End of the Season

Well folks, it's the end of the season. The temps have been dipping into the single digits at night, and I awoke to 1 inch of snow on the ground the other morning. Time to head 'down south' to warmer climes and normal people. I've had my fair share of government bureaucracy and paid my dues to the man. The nest egg is sufficient for the winter and I'm looking forward to being around family, friends, women, and beer (I suppose in that order).

A heartfelt thanks to everyone for sending up postcards and care packages; they were instrumental in maintaining my sanity; and my sweet tooth. Thanks also for sharing in my adventures, I hope they brought you some good laughs.

The open road is calling, and a new chapter is about to begin...truck willing.

Have a fun and restful winter.

Until next season...

Drew

Here's some of my favorite pictures from the summer:



Look Ma, I grew a carrot!




Practicing for the winter.




Aurora borealis...the Japanese have the right idea.




Best day on the Yukon.




Thanks for paying taxes!



Another Victory for Evolution

There's been a great deal of speculation recently about the proper type of footwear one should use for running. The concept, less is more, has gained some popularity from the introduction of the Vibram Five Finger shoes and the publication of Born to Run, a book about a tribe of indigenous Mexicans that run nearly unfathomable distances. Given the fact that, over the course of evolution, humans did not have a pair of Nikes to train in, I'm apt to believe that our are feet are much happier when not subject to the motion stability ideas and marketing gimmicks of giant corporations. Besides, its just way more fun to run when one's feet are scantily shod.

I put these ideas to the test while running the Equinox Ultramarathon in Fairbanks. The equinox is a 31 mile race on trail, paved and unpaved roads, and goes up a dome, which is Alaskan for large hill. I had been training all summer in the five finger shoes (think of a glove for your feet with a thin rubber sole) which meant my feet were strong. (Yes, that's right, your feet are weak from wearing shoes, and it takes a long time to strengthen your atrophied muscles, tendons, and ligaments.) I had been thinking about wearing the huarache sandals seen in the picture, but for various reason mostly related to procrastination, I had never run actually run in huarache sandals before race day. Regardless, it still seemed like a good idea, at the time.

I had a moment of doubt when I toed the starting line (literally) and realized my feet were quickly going numb as I stood in the frost covered grass. But after the ROTC folks fired a huge cannon in a ironically militant type start, my doubts disappeared and the pure pleasure of running immediately took hold. The best part about running in minimal footwear is the connection and feedback you get from the ground. The first thing you realize is how much information your feet are sending up to your brain. Your feet feel all aspects of the terrain and your body adapts accordingly, automatically. The stride becomes shorter and faster. The feet are light and nimble. The sensation of floating over the ground sets in and is as good a reason as any to keep running.

By mile 5 I had set into a comfy pace and was enjoying chatting with folks who were curious about the sandals. It wasn't my intention to be ostentatious, but to inspire people to give up conventional footwear and all the aches, pains, and injuries associated with it.

The race progressed and for the most part my feet and sandals were holding up well. I did have to stop several times to retie the sandals as the leather would stretch out, but I had grown accustomed to the flopping sound, and my toes had warmed up. I was starting to develop some blisters but nothing that would stop me from finishing. Then, mile 26 showed up and the wheels came off. I had been running all summer in my five finger shoes, but never longer than 3 hours. I was now well over four hours into the race and my feet were strongly reminding me that they hadn't been properly prepared for this. Luckily, the last five miles were on soft, forest trails. I shifted gears down to a trot and tried to keep a smile on my face as I headed for the finish.

I eeked across the finish line, happier than ever. The race hadn't been about speed, it had been about principle. My feet felt exhausted and were by far the sorest part of my legs. Which, is a great sign! To run 31 miles and not have your quads or hamstrings be tired is an amazing feeling. Remember those times after a long run,when you had that burning feeling in your quads? The feeling that causes you to look at a 6" curb with utter dismay and wonder how you will possibly negotiate such an obstacle. Because, the stride is so much more efficient in huarache sandals, less strain and impact is transferred up the legs resulting in less fatigue. I just need to get my feet a little stronger...which means less time in boots and shoes and more time barefoot.

