Musings

I've been thinking about what I'll miss about Alaska, and what I missed about California while I was here, so I decided to make a list.

What I'll miss about Alaska:

1. No crowds.  I never encountered any place that was crowded, including Anchorage.  I think the most crowded place I went was a drag show in Anchorage.  Those queens know how to party.

2. People who are easy to talk to.  I already mentioned the elders, but that's only one example.  I've been thinking about them a lot.  It's no secret that the voices we carry that endow us with the beautiful stories we tell are the same forces that can drive us to insanity.  Writers and other artists commit suicide at rates four to ten times higher than the national average.  I keep thinking that if we drank and told stories with each other, instead of by ourselves all the time, we might be able to curb some of this.     

3.  Snow.

4. Strong seasonal variations.  Not that we don't have seasons, but the huge swings of Alaska, not only in temperature, but in light, ensure there's always something new to see.

5. The unique and beautiful cultures here.

6. Ravens.  I like crows and their antics too, but they don't wheel around in the wind and play with each other like ravens do.  Watching them makes me wish I had been born a raven.

What I missed about California:

1. Secular radio.  Nome's two stations radio stations are funded by Christian groups, and alternate between cheesy praise songs and country western.  Once in a while you get something good, like Journey's "City by the Bay" (you can bet I was singing along when that came on), or Inuit singing and drumming.  Anchorage had a classical station that was actually pretty good, but when I drove outside the town limits, I lost the signal, and the dial consisted almost entirely of Christian and country western stations.  I think if I'm ever in Hell, that's what my radio will be like.

2. Fresh fruits and vegetables.  There were some in Nome, but you can bet they were expensive, and without much variety.  

3. The sun.  The sun didn't rise until 10:30 am in Nome, 12 pm in Kotzebue, and 9:15 am in Anchorage.  I'm not lying when I say white people in Alaska are pale as parsnips, and for a reason.  I'm a mix and I think I'd be pretty pasty too if I lived up there full-time.  My mother would be horrified if she visited me and then leap into a long lecture on the dangers of being a recluse and not eating enough orange vegetables.

4. Lots of vegetarian options.  Because I don't always eat fish.  I once worked and studied in Dresden for six months, and this was my huge gripe to the folks at home.  At first I tried to assimilate, so I cooked and ate German cuisine, but after a week I got tired of crapping rocks (once I could even crap at all) and started just shopping at the international market all the time so I could make California food.  

5. The relative harmony between the many cultures here.  I met a shopkeeper in Anchorage who had lived for a little while in San Francisco, and he said what he enjoyed most was that many different kinds of people with different backgrounds and different lifestyles could get along in very close company.  I specifically remember one recent July 4th spent with friends and family in San Francisco.  We saw a lion parade in Chinatown, complete with firecrackers, had a British afternoon tea service in the Financial District, and enjoyed amazing sushi and sake at a Japanese restaurant.  I don't see that happening in Alaska.

6. Surf.  I didn't make it to Yakutat or Sitka, Alaska's only surfing destinations, and only towns with surf shops.  Until there was a storm offshore, the waves in Nome were barely ankle high anyway.

Things that came up about even:

1. Recreation.  Plenty of things to do in both places.  I'd probably have to ride the mountain bike all the time in Alaska and set my road bikes aside, but I can fish and kayak quite well in both places, and hiking's good year-round.  I'm not yet crazy enough to do the Iditabike.

2. Seafood.  The seafood was great up in Alaska, but it's great in the Bay Area too.  Maybe there are some different options in both places, but many similarities as well.  We catch halibut from the piers and boats right in the Bay.  We also eat copious amounts of seaweed, and crab when its in season.   

     Jack London ultimately returned to his roots.  After a lifetime traveling the world as an oyster pirate, hobo, war correspondent, and yes, writer, he spent his last years in Sonoma County where he died.  As evidenced in his literature, the North always held a special place for him, and I think for him it was both frightening and fascinating.  I wonder what comparisons he made with the place of his origins, and the place that called to him from the darkness.

