Sometimes...Life bites back

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

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

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!

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Welcome to Heven

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

Al Diles

loves

Scotch!

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FUCK!

**********

Chinatown

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

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

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

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.