A Lesson in Mechanics (at 30 below)

This Saturday started out very similar to most. David and I didn’t begin to stir until after the sun rose – in this case, 10 a.m. It was also very cold, per usual. This particular Saturday it was -31 degrees, according to the Mt. McKinley state bank sign. And like most Saturdays, we woke up with our stomachs rumbling.

There was a slight difference, however. Instead of opting for my cooking, David announced he wanted breakfast burritos. After a bit of back-and-forth, it was decided. He would drive down to the Just-A-Store at the bottom of the hill for some gas, then pick up some Lulu’s bagels and quiche.

A few minutes later, the phone rang.

“Jenny…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think you should go to the gym today, it’s more than -30 outside,” David’s voice informed me.

“No, I’m going no matter what. I want to go, so I’m going to go, I don’t care how cold it is. Don’t pressure me,” I responded.

And that was that.

“Ok, see ya’ in a few,” he replied, accepting defeat.

About five minutes later, there was another ring.

“Jenny, Blue won’t start.”

“What, are you sure?”

After much repeated questioning to an increasingly irritated husband, I hung up the phone, called a tow truck and bundled up to start my car. It seems after David had pumped his gas, the truck whirred and whined, but just wouldn’t fire up.

By the time I arrived twenty minutes later, an interesting sight greeted me. David’s truck, ‘Ol Blue, as it’s called, sat diagonally in between two gas pumps. Off to the right, a Sourdough Fuel 18-wheeler sat, abandoned.

There with David was its driver. The two had Blue’s hood popped, and the driver spoke with David emphatically, alternately touching something in the engine and gesturing to David. Amazingly enough, the truck driver had no gloves on his hands – just bare skin against the elements.

David huddled, gloved arms by his sides, shoulders hunched, nodding. I could tell from his stance he was freezing. Perhaps at this moment the beginning stage of frostbite was setting into his toes, which were nestled in L.L. Bean boots. (Which, by the way, may be sufficient for Maine, but not so much for the Arctic.)

The two continued to talk, their backs to me. I noticed then through my window a familiar black shape ambling along the ice. A raven stood next to my car and glanced into my window. His face was dusted with powdery snow, as if he’d just had a good romp on a nearby berm. He then decided to walk toward the action.

The raven plodded along, shifting his weight from the left to the right. At one point, his right leg shot out behind him, as he lost his balance on the slippery cement. I must admit that was the first time I saw a raven slip on the ice.

He stopped right behind David and the driver, glanced at them for a time, then wove in between the two gas pumps, behind Blue. It was there he stopped to rest.

And then it happened.

A massive plume of smoke rushed out from behind the truck, filling the air with a black and gray cloud. I noticed the raven rise like a phoenix from the ashes, furiously flapping his wings toward freedom, and oxygen.

David and the driver exchanged a few more words, a hearty handshake, and David hurried over to the car.

“Let me in!” he said, barely even looking at me. He crouched in front of the heaters, working to regain the feeling in his precious digits.

A minute later, our new friend arrived back to David’s door, presented him with a bottle of Iso-Heet, and proceeded to explain to David how to use the substance. Seems the choke on Blue froze shut almost instantly after Dave turned off his truck, and this rubbing alcohol of sorts would help prevent the phenomenon.

While he spoke, the man rested his arm casually on the opened door, holding onto the ice-coated metal with, once again, his bare hands. It hurt me to look at, bringing back unpleasant memories of ungloved hands that must be peeled off doorknobs and extension cords.

As David’s helper drove off, we jotted down his license plate number, vowing to call the fuel company and get his name, so we could send him a thank you. All the while, we shook our heads, both in gratitude, and disbelief in the man’s ability to handle the extreme temperatures.

It seems the two of us will never acclimate.

The Husky and the Chihuahuas

I had just set out on a short walk to get the mail with the dogs. I thought they could go for a nice walk – although their “walk” consisted of them peeking their heads out of the top of my down jacket – snow and temperatures limiting their exposure. My arm was already burning from holding up both of them.

