TERN LAKE

Yesterday I stopped at Tern Lake: at the junction of the Sterling & Seward Highways, on the Kenai peninsula in south Alaska. I’ve taken photographs there before and anytime, every time, rain or shine, snow or blow: it’s an awesome place. Vertical slopes, tundra above and wetlands below, you know it’s special even when you don’t know why. There are bears; there are always bears and they’re always special but yesterday was not about bears. On a sunny day the water sparkles: reds, golds and browns of the marsh highlight mountain greens. Up in the chutes, snow still crowns the valley. But clouds were low and it was windy yesterday. All the trees, even the grass waved down the valley under the wind, still I had plenty of time. 

Clouds and wind didn’t promise much  but I stopped simply because I could. I knew with patience, something good would follow. Other cars stopped but only to roll down a window and click a picture, then move on. I was the only pedestrian, walking the shore line. There were birds out, over the lake but too far, even for my big lens so I was studying ripple patterns on the water. Something flashed through my field of vision and I looked out from behind camera. A medium size bird was hovering, not a hundred feet away. My companion in the car, with binoculars and bird book identified the bird, all the birds, as Arctic Terns; why not . . . it was Tern Lake. 

Terns are sea or shore birds, depending on where you find them; famous for marathon flights from the far north to the far south of the planet, and back again with season change. Sometimes confused with gulls, they are more streamlined with unparalleled acrobatic talents. Standing on the lake shore, I was witness to that aerobatic display. They were nesting in the wetlands, away from the the parking lot but food is where you find it and they were looking everywhere. Wind conditions were just right: their swoops, hovering with abrupt stops and intricate changes of direction were entertaining at the least, spell binding at best. Comparing Gulls to Terns is like comparing Pigeons to Swallows. 

I took over a hundred photographs, knowing most of them would be blurred or out of focus still, the more frames you take the better chance of getting a really, good one. There must have been a dozen good shots, a couple of really good ones and one that left me slack jawed. There, just a few feet off the water, working the air like Peggy Fleming worked the ice in long gone Olympics; the Tern was frozen in time and space. When I was a child, I’d tell my mom that I would trade places with any bird, if I could just fly. When she reminded me of all the human attributes that I’d have to give up I would relent, grudgingly. Watching the birds at Tern Lake yesterday, I relived those childlike emotions and aspirations all over again; Deja Vu. 

I LOVE AIRPLANES

I love airplanes. That includes little paper planes that you fold from a sheet of notebook paper right up to the Space Shuttle, and everything in between. When I was a kid, like 6 years old, a guy flying a Piper J3 Cub ran out of fuel and made an emergency landing in the field next to our house. I didn’t see it coming but out of nowhere, there it was rolling to a stop not a hundred feet from our back porch. It was yellow with high wings and a little tail wheel, no bigger than a donut. When he realized he was running out of gas, he shut the motor off and glided in. He was climbing out as I got there; asked me where my dad was. I pointed toward the garage but Dad was already stepping over the fence into the tall grass. 

We had a couple of gallons in the mower's gas can but the pilot said that would do just fine. He offered to pay but Dad told him no, the excitement was worth it. While he was pouring gas, I looked inside. There were two seats, one in front of the other and not room for much else. I asked if I could go for a ride and he said we’d have to wait until another time. He picked up the tail and turned the plane around so it was pointed up hill, fooled with the controls and stood beside the motor as he pulled the prop through. We were all huddled by the fence when the engine sputtered and he jumped inside. He revved up the motor and the prop blast made all the grass behind him wallow in the wind. 

The little yellow plane bounced through the grass a ways and turned around, pointed down the slope toward Blue Ridge Rd. Dad said, “He has to take off into the wind.” I asked why but the answer was lost in the excitement and the noise. It was a bouncy takeoff and on one bounce the plane just didn’t come back down; it stayed up. The pitch of the engine changed as it flew up and away, just like in the movies. Clearing the power lines and the road, he turned north and was soon out of sight. 

It never occurred to me that I might become a pilot and life never took me that direction. But there was a time when I jumped out of perfectly good airplanes as part of my job (U.S.Army) and then just for fun as well. There is a saying among pilots; “Any landing that you walk away from is a good landing.” The same could be said about parachutes. I got the parachutes out of my system and I know why you have to take off into the wind but I still watch airplanes with the same eyes I first saw the J3 Cub.

