. On a sunny day, there is no better place on earth with those warm sea breezes washing over and the color contrast of bright pink fireweed, the green fuzzy mountainsides, and the shimmering blue of the fjord. There was only element of this hike that concerned me, and that was the way the giant fir and spruce trees were leaning, probably due to the intense winds that barrelled down the Lynn Canal. Walking through this forest, I'd hear creaks and groans and have to assess whether a tree was about to crash on my head. There were certainly enough fallen trees around. I spent a good hour one time waiting for a giant tree to fall. With its trunk cracked and leaning, it toyed with gravity. I thought for sure it would come crashing down, but it didn't. As far as I know, the tree is still standing.

We did our biggest hike at the end of summer. We decided to climb Mt. Ripinski, the mountain which lumbers over downtown Haines. We knew it was an all day hike, so we set out early. I had hiked sections of this long, meandering trail before, but nothing had prepared me for the sheer rambliness of it. Trees on top of trees on top of trees. Finally, we reached a meadow where we could see just how far we had climbed. The trees had shortened to shrubs, and then disappeared all together. We rested at a point that offered sweeping views of the whole area, Haines, the Chilkat Valley and beyond. As we were contemplating our stamina, a guy I knew named Alex walked by, on his way back from the peak. "Oh yeah, it's only 10  minutes," he told us in that nonchalant way of his. It looked as if he were out for a stroll, no big deal. We figured we had ten minutes left in us, so we continued on. We aimed for a false peak, and found we had to cross a large slab of snow before reaching the real peak. Ten minutes, huh? I love these people who scramble up and down mountains as if they're nothing. So many times I had hiked a section of the Ripinski Trail, turning around from sheer exhaustion, only to be met by this guy who I recognized from the gas station who was on his way up to the peak to paraglide off. Not only was he completing the whole hike, but he was carrying his gear. Another time I met him on the trail, he said he had started off at Battery Point, adding at least five miles onto the hike. These people are hardcore, but not in an extreme "bro"-type way, but rather a sandal and sock sort of way. That kills me--it seems that whenever I'm struggling up a mountain I think is killing me, someone will pass me wearing flip flops.

Chris and I made it to the summit. A large green bottle fly greeted us there, orbiting our heads. The views were stunning. If we looked closely over the edge, we could see Stone House, so small in that vast wilderness. It seemed we could see all the way to Glacier Bay, and perhaps we could, over the layers of mountains.

We limped our way back down the mountain. Even Horton was exhausted, sitting down whenever he could. In all, it took us 9 hous to hike Mt. Ripinski. Some people do it in 2 1/2, which blows my mind (unless they're Alex-type people, who underestimate their time). There's a Ripinski race every summer where people actually run the trail. Are these people superhuman? Anyway, we had conquered our highest mountain in Haines, which is symbolic I suppose. This is the stuff I came to Alaska to do. Me, my dog and my man, conquering the world one mountain at a time.

Life was good.

Stone House

On the day I moved into Stone House, the weather was miserable. The snow had turned to rain, but it was hard, cold rain, and the wind was blowing fiercely. Thankfully I didn't have much to move; mostly it was just the boxes I had already hauled all the way from Chicago. But still, I had to lug those heavy boxes up a flight of stone steps (as Stone House was built on the side of a hill). I also had already put in a full day of work, so I was exhausted. I quickly had to clean the house I had been renting, to make sure it was up to par, then I had to collect my dog and make the drive out to Mile 8 and faced my first night in my new place.

There was nothing cozy about Stone House. With the rain lashing against the windows and the wind howling through the Chilkat Valley, you'd think that the house would have been the perfect shelter in a storm. But Stone House was dreary and cold on that first night. I had no real furniture yet. The house came with a few choice pieces, namely a fading sofa that smelled of old man ass, an old dirty refrigerator in the bedroom, and a divan where Horton automatically made himself at home. Overhead lights had been installed, but half of the bulbs had burnt out, and one lone lamp failed to fill the darkness. There was a fireplace, but it was too late in the evening to get a fire going. I was tired and longed for that heated bed which had been my refuge for the last couple of months. But all I had was a air mattress. It was a miserable first night.

