Category Archives: post bucket

There was mud covering my jeans and shoes as I went through the TSA checkpoint tonight. I am three hours early for my one AM flight, but I don’t have anywhere else to go here as Jenny has to put Sawyer down for school tomorrow and most places in town close at 10pm. After I left Jenny’s – and left the truck parked on her extra lot – I went to Big Daddy’s and had a last supper of wings and three delicious margaritas. While waiting for a cab, a new resident of Fairbanks, newly employed in the kitchen at the one Greek restaurant in town (which is also fantastic, especially the mixed drinks and calamari, although the thing that is the most amazing there are their opulent bathrooms) and clearly nearly out of his mind. He regaled me for a good twenty minutes, while I waited for my cab to the airport, on the wonders of the Fairbanks support system. “You know you can get what you need here? There is a women’s shelter! And a food bank! And a place to get hot meals!” Yet, dear. And I’m flying to Minnesota in four hours. But he would not be deterred in his enthusiastic helpfulness, and making sure I knew where I could get whatever help I needed. Eventually, and wobbily, he half mounted his bicycle and skipped off down the sidewalk. The cab did not arrive in time to rescue me.

Previous to this little misadventure, I was at Jenny’s for a couple of hours. It was pouring rain, and we all huddled in the dog pen with the puppies who have miraculously quadrupled in size since I arrived (and they arrived) a week ago. Four of the five are just black with white markings, and those who have their eyes open are showing ice-blue. I was in the only clean clothes I have left, but they did not last long. The puppies coated them in sawdust and probably a little dribble of pee, and their mother, looking for affection and attention after caring for the little suckling beasts, started my jeans on the slippery slope by implanting her muddy paws all over my thighs as I held and cuddled her little three-pound squirming pups. Then, I followed Sawyer, with a precarious bucket of water, down to the dog yard, where Jenny insisted that I inspect Xtra Tuff’s sore foot and the weird cyst on Gypsy’s chin. Xtra Tuff’s feet were caked in post-rain mud, and so on my hands and arms were covered. Before I even got ahold of her feet, her constant pacing circle had my jeans and pants well splattered. Gypsy’s chin was more clean than Xtra’s feet, but she spared no time in imprinting her own muddy paws on my pants. It was a losing battle from the start.

We then made our way to the chicken yard, where Sawyer caught and cuddled the older hens and we discovered a new baby chick, hatched in secret by one of the mommas, stuck in the feed bin of the younger of the brood. We quickly created a new space for momma and chick, with feed and water and shelter in an old dog house, away from the other chickens and the potential predators outside the fence. But along with this task came more mud in the slick chicken yard, and I was soon regretting packing my boots instead of wearing them. Jenny and I chatted some over chickens, gardens and Sawyer’s attention-seeking antics and eventually we packed up and left the house so she could drop me at wings and Big Daddy’s.

That little barbeque joint is as familiar as a warm blanket to me. I have spent myriad evenings there, chowing down on their dollar wings (dollar fifty now, damned inflation) and fresh squeezed ritas. And there, surrounded by the familiar and the comforting, and inundated with more and more tequila, I being to wonder if my dreams are actually possible. I begin to imagine a dog team. A dog barn. A sled. Trails. Training. Races. Sponsorships. I wonder if Big Daddy’s would ever honor my obsessive loyalty to their smoked chicken with a sponsorship; even if it was just in-kind sustenance through the training season. The fantasies become more and more real to me as the drinks come. But soon the bar is closing, and I have nowhere to go but the airport. Until well after midnight, and with precious few places to charge my cell phone.

What I am trying to forget is that I have been fighting tears all day, but especially on the drive away from our home and back to Jenny’s after dropping off some camping gear and sundry stuff in the shed there. I miss that place, and every time I see it (full of stranger’s gear, and wood that we have not gathered) I fight the urge to quit my life and move back in. It is the place I want to be, the nascent place that I want to develop as my own. And walking away from it, again and again, is a kick in the gut. As is driving through the rainy, overcast night, in a town that I have claimed as my home, away to the airport, to fly far away again. For who knows how long. I am left leaving tonight, long after the midnight sun has set, with the muddy paw prints on my jeans and imbedded in my brand new running shoes. And I hope it won’t be too long before I cam come back, not for a visit, but for good.

Michelle’s chickens greeted me in the driveway, and did not scatter when I stepped out of the truck. They gathered around me in a little semi-circle, and then followed me up to the front porch steps of her home. The warm little wood structure stood at the start of a clearing in the aspen trees, with a big lawn flowing up the hill behind it. I passed a sleeping sled dog, and my knock was greeted by more dogs barking from inside the house. I saw her wave me in, and stepped through the door into a generous arctic entry where I removed my shoes, then into the little livingroom with it’s heavy wood beams and woodstove in the center, wide windows opening out on the lawn at the back and, I could see now, a huge circle of a fenced garden taking up the rear of the yard.

