Alaska is beautiful, containing millions of acres of absolute wilderness. Disparages cast by Into the Wild be damned; should one have the sense and the skillset, it is certainly possible to wander into the boreal forest, erect a cabin, and enjoy contended isolation eating moose until the end of your days. Squatter cabins scattered throughout the Tanana stand as testimony to this reality. Even in a civilized metropolis such as Tok, residents live almost completely free of rules and regulation. In fact, working hard not to freeze is really about the only thing required of citizens in Alaska.
Bluebird skies have reigned over Tok these past weeks, and days are quickly growing long. Temps have soared into the high 30s, and the cabin’s roof has sloughed its shroud of snow. One thing I’ve noted here is that temperature truly is relative. Standing outside on a sundrenched 25 degree day is downright pleasant. It doesn’t even require a coat, as long as one has become accustomed to habitually donning the Alaska state uniform of long underwear.
Officially its fire season, but that is a hard concept to take seriously when two feet of snow still covers the ground. Even so, it appears that spring arrives like a freight train around here. I am guessing that I will step out of the office at quitting time one day to find the aspens have put on their leaves since morning.
In an effort to simplify, I’ve taken to spending Sunday afternoon baking my own bread. The first attempt was disastrous; what I created was more akin to a brick than a loaf. This last attempt met with greater success; the dough actually rose, though not much. Next time we’ll try going with less flour and more kneading.
So far my greatest joy in Alaska has been the abundance of dog mushing. I have been to several races and had opportunity to act as handler for several dog teams. At the Tok Race of Champions, I deserted my newly acquired mentor, a local native named Tom Denny, to assist a team of Siberians from Anadyr Kennels. Once the premier sled dog, Siberian Huskies have become the bastard children of competitive dog sledding, dethroned by the faster hound crosses. Anadyr runs Siberians exclusively, and even though their team finished last at the Race of Champions they were the apple of this Siberian lover’s eye. I can foresee an Anadyr dog running with the By Dog team in the future.
The most wonderful thing about dog mushing in Alaska, beyond the sheer abundance of it, is the incredible support. The native village of Tanacross is little more than a handful of homes surrounding a community hall, but they laid out a spread at Friday’s musher dinner that put to shame every potluck I’ve attended in the Lower 48. Nearly the entire village population was on hand to give the collection of local and professional mushers, many of whom enjoy world class status, the warmest welcome possible, though I harbor a suspicion that most of them were only there for the after dinner bingo session.
Yes, it is beautiful in Alaska, but there is a lot more to the place lurking beneath it's grand façade. Nonetheless, it’s gorgeous outside at the moment and the dogs want to run, so let’s leave that part of the Great Land buried beneath winter's melting snow for now.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Fire, Oil, or Ice
Tok is cold, and there is no reason it should be inhabited. Surrounding lands don’t contain any economically extractable resources. The Coast Guard maintains a soaring antenna array here, but otherwise Tok exists as a junction of Alaska’s two most notable highways. Coming from Canada on the Alaska Highway, Tok is the place where you can either turn left and go to Anchorage or continue on to Fairbanks. Subsistence living and road kill keeps its thousand odd residents alive. Several nearby native communities contribute a few more souls to the census. Moose is common on menus, as is minus seventy on thermometers. Cut wood all winter through, and your house will still be cold in Tok.
Oil flows through Tok’s heart. Town smells of it. The oil burning furnace that heats my cabin spews exhaust fumes. All my clothes reek of burnt fuel. A carbon monoxide detector is requisite. I haven’t felt good since I got here, and I fear a minor case of monoxide poisoning. Not acute; just enough to give me symptoms enjoyably akin to dysentery. Still, it’s been negative twenty five most mornings when I drive to work. Poisoned has to be better than frozen solid.
Steamy exhaust pours from everything. A dirty pall drifts overhead. It isn’t as bitter cold as minus twenty five could feel, but standing around for long simply begins to freeze you. Burning oil holds the chill at bay. A scent of petroleum surrounds everything human. The electricity plant runs on it. Without it, little of Tok would remain.
Jeff Hermanns at Tok Forestry looks at countless acres of burnt spruce forest north of the Tanana River and sees another fuel source with which to satiate Tok’s appetite for combustibles. A massive fire scar, what remains of 2004’s Taylor Complex blaze, spans vast lands across the Tanana Valley State Forest. It is filled with standing dead wood, kiln dried by the fire’s intense heat. Jeff’s aim is to get Tok off North Slope oil and onto Tanana Valley biomass.