There was a combo awards banquet potluck that evening which gave the race a very grass roots, small town feel. As I was stacking piles of food on my plate multiple people asked me how my feet were feeling and wanted to learn more about the concept. Being able to advocate for 65 million years of primate evolution is one of the most organic sensations I've ever had. What better way to connect with the human species, past and present, than to help illuminate the wonders of your own two feet.

Dawson City Music Festival

I left Eagle on Wednesday, a little after noon. I was headed to Dawson City, the western most city in the Yukon Territory of Canada. Dawson City was the terminus for the Klondike Gold Rush of 1898. Back in the day, when someone said 'Yukon Ho!' and told you they were going to carry 2000 lbs of supplies over the Chilkoot pass (Canadian requirement for entry); Dawson City is was the terminus of their journey. Dawson is now a thriving tourist trap. It still has a substantial amount of gold placer mining, but it thrives on the reenactments of the days of yore with the can-can dancers and the gambling…there are no longer any brothels…or so I’m told.

I was headed to Dawson for a three day music festival. I had shifted my work schedule around and was looking at six glorious days of freedom in which to ride my bike to Dawson, party down, and take the Yukon Queen, a big river boat, back to Eagle.

I had planned all along to ride my bike to Dawson. It was only 140 miles, two long days in the saddle, and what better way to roll into town than under your own power? Turns out, after a week of non stop rain, the Taylor Highway was collapsing under its own mass of boreal forest, and was closed to traffic. This was just the first of two major rain events that would have the road closed for the rest of the summer. Luckily, I was able to negotiate my bike through the rough patches and wash outs.

The first night I camped out about 4 miles from the Canadian border on the Top of the World Highway at a placed called Boundary. It consisted of several buildings, a bar, and some gas tanks. Its population was two; a father and son. George, the father, had bought the place last year and reopened the motel and bar to the public. Boundary was a rustic town in the fact that it had no water, used a generator for electricity, and was full of Alaskan charm. George was a miner, and I could tell from the stare in those cold, blue eyes that he’d earned every wrinkle and scar…this guy was a sourdougher for sure.

After an uneventful boarder crossing, I was happy to discover that the Top of the World Highway on the Canadian side was maintained; in the respect that occasionally portions of it were chip sealed. It was, however, still bumpy enough to rattle loose or break many of the more important connections on my bike and luggage rack. By the time I limped into Dawson my bike and panniers had became an awkward combination of zip ties, bungee cords, and duct tape.

I had been following some bike tracks all day, and 14 miles outside of Dawson I finally caught up to the other riders. Three of them, all from different countries, had aggregated into a rag tag peleton. We were all excited to see each other, and cruised into the local hostel together eager for a shower and some beer.

Over the course of the next 5 hours, I had a string of serendipitous events that might not ever be rivaled, and it all started with ice cream. Since the hostel was on the other side of the river, I had taken the ferry across the Yukon to get to into Dawson proper. After 8 hours in the saddle I was desperately looking from a pint of Ben and Jerry's and found one for seven dollars at the local market. While waiting in the checkout line, I heard a voice behind me say, "I hope that's not all you're having for dinner." I turned around to see a gorgeous, Canadian woman looking concerned over my gastric intentions. Exhausted and famished from the two day's worth of riding, I shamefully mumbled I had just ridden from Eagle and was hungry. It was not until I was outside, back at my bike that I realized I had blown off the first, and likely the last woman to talk to me this summer. I waited by my bike until she came out, and asked her if she new of a good place to get some dinner. "Nothing that comes to mind, but my friends and I are having a pot luck if you'd care to join us," she responded enthusiastically. I eagerly agreed and set about to shower, set up camp, and get some beer in the hour before dinner.

