Poking the Bear Blog

Category: Chronicles of an Alaskan Outsider

  • The Hunt for the Northern Lights

    The Hunt for the Northern Lights

    Every once in a while I look up, and I’m reminded that I live in Alaska.

    That reminder may come in the form of a stunning view, or as a large mounted animal head (they’re everywhere), or as a sign along a hiking trail that only I seem to find funny.

    (Another sign I couldn’t help but stop and note is mentioned in this post, https://pokingthebear.org/ways-to-summer-in-alaskas-playground/)

    But sometimes it is a combination of things that create a moment. Like this moment I briefly filmed here, it is just so Alaska. From the bar, to the people, to the conversation, to the weather, to the young snowmobilers…or, I should say snow-machiners because “snowmobile” is a lower 48 word.

    And, next to me there is my husband Mark, being so Mark by worrying about “someone getting run over.”

     

    “Our kids are not getting on snow machines!” Mark responds when I suggest it,  “The only thing worse than crashing your snow machine, is  having it run over you after you crash.” As a trauma surgeon, he has seen more than a few patients who would prove the point.

    But, while we are still in Alaska, there a couple of things we still need to check off the list, and that is seeing the Northern Lights and snow machining (Mark will come around) and perhaps doing both in one place. I imagine the four of us flying across the snow as the green lights of the Aurora Borealis swirl overhead.

    Borealis Basecamp:

    How cool is this place?!

    It’s night and 7 degrees at this camp an hour outside Fairbanks. There are five people in the lobby; myself, my son Anders, my daughter Tatum, Tatum’s friend, and an employee.

    The employee is a large man, mid-30s, wearing a bandana as his covid-wear of choice. The length of the bright red bandana layered over his much longer rusty red beard has a cohesive, almost stylish look.

    “Mom, Anders isn’t wearing a face mask!” Tatum suddenly notices, thrilled to have something on her brother that I have no choice but to publicly respond to.

    “Anders! Go back to the car and get it,” I say.

    The man raises his hand up to stop him, “You’re okay, I don’t care.”

    Anders stops and looks at me just as my husband Mark enter the lobby.

    “It’s a democracy here,” the man continues.

    “What’s happening?” Mark asks, confused.

    “Dad, Anders isn’t wearing a mask!” That’s Tatum again.

    Mark is no longer looking confused. There was a time when getting in his son’s face meant having to bend down, but as of recently, like in the last two months, it simply means standing upright and eye to eye.

    “Anders, did you hear the man?” Mark scolds, “This is a democracy, do you know what that means? It means the majority has voted that masks are what we should be doing, so why aren’t you wearing yours?!”

    “That’s not what I’m saying,” the man says, but Mark can’t hear him because Mark hopped on another train. Same station platform. Opposite direction.

    Mark walks Anders outside, leaving me in his awkward wake, something I’m used to. I’m a little surprised Mark misinterpreted the man though. Speaking of moments that remind me I’m in Alaska and not our hometown Boulder, coming across someone resistant to the mask isn’t uncommon. Compared to other countries, Americans in general don’t like taking orders, but Alaskans ten times more so.

    “That’s not what I was saying,” the man repeats, “I wouldn’t be wearing a mask if I wasn’t required to as an employee. I’m not scared.”

    I nod.

    Personally, when it comes to masks, there are times like this one when I wish I had a mask that covered my entire face. Then I could just shut my eyes and try to sleep.

    The lobby is now very quiet. I’m at a loss for words.  And, Tatum is at a loss for a brother to tattle on.

    The man breaks the silence, “I actually think I have the antibodies because in March there were a lot of people here from China and Japan.”

    Now I’m awake. There is this rumor I have been meaning to investigate.

    “Oh, right, they come here because…?” I ask, referring to the rumor.

    “Yeah, it is some sort of fertility tradition they have,” he shrugs, “I don’t know.”

    And he looks like he doesn’t want to know, but I’m curious. I’m going to have to officially look into this one once we get to into our room, I mean, igloo. Here at Borealis Basecamp, the accommodations are referred to as igloos.

    https://borealisbasecamp.net/?gclid=CjwKCAiA8Jf-BRB-EiwAWDtEGrj7kOntNcmRHF5MCyw_fHB3sreIrRhBCkbpFEAp48hjhQe0_TIlThoCKdwQAvD_BwE

    The Perfect Place to See the Northern Lights, and Conceive a Gifted Child?

    “Have you heard that rumor about how Japanese travel to Alaska to conceive a child under the Northern Lights?” I ask Mark after we are led to our igloo.

    “No, why would they do that?”

    “It’s believed to result in a “gifted” child.”

    “Well, too bad we didn’t know, because we’re 0 for 2.”

    I looked it up, and from what I can tell it is just a rumor.

    https://soranews24.com/2015/02/14/is-it-true-that-japanese-go-to-alaska-to-copulate-under-the-aurora-【myth-busters】/It started on an episode of “Northern Exposure,” a popular 90s show I have never seen. “Oh you have to watch Northern Exposure!” almost everyone would say when we announced we were moving to a small town in Alaska. But, along with “Leave it to Beaver” and “Welcome Back Kotter” “Northern Exposure” is not streaming on Netflix or anywhere.

    As it turns out, we did not see the lights at Borealis Basecamp.  It is possible that we were too late into winter, and the skies were filled with clouds.  I wasn’t too surprised as checking on Aurora activity is something I check on more than the weather itself and I knew “activity” would be low. https://www.gi.alaska.edu/monitors/aurora-forecast.

    The perfect place to see the Northern lights, unless there are clouds.

    Those clouds prevented viewing of the Northern Lights, but they did provide another particular benefit of the Alaskan north: snow.

    The weekend that we visited the Borealis Basecamp, they had just started dog sledding in earnest.  They are true competitors, but they will offer to take tourists on sledding adventures to subsidize the considerable expenses of running a bonafide competitive dog sled operation.  The prior weekend, they were using wheeled carts for lack of snow.  When we were there, they just switched to actual sleds.  Our guide loved it.  “When I’m done with you, I will do another 25 mile training run,” he said.  “Then, I’ll switch dogs, and we’ll do another 25 miles.”

    The next day, clouds continued to fill the sky.  And, they continued to provide ample snow, enough for a snow machine expedition.  Finally, Mark had consented to let the kids go, and even drive.

    And while we didn’t get the northern lights swirling overheard, we did get something I hadn’t realized I wanted to see.

    “Is that the Alaska Pipeline?” I ask our guide as we approach what I thought at was another ski hill. But these weren’t ski hills, apparently during much of our ride we had been on top of the pipeline. More than half of the 800 mile pipeline is above ground.

    Snow machining past the Trans-Alaska Pipeline? I say that counts as an “Alaska moment.”

    Now, while not seeing the Northern Lights was disappointing we weren’t too upset as we did see the Northern Lights on an October trip to Fairbanks with my brother Ken. October usually means clearer skies.

    We loved the lodge where we stayed. It was affordable (certainly in covid times, and it was more classic in terms of style. https://atasteofalaska.com

    To catch the lights of Aurora Borealis though you had to head out to a field behind the lodge. When I heard the lights were active (and they can be very fleeting) I’d run out to that field, trying snap shots of the sky along the way but without spilling wine from the glass I had in my other hand.

    Because I have my priorities in order, I managed to save every sip of the wine, but my photos were terrible.

    Fortunately, out in the field there were other lodge guests who we quickly befriended. One of them was  a professional photographer who offered to shoot a family portrait of us the next day. Where we actually look like an almost sane family.

    And he sent me his images of his shots of the Northern Lights from the night before.