We hadn’t gotten very far when another tenant, a young guy with long hair wearing a knit sweater approached me. “Hey, have you seen a black and white husky running around?” he called. “My sled dog hopped out of the carport when I came out to the car,” he explained further.

I told him I hadn’t, but that if I did, I’d bring it to him. “Are you headed to look for her now?” He nodded, thanked me, then hopped in his beat up red truck complete with snug top.

I walked on, while the neighbor slowly drove through the complex. Suddenly, a large furry shape sprinted spastically in front of me, then made a beeline for us. Two bright blue eyes jumped up at me excitedly while Courage and Doggy growled and snarled from their perch at my zipper.

To my left, a female unloaded her school age son and German shepherd. “Is that your dog?” I called to her, as the husky set its sights on her apartment.

She didn’t answer me – instead, full of agitation, she addressed the situation with the stray, which was now up on her doorstep behind her son, ready to burst into her apartment.

“Anthony, go inside and shut the door,” she said firmly, almost afraid. Her own German shepherd reared up on the leash, looking intently at my dogs.

“Do you want me to get that dog,” I called again, since I had now firmly established it wasn’t hers.

“Well, it’s not mine,” she called, rudely.

“The guy over there is looking for it,” I responded. She walked briskly with her dog toward the woods, not answering.

Absent of neighborly good graces, I went ahead to get the husky myself. With my left hand supporting both Courage and Doggy in my jacket, I looped my right hand under the husky’s color and walked, err, was dragged along behind the husky.

I could see the headlights of her owner’s car up ahead, and wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold on. I walked out into the middle of the drive so he could see me, and within seconds, my neighbor had pulled up, jumped out of the car, knelt on the ground and grasped the husky by her fur ruff, cooing and cawing all the while.

“Rexy, silly girl, yes, I love you Rexy,” he called, along with other indistinguishable sounds.

It was a happy reunion, and pleased with my good deed for the day, I set off to the mailboxes, the neighbor relaying his many thanks.

I found humor in the fact that I had apprehended an Alaskan sled dog, an icon of the far north, with one hand, and supported two Chihuahuas, natives of Mexico, with the other. It was ironic in a humorous and albeit cheesy way.

The Raven and the Trash

November 11, 2009

The trash bags had been on the car since last night, untouched. I often put them there, so that way I would be forced to take them to the dumpster the next day. A soft blanket of snow had formed on the top of them, making it look as if two giant snowballs had been lodged onto the Pathfinder’s roof.

It was now morning, and I had just finished my workout. Courage and I walked to the front door, so I could let him out for his customary bathrooming time, when I saw the violator. Perched on the top of the seemingly inconspicuous trash was the raven. He tore at the bags with his black beak, happy with his find.

Suddenly, he looked up, aware of my presence through the window. He peered in at me with beady eyes, and then went back to his business. I went to the door, rapped on the wooden frame, and off he flew. I chuckled, and had a sneaking feeling he’d be back.

Although I had no idea just how soon.

Less than a minute later, I passed the window once again, and there stood my friend, happily shredding the plastic. I noticed Fred Meyer bags and my foam Zales watch holder now littered the snow beside my car. The trash bags appeared now as fish netting, adorned with gaping holes.

This time called for a bit more aggressive behavior. So instead of going outside myself (who wants to when it’s -10?), I set Doggy, my faithful Chihuahua, on him. He raced out to the patio, barking and growling. Luckily, it did the trick.

Later, when I told David this, he asked me, “Why would you do that? That raven is bigger than Doggy!” Hmm, he did have a point. It was then I remembered the shocking tale I had heard two winters ago about the misfortune of a baby reindeer left alone from its mother. The ravens surrounded it, pecked out its eyes, then killed it, or so the story goes. I then imagined the raven with Doggy clutched in its talons, taking to the air, Doggy nipping at its legs as they went.

