Only Fools Run At Midnight

Up here in Ketchikan we have to invent ways to keep ourselves entertained and pull people out of the woodwork. One such event is the Only Fools Run, which happens at midnight near the solstice. It's a fundraiser to support independent living for people with disabilities in southeast Alaska, and part of the fun (besides running around town at an ungodly hour) is dressing up in silly costumes. There were several superheroes, a firefighter, a gang of zip-line guides in full helmet and harness regalia, and us, of course. Nikki and I managed to roust ourselves to run on a drizzly Alaskan evening, encouraged by the neon-yellow shirt you receive and the amazing costumes she pulled out of her attic.
She's decked out in black sequins and green wig, while I went for the full cloud-print mumu. Thank goodness Nikki saved those old dance costumes. We were both extremely excited to finish, as you can see below, both because of the late hour and the fact that neither of us had actually done any training (good thing we only had to go 5k). Good times in the salmon capital of the world.

Muskeg Warriors

After all the beautiful weather we've been having, Mother Nature delivered us a swift kick in the rear to remind us that we are indeed in southeast Alaska. The week has been cool, misty, and drizzly, and the trick is in staying dry. Rubber rain gear keeps everything out but you sweat buckets on the inside, the thin stuff breathes better but soaks through eventually and gets trashed, and going without leaves you a soggy, muddy mess by the end of the day. The best you can do is figure out your own system by mixing and matching.
Whatever your rain gear preference the rubber boots are nonnegotiable. People come here for the first time and scoff at Xtra Tuffs as funny looking and impractical for trail work. True, they don't offer the same protection as leather boots (coated neoprene does little against flying rocks), but there's nothing better for mucking around in the slop and glop that forms as soon as it starts to rain. Not to mention the muskegs (Alaskan for "bogs"). They range from mats of sphagnum moss, capable of holding 15 to 30 times its weight in water, to sloppy organic muck; regardless of composition they are WET.

Most of this week I worked up at Perseverance trail, a project funded with Economic Recovery money. The trail leaves from the Ward Lake recreation area and continues about 5 miles up to Perseverance Lake. Our work consists of removing the boardwalk, cutting in reroutes for the trail, and filling it in with gravel. On Thursday, while others were wrestling with a particularly stubborn culvert, Brady and I joined Andrew, the crew lead, in tackling a large section of muskeg. We had already ripped up boardwalk from above and maneuvered it down a brushy slope to use as a base for the trail. Using them as guidelines, Andrew fired up the chainsaw and proceeded to drag it through the thick mat of moss. You could hear him giggling as the muck flew.

That done, Andrew continued on to another area and Brady and I were given the task of digging out the severed sections to about 8 inches deep, and then laying in the boards to form a foundation for the gravel. He grabbed a shovel, I armed myself with a pulaski, and we went to town. I discovered that the best method was hacking out a row with the tool, setting it aside, and then excavating the severed chunks with my bare hands. Gloves and sleeves just got saturated with muskeg juice, which smells like the decomposing matter from which it's formed. Mucking along, I took a step and almost lost my leg to the swamp. As I retreated, it filled itself in to an innocent high point once more.

"Careful, Brady", I said, "That spot's really deep."

"Really?" he asked, and came over to investigate. He prodded it once, twice with the shovel, and on the third poke, SLORP, the shovel all but disappeared into the ooze. We stared as water started gushing up against the handle. With a mighty tug Brady pulled the tool out, and a geyser exploded up from the puddle's surface. The water in our trench started to rise rapidly as we watched with eyes agog and jaws dropped. Oh crap!

"Really, Brady?" I demanded, "Did you really have to see how deep it was?" He gave a helpless shrug. As our boardwalk quickly disappeared underwater we sprang into action, racing to the downhill side and digging a drainage for all we were worth. Brady wielded the pulaski like a wild man and I threw moss aside with my bare hands. Soon enough we'd formed the bed for a rushing stream and our newly created reservoir was steadily draining. We stood there breathing hard, watching the crisis seep away. Andrew came ambling by, took a look at the carnage of mud and moss and muck, observed "Looks like you guys found some water", and just kept walking.

