Our Own Polar Express

For the first time in three days, my bed didn’t move underneath me last night.  No constant jostle, sway, bump, no shift, no lurch.  We just got back from a train trip east, first to visit our family of friends in Kentucky, then to visit my brother in Clifton Forge, Virginia. Two eastbound nights, Bellingham to Chicago, of train whistles, a perpetual drive, racing across the continent in the dark at 79 mph then slowing to a stop waiting for a freight train to pass. Three westbound nights on the train coming back.

Waiting for the train in Bellingham

We ate dinner on a table set with white table cloths, ordered steak and cod from amiable waiters standing legs astride to keep their balance as they took our orders. Our first dinner mates were a fit looking orthodontist and his silent 18 year old daughter, who were heading from Camano Island to Whitefish, Montana for a weekend of skiing. At each meal throughout the trip, we were seated across from two new travelers, exchanging travel stories and destinations. We learned that the treasure of Amtrak’s all American menu was found in their desserts, like their signature warm date-pudding cake with toffee pecan sauce. Mmmmmmm.

So near winter solstice, darkness descended early. We missed the views as our train climbed over the Cascades, our descent into the frozen orchards of eastern Washington, the flattening landscape as we crossed Idaho. It all whizzed unseen as we passed our first long winter night on Amtrak.

Still, the beds.  We had chosen luxury over necessity when we made our reservations for a “roomette” on the train.  The roomette promised us a private space with two facing seats by the window, bathroom down the hall. The car attendant came by in the evening and turned the seats into a set of bunk beds for the night, each made up with crisp white sheets and standard blue blankets. Perhaps “luxury” is an overreaching term here.  The top bunk was 20” wide, the bottom was 24”.  The top bunk included webbing clipped between the bed and the ceiling to grab onto if you roll out.

The first night I crawled into the upper bunk, so close to the ceiling that I couldn’t sit up, a space so small and windowless that I only lasted about ten minutes. “This isn’t going to work,” I called to Lynne, as motion sickness and claustrophobia immediately kicked up in my body. She generously agreed to switch.  She has proven to be the more stalwart traveler many times when we have been on trips, able to read while the car or the boat is moving, able to sit backwards and able to eat while I am struggling not to throw up.  Once again, Lynne saved the day, or this time, the night.

Traveling by Amtrak is considered “slow” travel, but only in comparison to flying. We had ruled out driving this distance. It would have taken us a week to get from Washington to Kentucky and Virginia. Lynne ruled out the abuses of flying: being wedged into seats where you are not able to cross your legs, having to deal with hordes of people going through security, racing between gate changes from one terminal to another. Many of our friends travel east by train, so we thought we’d give it a try.

Looking towards Glacier National Park from the train

The first morning I looked out at the still beauty of Glacier National Park from the comfort of the observation car, spotting elk tracks in the snow.  The landscape flattened in eastern Montana, which extended so far that we didn’t get into North Dakota until after dark.  The train stopped at lots of places, mostly small towns, letting off or picking up just a few passengers who were waiting on the platform with their luggage as we pulled up. Within minutes the train was easing away, slowly gaining speed and then notching it up again as we returned to open country.  

The Great Plains viewed through the observation car window

We happened to choose the coldest days of 2016 to cross the Great Plains. At our stop in Minot, North Dakota, the temperature was -13 degrees F at 10 pm.  The crew that met us there, bundled in heavy parkas and boots, tried to thaw out the waste pipe of the downstairs lavoratory that had frozen. During the night, the mercury dipped to -17 degrees F. That lavoratory remained frozen for the duration of our trip to Chicago. Still, the train keeps going in the dark, the cold, the snow, the wind. The attendant told us that if the temperature reaches -20 degrees F, the train has to slow down because the rails are too brittle to provide traction to stop. We were in a snowstorm by the time we arrived in Chicago. All airline travel into and out of Chicago had been cancelled, but the train got us there.

Our stalwart traveler

Seven days later, we stepped aboard a different train, the Cardinal, in Virginia, heading back to Chicago. In the middle of the night, the train thudded to a stop when it hit a tree. The engineer cut the power to our cars, so suddenly we were in silence and semi-darkness. We could hear muffled voices and saw flashlights outside in the dark as the crew cleared the tree and inspected the train for damage. After about 45 minutes, power was restored and we lurched forward again. Towards morning, the train stopped once more. This time, the track switch ahead was frozen, so again, the crew was out in the dark clearing our path north. When we left Chicago, we saw flames rising from a section of tracks, an alarming sight to see out the window. When we asked the waiter that night, he explained that when the track switches freeze, the crew thaws them by pouring kerosene on the tracks and lighting them with a match.

I had mentioned the word “luxury” earlier. The luxury of the Amtrak is old world.  We traveled the double decker Empire Builder to Chicago. The newest cars on that train are 25 years old, and some are 40 years old, making them older than the cheerful and informative waiter who served us on the way west. The equipment showed its age: the bathroom down the hall had an ornery door that didn’t latch easily, the lock on our room didn’t operate smoothly, the walls had scrapes from previous occupants.

We upgraded from a “roomette” to a “bedroom” for the final leg home, and were delighted to have a full length sofa on which to stretch out, as well as a private bath and shower in our room. Splurging on this upgrade rewarded us with larger bunks as well, so for the last two nights, I ascended the ladder to the top bunk and experienced train travel as I had hoped it would be. I was lulled by the constant motion, like a gentle massage to which I yielded. The bottom bunk was large enough that we nestled together in the morning, only to scramble up when we heard the dining car announce “Last call for breakfast!”