Prior to the move, I had made another trip up to Whitehorse. This time I had gone solo, but with Horton in the back (there is something glorious about having a dog's smiling face in a rear-view mirror). The wilderness was just as desolate as the first time around, though the temps had climbed into a more comfortable range, so the threat of freezing to death wasn't as prominent. Just past Haines Junction I came across a car in a ditch. Two young girls were stranded, so I gave them a ride to Whitehorse where they lived. It felt good to perform such a good deed, and the girls were great company for the rest of the drive as they filled me in on life in the Yukon.

Finally I got to meet Chris's cousin Sarah and her family, as they invited to me stay the night. Steve, who I had stayed with in Red Deer on my way up to Alaska, was visiting. Primarily I was in Whitehorse for a shopping trip, but the Frostbite Music Festival was on so I went with Steve on the last night to watch some musicians play. I was expecting a concert venue with crowds and loud speakers and whatnot, but found the event to be quite subdued. We sat down in an auditorium and listened as singer/songwriters told their stories while strumming their guitars. This may sound boring, but it was intimate and had me nearly in tears at times, as their stories were so heartfelt. I couldn't believe I was sitting in this room in the middle of the Yukon experiencing such a thing. Every now and then, these moments seem so surreal, like "How on earth did I get here?" As they sang songs of home and of loss and of discovery, I thought of how far I had come. The move to Alaska had been so meaningful to me. It's one of those things that felt like it was meant to be, as if the universe had steered me there. Ok, corny I know, but the feeling was very strong at the time, and I felt I had finally found my resting place in the world.

Just like his uncle Steve and aunt Jane, Chris's cousin Sarah was charming, as was her husband Phil and their little boy. How lovely to find our closest kin in the far North were quality people. As Whitehorse and the Yukon would continue to have a pull on me, as well as Chris, we would be spending more time with them in the years to come.

So, it was time to take care of business, the reason why I had made this journey in the dead of winter. I parked myself at Walmart, treating Buck to a badly needed oil change, and spent the next few hours cramming several carts full of household items. It's amazing how much stuff it takes to set up a home, especially from scratch. Garbage cans, dish drying racks, pillows, mirrors, bathroom mats, toothbrush holders--all these things had to be taken into consideration. I wasn't focused on heavy duty furniture, that would come later. I just needed the basics to make Stone House a home. All in all, I spent over $1000. It would have been much cheaper in the Lower 48, but at least this was a one-stop shopping experience and I was getting all this shopping out of the way. It had been so long since being in a store the size of Walmart and I was quite the kid in the candy store, pulling things off racks left and right. With Buck cleaned up and running smoothly, I loaded up and we made that epic drive back to Haines. I stopped at the US border, expecting the customary "Welcome back" greeting. But I hit a snag in that I had spent too much money in Canada in the short time I was there. I guess this kind of thing is discouraged, and I was hit with a the possibility of a fee. Thankfully the inspector simply explained the situation to me while waiving the fee. The next time I needed to do a mega shopping trip, apparently Juneau was the better option.

So I had the basics. But somehow the basics didn't seem to cut it, especially on that first night when I simply needed comfort. I had bought rugs, but they didn't cover enough of the thin, dirty carpet which spread across the length of Stone House. I changed the filthy shower curtain in the bathroom and put down cabinet liners on the shelves which stood exposed on one side of the kitchen, but it still felt, and smelled, like a hermit's abode. Perhaps that was part of the charm. Looking back, yes, it probably was on the charming side, in a backwoods Alaskan way, but at the time, I was wanting thick shag carpet and radiant heating, not old XtraTufs and rusted tools in the Arctic entry way, and a gas heater which wheezed spasms of heat.