    I’ll admit, this is a little better than the shots I took. http://www.toddrafalovich.com

    End Note:

    Todd and his wife will be traveling with my brother this summer (if all goes well) to revisit the village my brother lived in as a peace corps volunteer several decades ago. I’m almost tempted to join if only to lose another 10lbs quickly. https://pokingthebear.org/the-art-of-seduction/

    I can’t wait to see photos from that trip, and how the village may have changed.

    Visiting my brother in Garli village, Mauritania, Africa. A long time ago.
  • Life on the Outskirts

    Life on the Outskirts

    “The Hunt” Act I:

    “It’s not at the restaurant,” my husband Mark says, starting to panic. He had used my cell to inquire about his own, which he thought he must have left at the restaurant where we had dinner an hour earlier.

    “And you checked the couch?” I ask, because 9 times out of 10 it’s in the couch cushions.

    “Yes! I looked everywhere!”

    It was clear he had at least looked in every drawer of our house, as they were all still open.

    Years ago I came up with a rule that I felt would keep our marriage intact. I told Mark I’d help him look for either his keys, wallet, or phone one thousand times throughout our lives together, and then no more. I thought the number was generous but he blew through it within the first month after the wedding.

    “You have only 10 left,” I said to him back in 2002, “Are you sure you don’t want to spread them out over the next decade or so?”

    “Can you help?!” Mark asks me now, “my patients could be trying to call me!”

    This is where he always gets me. I grab my phone back from him.

    “Did you check Find My Friends?” I ask.

    Mark shakes his head “no.”

    I open the app and there is Mark’s smiling face marking the location of his phone, and it is somewhere totally unexpected.

    “Your phone is on the other side of Sterling Highway,” I say.

    The other side of the highway from our neighborhood is mostly woods. There are some houses back there. You can’t see them from the main road, you just know they are there because you see the entrance to their driveways, marked by three or more “No trespassing” signs.

    On the map we are given an exact address. Mark and I stare at it, confused.

    “How could my phone be there?” He asks.

    “I don’t know, did you visit your mistress today?” I ask.

    “I don’t think so. Could someone have swiped my phone when we were at the restaurant?”

    We had been seated at a high top table near the bathrooms, but no…this seems unlikely. Still, it was right there on my phone, Mark’s face on the map with an address.

    “Let’s go,” Mark says grabbing the car keys.

    “We’re going to just show up and accuse them of having your phone?”

    “My patients could be trying to reach me!”

    At this point I ask myself 2 questions.

    One: Should I change out of my pajamas? My pajamas, by the way, happen to be hospital scrubs. I figure for Mark, after a long day working in scrubs and surrounded by people in scrubs there is no better sight for sore eyes than coming home to a wife who is also wearing scrubs.

    I used to go out in public in these scrubs every once in awhile, like on a late night run to the grocery store. I figured people would just assume I had just gotten off my shift. Not only lazy but shameless of me, I know.

    But I have stopped doing that. In these covid days, the sight of hospital scrubs in the grocery aisle have shoppers wheeling their carts around and scurrying away in the opposite direction or throwing themselves up against a wall of cereal to get away from me. Could be my imagination, but I don’t think so.

    On this outing, however, I decide to stay in the scrubs. I figure it’ll lend legitimacy to our urgent mission to retrieve the phone.

    Question Two: “Should we bring the gun?” I ask Mark.

    These are words I never thought would come out of my mouth. Mark laughs at this, and I guess I am half joking. Which means I’m half not.

    People who live in town, and people who live out of town:

    “It’s the Wild West out there,” my in town friend says of those who live in the more remote areas of Alaska. One can and should assume every household has guns, and the further out you go, the looser the interpretation of law becomes.

    My friend and I are taking our usual morning walk around her in-town neighborhood which I refer to as the trick or treat neighborhood. There are street lights, the houses are close together. There are a lot of families with young kids. And, it seems everyone knows everyone.

    The “trick or treat” neighborhood. Mid-October, 8 a.m. The mornings are getting darker…

    “Good morning Staci,” my friend waves at a woman across the street who is walking with a headlight. A man in a truck drives past and my friend waves at him too.

    “That’s Mr. Sweeney,” she says.

    “From the store?” I ask.

    She nods. I’m referring to a hunting and fishing store nearby. It’s called Sweeneys.

    There isn’t a person we pass that she doesn’t know. She says she feels safe in a neighborhood where everyone looks out for each other, noting if anything is amiss.

    But, many people move to this state because they don’t want neighbors popping in, or keeping an eye on their home. They don’t want neighbors to even be able to see their home. 95% of the state is wilderness, so creating your own private world in the woods is easy to do.

    But, we are now about to infiltrate someone’s private world in the hunt for Mark’s ever elusive phone.

    “The Hunt” Act II:

    “This is it, turn left,” I say looking at the map. And Mark does. We ignore the “No Trespassing” signs and head down a long gravel driveway, eventually we see house lights through the trees.

    By the time we reach the house, the couple who lives there is already outside to intercept us.

    I am a little relieved to see the house is a nice one, well cared for. The couple looks to be in their early 50s. You never know what your going to get when you head down a blind driveway, I was worried we’d end up in front of some meth lab structure because unfortunately, there are those in Alaska. It’s a problem. https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-features/inside-alaska-meth-opioid-epidemic-701855/

    As we step out of the truck, the husband calls out, “Can we help you?”

    Mark and I stay next to our truck as Mark starts apologizing while simultaneously asking about his phone and how maybe someone in their house accidentally grabbed it from a restaurant, because our app says it is there.

    I smile a lot and make interjections about how he’s a doctor and his patients need to be able to call him.

    The two of them look at my scrub pants. I knew I made the right call wearing them.

    “Well, my parents did go out to dinner, but they wouldn’t take your phone,” the wife says.

    “Oh it’s an old phone nobody would take it on purpose but maybe we could ask..?” Mark suggests.

    “They don’t have your phone,” she states, firmly.

    There is a long tense moment of silence as we stare at each other. I look at Mark.

    “Okay, well, thanks, sorry again for showing up like this,” Mark says, to my relief, “my wife actually joked before coming over that we should bring our gun for safety.” Mark laughs as if the idea of that is preposterous, but the husband and wife both nod. Makes sense to them.

    “Nah, you’re good here,” the man says, relaxing, “but I wouldn’t go to our neighbors over here, or the ones behind us.”

    He points in the two directions.

    “Or the two properties over there,” the woman says pointing in the only directions that hadn’t been covered yet.

    “And definitely don’t go to that big farm across Sterling,” the man says.

    The couple suddenly becomes very animated as they tell us about their youngest son crashing his ATV (all terrain vehicle) on the farm, and the farm owner still won’t let them retrieve their ATV a year later. He said if they tried he would consider it trespassing.

    “Can you imagine?” she asks, looking at me, “an 11-year-old boy is injured in a crash and he doesn’t even care. He made my son walk home!”

    I shake my head, no, that I can’t imagine. And we all exchange exclamations of disbelief, and comments on how crazy people are. Now that we’ve moved past the question of whether or not there is going to be a shoot out, it’s starting to feel like we are leaving a friends house after a dinner party.

    We chat a little longer and then it is friendly waves good-bye before we get back in the truck and drive up the long driveway. The wheels making their way across the gravel is the only sound as Mark stares silently ahead. He looks defeated.

    I pull out my phone and look at the app again. Mark’s photo is no longer at the address we had just driven to. I can’t believe where the app is telling us the phone is now.