Riding back to the hostel I bumped into two Austrians I had met in Eagle over the 4th of July. They had built a raft at the headwaters of the Yukon River and floated down to Eagle. Their timing was impeccable as they crashed the raft on the island in front of Eagle, floating right into the middle of the 4th of July Rifle Shoot. I was so glad to see their friendly faces again that I almost ran into a car. We exchanged greetings and talked about the music festival. I jumped back on my bike and pedaled two blocks down the street to the market where I then ran into Leeland.

Leeland and his son Jegger, from Vancouver, BC had floated from Dawson to Eagle over a week ago. They had planned to take a shuttle back up to Dawson, but since the Taylor Highway was closed, they were stuck in Eagle, staying at the Falcon Inn. Visitors to Eagle tend to be the best prospect for enjoyable and normal conversation, and I soon found myself joining them for dinners during the week long hiatus from their vacation. Leeland, tired of waiting for the road to reopen, eventually chartered a boat from Dawson to bring them back up the river. I had arrived in Dawson one hour before they had; another victory for human power! Ecstatic to see them, there were hugs and high fives all around. I told them about my dinner invite, and they said to stop by their tent afterwords for drinks.
 
Finally arriving back at the hostel I was now on my fourth or fifth wind and was going full bore. Realizing this hostel had no hot or running water, I took my first ice water, sponge bath; the equivalent of three cups of coffee. Arriving at the pot luck, 45 minutes late and fully amped, I found a group of chilled out college age hippies eating mashed potatoes and garbanzo bean salad. I did my best to tone it down, but I was so excited to be around young, attractive people that I couldn't sit still. I wolfed down two plates of vegan food, and rinsed it down with some of the Yukon's finest ale.

Soon, I was sitting at a pick nick table in a different backyard eating an ice cream cone and listening to people talk about the prom party they just had. I really felt like I was back in college, the randomness of it all was so surreal. After we finished our ice cream cones, I realized the beautiful Canadian girl who had invited me to dinner was no where to be seen, damn. I cruised across town and paid a visit to my Canadian friends Leeland and Jegger. The were eager to hear about my bike ride from Eagle, and thought it best I rehydrate with whiskey. Soon we were bar hoping down the main drag, listening to a 80's cover band, and watching the locals brawl in the street. At one point I did a front handspring for a hot dog, and then watch someone jump off a huge river boat into the icy Yukon; which seemed like a good idea at the time.

 

By 4am, 21 hours after it began, my action filled day was coming to an end. The next day served as a wonderful reminder as to why all things in moderation is still the best policy. The music festival itself was fun, but nothing could have topped that night's cosmic string of events.

 

Because the Taylor Highway was closed and there was no way to get tourists in and out of Eagle by bus, the Yukon Queen river boat had shut down. My easy ride back to Eagle was looking less and less so. Luckily, I found a guy that rented canoes and didn't mind I was on a one way trip to Eagle. 36 hours before I was scheduled to start work, I jumped in my canoe, bike and all, and shoved off for Eagle 100 miles down stream. Luckily the Yukon runs at about 5 miles an hour, and after 21 hours of lazy floating I was in Eagle.

Eagle Wedding

I attended a wedding in Eagle. I was invited, not because I was especially close to the bride or groom, in fact I had never met them until their actually wedding day, but because everyone was invited. A sign had been put up at the post office inviting the entire town to the ceremony and reception. This was my first hint that it would not be a wedding like in the lower 48, nor would there be an open bar.

I was working on the wedding day, which meant that I was wearing my uniform. It also meant that I was dressed as nicely as the groom, in as far as we both had on collared shirts that were tucked into our pants. The wedding was a relatively informal affair.

The wedding was scheduled for 2:30pm in the town chapel. I had wrongly assumed that the chapel would have been a buzz with activity for the entire morning. I envisioned relatives and friends putting up flowers and lights, and all the other annoying things that always make weddings so expensive and over the top. But not so in Eagle. In fact, I thought the wedding had been cancelled because I hadn't seen anyone around the chapel all morning, and it was after 2pm.

At 2:15pm the groom showe up and rang the church bell, and about 15 cars and 40 people descended upon the chapel in the course of 10 minutes. We all moved inside and were ready to start the show at 2:30…I couldn’t believe it.

