We are closing in on Juneau. It’s colder here. The mountains are taller, climbing right out of the water’s edge. Before, the sea was black. Now it is clearer; a frigid blue green. A strong crosswind has turned the water’s surface to chop. White caps throw their cold mist into the air.
I miss Brandi. She has been my boon companion for the past six months, and this trip seems almost unreal without her. Practically, handling the dogs without a second set of hands is a chore, but that’s the least of it really. What I truly miss is her company; that bond of shared experience one develops with a genuine partner. It’s nice, the way we complement one another. We make a good team.
Yesterday, we made port in Ketchikan. Heart of Alaska’s great salmon fishery, the town occupies a vertical plane between mountain and sea. Most of the city is waterfront. There are no roads connecting Ketchikan to the rest of the world, still everyone seems to feel the need to drive their car.
Port call was over three hours long. The dogs and I walked the entire length of town in that time, from the ferry dock to the cruise ship berths and back. A constant flow of traffic traveled the single street. Vehicles congregated at the Lutheran church, but the Safeway parking lot was nearly empty.
Ketchikan has two faces; tourist and Alaskan. Eerily, the ordered facades of the curio shops in the tourist quarter stand over silent streets of a ghost town. From the sheer number of stores selling salmon, one can only assume that the district is thronged with people during the summer season. A Sunday in February finds it as quiet as Tombstone.
Downtown Ketchikan sports a clean appearance and a fresh coat of paint. The rest of the city is weathered and worn. Advertisements scattered among shuttered windows downtown speak of another world where real Alaskans seldom venture. I feel like a shade caught in limbo between two realms; not really a part of either. A raven that seems to believe dogs need not be feared taunts Tensaw from a distance less than four feet. It leaps into the air with an odd caw whenever he moves closer, but mostly it appraises me with a single judicious eye. This gaze gives me that same feeling one gets when a word is stuck on the tip of the tongue. Am I’m missing something here, I ask the black bird. Aren’t you, he replies.
Back on the boat, next stop Wrangell. It is dark when we arrive. We go ashore where I am confounded by the dogs. Normally, they do reasonably well on their leashes, but this evening is a jumble of tangled lines and unheeded commands. I want to call Brandi, and they seem to want to tie me up in leaders and leave me stranded. I know they need to run, but I’m afraid to let them free in a dark, unknown location with only thirty minutes. I let Kona off leash while Blue and Tensaw circle me endlessly until the ferry horn calls us back aboard for the push past Petersburg on to Juneau.
Showing posts with label dogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dogs. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
Inside the Passage
So far the most amazing thing about the ferry to Alaska has been the fact that I have had cell coverage almost the entire way. Of course we have been skirting alongside Vancouver Island, BC. We’ll see how things change once we get a bit further north.
The boat is pitching hard to the right as we turn portside. I am sitting in the cafeteria, eating a banana while I wait for morning deck call. There is land close on either side of us, comfortably within swimming distance. Could probably make it if the water wasn’t so cold. Later today we will cross a couple sections of open sea, but to this point we have been weaving thru narrows created by the archipelago lying along the northwest Pacific coast. Even without land in sight, the throbbing diesels seem reassurance enough that we will make our destination.
Constantly the entire ship pulses as her power plants push the screw through the water. It is a world continuously in motion; the boat vibrates, wind whistles, waves splash against the hull. Water, sky, and shoreline slip past at a sure steady pace. A white capped arrowhead spreads from the prow, pointing out our course. A foaming footprint follows behind.
Car deck call is coming soon. We’ll see how the puppas are fairing. Wait … they are fine. The girls refuse to do business on the deck yet, but Tensaw voided a very full bladder on a truck’s tire without much provocation. They seem to be doing perfectly well. Owing to the number of dogs on board and tight quarters, they were very excited; otherwise they were in good spirits. One of them used the newspaper inside the truck. Another 24 hrs in there may improve their opinion of deck call.
I am on the SS Malaspina, making way north along the Alaska Marine Highway. We left Bellingham, Washington, at sunset last night; Ketchikan our next port of call. Weather has been superb; clear, calm, and moderate when we cast off lines and got underway beneath red skies. Now a blanket of high clouds covers the entire expanse overhead. Water, trees, and rocky shorelines surround us. In the distance, jagged mountaintops climb, breaking up the horizon. To be perfectly honest, it is the most alluring landscape I have ever seen.
We have sailed past several solitary cabins standing silently on steep slopes overlooking the water. Several smaller craft have drifted by; large container barges being led south by tugs, a few fishing boats. I sighted a couple of remote human outposts on the horizon this morning, but now seawater has us almost completely surrounded. Seemingly infinite ripples cover the ceiling of the world’s greatest wilderness.
No cell tower in sight, still several bars of reception show on the cell phone display. Perhaps the ship is its own cell. Maybe the stretch of open water it appears we are about to cross will reveal the answer.
Cell phone coverage aside, sailing is certainly the most amazing part of ferry passage. In deeper water the ship pitches and yaws even more than when she does inside the narrows. A seat in the forward observation lounge rises and falls in constantly changing rhythm as the prow cuts the sea. In rough water it is nearly impossible to stand when we cross here, a steward tells a nearby passenger. Today we sail under fair skies, and the seas are calm.
