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Saturday, October 31, 2009

Reflections on the Arctic #6


This morning, as the weather slipped into a 36 degree gray day with a 20mph wind and light rain, I got to thinking about some of our days in the Arctic Refuge. We only had 2 occasions on the Canning River where the weather was a genuine issue. Both of them occurred as we approached the Beaufort Sea. Now, reason would say that this was likely because of the affect of the ocean but after 8 or 9 days we were also getting closer to winter very rapidly.

At the time it didn't really appear to me that this was such a big deal but looking back with today's conditions in my face, I found myself reevaluating the conditions up there. On about day eight when we were to get up, it was raining fairly hard and blowing a steady 30mph with the temperature slightly above freezing. In fact, the low lying hills just above the alluvial plain where we camped had a noticeable covering of snow. We decided to sit tight for the day and wait for better weather. Sitting tight meant just laying in the tent all day and attempting to read. I found I was amazingly good at actually half sleeping most of the time and I rather enjoyed the pure pleasure of the lofty down bag (down is largely prohibited in the Arctic--once wet, you die).


At one point, and I don't even remember the time of day as it was still mostly light all the time, Ian approached the tent Craig and I were lounging in, and quietly but intently announced the presence of a number of bull Caribou passing just to the east of camp. We, great hunters and all, hardly stirred because we were lost in the comfort of the tent. It was truly uncomfortable outside and we thought a day of uninterrupted rest was appropriate. The caribou slipped away unmolested.

What occurs to me now is the thought of having to sit tight on the tundra for a week and what it would have meant. One day, no problem, but if those conditions were to have persisted, which they can do there, life would have taken a sudden and dramatic change. Now its not that we were not prepared to deal with it, but the fun factor would have diminished. To be way the hell in the middle of nowhere and have to cope, and probably move because we had to get to the pick up miles away, might have changed my spoiled view of the delightful arctic.

Today I sit by the old radiating pot bellied stove in Wisconsin. The wind howls outside and I am very comfortable. Up there it is very hard to even find a small twig. We had only two fires on the trip and the only real one was on day two. We had plenty of food and 125 lbs of meat but if the plane could not land, the lounging would have become monotonous and we cantankerous.

Ian did remind me that it was good we had experienced the other side of the Refuge, the side that is not always a delightful holiday on the Canning----reality is a good thing.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Famine Food in My Garden


Recently, while consuming a nice side of mashed rutabagas, it was brought up by some less than enthralled participant that this root crop consumption was nothing more than eating famine food. Was this an insult? I once was told by our German exchange student that eating sauerkraut was for the lower class individual that could not find his way to purchase better fare. He lifted his nose at my hand crafted kraut.

Well, I thought about that and did realize that most of the root crops, maybe excluding the noble potato, are not widely appreciated. It would seem they are rather base, rather dirty, underground dwelling fare. At the same time they grow like the dickens, are easily stored and many of them are loaded with nutrients of all sorts.
Jake and I, only a few day's ago, harvested seven rutabagas, just seven because most of our immediate friends and family are particularly adverse to this elegant root. But what brings attention is the size of these things and how only those seven could hold off a famine all by themselves. The one pictured probably weighed some eight pounds, had almost no worms and when cooked would power me through a couple of days of good wood cutting.
Now I know some will say, "Just what does one do with a rutabaga of this size?" It can't all be eaten in one sitting and even the largest admirer would probably hesitate to conquer one of these brutes. They don't freeze well and if left idle will eventually wither and no longer have the ability to fight the famine. Dry them? Rutabaga chips? Canned rutas?
Ok, so there are issues. I have considered a rutabaga festival where the entire crop is set forth in many forms and thereby hold off starvation for the entire community for a few days. You say, "But nobody is starving."
Well, they still taste good in moderation and knowing they are there is like having a form of money in the bank, not real good money (or as Ann would say, "Chump change") but still a form of wealth. I'm not going to give up on them even if I am overweight.

Revolution Watch

In the last week I have received two of the enclosed documents reminding me that the new interest rates on my gas credit cards has taken a slight change. It seems they saw fit to raise my interest rate to the low level of only 25-29.95%. Now mind you, I do not care because I NEVER carry a balance, so they work just fine. But can you imagine what this means for folks less fortunate who depend on these things to maintain their American dream. What if a person has a $10K standing bill or maybe a couple of them?



This entire country is run on debt. These cards drive the consumer society and the economy that goes with it. It would seem that this type of change in easy credit may slow the economy down, maybe to a level that is sustainable. Maybe this is a move in the right direction. Maybe it is an indicator of things to come. I guess one could call it a drop in the standard of living.


