Gulkana

The Gulkana River drains the slopes of the southeastern Alaska Range before winding through nearly a hundred miles of forested tundra and dumping into the Copper River. Though the Gulkana loosely parallels the Richardson Highway for much of its length, access is very limited; thus the Wild and Scenic River designation. One experiences this river by boat; in our case a 14’ raft.
My buddy Ritchie and I launched into expansive Paxson Lake, into and out of which the upper reach of the Main Branch flows. A 3-mile warm-up paddle brought us to the lake’s outlet where we floated past shoals of spawning sockeyes before entering a few miles of splashy water. On doctor’s orders, or so I would have Ritchie believe, I eschewed paddling and instead dug into the beers and grayling.
Camping that first night happened on Caribou Island, where we broke in my new 20 gauge and tried to ignore the bear tracks and scat littering the island. I only woke up twice that night, once when I “heard” something getting into our cooler (probably imagined) and once when I heard a large animal crossing the river near our tent (an actual moose). The next night I elected to be more proactive with my sleep by downing a pint of Jim Beam.
Among the highlights of Day 2:
Gulkana Canyon – Class IV water for about a half a mile, and pretty damn impressive. We portaged. Which wasn’t accounted for in my doctor’s orders but probably against them. Rafts are heavy.
Sweeper – The water below the Canyon remains a consistent Class II for a little while. After the grueling portage, beer tasted real good and engendered a great sense of relaxation by the time we eventually reached flatter water. Upon crashing into a tree we realized that we may have been too relaxed. But it wasn’t the crashing that worried us; the fact that we were pinned against a sweeper and taking on large amounts of water was a little more disconcerting. I’m not sure what we would have done had we dumped all our gear in the river. It was a long walk to the nearest road and getting cold fast. Luckily we jumped on the high side of the raft in time to stabilize it, climb out, and think about what we’d done. After furious chopping of the tree stem proved ineffective (though warming), escape was accomplished 20 minutes later by chopping the tree’s topside branches and hauling the raft over the top. After this experience we decided to do weird stuff like watch where we were going.
Trout – We caught some nice trout.
The Aforementioned Jim Beam – Ritchie would later describe my night’s antics as “animated.”
Day 3 on the river was lazy and great. I assumed paddling duties again, just in time to dodge the bears swimming across the river just downstream of our raft. Four bears (two of them aquatic) within the span about three hours, provided the afternoon’s entertainment. Well along with Bud Heavies and the occasional shotgun blast. Shotgun blasting was accomplished away from the many bald and golden eagles nesting in spruce trees along the banks. We probably saw about 40 in all.
Our cartoon doodle of a map brought us to our destination by the end of Day 3, which was perfect except for the fact that we weren’t getting picked up until Day 4. “Accidental” camping on Sourdough Campground’s handicapped tent platform, along with our insistence on purchasing bundles of firewood on credit, precipitated lengthy but ultimately successful negotiations with the local park ranger.
Day 4: Waiting. Watching. Judging. Quote of the Day is conceded to the co-owner of a local diner / lodge / tourist trap. The conversation went something like this.
Her: “See any wildlife out there?”
Us: “Yeah, actually yesterday we saw a bunch of bears!”
Her: “Why didn’t you shoot them?”
Apparently bear-shooting is strongly encouraged in this region. For instance, the owners recently discharged their duty by blasting a huge brown bear just a few years back. Out of their bedroom window.
All in all a great trip.

DunkFest '09

Straight outta Sudbury, Nik “The Rim Punisha” Pundit descends on a Copper Center, Alaska gas station to crushify the parking lot iron. Teamed up with high-flying local legend “Mugsy” Routhier, The Punisha / Mugsy combo repeatedly posterized the so-called “MVP” of the local Little Dribblers U-10 girls basketball squad. Check out these sweet pics. And become a Witness.

Kodiak

“I’m sorry all flights have been postpone”
“Ok, when can I get out?”
“Let’s see…. Tomorrow night. I think”
An extra day in Kodiak is not a terrible, or uncommon, thing. The island gets downright battered with wind and rain every September. But it also hosts some incredible runs of big silver salmon. Tomorrow wouldn’t be so bad after all.
While the fishing was pretty good last week, with several hundred coho pouring into coastal streams every day, the catching was a little slow. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing in light of the size and fight of the fish and the satisfaction of landing one. The first fish I hooked soon shattered my 9 weight rod. Luckily I brought the 7, too, which served me pretty well and leveled the playing field pretty significantly.
We spent lots of time on the Buskin, a couple half days on the Pasagshak, and a few days on the Olds – all of it cold and wet but most of it a hell of a lot of fun. I think my shit-eating grin in that picture above tells it all.

