Roam the Roads in Nome, Alaska: Council Road through Solomon

The second road from Nome heads toward the town of Council. It parallels the Bering Sea’s coastline for miles. Rough waves splash sprinkles of water over the sea wall onto our windshield.

Our hearts pound fast when the four-wheel drive Dodge slides on the slippery, rutted road. One flip over the rocks would spill us into the freeze of turbulent waters.

Many gold mining operations, (they mine their own business) from commercial to individual gold-rushers, line these shores. Major construction projects build better roads and sea walls in support of a newly needed infrastructure.

Small homes line the beach and provide a place to dry fish, escape during the summer, and warm-up in winter when the Iditarod sled dogs howl towards the finish line.

Fishing season has ended, and the Safety Roadhouse boards its windows until March, when it will open for the Iditarod and serve as last stop before the finish.

Boats continue to dredge for gold, some with floating backhoes.

When the Bering Sea freezes over, fishermen cut holes in the ice and drop crab pots to catch King Crab. We would love to see that, but are…too early.

Remnants of the once booming community of Solomon tell the town’s story on a boardwalk display. The Last Train to Nowhere sits rusting in the tundra, since being abandoned in 1907. The ambitious railroad made it 20-miles short of its goal to reach the town of Council.

We walk through this area with an eerie feeling envisioning a lively town full of saloons, hotels and miners during the gold rush of the 1800′s. Ferries brought supplies and influenza, which all but wiped-out the Eskimo Community of Inupiaqs, who naturally were the first residents. Most were buried in a mass grave in an unknown place under this shore.

The area around Solomon also attracts birders and hunters. But where are the Musk Oxen? Mare and I are on a mission to find them with only one more road left to roam.

We roll into downtown Nome just in time for dinner with Jeremy.  What are the odds of knowing someone in Nome? This gateway to the Bering Land Bridge National Preserve holds artifacts of peoples dated up to 10,000 years old. Mare and I are practically on another planet.

We met Jeremy several years ago in the southernmost town on the South American Continent – Puerto Williams, Chile. He had just completed his Master of Science in Recreation. (Wish my school had that major) Seems Jeremy, Mare and I share a passion for extremes. Originally from New Jersey, he hadn’t even visited Nome before accepting the position of Assistant Director of Recreation.

“I’ve been here three and one-half years now. He smiles. “I love it.”

“What do you like best?” Mare asks.

“My job is awesome and I have gotten involved in the community. It was the best thing I could have done on many levels.” He removes has hat and looks to be my son, if I had one.

“I never had good luck with the ladies in the lower 48, but here I am a catch. Of course, that is just because I don’t beat women up and I have a job.”

More laughter and drinks to our table, at the Husky Restaurant, which serves the best Japanese food in town.

Nome, Alaska: Three Roads to Roam

Get to Nome by air, sea, or Iditarod – the 1100 mile dogsled race that begins in Anchorage. Mare and I take the slow ferry to Juneau, a pleasant ride through the inside passage and past whales.

The following day, two flights later we will land in Nome. For now, we cannot wait for the luxury of a hotel room. Not so fast…The Alaskan Hotel in Juneau proves a flophouse for junkies and alcoholics.

“Come look at my brother,” says a long-haired,bearded man with a strong accent. He stands on the paisley lined hallway and opens the door to a dingy room. I spot two young guys without shirts, lying perpendicular on a small bed, snoring.

“Nice, are you from Russia?” What else can I say?

“No, Poland!” He grabs one of many half-full bottles of vodka strewn about the room amidst some small pipes. ”Nastrovia!” He gulps from the bottle and tries to hand it to me. ”No thanks.” I continue down the hallway to the shared bathroom.

Drunks revel outside our window and in adjacent rooms until three o’clock in the morning. My pillow is as flat as a communion  wafer. Mare tries to keep the blankets away from her face. Suddenly we miss our primitive cabin in the woods.

The airplane seats begin at aisle 16…with a wall dividing the front of the plane for cargo and the back for passengers. We soar above over massive glaciers that snake around mountains like frozen rivers.

