The log of the Midnight Sun, Valdez, Alaska, to Honolulu, Hawaii

Crossing the Gulf of Alaska.

PART 1, THE INSIDE PASSAGE 
This is a tale concerning the voyage of the sailing vessel Midnight Sun, a Nordic 44, departing Valdez, Alaska, bound for Honolulu Hawaii in 1982 with base crew of five. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: There are a number of place names in this and it screams for a map. Unfortunately I am writing this on a sketchy internet connection which limits my creativity for such things. Instead I am offering these two links to maps of Southeastern Alaska and Western British Columbia, where you can follow if you like.

Southeastern Alaska There are others if you use Google.

British Columbia Again more on Google. You can also search individual place names.

Day 1, September 2, 1982: Departing Valdez at 0700 under overcast skies with drizzling rain and a light easterly breeze. Some four hours later approaching Goose Island in southeastern Prince William Sound, at which time the captain let the crew know he wanted to stop and catch a halibut for the voyage across the Gulf of Alaska. (I recall at the time wanting to argue recalling how long at times it had taken to catch a halibut. He asked me where to go and I said the upslope of the bottom entering from the north end of the passage between Goose Island and the mainland.) We slowed to drop a lure to the bottom and 8 minutes later reeled in a 10-pound halibut. (I don't think the boat even came to a complete stop.)

We proceeded southward toward Hinchinbrook Entrance and the open Gulf with a promising forecast of southwest winds to 20 knots, perfect for our course which was to the southeast.

17: 22: Passed Cape Hinchinbrook: Barometer 1038; speed 4.6 knots; distance made good, 57 NM

Day 2, September 3, 0124: Spotted Cape St. Elias light, sailing under a full moon, but with a ring, clear sky and stars, but clouds on the horizons. 4-5-foot swells motoring with the mainsail up with an 11 knot breeze.

Motored all through the day. For a while visited by a large pod of Pacific white-sided dolphins many of whom jumped clear of the water as they swam along with us.

Barometer 1040

Days 3 and 4, September 4 and 5: Smooth water and very little wind crossing the gulf and motored the whole way until we picked up swells at Cape Spencer at nightfall on the 4th and the engine began sputtering as we entered Cross Sound. So, instead of proceeding we raised sail and ran almost to the dock in Elfin Cove, arriving around 7 a.m. (We had breakfast at the inn there and I accidentally walked out without paying. One of the crew said he was buying but it turned out he was only buying for the captain. When I learned this later I mailed a check to the inn.)

Departed around noon and sailed Icy Strait as far as Flynn Cove once we realized we weren't going to make Hoonah in daylight.

Day 5, September 6: Departed Flynn planning for Tenakee Springs but southerly winds up Chatham Strait eventually pushed us toward Funter Bay on the eastern shore.

Then the wind died and we turned south again until 40 knot winds from the south came up and drove us into Funter Bay anyway and we anchored there.

Day 6, September 7: In the morning we set out to cross the strait and make Tenakee. Beating into a 25-30-knot wind with rain driven so hard into our faces it hurt. For some reason we started singing Kingston Trio's "MTA" and "The Tijuana Jail" at the top of our lungs. (After two hours I relinquished the helm and the captain said something about being a fair weather sailor and I reminded him of the storm I had been through the year before.) 

1400: Made Tenakee around 1400, but hung around outside the harbor playing with five humpback whales who were hanging around in the bay. We stayed the night and took a soak in the hot springs. Tenakee a beautiful place, One narrow street lined by houses which on the water side had been built on pilings over the tidal zone. Most houses had gardens. No cars. People use what they call Earth Carts. Peaceful.

Day 7, September 8, Heading south in Chatham Strait after passing the whales outside the harbor again. Motored into the wind most of the day but quiet other than that. Began learning the sextant. All day on smooth water at 5.5 knots and into the night heading for Petersburg. Lying on deck and watched the moon rise over Frederick Sound. Shortly after dark lost in reverie on the smooth water, quiet except for the low hum of the engine when a humpback rose right next to the boat and exhaled explosively. I almost jumped out of my skin. Slept for a while on a sail bag forward then took the helm running toward Petersburg in fog. Did some navigating from Sukoi Island estimated with course and speed we should reach the narrows in 35 minutes. We came abeam of the Wrangell Narrows light at 36:05 minutes. Ran into Petersburg, walked uptown for breakfast, then back to the boat and crashed.

Day 8, September 9: After a good sleep we wandered around Petersburg, buying this and that, replenishing stores for the short hop to Ketchikan.

1700: Depart Petersburg. Motored south through the narrows heading for an Anchorage across Sumner strait in St. John Harbor.

Day 9, September 10: Departed St. John early to make the tide in Snow Passage and possibly Ketchikan in one day. After the passage ran into strong head wind, 32 knots at times and pushing boat sideways. Barely making way and propeller cavitating badly. Decided to run for Kindergarten Bay and headed in, but on the east side of Clarence Strait the wind seemed to be abating so we turned south again. Seas and wind grew and we eventually had to tun again, this time for Coffman Cove in some 40-knot gusts and seas maybe as high as 6 feet. Tough go with all hands out. Two fighting the helm, two more trying to drop the jib. The main sheet got bound up in reef ties. Roared into Coffman Cove and slick water. Dropped the sails and motored to a float at a logging camp. Exhilarating. Says the captain, no more pushing. "If it looks bad tomorrow, we stay."

Day 10, September 11, 0753: In Coffman Cove. Rain, light wind, barometer 1028.5. Ketchikan today maybe. Calm day for a change. A humpback whale and calf visited us for a while. Not much wind, tooling along toward Ketchikan, motoring through calm water all day. Pulled into Knutson Anchorage north of Ketchikan for the night, close enough to boogie down in town that night, until 3 am or so. (An infamous bar there named, as I recall the Shamrock, held many temptations and I am told I was asked to leave around 3.)

