The Food and Drug Administration recently proposed regulations that will allow genetically modified fish and animals to land on our dinner plates. Genetic engineering (GE) already culminates in higher yielding and disease resistant crops like corn and cotton. This decision marks the fist time modified animals, however, will be cleared for human consumption.
Salmon is first on the agenda, as AquaBounty in Waltham, Massachusetts seeks approval for a Franken-fish that will reach market size in 16-18 months instead of the norm of 3 years. The cross between a Pacific Chinook and an Atlantic Salmon will produce growth hormones all year long. Salmon usually stop growing during the colder months. Also in the works is an enviro-pig that will excrete low phosphorous manure and a mad-cow resistant bovine. As of this writing GE animals don’t have to be labeled, raising the issue of our right to knowingly consume GE animals or not.
Tinkering with our food source is not a new thing. Eighty per cent of feedlot cattle are injected with synthetic growth hormone, prompting calves to grow from 80 to1400 pounds in 14 months. Dairy cows in 1950 produced 5300 pounds of milk a year; today a typical cow given rBGH hormone produces 18,000 pounds. Monsanto Company has developed a seed corn that is insect and weed resistant. This corn is fed to cattle that are sent to market; the meat is purchased from our grocery coolers and ultimately ends up in our bodies. Not to be outdone, nature is inventing strains of weeds and plant diseases that by-pass Monsanto’s efforts.
Concerns of GE foods and plants are many. It is believed that they disrupt human hormone balance, cause developmental problems in children, interfere with reproductive systems and lead to higher rates of breast, prostate and colon cancer. Of primary concern is the younger age of puberty for girls, thought to be a direct outcome of artificial hormonal influx.
There is also the concern of forever altering genetic diversity. According to a study at Purdue University, if just 60 transgenic fish escaped into the sea and bred, the original species would be extinct within 40 generations. Promises of containment and assurances against escape are profuse. But if the BP Gulf oil catastrophe has taught us anything it is not to trust promises of those chasing profit at the expense of the environment. Cost-saving short cuts are taken; accidents happen.
What is most troublesome about Franken-fish and the GE animals to follow, however, is the issue of animals yanked from their evolutionary chain. Species develop within an intricate context of environment, seasonal cycles and surrounding life forms. The earth is a fascinating matrix of checks and balances that reinforce the rituals of reproduction. A specific wasp, for instance, evolves to pollinate one plant and one plant only on the Sonoran desert. Species continuation is the most powerful of biological and spiritual life force drives.
GE creations are outside of spiritual reach; a break with the rituals that have evolved to celebrate and give thanks for, say, the salmon that return after several years at sea to their the fresh water streams where they were hatched. In the midst of their miraculous journey they select a mate. In unbelievable spectacle, thousands of salmon back up at the entrance of their home streams where the fish pair up and face upstream. The female salmon wiggles a dimple in shallow waters for her eggs and the male ejects clouds of milt to fertilize. Then, they die, creating food source for the seen (countless bald eagles that line the streams in wait) and unseen (bacterial nutrition for underwater life forms.
When we eat we digest more than calories. We take in the earth and sea from whence it came and the rituals embedded in their life cycle. From the myriad festivals and rituals that mark the salmon returns of Alaska to the internationally renowned corn dance on the Kewa Pueblo in Santo Domingo, New Mexico…food source has long taken sacred place in the lives of humans. GE foods are a vital break from source, catapulting humans even further from our place in the food chain, wreaking physical, environmental and spiritual havoc.
Know your food. Chew long, swallow gently. Give thanks.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Among the Stones
Chum (dog) salmon converge at the entrance of their home creeks where they were born. They return to shallow waters after five or so years at sea to spawn. The female wiggles dimples into the gravel and sand among colored stones and lays thousands of eggs; the male fights off others, takes his place beside her and releases clouds of milt to fertilize. And then, these magnificent fish that swam and lifted from the waters in graceful arches and dives for thousands of miles ...die.
Some in simple pairs, others bunched by the hundreds, they are a rainbow of pinks and greens, rendered different colors as their protective sea water coat is worn away by fresh water; their internal organs are already disintegrating. I photograph the muscled struggle through tears of awe, witness to the most poignant display of biological imperative: to reproduce and continue the species. My mind takes a turn with the scene: it wasn't that long ago when women, too, died after their reproductive years. A woman's life expectancy in 1900 was age 50. Modern medicine and living now keep us vital beyond the biological imperative; alive to live out different purposes. Humanity is in new territory in the name of longevity.
I watch these salmon of power and beauty in their call to death. Nature in all her glory with her simple goal. Life, death, new life...from the falling floating neon yellow aspen leaf in autumn to an old beaver laying frozen near his den on a wintry day. I wonder what price humans will pay for finagling with death and earth's capacity to keep us alive.