The bride walked down the little isle, but I don’t really recall anyone playing music on the old organ. The entire service was barely audible over the din of the kids in the back and the whisper like sermon deliverd by the elderly town minister. It was over and done by 2:40.

At 5pm everyone met at the community center for a reception dinner consisting of Vienna sausages, potato chips, fry bread, jello salad, oreo cookies, and Tang. We watched the newly weds open their presents consisting of dinner plates, a bed spread, and naturally, a crock pot.

The entire experience was nothing that I could have anticipated. The biases I brought with me from 'down south' had no place in Eagle. No less important or meaningful because it was simple and modest; it’s a wedding I’ll remember for a long time.

Tragedy in Eagle

After the 4th of July things went downhill in Eagle. I headed down the Yukon River, stationed at a back country cabin in the preserve, and 10 days later when I returned, there had been a suicide, our custom’s agent, Chuck, was missing, and the Taylor highway was closed.

The suicide was a domestic dispute - a couple arguing over weather or not to pull out of Eagle and return to Germany. The boyfriend walked out the door, and the next thing he heard was a gun shot. Chuck, the custom’s agent that checks the passports of the few folks that cross into the US from Canada via the Yukon River was called to secure the area, and file the report. He spent the rest of the afternoon consoling the boyfriend.

Because Eagle has no police, things such as filing a suicide report fall into Chuck’s bailiwick, which was extensive to say the least. At 7pm the following day, Chuck headed out on the Taylor Highway to Beaver Creek, the border crossing on the Alaskan Highway, to deliver the suicide report to the authorities. The problem was that Chuck never showed up at Beaver Creek.

It took a day, maybe two, for people to start wondering what happened to Chuck. News travels quicker than you’d think in Eagle, but action is generally slow and premeditated. Was a search underway? Was he crushed by a rock slide? Did he drive off the road? Has anyone even driven the road to look for him? The answer to the last question was no. Just as Chuck was headed out on the evening of July 6th it started raining, and it’s been raining ever since.

Eagle received almost 6 inches of rain in the month of July, the average annual rainfall is 12 inches. The resulting effect was mudslides, blown out culverts, and extensive subsidence of the Taylor Highway. Things didn’t look good for Chuck. Finally, a week later the crash site was located. A state trooper in a helicopter patrolling spotted Chuck’s vehicle 300 feet down a cliff in a torrent of raging water known as O’brien Creek.

On July 15th I headed out on my bike for Dawson City in the Yukon Territory of Canada; home of the Klondike Gold Rush in 1898, and currently home of the Dawson City Music Festival. The road was closed, but I was determined to make the 140 miles on my bike. Music, beer, and women awaited me in Dawson City and I was going to be at that festival come Hell or high water…little did I know I’d have to ride through both to get there.

As I approached the area where Chuck drove off the road, I did my best to intently study the crash site. A set of tire tracks, too low on an inside corner dropped onto the soft shoulder and abruptly headed down the steep boulder face into the flooded O’brien Creek. I hollered out a few times just to make myself feel better, but looking at the path of destruction and debris leading down to the water I already knew.

A lot of time passed. Search teams eventually worked the area. Scent dogs and swiftwater rescue teams tried their best. A buddy, frustrated by overdue search efforts and stranded in Eagle himself, started crooning “where the fuck is Chuck?” while playing his guitar after one to many glasses of whiskey.

The town was struggling with the loss and Chuck’s family needed closure. Chuck was a huge part of Eagle; way more than just a custom’s agent. He was always there for the residents, whether that meant helping locals with their fish nets or cooking up huge meals for the residents last year, who were overwhelmed by a devastating flood that wiped out many of the homes along the Yukon.