I decided against setting up my bedroom in the back room. The room was big, but it was away from the heater, the only source of heat in the whole house. There was frost on the inside of the windows, and the back door--never a good sign. Plus there was that weird refrigerator that was completely out of place, and that creepy opening which led to the trapdoor which led to the creepiest basement in the history of mankind. Yes, that back room was not for me. I'd be sleeping in the main room that connected to the kitchen and the living room. Horton would be sleeping in his bed which I had bought at Walmart. It was our first night together. I wanted him to crawl into bed with me so I could feel his thick fur next to me, but my bed was simply an air mattress, and for some reason, that really freaked him out. He slept in the living room under those big dark windows, looking out over the expanse of the Chilkat River and Cathedral Peaks, and I felt he was so far away. The emptiness of the house pressed against me, as did the isolation. How in the world was I going to make this place a home?

Roughing It

Ok, maybe I didn't have it too bad. After all, there were people in Haines who lived in cabins with no running water and had to go outside to pee. At least Stone House had proper plumbing and electricity, though these were recently installed. The water was sourced from a stream which ran nearby. Before the plumbing had been put in, residents had to haul their water--not exactly an easy feat. So I had it pretty good in that respect, and also the fact that there was a water heater and the septic system that could handle toilet paper, which meant that I didn't need to resort to a bidet. Also, the lights turned on (most of them, anyway) when I flipped a light switch, so at least I was on the grid. Until recently, residents had to rely on a generator for their light. So Stone House was up to scratch as far as the basic necessities.

Despite these modern conveniences, there was still an element of roughing it. Perhaps it was because I had moved in at the end of February. The place was freezing. It was evident that there was little to no insulation. Though Stone House was indeed made of stone, rock alone is not an adequate insulator against the wrath that an Alaskan winter can bring. The windows which graced the front portion of the house had apparently lost their sealing a long time ago, and the wind whistled through the cracks. The gas heater by the front door ran day and night in a valiant effort to combat the cold, but the cold continuously won out. The only warm place was at the kitchen table in the vicinity of the heater. At night, I slept on the floor, albeit on an air mattress, but I found that the air mattress didn't offer much buffer against the cold. I froze at night, shivering under the weight of my blankets, unable to sleep in my misery. It was almost on par with camping.

There was a large fireplace which took up a good portion of the living room. I didn't rely on it for heat, as I didn't have the resources available. The previous resident had a left a few rounds of logs and an ax in the shed, so on occasion I'd go out and chop myself some wood and start a fire, but only when I really had the ambition. When I did have a fire blazing, I found that I had to sit directly in front of it to benefit from its warmth. The fire failed to heat the house outside of the living room.

It was the cold I mostly battled with. But there were other things as well. There was the pervading stink of the place, as the previous tenant had been a chain smoker. Tar coated the walls, actually running in thick drips from ceiling to floor. It was beyond gross. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn't completely get it off. I can totally understand why landlords don't allow their tenants to smoke. While scrubbing away, I tried to envision what tar could do to a set of smoker's lungs.

Another thing I battled with was the spiders. Now I had done my research, and it turns out that Alaska does not harbor any venomous spiders or snakes. As much of a relief as this was, it didn't stop spiders from invading my well being. On average I was killing about two a day, smashing them against the orange, tar-dripping walls. I felt they'd be sitting there, starring at me, waiting for me to fall into bed so they could trace their tiptoey feet over me. They left me constantly on edge, popping 3-D fashion out of a wall as I walked by.

The spiders weren't the only thing causing me terror. There was a dark hole under the house which the landlord had labelled a "basement." It was like something out of my worst nightmares. It started with a trap door in the floor of the closet in the back room. Pulling on the rope, it was like opening the door to hell. Down some rickety stairs and lit by a lone dim bulb was an area reminiscent of the basement in Silence of the Lambs. You could almost hear a voice telling you "It puts lotion on the skin" while piling laundry into the washing machine. There were corners of the basement which escaped the light, and though I was led to believe it was bedrock. I could picture human skin stretched across the walls. I wouldn't have been surprised. I only went in the basement to do laundry, and I completed that chore as quickly as possible and then hightailed it back into the light. I often feared falling down those stairs and being helpless to climb my way out. I also feared the trap door slamming shut and being trapped in that hole. Living alone, these were all real fears for me.