Day 11, September 12: Spending a lazy day anchored near Droopy and Rusty, friends of the captain. One crew member left to attend to business in Seattle. 

Day 12, September 13: The boat owner's son, who had acquitted himself well along the way (despite our premonitions) left to return home. About 0630 the depth alarm went off so we hauled anchor and headed for Ketchikan proper. Bought food and orcanized, then left about 1400 for Foggy Bay, in Revilla channel.(avoiding the temptation of another night at the Shamrock.) Entered the bay in the dark. Spooky.

Day 13, September 14, 0700: Departed Foggy Bay in (what else?) fog. Invented a new word here for running in Southeastern Alaska waters — naviguessing. Motored out under the last sliver of the moon and Venus, visible above the fog after Orion (which was to become our friend) disappeared. A flock of geese flew by under Venus. Several times during the day we encountered the cork line of a salmon gillnet fishing boat. Sometimes the fog was so thick we couldn't even tell which end of the cork line was attached to the boat and had to run along it until we encountered either the free end or the boat and could turn back to our original course. 

At one point our position indicated we were near a spot called Bell Island. The captain wanted to get a visual on the island so we turned toward the sound of the bell and approached slowly, watching the fathometer the whole time. We reached the point where we could hear the sound of an electrical generator running. Then we reached a point where we could hear human voices speaking in normal tones. At that point we turned, close enough. We never did see the island.

Later in the day the run rose out of the fog almost like fire coming up from the water. Then we encountered misty rays of light hitting what little land we could see. Interesting day. Made Prince Rupert, British Columbia, around 1800, ate and then once again partied at a club until late. All I recall of that was a dancer sitting on my lap for a while and falling in love.

Day 14, September 15: Left Prince Rupert early and headed south again in fog. Gradually the day turned brighter and we ran with sails before the wind in Grenville Channel. Went into Bishop Cove off McKay Reach for the night, entering in darkness. Warm springs at the head of the bay. Poor anchorage, deep. Tied off to a float at the warm springs.

Day 15, September 16, 0700: Left Bishop Cove and saw humpbacks in Ursula Channel. For the first time in a while the sun shined in a clear sky lighting up the beautiful BC waterways. Actually hot enough to proceed in a t-shirt.

Cruised down Graham Reach under the sun, our shirts off, being lazy on deck, reading "Under the Volcano" and listening to Grateful Dead. It's interesting how in a tight crew on a long voyage, some words become part of the syntax. In Under the Volcano I encountered the term "perfectamente borracho,"  meaning perfectly or comfortably drunk.

There was this feeling there were a hundred things to do and yet nothing has to be done. We spent the day like that and than ran in the dark for Shearwater, a logging camp across the channel from Bella Bella, standing on the bow watching for logs in the water. Almost hit a small rock island. We made the dock at Shearwater and ate dinner from a turkey I had been roasting for most of the afternoon. I was working on it when suddenly a face appeared in the porthole over the galley. It was a drunk who had decided he wanted to go sailing. Sticky situation. We told him no and that led to him shouting several obscenities at us including the mention of a shotgun. It was enough to worry us. Later two more drunks boarded the Serendipity, a big cruiser out of Portland. Sticky there too. A boarding alarm went off on the Serendipity and I was expecting it to happen to us as well. I dug out a golf club that was on the boat for some reason and sat in the cockpit as sort of a guard. The two left the Serendipity and walked back up the dock, but there were still those on the drum seiner Haida Maid and that shotgun mention. Eventually the lights went out, a quiet settled on the harbor so we slept as well.

Day 16, September 17: Foggy morning. Crew of the Haida Maid had gone humbly away and the Serendipity had followed. Another bright and sunny day after a bit of fog in the morning. Got fuel in Bella Bella. Another hot day, too. I sat in the stern dozing but could help wondering when was the last time I wanted to sit in the shade. We pulled into Namu and I took my first turn at docking. Sailboats, especially this size don't stop as quickly as a power boat and I managed to nudge the boat in front of us. Of course it had to be the Haida Maid. Fortunately nobody responded. We motored on the rest of the day and anchored in a place called Safety Cove.

Day 17, September 18: Left Safety in early morning fog which stayed with us across Queen Charlotte Sound. That led us to Vancouver Island and Johnstone Strait. A huge wildfire had flamed up on the island southwest of Port Hardy. As we entered the strait we saw the strangest critter that at first looked like a stump in the water. But the outline had concentric shapes too regular to be a stump. We couldn't even distinguish it with binoculars but finally decided it was a stump. About then it slipped beneath the surface. Judging wrinkles on its head we finally decided it was an elephant seal and let it go at that. Then we saw a line of splashes coming toward us between Port Hardy and Malcolm Island. Those turned out to be porpoises, 20 to 40 of them chasing fish of some sort. Some came along to ride our wake but most and then all of them moved on, slashing and jumping along their way. Smoke from the fire actually blocked the sun as it settled to the west of us past Vancouver Island. The fire caused eerie looking red and yellow reflections across the water. We pulled into Port McNeil for the Saturday night rock and roll, but that turned out to be a bust.

Day 18, September 19: Left Port McNeil in fog, standing the bow watch, wet until noon. Offered to cook breakfast to get out of it. We were racing to beat the tide at Seymour Narrows. (A rising tide enters Johnstone Strait from both ends one portion moving north the other moving south. They meet at Seymour Narrows and create powerful whirlpools that can sink a boat if not careful. Best to get there on an ebb tide or better yet slack.) On the way we rendezvoused with the Glacier Queen, a Valdez tour boat heading south for the winter. We chatted a bit and they handed us a pot of coffee. Farther on we sailed past another forest fire, this one close enough that we could feel heat on the slight breeze that blew toward us. Then small hot ashes from the fire began landing on the boat and in water around us. We brushed them off as quickly as we could, especially after we discovered they left a tar-like substance difficult to remove if it was allowed to cool on the fiberglass. We didn't make Seymour Narrows in time and anchored in Plumber Bay north of the maelstrom.