The hard life

Floating home from Alaska

Our trip home on the Alaska ferry started in Skagway; Alaska, which punctuates the top of the picturesque north-south Lynne Canal. Standing on the deck of the MV Leconte (one of the original Alaska ferries), mountains towered over us to both the east and west sides. As we moved away from land on our way south through the Inside Passage, even the four cruise ships we left behind were dwarfed by the setting.

The Leconte is overshadowed by the cruise ship
and the mountains.  Notice Harding Glacier
at the upper left.

I was excited to be moving out onto the water. I left Lynne in the comfortable observation lounge and ventured out on the deck. The wind picked up my hair and billowed my jacket. As the land receded, the sky revealed itself, filling the space above and beyond the islands and mountains. In the coming days, from the ferry, I saw endless vistas of mountains receding into clouds, shorelines overlaid with early morning fog, and trees blurred through mist, the atmospheric conditions softening the steady, slow passage south.  In that way, all four legs of our trip on the Alaska ferry were similar, although each offered a view of a lighthouse, a glacier, or a narrow channel to define where we were. Then, the appearance of houses, piers, cruise ships, and marinas signaled that we were approaching our destinations.

The back deck of the MV Fairweather

Lynne and I took three different Alaska ferries, embarking first from Skagway, stopping for a couple of days in Haines, one night in Juneau and two nights in Sitka. I loved watching the coast diminish quickly each time we pulled away from the dock.

I felt safe and also connected with my ship community, the passengers and the crew. Occasionally, the ferry sailed past cruise ships or fishing boats, but mostly, we were alone on the rolling water. I got used to the feeling of the deck moving slightly under my feet. I had to pay attention as I walked the halls.  I held onto the railings as I went up the stairs.

Travelling on the ferry through southeast Alaska gave me a visual context for how sparsely populated this part of the world is, how much of the land is uninhabited or uninhabitable. Mountains and water separate the human holdings. Each town operates in its own sphere, claims its own part of the shoreline, apart from its nearest neighbors. “Near” is a relative word when the towns are separated by icefields or steep impassable mountains rising sharply from the sea. What ties these southeast Alaska communities together is the water, the water which provides vital transportation and livelihood to the residents.

A view of Haines, Alaska as we head south on the ferry

Each of the three ferries (the Leconte, Fairweather and the Matanuska, all named after glaciers) had comfortable indoor observation lounges with ample windows for those absorbed in the passing beauty. I brought a book to read, but hardly got a page read.  I saw some people doing jigsaw puzzles, or knitting, but most were gazing out the windows or just leaning on the railing and scanning for wildlife. With no Wi-Fi on the ship, people passed much of the time talking to each other. 

Lynne and I had fun meeting new people, like Donna and her husband Joe from Georgia. They are as old as we are (depends on your perspective how old you think late sixties is), so we were surprised to learn that they were sleeping in their VW Golf as they traveled across the lower 48 and up to Alaska. Their claim to fame: bragging rights for getting 50 mpg with their diesel engine.  We made friends with Lexie and her husband from Oregon.  They trek up to Juneau to fish in Excursion Inlet each summer. This year they were returning with 1300 lbs of halibut that they caught. Lexie is originally from Juneau, and has memories of smoking fish with her Tlingit grandmother at the family’s fish camp.  Her husband gave me good directions for gathering huckleberries on Mt. Adams.

At night, I experienced sleeping on the boat, the bed gently rocking. I had the feeling of motion and simultaneously the feeling of deep relaxation that came with leaving the navigation and driving to the crew, covering distance in the dark as we slept. In the middle of one night, extra turbulence in the water awakened me, swaying me back and forward in my bed, but I soon fell back to sleep.

A deck hand prepares the ropes for landing

At breakfast, the purser made a quick announcement over the loudspeaker, alerting us to look out the window.  Standing up to see better out the wrap-around dining room windows, we watched about eight humpback whales fishing near the ship, their breath spewing up water, their fins slicing through the surface, their broad dark flukes (tails) flipping up as they dove. Before our food could get cold, they were gone.

The food was fun. The ship’s white jacketed cooks offered up their food cheerfully.  The kitchen was open most of the day.  It was a classic cafeteria line with trays that you slid down stainless steel rails, the heat rising from steam tables with oatmeal, soup or chili. Specials were listed on a white board for every meal.  After ten days of eating our own (very healthy, well planned) cooking while we were camping, both Lynne and I indulged in the kitchen's cooking.  The last morning, I had enough huevos rancheros to feed a ranch hand, and I enjoyed every bite.

Throughout our trip in Alaska in early August, we wore long pants and long sleeves, occasionally pulling on raincoats.  Southeast Alaska is in a rainforest, so we had expected the foggy weather, the showers, the cool air.  We had prepared for this weather and actually welcomed it after some hot days driving through southern BC. We heard occasional reports that the rest of the country was having a heat wave. 

 

Navigating the Peril Strait on the way to Sitka

The large boat that we were on for 36 hours was the MV Matanuska. It moves at approximately 19 mph (16.5 knots), day and night, carrying about 200 passengers and their RVs, cars, motorcycles, kayaks and bicycles. We traveled on it for 36 hours, from Sitka to Juneau, Juneau to Petersburg, then on to Wrangell, Ketchikan and finally our destination, Prince Rupert. For us, distances were measured in time, not miles.  Juneau to Sitka is about 110 miles as a plane flies, but took 4 ½ hours by the fast ferry MV Fairweather), or eight hours by the larger Matanuska. 