We toured the house, sauna, workshop and garden, including a greenhouse overflowing with tomato plants that were Godzilla to my healthy crop back in the Midwest. Her basil leaves were nearly the size of my palm and the rhubarb harvest was two full arm’s worth, waiting to be brought inside. The chickens, which she had hand-raised, followed us everywhere, unperturbed by the dogs who had calmed down and were now sniffing around the garden. The garden itself was enclosed by a neat fence, reinforced by old cross country skis, cross-braces of which also made the two gates into the circular labyrinth of green. Dinner was salmon, cauliflower and spaghetti squash, a bountiful harvest.

It was like walking into a waking dream of the life I want, the life I feel like I had to give up to follow Peter to Iowa. It is a vision of what I want for our land, our space, when we return. It was a pleasure to be able to sit inside my hope for the future for a few hours tonight, as the late arctic sun set over the trees, and let my feet sink into her soil, my hands run over the backs of her chickens, my teeth sink into the flesh of the salmon that my own life will hold someday. At least, that is the hope I am holding on to tonight.

One of the weird aberrations about Fairbanks is that despite her remote location (just a hundred miles from the arctic circle, and the northern most city of her size and stature on earth) and relatively small size (the city population sits at just 32,000 and the surrounding area – the size of New Jersey – has only 100,000 souls) she has some fantastic food. There are more Thai food establishements than we have ever even bothered to try, with more seeming to pop up all the time, the pizza is fantastic and the fine dining is just as good. There are steak dives, American food fair, a falafel and delectable sandwich place in the summer, local (but overpriced) ice cream, and relatively few national chains to crowd the picture.
One of the best finds I’ve made is Big Daddy’s BBQ, right downtown. They have the best hotwings that I have ever tasted (granted, I have never been to Buffalo, NY … but I have also tried a LOT of hotwings.) The wings are fantastic – they are whole three-piece wings left together and are slow-barbecued before being tossed in a just-hot-enough sauce that is tasty and hot in perfect balance. I dream about those wings when I am away, and they are usually the first and last meals (and several in between) that I get when I come home. There is a Wing Wednesday special, and when I was here last fall, I dragged Toni to the place every Wednesday afternoon all winter long to satisfy my cravings and shore up against the long absence to come.

It is still a mystery to me why this place so far removed from most of civilization and culture has such damned good food. We lived in the Des Moines area (500K people) for two years, and found the food there largely unexceptional (with the notable exception of Zombie Burger, god bless her brilliant, witty menu, homemade burger buns and cheap margaritas). Even Minneapolis and Saint Paul, with much more to offer, has disappointed as much as it has delighted. Some places have been fantastic, but others have fallen well flat.

Food, unfortunately in some ways, has always been incredibly important to me. Not only as a social venue, but for the aesthetic of good taste in and of itself. I am no gastro-snob, and I’m sure some of the delicacies of France or New York City would be far over my head. But I am all for a solid Pad See Ew and a good home made dipping sauce, inventive wood-fired pizzas and solid, hometown barbeque.In fact, I find myself restless and discontent when they aren’t readily available.

One of the reasons that I am content with the idea of settling in Fairbanks for good is her culinary offerings. She may not have the flair of the big cities, or quite the diversity in offerings, but there is plenty that I crave here when I am away, and there certainly hasn’t been time to visit all the places that I love (and dream about) on this short summer visit.

A replica of the old Fairbanks city bus where Chris McCandless starved to death is parked in front of the 49^th State Brewery in Healy. It is a weird icon, serving both as a testament to adventure (how many thousands have come to Alaska inspired by the rambling writings and story of wanderlust that filled the pages of Into the Wild) and a warning to those that would test the wilds of Alaska and themselves, and come up short. There is a going theory that McCandless was not just a philosophizing wanderer, a lost soul in a world where he didn’t fit, but that he was suffering from schizophrenia and that the detachment from reality contributed to his eventual death in the wilderness just west of the little mining town.

Alaskans like to whine and complain about how the story of that troubled kid traveling the country and eventually ending up in Alaska inspires unprepared greenhorns to come up every summer and attempt a pilgrimage to ‘the bus’ out the old stampede trail. The summer I worked in Healy as a medic, the fire chief was quoted in the paper claiming that dozens of inept tourists had to be rescued from sure death after attempting to retrace the steps of their hero, taxing the resources of the small town. The reality that summer was that the only people needing rescue were a couple of local boys who got their four wheel drive truck stuck halfway out the trail on a mudding tear after a weekend party.

