Ramblings

An Ocean View

2012-01-16T05:29:00.000-08:00

We were standing on a small sand beach, the canoe drug out of the water, looking out upon the open ocean and hoping David didn't decide to turn back, that he saw us pull over to shore. He had been paddling for just under 4 months from the source of the Mississippi in Lake Itasca towards this point, this moment and I hoped he wouldn't turn around a quarter mile short. Unfortunately we hadn't expected the mouth of the river to be full of islands blocking our view of ocean. We had expected to be able to hit the mouth and see ocean, instead we had been paddling in salt water along shore for an hour longer than expected and just now found an open lane of view into the Gulf. Greg and I had nearly given up a few minutes before but decided to continue just a bit longer, to go a bit further, unwilling to turn around after 3,300 miles of paddling from the source of the Missouri River without sight of the ocean we sought.

And finally here we stood, reflecting back on 120 days, a cold beer in hand, bottle of whisky sitting in the sand, puffing on a cigar unable to take our eyes off that lane of open ocean as David came paddling up breaking into our view from behind the foliage overhanging the bank. We pulled his canoe up onto shore and he jumped out to admire the view which almost looked like an illusion, with islands on both sides and the air shimmering in the distance it could have been a Dakota lake the far shore out of sight in the distance. Two boats resting side by side one had traveled 2,400 miles from the source of the Mississippi and the other 3,340 from the source of the Missouri leaving on the nearly the same day in August and arriving here, at the ocean, on the same day in December.

We had been traveling with David off and on from Vicksburg, Mississippi where we had been introduced to him through Davey another paddler. Most nights we ended up camping with David and in the morning he munch down Pop-Tarts and a Little Debbie before jumping into his canoe and heading downstream. About an hour later after a hot breakfast, two cups of coffee, and some quiet we would push off behind him. In the afternoon about an hour before we'd start looking for a camp we'd overtake David, exchange hello's, and by the time we were pulling over to a nice little campsite he would be a distant speck upriver. It wouldn't take him long though to pull in behind us and set up his hammock in a stand of trees and get a fire going to cook his modest dinner of mac and cheese or cheesy potatotoes.

He was a good kid, about 23 years old, who had been living in a hammock for nearly 2 years. He's the one that brought the Atchafalaya River to our attention as an alternate route to the ocean. We hadn't heard of it but it turns out to be the "True course of the Mississippi River" as a Greg's cousin and local Tug Pilot informed us during our subsequent research. The river wants desperately to flow down this alternate channel but the Army Corps of Engineers is doing everything in their power to stop it because if the Mississippi changes course it will detour around Baton Rouge and New Orleans. Not good for those two large economies. Presently 30% of the Mississippi waters turn off the main channel and form the Atchafalya River and the experts predict that during the next big seasonal flood the river will change course despite the efforts of the Corps and New Orleans will suddenly become a river town without a river.

We opted to take the Atchafalaya for the final stretch for one huge reason... Less commercial traffic and industry. The last stretch from Baton Rouge to the Gulf is one long industrial corridor with constant barge and freighter traffic. A paddler David had traveled with briefly a few weeks before had made the ocean around the time we met and described seeing over 100 barges a day during this stretch and acquiring a serious headache due to the inhalation of severe industrial air pollution throughout the corridor.

Alternately the Atchafalaya was a beautiful river with lots of wildlife, swamp, narrower channel and little boat traffic. It's a popular hunting area so on one morning in particular we woke up to the sounds of war. The cajuns were the victors and I'm sure even now their families are well fed on a waterfowl diet. According to Greg's cousin we were hitting the river during fog season and sure enough every morning we awoke to dense fog and would push off into the river with zero visibility. It was a beautiful and peaceful river to paddle in the fog unlike the Mississippi where at any moment you could unknowingly be playing chicken with a barge. By mid morning, sometimes near noon, the fog would begin to clear and the channel would be revealed.

But now we stand on a sand bank, taking photos, talking about the rivers behind us, eyes drawn to the ocean ahead, swigging from a whisky bottle, putting off the 20 mile paddle upriver back to Morgan City, LA.

A Week on the Mississippi Part 2

2011-12-06T14:37:00.001-08:00

Thursday November 17th    Day 90

We hit Cape Girardeau this afternoon after a day of heavy barge traffic. They were lined up coming up and down river. We could at times see 4 barges down river and the same lined up behind us. The previous evening we had noticed several barges pulled over to the bank and in Cape Girardeau we learned from a tug worker that a tug had hit a wing dam and four barges were floating free. As a result traffic was called to a halt in the area while the four loose barges were rounded up. The barge traffic today was most likely a result of that traffic halt.

Cape G was the first town we hit with a flood wall and gates. We walked around town and hit the brewery. The brewer, Mike, was behind the bar and turned out to be a great guy. He bought us two rounds of beer and filled our water jugs. Offered us a place to stay and when we left was trying to figure out a way to send us down river with a gallon of beer.

We camped on the other side of the river and as we were crossing over a barge lit us up with it's spotlight. It was under the bridge and heading straight for us. We had missed it because it's lights blended in with the bridge lights. Paddled hard and fast to get out of the shipping lanes. Made it in good time but definitely gave us a start.

Friday November 18th    Day 91

Paddled back across the river to Cape G for coffee at the Cup & Cork and breakfast at Patty Lou's diner. A little place off the track with great biscuits and some good style.

South winds i.e. headwinds were predicted strong. 15 mph hour with gusts of 33 mph. Standing on the shore getting ready to push off the wind was howling straight up the river. We hit some occasional heavy wave action and took some good waves over the bow. On the lakes we took some much larger waves without taking any water overboard but in some ways the bigger waves are easier to take. On the big lakes wind waves would build to between 3 and 6+ feet high but there was enough distance between each wave peak for the boat to ride over the top and back down into the trough before hitting the next wave. On the river when the waves get bad they are shorter in height and the troughs are minimal. The result is the canoe rides up and over the first or even the second big wave but the next one the bow of the canoe just dives directly into. Today we took several good waves over the bow and had to stop in protected water to bail out the boat a couple times. We paddled for 2.5 hours to earn 8 miles when we were forced to shore by winds so strong progress was no longer possible. We sat for 2 hours until the wind had settled down a bit. Got back on the water for 2 hours and knocked out 12 more miles.

We found a pretty well protected spot just in time for the wind to die. While sitting on camp a barge lit us up with it's spot light and just left it on us. Dick.

Saturday November 19th   Day 92

Paddled through a huge S-bend most of the day with strong south winds. Because of the alignment of the bend we were protected from the wind most of the day except for the first hour and the last hour which were total morale killers. There is little in the life of a river paddler more demoralizing than a strong headwind. There is nothing to do but keep paddling and it just continues to drive against you holding you up and turning every foot of progress into a fight.  First the muscles start to ache, to tire, and the arms begin to get heavy but soon the joint pain begins, the sharp grinding pain of irrepairable damage being done to ligaments, tendons, and cartilage as the will demands more than the body can provide.

Right at the last hour of day light just upriver from the Cairo bridge a tug passed us coming downriver forcing us to the left bank. Further downriver was a tug with barges idling on the left bank and another on right. Campsites were limited but we didn't want to camp next to an idling tug which could be there for an hour or for 12 hours. So to find a campsite we crossed the river 4 times and finally found a serviceable spot downstream from the bridge.

Sunday November 20th   Day 93

On the water at 8:20 am with rain beginning what is supposed to be a 3 day storm. It rained/misted most of the day with sporadic breaks. The wind was supposed to calm but stayed at 5-10 mph from the south all day. The craziest thing was the fog. We took off in the morning with decent visibility but as the day progressed the fog thickened.

It's a wild experience paddling a big river in the fog. One loses sense of time and space. It is as if one is outside of time, expecting Charon to appear poling across the River Styx, his boat loaded with an ethereal fare. It is of an outside of body experience, as if existence has been suspended and the soul set free to wander.

We were following the shipping channel buoy to buoy to know where we were and were passed by a tug. It quickly disappeared from sight in the fog and I was commenting on the surreal situation when another barge materialized out of the fog heading directly for us. We headed to the nearby right bank and moments later the barge passed us on the left a short distance away. The wheelhouse door opened and the pilot stepped outside in shorts and t-shirt to wave and take a photo of us before disappearing into the fog.

The fog continued to thicken and we continued to travel buoy to buoy. When there was no buoy in sight we kept to what we believed was downriver. We could no longer see either bank and visibility would be measured in feet. Our senses were keyed to the slightest disruption in the usual, listening and searching for any discrepancy of movement or sound that might hint at an oncoming barge or wingdam. We decided to head to shore but which shore to hit? How to not hit a wingdam? Find a campsite? Luck

We paddled towards the right bank and suddenly the wind picked up clearing the fog immediately surrounding us and there on the right was a huge beach hundreds of yards long. We followed it to the bank and found a perch in the trees protected from the wind at the downstream edge of the sandbar.

About 12:30 am the thunderstorm hit. The rain poured down assaulting the walls of my tent. It seemed to last for hours, probably minutes, perhaps all night as I drifted in between sleep and wakefulness half worried about the tent, half worried about the integrity of my tent. Morning arrived with a slight drizzle and a grey sky.

A Week on the Mississippi Part 1

2011-11-18T11:12:00.001-08:00

Monday November 14

After spending the weekend with old friends in St. Louis we hit the river again Monday morning. McKinney drove us down to our put in and helped us unload and then we were off, on the water at 10:30 am. The day would result in us spending 5 hours on the water beating our way through a still 16-35 mph head wind and dodging the ample barge traffic as we progressed 25 miles through commercial St. Louis. When it comes to canoes on big, open water wind is the greatest obstacle. Even a tailwind can be stressful but headwinds and sidewinds will turn a pleasant activity into a fight. Throw in steady barge traffic and you're pretty much in a miserable situation.

To make matters worse we hadn't eaten that morning while focused on getting back on the water. Then between the wind and the barges which requires the utmost physical and mental concentration we never stopped once on the water. Paddling for 5 hours on a stomach full of coffee and little else is never a good idea and we hit camp with a hunger. For dinner we cooked up what we like to call the Denny's scramble which consists of potatoes, green peppers, hot peppers, onion, and whatever meat we happen to have on hand (Jimmy Dean Hot Sausage) thrown together in a skillet and fried. Wrap that in a tortilla with Tapatio hot sauce and some pepper and you have one delicious dinner.

I figured out while we were on the lakes that we eat somewhere between 3,000 and 4,000 calories a day (not including beer). Even with all those calories we have been losing weight but gaining upper body strength. At the same time our legs have been shriveling up into nothing due to 7-10 hours a day of sitting in a canoe and the other hours of the day sitting in camp or sleeping. Looking forward to a little hiking and biking when all this is over but gonna have to take things slow for sure.

Tuesday November 15, 2011

Started the morning with a couple cups of coffee, bacon, eggs, and some rodent chewed bread (gotta contain the baked goods better). For most of the trip we had been limiting ourselves to one cup of coffee in the morning but recently have often been indulging in a second cup. It was as a time saving device that was primarily for the lakes where we were making tops of 3 mph.

We pushed off into a headwind but only about half as strong as Monday's. It was supposed to become sunny but it stayed overcast and cool all day. While paddling we were passed by 11 working tugs pushing between 1 and 24 barges. Traffic is way busier here than on the Missouri where we only saw a few tugs during the entire 730 miles of channelized, commercial river. We're pretty sure this was because of the summer flooding. The river was flooded for 3-4 months with businesses closed and often flooded out, and thousands of homes flooded many of which we saw in various stages of wrecked along the bank. The river destroyed the Army Corps of Engineers efforts at controlling it and every tug we saw was an Army Corps tug working to rechannelize the Missouri. My guess is it's closed off to commercial traffic and will be for quite awhile.

In the late afternoon, just as we were looking for a campsite we came around a bend to a huge sand and gravel operation that sprawled for miles, followed by a coal operation, and then a ferry. We had to paddle for another hour and into darkness to get passed it all and out of earshot. Paddling at night on the Mississippi is not anywhere near as safe or pleasurable as on the Missouri. Too much barge traffic and too many partipartially submerged rock walls used to control the flow of the river. As a result we were looking hard for a place to pull over and nearly ran into one of those walls. Acrtually scraped the bottom of the Betty B before we realized it was there.

In the distance we saw a beach and headed for it. As we approached it looked like a perfect spot. Big, flat, and sheltered from the wind by large trees. It was unfortunately already taken by a group of hunters who had tents set up and a pontoon boat tied off on shore. We proceeded on into the night. About a half mile down we found another sandbar on the same side of the river as the hunters and took it. Set up camp, at a spaghetti dinner and crawled into our tents shortly before 8 pm exhausted having paddled 45 miles through the day.