We find our elusive luxury at the Aurora Inn in Nome. Splurge! Sit on a couch, after living for four months on a picnic table and plastic chairs…plop on a big bed with fluffy pillows…got some catching up to do. We moan in ecstasy and haven’t even gone into the bedroom yet. Outside of our bay window, clouds and rain enhance the whitecaps of a black-green Bering Sea. We break into a celebratory dance. I can see Russia from my house…not really. Still, we cannot stop from staring at the sea.

We force ourselves to leave this comfort in search of food and drink. We roam around Nome and notice weather-beaten dwellings with evidence of sustenance living decorating the yards. Hunting, fishing and gold panning all require four-wheel drive vehicles.

Nome has few restaurants, but many smoke-filled bars. A number of natives from the three Eskimo cultural groups stagger down the streets in an alcoholic haze. We cop a pizza topped with reindeer, and a six-pack to bring back to our heavenly room. I mean, we have a kitchen, lights, and a flushing toilet to enjoy.

Rent a car in the morning and stock up on groceries, including a can of spam and a dozen eggs. Within five minutes, we bounce along the remote tundra road. The terrain amazes us, so different from trees and fiords. Seventy-four miles later, we reach the Eskimo Village of Teller, where the Inupiaq Community thrives on fishing. Salmon dries on wooden racks next to floatation vests that read, “Children don’t float. Please use one.”

We revel for reaching the end of the westernmost road on the North American Continent, only 12 miles from Russia’s Big Diomede Island.

The drive takes us back down the slippery silicone road where maroon, yellow and orange colors blanket the spongy tundra. Snow and ice will cover this carpet for the next nine months. Our expectations of spotting herds of Musk Oxen, Reindeer and Caribou will have to wait. 

We do, however, spot a skinned Musk Oxen, pummeled and picked apart by predators. We chase away the scavenging birds from the dead animal’s skull, which just happens to compliment a beautiful bouquet of tundra colors.

Life in Alaska: As Cyclical as Salmon

Catch salmon for fresh food.

Split stumps for firewood.

Taste real Alaska…well, maybe not the winter.

We see the furry seed of the fireweed climbing to the top of the stalk where it signifies the onset of winter. The nights grow black, and rains provide a small luxury in the form of clear-water mud puddles for washing hands and muddy ax handles.

Hoards of mushrooms bloom in celebration of this change in season. Some are poisonous, others hallucinogenic, and many safely edible. We know not the difference, so will remain happy with photos.

Our closest neighbors, Dale and Reenie, live one mile away. We become friends, and they will dog-sit Jack while we take an excursion to Nome, Alaska. But first, they allow us to observe how they sustenance fish.

This is real Alaska. Throw out a net and pole stretch the buoys into a curve that catches the current of the Chilkat River. Haul in the net each time a buoy bounces. Slice off the dorsal fin, to identify fish as sustenance in the event of a Fish & Game inspection, and toss out net again.

Then eat a fried spam sandwich, which Mare and I find a bit ironic. Catch all the fish you wish. Use the lowest of the food chain for dog food and crab bait, and keep the best of the catch for the freezer, smoker and canning to get through the cycle of winter.

Dale takes me out crabbing. The first pot we pull contains a creature that even  Dale cannot identify. Looks like a cross between an octopus and starfish. It ate all the bait. The next couple of pots contain thirty or so Dungeness crabs, but we have to toss them back because they are female. Dale tells me that sometimes somebody pulls your pots, steals your crabs, and replace them with a couple of cans of cold beer.

Our friend, Laurie, comes to town for a visit, wearing a sun dress and thongs. She quickly changes her clothing, and purchases a fleece vest. We do not tell her about all the mice in the cabin, until the next morning when she decides to check-in to a hotel.

She and Mare have a great time looking at the bears, who hunt for running salmon. When Mare and Laurie decide to hit Karaoke night, I opt-out for a solo evening with Jack, back at the cabin.

I sit on the cabin deck and hear the mating call of a moose. The sound makes me a little horny…perhaps the time to move on has come, or maybe I’m as cyclical as salmon.

