Sunday, August 2, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Winding Down: Washington, Idaho, and Vampires
So, we lost Isabelle last week. To Québec and music festivals via Omaha, Nebraska. And this has absolutely wrecked us--our hearts are broken. Jokes aren't as funny, skies aren't as sunny...but mostly it has taken a serious toll on the blog. Because, apparently, she was the glue holding it together. Or the disciplinarian forcing us to contribute regular blog posts. And for that, we apologize. Things are winding down a bit--not as much crazy excitement to report--but we still need to follow through to the end. Because, happily, we're not done yet. But, sadly, we will be tomorrow. We are currently in Boise, ID at Linda & Michael's charming B&B (&L&D), and we're planning to set off for Denver tomorrow morning at 6 AM. Ugh.
BUT, happy times are being had. After saying our tearful goodbyes to Isabelle in southern Washington, Sophia and I drove back up to Seattle to visit her older brother, Vince, for several days. The trip included several trips to the movies (including Harry Potter, natch), delicious food, mani-pedis (my nails are now neon pink, Sophia's purple), and seeing Vince's new band play in Takoma (in a dive bar shaped like a giant teapot). It was fun, for the most part, but this trip has made cities mostly unbearable for both of us, so we decided to break up our stay in Seattle with a trip to the Olympic Peninsula (and Olympic National Park).
Because we've seen so many mountains, we decided to drive a little extra to reach the rain forest and coastline further west. First we went to the Hoh Rain Forest, which was incredible. It is one of the only temperate rain forests in the world, and it is green, green, GREEN. I can't adequately describe just how green it is. The trees are enormous old-growth forest, and they are covered with moss. It coats the trunks and drips from branches and even leaves. Apparently this causes no harm to the tree itself--the moss does not collect nutrients from the tree. Because the climate is so wet, it gets all of its nutrients simply from the air. Shockingly (or perhaps not so shockingly, considering our track record on this trip) we enjoyed beautiful weather throughout. Even in the rain forest, the sky was blue and the sun shone down through the green ceiling of trees and moss. Onto green ferns and more moss. It was really, really green. I think you get the idea.
In our planning for the drive, we discovered that the route to Hoh would take us through Forks, WA, a small town on the peninsula that has recently become famous for the Twilight series of teen romance novels. Apparently it has become a tourist destination, with Twilight gift shops and tours springing up to accommodate the vampire-crazy pre-adolescent fans. We felt that driving through such a town required a bit of preparation and research, so the three of us took turns reading the book out loud (with voices) in the car. Note to our readers: Twilight is really, really dreadful. Painfully, shockingly dreadful. Especially when read out loud. But it made our trip to Forks pretty entertaining. Vince, in particular, is really good at voicing the lame vampire Edward and his pathetic girlfriend Bella (his Edward sounds like Megatron from Transformers).
On our second day in the park, we went down to the coast, near a town called La Push and walked to Second Beach. Like the rain forest, the pacific northwestern beach was beautiful in an unusual way. The coast is mostly rugged and rocky, and the water itself stormy and full of angry waves, even in the mild weather. Even when the sky was blue 100 yards from the water, the ocean itself was swathed in low mist. It was really breathtaking. It was too cold to swim, of course, but extremely pleasant to walk down the beach for a while.
After leaving Seattle, we drove to Boise, ID to visit Michael and Linda, old friends from Vermont (who were also on our kayaking trip in the San Juan islands). We've now been here for a few days and its been amazingly pleasant. So far we've floated lazily down the Boise River on a raft, played disc golf in the park, eaten shrimp ceviche (by Michael) and roasted vegetable burritos (at Rob & Zelda's), gone to yoga class (finally!), and woken up each day to a brilliant continental breakfast and hot coffee waiting in the kitchen. We're not anxious to leave, to be honest. I'm not ready to return to Denver, or reality. This trip has been just too amazing, I'm not ready for it to be over.
BUT, happy times are being had. After saying our tearful goodbyes to Isabelle in southern Washington, Sophia and I drove back up to Seattle to visit her older brother, Vince, for several days. The trip included several trips to the movies (including Harry Potter, natch), delicious food, mani-pedis (my nails are now neon pink, Sophia's purple), and seeing Vince's new band play in Takoma (in a dive bar shaped like a giant teapot). It was fun, for the most part, but this trip has made cities mostly unbearable for both of us, so we decided to break up our stay in Seattle with a trip to the Olympic Peninsula (and Olympic National Park).
Because we've seen so many mountains, we decided to drive a little extra to reach the rain forest and coastline further west. First we went to the Hoh Rain Forest, which was incredible. It is one of the only temperate rain forests in the world, and it is green, green, GREEN. I can't adequately describe just how green it is. The trees are enormous old-growth forest, and they are covered with moss. It coats the trunks and drips from branches and even leaves. Apparently this causes no harm to the tree itself--the moss does not collect nutrients from the tree. Because the climate is so wet, it gets all of its nutrients simply from the air. Shockingly (or perhaps not so shockingly, considering our track record on this trip) we enjoyed beautiful weather throughout. Even in the rain forest, the sky was blue and the sun shone down through the green ceiling of trees and moss. Onto green ferns and more moss. It was really, really green. I think you get the idea.
In our planning for the drive, we discovered that the route to Hoh would take us through Forks, WA, a small town on the peninsula that has recently become famous for the Twilight series of teen romance novels. Apparently it has become a tourist destination, with Twilight gift shops and tours springing up to accommodate the vampire-crazy pre-adolescent fans. We felt that driving through such a town required a bit of preparation and research, so the three of us took turns reading the book out loud (with voices) in the car. Note to our readers: Twilight is really, really dreadful. Painfully, shockingly dreadful. Especially when read out loud. But it made our trip to Forks pretty entertaining. Vince, in particular, is really good at voicing the lame vampire Edward and his pathetic girlfriend Bella (his Edward sounds like Megatron from Transformers).
On our second day in the park, we went down to the coast, near a town called La Push and walked to Second Beach. Like the rain forest, the pacific northwestern beach was beautiful in an unusual way. The coast is mostly rugged and rocky, and the water itself stormy and full of angry waves, even in the mild weather. Even when the sky was blue 100 yards from the water, the ocean itself was swathed in low mist. It was really breathtaking. It was too cold to swim, of course, but extremely pleasant to walk down the beach for a while.
After leaving Seattle, we drove to Boise, ID to visit Michael and Linda, old friends from Vermont (who were also on our kayaking trip in the San Juan islands). We've now been here for a few days and its been amazingly pleasant. So far we've floated lazily down the Boise River on a raft, played disc golf in the park, eaten shrimp ceviche (by Michael) and roasted vegetable burritos (at Rob & Zelda's), gone to yoga class (finally!), and woken up each day to a brilliant continental breakfast and hot coffee waiting in the kitchen. We're not anxious to leave, to be honest. I'm not ready to return to Denver, or reality. This trip has been just too amazing, I'm not ready for it to be over.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
One Last Adventure
We always knew that our trip would come to an end and sadly that time has come. As you all know, we have spent the last six weeks having the most amazing adventures. We have gone fishing, climbed countless mountains, sea kayaked, ice climbed, gambled, etc... Having experienced all of these things, we knew our final adventure would have to top them all; it would have to be spectacular in every way, a sort of final exam to the trip. We decided to go out with a bang and climb Mount Adams, an inactive volcano in Washington that towers into the sky at 12,287 feet.
After four fabulous days sea kayaking in the San Juan Islands, the three of us plus my dad drove south. We took a scenic route through the Cascades and Mt. St. Helens, our bodies (especially arms. side note: my arms are HUGE) enjoying a much needed rest. After we had taken in all the sites, we headed towards Mt. Adams. The road was narrow and tunneled through a never ending forest of evergreens that towered a hundred feet in the air. It only got narrower as we drove the increasingly windy dirt road; houses disappeared, turns got sharper, and the air got thinner. At about 5,700 feet above sea level we reached base camp. It was 8pm, just enough time to eat and go to bed in order to be up at 4:30am.
4:30am came far too soon. We awoke in total darkness and reluctantly got out of our toasty sleeping bags. We gulped down our coffee (Sophia ate chocolate), ate some oatmeal, gathered our gear and by 6:00am were on our way.
The first couple miles weren't too bad; it was a nice wide trail that slowly climbed the mountain, slightly boring but easy on the legs. As we continued up, the trees disappeared and the trail became narrower. The packed dirt became loose volcanic gravel and rocks. The trail became steep and snow started to appear. We took a break around 7am to watch the sunrise and allow our bodies to acclimate to the 1500 vertical feet we'd climbed.
We spent a bit more time scrambling up the loose volcanic rock and then reached the edge of a vast snow field. This is where our crampons came in handy. We strapped in and began the climb. This part of the hike started at 9,400 feet above sea level and went to 11,400 ft in a very short distance, so we were hiking at a seriously steep angle. Basically climbing stairs. The only thing that kept us going was knowing that we would get to glissade the entire way down. As we slowly made our way up the mountain, gasping for air and clinging to the snow with our poles to prevent us from falling to our deaths, descending hikers flew by us down the glissade route (think a human toboggan or a waterslide made of snow) whooping and yelling "It was all worth it!" as they disappeared at breakneck speeds. We silently trudged on in hopes that we too would soon be able to yell that.
We took a few more brief breaks to eat lunch, take in the incredible views, and refuel. At the false summit we took off our crampons; the last 800 feet were to be done on foot. This was definitely the hardest part. We were exhausted, the path was steep and every step created a small rock slide. We switch-backed the whole thing, finally making it to the ruins of a small smokehouse that was built in 1910 and then a few feet further and we reached the summit of 12,287 feet! (I am proud to say that I was the first to reach the top!!)
Throughout our trip, we have been extremely lucky with weather. Almost everyday has been completely blue sky, and Mt. Adams was the same. It was sunny and clear which allowed us to see the most incredible views of Mt. Rainier, Mt. Hood, Mt. St. Helens, and countless other peaks and valleys. Truly spectacular.
And then the descent. The first part was horrible, but then we got to glissade! We all got in our snow gear, got our breaks ready (snow poles and ice axes) and hopped in the snow slide. It was the most thrilling experience. Not only was it incredibly fun, but it was fast. What took us 4 hours to climb up only took about 40 minutes down! Amazing.
We skated our way down the remaining snow fields and then basically fell down the rest of the mountain. After 13 hours of hiking, our bodies weak and broken, we reached the bottom. We indulged in 3 boxes of chilimac and slept in Sir Tentalot one final time. The perfect end to a perfect trip.
Watertripping
Like most visitors to Alaska, we had planned from the start to make our return trip wildly different from our original journey. It's a long drive, and we didn't want to redo any of our adventures, no matter how awesome some of them might have been. Other than a brief stint in the Yukon, we drove different roads in Alaska home, and once we got to B.C., we turned west toward the ocean and made for a road of a different kind: water.
Since the beginning, there's only been one date set in stone on our entire itinerary: on July 12th, at the crack of dawn, we had to be in Prince Rupert, B.C. to board our ferry south. We camped outside of town, and set Sophia's alarm for 4:30 AM. It might have been the most painful wake-up call of the trip. However, once we arrived at the ferry dock, it proved worth it. While we were hardly the first car there, the ticket taker in the booth directed us to the #1 spot (probably because even at 5 o'clock in the morning we all look adorable). We boarded the ferry right on schedule, and I left Isabelle and Sophia sleeping in the car to wander updeck. This was the biggest boat I've ever been on--it had at least 8 stories, some with cars, some with restaurants, some with private cabins. It was no cruise ship, but after a ferry experience limited mostly to the Burlington-Essex ferry on Lake Champlain, I was more than satisfied. I chose a seat next to a window, ate a granola bar, and continued reading my book while I waited for the others to join me. And waited. And waited.
A couple of hours passed, and eventually they found me. They had slept on the car deck until someone watching a security camera had spotted them and tapped on the window of the car. Apparently this is not allowed. The security guard shooed them upstairs, where they came holding pillows and blankets. I was happy to see them, but then they promptly settled down and slept for several more hours, while I wandered the multiple decks and watched the coast go by. The ferry we were on took us down the Inside Passage, along the coast of British Columbia. Like Alaska, British Columbia has a rugged coast lined with islands, so we were never really at open sea--we were surrounded by land and it mostly resembled a river. The weather was beautiful (as usual) and we even got to see several whales over the course of the journey.
Eventually the girls woke up (close to noon) and joined me. The entire trip was around 16 hours, but we passed the time by watching on-deck movies, making delicious sandwiches, and just sitting by the water in the sun. Not a bad way to travel.
Since the beginning, there's only been one date set in stone on our entire itinerary: on July 12th, at the crack of dawn, we had to be in Prince Rupert, B.C. to board our ferry south. We camped outside of town, and set Sophia's alarm for 4:30 AM. It might have been the most painful wake-up call of the trip. However, once we arrived at the ferry dock, it proved worth it. While we were hardly the first car there, the ticket taker in the booth directed us to the #1 spot (probably because even at 5 o'clock in the morning we all look adorable). We boarded the ferry right on schedule, and I left Isabelle and Sophia sleeping in the car to wander updeck. This was the biggest boat I've ever been on--it had at least 8 stories, some with cars, some with restaurants, some with private cabins. It was no cruise ship, but after a ferry experience limited mostly to the Burlington-Essex ferry on Lake Champlain, I was more than satisfied. I chose a seat next to a window, ate a granola bar, and continued reading my book while I waited for the others to join me. And waited. And waited.
A couple of hours passed, and eventually they found me. They had slept on the car deck until someone watching a security camera had spotted them and tapped on the window of the car. Apparently this is not allowed. The security guard shooed them upstairs, where they came holding pillows and blankets. I was happy to see them, but then they promptly settled down and slept for several more hours, while I wandered the multiple decks and watched the coast go by. The ferry we were on took us down the Inside Passage, along the coast of British Columbia. Like Alaska, British Columbia has a rugged coast lined with islands, so we were never really at open sea--we were surrounded by land and it mostly resembled a river. The weather was beautiful (as usual) and we even got to see several whales over the course of the journey.
Eventually the girls woke up (close to noon) and joined me. The entire trip was around 16 hours, but we passed the time by watching on-deck movies, making delicious sandwiches, and just sitting by the water in the sun. Not a bad way to travel.
Once last visit to Watson Lake
Just as seems to be our luck, good weather faded away the day we were going to spend driving, so no harm done. Lightning flashed and rain poured as we retraced our steps (the only point of the trip that we were going to do so). When we stopped for gas, we were informed that the storm had knocked down the lines needed to process credit cards. We had no food, no cash, and it was getting late. We pressed our luck at a road house and luck prevailed. They would take our cards and though the grill was off, they would rustle up something for us to eat. Three steaming plates of spaghetti later and we were satisfied. It was far later than we realized and our initial goal (somewhere deep into Canada) seemed infeasible now. Watson Lake no longer seemed out of the way, so we decided to pay a surprise visit to our friend Mandeep.