Kasugi Ridge

Hiking in Vermont was pretty easy. Just enough elevation to keep things interesting and score some nice views. Local guidebooks gave a pretty good idea of what to expect, but were a little off-base on estimates relating to time. Five hour hikes typically took two.
Hiking in Alaska occurs on a slightly different scale. Elevations are higher, views more sweeping. The most significant practical difference, though, has to be time. When the local guidebooks predict five hours, plan on six. And pack a lunch.
In early September Emma and I tackled Kasugi Ridge, a natural ridgeline cutting through the foothills of the Alaska Range, just north and west of the Talkeetna Mountains. We figured two full days, maybe two and half, for a 23 mile stretch of the ridge. After feuling up with coffee and breakfast sandwiches near Denali, and stashing the car at our projected end point (Emma biked back), we got a late start and started up the gap along Little Coal Creek at around 3 p.m. It was a hot and sweaty climb to about 2500 feet where we accessed the ridgeline. After another six or so miles fading light required us to pitch camp. The views of Denali were awesome, a tropical orange sun reflecting brightly of the mountain peaks and valley glaciers. As the sunlight melted away the full harvest moon picked up the slack, throwing enough light to preclude the need for headlamps as we jet-boiled some dinner. Sleep felt good and we woke up late the next day, mostly because the eastern mountains defended against the morning sun until around ten.
Back on the faint trail we meandered through upland tundra in full autumn maroon and gold to offset the stunted green spruce trees holding firm against the steady wind. Every few miles the flat ridgeline gave way to deep valleys cut by clear, cold mountains brooks. It was at such a spot about 13 miles in that we pulled the plug on the rest of the hike.
Slow progress, blisters, and my preference to spend the next day lazily drifting beads for big trout led us to dip off the ridgeline and take a mid-way connection back to a trailhead off the Parks Highway. It was here that I learned to hitchhike. What I lacked in breasts I made up for in determination, securing a ride to Byers Lake after about 20 minutes of solicitation.
After dinner in Talkeetna we cruised back up to Troublesome Creek, pitching our tent late at night in a state-run campground. Roughly ten minutes after climbing into our sleeping bags, loud trampling in the woods sent us scurrying into the large bear-proof container that is my car. Another good night’s sleep fueled a good day’s fishing featuring a nice grayling, some incidental chums, a beautifully flushed silver salmon, and an NFL-sanctioned football of a rainbow trout that leapt parallel to the stream’s surface and threw my hook within two heart-pounding seconds.
Yes, the hike was abbreviated but that experience of the open high tundra was not. The fishing was just icing on the cake.

Ice Carving

Ice carving is a fascinating winter activity that appeals to the unemployed and virgins alike. And Fairbanks provides a perfect venue for creating and displaying their craft. Where else can you find -45 degree temps that form crystal clear ice AND a local population so starved for entertainment that they will pay $10 to walk around and watch said ice not melt?
All kidding aside, the international Ice Carving (or Sculpting?) Championships held in Fairbanks every year are well worth the price of admission and the commitment to stay outside in frigid temperatures for more than five minutes. Artists from around the world gather here to create truly remarkable pieces evoking nature scenes, metaphor, and even comedy. Here’s a few of my favorite examples from last year’s competition. Pretty cool, huh?
A couple ancillary matters. First, one night during the competition I stopped by a local bar for a drink and saw a team of ice sculpting competitors. Aside from their unfortunate facial hair choices, the appearance of this group was also remarkable for their attire, which prominently consisted of custom jackets and hats featuring ice sculpting themes and even sponsor decals. Let me take this opportunity to again bemoan the overabundance of sponsor decals in our modern society – it’s stupid. First it was the Nascar guys. At least they had some good excuses to wear sponsor decals. After all, their cars are expensive and they crash them all the time, and also, their redneck fans seem very susceptible to the power of suggestion and advertizing in general. (How else can we explain why people willingly eat Pizza Hut?) Realizing that the Nascar guys had a pretty good thing going, the poker guys soon followed suit. Which was exceedingly stupid, though understandable in that at least these guys wear poker-related decals and are on t.v. when they act like idiots and scream after every hand. But ice carvers? This is where I draw the line. If I really want to get into ice carving and you vehemently recommend a particular chisel as superior, well yeah, I’m gonna go out and buy me that damn chisel. But lumber yards? Car dealerships? These things have nothing to do with ice carving and everyone knows it. Unless that decal is heated, take it off your jacket.
I know I said “a couple” of ancillary matters but I forget what the other thing was.