Another thing I battled with at Stone House was the isolation. It's funny, because this was exactly what I had wanted for so long: a place in the mountains where I could be alone with my books and my thoughts. The nearest neighbor was up a cliff, his house accessible by a road about half a mile away. I really was alone at Mile 8, though the house was located close to the highway. Horton offered some companionship, but his puppy playfulness had evaporated as soon as he walked through the door to his new home. It was odd--he turned into an older, wiser dog overnight. He seemed to take on role of guard dog, and sat on the divan by the window for hours, looking out the window in a severe way, keeping watch on whatever came down the road. In the morning he'd come lumbering into the area of the room where I slept, as glum as a moose, as sit by the bed, waiting for me to get up. The only time he really seemed energetic is when we'd go for our walks, which thankfully were plentiful. If it was a matter of letting him out to pee, there was a fenced yard in the back complete with a dog house. I had purchased straw to put in the dog house, imagining Horton was the outdoor type who would prefer the back yard to staying inside. But he surprised me by eschewing the back yard. I literally had to push him out the back door to pee, and as soon as he had taken care of business he'd be scratching at the door to get back inside. It seemed that he liked my companionship, but kept at an arm's length. Horton definitely wasn't the clinging, cuddly type.

The best part about Stone House was the location. I could almost forgive the lack of insulation, the spiders, and the dungeon under the house, simply for the view. From the living room, the Cathedral Peaks (the tallest, most dramatic peaks in the Chilkat Valley) were visible, towering over everything else. Stepping out the front door, the river could be seen through a line of trees. In those trees, bald eagles nested. Out the back door, I stepped onto the deck and really took in the view of the peaks and the wilderness across the river. From my spot at the kitchen table I could see clear down the valley, through the corridor of mountains, to the sea. I'd sit there in the morning and watch the sun rise, the light hitting the mountains layer by layer. It was nothing short of magical. As I didn't have TV at Stone House, I spent a lot of time at that window, keeping warm by the heater, drinking cups of tea. There was utter contentment in absorbing that view.

Sometimes the enormity of it got to me. After all, I really was alone in the wilderness. I was connected by wi-fi and a landline, but psychologically I  was alone. Most of the times I relished it, but sometimes the aloneness hit me hard. I remember one night when I was invited out by one of my coworkers. It was someone's birthday and a girl named Jess was performing with a band at one of the bars. Seems like forever I had been waiting for invitations such as this in an effort to have a social life. But I couldn't propel myself to go. I had been struggling with this uneasiness around other humans, something that had been plaguing me since childhood. Such uneasiness has come and gone throughout my life, sometimes in depressive episodes, but had been hitting me particularly hard since I had moved to Haines (or more accurately, started working at Mountain Market where the social dynamics were weird to begin with). This uneasiness, and this desire to be left alone, bothered me so much that I actually did research on it, and for a brief moment I believed I had Asperger's Syndrome. Turns out I didn't have Asperger's but, through my research, I was able to diagnose myself with a textbook case of introversion. It was a huge a-ha moment for me, as I've never been able to get a clear answer as to why human interaction exhausts me so much. (Well, for the record, not all interaction exhausts me, just the chit-chat kind where people overtalk each other and talk just for the sake of talking. I'm not one that talks for the sake of talking, to enjoy the sound of my own voice.) People standing around in groups talking has always boggled my mind. What they hell could they possibly be talking about? It's not like they're not devising ways to save the planet. If I get invited into one of those chitchat conversations, I'm looking for an escape route, just itching to get out. But this has always caused me to feel bad. What was wrong with me that I couldn't enjoy these interactions? Something must be wrong with me. To find that there was a word for it--introversion--and other people like me experience the same things, was a huge relief. Since that time, I've embraced my introversion and do not feel ashamed for it. In fact, introversion is in--seems like everyone on Facebook is claiming to be an introvert. It's nice to know that I was ahead of the trend.