We pulled into the familiar gas station and assumed we would find our host grilling steak in the back kitchen where we first met him (in our minds he did this every night). Alas, no sign of Mandeep. It was about midnight now and we searched around the grounds, awkwardly peering at the shadowy figures next to their RVs, thinking perhaps Mandeep was being the sociable host that he was. Still no sign of him. We pulled around to the convenience store on which sat his strangely laid out apartment. We looked for lights on or other clues as to where he might be. Maybe he was sleeping, maybe he wasn't home. We decided to knock on the door anyway, disappointment welling. We had had this whole surprise scenario in our minds and now that they were crushed, we wanted to at least be able to see him. We pounded on the doors and no response. There was a dull light coming from the room we knew to be his kitchen so we threw pebbles at the window. Afraid we might break it, we soon gave up. We circled the lot again and were about to give up when an unfamiliar truck pulled up, yet a familiar voice called out, "Sophia, Isabelle, Rachel!" Mandeep had appeared and we spent the rest of the night talking, laughing and debuting our song. Mandeep was kind enough to let us use one of the 8 extra beds he has (ok this might be an exaggeration, but only slightly). In the morning, as had been promised, we awoke to omelets, french toast, fresh fruit and bacon. If you know us at all, you know that this is the way to our hearts. Thanks again Mandeep. Watson Lake again proved to be a worthwhile stop.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Valdez Gets Awesome
Valdez quickly changed from the place we were yelled at to the place of one of our greatest adventures. What at the beginning had been a town at the end of the road with a hazy sky, lack of restaurants, and grouchy people turned into a beautiful mountain village full of glaciers and adventure, specifically: ice climbing.
Yes, ice climbing. At the beginning of our trip over a month ago we all agreed that we’d spend the money to do at least one extreme adventure. We’ve come close to choosing one; paragliding in Girdwood would have been fun, rafting in Denali would have kicked ass, but for some reason, we never went through with it, none of them seemed to quite match our trip. None were quite epic enough, quite Alaska enough. Until Valdez.
Ice climbing immediately caught our eyes. At least me and Sophia’s. Rachel seemed a bit wary of the idea. We ignored Rachel’s concerns, decided it was now or never, and booked our trip.
We arrived at 9:30am to be outfitted and then headed to Worthington Glacier. It was a nice intimate group, just the three of us and our guide, Tim Duffy. Tim is originally a Mainiac who now spends his summers in Alaska doing all sorts of exciting trips and winters in Utah skiing. (These Alaskans really know how to have fun). Once at the glacier we had a short hike up to the base of the ice and then put on our gear. Tim then gave us our first lesson: how to walk on a glacier. It is key to always step flat footed and get the crampons thoroughly into the ice. And always be mindful of each step, if you trip and fall on the first part, he said, you’re toast. Scary…but exciting!
We began the trek up, feeling the glacier calve and move below our feet, each creek an ominous reminder of our fate if we were to trip and fall. We walked for about half an hour, going over steep slopes and deep crevasses that disappeared below the ice leading to tunnels of sub-glacial rivers. Sort of like a water slide only the end is an ice cave from which there is no escape. Finally we came up to a steep ice face and paused. Tim explained that this was what we’d be climbing. Yikes! He ran up to the top and secured the drills and ropes. “Who’s up?”
I volunteered to go first. I hooked up my harness, put my gloves on, and got my ice picks ready. “On Belay? I’m climbing”.
For my first climb, I decided to go with the “X” technique. I first raised and hammered my left ice pick in, and then did the same with the right. Next I lifted my left foot and secured the front prawns in the ice and did the same with the right foot, making sure they were a wide distance from each other, creating an X shape, all the while keeping my hips pushed against the ice. I felt pretty good. I then reached higher with my ice picks and did it again. I slowly started to climb.
Unlike rock climbing, ice climbing does not involve rocks (ed. note: Obviously). You have to completely rely on the stability of ice. Although ice is certainly strong and solid, it is hard to trust it the way one trusts rocks. It does not feel as tangible and stable as a rock. It took a while to trust my tools and the ice and believe that I would not slide to my death. But of course it held, and when my feet did slip, Tim did a great job belaying and keeping us alive.
I made it all the way up. By the end my arms were trembling from exhaustion and my clothes were sopping from the melting ice (side note: it was a gorgeous day, probably in the 70s, and the glacier was noticeably melting away below our feet. Tim said that he might not even be able to climb what we were climbing in a week or so).
Rachel went next and then Sophia. They both did an awesome job. After a brief break to eat some gorp supplied by Tim (yum!) we went again. We then trekked down glacier a bit to climb a moulin. A moulin is where water found a weakness in the glacier ice and ran through it carving out a large cylindrical hole. This particular moulin was about 50 feet deep and the water that had make it had abandoned it, leaving it empty and perfect for us to climb.
This time Sophia went first. It was a very difficult route. She thought that she would be stuck down there forever. She eventually made her way to the top, exhausted but proud of her abilities. When Tim took another look at the route he realized that it had melted and transformed making it far more difficult than he remembered. Even very experienced climbers would have a tough time with where Sophia went. I guess she’s just a natural.
Tim relocated the ropes and Rachel and I took our turns. Rappelling down and climbing up is far scarier than climbing up and rappelling down. With the first, you have to make it up, there is no other option. I thought of this as I was slowly lowered down into the moulin. However, once I reached the bottom all fear vanished. It was like being in Planet Earth, beautiful blue ice full of mysterious crevices and streams, so quiet and so peaceful. I did a little exploring and then began my climb.
After almost 6 hours, we made our way back to the Blue Avenger. At this point we had become quite close with our guide Tim and felt that he was worthy of our halibut. We left him with a feast of about 4lbs as a thank you for taking us on one of the most extraordinary adventures. Hope you enjoyed the fish!! And that it didn’t make you sick…
(by Isabelle)
Yes, ice climbing. At the beginning of our trip over a month ago we all agreed that we’d spend the money to do at least one extreme adventure. We’ve come close to choosing one; paragliding in Girdwood would have been fun, rafting in Denali would have kicked ass, but for some reason, we never went through with it, none of them seemed to quite match our trip. None were quite epic enough, quite Alaska enough. Until Valdez.
Ice climbing immediately caught our eyes. At least me and Sophia’s. Rachel seemed a bit wary of the idea. We ignored Rachel’s concerns, decided it was now or never, and booked our trip.
We arrived at 9:30am to be outfitted and then headed to Worthington Glacier. It was a nice intimate group, just the three of us and our guide, Tim Duffy. Tim is originally a Mainiac who now spends his summers in Alaska doing all sorts of exciting trips and winters in Utah skiing. (These Alaskans really know how to have fun). Once at the glacier we had a short hike up to the base of the ice and then put on our gear. Tim then gave us our first lesson: how to walk on a glacier. It is key to always step flat footed and get the crampons thoroughly into the ice. And always be mindful of each step, if you trip and fall on the first part, he said, you’re toast. Scary…but exciting!
We began the trek up, feeling the glacier calve and move below our feet, each creek an ominous reminder of our fate if we were to trip and fall. We walked for about half an hour, going over steep slopes and deep crevasses that disappeared below the ice leading to tunnels of sub-glacial rivers. Sort of like a water slide only the end is an ice cave from which there is no escape. Finally we came up to a steep ice face and paused. Tim explained that this was what we’d be climbing. Yikes! He ran up to the top and secured the drills and ropes. “Who’s up?”
I volunteered to go first. I hooked up my harness, put my gloves on, and got my ice picks ready. “On Belay? I’m climbing”.
For my first climb, I decided to go with the “X” technique. I first raised and hammered my left ice pick in, and then did the same with the right. Next I lifted my left foot and secured the front prawns in the ice and did the same with the right foot, making sure they were a wide distance from each other, creating an X shape, all the while keeping my hips pushed against the ice. I felt pretty good. I then reached higher with my ice picks and did it again. I slowly started to climb.
Unlike rock climbing, ice climbing does not involve rocks (ed. note: Obviously). You have to completely rely on the stability of ice. Although ice is certainly strong and solid, it is hard to trust it the way one trusts rocks. It does not feel as tangible and stable as a rock. It took a while to trust my tools and the ice and believe that I would not slide to my death. But of course it held, and when my feet did slip, Tim did a great job belaying and keeping us alive.
I made it all the way up. By the end my arms were trembling from exhaustion and my clothes were sopping from the melting ice (side note: it was a gorgeous day, probably in the 70s, and the glacier was noticeably melting away below our feet. Tim said that he might not even be able to climb what we were climbing in a week or so).
Rachel went next and then Sophia. They both did an awesome job. After a brief break to eat some gorp supplied by Tim (yum!) we went again. We then trekked down glacier a bit to climb a moulin. A moulin is where water found a weakness in the glacier ice and ran through it carving out a large cylindrical hole. This particular moulin was about 50 feet deep and the water that had make it had abandoned it, leaving it empty and perfect for us to climb.
This time Sophia went first. It was a very difficult route. She thought that she would be stuck down there forever. She eventually made her way to the top, exhausted but proud of her abilities. When Tim took another look at the route he realized that it had melted and transformed making it far more difficult than he remembered. Even very experienced climbers would have a tough time with where Sophia went. I guess she’s just a natural.
Tim relocated the ropes and Rachel and I took our turns. Rappelling down and climbing up is far scarier than climbing up and rappelling down. With the first, you have to make it up, there is no other option. I thought of this as I was slowly lowered down into the moulin. However, once I reached the bottom all fear vanished. It was like being in Planet Earth, beautiful blue ice full of mysterious crevices and streams, so quiet and so peaceful. I did a little exploring and then began my climb.
After almost 6 hours, we made our way back to the Blue Avenger. At this point we had become quite close with our guide Tim and felt that he was worthy of our halibut. We left him with a feast of about 4lbs as a thank you for taking us on one of the most extraordinary adventures. Hope you enjoyed the fish!! And that it didn’t make you sick…
(by Isabelle)
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Valdez: A Very Strange Beginning
We left Seward on July 6th ready for the next adventure. They seem to follow us wherever we go, and figured the next stop would be no exception. Valdez (Val-DEEZ), AK is yet another town at the end of the road, on Prince William Sound, with more boats in the harbor than houses on the streets.
Our first morning in Valdez started off rather well. After our first showers since Homer, we set off for the docks to meet up with Brad, the son of a family friend currently living in Alaska, working for a fishing company. The day we met up was one day before they were to se off for a multi-month salmon fishing trip. Which is cool, because it means that we got to check out the boat before we left—the first of its kind I’ve ever encountered outside of a book or film. And the Pequod it was not. It did not evoke angry seas or bawdy fisherman—in fact, the Ruth M was downright cozy. We toured the tiny kitchen, the bunks, and the head down below, followed by the comparatively spacious skipper’s quarters above deck. The boat had a sink and freezer, a shower even. From what I could see, it sure beats living out of a car. It got me thinking that fishing wouldn’t be a bad life, escaping the real world for months at a time. Sophia quickly killed that newfound dream by informing me that deckhands (Brad’s job on the boat) have to be strong enough to, you know, pick up things. Like buckets of salmon. And I can barely do real push-ups. Bummer.
While I greatly enjoyed touring the boat and even felt an instant fondness for ol’ Ruth, I will say this: the boat, she was filthy. Clothes and food strewn everywhere, dishes piled high, the decks were bogged down with fishnets waiting to be mended, and the top of the skipper’s bunkbed was buried in a lifetime’s accumulation of junk. I guess he sleeps in the bottom bunk. What this boat needs is a woman, I thought. A cliché, I know, but Suzanne Germain would have this vessel spotless (in shipshape!) before departure the next day. But apparently that’s bad luck twofold: a woman on a boat is no good, and Brad even thinks bathing is bad juju, too. God, what I would’ve given to see the boat (and its crew) when it docks in Valdez in 2 month’s time.
After seeing the boat and enjoying a picnic near the harbor, we decided to rent mountain bikes and go for a ride in the surrounding wilderness. This idea started off phenomenally: it felt good to get on a bike, the scenery was beautiful, we were practically alone (always a plus), and the terrain was actually pretty exciting. We took a mostly abandoned road out of town that made Vermont’s dirt roads look tame. The road wound alongside Mineral Creek, and as long as we kept peddling, the mosquitoes kept their distance.
Eventually we came to a broken down bridge, and could go no further, so we turned around and arrived back in town with 2 hours left of our rental. At this point, Sophia and I switched bikes so that she could get a turn on my much better bike (Isabelle and I had the same ok mountain bike, Sophia’s was just awful). Within minutes of kicking off on the pavement, the peddle peddled itself right off the bike. I was shocked, but kept my cool, glad that it hadn’t happened on the earlier more rugged terrain. We all went inside the rental shop to tell them about the broken bike, and asked if we could exchange it for another, or at least a partial refund.
The woman behind the counter (the owner, we later found out) had been scary even when we had first rented the bikes. Wizened and witch-like, she had said nothing friendly. I was not excited to talk to her again, particularly not about the broken bicycle. My fears were instantly realized. When we asked for an exchange, she snapped, “absolutely not.” We argued that it was unfair, that we had paid for four hours and only gotten two. “Such is life,” she said. By the end of the extremely tense conversation (Isabelle and Sophia did most of the talking, it was badass), she had essentially implied that I had broken it on purpose to get my money back: “I’ve had this bike for 1 year and this has never happened before.” (The “mountain” bike had no shocks and was not a day under fifteen years old). Well, great. It’s happened now. We left the shop pissed and hormonal and HATING Valdez (unfairly, yes—and our opinion and memories of the town are now fond, but at his moment…it was ugly).
It only got weirder from here. We went to a very small town green alongside the road (two picnic tables) to make dinner. We have become so sick of halibut that dinner is now just a way to wash it down as easily as possible. Using mostly supplies on hand, we created what eventually amounted to halibut slop: rice, peas, tasteless Colby jack cheese, and fish all mixed together. It was fine. Kind of. Not delicious, but nothing would make halibut exciting at this point. What made dinner exciting was not the cuisine, but the entertainment that accompanied it.
Not long after setting up our cookstoves, a truck pulled up nearby and idled for a moment. We worried that we were breaking a rule of some kind, until the engine died and the man inside walked over to us. “Do you mind if I use this other picnic table?” he asked, indicating the only other table in the miniscule park. “I don’t want to interrupt your dinner.” We said it was fine, wondering why he even felt the need to ask. He went back to the truck, and returned holding a cardboard box with some kind of animal inside. “This is my red wing hawk,” he said. “she’s just a baby.” He carried the box over to the picnic table. “I have more stuff, too.” He walked back to the truck and next emerged holding a fully grown hawk on a fake perch, attached at the foot. “She’s injured,” he explained, “so I bring her here every day to get some fresh air.” Then he returned again to the truck. We waited eagerly for the next arrival, which turned out to be just a normal-looking dog. By now we were a little wary of Valdezians in general, and this man was not helping. “Maybe it’s part of his job,” Sophia whispered, and we all sat down to eat our halibut slop and pretended to ignore the man, whose hawks were also enjoying dinner: the corpses of many smaller birds.
