It was a 50-mile drive from the banks of Kootenay Lake up, up to the Monica Meadows trail head. Carole, Tom and I had tried this hike three years before, only to have the two-track access road closed by a landslide and a pissed off land owner. As Carole and I approached the turnoff again and there was another CLOSED sign...this time announcing road closure for a bridge replacement, 3 days hence. The fates were with us, as we continued the slow-going drive up the crotch of Meadow Creek Basin, into the heart of the Purcell Wilderness. The raging creek, strewn with house-sized boulders, made me wonder just how the lazy streams of Colorado justified the label, 'river.' This mountain-scape, home to the likes of Loki and Jumbo Peaks, was another scale of wild.
The hike was a sweat-driven, steep-stepped romp. Huckleberry bushes, deep red and gold with autumn, lined the damp path. Endless snow-laden peaks and receding glaciers framed our views. It took a couple of hours for the trail to gentle. We caught our breath, followed around the mountain curve and dropped into a basin of rare Alpine Larch. It was the perfect rendezvous, immersed in the death and descent of autumn.
The Alpine Larch grows in inhospitable places at treeline in the Canadian Rockies. She's stunted and wind-hewn compared to her towering, heavily-logged family to the south. She clings to rocky cliffs, her stance so precariously natural it was hard to tell which came first, the tree or the precipice.
Carole whispered, "It's like walking into caramel." The golden needles conjured fairy dust upon my soul. Another world at treeline, as the gentle breeze kicked up and loosed a shower of soft, golden needles upon my skin.
Three ancient Larch graced the barren landscape above, lookouts from stone perches. We rested by a pool of reflective water, ate a meager lunch of nuts, cheese and pears and soaked in the sun. Turns out we'd forgotten our usual celebratory foods and treats. No flasks of port. No cigars. No cold beers waiting in the cooler in the car. The mood was exhilarating-somber as we traversed the rocky clefts and climbed from one Old One to the other. I approached, leaned into the thickened trunks and touched the fire-scarred bark. I starred up into their golden crowns; murmured a prayer of thanks.
The afternoon sun waned as Carole and I took a seat beneath the outstretched branches of the third Old One. We were on the cusp of departure when our silent reverence exploded into existential reflections, corralling our lives in the context of deep grief and fears. For our little selves. The Mother Planet. The children, the wild, on and on into bottomless pockets of question. We'd come to the tree to pay homage and to keep her company. Turned out she was was keeping ours; overseeing our despair with steadfast presence. Guiding us back to potent possibility: the germ of hope, cocooned in the ephemeral.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
To Hear the Unspoken
We chose the equinox for our outing. A seasonal energetic window, followed six hours later by the full moon, a harvest orb so strong that prognosticators predicted it's power would infect daily routine for another two weeks.
I drove. It was 40 miles up. And up. A narrow, ledge-hanging 4-wheel drive road. Carole had only been to Meadow Mountain once; we took our time, choosing forks in the road with care. "We're almost there," became her the mantra of the morn. I suggested it was more like the mantra for my life right now. You're almost there, Christina. You're almost there. But of course I'm not. I still have a long ways to go. We climbed to breathtaking views of lakes below; then into streams of clouds. We finally broke through to a glorious 360-degree view of mountain peaks reminiscent of the Alps. And the season's first snow.
We followed the two-track; made our way towards two groves of glowing larch that burned like golden torches amidst small lakes and clumps of tight and twisted pine. We parked by a lake, next to a lone picnic table covered with a layer of snow. The sun was hot. The table dried fast. We spread our fresh pears (picked from the tree earlier in the week), brie, crackers and crab I'd thawed from Alaska-days. The sweet, light Moscado wine was perfect.
Bliss. We hiked to the soft-needled larch and said hello; made our way across rock and grass-covered expanses to small saddles and views of deep chasms. Then we returned to the table, faced the warm sun and drummed.
