Napkin Folds and Airplanes

I’ve been home for two weeks now, and I’m slowly getting over the culture shock.

But, after five months in Alaska—and two weeks back in Oregon—I’m finding some things about ‘civilized’ life rather odd. I mean, how strange is this? I’m back in a place where it’s important to look for cars before crossing a road.

In Port Alsworth, we had to look out for airplanes.

Actually, it feels odd to have roads here instead of airstrips connected by two or three intersecting gravel lanes—not to mention what it feels like to ride in a car. I could count on one hand the number of times I rode in a car or truck in Port Alsworth this summer. Now I’m driving at least a couple times each week.

The move from a four-wheeler to a 15-passenger van is almost just as strange.

I do have to drive now if I want to go on a hike, but at least I don't have to worry about avoiding bears anymore.

And there's fresh fruit, unlimited Internet, free time…

Well, we did get free time at the lodge, in between working odd hours. Still, it was always limited by the next project on hand—prepping for dinner, turning on the fuel pump for a pilot, getting to bed at a decent hour so that we could start breakfast prep by 6:30 or 7:00 next morning.

Some things make me happy—no more fuel pumps, no more running down to the Cache so someone can buy a 50-cent lollipop, no more ironing sheets and tablecloths before we use them. Instead, I can stop by Walmart on my way home from tutoring. My decision process at the store takes just as long as ever, but I can pick things up myself and not wait for them to get mailed in.

One of these days I'll even check some books out at the library again.

Oh, and we don’t use decorative napkin folds at home. Now that’s kind of strange.

I’m getting used to it. Slowly.

 

Of Canons and Bears

In a land crawling with bears, it’s not so common to see one.

So here I am—four months in Alaska this summer, and never a bear in view.

It’s okay, actually. Hiking to the falls, climbing a mountain—all that is adventure enough, and I would prefer not to see a bear at those times. In fact, I’ve been warned about them repeatedly…

In the spring, the locals say, bears come out of hibernation and hunt for food. They’re on a diet of sorts, though, and they want to eat their greens. If you make a lot of noise when you’re out in the woods, they likely won’t bother you.

In the summer, the bears disappear into the brush. They’re still looking for food, but they’re rather shy about it. You might walk past half a dozen on an afternoon stroll and never know it. Just make some noise, so you don’t come around a corner and startle one accidentally.

In the fall, the bears are once again looking for food. Bears and mosquitoes both, and they know that time is getting short.

Still, even in the fall, it’s not so common to see a bear.

That’s why we have to go out looking for them.

Over the past couple of weeks, we’ve hosted a couple of photography workshops at the lodge. One couple came the first week, another couple this week—they stay at the lodge and fly out with Jim Barr, a professional photographer for lessons on using cameras in a variety of settings and light conditions.

And on Wednesday this week, I went bear viewing with the group.

Not only that, but one of the guys on the crew loaned me his Canon XTi for the day. Someone else offered to loan me a pistol as well, but I decided to stick with the Canon.

So it was—with barely time to take a breath—my day changed from cleaning two cabins and dusting lodge furniture to climbing aboard Katie, Glen’s float plane, with a sack lunch, a pair of waders, and two cameras. (I took my own camera along, of course. I knew how to take pictures with that…but a DSLR? How does that work?)

At any rate, I'm pretty sure I didn't look as impressive as the other photographers with their huge lenses and professional quality tripods.

About forty minutes after takeoff, Glen landed us in a small lake about forty minutes south of the lodge, and we hiked from the lake across a flat hump to the river, where we had spotted bears feeding on salmon.

It was a slow day on the river—the salmon run was over for the year, and very few fish remained in the stream.

We found the bears, though—a sow and cubs far off on the hillside eating berries, one or two others splashing along the bank…

…along with a few seagulls too.

Glen and Jim led the way up the river to a shelf halfway down the bluff, where they could set up their tripods. I figured out how to change the standard lens on the Canon for a telephoto lens.