Return to Dude Mountain

After a long, varied week that had me doing trail work, organizing and cleaning gear, wielding a power brusher, hauling rocks, and hiking 12 miles to check out logistics for a project, the perfect way to unwind and work out the kinks was a hike up Dude Mountain. This time I went with my friend Carl and the ever present Bubba, and this time you could see. The haze you see around my head below is a cloud of bugs that followed us from the parking lot to the peak.
Looking southwest out to the ocean. It's hard not to get excited about views like that.

Much of the snow had melted since I'd been there last, but there was still enough for some killer glissading, 180s, and somersaults. Happy weekend everyone!

Life and Times of a Cabins Maintainer

It's been yet another productive week with the Forest Circus up here. Curt and I loaded up the landing craft bright and early Tuesday morning and headed north in the company of Clark, Tyson, and Doyle. The boys dropped us at Blind Pass cabin so we could give it a good spit shine while they did some beach logging. In three hours we had the place ship shape and ready to go, just in time to hop back on the landing craft for the 30 minute ride east to Anchor Pass. As we started hauling gear up the beach, watching the boat disappear down the channel, it occurred to us that although we had a propane tank neither of us had actually loaded a stove. Huh. Good thing us cabin folk are the wily, problem solving type. It's amazing what you can cook over a fire (pork chops, curry, and calzones, to name a few), although it's nice to have hot tea again.

The junk show continued this morning as we checked in with dispatch on the radio and discovered that the boat wouldn't be coming back for us today due to the gale warning in effect. Huh. You wouldn't know it from the glassy water and high clouds that we could see, but we were also about 50 miles north of Ketchikan. The dispatcher informed us she'd contact the sea plane company and see if she could get someone out there. We kept our fingers crossed, and sure enough, a Beaver took off at 9:15 to come fetch us. The incoming tide aided the loading process and we were off by 10:15. On the way back we buzzed a pair of grizzlies on the edge of the woods, one of them poised on a log and watching us overhead. The weather got worse the farther south we flew, and by the time we neared Ketchikan the wind was a steady 30 knots and the sea below us frothy and white. As we were unloading our gear back at the warehouse the rain began, thick heavy drops driving in horizontally. It feels wonderful to be back safe and warm in civilization.

So what exactly do we do out in the woods all week? That's a very good question. Here's Anchor Pass cabin, which gives you a good idea of what most of them look like. They're about 12' by 12', with two bunk beds, a table, kitchen cabinet and counter, and a wood or oil stove. The skylights and long days insure plenty of light inside. Some even have a large covered deck.
The first order of business is usually filling the wood shed. The boys had left us a couple logs on the beach and we were able to get quite a number of rounds from them. Curt sawed and split, and I hauled the great, ocean-saturated chunks up from the beach and stacked them in the shed. Most of what you see below I schlepped by hand, one piece at a time, including the hidden row in the back. Hope ya'll have your tickets to the gun show...

The next day we armed ourselves with bleach water and scrub brushes in the never-ending battle against moss, fungi, and all things green in this temperate rainforest. This outhouse was conisderably greener before we got to it. We also scrubbed down the entire boardwalk after removing the shingles that provide traction, because that stuff gets slippery when it's wet (trust me on this one). The clean boards were then covered with stuff called geogrid and tacked down with a staple hammer, one of my new favorite tools.

Those were the main projects at this cabin. Most of the time we get to putter around and fix any little thing that catches our fancy, whether it be cleaning the windows, recaulking seals, or replacing the gasket on the wood stove. Due to the ridiculously long days there's also plenty of time to soak in the scenery and take artsy pictures, which is fortunate because this site was particularly stunning. I don't recommend sticking your nose in the chocolate lily below - it's pollinated by flies, although you can eat the starchy root with no ill effects.

