Poking the Bear Blog

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  • 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

     

     

  • To Travel, or Not to Travel

    To Travel, or Not to Travel

    That is everyone’s question.

    The decision to travel in Covid-times is not a simple one. Do you postpone doing anything or going anywhere until next summer? Or the summer after? Or the summer after that? Or do you proceed with caution in what could be the new normal for quite sometime.

    Weighing risks vs benefits was it’s own skittish journey that fluctuated with the daily news. On one of those days when the news seemed more positive (relatively) that things were opening up, and restrictions were being lifted, I chose to keep plans to travel with the kids to Colorado to see friends, and celebrate my father-in-law’s 76th, and my dad’s 86th birthdays.

    And, we had to fly because to road trip it would be a 3,300 mile road trip from Alaska to Boulder one way. Alaska is as remote as it sounds, and our town that much more so. There is one highway to and from the Kenai Peninsula, and now just one airline left (the main airline we used to use to get to Anchorage International Airport just filed for bankruptcy).

    It’s no wonder many residents not only own a boat, but a plane. In another post I mentioned envying our neighbors quarantine life. Well, I forgot to mention many of them also own a little plane making the boundaries of where they self-isolate almost limitless. And likely, stunningly beautiful.

    When you hear the neighbors coming home, you know it’s time to swim off the runway.

    I didn’t really want to write another post that was covid related. The subject is exhausting us all. But, on my 5-hour flight back to Anchorage from Denver I couldn’t help it. When you’re on a plane these days, it’s practically the only thing you think about.

    So, I thought I’d go ahead and offer advice on flying in these virus times. Aside from a mask, and all the obvious.

    4 Suggestions:

    One: Pack Food or Eat Before Your Flight

    In the third row of first class sits a family, a mom, dad, and a baby on mom’s lap. From the bulkhead seat one cabin back, I can only see the dad, and I am watching him as he pours a mini bottle of Jack Daniels into his Coke, and munches on a wedge of artisanal cheese.

    I wonder if he can sense someone watching him. From above my mask my eyes are locked on what I have decided is the ultimate feast.

    A flight attendant heads down the aisle and I stop her.

    “Is there any chance there are any extra snack boxes?” I ask, “like, for purchase?”

    Like in the old days.

    “No,” she looks at me like I’m nuts, “not back here.”

    I’ve made her realize something and in a subsequent and clearly necessary move, she unhooks the curtain that separates our two cabins and closes it.

    The curtain is sheer, it softens the vision of the world beyond my grasp but only a little. Actually, I decide it is not so much a curtain but a veil. The veil of seduction…

    Next to me, my daughter Tatum, who was trying to sleep, opens her eyes.

    “No, not back here!” she mimics, a little too loudly, before shutting her eyes again.

    The flight attendant’s move reminds me of the first time I ever saw or heard of Jerry Seinfeld. He was doing stand up on TV, oh so many years ago, and there was a bit in his act about a flight attendant shutting the curtain to close off first class, but not before first staring down everyone in second with a look that said, “maybe if you all had worked a little harder…”

    I wish we had worked harder, because I’m hungry.

     

    At the time of this post, due to Covid, boxed food and alcohol is no longer available in economy and economy plus. At least on Alaska Airlines and United.

    My first knee-jerk reaction to this was that it might be a bit of  “Covid Theater.” Some of these “it’s to keep you safe” rules seem a little curious. To me, at least. For example, when I got a haircut at the salon I used to frequent, as I’m manhandling the credit card machine and exchanging paper receipts, I’m told we can no longer add the tip onto the credit card. They want to keep everyone safe, so now the salon only allows cash tips to be handed by patron to the stylist to minimize physical interactions.

    Or there was the restaurant I went to, an old favorite of mine, that currently won’t make certain cocktails.

    “I’m sorry,” the waitress says when I ask for a (skinny version) margarita, “we don’t make margaritas anymore because, you know…”

    I stare at her blankly.

    “…it’s too much touching, and Covid…”

    I look down at my huge chopped salad which has no fewer than 12 ingredients.

    “But we can do other drinks, like a rum and coke.”

    “Could I have a tequila and club soda?” I ask.

    “Of course!”

    “With a few wedges of lime?”

    “No problem!”

    “Oh, and Miss?”

    “Yes?”

    “Could I have a shot of Grand Marnier on the side?”

    “You got it!”

