Taking out the Trash

It was our first Saturday in Hamilton together since my return from Alaska, and we had intended on walking down to the Farmer’s Market with hopes of finding some fresh eggs to replace the ones now sizzling in the frying pan. While I set about burning breakfast, Brandi busied herself pulling played out pea plants from her garden and throwing them in the compost bin. She was only half done when I called her to come eat, so after Little Steve had his fill of pancakes we headed back outside to complete the task.

Our yard was in desperate need of some attention. It hadn’t seen much in the way of maintenance over the summer and had grown dry and dusty from constant dog frolics and indiscriminate watering schedules. Large quantities of husky down lay accumulated in every crack and crevice. As I could see it might be awhile before we’d be ready to leave, I grabbed a rake and began combing the ground.

I was still scratching at the hard pack and dead grass when Brandi finished her garden project, and her expression told me that a leisurely stroll through the Farmer’s Market had just been eclipsed by the more pressing needs of our own little plot. What better time to put in some work, we concluded, than Labor Day weekend?

Brandi had collected a large mound of pine needles and other debris when the snows had retreated last spring. It was slated for removal by our landlords, but months later remained heaped in a corner. After borrowing a wheelbarrow from one of Brandi’s co-workers, I scraped the ponderosa’s latest castings into several more piles, and we filled the pickup to capacity with woody detritus. Then we were off to the dump.

Admittedly, I had already given serious consideration to the roguish impulse that urged me to simply chuck the entire mess over a steep bank along one of the surrounding forest roads. It was all organic; with time, it would decompose. Bob had informed us that there would be a charge to dispose of it at the dump when he loaned us the wheelbarrow. I hated the idea of throwing away perfectly good money, but at least this way the worthless mess in our yard would one day be someone else’s pay dirt. Or so I thought.

We haven’t lived in the valley for long, barely a year, so it might just be a case of ignorance on my part. There may well be someplace here that processes organic material I have yet to discover. Still, I think the situation in the Bitterroot indicative of the general attitude toward refuse that prevails in this country. Our yard waste, I soon came to learn, would never realize its full potential as fertilizer. It wasn’t destined to become humus; it was nothing more than plain old rubbish.

I wasn’t aware at the time, but there is no landfill in Ravalli County. All waste generated in the Bitterroot Valley is taken to the transfer station in Victor for transport somewhere else. No effort is made to separate or categorically process the waste. My heart sunk as we were directed into a large steel building and told to empty the truckload of tree litter onto a concrete floor strewn with garbage.

A truck was parked on either side of us. One was filled with old broken furniture, the other household waste. The owners were busy dumping their loads upon the stained pad alongside ours. A small excavator stood ready to shovel the entire mess into a large compactor that oozed Styrofoam, broken glass, and kitchen litter. It smelled as if the entire building was rotting. We finished cleaning out the bed of the pickup, paid our fee, and drove away with the same thought bouncing around inside each of our heads.

“Would have been better off just dumping it in the woods.”

Although I sometimes postulate that a certain amount of organic detritus is in fact a necessary addition to a landfill if there is to be any hope for decomposition, I don’t see this tactic as being an effective waste stream management strategy. Gone are the days of perfunctorily plowing our waste out of sight, out of mind. Ravalli County in no way lacks open space; that it has no landfill only serves to underscore the gravity of the situation. Waste production has reached such a magnitude that nothing less than a comprehensive, systematic approach can possibly manage it.

Our breakfast nook is filled with recyclables. Paper, cardboard, glass, metal, plastic, are all arranged in neatly ordered stacks. There is little opportunity for the proper disposal of recyclables in Hamilton, so we haul them with us whenever we visit Washington. We have begun washing plastic baggies for reuse, and Brandi almost has me trained not to forget the fabric grocery bags when we leave for the store. Now that we have a compost bin, trips to the dumpster in the alley have decreased significantly. Even so, we need to do more.

Truth is our expectations, as a culture, are in need of a complete overhaul. Our entire attitude must evolve. We can no longer afford to pitch refuse haphazardly into landfills. We must resist our craving for disposability and lower our tolerance for garbage in America. Most importantly, we must come to grips with the fact that, since there truly are differences between pine needles and trash, there must be different ways with which to handle them.

