Monday, June 28, 2010

Day 28-31: Anchorage to Haines, AK

Our time in Anchorage ran out far too quickly. A friend once told me it was better to leave the party a little early, for you'll remember your experience that much more fondly. She's right. Madison and I bid a warm farewell to our hosts and loaded up the car for the return journey. Allison, the consummate nurturer, made sure that Madison bought a warm coat for the ferry ride and sent us off with a cache of nonperishable provisions big enough to restock MacArthur's G.I.'s on Bataan. Mason burned us a mix CD that included one of The Audio's songs and a Flyleaf number- sadly, he didn't have a copy of The Rogues' and Wenches' Finest Sea Shanties.

Our first day of driving bought us back to Tok, where we ate dinner at Fast Eddy's and revisited The Lodge Bar for another round of ales with some folks we had met in Tok two weeks before, Kayleen and Mary. We visited Judy's shack for more of her delicious homemade halibut dip. Against all odds, I also managed to recover a hoodie I had left in the town. Saturday morning dawned crisp and sunny (dawned is too strong a word. It never got dark in the first place), and we headed northeast towards Haines Junction. There's pretty much only one road in and out of Alaska, and we had to drive a day and a half northeast in order to backtrack down another highway south and west to Haines (note: Haines and Haines Junction are two different towns). It was necessary to reenter Canada in order to loop down and back into lower Alaska. We cringed at the thought. But at least Madison had the chance to spend the rest of his monopoly money.

Treacherous frost heaves nonwithstanding, it was nice to be back on the Alaska Highway. Frost heaves are an interesting phenomenon- glacial soil is relatively porous, and the suspended water freezes and expands under the road, lifting the pavement. In the spring, the ice melts and the weight of the asphalt crashes down and compresses the soil, leaving an undulating ribbon of bouncy asphalt that can launch a car upward with axle-breaking force. Imagine driving up the slicing edge of a humongous cheese grater. And that's in the areas where the road is actually paved- much of the Alcan Highway is still gravel. It was slow going. Although the Army Corps of Engineers had done the best they could, Alaska was, and remains, a largely untamable land. Most rivers and streams had signs that announced their names. We passed Dry Creek Bed #1, shortly followed by Dry Creek Bed #2. I was duly impressed by the Army's creativity- what incredibly imaginative names!

We arrived in Haines, Alaska on Saturday evening. Madison wasn't feeling well, so we splurged on a pair of hostel beds for the night. It was refreshing to shave and shower. On Sunday we walked around town, visited the local library, and made camp at Chilkoot Lake, a beautiful National Park with a glacial lake and excellent salmon fishing. Bald eagles soared overhead as I grilled a pair of steaks to celebrate our last night on the Alaskan mainland- a New York Strip for Madison and a succulent T-bone for me, both served rare. Delish. Our boat was scheduled to depart on Monday evening. The men in the campsite nextdoor would be on the ferry as well, and I talked with one of them about classic cars for a while while Madison built a fire.

This morning, we woke up before 7, struck camp, and headed into town so Madison could get his coffee fix. I paid $2 to use the weight room at the local high school, and it felt GREAT to work up a sweat. Too bad Kerri wasn't here to play racquetball. I would have liked to beat soundly as I so often do in Atlanta. After my lift, I walked nextdoor to the community pool to shower, but it was closed. A striking blond around my age was sunbathing outside. I didn't understand how she planned to get tan in a one-piece, but hey- it's Alaska. She called the pool director down and let me in.

After the shower, I headed over to the local library to meet Madison. We're now waiting for the town's brewery to open at 1pm, where we'll refill our growlers with fine Alaskan lagers for the ferry ride. The State Ferry steams from Haines tonight at 7pm, with us and the Element aboard, and arrives in Bellingham, Washington, in 5 days. Ever wary of scurvy, Allison packed us a bunch of oranges. Instead of booking a stateroom, we decided to save $1500 by pitching our tent on the deck of the ferry. Even though I worked out today, it'd be very hard to hammer tent stakes into diamondplate steel. Instead, we had to get duct tape to hold our "cabin" to the ship. The Gasparilla Pirate Festival this past January allowed me to brush up on my pirate lexicon in preparation for the voyage. Hopefully the crew of the M/V Columbia is ready for us. All hands to the mainsail, make ready the guns! ...And run out the sweeps!

In Seattle, we'll be staying with my freshman roommate Nick- he's as rabid an automotive zealot as I am, and it's with no small amount of enthusiasm that I'm looking forward to seeing him at the end of the week. When I visited in 2007 we'd installed a Saleen supercharger in a brand new Mustang, along with rerouting coolant lines, adding a secondary radiator, repositioning the alternator, and more. I had to fly back to Atlanta just before the project was finished, and am totally stoked to get behind the wheel of the killer supercharged 'Stang we built 3 years ago. Based on the mechanical specs and Nick's descriptions, I know the Ford is going to be the fastest car I've ever driven: a beast uncaged, a roaring, muscular, insanely powerful tire-shredding speed machine with no legitimate business on any road in this world or the next. He's also got a drop-dead gorgeous '71 Camaro named Bernadette that he restored himself. Both are yellow. Both are awesome. Step 1: Apply clutch. Step 2: Engage 1st gear. Step 3: Open throttle. Step 4: Drop clutch. Unleash hell.

America is my favorite country, and the 4th of July is my favorite holiday. It is also Nick's favorite country and holiday. Several years ago he showed up to Madbus's Communist-Party-themed birthday wearing an American flag as a cape. I could think of no better person with which to spend Independence Day. It is likely that we will celebrate in the manner that characterized our friendship in college. "I bet you guys make great decisions together," his friend Kirsten's mother mused 2005. His reply: "Stellar."

Madison on Denali: A Naturalist's Perspective

Denali...

Everyone who travels to the interior of Alaska is almost expected to visit Denali National Park. Its name alone inspires ones imagination of a place larger than life and wilderness at its most untamed. Ian and I had planned to visit Denali as a part of our journey. Mason and Isaac, my step second cousins had never been, although they were life long Alaska residents, and decided to come along. After a 5 hour drive north from Anchorage we arrived at the visitors center, checked in for our campsite, and waited for our bus to Wonder Lake, an 89 mile drive from the park's entrance. I assumed that the ride would take a mere 2 hours but was quickly informed that our trip would be about a 6 hour trip. We all looked at each other with the feeling of surprise and not the good kind...

These feelings quickly dissipated as we began our journey. The scenery along the park road was spectacular to say the least. As we continued further I felt a sense of calm and tranquility wash over me. The land was slowly cleansing my mind of any thoughts of the outside world. Denali is a place where humans are vulnerable to the whims of nature.

The feeling of calm turned into elation as we saw wildlife you only see on the Discovery Channel. I know Ian discussed this in depth, but we not only saw wildlife: we saw them interact. I felt like I was in a wonderland, a literal dream coming true.

Along the journey to Wonder Lake, the bus made a number of scheduled stops to pick up passengers and to allow us to stretch our legs on the long trip. About 4.5 hours in, our driver told us we would be making a half hour stop at the Eielson Visitors Center. I wondered why such a long stop. We arrived and immediately realized the long prescribed time. Upon exiting the bus I saw a quotation chiseled into the granite of the visitors center which read "Unimpaired for the enjoyment of future generations." On the steps leading down to the observation deck there was another quotation by John Muir, "When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world." I looked up, saw the vista, and tears came to my eyes. Never before had I seen such vast wilderness which held such extreme beauty. The whole scene completely and totally overwhelmed me. It was nature at its purest and finest.