    I Think I’m Turning into an Out of Town Person

    I’ve always loved city life. Prior to kids I’d give up square footage for anything located next to the best restaurants. My studio in Beacon Hill, Boston was maybe 300 square feet, I could cook eggs from my bed as I started the shower.

    After having kids, we have only lived in suburbia, in trick or treat neighborhoods. But since moving here and living in a house on the outskirts, I am not sure I can be an in-town person ever again. How can one go back from such privacy and 360 views?

    The kids love 4-square but we have a gravel driveway, so we found this volleyball version of 4-square.

    https://www.crossnetgame.com

    In our plan to eventually return to family and friends in Colorado, we are considering a move to a house in the mountains. Mark has always campaigned for it. It took a year living here for me to realize that I could get behind such a plan. (Unfortunately, I am a little late. Covid and low interest rates has made the real estate market in Colorado’s mountain towns explode.)

    I would never live off the grid or some place so remote that there aren’t neighbors within walking distance. I like something in between, like what we have found here. As outsiders coming in, we might have been taken into the community fold in a quicker way if we had chosen to live in town. So, not only are we physically on the outskirts given where we decided to live, but we are on the outskirts socially as well. But then we have met people in Alaska who have felt they were never taken into the fold until at least 20 years of living here. But being surrounded by such beauty is worth it. Our two only and immediate neighbors on either side of us are amazing. And people do pop by on occasion. Most recently one of Mark’s patients came by to drop off a basket of veggies from his garden.

    “You’re husband changed my life, I can finally garden again,” the man tells me, referring to his new knee.

    What to make with all these veggies?
    Ratatouille!

    “The Hunt” Act III:

    “You won’t believe where it says your phone is now,” I tell Mark, as I look at the Find My Friends map.

    “Where?” he asks, his hope restored.

    “It says it’s at our house.”

    “What?! Why did it give us this other address?”

    “I don’t know!”

    Only, I do know. It’s my frenemy Siri, getting back at me for swearing at her the other day. She could have been more cruel though, I decide. At least she sent us to the only people in that neck of the woods who didn’t come at us with shotguns.

    End Scene:

    Mark’s phone is found under a cushion on the couch.

     

    Photo Credit for our family shot. We met Todd around midnight one night. We were all in a field outside Fairbanks hunting for the Northern Lights (but that’s another story). He offered to take photos of us the next day. I had no idea how lucky we were to have come across such a pro until I looked up his site. http://www.toddrafalovich.com

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • Living Danger-ishly

    Living Danger-ishly

    Small Plane Culture:

    My son Anders and I are on a small propeller plane returning to the Peninsula from Anchorage where Anders just got braces. Yes, we flew to Anchorage for an orthodontist appointment.

    I am seated right behind the pilot. If I leant my head forward I could nap on his shoulder. But I won’t do that, he is distracted enough at the moment by a bumble bee that is excitedly buzzing around his dashboard

    The pilot keeps glancing at it as it buzzes back and forth and bounces off the control panel.

    I stare at the pilot’s hands, willing both of them to stay gripped on the wheel. I’m all too aware that this is a single engine, single piloted plane. At one point the bee flies towards my face, but I don’t duck or try to swat at it. In case the pilot has eyes in the back of his head, I want to set a good example.

    From the single seat behind me Anders taps my shoulder.

    “Mom, how much longer? I don’t like this,” Anders says.

    I know he doesn’t like this. He hates flying, and he is especially fearful of flying on any airline that asks how much you weigh at check in (It’s the only time I’m honest about it as who knows the margin for error on that.)

    “Mom, did you hear me?” Anders asks.

    I nod to show him I did, but I am busy watching the pilot who is busy watching the bee.

    My vigilance in willing his hands not to move paid off. Not once did he take a hand off the wheel until landing the plane and pulling to a stop. He then turned around and looked at me.

    “Did you see that bee?” he asks, “I don’t think it paid for a ticket.”

    I laugh because every joke is funnier when you’re safely on the ground.

    Truly the Last Frontier:

    Whenever my friends who I grew up with in Boulder ask me what Alaska is like, I tell them it’s like Colorado in the early ’80s, and they understand what I mean. It is probably why we keep running into people here who moved from Colorado. They all want 1981 Colorado back.

    (I mention the same thing in another post. https://pokingthebear.org/minding-your-own-business-in-alaska/)

    One difference though that is very unique to Alaska is the small plane culture. It is the only way to get anywhere, other than bigger cities like Anchorage.

    3 of my favorite things to witness on our lake is (small planes is number 3):

    One: The Ducks. Since early summer a family of ducks moved in under our dock. First mama was being followed by 10 ducklings. Then it was seven. Then five. This morning I saw her and there was just two tween ducks trailing.

    Did her other babies mature enough to move out on their own? Or were they all picked off by eagles who figured a small duck would be easier to haul off versus, say, a fat cat named Albert?

    We keep telling Albert that if he wants to risk going outdoors he should at least wear his pirate outfit because everyone knows eagles are afraid of pirates. But, Albert won’t listen.

    Two: My jet skiing neighbors. One of our neighbors is a school teacher and she is very sweet and quiet, but then everyone is very sweet and quiet compared to my family. When she and I go to happy hour it is basically her politely picking at a sliver of pie as I cackle loudly at my own jokes before chugging another margarita. But when my neighbor is on a jet ski, she makes me feel demure as she revs her engine, jumps waves, does donuts, and flies around the lake like a bat out of hell.

    Three: Then there are the float planes. I love them. It’s just what I pictured when I imagined life in Alaska. Across the lake is an adventure flying charter owned by two brothers who own beaver planes that can take you to the most remote places in the state. You can recognize a beaver plane by the sound of the motor.

    I have taken way too many photos of them taking off and landing in the fall, spring and summer. And, in the dead of winter this past year, when they weren’t flying, I walked across the lake to take photos of them.

    I’m sure I had probably stopped to watch the beaver planes take off that tragic morning, at 7am on the nose, as usual.

    Then I got a call from my jetski neighbor who was on her way to our morning bootcamp class. She said traffic into town was at a standstill.

    Just like 1981 Colorado, the only time you find yourself stuck in that kind of traffic here is if there was an accident.

    My neighbor went on to tell me it was a 2 plane mid-air collision involving one of the planes from across our lake. She just wasn’t sure which one.

    My other neighbor calls to ask me which planes I see across the way. One by one the planes are returning, it is a matter of knowing which one won’t.

    “The red, white, and blue one is back,” I tell her, relieved. It sounds strange but I just am weirdly attached to that plane. But overwhelmingly I was heartbroken knowing that the pilot inside was probably one brother just hearing the news. By the end of the day we knew, seven people were dead, including one of the brothers, a guide, and four age 20-something tourists. In the other plane an Alaskan State Representative.  His campaign signs were all over town.

    It was devastating.

    In the week following, no one on the lake went out on boats. There was no laughter as kids were pulled behind on tubes. There were no bad ass teachers on jet skis. The normally active lake was still, and ominously quiet.

    Finally, one morning, at 7am sharp, I heard the engine of a beaver plane. It felt like a signal that gave permission for everyone on the lake to stop mourning and return to some sort of normalcy.

    Risk Vs Reward:

    Here is the thing, my brother and his family were visiting just days later, and I had all of us scheduled to fly with this particular outfit to go fishing. In my fantasy I had the planes picking us up at our dock, but that was to be determined. I only knew I wouldn’t change charters though, now more than ever I had a loyalty to our plane charting neighbors.The bigger question at the moment was my son. If he was resistant to fly to go fishing before, well, this didn’t help.”I’m not going, mom” he said after I confirmed there had been a crash.  “You can’t make me!”