One lane of RVs being loaded on the ferry in Skagway.  Notice the smallest RV.  That's ours!
 Lynne and Winnie are standing in front.
Two cruise ships block the mountains behind the scene.

Tracing our route on the map, the ship went south from Juneau on the Chatham Strait, then east, slowing down to negotiate the Peril Strait and ending up south again on the Neva Strait to Sitka. You could skip all this cruising and instead get there in 40 minutes by plane. Instead, we returned to Juneau on the Matanuska. Our ultimate destination was Prince Rupert, 318 miles from Juneau.  We left Juneau at 5:15 am on Monday and traveled 29 hours south on the Stephens Passage to Frederick Sound and Petersburg, through the Wrangell Narrows to Wrangell, through the Clarence Strait to Ketchikan, through the Dixon Entrance to Prince Rupert.  We arrived at 10:45 am on Tuesday.

Approaching Juneau on the ferry, with a view of the Mendenhall Glacier.

I am an insider of the Alaska ferry system, because my job is to provide shoreside support to the ships which dock in Bellingham. Each week, I get to help the Alaska bound passengers through the boarding process. I chat with retirees who are taking their RVs to Alaska for their once in a lifetime trip. I answer questions for young military families who are relocating to Sitka or Kodiak or Anchorage. I help young people who are going up to Petersburg to process seafood for the season, men sending their new boats up on the ferry, homeless people who are pinning their hopes on Alaska, and Alaskan residents who came down to shop, to visit relatives, to buy a new car, or have a medical issue addressed.  I have coached young people who are pitching their tents on the top deck. I have relayed messages to the ship from distraught drivers who are caught in Seattle traffic or behind an accident and are late for the ferry. 

In the process of helping passengers, I have gotten to know some of the crew, from the watchman to the stewards to the pursers to the captains and the able bodied seamen and seawomen. It was fun to see them again in Alaska, and to meet more people who work on the ferry. 

When I was first hired, in 2010, an immediate bonus was that my training included a trip up to Ketchikan on the ferry for training.  I wrote a blog about it at the time, telling the story of going up to the bridge to see how the ship is steered, and in Ketchikan, donning a lifejacket and walking the scaffolding to learn to tie up a ship.  I was on an adventure then, although not exactly a relaxed one, as a new employee.

I am no longer new to the Alaska ferry system, yet the experience of being on the  ferry as a passenger during our recent trip was still an memorable adventure.

I came across these words from “The Blue Boat Home” by Peter Mayer this week, and they express how I felt about our sea journey:

 I give thanks to the waves upholding me,

 hail the great winds urging me on

Greet the infinite sea before me
Sing the sky my sailor's song 

Vacation mind, Sitka, Alaska

Brown bear at Fortress of the Bear

I like vacation.  You wake up in a beautiful place, you sort of know what direction you are headed but you have time to be distracted by anything else that presents itself.  You can stop to see the view, or you can keep going.  You can go out to the bear rehab center, or you can go to the Sitka National Historic Park, or you can see the Russian Orthodox Church. Those are the kind of choices we had in Sitka, Alaska.  We did all three.

 

Sky and Winnie in Sitka

We got there from Juneau by way of a four and a half hour trip on the Alaska Ferry. An hour after we got off the ferry, we walked along the ocean front from downtown Sitka, trying to figure out why we kept seeing fish leaping out of the ocean.  A local man explained that these pink salmon were trying to loosen up their eggs in preparation for spawning at the fish hatchery.  Plop, splash, went another pink salmon throwing itself up in the air.

The trail led to a path through the woods. The quiet closed-canopy forest with large Sitka spruce and Western hemlock trees was soothing. Eighteen Tlingit and Haida totem poles and house posts were spaced along our walk. During the ferry ride, Winnie had been cooped up in the RV (not exactly cooped since the RV is spacious), so we all enjoyed stretching our legs. Lynne and I learned about the Tlingit and Haida cultures while we were at it.

We did a bit more wandering that afternoon. We actually went to part of a Russian Orthodox vesper service on Saturday night.  The Russian Orthodox church was resplendent with gold, lots of precious chandeliers, iconic paintings and an aging bearded priest in a long flowing gold robe.  The service was intoned (chanted), in a style that I had heard before in the Episcopal church, and highly stylized. The words being chanted were read out of a printed liturgy.  I enjoyed the visual richness, and I was interested to see threads of commonality with Episcopalian ritual. We didn’t stay for the whole service, but I was glad to get a glimpse of this remnant from the time when Russian people occupied Sitka.

 

Two brown (grizzly) bears playing at Fortress of the Bear

More to my taste was Fortress of the Bear, a cleverly named facility at the east end of the fourteen miles of paved road in Sitka. Fortress of the Bear re-purposes several huge old waste water treatment cisterns to provide sheltered spaces for orphaned bears: six brown bears (aka grizzlies) and three black bears from three different sibling groups. They all have been given human names, so you have this feeling of being close to wild animals while simultaneously feeling like you are watching your pets play. The bears have ponds, toys to float around with, multiple spaces to go into and camaraderie. The black bears (in a separate enclosure from the brown bears) have the stump of a tree to climb up. People have constructed platforms above the bears, so we of the two legged species can safely observe examples of four legged creatures that are bigger than we are.   Like you, I am sure, I would prefer to spontaneously see bears in their natural habitat, but since bears, and most wildlife, run away from people when they can, the chances of seeing bears playing, eating, swimming, and relaxing in broad daylight like this are slim-- except at Fortress of the Bear.  The above pictures are brown bears, which is what they call grizzly bears on the coast. 

