Enough of that, Mr. Captain, I tied it right

A friend's post on facebook today about knots of all things, brought an incident to mind where a boat captain, me, was put in his place by a teenaged crew member.

I loved the kids who crewed on the boat. Most of them were bright and wanting to learn and did remarkable jobs. One was about a junior or senior in high school named Nikki. She was a star on the basketball and volleyball teams and a joy to have around on the boat. With just a hint of respect she would give all the guff she got even from the captain.

So one day we pulled up to an unfamiliar dock. Instead of the standard cleats the crews were used to, these were low horizontal pipes running along the face. I warned the kids about it and not having the time to teach them all the proper knot, told them to just get a line around that pipe and hold it and then we would go along and tie off correctly.

Everything went smoothly and as soon as they had the boat secured I walked back and stepped onto the dock from the back deck.

Nikki was standing there by the stern line so I thought I would start with her, teaching them the ropes so to speak.

But, she wasn't holding the line, she had the boat tied to that strange cleat already.

Pompous ass that I was, without looking I said now let me show you how to tie a clove hitch.

Now, Nikki was short, sometimes looked like about half my height. But all of a sudden she grew about a foot, put her hands on her hips and gave me her most disdainful look as she calmly told me, "I tied a clove hitch."

And sure enough, she had. I laughed away my embarrassment and stuffed that incident away in my arrogant captain file, hoping in the future I would remember to look before I assumed anybody needed to be taught anything ever again.

10 basic knots

And then there was this today from Nikki herself: That is awesome! Funny, I also remember my first day on the job when I tried to tie the boat up and left it about a foot from the dock... and you looked at me like I was crazy then showed me how to put some muscle into it and get it right up to edge. I tied it perfectly every time after that... I think it was you that taught me that clove hitch! Great memories. I will share this with my parents-they'll get a kick out of it.

Waiting for winter, or some day, or a train, or Godot

Here it is coming up on the best two months of the year at the East Pole,  There are trails to run, creeks to cross, gear to haul, firewood to cut and so much reading to catch up on. To top it off, I am finding myself in a limbo that at its resolution may see me on that trail back to combat hauling and living out there again. Not that it's a bad option, but if the trail is full of lakes and creeks are open with very little snow cover, major hauling may be out of the question.

All that's missing is winter. After two weeks of temperatures spooking 50 and watching every bit of snow around here melt away, there's not much winter left. Even today as temperatures turned colder, the high still was 36 with no snow visible in the forecast. According to a weather site I watch, there is 19 inches of snow at the nearest measuring station to the East Pole, but that's at a high school and I am not sure who checks it or how often.  I’ve seen it stay 21 inches for weeks on end.

Am I waiting like, um, maybe Samuel Beckett's characters for Godot,  or John Fogerty's "Someday,"  or Gary Clark Jr.'s train to come. In the songs someday never comes and neither does the train and in the story the protagonists eventually face the frustration of Godot never showing up. Will that be the outcome also as Alaska waits in January for winter?

One of my earliest memories from childhood is from a day when the sun shined and then it rained alternately almost all day. Through an involved thought process I figured out I was 4 or 5 at the time. I wanted to go out and play, but every time I opened the door the rain started. At the time I had a toy gun. It was made of stamped metal with a likeness of a machine gun painted on it. If you pulled the trigger it made a noise and shot some sparks. I fired it out the door into the rain and amazingly the rain stopped.  I went outside and played until the rain started again and went back in, waiting a while and then shot the rain again and it stopped. I had the magic gun that stopped rain. Sort of wish I had one now that would start something.

People outside are going through a rough winter and while I can sympathize, to a certain extent I am envious. While the warm weather and clear roads here make life easier than usual for January, I would love to see temperatures 0 to abut 30 and six to eight inches of  new snow.

It looks like to this point that is to be the fate this year, waiting with those others for Godot and trains and some day and winter.

The title of the new book or song might be "Waiting out the Polar Vortex." Meanwhile in Fogarty's voice "winter-er-er-er never comes."

Creedence Clearwater Revival "Someday."