    Turns out he had a valid enough excuse to bail.  He had football practice, and my brother and nephews all agreed that football was much more important than a trip of a lifetime. We are a pretty intense football family.

    Because rural Alaska is 1981 Colorado, if you want to play a sport, you play the sport that is in season, and you play for your school. Oh, and the worry over concussions has not dwindled the team’s numbers.  They have been state champions 10 years in a row.

    The options for fall were track and football, and Anders chose football. Which is something of a surprise, but my brothers are thrilled.

    My nephew showing Anders how it’s done.

    I wasn’t going to make Anders fly on the float plane even if he didn’t have a good excuse. I had always promised myself that while we were here in Alaska our family would have to get on one of those float planes, at least once. But even before the accident I was questioning whether I could summon the courage myself.

    When did I become so nervous and risk adverse? I was once a 20-something year old. One who didn’t think twice about bungee jumping, and who went skydiving simply because in the school paper there was a $20 off for two people coupon.

    Somewhere over the fields of Upstate NY

     

    The Risks:

    “I can’t tell you small planes are safe, because they really aren’t,” my friend says after I tell her about having second thoughts on our charter flight. She is a newly licensed pilot herself, and she and her husband seem to fly somewhere romantic every weekend.  Freak accidents happen no matter how experienced the pilot, and Alaska is the state with the most crashes due to the numbers of planes, weather, and extreme terrain.

    When you hear of two planes colliding you think, how is that possible? But, my friend tells me a story of flying with her husband who grew up in Alaska flying planes, and they almost had an in-air collision themselves.

    “One moment we are staring at a wide open, totally empty sky, and then suddenly a plane appeared out of nowhere,” she tells me, “that plane came so close to us I could read the lettering on the pilot’s hat.”

    She can tell that she’s freaking me out.

    “But the views are worth it,” she added, “And I think it’s less dangerous than driving on Sterling Highway!”

    I have a flashback of driving with my daughter (who has her learner’s permit) slowly pulling out onto the highway as two semis going 90 mph head our way in each direction. My friend is right.

    And so we kept our reservation for a day of flying and fishing, but I did have two conditions. Now that Anders was staying behind, I wanted my husband and I to go in separate planes. The second condition was, I had to be in the red, white, and blue, plane.

    The Rewards:

    The Views
    The remote places you can only travel to in a small plane

    The bears. Fortunately, the bears are more interested in the fish.
    The fish.

    But perhaps the greatest reward for me was flying straight home, literally. My husband took this photo of our plane (I’m with my daughter, niece and nephew) landing right in front of our house.

    Flew in a float plane. Check.

    My niece made a video of our trip which captures the views better than pictures. After watching it one of my friends said it reminded her of the days when we used to make mixed tapes. Like, back in the 80s.

    https://www.facebook.com/lucie.rutherford/videos/2891993164234279

    End note: Will I ever fly in such a small plane again? Maybe, to sound like an addict I’ll admit to wanting to go on one more flight. Perhaps this time to see the views of Mt Denali out of Talkeetna. https://www.alaska.org/detail/talkeetna-air-taxi

     

     

  • Can Cat People Become Dog People?

    Can Cat People Become Dog People?

    The Safeway cashier has stopped scanning my groceries. She stands staring just past my right shoulder at nothing. Her eyes are filled with tears.

    “I’m sorry,” I say.

    The cashier nods absently, but mostly she remains paralyzed by a memory that clearly weighs heavy on her.

    “She saved my life,” she tells me again,”I’ll never forget how she saved my life.”

    There was no one in line behind me, I figured I had some time to probe. Delicately, because if she started wailing it wouldn’t look good. For either of us.

    “Which cat was it?” I ask softly, “Ms. Pebbles?”

    She shakes her head no. No, it was not Ms. Pebbles.

    “It was Trix,” she says, still staring off in the distance.

    A few years back I made a huge, life changing decision. I decided I was going to be more “present” during everyday encounters with people. I was no longer just going to say, “hi” and “thank you.” I was actually going to stop listening to my podcast on how to be a better person, and be a better person. I was going to take off my mammoth stereo headphones (earbuds give me the willies and I don’t understand how I’m the only one on that, and also I’m too old to care about looking like a dork) I was going to make solid eye contact, and I was going to beat employees to the punch by asking them how their day was going first.

    This decision was for sure an, “I’m turning into my dad” thing. But since moving to Alaska, it was also an “I have no friends to talk to” thing. So there’s that.

    But the plan wasn’t to make anyone cry.

    My daughter appears at the check out, out of breath. Visibly relieved to see she’s not too late, she throws down a box of Cheezits. Then she notices the distraught cashier.

    Tatum looks at me as if to ask, “what happened?”

    What did happen?

    There are “cat people” and many of them happen to work behind the register at the grocery store. I know this because the sight of our cat food on the conveyor belt usually compels them to announce themselves.

    When this cashier saw the cat food, she asked how many cats I had. I told her I had two. Given my new rules of engagement, I went on and said they were named Albert and Georgie, and they were getting used to their new home here in Alaska.

    And then she said that she used to have two cats too, Ms. Pebbles and Trix, but that she had to give them up because her step-son is allergic. She said she gave them to a shelter and she has a feeling they didn’t find homes. I responded saying I was sure the shelter placed her cats into very nice homes. But she shook her head “no,” and explained again that she had to give them up even though one of them saved her life. And then she started to cry.

    And now here we were. The two of us and now the three of us. And I really want to know, how had Trix saved this woman’s life?

    Of course maybe it was an emotional kind of “save”, but my mind started scripting out what I hoped was the actual story. I had a vision of Trix saving this woman’s life by body blocking an attacking grissly bear.

    It would be a lot like what this cat did to protect a kid from a dog (viewer discretion advised) only, in my version it needs to be bear.

     

    I was about to ask the big question, but Tatum gives me a look. She senses I’m about to say something that might escalate the woman’s emotional state, and I know she is worried that somehow her Cheezits might not get scanned.

    “What a good cat,” I say, simply.

    “She was, she was a good cat,” the cashier agrees. She takes a deep breath and then returns to scanning the remainder of our items, including Tatum’s Cheezits. Tatum snatches her Cheezits the moment the box passes successfully across the scanner.

    Then that was it. The cashier was back to her cheerful, professional manner as if nothing had happened. She handed me my receipt and let me know how much money I had saved.

    “Why did you make that lady cry!?”  Tatum asks me in the parking lot.

    “I didn’t make her cry,” I say, as I enter the names Mrs. Pebbles and Trix into my phone.

    “What are you doing now?!”

    “I’m putting in the cat names so I don’t forget.”

    “Why?! Mom, oh my gosh! You’re so weird!”

    I wondered how Trix was spelled. My first instinct that it was spelled like the cereal, instead of like magic tricks. But was that because I heard the name in a grocery store? Ever since I decided to blog I have been making notes. I wasn’t exactly sure why I was making one now though. It might have something to do with the idea that with our new move, we might also want a new pet, and for the first time, a pet that isn’t a feline.

    Should We Get a Dog?

    I guess I was just excited by the idea of a hero cat, because there are so many stories about hero dogs. I never grew up with dogs, we have always been a cat family. So, I’m a little defensive about cats.

    That being said, for the first time in my life, I’m considering adopting a dog. A hero dog preferably. Everyone here seems to have a dog. Along with trucks, RVs, and guns, dogs appear to be a key part of the last frontier lifestyle.

    And if We Get a Dog, What Breed?

    A Few Good Suggestions:

    1: Australian Shepherds

    “Get an Australian Shepard!” yells Todd, one of my husband Mark’s ex-coworkers.