The Adventures of Little Steve, Vol. 1

If you have ever floated swift water then you know that sometimes the only thing you can do is point your boat downstream and paddle hard with the current. Humanity may be graced with free will, but this frequently serves only to set us upon a course that no later action can alter. Still, let it be said that while such tides may well serve to steer us unto unknown waters, these voyages, however daunting, are oft considered the most rewarding of our lives.

I was still in Alaska when a chemistry test confirmed Brandi’s suspicion that she was pregnant. It wasn’t exactly a surprise. Her senses had been alerting her to the fact for awhile, haunting her thoughts both asleep and awake, and she had grown more and more convinced of its certainty with each passing day. Several less than subtle dreams indicated that my own subconscious mind had already sided with Brandi, and although I continued to maintain a skeptical facade, I was actually just as positive as she. But I didn’t tell her so.

We hadn’t really planned things to happen this way, and when Brandi called me with the news I’m not stretching the truth in saying that she wasn’t exactly ecstatic. Frantic would be a better description. She didn’t say hello, but rather greeted me with sobs.

Perhaps I grossly overestimate my own importance, but I think things would have gone better had I been there by her side. I know it would have made it easier on me. Having to face the situation alone was a terribly unpleasant experience, even from my perspective. When I imagine Brandi, sitting on the cold tile of the bathroom floor with only a plastic stick for company, I am awash with guilt. She is my hero, for that reason and a million others beside.

Until I was in the doctor’s office, staring with awe at an ultrasound image of what I’d begun affectionately referring to as Little Steve, I had maintained an air of plausible deniability about the matter. In keeping with my general approach to life, I preferred to consider Steve’s existence a myth, a legend akin to Bigfoot, until I had something more to go on than the opinion of a popsicle stick. But the tiny being swimming about Brandi’s insides was undeniable, and the silly look developing on my face while I watched Little Steve’s antics was even more so.

Now that we are back under the same weather pattern, with the full support of our family and friends, things are better. I’m still a bit concerned, about such things as the dirty diapers I accepted responsibility for by insisting we use cloth or emotionally scarring our daughter by calling her Little Steve, but I’m no longer worried about Brandi. She is like a tree in the storm. Though she may sway, she is quite unlikely to break.

Three R's and a Microbus

Hanging out with my brother Dagan is always entertaining. He is a boisterous character, and not above expressing his opinion, loudly. I hadn’t seen him since last July, but it just so happened that, while Brandi and I were driving to the Tri-Cities for her sister Alece’s wedding, he was making a pilgrimage north with his daughter Arianna and their buddy Stephen. Seizing the opportunity, I contacted Dag and made arrangements to rendezvous with him when he passed through Kennewick, WA.

My brother is passionate about machines, but he is truly devoted to that simplest of automobiles, the air-cooled Volkswagen. As a show of faith, he was making the 1000 mile trek from Petaluma, California, to Montana in his ’59 Type 2 camper conversion. Dagan had rescued the Transporter from a barn in Oregon years before and had restored it to a usable condition. It ran reliably, but as anyone familiar with classic Volkswagens will be quick to tell you, there is a reason why every VW owner can perform an engine swap on the side of the road.

When I hadn’t heard from him by the appointed time, I gave Dagan a call. Apparently attempting to cross the Central Oregon desert during the hottest part of the day was taking its toll on the camper. For the moment they were huddled in the shade of an overpass, my brother said, waiting for the Volkswagen’s motor to cool down.

If a VW is one thing, it is idiosyncratic. Facing one hundred degree heat, Dagan’s camper was floundering. Ambient air temperature in the Columbia River Basin was so high that the engine could no longer cool itself. Detonation was the result; the risk, a blown motor. Dagan, air-cooled aficionado that he is, knew better than to push the limits of his machine, even if he had brought along another entire engine, just in case.

After a short rest, the VW finally made Kennewick, and I met them in the parking lot of a McDonald’s restaurant just off Highway 395. Dagan prattled on proudly about the Volkswagen for awhile before segueing into one of his familiar rants.

“What I can’t stand are the people who want to crush all the old cars and ship them to Japan to build hybrids.”

Though he might not appear so, my brother Dagan truly is an environmentalist. He may not buy into the latest trends in green consumer culture, but at least he understands there is a hierarchy to the three big R’s of environmental responsibility.

First, reduce consumption wherever possible. Second, reuse everything. Lastly, recycle whatever remains.

An obvious necessity, recycling will never be the answer. Certainly, recycling is a great method for keeping waste out of the landfill, but recycling a perfectly useful old car in order to manufacture a new one? As Dagan notes, this doesn't necessarily a green footprint make.

