other miracles

I want to remember what life felt
like to be new. I want fresh and
fearless experience, unhindered by human
drama and dreary cynicism. I'm tired of
having the purity of my joy diluted by
the derision of others or my own jaded mind.

I want to experience the world as a child,
with wonder and awe. It is not enough
for me to stand under the sky and
bask in the warmth of the sun, I need to
marvel at these things and respect them
for the miracles that they are.

I should start by recognizing love in my
life in all of its forms and to stop taking
it for granted. There must be a way for
me to reach out with my purest forms
of love without being overwhelming or
insufferable, and I must find this balance.

Love, and joy, and other miracles,
so elusive these days. Or perhaps just without
their proper pallette, unable to color
the world the way I dream I could.

James, gym, Jimi

An interesting phenomena has occurred here in Talkeetna. For whatever reason, everyone here calls me James. I am not opposed to this. In fact, when most people meet me and ask me what I would like to be called I tell them that James or Jim are equally fine. Back home almost everyone calls me Jim. A few people used James, the more formal, full name, on occasion, and there's even a guy I know who calls me Seamus. The only variation of my name that I do not offer to others is Jimmy. Most people might think that I don't like going by this name, but that's not the truth. Actually, the story is that while growing up the only people who called me Jimmy were my family, and when someone that isn't family refers to me as that (not including karaoke aliases) it always makes me feel like I'm being treated or spoken to like a little kid. This is not a hard and fast rule, because some old timers use Jimmy as a part of natural speech. My name was more popular in the past than it is now, so Jimmy was a very common nickname. But when James started making its appearance in my life, roughly six to ten years ago, I almost fought it. It seemed too formal, not at all me. But the more I heard it, especially from a certain few women in my life, it took on a special air. Jim may be the guy behind the bar, but James is the name of kings. These days I really don't prefer one or the other. When I'm introduced, or when I'm asked my name, I just say whatever comes to mind. I've been wondering if leaning towards one or the other is some indication of how informal I want my relationship with each person to become. I'm not sure, and it probably doesn't matter anyway, but it's something that I've wondered lately and I doubt I'll ever really know.

          ~~~~~          ~~~~~          ~~~~~          ~~~~~          ~~~~~

Every month I have ten dollars deducted from my bank account to keep my Gold's Gym membership open. I joined about five months before I came to Alaska, and this little maintenance fee keeps my account active so I don't have to re-join when I get back. I still manage to keep the fantasy of getting in shape alive, and I pay a steep price for it. The membership is about sixty a month regularly, and that includes my access to the boxing equipment and classes. For as much fun as I used to have in my Krav Maga class, I thought that the access to all the boxing, MMA, and kickboxing stuff they offer at Gold's would really keep me interested and going in. It didn't really help. I was working out, but there just wasn't the same camaraderie or good times at Gold's. Maybe when I head home I should try again, give it more time, but I miss the ass-kickery that went on almost nightly in Krav. Coming up here, I knew that there wasn't going to be any fancy gym around, or even simple weights or who knows what kind of place to do anything. I made a conscious choice to go very far back to basics and do strictly body weight exercises while working in kettlebells as often as my body would allow. Well, I was doing really well for about three weeks and now, nothing. There was no real reason, either, I just stopped. I lost all interest in exercise. I haven't even been hiking in weeks now (although that probably has more to do with the insane amounts of rain that have been falling). For some reason I am not able to stay motivated towards these things, even though I finally have the time and the space. It is like life called bullshit on my grand plans, and I don't even have a witty response. The sad part is, I do hate the way I look, and especially the way I feel about my health and physical fitness. Weight loss is one thing, and it would be great, but I just want to FEEL good and have some energy from day to day. The circumstance is different here, but not the result. I need to take better care of myself.

          ~~~~~          ~~~~~          ~~~~~          ~~~~~          ~~~~~

Somewhat to that end, I have recommitted myself to the undying love of my life. If I am to be healed, it will not be from traveling, or from the mountain, or the strange and sometimes fascinating experiences of my summer away, it will be from the one thing that has always healed me. The sun that always shines on my soul: music. I left work one day last week with a heavy heart and a mind full of rage. It was a shite day to cap off a few in a row, and things were being done at my job that seemed almost specifically designed to mess with me. By the time I finally got to leave I was at my boiling point. I decided that instead of going right home to stew I would head up to the highway where the supermarket and gas station are and get some fuel, some air in my tires, and a few groceries. This trip is about 12 miles, and I thought it might be good for me. Well I was very right, because the goddess Minerva was smiling on me and as soon as I hit the road my iPod started belting Jimi Hendrix out through my speakers as loud as I could take it. My temper calmed, my mind was put at ease, it even seemed as though the sun was fighting through the clouds to make an appearance. By the time Machine Gun came on it was like an entirely different day. Music has always had the ability to alter my moods. Usually it happens on days when I'm already up, and the right song comes on and I'm taken to a whole different plane of existence. But when you're down it can be even more important to have those sounds surround you and lift you back up. And if 6 turns out to be 9, I don't mind, I don't mind...

Jet Boats vs. ATVs - ATVs Win!

So, in the last two weeks since I braced this space to become my whiny headspace clearinghouse, I have worked and played and worked some more, but suffered no bouts of existential angst and had no real problems to vent. Truth is, it's just plain ol' crazy what you can get used to. I am at the point now where I am closer to leaving than I am to my arrival here. Summer is half past, and I'm settled into the groove of life, the way we all do, when it just keeps coming at us. There have been ups and downs, to be sure, but the rest is just life.

It's not that I didn't expect this to happen, I know from past forays into the weird (I'm looking at you, Army) that when you just take each day as it comes you eventually just develop routines and all of a sudden it's not weird anymore. I just figured that it would have been something that I noticed, like a definitive moment in my workaday life, where I recognized how adept I am at being a temporary Talkeetnan. It actually kinda whispered past. Perhaps it was Wednesday night, when I was suffering from an extremely rare (for me) bout of insomnia. As I lay awake, re- and de- composing letters to friends in my head, imagining the pub that I will one day open, and trying to figure out what I'm going to do when I get back to the Jerz, maybe that was the night that I transformed from a guy who wasn't sure that he was gonna last here to a guy who has a full time job, a place of his own, good friends and neighbors, and a fairly decent social life. I can't really say, because it happened when I wasn't looking, but living. Like all important moments do.