If I didn’t like ravens so much, I would have been mad. Now, for those of you who aren’t familiar with ravens, well, I’ll describe them to you. For you Texans reading, ravens are like giant versions of those pesky grackles, the little black birds which fill parking lots and line buildings and phone wires.

In Northwest folklore, ravens are known as tricksters, and in reality, live up to their title. They are opportunistic, often eating entire pizzas out of their abandoned boxes (as observed this Saturday at the parking lot of Kodiak’s, the local country bar). They are also mischievous, imitating sounds they hear and confusing ignorant passersby. They are also extremely intelligent, the utmost in avian survivalists.

Well, back to the story. At this point I still had not walked outside myself, and I had a suspicion that as long as those bags were left on the car, the raven was not leaving. I envisioned the mess that would ensue. Sometimes, outside of Barnes & Noble, if we don’t close the dumpsters entirely, the ravens wreak havoc on our trash. Mocha, napkins and raven prints line the snow outside the receiving door.

I checked the window again, and sure enough, the raven came back. This time, I ran outside, opened the gate, and grabbed the bags and set them on the ground beside the car. It was only when I reached the hood of the car that the raven flew off. He looked at me as if to say, “What do you want?”

As I got ready for work, I would check through the window to see if my friend had figured out the new location of his find. I noticed him flying near the phone lines, a large yellow object in his beak.

From that point on, the only evidence of my struggle with the raven were small pieces of trash, and the prints of my Nikes leading up to the side of the car. Upon closer inspection, one could notice little prints leading up to the back of the car. The v-shaped prints showed no detour, no other route – a sign the raven knew exactly where he was headed all along.

Husky in the Hospital

The hospital pharmacy was crowded, to say the least. There were about 12 people in line in front of me, and the numbers didn’t seem to be advancing at all. I was already annoyed, since this was the second eye drop prescription I had to get (I had waited in the ER for four hours on Sunday because of my pinkeye, and then proceeded to lose the drops two days later.) Lest the weepy, swollen eye return, I booked it to the pharmacy to take get my meds .  I was in an anxious mood, and didn’t sit – instead, I chose to stand.

 

Suddenly, I was jostled from behind, at thigh level. My first thought was that a child  was shoving past, but instead, I turned to see a large brown and white husky leaping onto some nearby sitting children. He proceeded to lick them all over their little faces and then tore off down the gleaming white hallways, into the belly of the Bassett Army Hospital.

 

None of us patients really seemed to react –  we all just laughed. But none of us tried to stop the dog, which was funny, given we were in a multi-million dollar, supposedly sanitary hospital environment.

 

Within a couple minutes, an announcement bellowed overhead. “Attention Bassett Army Hospital. Attention Hosptial.  Would the owner of a brown and white husky please come claim your dog at the front desk.”

 

Soon a sheepish looking woman clad in cross-country ski leggings and a fleece came running down the hallway. Her brown curls were wild behind her green head band.

 

I was actually on the phone during this entire episode with my friend Kara, and kept interrupting the conversation to laugh and update her on the shenanigans.

 

It’s not every day you go to the hospital to pick up a prescription and have a close up encounter with a wild sled dog on the loose.  Now that’s Classic Alaska.

Hungry Like the Wolf

 

The day started off so idealic. We had landed on Katmai Island less than an hour ago. We arrived via float plane, the pontoons skidding across the cerulean waters while the sun glinted off of nearby bears swimming in the lake.  

            My friend Kara and I had ventured out to this isolated spot in search of adventure – mainly, from the rush that comes from being in such close proximity to the gigantic Alaskan grizzly bears that inhabit this island.

After a bear management course, we stored our Slim Fast bars and gum in the nearby food cache and set off on the trail to the Brooks Falls viewing platforms, to watch the grizzlies congregate to feed on the salmon.

This was easier said than done.

First, we had to cross “the bridge.”

