Pages

Monday, November 30, 2009

Reflections on the Actic #9

I believe this will be the final posting on my unbelievable trip to the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. I could go on forever but then most of the adventure was for me and my compatriots. We will remember. Each day I think about it in little ways. Many times it is just moments of seeing things that were so new, so untouched, so distant, so raw. Unless I were to wax prophetically, I probably could not really write where my thoughts would want to go. I am not Leopold, nor Muir, not Stegner but I am me and I saw many things great and small and for that I am thrilled.



I did notice on the way out while standing on the so-called land strip, which is actually in the 1002 area, an area that has some oil exploration, that I could see the hand of man. There on the ridge to the east it was possible to see one set of tire tracks from a large seismic testing machine. They were made over 50 years ago and were still as visible as they were the day they were made.



As we flew out, we went over the "developed area" where extensive exploration had been done. I took no pictures. They would have made you cry.

Revolution watch

I've heard folks make references to this kind of thing in the past but today I found this most interesting. The Easter Island statues, majestic as they were, were manufactured by the local inhabitants during the last years of their culture. Apparently, as the situations there got more stressed they built more and bigger statues with the last ones, partially carved, still in the quarries. It was their last appeal to the Gods for help, I suspect.



One has to wonder if this giant recreational facility in Dubai is not a similar adventure?

Does anyone think it will ever get used? Like Dude, who can affort to go there? And why?

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Reflections on the Actic #8


The subject of our hunt was the caribou and while they appeared to take little note of us, the key was to get close enough to make clean business of our intention. All along I found myself repeating the notion that these animals may never have seen humans before and wondered just what their response might be and would that be a factor in the hunt. On the day of our arrival, three larger bulls had walked right past our unoccupied camp just after we set up and never even did more than briefly look up. Were they truly oblivious to man? Like the bears, probably not.

The wind had picked up as we moved to the north and each day brought a harder push, sometimes being sustained at thirty mph. It kicked the boats around, made us fetch the winter gear and slightly compounded the hunt. We had seen three bulls walk across the river in front of us a half mile down river and up wind. The boats were pulled over and we set off to set up an ambush to the west. Ian and I quickly headed across the shallow braids of river, banks of sandy gravel , dodging and acting like real hunters of the north.

The caribou quickly skirted the base of the cut bank on the west side of the Canning River and as we approached, they meandered up the first draw feeding and seeming oblivious to us. We, like good hunters, kept our scent, which by this time I am sure was growing as bathing was out of the question, away from the critters. But before we could get in a good position, they disappeared over the top of the cut. Maybe they were more savvy than we thought. We quickly moved forward on the river bed. I knew I was not about to scale the steep bank some two hundred feet high, so our only hope would be that one of the caribou would just happen to drift back into the shrubbery and offer himself up.

Luck had it that the largest of the three did just that and I had my caribou. That, of course, is when the work began. The caribou managed to walk out onto the upper tundra before it fell, so we all had to climb in order to retrieve the meat and antlers which is required by law. No waste, our policy and State policy. We quietly thanked the animal, the tundra, the land for the gift and set about our work.

Photos by Craig Roberts

Missionary's Position---Insurance

As I mention in my intro info to the right, I have a new feature to my Blog. This is the first posting of that sort.

What I have here is a statement from a hospital for the billing of a knee replacement. One will note that the bill is a tidy $58,893. It is also seen that that payout by Kiaser was $11,578 and the patient paid a $1,000 portion. What is interesting is that the bill is paid in full!

From what I can learn the insurance company has a pre-arrangement with the hospital to pay a set amount for this proceedure---aparently what the cost of the operation should cost--or what it is really worth. For discussion this is about 20%.

When I first saw this, I was astounded because two years ago Ann, the good wife, had breast surgery and she had no insurance because no one would insure her because of a previous bought with cancer. The bill for the cancer treatment was about $75K. That was the bill we received. Does this other bill imply that it should have been $15K? What the hell is going on? Why should anyone who does not have insurance pay any more than 20%? You tell me the system is not broken.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Grouse in the Wisconsin Forest

Ruffed Grouse, or partridge, live in thick forest of Wisconsin. Like "Duh", you say. "Where else are they going to live?" My point is simple. I like to hunt grouse because they are very challanging as they burst from the alders, spruce and popular thickets. But I also say they "live" there becasue the still do. This season, so far has produced one grouse and it took two of us to shoot it. So all the rest of them are still there---living and laughing.