No worries, we’re venturing  to the most western roads on the North American Continent – Nome, Alaska. Fate strikes…we know the assistant director of recreation in Nome. We met him, Jeremy, at the southern most town on the South American Continent in Puerto Williams, Chile. So, we got in touch and he will give some local advice on how to roam in Nome, where the Musk Oxen graze on the tundra. Stay tuned…

Chilkat State Park Camp Hosts: Life in a Fishbowl

Folks from around the world visit the glacier views from our cabin deck. Those who sign the register represent 21 different countries and 46 of the United States. During the past 3 months, Mare and I have chatted with over 3,000 people. Just yesterday a seven-foot-tall German man told me, “You’re the 3rd person today to ask me how tall I am.” He told me how easy it is for him to paint, and how he always gets good seats in theaters. I showed him my fresh fish filets marinating in olive oil, garlic, orange juice and a secret spice.

Curiously, many visitors find us interesting. We live in a fishbowl. They look into our windows and ask about our life stories. All we need to do is engage in some private activity, from brushing teeth to changing pants, (or you know what) and the slow crackle of gravel warns us of a visitor approaching in their rig. Sometimes we invite them into our cabin, others invite themselves.

Although we love to share information with all these folks, once in a while we need to get away. The only way to get away is to…well, get away. Luckily, two of our close friends are coming to visit tonight and help us escape from the fishbowl for a few days.

I pick up Mary Jo and Carey from the ferry. During the drive to our cabin, a moose spots us, setting a true Alaskan tone. Mary Jo and Carey spoil us with Stromboli sandwiches, good wine and great cheer.

Carey and I get a line wet the next day at the Chilkoot River. Mary Jo and Mare tour around the lake where eagles hunt. Look out…here come the bears.

This is their fishin’ hole. A mama grizzly reaches deep into the water, pulls up a salmon with her front paws, and chews on it from the head down, like an ice-cream cone.

She does this 3 times. As for us, we catch our sockeye filet from the store tonight, and grill the red flakey fish on the cabin deck. Magically, we get only a few visitors this evening, who we hardly even notice.

What’s a visit to Haines without a little bar-hopping? Fishermen tell us bear tales at the “Fogcutter Bar.”  I ask a man about where a fellow should shoot a charging bear, to settle a discussion we are having at the table.

“Shoot him in the shoulder to prevent him from swiping off your head,” he says. “Your bullet would just bounce off of his head. Shoot for the joints, to minimize the damage he’ll do.” The man winks. “Then cover him in leaves. Otherwise, you’ll have a shitload of fines and investigations to deal with.”

After a few margaritas at the Fort Seward Inn, we top off our final evening with a gourmet meal at the Halsingland Hotel.

Although we miss Mary Jo and Carey, we are never alone. Travelers from all over the world come to our deck to view the glaciers. Many of them find the fishbowl occupants fascinating.

Kathleen Lake and Million Dollar Falls: Camphosts go Camping

“I don’t think we need the sleeping bags,” Mare says. She had just lined our truck bed with foam, covered in blankets.

“Nah, we don’t need them,” I respond. ”Maybe we’ll camp one night and motel it for another.”

We load the truck with grooming gadgets and a laptop, in case we cop a motel. At a motel, we would recharge about seven batteries, as well as ourselves.

Genuine Yukon logs fuel the campfire. Mare, Jack the dog, (Now Yukon Jack) and me snuggle as close as possible without burning neither our clothing nor fur. These mosquitos must wear fleece vests, to be able to fly in ferocious numbers through this glacier-chilled air.

“I can’t believe that we didn’t bring the sleeping bags.” Mare widens her eyes at me. “What’s wrong with us?” [Cabin Fever?]

“I know. I mean, we’re camping…what else are sleeping bags for?  ” I laugh. “You know, we have no utensils either, but we got two cans of Stag super hot chili and a pound of bacon.”

Listen to the quiet. Footsteps approach. A man holds a ticket in his hand. I think that he wants to ask me a question. He continues past…hey, today I’m not a camphost.

The only sound that breaks our silence comes from crackling wood in the campfire. The fire puts us in a daze. We luxuriate in the quiet, away from people. After a growler of Haines Brewery’s finest, we’ll munch on Chile and use Doritos for forks.