We must keep the rituals intact that carry us to the end. Pull the rusty shopping carts from streams that the salmon may return. Give thanks to the eagles who line creek sides by the hundreds to catch the soon-dead bodies as they float downstream. Re-member that the primary responsibility of life is to live a good death.
Some in simple pairs, others bunched by the hundreds, they are a rainbow of pinks and greens, rendered different colors as their protective sea water coat is worn away by fresh water; their internal organs are already disintegrating. I photograph the muscled struggle through tears of awe, witness to the most poignant display of biological imperative: to reproduce and continue the species. My mind takes a turn with the scene: it wasn't that long ago when women, too, died after their reproductive years. A woman's life expectancy in 1900 was age 50. Modern medicine and living now keep us vital beyond the biological imperative; alive to live out different purposes. Humanity is in new territory in the name of longevity.
I watch these salmon of power and beauty in their call to death. Nature in all her glory with her simple goal. Life, death, new life...from the falling floating neon yellow aspen leaf in autumn to an old beaver laying frozen near his den on a wintry day. I wonder what price humans will pay for finagling with death and earth's capacity to keep us alive.
We must keep the rituals intact that carry us to the end. Pull the rusty shopping carts from streams that the salmon may return. Give thanks to the eagles who line creek sides by the hundreds to catch the soon-dead bodies as they float downstream. Re-member that the primary responsibility of life is to live a good death.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Seven Miles to Heaven
I finally found my hiking legs in this land of clouds and mountains. Steep mountains. I never dreamed I'd return to any likeness of the Sangre de Cristo's straight up and down. It was a kick-butt trek with over a 1000-foot elevation gain. But oh, the splendor.
The destination was high-mountain Salmon reservoir, the snow melt water source for Juneau. There was also a dam built in 1914 that resembled a ruin of Tikal, with plants growing from its deteriorating walls. Got to say the deep, curved structure was beautiful; the world's first constant angle arch dam with its own resident Bald Eagle perched on top. He watched everything we did, as if glad to have some amusement. I sat and wrote while R fished for brook trout. A thoroughly pissed off Kingfisher let loose with a cry and zipped by R's head as he reeled in another. He caught about a dozen and cleaned six at water's edge. Mountain goats walked the craggy peaks at snow's edge. Lemon-yellow monkey flower grew at water's edge. We were alone at the top of the world.
The sun was a dang welcome surprise as we departed, sending shafts of light through the deep, mossy forest. I saw many old plant friends this day, including deep purple monkshood and my favorite petite red and yellow western columbine. Wilson's warbler hopped among the thickets; Varied and Hermit Thrushes were plentiful. A little off-trail path delivered us to a stunningly calm bog and a forest of protruding dead tree snags topped with numerous bald eagles, many of them immature browns. It takes four years for Balds to turn stunning black and while. Until then they resemble Goldens. A family of Harlequin ducks skittered among floating logs.
It's still hard to grasp all of the water. Every few feet a waterfall interrupted the trail. I filled my water bottle w/o fear of contamination. Moss and dampness covered everything; old growth spruce and hemlock towered overhead. I was enmeshed in emerald green plush.
The dinner table last night consisted of a bowl of fresh crab legs (compliments of a friend), an ear of corn and those tasty, firm pinkish trout. I think I can stop taking cod liver oil capsules. Perhaps exchange them for vitamin D, which most everyone up here swallows in the land of scant sun.
Drop the cod liver oil caps, perhaps. D to replace sunlight? Nope. Can't go thar. It's too much like surrender.
The destination was high-mountain Salmon reservoir, the snow melt water source for Juneau. There was also a dam built in 1914 that resembled a ruin of Tikal, with plants growing from its deteriorating walls. Got to say the deep, curved structure was beautiful; the world's first constant angle arch dam with its own resident Bald Eagle perched on top. He watched everything we did, as if glad to have some amusement. I sat and wrote while R fished for brook trout. A thoroughly pissed off Kingfisher let loose with a cry and zipped by R's head as he reeled in another. He caught about a dozen and cleaned six at water's edge. Mountain goats walked the craggy peaks at snow's edge. Lemon-yellow monkey flower grew at water's edge. We were alone at the top of the world.
The sun was a dang welcome surprise as we departed, sending shafts of light through the deep, mossy forest. I saw many old plant friends this day, including deep purple monkshood and my favorite petite red and yellow western columbine. Wilson's warbler hopped among the thickets; Varied and Hermit Thrushes were plentiful. A little off-trail path delivered us to a stunningly calm bog and a forest of protruding dead tree snags topped with numerous bald eagles, many of them immature browns. It takes four years for Balds to turn stunning black and while. Until then they resemble Goldens. A family of Harlequin ducks skittered among floating logs.
