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.