Day 19, September 20: First morning in a long time with no fog. We shot through Seymour narrows, sailed through the morning and continued all day reaching Nanaimo after dark. The captain bought dinner and then we had beers in a Kafkaesque or Fellini club. We finally agreed on Fellini and then left early.

Day 20, September 21: Left Nanaimo in morning fog and motored all day staying on the inside of the exposed islands in Georgia Strait in order to avoid heavy ship traffic. The fog barely lifted, but enough to provide some visibility. We passed into the U.S. again and raised the Alaska flag. No feeling of exhilaration, more a little depression at the end of the trip. We sighted Bellingham at 18:48 which added to the letdown. Again a long voyage and again no one to meet. So it goes. Great trip. Now facing a week here and then on to Hawaii. All day long we could smell smog and other crap in the air. Tied to the dock in Bellingham at 20:00. Distance made good: 1,373 nautical miles.

INTERMISSION

We spent the next 9 days around Bellingham and Seattle some of us going our separate ways to visit friends and tour fun places. This interlude had one high point. My first book had just been published and I met the publishers for dinner where they handed me the first copy off the press. It is a thrill I can't quite describe. "The Last Great Race" by Tim Jones. So full of myself for a moment. Fantasizing about how I was going to spend my millions.

NEXT: ON TO HAWAII

  Part 2: The Big Ocean

Messing about in boats

East Pole Journal Christmas Day 2019

Snowfall and birds

Snow started just about the time I put the Christmas Eve roast on the grill and it's still snowing 18 hours later, light fluffy stuff maybe 4 or 5 inches. For something to do I ran the snowmachine down to the main trail and back just to pack it down. Upon my return and all dressed up with no place to go I sat in the deck chair for a while and watched the chickadees at the feeder. This winter has been strange as far as birds are concerned. All chickadees except for a couple of magpies who show up every other day or so. No redpolls, no pine grosbeaks, maybe a boreal chickadee now and then, but mostly black-capped. Their flying still amazes me. They can fly full speed into a tangle of tiny branches on the climax birch tree just off the end of the deck. When a merlin came through a couple of years ago, that's where the chickadees headed, into the thick tiny branches where the larger predator couldn't fly. They take their seeds into those tangles too, to peck them open or to hide them somehow. When they fly into a spruce they go right next to the trunk, gaining the same protection from the thick spruce branches that stand guard for them. How they never seem to hit anything flying into those spaces might be something to study.

Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve dinner went off without a hitch using the 48-year-old Weber grill.
Prime rib, mashed potatoes and thick gravy and a Jello no-bake double chocolate cheesecake. (Hoping my doctor isn't reading this or I'll get a lecture next time I go in for a checkup.) Leftovers today, soooo good.

Some new music in a couple of ways

Had a nice addition this year. Around the end of the boom box heyday, I bought a high-end Sony for the cabin. Being toward the extent of the boom-box development it had all of the enhancements made to that date and put out a wonderful sound that fills this little cabin. Good thing there are no close neighbors. Anyway I haven't used it much in the past few years. For one thing it devours batteries, I mean like, play six CDs and that's about it. Between that and the advent of new sources it hasn't been played at all in at least three or four years. So, a few days ago as my gaze bounced around the room it fell on it and, too, on one of the electrical receptacles I put in a couple years ago. One of those "holy crap" moments. I can plug it in. It only took three days of sporadic but intense searching to locate the power cord yesterday hidden among a tangle of other wires in a bottom desk drawer, but now I have a quality source of music again, as long as the genset is running. The Mormon soprano singing "Oh Holy Night" was magnificent.

And speaking of music I have added a new Christmas carol to the collection. I like to find something new every year and this year is no exception. But, bear with me. This one is a little sarcastic or at least tongue-in-cheek. Yesterday the local radio station (which is on in the cabin most of the time) played just about every Christmas song there is. There was an announcer, but I am not sure he listened to the music he was putting on the air. He said, "Here's 'Joy to the World,'" then announced "by Three Dog Night." What? I only had to hear the first four words to figure this one out: "Jeremiah was a bullfrog…" I really did laugh out loud. If you are tired of the usual music by this time, you might enjoy this one. So, anyway, here's my addition to the Christmas playlist for this year:

Don't complain. It's still better than Feliz Navidad. And with that, Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
East Pole Journal

A couple of items from the East Pole Journal

Major problem with a 48-year-old solution

48 years old and still cooking

In many ways this year has been the easiest for moving to the East Pole and re-establishing my residence. That was mostly due to my plan to come out for a few days with a light load, put in trails, then go out for the major part of my stuff and perishable foods that I didn't want to freeze. In that way I made it up to the cabin first try with the heavier loads of the second trip and didn't have to bring stuff up one small sled load at a time pulled up by hand,

As a result I've only had one major problem and still haven't solved it. Last year on the day I was leaving I bumped a section of the pipe that feeds propane to my lights and stove and it broke at a soldered joint. This stuff was put in years ago by a professional plumber who happened to have a cabin across the way and offered to do it for nothing. It has held up for more than 30 years so I have no complaint. But now I am faced with a plumbing problem I haven't been able to solve. I've come out four times with pieces and parts and only finally connected at least the stove and one light to the propane tank. But, I only got to use it one night and overnight a leak somewhere in the line (fortunately outdoors) leaked and emptied the tank. I had tested them all with hot soapy water. You coat the joint with that and any leak should create a bubble. I figured out later that the solution froze before a tiny leak could show up. I went through them all again and loosened, then tightened (with brass fittings you can turn them too tight and it will stretch the threads) all the fittings in the line. I turned on the propane and used hotter water but it still froze quickly and I do not trust it. As this is attached to my second tank I am afraid to turn it on and lose that whole tankful also.

