"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.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Spring Break Up at the Cabin
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.
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.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
I Remember the Fire
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.
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.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Answering Solitude's Call
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.
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.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
The Relief of Silence
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.
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.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Why Drink Coffee When the Coffee Shop Brews Beer?
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
You Can Have My Heart for $2 pints of Guinness
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.
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.
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