Now, what happened next actually happened. The hawk man took a boom box out of his truck, and a staff, unbuttoned his shirt halfway, and began performing rather intense tae kwon do/bo staff moves, while the hawks all looked on and (get this) the Eagles sang “Take it Easy” in the background. Several cars passed by during this time, and I wondered if they thought we were all together—three homeless girls in bright sweatshirts, and a man performing martial arts with a bo staff surrounded by hunting hawks.
[Insert by Isabelle: Rachel left to do dishes and Sophia and I began to pack the car. Although the man with the hawks was certainly bizarre, I felt a sort of fondness for him and felt compelled to talk to him. We’d been discussing ways to get rid of some of the Halibut for a few days and I thought, why not give some to this man? It would be the perfect in to have a conversation with him. We also had some left over peas that were rapidly thawing that we needed to get rid of.
A little terrified of the hawks that stood in my way, I headed over to the man. I explained that we were on a trip and had a lack of freezer space and would he like any of our excess halibut. His face red from dancing and shirt still unbuttoned, he began to explain that he was the tae kwon do instructor at the local college. “Everyone knows me, why don’t you just head over to my house and stick your halibut in the freezer? It’s the house with the big open garage, you’ll see some hawks in there.” Did he really expect us to go to his house? Too scary. We told him that we were heading out the next day and that we just wanted to get rid of a few pounds. He agreed and we were able to get rid of the peas and the halibut. He did not seem nearly grateful enough and acted as if we were the strange ones. He told us all about hawk hunting though, so in the end, totally worth it.]
Eventually we packed up, bought ice cream sandwiches at Safeway for dessert, and headed back up the abandoned road we had cycled to scope out a free campsite. Before long, I was snoozing peacefully, on the whole content with the bizarre (yet memorable) day in Valdez. Hours—or perhaps only moments—later, Isabelle shook me awake.
“I need to pee,” she whispered.
“So?” I asked, tired and grumpy.
“Come with me.”
“No! Just go right outside. I’m sleeping!”
“But I’m scared,” she replied, “I just saw someone run by on the road.”
At this point, it was practically broad daylight, and I thought nothing of this morning jogger using the old road. “So?” I asked again.
“So, it’s 1 o’clock in the morning.”
Oh. The image of the jogger disappeared, replaced instantly by a homicidal psycho preying on naïve young girls camping illegally, dragging the bodies off into the Alaskan wilderness. We’d never be found. Like a good big sister, I accompanied Isabelle outside, and she soon fell asleep. Meanwhile, I laid awake in terror long after, straining to hear the murderer’s footsteps over the roar of the nearby river.
Our first morning in Valdez started off rather well. After our first showers since Homer, we set off for the docks to meet up with Brad, the son of a family friend currently living in Alaska, working for a fishing company. The day we met up was one day before they were to se off for a multi-month salmon fishing trip. Which is cool, because it means that we got to check out the boat before we left—the first of its kind I’ve ever encountered outside of a book or film. And the Pequod it was not. It did not evoke angry seas or bawdy fisherman—in fact, the Ruth M was downright cozy. We toured the tiny kitchen, the bunks, and the head down below, followed by the comparatively spacious skipper’s quarters above deck. The boat had a sink and freezer, a shower even. From what I could see, it sure beats living out of a car. It got me thinking that fishing wouldn’t be a bad life, escaping the real world for months at a time. Sophia quickly killed that newfound dream by informing me that deckhands (Brad’s job on the boat) have to be strong enough to, you know, pick up things. Like buckets of salmon. And I can barely do real push-ups. Bummer.
While I greatly enjoyed touring the boat and even felt an instant fondness for ol’ Ruth, I will say this: the boat, she was filthy. Clothes and food strewn everywhere, dishes piled high, the decks were bogged down with fishnets waiting to be mended, and the top of the skipper’s bunkbed was buried in a lifetime’s accumulation of junk. I guess he sleeps in the bottom bunk. What this boat needs is a woman, I thought. A cliché, I know, but Suzanne Germain would have this vessel spotless (in shipshape!) before departure the next day. But apparently that’s bad luck twofold: a woman on a boat is no good, and Brad even thinks bathing is bad juju, too. God, what I would’ve given to see the boat (and its crew) when it docks in Valdez in 2 month’s time.
After seeing the boat and enjoying a picnic near the harbor, we decided to rent mountain bikes and go for a ride in the surrounding wilderness. This idea started off phenomenally: it felt good to get on a bike, the scenery was beautiful, we were practically alone (always a plus), and the terrain was actually pretty exciting. We took a mostly abandoned road out of town that made Vermont’s dirt roads look tame. The road wound alongside Mineral Creek, and as long as we kept peddling, the mosquitoes kept their distance.
Eventually we came to a broken down bridge, and could go no further, so we turned around and arrived back in town with 2 hours left of our rental. At this point, Sophia and I switched bikes so that she could get a turn on my much better bike (Isabelle and I had the same ok mountain bike, Sophia’s was just awful). Within minutes of kicking off on the pavement, the peddle peddled itself right off the bike. I was shocked, but kept my cool, glad that it hadn’t happened on the earlier more rugged terrain. We all went inside the rental shop to tell them about the broken bike, and asked if we could exchange it for another, or at least a partial refund.
The woman behind the counter (the owner, we later found out) had been scary even when we had first rented the bikes. Wizened and witch-like, she had said nothing friendly. I was not excited to talk to her again, particularly not about the broken bicycle. My fears were instantly realized. When we asked for an exchange, she snapped, “absolutely not.” We argued that it was unfair, that we had paid for four hours and only gotten two. “Such is life,” she said. By the end of the extremely tense conversation (Isabelle and Sophia did most of the talking, it was badass), she had essentially implied that I had broken it on purpose to get my money back: “I’ve had this bike for 1 year and this has never happened before.” (The “mountain” bike had no shocks and was not a day under fifteen years old). Well, great. It’s happened now. We left the shop pissed and hormonal and HATING Valdez (unfairly, yes—and our opinion and memories of the town are now fond, but at his moment…it was ugly).
It only got weirder from here. We went to a very small town green alongside the road (two picnic tables) to make dinner. We have become so sick of halibut that dinner is now just a way to wash it down as easily as possible. Using mostly supplies on hand, we created what eventually amounted to halibut slop: rice, peas, tasteless Colby jack cheese, and fish all mixed together. It was fine. Kind of. Not delicious, but nothing would make halibut exciting at this point. What made dinner exciting was not the cuisine, but the entertainment that accompanied it.
Not long after setting up our cookstoves, a truck pulled up nearby and idled for a moment. We worried that we were breaking a rule of some kind, until the engine died and the man inside walked over to us. “Do you mind if I use this other picnic table?” he asked, indicating the only other table in the miniscule park. “I don’t want to interrupt your dinner.” We said it was fine, wondering why he even felt the need to ask. He went back to the truck, and returned holding a cardboard box with some kind of animal inside. “This is my red wing hawk,” he said. “she’s just a baby.” He carried the box over to the picnic table. “I have more stuff, too.” He walked back to the truck and next emerged holding a fully grown hawk on a fake perch, attached at the foot. “She’s injured,” he explained, “so I bring her here every day to get some fresh air.” Then he returned again to the truck. We waited eagerly for the next arrival, which turned out to be just a normal-looking dog. By now we were a little wary of Valdezians in general, and this man was not helping. “Maybe it’s part of his job,” Sophia whispered, and we all sat down to eat our halibut slop and pretended to ignore the man, whose hawks were also enjoying dinner: the corpses of many smaller birds.
Now, what happened next actually happened. The hawk man took a boom box out of his truck, and a staff, unbuttoned his shirt halfway, and began performing rather intense tae kwon do/bo staff moves, while the hawks all looked on and (get this) the Eagles sang “Take it Easy” in the background. Several cars passed by during this time, and I wondered if they thought we were all together—three homeless girls in bright sweatshirts, and a man performing martial arts with a bo staff surrounded by hunting hawks.
[Insert by Isabelle: Rachel left to do dishes and Sophia and I began to pack the car. Although the man with the hawks was certainly bizarre, I felt a sort of fondness for him and felt compelled to talk to him. We’d been discussing ways to get rid of some of the Halibut for a few days and I thought, why not give some to this man? It would be the perfect in to have a conversation with him. We also had some left over peas that were rapidly thawing that we needed to get rid of.
A little terrified of the hawks that stood in my way, I headed over to the man. I explained that we were on a trip and had a lack of freezer space and would he like any of our excess halibut. His face red from dancing and shirt still unbuttoned, he began to explain that he was the tae kwon do instructor at the local college. “Everyone knows me, why don’t you just head over to my house and stick your halibut in the freezer? It’s the house with the big open garage, you’ll see some hawks in there.” Did he really expect us to go to his house? Too scary. We told him that we were heading out the next day and that we just wanted to get rid of a few pounds. He agreed and we were able to get rid of the peas and the halibut. He did not seem nearly grateful enough and acted as if we were the strange ones. He told us all about hawk hunting though, so in the end, totally worth it.]
Eventually we packed up, bought ice cream sandwiches at Safeway for dessert, and headed back up the abandoned road we had cycled to scope out a free campsite. Before long, I was snoozing peacefully, on the whole content with the bizarre (yet memorable) day in Valdez. Hours—or perhaps only moments—later, Isabelle shook me awake.
“I need to pee,” she whispered.
“So?” I asked, tired and grumpy.
“Come with me.”
“No! Just go right outside. I’m sleeping!”
“But I’m scared,” she replied, “I just saw someone run by on the road.”
At this point, it was practically broad daylight, and I thought nothing of this morning jogger using the old road. “So?” I asked again.
“So, it’s 1 o’clock in the morning.”
Oh. The image of the jogger disappeared, replaced instantly by a homicidal psycho preying on naïve young girls camping illegally, dragging the bodies off into the Alaskan wilderness. We’d never be found. Like a good big sister, I accompanied Isabelle outside, and she soon fell asleep. Meanwhile, I laid awake in terror long after, straining to hear the murderer’s footsteps over the roar of the nearby river.
Our Trip in Numbers (as of 7/9/09)
31 days on the road
5,893 miles driven
16 tanks of gas
3 nights in a hotel
20 nights in our tent
1 night in our car
1 night in a school bus
6 nights in a house
3 jars of peanut butter
90 lbs of Halibut caught
19 lbs of Halibut eaten
9 showers
8 mountains climbed
36 plays of “On the Road Again” by Willie Nelson
8 national parks visited
2 loads of laundry
2 times washing dishes in an outhouse
1 time washing dishes in the sink of a Starbucks' bathroom
3 times eating tuna straight out of the can b/c it’s all we had left to eat
2 times gambling
$0 won while gambling
2 rainy days
29 days of sun
3 propane tanks
Countless more adventures to come
5,893 miles driven
16 tanks of gas
3 nights in a hotel
20 nights in our tent
1 night in our car
1 night in a school bus
6 nights in a house
3 jars of peanut butter
90 lbs of Halibut caught
19 lbs of Halibut eaten
9 showers
8 mountains climbed
36 plays of “On the Road Again” by Willie Nelson
8 national parks visited
2 loads of laundry
2 times washing dishes in an outhouse
1 time washing dishes in the sink of a Starbucks' bathroom
3 times eating tuna straight out of the can b/c it’s all we had left to eat
2 times gambling
$0 won while gambling
2 rainy days
29 days of sun
3 propane tanks
Countless more adventures to come
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Hike to Harding Icefield
After our luxurious stay in Homer and an overload of festivals it was time to get back to the basics. We set up camp by a lake and planned an all day hike to the Harding Icefields. Fish again for dinner and we snuggled up in our tent for the first night in far too long. The next morning, after a hearty bowl of oatmeal (perhaps the best one yet by chef Rachel) we retraced our steps to the bottom of the Exit Glacier.
Though the trail was not as uninhabited as we would have liked, there is something particularly alluring about hikes in which you gain this kind of elevation. We began in the shade of the trees, entirely enveloped in a world of branches and brush, unable to see what lay beyond or behind. It seemed as if it could go on forever, then gradually the trees seemed to get smaller, then disappear, and an entirely new world was revealed. The glacier became visible and we could see how far we had ascended. At this point the ground was carpeted in green, with pink, yellow and purple accents.
Perched on a boulder we ate lunch (peanut butter of course), getting lost in the mysteries of the bright blue crevasses and the endless sea of white that peeked over the glacier. Soon we were a part of the white sea that crunched beneath our feet and created a field of reflection that baked our skin. The sun glaring above forced us down to our bras and to reapply sunscreen. The view of the forests and the path over which we had come disappeared behind a ridge and we were left alone with nothing but the icefield. It expanded in all directions, the peaks of mountains emerging from the snow every now and again. The way down was a journey through the layers in reverse, returning towards normalcy one step at a time. The burn in our lungs and legs felt good after our period of respite.
When we returned to our campsite, the sun had still not relented and the idea of climbing into our sleeping bags still dripping with sweat and caked in dirt was particularly unappealing. There was no running water around. In fact we had not encountered any running water since Homer (you reach a point where anti-bacterial gel just doesn’t cut it anymore). There was only one option – to jump in the glacial lake.
Knowing that it was near freezing we took a deep breath, counted down and took off at a full sprint into the water, wading up to our ankles, then knees, then dunking in our heads. By the time the entire body was submerged our feet were nearly numb and we were forced to sprint out at the same rate. Refreshed but not quite clean, we braved a few more dips, sometimes just wading out far enough to scrub our feet. Exhausted and as clean as possible we retired to our tent while the sun was still high in the sky despite the late hour.
Though the trail was not as uninhabited as we would have liked, there is something particularly alluring about hikes in which you gain this kind of elevation. We began in the shade of the trees, entirely enveloped in a world of branches and brush, unable to see what lay beyond or behind. It seemed as if it could go on forever, then gradually the trees seemed to get smaller, then disappear, and an entirely new world was revealed. The glacier became visible and we could see how far we had ascended. At this point the ground was carpeted in green, with pink, yellow and purple accents.
Perched on a boulder we ate lunch (peanut butter of course), getting lost in the mysteries of the bright blue crevasses and the endless sea of white that peeked over the glacier. Soon we were a part of the white sea that crunched beneath our feet and created a field of reflection that baked our skin. The sun glaring above forced us down to our bras and to reapply sunscreen. The view of the forests and the path over which we had come disappeared behind a ridge and we were left alone with nothing but the icefield. It expanded in all directions, the peaks of mountains emerging from the snow every now and again. The way down was a journey through the layers in reverse, returning towards normalcy one step at a time. The burn in our lungs and legs felt good after our period of respite.
When we returned to our campsite, the sun had still not relented and the idea of climbing into our sleeping bags still dripping with sweat and caked in dirt was particularly unappealing. There was no running water around. In fact we had not encountered any running water since Homer (you reach a point where anti-bacterial gel just doesn’t cut it anymore). There was only one option – to jump in the glacial lake.
Knowing that it was near freezing we took a deep breath, counted down and took off at a full sprint into the water, wading up to our ankles, then knees, then dunking in our heads. By the time the entire body was submerged our feet were nearly numb and we were forced to sprint out at the same rate. Refreshed but not quite clean, we braved a few more dips, sometimes just wading out far enough to scrub our feet. Exhausted and as clean as possible we retired to our tent while the sun was still high in the sky despite the late hour.