Impressions of a Nome-ad

     This journey of mine has been winding down, and I have to admit, I'm a little sad.  I was not expecting to like Nome so much, honestly.  I think if you took my hometown of Sierra Madre, got it liquored up, replaced the mountain lions with polar bears, and put it on the Bering Sea, you'd have Nome.  Even some of the buildings look similar.
     I haven't had people say 'hi' to me on the street since I left Sierra Madre.  I've lived in places where you avoid eye contact, because some of the people you meet might be crazy and try to *gasp!* talk to you.  Here in Nome, I say bring on the crazy.  It makes life interesting.  From cheering the Giants in gay bars in Anchorage to drinking with Inuit elders on the beach in Nome, this has been probably my best research trip.  And going out of town into the country, this is a land of devastating beauty.  The land is punishing in its lyricism, both emotionally and physically.  I've seen the midnight sun before, and now the midday darkness.
     Sometimes in California, we hear that so-and-so "went crazy and moved to Alaska."  The idea of Alaska is always prefixed by the suggestion of insanity.  For Californians, it's both alluring and frightening, full of polar bears and shaggy mountain men and people who vote for Sarah Palin (for your information, I found out that Anchorage hates her guts, and people in Nome weren't too fond of her either).  I like Alaska.  Like all places, it has the good and the bad.  I know I'll be coming back, as soon as I get another opportunity.  And perhaps next time, I won't come back (I grew up in rattlesnake and mountain lion country; you can't scare me).  I hope it retains its wildness and inaccessibility; in California, roads have been the death of us and our beautiful country.
     The sad thing is that it might not last.  Arctic Alaska is at the front line of global warming.  Everything, the wildlife, the unique cultures that have grown here, will all be changed.  One of my former classmates in Maine, dg nanouk okpik, is originally from Barrow, and I think her poetry contains the most eloquent statements of the devastation about to occur, that is already occurring.  Her Alaska won't be there anymore, and honestly, that frightens me more than anything.
     Seeing Alaska from a cruise ship is like snapping a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge and saying you've seen San Francisco.  Northern Alaska is expensive, but less so in the off-season, and Anchorage goods and services are about the same as San Francisco.  It's been more than worth it.
     Check out dg at NewPages Blog: dg nanouk okpik

      

Unexpected Nome: Stories

The other day I walked along the beach while I waited to use the internet at the visitor’s center (one of the few places with wi-fi here).  As I was coming off the sand, three people crossed my path and one asked if I had found anything valuable out there, and I replied that I hadn’t, only picked up a red marbled rock more for its aesthetic value than anything else.  This started a conversation that became longer and longer, and turned into us sitting on a driftwood log passing around a whiskey bottle and swapping stories.

I’ll call them by where they told me they were from, since I’m sure there are laws about drinking on the beach and I don’t want to get them in trouble.  One woman was from Savoonga, and one of the others told me she was the mother of a man who went missing recently in Nome.  She was very quiet, and I wanted to say something to her, since I had read about her son in the paper, but I didn’t know what.  She left the rest of us talking, I presumed to get something to eat or drink.  One said he was from Elim, and the other, from King Island, both Inuit.  King Island was full of stories.  After Savoonga left, King Island started pointing to the buildings and harbor and told about the history behind them (I don’t know how accurate he was).  Elim added his two cents.  Both were wood carvers in their spare time, they said, and liked to come to the beach to get driftwood (a pretty common activity here).  We told jokes to each other, but what I liked most was a story that King Island shared, which he told me his father had made up.  Here’s my version of it:

One day a hunter went out with his gun on a lonely island.  Off in the distance he saw a polar bear.  He thought to himself, “I’m a good shot, I’ll get him,” and put three bullets in the rifle.  He aimed and fired, and the polar bear dropped. 

The hunter ran over, and as he approached, he saw that it was a huge bear, bigger than any he had ever seen.  Suddenly, the bear rose and went after the hunter.  He started to run, then turned and fired his second shot.  The bear fell again, and the hunter breathed a sigh of relief.

As he went back to his quarry, the bear rose again, fury in his eyes.  He roared and went after the hunter.  He was frightened and ran, but saw that the polar bear would catch him.  He turned and fired his last shot.

This time the bear didn’t go down and kept coming.  The hunter knelt down and prayed, in fear for his life.  He heard the animal bearing down on him.  Soon he could feel the bear’s breath on him, and all the while he closed his eyes and prayed.  The bear knocked him down with his left paw (because all polar bears are left-handed) and held him down.  Then, the bear stopped and was quiet.

The man opened his eyes to see the bear kneeling with his eyes closed.  The man said, “What are you doing?” 

The bear opened an eye and replied, “I too like to pray before I eat.”