This next picture shows the black bears.  Watching the black bears gracefully climb up the stump and stand on their two hind feet made a big impression on us.  Don’t try to get away from a black bear by climbing up a tree.

Three brother black bears at Fortress of the Bear

Sitka is a nature oriented place, and so our next stop was the Alaska Raptor Center, which was yet another chance to see eagles and other raptors up close.  They had an impressive rehab aviary for those eagles who are expected to recover and could be returned to the wild.  They also had many long term residents who are well cared for and, when possible, used for educational presentations.

One of the other choices we had in Sitka was where to camp, and even though we had reserved a site in the wooded Starragavin campground, we ended up staying at the Sitka municipal RV park, right on the waterfront, with this lovely view out the window.  I enjoyed watching the boats leaving the marina and returning from the day on open water.

The view from our RV

And here are some houses built on small rocky bases out in the water.

Looks like a boat is the only option for leaving this house

My biggest impression of Sitka—gosh, it is way away from everywhere.  It faces the Pacific Ocean from the west side of Baranoff Island. The only way to get there is a four to eight hour ferry ride from Juneau, or a plane ride.  Of course, Sitka is a haven for fishing.  It is filled with marinas, and fishing conversations include terms that I had to look up: long-lining and leasing halibut percentages of catch (which I still don't understand).  Only 14 miles of road are paved in Sitka.  We drove it from end to end, enjoying the Whale Park at one end and Starragavin Park at the other, the museum at Sitka National Historic Park in the middle, a good restaurant (Fly Inn Fish Inn) but then what? Sitka is a long way from stores, theatre, medical expertise, …but then again, that’s why I went there.  I wanted to see what it is like to live in a naturally beautiful place, without the traffic congestion and noise of our more populous home, and I did. 

Up next: 36 hours on the Alaska Ferry from Sitka to Prince Rupert, BC.

View from the ferry as we approached Sitka 

Stop #1 in the Yukon

A glimpse of the hard side of living and working in Rancheria, Yukon, came from our waitress, Lois. She had black shoulder length hair with bangs. 

“It takes me six hours to get hair dye,” she said, referring to the drive between Rancheria and the next closest store, three hours west.  We all laughed, “we” being the four tired and hungry female RVers from Washington state. A ball of fire, Lois tried to keep us focused through our dinner orders, switching between dodging our touristy questions, running up to the cash register, showing new arrivals their motel rooms, bringing out food from the kitchen and answering our bear questions. 

“I am not afraid of bears,” she said.  “At my age, they know I’m not going to hurt them and they can just sense it.”  Her age, in my mind, was a question.  She had the energy of a younger woman, like when she mentioned being bucked off a horse and breaking her ankle last year. She also had the war stories of someone who had wrangled tourists for many years.

“If you want to see bears, just go down to the bridge,” she said, nodding in the direction from which we had just driven. “You could come with me after I get off work.  The old bridge washed out and it is full of berries. Time and place,” she said, looking directly at us, “if you want to see bears.” 

Jerri, Lynn, Lynne and Sky with Torrie and Winnie in Yukon

I pictured the end of her work day. It would still be daylight. On this day, the end of July, the sun set at 10:30 pm. We had driven four hours today, day six of our trip north.  This afternoon we had emerged from the northern end of the Cassiar Highway, after bouncing along gravelly roads through British Columbia’s coastal mountains for 450 miles.  Under clear blue skies and temperatures in the 60’s, we were now heading on the Al-Can (Alaska highway) towards Whitehorse. This conversation with our waitress was our first chance to talk with someone who lived here, not counting the friendly African man with the British accent who attended the first gas station that we stopped at in Yukon. I didn’t sense that he was local, and I wondered how he had ended up in this makeshift business, a single pump and a simple one room wooden building with the cash box resting on a table.

Fireweed

The restaurant, 100 km (an hour) up the road, was the next sign of human habitation we encountered. It was part of a roadside lodge whose earlier glory (touted in the Milepost guidebook) had faded.  The broad dusty gravel lot edged a sprawling restaurant and motel building, fuel pumps, a tangle of trucks and rusted equipment, and a small unmanned visitor center which I later found to have a dirt floor.  At the far end of the parking lot, a log gateway with yellow flags heralded the entrance to the campground.  We followed the signs and drove down a dirt road into a camp setting in a peaceful lodge pole pine forest back from the road.

Only one other site of the many available was occupied. We settled in adjacent sites. When three more RVs rolled in, they clustered near us, as if they also shared a bit of unease about the junkyard that edged one side of the campground, the unlabeled sites, and the isolation of it all. Each site had electricity--$20 a night for that and the use of the restroom. The TripAdvisor review had promised a nice walk along Rancheria River, but where was the river? In front of the small restroom building, four re-cycled toilets had been planted with cheerful purple petunias. The front door had been clawed by a bear. The recently swabbed down interior was a mirage of orderliness.  The door dividing the women’s side from the men’s didn’t close. Neither warped stall door latched, leaving me with a sense of imminent exposure, had there been more people around. Each of the two dark shower stalls was equipped with a peeling chair resting on a wooden pallet. Still, we were looking for respite for the night, and this was it.