Mt. Marathon and the Mountain Marathon
After two nights sleeping on wheels, we were anxious to get to Seward and back to Sir Tentalot, who we were (shockingly?) starting to miss. Sleeping in the school bus was better than the Blue Avenger, but only marginally. We wanted sleeping bags! Cookfires! Thermarests! Luckily, this—along with the most epic of Independence Day celebrations—was exactly what we found in Seward.
Seward is, like Homer, a small community at the end of the road. It is on the eastern side of the Kenai Peninsula. While both towns are situated right on the ocean, Seward’s landscape differs greatly from Homer’s in that it is surrounded by mountains. In fact, the mountains go directly into town. Mt. Marathon is a ½ mile from the center of town, and it is the site of Seward’s #1 attraction: the annual 4th of July Mountain Marathon. While not being an actual marathon, this race is actually as incredible as it sounds. Decades ago, a guy from Seward (drunk in a local bar, of course) bet his friend that he could run up Mt. Marathon (and back to the bar) in less than an hour. A tradition was born, and the record time is now somewhere in the 45 minute range. Obviously, we had decided early in planning for the road trip that we had to be in Seward for this spectacle. Virtually every Alaskan we’ve met along the way has confirmed it as a July 4th must-do.
We arrived just in time for the men’s race, and picked out an excellent vantage point—we could see a lot of the trail, as well as the peak. The men came in a huge pack, and made their way up the base in a winding line that resembled a crowd of hunchbacked ants. Their speed at this point barely qualified as speedwalking—the trail was just that steep. This was pretty amusing to watch, but the real fun came in the descent: the racers were basically rolling down the mountain, covered in mud, while rocks bounced dangerously close to their heads and kicked up enormous amounts of dust. The steepest chute was followed by a flat straightaway—we saw several people fall just trying to slow down. (Watching people fall down is always entertaining).
To be honest—in all the amusement—it was a little unnerving. I felt panicked at times, convinced that someone would get seriously injured (not an irrational fear—there was even an ambulance parked at the base). It was that sick fascination kind of spectatorship—like NASCAR or the rodeo. But I needn’t have worried. No one was hurt—and a few racers even performed fancy jumps and spins on the steepest part (show offs) and it was all very exciting.
After enjoying the race, we stopped back in Seward’s center just for a minute to bid farewell to our new friend Zack and to watch Hobo Jim (the “troubadour of Alaska”) play a few tunes at a bar while Lil’ DD waited outside. The town had a whole streetfair going o, but Girdwood pretty much streetfaired us out, so we bought groceries and headed to our campsite, where we had our 4th halibut dinner in 5 days. It’s still delicious! We’ll see how long that lasts.
Seward is, like Homer, a small community at the end of the road. It is on the eastern side of the Kenai Peninsula. While both towns are situated right on the ocean, Seward’s landscape differs greatly from Homer’s in that it is surrounded by mountains. In fact, the mountains go directly into town. Mt. Marathon is a ½ mile from the center of town, and it is the site of Seward’s #1 attraction: the annual 4th of July Mountain Marathon. While not being an actual marathon, this race is actually as incredible as it sounds. Decades ago, a guy from Seward (drunk in a local bar, of course) bet his friend that he could run up Mt. Marathon (and back to the bar) in less than an hour. A tradition was born, and the record time is now somewhere in the 45 minute range. Obviously, we had decided early in planning for the road trip that we had to be in Seward for this spectacle. Virtually every Alaskan we’ve met along the way has confirmed it as a July 4th must-do.
We arrived just in time for the men’s race, and picked out an excellent vantage point—we could see a lot of the trail, as well as the peak. The men came in a huge pack, and made their way up the base in a winding line that resembled a crowd of hunchbacked ants. Their speed at this point barely qualified as speedwalking—the trail was just that steep. This was pretty amusing to watch, but the real fun came in the descent: the racers were basically rolling down the mountain, covered in mud, while rocks bounced dangerously close to their heads and kicked up enormous amounts of dust. The steepest chute was followed by a flat straightaway—we saw several people fall just trying to slow down. (Watching people fall down is always entertaining).
To be honest—in all the amusement—it was a little unnerving. I felt panicked at times, convinced that someone would get seriously injured (not an irrational fear—there was even an ambulance parked at the base). It was that sick fascination kind of spectatorship—like NASCAR or the rodeo. But I needn’t have worried. No one was hurt—and a few racers even performed fancy jumps and spins on the steepest part (show offs) and it was all very exciting.
After enjoying the race, we stopped back in Seward’s center just for a minute to bid farewell to our new friend Zack and to watch Hobo Jim (the “troubadour of Alaska”) play a few tunes at a bar while Lil’ DD waited outside. The town had a whole streetfair going o, but Girdwood pretty much streetfaired us out, so we bought groceries and headed to our campsite, where we had our 4th halibut dinner in 5 days. It’s still delicious! We’ll see how long that lasts.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Girdwood and The Magic School Bus
So, as I mentioned before, the Girdwood Forest Fair is a music festival that takes place in the woods of a small ski town (who knew they had skiing in Alaska!). The festival in known for its craziness—especially in the area of drugs, specifically hallucinogens. We were more excited about the live music and festival food, but when people consistently responded to our plans to go to Girdwood with, “Hahaha. Have fun, it’s CRAZY!!” we started getting nervous, and then excited to watch all the crazy drugged out people try to dance.
We arrived early afternoon, when it was mostly a family affair. There were endless paths of craft booths weaving through the forest. Beautiful pottery, hand sewn clothes, wooden trinkets—all the things Alaskans had spent the winter months creating to stay sane. After a few hours of browsing and listening to music we started thinking, what’s the big deal? Everyone seemed totally docile and sober. We were about to call it quits when we ran into our fishing buddy, Zack. He convinced us to stay, assuring us that a fantastic bluegrass rock band was about to come on.
He was right! We finally got some jigging in (I would like to note here that we totally started the dance party. Correction, I totally started the dance party). The music was hopping and pretty soon we were covered in dust and sweat. Sophia and Rachel decided to get a beer and we headed to the “Beer Garden”. This was a roped off area that beer was sold and minors were not allowed. We tried to convince the bouncer, Paul Todd, that I should be allowed in because A.) we were being responsible by having a designated driver and B.) they were my only friends there, what was I supposed to do, stand alone and wait? He refused and told me that I could wait with him. Rachel and Sophia happily agreed and off they went. So I was stuck with Paul Todd.
Paul Todd is a 60 something originally from Nebraska. He has been volunteering at Girdwood for years. Although he was possibly the most boring person I’ve encountered thus far (Seriously, I had to constantly remind myself to pay attention so I could nod at the right moments), he at least told me a little Girdwood history.
Girdwood started about 34 years ago. It began as a small festival with no organization or rules. Then it grew. First the bluegrass crowd arrived bringing with them pot and dancing. Then the mushroom and acid users came, camping all over town in a chaotic crazy sort of way. And finally, Paul said, the meth users came and with them came not only chaos but also violence (terrifying!). They had to cancel it last year because the town was so mad. So, this year it was supposed to be a more low key event. No wonder Paul was so adamant about not letting me in the beer garden.
Not nearly quick enough, Rachel and Sophia returned. I said goodbye to Paul and we headed back to the music. Although in theory Girdwood was a no longer drug friendly, it was clear that some drugs made there way in. The final band was a mix of reggae and native music that also included a lot bird noises. It was a fantastic band for dancing, but a few people pulled out some bird moves that simply could not be done without being under the influence.
The music and festival ended relatively early, but not to worry, the entire group simply moved to a different forest in town. Although I was psyched that I could participate, it was a little too weird for me. Sophia and I soon tired of it and decided to call it a night and head up to the bus.
Oh yeah, the bus! So, our friend Zack, who has become sort of like our Alaskan brother, lives in a bus. A big yellow school bus. It is amazing. He has removed most of the seats and added cabinets, bunk beds, and a large futon. Why would we break out Sir Tentalot when we could spend one last night inside? Zack handed us the keys (why he trusted us I’m not sure. Sophia and I seriously considered driving off with it. Leave Rachel, gain a school bus? A fair trade I think) and for the first time in my life I slept on a school bus.
We arrived early afternoon, when it was mostly a family affair. There were endless paths of craft booths weaving through the forest. Beautiful pottery, hand sewn clothes, wooden trinkets—all the things Alaskans had spent the winter months creating to stay sane. After a few hours of browsing and listening to music we started thinking, what’s the big deal? Everyone seemed totally docile and sober. We were about to call it quits when we ran into our fishing buddy, Zack. He convinced us to stay, assuring us that a fantastic bluegrass rock band was about to come on.
He was right! We finally got some jigging in (I would like to note here that we totally started the dance party. Correction, I totally started the dance party). The music was hopping and pretty soon we were covered in dust and sweat. Sophia and Rachel decided to get a beer and we headed to the “Beer Garden”. This was a roped off area that beer was sold and minors were not allowed. We tried to convince the bouncer, Paul Todd, that I should be allowed in because A.) we were being responsible by having a designated driver and B.) they were my only friends there, what was I supposed to do, stand alone and wait? He refused and told me that I could wait with him. Rachel and Sophia happily agreed and off they went. So I was stuck with Paul Todd.
Paul Todd is a 60 something originally from Nebraska. He has been volunteering at Girdwood for years. Although he was possibly the most boring person I’ve encountered thus far (Seriously, I had to constantly remind myself to pay attention so I could nod at the right moments), he at least told me a little Girdwood history.
Girdwood started about 34 years ago. It began as a small festival with no organization or rules. Then it grew. First the bluegrass crowd arrived bringing with them pot and dancing. Then the mushroom and acid users came, camping all over town in a chaotic crazy sort of way. And finally, Paul said, the meth users came and with them came not only chaos but also violence (terrifying!). They had to cancel it last year because the town was so mad. So, this year it was supposed to be a more low key event. No wonder Paul was so adamant about not letting me in the beer garden.
Not nearly quick enough, Rachel and Sophia returned. I said goodbye to Paul and we headed back to the music. Although in theory Girdwood was a no longer drug friendly, it was clear that some drugs made there way in. The final band was a mix of reggae and native music that also included a lot bird noises. It was a fantastic band for dancing, but a few people pulled out some bird moves that simply could not be done without being under the influence.
The music and festival ended relatively early, but not to worry, the entire group simply moved to a different forest in town. Although I was psyched that I could participate, it was a little too weird for me. Sophia and I soon tired of it and decided to call it a night and head up to the bus.
Oh yeah, the bus! So, our friend Zack, who has become sort of like our Alaskan brother, lives in a bus. A big yellow school bus. It is amazing. He has removed most of the seats and added cabinets, bunk beds, and a large futon. Why would we break out Sir Tentalot when we could spend one last night inside? Zack handed us the keys (why he trusted us I’m not sure. Sophia and I seriously considered driving off with it. Leave Rachel, gain a school bus? A fair trade I think) and for the first time in my life I slept on a school bus.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Homeless again
After taking advantage of Maura’s living room for almost a week (thanks again!!), we have finally moved on. On July 2nd, we packed up all our stuff, did final cleaning and laundry, and said goodbye to Homer. We headed out in the late afternoon (we have a habit of doing that…) and drove to the town of Girdwood where our fishing friend, Zack, told us there was a great forest fair from the 3rd through the 5th. We decided we’d get there early, beat the crowds and secure a fantastic camping spot. Unfortunately, when we arrived we were told that camping was not allowed at the fair grounds until the next day. Unsure of what to do, we asked where we should camp. The security told us of an old mine that had been converted into a campground just a few miles away.
We headed down a dark windy road towards the campground. The road was a good indication of what was to come. The Girdwood mine campground is possibly the sketchiest scariest campground in the world. Two very shady men occupied the first spot we passed. They had no tent, just a big white van, and they stared at us as we passed with their eyes darting suspiciously all around. The next spot was filled by a family that I’m pretty sure had come to Girdwood a few years ago and decided to just stay. There were toys scattered everywhere, a bundle of kids frolicking about, and the tent appeared old and weathered. It was actually quite sad—the kids seemed quite content, but it was hard to watch the scene once you noticed the parents passed out by the fire surrounded by beer cans.
The rest of the campground brought more of the same. There were old rusting RVs with tires seeping into the ground from years of disuse, elaborate swings and tables built into the surrounding forests. Had we entered some sort of Alaskan shantytown? When the security suggested we stay at the campground, did he mean a permanent camping community? Whatever it was, it was terrifying. We sped out and tried to come up with plan B.
But first, dinner. We took out a few pounds of halibut and set up the kitchen at the most beautiful highway turnoff. It was a little beach nestled between an ocean inlet and the mountains. We cooked up the cheeks, which are supposed to be the most delicious part of halibut. And they are!! They have a similar consistency of lobster and taste like the ocean. YUM. We made the most delicious fish tacos ever.
After spending a few hours eating and playing in the sand, it was nearly 10:30pm and we still had no place to sleep. We headed to Chugach National Park to see if any campsites were available. They weren’t. In retrospect, we probably should have planned a place to stay for the 4th of July weekend.
We discussed the possibility of trading halibut for a corner of someone’s spot. We then started off down logging roads looking for a flat spot. It was late, we figured we could set up camp, wake up early and leave before anyone realized we were even there. Apparently the rest of Alaska had the same idea. Whenever we thought we had found a secret spot, there’d be a tent perfectly tucked away from the road.
We continued our search, wasting gas and starting to panic. Defeated and approaching midnight, we all thought, why not just sleep in the car? We pulled over by portage glacier. We hung scarves on the windows to block out light and any potential passersby. After a brief debate about differences in dogs and humans and the possibility of dying in our sleep due to lack of oxygen, we agreed to crack a window even though it let in thousands of mosquitoes. We pulled out our sleeping bags, reclined the chairs, and went to bed. Sophia took the driver’s seat (she can sleep anywhere), I got the passenger’s seat, and Rachel took the back. It was a long night. Sophia swears I fell asleep, but I would argue I did not.
The next morning we drove away and headed to the nearest gas station. Oh, how easy it was to revert back to our old ways after being spoiled in Homer.
We headed down a dark windy road towards the campground. The road was a good indication of what was to come. The Girdwood mine campground is possibly the sketchiest scariest campground in the world. Two very shady men occupied the first spot we passed. They had no tent, just a big white van, and they stared at us as we passed with their eyes darting suspiciously all around. The next spot was filled by a family that I’m pretty sure had come to Girdwood a few years ago and decided to just stay. There were toys scattered everywhere, a bundle of kids frolicking about, and the tent appeared old and weathered. It was actually quite sad—the kids seemed quite content, but it was hard to watch the scene once you noticed the parents passed out by the fire surrounded by beer cans.
The rest of the campground brought more of the same. There were old rusting RVs with tires seeping into the ground from years of disuse, elaborate swings and tables built into the surrounding forests. Had we entered some sort of Alaskan shantytown? When the security suggested we stay at the campground, did he mean a permanent camping community? Whatever it was, it was terrifying. We sped out and tried to come up with plan B.