The bridge is actually a rickety wood walkway that somewhat resembles a jungle gangplank, but with locking gates at either side to help deter the curious griz. This bridge can sometimes take hours to be able to cross, depending on the whims of the nearby bears. It is quite common to see jams of 20 or so tourists/photographers/fisherman walking first toward the bridge, then backward, then back toward the bridge, as if they are lost in an ant farm and have lost all sense of direction.

After waiting about 5 minutes with a ranger, we actually had to retrace our steps back towards Brooks Camp in order to maintain the 50 yard distance as a grizzly meandered by, alternating his path from shore to water, shore to water.  Once the bridge area was once again grizzly-free, we were able to cross and then set off on the mile-long wooded trail to the falls.

We walked along on the shaded path, talking in a decibel a bit too high for a one-on-one conversation. This was on purpose, however, as we were traveling through woods laced with the tempermental creatures.

After a good 15 minutes, the door to the platform bridge was almost in sight. We then heard someone up ahead yell out to us, and immediately, I saw Kara turn, followed by a large, furry animal.

Immediately I remembered our instructions from “Bear Management.” The ranger’s voice echoed in my head. “If you see a bear, and you are on the trail, turn off the trail immediately and walk 50 yards into the woods to get out of its way.”

“Ok Kara, turn into the woods, I’m going to the right,” I called out, turning off with steady, deliberate movements.

“Jennnnnny,” I hear her whine. “It’s not a bear. It’s a wolf.”

I look back, and sure enough, there was a gray wolf. Our new friend then began to follow Kara off the trail and into the woods. He walked just a couple feet behind her, and easily stood at waist level.

“It’s ok,” I yell to her. “I can see you – now turn right again and head back to the trail.”

Just as I step back onto the trail l I am intercepted by our wild canine friend.  Now how can he be in two places at once?,I  think to myself.  I swore he was right behind Kara. He takes a curious look at me as I head back to the deep ferns. He then decides Kara is more interesting and once again takes to stalking her.

At this point Kara is getting more and more bothered by it all, but continued to walk in her path, turning once again to the trail as she continually trilled  “La,La,,La,La,” to no specific tune whatsoever.

I took that moment to glance back, and sure enough, there was the wolf, following Kara, practically in the manner a stray dog follows a passerby.  

When we looped back to the trail for the third time, the wolf remained in his gait behind us. A couple walking in the other direction then saw us, and the gutsy woman jumped out and yelled at the wolf, scaring him off deep into the woods.

  Before she did so, however, she did manage to click a few frames of an image that will forever be burned into my memory: Kara, with her corn blond hair, sunglasses and baby pink t-shirt, walking along the trail. To her right, a wolf follows silently on large paws. The sun peeks in through the branches above him, shining light on the fur at the top of his head. He looks at her with curious eyes.

And we thought we came here to see bears . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Midnight Sun Run

“David, look at this commercial, I really think we should go,” I whined. The TV showed images of people adorned in eclectic costumes, partying on the grass in an open field.

 

“You know, just to see everything, not to actually do it,” I added.

 

“No way,” Dave responded, “it looks gay.”

 

That conversation took place two years ago, our first summer here. I was whining because I wanted to go to the Fairbanks Midnight Sun Run, an annual 10K run that is sort of like Halloween, the Fourth of July and St. Patrick’s Day all rolled into one.

 

I say Halloween because many of the 3,000 + runners wear costumes, and I say St. Patrick’s Day because the 10K run across Fairbanks is more like a parade – just a little more fast-paced and not as organized. And then it’s sort of like the Fourth of July because there’s boozing – lots and lots of boozing.

 

It’s meant to celebrate the Summer Solstice – our longest day, with nearly 21 hours of daylight. This is odd in and of itself, so of course, it’s only fitting the event be peculiar as well.

 

This summer, with all our husbands gone, some of us girls finally had our chance to go. Not only did my friend Nikki and I sign up and train for the run for more than two months, but we went adorned as the St. Pauli beer girls – in costumes lovingly made by Nikki herself.