It's simple: Report what they do, not what they say

A bit of a preface: Throughout 50 years on and off in journalism, I have been very conscious of attempting to remain objective and adhere to the concept of fairness. This went so far as I still won't join clubs or organizations just to maintain at least the appearance of objectivity. As a result it has taken a long time to come to the conclusions here, to violate basic ideals drilled into me during my journalism education and experience.

Last week there was a news story about Senate minority leader Mitch McConnell outlining all the ways he planned to block any program advocated by President Obama and the democrats in general. It took me back to something I was attempting to make some sense of during the craziness before the government shutdown last fall.

One morning during that period while wrestling a puppy and trying to maintain at least some of my own morning routine,  as I usually do I turned on the TV news.  Accidently I went to the Fox news channel instead of CNN or MSNBC, but didn't realize it.  Mostly it is on and I am going through web pages and sites I watch without paying much attention to the TV.

But as I was scrolling down facebook it began to dawn on me that all the shutdown reporting was about republicans and tea party people saying how awful the president is because of the conflict.  After a time it began seeping into my consciousness and drew a little more attention.  There was no logo on the screen but I began questioning whether I had turned on Fox by accident, and when I checked which channel I was on, sure enough, I had. It amazed me that even considering all the criticism of that news network, they made so little effort to report objectively, and that made it so easy to recognize what network I had blundered onto.

Singing in the Rain – in Alaska – in January

What's wrong with this picture? Could it be bare ground in the garden? Or
the thermometer past top dead center? Or the puddle of water farther on.
Or the fact this is January in Alaska?

During the great sleeper movie Galaxy Quest, one of the characters looks at a rather bizarre scene and says, "oh, that's just not right." That's exactly what I have been thinking as I look out my windows these days.

It is winter in Alaska, January in fact, which is usually the coldest month. So, what's not right? What's not right is my yard is one solid sheet of ice with open pools of water here and there in the depressions. Rain is falling and the temperature is 45, ABOVE, and has been for several days and is expected to stay that way at least through the week. Most of the snow has melted away in the warmth and rain and there's minor flooding along the road out front.

Indoors, I have to deal with muddy footprints when the dog comes back, mud, IN JANUARY. I wasn't prepared for that and now regret the decision to allow him to hang out on the couch. I keep getting this bizarre vision of trying to jam the couch into the washing machine.  So, officer how did this happen?  "Well it looks like the victim was trying to cram his couch into the washer and when it wouldn't go he tried to break it apart with a sledgehammer. It looks like it broke in half, and the bigger half fell on him and that's how we found him, followed the muddy footprints to the laundry room and there he was sprawled out on the floor with water running out of the washer and the couch on top of him with the dog chewing the handle of a sledge hammer." 

Then too, I just figured out the dog is big enough if he stands on his hind legs he can put his front paws on my shoulders. You know how I know? There are muddy paw prints that high on the door where he scratches to let me know he wants to come in.

All winter long the snowplow driver has taken, I assume, perverse pleasure leaving a berm across the end of my driveway at odd hours of the day, like after it turns dark on a day when I have given the driveway a good snow blowing. That berm compresses and freezes overnight and I have a mountain to climb in the next day if I want to go anywhere. I have yet to see him go by once when I could have gotten out there with the blower to take that berm down before it hardens. Three different times I have taken a heavy ice chipper and shovel out there to break it down, but I have spent more days with the berm than without it. Today with the thaw and the rain I figured it might be soft enough that I could give it a good go and I chipped and shoveled through about three levels until I hit about six inches of solid ice at the bottom.  I can see gravel through it, but nothing short of a jackhammer is going to take it down any farther. Now I am hoping rain over the next couple of days will soften that up and I might be able to get the rest of it. Of course, there's a depression at that end of the driveway and what I am actually doing is creating a small lake that will freeze over as soon as the cold comes back and that will be there for the rest of the winter.

Another difficulty in this crap shoot of a winter is the rest of the driveway. When I run over it with the snowblower I leave a layer so next time through, the diggers won't hit gravel. When that leftover snow melts and I drive over it, or through it, the tires leave huge ruts which then freeze and then I have those for the rest of the winter also. The neighbors must have thought I was nuts two days ago when I took the snowblower and ran through that slush a few times trying to break down the sides of the ruts and level things as much as I could.