Today I was taking photographs at Lake Hood Airport, Anchorage, Alaska, the busiest sea plane base in the world. Planes, mostly single engine, taxi across and down the far side to the east end of the lake, then roar up the chute with water spraying out from under the pontoons. As they gain speed the size of the wake and the pitch of the engine tell when they were about to lift off. Then when they landed, it was like rolling to a stop on a bicycle. Smooth and easy, no strain, just a touch of the brake and put your foot down before you fall over. They stretch the glide out until the pontoons kiss the surface, kicking up a fine spray mist and then settling; the airplane becomes an airboat. 

I have a favorite airplane. The J3 Cub is special but I’ve grown up and so has my taste in aircraft. After WWII, the De Havilland Co. from Canada, built a single engine work horse to supply the needs of bush pilots in the Great North Country. The DH2 Beaver flew equally well off wheels, skis or pontoons. The U.S. Army used Beavers as light transports from the 60’ through the 80’s. We jumped out of DH2’s on both military and sport activities and they won me over, straight out. Both strong and reliable, they can carry 6 passengers or nearly a ton of cargo. Now, most of the surviving Beavers live and work in Alaska. When I see one come up off the water I flash back to another life and it's still good. I must have taken a couple of hundred pictures. 

Too soon to go home, I still wanted to hang around so I stopped at one of the Flight Services. They fly freight and passengers all over the state. There were 3 Beavers at the dock along with 2 Otters. Otters are the next De Havilland generation after the Beaver: bigger, stronger and more efficient but they’re sleek, don’t have the throwback, retro look of the Beaver. They were loading one for a cargo flight to a remote destination, only reachable by air. The load included a 75 hp. outboard motor, a double-stainless steel deep sink, two 45 gallon barrels of motor oil, a fair size satellite dish and several large coils of electrical cable: too much for the Beaver. Then a party walked out from the office to the front Beaver, 4 or 5 guys with duffle bags, fishing rods and tackle boxes, climbed in and took off for a fishing rendezvous somewhere I can only imagine. I watched ‘em take off, climb into the sun and as I had to look away they banked away and I heard the engine change from a whine to a rumbly kind of thunder, just like in the movies.

SLEEP WELL

Woke up yesterday morning in a bed, in a bedroom, in Anchorage, AK. I drove in Friday night from Haines Junction, Yukon Territory. It’s sort of a mind trick with all the daylight. You start early, like 5:00 a,m. when the sun is already on its arc and you’ve covered a hundred kilometers before you realize that you haven’t eaten yet. Much later in the day the sun is high, you’re pushing 500 K with another 500 to go and all the bad road has become the norm. My pattern was, eat a traditional, restaurant breakfast then munch on fruit, trail mix and jerky the rest of the day: refill water bottles at fuel stops and try to keep moving. Time of day doesn’t register on my internal clock; still set on how high the sun, how long the shadows. 

All along, the word was that the last 1000 K / 600 miles takes 14 hours. So it was considered that I might want to break it into two parts. Frost Heaving under the pavement creates expansion-contraction that results in wave action, roller coaster bumps that can wreck you. Sometimes they are hard to see and you find yourself standing on the breaks to avoid being launched like a jet off an aircraft carrier. You get tired of being on and off the brakes all the time and just drive slow. So on a clear day with good looking road and 65 mph limit, driving 35 mph makes sense.

Going through U.S. Customs serves notice that we are off the kilometer and liter standard, back on miles and gallons. But without breaking for meals, the sun is still high in the sky at 7:00 p.m. and you’re not feeling the need to shut down. The road looks a lot better but Frost Heave is still an issue. In and out of rain showers, the scenery had been beautiful with lots of photo stops. Was wondering just how far I’d get before I felt the need for sleep. At a fuel stop I realized it was under an hour to Palmer and another 45 minutes to Anchorage. I checked the time, adjusted for a cat nap I took in Beaver Creek, on the Canadian side and gaining an hour with Alaska time and sure enough, it would be 14 hours.