Dennis and I went north to Antigo and from there into the National Forest. So far, so good, but we did not want to repeat the last outing that didn't even produce many holes in the air from missed shots. We at least wanted some action or our shot guns were going to be angry. It is rather like training your beloved dog to hunt and retrieve and then provide him with no retrievable birds. The dog will want a divorce. Hell, he'd be yelping country and western divorce songs.

As we worked the road system looking for that one optimal habitat location, Dennis in all his sometime magic, said', "There it is, the perfect spot". I'M thinking, "Ya right." but I thought there was some possibility so I turned around in the middle of the highway and headed down a busted-up logging road and bingo. Dennis is beside himself. At his age probably close to wetting himself.

We bounded out of the Subaru and mounted our effort. Within minutes birds were flushed and shots fired but always with the spoken words, "Damn, he got up wild. Just a flash, but I had to go for it." We walked a solid three quarter of a mile and it was always the same excuse, mostly by Dennis.

We turned around and worked the other side of the lane with each of us thrashing through the thicket knowing there were going to be birds. Dennis jumped a couple and the shots went out and he proclaimed, "Got a tree. Shot it in half." I was ready because I knew there were more. There right infront of me, on the ground was a sneaking grouse trying to do a subtle exit. I squared up. Clicked off the safe and made a little motion to flush him. "Whirrrrrrr the damn thing blasted off in classic form. I pulled up and shot two rounds, both noticibly behind him. I thought, and even later said, "Is it possible I am too slow for this sport. That bird was thirty yards off before I fired---and I saw him ahead of flush?" Two ours later we found ourselves short a box of shells and not a morsel in the pan but it was still a great day--I could have been playing hunting video games---no, I don't think so. I don't care if I picked up twenty ticks, three cuts and a trashed ankle. Im going hunting.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Alaskan Outback

I have always loved what some refer to as "Old Iron". These are massive engines that were used during the early days of the industrial revolution to make it spin. May of them are immensely heavy and work with very coarse systems that are largely constructed of cast iron. I own a couple of 20s vintage engines that I find to be both intriguing and also primitively innovative--if you will. My 3 hp McCormick-Deering engine weighs some 400lbs and has two massive fly wheels. 3 horse power! It has the same weight as a modern V8---but in my antiquated mind the old timer is more basic, more primal, a raw engine.

Interestingly, everything about the motor is understandable and repairable. I have read old accounts of farmers saying they bought one in 1923 and were still using it after the big war--and it had been run almost daily. At 600 rpms the wear was just not the same and if need be, the bearings could be changed in a few minutes.


Well, in wondering around the outback of Alaska north of Coldfoot in Weiseman, we ran into a treasure load of "Old Iron" all of it having been left over from the great Gold Rush almost 100 years ago and lingering into the 20s. As we wondered around town, we noticed the various hulks of left-overs scattered among the long abandoned buildings. Some of it almost completely overgrown and trying to go back to the soil but frequently and amazingly still free to turn---and probably still useable. In one instance, a local citizen, probably left over from the old days, had accumulated a sizable assemblage of nice "iron" in his yard where it became a rather interesting lesson in history.

The bulk of the equipment consisted of winches of various configuration. I always liked winches because they are a lot like wenches but less fun. The winches were all driven by attached steam engines that in some ways are very much like my old McCormick gas engine---pistons, cranks, babbet bearings, crankshafts & cylinders. The big difference being that the steam engines also had be attached to a large boiler that had to be close by. The boiler and engines had to be connected by a maze of hoses and pipes. The boiler was probably fired by wood but then Alaska has coal. It must have been a sight to see all of this
"iron" all fired up puffing and a steaming, clanging and spinning.

The idea of getting all this gear up north to Weisman and north of Fairbanks by more than 200 miles is something to ponder. It is all about finding gold, maybe about adventure, but wow, it had to be tough. All for gold.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Revolution Watch

The Economist magazine has just published a most interesting article on the merits of slowing down population growth. They stated that countries with stable populations are economically better off. To my knowledge this may be one of the first times a major publication has made this statement. In the past it has always been an understanding that population growth was the driver of innovation and economy. It was the old Julian Simon thing that the world's resources were endless and lets just have at it and it will all work out because Adam Smith has it right.

There has always been detractors who clung to the old Malthusian ideas that there are limits and that if we just keep breeding all hell will break loose. Well, for interesting reasons, the name of Malthus never seems to go away even though he was deemed an idiot years ago. The ever presence of his name seems odd all in itself.