Picked this up off Facebook today.

So here we sit in what looks like early spring, snowmachines rusting in the yard, an unattended cabin waiting in the woods and unused firewood seasoning out in piles. And get this, there are bugs flying around, BUGS!

Meanwhile, the governor of New York has declared an emergency because of winter weather. Another governor declared one even before the storm came. What is the matter with those people? Growing up near Buffalo I lived through several huge lake-effect snowstorms and no one ever declared an emergency. We just dealt with it and moved on. Maybe those doomsayers who say Americans are getting soft are right. I know I feel like I am getting soft sitting indoors watching rain … in Alaska … in January.

A fictional adventure into the mind

   I came across this story a couple of days ago. I wrote it several years ago and as best I can remember, only one other person has ever read it. Since I read it the other day I have been wrestling with the idea of posting it. So far I haven't published much fiction on here, but today, watching the wind bend huge trees like it did the night five of them fell, I went through the story again and decided maybe it is a good day for it. Warning, it is fairly long.

Drive the road slowly

Tim Jones

Copyright © 2014 Tim Jones

            "I want to get a job erasing." 

            The question, demand, came out of the jumble in the backseat, as much of a disorganized jumble of luggage and modern instructional materials as three people could throw in there in the rush to get into the car and out of the cold, cold that knocked the thermometer's mercury all the way down to something like 40 degrees below zero.  It came, too, from the jumble of a mind thrown awry for reasons experts were just beginning to understand, a jumble that produced excitement, enthusiasm, innocence.

            "I'm not sure there are any jobs erasing, Seth.  Why do you want a job erasing?"

            "I want a job, I want to move out.  I want to move to Anchorage.  Can I move to Anchorage?"

            The driver:  "Maybe you can move to Anchorage.  We'll have to see.  Do you want to get a job and move to Anchorage."

            "I want a job.  I want a job, erasing.  I like erasing.  I want to see a movie.  I want to see two movies.  Can we go to a movie tonight?"

Where have all the redpolls gone, long time passing ...

One of those picky nuthatches.

How things change over the course of a year. Last year at this time I had gone through two and a half 40-pound bags of sunflower seeds feeding a horde of redpolls mostly. Eventually I used 11 bags.

Alaska version of an angry bird.

Pine grosbeak.

So here we are a year later in mid January and I haven't even used half a bag yet. There are decidedly fewer birds around my feeders this year. And there hasn't been one redpoll. Last year there were often a couple hundred in the yard. This year it’s been mostly chickadees and nuthatches, although a few juncoes have shown up and once or twice a week a flock of maybe six pine grosbeaks. A hairy woodpecker has dropped by a time or two also. One reason for the low numbers could be somebody else in the neighborhood is feeding them or for one reason or another the numbers are just down. There's also the possibility natural foods may be more available this year. I've noticed the most birds show up when the temperature drops below zero.

And then, just to prove my theory is all wet, it is about 38 degrees out right now and maybe a dozen chickadees are fussing around the feeders.

At any rate, the costs are down and though I would rather have the birds, I don't mind not shelling out $37 a week to feed them.

 Putting up a couple of pictures just to show who's been around.

The situation last year at this time.

Alaskans love our engines even if nobody knows it

This is a short video of a snowmachine ski race at the 2009
Arctic Man. They hit speeds of nearly 100 mph at times.

The Alaska Commons website, a well-known and respected news blog in Alaska published a story yesterday asking the question, "Why don't Alaskans embrace our passion for the sound of engines?" I think I know the answer.

To begin with, a whole lot of Alaska's motor sports take place outside the broad public view. That is the reason for them, for snowmachines and four-wheelers and small airplanes, transportation to the far places where you a can be on your own, or in the Bush villages, for hunting and fishing and trapping. The machines are now an integral part of the subsistence lifestyle of Alaska's Natives. One man's sport machine is another's basic tool for survival. And most likely there is no one around the publicize those endeavors and very few people who want anyone to do that. The only way a casual observer might get a picture of the size of this motoring group is to watch the parade of trailers holding snowmachines or four-wheelers heading out of Anchorage on weekends.

