Photos & Progress

It was a long hike last weekend, and it's been a long week. Productive, yes--but long.

 I haven't touched my current novel in a couple of months, so I set a challenge to write at least 500 words this week. It helped to have a small goal--one I could break out into 100-word chunks if necessary. Even better, I actually made it with a couple hundred words to spare, thanks to some extra time this evening.

Next goal: write the same again next week until it gets to be a habit. Also, I really need to figure out why the crazy, great ideas only show up at 2 a.m.

Photos for the Week



This week has been busy, for some reason. We went camping over Labor Day weekend, but I'm not sure what happened the rest of the time. You know how that goes...

 

 

Have a great weekend!

September & Snow?

It's one of those interesting chores around here—running down to turn on the fuel pump for someone to fuel a plane. It's even more interesting when there's snow falling...not to mention cold.

 

 



The snow isn't sticking—yet—but it's coming.
 

Puh-TAY-tuhs: Alaskan Style

Monday, September 19.

Port Alsworth, Alaska.

Fresh snow on the mountains in the morning, potatoes vines beginning to die, no guests arriving today, and two of the farmboys are leaving later in the week. It's time to dig potatoes!

After working here the whole summer, I'm now initiated into the world of potato farming, from planting in early June, to harvesting at the end of summer. I've seen it all. (Well, almost all, since the guys were responsible for hilling the potatoes halfway through the summer. The other girls and I were probably busy cleaning our 352nd cabin about then.)

Last year, the potatoes took us three days to dig. This year, we had plenty of help...we started Monday‑and finished Monday. You know that feeling where you can hardly move, it's almost five o'clock and definitely past time for a break, but there's only one (or two) more rows of fat, heavy potatoes left to dig and haul?

Yes, that was our day on Monday.

And now all the potatoes are safely stored away in the farm's root cellar. We might not have asmany this year, but they're done, finished, ended...

...just in time for fall, golden leaves, and early snow on the mountains...

 

Not the Top

How do you say “I hiked the mountain,” when you didn’t actually hike the mountain?

At least—if you hiked up the mountain, but you didn’t quite reach the peak?

If, in fact, about ten minutes away from the peak, you decided to turn around and go back?

I promised this post about three weeks ago, soon after making the hike, and I nearly told it last week, until I was distracted by the story of another hike. So, here it is at last, the story of my journey up the mountain.

All journeys start with a path, and ours was no different—from the lodge, I set out with four other mountain climbers, all of us geared for steep crags, blinding snow, blizzards, and dehydrating heat.

Well, sort of.

I packed an extra water bottle, and we all took sack lunches. We had been told to plan 7-8 hours for the hike, but I forgot to ask about the terrain and didn’t hear about the last stretch until we were nearly at the top. All I knew was that the path went up.



In fact, we were given a crucial piece of advice just as we were setting out—“If you’re going down, you’ll never make it to the top.”

We kept that advice in mind as we head up the Beaver Trail, and out along the trail toward Tanalian Mountain. We made the first stretch in just about forty minutes, with only one stop along the way.

And then, after the slightest of dips, the trail began to go up…

…and up…

…and up.

We went from birch woods and root-infested paths to grass jungle in the space of a couple hours, and we were still far below the tree line. And the path was steep. We climbed five steps, stopped to catch our breath, climbed five more steps…

The view was great, though, if you like leaves.



On one side, through the trees, we could see the mountain, peeking above the forest.

On the other, we could see the lake, nearly hidden by a mass of trees.

Not to worry, though, the path kept going up—and up, over a rock slide, through more grass jungle, up mud slide after mud slide. I don’t see tall grass often here, or wet grass either, but this grass was very wet, and very tall. And the path went straight up the side of the mountain.

The trail did level out in places, and even dipped down along one or two low spots on the hillside, but it always reverted to old habits and started up again before we could get too worried.

Finally, we began to see patches of open space between the trees—and the open patches got wider and wider.

At last, about three hours after setting out, we cleared the trees. The hillside didn’t get less steep, but we managed to scramble up a couple hundred yards above the tree line, to a semi-level knoll a couple hundred yards. We’d already left two people in our party behind, but the remnant of our group thought we’d stop and eat before we went on.