Back at our camphost cabin in Chilkat State Park, we are never able to leave without forgetting something. We need to take full advantage of every trip to town. For instance, maybe Mare will forget a towel for the coin-operated shower, or I’ll forget to buy ice for the cooler in the event I catch a fish. Somehow, though, we learn to live to without the things we forget. Mare emerges from the shower and dries with a dirty shirt. I fill the cooler with cold river water to keep my fish fresh.

Kluane National Park, where we camp, consists of the World’s largest non-polar ice fields. Our two blankets, Yukon Jack, and body heat hold us warm throughout the rainy night. Oh, though, to crawl out into the cold dark universe to take a piss at night proves that a person does whatever is necessary. (Sorry to our Phoenix friends, who are sweltering in the heat – wish you could chill with us).

Yukon Jack dives for rocks and retrieves sticks from Kathleen Lake. Back at the campground, he shivers from the glacier water. We load up the truck, and head out. Hell with a motel. This is too much fun. We are recharged. Forget those batteries. We’re going to move camp near the river at Million Dollar Falls.

Along the way, we climb a short trial up a Rock Glacier. Waves of rocks (instead of water) slowly slide down that mountain as if made of ice. Although this rock glacier is inactive, as far as glacier go, we pull panoramic views of Dezadeash Lake.

Two grizzly bears cross the Haines Highway near the turn-off to Million Dollar Falls. One of them scratches himself like a dog. Those claws make darn good “itchers” I’ll bet.

Yukon Jack lies on his bed next to the raging Takhanne River while I write this. Mare takes photos of Million Dollar Falls. Soon, I build a fire and we cook one-pound of bacon in a pan on top of it.

We get to snuggle in the truck, the three of us. The rain and roaring river serenade us to slumber. Tomorrow, we’ll shower for twelve quarters for three minutes. All of our batteries still need recharged. We, on the other hand, do not. 

Bears, Fairs and Fishing in Haines, Alaska

I cast into the Chilkoot River. My lure tumbles downstream. I reel it in. Cast again. On and on, until I happen to look behind. Eight feet away, mama grizzly walks with her two cubs trailing along the shore…towards me. I almost do in my pants that thing that bears do in the woods. Instead, I back away, up a hill of boulders, trying not to turn my back to the bears. I watch them from on top of the bridge.

A cub picks up my tackle box (actually, Brother John’s box) and tosses it into the river. The other cub retrieves it, sniffs it, and sends it back on shore. I cannot believe that it did not open up and spill tackle. Usually, all I have to do is look at it and hooks spill out. The bears leave. I fish again. Reality strikes…I get skunked this day.

The next day, Mare and Jack come along. Mare gets photos of the bears, and I don’t get squat. Three days of fishing without a bite…so, let’s go to the Southeast Alaska State Fair. The Ferris wheel operator had eaten lunch on our cabin deck yesterday. He said that the wheel had no brakes. ”It’s hydraulic, so we just shut it off to stop,” he says. “We get close enough for folks to jump down.” Mare and I decide to skip the Ferris wheel this year.

We enjoy a craft brew from the Haines Brewery before heading to the animal barn. There, we witness a few bunny rabbits, two miniature horses, (One named Marley who bites) and two Alpacas. I love Alpacas…make mine medium rare. We wondered what sort of livestock hangs in Southeast Alaska?

Bizarre and entertaining, “Flamebouyant,” from Portland, Oregon perform yearly at the “Burning Man” festival in Nevada’s Black Rock Desert. Tickets this year sold out for the first time in the event’s 25 year history. Today, “Flamebouyant” wows the fair crowd with circus gymnastics on stilts. They abuse a man/monkey/clown that runs below on a leash, avoiding twirling torches.

Fiddle music, sitar concerts, and squeezebox folk tunes serenade us on the porch of the Klondike Restaurant, where we once again devour the best pizza of our lives. On the main stage the tunes from “.357 String Band” from Milwaukee include “punk rockabilly,” “unforgiving gospel,” and fatalistic murder ballads. Perhaps they forge a new version of mad-young-white-boy-music.