It had been many years. Carole and I had drummed regularly for workshops we used to facilitate in Boulder, CO. Our women's group of days past could have easily been called a drumming group. And here we were, at the top of the world, setting a drumbeat to match the heartbeat of the universe. One of us held steady while the other riffed; and vice versa. Intensity and speed rose and fell. Ultimately we fell back into a shared beat; softened and stopped as if someone lifted our leather-covered beaters simultaneously. We set aside the drums; hugged tightly. There could not have been a better metaphor for friendship. For this woman I call "Sister."
The equinox is an edgy window between light and darkness. One would think on this day of equal day and night that balance would rein, but it ain't necessarily so. One must take effort to ground and yet ride the energetic channels that zip about. Especially with the moon at it's most powerful, a few hours before full. Thus it was that the Tarot cards were spread upon the table.
Tarot is Carole's forte'. I've never owned a deck but love the shuffle and spread as she interprets the details. Like drumming, we've been doing this for many years. I'm always a little nervous. And just as surprised that they catch my soul's drift with uncanny perfection. There was no need to fret. Ya, a mental block wall showed up that must be walked around (not climbed) in what I envision as a Tai Chi-like move; and big karmic knots with family that must be cut loose. But ultimately, keep with the wild that nurtures me and the universe will provide.
And fun. Follow fun, the cards advised. Last December Carole advised me to follow the light as I stood on the precipice of divorce. A few months later I found myself in Alaska where the sun never seemed to set. Fun, eh? Just what might THAT look like?
I drove. It was 40 miles up. And up. A narrow, ledge-hanging 4-wheel drive road. Carole had only been to Meadow Mountain once; we took our time, choosing forks in the road with care. "We're almost there," became her the mantra of the morn. I suggested it was more like the mantra for my life right now. You're almost there, Christina. You're almost there. But of course I'm not. I still have a long ways to go. We climbed to breathtaking views of lakes below; then into streams of clouds. We finally broke through to a glorious 360-degree view of mountain peaks reminiscent of the Alps. And the season's first snow.
We followed the two-track; made our way towards two groves of glowing larch that burned like golden torches amidst small lakes and clumps of tight and twisted pine. We parked by a lake, next to a lone picnic table covered with a layer of snow. The sun was hot. The table dried fast. We spread our fresh pears (picked from the tree earlier in the week), brie, crackers and crab I'd thawed from Alaska-days. The sweet, light Moscado wine was perfect.
Bliss. We hiked to the soft-needled larch and said hello; made our way across rock and grass-covered expanses to small saddles and views of deep chasms. Then we returned to the table, faced the warm sun and drummed.
It had been many years. Carole and I had drummed regularly for workshops we used to facilitate in Boulder, CO. Our women's group of days past could have easily been called a drumming group. And here we were, at the top of the world, setting a drumbeat to match the heartbeat of the universe. One of us held steady while the other riffed; and vice versa. Intensity and speed rose and fell. Ultimately we fell back into a shared beat; softened and stopped as if someone lifted our leather-covered beaters simultaneously. We set aside the drums; hugged tightly. There could not have been a better metaphor for friendship. For this woman I call "Sister."
The equinox is an edgy window between light and darkness. One would think on this day of equal day and night that balance would rein, but it ain't necessarily so. One must take effort to ground and yet ride the energetic channels that zip about. Especially with the moon at it's most powerful, a few hours before full. Thus it was that the Tarot cards were spread upon the table.
Tarot is Carole's forte'. I've never owned a deck but love the shuffle and spread as she interprets the details. Like drumming, we've been doing this for many years. I'm always a little nervous. And just as surprised that they catch my soul's drift with uncanny perfection. There was no need to fret. Ya, a mental block wall showed up that must be walked around (not climbed) in what I envision as a Tai Chi-like move; and big karmic knots with family that must be cut loose. But ultimately, keep with the wild that nurtures me and the universe will provide.