    This is after I had yelled at him a list of reasons why we might need a dog in Alaska. At the top of that list, of course, was that dogs could help protect us from bears. By this time, just two weeks out from our move, I had already seen all those videos of dogs chasing off bears (I ignored the one where a dog just made things worse.)

    “They’re great dogs!” Todd is turned towards me, but his eyes are fixed on Mark who is a third of the way through the French Canadien National Anthem.

    We are at a “going away” work party for Mark which is being held in the back room of a small Denver Sushi restaurant. It is a room designated for karaoke. So far it has pretty much been a one man show. Mark blew through all the Willie Nelson and John Denver songs and is now off playbook singing (acapella) the French Canadien National Anthem.

    “Ton histoire est une épopée! Des plus brillants exploits!” Mark belts, then pauses to speak into the microphone, “feel free to join in everyone.”

    Todd somehow manages to tear his eyes from the spectacle in order to pull out his phone and show me photos of his Australian Shepherd.

    “He’s so cute!” I yell. I like that he’s not too big, but he’s not so small as to be eagle bait. Chiwawas are not the dog to have in Alaska.

    Todd shouts out a bunch of reasons why Australian Shepherds is the perfect dog. And after another shot of sake, I’m 100% convinced that’s the dog we will get. I feel so relieved to have finally decided.

    “Protégera nos foyers et nos droits!”

    But, as Mark brings home the final verse of the anthem with his trademark flourish I worry about the part about Australian Shepards being high energy, task oriented, and needing a lot of attention.

    Cats don’t need that kind of of attention. Cats are easy.

    2: Sled Dogs

    “How about a husky,”” Mark suggests, “or an Alaskan Malamut?”

    We were in Willow, Alaska for an afternoon of dog sledding. Willow is the official starting location for the Iditarod each year, and at this dog sledding lodge, these dogs were retired from the great race, but still begging to run.

    Tatum doesn’t know much about dogs, but she was sure dog sledding was “mean,” and she started off the day as a reluctant participant.

    I asked her afterwards whether she thought dogs were happy or not, and she agreed that these dogs looked very happy. They certainly looked ecstactic to be pulling our sled. Whenever we stopped they’d bark their heads off demanding to know why.

    As with any treatment of pets though, it just comes down to the owner.

    Tatum is in the sled in front of me, her dad is the musher (dogsled driver)

    Tangent Time: The Iditarod 2020

    If you don’t know (because you didn’t watch the Disney movie “Balto”) the Iditarod commemorates the”Great Race of Mercy.” In 1925 there was the diphtheria epidemic and when pilots couldn’t make it to the remote, snowed in town of Nome due to a blizzard, a dog team was sent with the serum. Against the odds, they made it.

    Known as “The Last Great Race on Earth” the Iditarod an is important tradition here, and that’s why they are making changes in the wake of controversy to keep the dogs safe for example vets travel with the teams, and dogs are able to be subbed out (which wasn’t originally the case.)

    It’s not like the Broncos are playing down the street, dog sledding is one of the only sports around. And this year, it was pretty much one of the only sports still happening in the world as everything started to shut down due to Covid-19.

    We were at the Iditarod’s ceremonial start in Anchorage on March 7th. The finish line in Nome didn’t have anywhere near this crowd just days later as the state starting shutting down with the rest of the country. A few towns on the trail didn’t allow the mushers to even pass through as they have traditionally in the previous 47 years.

    Iditarod 2020 start. Nine days, 10 hours, and 37 minutes later, only a handful of people were there to cheer for the winner, a Norwegian team.

    My final thought on getting one of these dogs – while sled dogs are fun and tough enough to scare off a bear, I don’t know. I worry that moving to Alaska, starting a blog about the state, and then adopting an Alaskan Husky or and Alaskan Malamut might come across as being too “on theme.”

    Also, like the Australian Shepard, I suspect these dogs might be too much for me to handle. Any dog that can run the Iditarod is likely to be unimpressed with an owner who whines about speed walking a block.

    3: Corgis

    “I love Corgis” gushes the man in the MAGA hat sitting at our kitchen island. I see another glimpse of the pistol that’s strapped to his belt as he reaches in his back pocket for his phone. He then shows us a video of his corgi barking at a squirrel he managed to trap in a cage.

    The man is Henry, and we just met him on our door step 3 hours ago. He showed up at our door with 1/4 pound of moose meat from a previous year kill. I put the moose meat in the freezer as Mark invited him to sit down for coffee.

    As I brewed a pot, it occurred to me that I have been too harsh of a judge on people who innocently welcomed into their home strangers, only to end up dead.

    I pull out Mark’s favorite mug simply because it is the biggest mug, but I pause when choosing a mug for our unexpected guest. Maybe I should give him one of the disposable to-go cups instead? That might seem rude. Instead I select a mug we bought at the gift shop in Mesa Verde’s national park. It is the smallest mug we own.

    Three hours and multiple Mesa Verde cups of coffee later, Henry is now telling us about his Corgi. By then I had decided to “lean in” to his visit, however long it might be, and I was appreciating it. It was just very interesting. At the very start of his visit, as if to address the elephant in the room (MAGA hat) Henry brought up all that is great about Trump, as we quietly listened. I have a brand new rule: Don’t discuss politics with anyone who is armed.

    So we moved on to trips around Alaska, and guns, and finally, dogs. Which is ironic, because this whole meeting came about with a discussion on cats.

    Possibly in retaliation of this ongoing deciding-if-we-want-a-dog process, we have doubled down on being cat people. My friend helps at an animal rescue shelter and I offered to foster a litter. So now, we have Albert and Georgie, and five foster kittens.

    Albert isn’t too sure about these foster kittens, and looks like the feeling is mutual.

    Henry’s wife had come by earlier that day to look at our kittens, and she selected one. Then we got to discussing Mark’s bbq prowess but that he had never bbqued with moose meat and she went and told her husband, and he came over with the moose meat. Sweet.

    When I held up the kitten she wanted, Henry shook his head. “We can’t have a cat. We are living in our RV until we get back to our dry cabin, it’s just not practical.”

    I knew his wife was from California, and she chose to move to freezing/bordering on the Arctic Northern Alaska to live in a dry cabin (which is a home that doesn’t have any plumbing much less a computerized system that notifies your plumber with issues) after she met Henry on-line.

    Really, that is a true “poking the bear” move and she’s the one who should be writing this blog.

    One last Cashier with a Cat Story:

    I was at the area’s one Walmart buying double the cat food now that we added a litter of kitties. Times have changed since my last cat convo with a store cashier.

    This cashier is wearing a mask, and there is a plexiglass-glass partition separating us. I was just starting to wonder if there would ever be a day post-Coronavirus when I would be invited to engage in banter about cats when….

    Seeing the litter and cat food, the cashier looked up and asked me, “do you want to hear a funny story about cats?”

    “Yes!” I shouted.

    The cashier went on to tell me how she was in the shower one day, listening to the radio, when a commercial for cat food came on. In the radio commercial there was a cat meowing. As the commercial ended, the cashier still heard meowing. Confused, she got out of the shower, and found her neighbor’s cat running around her apartment. The cat had come through her bathroom window looking for the cat that was meowing on the radio.

    I laughed much louder than intended. But what I was trying to say with that laugh was, “that’s right sister, we’re not going to let masks or this plexiglass divide divide us by preventing us from chatting about cats!”

    The mask I happened to be wearing was one of my son’s ski masks, although he never wore it, and I like that it is light t-shirt material. I still wear it sometimes as I keep losing the other masks. If I looked a little scary laughing in this mask, the cashier didn’t let on.