About then my daughter called, first time my phone had rang in over a week; wanted to know where I was. She said, “Wow . . . I figured you would be here tomorrow sometime: now I have to hurry up, clean house and make your bed." By the time I got the camper parked and unpacked, did the hugs and small talk, it was time to put my head down on the pillow. It was after 11:00 and daylight was still hanging outside the window.

Saturday was a sleep late day and I slept very well, thank you. Had to do some laundry and run some errands, then drove out on Turnagain Arm to a favorite restaurant for a plate full of their famous, sweet potato fries. I have arrived.

DIAMONDS & STONES

John Denver sang a song with the hook line; Some days are diamonds, some days are stones. Thursday was kind of a stony day. Spent a good part of the day slow rolling or stopped in a long line on dusty, dirty, windy gravel road. Had to stop; wait for dust to clear or maybe miss a turn: rotten day to be on motor cycle. 

I’m starting to feel the Summer Solstice coming on: Land Of The Midnight Sun. The sun is going down in the NNW at about 11:00 p.m. and back up in the NNE before 5:00 a.m. In two weeks, and just a little more north, you only get a couple of hours of dark-lite. In Seward, Alaska on the 4th of July they leave the bars open all night on the 3rd. The only time on the 4th dark enough for a fireworks show is 1:00 a.m. Everybody comes down to the beach at midnight; build fires in the fire pits and wait for the show to start, out over the fjord. Sometimes one of the big cruise boats is coming into port and they get a free-bee: they can see it from 15 miles out in Resurrection Bay. By 2:00 they all go back in the bars. It’s the only night of the year they get to “Howl” all night. At 5:00 a.m. the roll ‘em home and begin hosing down the street for the big parade/fest and the race.

People come from all over the world to race up Marathon Mt. Starts on Main St. and turns immediately up about a mile of 45 degree trail that climbs the mountain; and then back down. On the lower part there are rocky chutes with scrub and it’s more of a scramble than a foot race. Three divisions; under 18, men’s open and women’s open. The winning times will be under an hour. And, wouldn’t you know it; coming down is the dangerous, hard part. 

I made it to Haines Junction., Yukon Territory. Haines, Alaska is accessible by road, but only from the Yukon, The junction is where you make the decision: split off and go to Haines or keep going north, up and around, around and down to Anchorage. I take the around-down and around route; have a good chance to make Anchorage on Saturday. Everybody wants to check out my little tear drop camper. I show it off two or three times a day: they all love the little kitchen.

Gasoline is $6.40 a gallon and eggs are $4 apiece. Toast is $1 a slice but jelly is free. I’ll be back in USA soon and will miss the subtle, little, short A’s and long O’s that make everything sound so Canadian.

NO, NOT TODAY, MAYBE TOMORROW.

Day 9; I can live like this. It isn’t always pretty but every day has its own parameters and you don’t dwell on what was or might have been. The couple on motor cycle from Palmer, AK: talked to them again yesterday. They told me about the Liard Hot Springs on the road up to Watson Lake, Yukon. Said it is too good to pass up so I was looking for it. When I walked in the gate, they were just a few minutes ahead of me. We swam and soaked for a couple of hours, along with lots of others but we were the only English speakers. I recognized German, French and something that sounded Slavic or Cyrillic at best; funny how good will and body language overcome almost any obstacle. My friends were still slow cooking when I took off. 

While I was getting in the truck a man pulled up and wanted to look at the tear drop camper. I showed it off but the conversation went way beyond the camper: he was retired from Canadian Nat’l Parks. A former Superintendent at Laird River Provincial Park, we had lots in common, from bears to chipmunks but always back to bears and almost an hour later, I pulled back out on route 97. My best plans to reach Whitehorse were scuttled by serendipity and it’s been a great day. You can plan on great scenery but the people you meet are the salt in the soup. Drove in and out of a few showers but sunshine most of the time. 