And fun. Follow fun, the cards advised. Last December Carole advised me to follow the light as I stood on the precipice of divorce. A few months later I found myself in Alaska where the sun never seemed to set. Fun, eh? Just what might THAT look like?
Thursday, September 16, 2010
My Eggs in One Basket
I think I understand why people have chickens. It's not just the eggs. It's the overwhelming feeling of being needed and greeted when one approaches the coop. I don my rubber boots (ala Juneau)and head down the slippery wet hill with a basket in hand. The hens see me coming about half way down and come running to the gate. Ya ya, I KNOW they aren't really glad to see me; they want food. But I can't help but smile as I start jabbering away at them. Their priorities are simple, the deal is made: give me grass, bugs and grain and I'll lay you an egg. Let me out the gate to roam the pasture for the day and my yolk will be EXTRA golden.
The brownish-red chickens will lay one egg a day for two years, wrap it up and die. The black and white ones won't lay quite as regularly but they'll live around six years. They have fancy names, like Andalusian, Brahma and Wyandote. Some are capable of raising chicks from their eggs and others, like the Rhode Islands, have had the mother-thing bred out of them. This chicken business is serious.
And the eggs. Still warm in the straw, I place them into the basket. Usually about 14 every morning. Sometimes I find eggs protruding from the grass like some faded remnant from Easter. The hens don't seem to care where they lay. Some days two or three eggs line the fence edge.
I make my way to the kitchen and head for the cast iron skillet where I crack the hard shells of two eggs into hot butter and olive oil. The whites are firm and raised; the large circles of yolks, deep orange. Sometimes I add a tangy hard cheese and fresh veggies; some days it's just flip'em over and eat. Flavor-full.
One plump, red hen closes her eyes tonight in the dark chicken coop. She's three years old; managed to miss the kill cull every time it came around. She labors to get up, steps slowly, leans and pecks with great effort. Her eyes look small and glassy. Tomorrow morning when I make my way down the hill the geriatric hen may very well be dead.
No longer laying and too old to stew.
The brownish-red chickens will lay one egg a day for two years, wrap it up and die. The black and white ones won't lay quite as regularly but they'll live around six years. They have fancy names, like Andalusian, Brahma and Wyandote. Some are capable of raising chicks from their eggs and others, like the Rhode Islands, have had the mother-thing bred out of them. This chicken business is serious.
And the eggs. Still warm in the straw, I place them into the basket. Usually about 14 every morning. Sometimes I find eggs protruding from the grass like some faded remnant from Easter. The hens don't seem to care where they lay. Some days two or three eggs line the fence edge.
I make my way to the kitchen and head for the cast iron skillet where I crack the hard shells of two eggs into hot butter and olive oil. The whites are firm and raised; the large circles of yolks, deep orange. Sometimes I add a tangy hard cheese and fresh veggies; some days it's just flip'em over and eat. Flavor-full.
One plump, red hen closes her eyes tonight in the dark chicken coop. She's three years old; managed to miss the kill cull every time it came around. She labors to get up, steps slowly, leans and pecks with great effort. Her eyes look small and glassy. Tomorrow morning when I make my way down the hill the geriatric hen may very well be dead.
No longer laying and too old to stew.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Landlocked at Sea
It is gray here. It's been gray and rainy since I arrived with sporadic explosions of sun. I wonder if I'm cursed. Or may be some spirit thinks it's high time I balance out the 30-plus sunshine years that hit my flesh in the arid southwest.
The rain falls differently in every place. Looking outside the window in Juneau I could not tell it was raining until I opened the door. Opaque droplets fell straight down; it poured and the leaves on the trees didn't move. The sound was a light swoosh. The weather comes from behind me on this mountainside in Kaslo. The drops are heavier and land with a discernible splat. A breeze plays accompaniment on the wind chimes that hang in Carole's carport.
