The Adventures of Little Steve, Vol. 3

Winter has arrived in the Bitterroot. As if this wasn't obvious enough from the solidly frozen water in the dogs' dish or the icy glaze on every window pane, my good friend Jake Pintok called from the comfort of his desk in the Bitterroot National Forest Supervisor's Office to inform me that it was eleven below zero down in Sula last night. Personally, though the moon rising over the mountains was an amazing sight and bluebird skies are always appreciated, I could go for a little less cold and a little more snow. Brandi is of the opinion there is white stuff enough to test our new dog sled up at Lost Trail this weekend, but looking out from my writing nook at the rock hard skiff currently struggling to simply cover the grass in the yard, I am inclined to believe that the runners will probably be riding on pine litter instead.

The real disappointment in finding winter has arrived in Montana, for both Jacob and I, is the knowledge that neither of us put any meat in the freezer. Jake doesn't have much excuse, as he had smaller elk in his sights on several occasions and passed them up for a shot at a big bull, but then again he has the luxury of still having plenty of meat in his freezer from the bull he took two years ago, since he has yet to crack the nut of getting Lisa and the boys to eat venison. Brandi and I, on the other hand, live off the stuff, and though not completely decimated, the stock of steak and ground chuck stored in our freezer from the young bull I took last season is fast dwindling.

Hunting big game is hard, and it certainly isn't for everyone. It takes leg work and the ability to coldly and calculatedly take the life of one of God's beautiful creations. Even when it works out, it isn't necessarily as cost effective as buying half a beef from one of the kids in the local 4-H chapter. It is however, for most of us who engage in the practice, a connection to our farthest past, a link to the natural world and our place in it, and an endeavor that takes an infinitely greater responsibility for itself than ordering a quarter pounder at the McDonald's drive-thru.

So I'm sorry Little Steve. Your dad failed you in his oldest duty, that of putting meat on the family table. Will I save those final few packages of elk in hopes of ensuring that you grow up eating the stuff? Yes. But I have to say I'm more than a little disappointed with the way this season's hunt went, especially what with having wasted several opportunities. I'll tell you more about that later, when you'll better understand.

Stories of hunting success aside, things have been going rather well for Little Steve. At the very least Doc Laraway says he is progressing at a normal rate. He seems to get the hiccups quite often, and he occasionally sees fit to batter his mama's insides looking for a way out of the cozy cocoon she provides for him. Sitting here feeling my toes go numb, this rushing desire to get out and face life only serves to demonstrate to me the naivety of youth. If he knew how cold it was here in the house, I don't think he would be in such a big hurry to escape her warm confines.

Taking the Long Way Home

There is a lot to be said about the journey, but sometimes it is only a prelude to the rest of the story. The beauty of an expedition is that, unlike the journey through life, we know where it begins, which direction it will take us, and, most importantly, where it ends. That sense of certainty allows us the luxury of having time to smell the roses. Conversely, our lack of that knowledge is what makes it so difficult to do so in life.

The road from Fort Nelson, British Columbia, to Edmonton, Alberta, passes through the heart of Canadian oil country. It is a pleasant enough path, if you don’t mind the constant reminders. As I was being conveyed across two thousand miles by an internal combustion engine, I wasn’t about to point any accusatory fingers at the oil pump jacks, natural gas wells, pipelines, or refineries. And though not particularly attractive, it was actually a pretty awesome sight.

I took a break in Fort Nelson and had a real sit down meal at the Fort Nelson Hotel. The café offered free internet access, so I surfed around a bit, wrote Brandi, and updated my status on Facebook. After lunch I strolled down to the office of the local telecom provider. When I asked if he had any insight as to why my phone didn’t work, a young man there informed me that I would have to wait until I got a bit closer to the States. Although frustrating at the time, this was a good thing I later learned upon receiving my bill.

There were “Caution: Bear in Area” signs posted throughout the campground at Charlie Lake where we stopped for the night. I weaved the dogs’ leashes into a makeshift gangline and walked the nature trail down to the lake. I soon discovered three dog power is quite a bit more than one human power. When we twice encountered other dogs along the path, it was all I could do to hold the huskies back. Being isolated in the truck canopy had taken its toll on them, and they were anxious for interaction. Tensaw showed particularly poor form, tangling himself in the leads while performing howling backflips.