Tonight I stopped at the brewery on my way back to Fairbanks, and walked around the iconic bus prop from the movie, now turned into a museum of sorts with photos and quotes from McCandless’ last weeks trapped on the far side of the river and starving to death in the wilderness. I didn’t go inside this time, as I’ve seen it all before and I find the whole display in questionable taste, especially next to a Frisbee golf tee and bocce ball court outside a rowdy summer brewpub. The story sticks with me still, though, as it has with so many. I came up to Alaska in my twenties, as well, and made some poor choices in adventure and trajectory. I managed to come out of my scrapes alive, with a combination of luck and overcautious paranoia, but I was no less naive to the dangers of the bush than he was and no less in a state of idealistic reverie when I traipsed across the border starry-eyed and oblivious at the age of twenty four. I have only fate to thank that I’m still wandering these roads and trails, a decade later, a little more savvy and a little less idealistic about the wilderness and what she has to offer than I was back then.

And yet I still find myself wandering the trails into the mountains, feeling a connection and a place that I have never felt in the world of the people I come from. There is still that magic here in the hills, wild and uncaring, that gives me chills and draws me back year after year when I could be spending my precious weeks off elsewhere. And there are still days when I wonder if I will yet be drawn in a little too far, a little too deep, to come out on the other side.

The coffee shop in town is tucked into an old Methodist church. The wood floor is stained and scarred, none of the chairs match, the tables have bright, incongruous south American cloths covering them in this otherwise muted-tone place. The walls are filled with northern inspired art and the shelves with knickknacks for the tourists. The choir loft holds a handful of comfy chairs. There is nowhere to plug in a computer, but there is, miraculously, wifi in the air. Geriatric dogs wander through the tables soliciting ear scratches and the tables themselves are filled with the elderly residents of Seward, boat captains, lodge proprietors, small business owners. On days the cruise ships are docked, bevys of onlookers filter through in bright rain jackets and squeaky new hiking boots. There is never any room at the few tables, and the locals never wear rain jackets despite the ubiquitous coastal drizzle.
It is drizzling now, as I sit here. Devon, a sailing captain and old co-worker of mine, called me over to his table when I walked in to get my morning fix of chocolate and coffee (they steam Ghirardelli’s into the milk here, and it is divine) and so I got a table despite my status as an outsider. Although I do not, of course, have on a rain coat, hoping as always to blend into the background of these places.

Devon is gone to “see about a boat” at the harbor, and I am left at a coveted table watching the slow rain coat the town from the huge arched church windows. I am scheduled to leave paradise today, and despite the fact that the last two days of unaccustomed sunshine have faded into damp and the mountains are veiled in mist, I am loathe to leave. These last days and hours have been a balm, between paddling and hiking up into the hills around town. Yesterday, I headed up Lost Lake trail and trekked about three miles up into the mountains before I turned around (the lake itself is seven miles in, a round trip I am neither conditioned for nor committed to this time). When I did finally turn to head back, the bay and her islands were spread out in the distance, beckoning, and the mountains jutted up on every side, snowpack and the telltale blue glow of glaciers peaking out in the sheltered bowls impossibly higher than my little goat trail through the alpine tundra. I sat in the cool afternoon breeze until I was well and cold, relishing the place, content, again, to just be in the mountains, feet on the earth, even on a relatively well traveled path like this one.

Last night, in another small-town moment, I met the sister of a friend and she exclaimed “oh, I saw you out Lost Lake this afternoon!” because even wilderness is well populated around towns and communities, even here where there is wilderness in every direction. I did some thinking about my little treks this trip so far. I am in no shape for expeditions these days anyway, and the thought of traveling utterly alone into the deep wilderness, although filling a place in my idealist’s soul, still leaves me with the anxiety of a pragmatist. On this trip north, I have made no plans for treks into the trackless tundra of the Alaska range or the Brooks further to the north. I did not map out an epic journey into Aialik or Northewestern Fjord with kayaks and bear cans and food for days, out of even radio contact with the outside world for as long. I am doing little day hikes, granted in spectacular wilderness, but all within an hours’ drive (to a few hours’ paddle) from towns along my route visiting friends across the state. These are the little adventures, the ways that these places are accessible even to me, just getting my sea-legs back into day trekking after several years of stagnation. Those trips are still on my horizon, I hope, but I am also relieved to find that the little forays into wild places can provide balm as well as the big ones.