The Laird River is huge. Drove parallel, down in the gorge or up along the rim, most of the afternoon. It was full, bank to bank, churning with monster eddies and whirlpools, dark with sediment, over a quarter mile wide in most places. I wondered where it was going. When I stopped for the day, I learned it turns north and joins the Mackenzie River, emptying into the Beaufort Sea some thousand miles to the north. In North America it ranks 2nd only to the Mississippi/Missouri system. Really impressive; the Laird by itself is hundreds of miles of remote, undeveloped hydraulics, surging north, ultimately to the Arctic Ocean. What must the Mckenzie be like?

Rock Sheep, Black Bears and Buffalo browse along the highway right of way. Almost all the campers stop and take photographs: so close, all you have to do is roll the window down, point and shoot. The animals don’t seem to give a hoot; really, really close but neither did I see anybody getting out for a better look. They say we will see Moose today and tomorrow and that will be cool. I’m done trying to anticipate how far I’ll get on a particular day. I’m just driving: stop, eat, sleep and see what I see. I’ll get there. I'm pulling out of Watson Lake this a.m. and will capture breakfast somewhere on the way.

BEAVER

Woke up this a.m. in Toad River, B.C.; a few hours north of Fort Nelson - sure, I know you know exactly where that is. It was just a tiny dot on a big map until I pulled over yesterday. The dot doesn’t do justice. Saw Rock Sheep (big horns) on the road just a few miles before the camp. Leaned against a cottonwood next to my campsite in the evening, watching three beaver going about beaver business. All the cottonwoods in camp have a heavy plastic wrap from the ground up 3 or 4 feet: armor against unauthorized logging. They did tail slaps (just to impress me, I think) but the others didn’t take it serious. 

Played leap frog with a couple on a motorcycle yesterday; must have passed each other a dozen times. They tent camped right where I was watching the beaver. From Palmer, AK; they are on their way home from a tour of Washington and Montana. I fantasized the freedom of the motorcycle while he was taken with my little white truck and most of all, the teardrop camper. You know, you meet the coolest people. If I were religious, I’d say I must be blessed, but am inclined to think it has to do with Karma. 

The story on Toad River goes back to 1942, when I was just 3: they were building the Alaskan Highway and conditions were extreme. They had problems building a bridge here and everything had to be “towed” across the river. When it came time to give the place a name . . . you get the picture. The local historian was kind; didn’t want to insult anyone’s intelligence or be rude so they chalked it up to a northern sense of humor. 

The restaurant, camp office, fuel stop, and post office are as picturesque as the name. They have a baseball cap collection that started back in the 70’s. A man went to the washroom (they don’t have rest rooms here: if you want to rest, sit on a chair with a full seat.) When he came back, someone had tacked his hat to the ceiling. Now there are thousands of hats, wall to wall in every room. Everything is getting pricey; breakfast was $200 but it is what it is and you knew that coming in. (I’ve exaggerated, sorry!) I’ll get a T-shirt here, probably another $200.

Something about the physical, material trappings of the frontier: necessities are covered but spoiled, picky consumers will be alienated. They wipe tables clean and wash dishes between customers but last week’s dust is still in the game and yesterday’s finger prints are still on the salt shaker. There is probably a piece of cardboard folded up and shimmed under one of the table legs to keep it steady and it’s understood that you don’t wait for the waitress to warm your coffee: you get up and do it yourself. I’ve done black tie affairs, even been at the head table, delivered a keynote or two and graciously accepted applause: but sipping coffee in this dusty, earthy place is where my ego is satisfied.

So if I disappear with all the money, you know where not to look for me: and it’s time for me to disappear from Toad River. I’ll leave it to the beaver and the sheep I hope to see a little farther up the road. Gasoline is a little over $6 a gallon and I’m just happy it’s not $10. I left my hat in the truck so I don’t have to worry about it ending up, lost in the crowd on the ceiling however, they probably need a U of M hat to give it a fine, articulate, plain spoken balance.

SASSY YOUNG LADIES

Yesterday I had to wait around Red Deer, Alberta until 9:30 for a Credit Union to open. Dawn Scarff, a financial advisor there, helped me make contact with my Credit Unions in Michigan. Now I can use my ATM & credit cards. She was so helpful I am reminded of the differences between CU’s and banks. But that’s another story, for another day. It had just stopped raining when I went in and the clouds were still threatening. When I came out it was with money in hand and the clouds had rolled back to sunshine and a clear blue sky. 