Having backpacked solo for years, I don’t own a tent, preferring the weight savings of a space blanket bivy. Made nervous by the bear signs, I had arranged my sleeping gear directly behind the truck and left the canopy door open while I slept, thinking that the dogs would warn me of any animal’s approach. I realized my error when I awoke in a terror, mindlessly leaping to my feet after feeling a paw upon my back. The dogs were tearing through the underbrush. It took a few seconds before I understood they weren’t after a bear, and that what I had felt was one of them landing on me as they launched themselves after some rodent. I collected my wits along with the dogs and shuttered them inside the truck before drifting off to sleep once more.

The following morning I drove the short distance into Fort St. John. Finally having found its voice, my cell phone made quite racket as it was inundated by a deluge of pending messages. I phoned Brandi and reveled in the fact that I could once again contact her at my leisure.

My next stop was the end of the line, sort of. Officially, the Alaska Highway has its beginnings in Dawson Creek, BC. I stopped there for some time, taking pictures of the dogs at the welcome sign like a true tourist. I talked to Brandi through her lunch break and felt my feelings about the journey pass through a metamorphosis. I wasn’t driving the Alaska Highway anymore. I was driving home.

Long periods behind the wheel were beginning to wear me down, so the dogs and I took every opportunity to stretch our legs. They were beginning to lose interest in obeying my commands; at a park outside of Grande Prairie, they assaulted a group of picnicking locals. A stop at Williamson Provincial Park was assured, but Blue lost her privilege to walk off leash almost immediately. As the day wore on, I looked more and more fondly upon the prospect of halting travel for the day.

The map showed numerous campgrounds on the road between Valleyview and Whitecourt, but somehow I missed them all. Panicking slightly, I turned south on a minor route and drove to a campground on the McLeod River. A sign at the entrance informed me that it was full. Distraught, I again checked my map. The nearest campground was another thirty kilometers away.

A call from Brandi helped check my disappointment and I wandered down a rural route towards Pembina River Provincial Park. It was nearly full as well, and I was extremely fortunate to find a campsite. The dogs had finally lost it and threw themselves against their tieouts as I tried to feed them. Exhausted, I threw myself on the ground and slept hard.

It was early when I pulled into Edmonton the next morning. I knew the West Edmonton Mall would be closed at this hour but I wanted to witness it anyway. From the outside, it was less impressive than I imagined. I bought a cup of coffee at Starbucks to help ease myself back into civilization before braving the four lane south.

Mapquest told me the quickest path to Hamilton was down I-15 through Helena. By the time I made Calgary, I was beginning to have my doubts about the route. The wind was howling off the east slope of the Rockies, and I swear my hand was bruised from gripping the steering wheel against the gale. When I stopped for fuel in Nanton, I’d had enough. I turned the truck west into the mountains.

I had been eyeing Fernie since the beginning of the trip. For some reason, I knew I was going there all along. My plan was to call my buddy JP when I arrived; if I reached him, I would push on to Eureka. If not, I would get a room in Fernie and clean up some before setting out on the final leg.

One nice thing about being an American traveling in Canada is that all the distances along the roadside are displayed in kilometers, and our minds think in miles. The klicks ticked by much quicker than miles did. I was in Fernie before I knew it, with the added benefit that the drive over Crowsnest Pass was much prettier than the plains had been.

Johnny Paul didn’t answer at first, but he soon called me back. After the vast distance I’d already traveled, the hop, skip, and jump to the port at Roosville was over in a flash. The jackbooted customs agent tried his best to be antagonistic, but his heart wasn’t in it. He fondled my passport for a while before glumly waving me through.

Although not quite home, I was back in Montana, and on the Kootenai no less. The night spent with Des and JP made for a good transition, and we spent it in our typical fashion, ranting about the Forest Service while my huskies jousted with his retrievers. When I left there in the morning I got a bit off track and wound up following a logging road the back way to Trego. This unplanned side trip timed my arrival in Whitefish perfectly.