Considering each vehicle’s carbon footprint in its entirety, it is highly unlikely that crushing a Volkswagen to build a new Toyota Prius would have any less environmental impact than simply continuing to operate the VW itself. What it does do, however, is allow American consumer culture to persist unchecked, with a clean, green, conscious. Move over, V-Dub bus; a new flagship for the alternative lifestyle has arrived. Rather than buying into the hype, Dagan goes green by reusing existing parts to keep his old camper on the road.

As widespread and pervasive as humanity’s impact has become, there is no choice but to recycle, with even greater scope and diligence than ever before. Still, buying newly manufactured goods, even those made from recycled material, has to be relegated to the final option, after alternatives of reduction and reuse have already been explored and exhausted. Clearly, everything that can be must be recycled, and consumers should be rewarded for doing so. But a conservation effort focused on manufacture and consumption, even if it does revolve around recycled materials and green technology, is missing the point.

Reduce. Reuse. Then recycle.

Volkswagen owners are a tribal bunch. After spying Dagan’s camper in the parking lot, several members of the local VW club joined us with their own aging Type 2s. Their discussion was animated, as any conversation among enthusiasts tends to be, centered wholly on Volkswagens and their relationship with this emblematic automobile.

Following the impromptu gathering, I bid farewell to my brother and niece and drove back to Brandi’s parents’ place. The bridal party had assumed control of the house, so I occupied myself by helping her father John set a fence post and finalize some last minute wedding preparations.

The next day Alece and Brandon were married in a beautiful ceremony ministered by Brandi in a neighbor’s yard. A reception dinner followed at the McCoy’s home next door, complete with a diverse assortment of liquid refreshment and the associated mound of discarded cans and bottles.

The McCoy’s are ardent recyclers, and they had made every effort to maximize recycling at the reception. Separate receptacles had been placed beside each trash bin in hopes of capturing as many recyclables as possible. Good use was made of them at first, but as the revelry continued on into the night, more trash and fewer recyclables found its way into the recycling containers.

When I wandered out onto the patio the next morning, I found Brandi up to her elbows in a large black plastic bag. She was happily digging plastic bottles and aluminum cans out of the trash. Shooting her a dubious look, I set to work myself, collecting frosting smeared beer bottles from the garbage and tossing them into a pile.

Knowing we can’t do everything, we must do what we can.

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.

Forests to Farmland

I have burned 474.5 gallons of gas since having first purchased my pickup. I am not sure how many of those were consumed over the course of the 2250 miles that I drove traveling from Tok, Alaska to Hamilton, Montana but I do know that, until I started bucking a twenty knot headwind south of Calgary, the truck had been cranking out its best gas mileage yet, over nineteen miles per gallon. A combination of sub-sixty mile per hour speeds and minimal acceleration had conspired to drop fuel consumption by 33 percent.

I took my own advice on this trip and topped off the fuel tank at almost every opportunity. The needle on the gas gauge never fell below the halfway mark. The most I paid for petrol in Canada was $1.59 a liter at Liard Hot Springs; the cheapest, 91 cents in Edmonton. Gas was $3.25 a gallon in Alaska and $2.65 in Polson, MT. Although I do enjoy simple math, I’m not sure what all those figures add up to, other than the fact that oil and dollars are the predominate factors in every equation calculated along the ALCAN.

Following our night at Wolf Creek, the dogs and I trekked out to the Yukon River once again, then made tracks for Watson Lake. I still hadn’t decided whether I should turn south onto the Cassiar or continue following the Alaska Highway to Dawson Creek. When Cousin Tyler and I drove north on our previous trek, we had taken the Cassiar. It was a shorter route, but more rugged, containing several unpaved, gravel surfaced sections. Mapquest recommended the Highway, and since I had never actually driven the length of it, I tended to agree. It would be nice to have that feather in my cap, just in case I didn’t happen this way again.

Two things were once symbolic of the Alaska Highway: roadhouses and rock chips. On the Highway of today, technological advancement in the form of fuel efficient vehicles and wide well-maintained blacktop has conspired to greatly reduce both. Derelict buildings dot the roadside, abandoned for less solitary environs; the whole point of their existence, to provide services in the middle of nowhere, lost. Chips in the windshield caused by errant rocks flung from spinning wheels are still a certainty, but their impact, in scope and number, has diminished as the old surface has been upgraded to modern standards. I took note of those I gathered, and added them to the running tally I kept of things encountered on the Highway.