Meanwhile I have been cooking on a two-burner Coleman stove which is fine until you need an oven and therein lies the problem. I brought a prime rib roast for Christmas eve dinner and a rack of lamb for New Year's Day and have been fretting about how to cook them without an oven. I have a cast iron dutch oven and cleaned it up today to look it over as a possibility on the wood stove. A pot roast recipe I found on the internet looked like it would work,  but a prime rib deserves better treatment.

So, anyway I am out on the porch watching the hypnotizing chickadees flitting back and forth around the feeder and I leaned back and banged my head on something metal that rattled. Bingo! I do believe I said that out loud. Holy crap. I have a top-of-the-line Weber grill that has all the fittings to handle a roast. I have roasted turkeys in it; and prime rib roasts. I bought it for $72 which was a half price deal my neighbor in Chicago arranged in 1972. It is 26 inches in diameter and has racks you use to separate the fire into two and place a drip pan between them to catch the juices. It has traveled with me from Chicago to Anchorage and finally to the East Pole, though I seldom use it. That's probably why it didn't come to mind right away. The last time I think was four years ago when a friend brought a couple of steaks out. So, woo hoo. Even with a working oven I might have done that roast in the grill if I had thought of it. Christmas Eve dinner is saved.

Things that go "creeaacckk" in the night

Yesterday at twilight I was standing on the deck and heard some thrashing and crashing in the woods at the bottom of the hill. At first it sounded like something heavy walking through breaking underbrush. There's a lot of it sticking up out of the snow. But, it didn't seem to move. I was moving in and out of the house and every time I went out I listened and it was still going on. My imagination started running out of control. A bear out in winter tearing into a fallen tree? A wolverine? This went on for two or three hours and I swear I even heard some movement as I was shutting things down to go to bed around 10 p.m.

Different year, different moose.

I heard a crack down there when I went out around 2 a.m. as well. Here's how spooked I was. I keep a cooler full of frozen meat outdoors buried in the snow. That usually works at least until mid March. I started to think if some unusual critter made those noises, what if it found my cooler. Once again discretion the better part of valor I brought the cooler indoors for the night and put it in the coolest part of the cabin.

In the morning nothing felt the least like any thawing had taken place

     Once daylight made it possible, I took the snowmachine down the hill to look around. Moose. It looked like the critter had chewed its way through several thickets of twigs and then laid down to sleep. The moose-sized sleep hole had melted all the way down to the grass so it must have spent an undisturbed night there. I'm glad that's all it was.

I did feel a little sheepish taking my cooler outdoors to bury it again, but that's life in the big woods.
UPDATE: I drove the snowmachine down there the next day to look around and for sure it was a moose. By the tracks I could tell it moved from thicket to thicket through several of them and chewed them down. Then the big hole in the snow indicated where it slept the night, stayed so long the snow melted down to the grass underneath. Mystery solved.
East Pole Journal

Cancer

I think it would be great if anyone involved with the disease took a look at this video.



Cancer takes a dear friend
A most remarkable woman

Is there a GOAT in the sled dog racing world?

For anyone interested in Alaska, the mystique, and the race
from Anchorage to Nome, this is the book.
Makes a great gift. Available at this web site.

     There's a new term that's been floating around the sports world this year — GOAT. It stands for Greatest of All Time and sports announcers and writers seem to love shouting each other down to declare their choice for greatest of all time in whatever sport they happen to be talking about at the time. Does it really matter? We all have our favorites and who gets to say who's greatest and why. Acknowledge the athlete without anointing him or her to a throne of majesty. Even if you tried to name a group, somebody would be left out and somebody would argue about somebody who is included and there really is no measure, so let it go. With that said, the argument rises in Alaska dog mushing too. Who is the greatest? Rick Swenson with his five Iditarod wins? George Attla or Doc Lombard with their numerous sprint racing achievements? Or do you go back to the historic mushers, Leonhard Seppala or Scotty Allen? My choice for that group would be Carl  Huntington. Among all the dog drivers who have run the big modern races Carl is the only one who won the Iditarod, the World Championship sprint race in Anchorage and the North American Championship in Fairbanks. Although he ran the slowest winning Iditarod time, he won by the largest margin of victory, almost a full day ahead of his nearest challenger. As one well-known musher has said, "he could take your dogs and beat you with them." That said, what follows here is an article I wrote about Carl for the book "Iditarod the First Ten Years." Greatest of all time? Maybe. He at least belongs in the discussion.

Excerpted from the book "Iditarod, The first Ten Years."
Carl Huntington only finished the Iditarod trail Sled Dog race once.  But in that one race he set himself apart. He established at least two statistical records that have stood for 40 years and a distinction that has never been equaled and probably never will be. Taken together they form one of the great ironies in sled dog racing.

In a career short by mushing standards and at a relatively young age, he took on the top racers in the biggest races of the day and at 26, beat them all.  Then he challenged the longest sled dog race and won it going away.  After that he went back to the shorter heat races and again won championships.

How does a man in his 20s challenge established competitors day after day and best them? 

Part of the answer is heritage.  He grew up taking care of his father Sidney’s dog lot. His uncle Jimmy Huntington won the World Championship at Fur Rendezvous in Anchorage and the North American in Fairbanks in 1956.  Another uncle, Cue Bifelt, won those races in 1960.

Another, larger part of the answer is something less tangible, something people associated with dog training and sports have tried to articulate over the years without much luck, and that is an innate connection with dogs, the kind of connection that creates a bond between dog and man and makes dogs want to run a thousand miles across Alaska.  Most people who know dogs and were fortunate enough to have met Carl recognized he had that special connection perhaps stronger than anyone.