Brandi was at Flathead Lake, camped on Wild Horse Island doing field research. We made plans to meet at Big Arm State Park where her boat would land. I stopped at Elmo and let the dogs have a good long run, preparing myself for the reunion with her.

Her boat was late, which was good, because it gave the butterflies in my stomach a chance to calm down some. Brandi always gives me butterflies. These ones were in a particular frenzy after two thousand miles, but when she leapt from the boat and tore up the dock to greet me, they completely disappeared.

Searching for Montana in the heart of Alaska

Nothing in life is the way you think it will be. No matter how diligently you strive to draft a perfect blueprint in your mind, the truth of the matter is rarely an exact replica of what you had envisioned. Seldom do even our best estimations ever amount to anything more than a close approximation.

Sometimes our imaginations lead us to be disappointed by reality, sometimes it comes as a pleasant surprise. Though it can often be frustrating, that is actually one of the beauties in life. Mystery is inherent to the human experience. How much fun would life really be if we already knew what was waiting for us around every corner, or could see what our gift was without first having to unwrap it?

I had always held a romantic view of Alaska. Like many, I was of the opinion that if things ever became exceedingly hectic in the Lower 48, there was always Alaska to run to. I imagined this incredible wilderness where a person could go and still find room to carve out an existence with little more than two hands. I maintained a belief that Alaska was the last bastion of pioneer spirit, the culmination of America's great trail of westward expansion, and in many ways it is.

All idealistic illusions aside, one thing is certain: Alaska is the end of the road, and that road is the Alaska Highway. Commissioned by the United States Army during the early part of World War Two, it continues to be the most amazing feat of highway construction ever accomplished. Its tales could fill volumes, and already have.

Officially, the ALCAN spans one thousand three hundred ninety miles from Dawson Creek, British Columbia, to Delta Junction, Alaska. In reality, it extends the length of Interstate 15 clear on to Fairbanks, passing through the Canadian provinces of Alberta, British Columbia, and the Yukon Territory along the way. It is one of the world’s most magnificent drives, and the road trip of a lifetime for many an intrepid adventurer.

Tok is the first American town on the Alaska Highway, and the road is the community's lifeline. A desolate ghost town when I arrived in February, Tok was a bustle of activity by mid-May. Fast Eddy’s was swamped. A literal army of tourists swarmed the cluster of gas pumps, RV parks, and motels that comprise the city center. They streamed along the Alaska Highway like a string of marching ants.

My original itinerary for the trip south called for another sailing on the Alaska Marine Highway ferry system, from the port of Whittier on the Kenai Peninsula near Anchorage back to Bellingham, WA. The “trifecta”, as Brandi calls it, of minor offenses I have acquired over the years effectively makes me criminally inadmissible to Canada, if you read the literature, which is in part why I chose to ride the ferry north in the first place. Still, passage during the peak of summer tourist season is expensive, and the sailing was scheduled to last ten long days. With that in mind, the ribbon of pavement extending southeast from Tok towards Montana had begun to appear terribly inviting, even after having factored in the poor exchange rate and the high cost of Canadian petrol. The border crossing was only ninety miles away. The worst that could happen was that I would get turned around and be forced to drive back to Tok. If that indeed was the case, I could still catch the ferry as planned, so there was no way I could lose, really. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I woke up early on Father’s Day. After a final sweep of the cabin to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything, I loaded up the huskies and said my goodbyes. Leaving any place always contains its share of sorrow, especially if the experience was meaningful. Never would I forget this place or the things that I went through here. In my heart, I wanted to be back in Montana more than anything and I knew there was no way I was going to stay. Still, I couldn’t help but notice the subtle sense of mourning that settled over me as I closed the cabin door and drove down the drive.

Alaska was everything I thought it could be, and a million other things besides. Turns out, however, that I am not who I thought I was. Places, experiences, relationships; they all reveal things about ourselves we never would have realized otherwise. I didn’t go to Alaska to learn anything about Alaska. Seems I went to Alaska to find out that what I came looking for was back home in Montana.