Biomass is not going to save western civilization. It would take many times the amount of arable land available in America to grow enough soybeans to fully replace diesel in the United States. All current biowaste production can account for only a fraction of what is necessary to keep us operating at existing capacities. Even if every possible acre of productive land in the world grew crops for energy, it wouldn’t be enough to power the grid.
Not so in Tok.
Tok, Alaska, is off the grid; its electricity comes from a diesel fueled generator at the AP&T power station downtown. Alaska Power and Telephone, who is significantly vested in oil futures I must assume, provides electricity to town and several native villages by burning petroleum. Jeff looks at the millions of board feet around him, considers the amount of electricity used by the local community currently, factors in the generation capacity of modern technologies and the cost of infrastructure, and still believes he can cut the price of electricity in half by fueling Tok’s power plant with biomass.
Because population is low in Tok, Hermanns believes Alaska’s state forest can sustain the local community’s fuel needs using just the timber harvest currently allowed. In theory, the allowable cut should leave forest reserves in quantities ample enough that at no time will another cut be precluded. A biomass fueled power plant in Tok would be capable of providing for all of town’s electrical needs while providing cheap district heat to entities such as the library, university extension, and emergency services.
Forest literally carpets Tok. It continues unbroken in all directions like a blanket. Spruce as thick as dog hair comes up nearly to my doorstep. Fire has threatened to raze town on several occasions, and potential exists for exactly such an event at any time. In defense, Jeff’s fire crew at Tok Area Office, funded by National Fire Plan money, treats hundreds of acres of urban forest, reducing fuels and creating fuel breaks along roads. Around Tok School, biomass from treated acreage is piled and left to dry. It awaits the chipper and biomass boiler Hermanns and Tok School’s grant writer, Scott McManus, intend to purchase with funds they have been granted.
It all makes great sense. Oil delivers more bang for the buck than biomass and is more easily transported. Despite AP&T’s resultant loss of revenue within the local market, biomass power in Tok frees up oil that could be sold elsewhere or, better yet, saved for future generations. An added benefit is timber industry in Tok, employing local workers to provide for local needs.
Tok School biomass project is smart and progressive. It lowers the threat that Tok School will be destroyed by wildfire and essentially guarantees the facility will be heated for the foreseeable future, oil or no. After the fuel reduction wood is consumed, chip wood will be purchased from local vendors.
The problem with Jeff Hermanns’ vision is that this is America. We’re not socialists. Education is about the only thing we are guaranteed, other than death and taxes. In theory, State of Alaska can’t develop infrastructure. That’s a service provided by private sector, for profit.
One might hope that native corporations in Tanana Valley would see the opportunity to invest in themselves by both funding and constructing infrastructure that benefits their own communities, but so far that appears unlikely. Subsidies foot much of residents’ heating and power bills, so most Alaskans simply continue status quo. Every tax dollar Alaskans give Washington is returned to the state twice fold in the form of federal funding, which minimizes the impetus to change. The constant flow of North Slope oil south is worth that much.
What Jeff in his role as Area Forester and the State of Alaska can do is continue to develop the potential for sustainable biomass harvest and extraction from the Tanana Valley State Forest and promote biomass industry within the local community. Someday rising oil prices will force Alaska to look to its forest resources for light and heat. For now, Jeff is running ahead of the curve, which is the definition of progressive.
The handyman called today to report what he found wrong at the cabin. I have no experience with oil furnaces, but my gut feeling that it was pumping exhaust gases into my living space was confirmed. Bad layout had caused the outlet pipe to collapse where it made a right angle. Fumes were backing up into the house, a potentially fatal situation. Pretty bad air, was how he described it.
Oil flows through Tok’s heart. Town smells of it. The oil burning furnace that heats my cabin spews exhaust fumes. All my clothes reek of burnt fuel. A carbon monoxide detector is requisite. I haven’t felt good since I got here, and I fear a minor case of monoxide poisoning. Not acute; just enough to give me symptoms enjoyably akin to dysentery. Still, it’s been negative twenty five most mornings when I drive to work. Poisoned has to be better than frozen solid.