I have had a steady schedule for the last month, which is really great compared to the first few weeks I was there when my days off changed every week. Even more remarkable is that I have managed to squeak by the rain once or twice and actually go out and have some fun in the sun. Last weekend I took advantage of the lodge employee discount (re: free) and went on a Mahay's Jet Boat Adventure Tour. You spend a couple of hours riding up the Talkeetna River, they try and show you some local wildlife or just a lovely ride out on the water. We saw a few bald eagles, from a distance, but not much else. There is also a small nature walk component where they pull off to the bank and you go into the woods to visit a native style camp and a trapper's cabin. It was an ok time, but seemed more like the kind of trip you'd go on in middle school for social studies class. Since I was ill-informed about the types of trips Mahay's offers, I didn't realize that you could go on a different ride that took you five hours up river to a class 5 whitewater area called Devil's Canyon. Guess I have to go back and take the grown up ride.

Dena'ina Indian Encampment, part 1

Dena'ina Indian Encampment, part 2

Trapper's Cabin

Inside the trapper's cabin.

A trapper's cache.

The Talkeetna River & a Mahay's Jet Boat

Doubt you'll make it out, since I took this with my cel, but there's a bald eagle up there.

Tuesday evening of this past week, I was invited by one of my lovely co-workers, who also happens to be one of the cooks at the lodge, to share in the wonderful bounty of a Thanksgiving Dinner in July. Hannah and her roommates put together quite a spread. There was turkey, stuffing, potatoes, home made macaroni and cheese, green bean casserole, home made gravy, and biscuits. Not to mention desert, consisting of pies and cupcakes and cookies, oh my. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, and celebrating an extra one in the middle of summer was a great way to spend an evening so far from home. There were a whole bunch of people from work there, including some night shift folks that I never see. Afterwards, in lieu of a game of catch with the pigskin, we threw a frisbee around and then headed into town for some adult libations. I had to be up for work at 4:45 the next morning, so I didn't stay out too late, but it was a good night with some good people. And my first real home cooked meal in months. Oh, yeah, and I played ping-pong for the first time in many years too, and even though I am a little rusty, I think I've still got it.

Today was, by far, the best day of the week. Except for sleeping in a bit later than I would have liked, everything came up roses today. I had a great breakfast at the lodge, enjoying French Toast that isn't as good as mine, but sure ain't bad either. Then I headed into town to check my PO Box and discovered a package sent to me by some wonderful friends back home, which consisted of multiple packs and one loaf of Case's Pork Roll to warm my grateful belly. Sufficed to say, dinner tonight was delicious. This afternoon, I arranged for another employee discounted adventure, this time trail riding 4-Wheel ATVs all over the local area. It's a three hour tour, but since we weren't on a boat I wasn't too worried about being a castaway. I've never ridden a quad before, and it was a blast. The weather cooperated, the guy running the tour was amenable to my attempts to see how fast I could hit trails and take turns, and I didn't crash or fall even once. I look forward to going back when there are no vacationers in the group and seeing what those things can really do. And I don't think I'm gonna have to worry about a re-occurrance of that insomnia tonight. Tomorrow it's back to work, back to the routine. Just plain old living. Just like they're doing anywhere else on earth.

The Talkeetna River from the trail high on the banks.

Another spot along an old ski trail, on a clear day you can see Denali from here.

Your humble author, rugged and ridin'.

I am a Paper Journal Failure

I swear I have tried, many times. I've owned at least four different journals. I've gone from cheap black n' white marbled composition books to custom leather cover Oberon journals with a replaceable insert. I just can't seem to get behind writing in the little bastards. I don't know what it is. When I write other things, poetry or lyrics or whatever, I actually prefer notebooks to typing, but something about the process of "journaling" or writing a diary or blog just screams KEYS to me. I wonder if it is something in my brain, like the difference between creative writing versus writing about events and thought processes that are not completely invented. My blog and journal entries are creative (at least as far as I am capable of rendering them) to be sure, but they are never purely conjured the way that my other writing is.

I am a bit disappointed in myself with this realization, or rather, with accepting this fact. Just before I left for Alaska I bought a new insert for my fancy leather journal. Also, my folks went out and got me this very cool little black journal with a magnetic latched cover. They both sit, undisturbed, in a box next to my couch. Once I set this blog in motion, I kind of accepted that I would be spending less time writing things in little books, but I did not anticipate abandoning them entirely. The most frightening prospect now, the little spot in the distance that seems to grow as it gets closer, is how I think this space will come to evolve in the near future into my one and only outlet for the stinky mental, emotional, and psychological detritus that I occasionally need to purge from the recesses of my mind.

My entries, to this point, have revealed a little bit of my thought process and next to nothing of the dark corners of my mind. But living as I am, with no one in particular to be the sounding board for all of my less happy-happy joy-joy thinking, I fear that sooner or later I will just take the plunge and let the words fly here. My fear of this happening is two-fold. First, it will take a fair bit of patience on the part of the reader to deal with all of my tedious ramblings, and second I may well reveal things about my feelings towards others and the lives they lead that are better left un-spoken. I would never do this in a callous or thoughtless manner, but it might still lead to hurt feelings or misunderstandings. After all, if I say someone is a pain in my ass and twelve people all assume I'm talking about them because I'm not going to use names, well, that can only lead to trouble. A third potential problem, but one I'm not even really worried about, is the impact of my opinions on anything else. If I come on here and say something that offends someone's delicate sensibilities, well then they should just stop reading. But the audience here is practically guaranteed to only be people who know me personally, and I don't ever want to have a discussion where I'm explaining myself in person about something I wrote on here four months ago. It's tiresome and just plain stupid.