The connection I felt to Denali is something I have never experienced before. It is a place with such power and beauty. It holds the tallest mountain in the world, superior wildlife, and a spirit that is palpable. And as I hope the quotation at the Eielson Visitors Center holds true, Denali will be around for generations to come, unspoiled and life changing.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Pictures: Denali Nat'l Park


Above, a mother grizzly bear. The brush she's sitting in is just shy of chest-deep to a human.


The view from our tent: Denali, AKA Mt. McKinley, at sunset.


From left: Madison, Isaac, Mason, and Ian at the Eielson Preserve, Denali National Park.


Another view of Mt. Eielson, Denali national Park.



A red fox (vulpes vulpes) with a ground squirrel (spermophilus parryii) in its jaws. We witnessed the chase and the kill- she'd moved with the speed and agility of... well, a fox.




Above, a kettlepond near our campsite at Wonder Lake. Kettleponds are formed when receding glaciers gouge out depressions. The ponds are filled with water as the leftover chunks of glacial debris begin to melt. They're eerily still.

Again, credit and thanks to Mason Perry for the photos.

Day 25-27, Denali Nat'l Park

On Tuesday Madison and I embarked on our epic and long-anticipated trip to Denali National Park, home of Mt. McKinley and one of the last remaining tracts of unspoiled wilderness in North America. We brought Ike and Mason with us- neither of them had been to Denali before, even though they were born and raised in Alaska. Madison and I understood: Even after living in Atlanta for 5 years, I still have yet to eat at the Varsity or see the World of Coke. There was substantial road construction on the Parks Highway, which winds north from Anchorage towards Denali and Fairbanks, AK. At the Irish pub with the pirate band we'd met a friend of Michelle's who drives a tractor trailer between Anchorage and Fairbanks- Monday through Thursday evenings he leaves with a tandem and returns around 3am with empty containers or fresh cargo. Rugged job, but necessary- almost all of Alaska's supplies are shipped in through Anchorage: millions of tons of food, clothing, machinery, and incidentals pass through the port each year, mostly to support the state's extraction industries. Michelle explained that the pay was excellent.

We arrived at Denali in the early afternoon, with tickets on a 2:00pm bus to our campground. In order to minimize environmental impact and avoid accidents on the unpaved mountain roads, the Parks Service doesn't allow autos in Denali. The bus driver loaded everyone's camping gear into the back of a dark green school bus and we lurched off down the bumpy dirt road to our campsite. No sooner had we gotten underway did we realize that the bus ride was 6 hours long. No one commented, but we hadn't expected such a grueling journey (rations: meager) and the air of situational resentment was palpable- until we realized how utterly spectacular the ride would be.

Now, we've seen some incredible landforms on this trip, and some pretty serious wildlife. But Denali National Park totally knocked it out of the (forgive me) park. Our bus driver was very informative, stopping for wildlife at every turn. I was glad that my mom had insisted I take binoculars, and shared them with our fellow passengers. We had seen a lot of bears, a substantial amount of moose, bald eagles, and caribou by this point in the trip, and Alaskan fauna had lost a bit of it's novelty... When the bus stopped at the top of our ridge and the driver pointed out a bear trundling across the plain below, many passengers crowded over to the windows. "This sort of stuff doesn't interest me anymore," said the driver, "It's a far-away bear (Mason termed far-away animals "nature blobs"). But we'll stop anyway, because this might be some of you folks' first bear sighting ever." I agreed- although I wasn't nearly as jaded as our guide, a bear munching on foliage represented nothing new- we were looking for the REAL action... and we got it.

A few hours further into the bus ride, after a run-in with some Dall's sheep, mountian goats, moose, and a couple more bears, we stopped on a mountainside overlooking a gravelly plain and a lazily meandering river. "There's a wolf den down there," said the driver, "Keep your eyes peeled." Sure enough, we saw a wolf trotting across the valley floor. Once our eyes had gotten accustomed to picking out the animal's shape, we noticed more. And more. And more. There were multiple adults and a whopping half-dozen pups! Most wolfpacks bear only a couple of puppies at a time: they represent a tremendous drain on the pack's resources, and wolves (like most large carnivorous mammals) must operate in an environment with the requisite carrying capacity in order to breed so prolifically. Such habitats are fast receding under the relentless onslaught of modern economics and industry, and there is no doubt in my mind that our children will never see such a healthy group.

Scant minutes later a monstrous grizzly bear reared up out of the brush uncomfortably close to our bus. The driver eased us to a stop and we watched as her cub ambled over. They pawed eachother and playfully teethed for a minute or two- until the mother lay back and the cub began to nurse! I was amazed. Even the bus driver had gotten up and pressed his binoculars to the window in awe. It was INSANE. After several long minutes they wandered off, and we sat there stunned. The bus reeked with a collective sense of "Holy crap, did that just happen?!?"

We arrived at Wonder Lake with empty stomachs. Madison, Ike, and Mason pitched the tents while I brewed up a hearty stew. We feasted. The mosquitos were atrocious, but we had brought plenty of DEET. Though terribly carcinogenic, it was a happy alternative to being airlifted into a tree and sucked dry by the hungry insects. Our camp was at the base of Denali, formerly known as Mt. McKinley but now restored to it's native name, meaning "The Big One." Denali was shrouded in fog, and we waited until 3am in hopes of the summit appearing. It teased us mercilessly, but in the morning I looked out of my tent and saw the massive peak against a cloudless sky. "MADBUS, WAKE UP!!!!" I shouted. He told me to shut up. I insisted, and he resentfully looked up. For several minutes we basked silently in the majesty of the world's tallest mountain (Everest is higher, not taller: imagine Kaufman standing on a chair- he'd still be short).

Two days of camping passed quickly, and before we knew it we were back on the bus to the ranger station. I wasn't sure that anything could top our bus ride out, until we saw an artic red fox sitting quietly at the side of the road, not 5 feet from us. "He's waiting for a squirrel, if he doesn't have his eye on one already," explained the driver. The fox immediately leapt up and FLEW off a few yards ahead of us. We saw a squirrel dart out of the bushes and into a little drainage culvert. The fox followed, and emerged a split second later, the wriggling squirrel clenched firmly in his smiling jaws. He gave it a quick snap with his neck and a few chews, then calmly trotted up the hillside, dug a little hole, and buried it for later. HOLY CRAP, DID THAT JUST HAPPEN?

We drove back to Anchorage in a daze. Nothing had prepared us for the park's pure and unadulterated natural beauty. It's a refreshing thought that much of Alaska's wilderness has been deemed protected, and that some semblance of America's pre-industrial splendor will remain, for better or for worse, under federal stewardship.

Friday, June 25, 2010

Seward to Anchorage for the Solstice, Day 22-24

On Saturday morning we hiked back from our campsite at Tonsina and piled into the Element for the return trip to Anchorage. We were pretty raunchy after 2 nights of camping, hiking, and sweating in the moist coastal air, and the inside of the Element needed a good air-out session… which was impossible, because it was raining. We arrived in Anchorage in the early evening and laid out our gear, hung up the sleeping bags, and pitched our tents in the garage to dry out. It was the weekend of the Solstice, and Anchorage was gearing up for the festivities.