The big exception to those rules is the Arctic Man gathering when every spring the Hoodoo Mountains become Alaska's fourth largest city, hosting a a crowd of snowmachine riders from just about everywhere in the state. It's a winter Sturgis.

But there's another, more likely reason motor sports in Alaska aren't publicized well. Despite the probability that Alaska's residents are at or near the top of the list for per capita ownership of snowmachines, four-wheelers, airplanes, and yes, maybe even river boats, you seldom read about them in any of the news media that serve the state.

This is the subtle myopia of the press these days, or perhaps it always has been. For more than 40 years I have worked on and off in the Alaska news media and in that time I don't recall meeting one person at least on the editorial side of things who owns any of the above vehicles. The possible exception might be Craig Medred who likes to go against the grain, any grain. (Written with respect, Craig.)

At least as some radical conservatives like to point out, a stereotypical reporter lives in a city and owns a Subaru. Recreational preferences of these folks include cross-country skiing; climbing Flattop; running; my favorite, winter bicycling; bicycling in general; and a wealth of urban sports, not one stinky, loud engine necessary among any of those activities. There was a joke in the newsroom that if Congress burned down and somebody local won a 10K, the 10k would lead the paper that night. Instead of trailer hitches, their vehicles are adorned with ski racks and bicycle carriers.

The Alaska Commons article pointed to all the motor racing that goes on in the state. I am well aware of that, but never having gone, I wonder how many fans motor sports draw. I live close enough to Alaska Raceway Park to hear the drag races every Sunday in the summer. Now, you would think someone who constantly seeks the solitude and quiet of the wilderness would hate that disruption. Not for this person. In my late teens and early 20s I spent time at drag races and can still hear the radio ads that pervaded the airwaves in those days."SUNDAAAAAAY!!!   NIAGARA INTERNAITONAL DRAG STRIP,  SUNDAAAAAY!!!!"

When I hear those high-rev engines over at the raceway park on SUNDAAAAAYs, I love it.  Warm reminders of a misspent youth with loud engines fast cars, lots of beer and a Sunday sunburn from the bleachers or pits. I have yet to wander over there to watch but I look forward to the engines I can hear every weekend.  I doubt the sound of a Subaru would even carry this far.

The owner of that raceway has petitioned to build an oval track on the grounds. Of course residents howled loudly about the noise and traffic that would bring into a relatively quiet neighborhood. Supposedly petitions were circulated to stop the project, but no one ever approached me to sign one. I wouldn't have. Friday or Saturday dirt track stock car racing would be another welcome sound over here. In the days of that misspent youth a whole gang of us often went to the dirt track races in Holland, New York. The odor of exhaust, loud engines, beer and warm summer nights made for an intoxicating mix. Often it was the place to take a date though that might have been the reason those relationships never went very far. There are races here not far away but again, I have yet to venture to see them. Maybe next year.

Even the public nature (and romance) of racing doesn't draw the media. I recall editing paragraph-long stories with a lot of agate listing who won what race at what race track on a Saturday night, but that was it. It's surprising given that auto racing nationally is supposed to be the country's most popular spectator sport.

It's back to that stereotype and the myopia. Newsman or not, if you aren't interested in something, you are a lot less likely to want to write about it or assign someone else to write about it. And when an entire media is pretty much inured with quiet sports, the stories just don't come out. And if it doesn't get written about or put on TV, it looks like Alaskans aren't embracing their love of engines.

I can't count the number of stories I have edited about climbing Flattop or hiking Powerline Pass, but I don't recall any about an extended snowmachine trip into the Bush unless it was about the Iron Dog, and even that race gets minimal coverage.  A picture of Sarah Palin kissing her husband good-bye at the start and a three paragraph story about the finish in Fairbanks a couple of days later.

This myopia isn't unique to Alaska. Almost anywhere outside the NASCAR cities of the South, motor racing takes a back page in the sports sections to any sport involving a ball, or at least fancy running shoes.

It's not that we don't embrace the sounds of our engines, it's that nobody else hears them, at least not the way we hear them. And, if they do, it brings more complaint than appreciation.

 Alaska Commons: Alaskans don't seem to realize how much they love motorsports.