Perhaps Stone House was ideal for my introverted ways, but sometimes I felt a hole in my psyche that I could almost be classified as loneliness. On the night of that party, I imagined everyone out having a good time, with music and laughter and swaying drinks. I didn't want that--see, I knew that--but I didn't know what exactly I did want. Sitting around in the dark seemed so depressing, so I flipped on the radio. There's only one radio station in Haines, and that is KHNS. By this time I was familiar with the station as I had developed my own show, but still I had done little to listen to the other shows. To tune in and hear Allegro Non Troppo, the classical music show, was exactly what I needed for my mood. I'm not usually one who sits around listening to classical music (though I do have my favorite pieces I indulge in every now and then) but there was something in the music that really spoke to me, and I found myself crying. I wasn't sure why, it was just one of those things. Then I looked out one of the windows and saw the full moon rising above the mountain peaks. The whole snow-filled valley was bathed in that light. I wouldn't have traded that moment for anything, and I embraced my aloneness at that point, just me, the dog on his divan, and that brilliant winter moon. Yes, I may have been turning into a weirdo, but here's the real beauty of it--nobody was around to notice.

The part I enjoyed most about Stone House was the hiking out back. There was a well-established trail which led to the stream, about 100 yards into the forest. The stream fed into the lake which lay just south of the property. Following the stream upriver, cascades of water fell over rocks, though it was more like frozen cascades in the winter. The path wasn't as clearly distinguished past a certain point, and seen as how a few trees had fallen, I had to step onto some rocks in the stream to skirt the trees. That was what I considered my safe point--if I made it back from a hike and got to that spot, the trail took me right down the hill to the house. Anything past that point seemed far away, as if escape from a bear or a moose wasn't as certain. There was also a tree I liked right at my safe point, a hemlock that rose straight and proud with no branches until the very top. I don't know what it was about this tree that made it stand out from the others, but I designated it as my tree, and every time I headed out into the forest I would stop and say hi to it. When I touched it I imagined that I was absorbing its strength. I also had the notion that it was protecting me. Some hippie shit, yes I know, but--why the hell not, right? It made my hike more meaningful.

Every time I headed out the door, I faced the dangers of the forest. I had heard stories from the landlord about angry moose kicking her car. From all the moose droppings on the trail, it looked as if I were walking a moose highway. I had also heard about wolves in the area, though they were incredibly elusive. It was only a few years back that a dog in Haines was attacked and eaten by a rogue wolf. Stuff like this is very rare, but it does happen. Coyotes were also about, as were cougars. One time when I was letting Horton out into the backyard, a flash of fur darted into the trees. From the long tail, I could only surmise that it was a lynx. They are the quietest of predators in the forest. And then of course are the bears. Even though I started hiking in those woods in winter, when bears were hibernating, I still feared that I'd break through one of their dens and step on them, arousing them from their slumber. This was a plausible scenario, considering that much of the forest floor was actually decaying foliage that could give away. While hiking, I always wondered where the bears were sleeping. Was I walking right on top of them? And what about the odd bear who woke from his slumber mid-winter, confused, ornery and hungry? There were so many ways to die in Alaska, just by stepping out the door. The possibilities were continually on my mind. But that didn't stop me from hiking every day, sometimes twice a day.

The initial trail led to a larger trail which actually looked like it had at one time been a road. Turning right on the trail could take me to my closest neighbor's house (at least I knew that the house was accessible, even if it was a hike up a mountainside). Turning left, the trail ran through a birch forest and then out to a meadow. Past the meadow, the trail entered into dense forest and then past a sizable creek. After that, it took a few dips and climbs but ultimately ended at a huge chunk of bedrock jutting out of the mountainside. All in all, the trail was about a mile long.