Wild Barley and Fireweed

The promises of eating out after camping for three days had lured us back to the restaurant, a simple room with five tables and an open door to the kitchen.  At first, Lois didn’t take time to answer our questions with much flourish.  I asked her where she was from and she pointed out the window and said, “The bush.” I presumed that she meant a home down a track somewhere in the thousands of acres that extended around us in all directions, yet I hadn’t seen any sign of human habitation for hours along the highway that we drove. The tannin colored Rancheria River stood out from the boreal forests, stretching on endlessly. No turnoffs, no homesteads, no telephone poles, no power lines. 

According to the guidebook, Yukon’s total population: around 35,000. Two thirds of them live in the capital,Whitehorse. I guessed that ten of the residents of Yukon lived and made their living at Rancheria, perhaps fewer in the winter. The flannel shirted young guy who pumped the propane was helpful and friendly, jiggling an electrical circuit mounted to a telephone pole to get the pump working and carrying the filled propane tank back to our campsite.  Our friends had liked the skinny blond man who ran the campground, although he seemed to disappear after we arrived. 
I finally found the creek, after first heading down a likely looking path and encountering a big sign nailed to a tree: “Danger. Keep Out.” I made a second attempt in the company of two other travelers, Alaskans who had sold all their possessions and were heading to the lower 48 states to find their Shangri La, possibly in South Carolina. Just a few minutes walk past purple fireweed, blue monkshood and pink flowering wild barley, the path opened to a bend in Swift Creek with a broad flat rocky shore. My companions' dog raced to fetch a ball while Winnie (our dog) waded into the creek and lapped up its cold water.  I reveled in the quiet, the sound of rippling water, wind stirring the trees, and the undisturbed emptiness of the forest across the creek from us.

Mobile users, here's a link: https://youtu.be/Vyenr8giur0

  Many more miles have passed since we spent the night at Rancheria.  We had a glimpse of life in the north, where average January low temperatures are -20 degrees Fahrenheit.  I left with more questions than answers, but at least I now had an image of Yukon.

Grizzly at Fish Creek

I did not take this video. We had gone to Hyder, Alaska, one evening, specifically hoping to see bears from the observation platform at Fish Creek Wildlife Observation Site. You have to want to be in Hyder, Alaska, because it is darn hard to get to. We had driven north and west from Bellingham for four days and camped at Meziadin Junction, BC, on the Cassiar Highway. Then we drove west 40 minutes more, stopping at Bear Glacier along the way, to Stewart, BC. We drove a few miles across the border, into the US to get to Hyder. That's the only way in. After stopping for amazing seafood at the Seafood Express food truck, we got out to Fish Creek about 7 pm.

We wanted to see what every other tourist hopes to see: wildlife, especially bears. Fish Creek was overwhelmed with chum salmon spawning, which attracts bears. The water was churning with salmon going through their end of life ritual. The eagles were all around us. We had been watching the chum salmon spawning in Fish Creek for so long that I had gone back to the car to relax, when this grizzly bear showed up. Lynne shot this video.

Turn up your sound when you play this video. At 11 seconds, you can hear the bear whimper when it misses a fish it was after. Also hear the eagles screaming overhead, and notice the water churn as the salmon frantically swim away from the grizzly. The bear finally catches a salmon about 59 seconds into the video. Watch as it eats only the salmon's eggs, then tosses the fish, still alive, back into the stream, and goes in search of its next delicacy. What a sight!
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Here's Bear Glacier:

On Going North

We are leaving in the morning, driving north, in the direction of longer days, just east of the coastal mountains through the interior of British Columbia. 

Our shopping list included mosquito nets and bear spray.  We will be traveling through Hells Canyon and Kitwango.  We have to be sure to fuel up before long stretches with no gas stations.  We won’t have cell service for much of the drive. It takes two AAA maps to trace our route.

We will brush with glaciers, look for bears, and explore this new direction. We are traveling in our 1993 Toyota Dolphin camper.  Maximum speed: 55 mph.  Gas mileage: 14 mpg average.

I am looking forward to waking up each morning in our nesty camper, sliding open the curtains and looking out on 10 Mile lake or a meadow in the shadow of a mountain. I look forward to having nothing more pressing to do than make breakfast, go for a walk, and drive to our next campground.  I look forward to being a minority among the mammals around us and a spectator to nature’s symphony.

We’ll make it to southeast Alaska, and then float our way home, slowly, on the Alaska ferry. I look forward to this sail: the passing islands, the possibility of seeing humpback whales or white sided dolphins, of watching the shorelines and the distant peaks. I look forward to the meditative experience of not being in charge, of letting the captain do the driving and absorbing the energy of the Inside Passage, immersion in a vast place where my presence is insignificant. 

I can generalize that this is what I am looking forward to that motivates all the effort required to get us on the road.  I want to wake up in peaceful places, hearing birds, wind, and not much more.  No background of traffic on I-5, no piercing distant train whistles, no sirens, no neighbors starting up their engines.  I want to walk along nature rich paths with close up encounters with northern trees and vegetation, clear lakes, awesome geological formations and vistas of mountain peaks.  I want to be outnumbered by animals and birds, I want to be an inconsequential presence in ecosystems that are not overrun with humans.

T minus 18 hours, and counting.