Phil Everly, a long time gone

Since I heard about the death of Phil Everly, I have been going through the brothers' catalog of songs. To be honest as I think back through the music of my day, I realized I have overlooked them and as I listened to one song or another I was reminded about how much of their music was a part of that background of my life.

Critics of 50s rock and roll point to the simplicity of it and the simplicity of the lyrics mostly confined to teen love. But those early rockers including the Everly Brothers, taking their influences from blues and country, laid the groundwork for what was to come in the breakout 60s and more than a few performers have given credit back, particularly for the harmonies the brothers sang so adeptly.

Billie Joe Armstrong of the newer rock group Green Day wrote a tribute on the death of Phil and pointed out something the brothers had said about the evolution of their harmonies, something I would not have considered on my own. Growing up as brothers in the same house and singing from early childhood, they learned to speak words exactly the same way. The result was when they sang, the way they voiced the words matched each other perfectly, making their harmonies that much tighter. Listening to their songs now with that revelation in mind makes them all the more remarkable.

Several modern rockers including Armstrong spoke up after the news pointing to the brothers' influence on later music and cited several other acts who sang in close harmony.  Incidentally just this year, Armstrong and Norah Jones had released an Everly Brothers tribute album called "Foreverly."

In his song, "Let 'em in" Paul McCartney paid his own tribute years ago with this selection from the lyrics:

"SISTER SUZIE, BROTHER JOHN,
MARTIN LUTHER, PHIL AND DON,
BROTHER MICHAEL, AUNTIE JIN,
OPEN THE DOOR, LET 'EM IN, OH YEAH."

Phil Everly was 74 when he died this week, another in the growing list of rockers near my age who have died in recent years. We are getting older and as we do we lose people along the way, some we knew well, some we were aware of and some who provided the musical score to the movies of our lives. Phil Everly was one of the latter, half a duo who seemed to have another hit every other week through the late 1950s, songs that complemented first dances, sock hops, first loves and lost loves and being just three years older than I am, speaking to my own experiences as someone who was living them right along with me.

There is nothing I could write that would express this pairing of aging and loss better than Eugene O'Neill who wrote: "I used to think growing old was about vanity – but it's actually about losing people you love. Getting wrinkles is trivial."

That even includes people we have never met.



Billie Joe Armstrong and Norah Jones "I'll be a long time gone."


Billie Joe Armstrong's tribute to Phil Everly in The Wall Street Journal.

OMG there's a snowstorm again this winter

Several years ago I wrote a short story for Alaska magazine about a storm in the Aleutians, a place notorious for violent weather. In the course of the research I spoke with a woman named Peggy Dyson in Kodiak. Her husband was one of the original deadliest catchers, pioneering the king crab fishery around Kodiak and eventually in the Bering Sea.

At that time, in the 60s, weather forecasting for such remote areas was pretty rudimentary. So, Peggy set herself up with a radio that would reach out there and she'd send Oscar the weather forecast as best as she could find out about it. In time other fishermen picked up on her broadcasts and listened in, giving her quite a fan base. There were even special cases where a fisherman would ask Peggy to deliver flowers to his wife on their anniversary or pass along a message now and then.

In time the weather service realized what a gem Peggy really was and they hired her, set her up with better equipment and she became the voice of the weather along the entire coast of Alaska.  

Happy New Year! Starting off with a recipe from Hillbilly Hangout

It has come to this: As we begin my 71st ride around the sun on this rock, I am going to share a recipe. Who would have thought a guy who set out to change the world or at least write the great American novel would, near the end, succumb to writing about recipes on an obscure blog from Alaska.  But there's always a good story, so bear with this.

This is the Hillbillys' roast but mine

loked just like this.

I have always favored a standing rib roast for either Christmas or New Year's eve or day dinner.  Among the favorites that go with that are generous helpings of Yorkshire pudding.  My problem has always been I am too arrogant to read a recipe for the simple act of cooking a prime rib.  I mean, you figure out how many pounds, cook it for 25 minutes a pound and that's it, right?  Maybe some cracked pepper pounded into the fat. But for some reason even with a meat thermometer, though I aim for medium, I always end up with well-done, still juicy and not dried out, but with no hint of pink whatsoever.