I had different levels of comfort with each section of the trail. Of course, the first part that was close to home was the most comfortable, even with all the moose droppings. I even felt pretty good on the road section, as the trail was wide and open, and if I screamed, perhaps my neighbor would hear. The meadow section was a nice breather as I could see all around me and take in the rest of the mountain that was otherwise hidden from below. Anything past that--I was high vigilant. It was the dense forest which concerned me the most. I made as much noise as possible walking through. Horton would warn me of any danger, running ahead on the trail. I watched the swish of his jaunty pantaloons (the furry part of his hindlegs), glad he was my hiking companion. There was one time when I really freaked out. We were on our way back and I thought Horton had run into the brush. I heard a snort beside me on the trail, and I figured it was Horton--until I saw Horton ahead of me. So--what exactly snorted then? I didn't stay to investigate; I booked it along the trail. I was far along the trail at that point, and far from my safe point. Horton was acting bizarre for the rest of that hike, staying so close to me that I was literally tripping over him. He seemed spooked. I had never been so happy to get to my safe spot, to my tree, where it was a straight shot back to the house.

Just about every time I headed out the door, I prepared myself for danger. And every time I made it back, I marveled at how we made it back safe, without any incident. Nothing bad ever happened on that trail. My confidence in the wilderness was growing somewhat, not in myself, but in my ability to keep wild animals at bay. I learned to trust the forest creatures. I knew they were there. The scat was everywhere. But the fact that they stayed away meant that I was doing something right in the forest, either my giving warning of my presence or having Horton nearby. There was only one time where a bear took interest in us, and that was around May of that year when the bears were coming out of hibernation. There was one night when Horton wouldn't stop barking. I knew that something was outside. It was a night fraught with much worry, as I had heard stories of bears breaking down doors (in fact, after I moved out of Stone House, a bear did break down the back door). It occurred to me that maybe the bear was after Horton's bag of dog food, which I kept in the Arctic entry. I moved the food inside, but Horton's barking continued throughout the night. In the morning, on our first walk of the day, we discovered the big pile of bear scat in the yard. As we moved up the trail, just past our safe place, I found a paw print in the mud on the side of the stream. It was interesting to see that the bear took the same path as me, skirting around those trees. Thankfully the paw print pointed away, meaning that the bear had left, but the print was huge. Judging from the size of the claws, I figured it was a brown bear.

Ok, just a little run down of the different bears found in Haines. There are black bears, and then there are brown bears. Brown bears are the bigger of the two. They are also known as grizzly bears, but are only called that away from the coast. Brown bears are different from black bears in that they are much larger and have a slight hump on the back of their neck. Brown bears love salmon and usually seem content along the coast with the abundance of fish and berries. They usually mind their own business, but can be very dangerous when confronted. Black bears are the less intimidating of the two kinds, as they are smaller and are not known for fatal attacks. On a trail, I'd much rather prefer to come across a black bear. (Just to make it even more confusing, black bears aren't always black. I ran into a bear the other day while out hiking. It was brown, but it was not a grizzly. Black bears that are colored brown are called cinnamon bears).

The bear came back the next night. I know this because I found more scat along the trail, close to the house. Needless to say, Horton and I didn't hike for a few days. Eventually the bear moved along and we headed out hiking again. I never took bear spray. Still don't. I rely on my instincts and my trust of bears to keep their distance. I don't know if this is wise or not, but it's worked so far.

There was always a sense of accomplishment when coming back from a hike, like a test of survival. On days off, I'd come back, chop some wood and start a fire. I'd read a book, or set up a writing station by the fire, or simply stare at the fire and think of how awesome my Alaskan life was. And I was doing it all on my own. If that doesn't make a girl feel powerful, then I don't know what would.