Unfortunately, the Yukon River doesn’t often give up its dead, and the chances of finding Chuck's body were slim to none. At Eagle, the river is flowing at 227,000 cubic feet per second and during that 1 second 2 tons of sediment pass by. This all means that it’s hard to find a body in a river like the Yukon, but on August 19th Chuck was found. His body had been carried 5 miles down O’brien Creek to the 40 Mile River which had just crested at its highest flood stage. From there, Chuck’s body moved 35 miles down the 40 Mile River and out into the Yukon. He was then carried 50 miles down stream to the confluence of Mission Creek and the Yukon. After traveling through 90 miles of flood waters, Chuck had returned home to Eagle.

Smokey the Bear

Smokey is a little black bear that has been hanging around Coal Creek Camp all summer. He is around 2 years old and 200 lbs. In bear terms, he is a teenager trying to figure out where he belongs in this world. We've tried our best to assure him he does not belong at Coal Creek Camp, but he doesn't seem to be getting the message.

Coal Creek Camp is an old mining camp from those 'halcyon' days of gold mining. When trees, plants, and top soil were blasted from the ground by high pressure water hoses. And then the ground was devoured, all the way down to bedrock, by a giant dredge. Out the other end of the dredge came a stack of essentially sterile sand and gravel. But I digress. Today, Coal Creek Camp is home to many different 'ologists' and their research teams that study all things terra, flora, and fauna in the preserve.

To get back on point, I have seen Smokey several times this summer. The first time I was riding my bike back to Slaven's Roadhouse (where I'm stationed this summer) four miles downstream from Coal Creek Camp. I had just experienced a Solstice party in Alaska, and it put every Fourth of July celebration I've ever attended to shame. Anyways, Smokey heard my bike rattling down the trail, and darted off into the woods, but not before leaving a pile of poo that would have filled a 5 gallon bucket. Smokey was a 100 feet off into the woods and we went eye to eye for a split second before he scrambled away. Relieved that I had managed not to contribute to the already voluminous pile of poo, I quickly pedaled off.

My next encounter with Smokey was a month later during a trail run. I had just started out, and with my trusty bear spray in hand was frequently shouting 'hey bear!' to every and all large mammals so they would be privy to my where abouts. I rounded a corner, and Smokey was 100 yards down the trail. I was a bit startled, but not at all scared. From that distance he looked so cute that I completely let my guard down. It wasn't until he started walking closer, and ignored my yelling and arm waving that I reached for the bear spray. Luckily, Smokey soon took the hint, and darted back into the woods. Carefully, I continued with my run, wondering if Smokey wanted to eat me or be my friend.

This morning, Smokey turned the tables, and paid a visit my home. At 6:45 am I awoke to a rapping on the downstairs window. Startled out of bed, I immediately thought it was the ghost that everyone says haunts the cabin. Which at the time seemed more plausible than a bear knocking on the window, but now seems ridiculous.

From the upstairs window, I could see Smokey trot off to the garage area and sniff around the 4 wheeler; probably checking to see if I left the key in it so he could go for a spin. I stumbled out of the cabin with camera and bear spray at hand. Simultaneously yelling to scare him off, and hoping he'd be posing some where close so I could get a picture. Alas, Smokey had vanished, and all I was left with were some muddy paw prints on the windows, and the realization that the cabin has single pane windows and there are no locks on the doors.

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrowmindedness...and many of our people need it solely on these accounts.- Mark Twain

Taylor Highway part deux

The Taylor Highway keeps washing out. There were wildfires all along the road in '04 and '05, and this is the first year of heavy rain since the fires. End result: lots and lots of mud slides.

Check out the pictures at:
http://www.dot.alaska.gov/nreg/taylor-repairs/

The road is closed 'indefinitely'. The park service is working on how to get out the seasonal employees. The old pickup might get to ride to fly on a plane, or ride in a barge!

4th of July in Eagle

“I can’t believe you are actually going to jump into that
thing. That is absolutely disgusting.” That thing my fellow ranger, Mike was referring to was the beginning of a dunk tank. More specifically, it was a 500 gallon, steel fuel tank that the park service had fished out of the Yukon River last year after a huge flood had carried it down from who knows where, but for the sake of it let’s blame Canada.
True, this giant, rusty, fuel tank still had some ‘product’ in it, and the diesel smell originating from it made me nauseous. But, on the bright side, there weren’t enough fumes in the tank to create a safety hazard. I know this because I was creating more than a few sparks when I used a sawzall to cut off the top of the tank.