It's still hard to grasp all of the water. Every few feet a waterfall interrupted the trail. I filled my water bottle w/o fear of contamination. Moss and dampness covered everything; old growth spruce and hemlock towered overhead. I was enmeshed in emerald green plush.
The dinner table last night consisted of a bowl of fresh crab legs (compliments of a friend), an ear of corn and those tasty, firm pinkish trout. I think I can stop taking cod liver oil capsules. Perhaps exchange them for vitamin D, which most everyone up here swallows in the land of scant sun.
Drop the cod liver oil caps, perhaps. D to replace sunlight? Nope. Can't go thar. It's too much like surrender.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Just Another Day in Alaska
We pulled out of Auke Bay harbor a little after 7:00 a.m. I'd say dawn but there ain't no dawn up here because there isn't really a sunrise or delineation between dark and light. I wonder what my body is thinking? No moon to chart the monthly cycle. No sun to follow or get one's directional bearings. I'd already untethered from job, marriage and my southwest home of over 25 years. But this level of cosmic flotation was a total, incomprehensible surprise.
We were on our way to Barlow Cove on Admiralty Island, traveling at low tide. The idea was to hit this secluded sandy beach an hour before the tide peaked low; that's when the rednecks showed themselves with an inch-long slit in the sand. Seas were calm as we left the harbor; whales spouted and rolled about the water on both sides of the skiff. Seals bobbed up and down. This little boat (what I'd call a metal row boat) was a rougher ride than the big gal, but she was also much faster and easy to maneuver. I was decked out in rain gear head to toe, Teak between my legs, not quite sure about the up and down of it all.
We arrived the beach an hour later and anchored six feet off shore. Teak leaped for land and grabbed the nearest stick. R. instructed me on what to look for but those little slits in the sand just weren't there. He was devastated; accustomed to digging buckets of the large clams in a short time. Could it be the red tide? There was a warning not to gather shell fish along the islands, including Juneau where one woman had eaten clams and died.
We were about 45 minutes from changing tide when those dark slits magically appeared in the sand, giving away the positions of the hidden clams. I identified the spots and R. dug w/a spade. They were never more than one foot down. WHAT FUN. These beauties were fist sized and larger. Hardly anyone knew about the rednecks, R. said. I knew lots about rednecks, but not the clam variety. Sure wasn't used to seeing them on a beach.
It's dramatic when the tide turns; it marks a amazing energy shift. In just a few moments our tracks were covered, holes were filled and one bucket sat in several inches of water. Clamming time was over as we packed up and headed for another shore. Three deer emerged from treeline...rust/orange beauties, one a 2-pt buck in velvet.
We chose a shore with beautiful shale-like rocks where we sat and shucked. R. showed me how to cut the muscle and extract the soft fleshy clam from the shell. Teak and I walked the seashore...miles of harbor and not another soul. We feasted on smoked salmon dip I'd made the night before and a camenzola cheese; topped it off with a bottle of Gewurztraminer wine. We toasted R.'s birthday right about the time the sun came out. Bliss, anyone?
It was mid-afternoon when we headed back to the bay. The winds picked up and the skies began to darken. It was a rough, slow ride. The seas calmed down a few miles from shore so we stopped at a small island where we hiked, bird watched (saw a sweet little winter wren) and threw some fetch sticks for Teak. Hot pink fireweed grew amidst sharp rock outcroppings; moss hung from feathery hemlock in soft, lovely circles. A bald eagle monitored our movement from his perch in a snag. Alaska, the land of extreme contradiction. This little island gifted us with not one but two white tail feathers from a bald eagle.
That night R. finished cleaning and preparing the clams as in split them in half, remove the gut, pound out, bread and fry. They were the sweetest pieces of 'meat' I had ever tasted. I guess you could say we'd cheated death by staring down the red tide. But then again, I feel I cheat death every time I go out the door around here.
We were on our way to Barlow Cove on Admiralty Island, traveling at low tide. The idea was to hit this secluded sandy beach an hour before the tide peaked low; that's when the rednecks showed themselves with an inch-long slit in the sand. Seas were calm as we left the harbor; whales spouted and rolled about the water on both sides of the skiff. Seals bobbed up and down. This little boat (what I'd call a metal row boat) was a rougher ride than the big gal, but she was also much faster and easy to maneuver. I was decked out in rain gear head to toe, Teak between my legs, not quite sure about the up and down of it all.