Alaskans are fairly concerned with the Solstice. While the longest day of the year seems trite to most lower48ers, up here it marks the pinnacle of the “fun season.” Locals endure 9 months of bone-chilling cold and itty-bitty days: in the winter it can be dark for 22 hours a day, and the thick clouds usually diffuse what little daylight there is into a dusky grey. Sunlight allows your body to effectively metabolize vitamin D, a crucial endocrinal component of emotional well-being, so folks get SAD, or Seasonal Affective Disorder. People in Alaska have developed many ways to handle this deficiency. Towns string Christmas lights all over to brighten the mood. Some people have tanning beds in their houses, or visit them regularly to “trick” their bodies into thinking it’s sunny. Many people drink heavily all winter… but that doesn’t mean they stop in the spring.


A band named Flyleaf was playing a free Solstice concert in downtown Anchorage on Saturday night, so we headed over to the Midnight Sun Brewery to fill up a few growlers. A growler is a reusable ½ gallon jug of beer, and we’d already purchased a pair of them and visited the brewery for refills several times since we’d arrived. Mason had several of his own. At the brewery we saw a man lugging a crate to his car. Inside were half a dozen growlers- about 30 beers worth. “I told the wife I was running out for a sixpack,” he told us, deadpan. We loaded up on Sockeye Red IPA, Kodiak Brown, and Old Whiskers, foregoing the more creatively-named ales on tap: Panty Peeler, Gold Digger, and White Collar Crime, among others. Thus sated, we headed downtown to the concert.


The crowded town square in Anchorage offered an interesting core sample of the state’s young and restless. Many Alaskans have dangerous jobs. Prominent scars were not uncommon and many men walked with a limp. People work hard, but outside of Anchorage there are few outlets for them to play hard or otherwise re-channel all of that creative energy. Thus tattoos were common, as were black clothes, wild hair and extraneous piercings. It became patently obvious that firearms aren’t the only department in which Alaskans opt for the larger gauges.

Flyleaf played HARD. I had never heard of them, but one of their songs sounded familiar- they certainly put the effort in, and I enjoyed the show immensely even though my tastes didn’t quite align with their tunes. The stage covered a fountain in Anchorage’s town square (Mason: “They put the stage on top of the bum shower!”) and a man was throwing up in the flowers as we struggled to find a safe spot away from the mosh pit.


We retired to McGinley’s Irish Pub after Flyleaf had finished their set. A pirate brushed past me as we walked in, and Mason greeted him by name. “Holy crap, a PIRATE!!” I exclaimed. The pirate, a lad named Hunter, was Natalie’s boyfriend (Natalie is Mason and Isaac and Marilynn’s sister. Emily is another sister, but she’s in California). Hunter played drums for the Rogues & Wenches, a pirate band with his dad (who sported a truly epic mustache), his accordion-playing mom (whose ample breasts were clearly too much for her 16th century bodice) and several other pirates. They launched into a plunderingly-awesome dirge about rum-soaked wenches, rough seas, and the nuances of a long… mainmast.



On Monday we paid a visit to Humpy’s, a local favorite, for Alaskan King Crab Legs. Mason and his friend Michelle joined us. Man vs. Food had been there, and although the Kodiak Arrest Challenge looked delicious, we were forced to decline- 7lbs of king crab leg, a footlong reindeer sausage, dozens of salmon cakes, and a plate of every side dish on the menu appeared manageable, but the dish of raspberry cobbler for dessert would have pushed me over the edge. Nevertheless, Madison and I each destroyed a full portion of crab legs. To call them delicious would be an egregious understatement. We tore through the succulent flesh with great enthusiasm, leaving nothing but splintered bones and wet-naps in our wake.


The rest of the day was spent preparing for our camping trip in Denali National Park. Denali (native for “the tall one”) is Alaska’s premier national park. It’s bigger than Massachusetts. Mason and Isaac will be joining us, and it promises to be nothing short of phenomenal.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Pictures from Chugach State Park


Above, an Alaskan lupin (lupinus nootkatensis) flower growing in the Eagle River wildlife preserve.


A bull moose grazes happily on some water flora, nom nom nom! This moose has fuzzy antlers because it's early in the season. He'll drop them when the weather gets cold, then grow new ones next spring.



A view of the Chugach Mountains in Chugach State Park. There are many mountains- a fair portion of them haven't even been named yet.


More of the Chugach. Alaska is pretty spacious- this picture was taken only 15 minutes from downtown Anchorage.


Couldn't resist. This road sign has been ventilated by concerned locals.




Thanks to Mason Perry for the photos.

Day 21-22, Homer to Seward/Tonsina

Homer to Seward, a guest perspective from Mason.


Friday began somewhat slowly. Thursday’s beautiful sunset with golden light reflecting from snow-capped mountain tops had segued into a somewhat unpleasant drizzle. This matched the mood of a third of our trio; Madison was pretty under the weather. I thought that the epic night at the Salty Dawg before it had made the whole situation well worth it. We packed up the tents, groundcloths retaining just a bit of sand from the Homer Spit, and moved on toward Seward. On the way out of Homer, we stopped at the Duncan House diner. The breakfast food and Bacon Cheeseburger were good, and our waiter had a moustache that would rival nearly any walrus in the state. This rustic establishment, full of locals (they call them “Homeroids” for a reason) was lined from wall to wall with the advertising detritus of numerous decades preceding my birth.


Human refueling complete, we moved up and across the Kenai Peninsula, stopping in Soldotna only to refuel the car (at the expected despicable gas prices.) With Madison solidly passed out in the back seat, I was able to secure the coveted front seat. This brought me a view that as a local, I have seen many times before, but will never tire of. The phrase “a crappy day in paradise” was genuinely true, and I found myself enjoying a drive that I have been complaining about since before the age of five. We reached Seward in the late afternoon, waking Madison only to hear “what, are we here already?” After a session of sticker shock at the local grocery store, we descended upon the visitor’s center. On the drive over, we had read in a guidebook that there was an abandoned military base with “a warren of underground tunnels to explore” not more than a five mile hike from the road system. The attendant at the visitor’s center was enthusiastic, but not particularly knowledgeable about our destination. We did glean the useful information that the trail we wanted to follow was on the edge of an intertidal zone, and would only be accessible during low tide hours. Since high tide was within a couple of hours of our arrival, we decided to go in, make camp, and wait for the tide to recede. After all, it wasn’t like we had to worry about it getting dark or anything.


Armed with a tide table and a map of the area, we set off on our next adventure. Conveniently, the map promised a full campground not a mile down the trail, where we would be able to divest ourselves of overnight camping gear and continue on to the fort. Finally able to use Ian’s trusty frame packs, we packed all of our stuff (perhaps too much in retrospect) and set off. The trek took us across a pleasant mixture of state-park blazed trails and old army roads, winding with numerous switchbacks over the hills and down to the shore of Resurrection Bay. The theoretical mile that the crow could fly had stretched into closer to two when calamity struck. Not 200 yards from the campground, the footbridge across the south fork of Tonsina Creek had been washed out by some hellacious flooding. After the hike, we realized that there was a sign that read in small print “South bridge of Tonsina Creek Closed, river crossing may be required” at the parking lot. I thought this to be somewhat of an understatement. If the sign had read “South bridge of Tonsina creek smitten by the fist of an angry god, cross the two to four foot deep 33 degree water at your own riskI think it would have been more of an accurate statement. Also, we probably would have noticed it.