But first, dinner. We took out a few pounds of halibut and set up the kitchen at the most beautiful highway turnoff. It was a little beach nestled between an ocean inlet and the mountains. We cooked up the cheeks, which are supposed to be the most delicious part of halibut. And they are!! They have a similar consistency of lobster and taste like the ocean. YUM. We made the most delicious fish tacos ever.
After spending a few hours eating and playing in the sand, it was nearly 10:30pm and we still had no place to sleep. We headed to Chugach National Park to see if any campsites were available. They weren’t. In retrospect, we probably should have planned a place to stay for the 4th of July weekend.
We discussed the possibility of trading halibut for a corner of someone’s spot. We then started off down logging roads looking for a flat spot. It was late, we figured we could set up camp, wake up early and leave before anyone realized we were even there. Apparently the rest of Alaska had the same idea. Whenever we thought we had found a secret spot, there’d be a tent perfectly tucked away from the road.
We continued our search, wasting gas and starting to panic. Defeated and approaching midnight, we all thought, why not just sleep in the car? We pulled over by portage glacier. We hung scarves on the windows to block out light and any potential passersby. After a brief debate about differences in dogs and humans and the possibility of dying in our sleep due to lack of oxygen, we agreed to crack a window even though it let in thousands of mosquitoes. We pulled out our sleeping bags, reclined the chairs, and went to bed. Sophia took the driver’s seat (she can sleep anywhere), I got the passenger’s seat, and Rachel took the back. It was a long night. Sophia swears I fell asleep, but I would argue I did not.
The next morning we drove away and headed to the nearest gas station. Oh, how easy it was to revert back to our old ways after being spoiled in Homer.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Fishtastic!
As we struggled to reel our fish out of the water, part of the excitement was getting to see how large they were. As they neared the top you could make out their distinct shape, but the size was indecipherable until they practically surfaced due to the distortion from the water. The bigger the better, we thought. Some great 10 pounders were smugly declared too small and released back into the water to their great relief. In the end, once filleted, our haul was weighed at over 90 pounds. We congratulated ourselves and boasted to our friends about our impressive day. After getting it frozen we commandeered Maura and Kordell’s freezer and filled it to almost beyond capacity.
Little did we think in all of our self-congratulatory celebration that we had perhaps caught too much fish. Too much fish? Impossible. To those not up to date on current fish market prices, halibut can sell for $20 per pound in the lower 48s. We were rich in fish. Sadly there is no place to exchange fish for cash (though less delicious, significantly more useful). Although we might like brag about our massive combined appetite, even we are unable to eat 90 pounds of fish in a matter of days. Our solution was to send some off, leave some with our fine AK friends and offer it to our blog readers (no takers but don’t worry we’re not insulted, you will be receiving some for X-mas anyway, Halibut in stockings, delicious!). Finally we decided to take about 20 pounds with us on our journey. Do not be mistaken as we once were, coolers are not freezers and fish cannot be kept that long (even when you change the ice everyday). Thus we have just finished our 6th straight day of eating Halibut (a lovely Halibut soup made with ramen, halibut and canned veggies).
Perhaps the most memorable halibut dinner was our deep fried night. When we dropped off fish at Capt. Mike and Mary’s, we stayed and chatted for a while listening to stories about the old days of fishing. The evening concluded with the Captain’s very own recipe for fried halibut and our very own bag of Krusteaz to take home. What resulted can only be summed up with the lesson we learned; no home is complete without a deep fryer. It was like magic. You dropped in hunks of fish dipped in pancake batter. It bubbled and browned in a mere minute and out came perfectly cooked and crunchy fish. Of course this prompted us to deep fry everything in sight. Like most of our decisions this seemed entirely reasonable at the time. “Everything” amounted to 4 mini chocolate bars and two cookies worth of raw cookie dough. We didn’t have any more oil so we figured the same oil we used for the fish was fine. There were only a few fish chunks floating around and they were easily fished out with a spoon.
Funny fact, chocolate melts when it gets hot. We ended up with shells of friedness with the remnants to prove that chocolate had in fact once been there. Cookie dough was no better. It melted and didn’t fry. We eagerly divided up the sad excuse for dessert and popped them still steaming into our mouths. “Delicious,” we declared prematurely. Then we chewed. It tasted like chocolate covered fish. Chocolate covered fish is not delicious. So warning to all readers who are clearly going to run out and purchase their very own deep fryer, always change the oil.
P.S. -We will continue counting our consecutive fish eating days. Currently 6 and counting!
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Home Sweet Homer!!
We arrived in Homer just in time. We had reached the half-way point of our trip and perhaps the low point as well. We hadn’t showered in 5 days and our last shower had been in an oh so alluring stream of sulfur. During this period of non-showering were intense hikes during which we applied layer after layer of bug spray and sunscreen, and waking up in puddles with dirt caked faces. We knew it was bad when Rachel searched for the offensive odor in our tent and realized that it was her hair.
Needless to say we arrived in Homer in poor form, mere shadow of the clean girls that we once were. Despite our lacking personal hygiene, I could barely contain my excitement. As we drove I knew exactly the bend that would reveal the “skyline” of Homer, a lookout point from which you could see the spit extend into the water shaped like a finger beckoning visitors, dwarfed by the mountains that were reflected in the water that separated the two. Two peaks cradled a massive glacier and a mist cast a mysterious light over the entire view. It had been two years since I had been here, but everything seemed so familiar.
Other than our very exciting fishing adventure, we treated Homer as a point of relaxation and revival. We slept in real beds (well I guess in comparison to sleeping on the ground, mattresses on the floor seem like real beds). We had a kitchen with running water, electricity and a refrigerator; man, what will they think of next! We also had two very gracious hosts who accepted us despite our obvious initial stench and our ever- expanding pile of junk that began in their dining room and somehow extended out the door onto their lawn and around their house (thanks Maura and Kordell!).
The endless numbers of cafes and restaurants built for the large numbers of tourists that flock to the quaint fishing village in the summer provided us ample space and fuel for our revitalization. I caught up with old friends and bonded with the new love of my life, Stinker. All in all there is nothing grand to report that has not already been reported, but Homer has lived up to my expectations and the fact that we are going to look at real estate before we leave should be indicative of our feelings towards this quirky town at the end of the road.
Needless to say we arrived in Homer in poor form, mere shadow of the clean girls that we once were. Despite our lacking personal hygiene, I could barely contain my excitement. As we drove I knew exactly the bend that would reveal the “skyline” of Homer, a lookout point from which you could see the spit extend into the water shaped like a finger beckoning visitors, dwarfed by the mountains that were reflected in the water that separated the two. Two peaks cradled a massive glacier and a mist cast a mysterious light over the entire view. It had been two years since I had been here, but everything seemed so familiar.
Other than our very exciting fishing adventure, we treated Homer as a point of relaxation and revival. We slept in real beds (well I guess in comparison to sleeping on the ground, mattresses on the floor seem like real beds). We had a kitchen with running water, electricity and a refrigerator; man, what will they think of next! We also had two very gracious hosts who accepted us despite our obvious initial stench and our ever- expanding pile of junk that began in their dining room and somehow extended out the door onto their lawn and around their house (thanks Maura and Kordell!).
The endless numbers of cafes and restaurants built for the large numbers of tourists that flock to the quaint fishing village in the summer provided us ample space and fuel for our revitalization. I caught up with old friends and bonded with the new love of my life, Stinker. All in all there is nothing grand to report that has not already been reported, but Homer has lived up to my expectations and the fact that we are going to look at real estate before we leave should be indicative of our feelings towards this quirky town at the end of the road.
Bon Appetit!
So, dear readers, I'm sure you've all been dying to know one important, often unreported, thing about our trip: what on earth have we been eating? I know you're curious--I always am--so I've decided to blog about that delicious aspect of our trip: FOOD.
In some ways, the dining on this road trip has been caveman-like: we never really know what we're going to get. One day we'll eat the finest steaks Alberta has to offer (in Calgary), while another day held only peanut butter: peanut butter granola bar for breakfast, peanut butter sandwich (no jelly) for lunch, Reese's peanut butter cup for snack (the most un-delicious Reese's peanut butter cup I've ever eaten). One day in Fort St. John, B.C., lunch was dry tuna directly from the can. Dinner is a little bit better, but even that has gotten repetitive at times. We've had Ramen noodles three nights (with a green vegetable) and chili mac twice. But I have no complaints about that one--I'm pretty sure I could eat chili mac once a week for the rest of my life and be happy about it.
What is really notable about our diets on this trip, however, is their magnitude. Readers who know only one of us should be aware: we ALL eat like that. For instance, if you think that I eat a lot, you should see Sophia. One night at a BBQ restaurant in Whitehorse, YT, Ms. Tkac ordered a full rack of ribs. When the ribs arrived in all their glory, a man at a nearby table leaned over and said, "wow, that's a lot of food. I guess you'll be taking home leftovers!" We all stared in disbelief at this ignorant man. Sophia replied, "no, I think I'll be eating it all right now" and he chuckled, disbelieving. I'll have you know that Sophia ate every single one of those ribs, right to the bone. On his way out, he told her that he was impressed. That's Sophia, debunking the myth of the petite female appetite everywhere she goes.
Because we all have appetites essentially like Sophia's, we were starting to get frustrated with our road diet of Ramen and peanut butter. Finally reaching Homer was like the holy grail of deliciousness: we've eaten out a luxurious number of times (partially because many of Sophia's fond memories of the town are related to the local cuisine). The first night, we partook in salmon burgers and burritos at Cosmic Kitchen, followed by dessert at Sourdough Express (Dessert was a brownie sundae and a strawberry rhubarb crisp à la mode. When the waitress returned to fetch our clean plates, she remarked that we finished in "record time." Not very shocking). Sunday we had brunch (BRUNCH!) at The Duncan House. Sophia and I split sweet and savory: an amazing omelette and French toast stuffed with cream cheese and berries. That night, we had gourmet pizza at Fat Olives: broccoli, spinach, fresh tomatoes, mushrooms, sausage, onions, and ricotta cheese. The next day--that of our halibut fishing adventure--we came home and cooked up 2 huge fillets with corn on the cob and zucchini. Yesterday we really indulged, enjoying sandwiches and decadent sticky buns at Two Sisters Café, followed (not too long after) by an amazing dinner at Café Cups.
I should say now: Cups was a gift from Mama and Papa Tkac (for Sophia's birthday), and we all want to say THANK YOU!!! It was incredibly delicious and we are so grateful. You could not have provided food to happier bellies.
So, the quality of cuisine has picked up over the last week, but now we're bracing ourselves for more PB and Ramen--and 64 lbs of Halibut. Tonight is our last night in Homer, so we plan to indulge one final time, before packing everything into the Blue Avenger and hoping that the grizzly bears don't follow the scent of fish all the way back to Denver.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Just for the Halibut!
We have been in beautiful Homer, AK for 4 days now. I am falling in love with this town. It could be compared to the small fishing towns of the east coast, only less developed, fewer people/tourists, and a landscape that appears as if it's on steroids. Most of the residents of Homer are only here for the summer months. They run small shops or fishing charters taking tourists out into the Halibut filled Alaskan waters. These businesses make thousands and thousands of dollars, allowing people to leave Homer during the 8 months of darkness to vacation in exotic warm places. It sounds like the ideal situation. I have decided that when I begin my real life, it will include only 4 months of work.
With fishing being the number one industry in Homer, we of course reserved our spots to go out months ago. We got a spot on Captain Mike's ship, an old cohort of Sophia's from her days living on the spit. We arrived at the dock at 6:30 am sharp, coffee in hand, anxiously waiting for our first fishing experience (well, me and Rachel's first. Sophia's fished loads of times. She used to live in Homer after all). Next came Terry, who would also be fishing with us. He was a man in his 60s from California. He seemed nice enough until he started bragging about his boats, his knowledge of law (he told Rachel they had to have a debate when she said she might go to law school) and then told us all about his brain tumor. Awkward.
Next up was Jerry and his son Zack. They were hilarious. They brought a giant cooler full of beer, which they started drinking as soon as we were on the boat (so like 7:00AM...a bit early for me). They were very entertaining with their father/son banter. Also, they didn't make us feel uncomfortable by immediately talking about scary medical conditions. Although, I guess their constant drinking was a little unnerving. Fishermen are an odd bunch, you never know what you're gonna get.
Finally, Captain Mike arrived. Captain Mike is the quintessential captain. He has been a fisherman forever; he made us feel very safe out in the Alaskan sea and made us believe that we were pros with a fishing pole. His face is leathered from years in the sun and he has a HUGE bushy white mustache. He was wearing typical captain attire: wind cap, sweatshirt, rubber overalls and rain boot. And his final accessory--a big fat cigar, which never left his mouth. Normally, cigar smoke really bothers me, but with Captain Mike I decided to let it slide. It would have felt incomplete without it. He was perfect. Rachel and I immediately fell in love with him and spent the entire day sneakily taking photos of him.
We all settled in on the boat, a 6 pack called "The Wild Thing". It was a perfect blue bird day. The ocean was calm and across the bay the mountains seemed to rise straight up from the depths of the sea. The early morning sun casted an incredible pink glow on all the boats and surrounding glaciers. It was the ultimate day for fishing.
We puttered out of the bay and spent the first two hours getting to our destination. We passed amazing islands covered in volcanoes, including Mt. Augustine which was steaming in the distance. We chatted with our new friends and (sigh...) Captain Mike. We reached a quiet bay and anchored down. We all set up our polls, Captain Mike showing us how to hold them and what to do if we felt a nibble. Then we waited.
And waited...
Just as I was starting to get bored and question the appeal of the sport, I felt a little nibble. And then a big nibble. I had one! I braced myself against the boat and began to reel it in, struggling with the weight of the fish and the slipperiness of my pole. Finally, after bringing up 100 feet or so of line, up popped my fish. Normally I don't like the idea of killing things. I prefer my meat to be filleted and frozen when I buy it. But this particular fish I did not feel bad about killing. Halibut are ugly! They have big sharp teeth and both their eyes are on one side of their bodies. Weird. Although my fish felt like the biggest halibut in the world, a whale even, it turned out to only be around 20lbs. Captain Mike said good job, unhooked it, and threw it back! I sadly watched as my first catch ever swiftly swam away.
The rest of the day went pretty much the same. We'd have long lulls and then all of a sudden we'd catch 5 halibut each. It was all very exciting. Rachel was the first person to catch a keeper. After a 10 minute battle, she pulled up a 36lbs halibut! Incredible. It was so large and feisty that Captain Mike had to hit it over the head with a bat to kill it.
In the end, we got to keep two each, all over 30lbs!! (I would just like to note here that although many might say fishing is a man's sport, our fish were far larger than all the boys...).
We then headed back to Homer. We had the fish filleted and frozen, the grand total of edible fish coming to 90lbs! We hurried home with our 5lbs of unfrozen fish and made the most delicious fresh dinner. I now understand the joys of fishing--there's something so amazing about catching, killing, and cooking your own food all in one day. I can't wait to do it again.
Note to readers: Do you love fish? We have wayyy more fish than we can possibly eat. If you would like some Halibut we will send you the fish for free if you pay the shipping costs. Let us know in the next two days if you're interested.