     

    And speaking of cashiers, I thought of the one who worried that the animal shelter didn’t find Ms Pebbles and Trix homes (and hopefully they did) because two of our five foster cats were just adopted. To very nice homes, I think.

    And it’s not hard to see why these kittens went fast.

    Look at these faces. I’ll bet they could even turn dog people into cat people.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • Springtime is Break-Up Time

    Springtime is Break-Up Time

    Things are thawing out here in Alaska. I’d say we are just a day or two away from being able to extract my son’s homework from the driveway, which is now three months past due.

    More original than the “dog ate my homework” excuse.

    Spring, Alaska’s Ugly Season

    Spring here is referred to as, “The Break Up.”

    This is the time of year when ice begins to melt, and white snow turns to dirty snow, or slush. It’s hard to know whether the car should be in 4-wheel drive or 2-wheel drive, or whether you still need to keep out your winter boots with good treading.

    My son Anders discovers he chose the wrong footwear.

    It might not be fair of me to call spring in Alaska “ugly” because it’s still pretty. It just has such stiff competition. There is summer, the fan favorite, and there is the elegant beauty of fall. And then there is winter which has its own dramatic allure.

    Summer

    We moved to Soldotna during the summer. And everyone loves summer, especially summer on the Kenai Peninsula which is known as, “Alaska’s Playground.”

    And, with the midnight sun only dipping briefly out of sight it’s not so much that you can’t sleep, but that you don’t want to sleep. A friend here told me in summer she feels like a “superhero” simply because with longer days, she does so much, and gets so much done. “You could be gardening and then you notice it’s 10pm!”

    Heading out for a trip around the lake at 9:45 pm. The sun will hang out there for quite awhile.

    We spent the last month of summer (our first month living in Soldotna) in a cabin rental on a lake called Loon Lake. It is called that for a reason. The call of the Loon bird is spooky, especially listening to it at night or in the early morning mist. I love the sound. In case you need a reference, this is the sound of the loon. It’ll just take the first couple of seconds of the video to get it.

    Fall

    We moved out of the rental and into our new house at the beginning of fall. I only wish there were more Loons on this lake. Otherwise it is perfection.

    Nuff said. No one can name fall as the ugliest season.

    Winter

    Winter was the season I was most worried about.

    All I heard from friends before we moved was:

    “How are you going to handle those long dark winters?!”

    “I could never do winter in Alaska.”

    “Winter will suck!”

    When I mentioned our move during my annual physical, my doctor prescribed me three different medications; one for depression, one for anxiety, and one for sleeplessness caused by anxiety, then she handed me a five page print out on SAD (seasonal affective disorder) and a list of top rated sun/light therapy lamps. I had not come in to ask for meds, but walking out with all those prescriptions for depression and anxiety had me feeling depressed and anxious.

    Was I underestimating winters in Alaska? Could they really be that bad?

    This vision of myself on a winter night began to haunt me. I am curled up in the corner of a dark house. From the moonlight streaming through the window you see I am cradling a broken sun lamp in one arm, and a bottle of vodka in the other. I am muttering to myself, but it is unintelligible. As we close in, we start to make out some words, something about why I had to kill my family? Suddenly the sun lamp flickers on, it’s fluorescent light reveals my face covered in blood. I turn and stare into the light, the muttering stops as I begin to laugh.

    But…as it turns out, winter might be my favorite season. The deeper we got into winter the more stunning it became. I am perhaps in the minority here, but I don’t find winter depressing but inspiring.

    I couldn’t stop taking pictures of everything and anything, including our driveway being plowed.

    And I kept having to pull the car over to take photos of trees! By the way, note that winter isn’t non-stop darkness.

    I only recently learned that this is called, Hoarfrost. Had to double check the spelling on this one.

    hoar·frost – /ˈhôrˌfrôst/ : A grayish-white crystalline deposit of frozen water vapor formed in clear still weather on vegetation, fences, etc.

    Also had to pull over and take a shot of our neighbors down the street.

    Half-expecting the centaurs from Narnia to trot out of the woods.

    No way could we call winter Alaska’s ugliest season. I’m ready for summer, but as winter melts away, I miss winter by visual comparison. Here is a photo of the same cabins.

    More real than magical.

    I survived one winter without feeling the need for the meds, although I did turn on my sun lamp (“Happylight” as it is called) a few times. But it hurt my eyes. And that might be telling of why I probably fare better in winter here than most, and why summer here is a little harder for me. I’m not really into the sun or bright light in general.

    Neither is my sister. Whenever we meet for lunch we fight over the seat facing away from the window. And by fight, I mean physically, to the point where customers turn and stare and the manager starts to walk over. Usually though we make an effort to avoid this by choosing restaurants with plenty of dark booths.

    It hurts my eyes just looking at a photo of it.

    Of course, to be fair, from a travelers perspective spring is like any season here. It has its own set of adventures.

    2 Big Reasons to Travel to Alaska in the Spring:

    1. It is less expensive since spring is a shoulder season.

    Well, that’s all I have to say about that.

    2: Spring is when life emerges

    This is the time of year bears come out of hibernation. Given the title of my blog I’m still determined to not be ironic and be mauled to death by one. And so we have been avoiding hiking trails at the moment.

    Assuming travel opens up given the current covid-19 lockdown, we are hoping to drive to Seward to do a little whale viewing before spring ends. This is the time when the grey whale migrates to the Bering Sea passing through the fjords of Seward on the way.

    There are all kinds of bird festivals to view their migration in the spring. This year, those festivals have been switched to on-line affairs. Will be interesting to see how that works out.

    https://www.alaskacenters.gov/explore/attractions/wildlife-alaska/birds/bird-festivals

    There is also the caribou migration in the northwest. A bucket list item for many.

    https://www.nytimes.com/2020/04/06/travel/caribou-migration-arctic-alaska.html

    End note:

    In the time since I began writing this post, the ice in our driveway has melted and whatever homework had felt itself so important to be preserved forever in ice is now un-identifiable. We can also probably put that snow shovel in storage.

     

  • The Roadkill List

    The Roadkill List

    The dead moose is a twisted heap on the side of the highway. He is huge, maybe 900 pounds. Looking at him you have to ask; how many servings of moose meatloaf could you make out of this moose?

    If you’re not asking this, you’re probably not on the road kill list.

    Alaska has a “Road kill list.” Basically, if you can haul it away the meat is yours. Except for the head which needs to be turned in to the Fish & Game agency for their records, of course.

    My initial thought when I heard about the list was that there were probably 3 people on the list. And those 3 people were related. But it turns out the list is a long one. You could wait up to two years before you get the call, and you better be ready when you do. The highway patrol will try to wait with the carcass until you arrive so no one else takes off with it. So, apparently that has been a problem.

    “We’re getting on that roadkill list,” my husband Mark promised me before we moved to Alaska. And he was serious. “That’s one more reason why we need to buy a truck.”

    If I had any reservations about moving to Alaska, or buying a truck, they vanished right then as I fantasized about Mark and I on a dark highway at 1:00 am, trying to heave a bloody 1000 pound bull moose into the truck bed, all while not creating a mess with the internal organs or getting struck by oncoming traffic ourselves. #datenight

    Unfortunately, Mark didn’t end up meeting the qualifications for getting on Alaska’s road kill list. I had to blink back the tears when he told me.