I suppose the point of this is really a roundabout disclaimer. As much as I just wanted to only write about traveling and the experiences of what some might have considered a working vacation, the reality of having two jobs, not a lot of money, and about 1/100th of the social circle I enjoyed at home has led to far more introspection than even I was prepared for. I just want to warn everyone that this blog isn't gonna be all rainbows and puppy dogs. And I'll just get this out of the way for the record:

The weather in Alaska fucking SUCKS this year.

"how can I make this clear?

it seems so simple yet

I could spend my whole life 

saying things that make no sense"

~ Dag Nasty

She is not rising, I am not still

I came to the mountain to find my name. To hear it spoken
in the resolute tones of the land. I came to find my name in the
grasses of the tundra, as if offered up by the very motions of the
plates below. The word is no secret, but I have never heard it
spoken so far from my home and my family. I sought out the mountain
to remind me of the beginning of all things, and of the rising of
the sun. In the Athabaskan language, Denali means "the Great One."
This was where I searched, but she is not rising.

I am not still. Even as I sit here, not a muscle twitching, my blood
continues to slither throughout my body and
my cells swim freely in their own liquid atmospheres.
I want to be a better man. I want to function more efficiently.
My mind, my body, and my soul should all work as one.
But there is a problem, because the soul is evidenced only
through its absence, as in: "you ain't got no soul" or its practical
application, such as the soulful voice of Nneena Freelon.
As I search through years of cast-off emotions, there
is no way to keep the information organized, no way
to halt my ebb and flow.

When I leave the mountain, empty handed regardless of the outcome
of my search, I will guard my name for the rest of my days.
I will also hold the mountain as a sacred thing. She is the conjurer of
my destiny, the bearer of my compass. We are all the pioneers of our
own lives, but for every victory and defeat for the rest of my days
I will have the memory of this journey. For each face I kiss and each
hand I hold I will know that it was my return from the mountain and
my time as her witness that made the taste sweet and the gesture
genuine. When I first came here I was like a child who believed
Denali was growing right before me and that I was holding my ground
against the breaking waves of life, but I was wrong.
She is not rising, I am not still.

The Longest Day of My Life

Today is the Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year. I am as far north on the planet as I am ever likely to be on this day of the year, thus, it will literally be the longest day I will ever experience while I take my spin on this sparkling, verdant space rock of ours. Coincidentally, it is also one of my days off this week. Due to the fact that the woman who hired me at the lodge took a different position within days of giving me a job (her parting gift to the department or a final middle finger?), there is a new manager making our schedule and this week I have off today and Friday. I would gripe a bit about not having my days of leisure back to back, but I don't plan on doing any traveling this week and today might be the only sunny day we get. Of course, as I am typing this it is beginning to rain. A brief sun shower, I suppose, but it drives home the fact that it has rained every single day for the past two weeks.

But I'm getting off track. Today is Solstice, and I have the day off. Normally I wake up around 4:45 in the morning to get ready for work. My job is close by, but I have to be there, most days, by 5:30. Because I knew I was planning on sleeping in today, I treated myself to a DVD and a nice meal last night, and stayed up late to enjoy both. Usually I am in bed, if not already asleep, by ten o'clock. Sherlock Holmes and my halibut and chips kept me up until almost midnight. And then there were some text messages and calls from a friend at home. It was nearly 1:30 before my eyes asserted their right to close and my dreams carried me away again. And sleep in I did. Nearly 9:30 before I rolled off my futon.

Here, on days that I am not working, I am somewhat aimless. I don't really know what there is around here, and it is impractical for me to take tours right now due to financial considerations. With all the rain lately, I've been spending quite a bit of time inside, watching movies, reading books, I've even started exercising again. With the sun out, and all the time in the world, I hardly know what to do with myself. Mostly I would just take walks around town, or sit in the park and people watch. This is a small town, and as far as the populace goes, it has all the foibles and lack of privacy that that entails. But each day there are throngs of people brought in on busses to look around and eat and shop. It's like a wildlife preserve of humans. Outsiders like myself come in, due their touristy business, pay for their bag of peanuts, point at the monkeys and go home to tell stories about it. It's interesting to me to take in people's reactions to life here. The personality of the town, and its locals, is off-kilter enough to sustain the steady flow of commerce, and occasionally ropes folks in to staying or at least returning for another go 'round.

This morning I actually started to form a plan for my day. There were a few things I wanted to do, not necessarily outdoorsy things, but things I wanted to use to fill my time. For instance, the internet connection where I live is fine for email and text and photo websites, but I've been using Hulu to catch up on the television shows I like and the connection is a bit too slow for that. To remedy this, I go to the library where the wifi is speedy enough to allow me uninterrupted viewing. Since I only go there one day a week, I wind up having around three hours worth of stuff to catch up on, and today was my day. Uninspired for the longest day ever, but as a practical matter it suits me just fine. I also wanted to stop by the post office and see if I had any mail. And I definitely wanted to treat myself to a nice, big breakfast.

There are easily half a dozen places around that serve breakfast, including my place of employment, but today I tried my friend Natasha's work, and our local brew pub, Twister Creek. Because of my early hours, I don't really eat before work. Breakfast is my favorite meal, and I never have it anymore, so today I ate like a king. French toast, sausage, bacon. A tall glass of ice cold milk. It was awesome. I watched the first half of the Spain vs. Honduras World Cup match and relaxed. Afterwards, I made my way to the library and watched a bit of TV on my laptop. I'm not going to go into detail about all that, but I will take this moment to recommend the show Justified to any and everyone who reads this. It is a spectacular bit of entertainment, and features top notch writing and acting. So I spent a few hours at the library, caught up on some TV, updated my computer's software, and then headed to the Post Office. I wasn't expecting anything, but I figured I should check since I do have a PO Box now. To my surprise, there was a piece of mail from a friend back home. It was a card, and a kindness that I won't go on about for the sake of saving a shy person some embarrassment, sufficed to say that I was reminded again that I am blessed with the friendship of some of the best people on this earth. I walked out of the Post Office into a storm of cottonwood pollen. Enough of the stuff has been blowing around town to make it seem like a snow globe any time the rain stops. It piles up in the streets, against the walls of buildings and around car tires. It's as if every wish ever blown off the top of a dandelion stem made its way here. It was too nice a day to continue this line of thinking. I certainly don't think Talkeetna is where wishes come to die, but the fuzzy bastards were doing their best approximation of a seed head apocalypse. I decided my best bet was to head out of town and go for a hike in the woods, so I returned to the place Natasha took me a couple of weeks ago, the X-Y-Z lakes.