Wednesday November 16

Forecast was for N winds at 8 mph with gusts of 15 but instead we got East winds with gusts of more than 15. Result was instead of the tailwinds we were hoping for we were stuck with side winds all day long. Made good miles but they were a hard fought and exhausting 35 miles.

We stopped in Chester, Il the home of Popeye to take a look around. We were hoping to find a little store to pick up a few things but it seems all the stores have moved out to the highway. A few little shops downtown but nothing we were looking for. Though we did eat lunch at a little diner with a lunch special consisting of homemade turkey and dressing with mashed potatoes and gravy. Delicious!

We camped in a little cove on the outside of a bend directly in the commercial lanes and between two navigation markers. Barge traffic was going directly by us and it was a little eery because as they came into the bend it looked like they were coming straight for us. To navigate at night the barges use spotlights and go from navigation marker to navigation marker. Since we were in between two of them we kept getting lit up by the spotlights as the tug captain searched the bank for the markers

The River Dance

2011-11-13T19:14:00.000-08:00

The Sad Side of Lewis and Clark

2011-10-05T07:45:00.001-07:00

Before beginning this journey I picked up a copy of the Journals of Lewis and Clark thinking it would be an interesting read while paddling down the river they traveled in opening up the west to settlement. It quickly settled itself into the bottom of a dry bag and has remained there, safely nestled among unused winter gear. I have on occasion considered the possibility of digging it out but the desire is not there. Not only is there no desire but the idea is in some way distasteful. A few days ago while considering what we might leave behind in Pierre this book came up as a possible casualty and Greg managed to voice the nagging distaste that was troubling me in regards to it. In response to whether he would like to read it he said "I don't know. I just get kind of sick of all the Lewis and Clark shit. It's really the beginning of a sad story. I'd rather read history and fiction by and about the natives."

Everywhere you turn on the river there's a Lewis and Clark park, interpretive center, plaques and statues. On the maps they identify the location of the L & C campsites and people seek them out and camp where they camped 200 hundred years ago. On the lakes the maps still mark the campsites a mile off shore and 200 feet underwater, a depressing reminder of the sad tale that followed the triumph of their westward voyage.

I do not want to downplay their accomplishments nor the significance of what they achieved. What they managed is one of the great stories of human exploration and survival but paddling down the river they struggled up two centuries ago one is constantly faced with the reality of what has been done to the vast plains that Lewis and Clark discovered. So much beauty and potential lay in such a land, the remnants of which can still be seen lurking in the shadows of a native people forced into submission and fenced off in patches of desolate land, a rich variety of wildlife all but decimated and forced to survive on the fringe of what has become one seemingy endless cow pasture spanning thousands of square miles and featuring a patchwork of barbwire lying on either side of a once noble river shackled and bound by concrete and earthen dams.

While we paddle across huge Army Corps reservoirs up to 200 miles long passing over a river channel buried in 200 feet of still water it is a constant reminder of what has been done to this river, to this people, to this land and to read the Journals of Lewis and Clark would only be an exercise in masochism. It seems better to seek out and take comfort in the beauty surrounding us in the present than to seek out the pain awaiting us in yesterday's potential.

As we travel down this river more and more we are seeing the damage caused by the flooding this summer, flooding that was supposedly prevented by the dams built by the Corps of Engineers. The lesson it seems that we will never learn is that the higher one's defensive walls are built the more devastating the tragedy when the walls prove insufficient. Though I feel great sympathy for the individuals we meet who suffered during the flood I take comfort in the knowledge that there is little in this world more powerful than the might of a once sleeping river awakening.

By the Numbers

2011-09-28T08:17:00.001-07:00

It's amazing how the the mind becomes obsessed by numbers with so many hours a day spent idle while the body labors. So I thought I'd share a few of the numbers my mind just won't let go of.

Days on river - 39
Miles completed - 1,127
Miles to St. Louis - 1,194
Miles to Gulf of Mexico - 2,573
Lake miles completed - 395
Lake miles to go - 350
Dams portaged - 7
Dams left to portage - 4
Average miles per day - 29
Longest day - 57 miles
Longest lake day - 37 miles
Shortest day - 0
Days in Montana - 24
Days in North Dakota - 14
Day life jackets were acquired - 10
Day Hupp bought gloves - 34
Day bailer was acquired - 38
Longest stretch Betty B spent without beer on board - 9
Loads of laundry - 1
Hot showers - 2

An Oil Boom in North Dakota

2011-09-20T17:30:00.001-07:00

"These waves are a bit disorganized," Greg commented. To which I replied, "Yeah, they really ought to get their shit together." We were in the middle of an open water crossing on Lake Sakakawea when the winds increased in strength followed by the waves. We were trying to get around a rocky point beyond which the lake turned from the north back to the east and we would have the wind at our backs. Presently, however, we were at the mercy of an ever increasing side wind kicking up 4 foot high choppy waves that were hitting us broadside and the Betty B tossed about dangerously. Taking a wave over the side would most likely drown the canoe.

Greg shouted that if we took a wave over the side he'd turn us directly to shore. It would then be an expect the worst but paddle like hell to attain the best situation. Fortunately we rounded the point without incident and continued eastward towards the Garrison Dam. By the end of the day we had put 36 miles behind us, paddling for 9.5 hours.

We were restless and determined to cover ground after having spent 44 hours pinned down, hunkered against a high mud bank as the wind howled from the east at 20 MPH. Our rhythm had been interrupted and we were desperate to get it back. The rhythm of life on the water dominated by 7-10 hours of paddling every day had been brought to a halt and for 44 hours we sat, we paced, we stared out at the water as if willing the wind to die.

In the distance on the far shore, a constant reminder of our maddening lack of motion burning with a taunting arrogance was the off gassing flame of an oil derrick. The countryside around the lake has been experiencing an oil boom the last 3-5 years and for days now we have constantly been in sight of at least a few oil derricks. The day before the wind hit I counted 13 in view while paddling and then camped on shore as evening darkened I could see 13 flames on just the opposite shore and behind us within a quarter mile were four more.

Just inside North Dakota we caught a ride 22 miles into town with a local who took us shopping and then drove us 22 miles back to the river. On the drive our gracious host told us about the boom. When I asked how it affected the locals, if it was seen as good or bad he replied, "Oh, little of both, But more and more we're seeing more of the bad."

The oil boom has driven up the price of real estate and there's an oil company trying to force him to sell out at less than market value. Crime has skyrocketed and there isn't the housing to room the workers. Then there's the oil companies tendency to to do their best to take all the money and leave as little as possible to the locals.

Most often the landowner is not the owner of the mineral rights in North Dakota. These were often separated generations back. So the owner of the mineral rights can lease the rights to minerals underneath another person's property. Once the oil company has the lease to the minerals they are not bound by law to notify the landowner. So, a property owner may very well just look out their window one morning to find fence being ripped out and heavy equipment dozing a pad for the upcoming derrick.

For those that own the mineral rights it is required by law for a broker to be involved as a middle man. The law also requires the oil companies to pay out 20% of the rig to the leaseholder and the broker. For years no one told the leaseholders this so the brokers were signing them to 5% and keeping 15% of each rig for themselves. Recently the locals have wizened to this, and the brokers are having to settle for 5% on new leases.

If fought on an individual basis the oil companies will be required to pay damages to the landowner and perhaps even lease the land they're using but it seems they do their damnedest to not let that happen. The situation reminds me of a line from the Tom Russell song called "Who's Gonna Build Your Wall" that goes something like "As I travel around this land of ours the man that I most fear is the man in a golf shirt with a cell phone in his ear."

The dams and the derricks, the flames on the horizon and the sprawling unnatural lakes are enough to get a man low but my faith in humanity is strengthened by the everday folks we meet on the river with an immediate, unasked for willingness to do what they can to help us on our way, a selfless desire to help another human. Whether they be shopowners in Oregon, bus drivers in North Dakota, or villagers in Alaska I feel better about this world because they are in it.

People is People

2011-09-17T14:23:00.001-07:00

I am not a fan of guidebooks. Generally speaking I feel they lack the information I desire and are chock full of shit I don't need. In Fort Benton, Montana Greg and I bought a guidebook. "The Complete Paddler" by David Miller. We needed the maps. Maps on the upper Missouri are difficult to come by and state road maps just don't cut it when it comes to knowing where you are on a river. Other than the maps and the fact that he gives the reader ample opportunity to ridicule him, there isn't much use to the book. He spends way too much time describing the river channel in a bend by bend play by play which is useless considering it is a dynamic, ever changing, body of flowing water, but that is not the topic here. I have one main problem with Miller.

The problem began with Wolf Point, Montana but it continues across into North Dakota. When describing Wolf Point Miller goes into great detail regarding his experience passing by town in which a drunk with a handgun fired several rounds in his direction. He didn't know whether the drunk was firing at him or not but felt the rounds came too close. This could happen on any river near any town in this fair country of ours but it happened to Miller in Wolf Point. It would be fine in a guide if you were including it as a bit of colorful narrativebut Miller takes it way too far including that 10 years ago someone of the river was beaten up and that a paddler should go nowhere near the town. Not only that but while paddling by stay as close to the opposite bank as possible and paddle as fast as you can.

The ridiculousness of this tickles my sense of humor but it offends my sense of ethics as well. In describing Wolf Point in such demonizing terms he fails not only Wolf Point whose reputation is soured by this guidebook but the paddler as well who has been cheated of their right to approach that town with the same anxious nervousness they approach every other town with. A certain fear of the unknown but also an excitement about what may happen. And overwhelmingly what happens is a beautiful experience involving the kindness of strangers, such as when we pulled in to Wolf Point's boat ramp (Miller describes as an obvious party spot and to be avoided). It was neat and clean when we got there, we dumped our trash and looked around for some water. We didn't find any and were about to disembark when an old fella with a dog pulled up in a pickup, "You fellas looking for water? Won't find any here. But if you jump in I can drive you to the bar down the road and get some." Not only did we fill our water jugs but we also had another wonderful experience in a river town, something Miller may have experienced had he had the balls to get out and say hello.

Instead Miller spent the rest of his time running scared through the Fort Peck Indian Reservation terrified to meet anyone, hiding his camp in the willow bushes and keeping his head low. Even down into North Dakota at the reservation there he describes the campground as nice but not a place to leave your boat untended. It became clear that Miller is afraid. He's afraid those whisky drinkin Injuns are gonna steal his boat, take his scalp, and leave him for dead. What he needs to learn is that the Greek deli owner in Muppets Take Manhattan was right, "People is People".

As for our part, later on after getting water at Wolf Point we were camped on a sandbar looking across at the reservation when a pickup truck drove down to the river and a few guys got out, saw us, and jumped back in the truck. They drove back up river a couple hundred yards and let out a mighty barrrage of gunfire into the river that lasted 20 minutes or more.

People is People and no matter where you go in this fair country of ours wherever there's a river sooner or later there's gonna be a truckload of whisky drinkin rednecks of one race or another lettin of a maelstrom of bullets into the belly of that river. Why? Cause that's God damned good fun right there. And as a paddler all you can hope for is that they have the courtesy to move upstream a couple hundred yards before letting off that first barrage of gunfire in the direction of your simmering pot of beans.

The Shadow of The Missouri

2011-09-06T17:12:00.001-07:00

Stubborness? Definitely has something to do with why we're out here, beating our heads against an unrelenting headwind, driving through crashing waves. Sure, stubborness is part of it. An unwillingness to give, a refusal to relent, an indomitable desire to beat the wind, to be stronger than the wind. But there's more to it than that. There's the urge for going, the natural urge for a river to flow and our desire to be a part of it. And the desire to put beyond us the barrier between us and the natural flow. To get beyond the dam. There's also the practical side of things. Wind on a water this big can blow for days, a week or more maybe, and at some point action is a necessity to life.

We rode a tailwind the first day on the lake. Set up a campchair for a sail and skipped along at 5 MPH, surfing three foot waves and crashing through a maze of half submerged junipers on the strength of the wind. It's been five days across the lake, defined by paddling from point to point, often across big, open water, sometimes flat, often not, churned up by wind driven waves.

We steadily paddle passed fisherman in small boats, most of whom offer a slight wave of the hand, some a bit of conversation. Those that speak, that ask how far we're going offer the inevitable, "Have fun!" We awkwardly answer in some vague affirmative, not having the time or the inclination or the energy perhaps to explain... very little of this is fun.