With fishing being the number one industry in Homer, we of course reserved our spots to go out months ago. We got a spot on Captain Mike's ship, an old cohort of Sophia's from her days living on the spit. We arrived at the dock at 6:30 am sharp, coffee in hand, anxiously waiting for our first fishing experience (well, me and Rachel's first. Sophia's fished loads of times. She used to live in Homer after all). Next came Terry, who would also be fishing with us. He was a man in his 60s from California. He seemed nice enough until he started bragging about his boats, his knowledge of law (he told Rachel they had to have a debate when she said she might go to law school) and then told us all about his brain tumor. Awkward.
Next up was Jerry and his son Zack. They were hilarious. They brought a giant cooler full of beer, which they started drinking as soon as we were on the boat (so like 7:00AM...a bit early for me). They were very entertaining with their father/son banter. Also, they didn't make us feel uncomfortable by immediately talking about scary medical conditions. Although, I guess their constant drinking was a little unnerving. Fishermen are an odd bunch, you never know what you're gonna get.
Finally, Captain Mike arrived. Captain Mike is the quintessential captain. He has been a fisherman forever; he made us feel very safe out in the Alaskan sea and made us believe that we were pros with a fishing pole. His face is leathered from years in the sun and he has a HUGE bushy white mustache. He was wearing typical captain attire: wind cap, sweatshirt, rubber overalls and rain boot. And his final accessory--a big fat cigar, which never left his mouth. Normally, cigar smoke really bothers me, but with Captain Mike I decided to let it slide. It would have felt incomplete without it. He was perfect. Rachel and I immediately fell in love with him and spent the entire day sneakily taking photos of him.
We all settled in on the boat, a 6 pack called "The Wild Thing". It was a perfect blue bird day. The ocean was calm and across the bay the mountains seemed to rise straight up from the depths of the sea. The early morning sun casted an incredible pink glow on all the boats and surrounding glaciers. It was the ultimate day for fishing.
We puttered out of the bay and spent the first two hours getting to our destination. We passed amazing islands covered in volcanoes, including Mt. Augustine which was steaming in the distance. We chatted with our new friends and (sigh...) Captain Mike. We reached a quiet bay and anchored down. We all set up our polls, Captain Mike showing us how to hold them and what to do if we felt a nibble. Then we waited.
And waited...
Just as I was starting to get bored and question the appeal of the sport, I felt a little nibble. And then a big nibble. I had one! I braced myself against the boat and began to reel it in, struggling with the weight of the fish and the slipperiness of my pole. Finally, after bringing up 100 feet or so of line, up popped my fish. Normally I don't like the idea of killing things. I prefer my meat to be filleted and frozen when I buy it. But this particular fish I did not feel bad about killing. Halibut are ugly! They have big sharp teeth and both their eyes are on one side of their bodies. Weird. Although my fish felt like the biggest halibut in the world, a whale even, it turned out to only be around 20lbs. Captain Mike said good job, unhooked it, and threw it back! I sadly watched as my first catch ever swiftly swam away.
The rest of the day went pretty much the same. We'd have long lulls and then all of a sudden we'd catch 5 halibut each. It was all very exciting. Rachel was the first person to catch a keeper. After a 10 minute battle, she pulled up a 36lbs halibut! Incredible. It was so large and feisty that Captain Mike had to hit it over the head with a bat to kill it.
In the end, we got to keep two each, all over 30lbs!! (I would just like to note here that although many might say fishing is a man's sport, our fish were far larger than all the boys...).
We then headed back to Homer. We had the fish filleted and frozen, the grand total of edible fish coming to 90lbs! We hurried home with our 5lbs of unfrozen fish and made the most delicious fresh dinner. I now understand the joys of fishing--there's something so amazing about catching, killing, and cooking your own food all in one day. I can't wait to do it again.
Note to readers: Do you love fish? We have wayyy more fish than we can possibly eat. If you would like some Halibut we will send you the fish for free if you pay the shipping costs. Let us know in the next two days if you're interested.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Denali Peak
Unfortunately it's a little difficult to see in this size, but here it is: the highest mountain in North America. Unreal.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Welcome to Alaska!
We stopped after the teeny-tiny border patrol (literally the size of an outhouse) to jump around.
Chicken, Alaska. The first town we hit coming in. Population: 8 (in winter).
Denali: The Park and The Mountain
For our first day in Denali, we made reservations for an 8:30 AM bus ride through the park (Denali does not permit cars, instead they run regular shuttles down its sole 80-odd mile dirt road (which doesn't even get you halfway into the park)). Our driver was pleasant and enthusiastic, but the sights were few until a couple of hours in, when we saw a mama grizzly and her cub, nursing. They were followed by a bunch of caribou.
Unfortunately, however, it was dark and overcast, and even the mountains nearby were invisible, much less The Mountain. Denali Peak is over 20,000 feet tall, and its base is only 2,000 or so feet above sea level. (Compare that to Colorado's highest peak, Mt. Elbert, which is 14,000 feet high with a base 10,000 feet above sea level.) It's the sight I wanted most to see, and the bus driver's rapturous descriptions at every look-out point (of what it would look like had we been able to see it) did nothing to assuage my disappointment at missing this most epic sight. Apparently, we weren't the first bus to miss out. In the 120 days of last year's season, Denali was only visible 14 days. Even on otherwise clear days, it is hidden by its own insane weather.
The park--and day--were still pretty awesome, however. On the return trip, we got off the shuttle at a random spot and climbed a mountain without a trail. We hiked up some drainage, which was easy at first, but got a little dicey towards the top. The rocks and dirt were pretty loose, and I was afraid of causing a giant rockslide. Sophia and Isabelle were, of course, unperturbed. To scare off the bears we sang everything we could think of very loudly--and very badly. I think we scared off anything in a 1-mile vicinity (including other humans). At last we reached the ridge line and were amply rewarded: across the valley was a huge herd of Dall Sheep, the major reason for the area's preservation. We hadn't seen any yet that day. They were fun to watch--they skipped up the same rugged terrain that we had spent hours pathetically crawling up. And, as a bonus, the herd included countless adorable newborn lambs.
At the top, we were totally alone. I went off for a little bit, out of sight and hearing of the others, and it was glorious. To be alone in the middle of nowhere at the top of a mountain overlooking only wilderness for miles and miles... It was the first time on our trip that I had truly appreciated Alaska as "the last frontier." Although it hadn't been an especially difficult climb, it felt like we were the first people to ever reach that particular spot.
We awoke on our second day in the park to a pleasant surprise--blue skies! Contrary to the rainy weather report, it was beautiful and sunny. We went for a trail hike near the entrance. After an hour or so of winding up switchbacks surrounded by views of the Alaska range and the tundra, without any warning, there it was. Denali. I'm still trying to figure out a word that describes the sight and the feeling--the emotion that accompanied it. Is there a word for being punched in the stomach, but in a good way? Gobsmacked? I know this sounds über-melodramatic, but I'm trying to convey something indescribable. Denali rises above the huge mountains around it as if they are merely foothills. At first glance it could be mistaken for clouds. What it does, really, is make it look like there is only one mountain in the entire state of Alaska.
Unfortunately, however, it was dark and overcast, and even the mountains nearby were invisible, much less The Mountain. Denali Peak is over 20,000 feet tall, and its base is only 2,000 or so feet above sea level. (Compare that to Colorado's highest peak, Mt. Elbert, which is 14,000 feet high with a base 10,000 feet above sea level.) It's the sight I wanted most to see, and the bus driver's rapturous descriptions at every look-out point (of what it would look like had we been able to see it) did nothing to assuage my disappointment at missing this most epic sight. Apparently, we weren't the first bus to miss out. In the 120 days of last year's season, Denali was only visible 14 days. Even on otherwise clear days, it is hidden by its own insane weather.
The park--and day--were still pretty awesome, however. On the return trip, we got off the shuttle at a random spot and climbed a mountain without a trail. We hiked up some drainage, which was easy at first, but got a little dicey towards the top. The rocks and dirt were pretty loose, and I was afraid of causing a giant rockslide. Sophia and Isabelle were, of course, unperturbed. To scare off the bears we sang everything we could think of very loudly--and very badly. I think we scared off anything in a 1-mile vicinity (including other humans). At last we reached the ridge line and were amply rewarded: across the valley was a huge herd of Dall Sheep, the major reason for the area's preservation. We hadn't seen any yet that day. They were fun to watch--they skipped up the same rugged terrain that we had spent hours pathetically crawling up. And, as a bonus, the herd included countless adorable newborn lambs.
At the top, we were totally alone. I went off for a little bit, out of sight and hearing of the others, and it was glorious. To be alone in the middle of nowhere at the top of a mountain overlooking only wilderness for miles and miles... It was the first time on our trip that I had truly appreciated Alaska as "the last frontier." Although it hadn't been an especially difficult climb, it felt like we were the first people to ever reach that particular spot.
We awoke on our second day in the park to a pleasant surprise--blue skies! Contrary to the rainy weather report, it was beautiful and sunny. We went for a trail hike near the entrance. After an hour or so of winding up switchbacks surrounded by views of the Alaska range and the tundra, without any warning, there it was. Denali. I'm still trying to figure out a word that describes the sight and the feeling--the emotion that accompanied it. Is there a word for being punched in the stomach, but in a good way? Gobsmacked? I know this sounds über-melodramatic, but I'm trying to convey something indescribable. Denali rises above the huge mountains around it as if they are merely foothills. At first glance it could be mistaken for clouds. What it does, really, is make it look like there is only one mountain in the entire state of Alaska.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Midnight Sun Golfing
Sophia toting clubs.
Rachel putting a hole (not in one).
At the Top of the World. Friendly Charlie gave us a ride home.
Mosquitoville
We are disgusting. At the beginning of the trip we joked about how gross things were going to be. Even a few days ago we laughed about the lack of showers and cleanliness in our lives. It is no longer a laughing matter. We are truly disgustingly dirty. We made friends a few days ago and the first thing they said when they got close to our car was “Yuck! That smells really bad!”
Our campsites have gotten consistently more remote. They no longer include the things we used to take for granted, most importantly water. Washing dishes is often not even an option. We have come accustomed to licking our plates clean and throwing them in a plastic bag until we find a sink or stream. Our first stop of the day is the closest gas station where we all pile into the usually one-room bathrooms to clean our faces and brush our teeth. I am no longer fazed when we exit the bathroom to a long line of angry locals.
Yesterday started off pretty much the same. We packed up the tent at our Fairbanks site, piled into the car, and began our drive. First on our agenda was a nice hike up to Angel Rocks. We made it up and spent some time climbing around the rocks, exploring the many crevices and peaks. We made friends with an old couple who also drove from Colorado. We discussed our trips, gave suggestions, and then we made our way back down. This is when things started to go downhill (pun intended, hhah).
The hike down was along a very still creek. There were, no joke, MILLIONS of mosquitoes. When swatting proved ineffective, we all broke into a run. We finally reached our smelly car, our bodies covered in quarter-sized welts. We then were off to the Chena Hot Springs.
After a short drive, we arrived. We paid, put our stuff away, and headed to the hot steamy pool. It was amazing. The itching immediately subsided, our muscles were no longer sore, and believe it or not, we actually felt clean. We spent about two hours soaking in this amazing natural hot tub. We even were able to take showers there. The showers used the hot spring water, so we were basically washing with sulfur, but it was better than nothing.
We found a campsite about 20 miles away. With our bodies clean and relaxed, we began setting up with an optimistic attitude. That feeling quickly disappeared. The Alaskan mosquitoes, which have an uncanny ability to find flesh, almost immediately sensed our presence. Pretty soon they were so thick that we couldn’t breath without them getting in our mouth. When we walked, we could feel them all over our skin, like walking through a dust storm of bugs.
Thank god we all had bug suits, which offered some relief. We set up and cooked as speedy as possible. We decided the only way to enjoy our cheeseburgers would be to eat in the car. I cleared the seats, and Rachel passed the food to me, a sort of assembly line. We ate in peace. The mosquitoes banged against the glass. We watched in delight, feeling as though we had somehow outsmarted them.
The burgers and corn were finished; plates were licked clean and thrown into bags to be dealt with at a later date. It was almost 9pm, definitely time for bed. We sprinted to the tent and zipped it closed. We felt like captives, jailed in our own tent, not knowing when it would be safe to leave.
Our campsites have gotten consistently more remote. They no longer include the things we used to take for granted, most importantly water. Washing dishes is often not even an option. We have come accustomed to licking our plates clean and throwing them in a plastic bag until we find a sink or stream. Our first stop of the day is the closest gas station where we all pile into the usually one-room bathrooms to clean our faces and brush our teeth. I am no longer fazed when we exit the bathroom to a long line of angry locals.
Yesterday started off pretty much the same. We packed up the tent at our Fairbanks site, piled into the car, and began our drive. First on our agenda was a nice hike up to Angel Rocks. We made it up and spent some time climbing around the rocks, exploring the many crevices and peaks. We made friends with an old couple who also drove from Colorado. We discussed our trips, gave suggestions, and then we made our way back down. This is when things started to go downhill (pun intended, hhah).
The hike down was along a very still creek. There were, no joke, MILLIONS of mosquitoes. When swatting proved ineffective, we all broke into a run. We finally reached our smelly car, our bodies covered in quarter-sized welts. We then were off to the Chena Hot Springs.
After a short drive, we arrived. We paid, put our stuff away, and headed to the hot steamy pool. It was amazing. The itching immediately subsided, our muscles were no longer sore, and believe it or not, we actually felt clean. We spent about two hours soaking in this amazing natural hot tub. We even were able to take showers there. The showers used the hot spring water, so we were basically washing with sulfur, but it was better than nothing.
We found a campsite about 20 miles away. With our bodies clean and relaxed, we began setting up with an optimistic attitude. That feeling quickly disappeared. The Alaskan mosquitoes, which have an uncanny ability to find flesh, almost immediately sensed our presence. Pretty soon they were so thick that we couldn’t breath without them getting in our mouth. When we walked, we could feel them all over our skin, like walking through a dust storm of bugs.
Thank god we all had bug suits, which offered some relief. We set up and cooked as speedy as possible. We decided the only way to enjoy our cheeseburgers would be to eat in the car. I cleared the seats, and Rachel passed the food to me, a sort of assembly line. We ate in peace. The mosquitoes banged against the glass. We watched in delight, feeling as though we had somehow outsmarted them.
The burgers and corn were finished; plates were licked clean and thrown into bags to be dealt with at a later date. It was almost 9pm, definitely time for bed. We sprinted to the tent and zipped it closed. We felt like captives, jailed in our own tent, not knowing when it would be safe to leave.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Fairbanks, AK
Fairbanks!! We went to the Midnight Sun festival (a street fair—blech*—but we got some delicious reindeer dogs out of it), saw some music, and then attended the annual midnight baseball game. It was minor league (the Alaska Goldpanners) but the entire town was there and it was pretty exciting, especially as the sun barely approached the skyline, even when the game was ending around 2 AM. Also, it was my first baseball game!! It was a pretty good game for a first—the innings were very short and the Alaska team won.