 

I was ready to sit down and have lunch right there (it was noon, after all), but someone suggested we cross over to the next hump and sit there for lunch. From there, it might have been a case of the grass always being greener on the next hump, except that the humps very quickly ran out and left us with a steep drop and a gorgeous view, so we stopped just short of the edge and ate lunch looking down on the world.

After lunch, of course, we still had a mountain to scale, so we packed up once more and set off on the last stretch.


The path kept going up, when there was a path—and when there wasn’t, we scrambled up anyway over short-grass alpine meadows. Meanwhile, the peak got closer, and closer…

…and closer.





A third person stopped, deciding to wait for us, but I kept going with another girl, while the path climbed over a series of spurs, slowly getting narrower, and narrower…

…until I finally decided I didn’t like the idea of crawling up a two-foot-wide ridge. Three feet maybe, but two feet was a little too narrow, especially with a steep drop on grass and rocks on one side.


And a steeper drop onto a rockslide on the other.

I halted once, before I managed to push on another hundred yards or so, but then I stopped for good, and we started sliding down the path back to the jungle below.



The fun thing about going up a trail, obviously, is going back down, over steep grass, vertical mud slides, and a cliff or two. I think we made it down in half the time, and with only a few tumbles. By the time we reached the rock slide again, I was wishing I had tried just a little harder—maybe I could have made it, maybe if I could have just got past that one steep stretch, maybe…

But, in the end, we came, we climbed, and we came down again in one piece. We might not have reached the summit, but there are some small consolations. I am a writer, after all. The regrets are easing even as I begin to wonder curiously just how long I might be haunted by the shadow of this mountain—and which of my characters might find himself stuck on a thin ledge of rock wondering just how he got to this place, how he will get down, and why he can walk a sidewalk downtown, but not a two-foot-wide path four thousand feet in the air…

 

Out in the Woods

I’ve been trying to decide whether to tell you the story of the mountain, or the tale from last month of my return trip to the falls—alone.

Alone.

Back at home, back when I was younger, I was taught not to wander about in strange places by myself. It was safer to stick around with someone else, going only to places I knew, and especially not staying out too late. Mostly, though, it was thought safer to stick around with someone else.

And when I came up here last fall, I was told soon after arriving not to wander the woods by myself. It was bear season, apparently, and safety meant going in pairs or groups.

So, last year, I didn’t wander very far. There was work, there was break time, and once in a while there was the chance to go exploring with someone else, or just walk down the runway during the afternoon.


Then this year came.

And I was restless.

We had afternoon break—the time between cleaning cabins and prepping for dinner in the evening. It was free time to do anything.

Anything within reason…

One afternoon as we approached break time, I began to think. And in thinking, I decided that a hike to the falls was within reason. Why not? We’d done it before.

Unfortunately, no one else wanted to go.

So, I began to think again—“Hey, could I hike to the falls by myself?”

It wasn’t bear season yet. It wasn’t moose season either. It was still early afternoon, so I’d have plenty of time to get back before it got late. (And late at that time meant dusk at 11 pm. Dinner was at 6 pm, so I’d have bigger problems if I wasn’t back before dark.)

The question was—was it actually safe, or even okay, to hike somewhere by myself?

After some hesitation, I asked the experts—Jael and Leyla. They live here; they would know, I figured.

Surprisingly, they said yes.

So, since time was ticking, and I had two hours to make the hike and return, I grabbed my water bottle, camera, and a small bag of dried fruit. Then I hit the trail.

Of course, before I went, I also got the warning to make plenty of noise, just in case there was something out there in the bushes.

Goal: reach the falls within an hour, so I’d have 10-15 minutes there and still make it home before the search parties headed out.

I walked fast.

In the first ten minutes, I crossed town and headed up the Fire Break, the nearly vertical stair-steps trail. I was nearly halfway up the Fire Break, when I heard an engine behind me. A minute later, a four-wheeler loaded with at least four people drove up the trail past me, followed by a second, heavily loaded vehicle. By then, I was also nearly out of breath, which raised an interesting question—had someone not so heavily loaded passed me and offered a ride, would I accept? Should I accept?

If the purpose was exercise, obviously no. If the goal was reaching the falls within a limited amount of time, then maybe yes.

Besides, we have so few moving vehicles in Port Alsworth that the general rule is to take a ride if offered. A four-wheeler, much less a truck or a boat, is the big excitement of any week.