Paddling into a driving wind, grueling out 2 miles an hour is not fun, crossing an open bay fighting a cross channel side wind taking huge waves against the side of the canoe the closest shore over a mile distant is not fun. Watching the channel disappear into a windrow of half submerged trees, picking a gap beyond which water can be seen and relying on the wind to send you crashing through is both exhilirating and terrifying but it's only fun in the recollecting once you are safely drinking a Keystone Light on shore.

We aren't out here for a pleasure cruise. We're out here to join the river on it's seaward path. To take our part in a conversation that spans millenia. It is rewarding and it is humbling. And every evening we sit back and reflect on accomplishments attained through physical labor and mental strength. Reflections made in the shadow of the might of the Missouri.

Landscape

2011-08-25T18:03:00.001-07:00

The first week of paddling has been defined by slow water inhibited by dams and portages. 5 dams in 4 days and in between each a long paddle through slack water. At each dam we begin the slow process of portage, the loading up of gear on backs and in arms to carry as much as can be managed each trip but never have we gone far. Out of nowhere a sunbeaten face leans out of a pickup truck window to ask "You fellas need some help? Throw that gear in the back and we'll go load up the rest." Information pours out along the ride and within an hour we've finished a portage that should have taken several. Back on the water with a handsake and a good luck.

Between the dams the Montana landscape changes instantly and dramatically. One moment paddling across a wide open lake we suddenly plunge into the Gates of the Mountains defined by towering rock faces looming over a narrow channel as if challenging all intruders. Then suddenly after only a few miles of imposing rock the canoe glides around a bend and the rocky cliffs disappear to be replaced by rolling fields of wheat continuing on for several days. Outside of Great Falls the rolling fields morphed into rough and rumpled hills like tousled bedsheets hiding, perhaps, a left and lonely lover.

We are in Fort Benton now leaving tomorrow for a 300 mile stretch until the next legitimate town of Fort Peck. Ahead of us lies 150 miles of river followed by 150 miles of lake. Looking forward to what the morphing landscape of Montana will reveal in the days ahead.

Bachelor party, Keystone, and Crickets

2011-08-09T15:36:00.001-07:00

It was sometime after midnight that Wilson, Hogan and I stood poolside in McKinney's backyard. Everyone else had gone to bed and we were heading that way soon, just wrapping up a piece of forgotten conversation.

For some time I had been tuned in to a conversation between crickets and cicadas and I couldn't leave the outcome unknown. I climbed into my sleeping bag at the side of the pool and watched the clouds swallow the stars as I eavesdropped on the crickets and drifted off to sleep to a symphony of insects.

I woke up at around 5 am soaking wet with rain coming down hard and only getting harder. My clothes layed out neatly by the pool were in a puddle of water and my sleeping bag was soaked through. I retreated to the comfort of home.

Breakfast was at Waffle House with Regan and Wilson. First visit to a Waffle House since January of 2009 when I seized on a Houston sidewalk 30 minutes later. Apparently Waffle House is not directly related to epilepsy, only deliciousness.

The bachelor party started that day at noon and finished at 11 when most of the participants were passed out or off to the bars. We spent the day lounging by the pool drinking copious amounts of Keystone Light, Coors, and sipping whisky. By the end, Tex was racked out on his couch, a frozen pizza slowly charring into a blackened husk to be found in the morning while Regan and I awaited Pizza Hut to deliver our salvation contained in a greasy, doughy pie containing the secret to late night sobriety, and some chicken wings. Over lots of water and pizza and wings, we waxed philosophically, defining the night with good conversation and somehow went to bed sober.

Regardless of who remembers how much or how little it was a successful reunion of old friends brought together by a future union of two people meant to be together. We sent McKinney off in proper fashion with the drunken toasts of well meaning and unintelligable friends, stories of long ago, and in anticipation of stories to come.

Ink Stamped On Paper

2011-07-07T19:22:00.000-07:00

I am in love with the written word, the way it can make the heart flutter, cause the stomach to drop, or the soul to soar through clouds above mountain tops only to dive down and mingle with the dry sands of the desert, how a sentence can slake the thirst with but a few words in regards to clear rocky streams.

I am in love with ink stamped on paper, the musty smell, the crisp shuffle of pages flipping through fingertips, the comfort of books on shelves waiting to be discovered, beckoning forth the curious eyes of man and woman.

I am in love with words stamped on paper.

A Fisherman's Advice

2011-06-12T10:42:00.000-07:00

"I wish I had figured it out when I was your age instead of in my 60's," said Forest. He was sitting on the tube of the 20 foot raft, pole in one hand, looking upstream to the clear running waters of the Chena River. Rudy and I were standing on the gravel bar, while Kathy, Forest's wife, fished from the bank. They're traveling through Alaska and today was their day to fish. On their bucket list is a mission to catch fish in each and every state. To succeed they each have to catch a freshwater fish. We'd been hitting the Arctic Grayling and they each had caught upwards of 10 fish. Nothing spectacular on the Chena but the water was a bit cloudy due to recent rains and they were happy as soon as they each had their first. Alaska was the 36th state crossed off the list.

Forest had already been raving about the day. Fish, sun, and fellowship on the river. The three things he was looking for in a day of fishing and Rudy and I had provided all three. The water was swift, the fishing stress free, and the conversation flowed. Early on Forest was having a difficult time bringing in the grayling due to his aggressive reeling once they were on the line. Rudy was eventually able to instruct him to not "Bass" the grayling, referring to the speed and aggressiveness with which Bass are generally reeled in. Grayling require a more delicate touch. A fisherman will have best luck if one plays the Grayling in to the boat.

There were clouds in the sky, keeping the heat of the day down to a mild 70 degrees, a slight breeze to keep the mosquitos at bay and between Rudy rigging the lines and myself handling the raft we drifted through a near perfect day on the upper Chena River.

Stretching our legs on the bank, Forest turned the conversation to our work. "You may not get rich but you've got it figured out. Just keep doing what you're doing. Wish I had figured it out when I was your age. Just don't make the mistake I made. Don't go corporate. Keep doing what you're doing. I thought I needed to work my way up, become the CEO of Sears. What a mistake I made...."

We looked past each other, eyes wandering across gravel bar, spruce and birch forest, to settle on current, watching the slightly swollen river waters flow by searching the surface for the rise of a Grayling. A Raven's call pierced the afternoon's stillness, the fishing had slowed in the heat of the day, and we were left with nothing but the company of each other, the Raven, and the cool, swiftness of flowing water.

We climbed back into the raft, drifting through the remainder of a beautiful day on the river, content in having it all figured out.

Spring Break Up at the Cabin

2011-05-17T23:52:00.000-07:00

I sit, just inside the spruce along the cut banks of the Chena River immersed in the crisp, frozen silence of a forested winter landscape. A silence that gives birth to a cacophony of sounds for the one who stops to listen and accept the opportunity to let the voices of man fade into the distance and allow oneself to be swept away.

The sun is beating down from above warming me and the frozen river as the forest slowly comes to life with the arrival of spring. The river ice is now bare. No longer covered in snow it shines bright with a slight greenish tint and pools of standing water. There are slight undulations to its surface and it cries out with strain as the snow melt heaves against it from below. The cracking and popping of the river is joined in chorus by the song of birds just arriving for spring, the chattering of squirrels, and the croak of the raven sitting on high.

Bubbling water bursts through cracks in the ice and cascades down stream as I lean back in my camp chair basking in the sun and listen to the excited babbling of the river as it comes to the end of it's winter song. The sound of the water bubbling out of ice is as a person gulping water from an endlessly flowing tap, and I suppose in a way it is. I suppose it is the world drinking gratefully the cold, clear stream of a river previously locked in ice for six months. A river once more breaking free.

I Remember the Fire

2011-03-31T23:23:00.000-07:00

I woke up hungover to a cold stove and a chilled cabin. With a slight throbbing in my head, I put the kettle on for coffee, noticed the mercury reading 20 below outside, and knelt to build a fire in the stove.

As the cabin warmed to the pleasant crackle and reassuring glow of fire, I sat in the rocker, coffee in hand and watched the sky lighten over spruce.

Years ago, I had a fantasy about driving across this grand expansive country of ours. Breathing it in. Skirting the cities and lingering in the towns. Watching the sun rise over a different field, forest, or town every morning.

Exploring the back roads of America. Browsing through it's downtown shops, eavesdropping on conversations over coffee and pie in it's diners, buying gas at it's corner service stations before moving on down the line.

But all this was merely the beginning of fantasy.

I always imagined finding myself in that perfect, sleepy little town, village really. Full of hardworking, simple folks who relied on themselves and each other, taking little notice of the outside world.

A place that I could feel in my bones and in my blood that I was right to be in, a place where I belonged. Fall in love with the young woman who ran the bookstore, buy a small house in town, and raise a family. Do something simple and useful for a living.

Have someone with whom to grow old and a community in which to belong.

Instead I have spent my life restless and lonely.

Wandering and searching, never quite finding the town, eluded by love, dominated by an urge for going. Once or twice, I've begun to settle in to life, begun to believe that I've found the town or the woman only to discover that dreams don't come true.

I do my best to be happy with where I am, what I find myself doing but this is a great struggle for me, and I am rarely happy in the present, for I am pulled to continue on down the road. It is an almost desperate need to find that which I am looking for without knowing what it is that will satisfy my search.

One night, years ago, some friends and I sat around a fire, warmed by it's strong, proud heat, and we fed it deep into the night. As we were turning in we each took our turn pissing on the coals in a young man's effort to quench the flames. We climbed into our tents and fell asleep to rain drops pattering softly. The rain continued into the morning but at each lull the fire would flare up and we'd hear the crackling of flames and see the flickering glow through the tent wall. As I climbed out of the tent the following day one determined, proud flame was still licking the air from a wet pile of ash and burned brands. Refusing to face it's end. Refusing to face the finality of failure.

Answering Solitude's Call

2011-03-12T00:47:00.000-08:00

It was midweek and I decided to take a break from woodcutting. It was warm at around 10 above. Up about 20 degrees since I’d arrived at the cabin and I figured it was time to blaze a trail to the hot springs. Since arriving at the cabin 4 or 5 days before I’d spent my days wandering around the property with a chainsaw and a maul bucking up down trees, splitting the big rounds, and making stacks of wood to dry in the forest. In the evenings I’d collapse into the wooden rocker with a cup of tea and a book. First War of the Worlds, then The Blue Nile, and Ashenden, or the British Agent (perhaps Maugham at his best)

I’d been day dreaming of blazing a trail to the hot springs for years now. Relatively simple procedure. Cross the river behind the cabin and head up the steep black spruce forested hill to the peak of Bear Paw Butte, from which you drop onto the Angel Rocks to Chena Hot Springs trail. All told approximately 4 miles of walking and 1,500 feet of elevation gain to arrive at the springs.

I made myself a PB&J, packed a bottle of water, and off I went to promptly break through the ice of the Chena River. Approximately 15 feet off Greg’s property and I’ve already hit my first snag. The weather had warmed and as a result the river ice was a bit unpredictable…or perhaps I should say completely predictable and thus undependable. Once across the river I was maneuvering to climb the cut bank and the ice broke beneath my left foot. I managed to scramble up the bank and my gaitor kept me mostly dry.

The sky, overcast early, had mostly cleared to reveal a blue sky day with the sun blazing down upon the hills and ridges of the Upper Chena Valley. Given a choice, this day, there was no where I would rather have been. The snow was a deep powder and facing me was exactly what I had expected and I reveled in it. A grueling slog through knee deep snow putting behind me 1,500 feet of elevation gain in under two miles. The sweat poured, my chest heaved, and my legs screamed for an end.

Finally, once again, after too long a time I knew that I was happy.

Me, the snow, and the sky.

The Relief of Silence

2010-12-26T23:04:00.000-08:00

Sippin on a Guinness at Shannachie's Pub in Willitz, Northern California. The table next to me is occupied by a black cat with white socks and grey whiskers. He's 18 and older than the pub. Apparently the place is his and nobody is in the mood to challenge him. I keep my distance. He looks innocent enough but a cat that owns a bar is not a feline to disagree with.

I'm considering heading home, which for tonight is the house we've been painting on School Street. It has new carpet and fresh paint and is thus way more inviting than the house I started today that reeks of dog piss and has smoke stained walls.

But then there's the girl sitting at the bar with the accent that I can't yet place. It's European and familiar but is just barely eluding definition. Her friend is willowy in a white floor length skirt, sweater, and scarf with eyes that are inordinately large for her face. And for the life of me, I just want to place that accent.