I was surprised at how comfortable I felt with them.  I’m somewhat of an introvert among most people, and never wholly at ease.  I’m sure if this were the Bay Area, most people would not talk and drink with old men on the beach, for fear they’d end up in a dumpster with no shoes and no wallet.  It’s probably not an altogether irrational fear, either, and I’m sure it’s the side of Nome the chamber of commerce would rather not have visitors see.  Afterward I realized I felt like I could be myself, though, not trying to impress anyone or look “normal.”  Maybe it was because they reminded me a little of some of my relatives.  However, I came to the conclusion that it’s probably because I’m just like these guys.  When you pare down all the extraneous stuff, all that crap to get by and appear civilized, all I really do is drink and tell stories.  The difference is, most of the time I do it alone. 

Maybe I’m the one who’s got it wrong.  

Nome Cuisine

     I am missing Dungeness season.  The bulk of it is in November, where people around northern California cast big hoop-shaped nets from piers and boats loaded with traps stuffed with chicken pieces or salmon bellies.  You leave it down there for some time, bring it up, and if you're lucky, you'll have a couple of red dungeness crabs for dinner.  Around this time I'd be making eggs San Francisco (think eggs benedict with fresh crab instead of bacon, sourdough instead of English muffin), pumpkin soup with crab innards (my own invention), and fresh steamed crab.  Even if you don't catch any yourself, you can get them for less than $4 per pound this time of year.  My crab net is currently collecting dust under my bed while I'm up here in Nome, and that pains me.  I can taste the sweet briny meat as I write this.  However, I've had no shortage of things to eat here.  

     Nome has an interesting collection of restaurants.  One of my favorites here has been Husky, a Japanese restaurant that serves sushi, tempura, and some weird Americanized rolls (real Californians do not eat California rolls).  I admit I was surprised at the quality of the food, as I consider myself somewhat of a connoiseur of sushi down south.  I particularly enjoyed their ikura, salmon roe wrapped in seaweed.  There's another Japanese restaurant called Milano's Pizzeria.  That's right.  It serves both Italian and Japanese.  There's a Chinese restaurant, a Vietnamese restaurant, an American-style dinner (minus the counter), and Subway.  I think the last might be the northernmost fast-food restaurant in the U.S.  What Nome seems to lack is good coffee.  A lot of places serve it, and some even have espresso drinks, but I have yet to find just a damn good cup of coffee, along with actual milk or cream, rather than the non-dairy creamer that is ubiquitous here.  Maybe I should move here and open a coffee shop.

     The other side of Alaskan cuisine is something you won't find in restaurants, because it can't be sold commercially, but is certainly no less special.  I went back to the shop with the old storytelling proprietor to get some things and hear some more of his stories.  I happened to mention that I was very much interested in trying traditional Alaskan foods, but I didn't know where to go, and if he had any suggestions, I'd very much appreciate them.  He proceeded to go to a small kitchen at the back of his shop and brought back a plate with a piece of smoked tomcod and some dried seaweed.  I ate and listened to him talk, and it was excellent, tasting like a cross between herring and Atlantic cod.  He went back into the kitchen and came back with slices of muktuk, raw pieces of whale skin and blubber.  It may well be the most delicious meat I have ever eaten.  It tasted like fish and the sea, with a buttery background to it.  It was tough to chew, but I think that's part of the fun.  

     I don't eat meat in California; it just isn't necessary with fresh organic produce available at every farmer's market and accessible local fish.  It's healthier that way, and better for the environment.  However, foods from the lower forty-eight are very costly here in Nome because of how far they must be shipped, so local fish and game is vitally important.  It's also very nutritious, especially when eaten raw.  A small amount of seal oil has all the vitamin C you need in a day.  Why eat beef pumped full of hormones and antibiotics when there are so many natural options available here?  Muskox and moose are big foods here, having lower fat content than beef, as well as reindeer (remnants of a Lapplander herd left here).  Dried and smoked fish are pretty common as well, and in the summer, there are berries and other plants available.  

     I believe that much of a culture lies in its food, and I was pretty fortunate to be able to sample a little bit of it.  I hope I'll be able to taste some more, and perhaps return the favor should anyone visit the bay area.  If you come in November, I'll have some crab waiting.

A Little Song

Little Song
And I think over again
My small adventures
When with a shore wind I drifted out
In my kayak
And I thought I was in danger.

My fears,
Those small ones
That I thought so big,
For all the vital things
I had to get and to reach.