    So, that was my first thought – why is it safe for passengers in first class to nibble on a cracker for the duration of a 5 hour flight, mask-free? But not safe for economy passengers?

    Here is where I do a U-Turn though. Serving people in economy may be too many masks off. And my guess is the exchange of credit cards could be the bigger issue. I don’t know, but for the first time I’m trying to defend Alaska Airlines and United. We can’t afford to lose another airline.

    I finally find in the side pocket of my bag a zip lock with six almonds left, and I’m giddy. As I savor them one by one, I see through the curtain/veil that the dad is out of his seat. He turns and heads towards the back of the plane, which peaks my curiosity.

    Why would he leave first class?

    He steps around the curtain and opens the lavatory door directly across from my seat.

    Why would he choose to use the lavatory in the economy cabin?

    I smell the answer. In his hand is a diaper that, judging by the smell and heft of it, probably should have been changed 45 minutes ago.

    He shoves the diaper into the bathroom’s small trash, and this time he must surely feel my eyes on him, because he looks sheepish as he scurries back to his seat in first class. A flight attendant appears with another mini bottle of Jack Daniels for him. It’s perfect timing.

    I wonder what would George Costanza on “Seinfeld” would do in my situation? He’d feel compelled to say something for sure, and I wish I could watch it.

    Two: Invest in a hand-extending Shark pincher.

    Along with packing your own food for a long flight, I’d advise packing this hand-extension pincher.

    It doesn’t have to be a shark, there are other animals to choose from like a dinosaur. But whatever you choose, keep it handy.

    On the other side of Tatum, the passenger in the window seat was a man who slept most of the 5 hour flight, but without his mask covering his nose. Either it had fallen, or he had pulled it down. It just hung by his mouth.

    If I had had this shark pincher I could have used it to delicately pull the man’s mask back up over his nose without waking him. Hopefully. Or else it could get awkward.

    Three: Be Prepared to Have Weird Dreams

    Is this a weird thing to even mention?

    Even though at the airport you wore the mask and reapplied sanitizer every step of the way, there is still an unsettled feeling that might linger for the length of your visit. Or, at least it did mine. Maybe it stems from being untethered from quarantine base.

    Due to the age and health of my parents, we didn’t stay at the house I grew up in. Instead, we stayed at a brand new Residence Inn by Marriott in Boulder. It added another level of strangeness. The upside is that it was interesting living like a tourist in my own hometown. I even started doing more “touristy” things like hiking trails I never thought to hike in all the years I was a local.

    With my kids spending most nights over at their friends’ homes, I was often sleeping alone in an almost totally vacant hotel. And on those nights my dreams were especially eerie and vivid. Apparently, I’m not the only one having such dreams. It’s a thing.

    https://www.futurity.org/dreams-covid-19-pandemic-2371132/

    https://www.nytimes.com/2020/04/13/style/why-weird-dreams-coronavirus.html

    According to one scientist, since the virus is an invisible threat, people are dreaming about it using wild metaphors. The virus could take the form of a swarm of bees, or an approaching dust storm, or in my case, an attacking bear. Or, I could just be having my usual dream about an attacking bear.

    Four: Know the State Regulations for Travelers

    Alaska has a very low level of Covid-Positive cases compared to other states. It was easy leaving, but re-entering was another matter. Like Hawaii, where they are not afraid to jail tourists for wandering onto the beach unless cleared, Alaska is strict. There would be hoops we’d need to jump through before returning to Alaska, those hoops being covid tests.

    Test 1:

    Prior to flight,  we went through a drive through covid testing place in Colorado. It was on the top floor of a hospital parking garage.

    Several health care workers surrounded our car, and we each had a stick inserted so far up into each nostril that it must have been sampling brain matter.

    Yes,I did get my daughter’s permission to post this photo on my blog. She responded that she’s not worried about anyone seeing it.

    I also have a video of the process.

    Tests 2:

    At the airport in Anchorage days later, it was a similar test, but this one was self-administered, and, more importantly it was pain-free.

    Airport covid control

    I asked if this was as accurate as the first one we had in Colorado. The one that left scars on my frontal cortex surely had to be more accurate, right?  I was told it was just as accurate, and it is the new test that they are using more frequently. So that’s some good news, especially if more airports/borders adopt this testing and it becomes part of travel for the interim…

    End Note:

    A big highlight of our trip was my dad’s 86th birthday celebration. I had requested of my niece/goddaughter to avoid any depressing topics (unlike me). But, stubbornness runs in our family.