We took photos, adjusted our settings, and took more photos, while a couple of bears wandered up and down the river below us. Once in a while, a bear caught a salmon or dragged a dead fish out of the shallows. A couple times, they swam across the river to a different fishing hole and shook the water off before taking up a new post.

Eventually, the bears wandered off and disappeared around the bend. Maybe they were bored—or they had scheduled a performance downriver a mile or so. At any rate, we had a quiet spell and a chance to eat lunch.

We were just finishing, and I hadn’t packed my lunch bag back into my backpack, when a big honey-colored bear sauntered down the bluff beside us and strolled along the path beneath us.

Think about standing at the top of a flight of stairs, looking at a bear at the bottom of the steps—that’s how close it felt.

The bear ignored us, though, and wandered down to the water for a short fishing excursion, while we snapped photos—and waited for her to turn around and face the right direction for the lighting.

That's a bear's life around here.

Through the day, we spotted some other wildlife as well, including a ground squirrel. It wanted to imitate its citified cousins, trying to run almost under our feet. And if you look closely, you might find the ptarmigan hiding in the bushes...

Early in the day, Glen wondered briefly about takeoff from the lake, if the wind didn't pick up. By mid-afternoon, the wind was still calm, so he told the others he would fly me out to another, larger lake, drop me off with some of the gear, and then come back for them.

 

It shows how little I know about this kind of life. Getting dropped off at a lake in bear territory and warned to be careful? Okay—I know not to wander too far, and I’ll make lots of noise while I’m there. I can handle that.

But getting dropped off somewhere and handed a gun? That’s just a little weird, not to mention unnerving.

Sadly, (or perhaps fortunately), the wind had changed around by the time Glen and I reached the plane. The rain was setting in as well, so Glen taxied across to the other shore and picked up the other two passengers. I was told to sit in one of the back seats—someone else, bigger than me, needed to ride co-pilot so we could get more weight forward. Once everyone was settled, we taxied out, headed into the wind, and lit out for home.

Anyway—yes, I have now seen a bear this year. I’ve also heard stories of a brown bear visiting the town in the past week, but at this point, I’ll be just as happy not to see that bear before I leave, or any others either.

At least, not without having a camera with me—point-and-shoot or DSLR.

 

Location, location...

Until this week, I never realized how lucky I was to land in Port Alsworth last year.

When I came up the first time, I had talked to a couple people who worked here before, but talking to people doesn’t accurately convey a landscape or a reality. I had no idea where I would be staying for the next two months. Somehow I pictured flat, open grass areas—I still have no idea why...

Instead, after a one-hour flight to Seattle, and a three-hour flight from Seattle to Anchorage, and another hour-long flight from there to Port Alsworth, I landed here—on a low knoll overlooking a small bay with a range of mountains just outside my window.

 It was amazing.

The work wasn’t always as amazing as the scenery, but I enjoyed it, and I got out occasionally to explore this area.

All that still applied when I came back this summer.

Then, on Monday this week, we had a day when there were no guests staying at the lodge. It gave us a nice break after nearly a month of non-stop rush. To celebrate (or else just to take advantage of the short break), Glen and Leyla took their family, the family dog, a pilot who flies for the lodge, and the lodge crew out on a boating trip.

I haven’t been fishing in ten years, but I picked up a one-day license before we left.

We boated up the lake to the mouth of a creek and set up camp along the beach. Jael and Leyla had packed hotdogs and s’mores. The farm guys (with help from everyone else) started a bonfire with the drift wood and old spruce boughs.

And Jael headed out into the water with her rubber hip-boots and her fly-rod. A couple other people followed her out, wading along a narrow shelf along the mouth of the creek.

After some hesitation, and some help with a reel-rod, I followed them into the water.

I kept my distance, though. In my experience with fishing, distance can be a key factor. Unfortunately, all the fish were biting around the creek. When I didn’t catch anything in the first ten minutes or so, Glen suggested I move closer to the creek, closer to Jael.