The jazz music flowing through the speakers begs a cool demeanor. Two locals throw dice on the floor as a patron sits next to the owner and sets his beer down beside the cat's curled form. I dream of forgiveness.

The scruffy bartender with a wool cheese cutter works through the days crossword as the aging men at the bar banter over the evening's brews and I consider sanding and refinishing the bar's aged hardwood floor and decide such an action would require penance.

I slowly rise to my feet, glance around the bar one last time, bidding the room a silent good bye and walk out into the evening rain. Heading back to the house, I take my time, allowing the cool rain to slowly soak through cotton. I'm chilled as I step through the front door and find relief in silence. I curl up inside my sleeping bag and allow the ringing in my ears to lull me gently to sleep, engulfed finally by the stark absence of thought.

Why Drink Coffee When the Coffee Shop Brews Beer?

2010-11-22T14:34:00.000-08:00

Bully Bends in downtown Rapid City, South Dakota has the initial appearance of your everyday coffee shop. You step inside what appears to be cramped quarters to place your order, but instead of slinking off to the side doing your best to stay out of the way of traffic, those still ordering, and those also waiting, the barista simply asks your name. You find a seat in what turns out to be ample space around back and some magical being you've never seen before somehow comes directly to you delivering your coffee, soup, sandwich, pasty, pastry, burger, or beer. This is where the place suddenly jumps ahead of the competition.

For around back, almost hidden in between the kitchen and the john is a small bar, with 5 stools, 6 beers on draft, and 5 beers brewed on site in the basement by the owner and maker of soups. Their personal brews are only available in bottle (16 or 22 oz) while on tap they have available not one cheap beer. Allow me to list the wonders from left to right: Boulevard Wheat Beer, Fat Tire, Crow Peak Pile O' Dirt Porter, Stella Artois, Newcastle, and Guinness. I have yet to buy a pint.

Instead, I have been fixated on their incredibly tasty brews. Currently I'm halfway through a dark, rich, and creamy Bully Pulpit Porter. Next it will be on to the Trustbuster's Bitter Ale. At this point I should pause and explain the theme. The Bully Blends mascot is none other than President Theodore Roosevelt, Trustbuster, Rough Rider, Lion Hunter, Amazon Explorer, and simply and assuredly A Man Among Men. A tougher US President has never been elected and sadly the days of physical toughness combined with intellectual prowess seem to have gone the way of the Dodo. Love him or hate him, the 26th US President could still outride, outshoot, and outtalk the men of his day or the politicians of ours.

Yesterday, I passed a blustery afternoon exploring the Rough Rider Irish Red Ale, Nut Brown Maple Ale, and Pumpkin Ale. And if I must say, a more enjoyable afternoon could not have been spent. The beers were delectable and the homemade chili with cornbread I could eat every day from now til my death. As with most of my drinking experiences I have nothing to say about the individual beers but I can assure you that if you find yourself passing through Rapid City, South Dakota, a wasteful moment would not be spent sliding up to the bar at Bully Blends, ordering yourself a foamy brew, and raising a glass in cheers to the Bull Moose himself.

You Can Have My Heart for $2 pints of Guinness

2010-11-17T12:09:00.000-08:00

While taking a vacation from my working vacation in California I stumbled across a nondescript bar with a familiar name along Main Street in Rapid City, SD. There was no way I was gonna pass up a bar called the Oasis. What with one of my favorite bars in Fairbanks bearing the same name and mixing the best Bloody's in town. I proceeded through the door and into the windowless and appropriately dark bar. It was about midday and the place was empty except the old bartender eyeing me suspisciously as I made my way up to the bar. He had grey hair going on long, slicked back with grease and a ragged face to match the hard life he most surely has lived. There was no nod, no verbal, nonverbal or otherwise greeting. So, eyeing the taps, I cheerfully requested a Bud Light. After checking my ID he grabbed me a Bud Light bottle and popped the cap.

With half the bottle empty he asked about my Alaskan ID and we were off to the races. Conversation flying all over the place. From bars named Oasis, to the recent SD smoking ban on bars, to politics, and finally a playful exchanging of PC-less jokes. Interrupted briefly by the postman (currently on his 24th year delivering the downtown route) a self declared, outnumbered liberal, who stopped in for popcorn, a soda, and brief banter with the bartender.

The turning point in the conversation came when I asked if the Oasis got hoppin over the weekends. According to him, it's the college hotspot thurs-sat nights, partially due to drink prices. The bar down the street serves Guinness for $6.25. The Oasis pours a pint of the tall, dark, and handsome for $2.25 before 6 and $3.25 after 6. I nearly kissed the man's feet.

He declared it offensive that a bar would charge such a high price. "The keg is bought for $100 and you get 125 pints out of a keg so the bar is already tripling it's money at $3. Why gouge the poor kids?" The gentleman had my heart at $2.25.

A Desire for Home

2010-11-16T11:43:00.000-08:00

Sitting in a coffee shop's fake leather chair beside it's falsely glowing fireplace I feel a long way from the river, a long way from taking a rocky seat beside a real, warmth producing, stress relieving, comfort providing campfire while the Willamette gurgles by, occasionally releasing a rainbow trout for a brief peak of the outside world as it snatches a fly from the air.

Riding a bike through downtown streets waiting and watching for the traffic barreling by and listening to the roar of engines and bleating of horns I feel a long way off from the steady rhythm of paddles slicing through clear, running water pulling canoes steadily forth as the Heron's cries pierce the air like pterodactyls of times gone by and a slight wind rustles the drying leaves of autumn's trees.

Waking up in a soft bed with shielded light creeping through the cracks of drawn shades I feel a long way off from the early morning light beckoning me awake as it consumes the entirety of my tent and my being and insists that I rise and take part in it's splendor.

Being a bystander, a nonparticipant, in the steady flow of sea bound waters I feel separated from my place in this world, not a chosen place, at least not a place which I chose for myself. Instead a place that was chosen for me by the waters, and having been chosen there is longing in separation. But following this longing comes the intense joy, satisfaction, and relief found in reunion.

And so I am thankful for this longing, thankful for this intense desire to be back on water, for without this longing I would not know the same pleasure experienced in union.

Why the River

2010-11-04T11:30:00.000-07:00

I have often wondered and occasionally been asked what it is that draws me to running water. While on the gentle waters of the Willamette I pondered this question. On the wide, slow waters of the Columbia I broached the question with Greg and Suzanne. Testing my theory, we wrestled with a multitude of answers. Overcome by bourbon and nearly swallowed by rough waters we chewed up and spat out the possibilities. Ultimately sober and virtually indestructible we settled upon an answer.

A friend once adamantly insisted that life is not meant to be easy. Instead it is meant to be hard. On the Willamette I proposed, and we decided that this is incorrect. Life is easy. People have been living for millennia. Over tens of thousands of years we’ve gotten pretty damn good at it. I would argue that the only thing easier than living is dying. As we all know only three things are necessary to life. Food, water, and shelter. Man figured that out back before we were Man.

We, individually, make life difficult. Due to restlessness, jealousy, boredom, ambition we “shake” things up and through doing so make our lives and the lives of those around us difficult. If we could all be satisfied with living (i.e. food, water, and shelter) then life would be easy. Unfortunately being satisfied with what we have has always been considered a flaw instead of a virtue.

While hitching a ride on wide waters flowing ever onward, Life insists that you be satisfied with her and her alone. And satisfied with life you begin to realize, to see, the connections that bring life together. The fly hatches drawing the trout, which brings the osprey and finally the eagle. The beaver slowly, almost lazily but with steady efficiency works timelessly as the waters flow around him. Drawing a breath and reaching into the cold, running waters you can almost touch the hand of the woman cleansing herself in the holy waters of the Ganges tens of thousands of miles away, the same body of water you are floating now.

It is the return to life’s essentials, a return to simplicity and innocence that brings me to running water. While floating a river there is only food, water, shelter to be concerned with. The simplicity that would benefit us in our daily lives is unavoidable on the river. The river carries us ever onwards, provides for us, and connects us. Next time you’re out walking and you come across an ancient flowing waterway take a moment. Walk down to its banks and reach into the cool waters, close your eyes and feel the steady, gentle pulse of the Earth. Then you will begin to understand why I can’t help but float the river.

Crossing the Columbia

2010-10-22T10:21:00.000-07:00

We were leaving Cathalamet, our only stop on the Washington side of the Columbia. We had come in fighting a bothersome head wind and camped on a small island just opposite the protected harbor. We took it slow that morning as some of us had hit the liquor a little more than necessary the previous evening at The Old Pasttime. The night and morning were calm so we packed up looking forward to a calm day on the water.

About 10 seconds before shoving off I noticed golden leaves gently falling to the ground. Looking up at the harbor flag it was blowing for the first time all day. I nodded to Greg and we chuckled softly as we pushed the boats into the water. As I paddled out into the main channel the bow of the boat got pushed hard by a strong upriver wind. I was forced to dig hard to keep the bow of the boat from swinging upriver in the wind. I got myself headed downstream and proceeded to make very little headway it what had suddenly become a nasty headwind.

We were shooting for the Oregon bank to maneuver behind some islands seeking shelter not just from the notorious Columbia headwinds but also from the shipping lanes. Ocean Freighters are bigger than barges, impossible to stop, and nearly silent. Just days before I had been ambushed by one coming up behind me. Luckily I was on the outside of the channel or our expedition may have suddenly been one boat short. Didn’t hear the damn thing until it was right on me.

Unfortunately for us the islands we were seeking were on the other side of the channel which on the Columbia means a several mile crossing. Greg and Suzanne were fine in their boat but I was solo in the old Indian River canoe. Steering a 17 foot canoe solo into a headwind is quite tricky. Not only is your weight distribution off without someone in the bow but in this situation more than any other you miss the power and steering contributions from the bow-man. I was in for a fight. We had a 1.5 mile hop to the first island which would also bring us to the shipping channel, where it crosses from the Oregon to the Washington bank.

As a result this first crossing was relatively safe. Since the wind had just started the waves hadn’t gotten the opportunity to really accumulate so most of this crossing was flat. It was just a matter of power and the exhausting ordeal of only paddling on the left side to keep the line I needed to cross without spinning. We made it to the first island and at this point I was bearing down on exhaustion but still had another 1.5 miles to the next island, the waves were beginning to build, and this time we’d be crossing the shipping lane. This is something like crossing the street but for a better idea of the pace of things imagine you are a turtle crossing the highway. It is advisable to look both ways but once on the street you gotta just put your head down and barrel across in your fastest, most desperate plod. Occasional glances up to allay the fears that suddenly a Mack truck is gonna be barreling down on your hopeless ass. The sweat pours and you pump your stumpy little legs with all the speed and power you got and still the heavenly grasses on the other side of the road never seem to get even an inch closer until your absolutely positive that truck is gonna come barreling around that corner at any second and then BAM! Your nose hits the grass and your momentum carries you tumbling down into the ditch where you sit dazed and exhausted flat on your back wondering how you’re gonna flip yourself over but at the same time not giving a shit about it cause you’re ALIVE!

(Just to give you an idea of the thing)

I took about a 45 degree angle to the next island, looked both ways, and sprinted for it battling against waves and winds, doing my best to ignore my virtual lack of progress. About halfway across the water became turbulent. We couldn’t tell with the wind and the waves what was causing this added turbulence but most likely had something to do with multiple river currents meeting. This added with the headwinds caused some mighty chop to the river.

As we entered the turbulence, the waters went from 1 foot waves to 3 foot chop. All thoughts of shipping lanes and freighters disappeared as we concentrated on maintaining control of our boats. For me, to get spun here, could mean disaster. I would lose all ability to control my canoe and simply be at the mercy of the winds and the water. I dug in. The weariness in my arms disappeared and stroke after stroke I coaxed the canoe farther, deeper into the choppy waters. Waves were cresting all around as I was tossed about like a cork. I kept my eyes forward and allowed the canoe to find it’s balance as I focused on pushing it forward. When suddenly directly ahead of me rising out of the water in brilliant defiance a salmon leapt above the waves and hovered, momentarily suspended, above a cresting wave before plummeting back into the dark, green of the Columbia.

I shouted out to Greg and Suzanne but of course it was too late and then I just sat, momentarily stunned into a dangerous submission, relaxed hands gently holding a still paddle, eyes searching the waters hoping for another glimpse. When I awoke from my reverie seconds later to crashing waves and the roar of water, the wind was nearly in full control of the canoe. The beauty glimpsed moments before forgotten, I fought hard to correct my angle and urge the canoe across the waters to the next island.