 

At the last minute we added another runner to our costume clan, as well as Nikki’s nine month old daughter, Belle, complete in the costume and a stroller covered in ribbons and flowers.

 

At the University of Alaska Fairbanks Patty Center, the local radio station DJs announced the costume contest participants from the flatbed of an 18-wheeler. 

 

And oh, was it a sight to behold.

 

As we walked up to the area, we first noticed a male “runaway bride.” He had a bouquet, sporty running glasses and a dress with a plunging neckline that highlighted his dark chest hair.

 

And then there was Optimus Prime, the Starship Troopers, Smurfette, Steve Urkel, and more. Highlights included a mermaid with just shells to cover her chest, and a complexion a bit too pasty for the daring ensemble.  There was a Recycling Fairy, actually covered in a bell-shaped skirt of red Dixie cups, with a hairpiece of the plastic ring on coke 12 packs, as well as Octo-Mom, pushing a stroller with fourteen baby dolls and balloons to boot. How some of these people planned to run in these costumes is a mystery to me.

 

The most entertaining part of the hour before the race was actually all the people who wanted to take our photo. While in the past I have enjoyed asking local Fairbanksians if I may take their photo, for the first time, I was actually tourist fodder. One mother asked if I would be in a shot with her son. The teenage boy looked as if he could kill his mother. After two years could it be that I have taken on some of the quirks of this far north town?

 

The best part was the run. It wove 6.4 miles across town, and ended in our famous Pioneer Park, a quaint old-time replica of a log cabin village. As we ran, groups of people lined the streets to watch, gawk, drink and cheer us on. You could tell which parties had alcohol and which didn’t – there was a definite difference in the decibel level.

 

Some of the most memorable by-standers included: A guy pulling a keg in a wagon, labeled “Biggest Boozer – Dehydration Station.” My friend Nikki later informed me she watched a mom pushing a stroller grab a beer, put it in the cup holder on the top of the stroller and continue on with the race, sipping her libation.

 

As the race wore on, the parties grew larger, and much more fun. By mile four the block parties included hundreds of people. One party had two guys dressed as KISS, who would run out in the street, stick out their tongues, and cheer the runners on.

 

“Good job 1197!” they cheered to me, and I couldn’t help but laugh. I don’t think I have ever been so entertained on a run before.

 

My costume got lots of attention.

 

“Hey Snow White!” some would yell. “Look, it’s Heidi of the Mountain,” one parent said to their young daughter.

 

When a women finally got it right and yelled out, “Hey it’s the St. Pauli Beer Girl,” I put my fist in the air and yelled out a good “Woo-Hoo” in agreement.

 

Another group requested I retrieve some beers for them: “Hey Beer Girl, Go On a Beer Run for us!”

 

I must admit, I was quite tempted to duck out of the run for a quick drink, but, wanting to get a decent time, I stayed true to the course.

 

Despite the steady stream of rain, kids lined the streets with water guns and hoses, spraying unsuspecting runners. Banners with American flags hung over the street, and the smoke from hamburgers and hot dogs lingered in the damp air.

 

Kids held their hands out to us for high-fives.

 

By the time I reached Pioneer Park, there was a massive party waiting. Thousands of people lined the finish, where there was music, prizes and all sorts of buzz.

 

In the end, I finished in 1 hour and 5 minutes. Although everyone in our running clan took at least four minutes off the run, due to the jam at the start, complete with tourists standing along the side of the road, getting in our way, holding cameras up and almost getting trampled.

 

But, at the sake of sounding quite corny, it wasn’t so much the time as the fun of the run. That event was definitely Fairbanks at its finest. Should I ever return for a visit to this Northern town, I believe I will come once again and run under the late-night sun.

 

 

The Hand-Beaded Watch

I had just registered and gotten my t-shirt when I heard the announcement.