Right next to her—

At home, I would never have dared fish just ten feet away from someone else, but here it seemed okay. It helped that she’s right-handed and I’m left, so we could fish on opposite sides from each other. And it seemed to work too—I caught two graylings before deciding it was time to try the hotdogs instead. (It’s catch-and-release fishing up here.)

That was on Monday.

On Tuesday, we also had no guests, and we had nearly all the lodge work done before lunch. After lunch, Jael went out flying and she asked me to tag along with her on a cross-country flight. (No, not ‘across the country,' just across the countryside to another small village.)

It takes a lot of work to get a small plane ready for takeoff—check both fuel tanks, check the oil, check all the flaps and struts and wires, bang on some other things, and so on. Some of it might look amusing to the uninitiated. I stood by and stayed out of the way while Jael did the work, but eventually we loaded up and taxied onto the runway.

About an hour later, we landed in Igiugig. Think of a small huddle of houses along a river, at the lower end of the largest freshwater lake in Alaska.

At Igiugig, everything is different.

Yes, I realize it’s not fair to make a judgment after five minutes in a village. Still, it seems safe to say that if I’d been working there instead of here last summer—well, I probably wouldn’t be working there again this summer.

There are mountains in the distance, I will admit. You just can’t see them because everything close up is flat, with a smudge of bushes…

…And a thick haze of mosquitos.

Mosquitos and mountains, sure. Just mosquitos, no thanks.

I’m glad to be here, not there.

Out of Town

This afternoon, in a mad dash from the lodge to the hanger, I managed to catch a ride on the afternoon sight-seeing tour:

Jael, our cook, flew the kitchen, and she took me along in her Pacer for an out-of-town whirl. We didn't go too far, just up river to see the smaller lake south of Tanalian, on around the mountain and down Lake Clark a short distance.

Flying can give things a new perspective.

Still, we made it home again in time for an afternoon slice of cantaloupe. (That's another big treat around here.) Then it was back to work at the lodge. One month down, and a summer to go!

Otters and Rats

Otters, I’ve been told, are bigger than Beavers.

But when I saw an Otter yesterday, I immediately recognized it for what it was—a rat with an extremely long nose.

It might even have Ratty, since his friend in the corner looks so much like Mole.

They’re in the water again today—or rather, still. That’s hardly surprising, though. What, after all, is life without floats?

“Is it nice?” you ask.

“Nice? It’s the ONLY thing…believe me, my young friend, there is NOTHING—absolutely nothing—half so worth doing as simply messing about with floats. Simply messing…messing—about—with—floats; messing—” (with apologies to Kenneth Grahame.)

Sadly, of course, I haven’t been messing about with planes recently—floats or otherwise. I have no amazing stories to pass on this week. Last week, it seemed almost that we were too busy to write about everything. This week, things are too slow to have anything to write about.

Three girls and one cook for three tables? A mad rush with hardly time to sit down and eat after taking the main course out. Three girls and one cook for one table? (Let’s just say that we have permission to sit out with the guests tonight—there’s only two, after all.) By July, the work should be steadier, and crazier.

In the meantime, the other girls and I are getting good practice on a new version of the honey-do list:

“Oh, you’ve finished the cabins already? That’s awesome! You know, we really need to get the boardwalks varnished today before more guests come in.”

“Oh, girls, could you maybe weed around the staircase today? Those horsetails grow so fast!”

“Oh, you know what we need to do? We should really check all the waders in the shed to see that they don’t leak when the guests are wearing them.”

It’s fun.

But we don’t wash the float planes. At least, not yet. The guys do that.

P.S. Did you know that used planes can have just as many vehicle issues as used cars? Plus, with planes, you have to get a flight review every two years. My knowledge of aviation trivia is growing by leaps and bounds. At this rate, I might be a whiz at it by the end of the summer!