Carole and Chris departed this morn for Montreal via Denver to pick up Chris' son. They are on their way to get their landed immigrant status; the end of a long, exasperating, expensive process. Their license plates will change from Colorado to British Colombia. Their primary identity will now be BC as they join the ranks of ex-pats. I am in charge of the lambs that fatten on the pasture, the 3 turkeys, 2 cats, 1 dog and myriad chickens that produce a dozen fresh eggs a day. It's a hoot!
I plan to get a lot of work done these 5 days that they are gone. Marketing photos and writing queries. I am also deep into two phenomenal books. One about Sharon Matola's effort to save the scarlet macaws of Belize; the other an account of the renegade cutting of the golden Sitka Spruce on the Queen Charlotte Islands. I pay attention to what books come to me at different times. Whose words I am drawn to. I remember my first year in my cabin at Dancing Raven I read only the words of women. How I ended that year and dove directly into Falkner and Hemingway. Now these two books on the last remnants of the sacred wild capture my imagination.
As I was threading my way down Icy Strait amidst those sea otters on their backs John Vaillant's account awaited me. In 1730 millions flourished in the kelp beds from Baja to Alaska; one century later they were all but gone due to a rush for greed and domination. For while beaver, fox and ermine trade opened the west, it was the sea otter that stimulated the gold rush on the seas, with their unparalleled soft coat of 600,000 hairs per square inch. (Humans have 100,000.)
That creature that stole my heart, drifting on her back with a babe on her chest in the middle of the sea spends her life doing just that. Sea otters rarely go ashore. They eat, sleep, and 'hold hands' for hours floating on their backs. They store flat stones in skin flaps which they use to break open shell fish. They now exist only in the fog-laden north Pacific.
Once as "plentiful as blackberries," I remember how my eyes scanned and scanned the cold waves for a glance at their playful spirits as they stroked their dense coats with heat-retaining air bubbles.
I sit in landlocked Kaslo with books, photos and memories of my summer at sea. The word "extraction" takes the number one spot in the vocabulary of greed.
The rain falls differently in every place. Looking outside the window in Juneau I could not tell it was raining until I opened the door. Opaque droplets fell straight down; it poured and the leaves on the trees didn't move. The sound was a light swoosh. The weather comes from behind me on this mountainside in Kaslo. The drops are heavier and land with a discernible splat. A breeze plays accompaniment on the wind chimes that hang in Carole's carport.
Carole and Chris departed this morn for Montreal via Denver to pick up Chris' son. They are on their way to get their landed immigrant status; the end of a long, exasperating, expensive process. Their license plates will change from Colorado to British Colombia. Their primary identity will now be BC as they join the ranks of ex-pats. I am in charge of the lambs that fatten on the pasture, the 3 turkeys, 2 cats, 1 dog and myriad chickens that produce a dozen fresh eggs a day. It's a hoot!
I plan to get a lot of work done these 5 days that they are gone. Marketing photos and writing queries. I am also deep into two phenomenal books. One about Sharon Matola's effort to save the scarlet macaws of Belize; the other an account of the renegade cutting of the golden Sitka Spruce on the Queen Charlotte Islands. I pay attention to what books come to me at different times. Whose words I am drawn to. I remember my first year in my cabin at Dancing Raven I read only the words of women. How I ended that year and dove directly into Falkner and Hemingway. Now these two books on the last remnants of the sacred wild capture my imagination.
As I was threading my way down Icy Strait amidst those sea otters on their backs John Vaillant's account awaited me. In 1730 millions flourished in the kelp beds from Baja to Alaska; one century later they were all but gone due to a rush for greed and domination. For while beaver, fox and ermine trade opened the west, it was the sea otter that stimulated the gold rush on the seas, with their unparalleled soft coat of 600,000 hairs per square inch. (Humans have 100,000.)
That creature that stole my heart, drifting on her back with a babe on her chest in the middle of the sea spends her life doing just that. Sea otters rarely go ashore. They eat, sleep, and 'hold hands' for hours floating on their backs. They store flat stones in skin flaps which they use to break open shell fish. They now exist only in the fog-laden north Pacific.