I wrote this poem last October on one of our last camping trips for the year.  Now as we prepare for this year's summer camping, the sentiments speak to me, and I hope, to you.

Banks Lake

I’ve been looking for you.

driving many miles

across a mountain range

Northrop Canyon, near Steamboat Springs State Park

searching for

this treasure:

a place where wildlife outnumbers humans.

We stop at Banks Lake,

a rare body of water in the Grand Coulee

of eastern Washington.

Towering walls of basalt

guard broad scrubby flatlands.

The trough was washed out

by the Missoula floods of the high desert plateau.

We were welcomed.

As soon as we turned off the truck

The greeting committee was there.

Treefrogs,

un-self-consciously croaking

loud multi-syllabic hellos

from hidden perches.

The alders surrounding us

Golden leaves on display

In the dusk.

The flock of American coots

Spread across the lake.

Black bodies floating

on the calm silver surface,

clucking as they

propelled smoothly, effortlessly,

upending to search out food underwater

popping back upright to glide some more.

The mallards

floating closer to shore.

Iridescent green heads punctuate the gathering.       

I heard the beating of their wings as

simultaneously they rose into the air

responding to a signal

known only to them.

Boisterous Canada geese honking

as they flew overhead.

The white tailed deer and her fawn

grazing on the green lawn

irrigated for human comfort.

The flock of prosperous wild turkeys

proceeding safely in numbers

heads down

industriously pecking

steadily

moving on to greener grass.

Two white pelicans

teasing us with brief appearances

across the lake.

We paddled down the lake

in red and green kayaks

failing to convey our peaceful intent.

The coots flew off from our intrusion.

The mallards re-positioned by the far shore.

We stopped paddling

floated aimlessly on the quiet water.

The locals chose a cautious distance

to settle back down.

We urban humans were eager to be with the wildlife,

their presence a gift to us.

We were not a gift to them,

but for once, we were outnumbered.

Digging for Gold

           

As I crossed the empty parking lot in the dark, the streetlights reflecting off the wet pavement, I felt the weight of the long winter season: short days, rainy weather, gray skies. No eager passengers were waiting for me to open the ferry terminal. The Alaska Ferry was in the doldrums of our winter season, past the boost of the winter holidays and not yet into the awakening of spring. The number of people interested in traveling up to Alaska in the dead of winter was typically low: fewer than 100 passengers today, a third of the load during the summer season. At a few minutes before seven a.m., I unlocked the side door of the spacious brick terminal building and let myself in. Usually pulling up to the waterfront early in the morning, the fleet of boats rocking in the water, the wind stirring, the openness across the bay uplifted me, stirred my soul. This morning, the world just seemed dark and rugged. What was the point?

            The day stayed dark and rainy, one more in the string of dark January days here in Bellingham.  Even with mild temperatures, the rain drove everyone who had a place to go indoors.  The passengers who came to my window dripped rain off their hats.  Their winter jackets were soaked from the dash between their cars and the terminal. They unpeeled their layers and parked their rolling luggage in a pool of water as they negotiated the process of checking in.

            The morning had passed slowly.  When we opened our ticket windows at 8, I checked in a few veteran employees and retirees of the Alaska ferry system who were traveling on pass.  I helped a woman who had been told incorrectly that she had to check in by 8 a.m., instead of 3 p.m., for the 6 p.m. departure.  Luckily the ample two story terminal offered plenty of space for the waiting passengers to spread out during the intervening hours. To fill the time until the rush of passengers later in the day, I turned to updating the fare sheet for the summer sailings.

            The smell of unwashed clothes and body registered across the counter at my ticket window before a word was spoken.  He was gray haired, not recently shorn, and bearded. He was wearing a nondescript army jacket. His body tilted forward to counter the weight of an enormous green duffel bag he carried on his back.  His face was pock marked and ashen, other than his red nose. In one hand was a cardboard sign.

            “How can I help you?” I said, intentionally disguising my gut reaction to the acrid smell.

            “I finally have enough money,” he said, as he smacked a worn white envelope thick with cash on the counter.  “Or at least I hope I do.  I want a ticket to Juneau. Two hundred and sixty dollars.”

            I looked at the envelope, at least an inch thick with bills.

            Keeping my voice casual and friendly, I told him the price to Juneau, $363.  My approach was designed not to ignite angry spirits.

            He looked confused, then said “I panhandled all week to get this.  I should have enough.” He stuffed the cardboard sign under the duffel on his back.

            “Let’s see,” I said as I turned my attention to my reservations screen, leaving the white envelope on the counter. 

            “I’ll need to see your ID.”  Checking ID was required, but also helped me clarify the situation.  Did he have one?  Where was he from?  How old was he?

            He pulled his license out of his wallet and handed it to me.  It was surprisingly clean. His name was Paul Martin. I noted his home address: Chico, CA. 

            “You’re a ways from home,” I said, to be conversational as I began creating a new passenger profile in the system. He didn’t reply. “Have you been on the Alaska ferry before?”

            “No ma’am,” he said.

            His license was up to date. His picture showed a younger, more prosperous version of himself: fewer gray hairs, clean shaven, smiling.  I checked off the box marked “New Passenger,” on the computer and began filling out the form: his name, birth date, and driver’s license number. I mentally calculated his age: 55. He has lasted this far, I mused, and still has some miles left to go.