Alaska has about seventy trillion lakes, and the naming process is dodgy at best, but when I started hearing people refer to X-Y Lakes a few weeks ago I just assumed they had literally run out of names. Turns out no one I have asked so far knows why these particular lakes have these names, or even which lake is which, but it's a nice little area to walk around. There is also a Question Lake, as well as an Answer Creek, so it seems the entirety of existential rumination is covered by the local parks system. In any case, the trail I took is about three miles, and well maintained. The only thing you have to be mindful of is local wildlife. Natasha and I didn't see any bears or moose the last time we walked it, and I figure that enough people use the trail regularly that I'm a fair bet make it around without incident. Here are a few pictures of my hike. I'm sorry if some are low-quality, as I took them with the 5 mp camera on my phone with no real zoom to speak of and whatever cheapo lens Samsung put in the thing.

Could be X, Y, or Z...

only the Shadow knows.

The people rowing were coming towards me and as they passed they asked if they could buy some pot. I was actually a bit disappointed that I couldn't help, even though I have never smoked in my life.

Uprooted.

A bench by the lake.

Uprooted II. What can I say? Obvious does not diminish appropriate.

I wish there was a zoom on this camera, you can see the range a bit in the distance.

You would also have seen the creek better in this shot.

I wanted to feel the temperature of the water. Hope I don't get Beaver Fever...

from the Beaver dam you can just make out on the other side.

Not a bad place to spend the longest day of your life.

Without the sunrise and sunset, without time to measure against, all of life blends together. Our lives need some manner of delineation so we can process things in an organized fashion. Here in the land of the midnight sun, my days have become something of a blur. I am constantly checking the calendar on my phone or laptop, or asking co-workers what day it is. My concept of the passage of time is dulled, as all of my resources for organizing the chaos of my life have been turned inward. I am now measuring the passage of time in shifts at work vs. days off. In sets of push-ups or laps around the lake. In letters and emails, or even in text messages which inform me that things outside this place go on without me, and life is ever forward. The length of one day, stacked up against a lifetime of precious moments with people I love, is relatively insignificant. But although I spent most of my longest day alone, it didn't seem to pass me by too fast at all. Think of your days, and think of those you love. And take your time.

Be it ever so humble...

"He is the happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home."  ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I could regale you with tales of my week, about how I started working for real at the restaurant at the lodge, about how yesterday was one of the most humbling experiences on a job I've ever had due to the perfect storm of things that should not happen to a professional with 18 years experience in the service industry. Or I could tell you about how I managed to lock myself out of my place the second night I was there, wearing nothing but sweats and a zip-up hoodie, with no way to contact the landlord due to everything I own being inside; and oh yeah, it was raining. I could tell you about the fox I saw two days ago carrying his freshly taken prey across the road to enjoy for breakfast or even the entire convoluted tale about how my friends Natasha and Tyler essentially had their dog stolen by some unstable Alaskan lady who drove it over 80 miles away after she "rescued" it from wandering the streets (in front of Natasha & Tyler's house). I could go on at length about any number of these things, but instead I'm just going to give you a photo tour of my "home" away from home. And then maybe point out one thing involving trains.

I've already provided info on what a yurt is so I'm not gonna go through that again, but here's the view walking up the driveway. The building to the left is the kitchenette and bathrooms. Another renter on the property, who lives in a regular old tent pitched on the ground about 70 yards away, shares the kitchen with me, and everyone shares the washer/dryer. In total there are seven of us on this property, there is Marne, my landlord, who shares space with her boyfriend Geoff and Bailey, who is daughter to one or both of them, I'm not really sure. Also, Matt and Heather, who rent the loft apartment attached to Marne's place. Dennis is the guy in the tent, and I have the yurt. There are also two dogs (Jenna and Frank) and two cats (Pretty Kitty and Arlo).

Continuing up the drive, with some of the yard in view. Yurts are not usually built off the ground like this, and I am impressed with the effort the construction of this one must have taken. It's a twenty footer, a little over three feet off the ground, well insulated, and has a skylight and three windows.

This is the inside of the kitchenette. It's got a brand spankin' new stove, double well sink, microwave, toaster oven, mini-fridge, and a small table. It is well constructed and insulated, but the heater is never on in there so it is chilly, which I'm not particularly fond of.

Especially when I use my bathroom. Maybe it's just me, but I HATE cold bathrooms. I don't like sitting down on a cold toilet, I don't like brushing my teeth while shivering, and I especially don't like freezing my ass off after just getting out of one of my patented über-hot showers. But I'm not gonna complain too much because most of the people who live around here don't have their own private bathrooms, or even showers or running water in their summer rentals; they use outhouses and pay to take showers at a campground.

Another view of the kitchen where you can make out some of the other appliances.

One of the creative landscaping choices in our yard.

A view of the front.

The bedroom and lounge area.

A Talkeetna style walk-in closet.

Wardrobe / dressing area.

The den.

The study. 

As to the lighting, well, we're still working out the kinks in our camera/photographer relationship.

The skylight still has its winter cover on inside. I asked Marne to keep it like this because the sun never fucking sets here and I need to get some sleep. Seriously, it's still light out at 2 am, and I get up no later than 5, so I try to make it as dark as possible.

The heater, possibly my favorite amenity. It's summer here and it still gets into the 40s at night. 

I've got this great rug that really ties the room together.

And if you don't like it, there's the door.