The last area before the creek was a moss-covered forest of ancient Spruce trees, seemingly out of a fairy tale. When our expedition was abruptly stopped, we did the only thing that seemed immediately feasible: eat. Ian cooked an excellent meal of spiral pasta, Alfredo Sauce and spicy Italian Sausage. While we were eating, we stopped to see the amazing sights around us. The distant mist-shrouded hills seemed reminiscent of Ireland or New Zealand, while the rapidly receding tide revealed a vast expanse of beach to explore. The consensus of the group was that it would not be safe for all of us to cross the river with our gear, despite how awesome the fort on the other side was reputed to be. We made camp in the woods near the bridge, and prepared to settle in for the night. Ian, however, was not going to allow something small like a bridge-destroying flood to hold him back from crossing that water.


We surveyed the driftwood and shattered bridge remnants in the area, and hauled the only parts of it that were movable by hand to the area near the remains of the bridge. A massive tree trunk had fallen across two thirds of the far side of the river, and a large shoal was just beneath the surface downstream of it. Using all of the driftwood logs we were able to find, we built a half-assed excuse for a bridge out to the shoal. We spent nearly an hour throwing rocks from the shore to the shoal (about 10 feet) to build it up to something that could be reasonably crossed on foot, provided you didn’t mind a few inches of water on the feet in question. Finally, Ian deemed it crossable, and after handing off his wallet and camera, headed across. With two walking sticks and a piece of lumber that I threw to him from shore, he made it across to the other side and back with no mishaps.


Now before Madison and I sound like wimps (perhaps we were) I wanted to point out that I was afraid of crossing with my camera gear. If I had fallen in and gotten wet, it would have been considerably unpleasant but not the end of the world. I wasn’t willing to risk my gear, and had I made it across without it I would have been sullenly angry to see the fort with no ability to record it. After the conclusion of this small adventure, we decided to call it an early night, and I was happy to see the insides of my eyelids.

Day 20: Anchorage to Homer

Homer, Alaska (population 4020) is a fishing town towards the bottom of the Kenai Peninsula. Besides halibut, it has two claims to fame: Jewel and the Salty Dawg Saloon. We drove down on Thursday, passing through Soldotna and several smaller settlements that exemplified the raw environment of rural Alaska. The state’s entire economy hinges on mining, drilling, fishing, and moderate timber harvest- no agriculture or resources exist save for those that can be extracted from the surrounding environment. Most jobs in Alaska revolve around those three disciplines, or exist to serve them in some way. Dangerous work is compounded by environmental hazards, and although median salaries are higher than in the Lower 48, wages often fail to cover the dramatically increased cost-of-living: imported goods (that’s EVERYTHING) get pricey. Subway can’t even turn a profit on a $5 footlong… they’re $6 up here.


Plenty of people lived along the side of the road in haggard Winnebagos, Quonset huts, and prefab houses in various states of disrepair. It’s not unusual to see homes repaired with duct tape or plastic tarps. Rural Alaska has the same feel as the rural South, but in central Mississippi the people don’t have to deal with temperatures ranging from 90 above to 70 below, 9 month winters without a single ray of sunlight, and mosquitoes that can airlift you up into the trees to suck you dry. Alaska’s citizens are a hearty breed.


In contrast to Anchorage, Homer was “real” Alaska, just as Savannah represents a more “real” Georgia than does Atlanta. The town’s most interesting feature was the Homer Spit, a finger of gravel running out into Kachemak Bay. It’s certainly worth a peek on Google Maps. Rusty fishing boats groaned at their moorings in the Spit’s crowded harbor. We visited Mason’s grandparents for a bit and pitched our tents on the beach across from the harbormaster’s office. It was no accident that we’d chosen to camp close to the Salty Dawg Saloon, a local landmark and truly epic local dive.

We moseyed over for a cold one, and were pleased to find that they served Homer’s local brew- it came in old Sobe Ice Tea bottles. From a brewing perspective it needed a bit of fine tuning. The inside of the Salty Dawg (it was literally a shack with a lighthouse next to it) was festooned with nautical memorabilia covered in dollar bills. They were literally tacked to every available surface- to the walls, the ceilings, the life preservers, the bar, the door, even covering the windows. It wasn’t Karaoke night, but we would have sung “Intuition” in honor of Homer’s most famous daughter. We hoisted a few and met some of the locals (boy, were they colorful characters) before walking across the Spit’s only road to our tent.

Turnagain Arm, by Madison

From the planning stage to each day on our trip the one thing I was most excited about was getting in touch with the nature. Being a self named ‘nature geek,’ this trip has been a wonder as Ian and I explored the different regions and ecosystems of North America. From crossing the Appalachian Mountains on day one to traversing the vast prairie in Saskatchewan, I have found beauty in all the places I have seen so far. As we have driven further west the scenery has become all the more incredible, the pinnacle of which is Turnagain Arm.

Less than a 15 minutes drive south of Anchorage is one of the most beautiful places in the world. Turnagain Arm is a tidal estuary that separates the mainland of Alaska from the Kenai Peninsula. It is accessed by the Seward Highway, and offers numerous spectacular views of the Kenai Mountains.

I was first introduced to Turnagain Arm by my colleague Dave, who had lived in Alaska. He graciously invited me to his house one evening to share his Alaskan experience and a multitude of pictures of this great land. After flipping through an album or two we came upon pictures that I deemed ‘unreal.’ Dave explained the pictures were from Turnagain Arm and that it was easily accessible from Anchorage. Needing proof of this mystical place’s existence, I told Ian that it was an absolute priority to visit it. I was glad to hear that we would drive through it on our way to Homer, a city at the bottom of the Kenai Peninsula.

A few minutes down the Seward Highway the road turned left and there it was. My mouth was gaping at the sublime confluence of water, mountains, and clouds. I immediately told Ian to pull over at the first scenic outpost. The car was put into park and I bolted out to the edge, overwhelmed by the state I was in, in a literal and figurative sense. This is what I came to Alaska to see.

Alaska has been everything I imagined it to be and more. Alaska is about extremes, extreme temperatures, light and darkness, austere wilderness, awe-inspiring vistas, and a rugged and friendly people. It is vast and overwhelming land. Alaska is a place where nature is unpredictable and unrelenting. Yet Alaska has centered me and has renewed and refreshed my spirit. People told me that when someone goes to Alaska they will always come back. I now understand why.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Day 15-19: Anchorage, AK

I have learned many wonderful things in Alaska:

On Monday, Mason taught us to play frolf.

What’s frolf, you ask..? It’s short for Frisbee golf, and indeed similar to real golf, in that you attempt to throw a Frisbee from the tee into a chain bucket in as few tosses as possible. Each player carries different Frisbees: a driver, a midrange, and a putter. We began playing at 10pm, and the public course was pretty crowded. It never gets dark here. Tonight (Wednesday) we’re going to play again.

On Tuesday, I learned an even more righteous skill.

