Ohio Girl

“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.

The people were complete a-holes, but maybe that was luck of the draw and had nothing to do with their first class, flight status at all.

The first leg was fine. I landed in Houston and experienced immediate afro-effect from the humidity that seeped into the airport from the outside. I had some time to kill and enjoyed the services of the shiatsu massage chair in one of the shops. I bought an overpriced neck pillow as my neck has finally grown old enough that such a device is necessary for extended seat-seating. I texted my niece who is still getting over the fact that she finally has a cell phone. I observed a man in a BMW t-shirt and worn, leather loafers giving a sermon over the phone. He talked about the blessings of Jesus in low tones at first, but gradually worked himself up to arm-waving and loud Amens that startled everyone in the area. I waited for plain-clothes air marshals to tackle him, but they never came.

The flight from Houston was a test of endurance. A six hour flight turned to nine hours with an unscheduled fuel stop in Seattle. The movies were bad. The hot towels ran out. My seat mate was ruder than the first. My lack of sleep kicked in hard. I dozed for a bit and woke up just as we began our descent into Anchorage. It was hard to take in what i saw; miles and miles of snow-covered moutains.

I have seen mountains before, but nothing like this. This was wild and endless. This was Alaska.

The next morning I was still trying to take it all in. We drove from Anchorage to Seward and made the 2 hour trip stretch out past five. We stopped at mountain outlooks, streams, rivers, inlets. We drove through tiny hamlets shaking off the snow of winter. We visited a conservation center–free on Mother’s day–and watched Alaskans and their mothers while they gazed at the bears, elk, moose, and caribou on display. Two black bears stood straight up to spar playfully; looking more like boys in bear suits than bears.

We drove out to Exit Glacier. The last bit of road was closed due to the snow that had not yet receded. We walked a ways in past piles of Moose pellets with owls hooting from the trees. When the trail became impassable we stopped and turned circles to abosrb the 360 degree view.

Rain and cold blew into Seward as we did causing fog to hover all around the peaks. I typically hate rain but it was hard to hate anything about the scenery. That feeling persisted into our boat tour today. It was shortened to 4 hours instead of 8 due to 16-foot waves out on the open water.

Again, it was hard to feel cheated.

Almost immediately a Humpack Whale came into view. I squealed–literally–at the sight of it coming up and going back down waving its big tail in the air. He was followed by Mountain Goats that scaled the cliffs as we floated by and porpoises that played in the boat’s wake. Bald Eagles sat in the trees and dozens of Steller sea lions rested on rock
outcroppings created by the massive earthquake of 1964.

We pulled up to Bear Glacier, before turning around, to take in the blue of the ice and the glacial air. Rain turned frozen and big, blue chunks floated out in the distance. I was soaking wet and cold to the bone, but also entirely warmed.

This was just prior to my drive home. It was raining. Still. It has been for days. I purposely took the back way so I could drive over the Great Miami River and past all the little tributaries that vein out into the countryside. But I could no longer drive ‘over’ or ‘past,’ but instead ‘around’ and ‘through.’ The latter done whilst holding my breath. There is no way I want my fat ass plucked from the hood of my car with local, TV cameras rolling.

The sky got so heavy with rain that any distinction between sky and earth was lost. I was really scared for a moment and wondered about those folks who watched end-of-time water rushing towards them during Katrina.

Around the next curve was dry land with thirteen deer munching between long-dead rows of corn. I know there were thirteen because I slowed down to count. I see them here everyday, sometimes as many as thirty. It is a deer happy hour; a haven from the new development that has reduced their roaming. If they could read English they would know their little all-you-can-eat buffet is slated for development as well.

The squirrels have it easier, I thought. The other day I looked out my office window to see a squirrel eating a leg of fried chicken. He was sitting there on the wooden fence, one end in each hand. (Or is it paw?) He took a bite and then held the leg out to search for more bits of meat, then took another bite. When he was done I swear he licked his fingers. (Or is it claws?)

I shared this vignette with a colleague who informed me it is common practice for squirrels in this particular neighborhood. Her and her husband have gone to the park and directly handed fried chicken to beggar squirrels from their picnic blanket. They apparently like corn on the cob as well, smothered in butter. “There will probably be squirrels running around with heart disease and diabetes someday,” said the colleague.