All in all, I'm pretty happy with what I've got here. Being a city boy, of course I'd like things to be a little nicer/less rustic, and I wouldn't mind at all if it was cheaper, but I've seen what else is out there and this place is definitely one of the nicest going, and probably the best non-cabin option in town.

That being said, I sure wish it wasn't so close to the train tracks. It turns out that in addition to the regular passenger lines that whisk vacationers and mountain climbers back and forth from Anchorage to Fairbanks and back all day, there is also a freight line that uses the same tracks. I guess they want to send those trains at off hours when the passenger line isn't running because the one that made me realize that the difference between a yurt and an actual walled structure can be summed up in the words "noise dampening" blew through town at about 4 o'clock this morning. And it has to blast its whistle every time because it crosses the main road two blocks away. Vincent LaGuardia Gambini ain't got shit on me.

Notes on a transplant: A field trial on the efficacy of optimism.

The last few days have seen some big events in my summer excursion. Try to imagine a metronome granted sentience in some sort of Fantasian dream which then decides to spend it's entire brief life of awareness on amphetamine and you'll get some idea of my mood swings since Monday.

I brought my bicycle with me from Jersey, and on the trip up it got a little gunked up with dirt and debris. When we got to Anchorage I dropped it at a local bike shop for a tune-up. About a week after I got to Talkeetna, I took a ride back to Anchorage to pick it up and when I got there I noticed a bit of smoke coming from under my hood. Of course being over 4500 miles from home, with very little money and no idea how to work on cars, this freaked me out a bit. I looked things over, which is a bit like a a high school student trying to diagnose one of Dr. House's patients, but figured that since the check engine light wasn't on, it wasn't over-heating, and there was no discernible oil leaks or spatters that I was safe to make it back to Talkeetna (a two hour plus drive). Just to be safe I bought a spare bottle of engine coolant.

Neither myself, nor the trained eyes at the local service shop could spot a coolant leak and I made it back without incident, but discovered that the smoke was indeed coming from the radiator. When I got into town I asked Holli if her husband, who is a mechanic, would mind taking a look and see if he could figure out what was going on. A few days later he came by and after getting underneath he noticed that a small valve at the bottom of the radiator was weeping fluid; not a large leak, but enough to cause problems. After consulting with him, as well as my brother-in-law Shawn back home, the simple/cheap fix idea was to remove the offending plug and epoxy the hole shut completely. By then it was a holiday weekend, and the only place around where I might purchase something that works would be closed until Tuesday. I'm fully bummed about still being unemployed, and not looking forward to figuring out a way to perform this minor procedure without any tools, or ramps, or a place to store all the fluid I'm gonna have to empty in order to even try it. Hell, I don't even really have a place to work on the damn thing. Major downer. 

In the midst of all this, I go and look at a place that will be available to rent the second week of June. It's owned by a woman named Marne, who manages the big drinking establishment in town, the Fairview Inn. I show up at her place, just a block over from the hostel and one down from Natasha and Tyler's cabin. The rental is a yurt, a type of tent that is slightly more solid and more house-like than camping tents. It's as big as a large room of a house, has heat and power, shares a cooking area with some other people living on the property, but includes access to a private full bathroom, washer/dryer, and Internet access. The rent is $550 a month. A cabin that was much farther out of town and didn't have water was being offered for $450 on Craigslist, so the value here was obvious to me. This is a town where about twenty percent of the summer population lives in camping tents. However, I have about 8 dollars in my pocket and I've been sleeping in my Jeep all week. I tell her at the time that I am interested, but it is entirely dependent upon me finding a job. There are two more potential renters that are coming to see the place, but because Holli is friends with Marne and put in a good word for me, she said she'd try and keep me at the top of the list. I'm stoked on the yurt, but still need to find a job before I can even think about a place to live. Luckily, by the end of the week some REALLY good news comes in: a job interview. The big lodge on the hill, this area's version of the Waldorf-Astoria, called me back after several of my phone calls and intrusive surprise visits. I go in and meet with Sara, the dining area manager, and interview for a position as a server. Things go well (I've always been a good interview) and I have a positive vibe, especially when she says she just needs to check my references and she'll get back to me after the long weekend. Up!

While this is happening, some guys from Poland who are staying at the Hostel are trying to make plans to take a train or a shuttle bus to Fairbanks. It's a five hour drive north from Talkeetna, and it's pretty expensive. When they change their minds and decide to go down to Anchorage instead, I tell them  that I'll drive them there myself for a hundred bucks and we can leave whenever they want. My thinking is that I can take the money they pay and have a professional plug the leak for me so I know it's done right. They love the idea of saving some money and giving it to someone they at least know a bit instead of some random transit company. My mood begins to improve even more. Until an hour later when they realize that none of them brought a drivers license so they won't be able to rent the car they were planning on getting and taking the drive around Alaska that they were hoping for. Damn. This is on Memorial Day, so when my phone rings I think it's either Natasha or someone from home calling to say hello. As it turns out, it's Sara from the lodge, she has managed to get through to everyone she needed to, and made her decision, and she'd like to offer me a job. I accept and she asks me to come by the next afternoon to begin training. Holy awesome, Batman! Up, up, up. I immediately call Marne, and tell her that I'll take the place whenever it's available. When she showed me around, we discussed payment and everything and she was quite amenable to working with me as far as when I could get her the money and pro-rating the first month, etc. This was all going to be a huge help since I had so little left in savings. I began to imagine finally settling in for real, not feeling like a transient anymore. The next day I went in for training, which seemed to go well. The place has been around for a while and they really have their act together. I was given an employee handbook, a server handbook, and a menu to learn. I was shown around a bit and filled out some paperwork. This all managed to take about four hours. Plans were made for more the next afternoon at the same time, one o'clock. I have a good feeling.