What could be cooler than frolf, you ask..? Perhaps breathing fire. 7-year-old Ian thought it was cool in Aladdin, and 23-year-old Ian thinks it’s awesome in Alaska. Mason explained the finer points of oral immolation, and before long we were spitting fireballs off his porch into the not-so-dark Alaska night. Paraffin accelerant wasn’t the most pleasant thing I’ve put in my mouth on this trip, but I can’t wait to bring this particular party trick down to Griot’s place in Seattle. Madison demurred, deciding that he didn’t need to spit hot fire. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want to learn this incredibly awesome skill. He noted that he did occasionally ride the crazyness train. I couldn’t decide whether I was the conductor or the engineer.

On Wednesday, the fun continued.

What could be more badass than breathing fire, you ask..? How about shooting an AK-47. After a firearms orientation session for Madbus and a bit of brush-up for me, we packed up Mason’s arsenal and headed down to the local shooting range. We warmed up with a .22 Browning Buckmark, an accurate small-caliber pistol that didn’t kick much. Mason ripped off a tight grouping, and I was almost able to match him. After a few dozen rounds we stepped up to the big boy leagues with a .38 Special revolver, two 9mm handguns (a Kahr and an XD9) and a .45 caliber 1911. I wore a t-shirt that had been a birthday present from Kerri- “For every animal you don’t eat, I’m going to eat three,” it proclaims, with a picture of a koala, a toucan, and a monkey sitting in a soup pot. We spent a good hour blowing holes in paper plates before switching to the heavy artillery: Mason’s Romanian-built AK-47.

I’ll quote Nicholas Cage from the film Lord of War. A finer description of the AK-47 cannot be found: “It’s the world most popular assault rifle. A weapon all fighters love, an elegant and simple 9-pound amalgamation of forged steel and plywood. It doesn’t break, jam, or overheat. It will shoot whether it’s covered in mud or filled with sand. It’s so simple a child can use it, and they do. The Soviets put the gun on a coin; Mozambique put it on their flag. Since the end of the cold war, the Kalashnikov has been the Russian people’s greatest export. Then comes vodka.” Many of our enemies in Iraq and Afghanistan favor the weapon, and I was pleased to find that it was not particularly accurate.

Lest you think we haven’t been doing anything wholesome, yesterday we climbed Flat Top Mountain with Mason, Isaac, and Marilynn. It was a 6 mile round-trip hike, with the last 20 minutes characterized by relatively serious scrambling (that’s the middle-ground between hiking and climbing. You need your hands, but it’s not completely vertical). It was cloudy, but spectacular nonetheless. You can see the entire city of Anchorage from the top, so we’ll almost certainly climb it again when the weather breaks.

Very rare top sirloin, mashed potatoes, and garlic bread made an excellent dinner. We’re stepping out to play more Frisbee golf right now. “This is the way I love showing up to frolf,” noted Mason, “Half drunk and reeking of gun cleaning solvent.” “Wait a minute,” said his younger brother Isaac, “That’s how you like to show up for everything.”

Tomorrow we’re heading down to Homer, AK to spend a night or two camping on the Kenai Peninsula.

Pictures (Finally!)


Above, Madison and I practice our kung fu in Washington, DC. We'll need it in case we meet a bear in Alaska.




Sara, Shea, and I have just finished our hot dog at the Weiner Circle. A dejected-looking woman sits nearby. Clearly she hasn't eaten any hot dogs.



Above: Tracy, Madison, and I play in the sculpture park in Minneapolis.


After the hike up to Lake Louise in Banff National Park. This is the last picture of us with hair.

With haircuts like these, we'll be beating the ladies off with a stick. Good thing there are plenty of sticks in our campground... and very few ladies.


Above, our new friends at the campsite in Banff National Park, Alberta. From left: Frank, Ian, Madison, Frank, and Melissa. Melissa's Aunt Monique had just given us the #2 buzz treatment.


We saw this black bear in Jasper National Park. He looks friendly, but we didn't take any chances.


Here's the signpost forest in Watson Lake, Yukon. Scouters will notice the Mt. Baldy sign from Philmont, NM.


On top of Flat Top Mountain in Anchorage. From left: Marilynn, Mason, Madison, Ike, and I. We scrambled up to the summit despite the fact that it was snowing... in June!


Mason demonstrates fire breathing.


Madison observes his second amendment rights with the .22 Browning.


Enemies of democracy, beware! (Not pictured: terrified enemies of democracy)

Monday, June 14, 2010

Madison's take on Buzz Cuts

Banff: Beauty & Buzz Cuts
By Madison Busker

We left my friend Jen’s house in Calgary, Alberta around mid day on Monday for Banff National Park. It would be a nice treat for us after days of driving across the American and Canadian plains. The preceding day, we had driven from Regina, Saskatchewan to Calgary, Alberta. I have never been so thankful for cruise control in my entire life. I set the Element at around 70 MPH (110 kilometers for our Canadian friends) and didn’t touch the steering wheel for 7 hours. Needless to say it was a thrill to see mountains, especially ones with such stature and majesty.

We set our sights on Lake Louise, one of the parks most famous areas, the ‘Old Faithful of Banff.’ It was our first night of camping and we were excited to find such a beautiful and pristine place to sleep. Adjacent to our campsite was a large RV owned and operated by Eric and Monique, a couple from Edmonton who owned the hair salon and spa in their local Westin hotel, and their niece Melissa from Northern Virginia, my home and native land. They invited us over to their campfire. We talked about our homes, the beauty of Banff, and life in general.

After about an hour the topic of conversation quickly changed. Ian said that he was contemplating a buzz cut. Ian to our new friends: “Yo bro and girls, I want to get a number two. I think it will be so easy while camping.” They replied by telling us that they would be happy to give him a haircut free-of-charge. Ian immediately turned to me and said he would only cut his hair if I did. Without thinking, I said sure. The look on Ian’s face was one of surprise and fear. He went first. Once the first stroke of the buzzer went through his long, curly locks we started to laugh hysterically. When Ian was down to just a Mohawk, our Canadian hairdressers pretended their power went out and couldn’t finish the job. He didn’t’ think it was too funny. They finished his head and were ready for mine.

I once had a buzz cut when I was 7 years old. My mom dropped me at the barber shop while she found a place to park. In the 3 minutes it took from drop off to her walking in the shop, I had told the barber to buzz my head. Not knowing how the numbers worked on buzzers, I picked a random number, 2, and before my mom walked in and could say “Nooooooooo” half my hair was gone. I think she might have cried, but I don’t exactly remember. So 16 years later I decided to sport the good old buzz cut again for kicks and to remember one of my favorite summers as a youth. It was exhilarating to shave my head and has made the past week of my trip extremely easy. There is a saying to “Leave only footprints and take only pictures.” At Banff, I left some footprints, a lot of hair, took lots of pictures, and made memories that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

Day 13-15: Watson Lake to Anchorage

Anchorage aweigh! And the journey was far from uneventful.

Campsites are ranked by the amenities they offer. Our Watson Lake campground had been designated “primitive,” in that there was no potable water available. We used an old pump with a lever arm to draw pale yellow water from a well and boiled it for 10 minutes to kill the bacteria. We camped on the shores of Watson Lake itself, and spent the evening sitting out at a dock watching the sun set and the bald eagles swooping over the water. In the morning we fueled up and set off for Whitehorse, Jen’s ultimate bike destination (readers should note that she planned to BIKE an extremely mountainous route that had taken us 5 days to DRIVE- that’s the distance from Tampa, FL to Boston, MA).