    I will say though, I appreciate that there is such a list. It is so…resourceful, which is so Alaska. Leave it to a hunting and fishing state to not let any meat go to waste. To do so would be, well, just embarrassing.

    https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/moose-salvage-network-alaska

    It happens more often than you think:

    “I’m so mad!” my daughter Tatum yells looking out the window at the dead moose (Tatum would be a vegetarian if it weren’t for pepperoni) “How do you not see a big moose? That driver is so stupid! Just like dad!”

    Yes, just like dad. Dumb dad. As dumb as they come, dad.

    We aren’t ones to talk when it comes to accidents involving wildlife. It was just a year ago when we were driving back from a weekend in Steamboat, Colorado. It was dark, there was a blizzard, and we were the only ones on the road at 5 a.m., which is one way to avoid the ski traffic. I’d say this particular drive ranks up in the top five of the scariest drives of my life, we were sliding all over the place. I was just glad the kids were sleeping quietly in the back. Just when the weather started to clear, and my heart stopped beating so hard, a deer. A deer trotting casually onto the road. On dry roads we might have been able to stop…I prayed that the deer would clear the road before we got there.

    “You can’t slam on the breaks,” I say to Mark.

    “I’m not,” Mark says.

    “Don’t.”

    “I won’t.”

    The car starts to slide. He turns the wheel to adjust.

    “You’re overcompensating”

    “I’m not over compensating.”

    “Only you are.”

    If our final moments on earth were spent bickering about his driving, it would be only appropriate.

    I still have nightmares about the last second before impact, the deer glanced sideways at us as if to say, “seriously?”

    What to do if You See an Animal on the Road:

    Most run ins with wildlife happens at dawn or between 9pm and midnight. The advice is the obvious, keep an eye out for wildlife, don’t speed, and don’t try to swerve around the animal.

    The one thing I didn’t know but learned from this Canadien source is this: If a collision is inevitable, slow down as much as possible but then release the brake right before impact.

    https://nationalpost.com/news/canada/how-to-properly-slam-into-wildlife-with-your-car-to-save-your-life

    And turns out we were lucky it wasn’t a direct hit. What I thought was blood we discovered a minute later was windshield wiper fluid. We didn’t pull over to a stop as there was no shoulder, icy roads, and poor visibility, and if I learned anything from my older brother it’s these two things:

    1. Guys don’t like girls who don’t know how to shoot pool because they will cause the guy to lose in a couples game.
    2. Unless your car can’t drive, never stop on the side of a highway.

    We were in the middle of nowhere and it took awhile to get a signal to make a call. By the time we got the right county police dispatcher, we were miles away.

    “The animal isn’t still on the road, but it must be laying somewhere nearby,” Mark explains.

    “Still sir, you need to turn back and meet the officer,” the woman on the other line tells Mark.

    “But we are 30 minutes past the site…” says Mark, who had a full clinic of patients that day starting at 8.

    “If you don’t turn back you’ll be arrested for a hit and run,” she warns.

    Seriously?

    Cut to a gas station, about 30 minutes later:

    “You were told you would be arrested for hit and run?” the officer says, incredulously (and after telling us the deer likely survived because there was little car damage and no sign of the animal).

    The officer chuckles and shakes his head, “you must have talked to Carol.”

    He chuckles again.

    We aren’t sure what’s funny. Are we laughing because Carol is known for being dramatic? Or are we laughing at our gullibility because Carol was just messing with us? I don’t think it is the second, but if it is, I want Carol to be my new bff.

    But Mark wasn’t as amused. The three hour ride home he kept breaking into this, “Hi, I’m Carol…” routine he had picked up from the movie, Office Christmas Party. I will say, his imitation is pretty good.

    Apparently, Mark is still not over Carol the dispatcher and what may or may not have been her intention to make a bad morning worse. This summer at my sister’s baby shower, when we were asked to submit an anonymous list of our Top 5 girl names for her to consider, I knew which list was Mark’s because it looked like this.

    1. Carol
    2. Carol
    3. Carol
    4. Carol
    5. Carol

    My sister ended up going with a name that my son had written down, Ruby.

    Mark’s award winning sauces:

    I promised myself I would at least try different kinds of game when I moved here. But, I’m not sure about moose. Maybe I’ve become too fascinated by The Moosestalker. He appears when I least expect.

    Proof that The Moosestalker is real. Looked up from my lap top and caught this glimpse of him.

    For Easter dinner, we thawed out a few Elk steaks one of Mark’s patients gave him. I didn’t hate it, but I’m just too used to beef I guess. The only reason I had more than a couple of bites was Mark’s peppercorn sauce.

    Mark is on a bbq team. Yes, competitive bbq. Last year when we were at the Frisco, Colorado BBQ challenge, I saw a t-shirt that read, “My Drinking Team has a BBQ Problem.” I’d say that sums up  Mark’s bbq team. Out of 70 plus teams competing, Team Clarence rarely makes it in the top 10 or even top 20 in the most competitive categories, but, they have a fun time trying.

    There were two exciting exceptions over the years.

    There was the year Mark placed second for bbq sauce. He won’t give that recipe up. And then there was the time he placed second in Rancher’s Reserve sponsored contest for sirloin. I am sure what pushed him to the top was the peppercorn sauce he drizzled on top of the steak. Which is this Williams Sonoma recipe. Throw this sauce over any cut of meat to make it work, even roadkill.

    https://www.williams-sonoma.com/recipe/classic-steaks-au-poivre.html

     

     

    End Notes:

    Sometimes the meat from roadkill can’t be salvaged, like if there is extensive internal damage. When you are on the roadkill list you’re still obligated to haul it away though. The moose that collapsed at my feet the day we moved here had been shot through the stomach which contaminated the meat. https://pokingthebear.org/is-death-a-bad-omen/

    Oh, and the cover photo is not of moose roadkill. It is a shot of Mark’s Memphis-style spare ribs.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • #quarantinelife – Are Your Neighbors Doing it Better?

    #quarantinelife – Are Your Neighbors Doing it Better?

    Jay Leno finally spots my husband in the second row. It had just been a matter of time. He stops searching the audience and points.

    “Hello sir, what’s your name?” Leno asks.

    About half the audience in the packed comedy club answers on my husband’s behalf.

    “Mark!”

    This startles Leno.

    “Well, clearly you have been called on before,” he says to Mark.

    Yes, that did happen. Several times.

    We were at the Comedy and Magic Club in Hermosa Beach, California, a small club known for its occasional celebrity hosts. Jay Leno regularly appears on stage on Sundays, and this Sunday was no different. He was the fourth and last comic that night, and the fourth one to call out my husband.

    I love going to comedy clubs. The only part I don’t like is the chance that I might be singled out to engage with the person on stage. While that chance is my great fear, it is my husband’s great wish.

    One can tell when the person at the mic is in search of a participant from the audience. At that point, I slouch low in my seat, my head retreating into my neck until only the crown can be spotted just above my collarbone. Conversely, Mark will sit up tall, his E.T neck managing to launch his head higher than anyone else’s in the room. Then Mark takes on a clueless expression, he will blink looking around like a person who isn’t even sure where he is.

    Mark has mastered a skill no one wants, and that is to appear an easy target for any comic.

    “Well, I hope you haven’t been asked this too,” Leno says, “what do you do for a living Mark?”

    The previous comics hadn’t asked this. Their questions had been more about whether Mark and I were dating or married. Mark’s need for attention roping me in to being comedic fodder by proxy.

    Mark is ready with an answer for Leno.

    “I am currently unemployed,” my husband responds.

    Hmm. Technically, this was true. He had just left a training program and we were relocating to Colorado where he had secured a job to start the following month.

    “I’m sorry to hear that,” Leno says, “really, I am.”