Once on the highway, my mood dialed up  and I slid in a CD without looking to see what it was. Bob Seger was right in the middle of the chorus; “We were young and strong; we were running, against the wind.” The day was just getting better and better. A little before noon, closing in on Edmonton, it was wide open country. Unlike Interstate rest stops, you might find anything at a Canadian rest area. I wanted to fill a water bottle and stretch so I was pulling in either way. The official building was low profile and camouflaged into to the landscape I didn’t see it: rolled past it to the white, retro diner with a big, red letter sign; Fay’s Diner. 

Inside, very clean, very Spartan: no frills, no foo-foo menu. Burgers, fries and Poutine. Poutine? This is too good; I need to take pictures. So I got my camera out of the truck and began taking pictures. Inside, when the lady behind the counter saw me shooting she wanted to know what I was doing. I told her she asked the wrong question: “I’m an itinerant StoryTeller and this place is a story.” Within two sentences we were making jokes and I had to ask about the Poutine. It was like not knowing about BBQ, in Memphis. “You don’t know what Poutine is?” I had to admit to my ignorance. The Poutine is a big plate of french fries, smothered under lots of rich, dark beef gravy and covered with cheese. OMG . . . Heart Attack. 

Deanna (L) and Sharon (R) were the sassy young ladies behind the counter. Deanna’s husband Val was working too; she wanted me to get a shot of him cleaning tables but he wasn’t having any of that. I got the girls to pose in front of the grill; said I’d feature them in the blog. Deanna asked, “We’re gonna be movie stars?” I said no, that they’re already stars but I don’t do movies. Sharon wanted to know if I was sure I didn’t want a taste of the Poutine. I was sure. But I did have a scoop of the Maple Nut and another of the Cherry Ice Cream. It was hard frozen and my plastic spoon was mismatched for the task. So I ate slow, small bites: my mom would have liked that. 

We got to talking about some crooks who got caught and were on their way to jail. In the end, we decided it’s the crooks who get elected that catch and punish the crooks who didn’t. I missed out on the water bottle but got back on the road, safe and in good time. I was licking my teeth, still tasting the cherry ice cream and the CD had run full circle. Bob Seger was near the end of the song this time; “Against the wind, I’m still running against the wind. I’m older now but still running, against the wind.”

Yesterday was a good day: made it to Grande Prairie, Alberta. I’ll be at Fort Nelson, British Columbia this afternoon. Gasoline is $5.60 a gallon here and will go up significantly when I cross over into B.C. I keep telling myself, “I can afford this: just keep on rolling and smile.”

BAD TATTOOS

“Rain” is the watchword and I haven’t seen a forecast so, I’ll just keep bumping along; no particular hurry. It’s nice being back in Canada. You forget; take things for granted and then everything changes. You stray outside your comfort zone and the stretch is immediate. My cell phone won’t work again until Alaska and I trust Tim Horton’s (Canada equivalent to Mc’D) for a wi-fi connection and affordable coffee. 

There are more Native people, out and about here; at least I notice them. I knew that but then you get used to something else and it’s deja vu, all over again. The two things I remember best about our northern neighbors is their obvious sense of civility and incredibly bad tattoos. If USA is the land of free & brave, then Canada is about a razor balance between acceptance and accountability. I’ve said before that had my parents birthed me north of the border, I’d have turned out a better Canadian than I have an American.

I remember a disparaging comment on one’s appearance that goes back to my military days. It goes; “. . . looks like they were shot at and missed an’ ‘sh. .’ at and hit.“ Here I would say the tattoo is the “sh. . ‘ that wouldn’t clean up. Really, really bad.  No rhyme, no reason, just random compulsion and bad taste. I like body art and those works that look like they took root and grew there naturally; I’m an admirer. The question is, how many more ugly tat’s will I see before I get a look at the bad tattoos of Alaska, the second most bad place for bad tattoos. 