I am going north for work. Although I often refer to it as an unnecessary endeavor, I actually like what it is I do to earn money for dog food and truck payments. Wildland fire management sometimes seems extraneous, but it’s extremely addictive. It combines just the right amount of physical and mental challenge to satisfy both. We don’t really do anything, but we don’t really hurt anything either. The money’s not bad. It’s a career that nicely mimics the criteria laid out in Lloyd Dobler’s answer to Diane Court’s father in the film Say Anything. I don’t want to make anything bought or sold, sell anything bought or made, or buy anything made or sold; and in fire, that statement pretty much holds true.
One perk about the dispatch position with the Alaska Division of Forestry at Tok Area Office is the opportunity to do resource work in addition to fire. Jeff Hermanns, area forester for Tok Area, is an ambitious, progressive resource manager, and he has more projects than people. To manage an area larger than Massachusetts, Jeff’s staff at Tok Forestry numbers less than a dozen. I’m guessing there will be plenty to do.
The ship continues to rock its way through Queen Charlotte Strait. Three more hours until next car deck call. Land is back alongside. High hills once again shelter the passage. My cell phone battery is nearly dead; its reserve exhausted from listening to music. It hasn’t seen coverage for awhile.
The boat is pitching hard to the right as we turn portside. I am sitting in the cafeteria, eating a banana while I wait for morning deck call. There is land close on either side of us, comfortably within swimming distance. Could probably make it if the water wasn’t so cold. Later today we will cross a couple sections of open sea, but to this point we have been weaving thru narrows created by the archipelago lying along the northwest Pacific coast. Even without land in sight, the throbbing diesels seem reassurance enough that we will make our destination.
Constantly the entire ship pulses as her power plants push the screw through the water. It is a world continuously in motion; the boat vibrates, wind whistles, waves splash against the hull. Water, sky, and shoreline slip past at a sure steady pace. A white capped arrowhead spreads from the prow, pointing out our course. A foaming footprint follows behind.
Car deck call is coming soon. We’ll see how the puppas are fairing. Wait … they are fine. The girls refuse to do business on the deck yet, but Tensaw voided a very full bladder on a truck’s tire without much provocation. They seem to be doing perfectly well. Owing to the number of dogs on board and tight quarters, they were very excited; otherwise they were in good spirits. One of them used the newspaper inside the truck. Another 24 hrs in there may improve their opinion of deck call.
I am on the SS Malaspina, making way north along the Alaska Marine Highway. We left Bellingham, Washington, at sunset last night; Ketchikan our next port of call. Weather has been superb; clear, calm, and moderate when we cast off lines and got underway beneath red skies. Now a blanket of high clouds covers the entire expanse overhead. Water, trees, and rocky shorelines surround us. In the distance, jagged mountaintops climb, breaking up the horizon. To be perfectly honest, it is the most alluring landscape I have ever seen.
We have sailed past several solitary cabins standing silently on steep slopes overlooking the water. Several smaller craft have drifted by; large container barges being led south by tugs, a few fishing boats. I sighted a couple of remote human outposts on the horizon this morning, but now seawater has us almost completely surrounded. Seemingly infinite ripples cover the ceiling of the world’s greatest wilderness.
No cell tower in sight, still several bars of reception show on the cell phone display. Perhaps the ship is its own cell. Maybe the stretch of open water it appears we are about to cross will reveal the answer.
Cell phone coverage aside, sailing is certainly the most amazing part of ferry passage. In deeper water the ship pitches and yaws even more than when she does inside the narrows. A seat in the forward observation lounge rises and falls in constantly changing rhythm as the prow cuts the sea. In rough water it is nearly impossible to stand when we cross here, a steward tells a nearby passenger. Today we sail under fair skies, and the seas are calm.
I am going north for work. Although I often refer to it as an unnecessary endeavor, I actually like what it is I do to earn money for dog food and truck payments. Wildland fire management sometimes seems extraneous, but it’s extremely addictive. It combines just the right amount of physical and mental challenge to satisfy both. We don’t really do anything, but we don’t really hurt anything either. The money’s not bad. It’s a career that nicely mimics the criteria laid out in Lloyd Dobler’s answer to Diane Court’s father in the film Say Anything. I don’t want to make anything bought or sold, sell anything bought or made, or buy anything made or sold; and in fire, that statement pretty much holds true.
One perk about the dispatch position with the Alaska Division of Forestry at Tok Area Office is the opportunity to do resource work in addition to fire. Jeff Hermanns, area forester for Tok Area, is an ambitious, progressive resource manager, and he has more projects than people. To manage an area larger than Massachusetts, Jeff’s staff at Tok Forestry numbers less than a dozen. I’m guessing there will be plenty to do.
The ship continues to rock its way through Queen Charlotte Strait. Three more hours until next car deck call. Land is back alongside. High hills once again shelter the passage. My cell phone battery is nearly dead; its reserve exhausted from listening to music. It hasn’t seen coverage for awhile.
Monday, January 19, 2009
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.
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.
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