Still, Mike had his doubts, and continued to refer to it as the “rainbow tank” because of the sheen of oil he assumed would be floating on top of the water (I thought this was a curious moniker coming from a person who was, among other things, very sexually frustrated). The trouble was that Mike failed to see the finished product - the big picture. I on the other hand, failed to see the details. Details always get in the way. I no longer worry about details.

‘How hard could it be?’ I initially thought to myself when we were brainstorming float ideas for the 4th of July parade. Most of the libertarian town of Eagle hates the fact that the park service is even here, we might as well give them something they’ll enjoy…like the chance to dunk a parkee. But, in building the dunk tank I assumed that I’d have the help of our maintenance workers. The guys who knew a thing or two about welding, woodworking, and hopefully, quick release hinges. However, as the 4th eeked ever closer and procrastination looked like less of an option, I found myself all alone in the maintenance yard with one large flatbed trailer and an old, empty fuel tank.

I had a vision that was 94% complete when this all started. All I had to do was manifest that vision into something that wouldn’t collapse on my boss or get the park service sued. Progress was slow but steady, and with two days to go, the dunk tank was coming together nicely. The tank had been cleaned out and lined with a tarp. I borrowed the staircase leading up to our house to serve as the anchor point and platform. All that was left to build was the release mechanism: the trigger point that would drop the seat once a softball hit the bulls eye.


It was all just simple physics. Vectors, forces, change of direction, the kind of stuff you learned in 11th grade and forgot before 12th grade. I was pretty sure I could do it I just couldn’t see how. I couldn’t get the other 6% of the vision in focus. Every time I saw Mike he would has me how the ‘thing-a-ma-jig' was coming along. I’d just lie and tell him it was almost done. He was so excited and eager for me to fail on the project that he routinely asked me what the real float was going to be when I gave up on the dunk tank.

At 11pm on July 3rd I quit. It was raining, everyone else had long since gone home, and I was on the 4th iteration of some poorly rigged design that would have been sturdier if I’d instead built it with legos. I rode home in the rain; feeling like I let the town down, but mostly just disappointed in myself. Then it happened. Right there on my bike- the last 6% of the vision; I could finally see it in my head. I had the forces all backwards. At 6am I was back at it sawing and hammering away.

Two hours before the parade and the dunk tank was ready for the first test run. “Okay man, push the bulls eye” I yelled to Rick as I was sitting on the drop seat over the empty tank. He threw a rock right at the bull’s eye, and I hit the bottom of the tank with a thud. “It worked!” I screamed from the bottom of the tank, overjoyed and throbbing with pain. “Holy shit that hurt. We should put some water in the tank before we test it again.”
One hour before the parade started I triumphantly rolled into the visitor center parking lot with the dunk tank in tow. The decorating committee sprang into action, and finished up just in time for us to assume our position as the final float in a 4th of July parade. A parade that stretched almost two city blocks and lasted a good five minutes.

I was convinced that we might get one or two dunks out of the contraption before the entire thing fell apart, and accordingly I kept trying to stall everyone. “Let’s wait for the crowd to get bigger before we start dunking. We might only get one shot at this.” But it was no use, the line of little kids and disgruntled, anti government males was getting longer and longer by the minute.
I nervously set up the trap seat, and asked one of the park service college interns to be the first ‘dunkee.’ I had forgotten the enthusiasm that college kids have for all things dangerous and ostentatious. I was pleasantly surprised at what a good heckler my little intern turned out to be. I guess anything that’s worth putting on Facebook is worth doing.

Some little five year old kid gave George, our ‘creepy grandpa ranger’ 50 cents for which the kid got two chances to hit the target with a softball from five feet away. He nailed the bulls eye on the second throw, and the intern dropped into the tank with eyes as wide as dinner plates. Man, its great having interns around.