Steamy exhaust pours from everything. A dirty pall drifts overhead. It isn’t as bitter cold as minus twenty five could feel, but standing around for long simply begins to freeze you. Burning oil holds the chill at bay. A scent of petroleum surrounds everything human. The electricity plant runs on it. Without it, little of Tok would remain.
Jeff Hermanns at Tok Forestry looks at countless acres of burnt spruce forest north of the Tanana River and sees another fuel source with which to satiate Tok’s appetite for combustibles. A massive fire scar, what remains of 2004’s Taylor Complex blaze, spans vast lands across the Tanana Valley State Forest. It is filled with standing dead wood, kiln dried by the fire’s intense heat. Jeff’s aim is to get Tok off North Slope oil and onto Tanana Valley biomass.
Biomass is not going to save western civilization. It would take many times the amount of arable land available in America to grow enough soybeans to fully replace diesel in the United States. All current biowaste production can account for only a fraction of what is necessary to keep us operating at existing capacities. Even if every possible acre of productive land in the world grew crops for energy, it wouldn’t be enough to power the grid.
Not so in Tok.
Tok, Alaska, is off the grid; its electricity comes from a diesel fueled generator at the AP&T power station downtown. Alaska Power and Telephone, who is significantly vested in oil futures I must assume, provides electricity to town and several native villages by burning petroleum. Jeff looks at the millions of board feet around him, considers the amount of electricity used by the local community currently, factors in the generation capacity of modern technologies and the cost of infrastructure, and still believes he can cut the price of electricity in half by fueling Tok’s power plant with biomass.
Because population is low in Tok, Hermanns believes Alaska’s state forest can sustain the local community’s fuel needs using just the timber harvest currently allowed. In theory, the allowable cut should leave forest reserves in quantities ample enough that at no time will another cut be precluded. A biomass fueled power plant in Tok would be capable of providing for all of town’s electrical needs while providing cheap district heat to entities such as the library, university extension, and emergency services.
Forest literally carpets Tok. It continues unbroken in all directions like a blanket. Spruce as thick as dog hair comes up nearly to my doorstep. Fire has threatened to raze town on several occasions, and potential exists for exactly such an event at any time. In defense, Jeff’s fire crew at Tok Area Office, funded by National Fire Plan money, treats hundreds of acres of urban forest, reducing fuels and creating fuel breaks along roads. Around Tok School, biomass from treated acreage is piled and left to dry. It awaits the chipper and biomass boiler Hermanns and Tok School’s grant writer, Scott McManus, intend to purchase with funds they have been granted.
It all makes great sense. Oil delivers more bang for the buck than biomass and is more easily transported. Despite AP&T’s resultant loss of revenue within the local market, biomass power in Tok frees up oil that could be sold elsewhere or, better yet, saved for future generations. An added benefit is timber industry in Tok, employing local workers to provide for local needs.
Tok School biomass project is smart and progressive. It lowers the threat that Tok School will be destroyed by wildfire and essentially guarantees the facility will be heated for the foreseeable future, oil or no. After the fuel reduction wood is consumed, chip wood will be purchased from local vendors.
The problem with Jeff Hermanns’ vision is that this is America. We’re not socialists. Education is about the only thing we are guaranteed, other than death and taxes. In theory, State of Alaska can’t develop infrastructure. That’s a service provided by private sector, for profit.
One might hope that native corporations in Tanana Valley would see the opportunity to invest in themselves by both funding and constructing infrastructure that benefits their own communities, but so far that appears unlikely. Subsidies foot much of residents’ heating and power bills, so most Alaskans simply continue status quo. Every tax dollar Alaskans give Washington is returned to the state twice fold in the form of federal funding, which minimizes the impetus to change. The constant flow of North Slope oil south is worth that much.
What Jeff in his role as Area Forester and the State of Alaska can do is continue to develop the potential for sustainable biomass harvest and extraction from the Tanana Valley State Forest and promote biomass industry within the local community. Someday rising oil prices will force Alaska to look to its forest resources for light and heat. For now, Jeff is running ahead of the curve, which is the definition of progressive.
The handyman called today to report what he found wrong at the cabin. I have no experience with oil furnaces, but my gut feeling that it was pumping exhaust gases into my living space was confirmed. Bad layout had caused the outlet pipe to collapse where it made a right angle. Fumes were backing up into the house, a potentially fatal situation. Pretty bad air, was how he described it.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Lost Bearings
In Yakutat, a native man stopped his truck to tell me that, for huskies, the dogs were very well trained. It was a nice thing to hear. Sometimes because they’re not perfect I get fixated on their flaws and forget how wonderful they truly are. When you’re in heaven, I imagine it doesn’t take long before you forget you are there.