Carl could read a dog and think like one.  Longtime musher Donna (Gentry) Massey put it this way: “He understood the processes of his dogs’ minds so well, that he could accurately predict how they would respond to certain situations. It was an ability to think like a dog faster than the dog could.”

Another of his competitors said, “He could take your dogs and beat you with them.”

He also had an eye for quality. His wife, Puddings, said, “He took  dogs that were absolutely beaten and turned them into beautiful animals and lead dogs.”

One of those was his leader Tex. In the early days of modern competitive sled dog racing, it was common practice for mushers to fly to villages and look over dogs, borrow, buy or lease the ones they liked. Tex came from his uncle, Cue Bifelt, in Huslia.

“She was a ‘scrap’ dog that was running around in Huslia, when Carl had gone up there to pick up dogs,” Puddings remembers,  “His uncle Jimmy threw her in the airplane and said to ‘take her and see what kind of dog she would make besides getting into trash cans.’”  Later after other mushers showed interest in the dog, Carl paid his uncle for her.

Carl had seen something in that dog beyond the scrap heap and then was able to bring it out of her. Through all of Carl’s unique accomplishments, Tex led his teams.

One potato, two potato, three no more

Imagine being an old guy and stuck in your ways. Then imagine losing a favorite food. When the new Fred Meyer opned here a couple of years ago they stopped carrying several of my favorites including Betty Crocker Instant Mashed Potatoes, the only kind I've ever liked. I found them at an Alaska-based warehouse store but it was an extra 10 miles round trip to get there. Then imagine my disappointment when I went there last week to buy my winter supply and they had only two boxes in the display and I picked up both. I stopped there later in the week to find they were not only out of it, two other brands filled their usual space, I actually expressed my disappointment loudly enough it turned some heads in aisle.
So for a few days I plotted and thought about it and when I went out yesterday to shop for most of my winter's food I had picked out three other stores to try. The last on the list made my journey almost 150 miles round trip, but still no Betty Crocker.
I thought maybe I could substitute for my favorite with an off brand for the winter, and hope for new supplies next spring but that didn't sound enjoyable. I mean who wants to be stuck in the Bush with the wrong brand of instant mashed potatoes?
But then driving home and turning the problem over in my mind it came up that Amazon carries some groceries. So I checked them out this morning. They had the exact one sold in packages of four and not much more than it costs in a store around here, so I ordered a box, hoping it would arrive before I head for the East Pole. Here it is eight hours later and Amazon has notified me my package will arrive Sunday December 1, five days from now and certainly in time. And there's this, I had enough credit card points so the whole thing is free.
Honestly I don't care much from Amazon. I don't like the fact that the company and its owner don't pay taxes and I don't like what they do to local merchants. But, damn, something as simple as Betty Crocker Instant Mashed Potatoes and local supermarkets (mostly large regional chains) can't be bothered carrying the product?
Now if I could get the locals to carry the yogurt I like, the frozen yogurt I like, the frozen quiches I like and the dish wand sponges I like, I wouldn't have to go to Amazon and live with all this guilt.
Oh, wait, I am going to the East Pole with at least one of the things I like and can't find around here any more. The guilt will fade at least until the next time I have to go to Amazon.
UPDATE: The order from Amazon arrived Nov. 29, four days!

My life in Alaska

The natural cathedral

     
The question comes up now and then, "Do you believe in God." I have a tough time with that because I don't believe in a magic man in the clouds who looks over us all. It just defies logic and science too much. There are also the wars that have been fought and are still being fought in the name of some god people have chosen to worship in an organized religion.
     Then there's the idea that the ruling and monied classes keep the poor people poor by promising a wonderful reward after they die. All I can say is good luck with that.
     However I do experience a spirituality that is founded in nature, not in a supreme being, but I have never been able to explain it well. The following quote from Richard Nelson who produced the "Encounters" series and who died recently sums it up nicely from a Koyukon teaching:

“I’ve often thought of the forest as a living cathedral, but this might diminish what it truly is. If I have understood Koyukon teachings, the forest is not merely an expression or representation of sacredness, nor a place to invoke the sacred; the forest is sacredness itself. Nature is not merely created by God; nature is God. Whoever moves within the forest can partake directly of sacredness, experience sacredness with his entire body, breathe sacredness and contain it within himself, drink the sacred water as a living communion, bury his feet in sacredness, touch the living branch and feel the sacredness, open his eyes and witness the burning beauty of sacredness”

A memory of Richard Nelson
Find episodes of "Encounters" here

Up a creek

I love how sometimes a thread of comments on a facebook post will wander off into a completely unexpected direction and take on a life of their own. What follows here is a string of posts by my friend Joe May added to a post showing game-camera video of various animals crossing a creek on a log. Incidentally following this period in his life Joe went on the run the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race several times, winning it in 1980.

 In the early 70's trapping season opened Oct. 20 in this valley. There was always enough snow or accumulated frost to run a small team that could be rigged single file ahead of a narrow toboggan for the bridges. Several faster flowing creeks hadn't frozen enough to bear the weight of team and sled and had a convenient log, or one dropped deliberately in the right place (there were NEVER two trees in the right place to make a wider bridge). It took coaxing to cross initially but for the dogs it became a game in time. A high wire balancing act of the finest kind, not always successful, but maybe nine out of ten crossings with dry feet. I would give anything for a video of some of those episodes: dogs, sled and human in the creek splashing and scrambling to get out, with a campfire and tea on the far side to dry out.
Good memories. All the discomfort of a wet ass and cold feet.have long faded from memory.