Unable to pass up a sign boasting fresh baked cinnamon rolls, I paused at one establishment apparently still able to remain open for business. Diversification in the form of gas service, RV parking, and homemade food kept it viable. I gave the pups some water while I devoured one of their delicious, oven fresh rolls.

It was later than I hoped when I made Watson Lake. I passed on taking the Cassiar and continued into town, hoping for some cell service. Disappointingly, I found none, discovering the infamous Sign Post Forest instead. Not nearly as intrigued by the sight as I, the dogs were left panting in the truck while I wandered through the veritable jungle of scavenged welcome signs and license plates. I was impressed, but not surprised, by the number of Montana cities and counties represented. I spent a good while searching for a Richland, Washington sign to photograph for the McCoys, but, alas, it was to no avail.

After sending Brandi several messages via email and attempting to remedy the nonexistence of my cell phone coverage via a landline call to AT&T, I continued on towards Liard Hot Springs. A particularly “hot” spot to camp along the route, I was a bit concerned that I would find the campground filled to capacity. Fortunately, I was able to snag one of the last two sites and set up camp amidst an almost incomprehensible cloud of mosquitoes.

Stopping at Liard Hot Springs Provincial Park is a must. All the tour books rave about it, and they’re probably right in doing so. I did indeed camp there, but I would feel guilty if I didn't admit to not actually having soaked in the pools. For whatever reason, fatigue, fear, or something even more inexplicable, I simply didn’t feel like it. So I played guitar, fed the dogs, and built myself a hootch out of visqueen to keep the blood suckers at bay. Quite happy with its construction, I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

The next day was the most visually stunning part of the drive. Before leaving Liard River, I topped off the tank. The fine gentleman who sold me the petrol was particularly pleasant for such an early hour, and I soon understood why. “Great day, eh," he extolled. “Gonna have me a beer.”

I stopped at Northern Rockies Lodge and enjoyed an honest cup of coffee on the shores of Muncho Lake. The woman in the café had a German accent, and she gave me the coffee for free. I had packed away my insulated mug and was reusing a Styrofoam cup that had accompanied me the length of the journey from Tok. It had become ugly with coffee stains, and when I offered the woman good money to see it filled, she kindly refused my payment. I tipped her a loonie and continued on down the road.

A short distance later, I encountered a lovely little enclave situated between the Toad and Racing rivers. Several horse herds were pastured here in fields alongside the Highway. One thing that had annoyed me about Alaskans was their staunch dismissal of agriculture. Beyond their personal gardens and the government projects in Delta Junction and the Mat-Su Valley, it seemed they were adamantly opposed to even the notion of harvesting anything other than moose and oil. Given, conditions in Alaska are considerably more harsh than in northern BC, or even the Yukon, but it appeared to me that mindset was the limiting factor, not environmental factors or carrying capacity. Throughout Canada, one observed a certain Continental influence, and it was obvious that settlers, both early and late, found value in husbanding the land.

Stone Mountain Provincial Park is beautiful, filled with glacier carved geography. We took a break near Summit Lake and climbed a hiking trail to the ridgeline. The dogs were mad with animal scent, which was making me madder still. As I paused to photograph them, I noted a lone caribou walking along the roadside below. It appeared as if its arrival at the truck would coincide perfectly with ours. I stepped up the pace and forcefully called the dogs to heel as we made our approach, but all for naught. The caribou had grown wise to his situation, and thankfully fled.

Crossing the Continental Divide, I passed a sign that claimed the last rest stop in four hundred kilometers lie two klicks ahead, and though I remained somewhat dubious of its credibility, I halted nonetheless. A huge RV towing an SUV dominated the gravel parking lot. A man inside was occupied with talking on his cell phone. As I stepped out of the pickup, I was nearly run over by a semi-truck that ploughed into the rest area at a very rapid clip. I took a quick stroll to stretch my legs and got back on the road.

The Highway wound down from the mountains into the Muskwa River valley. I was closing in on Fort Nelson and would be leaving the spectacular part of the drive behind. After this farms and fields, boasting yields of both food and fuel, would rule the landscape. I scanned the radio and found several stations to choose from. Be it isolation or development, mountains or malls, blue sky or rain, no matter where you go, there is always plenty of something.