Watch out for the ax throwing competition. The last contestant destroyed the entire target. Log climbing and fish-netting repair competitions hold attention in different venues. Alas, we’re all faired-out. Time to go home and rest up before another day on the Chilkoot River.

This day at the fishing hole, some tourists from up on the bridge warn me of grizzly bears coming. I move up to the bridge and wait for them to pass, this time holding the tackle box.

I have learned to fish with my head on a barrel swivel, which pays off an hour later. Another bear family, this time a mamma grizzly with 3 cubs, chase me away and delays my fishing. I am irritated, but this is their fishing hole, not mine. Soon, I’m casting into the river. Wham! I hook the largest steelhead trout I’ve ever seen…24 inches long. We finally have fresh fish for dinner. 

Fireweed Summer in Haines, Alaska

Epilobium angustifolium…not a “Three Stooges” quote, but a complex name for a simple plant - Fireweed. The edible leaves of this wildflower rejuvenate rapidly after a fire. Flowers bloom from the bottom and signify the end of summer when they reach the top.

So…we are are half-way through our Camp Host tour. More accurately, we serve as “Glacier Viewing Hosts,” since our 35 primitive campsites rarely house more than 10 campers nightly. We appreciate the rough road which discourages RV’s from flocking here.

How has this exodus into the remote changed us thus far, being without comforts, friends or routines?

I would rather fish than shower and do not bring beer along. I’d rather chat with strangers about the beauty of nature than listen to politics. I almost get aroused when spotting a sink with running water. I’m going fishing at four o’clock tomorrow morning, two-hours prior to high tide, instead of getting on the internet.

Jack the dog would rather dunk his head underwater in search of rocks and logs, than bark at the mail carrier, whom I am sure he has forgotten about. He chases squirrels instead of cats. He almost comes when we call. He does not pass gas nearly as much as he used to, but has had two bouts of the runs thanks to treasures he consumes along the shore.

Mare would rather stay in the cabin and greet world travelers with an enthusiastic welcome, than wash her hair. She spends hours taking photos of the same type of tree, or flower or rock formation often testing Jack’s and my patience. Mare rejoices at the promise of new outhouses coming soon, and reminds Jack and I to stay in the present moment. 

We have a day off to explore the Mosquito Lake area, where those single-rocket choppers live-up to the lake’s name. The crisp air in the woods invites a picnic. Eat fast…the hoards of helicopters soon find us within their radar. I do some fishing. Jack chases some rocks and logs. Mare sits on the tailgate watching us with a smile.

Excitement back at the cabin…here come the new outhouses!

These 50,000 pound behemoths cost $50,000 apiece. They travel by barge from Oregon. A cast of cement they are…from floors to walls and formed “shake” rooftops. Everything is made from cement except for the doors and plastic vent pipes. Bouncing down a rustic road, a crane lifts the human waste collectors and precisely places them on top of a cement tank. The crane operator lets her down slowly, careful to drop the weight on a seal of tar atop the tank, meant to keep odors from escaping.

We sit on the deck. Visitors are gone and outhouses in place. We enjoy a nightcap in the midnight sunlight of eleven o’clock. Jack snores at our feet…we enjoy the moment and do not worry about summer’s end.

Atlin Arts & Music Festival

Young boys gather around a picnic table. Two large plastic bottles of Vodka on the tabletop hold their gaze…until they spot Mare and Jack and I backing-up the pickup truck about three feet away from their tent. A sign with an arrow pointing south reads, “Quiet Campground.” A sign with an arrow pointing the other direction reads, “Not So Quiet Campground.” We slip into the ambiguous border, like back in time when the smoking section on a commercial airplane ended at aisle eighteen.

“This place is already full,” a man camping on the other side of us says. He’s about my age, but camping with a group of young children. I wonder how he will deal with the obscenities spewing from the young boys next door. The man continues, “You should be okay in that spot. Just leave room for folks to walk through.” He points to a strip of mowed grass that separates a patch of weeds from another crowded campground, perhaps the quiet one?

Sixty-miles off of the Alcan Highway, a twisty gravel road with constant summertime construction leads to Atlin, British Columbia. The lone road also leads back out. This town of 400 population thrived during the gold rush of 1898. Now, it survives as a destination point that sits along the largest natural lake in British Columbia, Canada.