We arrived the beach an hour later and anchored six feet off shore. Teak leaped for land and grabbed the nearest stick. R. instructed me on what to look for but those little slits in the sand just weren't there. He was devastated; accustomed to digging buckets of the large clams in a short time. Could it be the red tide? There was a warning not to gather shell fish along the islands, including Juneau where one woman had eaten clams and died.
We were about 45 minutes from changing tide when those dark slits magically appeared in the sand, giving away the positions of the hidden clams. I identified the spots and R. dug w/a spade. They were never more than one foot down. WHAT FUN. These beauties were fist sized and larger. Hardly anyone knew about the rednecks, R. said. I knew lots about rednecks, but not the clam variety. Sure wasn't used to seeing them on a beach.
It's dramatic when the tide turns; it marks a amazing energy shift. In just a few moments our tracks were covered, holes were filled and one bucket sat in several inches of water. Clamming time was over as we packed up and headed for another shore. Three deer emerged from treeline...rust/orange beauties, one a 2-pt buck in velvet.
We chose a shore with beautiful shale-like rocks where we sat and shucked. R. showed me how to cut the muscle and extract the soft fleshy clam from the shell. Teak and I walked the seashore...miles of harbor and not another soul. We feasted on smoked salmon dip I'd made the night before and a camenzola cheese; topped it off with a bottle of Gewurztraminer wine. We toasted R.'s birthday right about the time the sun came out. Bliss, anyone?
It was mid-afternoon when we headed back to the bay. The winds picked up and the skies began to darken. It was a rough, slow ride. The seas calmed down a few miles from shore so we stopped at a small island where we hiked, bird watched (saw a sweet little winter wren) and threw some fetch sticks for Teak. Hot pink fireweed grew amidst sharp rock outcroppings; moss hung from feathery hemlock in soft, lovely circles. A bald eagle monitored our movement from his perch in a snag. Alaska, the land of extreme contradiction. This little island gifted us with not one but two white tail feathers from a bald eagle.
That night R. finished cleaning and preparing the clams as in split them in half, remove the gut, pound out, bread and fry. They were the sweetest pieces of 'meat' I had ever tasted. I guess you could say we'd cheated death by staring down the red tide. But then again, I feel I cheat death every time I go out the door around here.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
We depart Taku Harbor after our morning coffee. It is our final day at sea. Whales spout and lift off both sides of the boat as we head for our two shrimp pots, situated on rocky, steep underwater cliffs. One is empty; the other contains over a dozen empty shrimp shells and one extremely satisfied octopus. We salvage another half dozen shrimp, more than enough for dinner. It only takes a couple of these big guys to make a meal. R. pulls the octopus from the cage and puts it down on the boat floor. "I'll never kill another one," he says, "they're too smart and gentle." Many are killed for bait or to eat. I watch amazed as it glides effortlessly up and over buckets and ropes, suction cup legs stick but don't impede---it moves as if it's still underwater. R. tosses her back to her salty home. She disappears in a cloud of dark ink.
Our next stop is a kelp and krill-filled cove. We anchor amidst whales, seals, sea lions. Thousands of herring bubble to the surface, attracting clouds of gulls and eagles that skim the water for easy takings. R. fishes for herring to use for salmon and halibut bait. It's all part of the chain in this ongoing drama of land and sea.
We are the only humans in the midst of this spectacle, adrift on the changing tides; small and vulnerable. It is such a fine line between joy and concern. Despite the beauty I rarely escape hyper alert mode. One mis-step and I could go over the side of the boat; one mis-read of tide or wind and calm seas could rile into 8-foot swells. These lands are not for those prone to fear or faint of heart. Neither are they for those who dislike wet. We pull into Juneau harbor around 5:00 p.m. A light drizzle begins to fall as the sky closes down on three idyllic days. My maiden voyage is complete. I guess that means I'm no longer a virgin.
Our next stop is a kelp and krill-filled cove. We anchor amidst whales, seals, sea lions. Thousands of herring bubble to the surface, attracting clouds of gulls and eagles that skim the water for easy takings. R. fishes for herring to use for salmon and halibut bait. It's all part of the chain in this ongoing drama of land and sea.
We are the only humans in the midst of this spectacle, adrift on the changing tides; small and vulnerable. It is such a fine line between joy and concern. Despite the beauty I rarely escape hyper alert mode. One mis-step and I could go over the side of the boat; one mis-read of tide or wind and calm seas could rile into 8-foot swells. These lands are not for those prone to fear or faint of heart. Neither are they for those who dislike wet. We pull into Juneau harbor around 5:00 p.m. A light drizzle begins to fall as the sky closes down on three idyllic days. My maiden voyage is complete. I guess that means I'm no longer a virgin.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Safe Harbor
There is a sonar screen on the dash of the Thea G. It announces the depth in large numbers as well as an ever-changing graph of the sea floor that displays the lay of the underwater land. I think how good it would be to have one of these built into my body. A mechanism to show me groundswells; when abrupt drop offs are near where depth charges are hidden.