And yet, there is only
One great thing,
The only thing.
To live to see in huts and on journeys
The great day that dawns,
And the little light that fills the world.


-Orpingalik, Mackenzie Eskimo


     I thought of this poem when I came back from my little hike up Anvil Mountain yesterday.  It was foggy that morning, and even though I've been checking the weather on my cell phone daily (no internet in my guest house), the network was down that morning, and I thought the fog would clear as the day went on. 
     When I was a teenager, I had a dog named Maggie who was an excellent tracker (she's still around, living with my mother in happy retirement).  We used to play these little games where I'd have her find things, or people, or the cat.  I'd go out and get us a little lost on purpose in the mountains, then say, "Maggie, go home."  She nailed it every time, no matter how turned around I got her, whether in our local San Gabriel mountains or the high Sierras.  

Maggie, being awesome

     Those games were fun, and I never ceased to be amazed by her skill, which I never had to train her in.  Yesterday, up on the mountain, I could have really used her at my side.  I took a dirt road up to the top of Anvil Mountain, a trip that was pretty uneventful, but the fog seemed to actually get thicker as a I walked up.  I had walked about 4.5 miles from town.  The snow was thigh-deep in some places.  Once at the top, I walked around, looked at the scenery, which had all the beauty of the inside of a ping pong ball.  I could have seen a lot more had I gone when it was sunny.  

     I had packed a lunch to eat at the top, but the wind started to pick up, which generally increases the misery quotient for most activities other than kite-flying and sailing, so I decided to just turn around and head back to town.  I started walking in the direction I thought I had come from, back toward the unpaved road, which was lined on either side by willow clumps.  As I felt the terrain starting to go downward, I looked around and saw no willows, only lichens.  I proceeded a little farther, I started seeing some more willow clumps, but instead of going in line, like they did along the road, they were scattered everywhere.  And they all looked exactly the same.

     "Shit."  I imagined my picture in the next day's Nome Nugget, over the caption, "Californian goes missing in mountains north of town."  I generally consider myself experienced in backcountry traveler, even without a dog, so at first I knew I'd be embarrassed by having to have people look for me.  But that feeling was replaced by a growing fear that I was lost, in a serious way.  I've trekked in places like Joshua Tree or Death Valley, with strong features that are easy to read.  Even snowshoeing in the Sierras, I could tell the difference between mountains, know which valley I was aiming for.  Here, everything was essentially under a smooth blanket of snow, and the fog kept me from seeing more than twenty yards in front of me.

     I could hear the airport, and I aimed for that.  I also knew where south was, and knew that was the direction of the road and the Bering Sea, which was where I wanted to get to.  It was hard going getting back down; I ended up several times in waist-high drifts.  At one point, I reached a place that was very steep, so instead of falling over myself to get down it, I sat and ass-sledded all the way.  I picked up a pretty good rate of speed, and in spite of my situation, it turned out to be a good amount of fun (way better than doing the same thing down a canyon in Joshua Tree, and you don't end up having to pick gravel and cactus thorns out of your underwear later.  Trust me on this).  Just watch for the piles of frozen muskox turds.  Ass-sledding is now my new favorite activity.

     Eventually I saw a snowmachine track, and I followed it until I saw a house.  I knew if there was a house, there was a road.  I did a little dance of joy (as much as I could in knee-deep snow) and headed for the road.  Along the way, two dogs, a big red husky and a black mutt came running toward me, barking.  Great, I thought, I'm almost there, and I get done in by dogs.  When they were close, I looked at them sideways and said, "Go home," which is pretty much my standard chased-by-a-dog response.  It worked, and to my surprise, they started walking next to me down the road, almost like an escort.  Finally we parted and I made my way back to town, tired and wind-burnt, but mostly okay.  I was never so happy to see Nome.

     I wasn't going to write about this, but I don't want anyone else getting lost.  Besides, no adventure is complete without a little misadventure, I think.  Here's what I did wrong, and shouldn't do again:

1. Didn't get the weather report.  Sure, the network was down, but that's a bullshit excuse.  Go read a newspaper.

2. Several times a long the way, I thought about turning back.  I should have listened to my gut. 

3. I had no map of the area, because I couldn't find one before I left.  Though it should be noted that I never owned a topo map until I was sixteen.