Other than that compliment, port call in Yakutat was disappointing; brutally so. As we were entering the bay, I kept checking my cell phone, hoping to see bars. No such luck. I hadn’t spoken to Brandi since Wrangell the night before, and I was feeling low. After Yakutat, we were heading out to sea, across the Gulf of Alaska, and there would be no talking with her until Whittier. I let the dogs off leash and watched them dive head first into snow banks along a lonely road leading God knows where.
When you are busy shaking a selfish fist at the world, it isn’t always easy to keep in mind that you were the one who put yourself in this predicament. There being no cell service in Yakutat is to blame for keeping me from a conversation with Brandi; never mind the twenty five hundred miles I put between us by taking a job in Alaska. Wireless transmission makes much more sense than buried or overhead cable in a tiny isolated outpost like Yakutat. A wireless infrastructure would be cheaper to install and easier to maintain than a traditional wired one. There is no reason why there shouldn’t be cell coverage here.
Necessity is the mother of invention they say. Later, while I sat on the ferry struggling with the mounting sense of estrangement I felt as we sailed away from just about everything I hold dear, I came up with at least half a dozen technological advances that would have allowed me to connect with the world outside. None of them were going to close the distance, but several had the potential to bridge the gap.
A cell phone is simply a low power radio which transmits its signal to tower antennae connected through computerized exchange switchboards to the cabled phone system. Each cell phone has two channels, one that transmits the conversation and a second that communicates with the cellular system. As the cell phone moves away from one tower and closer to another, this second channel informs the cell phone of signal strength and directs it to switch its transmit frequency from the far tower’s weakening signal to that of the closer, stronger tower.
Since the dawn of communications, repeaters have been used to carry messages over long distances. The Great Wall of China was designed so that each guard house would be within sight of another, so that signals could quickly be sent back and forth along the wall. In fire communications, radio repeaters bounce signals from mountaintop to mountaintop, providing contiguous coverage over vast and isolated ranges. Why not apply this concept to phone networks? Cell phone users in the United States number approximately 200 million. Add another channel to those handsets, and that’s a whole lot of repeaters.
If every mobile telephone handset was enabled to repeat signals, transmissions could be piggybacked through multiple handsets over distances much greater than a low power cell phone could ever hope to reach on its own. Cell phones are idle most of the time; software could be developed that detected nearby mobile radios and essentially turned each individual handset into a separate cell. In all but the most unusual circumstances, there would always be a chain of handsets linking an end user to an exchange.
In theory, that basic restructuring could also help me as I bobbed across the Gulf of Alaska aboard M/V Kennicott. Certainly technology exists that would allow the ferry to offer cell phone and wifi connectivity with the mainland via satellite, but a repeater concept could be utilized to turn each marine vessel into its own floating cell. A message could be bounced from craft to craft down a shipping lane rather than being beamed to a satellite or carried on a transoceanic cable. Would the investment in technology and infrastructure be worth it just to allow me to talk to Brandi? If you asked me that day, when I was cut off from my world by endless ocean waves, I definitely would have contributed my share to make it an option.
Personal concerns aside, it simply makes sense. Our entire understanding of economics requires revision if we expect all to enjoy a comparable standard of living. Traditional models for determining the economic viability of infrastructure development simply don’t account for the duality that arises between the local and global marketplace, between short term feasibility and long term practicability. Calculated vision must drive capital investment, not the whims of consumer demand and commodity pricing. A goal must be set; plans lain; and deliberate steps taken. What it is we are attempting to accomplish should be the compass needle guiding development; not whether an endeavor creates a financial profit over a finite time period.
As we approach Whittier, messages from Brandi stack up thankfully on my cell phone. Sharp biting wind roars down off surrounding mountains and drifts snow against a massive structure on the hillside overlooking the port. Institutional in appearance, the concrete and glass construction is acutely reminiscent of Cold War era Soviet architecture.
That was once the biggest building in Alaska, a fellow passenger tells me. Vacant and deserted, it now more closely resembles the Bates Motel. Ghosts of bygone values peer from behind its empty windows. Previously deemed essential, it is now dispensable; a monolith to the fallacy of economics. Indifferent and unfeeling as dinosaur bones, its fossilized remains pay tribute to the high cost of false vision.