I pull on my rubber boots and head for shore with Teak and my camera. Remnants of a cannery protrude from soggy grasses. I snap shots of a blue shipwreck covered in grasses and moss, almost invisible. I must take a look at both sides to make out the complete name: the Blue Empress. She's from Shelby, MT. Oh, to know her story. I love my boots. They give me access to water-logged areas, shore and waves. Their support and traction allow me to hike.
Teak and I return to the boat. Ron is asleep on his mattress in the galley. I grab a cigar and another jacket and return to the deck. It's almost 11:00 p.m. and the waters are a soft tangerine orange with sunset. Two seals swim off the port side; bald eagles cry, fly and scrape the water with their talons.
I am at ease in this calm on the edge of the wild.
I pull on my rubber boots and head for shore with Teak and my camera. Remnants of a cannery protrude from soggy grasses. I snap shots of a blue shipwreck covered in grasses and moss, almost invisible. I must take a look at both sides to make out the complete name: the Blue Empress. She's from Shelby, MT. Oh, to know her story. I love my boots. They give me access to water-logged areas, shore and waves. Their support and traction allow me to hike.
Teak and I return to the boat. Ron is asleep on his mattress in the galley. I grab a cigar and another jacket and return to the deck. It's almost 11:00 p.m. and the waters are a soft tangerine orange with sunset. Two seals swim off the port side; bald eagles cry, fly and scrape the water with their talons.
I am at ease in this calm on the edge of the wild.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Hooker at Sea
I boarded the Thea G., my friend Ron's 35-foot sweet little working boat. We were headed down to Taku harbor, a distant cove, one of his favorites. I was in good hands...Ron had lived in Alaska for 35 years. He knew the coves, the workings of his boats, how to read the weather and water; he had piloted the skies in his plane and been airlifted into wilderness to hunt.
Teak spent the first few hours with her tail tucked between her legs, not too sure about boat life. She and I both had major adjustments to make. How many times did I wallop my head against a short doorway? I lost count at 4. In the first few hours I also ran a fish hook into my thumb and grabbed a steam pipe for stability and burned my hand. I fought back tears as I assured myself things would get better. I didn't have long to wait.
Holy cow, what WAS that golden orb behind the clouds? After a week of rain the weather began to break; the day turned hot and clouds that had shrouded the Juneau ice fields finally lifted to reveal dramatically beautiful steep, craggy mountains. I changed into shorts and a sleeveless top and took my place up on the top deck as we made our way down Gastineu Channel in my first rendezvous with the sun since I'd arrived Alaska.
Chum and sockeye salmon lifted from the waters on their miraculous journeys to the streams where they were born. Several consecutive leaps in a row...the females to break up their egg sacks; the males to break up their milky sperm. All in the name of reproduction and continuation of the species. Bald eagles lined the steep shores; their enchanting, melodic cries filled the air. It wasn't lost on me...I'd exchanged the black and white of the southwest magpie for the black and white of eagle.
We were soon to work as we dropped shrimp pots at an amazing depth of 300 feet just 20 feet offshore. Then we entered the harbor and dropped some crab pots in shallower waters. My job, when we returned to the buoys that marked their spots, was to lean over the moving boat and grab the lines with a hook at the end of pole. Ron steered the boat along side, I hooked and he jumped down, grabbed the lines and connected them onto the pump that reeled the pots in. Eight-inch shrimp and big dungeness crab were our reward. This in the midst of marbled murrelets skimming the waters; the heads of seals bobbing up and down. We were in the company of scoters and three different kinds of loons. A huge grizzly bear roamed the distant shore. I was reminded by my friend, they called'em brown bears in this neck of the woods.
I was a hooker who feasted on fresh shrimp and crab. We didn't really need that 'just in case' steak we'd brought along but we threw it on the grill anyhow. Life was very very good; and the trip had barely started.
Teak spent the first few hours with her tail tucked between her legs, not too sure about boat life. She and I both had major adjustments to make. How many times did I wallop my head against a short doorway? I lost count at 4. In the first few hours I also ran a fish hook into my thumb and grabbed a steam pipe for stability and burned my hand. I fought back tears as I assured myself things would get better. I didn't have long to wait.
Holy cow, what WAS that golden orb behind the clouds? After a week of rain the weather began to break; the day turned hot and clouds that had shrouded the Juneau ice fields finally lifted to reveal dramatically beautiful steep, craggy mountains. I changed into shorts and a sleeveless top and took my place up on the top deck as we made our way down Gastineu Channel in my first rendezvous with the sun since I'd arrived Alaska.