The Atlin Arts & Music Festival is back, after a one-year absence. (Annual event since 2003) Pets are strongly discouraged, and no amplified music will be permitted in the campgrounds. Acoustic jams are okay…ahem, heavy metal blares from the boys next to us, while dogs roam freely.

We lock Jack the dog in the back, (where we will also sleep for the next two nights) and head for the music venue. A band called, “Home Sweet Home” from Whitehorse, Yukon performs fiddle music with two fiddlers and one guitarist. Nice. Next up is “Headwater” who strum fiddles, acoustic bass and ukeleles for a toe-tapping crowd. This band earns a billing in the program as “a fine, old-fashioned acoustic quartet from Vancouver who works their asses off.”

Back at not-so-quiet-camp we find our coach hemmed-in…behind us two women (one whom I recognize from a laundromat in Haines) pitch a tent which blocks the “walk-through.” In front of us a man finishes building a picnic table with a chain saw. He walks toward me. “Hello, I’m Wally.” We shake hands. He resembles Crocodile Dundee with a hat and no shirt. 

“Ron, you and Marilynn are cool neighbors.” He grabs two beers from the cooler and hands them  to us. ”Don’t make any plans for dinner tomorrow night. I’m cooking a sockeye on genuine Yukon logs.” I thank him. He talks as he pitches his tent. “The first time I tried to set up this tent I was at a Grateful Dead concert in Buffalo. I did some acid and couldn’t figure it out, so ended up using it as a sleeping bag.”

The nineteen-year-olds next to us get me high. Soon, Mare and Jack and I sit back and absorb the atmosphere. Wally yells from his chair, “Ron! Hey Ron, make sure to eat some sockeye with me tomorrow.” I thow him a thumbs-up.

The nineteen-year-olds now drink Rum from the bottle and a few women join them. They get me high again. One guy climbs under the truck cap and cuddles with Jack and Mare, who is not quite sure what to make of it. A light darkness descends.

Before I know it, I am shirtless and nineteen-year-olds line up to take turns punching my stomach. (Abs of flab become abs of steel after a buzz) Thankfully, they know not the art of throwing a punch, and they are drunk. They get me high. I have to go to bed. Still, they stick their heads into the back of our truck. “We want to be cool like you guys when we get old.” I hand them my notepad and tell them to write something that I can read in the morning. When I looked at it later, all they did was draw penises and Chinese Dragons swallowing babies.

We wake to the sound of nineteen-year-olds retching. They look as horrible as they feel. On the other hand, I feel better than I deserve. Mare and I try our best to avoid the horrendous, (4) outhouses on the crowded grounds. Mare wins that battle.

After some coffee and scrambled eggs, we shoe to the venue and witness “Laughing Yoga.”Yes, widen your mouth, stick out your tongue as far as you can, and laugh powerfully from deep within your belly. Do this for fifteen minutes.

Back at camp, we sit behind the truck where weeds smell like puke. ”Ron!” Wally yells. “Sockeye at six o’clock.” He waves us over for a beer.

I like the CD you’re playing, Wally.”

He pulls it from the player. “It’s your’s. Keep it.”

“I didn’t mean”…he interrupts.”No, you love it more than I do.” Wally tells us a story about his best friend. A woman liked his friend’s shirt, so the friend took it off and asked her to trade shirts. She said that her shirt only cost about five bucks. His was crafted while he was in Tibet. He gave her the shirt because she loved it more than he did. “Ron, I don’t want to get too attached to material things.”

Mare, Jack and I walk to the waters of Atlin Lake. Jack dunks under and retrieves rocks, while Mare and I share beers with two bush pilots. They tell stories of falling through thin ice and into the Yukon river, lucky to survive. One pilot is from Arizona. 

Soon, we eat sockeye with Wally and about fifteen other people. Shawn, his camping buddy, rips apart cardboard from a 12-pack, and makes plates and utensils with it. Elbow macaroni in tomato sauce compliments the dish, along with desert brownies brought by others. We bring wine. What a great dinner. What awesome folks. This crowded get-along-well-with-others spews love, like a Canadian Woodstock.