But then, if folks don't buy things how many others will lose their jobs because what they were making is now not being purchased? Rather seems like a downward spiral---sort of a revolution.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Reflection on Alaska #5


I realize fishing has been mentioned and for those who do not fish it would seem this may be over kill. However, the Dolly Varden has to be mentioned because of it true beauty. Of course, it goes without saying that part of the intrigue and specialness of it all is the surroundings in which they live. Our first real attempt to latch on to the silver beauties was at the location where a huge spring emptied into the Canning River. Crystalline water that would make Perrier lust, dumped head long into the Canning and headed to the sea.
Tara had said this was a sure thing because of her past experience but either because of our ineptitude, or belligerence on the part of the trout we were not able to secure a single silver darling at this unusual location. The massive spring poured out of the tundra and gouged out a huge hole that any self respecting trout should have lusted for. As one trout said to the other, "Man, like this crib is like to die for."
We were profoundly surprised not a fish was to have its lips ripped. We were stunned if not befuddled and maybe distraught, even despondent if not disappointed. We recovered and moved to the north bathed in arctic sun and the ambiance of a vibrant tundra. The marsh hawk flew past and the loons chatted among themselves noting our presence, possibly thinking we were out of our element. Their ancestors knew the Athabaskans and Eskimos but not many of the white tribe, the tall skinny ones that froze at first sub zero night with 60 mph winds. It was fall and we were warm.
A Day later was another well know holding area, a redd if you will, where they were rumored to be stacked up like a cord of good aspen. It was below a large cliff and extended to the south and north in the moderately moving ripples. We pulled the rafts into comfortable slack water and took stock of the surroundings while assembling our anxious gear. Craig, a fisherman of considerable experience, tied into a dandy right off taking one of his flash flies that looked more like showy transvestite in Los Vegas. But the big males went for the gaudy thing like kids in a candy store, or me for a wee dram of Talister single malt.
All of us got our satisfy (as they say in Wisconsin) as we landed a number of real muscle bound beauties. Ian lost one by thinking he could turn a monster while it ran with the current. As a result of the loss he caught the derision of even the seagulls. All the fish were returned to the river and ultimately to the Beaufort sea--that is if they didn't want to winter over in the big hole by the rock. We were not planning to hold over for the winter season so we moved on, reluctantly, for here is where the fisherman's heart resides.

Revolution Watch


Here is a chart showing the level of consumer credit. The interesting part is the last year or so. Very different than past years, even lower than the '81 and '92 years. Probably not good---sorta. But maybe we should be thinking of consuming more in the range of say Europe. This would be a nice life style but we would have to drop our consumption by 50% as we use twice as many goods as the average European citizen. Times are changing. Hit graph to make it bigger and more meaningful.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

It Froze


It froze and I don't care. In fact, I am better off for it. I am quite tired of dealing with tomatoes. For reasons unknown this year's tomatoes of all shapes and colors, thanks to Treb, just kept pouring it on, pouring it on as if there were no garden tomorrow. We canned them, we dried them, we ate them, gave them to the chickens and even tossed a few questionable maggoty ones at the old grumbling lady as she hobbled past our place hell bent on using up our sidewalk. No, I didn't do that its just that when one has tomatoes of this profusion a person has to be imaginative, maybe desperate.

I don't want to be down in the mouth about them because last year the sauce ran out early on and getting our acidic acid allotment grew lean. Spring is the time of starvation here in Ireland, It is a time when we are down to blackened potatoes and a time when the bloody English are refusing to bring in wheat, even rotted wheat. The barks and brigantines are standing off the coast and the bastards are holding them at bay. If only we had harvested more tomatoes we would not have been in the shape we are in. But this year we are prepared. No amount of tactics of the Limeys will hold me down. I am tired of havin' me relatives heading of to the states for the good life. One sip of Bushmills and I am in the thick of a brogue.

Anyway, they are done and we should make it through with some forty pints of jalapeno laced sauce and solid bags of dried Death Apples. You heard it. They used to be called Death Apples because the Italians thought that being from the Nightshade family they were poison. If I am not mistaken they got them from us, we native Americans. For now the Death Apples are out of my life and I don't care. In truth, we are pleased by the abundance and this year. They were our featured harvest. But I am a free man now and no more the slave to the garden. Free at last.

Reflecting on the Actic #5



Floating the Canning River on the western boundary of the National Arctic Wildlife Refuge is, in itself, an adventure that goes through many twists and turns. About the only way to do it is with an inflatable boat of some kind. On our adventure we had a combination canoe and rubber raft. The deal is they have to be brought in by a small airplane that has limited storage space---in our case, four humans of various sizes and all our gear for about two weeks. We had to have extra food because not being able to be picked up on the exact hour is common, or exact day. Canoes hanging off the wings won't cut it.

What initially caught my attention was the level to which these crafts are packed, and I mean packed. The fact that we were hunting and fully intended on bring back lots of meat, hundreds of pounds of meat maybe, made it appear almost impossible to get it all in the two boats. But our guides, Ian and Tara, while younger than Craig (70) and I (65), turned out to be of sound mind and ample experience and unlike us, had it all figured out. The boats can haul about 1500lbs a piece or some outrageous amount. Everything, except us, had to be in water proof containers and strapped down with great care. It seems that in the Arctic, some hundreds of miles from civilized communities, makes for caution. They even made me wear a stupid personal floatation device that made me look like a not very macho retard. I am not sure appearances up there mattered unless, say, a bear were to choose the most idiotic looking. I stood tall and feigned importance.