    Here she is lecturing grandpa on the finer nuances of Covid’s influence on the political landscape.

     

     

     

     

     

  • 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.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • How to Summer in Alaska

    How to Summer in Alaska

    The other evening my husband Mark and I were on a peaceful stroll when we came across this we shoot to kill sign. A not so subtle warning to trespassers.

    I had just been thinking our walk was similar to our post-dinner walks in Boulder, where we came from. Mountain views, similar style homes and buildings, the smell of pine…but you wouldn’t see a sign like this in Boulder.

    And if you did (but you wouldn’t, but if you did, only you wouldn’t) the sign probably wouldn’t be posted outside the doors of a Health and Wellness Center.

    My guess is this clinic is “by appointment only.”

    “That’s ironic,” Mark says.

    For sure such a sign encourages you to ask questions. Like…

    “Are we trespassing?” I ask Mark.

    “No, this is a public thoroughfare,” Mark responds, looking around.

    I look around too. I had been too busy yapping to notice before, but it was looking and certainly feeling like we were on a private compound. There was this health center flanked by multiple lodge style sleeping cabins. At the moment all of them were dark and it was very quiet, but I couldn’t say for sure that no one was inside. There were several trucks parked outside the cabins. I listened for the cock of a rifle.

    “At least I think this is a public thouroughfare, “Mark says.

    “Psst…dude, you might want to be sure,” the silhouette poster man says in a low whisper, “Oh, and also, nobody uses the word “thoroughfare” anymore because it’s dumb.”

     4 Classic Alaskan Accommodations

     

    1: The Adventure Lodge

    We had purposely wandered this way to check out what the accommodations were like at this lodge. We wanted to view options in case we had an overflow of guests at any given time. Our house only has three bedrooms, and a closet sized room I managed to squeeze a full mattress into.

    Like many of the “adventure lodges” in the state, this one is geared to groups wanting to hunt or fish. Or see bears. There are guides and private planes to fly you to the best spots here on the Kenai Peninsula (also known as “Alaska’s Playground). The lodge is on a lake, and the decor is very practical and efficient with multiple beds in each room so you can fit everyone in.

    Earlier I had seen on-line that as part of your vacation you can experience Cenegenics, which had sounded kind of random and I skimmed over it. Now seeing the building I was more curious about what Cenegenics was.

    I looked it up. My quick takeaway, Cenegenics is a hormone optimization program designed to:

    1. Reverse your biological age (I want that)
    2. Protect you from age related decline (I want that too)

    One middle-aged male endorser of the program says, “I feel like I’m a 21 year-old boy!”

    Not bad. No wonder people are willing to risk a round of bullets in order to get in.

    I wonder though, how many hunters are seeking a vacation package where they can shoot a bear and at the same time rebalance their hormones? Seems like a pretty niche market.

    I also wonder how many people with a license to carry firearms are even willing to admit to an “imbalance” of any kind?

    But, who knows, hunters more than anyone are forced to face the concept of mortality, and maybe that’s enough to motivate them to seek out ways to delay their own.

    In any case, with or without the Cenegenics program add-on, this place looks like the perfect Alaskan adventure.

    I like their highlight reel.

     

    2. Cruises

    Covid-19 restrictions will of course hurt the tourism industry here this year, especially cruise ships and the ports they visit (mostly the cute town’s in “The Inside Passage” of Alaska) The big cruiselines are hoping to start up in July. There are small ship cruises that plain to be operating again sooner, like Uncruise out of Seattle, and I need to mention Linbald Expeditions given I went with them to Antartica, my post on that https://pokingthebear.org/aboard-the-national-geographic-explorer-in-antarctica/

    The 3-4 hour day cruises, however, are already running. We just did an afternoon cruise in Seward. Only one family per boat (there are bigger day cruise ships that fit 100 but are now only taking 50 people for social distance) I liked the small boat option, many times you’d look over to see porpoises right there swimming alongside you at the appropriate distance of 6-ft.

    Heading out of Resurrection Bay, Seward

    3.The RV/Camper

    When it comes to traveling during an era of social distancing Alaska has several things going for it: wide open spaces, tons of individual family cabins for rent, and RV camp sites with views you’d pay a fortune for anywhere else. Every time I see another RV on the road, and I’m starting to see a lot, I have to admit RV road-tripping is a genius way to vacation right now.