*Sophia would like me to note that not all people like dislike street fairs. Meaning, she likes them. And I should say, it wasn’t all bad. Watching the local tween’s dance performance was particularly incredible and cringe-worthy.
*Sophia would like me to note that not all people like dislike street fairs. Meaning, she likes them. And I should say, it wasn’t all bad. Watching the local tween’s dance performance was particularly incredible and cringe-worthy.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Goodbye Canada, eh?
We got off to a bit of a later start the morning after our gambling/golfing/salooning adventure as can probably be expected. We had planned to cross the border early, putting the chapter of strange Yukon towns and cute Canadian accents behind us; however, we decided to take one last ferry ride over the river to say our final good-byes (ok really just to get food). Lucky for us it turned out to be First Nation Day and we soaked up some sun while enjoying free fried dough and watching little kids trying to jig. A note here, it became obvious that my unique style of dance can now be categorized as children trying to jig. Pressley, one of the young jiggers, seemed to be too preoccupied with his cookie to jig, clearly he was our favorite.
During this time I found $2.50 Canadian money and reasoned (quite logically I think) that the only thing to do with it was to head back to the casino. We waited until 2 p.m. when the casino opened and were the first ones there along with the serious gamblers. We deposited the quarters into what was once thought of by us as a free money machine and our quarters were lost in the endless abyss, reunited with the quarters we had deposited the previous night in what I can only imagine as some giant quarter orgy.
Anyway, soon enough we were off along the dirt road aptly named Top of the World Highway. Because of the winding dirt roads it took far longer than usual to cross the short distance, but at last we approached the flapping American flag. The border consisted of a single dirt road passing a small wooden cabin and a single customs officer. We were home, or at least somewhere where we could no longer respond to the question where are you from with, “The States.” Our handy mile post guide instructed us where the next gas station was, about 5 miles from the border. We were in desperate need of gas and had yet to pass a single gas station.
It was Rachel’s turn to pump so Isabelle and I remarked on how ridiculous the old pumps looked and took pictures until a panicked Rachel returned with the news, the station was closed. Not just closed for the night but closed. Permanently closed. Forever closed. Quite a predicament seeing that the gas light chose this moment to mockingly alight and we were 50 miles from the nearest “town.” We have relied on the kindness of strangers throughout this trip, something difficult for a bunch of current city dwellers, and considered how to do this now. We could hitch in and pick up gas, but too risky in case we couldn’t get a ride back. It would have to be the United States government that came to the rescue. We drove the short distance back to the border and I put on my most helpless and pathetic face before approaching the cabin. Luckily the station had extra gas and was willing to sell it to us. I’m sure it was the most exciting thing that had happened there that day. Mid-fill, however, a man seemingly out of the blue tried to cross the border by foot with no baggage and a mere T-shirt, especially curious because the nearest town was the one which we had driven approximately 2 hours from.
The first piece of civilization we came across in Alaska was Chicken. Chicken, Alaska, how do I even begin to describe you? It is essentially a three building center with a wicked sense of humor. Every building includes a hilarious story and some ridiculous reference to chicken (apparently the original settlers couldn’t spell Ptarmigan and thus settled on Chicken). After one of their hot and delicious famous cinnamon rolls we were back on the road again ready to begin the second chapter of our journey.
During this time I found $2.50 Canadian money and reasoned (quite logically I think) that the only thing to do with it was to head back to the casino. We waited until 2 p.m. when the casino opened and were the first ones there along with the serious gamblers. We deposited the quarters into what was once thought of by us as a free money machine and our quarters were lost in the endless abyss, reunited with the quarters we had deposited the previous night in what I can only imagine as some giant quarter orgy.
Anyway, soon enough we were off along the dirt road aptly named Top of the World Highway. Because of the winding dirt roads it took far longer than usual to cross the short distance, but at last we approached the flapping American flag. The border consisted of a single dirt road passing a small wooden cabin and a single customs officer. We were home, or at least somewhere where we could no longer respond to the question where are you from with, “The States.” Our handy mile post guide instructed us where the next gas station was, about 5 miles from the border. We were in desperate need of gas and had yet to pass a single gas station.
It was Rachel’s turn to pump so Isabelle and I remarked on how ridiculous the old pumps looked and took pictures until a panicked Rachel returned with the news, the station was closed. Not just closed for the night but closed. Permanently closed. Forever closed. Quite a predicament seeing that the gas light chose this moment to mockingly alight and we were 50 miles from the nearest “town.” We have relied on the kindness of strangers throughout this trip, something difficult for a bunch of current city dwellers, and considered how to do this now. We could hitch in and pick up gas, but too risky in case we couldn’t get a ride back. It would have to be the United States government that came to the rescue. We drove the short distance back to the border and I put on my most helpless and pathetic face before approaching the cabin. Luckily the station had extra gas and was willing to sell it to us. I’m sure it was the most exciting thing that had happened there that day. Mid-fill, however, a man seemingly out of the blue tried to cross the border by foot with no baggage and a mere T-shirt, especially curious because the nearest town was the one which we had driven approximately 2 hours from.
The first piece of civilization we came across in Alaska was Chicken. Chicken, Alaska, how do I even begin to describe you? It is essentially a three building center with a wicked sense of humor. Every building includes a hilarious story and some ridiculous reference to chicken (apparently the original settlers couldn’t spell Ptarmigan and thus settled on Chicken). After one of their hot and delicious famous cinnamon rolls we were back on the road again ready to begin the second chapter of our journey.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Dawson City, Pt 2: Gambling and Golf
We decided to stay 2 nights in Dawson—a truly bizarre town in the northern Yukon that I’ll describe in detail below—to allow ourselves ample time for sightseeing and (let’s face it) gambling. After the first night (which Isabelle described), we woke up at our campsite on the other side of the river, eager to take the ferry into town and explore the Yukon’s #1 tourist attraction.
So, the town: Dawson City was a gold mining mecca around the turn of the century and has since been preserved really only as a museum town. The buildings remain, the roads are unpaved, and a few people even walk around in period costume. Tourism is the town’s only industry, and thus it really only comes alive in summer, when apparently (and quite shockingly) Canada’s young and hip move up for the season. No joke—there are so many hipsters in Dawson that it resembles at times an old-fashioned version of Williamsburg.
The main attraction? Diamond Tooth Gertie’s Casino and Saloon. There are three shows a night at Gertie’s (cancan and whatnot—apparently the midnight show is a little more risqué, but we only stayed for the first two), as well as slots, poker, roulette, what have you. Isabelle and Sophia were REALLY excited to gamble; I was also excited but a little more reserved. We had budgeted $5/apiece from group funds—I stuck with the minimum, while the others each spent about $20 extra of their own money. Slot machines are particularly exciting—free money machines!! I made $5 on my first try, but little else afterwards—and of course, ended up gambling away all of my winnings.
After playing the slots for a while, we ambled over to roulette (which Isabelle calls Russian roulette no matter how many times you correct her), and met a group of new friends. Five guys from Saskatchewan were in town on vacation, and they provided us with the ultimate gambling experience: we got to pick their numbers and bets, but they supplied the funds. We didn’t get the winnings, of course, but it was exciting nonetheless. An hour or so after we started talking to our new friends, they asked if we wanted to get in on their golf game. There is a golf course outside of town (the Top of the World golf course) that has an annual Midnight Sun tournament—and we happened to be in town the night of the tournament. They were registered to participate, but their team required a female member to be eligible. Of course we agreed—who would refuse a midnight golfing adventure?!—and we left the casino around 11:30 in their rented RV.
Of course, at this point we had all knocked back a couple of brews (except the driver, of course), so the RV drive across the ferry was even more terrifying than the Blue Avenger’s voyage the day before. On the way to the game, we were worried that we would underperform and screw up their tournament chances. We needn’t have worried. Collectively, our golf game was (I’ll put it mildly) atrocious. In addition, it was FREEZING outside, we had no cart, and most of us were in flip-flops. At one point a girl in a golf cart drove by (selling beer, naturally), and one of our new friends, Jori offered to buy her socks. Somehow Isabelle and I ended up sharing them—we each wore one sock (with a flip flop) on one foot and half of a pair of stolen shoes on the other. This meant that the poor owner of the shoes, Jeffrey, was walking around the course barefoot. Although it was bright as day even at midnight, the cold eventually led us to ditch around the 3rd hole. The RV had dropped us off and returned to town, so we had no way to get home. Luckily, Jori convinced the owner of the golf course, an old man named Charlie, to drive us back in his pick-up truck, yet another adventure. Isabelle sat in front with him, and he told her all about his life in Nova Scotia, while Sophia and I held on for dear life in the back of the truck.
It was pretty tremendous.
So, the town: Dawson City was a gold mining mecca around the turn of the century and has since been preserved really only as a museum town. The buildings remain, the roads are unpaved, and a few people even walk around in period costume. Tourism is the town’s only industry, and thus it really only comes alive in summer, when apparently (and quite shockingly) Canada’s young and hip move up for the season. No joke—there are so many hipsters in Dawson that it resembles at times an old-fashioned version of Williamsburg.
The main attraction? Diamond Tooth Gertie’s Casino and Saloon. There are three shows a night at Gertie’s (cancan and whatnot—apparently the midnight show is a little more risqué, but we only stayed for the first two), as well as slots, poker, roulette, what have you. Isabelle and Sophia were REALLY excited to gamble; I was also excited but a little more reserved. We had budgeted $5/apiece from group funds—I stuck with the minimum, while the others each spent about $20 extra of their own money. Slot machines are particularly exciting—free money machines!! I made $5 on my first try, but little else afterwards—and of course, ended up gambling away all of my winnings.
After playing the slots for a while, we ambled over to roulette (which Isabelle calls Russian roulette no matter how many times you correct her), and met a group of new friends. Five guys from Saskatchewan were in town on vacation, and they provided us with the ultimate gambling experience: we got to pick their numbers and bets, but they supplied the funds. We didn’t get the winnings, of course, but it was exciting nonetheless. An hour or so after we started talking to our new friends, they asked if we wanted to get in on their golf game. There is a golf course outside of town (the Top of the World golf course) that has an annual Midnight Sun tournament—and we happened to be in town the night of the tournament. They were registered to participate, but their team required a female member to be eligible. Of course we agreed—who would refuse a midnight golfing adventure?!—and we left the casino around 11:30 in their rented RV.
Of course, at this point we had all knocked back a couple of brews (except the driver, of course), so the RV drive across the ferry was even more terrifying than the Blue Avenger’s voyage the day before. On the way to the game, we were worried that we would underperform and screw up their tournament chances. We needn’t have worried. Collectively, our golf game was (I’ll put it mildly) atrocious. In addition, it was FREEZING outside, we had no cart, and most of us were in flip-flops. At one point a girl in a golf cart drove by (selling beer, naturally), and one of our new friends, Jori offered to buy her socks. Somehow Isabelle and I ended up sharing them—we each wore one sock (with a flip flop) on one foot and half of a pair of stolen shoes on the other. This meant that the poor owner of the shoes, Jeffrey, was walking around the course barefoot. Although it was bright as day even at midnight, the cold eventually led us to ditch around the 3rd hole. The RV had dropped us off and returned to town, so we had no way to get home. Luckily, Jori convinced the owner of the golf course, an old man named Charlie, to drive us back in his pick-up truck, yet another adventure. Isabelle sat in front with him, and he told her all about his life in Nova Scotia, while Sophia and I held on for dear life in the back of the truck.
It was pretty tremendous.
Dawson City, Yukon Part 1
The last two days we have been in Dawson City, Yukon. We arrived Thursday night, just as the grocery store was closing down. We had a stressful 2 minutes to pick out dinner (chicken, broccoli, and rice-a-roni) and then headed to our campsite.
Dawson City is separated into two parts, West Dawson City and Dawson City, each on a different side of a large fast moving river. We were camping in West Dawson. Dawson City is basically a museum town that hasn’t changed a whole lot since the turn of the 19th century. Because of this, they don’t have a bridge, just an old terrifying ferry. It runs all night for no charge!
We drove the Blue Avenger on and cracked the window so we’d be able to get out if we sank. We waited nervously as we took the 5 minute voyage with a brick in front of our tires to prevent us from sliding in. All the locals laughed at us as we sat white knuckled and clutching our seats.
When we arrived at the Yukon River Campground it had started to rain. At this point, we were all pretty hungry and cranky. We were being really sloppy with setting up, and things only got worse when we realized a few poles were missing. Rachel blamed me; I blamed her. Sophia drove off to pay for the site and hit a large boulder along the way. We were definitely losing it. We tried using sticks to hold up the tent, but it was useless. Our tent is now lopsided and about a foot shorter than it used to be.
We decided to just move on and fix the tent later. We headed over to the picnic building to cook dinner. As usual Sophia cooked. A nice man had given us an extra cooking stove and cast iron frying pan in Watson Lake, so cooking was actually quite a breeze. I made a raging fire and we ate our delicious meal, all stress fading away. After dinner, we pulled out the guitar, spoons, and harmonica and had a fantastic jam session! We even composed our first joint song. It is excellent and we will post it once we’ve added a few finishing touches.
The sun was still high in the sky, so naturally we felt it was fine to belt out and really let our creative juices flow. After about an hour, we decided we should probably check the clock. It was midnight! Our poor neighbors.
We packed everything up, and after debating whether to just leave the dishes or clean them, we went in search of the washroom. There were none, just signs explaining that all waste and water has to go into the outhouse. What is normally just a tedious everyday task became particularly unpleasant. We all huddled into the outhouse and scrubbed the pans with our remaining drops of water. The outhouse was tiny and long overdue to be emptied out. Needless to say we almost died due to lack of oxygen.
We then returned to our wet, lopsided tent. We fell asleep in our proper spots, only to wake up all smooshed together in the far right corner. All in all, a really fantastic night.
Dawson City is separated into two parts, West Dawson City and Dawson City, each on a different side of a large fast moving river. We were camping in West Dawson. Dawson City is basically a museum town that hasn’t changed a whole lot since the turn of the 19th century. Because of this, they don’t have a bridge, just an old terrifying ferry. It runs all night for no charge!
We drove the Blue Avenger on and cracked the window so we’d be able to get out if we sank. We waited nervously as we took the 5 minute voyage with a brick in front of our tires to prevent us from sliding in. All the locals laughed at us as we sat white knuckled and clutching our seats.
When we arrived at the Yukon River Campground it had started to rain. At this point, we were all pretty hungry and cranky. We were being really sloppy with setting up, and things only got worse when we realized a few poles were missing. Rachel blamed me; I blamed her. Sophia drove off to pay for the site and hit a large boulder along the way. We were definitely losing it. We tried using sticks to hold up the tent, but it was useless. Our tent is now lopsided and about a foot shorter than it used to be.
We decided to just move on and fix the tent later. We headed over to the picnic building to cook dinner. As usual Sophia cooked. A nice man had given us an extra cooking stove and cast iron frying pan in Watson Lake, so cooking was actually quite a breeze. I made a raging fire and we ate our delicious meal, all stress fading away. After dinner, we pulled out the guitar, spoons, and harmonica and had a fantastic jam session! We even composed our first joint song. It is excellent and we will post it once we’ve added a few finishing touches.