Coming Soon!

Midnight Sun Baseball Game; Klutina River; The Alaskan Adventures of One Scott Durkee; Mount Marathon Redux; Harding Ice Field; Bison Gulch; Ice Carving; Mike’s Parents Realize He Doesn’t Have Running Water; and other oddities

Ice Fishing

Ice fishing is the perfect sport for guys who 1) like fishing; 2) love drinking; and 3) hate their wives. Tough, but fair. I mean, if while pacing the 12’x16’ floor of your cabin you think “I would rather kneel on a frozen lake in -30 degree weather scooping ice out of a hole than stay in here another minute”, you probably don’t like your wife very much. I’m just saying.
Anyway, wife-hating aside, ice fishing is pretty fun if you do it right. Essential supplies include multiple people, lots of alcohol, something to sit on, something to drill through ice (preferably gas-powered), and more booze. I’m not even sure that a rod and bait and such are actually necessary. I’ll have to check on that for you.Here’s a few pics from my first ever ice-fishing trip. I caught precisely one fish, an arctic char. It bit a piece of Velveeta I molded around a metal hook. This char did not fight very much. And when I pulled it out of the hole and plunked in down on the ice, it quickly froze. Very polite fish. I think if I given the opportunity, it would have excused itself, filleted itself into two lunch-sized portions, and jumped into my freezer. Other highlight – this puppy chasing a live char prematurely deposited into an empty case of Busch Heavy. (That’s right, The Hoary Marmot is not above publishing superfluous pictures of cute puppies for a cheap ratings boost.)

Live Animal Disposal Etiquette

In keeping with the ridiculous sign theme, things one’s been on my mind for a while. As in, something other than the very, very bright sun that keeps me up at night.
“What does this mean?” I asked myself when I first saw this outside the local transfer station. “It couldn’t be that, could it?” After pondering this over the course of several months, I’ve come to the conclusion that yes, this sign could only mean that.
We’ve all heard stories of people dispatching unwanted pets. (Especially the Falcons fans among us.) But apparently in Fairbanks this phenomenon was occurring with sufficient frequently so as to warrant design, manufacture, and installation of custom signage explicitly reminding the citizenry that disposing of live animals in dumpster is not appropriate behavior. Yikes.

Help Pastor + Win Automatic Weapons = Biggest No-Brainer in the History of Earth

So one day I walked into the break room at work, poured myself a cup of coffee, and then laughed my ass off as I saw this flyer for the first time. To be honest I was a bit surprised at my own amusement. After about 16 months and Fairbanks I’ve grown immune to a lot of this ridiculousness. It’s only once in a while that I still catch myself and think, “WTF?” Which is a little disconcerting.
My intent in starting a blog last year was to document ridiculous Fairbanks things as a means to 1) vent my incredulity; 2) communicate to friends back home the specific things that I find so funny about this place; 3) keep myself rooted in some semblance of my former reality; and 4) get laid. O.k., I made at least one of those things up. But that’s beside the point, which is basically that I’m very grateful that someone posted this flyer in our break room. Sort of snapped me back to reality while simultaneously renewing my urge to share this random crap with others. So, thank you crazy gun raffle man, whoever you are. I hope one of your $100 tickets wins you the biggest, loudest, shiniest gun they make.
(As a side note – Pastor “Bearup”? Really? Is this like “Cowboy up” only with bearing arms instead of gay baseball players in red stockings? Just a thought. I mean, frankly, it sounds made up….)