Once as "plentiful as blackberries," I remember how my eyes scanned and scanned the cold waves for a glance at their playful spirits as they stroked their dense coats with heat-retaining air bubbles.
I sit in landlocked Kaslo with books, photos and memories of my summer at sea. The word "extraction" takes the number one spot in the vocabulary of greed.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Kaslo Sublime
I've landed in the epicenter of domesticity. Chris and Carole's 13 acres are on the side of a steep mountain overlooking Kootenay Lake, over 100-miles long. The rugged peaks of the Purcell Wilderness rise across the lake. Yet, here is farmville. A half dozen sheep and 3 turkeys roam the hillside, being lovingly fattened for slaughter. A dozen varieties of hens lay fresh eggs daily. The meat birds (fast-growing chickens) are already butchered and froze for the winter.
A bouquet of fresh cut flowers graces my table---pink cosmos, black-eyed daisies and scarlet begonias. The expansive garden produce includes sweet tomatoes, broccoli, eggplant, onions, garlic, and all the salad greens one could want. Yesterday Carole walked up the hill from the garden with a bucket of beautiful heads of savoy cabbage. "Sweeter than the average cabbage," she said. I can't wait to taste. I am overwhelmed by freshness and humbled by their commitment to land, garden and the community that surrounds them.
I am also relieved to be parked. There is much work to do: writing, market photographs, organize notes. It's sweet to awaken into a La Perla that is unpacked and satisfies my aesthetic eye. Color, texture and function. It is the greatest gift to see my 'sister' Carole again. To be in the beam of her and Chris' love.
In quiet moments, however, I miss my slippery solitude. The gaze onto the sea. A whale breaching in the distance; even the low tide, steep descent down the ramp to work on the Thea G. The final journey to Swan Island has not made it into words. The trip of giant brown bears and Ron's sacred tree hidden inland on Admiralty Island. Of 1000's of salmon swishing in shallow waters waiting for a turn of the tide to make their way into their home stream to spawn and die---ejecting from the water like kernels of popcorn over high heat. Of me-who-doesn't-fish catching my first and only halibut as we rounded Pt. Hugh.
My body aches with memory. I dream of being on the boat, awaken and believe I am there. There is more than I realized to unstow.
A bouquet of fresh cut flowers graces my table---pink cosmos, black-eyed daisies and scarlet begonias. The expansive garden produce includes sweet tomatoes, broccoli, eggplant, onions, garlic, and all the salad greens one could want. Yesterday Carole walked up the hill from the garden with a bucket of beautiful heads of savoy cabbage. "Sweeter than the average cabbage," she said. I can't wait to taste. I am overwhelmed by freshness and humbled by their commitment to land, garden and the community that surrounds them.
I am also relieved to be parked. There is much work to do: writing, market photographs, organize notes. It's sweet to awaken into a La Perla that is unpacked and satisfies my aesthetic eye. Color, texture and function. It is the greatest gift to see my 'sister' Carole again. To be in the beam of her and Chris' love.
In quiet moments, however, I miss my slippery solitude. The gaze onto the sea. A whale breaching in the distance; even the low tide, steep descent down the ramp to work on the Thea G. The final journey to Swan Island has not made it into words. The trip of giant brown bears and Ron's sacred tree hidden inland on Admiralty Island. Of 1000's of salmon swishing in shallow waters waiting for a turn of the tide to make their way into their home stream to spawn and die---ejecting from the water like kernels of popcorn over high heat. Of me-who-doesn't-fish catching my first and only halibut as we rounded Pt. Hugh.