But now that I've beaten myself up enough, here's what I did right:

1. I had packed extra food, high-caloric items like dried fruit and chocolate.

2. I had extra clothing in case it got colder or I got stuck.

3. I left a message with someone in California where I was going and what time I'd be back, then called when I got back.

4. I had a cell phone and gave myself a time limit: if I didn't see the road within a certain amount of time, I was going to call the Nome Visitor Center (assuming I could even get reception) and request that they call a helicopter, rather than just wander around aimlessly.

So, I hope my readers will learn from my mishap.  Here's what I learned, or re-learned.   

1. Check the weather, and don't go out if it's bad.  

2. Bring a map or a GPS if you like (I never use GPS, but you might like it.  It's no substitute for practical knowledge, though).  Especially important in terrain unfamiliar to you.  I know desert pretty well, but not tundra.

3. Tell people where you're going, and carry a phone.

4. Have enough food for a couple of days.

5. Enjoy the scenery.  Sure, you're scared, and rightfully so.  Getting lost sucks.  But look where you are!  Admire the ravens, inspect the animal tracks.  It'll keep you from panicking, which is bad.  Besides, you could be lost in worse places, like the New York sewer system. 

6. Think about happy things.  Don't think about Jack London.  Okay, if you must think about him, and he makes you happy, go with Valley of the Moon.  Not "To Build a Fire."

7. Watch out for frozen muskox shit.

I did get to take pictures:

Watch for muskox mines.

     This brings me back to Orpingalik's poem.  I was reminded of what really matters after this.  Later on, I went to a local sushi restaurant and savored those small things, my favorite things: raw fish and a cold Sapporo, friendly people, a warm place.  Maybe I wasn't as lost as I thought, but it's good to be back.

I wanted today's post to be about food, but there were more pressing matters.  Tomorrow's post promises to be delicious.

Have some good adventures, my friends.  

   

           

And the little light that fills the world.

A Day at the Beach

     I think Sunday was the first time I've been to the beach wearing anything other than shorts or a wetsuit.  The beach here in Nome stretches from the harbor to beyond the last houses on the east side (yes, it is a south-facing beach, like Santa Cruz).  Walking on the frozen sand was an interesting experience.  The waves were pretty low, maybe six inches high.  They were a bit bigger when I first got here; you could probably take a bodyboard out, with some effort.  It's probably one of the best places I've seen for sea-glass, though I froze my fingers getting it out of the ice.  A lot of flat clamshells and dead starfish were spread among the pebbles, along with a sea urchin skeleton, too (that put me in the mood for some good uni).  Not many birds, other than ravens and (western?) gulls.  My guess is that most of the migratory ones are far south right now, or at islands off the coast.  I saw four people sitting around a driftwood fire; it seems that the city encourages the use of driftwood as fuel.

     The day before, I went to a film festival put on by UAF that is traveling around Alaska called "Alaska Ocean Film Festival."  It seems obvious, but I was surprised to find that none of the films were actually about Alaska.  Four were set in California, the remainder in Hawaii and Washington.  While I enjoyed myself, I wondered if the directors of the festival might have chosen something more relatable for people here.  I know I would have liked to learn more about the Arctic Ocean or the Bering Sea.  The films ranged from the scientific ("White Shark Cafe," about the migratory habits of California's great white population) to the artistic ("Bicycle Ride," a dialog-less film showing a surfer riding to his surf spot in Santa Cruz).  There was a moment in during "Bicycle Ride" that was the first time I have ever felt homesick during this entire trip.  As a film, I didn't think "Bicycle Ride" was anything special, but the footage showed places like Pleasure Point, Cowell's, Steamer's Lane, and I realized, sitting in St. Joe's Church, that I was probably the only person in the small crowd who had actually surfed those places (okay, I'm not good enough for Steamer's, but I like to watch those who are from the cliffs).  In fact, I was there the week before I came here.  Seeing the tan dirt on the roadside, and the ridiculous palm trees, and the long piers, was probably the first time I realized how truly far I am from home.
     This has me thinking about taking a trip to Yakutat for my last couple of days here.  Yakutat is a little-know surf mecca just south of Anchorage.  However, it's hard to get to, and my preliminary searches for flights all turned up the same result: "Can't get there from here."  I'll probably call Icy Waves, the local surf shop, and see if they have some advice on the logistics.  Surfing in Alaska.  Who'd athunk it?