            I asked if he had an email address or phone number, even though I correctly predicted the answer: “No.” I finished filling out the form, putting in his California address, even though it was apparently not current. “You’ll need $363 to get to Juneau,” I told him. “Let’s count your money.” Taking the stack of money out of his envelope, I started slowly counting it out loud.  He watched me as I concentrated on the pile of money. I sorted out some twenties, then a few tens, and totaled 55 dollars in large bills.  The rest of the bills, all ones, were crinkled and bent.  I straightened them as I counted, starting over several times.  I reached $100 and I was half way through the stack.  I didn’t think we were going to end up with $363.  I was right.  At $201, we ran out of bills. I hated to disappoint him.

            “We could get you as far as Ketchikan for $263,” I offered.  He looked at me.  “You would need 62 more dollars.”

            “How much?”

            “62 more dollars.”

            “I thought I had enough,” he said.  He lowered his voice and leaned forward a bit, “Would you let me pay the rest later?”

            “No.  Sorry.” I inwardly wished I could have granted his request.  Turning down people who are trying to get on the boat with their last dime was hard on me.  People on their last dime are hard on me. The idea of going to Alaska seems to give hope to people who have burned all their bridges in the lower 48 states. Everything is going to be different in Alaska.  Alaska is the answer to their problems. In the six years that I had worked as a terminal agent, I saw this pageant play out more than I wanted to.  I didn’t ever want to be in their position. I didn’t want anyone to be in my position. With a swipe of a credit card, I could have paid his way.

            He considered. “How much more do I need?”

            “62 dollars to get to Ketchikan.” Then I asked casually, “What’re you going to do in Alaska?”

            “Dig for gold,” he answered right away. This man was hoping to strike it rich.  This business plan proved to be the death of many travelers since 1897 .  It was a rugged and risky prospect then.  It was just ignorance now.

            “The gold might be covered with snow,” I said in a low voice. I tried to be respectful and casual, stifling the many other opinions that were screaming across my mind. He looked down and didn’t reply.

            “Is Ketchikan a city?” he asked. I was glad he asked.  I wanted to help him.  He could have been my brother.

            “Yes, it is a city.”

            “Which is bigger, Ketchikan or Juneau?”

            I thought about it. “I’d guess Juneau is bigger,” I said. “It is the capital.”

            “But Ketchikan is a city?”

            “Yes.” I had been there only once, but I knew there were at least several thousand residents.

            “Are the people friendly?”

            I wasn’t sure how to answer. “Yes, there are friendly people.” I could have just as easily said no, but I hesitated to burden him with too much reality.

            He debated for a few minutes.  I showed him a map of Alaska and pointed out Ketchikan, the first stop on the ferry; and Juneau, several hundred miles north.  He noted that he couldn’t really see the map without his glasses. When he persisted about going to Juneau, I told him that another ferry runs every few days between the two cities. When he asked the cost of that ferry, I looked it up under Tariffs on my computer and told him the figure.

            “How much more do I need to get to Ketchikan?” Third time.

            “62 more dollars,” I repeated. I put the money we had just counted back in his envelope and handed it to him. As far as I was concerned, we were at a dead end.

            His mood seemed to shift. “I’ll have to get some more money,” he said in a determined tone. He pulled his cardboard sign from between his duffel bag and his coat.  Somehow, he had kept the sign completely dry.  “Could you reach my pen?” He turned sideways and moved closer to the counter so I could reach into his duffel.

            I didn’t want to touch his duffel, let alone search around in it.  “Here, use this,” I said as I handed him a black magic marker from my desk.

            He leaned his sign on the counter, still holding the huge pack on his back.  I watched as he carefully wrote “I need $62” in large, perfect lettering, then outlined the numbers several times to make them stand out. I glimpsed the words “Help” and “Alaska” under his arm as he wrote. When he finished updating the sign, he handed me back the marker.  I was impressed by the care he took with his sign, and that he had kept his cardboard sign in such good condition in this weather.

            “Where did you have the best luck getting money?” I asked out of conviviality and curiosity. I pass panhandlers frequently but I never speak to them. Yet I always feel bad for them.

            “The grocery store.” He glanced at me as he answered quickly.  He hiked up his duffel and turned to go.  He seemed to have an afterthought. “Do you know a church or anybody that helps people?”

            “The only place I know is the Mission.”  If he had more time, I might have offered him other options: the local Episcopal Church, or the Opportunity Council.  But we only had four hours before the ship started boarding passengers.

            “The Mission!”  I felt the strength of anger as his face turned sour. “They don’t help anybody.  I told them what I needed and they said ‘We don’t do that here.’” He mimicked a tense face and a callous voice.

            “That’s all I know,” I said quietly.

            “I hope I get that money.”

            “Me too. Good luck,” I called after him as he started to walk away.  I wasn’t sure I’d see him again, but I might. He had $201 in his pocket.  He might not be back.

I jotted down his reservation number on my desk calendar before I cleared the screen.

            Passengers kept turning up as the morning stretched into mid-day, the rain let up and the sun made a welcome appearance.  I took my lunch break upstairs in the terminal to get out of the crowded office.  It was both quieter and warmer up there, and I could stretch my legs out on the red seats and look out the window as I ate leftovers. I heard people calling to each other about the rainbow that you could see to the north. I thought about this passenger. He could be one of many men in my generation.  The streets of Bellingham were full of people living outdoors, on sidewalks, under bridges, in the woods. I wish I had a magic wand to fix this one problem. My friends tell me I have a tender heart. Maybe so, but I can picture myself with no place to live.  The anguish of insecurity would drive me crazy. I don’t like danger.  I don’t like hunger. I am grateful that I have a lovely, secure home with my life partner, but am I one earthquake or one financial catastrophe away from being on the streets myself?  I don’t feel that different.  All housing is temporary. All bank accounts can be emptied.