When I get back to the hostel, I find the Polish guys have discovered that one of them brought his license after all, and they want to go to Anchorage. I do the math in my head. It's about five. I need to empty my Jeep to make room for all their stuff, load them up, then a two hour drive to town, drop them off, find someplace to park and sleep, make it to the mechanic's by eight when they open, two hours to get the work done, back by noon, ready and able for training at one. Sounds great. If I have extra time I'll buy the clothes I'm gonna need for work. We hit the road. Turns out there is some major construction on the highway, so about fifteen extra minutes are added to the trip. Gotta consider that in the morning, but no biggie. Vehicle is cooperating, we're moving along, and just getting into Anchorage when I notice the temperature gauge is creeping up a bit to the hot side. It holds steady, but when we get to the place where the guys are staying there's smoke coming from under the hood again. We're at a backpacker's hostel, and I decide I'm gonna sleep here for the night instead of driving around looking for a place to park for the night. The guys (sorry, Adam, Pavel, and Dariusz) tell me that in addition to the hundred, they're going to pay for my stay. Very cool guys. I have to figure some stuff out on the computer, and they're going to walk around and find a place to eat and drink, but we plan to meet up later for a beer or two. After letting the engine cool, I check the fluid level and top it off, things seem right as rain again so I take the opportunity to drive to Target to get the stuff I need for work.

I will now take a brief interlude to describe an interesting side effect of the awful globalization of American big box style retail commerce. For the last few weeks I have felt...displaced. Obviously I'm a stranger in a strange place, and I don't know a lot of people around here. Walking around Target at 10:30 at night made me feel--well it may sound awful but it made me feel normal. It's kind of sad, I suppose, but it was comforting in a way that only the familiar can be. And it really brought me to a head space that I needed to be in after a week of such ups and downs.

So I get back to the backpacker hostel, the boys from Poland are still out and about, but I need to study a lodge menu because I'm being tested on it the next afternoon. Also, since I'm getting up early in the morning to be at the repair shop by eight, I need to get some sleep. The next morning I wake up at ten after six, an hour and a half before my alarm. This sometimes happens when I'm on edge. I get to the shop, have a brief discussion with the owner and then just give my keys over and put my faith in the professionals. I also place a call to the manager at the lodge and let her know that I'm in Anchorage at a repair shop with car trouble and might be a bit late. For my second day of work. Shit. Thankfully she's very understanding. So four hours and four hundred seventy dollars later, I have a new radiator. God damn it. This means more borrowing, more debt, and more evidence of not being able to stand on my own. This is not at all how I wanted to start out my victorious summer with the new job and new place in Alaska.

By the time I get back to Talkeetna I have managed to center myself. Sara, my supervisor, told me not to worry about coming in for training, that I can just make it up the next day. I think I've got the menu down pretty good. My radiator is at least fixed. I stop by the hostel to use the 'net and make some phone calls and Holli tells me that while I was gone Marne called and said I can move in within the week. My sister said that her kids finally got the stuffed animals I sent to them almost three weeks ago, and I get to talk to my nephew Nick a bit. I settle back into the town that is my adopted home for the summer, and watch Into the Wild with a bunch of foreign climbers and some of the guides. It really is an excellent movie, despite the crazy behavior it sometimes inspires. And I am kind of happy.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick

Beaver Fever does not mean what I thought it means.

I have to clear my mind and allow myself to reset. I have to stop looking at the world around me according to preconceived notions of society and presumptions of the behavior of individuals. I have to erase my personal expectations of life and experience things honestly as they occur. I have to just be, and let things be. I apologize for suddenly going all zen, but I realize it every time that I walk around down town. In something as simple as the way people park, or walk around from shop to shop, or lay in the middle of the park with a growler of beer and pass out in the sun. I look around for the meter maid (a truly laughable thought) to tell people that they have to move because they're in a no-parking zone. I look for every business owner to tell people that the bathrooms are for customers only. I look for the cop to hand out tickets or at least roust the drunk and have him move along. These are the conditioned responses of living in even a small urban area, and certainly the experiences of a city dweller. That is not life in Talkeetna.

I was talking yesterday to Holli, the woman who runs the hostel where I loiter almost daily and occasionally sleep. We were discussing the local sights and nice places to hike and so forth and in the midst of our discussion she mentioned that when she takes her kids to the slough they either drink all the water she brought in the first five minutes or don't drink any at all the whole time they are there. This prompted my brain to wonder if the local water was drinkable, and I asked as much. "No," Holli replied, "that's a good way to get beaver fever." Now, I knew from the context of our conversation that what she said and what I thought those words might mean were not even on the same continent, so I asked for clarification. Apparently that is a colloquialism for Giardiasis, the sickness you get from drinking water contaminated with Giardia lamblia. This tends too happen when you drink water that other animals crap in, and lots of beavers crap in the water around here. This is not life in New Jersey.

I have gotten quite a bit of feedback on my last post about the soldier who went nuts and AWOL and trashed the hostel and yadda yadda yadda. I want to clarify that (apart from my childish thirst for vengeance) there was never any danger in the air, at least that I could discern, and I'm fairly adept at knowing when some shit is about to go down. I have not encountered one locked door since I've been here. There is a bumper sticker promoting this town which reads: "Talkeetna - A quaint little drinking town with a climbing problem." The bars are allowed to stay open until 5 am. I have had one beer since I've been here. I wouldn't say that I've made new friends, but I am certainly on friendly terms with a number of regular locals and summer locals. In fact, some of the guides just invited me to a bonfire tonight at the river. There are hippies everywhere, and some other fringe types, as well as climbers and skiers and granolas of every shape and size. Everything is expensive. I miss my dog, and think warmly of the friends and family I left behind to come here. Apart from this blog, I haven't really done any significant writing since I came to Alaska. As comfortable as I've been able to set myself up (and it's actually not bad) sleeping in my Jeep, I still have trouble actually falling asleep because I constantly think someone is going to come along and tell me to move, that I can't just park and sleep on whatever piece of land I've settled on. I have worked a total of six hours in the last month. I work again tonight and tomorrow night, but the part time thing will not get it done. I had a job interview this morning, which I hope will turn into full-time employment at the big lodge up on the hill. If this comes to pass, I've already found a great place to stay for the summer, and that should be ready in two weeks or so. If I don't get a full time job very soon, I'll be on my way back to Jersey. This is life as I know it.