    Basically you’re sheltering in place while on the move.

    And when I vacation, I like to be on the move. I feel it makes the vacation feel longer because the days don’t blend together. If we have one week, I like to switch locations at least once during that time.

    Another thing that has happened since we have been here is Mark has become an avid birder. Yep. He is regularly armed with the bird book I bought him for his birthday and the binoculars I borrowed from my brother for that Antartica trip, and never returned. He has become an overnight expert on birds, making me jump every time by shouting out a bird name (and then humbly looking through the bird book to be sure he was right.)

    Drawn to our birdseed wreath it’s a Stellar’s Jay!!
    Called it right.

    Imagine all the birds he could spot if we roamed the country in an RV?

    But, also, I now have this fantasy of an RV doubling as a guest house in our driveway.

    I would say Airstream, but such coolness comes with a price tag. Apparently there is an airstream club that comes through Soldotna every year. And while I want to be a part of that club I fear I wouldn’t fit in. It would just be a matter of time before I’d be called out for my non-stylish Walgreens reading glasses and my preservatives forward diet, and eventually shunned by the cool kids for being less airstream, and more mainstream.

    I figure we could always string bistro lights outside so that at least the airstream people wouldn’t feel too uncomfortable saying “hi” to us.

    Actually, I have no idea if there is an Airstream RV type, I just know renovated airstreams are retro chic and regularly make it into aspirational lifestyle magazines. I have been going down the wormhole of RV makeovers. The more dramatic RV renos seem to look like a stationary tiny house, totally gutted and with regular house furniture. Makes for more dramatic “after” photos, but impractical if you plan to actually drive it.

    And, I don’t want something too big so I’m thinking maybe the Minnie Winnie. Last photo of a Minnie Winnie reno.

    https://winnebagolife.com/2019/12/winnebago-renovations-we-love

    The Minnie Winnie is tighter on space and I’d have to accept Mark’s bird books could take a whole shelf, but I think it could work.

    Maybe I’m just thinking Minnie Winnie because I’m more familiar with it, a couple of summer’s ago we took a trip to the Sand Dunes National Park in Colorado. We had many games of Risk by lamplight.

    Our first trip in a Minnie Winnie

    If you had told me, at any point in my life until now, that I’d be looking into actually buying an RV of any kind I would have laughed in your face. Hard. But, now I can see Mark and myself as empty nester RVers one day.

    I picture the two of us, years from now, quietly preparing breakfast in tandem while parked at a campground. Or in the driveway of our daughter’s boyfriend’s home.

    “Mother, can you hand me the spatula?” Mark will ask me. And I will pass him our only spatula not knowing how or when I started letting him call me “mother.”

    There is a knock on the RV door. I answer.

    “Mark,” I call out, “We need to leave! It’s the roommate and he is tired of being blocked in every morning! He says it is time for us to move on!”

    “What?” Mark calls back.

    “We need to leave!”

    “I can’t hear you!”

    “Then turn off the fan!”

    “The what?!”

    “The fan!”

    “The pan!?”

    “The fan!”

    “The what?!”

    “Mark!!!”

    4. The Guest cabin

    I found this flyer in my car the other day. I had picked it up a few days ago this structure was just sitting on a corner in town with a “for sale” sign on it.

    Wish I could see the transformation once someone finishes this cabin.

    The log or wood cabin is a popular choice for guests visiting this state, and they are everywhere on Airbnb. But what if we had our very own cabin right here on our property for our friends and family. We could hook it up to our plumbing so it is an actual bedroom en suite.

    “Stop calling it a guest cabin,” Mark tells me if only because I keep calling it that. “We need to refer to it as a utility shed.”

    Apparently, having a shed on one’s property is okay. A cabin isn’t. It is considered a second home. I don’t know who would say anything though as judging by everyone else’s yard here in Alaska, anything goes, we see structures three times larger than the house itself. Shelter for big toys comes before shelter for family in the order of priorities.

    “Yes, I meant this could be a shed, for your tools,” I agree, “and if you get tired while organizing your tools there will be a bathroom and shower so you can wash up, and a bed so you can nap.”

    Now looking at its dimensions, I think it would take up too much property space. I don’t think we will get that many visitors for it to make sense as a permanent fixture, and I fear we’d just end up filling with junk. If we make a big purchase, I’m definitely leaning more towards the RV option.