Chum and sockeye salmon lifted from the waters on their miraculous journeys to the streams where they were born. Several consecutive leaps in a row...the females to break up their egg sacks; the males to break up their milky sperm. All in the name of reproduction and continuation of the species. Bald eagles lined the steep shores; their enchanting, melodic cries filled the air. It wasn't lost on me...I'd exchanged the black and white of the southwest magpie for the black and white of eagle.
We were soon to work as we dropped shrimp pots at an amazing depth of 300 feet just 20 feet offshore. Then we entered the harbor and dropped some crab pots in shallower waters. My job, when we returned to the buoys that marked their spots, was to lean over the moving boat and grab the lines with a hook at the end of pole. Ron steered the boat along side, I hooked and he jumped down, grabbed the lines and connected them onto the pump that reeled the pots in. Eight-inch shrimp and big dungeness crab were our reward. This in the midst of marbled murrelets skimming the waters; the heads of seals bobbing up and down. We were in the company of scoters and three different kinds of loons. A huge grizzly bear roamed the distant shore. I was reminded by my friend, they called'em brown bears in this neck of the woods.
I was a hooker who feasted on fresh shrimp and crab. We didn't really need that 'just in case' steak we'd brought along but we threw it on the grill anyhow. Life was very very good; and the trip had barely started.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Into Juneau
I depart from the womb of the ferry into the coastal gray of Juneau. My wild lands brain lurches as I come to a string of fast-moving cars. Juneau is my first city since Boise. Around 30K folks live here. I am relieved to pull up to my friend's home hidden away on the mountainside.
Juneau: a thin strip of humanity at the base of major avalanche chutes. Steep mountains rise at the backside. Mountain goats graze high above the house. A Super Wal-Mart sits between La Perla and Auke Bay. Water is everywhere...lakes, streams, cascading falls and ocean. It envelopes me in clouds and falls gently on my skin as mist. I have traveled from 7500 feet in Mancos, Co to sea level; from lands that rarely lose the sun to lands that feel rain 222 days a year.
The first thing (well, almost) my friend does is hand me a pair of new neoprene rubber boots. They are knee high brown with felt liners and bottoms like hiking boots. They're called 'Xtra Tuffs' and Alaskans do everything in these boots 'cept make love. And that's only a guess.
It takes a half day clad in those boots and rain coats for both of us to power wash the mud and squashed bugs off La Perla and the truck. A rain front settles in over the next few days. I ply my host in green chile cheeseburgers and red chile pork stew, my cool, wet weather comfort foods that brand me as a true south westerner. He takes venison from the freezer, slices strips and fries it up in a homemade batter to-die-for. Where did you shoot the deer, I ask, wondering what part of Alaska.
"In the head," he answered.
Juneau: a thin strip of humanity at the base of major avalanche chutes. Steep mountains rise at the backside. Mountain goats graze high above the house. A Super Wal-Mart sits between La Perla and Auke Bay. Water is everywhere...lakes, streams, cascading falls and ocean. It envelopes me in clouds and falls gently on my skin as mist. I have traveled from 7500 feet in Mancos, Co to sea level; from lands that rarely lose the sun to lands that feel rain 222 days a year.
The first thing (well, almost) my friend does is hand me a pair of new neoprene rubber boots. They are knee high brown with felt liners and bottoms like hiking boots. They're called 'Xtra Tuffs' and Alaskans do everything in these boots 'cept make love. And that's only a guess.
It takes a half day clad in those boots and rain coats for both of us to power wash the mud and squashed bugs off La Perla and the truck. A rain front settles in over the next few days. I ply my host in green chile cheeseburgers and red chile pork stew, my cool, wet weather comfort foods that brand me as a true south westerner. He takes venison from the freezer, slices strips and fries it up in a homemade batter to-die-for. Where did you shoot the deer, I ask, wondering what part of Alaska.
"In the head," he answered.
To Juneau
I crossed the border between British Colombia and the Yukon four times before hitting U.S. customs several miles north of Skagway in a dramatic, cloud-shrouded descent. After ten days of beautiful weather...the entire trip actually, the rains had arrived.
I imagine Skagway once a quiet village at seaside, her small houses remnants of gold rush panics and broken dreams. Today the highway entered from the north, a straight shot to the ocean where my gaze was stopped by a gigantic cruise ship, a sudden plug on a stream of consciousness. Once at the bay and the ferry terminal two additional monsters came into view. From Skagway's deep, mountain-studded harbor they dumped up to 10K shoppers a day onto the Disney-esque boardwalk, into the hands of t-shirt shops and diamond sellers that beckoned like car salesmen. Shop after shop of snazzy jewelers that had no reason to be there because these diamonds were not mined locally any more here than they would be mined in Juneau and Ketchikan...other port towns that sold their souls to cruise ship companies. For you see, the ship companies are instrumental in setting up these stores and have a financial interest in it as they ply their captive audience with want. It's a genius marketing sleight of hand. The new gold rush.