And I'm only drinking water from the tap.

The Night Crazy Came to Town

For those who have never read/seen Into the Wild, here's the tiniest bit of background:
Christopher McCandless was a young man from Virginia who basically gave up all his worldly possessions, hitchhiked his way across the continent, and finally entered into the Alaskan wilderness with only the most meager supplies, surviving for about 100 days before succumbing to either poison or (more likely) starvation. He weighed less than 70 pounds when he died. The book and, especially the film of his story, in which McCandless refers to himself as Alexander Supertramp, make him out as a bit of a folk hero who turns his back on the materialism of the world to live simply in the wild. I am a fan of both bits of media, especially the book, as I think its author Jon Krakauer is a magnificent writer. I have learned that the good people of Alaska generally don't share my opinion of the book or movie, and they feel that McCandless himself died needlessly, and if he wasn't such an inept fool than he wouldn't have had to suffer his fate. They also tire of the endless pilgrimages taken by copycat wanderers and fringe dwellers who worship the guy.

This morning I was given a bit of a lesson as to why.

After spending my previous evening on the couch at my friends Natasha & Tyler's cabin due to my normal digs being completely booked (I didn't have to sleep in my car, yay!), I came back to the hostel last night. I spent most of the day out and about, enjoying what was some really nice weather for once, and I was looking forward to a quiet night in, as the place was almost empty. There were only two other people booked for the night, and I hadn't seen either of them since I got back. I watched a movie with some of the climbing guides and was feeling sleepy enough at around 1:00 that I thought I could turn in and get a solid six or seven hours before the normal bustle of the morning intruded on my dreams. Turns out this was not to be.

I was jarred out of my slumber by some very loud banging, as well as what sounded like a noisy conversation in French. After tossing and turning for a bit, thinking maybe that it was morning and I just had to deal with the noise, I checked my phone; it was about 4:40 am. This was odd because despite the constant back and forth of climbers, guides, and hostelers, everyone who came through pretty much adhered to the rule about quiet time from 11 pm to 7 am. I put on the least aggressive countenance I could muster and walked down the hall to the common area. The television was the source of the French, someone put on the movie Chocolat and it was turned up loud. The banging stopped, so the TV was the focus of my ire, but there was no one on any of the couches or chairs; there didn't seem to be anyone watching. I made my way to the television and noticed that someone was in the kitchen (directly adjacent to the common room). I didn't recognize him, he wasn't one of the guides and since I didn't know who was checked into the other rooms I just assumed that he was a climber and was getting his gear ready to go up to the mountain. That would account for all the banging around. I asked this stranger if I could turn down the TV and he told me I could turn it off if I wanted, which I did immediately. As I turned around to go back to my bunk he asked where I was from, which isn't an odd question in a hostel. "New Jersey," I replied. "No wonder you're angry," he said.

Now, those who know me also know very well that I will respond to an attack on my beloved Garden State with no less than the full measure of my considerable arsenal of mean-spirited rhetoric and sardonic wit, but it was 5 am and I was just too tired. All I wanted was to get some sleep, so I ignored this little remark and simply told this stranger that I wasn't angry, just tired. With that, I went back to my room, climbed into my bunk, and tried to fall back asleep.

Not twenty minutes later, the movie is back on, the French dialogue is just as loud, but is being drowned out by the even louder music pumping out of a laptop. Plus he's singing. At this point my patience is wearing thin, but I'm a guest here just like him so I don't want to come off like some maniac who thinks he owns the place. I make up my mind that I'm just gonna remind him that from 11 to 7 people are expected to be courteous and quiet for the sake of everyone sleeping. As soon as I walk out of the hall I'm met with him packing things into a large backpack and before I can get out a word he assures me that he'll "be out of my hair in five minutes." "I'm going to McKinley," he says. I stop in my tracks, turn around and mutter something like "sounds good" before going back to the bunk again to wait out his nonsensical behavior. I'm still exhausted, not a state that puts me in a good mood, and now I'm starting to just think his rudeness needs to be met with some of my own, but surely I can wait out five minutes of the sake of keeping the peace. I get under the blanket, wrap the pillow over my ear, and wonder why the other guests haven't come out to complain like me.

About fifteen more minutes passes (see how patient I was being) and the movie and music are just as loud, but I notice that the singing has stopped. Also, the same song has played at least twice in a row now: Revolution 9 by The Beatles. It's a long song, and I know I heard the beginning a couple of times. I get up again, this time prepared to have it out with this incomprehensibly rude person, but he's gone. In his stead is a room full of hazy, fragrant incense smoke. His pack isn't on the floor. There is something stuck into a map on the wall, which turns out to be a butcher knife wrapped from tip to handle in plastic wrap. Hung from the butt of the blade is a t-shirt with the logo of a military company on the front. All the books from a free book exchange in the common room have been removed from the shelves and are stacked on the floor next to the shelving unit. A few of the books, specific titles dealing with the Alaskan wilderness, are set standing on window sills, one book to each, throughout the room. I turn the corner and look into the kitchen to see every single cabinet door left open and every drawer pulled out, as if a poltergeist had its way with the place. Even the stove was left open. I turned the TV off again, leaving only the Beatles' song to sound out through the place. I step into the kitchen and notice that a book has been placed standing, open to a page scribbled with the line "Start a Revolution," on an unlit burner on the stove. At this point I'm starting to get a bit creeped out and visions of Tate-LaBianca start to fill my consciousness. I head back to my room and grab a pocketknife from my jeans and head back out to assess the rest of the damage. Little notes are left around with tiny missives scribbled on them about what is needed to head into the wild. One indicates that he took a water bottle belonging to one of the climbers, the note read: "I owe you 1 Nalgene bottle - Edward Supertramp."