As we reached the island we ducked back into a slough that split the island in two and just like that we left the chaos of high winds and crashing waves and entered the peaceful lull of still waters. Unfortunately the backside of the island offered little protection as we left the slough, so we modified our plans and headed back upriver to the head of the island. There we found good protection and one of the best campsites of the trip. We settled in, forced to be content with not much more than a two mile day. Looking out on the horizon we could still see Cathalamet on the hillside just upriver.

A Walk Down the Plain Path

2010-08-28T10:45:00.000-07:00

I have known for years that I did not want to define my life through work. I watched my dad do this and all he got out of it was misery. I have watched many others do the same and I refuse to walk down this road. We are in a position to define our lives as we please. Not many people in the world can do this, have this opportunity, but here, in this country we do. We have upward, downward, and lateral mobility. More options and opportunities than ever before. No longer are we limited to what our father and his father did before him. We can determine our own future, our own lives.

In days of less mobility I believe people were more resigned to the fate that was handed them and instead of focusing on what they wanted to do with their life they focused on what they had in their lives. The family and friends that surrounded them, the pleasant little surprises each day brings. The little surprises that are mostly missed today by people who have forgotten the present. Instead they are focused on the elusive future bearing promises of promotions, a bigger house, and a new car. We are no longer slaves to work but are instead enslaved to the pursuit of the future and all the riches we’re sure it will hold.

I have yet to meet the man or woman that has ever become happy with the realization of these riches. The house, the car, the promotions attained only lead to more restlessness and bigger dreams, a more spectacular future desired that will surely bring happiness. And to those that don’t attain the riches dreamed of? Bitterness.

I have watched too many of my friends and family walk blindly down this road and I refuse to drink the Kool-Aid. I will walk down the plain path. It may not be glitzy and bestudded with jewels but there’s a clear running stream down this path and I shall drink my fill and nap by the babbling waters when I grow tired. And when I come to the end of the path I will be naked and exposed bearing nothing but fond memories of times passed.

An Unknown Future

2010-07-31T03:56:00.000-07:00

“I had learned not to worry; to make my choice and allow things to happen. For the most part they turned out to be good and when they weren’t – like the night from hell in a hostel – then they were character building. There weren’t any wrong or right paths to choose, just different ones, and where they led was governed by the attitude adopted towards them.” From Round Ireland with a Fridge, by Tony Hawks.

Better than I ever could have said it, this is a succinct summary of my outlook on life and my philosophy of taking what comes. I do my best to live day by day, forming little in the way of clear cut definite plans and instead simply choosing from the options which arise, as they come up. Even the best laid plans are made to be broken. Often they are a crutch, limiting one’s options and forcing one down a narrow path chosen in ignorance of future possibilities.

I don’t do well with crutches.

This doesn’t mean that I don’t have doubts. That I don’t often wonder what it is that I’m doing with this life. But I have never been satisfied with great, overarching life plans comprised of steps and regular achievements that ought to be charted on a graph. I believe that life should be spent in the present. As Vonnegut said, “We were put on this earth to fart around and don’t let anyone tell you differently.” We weren’t meant to fulfill world shattering dreams. We were meant to live day by day, looking not to the future but settling in and focusing on life in the present.

I know of one sure way to achieve this...somewhere... on a river, floating ever onward into the unknown future.

Security Guard - Knightwatch Security

2010-06-27T23:14:00.000-07:00

When I arrived in Juneau, Ak I found a place to live and a job within 3 days. The job was with Knightwatch Security. I was the guard at the hospital 3 nights a week working 10 hour shifts. The primary responsibilities were pretty routine. Essentially just make hourly rounds, ensure the doors stayed locked, and there was no one inside that shouldn't be. My job also covered ensuring the safety of the doctors and nurses and the patients. This generally came into play when drunks or mental health patients were brought it. In Juneau there are 12 hour and 72 hour holds. 12 hour holds are for people who are too drunk to take care of themselves so they get brought into the ER to make sure they're gonna survive the night and when deemed safe to do so are passed on to the Juneau Recovery Hospital down the hill.

Generally, this meant sitting and bullshitting with a drunk for a few hours. Right there, sitting in uncomfortable chairs, kicked back bullshitting with old drunks and cranks I learned how to be a drinking man. For quite some time actually I didn't drink as a result of this job. Scared me away from the stuff. One night I got stopped during my rounds by the lab tech who asked me if I'd heard what the BAC of our last 12 hour hold was. Over 4.0 he told. The guy is technically dead he told me. Medically speaking one can't survive a BAC that high. I sat with this man for a couple hours. Talked to him. Listened to his stories. Told him a few of mine. He didn't sway. His words did not slur. Near to sober he seemed. Near to dead he was, instead.

Sometimes, the drunks would want to fight. Most times within a couple minutes I'd have the violent men crying in their hands, feeling terrible for what they had done. Then we'd talk about fishing for a few hours. We'd shake hands and an EMT would take them down to JRH. Once in a long while I'd have to restrain them. The women were the worst. A drunk woman that wanted to fight was gonna fight. And they fought mean. A man just tries to punch you. A woman punches, kicks, spits, bites, claws, and head butts all at the same time. It's like trying to restrain the Tasmanian Devil.

One night I had to watch a 72 hour hold who had tried to commit suicide. The guy was probably 6 foot 3 and 250 or 260. He was surly. Paced a lot within his room and would begin to become angry but I always managed to talk him back down. We danced this tenuous dance for hours. His anger slowly climbing before I was able to bring it back into check. Time and time again. Eventually he was moved up to the mental health ward and I went back to reading Dostoevsky. The next night I came in to learn he had taken another patient hostage up in the ward. SWAT was called and it took the entire 12 man swat team plus several uniform officers to physically bring the guy down.

Sometimes the cops would bring someone in and then both the officer and I would stay with the patient. Most of the cops were cool but there was one older guy in his 60's that was a dick. He was the guy that gives cops a bad name. Used to just sit in a chair and push the guys. Just push them verbally, a little here a little there. Put them down. Call them losers. Give them shit. Push them. Push them until they couldn't take it anymore and they'd rise up and this old cop would get to restrain them with a little victory smile spreading across his face. I hated that guy. Hated him for what he stood for and for what he was. Hated him for what he did to the world. For a man like that when he has the ability to give to the world, he takes from it instead.

Harnessed and Burdened

2010-06-02T11:34:00.000-07:00

It's been quite a curiousity for me to regain my driver's license this time around after being without it for a year and a half. I lost it previously for a few months after my first seizure and then once again following an unfortunate run in with the law. Those brief flirtations with being bicycle bound were over quick enough to not really notice much of an impact on my life style and during this past 1.5 years I seemed to have just accepted it and moved on. I've always been relatively good at accepting misfortune and inconvenience and moving past it. No reason to dwell on personal misfortune. I've always believed life to be much more enjoyable if misfortune can be laughed at and energy focused on the humorous and enjoyable side of life. The worse the struggle becomes the more opportunity for laughter. In this case, I had the impression from my neurologist that he would be unwilling to allow me to drive again but in this I was wrong. As a result, I had accepted my fate as a biker in stride and moved on with life.

It wasn't until the doc had granted me with the ability to drive that I learned how much I had missed it. The ability to walk out the door, climb into my truck, the Annie G, and drive off to points unknown is the pinnacle of freedom. The complete lack of ties to anything. The ability to simply set forth on my own, having no need to beg another to provide the wheels and the license. For 1.5 years I was imprisoned within the range of my bicycle. The first time I climbed back behind the wheel of Annie G, patted her dashboard, and pulled out into traffic to head out of town for a hike and a night at the cabin brought an elation which I do not have the words to express. It was as if for 1.5 years I had been bound by yoke, harnessed, and burdened and in a moment that yoke was lifted and I was set free.

It has been said before, and I will say it again...Freedom, my friends, is bliss.

Hiking shoes

2010-05-23T14:57:00.000-07:00

So far this season I have been quite active on the hiking trails. It has quickly become apparent, however, that I did not begin the season with adequate footwear nor the funds to purchase new hiking boots. So, instead I have been progressing through my current shoe supply searching for something adequate to get me through in the short term. Results have been less than successful.

The first and most logical option were the hiking boots that were given to me at the end of last summer. Been wearing them all winter so they oughta be broken in and any issues should have been discovered already. Right? Not a chance. A 15 mile Stiles Creek Cabin hike plus 5 miles on the road to get back to the truck resulted in both feet red, raw, and covered in blisters. I did have a pretty sweet limp to show for it though. These have since been retired from hiking duties.

Option #2 also hand me downs from the same guy that gave me the boots. Wore these on the 15 mile Granite Tors hike and sure enough also gave me blisters, not quite as many as the boots but definite, painful blisters. A pattern emerges. Second option is retired. I"m beginning to run out of options.

Option #3 has been with me for years but had never seen a trail until the Angel Rocks to Chena Hot Springs hike last week. After 8.7 miles of trail the soles of each shoe detached from the toe but not a single blister. Could have a winner but first shoe goo, lots of shoe goo. One draw back to these was too soft of a sole so definitely started to notice a little foot soreness by the end but nothing near so bad as the experience with either of the previous options.

;

Option #4 are Teva's and there are some noteable drawbacks. Everything from rose bushes getting caught between soles of feet and soles of sandal and ripping out before you can notice anything but sudden pain; to your feet getting wet and then sliding around on the sandal's sole. Luckily feet are tough. And there's very little material to cause blisters. My feet made it through this 13 mile hike on the Chena Dome trail in the best condition yet this spring. Unfortunately my left knee was causing me quite a bit of pain and I'm not sure what to blame that on.

So after four hikes and four different pairs of shoes it looks like Teva's win until more appropriate footwear is attainable. I did guide day hikes at UAF Outdoor Adventuers in Teva's but I was carrying very little weight on my back. Recently I've been working on getting into better shape and thus carrying a weekend pack on each hike. Causes a little more wear and tear on the old feet.

I think that if it weren't for adversity life would be pretty boring. If everything was smooth, nothing would be noteable and life itself would be monotonous. Instead shit goes wrong every single day and we get to laugh at our own misfortune and enjoy the memory of slogging through the occasional swamp of misery life provides.

Personally I can't wait to experience what kind of destruction my next hike provides for my feet. Maybe they'll be unscathed and if so, the sheer bliss of painlessness will be a euphoria unequaled.

The Frightening Smile

2010-04-16T21:55:00.000-07:00

The following was written when I was in 8th grade. Found it while going through some old papers.

When the day was dark and the night was light a grueling fight was put up at night. A murder was committed in the light night sky but the murderer got off with a frightening smile. It was all that could be done, bringing him to trial. But it wasn't enough, for the frightening smile. He put the jury to horror and the people to their homes. They locked their doors and turned off the lights all because of the killer with the frightening smile. he walked out of the courtroom after being let off and stared down the reporters with that frightening smile. They stepped back and shook their heads letting him pass. No questions were asked. It was the frightening smile. He walked to his home across the city of Bath scattering the people with his smirk and his laugh. He smirked and he laughed all the way to his home as none did challenge him, they just ran from his path. He reached his home as the day was ending. He found his home and he found a man. The man stood at his door and looked him the eye. The smirk did nothing and the laugh failed with a cry. The man was angry and the man had pride. The killer ran with all the people's fear inside. He ran with their fear and he ran with no heart. He ran and he ran but there was little he could do for the man behind him ran with determination and pride. He was caught. He was stabbed and he died with fear for the smile that had aided him was the fuel for his demise.

Job #3 Wendy's Old Fashioned Porn

2010-04-14T16:48:00.000-07:00

Let me start this one out by saying I have earned very few jobs on my own merit. I believe it to be nigh impossible. You Must Know Some One. The best evidence of this I know is that even to get a job at Wendy's I had to know Wilson, who's mom was in management there. Thus I got a job. So did a few more of our friends. It didn't take long for nearly our entire group of friends to be employed here and it was a misfit operation.

This was a fairly enjoyable job, what with good friends always around, the understanding that work could never really get worse than this (at least in this country). Minimum wage and every day you left work wearing clothes and skin that shone with grease. I shared a house with Neal who also worked at Wendy's and every day when we got off work we would toss our clothes down the stairs into the cellar. If we could have afforded a containment unit we would have had one. No amount of washing can take that sour smell of used grease out of cotton and polyester. I believe we burned the clothes and the shoes our last day of employment. If they were looking, astronauts probably saw the flames lick the sky from space.