The boat proved sea worthy and we headed to the north embracing the first class 5 rapids with gusto. Well, maybe class one but when an age factor of 4 and exaggeration factor of 2 are factored in, they were an easy 5. The attached photo (I wanted a video, maybe later) will attest to the action and also bring the scale into focus.

While there are many anecdotes to relate on the floating, I thought I might mention one of the more interesting, at least from the mighty struggle point of view. It seems at somewhere near the mid-point of the trip, the river becomes very braided into maybe 6 or so sprawling channels that might span almost a mile in breadth. It was my job as front navigator to follow the thickest of the channels trying to avoid skinny water. Skinny water meant we had to get out of the boat and drag the rig across gravel bars and the like. Now if it came to pass that we took a path that, in turn braided many times, we might find ourselves stranded in the great expanse. We would have to drag the outfit for miles. What if the braiding disappeared all together?

I was under great pressure as the other boat was following our lead. I had noticed that the Grizzlies had lined up along some of the smaller off channels waiting for us to make that one mistake, knowing we would be nothing more than bear chum out there in the open. I believe I had told Craig that if we were to be threatened, he being the oldest would have to go first as a way to distract the bruins. He could be sacrificed. Well, it turned out that I was able to guide us through the maze only having to trudge the craft a few times.
We prevailed and are better people for it---so it has been said. That which doesn't kill you, makes you stronger.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Revolution Watch

Last week's local newspaper announced that the Waupaca county Library would be closed an additional 4 days each month and that some employees would be furloughed for a few more days as a way to cut expenses for the city and county. Neither event is good, However, it is an indication that the standard of living is dropping. Some employees will now have less money to spend, others will have less opportunity to go to the library. In other words, the local government will provide less service to its citizens. Unfortunately, this is something we will have to get used to. Some would argue there are probably less important expenditures we could cut, say the building of roads that in the future will not have the same value because there will be fewer miles traveled and what vehicles there are will be lighter and less damaging. Mass transit?



Manila last week was flooded. Officials said they were not able to keep up with infrastructure that would enable flood control for an expanding population. Manila has 12 million citizens in the city and a few million more in the surrounding area. This all speaks for itself even though the authorities do not have ears to hear it, nor the eyes to see it. It would appear that in the future there were still be less infrastructure per person than there is today and there will be more floods.


Today Alan Greenspan announced unemployment would go to 10%. I got my electric bill down below $20 last month.

Friday, October 2, 2009

Note from Alaska


I can't help but include this email and photo Jen and Ian just got from a very good friend in Alaska. Jobe is very clever, with a sharp wit and loves to write.


Dear Jen and Ian, I am a man now. I used to be somewhat of a man, but I consider myself a man thanks to the advantages of the high powered repeating rifle technology. Hows the home projects going? jobe

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Reflecting on the Arctic #4

One of the callings of the arctic was to fish. It was known from the start that the Canning was not the mother of all angling holes. There were no colorful salmon, no long, leaping steelhead, no ferocious pike, nor snappy bluegills but there were elegant Grayling and majestic Dolly Varden Trout that ran up from the Beaufort Sea. At the Plunge Creek landing area just at the foot hills of the Brooks range, we looked at the crystal water only briefly before we were distracted first by a Grizzly Bear, and then by three very large Caribou that sauntered within fifty yards of the pitched tents. A line was never wetted.

It was also clear early on that fishing would only be one of our activities and really not a very important one. I do recall one fishing spot of more than common interest. I had moved back up stream to the south to get within reach of a hole under a large dome where I was sure large and numerous Grayling were holding court. In the first hole I caught a number of fish in the 20 inch range and actually found myself slipping the fly away from smaller fish--the fishing was that good.

Farther up stream maybe thirty yards there was a number of boulders in the water and behind them, still water pools. For a fly fisherman the catching is not everything. Some great enjoyment is gained from placement of the fly in a difficult to reach position and hooking a fish, then retrieving it through difficult waters. The more line thrown, the greater the accomplishment. It is like making a long pass in football rather than some short thing over the middle which any limp rist slackard could do.
I started my move into the holes but no sooner had I laid out the first presentation than on the dome above me a few hundred feet Ian and Craig started yelling out fish locations pretty much demanding I do as they say. Fair enough. They too were taking glee in my success and watching the entire affair from their lofty position. In addition, they were looking for Grizzles and Caribou.

With each cast I had to pause and survey the setting and then examine the beauty of each fish caught. The view to the north was the snow caped mountains forming a wall of never-ending brutal beauty. The tundra was in full fall colors not rivalled by the maples of Wisconsin. The only difference was that the willows and shrubbery were less than two feet tall and much of the wild, diverse reds were actually 2 inch tall bear berries.

Again, I found myself just looking from one side to the other and it wasn't to look for bears because I had the well-armed cover from above. Catching a beautiful grayling in a cold clear stream while the vision is filled with untouched wonders of the radiant tundra is just not the same as getting a thirty pound, lesion covered carp in the Detroit River. It is a world apart and not something to be taken lightly.