Stories

     I am beginning to realize that I am coming to the end of my novel, one of my reasons for being here in Nome.  I am excited and somewhat terrified at the same time.  A part of me wonders what I'm going to do with myself afterward.  Of course it needs editing, but I'll have to wait at least a few weeks until I have enough distance on it to see it clearly enough to edit.  What'll I do in the meantime?  Start another novel?  It sounds like a scary prospect.  This novel has taken up a huge part of my time and mind for nearly a year, and it was being tumbled through my head as a nugget of an idea, even before that.  On the other hand, it'll be something huge.  This will be the first novel I have finished (the actual first one I worked on was a huge Revolutionary War epic I started in my freshman year of high school that when I look back on it, makes me cringe).
      I think however, that there will ultimately be more stories here in Nome, and Alaska.  Looking out over the sea or the mountains, or into the faces of the people, there's a lot to be said.  And maybe I'll falter trying to tell it, but someone should.  I walked into a shop yesterday, and the keeper, an older gentleman, seemed brimming with stories about not just what he sold, but the land and people too, and individuals in the town.  I almost felt as though he would have much rather me sit there and listen than actually buy anything.  He complained that the literature written about the region was usually full of mistakes, penned by people who had never even set foot or opened a single book about it.  He seemed glad that I was there, like he trusted me to be accurate.  I hope I am.
     The sunsets here are quite possibly the most beautiful I have ever seen on the planet, including the islands of the Pacific.

On another note, I can see the sea ice approaching.  It is collecting on the horizon.

Blue Tundra Light

     The measure of how much you love someone is not gauged in how many hugs you gave them, or how many kisses you shared on a train, or how many times you told them so.  It is measured in how far you can go to the remote ends of this earth, how different the stars can be in your foreign sky, and still you can see their face in the blue light of winter tundra.  It is measured in how long their memory will pursue you, how far over the sea and beyond the daylight, in the absence of all those obvious reminders.

   

     The Bering Sea carries the waters of the Pacific, cold currents with strung with the memories of San Francisco Bay.

North of Nowhere

     I've been to towns, and I've been to the backcountry, places that required multi-day hikes to visit.  I've never really been to a town in the backcountry, or Bush, as it's known here.  Nome is only accessible by boat or plane.  It lies on the Seward peninsula, wedged between open tundra and the Bering Sea.  It is just south of the Arctic Circle, but that seems an arbitrary line given what I've seen here.  There are places in Scandanavia that are north of that line that are so warmed by remnants of the Gulf Stream that they have a temperate climate, suitable for boreal forest.  I have seen exactly one tree since I've been in Nome.
     At first glance, the town feels dreary and depressed.  Even the gulls seem to feel it, just sitting around in the dirt instead of flying or poking around in garbage.  There are a lot of dogs tied up outside houses, all mean (I would be too, if I were chained out in the cold and snow).  I saw a drunk stumble out of a bar and it wasn't even noon.  Once the afternoon sun finally broke out and washed the town in sidelong gold light, the whole character seemed to change.  These are just first impressions, which just touch the surface, so I'm looking forward to getting around and seeing more.  One thing is that people say "hi" and smile when you pass on the street, which I haven't seen since I left my small hometown in the San Gabriel Mountains.  I also saw a six-dollar pineapple (I kid you not).  The preciousness of fresh produce is something I'm going to have to get used to.
     There's much more to Nome than what appears at first glance.  For example, there's a film festival happening this weekend, which I hope to go to.  Also, the surrounding lands are devastatingly beautiful. In the summer they're awash with wildflowers, but even now, covered with snow, they call to me.  I'm going to go out there somehow.  I was at the library yesterday using the internet, and a window looked out over the Bering Sea.  It was smooth as slate that day, dark blue-gray, at once welcoming and frightening in blue winter light.
     There's so much to see here, probably more than possible for one lifetime.

     Last night in the rooming house I'm staying I met an older couple from Savoonga, a village on St. Lawrence Island.  They were in town for an appointment at the regional hospital.  They spoke to each other in gentle Yupik.  I think people in California sort of expect everything to come to them, to be within an hour's drive at most.  But I'm seeing things I wouldn't imagine there.  It's not every day you meet someone from Savoonga.  That is special. 