I once had a nasty overflow creek on a trapline. To cross it, on memorable occasions, I pre-gathered a pile of dry firewood, twigs, and bark atop the sled bag, tied my boots, pants, and long johns around my neck, stripped down to one pair of socks, grabbed the leaders' neckline, and hauled ass for the far side, sometimes knee and once belly deep. That may sound extreme, but you see, for ten minutes of discomfort I had the creek behind me, dry clothes on, a hot fire, tea heating, and I was fit to go to work drying dogs and harness. Provided you're not in the water very long, even at -30F, it isn't threatening until you come out, with or without wet clothes. The trick is to plan ahead to prevent a protracted wetting.

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Note the sled had no brake and it was steep hill country. That made the "downs" a lot more iffy than the "ups," especially at night with a half-dead two-cell, carbon battery flashlight that took one hand off the handlebar. A thrill most modern mushers will likely never experience.
That's a .41 mag hanging on the handlebar— in October the bears up there were still out and about.

Imagine if you will coming down steep hills, with no way to brake, often ass over teakettle, with a hodge-podge of stuff in the sled. I had no mentor or how-to book until I found a copy of George Attla's "Training and Racing Sled Dogs." It was literally a self-taught exercise from which I importantly learned how not to do things. I gleaned so much from George's words. The learning experience actually gave me an advantage over other mushers during races who hadn't had the opportunity to make those mistakes and learn from them — yet.

— Joe May

George Attla "Training and Racing Sled Dogs

The long journey of the sandhill crane

There isn't much more I can say about this post from a friend on facebook. Just very interesting particularly in light of the attention we pay to sandhill cranes in Alaska.

Here's the whole post including the "here's more."

Sandhill Crane Tracking Project from Siberia

A Sandhill Crane from Chukotka, Russian Siberia finally come to its wintering ground at New Mexico, USA. This crane was captured by our Russian colleagues, Diana Solovyeva, and deployed our WT-300 GPS-Mobile Transmitter. It crossed Bering Sea Strait to Alaska. and also, it used several stopover sites at Alaska, Canada and Central America. Finally, it may found its wintering ground in new Mexico. Last year, other two cranes stayed in Texas, but this crane select little bit other site for its long wintering site. And also, this crane shows the trans-continental migration route between Eurasia and America.

Springtime in Alaska, cranes and cows

The mountain in the front yard

Phillip Elliott‎ photo

The mountain in the front yard changes daily. In fact, it changes hourly and sometimes even faster.

It changes with daylight and darkness. It changes with light from the passing moon. It changes with precipitation, rain and snow. It changes with the season, dark green in summer, some reds and yellows in the fall and it wears a shroud of white in the winter.

It changes with the angle of the sunlight and the moonlight as all the interstellar bodies in our galaxy move in their orbits. At times it turns a dark red in a sunset, at others, purple and pink. Sometimes in bright sunlight the focus sharpens, at others it loses that sharpness in the filter of mist or fog or low-hanging clouds. At times it even disappears into the smoke from a nearby wildfire.

As a friend of mine does with Denali, I wake each morning, pour my chocolate and then check to see if the mountain is out. It’s out more than Denali as I can attest because Denali is the mountain in my front yard that I watch in winter.

Denali dwarfs this mountain which stands at at a little higher than 6,000 feet, but its proximity makes it look bigger. Only about two miles away it rises almost from the bank just across a river in a valley prone to glacial winds and dust.

Today it changed in a new way and took on a new look. On one of the lower ridges a large black line of a scar now runs down hill through the snow. It was cut by a rock slide some of the neighbors actually heard. So now we have to wait for more snow to cover the wound in the mountain and make it pure once more, ready for what changes are yet to come.

Greta explains it all

This is something I've never done before, taking someone else's post on facbook, however I think this is important. I am not trying to steal anything or to gain anything for myself, my only purpose here is to spread her words farther and, too, let her defend herself against the inevitable opposition. I was influenced by the movement the surviving Parkland students began and was heartened to see Greta Thunberg was influenced by them as well. There will never be written a better account of her journey from her solitary protest in Sweden to her call for a worldwide strike and facing the powers of the world at the United Nations. I sincerely hope she wins the Nobel Peace Prize. (I have not touched a word in her story. All the words are hers.)

By Greta Thunberg

Recently I’ve seen many rumors circulating about me and enormous amounts of hate. This is no surprise to me. I know that since most people are not aware of the full meaning of the climate crisis (which is understandable since it has never been treated as a crisis) a school strike for the climate would seem very strange to people in general.
So let me make some things clear about my school strike.

In may 2018 I was one of the winners in a writing competition about the environment held by Svenska Dagbladet, a Swedish newspaper. I got my article published and some people contacted me, among others was Bo Thorén from Fossil Free Dalsland. He had some kind of group with people, especially youth, who wanted to do something about the climate crisis.
I had a few phone meetings with other activists. The purpose was to come up with ideas of new projects that would bring attention to the climate crisis. Bo had a few ideas of things we could do. Everything from marches to a loose idea of some kind of a school strike (that school children would do something on the schoolyards or in the classrooms). That idea was inspired by the Parkland Students, who had refused to go to school after the school shootings.
I liked the idea of a school strike. So I developed that idea and tried to get the other young people to join me, but no one was really interested. They thought that a Swedish version of the Zero Hour march was going to have a bigger impact. So I went on planning the school strike all by myself and after that I didn’t participate in any more meetings.

When I told my parents about my plans they weren’t very fond of it. They did not support the idea of school striking and they said that if I were to do this I would have to do it completely by myself and with no support from them.
On the 20 of august I sat down outside the Swedish Parliament. I handed out fliers with a long list of facts about the climate crisis and explanations on why I was striking. The first thing I did was to post on Twitter and Instagram what I was doing and it soon went viral. Then journalists and newspapers started to come. A Swedish entrepreneur and business man active in the climate movement, Ingmar Rentzhog, was among the first to arrive. He spoke with me and took pictures that he posted on Facebook. That was the first time I had ever met or spoken with him. I had not communicated or encountered with him ever before.