Back at the music venue, jazzy, energetic trumpets, accordions and guitars from “Maria in the Shower” blow us away. One musician plays accordion with one hand, and holds a trumpet to his lips with the other. Afterwards, we sit cross-legged in the front row where Tom Jackson incites our tears with his touching lyrics and baritone, country voice.

Wally appears in the beer garden. I notice that he actually owns a shirt. We hug like long, lost friends. He wants to buy us a beer, but we are worn and want to head back. A group of folks party the entire night at Wally’s site, but Wally is in bed, like us. We wake again in the morning to the sound of nineteen-year-olds retching. Time to hit the road, so we snake the truck through the tents. However, I could not bear to leave before placing my business card on Wally’s windshield.

A woman from the all-night party group sticks her head in Mare’s window. “Are you okay? Did we bother you too much last night?”

“No, not at all.” I grab her hand and kiss the top of it. Then I become aware that she had just emerged from the outhouse.

Independence Day in Haines, Alaska

We always wanted to be in a parade

Alaska Jack jumps into the back of Ranger Preston’s pick-up truck. Preston dresses in full gear. Mare, Shannon, Jenny and her dog Quark, join Jack and I in the back. Jordan stands off to the side. Preston turns on the sirens and police lights. We’re off…riding through Haines’s main streets in our Alaska State Parks float, for the 4th of July parade. We throw candy to children, dogs, and adults who line the streets.  I wing some hard pieces of candy at a few cops.

After the parade, we sit in the park and eat grilled hamburgers and brats. When is the last time you sat on the park grass, relaxed, and ate amongst a friendly crowd? We have nowhere special to go. Wait a minute…the mud-volleyball tournament begins.  We walk through bubbles, courtesy of Mr. Bubbles from Sesame Street, who now resides in Haines. Those kids make enough  bubbles to wake Lawrence Welk.

A young man stomps away from the “Nail and Spike Hammering Competition.” He looks at me with a scowl. “Those damn Alaskan women win every year.”

We take Jack back to the cabin. The fireworks do not begin until after eleven o’clock, when it sort of gets dark. Mare and I decide to make our own fireworks.

I go fishing the next morning. Like a gambler in Vegas, I keep casting…one more time…okay, a few more times…that big one is due to hit me. I catch nothing. This day, the sockeye wins. Or, should I say that the house wins? The Chilkoot river stole another lure from me. So…we eat pizza tonight. The Klondike restaurant at the southeast Alaska fairgrounds, places us back into good luck. Steve, the chef, gives us some sockeye belly meat sautéed in curry. He has just enough sockeye left to substitute it in place of bacon, topping our pesto and sliced potato pizza.

Load-up the truck pretty mama, because we’re going camping…yes, we get a week-end get-a-way.  Driving along the Haines Highway, we spot moose, eagles, bears, foxes and a wolf. Mountains, hills and lakes surround this drive known locally as “The Golden Circle.”

We cop a motel room in Whitehorse, Yukon. Mare takes advantage of the grooming opportunities. This marks her first grooming in two months! Wow…electricity and running water prove to be ”Conde Nest” style. After hours of luxuriating, like a wolf after a rain, we take who is now transformed into “Yukon Jack,” on a walk along the Yukon river. Then, we dine at the ”Klondike Rib and Salmon Bake” where barbecue ribs and baked halibut throw us into hedonism.

Three beds sit in our room…Jack sleeps on one, Mare on another, and me on the other. The television plays, “Criminal Minds,” making feel like we’re back in Phoenix. Stay tuned folks…we’re on our way to Atlin, BC…for a weekend music festival where we will sleep in the back of our truck for this Canadian-style, Woodstock experience.

Dog Days in Haines, Alaska

Mare on top of Mt. Riley overlooking the inlets and the town of Haines

Bill and Sandy from Alabama stomp on our deck at seven o’clock in the morning. Sandy places French-pressed coffee on the picnic table, as they prepare to bring us breakfast. (I thought that it was the beer talking last night).

Soon, Mare and I sit in their Mercedes RV and slurp pancakes drenched in my homemade spruce tip syrup. I worry about our first overnight guest, Jill, who may wake in the loft to find a deserted cabin in the remote…like a weird dream.