By the time I made it home my headache was fading. Sophie the dog wagged her tail at the sight of me, which is nice. “Sophie,” I said, “despite my persistent grumpiness and a canyon of a wrinkle forming between my eyes, I feel brand new most days.”

She nodded an affirmation and then nosed her empty dish.

Have you ever seen a rabbit yawn? Not a cartoon rabbit or a person stuffed into a furry costume at Easter, but a REAL rabbit? My sister has a large white one that lives among the goats and chickens. He is blind (or is it she?) and has already surpassed her average life expectancy. When it is hot the rabbit has her own fan. She stretches out in front of it with her back legs spread out obscenely. I always expect by her posture that she will be holding a beer.

Last night as the herd was being sung to sleep by the sound of sweet grain poured into their buckets, the rabbit stretched. She stretched out her front legs just like Sophie the dog does after a nap. She stretched and stretched and then opened her mouth for a long, wide yawn with her big, front, rabbit teeth–which ARE a bit cartoonish. And then I swear she scratched her ass.

What is that saying? Like a bull in a china shop? On my recent trip to Disney I felt like a big, cynical Rhino stomping about at a children’s birthday party; a child with rich parents that spring for a petting zoo and pony rides rather than the Bozo from the yellow pages. I wore a hat that said ‘Grumpy’ (like the Dwarf) and was both relieved and irritated that Disney had thought to market to someone exactly like me. I also carried children on my shoulders until my muscles went numb, nearly lost my lunch on the Tea Cups, longed for a bong hit during It’s a Small World, and laughed my head off during the Kali River Rapids.

I was caught off guard by how much I liked the parades–day and night–the kind of flourish that it makes it more than an a amusement park. I ooohed and aaahed with gusto at the fireworks display. I dragged my oldest niece to the Hall of Presidents where she was not amused by my excitement for Chester Arthur. And where a vacant-eyed, talking, wax figure of George W. Bush turned out to be just like real life.

I thought of starving children, because that is just the sort of a-hole that I am, and about how much could be done in the way of relief for the price tag of all the magic. But I also liked the place. I liked being packed in with families from all over the world–eavesdropping on snippets of Spanish and the wry observations of the Brits. I liked watching the faces of my nieces and nephew light up each in their own turn as they found something just for them. I liked Animal Kingdom and Disney’s hit-you-over-the-head message about conservation. And I liked this Rhino who grazed unfazed as our clunky safari bus passed by. “At least you ain’t being chased by poachers,” he seemed to say.

“Count your blessings,” he added.

My dog is a freaking mess. She is at home right now with her paw in an Ace bandage, doped up on Valium, with Animal Planet droning away to distract her from herself. (She loves it when pigs are the featured animal.) She has morphed from an intensely, muscular beauty—the kind of dog that felt like a trophy wife—into a big-bellied beast with loud, smelly gas.

The weight came from the anti-depressants. The anti-depressants came from her nervous habit of chewing on her right, front paw until bloody, raw, and infected. And of course that is where the bandage comes from, as well as my new credit card balance devoted to her months of care.

I don’t question any of this. I get tired after being up all night rubbing her tummy when the antibiotics make her nauseous. I get irritated when running late for work I have to bribe her with Milkbones to get her to stand still so I can clean and dress her wound. But I would do it for my kid, or my spouse, or an aging parent, wouldn’t I?

And that is when it hits me. I have become one of those people.

I would like to think I am at least a shade saner than those crazy, cat ladies that collect felines like Elvis plates. And I would never liken my dog to human offspring—at least not in public. But she IS more than a dog to me.

I try to think of how I would justify this to hungry people in other countries who would have every right to eat my coddled creature. Yeah, I give her food from my plate, but she’s a great listener. She follows me around while I complain and moan. She even cocks her head to the side feigning concern. Or is it amusement?

Yes, she gets more medical care than many human folks do in this country, but she also improves my physical well-being. I doubt I would get my big butt off the couch for weekend hikes without her prodding.

The dog undoubtedly gets better mental health care than that homeless guy who dances by the market, but she spoons with me on lonely nights and cuts my heating bill with her furry warmth.

And best of all, she shares her Valium.