Amazingly, nothing had broken. The big boys were getting anxious for their turns, and just to up the satisfaction level we somehow convinced our boss to take a turn in the hot seat. My boss is a beloved resident of Eagle, but also the one that pretty much keeps the park running, and thus is the scape goat for all things federal. The softballs started flying, and I was starting to wonder if people were not aiming for the bulls eye so much as anyone wearing a green hat and NPS badge on their shirt. Thankfully, I had managed to add some chicken wire to the front of the contraption, and it was doing a great job at deflecting poorly aimed and poorly intentioned throws.

Finally, after several Eaglites had shown their throwing accuracy was no match for their marksmanship (there was a rifle shoot after the festival...very competitive), the boss was dunked by a huge man that she had taught way back when at the Eagle elementary school. I guess we all have grudges that are worth holding onto until the time is right.

As proud and excited as I was to have successfully built this contraption that was giving the town a much needed chance to blow off some NPS steam, the greatest victory of the day was Mike’s change of heart. Even as the decorating committee was putting the final touches on the float that morning, Mike still doubted the dunk tank’s probability of success. I calmly asked him to have positive energy today, and was suddenly backed up by a chorus of ‘yeahs’ from all the other rangers who were tired of hearing him complain. And, by the end of the day, Mike was up there, in the hot seat, getting dunked by a 12 yr old girl. Of course, he was the only one complaining about how cold the water was, and that his toes were going numb. But, there was no better vindication and measure of success than seeing the smile on the face of a soaking wet Mike.

One Year Anniversary

One year ago today I quit my job, and quietly exited the 'real world'. My departure came just 18 months after my begrudging and reluctant entrance.

The first 12 months of this new chapter have been more real and influential than many of my last 27 years, which probably just means I was and am having a hell of a lot more fun. So lets reminisce a bit.

Things got off to a slow start. It took a long time for all the noise of city life to fade away, to shrug off the assumptions and judgements that society places upon the voluntarily unemployed. The first 3 months I was utterly confused-no direction and no motivation. Most days were spent running to empty my mind, and then at the library to fill it back up.

Sometime in the late fall the background noise had faded and I really started listening. By November I was putting myself 'on track' to become a park ranger. I was taking classes and getting the necessary certifications to make me more competitive when the hiring would begin in the spring. But, the summer season was a long ways away, and the bleak Oregon winter was getting to me. By month 8 I had to break away from it all and officially begin the new chapter in my life that I tried to start back in August.

I started driving east towards Montana; a few days in Glacier, a few more in Yellowstone. I ended up spending 3 weeks at some type of working ranch that sold used cars and made trailers. By month 9 I was heading even farther east to Iowa. I'd never left the mountains this far behind, and it made me feel uneasy to say the least. But Iowa and the farm I worked on proved to be a welcomed and much needed sanctuary.

Then, I drove to Alaska. In May I started working as a park ranger and months 10, 11, and 12 have been a blast. I met a guy who spent an entire summer walking along the 800 mile Alaskan pipeline from Prudhoe Bay to Valdez. He said that summer he really nailed how he wanted to live. It was just him, his dog, and the pipeline, every day of the summer. For the first time in a while (if ever), I have that same feeling (about the way I'm living, not the pipeline)...I'm finally on my path.

The Taylor Highway and the Spare Tire

The Taylor highway is 160 miles in length; the last 100 miles of it unpaved. It runs from Tetlin Junction near Tok, Alaska northward to Eagle, Alaska. It was cut over the winter of 1945-1946. Three times it climbs to elevations over 3500’ before finally descending into Eagle at 908’. The road is rough, and isolated; a spare tire is a must…

I dropped my spare tire at mile 25. I heard it hit the asphalt, and briefly spotted it careening off into the woods out of my side view mirror. It appeared that those ultra strength zip ties on the underside of the truck bed had grown tired of supporting their burden, and jettisoned the spare tire from beneath the truck when I sailed over a steep bump and corresponding dip in the road caused by a frost heave.