There were also stands of wild iris, and the indian paintbrush was just starting to make an appearance.

Life's pretty rough when I get to spend my time in places like this. That's actually Revillagigedo Island across the channel with the snow-covered peaks, as the cabin is situated across Behm Narrows on the mainland. This is an amazing place, with so many nooks and crannies to explore. This job gets me out to a bunch of them, but I'm constantly blown away by the vast scale of the Tongass.

A Walk in the Woods

Ah, Saturdays, the perfect time to sleep in, eat a leisurely brunch, and hike straight up a 2900 foot peak over slippery board walk and rotten snow. It's the ideal combination to recharge the soul. I went with my friend Nikki, a born-and-raised, honest-to-god Ketchikanian (Ketchikanite? Ketchikonian?), her dog Mosely, and my friend Carl's dog Bubba. It was sunny when we left the coast and started driving the one dirt road that accesses the interior of Revillagigedo Island. The patchy clouds made for some amazing views as we clambered up the board walk, which quickly disappeared beneath banks of snow.
As we followed the ridge up the trees got shorter and stumpier, until we were following game trails through twisted, shoulder high heathers. We decided we'd reached the summit when the ground didn't go up anymore. The clouds enshrouded us on all sides so there was no other way to tell. Have I mentioned that Bubba doesn't enjoy posing for pictures?

We both decided we like hiking best in this misty, cool weather. As we stood at the summit the wind kept opening little windows in the clouds, revealing crumpled coastline, the snow-covered flank of a mountain, and even patches of blue sky. We stuck it out until the next cloud arrived to dump its contents on our heads, then boot-skied our way down to solid ground.

The flowers were just starting to come alive in the higher reaches, like these lupine. Down below the bunchberry is blooming, the devil's club has exploded, and the skunk cabbage is shoulder high. This island has more shades of green than the Inuits have words for snow.

Safe As I'll Ever Be

Let's hear it for training week. It feels like I went on a four day road trip, minus the tunes, fun stops, and exciting destinations: sitting in place for seven hours a day, staring out the window and wishing I was doing something, anything else. I suppose it's the most efficient way of delivering important information to the largest number of people possible, but it's probably the most painful as well. The weekend arrived just in time.

The most exciting day by far was our survival training on Tuesday. The instructor was a basket case from Sitka, kind of like an older Jim Carrey hopped up on something illegal. He spent all morning telling stories, waving his arms, throwing props around, and instilling in us the basics of surviving in a northern marine climate. The afternoon is when things really got interesting.

After a lunch break we all met at Rotary Beach, south of town. We helped haul duffels and dry bags down to the beach where we got some hands-on experience. The instructor pointed out Scottish loveage, licorice fern, chocolate lily, twisted stalk, goose tongue, and cow parsnip. All of these are edible plants found along the coast; the last is questionably edible, but will definitely give you a wicked photosensitive rash if you mess with it. Next was fire making - my team froze to death before we could get anything going. We got to set off flares, toss smoke canisters, and basically wreak havoc in the name of survival.

Last and best we got to try out float coats and survival suits. These are all bright orange (the better to spot you bobbing around in the ocean), keep you from sinking, and are varying degrees of waterproof. My suit was an extra large so I resembled an oompa-loompa waddling down to the water's edge. They are remarkably effective and actually pretty comfortable, not to mention supremely fashionable and flattering. After that quick dip I shed my outer layer and tested my friend's PFD and my own cold-water tolerance. Granted, the sun had come out in patches by this point, and I was wearing my neoprene paddle gear, but after 20 minutes that 48 degree water is still pretty dang chilly. The worst part is when you actually get out of the water and the cold really hits you. It took me a long while to warm up afterwards, but the looks of disbelief I received from the peanut gallery on the shore were well worth it.