There were all kinds of shenanigans to be had while working at Wendy's and each of us seemed to take special delight in one particular activity. Whether it was throwing pickle slices onto the ceiling to see how long they would stick up there above the front counter or hiding meat in the fridge to see how long it would take management to discover where the smell of rotting flesh came from we all had something to bring a smile to our faces. Half the management was utterly clueless and often raised our ire. I got scolded one day during the lunch rush for putting the onions on a burger before the tomato. I looked at Debbie like she was an idiot and asked if she was serious. She informed me that she was very serious and that I was making the sandwich wrong. I bit my tongue until the rush was over then found her at the manager's desk and informed her that that was the most fucking ridiculous thing I had ever heard. "Do you really think the customers give a shit if their onions or their tomato is on top?" "Yes, I believe some do and there is a right way to make a Wendy's burger." I let her know I felt she was an utter moron and went back to the line.

At Safeway presently we have just started offering the Shanghai Dinner for Two which comes with noodles or rice plus two sides and 4 eggrolls. Most Safeway's don't have a self serve buffet and this is obviously designed for those stores where the deli workers are already dishing up what the customers ask for. We however have a self serve buffet so when a customer wants the Shanghai Dinner for Two they come up to the deli counter and ask a deli clerk who then has to come around the counter and dish up the customers food for them at the self serve buffet. I told my former boss and present District Merchandiser that the concept was completely ridiculous and asked if she'd thought about what she was telling me. She looked stunned and said we simply had to do what corporate told us to do.

Which brings me back to Wendy's and my favorite story of unruly employees which involves Wilson and the head manager Kevin. Kevin asked Wilson to take out the trash one day after lunch rush so Wilson grabs a broom and starts sweeping up the kitchen. Kevin notices this and asked Wilson "What are you doing? I asked you to take out the trash?" To which the eloquent Wilson responded "Are you fucking Stupid? Think I'm gonna take out the trash without sweeping first?" He then went back to sweeping and Kevin stammered a few bits of nonsense before awkwardly turning around and walking to the back room.

There are so many beautiful Wendy's stories to tell it's hard not to tell them all. Like when a customer found a dog biscuit in his Chili and asked one of the staff "What is this?" "Well, sir, that appears to be a dog biscuit." Or when a few unnamed staff members stole a few of the training videos and dubbed over short clips of hard core porn at opportune moments. Such as Dave Thomas saying things like "And this is how you stuff a pita...." Cut to porn. Or "and while you're learning the four corner press I'll be..." Cut to porn. After the editing process they then returned the videos to the training room for some innocent young new hire to discover.

My favorite day of working at Wendy's though had to be the night of some formal event at the University. Three or four couples came in for dinner before attending. Men in tuxes and beautiful women in elegant black dresses. I was working the front register and shortly after they left they returned. One of the lovely young ladies approached me to ask if she could dig through the garbage can for she had apparently dumped her keys in when she threw her trash away. I refused to allow this lady to go through an evenings worth of trash looking for her keys knowing they surely fell all the way to the bottom. Luckily she remembered which can she had thrown them into so I pulled out both cans and began transferring the trash from the one into the other. Before long I was down to about three or four inches of sludge (ketchup, frosty, soda, grease, fries, and hamburger bits at the bottom. I dove my hand in and swirled it around through said sludge until I came upon her keys. I pulled them up and held them at eye level where they dripped goo into the can. "Let me wash these off for you." After returning her washed keys she thanked me and her boyfriend slid a five dollar bill over to me. I pushed it back to him saying "I'm sorry I can't accept that. Just doing my job." He looked at me like I was a lunatic and pushed it back "No, take it. Really." So, with hesitation and apparent regret I took his bill and thanked him for his generosity.

Job #2 Bakery Clerk circa '94-'96

2010-02-27T10:04:00.000-08:00

This was my longest term of employment. I spent 3 solid years employed at the Hy-Vee bakery in Macomb, Illinois as a Wrapper during high school. Good times. My sister got me the job, as she worked there too. I, in turn, got my buddy Wilson a job there. The job entailed wrapping/bagging all the baked goods that the bakers Pat and Juan had baked during the day and then cleaning the place up. I'd come in after school and work a 4-8 shift and work one 7-3 shift on the weekend. Usually Sundays. The evenings were all right. Work by myself and just get shit done but Sundays now that was a fun time. I'd work with Juan Guzman and sometimes both Wilson and I would be working. We got to help bake and then as the bread cooled we would wrap. Spent a good part of the day bullshitting with Juan at the big, wooden baking table rolling out, kneading, and forming bread, bagels, and donuts. And we'd have the occasional dough ball fight.

One Sunday morning the doughnut fryer was still there and the four of us were sporadically placed throughout the bakery in defensive positions winging little dough balls at each other. Generally our doughy missiles were quite well aimed, as we were well practiced, but occasionally there was an errant throw. That morning one dough ball flew through the bakery, into the deli, and straight into the hot case where it rested next to the mashed potatoes. While another flew out into aisle 1, narrowly missed an old lady, and tagged a bag of Wonder Bread. It's a good thing Juan was the Bakery Manager at the time or we might have gotten into trouble.

There was all kinds of bullshit with the job though. When I first started working there we wore polo shirts as uniforms but it wasn't long before they started making us wear black dress pants, a white dress shirt and a tie. At a fucking bakery? Still can't believe it. The ties were a complete pain in the ass. And black pants were immediately white with flower, dress shirts covered in dough. It was ridiculous. We always joked that somebody's tie was gonna get caught in the giant mixer and they'd be sucked into the bowl and become the finishing touch on the french bread.

The assistant store manager was an utter moron by the name Jim Heschke, I believe. Got his job by marrying the district manager's daughter. We were on strict orders by Juan to just smile and nod at anything Jim said or asked us to do but never to actually do it. This was because he had me put bread crumbs in the oven over night with the intent to dry them out for stuffing. It was a ton of bread that we had shreaded to make crumbs for dressing and Jim told me to put it all in the oven overnight, so that the heat from the pilot lights could dry it and we'd have stuffing in the morning. So I did it, knowing what would happen, because the assistant store manager told me to, right? Next morning Juan came in to find all the stuffing we had made the day before charred to blackened bits in the oven. That was one pissed off Mexican.

They made him Bakery Manager and then worked him to death, treated him like shit, and pushed him around. For the longest time they wouldn't hire him a second baker so he had to bake 7 days a week plus do all the management duties. Then they finally hired him a baker but pulled that guy off into another department the week before Thanksgiving. That was the final straw for Juan, he walked out, called us and let me and Wilson know. So we went in together, grabbed a free doughnut and found the store manager in the back room. As we ate our free doughnuts we told the guy we quit, weren't coming in for our next shift and that he needed to learn how to treat his employees with respect. The fryer quit too. I've never felt so good to be quitting a job. That time I felt perfectly justified to fuck them during the busiest week of the year.

My First Job- Corn Detassler circa 1992

2010-02-26T06:34:00.000-08:00

So, I was telling an old friend about my current miserable employment at Safeway cooking food in the Deli and she suggested I write about the different jobs I've worked over the years. I've found myself in many different professions and never settled into one for very long. I kind of liked the idea so I figured I'd start it off in this here blog. My first job was detassling corn for Pioneer Seed Company. This is a job for migrant workers or 14 year olds which is what I was. Either way you're supposed to get proper paperwork from the government to attain employment but not all of us did. For those who don't know the tassle is the business end of the corn. When the corn is mature pollin from the tassle gets released into the air and blown across the field and thus corn pollinates corn. That's the simple version. Well Pioneer didn't want corn cross pollinating they wanted to do the pollinating themselves, the selfish pricks. So, our job was to pull the tassle off every stalk of corn. If you've ever been to the midwest you would know this is a very big job.

Some fields we'd walk in groups. Each person taking a row and walking and yanking, yanking and walking. Others would be done in tractors with large arms reaching out over the rows with baskets hanging in between the rows. In the basket you would lean out into your row and essentially swim through the row yanking tassles arm over arm. Sweepers would follow behind yanking the tassles that the basket men would inevitably miss.

It was hard hot work under the Illinois sun and paid minimum wage, which at the time was $4.25 I believe. Miserable but I met one of my best and lifelong friends in one of those fields. The friend I would eventually move to Alaska with 6 years later in 1998. One day we were walking a field and bitching about our plight in life. Oh, the miseries of being a 14 year old working for 3 weeks in the summer. The Horror, the Horror....Anyway, there we were bitching about the job and coming up with new names for our boss such as "Dumbfuck Dom" for example. We were on a roll insulting Dom and detassling when what would you know Dom storms through several rows of corn like a blustering bull red faced and fuming, "This may be the worst fucking job in the world but it's the only fucking job you have!" and then he stormed off. We did feel kind of bad, for who knows how long he had been walking along with us just a couple rows to the side but almost 20 years later Neal and I are still laughing about the look on his face as he burst through that corn.

Every day we would all meet in the Hardees parking lot. I remember my dad driving me in to town every day at about 6 am to go to work. He'd drop me off in the lot. I'd sit off to the side on a parking block and watch the workers gather. At 6 am we'd all pile into an old school bus and drive out north of town to hit the fields. Most people would take the bus but there were a few that would drive themselves. There was one group of poor white trash that drove their beater every day out to the fields but they didn't last long. They hit the mother load or at least thought they did. They came across a whole crop of marijuana ditch weed growing alongside the field we were working. They couldn't believe their luck or that they were the only ones that knew what this stuff was. They quit work and somewhere found a bunch of big black trash bags and just went after it, ripping the ditch weed right out of the ground and shoving plant after plant into hefty bags, laughing and joking the whole time. Once they'd harvested the whole crop they jumped into their beater and headed off. Never saw them again. Problem with ditch weed is that it's a weed. It is marijuana but it's wild grown, not cultivated and thus doesn't have the THC content in it that the crop has. Grows all over Illinois, often in ditches, hence the name. Won't get you high, though I've heard you can get quite the headache. I remember it happened at lunch so the rest of us were all sitting in the grass watching the show. I'm not sure how but they seemed to be the only ones around that didn't know they were complete idiots. Some things in life just aren't fair.

Two summers I worked this job for a grand total of 6 weeks.

2010-02-24T06:41:00.000-08:00

I nearly cried tonight as Annie G and I nosed our way out of town, coffee in hand, and nothing ahead of us but open road and hot springs. I let myself believe that when I got there I wouldn't have to turn around and come right back. I allowed myself to forget work in the morning. The road allowed me to forget everything else. All that existed was the possibility of the road, the promise of something new, and the freedom to pursue it. I had a few provisions in the seat next to me, two spare tires in the bed that may or may not hold air, a fresh pair of socks, and my Australia '00 mix tape.

I had been forced into the passenger seat for so long, deprived of that certain freedom that is only provided by a truck and road, that I had become numb to the absence of possibility. Only able to go where a bike could take me and having to beg friends to take me to the cabin had restricted my mind, my imagination, and deadened by dreams. Tonight, all I was missing was a cigar. Suddenly the world was there again...No clouds cleared, no curtains lifted...One second there was nothing but grayness, and the next there was a world of possibility spreading out before me, unrolling like carpet, revealing dreams I had forgotten.

For the last several weeks it's been hard to pull my bike into the Safeway parking lot, and walk through those doors. A couple days ago I very nearly rode right on by. What was nearly impossible, just became infinitely more difficult. Tomorrow at 6:45 am I could drive to Safeway, work a 7 hour shift, and hate most every minute of it. Or, I could drive to Seward.

Underage Dance Party

2010-01-31T11:01:00.000-08:00

So there we were... Standing on the stage of the UAF Carol Brown Ballroom looking out on a sea of sweating, grinding, pulsing bodies wondering "What the fuck?" Alex and I stared slackjawed on this bizarre jungle themed extravaganza of students desperately reaching out, clinging to, and grinding on any body within their grasp through the thick sweat and pounding, pressing beats. The ballroom had maxed capacity at 350 and DJ Double X had the college kids lined up at the door desperately waiting to get in on the action, to get in to the clothed orgy of raw dance party excused public all but sex. There were grinding threesomes, foursomes, dry humping on the stage, writhing bodies with blurred lines where the concept of groups or couples had become indecipherable. The dance floor was a mass of bodies, a sucking vortex of grind, where at the center the crowd was simply grinding on itself. Embarrassed to be watching we couldn't help but stare, feeling our age and only slightly uncomfortable with our voyeurism, I found myself waiting to see which individual would get naked first or if as single sentient being the crowd itself would suddenly shed it's clothes.