State of Things

Fire season has finally arrived in Alaska. Broken Snowshoe is burning outside of McGrath, and Tok Area’s very own Old Man Fire has grabbed the number two slot on the National Situation Report. Both burns are near human populations, the only real reason to fight fire in Alaska. Old Man is burning in thick black spruce forest, north of the town of Chicken. A classic example of stand replacement ecology, nothing is going to stop the fire until a heavy rain falls or it exhausts its supply of fuel.

It was only a matter of time. Weather has been warm in Alaska since the beginning of May, and during one particular heat wave early in the month, temps reached record levels. A few systems have moved through, cloudy and cooler but without any measureable precipitation. All that was lacking was an ignition source, summarily supplied by some afternoon thunderstorms over Memorial Day weekend.

Brandi was here for better than a week. It was great having her visit, even though watching her walk off into Fairbanks International Airport was absolutely heart wrenching. We went on several grand adventures, and learned quite a lot about Alaska, ourselves, and one another. Brandi wrote an excellent essay summarizing our exploits, so I won’t share them here, other than these two valuable lessons. There aren’t as many campgrounds along the Parks Highway as one might suspect and always top off your gas tank at every available opportunity when driving across Alaska.

To be frank, Alaska has been kicking my ass. Unless you are in Anchorage, where life is downright cosmopolitan, living here is pretty much an expedition into the wilderness dotted with sporadic internet access and occasional cell coverage. I have run myself almost completely out of gas and fought dark clouds of depression. The dogs have gone native, regressing back to their predatory roots. Tensaw is as fixated as a junkie, constantly sniffing the air and regularly leading the charge in search of rabbit scent and caribou herd. Alaska is an incredible place, but there’s a constant sense of the struggle for survival. Livin' never comes easy here. It’s a battle I feel I wouldn’t win, even if I had a mind to fight it.

Montana is the greatest state in the Union. It boasts every resource imaginable, its wealth of raw materials second only to California in scope and magnitude. If each of the United States was its own country, I believe Montana would boast the wealthiest citizens. Its freshwater reserves alone would seem to dictate as much.

If Montana looked to fulfill all of its own needs from within its own borders, there would be little to want for, and much with which to parley. A fraction of Montana’s current hydroelectric capacity is enough to power the entire state. There is wheat and beef aplenty. Freshwater abounds, including the headwaters of America’s greatest river, the Missouri. The only staples lacking are cotton and corn, with oil, coal, gold, silver, timber and wool as trading stock.

This, however, is not the state of things in Montana. Rather than benefiting Montanans, this abundance of resources is controlled by outside interests, and residents receive little capital gain from them. Land value is exaggerated in Montana, and the cost of living is high compared with the prevailing wage. Little headway can be made by the average worker in the face of foreign capital. Most Montanans scrape by as servants and laborers. They toil to export their valuable commodities for pennies on the dollar, all the while paying market rates for items from their own backyard.

I wouldn't be suprised if one day Montanans take arms against this sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them. Most of us are much too content to rock the boat, and should it be overturned by a violent sea, we would rather tread water somewhere recognizable than paddle into the unknown, so I'm guessing secession is a long way off. Until then, Montana's still the last best place to live, poor in cash yet rich in wide open spaces, and I for one can’t wait to get back there to her loving arms.

A Film Worth Its Cost

It’s always hard to completely resolve the conflict that arises from using technology as a platform for discussing environmental concerns. The simple fact that one has the technology available to use implies that it was manufactured somewhere out of something. Where did the gold contained within the computer I am using to post this come from? If you don’t know, then I’ll tell you; from a mine. And along with it came all the associated environmental implications that accompany mining operations.

As it was me who created a demand for its product, I am responsible for that mine’s existence. Yes, I would like to tell you that mining has a significant impact on the environment and that I am against the proposed mining operation looking to tunnel under my local wilderness area, the Cabinet Mountains, but that would only serve to further reveal my hypocrisy. “So you’re telling me that you don’t like mines via a network of copper wire.” Yeah, no one is buying that.

Still, here and there, gems come shining through that, despite the impact of their manufacture, speak loudly enough to our sensibilities that they drown out the hypocrisy ensured by their existence. One such example is a recent documentary film about the proposed Pebble Mine near Alaska’s Bristol Bay entitled Red Gold.