It cost $300-plus to board myself and my 42-feet of truck and trailer. It was one hour to Haines (10 miles as the crow flies from Skagway or 360 miles via the highway) and another 4 hours down shore to Juneau. A watery passage awash in sea lions and humpback whales who sought herring close to shore. Jaegars dove dramatic dives after gulls; marbled murrelets flew in pairs, their rapid wing beats inches above the water.
I was at sea...headed south for Juneau.
I imagine Skagway once a quiet village at seaside, her small houses remnants of gold rush panics and broken dreams. Today the highway entered from the north, a straight shot to the ocean where my gaze was stopped by a gigantic cruise ship, a sudden plug on a stream of consciousness. Once at the bay and the ferry terminal two additional monsters came into view. From Skagway's deep, mountain-studded harbor they dumped up to 10K shoppers a day onto the Disney-esque boardwalk, into the hands of t-shirt shops and diamond sellers that beckoned like car salesmen. Shop after shop of snazzy jewelers that had no reason to be there because these diamonds were not mined locally any more here than they would be mined in Juneau and Ketchikan...other port towns that sold their souls to cruise ship companies. For you see, the ship companies are instrumental in setting up these stores and have a financial interest in it as they ply their captive audience with want. It's a genius marketing sleight of hand. The new gold rush.
It cost $300-plus to board myself and my 42-feet of truck and trailer. It was one hour to Haines (10 miles as the crow flies from Skagway or 360 miles via the highway) and another 4 hours down shore to Juneau. A watery passage awash in sea lions and humpback whales who sought herring close to shore. Jaegars dove dramatic dives after gulls; marbled murrelets flew in pairs, their rapid wing beats inches above the water.
I was at sea...headed south for Juneau.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Back to Basics
June 30th...BC, Yukon Territory, Alaska
This northland's journey moves me from domesticated landscape to the wild. From that which man controls to that which can not be. Four bears in one day. Thirteen total thus far. I park on the banks of rushing rivers or the placid expanse of lakes. That I might sit between FIRE and WATER. I collect wood and strike a match, ever so aware of the 4 elements that bind. EARTH smattered in trails of moose scat; AIR filled with the evening gush of mosquitoes.
It never darkens here. Sunset is no longer an event for which I rush inside and grab my camera. She goes on for hours...hours to sit by a lake and watch her color change from blue hues to rose. To fall trance-like into the water trails of ducks. This, the authentic twilight zone. Soft satin light that does not die. Linear time dissolves.
I am in the land of wild wet. Clouds and waterfalls thread and pour down steep mountainsides for miles. Humidity erases my southwest-sun wrinkles; smooths my sandstone face. No one I meet has dark brown skin like mine. My days of laying naked in the sun are far away down the road.
This northland's journey moves me from domesticated landscape to the wild. From that which man controls to that which can not be. Four bears in one day. Thirteen total thus far. I park on the banks of rushing rivers or the placid expanse of lakes. That I might sit between FIRE and WATER. I collect wood and strike a match, ever so aware of the 4 elements that bind. EARTH smattered in trails of moose scat; AIR filled with the evening gush of mosquitoes.
It never darkens here. Sunset is no longer an event for which I rush inside and grab my camera. She goes on for hours...hours to sit by a lake and watch her color change from blue hues to rose. To fall trance-like into the water trails of ducks. This, the authentic twilight zone. Soft satin light that does not die. Linear time dissolves.
I am in the land of wild wet. Clouds and waterfalls thread and pour down steep mountainsides for miles. Humidity erases my southwest-sun wrinkles; smooths my sandstone face. No one I meet has dark brown skin like mine. My days of laying naked in the sun are far away down the road.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
The Stikine:Tahltan for 'Great River'
Journey North Writins: 6/27/10
The night has lost its soul; given way to the northern track of the sun in the land of constant light. I wear a blindfold at night to seal in sleep.
The lakes string along the road like glassy pearls, spattered with loons and Barrows goldeneye...those who glide with babes in tow...ducklings that zip and answer mom's command. Only the loons seem to parent in pairs, their haunting calls permeating the old cells of my brain.