Frozen Gore

As we all know, global warming is a hoax invented by Al Gore* in order to make money on speaking tours and movies that no one in Fairbanks has or will ever see. I mean, if it’s cold during winter here in interior Alaska, it is therefore impossible that cumulative worldwide temperatures could possible be in flux. And don’t try to sell me that “climate change” tune that the liberal media has been singing lately. (What a flip flop!) They said warming and that means tropical beach in Fairbanks within the next year or we ain’t buying it. Anyway, we in Fairbanks aren’t afraid to call a fellow out when need be. And we in Fairbanks know just how calling a fellow out should be done – by constructing a caricature of the offending person’s head out of ice, and placing it on a busy street corner.

Mr. Gore, you are on notice! www.frozengore.com

*Come to think of it, between this and the internet, Al Gore must rank right up there with Edison in terms of lucrative inventions….

Mt. Aurora Ski-Land

You know that fluorescent pink, neon yellow, and aqua-marine ski gear that people used to wear in the 80s? Ever wonder where all that stuff went? Well, I found it – Mt. Aurora Ski-land, just north of Fairbanks, AK. It’s like a little slice of heaven where ski equipment goes after it dies. Like a giant, moving yard sale with a $30 admission fee. Like if Warren Miller had directed “Napolean Dynamite”.

But enough about the gear. Everyone’s favorite feature of Fairbank’s premier ski resort is the lift (yes, singular). Given the efficient design and classic appearance of this chairlift, I have no doubt but that at placed in the Top 3 of a 6^th grade science fair. In 1953.

Inside the lodge itself, the amenities are a bit more modern, and include a VCR and several cassette tapes to liven the ambience for even the most fickle après-ski crowd. The restroom facilities, located in a separate outdoor trailer, are lovely, and allow the user to bask in a soothing glow red-tinted light bulbs. It is unclear whether the red lights indicate the availability of restroom-based prostitutes or were instead intended to allow patrons to develop their downhill action photographs while dropping frozen anchor into the permafrost below; either way it’s a great feature and a lesson for resorts everywhere.

All kidding aside, though, Skiland is a nice place to scratch that downhill skiing itch in a charming, douchebaggery-free setting.

Trucks!!!

Ownership of an obnoxiously large and loud pick-up truck is nearly a pre-requisite of life as a man (or woman) in Fairbanks. The benefits of truck ownership are clear.

First, owning a 4,000 pound vehicle offers significant safety advantages when crashing into a moose or smaller and therefore inferior vehicle. This advantage is sufficient to render defensive or “safe” driving on Fairbank’s notoriously icy roads completely unnecessary.

Second, a high perch and superfluous horsepower enable truck drivers to develop and disseminate large volumes of disdain and pent-up frustration towards smaller, fuel-efficient cars and the pussies who drive them.

And third (the final and most definitive argument), Truck Nutz© look much better on an F-350 than your Honda.

These advantages clearly outweigh illogical concerns such as getting double-digit gas mileage, being able to afford one’s payments, and, in most cases, having four or all-wheel drive on roads covered in snow and ice nine months a year and mud the other three.

Git ‘er dun!

Temperature Inversions

Throughout most of the winter an interesting meteorological phenomenon controls the whether, mood and even the land use patterns and real estate market of the Fairbanks area. You probably remember from high school science class that cold air has a higher density than warm air. This basic concept has interesting application in frigid Interior Alaska, where bitterly cold air dominates the winter weather scene. As weather fronts languish over the huge land mass that I now loosely refer to as home, there is minimal infusion or circulation of new air. Cold air quickly settles downward into the river valleys and other low-lying areas of Fairbanks proper, and remains there indefinitely. The ensuing stratification of air temperatures means that nearby hills can enjoy ambient temperatures up to twenty degrees warmer than the valleys, turning ridgelines and upper hillsides into prime real estate. Often, the first question asked of a friend moving to a new residence is “How high is it?” And for good reason. A mid-winter run to the outhouse is far more comfortable, though perhaps somewhat less interesting scientifically, at 0 degrees Fahrenheit than at -20.

Footnote: Interestingly, it is very easy to discern the current altitude of the cold air/less cold air boundary from any point a few miles away from town, simply by looking to the shape and height of the plumes emanating from a large smoke stack. The white smoke will creep slowly upwards until it reaches the altitude of the next higher air mass, at which point it will veer sharply in a perpendicular direction. I’m not sure of the exact science behind this, but I do know that when the smoke travels in a high-reaching straight line before dissipating, it’s a sign of relatively mild weather. But when the smoke only climbs a few hundred feet before abruptly forming a right angle, you’re screwed.