I stopped as soon as I could and back tracked up the road to the base of the frost heave. Looking down hill, over the drainage, an interesting physics problem presented itself: How far does a 50 pound tire, rolling and bouncing at 60 mph, penetrate into a previously burnt boreal forest of black spruce and muskeg? It turns out not very far, but that didn’t stop me from searching for the damn thing a quarter mile from the road.

My initial excitement over the situation caused me to forgo all of the search training and tracking skills I have learned…which isn’t a lot, but any structured effort would have been a better approach than my frantic running through the forest ‘hoping’ I’d find it. This hope came from the optimism I try to have during actual search and rescue missions. Optimism keeps morale high and creates the mindset that you can and will find your subject. However, I was replacing this optimism with blind faith. Something to the affect that if I believed hard enough the spare tire would manifest itself on the other side of that black spruce tree. This concept has failed to work on multiple occasions.

After my impulsiveness slowed down, I reassessed the situation, and this time tried to be clever. I deduce exactly which frost heave cause the spare to rip loose and then re-drove the road, dropping an orange bouncy ball at the exact moment the car again reacted severely to the same sharp hump in the road that caused the spare to drop. My thinking was that the orange ball would follow approximately the same path as the spare. All I had to do was watch where it went. The downside to this plan was that I had barely seen the spare tire rolling across the road at 60 mph, so there was little chance that I’d be able to follow a little bouncy ball out of my side view mirror. Well, that realization came a little too late. Thanks Mom for the bouncy ball, but it’s now made its home 50 feet off of the Taylor highway near mile marker 25.

My next bit of cleverness was to ‘track’ the tire’s path into the forest. If I could just find one bent over weed or cracked twig on a shrub then I could delineate the cone of the tire’s path. If I could find two signs of the tire’s path, then I’d have a line which I could simply follow it to its vulcanized rubber terminus. Well, I found a plant laying over that looked very promising. I got all excited and rejoiced in my cleverness only to be stumped as I moved downhill from the plant to realize that the wall of shrubs that the tired ‘must of’ rolled through had absolutely no sign of huge spare tire crashing through it. I realized that the plant was probably knocked by me from my earlier footsteps of the initial frenetic search. Cleverness was now 0 for 2.
When I finally calmed down enough to stop being so impulsive and clever, I started grid searching the area. Going back and forth in increments just large enough to be sure I would be able to spot a tire on either side of me. I found the tire in 20 minutes. Add that to the 40 minutes of me acting like an idiot, and it only took 1 hour to find the spare.

I got a flat 40 miles later.

Eagle or Bust!

It took me three tries to leave Iowa, and I still forgot the rye whiskey. Attempt number one occurred about 3pm on Saturday after spending the morning packing and filling out documents for the government. After about 30 minutes of driving north, I hung a hard left into that famous Iowa wind and the metal rack that fit over my truck started swaying back and forth. I pulled over to investigate, and it appeared that in attaching the rack to the truck we had overlooked two important points: one, the significant amount of weight and drag of the bikes and the rocket box. Two, we failed to anchor the front of the rack to the cab of the truck.

It felt like I was at a critical juncture; I was headed to Alaska, the frontier state of rugged, self sufficient individuals, I needed to be able fix this on my own. But, I had 3100 more miles of headwind in front of me, the last thing I wanted to was to find the entire rack, gas can and all, back down the highway after the duct tape wore off and the welds failed.

The decision to turn around pretty much made itself and I headed back to the farm, quite relieved. I was tired and didn’t really feel starting a road trip that day anyways. Wendell and I used some cross bars from the bike rack from the Camry and huge wood block to secure the rack to the cab of the truck. Wendell had just finished planting corn for the season, so we went out for pizza and beer to celebrate the combined victories.

The next morning I made it a quarter mile down the road before I realized I had left all the food and beer that Wendell had given me in the fridge. I turned around and loaded up the cooler, and on attempt number three, made it all the way to North Dakota before stopping for the evening, and remembering I had forgotten the whiskey.