I stop almost every morning at the same convenience store where I purchase some form of caffeine and a protein bar. I am convinced that the protein bar is way better for me than the candy bar that I really want. I don’t buy a banana, though, which would be better than both.

The convenience store is at a crossroads; it marks the intersection of those heading from country to city--or vice versa—although there is far less of the vice versa crowd. The parking lot is often full of trucks loaded down with farm gear and it is not unusual for a man to say “M’am” all while nodding, tipping his hat, and holding the door. I LOVE that, I must admit.

I pulled in today behind a beater pick-up loaded down with rusted, scrap metal—so rusted, so deeply brown, it reminded me of the shaved milk chocolate on the top of a fancy cake. I see people scrapping all the time lately. Folks have come knocking at the door offering to haul away Grandpa’s old tractors and split the proceeds. Many of the cases in my recent grand jury service involved people scrapping the junked-out cars of other people, without permission.

A man, with greased-lined cracks in his hands and beer on his breath, said “well hello” as he held the door. No hat, no “m’am.” His own beater truck was filled with barefoot children and a woman giving me the look of death as he looked me up and down. He looked at my empty, rust-free car with the same leer.

Another man came in, interrupting my pleasantries with the clerk, to ask for four dollars in gas—not even enough for a gallon. He was hurried with furrowed brow and muttered his hope that it would be enough to get him the rest of the way home.

A man with too much cologne was using the pay phone as I left. It was the first time I had seen a pay phone, much less one in use, in ages. I heard him ask the person on the other end if there was work today. He looked back at his truck filled with tools and asked if there might be work Monday then. His voice was over-calm.

When I got in the car the radio was announcing cheap gas spots in the area. As I pulled out another beater truck was pulling in. No farm gear, no hat, and I was already missing the “m’am.”

“The boat tour was wonderful,” I reminded myself, trying not to make any hasty judgments about the Denali Bus Tour. My guidebook had recommended it in addition to one’s own explorations. “Who am I to doubt the book?” I said.

Led by a naturalist the tours are an opportunity to learn about the natural history of the park, as well as have a trained professional spot wildlife you might otherwise miss. The buses are also allowed far further into the park than individuals can drive. “And, let’s face it; I am not making any 45-mile hikes across the tundra.”

I said all of this to the window my face was pressed up against. I said all of this at 6 AM packed in between senior citizens and some particularly, rowdy Germans. The Germans got amped when they realized they could not smoke, or some such thing, and the seniors, who had already been up since at least 4, were raring to go as time was now ticking ever closer to bedtime.

My travel buddy and I exchanged nervous smiles and almost decided to get the hell off just before the door closed and we were on our way. Our driver/naturalist, Joel, reviewed safety and emergency procedures which fit his boy-scout uniform. The seniors asked a lot of questions.

“Why isn’t there a rear exit?” one man grumbled.

“How do you use the roof hatches?” another queried in an anxious tone.

“And is my seat equipped with an emergency ejector and parachute?” I mumbled.

In my own defense I had not slept well. We got to the hostel rather late the night before and had to be up again before 5. That’s right, I said hostel--as in bunks and granola and barefoot hippies playing hacky-sack in the yard.

There was a time in my life when the rhythm of the hostel beat along splendidly with my own inner music. That time seems to have passed right around the age of 30. I put on a different record. But you never get too old to try and save a buck, I suppose.

We arrived as the wind was picking up and the persistent dusk that passes for dark in this land was really taking hold. Two 19-year-old, Swedish girls were huddled in front of the office.

“No one eez here,” one said.

“Ya, we can’t get een,” said the other.

They were precious. So precious I wanted to give them my sweater.

“We used to be that cute,” my travel buddy whispered.

“Umm, I am pretty sure I was never THAT cute,” I responded.

A while later a young woman with dreads arrived. Patchouli wafted in front and behind her. “I am going to go over the rules all at once,” she announced.

“Label your food, otherwise its community property.”

“No shoes in the bunk house.”

“Don’t feed the dogs. Their caretakers feed them.”

“Dogs?” my travel buddy furrowed her brow.