At 6pm we reached Whitehorse. Torrential rains effectively quashed our plans to camp, so we pressed on to Tok, Alaska. We arrived at the American border with the Star Spangled Banner blaring from Madison’s iPod as loud as it would go. The border guards welcomed us warmly back into the United States, and we began a list of reasons we were happy to be back in America. Chief among them were that we could buy gasoline in gallons, and we didn’t have to pay for it with Canada’s brightly colored monopoly money.

From the border it was a 90-mile jaunt to Tok, Alaska (pronounced Toke, sorry Chertok). It was still raining cats and dogs, so we tried to check in to a motel- all 5 were full. The hostess at Fast Eddy’s, a restaurant/hotel, recommended that we head over to the local watering hole for karaoke night, have a few drinks, and sleep in the Element in their parking lot. This was about the best option we had. “A pitcher of your finest!” I told the bartender, as Madison and I steeled ourselves for a chilly night in the car. We were at the bar next to two surveyors, whose job it was to drop from a helicopter with chainsaws, clear a landing pad in the middle of the wilderness so it could land, draw a few maps, and repeat. The recession hasn’t touched rural Alaska, as people here already live under pretty serious conditions- although the pay is excellent (waitresses make $7.75/hr plus tips, and it goes up from there), the weather and the long winters are quite trying, to say the least. I may take a peek at job opportunities on the oil rigs.

Madison and I were in the middle of a spirited karaoke rendition of “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” when the hostess from Fast Eddy’s walked in. Her name was Kayleen, and we spent the evening hanging out with her and her girlfriends. They were all related by blood, marriage, or both. Madison and I quickly gave up on trying to learn their intricate web of familial ties. All of a sudden a middle aged Toker (that’s what they’re called. Seriously, you can’t make this stuff up) named Judy came in with a big aluminum foil package and slammed it down on our table. “Halibut dip! She exclaimed, and opened the pouch- it was a plate of thick tortilla chips covered in white dip. She listed the ingredients: sour cream, chives, green onions, garlic, jalapenos, and lots of halibut. “Not that [expletive deleted] excuse for Halibut the Japanese trawl up,” she fumed, “REAL Alaskan halibut. Those [expletive deleted]ers weigh 200lbs plus.” John, a local Alaska Native (That's the ethnic group, as opposed to Native Alaskans, who just live here) who was sitting at our table, said that he fishes for halibut with a pistol- “Once they’re on deck, they’ll keep fighting and ya got to shoot ‘em,” he added. To describe halibut dip as ‘delicious’ would be an egregious understatement.

Last call was just after 3am. It was still light out. Kayleen apologized from turning us away at her hotel, and offered us a spot on her couch. We gratefully accepted, and piled in to the Element. In the morning we left for Anchorage, where we met Madison’s cousin Allison, her husband Mark, and three of their children, Mason, Isaac, and Marilynn, all about our age. We’d noticed a curious phenomenon as we drove in… all of the road signs were riddled with bullet holes, many of them from pretty heavy-caliber weaponry. Mark explained that in the winter it was too windy for road signs, and that civic-minded Alaskans take it upon themselves to perforate them they drive by. “It reduces wind resistance,” he told us.

Save for a quick skinny dip in the thermal springs at Liard, in the Yukon Territory, we hadn’t bathed in nearly a week. I felt like a new man after a shower and shave. Mason took us to a local brewery to fill up two growlers of beer. He likes the outdoors, good food, photography, music and microbrews- I knew right away that the three of us were going to get along fabulously. With his help, we’ll be performing extensive scientific analysis of Alaska’s breweries from Anchorage to Homer. We returned from the Midnight Sun Brewery with two growlers (each about 5 pints) of Sockeye Red IPA and Kodiak Brown. They were fabulous complements to sweet corn and home-smoked BBQ pork of a caliber you wouldn’t expect to find outside of Georgia or the Carolinas.

After dinner we hiked down to the bay behind Allison's house, then went to see several of Mason’s friends’ band playing at a pub called Chilkoot Charlie’s. Koot’s was the biggest bar in Anchorage- it had two stages and 7 or 8 rooms with uniquely themed bars. There was an island-themed tiki bar, a rusty old icecream truck that had been converted into a bar, a Soviet-themed bar full of Red Army memorabilia, a normal bar, and the birdhouse bar, a dark, low-ceilinged cave with sawdust on the floor and countless articles of women’s underwear hanging from the walls and ceiling.

The first band on stage was Fortis Era, an all-girls rock band. They weren’t bad, but paled in comparison to the band Mason had brought us to see, The Audio. The Audio’s lead singer was a nicely-figured girl named Jenni who stomped around the stage in fishnets, glistening with sweat, a tattoo over her heart of the Big Dipper (it’s on Alaska’s flag) stating, “Alaska born and raised.” She had short blond hair and her voice reminded me of early Pink, but with a little more soul. I had a little crush on her by the time they finished their set.

This morning we’re doing laundry (finally) and taking the car in for a check-up at the local Honda dealership. After that, Mason and Allison are going to help us plan our itinerary for the next two weeks. Mason has offered to take us to the shooting range on Wednesday, and I’m looking forward to it with much enthusiasm. He’s got a comprehensive collection of firearms, and if possible I’d like to use some to help Alaska deal with their wind-resistant road sign problem.

Alaska is nothing short of spectacular. Never have I seen landscapes of such unimaginable majesty. It’s no surprise that people come to visit and never leave.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Day 10-13: Calgary to Watson Lake

After a hearty breakfast of Tim Horton's (that's Canada's version of Dunkin Donuts, but with more of a cult-like following and far better bagels) we left Jen's place and headed to Banff National Park. Banff had been billed as Canada's finest, and it did not disappoint. We made camp by a bright blue river and hiked up to Lake Louise. The lake had been discovered by white people in the late 1800s and quickly became a wildnerness resort. It was absolutely stunning. Back at the campsite, I cooked a hearty dinner of chili and fried polenta. Later on we met our camping neighbors, Eric and Moniq, two 40-something Canadians, and their neice Melissa, who was our age. They invited us across the path for a drink, and when we found out they owned a spa and salon, I shared with them the new hairstyle I'd been contemplating: the #2 buzz cut. It would make for an easy month of camping, I jokingly reasoned. "Want me to do it?" asked Moniq. "Ummmmm..." I didn't want to cut off any of my fun curly hair, but Madison intervened- soon I was in the chair, and Moniq had plugged the buzzer into the power inverter in her 'Bago. I made Madison go next, so we match. He carries it well, but I think I look kind of ridiculous. Lance Armstrong in the Canadian Northwest.

All 5 of us were laughing so hard our cheeks hurt when a car rolled in to the campsite and two lads jumped out. They were struggling to put up their tent in the dark, so I went over and brought them our gas lantern. It's about as bright as the sun. They were thankful, and we invited them to join us and our new friends once they were settled. Their names were Frank and Frank (short for Francois, as they were Quebecois), and they brought a few beers over to what was quickly becoming an impromptu party. We introduced them to the Jersey Dent and to Corn Nuts, an EXTREMELY crunchy snack made of toasted corn. Apparently they don't have it in Canada. "WOW! I am amazed at the crunchingness!" exclaimed Frank, in his thick Quebec accent.