Occasionally, I found it necessary to shake my head, regroup my thoughts, and let my gaze wander to the outskirts of the dance floor to the lonely outcasts. Those who were not accepted by the mass or perhaps those who simply found the scene a bit forbidding. There was the muscle head in a wife beater with fake dreads attached to a head band who hadn't spoken a word to anyone all night. Instead he had been alternating between whipping out the same four step dance move and staring with his arms crossed. Crushing him for best terrible dancer was a gangly tall nearly undoubtably computer geek with awkwardly flailing extremities and sweat soaked shirt. Waiting to request a song earlier in the night were three girls giggling and pointing at this quintessential example of flamboyant awkwardness. As the night wore on the dancefloor had necessarily engulfed all the energy in the room and those who had managed to remain outside it's dominating influence stood gaping and defeated, staring in awe at the pulsing, pounding, pumping being.

I sit here trying to think of some insightful observation to make about life, some simple statement that could succinctly tie this into a lesson about humanity but still several days later all I want to do is raise my cane menacingly over my head and yell at those youngun's to watch where they're putting their hands.

By Special Request

2010-01-19T17:26:00.000-08:00

Seems I've been lazy for the past 5 or 6 months with my posts and the tiny fan base is getting restless so here is a bit of a quick catch up on the life of a Hupp.

Hmmm, lets see where I left off. Somehow I managed to miss posting what I found out about the last seizure a year ago so let's wander on back into the not too distant past. After returning to Fairbanks I made a visit to my neurologist and the good doctor informed me of a few good bits of information. Backstory... the ER doc put me on Dilantin. Please enjoy the following:

1) Dilantin will, if anything, cause me to seize

2) Any ER in the country, by protocol, will put me on Dilantin if I come in to the ER for seizures

3) The side effect of my skin peeling on my hands was most likely the early beginnings of a fatal skin rash. When I asked how is a skin rash fatal the good doctor replied, "Well, you're skin just kind of peels off until you die."

4) I need his okay to drive again and without going on meds he may not let me drive again.

So that's the update on the good seizing of 2009. Shall we move on?

I am presently working at Safeway in Fairbanks, AK as a Chinese Buffet cook. I work with a guy named Michael who's a third short of a fifth if you know what I mean. He's a bit strange, makes odd comments referring to psychic abilities, sings loudly in what might mildly resemble Spanish but is actually not a language in this world. He also speaks in tongues during much of a shift because, he reports to management, there are demonic spirits (namely one Michael Hupp) in the department that need exorcising. Makes for an interesting though slightly creepy working environment. One day perhaps I'll be exorcised. And then I can get on with the lord's work and get some shit good and done.

Shades of Grey

2009-08-03T11:12:00.000-07:00

This entry is about faults and wrongs and wrongs committed against those we love and how we perceive these same wrongs committed by others. We are very quick to designate people good or bad, kind or mean, angry or passive. Very black and white designations for people who are neither. This is a very common and base thought, I know, but allow me to elaborate.

No one is wholly good or evil, we are all shades of grey. Some have a callous and gruff exterior hiding a soft side, others of us are just the opposite and there are makes and models to fit all the spaces in between. The key to understand is that we all fuck up. We all commit acts which bring pain and suffering to others. Sometimes these acts are conscious and sometimes we do them without a thought to the outcome or to the pain it may cause others. Sometimes we are just too selfish to even consider that our actions affect anyone other than ourselves.

At times we are all callous, mean spirited, self serving, vengeful, and more. We are also all adept at forgiving and rationalizing the inhumanity in ourselves, even while demonizing the same in others. We must forgive it in ourselves, we must rationalize and forgive for it is the only way to survive. If we acknowledged these actions not a one of us would be able to face ourselves day in and day out. The only option is to forgive.

And if we are to forgive these faults in ourselves, how, tell me how, we could not forgive the same in those that we love? I am not a good man, but I try to be forgiving for the single reason that I am not good. I try and I fail. If I cannot be the man I aspire to be how can I condemn others for the same?

Sometimes...Life bites back

2009-07-22T15:53:00.000-07:00

So, this past week was packed full of excitment but generally not the kind of excitement one seeks out. Bad lack was the theme and I was the poor unfortunate protagonist. It started out Tuesday evening when a customer discovered they had pumped diesel into their unleaded SUV. So I went to seek out gas jugs and hose. I knew there was an assortment of hose sitting atop an old truck topper that was lying in the grass. I was sorting through the hose when suddenly I felt a bite on my bicep. I looked down expecting find a Crimtoad a.k.a. Sawyer Beetle but instead there was a yellow jacket. And following that advance scout was a swarm of yellow jackets boiling up my legs from the ground. I thought a retreat was in order and so I fled at full speed laughing all the way. They didn't pursue and I was stung a mere two times. Later in the evening I returned to the site of my retreat with jacket, gloves, head net, and wasp killer. The nest was hanging from the ceiling of the topper just inside the rear hatch. I forced open the front window of the topper and hosed down the nest with a full can of the wasp killer. Eliminating my enemy from existence.

Wednesday went by without issue as well as most of Thursday. Thursday night however, just about closing time I was walking through the kitchen and slipped on a wet floor. Feet flew out from under me and I came crashing to the floor, slamming against the wall behind me. Said wall unfortunately is home to quite possibly the only magnetic knife rack within 120 miles. The force of the fall brought over a half dozen kitchen knives crashing down upon me, fortunately missing all vital areas. I did receive one laceration of the left shoulder which flayed the skin back from the fatty undertissue and one puncture wound in the left elbow. The punture wound just happened to be right where the muscles and tendons connect at the elbow and so has been the most painful part of the experience.

The doctor at Urgent Care 3 hours south of our camp at the Yukon River opted not to use stitches and instead go with sterastrips. These are narrow adhesive strips that do basically the same thing as stitches by holding the wound together. I was asking the doctor whether they would stay on and he said they would last at least 7 days and showering would not be a problem as water would simply shed right off the sterastrips. All this the result of the glue he was using to secure the strips to the skin.

Well within 1 hour of leaving Urgent Care the sterastrips were already peeling off. So with a call to my roomates Uncle Frank, the paramedic, we learned that the glue was in fact benzoine (basically iodine) and not a glue at all and that water would most assuredly take the sterastrips right off the skin. My roomates family assisted in replacing the sterastrips with extras the doc did give me and it has been a struggle ever since keeping them on. My final decision is that it is best to go the ER where the doctors at least know the difference between glue and benzoine.

Life on the River

2009-07-06T17:13:00.000-07:00

Here at Yukon River camp life on the river is in some ways very similar to life on the river floating down it’s murky waters towards the Bering Sea. The act of living is defined by ritual and routine and remembered for routine’s exceptions. On the river it is daily rituals of breaking and setting up camp, and the routine of floating. You alternate reading books, with watching the landscape as you drift by, and various isolated, poignant, and forgettable conversations. Occasionally something exciting and dramatic occurs that forces you to break from routine and thus becomes memorable. One day your boat may become swamped as waves crash over the stern while you eat dinner, or a grizzly may angrily pace up and down the shores of the opposite bank, perhaps boredom and cramped conditions may force you out of your dry tent and into a wind and rain storm to sip whisky and enjoy the chill wind and the biting rain assault your senses.

At Yukon River Camp life isn’t so different. It is defined by living and working with the same 7 people for 5 months, completing the same chores every day, and reusing the same conversations to pass the time. Books are read, movies watched, and watched again. Rituals are defined and then perfected to the point of thoughtless repetition early on. The tourists come through, ask the same questions as the last , get on the same coach and head north or south on the only road. Every day becomes the same as the last and no different than the next. Remembered only due to exceptions.

A couple weeks ago, there was an exception. I arose early, to drink coffee down by the river, as I do almost every day. I have a screen tent in an old hot shot encampment with a camp chair. I sleep just up the river in a two man tent. So I woke up, stumbled from my tent, grabbed the stove, coffee, pot and water and staggered down river to the screen tent. (I wasn’t drunk yet, but due to a lifetime of Scotch and cheap beer, followed by coffee upon waking up I stumble, stagger, tumble, and bumble through life until either the second cup of coffee hit’s the blood stream or the third Bloody Mary reaches my head). I reached the screen tent and began to unzip the door when suddenly a flurry of activity caused me to jump back and desperately search through the haze for the source of this most unwelcome excitement. There inside the screen tent occasionally standing on the ground, occasionally flying into the wall seeking release was a Boreal Owl. His head turned backwards his eyes never left me as he struggled to get free. Eventually he calmed down and I put my coffee gear on the ground in order to unzip the door. I was positive he would see his opportunity and bolt for the door, hesitating just long enough to scrape my face off my skull, but instead I was able to tie the screen door up out of the way and walk off to the side. I waited and watched for a time but his eyes did not leave me and he made no further attempt to escape. So I left. Fuck it, there’s coffee in the café. On the way to the café I ran into one of the cooks with a camera so we headed back down to the river. The Boreal Owl was still in the tent, now sitting in the middle of the floor and apparently sleeping. He heard us approaching and lazily opened his eyes before closing them again. Jerry snapped off a few photos and then we decided to flush him out. His eyes popped open when we started moving again and he watched as we made our way around the back of the tent. He didn’t make a move however until Jerry shook the wall of the tent at which time he took off out the tent and banked downstream. And that is the story of how Jerry and I released a Boreal Owl back into the wild.

Yukon River Camp

2009-05-14T21:40:00.000-07:00

So, we are just about to enter week 2 of employment at the Yukon River Camp. The first week was spent getting the camp up and running after being shut down for the winter. The camp which sits at the intersection of the Dalton Highway and the Yukon River is an old pipeline camp from the 70's. It is constructed of Atco units and mobile homes and was not meant to last 30+ years. So, it hasn't. It takes an enormous amount of work to keep the systems functioning and online which just makes things interesting. The camp is essentially just a cafe with gas and lodging. Not many people rent the roomos as it is only 3 hours from Fairbanks but tours come through the cafe as well as independent travellers and river people. Right now we're dead but soon things should get interesting. This has been a way too serious entry and as a result I shall now interrupt myself with some silliness....

Yukon River Camp Men's Room Graffiti:

Bombing for Peace is like fucking for Virginity

Fuck you city trash hippy!

****************

Welcome to Heven

************

Al Diles

loves

Scotch!

**********

FUCK!

**********

Chinatown

2009-02-05T14:41:00.000-08:00

I spent today exploring Boston's Chinatown and there were a few high points which I have listed below in no particular order:

1) The ATM machine with the language options of English and Spanish.

2) Multiple restaurants displayed their live fish in tanks at large street side windows. One restaurant in particular had fish, lobster, and roasting duck proudly displayed. All looked very impressive except for the suspiciously still and upside down fish that was up front and center.

3) While walking down the street I was struck by a very strong but not necessarily unpleasant smell. I then noticed the crates of live chickens being unloaded off a truck and delivered to a restaurant.

4) A sign in the dumpling restaurant where I enjoyed lunch that strictly instructed all who entered the restrooms to "Watch your Hands".

From Raleigh to Boston

2009-02-05T06:04:00.000-08:00

So it turns out the Raleigh-Durham area is a huge improvement over the Houston area. I didn't make friends with any Indian liquor store clerks but I'll get over that soon enough. I did find Schlitz beer in six pack cans. This quite possibly might be the high point of my lower 48 adventures. The story of Schlitz is one of greatness followed by crushing failure and now decades later a resurgence under the ownership of our friends at Pabst Brewing. I suggest everyone look it up and take pride in American heritage.

While in Raleigh Dave, Laura, Stef, Carrie, and I went to a barbecue joint. We were greeted by a large black man. His first question was regarding whether we had been there before and upon learning that we hadn't he laid out samples of his available barbecue: pulled pork, ribs, and chicken. While introducing us to his side dishes he quietly but proudly mention that he is the owner and cook. I had the pulled pork, the collared greens, barbecue stew, and hush puppies. I could not stop eating until the entire pile had disappeared from my plate. The next day while driving north to Boston we stopped at McDonald's for a quick lunch. It was the contrast of these two meals which finally brought to light for me the definitive reason I dislike chains. The reason why that connoisseur of barbecue is content and full of pride in his work and his life is simply because his work provides him with this. He can look back on the long day spent preparing and serving his food with a great feeling of pride and accomplishment because it is his. The work is his, the recipe is his, the building is his. He is surrounded by the fruits of his own labor. In contrast the chain restaurant or store is owned by some crusty old white guy at a desk in New York smiling at his profits. The cooks have no attachment to the building or the food other than minimum wage. There is no pride nurtured through work, no looking back on the day and feeling like you have accomplished anything. You and all your co-workers go through the day as a drone, serving more drones steadily working their way through the lines at the register, expecting nothing but meager sustenance. Even the franchised chains with a local owner are truly no better. The owner may have put up the capital to "buy" the restaurant but they aren't truly the owners. They are responsible in a financial way but have no room for creativity, no room for truly making the place their own. It is a place of crushed dreams and bitter souls.