My body aches with memory. I dream of being on the boat, awaken and believe I am there. There is more than I realized to unstow.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
New Moon Prayer
I am in the grand stillness of the ancient forest. Trees 1,000-2,000 years old... before Copernicus declared that the sun didn't revolve around earth. Western Red Cedar, "arborvitae," Tree of Life. They grow in circles. Sacred circles. And no one quite knows why. I walk amidst their powerful presence and look up to see a canopy that forms a perfect circle in the sky. The hole in the middle, gateway to the cosmos. Potent channel to other realms.
Gold dust lichen covers the stately trunks. The tree must be 250 years old to attain this magical veil. Here, no tree grows without it. I approach the largest and oldest in this arboreal temple. She is at least 2000 years old and 16 feet in diameter. What does one do before such a humbling presence? I lean into her. Kiss her smooth trunk. Give thanks for being with her.
She is threatened, of course. Just as the gigantic glaciers recede and the seas turn acidic, her rain forest interior wetbelt climate shifts. Undisturbed for centuries, like some hidden tribe in Borneo, the effects of modern consumptive life have found her. I know, there will be no future forests like this.
I return to the truck and La Perla; remove my rain coat and rubber boots. I realize that one silver and amber earring no longer hangs from my lobe. These are dear to me. I purchased them years ago on the Taos Pueblo at the San Geronimo autumn ritual pole climb. That amber of the ocean was at least as old as that tree.
I like to imagine that it escaped to the crotch in the trunk where I leaned. One ancient spirit joining another. Gathering force.
Gold dust lichen covers the stately trunks. The tree must be 250 years old to attain this magical veil. Here, no tree grows without it. I approach the largest and oldest in this arboreal temple. She is at least 2000 years old and 16 feet in diameter. What does one do before such a humbling presence? I lean into her. Kiss her smooth trunk. Give thanks for being with her.
She is threatened, of course. Just as the gigantic glaciers recede and the seas turn acidic, her rain forest interior wetbelt climate shifts. Undisturbed for centuries, like some hidden tribe in Borneo, the effects of modern consumptive life have found her. I know, there will be no future forests like this.
I return to the truck and La Perla; remove my rain coat and rubber boots. I realize that one silver and amber earring no longer hangs from my lobe. These are dear to me. I purchased them years ago on the Taos Pueblo at the San Geronimo autumn ritual pole climb. That amber of the ocean was at least as old as that tree.
I like to imagine that it escaped to the crotch in the trunk where I leaned. One ancient spirit joining another. Gathering force.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Sept 1st
Moseyed across the Yukon and B.C. Found beautiful places to boondock two nights in a row, thrilled to be back with interior forests---aspen in full color, black spruce, poplar. Autumn...YES.
I arrived Liard Hot Springs late morning, my only planned stop along the way to Kaslo. It served up a forested camping spot and hot water in a lush wild setting for $21. Yep. Died and went to heaven. Gorged on popcorn cooked in olive oil and provolone cheese for dinner. I was in NO-meal-making-mode, as I've been since I left Juneau. No shopping either. Hadn't come close to a store.
Rufous-backed and boreal chickadees, thrush, yellow warblers, rufous-crowned sparrow, and Canada Goose, which look much more sleek and wild in their home habitat. An honest to god thunderstorm crashed down from the sky that night; rainbows and a covey of spruce grouse (new sighting!). Sable brown, gentle birds who walked the mossy ground with no concern of me. They didn't bolt. Their MO.
I cut the plastic ties on the awning that Ron had affixed and let her down for the first time ever. Teak and I sat outside in the rain. A candle burned on the table. I, deep into Paco Taibo's "Leonardo's Bicycle," with a glass of Dubonnet.
I soaked three tims in one day. Slept ten hours that night. I debated whether or not to stay two nights but decided no...the road awaited. I realize that I bird to be surprised. Just as I write to be surprised. It's the same with road trips. Or may be it's just that I choose to BE suprised no matter what I do. Awestruck. Yes.
Moseyed across the Yukon and B.C. Found beautiful places to boondock two nights in a row, thrilled to be back with interior forests---aspen in full color, black spruce, poplar. Autumn...YES.