The sun was still high in the sky, so naturally we felt it was fine to belt out and really let our creative juices flow. After about an hour, we decided we should probably check the clock. It was midnight! Our poor neighbors.
We packed everything up, and after debating whether to just leave the dishes or clean them, we went in search of the washroom. There were none, just signs explaining that all waste and water has to go into the outhouse. What is normally just a tedious everyday task became particularly unpleasant. We all huddled into the outhouse and scrubbed the pans with our remaining drops of water. The outhouse was tiny and long overdue to be emptied out. Needless to say we almost died due to lack of oxygen.
We then returned to our wet, lopsided tent. We fell asleep in our proper spots, only to wake up all smooshed together in the far right corner. All in all, a really fantastic night.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Welcome to the Yukon!
Our longest drive thus far brought us to Watson Lake. On the drive there was the occasional beauty of the landscape and the smoldering remains of a forest fire. Isabelle’s ability to spot wildlife is unparalleled (except perhaps by Claire’s ability to spot celebrities in NYC). We pulled over to watch a black bear pick through the long grasses on the side of the highway and just when we were about to leave, up popped a baby bear on his hind legs peaking around the tall leafy greens that his mother was feasting on. This is perhaps the cutest thing we have ever witnessed. The baby bear frolicked behind his mother (the mother unperturbed by the leaps the baby made onto her back) and played like a young puppy, mischievously and with a spring in his step. We remained watching for longer than I care to admit making cooing noises and exclaiming with glee every time the baby bear even moved.
Watson Lake, the second largest “city” in the Yukon (a whopping 900 people)… is not what you’re picturing or perhaps it is. Let me elaborate. We roll in at about 8:30 and have spent half of our drive conceiving of the perfect meal for that night, quesadillas with asparagus and the cheddar cheese that is currently melting in our not cool cooler (we haven’t replenished the ice since the beginning for our trip except the snow we tried to use a few days ago). The entrance to Watson Lake is lined with beautifully colored Yukon flags and flags representing a random handful of nations. It looks promising. We drive around for about ten minutes trying to find the “city” center and realize that we have already passed it. It consists of a few stores and gas stations. Fine, all we need is a grocery store anyway, not a bustling metropolis. Guess we also don’t need to go to the movies tonight either. Unfortunately the grocery store is closed and a local informs us that the only other places to buy food are the two gas stations. I think we should write a camping cookbook because we still managed to make a delicious concoction out of all the canned goods we bought.
Our first attempt to stay somewhere for the night was unsuccessful. We were greeted with, “Not tenting! Also, can you drive slower?” We don’t like being scolded and resigned to despise this so called city. Our second attempt at first appeared no better, though we got a spot, we were called children, and the wide green expanse that was promised turned out to be neither wide nor green and was mere feet away from a dilapidated shed. Also the killer mosquitoes were out by the dozens. The free wireless did not reach our tent and so we huddled in our car updating the blog and checking e-mail when an employee knocked on our window to see if we were lost (embarrassing).
We found our way to kitchen, stumbling upon the entire all male staff of the RV/tenting park (an attractive lot with adorable Canadian accents) and some delicious steak. What a few hours of good conversation and friendly people can change. Also, one of our greatest fantasies was realized. Because we were now friendly with the owner we were taken into the convenience store and told we could take anything we wanted, aisles of candy, ice cream, crackers. While Isabelle and Rachel took full advantage I sadly and stupidly decided I wasn’t hungry at the time. It also revealed through of conversations that the mean old man that scolded us was the big cheese of the town and not particularly loved by the locals. We would not be eating at Archie’s the next morning for breakfast. Our once resentment towards the Yukon now changed into a fond memory of one of our most enjoyable nights hanging with the locals until the early morning. Also thanks to our new friends we were able to procure wood for our sign for the signpost village.
The signpost village is made up of an expanse of poles reaching into the sky covered in creative greetings from all of Watson Lake’s visitors. A total of over 60,000 remnants of travelers who clearly only stayed the night. Some merely stated the hometown of the visitor, some were elaborate representations of their hometown. Ours stated Denver, Abington and Lincoln and the distance to each place. While adding our mark to the now loved city one of our new friends showed up and asked if we wanted to go on a 15 minute local adventure. Climbing hesitantly into his large truck we were taken on a series of winding roads at breakneck speeds to get incredible views of the namesake of the town, Watson Lake. As a result of our time in Watson lake we were taught the age old lesson, first impressions can be deceiving.
Watson Lake, the second largest “city” in the Yukon (a whopping 900 people)… is not what you’re picturing or perhaps it is. Let me elaborate. We roll in at about 8:30 and have spent half of our drive conceiving of the perfect meal for that night, quesadillas with asparagus and the cheddar cheese that is currently melting in our not cool cooler (we haven’t replenished the ice since the beginning for our trip except the snow we tried to use a few days ago). The entrance to Watson Lake is lined with beautifully colored Yukon flags and flags representing a random handful of nations. It looks promising. We drive around for about ten minutes trying to find the “city” center and realize that we have already passed it. It consists of a few stores and gas stations. Fine, all we need is a grocery store anyway, not a bustling metropolis. Guess we also don’t need to go to the movies tonight either. Unfortunately the grocery store is closed and a local informs us that the only other places to buy food are the two gas stations. I think we should write a camping cookbook because we still managed to make a delicious concoction out of all the canned goods we bought.
Our first attempt to stay somewhere for the night was unsuccessful. We were greeted with, “Not tenting! Also, can you drive slower?” We don’t like being scolded and resigned to despise this so called city. Our second attempt at first appeared no better, though we got a spot, we were called children, and the wide green expanse that was promised turned out to be neither wide nor green and was mere feet away from a dilapidated shed. Also the killer mosquitoes were out by the dozens. The free wireless did not reach our tent and so we huddled in our car updating the blog and checking e-mail when an employee knocked on our window to see if we were lost (embarrassing).
We found our way to kitchen, stumbling upon the entire all male staff of the RV/tenting park (an attractive lot with adorable Canadian accents) and some delicious steak. What a few hours of good conversation and friendly people can change. Also, one of our greatest fantasies was realized. Because we were now friendly with the owner we were taken into the convenience store and told we could take anything we wanted, aisles of candy, ice cream, crackers. While Isabelle and Rachel took full advantage I sadly and stupidly decided I wasn’t hungry at the time. It also revealed through of conversations that the mean old man that scolded us was the big cheese of the town and not particularly loved by the locals. We would not be eating at Archie’s the next morning for breakfast. Our once resentment towards the Yukon now changed into a fond memory of one of our most enjoyable nights hanging with the locals until the early morning. Also thanks to our new friends we were able to procure wood for our sign for the signpost village.
The signpost village is made up of an expanse of poles reaching into the sky covered in creative greetings from all of Watson Lake’s visitors. A total of over 60,000 remnants of travelers who clearly only stayed the night. Some merely stated the hometown of the visitor, some were elaborate representations of their hometown. Ours stated Denver, Abington and Lincoln and the distance to each place. While adding our mark to the now loved city one of our new friends showed up and asked if we wanted to go on a 15 minute local adventure. Climbing hesitantly into his large truck we were taken on a series of winding roads at breakneck speeds to get incredible views of the namesake of the town, Watson Lake. As a result of our time in Watson lake we were taught the age old lesson, first impressions can be deceiving.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Canadian Rockies
It’s been one whole week! I can’t believe it’s only been 7 days, we’ve already done and seen so much. It also feels like we’ve been doing this forever, the transitions have been running so smoothly. Camp gets set up in record time (Sophia prefers to make dinner while Isabelle and I set up the tent and roll out the thermarests), driving shifts have been fair and evenly doled out, the tunes have been good and we’re all getting along amazingly well. In fact, this week saw the coming of three periods without a single tear. (I’d be lying if I said I haven’t gotten stressed out at least once a day, but that’s my prerogative. Is and Soph have been absolutely super).
So, the news. We just spent a night in Banff and a night in Jasper, 2 national parks in Alberta. Both are incredibly beautiful. And we’ve been getting active! (no push-ups/training for sea kayaking has occurred yet, however). In Banff, after marveling at the turquoise Lake Louise, we set off on a 11 km hike around and above the lake, the Plain of Six Glaciers. The hike provides stunning views of the lake and surrounding Rockies, and ends with a teahouse. We scurried up boulders, through snow and mud, and loved every moment. But we ARE Clarks and Tkacs, so naturally we looked forward to homemade scones at the top (for those who don’t know…my dad used to literally bribe me with chocolate to get me up hikes. He’d hide it all along the trail and I’d follow the scent like a puppy). Unfortunately, after taking in the adorable teahouse (almost 100 years old and decorated with Tibetan prayer flags) and reading the delicious-looking menu (everything is baked fresh daily without any electricity), we realized that not one of us had thought to bring a cent, Canadian, American, or otherwise. And in an electricity-free building, Visa wasn’t going to be much help. Dejected and starving, we turned around and hurried back down the mountain, obsessed with thoughts of dinner. Poor Isabelle has blisters the size of half-dollars on her feet, but she doesn’t deserve too much pity: she opted to take mom’s too-small hiking boots instead of investing in new ones. And now she’s paying the price! IN PAIN.
The upside of missing tea? Dinner was insanely delicious as a result. We made chili mac (Kraft mixed with spicy chili) and washed it down with ice cold Molson Canadiens (rapidly becoming the official beer of the trip—if you’re reading, Molson, we may be willing to work out an endorsement deal). We all slept easy, too. Banff’s Lake Louiose site has a bear fence! To protect us AND them.
Bear note: There are only 12 in the Lake Louise area, and at least 1 a year is killed due to human-related causes. As the park pamphlet points out, we only go there to recreate, they LIVE there. From that point of view, it seems ridiculous that we fear them, when we pose a much greater threat to them than they us. They’re still scary, though.
Banff was followed by a long, beautiful drive to Jasper up the Icefields Parkway. The drive winds through the Canadian Rockies and provides views of several glaciers. The first, Crowfoot, was the first glacier I’ve ever seen!! (Another note: the glacier was named for its three “toes”—like a crowfoot. Now there are only two and one of them is receding rapidly. It makes me wonder if my children will ever get to see a glacier.)
We also did a great hike, though Sound of Music-like hills (we did some twirling) and muddy rivers, about 8 km, that brought us to an amazing view of the Columbia Icefield—the mama of all the little glaciers, and the 2nd largest visible to the public eye (the only one larger is in Siberia). It was pretty incredible, but I wish we could fly over it and see more—you could see a little bit over the mountains, but I’d imagine it just goes on forever.
We stayed at a nice campground in Jasper (after also seeing a black bear VERY close up on the drive there) and were so worn out that we splurged on pizza and ice cream in town. Yum! Jasper is pretty cute, but bizarre—a sizeable town in the middle of a HUGE national park, which itself is in the middle of nowhere.
Our last adventure in Jasper was horseback riding. We went out on a 1 ½ hour ride around Annette Lake, and I LOVED it. Not only was it beautiful, but I felt like a badass cowboy, even if my horse (Sally) kept a glacial pace throughout. Our guide WAS a cowboy, which..if you know me at all, you’ll know that was pretty exciting. Plus, at it turns out, Canadian cowboys are even better than American ones, because they have incredible Canadian accents! All three of us are now obsessed with Canadian accents and plan to marry our northern neighbors—if only so we have offspring with adorable Canadian accents, too (the kids are almost as cute as the men).
So, in sum? Canada=A plus. Today means more driving: BC and the Yukon are next.
So, the news. We just spent a night in Banff and a night in Jasper, 2 national parks in Alberta. Both are incredibly beautiful. And we’ve been getting active! (no push-ups/training for sea kayaking has occurred yet, however). In Banff, after marveling at the turquoise Lake Louise, we set off on a 11 km hike around and above the lake, the Plain of Six Glaciers. The hike provides stunning views of the lake and surrounding Rockies, and ends with a teahouse. We scurried up boulders, through snow and mud, and loved every moment. But we ARE Clarks and Tkacs, so naturally we looked forward to homemade scones at the top (for those who don’t know…my dad used to literally bribe me with chocolate to get me up hikes. He’d hide it all along the trail and I’d follow the scent like a puppy). Unfortunately, after taking in the adorable teahouse (almost 100 years old and decorated with Tibetan prayer flags) and reading the delicious-looking menu (everything is baked fresh daily without any electricity), we realized that not one of us had thought to bring a cent, Canadian, American, or otherwise. And in an electricity-free building, Visa wasn’t going to be much help. Dejected and starving, we turned around and hurried back down the mountain, obsessed with thoughts of dinner. Poor Isabelle has blisters the size of half-dollars on her feet, but she doesn’t deserve too much pity: she opted to take mom’s too-small hiking boots instead of investing in new ones. And now she’s paying the price! IN PAIN.
The upside of missing tea? Dinner was insanely delicious as a result. We made chili mac (Kraft mixed with spicy chili) and washed it down with ice cold Molson Canadiens (rapidly becoming the official beer of the trip—if you’re reading, Molson, we may be willing to work out an endorsement deal). We all slept easy, too. Banff’s Lake Louiose site has a bear fence! To protect us AND them.
Bear note: There are only 12 in the Lake Louise area, and at least 1 a year is killed due to human-related causes. As the park pamphlet points out, we only go there to recreate, they LIVE there. From that point of view, it seems ridiculous that we fear them, when we pose a much greater threat to them than they us. They’re still scary, though.
Banff was followed by a long, beautiful drive to Jasper up the Icefields Parkway. The drive winds through the Canadian Rockies and provides views of several glaciers. The first, Crowfoot, was the first glacier I’ve ever seen!! (Another note: the glacier was named for its three “toes”—like a crowfoot. Now there are only two and one of them is receding rapidly. It makes me wonder if my children will ever get to see a glacier.)
We also did a great hike, though Sound of Music-like hills (we did some twirling) and muddy rivers, about 8 km, that brought us to an amazing view of the Columbia Icefield—the mama of all the little glaciers, and the 2nd largest visible to the public eye (the only one larger is in Siberia). It was pretty incredible, but I wish we could fly over it and see more—you could see a little bit over the mountains, but I’d imagine it just goes on forever.
We stayed at a nice campground in Jasper (after also seeing a black bear VERY close up on the drive there) and were so worn out that we splurged on pizza and ice cream in town. Yum! Jasper is pretty cute, but bizarre—a sizeable town in the middle of a HUGE national park, which itself is in the middle of nowhere.
Our last adventure in Jasper was horseback riding. We went out on a 1 ½ hour ride around Annette Lake, and I LOVED it. Not only was it beautiful, but I felt like a badass cowboy, even if my horse (Sally) kept a glacial pace throughout. Our guide WAS a cowboy, which..if you know me at all, you’ll know that was pretty exciting. Plus, at it turns out, Canadian cowboys are even better than American ones, because they have incredible Canadian accents! All three of us are now obsessed with Canadian accents and plan to marry our northern neighbors—if only so we have offspring with adorable Canadian accents, too (the kids are almost as cute as the men).
So, in sum? Canada=A plus. Today means more driving: BC and the Yukon are next.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)