I insist on going fishing. It’s a rainy day…a “Hainey” day. Despite a disapproving glare from Mare, who went hiking up Mt. Riley with Jill (www.pacificnwseasons.blogspot.com) yesterday in the sun, while I whacked weeds, I simply have to go.  So what if my dog, Alaska Jack, is going on his 5th straight day of horrible diarrhea and Haines has no veterinarian? We’ll call the closest vet, in Juneau.

“Did he eat anything out of the normal?” the Juneau Vet asks.

“Well, some duck pate and raw fish heads.” Mare hears the Vet laughing.

“I’ve never heard of that combination before,” he says. “Is there blood in his stool?”

She looks at me. “Yes, a little.”

“You’d better bring him in, the blood concerns me” he says. “It could be a blockage. The cheapest and fastest way to do this is to put him in a kennel and fly him to Juneau. We will pick him up, give treatment, and send him back.”

Ron is on FIRE!

“Take me down to the fishin’ hole,” I say. ”Drop me off, and you can show Jill around Chilkoot Lake. Pick me up on the way back and I’ll deal with Alaska Jack.”

They leave. I cast. I cast again. “Fish on!”

“I’ll go get my net,” a fellow fisherman says with a French accent.

I drag a 10 pound sockeye ashore, grab him by the gills, pull out my pixie with needle-nose pliers, and knock him out with a rock. By the time French fisherman comes with a net, I’m gutting sockeye in the stream. Then I tie an old rope around a rock, and use it as a stringer to keep sockeye fresh in the cold water, and out of scent of grizzly bears. Onlookers admire the catch. They think that I’m an expert. They should have seen Mare, Alaska Jack and I last week, chasing my first ever sockeye around on the shore, like the “Three Stooges.” Fishing is luck…pure luck.

Mare and Jack and Jill come down the hill and cannot believe the sockeye. My swollen ego barely fits into the truck cab. After another filet job, we will dine of fresh sockeye tonight…impress our guest.

Healthy Chile Rellenos at Mosey's Cantina

No lack of good eats around here. Last night, we dined on excellent mexican food. Yes, Haines has a mexican restaurant, “Mosey’s Cantina,” www.moseyscantina.com.  …but has no vet.

I simply cannot place Alaska Jack into a kennel and put him on a single prop plane to fly to Juneau and be handled by strangers. He’s been neither in a kennel nor a plane. The animal rescue center advises me that there are veterinarians in Whitehorse, Yukon, a five-hour drive. I make one more call to the Juneau vet to see if anything can give Jack some relief in the meanwhile.

“Try some Pepto-Bismal tabs and two raw egg whites,” he says. “It’s a Grandma remedy and I don’t know if it works.”

I separate raw egg yolks while sitting on the truck’s tailgate. Man, I’m filthy, but got a fish in the cooler!

The Fireweed is begining to bloom

The next morning we bring Jill to Hotel Halsingland www.halsingland-hotel.com for her final night’s stay in Haines. Yes, I get to drive Jack and Jill up the hill, to fetch a…hotel room.

Jack, who is on his 6th day of diarrhea, rides with me to Whitehorse, of course, where crowds celebrate “Canada Day.” The vet prescribes antibiotic and pro-biotic medication, along with a diet of white rice, after a 24-hour fasting period. Fine…time to crawl through congested traffic and stand in a long line at the liquor store.

Eventually, we find what could be the last vacant motel room in town. Jack has not started medication yet. We stroll along the Yukon River. In these parts, he is known as “Yukon Jack.” He squats along the way…amongst the strolling crowd. He pinches out a perfect Tootsie roll. I’m overjoyed. But geez…one more day, if I had waited one more day, we could have avoided this long trip. Perhaps Grandma’s remedy works.

Hold on…here comes a rent-a-cop. He holsters a portable credit card machine in place of a 9-millimeter hand gun. He fines me $200 on the spot. I don’t even try to explain why I have no doggie bags. I’m going back to our room to enjoy running water and electricity. Perhaps I’ll splurge on a hamburger and a few hundred beers tonight.

Jack is back!