    Security Measures

    As Mark and I head down our driveway I think back to that sign on the Wellness Center, the sign really isn’t a bad idea. It might work better than a “No Solicitors” sign which I had been meaning to get. Especially for anyone claiming that they aren’t technically solicitors.

    Where we live now, there are only two people that come down our driveway, and that’s the guy with the snowplow and UPS which is why it is extra unnerving when we did have solicitors on one dark night this past winter.

    I had just gotten out of the shower when I heard my daughter Tatum talking to someone at the front door. From the top of the stairs I saw her standing talking to two men. Who were they and why had my daughter opened the door for them? How many times do I have to tell her, unless it is the UPS man (delivering something like an Amazon box containing closet dividers) one NEVER opens the door for strangers!

    I knew why she thought it was okay this time. The two men looked young and innocent. They were in their late teens, maybe early twenties. Or perhaps they were middle age and on the Cenegenics program. In any case, few things get me riled up more than strangers ringing my doorbell and especially at night, and especially when Mark isn’t here, and especially when we are living in a house that is this remote. I don’t like it, and I just don’t like it. I really don’t like it.

    As I head down the stairs in my robe, the boys look up at me.

    “Good evening Ma’am,” says one, “We were just talking to your daughter about her faith. Can I ask you…?” was the last thing I heard clearly before I started mumbling “no, sorry, no…” and softly closed the door. As if they wouldn’t notice that I just shut the door in their faces if I do it softly.

    “Oh my god Mom, that was so rude!” Tatum says.

    I’m sure those boys were harmless enough and of course they think they are doing the right thing, it’s just…no. I really don’t like it.

    Rules of Gun Club

    “We should put up one of those “Don’t expect a warning shot” signs on our front door,” I joke to Mark.

    “Yes, and we should get a gun,” Mark not-jokes back.

    Ugh the gun subject again.

    “I forgot to tell you,” Mark continues, “tomorrow I’m going to join a gun club.”

    Now, since we have been in Alaska, we only had one gun lesson, and it was a bust. What I had thought would be a chance to conquer my fears just made my fears even worse. https://pokingthebear.org/teaching-kids-about-guns-familys-first-lesson-in-firearms/

    But, I guess join a gun club first, and learn how to handle a gun second. That’s apparently how we are doing it because the next night I joined Mark at the gun club’s membership orientation meeting.

    Basically, the orientation was a laundry list of all the ways to get kicked out of the club.

    Speaking from behind his covid protective mask, the owner/manager of the club lectured us military style.

    Some rules he listed off I understood because they were in english, like, “Pick up after yourself! Yes that means your shell casings too! We’re not your mom, clean up after yourself or you’re gone!”

    But other rules, I just had no idea what he was saying as they were too technical. They sounded important though.

    What I heard was, “You blah blah blah, and you’re gone! And, if you blah blah blah? Oh, you are definitely gone!”

    I didn’t hear him say, “If you blog about this club you’re gone!” So, I think we’re good on that.

    I wonder if everyone could tell we didn’t belong. Well, me for sure, but also Mark. Certainly no one else was dressed in an oxford button down shirt, khakis, and penny loafers. Coincidentally this is what Mark wore on our very first date. And every day following.

    “Xenia, Mark needs to change up his style!” My mom would often tell me until she gave up, “He needs to dress more hip hop!”

    I think by “hip hop” my mom really just meant…not khakis.

    When the owner/manager took Mark’s membership paperwork and payment, he was no longer so stern but quite friendly, more so than with the other new members, unless I’m totally imagining this. Seriously, I might be totally imagining that. But while he was chatting up Mark I felt like perhaps he appreciated the business casual attire, and he took it as a sign that Mark wouldn’t cause trouble. Or maybe he could tell Mark will be one of those members who pay the annual dues only to use the club once. Maybe twice. And that will very likely be the case.

    What the manager/owner probably wouldn’t appreciate is that not only is Mark not a NRA member, which is strongly, and I mean strongly recommended at the gun club. He wouldn’t guess that our family is somewhat active in campaigning for stricter gun legislation.

    I don’t know, we may be transforming in ways I can’t identify just yet, but that was all a part of this move to Alaska adventure package. I am not sure whether our “after” picture will be an improvement or not, but my guess is that it will at least make it on a list of ironic images.

    Ending this post with one more bird shot taken from the boat trip in Seward. A Bald Eagle, no need to check the book.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • 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/