On to Boston

2009-02-04T19:37:00.000-08:00

I have spent the last week visiting family in Florida, friends in North Carolina, and have recently arrived in Boston. During all this I have been heavily medicated with Dilantin, you know, to keep the seizures at bay. I don't do medicine. It just doesn't agree with me. Side effects tend to be the dominant effect. I really don't understand the terminology of "side" effect in the first place. I would generally say an effect is an effect. And for me the effects of Dilantin are numerous and unfriendly. So, I decided not to take it anymore. I count on having a good discussion regarding this with my neurologist next week. Today is the first day in which I have not taken any Dilantin and already the skin of my hands has stopped peeling off, my tongue no longer feels thick and coated with fur, my teeth feel like they plan on residing in my gums for a bit longer instead of jumping ship at the first opportunity, the headaches and sore throat have begun to recede, my strength is beginning to return, and my head feels like it is once again firmly connected to my shoulders. So, now that that is all taken care of I think I am ready to proceed with my life as I intend to live it. Heavily medicated with alcohol. I figure I'll give it another day or two to work the rest of the meds out of my system but then it's beer time.

Escaping Houston

2009-01-26T20:34:00.001-08:00

So tomorrow I escape the mini mall expanse of Houston, Texas and fly east for the suburbs of Tampa Bay. I thought I'd briefly give the account of one more redeeming feature of Houston. Friday, the day before the seizing, I took the bus downtown and walked south to Montrose, the old part of downtown and current gay district. Well it was definitely gay. My first indication I'd crossed the gay-straight barrier was when some dude in super tight clothing drove by me in an SUV. This would have been nothing abnormal but the fact that he was pumping his arm in the air to the tune of some atrocious 1980's song by a band not unlike Flock of Seagulls. I had lunch at a little cafe that would have been heavily vegetarian in any other gay neighborhood in the states but in Houston every dish had meat but the Bocca Burger. Every male working in the joint did speak with a lisp and I got the feeling they were none too happy with me for not having one.

The find of the afternoon however was a junk store that filled what had once been an expansive auto garage. I didn't get how many bay doors there was but I would say around 6 and inside every square inch of space was filled with what was presumable for sale, though why shoe boxes full of someone's family photos would be for sale I really can't say. There was no room for existing in the shop except for an incredibly narrow path through the junk that did not allow space for two teenage anorexics to pass. There was an incredible assortment of items and I feel like I should list my favorites: an exercise bike from the turn of the last century complete with wooden pedals and a crank to adjust the tension, a neatly organize row of broken tools including hammers with broken handles, knives with broken blades, etc, nearby and also oddly organized and hanging were bungy cords in perfect shape and not the cheap elastic ones. We're talking the high quality rubber bungy's, and to top it off was a greatest hits CD of Robert Earl Keen. The CD I decided was best left there for some other soul to light happily upon.

After this I then met Alec and another friend at a bar with lots of outdoor seating where I filled my belly full of beer in anticipation of the following days adventures. Well, now, I am off to Florida to see what fine adventures I can get myself into there. By God, I just hope a friendly is there to see me seize this time.

Just Call me Julius

2009-01-25T07:51:00.000-08:00

So, the day started off pretty good. Alec and I went to the
Waffle House. Houston's 4th shot at redemption. And things
were looking pretty good for Houston. I got two eggs, sausage, grits, and a waffle with coffee and they threw in the cigarette ash for free. Then I woke up for the second time yesterday and this time I was staring up into whiteness. There was a glow flooding me from above and two bald men in white staring down at me intently. It's an odd feeling to wake up with a couple assholes staring at you. But there's not much you can do when you're strapped to a gurney so, hey, you just go with it. I never knew how much waking up in an ambulance was so much like the movies but somebody gets the Oscar for a reason, right? They asked me what my name was and I'm pretty sure I got that one right but I definitely flunked the rest of the pop quiz. "What town are you in?"
Pause..."I don't know"
"What year is it?"
"2008"
"Close enough. It's 2009 but it just changed over."
"Do you know what you were doing before now?"
"No what happened?"
"Have you ever had a seizure before?"
"One. Maybe, we weren't really sure."
The question and answer session went on for awhile, and slowly the day's activities were revealed. I will say that my memory came back way faster this time than the last time. I was still remembering shit days later the last time. Yesterday I got everything back within a few minutes of regaining "consciousness". I say "consciousness" because obviously I was awake, I just don't remember any of it. Generally you don't do your best to kick the shit out of the paramedics on scene when your unconscious. But after they managed to get me calmed down and by that I mean strapped to the gurney, they took pretty good care of me and to the tune of approximately $1,500.
Once we got to the ER that's when the real treatment started. They hooked me up to the heart monitor, set an IV to pump anti -seizure meds into me because hey when it comes to seizures every second counts. You can't afford to let another happen in the next 4-15 years without taking serious precautions. You gotta be on top of your shit. What else did they do? A couple doctors, nurses came in and out and asked me some of the same questions each other already had and the paramedics before them. Then they told me they were going to do a CAT Scan and that's where I said "Whoaaa, bitch." They hadn't strapped me to this gurney yet and I was about to make them pay for their negligence. "How much is that going to cost me?" After much debating and the appearance of a flaming gay, Indian financial employee it was revealed that "Well, we can't really be sure each scan varies in price but anywhere between $2,000 and $4,000." So I kindly said "Fuck that."
Left soon after, and I'm not even sure why I was even there. Apparently some jackass driving by called 911 and the paramedics took care of the rest. Unless injured there isn't any reason for a seizer to go the ER. There isn't anything anybody can really do about it. Get on medication but that shit is expensive. Anyway, total cost of my Saturday afternoon is going to be several thousand dollars, not to mention a sore left tricep, right deltoid, two calves, injured back, and one seriously bit tongue. The downside is I most likely will not be going to South Africa in two weeks. The upside is I got to ride in an ambulance.

Houston Desperately Seeks Redemption

2009-01-21T19:38:00.000-08:00

As I bus and walk and meander through the streets of Houston, Texas there are some general trends I have come to notice. And by trends I refer to mini malls stacked upon mini malls, hidden within the nooks and crannies of mini malls, tucked in the cleavage of lingerie stores lurking in mini malls. It has become my mission to seek out that which may redeem Houston in my eyes, if not in the eyes of the mini-mall rats. And so what follows is a work in progress of the redeeming features of Houston, Texas:

1) La Carafe - a shitty little downtown bar. It resides in the oldest commercial building in town built around 1850 and it looks it. The plaster walls are slowly falling apart revealing the brick within, the bar is built stout out of 2 by 8's and carved deep by the knives of many a stranger. Old photos adorn the walls and they only take cash for the beer and wine that they sell cheaply when considering the plush, formal bars that make up the rest of downtown

2) All Stars Gentleman's Club - this one could easily go against redemption. But in reality it is an anomaly and as such provides some sort of strange redemption for a town so lacking in irregularities you'd think it was the backdrop for a Hanna Barbara chase scene. So here we go, for Alec's birthday I decided to take him to a strip joint. Fortunately for us we had a driver. Unfortunately we'd been watching the playoffs all day and I was wearing shorts, sandals, and a wife beater. Perfectly normal, right? Well the high class strip joints of Houston weren't having it. After peeling out past the valet parking we were denied at the door of TREASURES do to my "casual attire". So naturally we went to the Penthouse Club where a door man met us to inform us regrettingly that the Penthouse was closed down temporarily (prostitution) but that the All Stars across the street was the partner joint and all the girls had been employed there. After declining his offered ride across the street in a golf cart we headed over to find our fortune in naked breasts. Disappointment lurked in latex, for though All Stars is a topless bar, nipples are strickly forbidden from being displayed to the innocent eyes of the ne'er-do-wells of Houston. So instead of relishing in the glory of the full, youthful shape and smooth skin of the female form we were presented with breasts encased in worn, flaky, peeling latex leading to what might have been a nipple but just as easily could have been the spent, chewed on pencil eraser lying on the floor of the local elementary school.

To their credit the beer flowed readily and there were plenty of girls walking about including a 45 year old mother of 5 with fake tits, the February Penthouse Playmate, and a not so fresh faced 18 year old. It may have been easy to get a beer but earning a lapdance took way more than just money. Overall, it was a disappointing journey for the the city reknowned for having the best strip joints in the country. Personally, I'd just spend a few more minutes at the porn rack at your local Indian convenience store.

3) "Hello, Boss. Back again, Boss?"

"Yeah, back for more," I reply as I set the 6 pack of 16 oz cans of Red Dog on the counter. He looks at the beer and smiles, "Ahhh, Tea Time."

"What?" I asked.

"Looks like it's Tea Time."

Just the latest reason why my favorite Indian convenience store worker is on this list...Let me count the ways. He's a middle aged slightly pudgy version of the norm. He wears gold jewelry and more than enough cologne to overpower the scent of curry seeping through his pores. He's remembered me since the first day I stepped foot into his domain and he's always got a barely intelligible wise crack about me buying beer before most people have had lunch. He sells beer, a token few snack foods, and porn. Some beer is in six pack bottles, some in 12 pack cans, but the selection is all in 6 packs of 16 oz cans. The food is overpriced and dusty and I'm sure is there to fill a licensing requirement by the city. The porn is ample and hardcore. It fills your standard two shelf convenience store magazine rack. Some I've never seen before and a select few are in combo packs of DVDs and magazines for one low price. Front and center sandwiched between Club, Swank, and Hustler is a signed hard backed copy of a book chronicling the highs and lows of the illustrious career of the Backstreet Boys. I considered taking a picture but feared documentation may sully the purity of the experience.

4) A fourth has yet to have been discovered. Today I head into the heart of Houston's old town which in recent years has become the gay neighborhood. If I return whole, there might be another entry arguing in favor of Houston's redemption.

In Texas Everything is Bigger...Unless You're from Alaska

2009-01-21T08:49:00.000-08:00

Yesterday evening I bought a six pack of "Texas" Busch beers with the exclusive intent of getting drunk. I know they were "Texas" Busch beers because the cans proclaimed this proudly to the world. And these weren't your ordinary 12 oz cans of beer. No, these were 16 oz. cans. A full pint bound together with a reinforced plastic bird killer. Everything's bigger in Texas...At the liquor store I couldn't buy 12 oz cans in a 6-pack. Though there was a cooler of individual cans. Just in case you only needed one for the road. So, I grabbed a 6-pack of "Texas" Busch Pints and headed for the counter where I exchanged friendly banter with the middle aged, slightly grey streaked, overweight Indian clerk who inflated my liquor starved and shriveling ego by referring to me as Boss. I refrained from letting him know that in Alaska our Busch beer comes in 40's and we buy it by the case. I thanked him, as much for the Boss as for the beer, and headed across the street to my friend's apartment.

The apartment is surrounded by a steel fence. All entrances are gated and you need a special remote to open said gate. I, of course, don't have such a remote. Thus I rely on timing and old fashioned resourcefulness. Meaning I hang around until someone opens the gate and then I dash through occasionally throwing in an Indiana Jones slide just for good measure. Initially I was worried about the video cameras posted around, ensuring the security of the residents, to catch sight of my loitering and cause trouble to rain down upon me. However, I quickly noticed that the video cameras are not looking out upon the dangerous world, tracking suspicious looking characters lurking near the entrance clinging to 6 packs of "Texas" Busch, but instead are trained within, carefully monitoring the activities of the residents, presumably ensuring noone escapes into the minimall infested streets of Houston.

Once I had maneauvered my way through the gate, I sprinted up the stairs and casually sat on my buddy's balcony. Cracking my first "Texas" Busch beer, I looked down upon the fire station below, which is, unfortunately, the view. I could have done with a swimming pool surrounded by nubile young Houstonian women instead of a helipad, but hey in life you get what you deserve or so say grumpy old white men the world round. So obviously I deserve helipads and middle aged white men sliding down poles. Time for "Texas" Busch 2.

So sat I for the rest of the evening, downing 96 oz. of "Texas" Busch beer. I pondered much about life, desperately seeking the profound. But the only thing I discoverd worth knowing is that through 96 oz. of "Texas" Busch beer it is ridiculously hard to find a buzz.