We entered the bunk house shoeless and were welcomed by a friendly group of folks feasting on lentils and wine. A cute dog sniffed our feet. The stairs to the bunk were really a ladder. We had the foresight to request the one private room. It was clean, but appeared to have been constructed by connecting some two-by-fours from the main house to the nearest trees. A hole in the floor let us spy on the dinner party below.

“Note to self,” I said, “do not step through hole on way to bathroom.”

“I think we should get out of here,” said travel buddy. “I think the house is moving when the wind blows.”

We agreed, with only six hours until our departure, to stick things out.

When we left the next morning a Snowshoe Hare greeted me as I put on my shoes by the car. Snow blew down from the mountains and was backlit by the hostel office light.

“Not so shabby, this hostel,” I remarked to the Hare.

“Not so shabby, not so shabby,” I meditated on this mantra adjusting to this grown up field trip. Some of our bus neighbors started in on their boxed lunches. If they did not eat now they wouldn’t be hungry for dinner at 2. The lunches included Reindeer sausage—an Alaskan treat I had sampled earlier in the week—and that haunts me with images of a chopped up, blood-red Rudolph.

One of the first things Joel pointed out was the Ptarmigan. Travel buddy and I saw lots of them on our hike the previous day. They flitted out about on the ground, the females all spotty turning form show white to brown for the summer. Not sure what they were, I asked about them at the Denali Visitor Center .

“Oh yeah, the Ptarmigan,” said the woman, “the state bird of Alaska .”

“And they taste like chicken,” she added.

Male Ptarmigans with their bright, red, Rooster ridges hopped about in low trees at the bus’ first stop. Snowshoe Hares ran around just below them. They had apparently been breeding like, you know, rabbits, because you could not go a foot without finding one. Joel explained that that the Hare is at the peak of its several year population cycle. They WERE breeding like rabbits.

Next were herds of Caribou feeding near a river. “We didn’t see those guys on our hike,” I said. I was warming to the bus tour.

We inspected a beaver dam. We peeked in on a Great-Horned Owl nesting on top of her babies. “Look, she’s going to do the Exorcist,” said travel buddy. We spotted more caribou and moose. There was Dall Sheep up in the hills, the critter for which the land making up the park was first protected. Arctic Squirrels scurried about. A Golden Eagle swooped, as did a Falcon.

We motored onward coming upon a bit of a backwoods, traffic jam. “What’s going on?” Joel wondered out loud and continued until he saw it. He hit the brakes giving the seniors a bit of whiplash.

“Bears! It’s bears!” Joel said with the tone and enthusiasm of a toddler even though I am quite sure he had seen bears a million times before. The bus started to shake as old folks and young Germans rushed to get the best view.

Travel buddy and I did not move. We did not need to. They were right outside. A Momma Grizzly with two cubs. They came down a hill and crossed the road right beside us. They stopped to take in the faces of the weird creatures on the bus. Momma Bear was conducting her own nature tour, it seemed. “Over there,” she said, “is what’s known as the Humano Stupido. They have legs but cannot use them. The have mouths and can use them all too well.”

Joel was on the same wave length and raised his voice to say, “Shooosh!” The bus went silent. All faces were at full grin. The bears continued while some yahoos got out of their car and walked towards them for pictures.

“This is bad,” said Joel, “this is a dangerous situation.”

For a moment it seemed the tour would include a demonstration of just how a Momma Bear can use her teeth and claws to protect her young. But Momma Bear finally shrugged. Her tour was over. The bears headed up a hill and began digging.

“They are trying to dig out an Arctic Squirrel,” Joel said, his heart rate back to normal.

“That’s a tasty treat for a Bear,” he continued, “and packed with 6,000 calories.”

“But loaded with cholesterol, no doubt,” I joked—my face still at full-grin.

Heading out down Chena Hot Springs Road we passed through Chena State Park . The trees thickened as did the mosquitoes that invaded the car whenever the window was so much as cracked. Out of the corner of my eye I saw it. “Mooooose!” I shouted. I hit the brake and stuttered, “Mmmoooose, Mmmmm, Mmmmoose.” Right there beside us, ankle deep in a creek, was a moose, head reaching high to munch buds from branches.