No one else passed me, however, and so there was no ride.

On the positive side, though, I figured that the group ahead of me would scare off any stray bears in the area.

That theory lasted until I reached the top of the Fire Break, passing the four-wheelers at the head of the main trail, and passing their crew about ten minutes later.

Now I was at the head of the line, in charge of scaring off the critters.

To cut the suspense short, I didn’t see anyone on my way up the trail other than a few people and this little guy:

He wasn’t too scary, but he sure was mad at me for disturbing his forest.

Soon after I left him behind—only fifty minutes after leaving the lodge—I came down the trail above the falls and cut through the woods to a look-out point on some cliffs above the river. (Yes, the cliffs we climbed up on our last trip—they’re not so easy to go down, though, and I wandered back to the main trail and hiked down to the lower falls.)

Fifty minutes—yes, I set a timer, so I knew very closely how much time I had left. So, after a few minutes, I climbed up to the upper falls…

…took some photos of the dogwood (no, not the trees, the flowers)…

…and then left for home.

I was nearly back, just to the birches path above the trailhead, when I discovered the importance of planning ahead and making sure you have extra time in your schedule.

As I rounded a corner, hurrying to get home a little early, I heard a rustle on the path ahead of me.

Then I saw a gray bird, with half a dozen little gray puffs exploding under her.

It’s not every day you meet a ptarmigan in the trail (much less a hen with her chicks), and it’s nice to have some spare time when you do.

Still watching my timer, I stopped for some photos of the hen, located one of the chicks in the tree, took some photos of him, watched the hen fly up into a tree, took some more photos of her, and then scooted for home. I made it too, just in time to change and head back to work.

I’ll have to tell you about the mountain another day.

PTA's Believe It Or Not 3.0

It’s August?

About a year ago, not long after starting my blog, I resolved to post something at least once per week—barring unforeseen or insurmountable obstacles. Last week, if you happened to be waiting for me to post something, you might have wondered where I went…

One of those obstacles had intervened.

We had our internet connection shut off.

About Friday afternoon, already behind on my schedule, I was frantically finishing up a long overdue book review. And then, when I opened my browser and typed in the address to open my blog, I found only dead ends and blank pages.

It’s amazing how much you can’t do without that small detail called an internet connection. It’s also amazing how much you can do without it.

For now, though, I have internet back, and I’ve posted twice today to make up for last week.

Oh, and out of the past week, we have had a total one (1) day of sunshine. Yesterday.

Happily, yesterday was also the day I begged off work to climb the mountain with a few other people. That might be another blog post in itself—sometime later on, wind and internet permitting.

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.

One Year Out

Today marks exactly one year from my first post on this blog.

So many things have happened that I didn’t expect—to be back in Alaska for another summer, to become a blog reviewer for Tyndale, to still be working on the first book of my Areaex series (though I should hardly be surprised by that), to be still posting steadily after a full year, among other things.

This week also marks my second month working at the Farm Lodge this summer. (For those of you who like numbers, I’ve now been here as long this summer as I was here last summer. I’m also planning to stay here for another three months, until the fall. I haven’t set a return date yet, but it will probably be about mid-October.)

How have things gone here recently?

Work is good, work is busy, work is crazy—work is good?

And when we have fourteen guests show up unexpectedly one evening, I do want to ask whether they are heading to Rivendell or running from the orcs. It might make a difference for tonight? (The official story was that they had been delayed by bad weather on their way to another lodge.)

Some days we have lots of sunshine, some days we have fog and mist so thick that only the large planes can make it out to Anchorage. After a couple weeks of that, it was nice to see the sun again recently.

Along the way, life is full of surprises (yes, that is a cliche), and unexpected things are happening every day. It's almost like finding dogwood that grows on the ground instead of in trees. Fields of white dogwood—how does that sound?

So life is crazy; life is good.

Friends are good also—I've enjoyed hearing from a number of people while I've been here, and I apologize to those I haven't kept up with.

And finally, the mountains are still amazing, even at midnight.

Yes, I took that photo very close to midnight a couple weeks ago. I've only stayed up that late a couple times, but it can be hard sometimes to remember that I still need sleep.

Who needs sleep when you can still get great photos outside?

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!