Arts in Anchorage

     I just arrived in Nome, but as promised, I just want to touch a little on the Anchorage arts and culture scene.  A lot of people in the Lower Forty-Eight have this image of Alaska, Anchorage included, that is full of hairy bearded men with badly tanned fur clothing, seal-eating Eskimos, and not much else.  Granted, there is some of that, especially in what Alaskans call the Bush, which really means anywhere not accessible by road.  However, the variety of cultures in Alaska contribute a lot to the arts here, and there's always something going on in Anchorage. 

     While I missed out on readings and other literary events (all happening before I got there or after I left), I did get to an art gallery opening and the Anchorage Museum, which currently exhibits Alaskan art, both old and modern.  

     I don't have any pictures from the museum, since photography is not allowed, but I will tell you it is worth seeing.  Anchorage also boasts an opera, a ballet, a symphony orchestra, and several theaters.  I was really looking forward to seeing the Anchorage Symphony, but my visit didn't coincide with one of their concerts.  Maybe next time. 

     Waiting for my flight to Nome I saw this somewhat incongruous sight:

     I really liked the dichotomy between the women at the ends of this photo, one traditional, one ultra-modern.  

     I'm looking forward to reporting on Nome in the coming weeks.

northern haiku

I dreamt of you in
Anchorage.  Your spirit flew
far to laugh and smile

I knew your beauty
once more in snows.  Return now
to light, little bird




Copyright 2010

Wildlife within the City

     Next time you're in Anchorage, take the Coastal Trail.  Do it, or you'll regret it.  It holds some of the best views here, and you can learn first hand about the behavior of several of Alaska's native animals.  I walked about half of it yesterday, but you can go ahead and do all 11 miles, if you feel like it.  I imagine it gets crowded on summer weekends like Boston's Esplanade or San Francisco's Golden Gate Park, but I had much of it to myself except for the occasional dog-accompanied jogger or cyclist.  There are all kinds of signs with scientific facts on them along the way, but I just glanced at most of them.  I was much more interested in the wildlife so close by.
    Birds are probably the most ubiquitous creatures here, at least visibly.  I saw a Sitka spruce full of chickadees, but whenever I tried to photograph one, it'd move or fly away.  I ended up with a lot of shots of brown blurs or chickadee butts. 

Bald eagles have made a huge comeback in Alaska.  I saw one swoop outside my window when I first got here.

Magpies are chatty and quite common.  My mother's dog's nickname is Magpie (originally Maggie) for her habit of yammering and howling her joys and concerns to anyone who'll listen (or won't; she doesn't care).

Mallards in a pond.

Canada geese.

This raven and magpie were shouting at each other over something.  I wonder if it was a sibling-type argument: "This is my side of the roof!  You get back on your side!"  I didn't see any food between them, so it didn't seem resource-related.  My ornithologist friend might scold me for anthropomorphizing.

The Alaska Railroad runs alongside part of the trail, but not all of it.

   I was thinking I'd write some long essay about this, but I think the scenery speaks for itself (not only that, but I just finished and turned in an environmental essay on California estuaries, so I think I've had my essay quota filled for a week or so, thanks).  This day it was clear enough to see to Denali.

     Moose and bears can also be seen on the trail, but I was not lucky enough to witness that firsthand.  I've seen both black and brown bears before in Alaska, so I'd say I have a betting chance to see them again.  However, this little guy showed me that in Alaska, you should walk with your eyes wide open:

  

     This little ermine was playing peek-a-boo among the rocks.  He had made a little game of it; he'd duck down, run away, then come back and appear from behind a closer rock.  I play-chased him a little bit, then pretended I wasn't interested at all in him.  He kept coming back to see if I'd chase him some more.  Their relatives, weasels, otters, and ferrets, are always playing with things in their environments, or with each other.  They're incredibly smart.  This was the first time I'd ever seen an ermine (or stoat, as they're known in the summer when their pelts are brown), and it was a real treat.  This guy had some major cute going on.

    My cold is back in force, so I'm going to try to get some rest.  Tomorrow I'm going to talk about Anchorage arts (it'll be fun, I promise).

The Walrus Tooth Pendant

     I seem to have contracted a cold or some other bug, so I can't say I did much today.  I woke up this morning sore and sniffly, so I decided to postpone my trip to the botanical gardens and try to get rid of this thing pronto.  I did make it downtown for a little shopping later on, though.  An older gentleman in one of the shops I visited, after I told him I was a writer, proceeded to tell me his life story, and that his son wants to become a writer, but he's been a bum academically, and now they're not sure if he'll get into UAA.  I'm not much into souvenirs, but I did buy a Little Diomede Island seal pendant carved from a walrus tooth, because it reminded me of those curious creatures always playing around my kayak in the Bay.