 

“And our grand prize at this year’s run is a lovely hand-beaded watch.”

 

“Hand-beaded,” I mused to myself. How interesting. I wondered what that watch would look like, because I was at a 5-K for Presbyterian Hospitality House, a non-profit which supports troubled youth, specifically Native Alaskan teens.

 

I imagined three chains of white beads with a square watch face in the middle – a unique and possibly stylish addition to my wardrobe. At that, I tucked my raffle ticket into my hoodie, patted it in place for good luck, and walked over to meet my friend Nikki and her darling 8-month old Bella (or Annabella, Belle or Tinker Belle – just depends on the mood, I guess).

 

We had a nice laugh about the hand-beaded watch, which the demure announcer continually mentioned. I had a sneaking feeling the actual thing looked nothing like the one I envisioned.

 

This 5K would be short, flat and fast. It was also quite scenic. We took off on a grassy knoll in front of the Patty Center, the gym at UAF. After crossing the roundabout we wound along on a sidewalk that took us past the large animal research station.

 

It was a clear day and one of my highlights to running in Alaska – there were reindeer families with lots of wobbly legged, charcoal-colored babies on my right, and to my left, a clear view of the Alaska Range, complete with chunks of white ice that looked as if plunked straight into the backdrop of a Bob Ross painting.

 

The funny part was after the race.

 

After finishing with two quite respectful times – 28 minutes and 31 minutes respectively, Nikki gulped her water and then suggested we set out Bella’s blanket for a nice sit.

 

The sun was out, there was a light wind at our backs, and most importantly, it was warm – it was only 10:30 or so in the morning, but already the temperature had risen to 60 degrees, which, with the dry air, feels like 70.

 

Before long, the raffle began. Unfortunately, I lost my raffle ticket. Apparently I tore it out and it fluttered to the ground when I yanked my keys out of my pocket whilst running.

 

“Don’t worry, if I win the beaded watch, I’ll give it to you,” Nikki said to me in jest.

 

Just then, the first raffle item, a lovely doll with a large splaying of plasticy yellow hair, was held up high for everyone to see.  The prizes that followed were even more  random:

Baseball caps which sported the logos of local car dealerships, a book on baby birds – there was even a photo frame for multiple spots to put photos of a newborn baby. I think the best prize was a $35 gift card to Chatanika Lodge, which ironically enough, a 7-year old girl claimed.

 

“She can’t even get in there!” Nikki said. After all, it is a bar with tree stumps for stools.

 

“Well, maybe she’ll give it to her parents,” I said.

 

“Maybe we should  get going,” Nikki said.

 

“No, we’ve come this far, we have to make it to the end,” I responded. “We have to  see if we win the beaded watch.”

 

Just then, Bella plopped her little diaper booty right onto my foot. She had definitely been amusing herself with our paper water cups and my bib, complete with safety pins (closed of course).

 

She reached for my keys just then, which I promptly put on the stroller, safely out of spit’s way. Her rice teething cookies were scattered across the blanket, but of course to them she paid no heed.

 

And finally, the grand prize: the beaded watch.

 

We listened carefully to the numbers. “671, we have 671,” the lady said. Nikki’s ticket said 695. 

 

Another moment then, “671, 671.”

 

The woman moved on, selecting another number from the plastic Tupperware.

 

“695, 695.”

 

Immediately, Nikki and I begin to crack up in laughter, and she headed over to claim her prize.

 

Finally, I could have an up close and personal look. The watch was actually a necklace, interwoven into an array of blue and white beads, in the native fashion.

 

It was quite pretty actually, but of course nothing either of us would wear – that is, not until our 70s.

 

Immediately Nikki put the watch/necklace around her neck, and it was then we were hit with a lovely idea. For every subsequent race we will run, Nikki will wear the hand-beaded watch for good luck.

 

And with that we picked up our blanket, along with the straying infant child, and headed off to our cars, the beads on the watch glistening in the sunlight all the way.