We left Banff, and had planned to stay in the park's more remote cousin, Jasper National Park, but it rained. Instead, we stopped for a couple of day hikes to Jasper's prime attractions and pushed through to Dawson Creek. Our route followed Canada's Ice Field Parkway, and any who doubts the legitimacy of global warming need look no further than these rapidly receding glaciers to realize that temperature change is no small threat. Glaciers everywhere are being reclassified as "perennial ice fields."

The rain day put us at Mile Zero of the Alaska Highway one day ahead of schedule, which will be much appreciated by the time we reach Alaska. In Dawson Creek we stayed at a campground where most of our neighbors were permanent residents in shabby old 'Bagos with flat tires. We pitched our tent next to a pretty suspicious trailer: every 20 minutes or so a car would pull up outside the campground's fence, and someone would climb through a hole in the wire to knock twice on the trailer door. After 2 minutes or so, they'd run straight back to their car and drive away.

Yesterday morning we left Dawson Creek for Fort Nelson, British Columbia. We've seen black bears, brown bears, grizzly bears, moose, big-horn sheep, and innumerable smaller fauna, but this section of the drive was so rife with big wildlife that we didn't even know if it was safe to stop the car, lest we wind up as grizzly snacks. Several days earlier, between Banff and Jasper, we'd seen a grizzly charge a group of tourists that had gotten out of their car to take her picture. They escaped, but the bear had definitely gotten the point across: "Stay outta my jam, fool."

Fort Nelson offered my favorite campground on the trip thus far, after Banff. Nextdoor to our site we found the Fort Nelson Heritage Museum, with a main gallery, several turn-of-the-century buildings, and a sprawling boneyard of old cars, trucks, engines, plows, bulldozers, generators, cranes, and more: the rusting hulks of more than a century of mechanical detritus. I was elated: if I could pick the theme for the ideal museum, it would be, "tons of old machines sitting around outside, that you're allowed to play on." No more perfect words could describe the FNHM. We played on old bulldozers, climbed in old trucks, pretended to dig holes with an ancient excavator, and generally made a playground out of the place... but when I say "we," I really mean "me." Madison laughed and ribbed me for running around like a little kid in what I perceived as a candy store. I met the curator, a grizzled old mechanic named Marl. He had a long grey beard and told me about driving his 1908 Buick from Fort Nelson to Whitehorse last year... a tough drive even for a modern car, and certainly a tough bike ride for Jen. "The roof leaks like hell," he informed me, gesturing to the car, which was open-topped, as was the style back then.

Today we drove to Watson Lake, Yukon Territory. It's an old gold-mining area, and there are plenty of nuggets on display at the visitor's center. We're going to try panning for our own gold sometime in the next several days. Who knows? It might fund the trip, or maybe a private jet back to Georgia. We also saw the signpost forest, where travelers from around the world bring signs from their hometown to nail up. There are more than 65,000 of them, all posted since a homesick worker on the Alaska Highway posted the first sign in 1943. This evening we'll make camp right on the lake. The scenery is beautiful, and we are experiencing excellent health.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Madison's Account of the Border Crossing

Crossing the Border
By Madison Busker

I feel that I should tell my version of trying to cross the US-Canada border on day 5. Our original plan was to spend one night in Minneapolis and to drive to Winnipeg, Manitoba via the I-29 border crossing. Border crossings at major US interstates are very quick to move traffic along, and only the most guilty-looking people ever get stopped or questioned...well in Canada, that is. Our compromise to stay an extra night in the Twin Cities was to skip Winnipeg and drive straight to Regina, SK. The route we drove traversed North Dakota, a state I never thought I would ever visit, and had us cross the border in Portal, ND, population 50.

We arrived at the border station and were the only car there. It took about 10 minutes for a border guard to come to the window, I bet they were taking a nap or something considering the lack of traffic at this particular area. We were interrogated in the car by a pleasant, yet stern, woman. We thought we were done and the guard would politely welcome us to Canada. Instead, she told us to park our car and to come into the office for an ID check. We walked in, gave a very serious man our passports, and were told to wait. Five, ten, and then fifteen minutes passed when finally the man came out and said "Ian please come into the office when you hear the door buzz and close it behind you." The thoughts that ran through my head were "Ian what did you do that you didn't tell me?" "Would the car make it across a few hundred 'kilometers' of farms to sneak across the border" (the US and Canada brag about having the largest unprotected border in the world, if we had to I would have advocated to use it to its full advantage), and "how could we drive to Alaska without going through Canada?"

Another fifteen minutes passed and Ian was still in the office answering questions. He finally came out of the office, and I thought we were good to go. I overheard the guards talking "do you want to do this alone or have backup?" "Oh you know I always like company" the guard answered to the other. "Please pull into garage 8 for a car check" We pulled in and two Canadian guards searched our car top to bottom. After 20 minutes of scrupulous searching and finding nothing but Canadian whiskey, on its way back to its home and native land, they packed our car exactly how it was and pushed us on our way. I never thought we would get the run-around we did crossing into Canada, a country very similar to ours, and the did not even stamp our passports.

Alaska, Day 8-10: Minneapolis to Regina, Saskatchewan, to Calgary, Alberta

We had budgeted one night for Minneapolis, but caught such a nice vibe from the area that we decided to stay an extra evening. Our leisurely breakfast at Tracy's kitchen table turned into an afternoon of storytelling. Tracy's mom was "super-chill," as Tracy put it, even though the younger Mayer daughter Jami (she's decided to drop the E) seems to display the same streak of teenage recklessness that my parents struggled to cope with when I was a lad of 16. Jami had opted out of a family trip in March, instead staying home to throw an epic rager. Her parents had flown straight back to icy Minnesota to address the matter, effectively cancelling their meticulously-planned sailing trip to the British Virgin Islands. They were not pleased. Jami is now saving up for a car on her own. She wants a pink Hummer, but I'll bet she'll end up settlling for a 1987 Hyundai with plenty of rust and exterior trim falling off (in the automotive world, we call it the "leprosy trim package").

Tracy brought us to the Mall of America, and it was absurd. I had always wanted to visit LegoLand as a youth, and was finally able to realize that dream. We snapped a photo next to a life-sized lego statue of Boba Fett. They also have roller coasters inside the mall. "I'm suprised they don't have an aquarium," said Madison. "Oh, they do!" said Tracy, "It's over there!" Locally-made ravioli was on the dinner menu, and it would have been complemented by a savory red pepper-ricotta sauce, except that Tracy had mistaken the container for dip earlier that day- we'd eaten it on chips. Oops. "Man, this dinner would have been great with a little more sauce," said Mrs. Mayer. We journeyed to the Minneapolis Sculpture Park, where we ran around among the works laughing and taking pictures. Tracy's friend Kelly led us on a roundabout tour of Minneapolis's historic homes on the way- it looked a lot like my hometown of Montclair, NJ. The city would be a GREAT place to live if it didn't get a bit brisk in the wintertime.