     Little Diomede Island lies halfway between Nome and Siberia and has only one Inupiat village.  Its neighbor, Big Diomede Island, is 2.2 miles away and belongs to Russia, and it lies behind the International Dateline.  Big Diomede Island also used to have an Inuit population, but the USSR moved them to the mainland to keep them from making contact with the Americans.  Many of these people had relatives on the other island.  Little Diomede Islanders who ventured too close to Big Diomede were sometimes captured, interrogated and interned.  Nowadays Diomede Islanders are known for their unique ivory carvings, which they sell to traders in Fairbanks and Anchorage.

    Alaska has a strong Native presence.  The formation of corporations that invest tribal money into industry has helped keep people here much more sovereign and prosperous than Natives in the Lower-Forty Eight.  The same problems still exist: alcoholism, poverty, and unemployment, but it seems tempered here.  Many reservations in the Lower-Forty Eight are microcosms of third-world conditions, borders arbitrarily drawn and forgotten; they are the leftovers of imperialism at its very very worst.  It is only now that we are starting to come out of it, and there seems an impossible amount of work to do.  Not here.

 Yupik dance practice at UAA

     Hopefully I'll feel a bit better tomorrow.  It's so irritating to be sick on a trip like this, because you feel obligated to make the most of your time here, but forcing yourself out in the cold isn't great for you either.  Good thing I brought some of my loose-leaf tea collection from down south; I plan to drink a lot of it.

Arrival in Anchorage

     I admit, I feel a little like Jack London.  If you don't know, he left UC Berkeley in 1897 to travel the Klondike.  I don't claim to be anywhere near as cool or as talented (or as alcoholic) as London, but I can't help but see some parallels.
     I first decided to take a trip to research a novel I'm writing, but I think it'll prove educational in more ways than that.  Having no love, no job (aside from writing), and no cat, I figured I had nothing left to lose by taking a considerable amount of time to travel.  This is the beginning of arctic winter, and most people would think me mad for choosing this place at this time, so bound by not only cold, but darkness as well, but I had to.  I've been to Anchorage and the Panhandle in the summer; to really know Alaska, you must see her in the winter, when the sun only glances sidelong upon the earth for a few hours a day.  My protagonist knows this winter, as well as the winter of the mind; I have yet to truly, deeply experience the former.
     I arrived in Anchorage two days ago.  The flight was mostly uneventful; a crying baby on the flight from Seattle to Anchorage made me remember why I was totally onboard with the idea of kid-free flights (what happened to that, anyway?).  No one should have to listen to your little shit scream for three and a half hours.  I said good-bye to the hedonistic, superficial, overgrown city of San Jose, full of reminders and half-admitted longings, and arrived six hours later in the Last Frontier.  I haven't had much time to really get to know the city; hunting for the cable I forgot that connects my camera to my laptop took quite a bit of time, as well as finding the books I need to be reading for my study in the Stonecoast program at USM.  I admit, I should have gotten them while I was still in San Jose, but I procrastinated just one day too long, and the library didn't get them in in time for me.  Lesson learnt (not really, but I like to think so).
     One thing that really bugged me though was the issue that I'd be missing the festivities surrounding the World Series.  From what I hear, a lot of partying went down, as well as the ticker tape parade in San Fran.  I totally wish I had been there.  Honestly, if I had known the Giants were even going to be in the Series when I booked this trip, I would have postponed it.  As it was, I ended up going to a bar called Mad Myrna's here in Anchorage where they were playing the last game.  It felt a little odd to be the only one whooping and yelling, but I think they forgave me.  Some were former San Francisco residents, as it turned out, and so were rooting the Giants on as well, but just weren't all that into baseball.  I think now that that's over, I'm going to miss baseball season, but I can focus more energy on doing things here, than on worrying whether my team is going to score enough runs.
     I admit I have zero experience blogging.  I don't like to talk about myself that much, and I don't follow anyone's blog with any regularity.  I'm only keeping this thing up to let my friends know what's going on up here, and if it attracts any other visitors, well, I guess that's okay too.  Come on in and sit a while.  I'll try not to bore you.

The always sunny and cheerful Seattle.

Entering Turnagain Arm

Cool house on a corner with two of my favorite things, a cello and a wolf, on its side.