    In person, I like Jay Leno. I had never had much of an opinion about him before now. I just knew I had been a bigger Conan fan when it came to host options for the “The Tonight Show.” But, seeing a celebrity in person tends to make one an instant fan. And, I have to respect any TV personality who still likes to keep sharp by working on a small stage.

    “I’m sure your luck will change soon,” Jay says sympathetically. “Do you mind if I ask, when you are working what is your line of work?”

    “I’m an orthopedic surgeon,” Mark responds.

    The audience bursts out laughing, and Leno lowers the mic and shakes his head, smiling. Now he has something to work with.

    “Okay so what does an orthopedic surgeon do in between jobs? Are you, like, working the window at Burger King?”

    More laughter.

    Mark is glowing, he is very proud of himself for what he sees was his big opportunity to assist.

    If Mark had said any other job title people probably wouldn’t have laughed. Actually, Mall Santa might have gotten a laugh. Or possibly Wizard. But the reason the audience laughed at surgeon was that you just don’t often hear of a surgeon sitting around unemployed. It is a job that is always in demand yet one relatively few pursue. Assuming you get into and get through med school, there are the many more years of intense training and accruing school debt. And then there is just the pressure of being responsible for the person on your operating table. As a copywriter, the worst pressure I might have is having to re-concept or tweak a line about coffee beans or something.

    Now, Mark has some more time on his hands. With the Covid-19 Pandemic, Alaska has mandated a three month hiatus on elective surgery.  His outpatient clinic has come to a halt, because of the danger of spreading the virus during an exam. In anticipation of Covid-19 positive patients, Mark is reviewing how to run a  ventilator, something he hasn’t done since he was an intern. And he is spending more time with us, and we are in quarantine as in, #quarantinelife.

    Is it Weird to Envy How Our Neighbors Do “Quarantine.”

    “Mom, you’re so creepy,” Tatum tells me as I snap yet another shot of our neighbors. Our neighbors, who are on their snowmobiles. Okay, I’m going to go ahead and switch to calling them snow machines instead, because “snowmobile” is a word only used by people in the lower 48. And I’m no longer a lower 48’er.

    I am a little jealous watching from my living room as these snow machines fly across the lake.

    I’m like Jimmy Stewart in the movie “Rear Window” with my camera and binoculars. Now all I need is to witness a murder on the lake (“Murder on the Lake,” could be the movie title)

    They may have snow machines, but do they have Poopyhead?

    “Should we be worried that our 15-year-old daughter picked out a board game called Poopyhead?” Mark asks me as Tatum blows up the Whoopee Cushion for another round.

    We had just started our self-quarantine after a run to Fred Meyers (The Target of the Northwest, Alaska, and Idaho) for necessary supplies, and that included Cheezits and a batch of board games.

    In Poopyhead you quickly play your cards in this order based on the card visual:

    1.toilet 2. poop 3. toilet paper 4. wash hands with soap.

    When you are out of cards, you hit the Whoopee Cushion and win the game. It may be as satisfying as it sounds, I wouldn’t know. I have only been a loser, and losers wear poop hats.

    As people went nuts in the stores due to the Pandemic, the news focused on the hoarding of toilet paper. But, what about those Monopoly game hoarders? The store was out of Monopoly, the classic version that is. All that was left was a small stack of Ms. Monopoly. I didn’t even know there was a Ms. Monopoly. We threw it in the cart since it was the only option. I just hoped that the tagline, “The First Game Where Women Make More Than Men,” wasn’t this version’s big twist.

    Turns out, it was the big twist.

    Ms Monopoly, the first game where women make more than men, teaching young girls that they can’t “win” unless they are given advantages.

    “It says here that Female players start out with $1900 and Male players start out with $1500,” Tatum says reading the rules.

    “That can’t be right,” I say. “Are you sure it isn’t the reverse?” Perhaps Hasbro is trying to make some political commentary?Kind of a dark place to take family game night though.

    “Females start out with more money,” Tatum confirms, “and they make more than males when they pass GO. I’m not playing that, it’s like saying that females need extra help to win! And dad and Anders are just going to say my win doesn’t really count.”

    What is Hasbro trying to teach my daughter here? At least Poopyhead teaches you that hand washing comes after pooping.

    Ms. Monopoly’s intent appears to be to teach girls about female empowerment, but I have no idea how.

    The only thing I like about Ms. Monopoly is that my player piece can be a gigantic wine goblet.

    Anyone who managed to sell this concept under the guise of “female empowerment” deserves a bump in salary. If that person was a woman, maybe she already started with one.

    My guess is, it probably was a female the marketing team nominated to be the one to pitch this idea to a room full of men (been there myself) and the resulting conversation once she left the room might as well have gone like this.

    “Does this game twist empower women? I wouldn’t know as I have male body parts.”

    “I have male body parts too. The person that presented it had female body parts, so I trust that she would know.”

    “Frank, what do you think? Does Ms. Monopoly empower females?”

    “I have no idea, because I have male body parts.”

    “Jason? Your thoughts on this?”

    “I have no thoughts on this.”

    “Because you have male body parts?”

    “Yes.”

    “All right, well, I say we go ahead and green light this concept of a woman needing multiple advantages in order to win at a game, because we want to be seen as a progressive company that understands that women and men are equals, and wait, where is the person with female body parts to explain this to us again?”

    I would continue to make fun of this version of the game, but I did a search and it looks like plenty of people already did. It mostly got panned on Amazon, people bought it as a joke, or because they thought it might be a collectors item.

     

    Monopoly the Airbnb/Vrbo version!

    One last note here. If Hasbro is so desperate to conceive of new versions of Monopoly I’ll pitch them this idea, for free.

    Description: The first game that allows you to choose if you want to rent your properties as short-term vacation rentals in order to make 3x more income. The risk? Just hope you don’t pull the “New HOA Ruling” or “Pandemic” cards or you’ll have to refund reservations and have weeks of vacancies. Maybe we drop the Pandemic card idea. Too soon.

    Accepting the New Reality

    Spending so much time as a family doing things like playing board games has been quite nice in a way. If my kids have to play with me because I’m the only one around, I’ll take it. It has been the one, small silver-lining when it comes to an epidemic that is sad and horrifying in all other ways.

    I will say though, that I had grand plans for our quarantine life when this all started. We were going to read and discuss classic novels as a family. “Don’t you see mom? Heathcliff did get his revenge,” Anders might say to me as we discussed Wuthering Heights, “he did it by marrying Isabella!” And we were going to journal side by side, one hour every morning. And we were going to organize our rooms, folding every sweater until it was no larger than a pack of playing cards. And together we would learn to cook organic, sit-down meals where we would find a way to sneak peas into every dish including dessert.

    But plans change. Or wait, they don’t. They’re just never executed.

    “I already know how to cook,” says Tatum as she layers pepperoni and sliced dill pickles on a slice of bread, and throws a bag of popcorn in the microwave. Aside from Cheezits and the occasional banana, a pickle and pepperoni sandwich and popcorn are the only things my daughter eats.

    We have been taking walks, armed with bear spray (remembering that we still need to worry about bears almost seems cute). And the kids have their on-line classes. But otherwise our quarantine life almost instantly settled into what it was always going to be; lots of absent minded snacking, watching movies, and playing games. And that’s okay. If I want anything more exciting I can just look out the window and live vicariously through my neighbors quarantine lives.

    I’m pretty sure in this photo is my neighbor who I call “Cool ATV dad” because he picks up his kids from the school bus by piling them on his sled pulled by his all terrain vehicle. Here he is on the lake pulling his son on a snow machine. I want a turn.

    https://pokingthebear.org/minding-your-own-business-in-alaska/