After the sculpture garden, we went to the University of Minnesota (known as "The U") to hang out with Tracy's friends. They confirmed that Jami's party had been pretty awesome. One, Billy, almost joined the Alaska expedition. The debate over whether to go out in downtown Minneapolis or Dinkytown, The U's bar neighborhood, was settled easily: "We've got the rest of our lives to go on business trips to Minnesota," I reasoned. "But probably this one chance to check out Dinkytown." Madison agreed wholeheartedly. We saw the apartment that Bob Dylan had lived in before he became a household name. Beers were dirt cheap. As we left the bars, Tracy drunkenly picked up an application to work at a burrito place nearby. I had encouraged her to land a job working in the Cheese Mines , digging nuggets of tasty gouda and gruyere from deep beeneath the Wisconsin countryside. We departed Minneapolis, zigzagging across North Dakota towards Regina, Saskatchewan.

North Dakota was desolately beautiful. The rusting hulks of depression-era trucks lurked around faded barns and grain elevators, and we saw our first pair of Moose. They were enormous, half again the size of horses with long spindly legs. They looked almost comical galloping across the plains on their huge clydesdale-y hooves. At the Canadian border, Madison informed the customs officers that we had no weapons or drugs, but that we were carrying Canadian Whiskey "back home to Canada." The guard managed to stifle her laugh, but we still received extra scrutiny because I hadn't signed my passport. They searched the vehicle, but were kind enough to re-pack everything quite neatly. As we drove through Saskatchewan, we saw the hundreds of mayonnaise rigs that dot the Canadian landscape. They look just like oil derricks in Texas, but the Canadians instead use them to draw mayonnaise from beneath the praries, the only way they could satisfy their voracious craving for the viscous condiment.

Our first stop in Canada was Regina (pronounced Ra-JYE-na... rhymes with... Edina) where we showered and slept at a local hostel. The next morning we went to the market to pick up groceries for our 6 days of camping. Madison suggested adding canned tuna to pasta sauce to add protein. I didn't think we'd be eating that one on tortilla chips. The trip from Regina to Calgary, Alberta, was our shortest day of driving yet- a mere 7 hours- but also the worst. Trans-Canada 1 was a completely straight, completely flat road across the prarie, and that's it. Madison put the car on cruise control and didn't touch the steering wheel at all. We arrived in Calgary and met Jen, who had studied abroad in Australia with Madison. She told us a joke: people from Saskatchewan can watch their dogs run away for three days. We ate a huge prime rib to hold us over through a week of camping meals, and went to a gigantic sports bar to drink (ya guessed it, eh?) MOLSON!!

Jen is planning to ride her bike from Calgary to White Horse, in the Yukon Territory. It's an audacious trip, even by car- she'll probably be pedaling for weeks. I was quite impressed. She's also very well-traveled, and I learned a lot about the reputation of Americans abroad. Our next stop is Banff National Park, Canada's premeire scenic camping and hiking destination. It's likely that we won't have access to a computer or phone until we reach Anchorage, and I'm looking forward to a week unplugged. Hopefully we'll see bears. The lakes are crystal clear and 34 degrees F., Jen says everyone should swim in them- but you'll only do it once.

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Alaska Roadtrip Day 7-8: Chicago to Minneapolis, MN

After Emily’s delicious breakfast of French bread French toast, we headed into downtown Woodstock, IL, to check out the town square. Groundhog Day had been filmed in town, and Emily told us that one of the restaurants was decorated with pictures of Bill Murray. The old courthouse had also been converted into pub, and the jail cells had become booths. Madison decided to spend the day with Emily in Woodstock, but I took a commuter train to Chicago to meet a college friend named Sara Hostalet.


The train was a double-decker affair with big windows. I watched the corn fields and rural town squares roll by until they gave way to modern shopping centers, followed by a wasteland of empty factories, the same decrepit halo of war-era industry that seems to surround every older American city. But Chicago itself was a fascinating blend of modern and classic architecture.


I met Sara at her apartment, half a dozen stops up the Red Line from downtown. She had a big flat above a Mexican restaurant, whose owners were happy to serve as her grocery store- she bought produce, cheeses, and even bags of ice for fifty cents each. As un- or underemployed poster-children of the recession, I always love to hear a success story, and Sara had one: she’s the manager of a gay strip club, draws a salary, and even receives health benefits! We went to the beach with her friends Liz, Shea, and Eric, but not before stopping at Weiner Circle for a hot dog.


Weiner Circle holds a special place in annals of my college fraternity’s history. There’s a humungous woman who works there, and sometimes she allows you to buy a ‘chocolate shake,’ whereupon she takes off her shirt and wiggles her tremendous bulk in your direction. “THERE’S YOUR CHOCOLATE SHAKE,” she apparently yells, followed by a string of obscenities. Several brothers from the Chicago area once brought a video camera to the Weiner Circle and asked her to plug the fraternity on film. She responded affirmatively (though not without the requisite profanity) and the video was widely circulated among AEPi chapters- so much so that she was flown in as the keynote speaker at the national convention. Seriously. You can’t make this stuff up.


After a relaxing afternoon at the beach we went back to Sara’s house for deep dish pizza. It was phenomenal. The crust was as thick as a baseball bat, and easily sustained the generous heaps of sausage, spinach, and cheese that crunched and oozed into my mouth. She took us to a bar called FKA, which stands for Formerly Known As. It had been a transvestite bar in its previous incarnation, and we did see one transvestite. S/he was very tall and looked like a blond Professor Snape. Jeanette met us at FKA before we went to Berlin, a club around the corner from Sara’s workplace. Berlin served a drink called the “Berlin Bomb,” a devastating mixture of strawberry rum and energy drink designed to be quaffed in a single mighty draught. I sampled one. Then I invented some killer dance moves. Hey, it’s cultural research.


The next morning I ate breakfast with a high school friend named Emily (not to be confused with Madison’s girlfriend Emily) and took the train back to Woodstock, where we said goodbye to the Madison’s Emily and her mom. Our next stop was Tracy’s house in Minneapolis. When I last saw Tracy in Atlanta, she told me how much she hated cut-off jean shorts. I decided I’d dress to impress by cutting off an old pair of super-tight girl’s jeans, but erred in my snippage and ended up showing way too much thigh. Tracy cringed at their sheer awesomeness. We walked around a local art fair in her hometown of Edina, MN (Pronounced ed-INE-a. Rhymes with… nevermind) and went to Matt’s Bar to eat a Jucy Lucy.


The Jucy Lucy is a cheeseburger, but the cheese is on the inside. Madison had primed me for this strange and delicious nugget of culinary ingenuity. The restaurant’s Jucy Lucy had won ‘Food Wars’ on the Food Network earlier this year. Our waitress indeed warned us that molten cheese would blast out into your mouth on the first bite, and part of me hoped that it would run down my chest in a most cavemanly fashion. It was so good that Tracy, an ardent vegetarian, even took a little bite.


After dinner we scooped up a girl named Meggie on our way to Tracy’s stomping ground, an uptown bar neighborhood that felt a lot like 6th street in Austin. Meggie did little to shake my stereotypical image of Midwesterners as uniformly tall and attractive blondes. She and Tracy turned out to be the rule, rather than the exception: every bar we visited was packed with strikingly beautiful women. Each bar and club stamped your wrist at the door, and one of my stamps had a picture of Sylvester Stallone’s Judge Dredd saying “Don’t drink and drive.” We stayed out until court was adjourned.


I’m impressed with the Midwest. Everyone is polite, and very quick to laugh. Tracy shared a Garrison Keillor quote, “The women are smart, the men are beautiful, and all the children are above average.”