The article states that population will level off at 9 billion or so and all will be fine, even though there are other groups that think 11 billion may be more accurate (6.7 billion now & 75 million more each year). The Economist notes that birth rates are falling and by 2050 they may be at replacement only levels. Now that does not mean population will quit expanding because of the inertia factor which they kindly mention. They also mention the limitation of resources (maybe hinting at "Limits to Growth"Opps!).

All in all it is admirable they are having this discussion because it is, in my opinion, imperative. This, I believe is a step in the right direction. I do believe there are many holes in their discussion but I will credit them for the effort.

Reflection on the Arctic #7

Last night Craig Roberts, our faithful photographer of the arctic, sent a few photos. What a good camera and a fine eye can do is impressive. While his photos cover all aspects of the trip the three offered up are the dominant mammals of the coastal plane.

On the day of our arrival, and after the tents were up, we hiked up to a high cut bank of the Canning river and started our endless starring off into the distance, a pastime we never seemed to tire of. We, of course, glassed off in all directions wanting to see vast herds of 'Bo and roaming bears looking for only squirrel flesh and maybe the scarce Musk Ox or Dall Sheep. We saw little more than tundra expanse initially and I suppose were disappointed, but I am sure Ian and Tara knew full well that would be a fleeting thing.

As we turned toward our camp some two hundred yards off, there on the wash were three bull caribou sauntering past our tents. They seemed unmoved by our homestead. We were unarmed because the rules say we can not hunt on the day of arrival because Fish & Game does not want folks to use planes to spot game, plus meat management for 10 days is not ideal. We watched and admired the brutes whose antlers (horns to some) were massive and seemingly unmanageable. This bull, I believe was the smallest of the three, still an impressive sight.

On our return to camp, and after our first meal, Craig headed to the river for a little rinsing of plates. In minutes I noticed a bear of some stature moving in his direction but across the river. The "Bear Alert" was sounded the artillery was secured. Craig managed to take this picture of the bruin as he skedaddled off, not amused by our presence.


On the later part of the trip, and farther north we had a better look at one of the bears favorite snacks, the ground squirrel. While these rotund ground dwellers are readily seen what is almost more impressive are the excavations the bears do to get at them. The diggings are over broad areas and must require tremendous energy. But I would suppose the grizzlies are so powerful that a few simple digging motions probably tear up huge swaths.



The squirrels are similar to Prairie Dogs, a little smaller but with similar antics. The various hawks and Golden Eagles of the north cruse the holdings of these ground dwellers but really don't seem to have much of a change. Then maybe they follow the bears and wait for them to flush the fat fur balls out of their holes. It is all dynamic and ever changing.

Do click the photos for a nice close up.

Found Apples


Tonight I learned of an interesting event. It seems that a organic friend (someone who makes every effort to eat organic food) of ours was at a bit of a bash. The fandango was brought about because a friend of his had run across a large supply of respectable apples all sitting or hanging unused in an old orchard. When the individual asked the owner of the disfunctual orchard if he might sample a few apples, the man replied, "Help yourself to all of them. The have not been sprayed, so the are no good to eat." Thus began the day's squeeze-off by a excited band of herbal curbal organic types.
The found, no-good apple is a beautiful thing in my world, not that I have not eaten plenty of the wax-covered, near flawless, heavily sprayed ones found in our stores, the ones shipped in from New Zealand. The backyard, unmolested apple exists around here in great volume, so much so that with little effort and permission, one can select his preference in untreated apples until he is red with consumption.

It turns out my brother Crow, has a neglected tree he planted many years ago and while it has been mistreated it still insists on putting out apples, that after first frost, are sweet, perfectly firm, the right kiss of sour and last for months. Last night, Ann made a pie of the foundlings that required only decorative sugar and some cinnamon. By noon today the pie had succumbed. As they say in Wisconsin, "There it was, gone." I felt better for it.

Crow's tree is sadly misshapen, almost as if it has been through a code 5 hurricane but still it fights on. Today, with all the leaves gone, Crow and I looked up at the sad tree and decided the apples were too superior to not make a major salvage operation, an operation the put his sorry old duff up in the tree to shake the thing silly and get the apples to fall into the tarp. Without dislodging once form his fifteen foot perch, he shook the apples loose. Tonight they are comfortable in our home and ready for apple sauce with no more debt to brother Crow than one pie of his choosing.

This winter the tree will be trimmed back, the grounds will be cleaned and the neglected tree with the worlds greatest apples will be given a new life. There is just nothing like a found apple, free of any of man's leavings.