I arrived Liard Hot Springs late morning, my only planned stop along the way to Kaslo. It served up a forested camping spot and hot water in a lush wild setting for $21. Yep. Died and went to heaven. Gorged on popcorn cooked in olive oil and provolone cheese for dinner. I was in NO-meal-making-mode, as I've been since I left Juneau. No shopping either. Hadn't come close to a store.
Rufous-backed and boreal chickadees, thrush, yellow warblers, rufous-crowned sparrow, and Canada Goose, which look much more sleek and wild in their home habitat. An honest to god thunderstorm crashed down from the sky that night; rainbows and a covey of spruce grouse (new sighting!). Sable brown, gentle birds who walked the mossy ground with no concern of me. They didn't bolt. Their MO.
I cut the plastic ties on the awning that Ron had affixed and let her down for the first time ever. Teak and I sat outside in the rain. A candle burned on the table. I, deep into Paco Taibo's "Leonardo's Bicycle," with a glass of Dubonnet.
I soaked three tims in one day. Slept ten hours that night. I debated whether or not to stay two nights but decided no...the road awaited. I realize that I bird to be surprised. Just as I write to be surprised. It's the same with road trips. Or may be it's just that I choose to BE suprised no matter what I do. Awestruck. Yes.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Departure from Juneau
August 30th.
Up at 3:45 to catch the 6:30 ferry for Skagway. Yesterday's final day was a flurry. I'd finished LaPerla prep by noon so we'd have the rest of the day to play but a call from Ron's friend detoured us to his house to pick up 18 crab he'd just collected from his pots. They were cleaned and cooked; now we had to pick them of their meat. Ron dropped off 8 to friends (their lucky day!) and back to the house we went to get to work. Sunny afternoon sacrificed to the crab goddess. No bike ride. No final walk through the old growth forest to the spawning pond. But I had six packages of fresh crab. Ron wrapped them up good, marked them and stuck them into the freezer.
To bed early. Up early. One last sniff of the Sitka rose on the table.
I dressed in four shades of grey with a red scarf. A ton of sadness weighed me down. I'm terrible at goodbyes. At times I've skipped them completely -- pissed off some friends and hurt others. I'm not proud of that.
I drove into the bowels of the Columbia, locked up the truck and marched 3 stories to the viewing lounge where I hid far away from chatter in a rear back seat. Tears began to stream as whales breached in the distance. The shore passed by as I remembered Ron's instruction on how to tell if you're drifting while setting anchor on the Thea G. Line up a near point with a far point and watch to see if they separate. I was definitely drifting. Oh, was I ever. The rain battered the windows as the Columbia rolled north towards Skagway.
A couple of hours passed before I moved. I found a kid's play area with gymnastic mats and did my stretches. I passed by the chef eating from the vending machine, glad I hadn't planned to eat on board. I returned to my seat to hear a forest service woman give a talk about glaciers. All of the ferries were named after glaciers, she said. The Columbia glacier was in Prince William Sound. The Juneau Ice Field, with 38 major glaciers, extended 100 miles north and covered an area the size of Rhode Island. 37 of those glaciers were in retreat.
I debarked in Haines to walk Teak. We came upon six 20-somethings loading their skiff onto a trailer when they suddenly cranked up the tunes and started dancing. A crazy, hilarious scene. What to do? I joined them. One of the guys told me they were celebrating their big catch. I didn't ask what. I didn't even take a picture. Damn.
Four cruise ships were docked in Skagway harbor. I got outa dodge as quickly as possible, working my way through throngs of people toting t-shirt sacks. The drive up the mountains was a stunning array of sharp (glacial) peaks, standing water, and clouds. I made the border mid-aftenoon and my luck, was pulled over for what they called a random check. A woman searched La Perla; a man was assigned to the truck. Ninety minutes later (I was pissed!) I heard a loud crash inside of La Perla. An agent from the office came out and handed me my passport; said I could go after he checked with the other two. The woman in charge of La Perla had a strange look on her face that I couldn't put my finger on. I went inside and saw a boken ice cube tray on the floor that explained the crash. At least she'd put the ice in the sink. I opened the freezer to see she'd been through it and burst out laughing.