If you dig deep enough into Red Gold you will find it is filled with just the stuff I am referring to; it took a helicopter to get that shot of the Bingham Canyon mine. But the power of the film is undeniable. Yes, we need gold mines, it says; but maybe we don’t need one right here. Perhaps fish and fishermen have a rightful place beside video cameras and computers. If it takes a film to get us to ask ourselves this question, maybe it’s worth leveling another hilltop to make it.

Someday, we are going to be forced to make some really hard decisions about what it is we truly must safeguard. It isn’t today, but it is definitely coming. At some point, a choice will have to be made between things that sustain us and things that merely convenient. Its inherent hypocrisies (you can’t run a fishing boat or float plane on salmon guts) notwithstanding, Red Gold is just the type of dialogue that needs to take place on the subject. If you get the chance, I highly recommend it. And if at all possible, walk to the theater.

Don't Be Scared, Cobe

I’ve been hanging out in Hamilton with Brandi. We met this past summer while we were both working wildland fire in Kootenai Country. She is pretty amazing. When I first met her, she was quite the conservationist, but I’ve been doing a real good job breaking her of such sensible habits as only driving when she has to, walking to the store, not buying things she doesn’t need, and turning off lights when she leaves a room. We have been getting along very well, and I have high hopes for us, if we can only get past Alaska.

As I mentioned, I was working on the Kootenai when I met Brandi. I’ve been working in fire management since 2000, and one day I had an opportunity to take a new position within the Montana Department of Natural Resources and Conservation, working dispatch in Lincoln County where I grew up. At the time I took the job, I was working in Missoula and getting awful tired of that town. The job on the Koot seemed like just the ticket; I could stay at my pop’s cabin for minimal rent and get the dogs out of the city. Besides all that, I had planned on moving back to Troy anyway, to research and write a novel. This was perfect.

That attitude didn’t last too long. A funny thing about hometowns; no matter how much you change while you’re away, or think you do, they always seem to bring you back around to who you were. By the time fire season 2008 was getting started on the Kootenai, I was looking for a way out. One day at the office, my buddy Slick Rick and I got talking about Alaska. Working in a dispatch office, you’re always trying to find something new to Google. That’s what I should do, I said. I’m gonna Google jobs in Alaska.

One Google search and two emails later, I was filling out an application for a new dispatch job with the State of AK Division of Forestry in Tok, Alaska. If I thought the job on the Kootenai was good, this was great. The job announcement was for the position of lead dispatcher, which meant I would get the supervisory experience I hadn’t been getting a chance at here in the Northern Rockies region. And talk about peace and quiet to write; Tok was literally in the middle of f’n nowhere, despite its dubious distinction of being the first Alaskan town after Canada along the Alcan. I’d already gotten all I needed out of Troy as far as research for the novel. When they offered me the job, I was on top of the world.

Not because of the job, however. The job offer had taken on a rather bittersweet flavor, actually. No, the reason I was on top of the world, as I told my pops the afternoon it happened, was because Brandi McCoy called me. Sure, I’d been subtly pursuing her, but it was more due to the fact that I couldn’t NOT pursue her than through any belief that it would truly amount to anything. Still, it had amounted to something, and that something has turned out to be much more worthwhile than I could ever have imagined.

So now we’re preparing to say our goodbyes. The ferry to Alaska pulls out of Bellingham, Washington, on February 20th, and the dogs and I will be on it. How’s that going to work out, you ask. I don’t know. Brandi is an absolute beauty, in every sense of the word, so I’m feeling a bit insecure about the situation, as you might imagine. We have been at each other’s throats lately, to be perfectly honest. We’re both just scared, I guess. It’s been pretty good, this thing we’ve found, and we’re worried we might lose it. And we might.

Brandi is going to get her own dog. I’ve been fighting it tooth and nail, but I couldn’t tell you why if you asked. I would give you a lot of reasons, but I couldn’t really tell you why. My best guess goes something like this: Siberian huskies were what I brought to the table; if she has one of her own, where does that leave me?

In Alaska, I guess, but there will be plenty more on that later. Check back.