I’m in limbo for a few hours. I need to find a phone where I can call Michigan and get my Credit Union to take the hold off my credit cards. They balked yesterday, (Sunday) when I tried to get gasoline in Calgary. So I’m just south of Edmonton, low on cash and none of my credit cards will pass muster. Should have made the call on Friday but I was killing time in the rain at Little Bighorn and it slipped my mind. I have friends who think my adventures are all fun and games and I try to tell them that it’s as much anxiety & bad road as it is grins but they don’t want to hear that. I suspect I have some deep seeded neuroses. I’m afraid I’ll wake up one day, like the tattoo drones and the life I take for granted is the only one I know. Photo is a sunny day in South Dakota. There was another one at Little Bighorn but I’m back to searching for, El Sol. 

LITTLE BIGHORN

Two nights in the rain and the humidity inside of my teardrop camper is intense. This morning the wind was still blowing and the day has only turned to more rain and blow. The Little Bighorn Battlefield is a magical place, charged with history and a powerful presence, even on a cold, rainy day. I’ve been here before, several times and never been disappointed. As I weighed my options, I remembered the cafe at the Trading Post opened at 8:00 so I headed that way. Early, all I could do was text my kids and grandkids and wait for the door to open up. 

When I walked into the dining room there were two men at the first table, smiling at me. I responded with an affirmative nod but before I could finish the nod I had been invited to sit and share coffee. “People call me ‘Putt’ ’’, said the taller of the two, with a braided pig tail that looped over his shoulder and down onto his chest. “That’s John Paul,” he said, with a subtle gesture to the other man. We were all about the same age and “Good Will” chemistry was the rule of the morning. As it turns out, Putt owns the trading post & cafe: John deals in Native American jewelry; works with and sometimes for Putt. One can certainly make a case for treating customers well but I think that treating well is just part of the greater package with these guys. 

As we drank coffee and I ordered breakfast, another man came and sat down.  Ces is Italian, a Research Fellow with the Smithsonian, in Washington D.C. All talk focused on the battle and I became the “Fly on the wall.” Then Pietro , a retired postal inspector comes and sits down; another Italian who shares Ces’ passion for Native American culture. Both were drawn in by the stories and the imagery when they were boys back in Italy.  

The photograph: they have a nearly life size photograph of an Indian, posed in front of a photographers backdrop. Publishing  business as it is, once a biography is researched, it’s difficult convincing anyone that the story isn’t perfect. Legend and first research suggest that Crazy Horse was never photographed. But a photo (Tin type, cerca 1877) turned up in California, after the printing of his first biography and Putt has it now. With some restoration and enlargement you can see evidence of what appears to be a scar on his cheek; his hair is lighter than other Indians in 1870’s photos and it has some curl to it; all consistent with descriptions from that time. In the 1950‘s, still living relatives identified the photo as that of Crazy Horse but publishers and authors don’t concede easily. Ces & Pietro are looking for more documentation and other photographs taken in front of the same back drop to lend credibility and add the photo to history, the story is too fascinating to let go.

Later in the day, we all climbed in Putt’s SUV and went for a ride. Along muddy, gravel roads we traced the time line of the battle. On June 25, 1876, Colonel George A. Custer led five companies of the 7th Cavalry on a raid against the combine villages of Sioux and Cheyenne along the Little Bighorn River. The result is etched into our national conscience. Whether one sees the battle as a tragic defeat or a righteous victory, the story and its legacy can not be dismissed. We stopped: “This is probably where the first shot was fired.” Troopers had ridden up on a boy and shot him, the first casualty. After that, a chain of events unfolded and the day took on a life of its own, dragging men and horses through an afternoon of savage conflict. By the end of the day, Custer’s troops were either isolated and held at bay, unable to join the fight or killed to a man. 

Grass is still green, sage brush still dots the hillsides and the “Greasy Grass”, the Indian’s name for the Little Bighorn, still meanders its tight, horse shoe bends, south to north on its way to join the Yellowstone. Up the coulees, across ridge tops and along cut banks, remnant bones of horses and men still wait to be recovered, to be remembered. 135 years after the fact, it still bears witness to what men will do to exercise their will over those who are in the way. It reminds us of what men will do to protect their families and a way of life. The battle did nothing to slow the doctrine of Manifest Destiny but it did provide the indigenous culture a bright spot. Once upon a time, the Real People pushed back agains overwhelming odds and won the day. I’m one of those who think it was a righteous victory.