Ron had labeled the packages of crab accordingly: deer, musk ox, sheep, moose, caribou. He'd added 'cock' to every one of them.
I was ready to leave when another Colorado truck pulling a trailer was pulled over and the agents began their drill all over again. If it hadn't been crab I'd have given some to the old man from Littleton to put into his freezer. Made her day TWICE.
Up at 3:45 to catch the 6:30 ferry for Skagway. Yesterday's final day was a flurry. I'd finished LaPerla prep by noon so we'd have the rest of the day to play but a call from Ron's friend detoured us to his house to pick up 18 crab he'd just collected from his pots. They were cleaned and cooked; now we had to pick them of their meat. Ron dropped off 8 to friends (their lucky day!) and back to the house we went to get to work. Sunny afternoon sacrificed to the crab goddess. No bike ride. No final walk through the old growth forest to the spawning pond. But I had six packages of fresh crab. Ron wrapped them up good, marked them and stuck them into the freezer.
To bed early. Up early. One last sniff of the Sitka rose on the table.
I dressed in four shades of grey with a red scarf. A ton of sadness weighed me down. I'm terrible at goodbyes. At times I've skipped them completely -- pissed off some friends and hurt others. I'm not proud of that.
I drove into the bowels of the Columbia, locked up the truck and marched 3 stories to the viewing lounge where I hid far away from chatter in a rear back seat. Tears began to stream as whales breached in the distance. The shore passed by as I remembered Ron's instruction on how to tell if you're drifting while setting anchor on the Thea G. Line up a near point with a far point and watch to see if they separate. I was definitely drifting. Oh, was I ever. The rain battered the windows as the Columbia rolled north towards Skagway.
A couple of hours passed before I moved. I found a kid's play area with gymnastic mats and did my stretches. I passed by the chef eating from the vending machine, glad I hadn't planned to eat on board. I returned to my seat to hear a forest service woman give a talk about glaciers. All of the ferries were named after glaciers, she said. The Columbia glacier was in Prince William Sound. The Juneau Ice Field, with 38 major glaciers, extended 100 miles north and covered an area the size of Rhode Island. 37 of those glaciers were in retreat.
I debarked in Haines to walk Teak. We came upon six 20-somethings loading their skiff onto a trailer when they suddenly cranked up the tunes and started dancing. A crazy, hilarious scene. What to do? I joined them. One of the guys told me they were celebrating their big catch. I didn't ask what. I didn't even take a picture. Damn.
Four cruise ships were docked in Skagway harbor. I got outa dodge as quickly as possible, working my way through throngs of people toting t-shirt sacks. The drive up the mountains was a stunning array of sharp (glacial) peaks, standing water, and clouds. I made the border mid-aftenoon and my luck, was pulled over for what they called a random check. A woman searched La Perla; a man was assigned to the truck. Ninety minutes later (I was pissed!) I heard a loud crash inside of La Perla. An agent from the office came out and handed me my passport; said I could go after he checked with the other two. The woman in charge of La Perla had a strange look on her face that I couldn't put my finger on. I went inside and saw a boken ice cube tray on the floor that explained the crash. At least she'd put the ice in the sink. I opened the freezer to see she'd been through it and burst out laughing.
Ron had labeled the packages of crab accordingly: deer, musk ox, sheep, moose, caribou. He'd added 'cock' to every one of them.
I was ready to leave when another Colorado truck pulling a trailer was pulled over and the agents began their drill all over again. If it hadn't been crab I'd have given some to the old man from Littleton to put into his freezer. Made her day TWICE.
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