I'm feeling a little less likely to be killed by some crazed Manson groupie after reading that, but still a bit unsettled. Looking around again I find more notes, food left out on the stove and counters, a wine bottle stacked on a coffee press, which is stacked on a coffee can, wine footprints on the kitchen floor, and a particularly rancid smell coming off a plastic wrapped plate with what appears to be a full shot glass in the middle of it. I made sure all the burners and the stove are turned off, shut off the music, and tried to piece together what was going on. The creeping feeling I had earlier gave me a little jolt of adrenaline, so I was starting to wake up. Then I started to get even more pissed. The hostel where I stay is a very open, accommodating place. They never lock the doors. It's a small business run by a young woman who does her best to make sure everyone who comes in feels welcome, and she really doesn't deserve to have her place trashed by some jackass McCandless wanna-be. I decide I'm going to find this person and, I don't know, bring him to justice. My myopic tendencies reared their ugly head and I just went out to my car and started driving around town. Talkeetna is not a big place and I figured he couldn't have gotten too far since I last saw him. I ran parallels of the neighborhood streets where I stay and then went to the downtown area. At this point it's some time around 5:30 in the morning. I didn't see him anywhere. Then I start to think that if he's going to Denali maybe he's taking a flight up, so I drive past all the Air Taxi companies to see if he's camped out waiting for one to open, to no avail. Now I'm wondering--if he thinks he's gonna walk the few hundred miles up, will he head back down the spur road to the main highway north or is he smart enough to just follow the train tracks? I decide to drive a little bit down the spur road, about as far as I figured he would have made it on foot with his pack, but he's not there either. I realize that if he's on the train tracks I cannot follow him in my Jeep. I turn around and head back towards town. After I come around the bend in the road where an observation turnoff is set up I notice for the first time this morning that the skies are perfectly clear and Denali is out in all her glory. I pulled into the turnoff and just sat for a bit looking at the mountains. Normally I'd post a picture here, but I left the hostel in the sweats I sleep in, without even grabbing my wallet and license let alone a camera. My notions of petty vengeance were starting to look awfully silly in the light of day. I drove back to the hostel to start cleaning up his mess. When I arrived, the only other guest who actually spent the night was just emerging from her room. Abigail was her name, a Brit on holiday who was wearing earplugs and had managed to sleep through the entire ordeal. I told her about the intruder, and together we assessed the rest of the damage and cleaned up the place as best we could. I was still stewing a bit and to be honest, she did most of the dirty work. After everything seemed to be back in its place I decided to get the sleep I had missed that night. It was now about 7 am.

I wake up again around eleven, and the house is buzzing. Holli showed up and Abigail told her the whole story as I related it to her. Holli decides that the best thing to do it alert the Rangers and the State Police so this stranger doesn't do anything that could get him hurt, or worse. Also, some of the guides are up and point out that he used one of their phones to call Modesto, California about seven times. He also drank an entire large bottle of wine that belonged to another guide. A bit later, the phone rings, and the puzzle pieces fall more firmly into place. A woman asks Holli if someone named Chris checked in the night before. He never did, officially, but they get to the truth of the matter when the woman says that her husband had gone AWOL from his Army post the night before, that he was a bit obsessed with Into The Wild and might be smoking something (not weed) that makes him a bit delusional, and that he's not supposed to be drinking (medicated perhaps?). He left behind a blue motorcycle helmet, which the wife identified, although he doesn't have a motorcycle. So he left on foot. She was calling from Fairbanks, over 250 miles north, and we speculated that he hopped a freight train to head south, but since they don't stop in Denali National Park, Talkeetna was the first place he could hop off. The Modesto number is his brother. The police, army, and a very annoyed/concerned wife are all looking for him. I'm still angry that he trashed the place and stole from its guests. My sympathy and compassion are non-existant.

The hostel and its guests are really no worse for the wear, though I still shudder to think what could have happened if someone interrupted his stabbing/trashing/stealing spree if he was truly delusional. I was half asleep both times I confronted him, but he seemed completely lucid, if a little "off." Holli has two small children, and I'm really glad they were not here when any of this was happening. I realize that I was not behaving all that well when I went out with violence in my heart to find him this morning, and that kind of reaction is just one more thing I have to look at as I while away the hours out here. At the same time, none of his behavior indicates to me that he wants to come back. His course and actions were all self-destructive. If he's on something maybe he'll think the better of it when he comes down, or maybe someone will find him and talk some sense into him. The last thing Alaska needs is another ill-equiped dilettante walking off to his death. But walk away he did, out into the wild, and part of me thinks that he wants to die out there. Faced with someone like that after less than two weeks here forces me to compare it to my own journey. I came here to examine my life, and what to make of it. If this morning has taught me anything, it's that I certainly don't think giving up is the answer, and that as much as I may chide myself for running away from my life by coming here, at least I know I plan to go home.

Racing Glaciers

Been some ups and downs and back ups since last I wrote. There was a distinct possibility of a job which has yet to materialize. There was an ad for someone looking for a housemate. It was a bit far out of town, but being a beggar I couldn't exactly turn it down. Of course it was already taken when I called. I heard news of three other places where the scheduled summer employees have yet to appear, places where I have already applied. Checking back has resulted in a whole lot more "we'll let you know" responses. Yesterday I was treated to the mind blowing experience of Flightseeing the Alaskan Range. You're flown up over Denali National Park in a small, single engine plane and given an air tour of the mountains and glaciers that make up the range. It is breathtaking. A singular experience that I really cannot shape into words. Here's a few of the million pics I took (that also do the real thing no justice). 

Best flight service in the land.

Glaciers, glaciers everywhere...

Billions of tons of ice moving at three feet a day.

Bashful Denali.

More glacier and the Alaska Range.

A little avalanche.

Crazy beautiful up here.

Our intrepid pilot, Tyler. Master of the glacier landing.

The view from Ruth's Amphitheater.

Another view from the glacier.

So that was a big part of the upswing yesterday. And then I wake up this morning to find out that the hostel is full tonight, so I don't have a place to sleep. Luckily I bought a sleeping bag before I left, in case it gets cold spending the night in my car. Also, while I was typing this and uploading the photos, I got a call back and start work at a local restaurant on Saturday. I don't know if I'm beating the glacier, but I am making progress.