British Colombia. I am far enough north that Alaska is to the west. In fact, Juneau is DUE west. Yesterday I detoured off the Cassiar Highway down a seventy mile stretch of gravel road with 20% winding grades into a place called Telegraph Creek, a ghost town from Klondike gold rush days. The road followed the wide and rapid Stikine River along the 'grand canyon of BC.' It rose along a narrow volcanic promontory with 400-foot drops on both sides and descended into an ancient Indian fishing village where I tentatively walked and snapped pictures of petite, colorful houses adorned with moose antlers. Sheds of jack pine logs dotted the lush lands situated between river and cliffs. Similar to New Mexico's latillas only a bit larger, the vertical slats were a couple of inches apart.
I had drifted further into the village, completing my photo shoot when an Indian man approached. Busted, I thought, worried that I was trespassing on the lands that felt eerily deserted. But he smiled as he neared and asked if I had noticed the eagle cliff. I smiled back and told him I'd seen two bald eagles flying and calling to one another as they chased off a golden eagle invader. He waved me to follow and pointed to a gigantic rock face that lined the confluence of the Stikine and Talhtan rivers. Sure enough, the cliff face was wind-etched in the shape of an eagle with outstretched wings over 200-yards wide. Perched directly over the etching at the edge of the cliff was one of those glorious balds, perusing her domain. My new friend said that their nest was up there.
Below the eagle face was where the Tahltan tribe would gather in another couple of weeks when the salmon arrive and complete their life cycle circle from this river, to several years in the ocean and back again to spawn and die. He said he was already catching a few Chinooks (Kings) and Reds (Sockeye). He said his name was Danny. He reckoned that he was glad to have some company. His face was as etched as that rock. Then Danny opened the door on one of those pine houses and rows of hanging salmon drying and smoking. The light burst through the slats, creating a tangerine colored collage. I was privy to a sacred salmon sanctum as he climbed into the loft, reached into a bag and handed down some dried, smoked salmon that tasted like food of the gods.
I told Danny that I was continuing into Telegraph Creek and asked if he needed anything. No, said the man with missing front teeth. He had all he needed in this simple place where rivers converged. On my way back through I left a signed copy of my book against his turquoise blue door, crossed the river and snaked my way up the promontory under the eagle's eyes.
(Check back for pictures...hope to get functional on the road on my own computer soon!)
The night has lost its soul; given way to the northern track of the sun in the land of constant light. I wear a blindfold at night to seal in sleep.
The lakes string along the road like glassy pearls, spattered with loons and Barrows goldeneye...those who glide with babes in tow...ducklings that zip and answer mom's command. Only the loons seem to parent in pairs, their haunting calls permeating the old cells of my brain.
British Colombia. I am far enough north that Alaska is to the west. In fact, Juneau is DUE west. Yesterday I detoured off the Cassiar Highway down a seventy mile stretch of gravel road with 20% winding grades into a place called Telegraph Creek, a ghost town from Klondike gold rush days. The road followed the wide and rapid Stikine River along the 'grand canyon of BC.' It rose along a narrow volcanic promontory with 400-foot drops on both sides and descended into an ancient Indian fishing village where I tentatively walked and snapped pictures of petite, colorful houses adorned with moose antlers. Sheds of jack pine logs dotted the lush lands situated between river and cliffs. Similar to New Mexico's latillas only a bit larger, the vertical slats were a couple of inches apart.
I had drifted further into the village, completing my photo shoot when an Indian man approached. Busted, I thought, worried that I was trespassing on the lands that felt eerily deserted. But he smiled as he neared and asked if I had noticed the eagle cliff. I smiled back and told him I'd seen two bald eagles flying and calling to one another as they chased off a golden eagle invader. He waved me to follow and pointed to a gigantic rock face that lined the confluence of the Stikine and Talhtan rivers. Sure enough, the cliff face was wind-etched in the shape of an eagle with outstretched wings over 200-yards wide. Perched directly over the etching at the edge of the cliff was one of those glorious balds, perusing her domain. My new friend said that their nest was up there.
Below the eagle face was where the Tahltan tribe would gather in another couple of weeks when the salmon arrive and complete their life cycle circle from this river, to several years in the ocean and back again to spawn and die. He said he was already catching a few Chinooks (Kings) and Reds (Sockeye). He said his name was Danny. He reckoned that he was glad to have some company. His face was as etched as that rock. Then Danny opened the door on one of those pine houses and rows of hanging salmon drying and smoking. The light burst through the slats, creating a tangerine colored collage. I was privy to a sacred salmon sanctum as he climbed into the loft, reached into a bag and handed down some dried, smoked salmon that tasted like food of the gods.
I told Danny that I was continuing into Telegraph Creek and asked if he needed anything. No, said the man with missing front teeth. He had all he needed in this simple place where rivers converged. On my way back through I left a signed copy of my book against his turquoise blue door, crossed the river and snaked my way up the promontory under the eagle's eyes.
(Check back for pictures...hope to get functional on the road on my own computer soon!)
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