Many people love to spread rumors saying that I have people ”behind me” or that I’m being ”paid” or ”used” to do what I’m doing. But there is no one ”behind” me except for myself. My parents were as far from climate activists as possible before I made them aware of the situation.
I am not part of any organization. I sometimes support and cooperate with several NGOs that work with the climate and environment. But I am absolutely independent and I only represent myself. And I do what I do completely for free, I have not received any money or any promise of future payments in any form at all. And nor has anyone linked to me or my family done so.
And of course it will stay this way. I have not met one single climate activist who is fighting for the climate for money. That idea is completely absurd.
Furthermore I only travel with permission from my school and my parents pay for tickets and accommodations.

My family has written a book together about our family and how me and my sister Beata have influenced my parents way of thinking and seeing the world, especially when it comes to the climate. And about our diagnoses.
That book was due to be released in May. But since there was a major disagreement with the book company, we ended up changing to a new publisher and so the book was released in august instead.
Before the book was released my parents made it clear that their possible profits from the book ”Scener ur hjärtat” will be going to 8 different charities working with environment, children with diagnoses and animal rights.

And yes, I write my own speeches. But since I know that what I say is going to reach many, many people I often ask for input. I also have a few scientists that I frequently ask for help on how to express certain complicated matters. I want everything to be absolutely correct so that I don’t spread incorrect facts, or things that can be misunderstood.

Some people mock me for my diagnosis. But Asperger is not a disease, it’s a gift. People also say that since I have Asperger I couldn’t possibly have put myself in this position. But that’s exactly why I did this. Because if I would have been ”normal” and social I would have organized myself in an organisation, or started an organisation by myself. But since I am not that good at socializing I did this instead. I was so frustrated that nothing was being done about the climate crisis and I felt like I had to do something, anything. And sometimes NOT doing things - like just sitting down outside the parliament - speaks much louder than doing things. Just like a whisper sometimes is louder than shouting.

Also there is one complaint that I ”sound and write like an adult”. And to that I can only say; don’t you think that a 16-year old can speak for herself? There’s also some people who say that I oversimplify things. For example when I say that "the climate crisis is a black and white issue”, ”we need to stop the emissions of greenhouse gases” and ”I want you to panic”. But that I only say because it’s true. Yes, the climate crisis is the most complex issue that we have ever faced and it’s going to take everything from our part to ”stop it”. But the solution is black and white; we need to stop the emissions of greenhouse gases.
Because either we limit the warming to 1,5 degrees C over pre industrial levels, or we don’t. Either we reach a tipping point where we start a chain reaction with events way beyond human control, or we don’t. Either we go on as a civilization, or we don’t. There are no gray areas when it comes to survival.
And when I say that I want you to panic I mean that we need to treat the crisis as a crisis. When your house is on fire you don’t sit down and talk about how nice you can rebuild it once you put out the fire. If your house is on fire you run outside and make sure that everyone is out while you call the fire department. That requires some level of panic.

There is one other argument that I can’t do anything about. And that is the fact that I’m ”just a child and we shouldn’t be listening to children.” But that is easily fixed - just start to listen to the rock solid science instead. Because if everyone listened to the scientists and the facts that I constantly refer to - then no one would have to listen to me or any of the other hundreds of thousands of school children on strike for the climate across the world. Then we could all go back to school.
I am just a messenger, and yet I get all this hate. I am not saying anything new, I am just saying what scientists have repeatedly said for decades. And I agree with you, I’m too young to do this. We children shouldn’t have to do this. But since almost no one is doing anything, and our very future is at risk, we feel like we have to continue.

And if you have any other concern or doubt about me, then you can listen to my TED talk ( https://www.ted.com/…/greta_thunberg_the_disarming_…/up-next ), in which I talk about how my interest for the climate and environment began. 

And thank you everyone for you kind support! It brings me hope.
/Greta
Ps I was briefly a youth advisor for the board of the non profit foundation “We don’t have time”. It turns out they used my name as part of another branch of their organisation that is a start up business. They have admitted clearly that they did so without the knowledge of me or my family. I no longer have any connection to “We don’t have time”. Nor has anyone in my family. They have deeply apologised and I have accepted their apology.

Here's Greta's Facebook page
On Instagram
On Twitter
About Asperger's

Bucket lists

     A conversation on TV tonight opened an insight into the personal bucket list.

     As TV writers do, they seem to believe every old guy in the world has a bucket list of things he wants to do before he dies. I've never had one. I had some idealistic goals as a younger man, but to a certain extent I achieved them all. Then one mention in the conversation I was watching triggered a thought about a bucket list … and a realization.
     One of the men wanted a cabin in Montana. That was the only thing he could think of for a bucket list.
    It only took a moment to absorb that and I realized in this fictional story something like that would be on my bucket list.
    That was when I realized if I didn't have it and didn't live there almost half the year, the cabin at the East Pole would be at the top of my own bucket list. If I didn't have that it would be the one thing in the world I would want to do, and that goes back to the time I was 8 and in the third grade.
     Mission accomplished.
   PHOTO GALLERY: At the East Pole

Impressions from a fire zone

   

This is Camp Caswell the way I prefer to remember it.