To Alaskans this is as typical as the deer that daily pass through my own yard, but for this Ohio Girl it was a scene straight out of Northern Exposure.

We took pictures. We stared. We gawked. I bravely (or foolishly) got out of the car to get a closer look. I called out, “Aren’t you a precious baby?” The moose stared, incredulous, and continued to chew.

A little further down was another, then a pair, then another. Moose were everywhere.


The day started out in Fairbanks where we rose early and kicked about the sunny, laid-back downtown. We took in the little, white, wooden Church of the Immaculate Conception. One of the earliest structures, it was once relocated by sliding it across the frozen river to where it currently sits.

The Ice Museum started with a film detailing the art of ice carving, as well as Fairbanks ’ Annual Ice Carving Competition. “You sit,” said the young, Japanese man running the joint. He apparently learned his English from a drill Sergeant. “You go in now,” he said when it was over, pointing to the glassed-in freezers containing sculpture from local artists.

The Fairbanks Community Museum , run out of the former City Hall, was like going through a stranger’s attic. It smelled musty and was filled with junk, at first glance. Further inspection revealed mementos and pictures from the things that make Fairbanks a community; the massive flood of the 60s, the Iditarod, and the yearly Outhouse Races.


The day ended with Moose and hot springs . I sank down into the warmth, steam rising from the water, trees and mountains framing in a full circle. “Whale and Moose,” I muttered to the young couple making out in the water across the way.

“Whale and Moose and Mountains,” I said to myself—a living, childhood, folk tale.

I just finished watching the film Twister on network television. I currently lack cable and thus the option of at least the Discovery Channel to make my hours spent on the couch sound intentional and worthwhile. Really, I was avoiding laundry and assorted household duties which if I avoid past this evening will mean going to work sans panties.

I have not gone without underwear since college, but will confess to occasionally having to wash them out in the sink last minute and heading off to the office wearing them still wet. I have gone without seeing Twister since shortly after college, although managed to see it at least twenty times.

Twister played on a loop at the plasma center in Cleveland where some friends and I went to donate body fluids in exchange for money to pay the electric bill and buy beer. We were in the minority as most folks made it clear they were there for crack cash and free cookies.

I do recall another group of twenty-somethings like us. Their group eyed my group across the waiting area. They obviously thought themselves cooler as they had more things that were pierced and were dressed in leftover Goth-gear from their college days. We were all still wearing the same exact flannel shirts and Birkenstock sandals from our own recent time in college and had just finished listening to Hole on the car ride over.

Just before we broke out into a Grunge-Goth, West Side Story face-off we were all called back and connected to machines that took stuff out, separated it, and put some stuff back into our veins. It was not necessary to ponder the disturbing nature of the procedure as Twister was playing on a half dozen TVs that hung from the ceilings. I remember thinking Helen Hunt was kind of hot. I had the same thought watching it today and also noticed that it was Philip Seymour Hoffman who played the loud-mouthed, long-haired, chubby dude.

During Twister a commercial for a local plasma center came on and made a rather appealing appeal for “donations.” I jotted down the number. I don’t so much need cash for beer and electricity anymore. But I DID hear plasma donations speed up your metabolism and help you lose weight.

There is a hospital near my place of employment that offers valet service. There is a panhandler just down the way from there with the cough of consumption. He hasn’t seen a doctor in years. Maybe if he had a car to valet?

I bought a shopping bag at a big box store--the canvas, reusable kind. It was only 99 cents and seemed sturdy. While I was digging for change to cover the tax, the cashier placed it in a plastic shopping bag. Who bags a bag?

I often have lunch at a great, little place located next to an abortion clinic. Anti-abortion folk are always outside with gruesome pictures blown up as big as their pick-ups. They have a new sign that says, “All Michael Vick did was kill some dogs.” Didn’t God create babies AND dogs?

A neighbor down the road has a house back a long drive. It sits next to an open field. Deer gather there in the early morning by the dozens to graze. This neighbor put in a mud hut by the driveway. Why hunt when you can just shoot?