            After lunch, I went back to work on the new handout listing the upcoming summer fares. A rush of passengers turned up, and I stayed busy checking IDs and processing their tickets.  For those taking their cars, I instructed them on where to park, and what to expect, and I directed the walk-on passengers to the white booth out front.  After most of the passengers had checked in, I looked up from my work and there he was at my ticket window, his duffel still hoisted on his back and his cardboard sign in one hand.

            “Hey,” I smiled at him.  He dropped the white envelope on the counter, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a handful of cash. 

            “I should have enough now,” he said breathlessly, putting the rest of the money on the counter for me to count.

            “OK, great,” I said, masking my surprise at his success. I straightened out the new pile of money and counted the stacks of crinkled bills. The total: $64. Added to the money in his envelope, he had enough to go to Ketchikan.

            “You have enough and one dollar left over.” I looked at his face. He smiled.

            I pulled up his reservation on the computer and entered $263 in the payment field. I clicked on the icon to print his ticket, then took his entire stack of cash, dropping his oversized pile of bills inside to organize later. I gave him back a lone dollar bill and then locked the cash drawer. I felt uneasy and sad. He was going to Alaska in January to dig gold with one dollar bill and his belongings on his back.

            “I’ve never panhandled that much money before,” he confided with pride as I handed him his ticket.  “Maybe $20 or $30, but not that much. It took me all week.”

            “Well, you got it.  Good job.” I smiled at him. He had shown persistence.  He had stayed organized and accomplished his goal.  He was also alone and naïve. I decided to let the motherly part of my brain speak. “Do you have food with you?” I asked quietly, hoping he wouldn’t be offended. I was thinking how I would feel.

            He hesitated before replying. “Yes,” he said, looking down at the counter.

            I still wasn’t sure he understood what he had just signed up for. “You aren’t going to get there until Sunday morning.  Today is Friday.”

            “That’s all right.”

            The ship had a cafeteria. I had heard that sometimes the Purser will hand out a cafeteria voucher to indigent passengers. I silently hoped that he would win that lottery. Meanwhile, I explained where he needed to go to board the ship.  “When you get on the ship, take the elevator up to the top deck.  There’s a place for you to stay there.”

            He turned to go, then stopped and asked, “Will it be dark when we get there? I was hoping it wouldn’t be dark.” My heart sank. Both at his fear and his naïveté.

            “It will be 7 am, so yes, since they are further north than we are, yes, it will be dark,” I said carefully. I wished I could have told him it would be daylight. I wished it were Disneyland. I wished he hadn’t revealed his concern to me. What I really wanted was for him to change his mind and walk back out our front door with his cash.  Alaska, January, alone, $1.  I felt stressed.

            “There you go! You are all set.” I smiled at him.  “Good luck!” I called as he walked away, actually hoping that my wishes would improve his chance of success. Or at least protect him from the worst.

            Heading past the other ticket windows, he held the ticket up in the air.  “I got it!”

            “Have a good trip,” my colleague called to him.

            The sun was down and darkness reigned again when the ship was finally ready to leave. All the vehicles had been loaded and the passengers were on board.  The car ramp was lifted, and the line handlers turned the ship loose from the pier. I heard the horn sound, indicating the ferry’s departure at 6 p.m. We closed our ticket windows and my colleague went out to lock up the gates as they pulled out.  When he came back he said, “Someone’s standing on the back deck waving his ticket saying ‘I’m going to Alaska! I’m going to Alaska!’ I think it was your passenger.”

            “Must be him,” I said, swamped by the image of his childlike optimism and his heartbreaking plan to make money digging gold. I was glad he had this window of good cheer before being tested by the reality when he walked off the boat in Ketchikan. I could only imagine his confusion in a strange, cold, dark place.  Where would he stay?  How would he eat? He didn’t have enough money to come back.  Who would help him?

            With the boat heading across the bay on its way north, I prepared my financial report of the day’s transactions. I opened my cash drawer and pulled out his wad of money and counted it once more.  I got to $263, and found that I had two extra dollar bills.  This couldn’t be right, I said to myself.  I couldn’t have taken two extra dollars from him. I recounted the money.  Same result.  The boat was already heading north.  He didn’t have a valid mailing address, a telephone or email address.  There was no way to get him the extra two dollars that I had taken from him. Of all the times to make a cash mistake, I couldn’t believe I had shorted him $2.

            Within a few minutes, we had locked up the terminal and turned out the lights. I walked back out into rain, back across the dark parking lot, and drove home.

            Lynne greeted me and asked about my day.  I told her about Paul, the money, the panhandling, the gold digging. I choked up as I described our interaction, especially the part about the dark and money for food. I was used to indigent passengers, but his flash appearance in my life on a day when life’s challenges were already weighing on me was too much. I helped him get on the boat. Should I have stopped him?  Lynne said I should have given him more money. As it was, I pictured his elation turning to disappointment when reality came crashing in on him. I sobbed when I got to the end of my story and told Lynne I found that I had taken two dollars from him.  She comforted me.  “You have a tender heart.”  Sometimes it feels too tender for this world.