I went to the East Pole Saturday Sept. 7, to bring back a couple of things and take some measurements for some improvements I want to make here to take out when I go for the winter.
     The driving part of the trip is mostly along the Parks Highway, the main ground link between Anchorage and Fairbanks, and also the site of a huge wildfire that burned over 3,288 acres and is still smoldering in places. The fire destroyed 52 primary residences, three commercial properties and 84 outbuildings, but so far no reported injuries or deaths.
     On the road north coming out of Willow the first indications of fire are the rows of blackened spruce trunks lining the roadway on both sides,. only these were from a a previous fire a couple of years ago. It took a moment to realize it.
     After another 10 miles the first indications of this fire became painfully obvious. At almost every driveway or public building signs thanked the fire crews over and over again. It was heart warming. It hit me we don't have many public figures to cheer these days and seeing the outpouring of gratitude for the effort put out by the firefighters was monumental.
     Soon enough I started to pass blackened spruce trees still standing but obviously burned, lining the roadside.
   Then came the yards with houses still standing but brush and trees cleared around them, taken by the men and women of the fire crews so there was no fuel for the fire as it progressed toward the buildings. This was the south end of the fire which burned after the massive mobilizations of people and equipment to fight the flames. The bulk of the damage  occurred toward the north end around Mile 91 and several miles south of there. In that area the fire burned more freely and destroyed more buildings before the crews arrived in any number.
     I passed several houses untouched by the fire in the center of the wide, cleared areas made by firefighters that saved them from the flames.
    As I craned to look into each yard I managed to wander from side to side in my lane. That's when I learned something else. The sound of tires rolling over those safety rumble strips at the road edges blend perfectly with the more ethereal of Pink Floyd instrumentals and it took a moment to realize some of the sound wasn't coming from the stereo. I think Roger Waters' 70th birthday was yesterday or today; should I let him know about this discovery of a complementary sound the group could use?
      Symbols that demonstrated the tremendous amount of work that went on were everywhere. Of course there were the cleared yards, but also piles of spruce trunks cut for fire lines or whatever other reason lined the road for miles — tons. Here's a heartening image, very selfish and personal I admit. Almost all the downed trees were spruce and among those still standing white birch trunks stood out among the blackened spruce as if untouched by the fire. I noticed there were not nearly as many birch in the piles of cut trees as well. Why heartening? The majority of the forest around the East Pole is old growth birch, apparently more fire resistant than their softer-wooded cousins. Maybe that will save me if a fire eventually starts up in my country which is about 30 miles from the northernmost limit of the McKinley fire.
     Farther north I came through the area hardest hit. Yards that had held homes looked like landfills, the possessions of a lifetime reduced to blackened trash by the fire.
     Excavators worked in several yards clearing what the fire left behind and groups of firefighters remained looking for what I assumed were hot spots and directing water streams from fire hoses.
     For perhaps five miles, the speed limit had been reduced to a double-fine-enforced 45 mph and signs all over the place warned travelers about fire equipment in the road.
     Particularly sad was the property where the Camp Caswell  establishment had stood. That's it in its former grandeur in the photo above, long a landmark aside that part of the road, the space it had filled now looks like a combination of a bomb crater and an auto salvage yard, the charred skeletons of several vehicles decorating the bleak landscape.
     In one clearing stood the yellowish wood framing skeleton of a someone's new cabin going up already. On the news later I heard a 68-year-old man talking about hearing explosions from his cabin letting him know everything was gone. He wondered aloud about rebuilding from scratch again in his life and wondering if his aging body can do it. As a man approaching 77 years, I wondered if I would have the strength and will to do that. I thought of a couple boxes of ammunition in my own cabin and for a moment wondered what that would sound like going up. Something you don't often think of when you see the people fighting those fires in buildings, knowing just about every dwelling in that area holds a gun or two and that means live rounds to explode while they worked.
     Flaggers protected the entry from a side road where a sign warned drivers "Fire equipment crossing" and then the speed limit rose to 55 then 65 and those of us on the road passed out of the fire zone, humbled somewhat by what we'd seen and the dirge-like tones of one of those Pink Floyd instrumentals with the haunting sounds of their lingering guitar licks creating an atmosphere of mourning for what was lost there. Then, too, there was that one ray of human resilience rising from the skeletal framework of that one new dwelling rising.

I couldn't stop to take pictures. This link will take you to a gallery of photos of the fire area from the Anchorage Daily News.
Complete McKinley fire roundup

Hurricane forecast manipulation creates air of distrust

 By now most of us have seen some form of this photo. The administration

altered it by drawing a line including Alabama. Trump appointees in one 

agency defended him. You have to wonder what the folks in Alabama felt

hearing that. Fortunately the local Weather Service forecasters went on Twitter 

with the correct information. And their union official has openly criticized the

politicians who made the decision to support the #fakepresident. (Snopes photo)

     "I get all the news I need on the weather report…" — Paul Simon

       Well, this is a fine kettle of fish. The #fakepresident says a storm will hit Alabama when all the official agencies say not a chance. So he keeps claiming it, even breaking a federal law by doctoring an official Weather Service map, drawing a line extending a forecast to include Alabama. Caught, he blames the media. But here comes the kicker, NOAA, the parent agency of the Weather Service which is led by political appointees defends the president refuting the professionals in their own agencies. So stepping back, what has happened here?
     Once again the general public has been victimized by the #fakepresident's manipulations, that have now extended to his appointees changing a weather forecast to fit one of his lies.
     We love to complain about the weather report, but think, in reality is there a government agency we trust more than the Weather Service? This action has driven a wedge between the service and the people it serves. Can we ever trust a forecast again if they are going to be written to satisfy political demands.
      In the future when the Weather Service says evacuate ahead of a storm, will we, or will we hesitate, try to figure out if it's true or not? On the other side of that, if we are told there's no danger are we going to wait to see what the political motivation is for the report? When they say mudslides or floods whether this is a serious threat or an all-clear, do we wonder how this benefits some donor to a political cause? Any hesitation in some circumstances can be dangerous.
      As I have been there often, what happens on the big ocean when a forecaster gives storm warnings and you can keep to your course or steer well around the danger? Even an hour in the wrong direction can mean the difference. Does the forecast serve some political purpose or is it valid?
     The point is, the #fakepresident's actions have created a measure of distrust in reports vital to us all and once trust is broken it does not heal easily. And, what have we come to when we can't trust the word of an acting president in something as straightforward as a weather forecast?

NOAA staff told not to contradict Trump