Other than that compliment, port call in Yakutat was disappointing; brutally so. As we were entering the bay, I kept checking my cell phone, hoping to see bars. No such luck. I hadn’t spoken to Brandi since Wrangell the night before, and I was feeling low. After Yakutat, we were heading out to sea, across the Gulf of Alaska, and there would be no talking with her until Whittier. I let the dogs off leash and watched them dive head first into snow banks along a lonely road leading God knows where.
When you are busy shaking a selfish fist at the world, it isn’t always easy to keep in mind that you were the one who put yourself in this predicament. There being no cell service in Yakutat is to blame for keeping me from a conversation with Brandi; never mind the twenty five hundred miles I put between us by taking a job in Alaska. Wireless transmission makes much more sense than buried or overhead cable in a tiny isolated outpost like Yakutat. A wireless infrastructure would be cheaper to install and easier to maintain than a traditional wired one. There is no reason why there shouldn’t be cell coverage here.
Necessity is the mother of invention they say. Later, while I sat on the ferry struggling with the mounting sense of estrangement I felt as we sailed away from just about everything I hold dear, I came up with at least half a dozen technological advances that would have allowed me to connect with the world outside. None of them were going to close the distance, but several had the potential to bridge the gap.
A cell phone is simply a low power radio which transmits its signal to tower antennae connected through computerized exchange switchboards to the cabled phone system. Each cell phone has two channels, one that transmits the conversation and a second that communicates with the cellular system. As the cell phone moves away from one tower and closer to another, this second channel informs the cell phone of signal strength and directs it to switch its transmit frequency from the far tower’s weakening signal to that of the closer, stronger tower.
Since the dawn of communications, repeaters have been used to carry messages over long distances. The Great Wall of China was designed so that each guard house would be within sight of another, so that signals could quickly be sent back and forth along the wall. In fire communications, radio repeaters bounce signals from mountaintop to mountaintop, providing contiguous coverage over vast and isolated ranges. Why not apply this concept to phone networks? Cell phone users in the United States number approximately 200 million. Add another channel to those handsets, and that’s a whole lot of repeaters.
If every mobile telephone handset was enabled to repeat signals, transmissions could be piggybacked through multiple handsets over distances much greater than a low power cell phone could ever hope to reach on its own. Cell phones are idle most of the time; software could be developed that detected nearby mobile radios and essentially turned each individual handset into a separate cell. In all but the most unusual circumstances, there would always be a chain of handsets linking an end user to an exchange.
In theory, that basic restructuring could also help me as I bobbed across the Gulf of Alaska aboard M/V Kennicott. Certainly technology exists that would allow the ferry to offer cell phone and wifi connectivity with the mainland via satellite, but a repeater concept could be utilized to turn each marine vessel into its own floating cell. A message could be bounced from craft to craft down a shipping lane rather than being beamed to a satellite or carried on a transoceanic cable. Would the investment in technology and infrastructure be worth it just to allow me to talk to Brandi? If you asked me that day, when I was cut off from my world by endless ocean waves, I definitely would have contributed my share to make it an option.
Personal concerns aside, it simply makes sense. Our entire understanding of economics requires revision if we expect all to enjoy a comparable standard of living. Traditional models for determining the economic viability of infrastructure development simply don’t account for the duality that arises between the local and global marketplace, between short term feasibility and long term practicability. Calculated vision must drive capital investment, not the whims of consumer demand and commodity pricing. A goal must be set; plans lain; and deliberate steps taken. What it is we are attempting to accomplish should be the compass needle guiding development; not whether an endeavor creates a financial profit over a finite time period.
As we approach Whittier, messages from Brandi stack up thankfully on my cell phone. Sharp biting wind roars down off surrounding mountains and drifts snow against a massive structure on the hillside overlooking the port. Institutional in appearance, the concrete and glass construction is acutely reminiscent of Cold War era Soviet architecture.
That was once the biggest building in Alaska, a fellow passenger tells me. Vacant and deserted, it now more closely resembles the Bates Motel. Ghosts of bygone values peer from behind its empty windows. Previously deemed essential, it is now dispensable; a monolith to the fallacy of economics. Indifferent and unfeeling as dinosaur bones, its fossilized remains pay tribute to the high cost of false vision.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Between Two Worlds
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.
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.
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.
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