The Northward Contrail

A little too close

I'd been advised to be up bright and early Sunday morning.  There was an expedition planned.  My friend's wife was to meet us at April Bowl near Summit Lake, and she'd have one of her friends with her.  My friend and I were starting out early because we were going to take a very interesting back road there, through the wilderness.  It was a neat journey.

Now, all this would have worked if nature didn't have such a sense of humor.  For one, it was gray that morning, with a lot of low-lying cloud.  There were times we were about on instruments.  But, we overcame that much.

We got to the designated point about half an hour ahead of schedule, and we got out and started to hike up to April Bowl.  It was steep and a little treacherous at points, and there was very little visibility, but nothing I couldn't handle.  And some of the views were still nice. Besides, it was Alaska.  How was I going to pass this up?

My friend and I had hoofed it up most of the way and had paused for a little bit.  I was admiring the scenery and the clouds, taking it all in.

My friend then asked if I saw that black spot over by a white area about a couple hundred yards away.

I told him I did.

"Does it look like it's moving?" he asked.

I replied in the affirmative.   It also appeared to have a second smaller dark spot next to it.

"That's it.  We're done."

Yep, it was the Ursine Menace.  Perhaps we could have pressed on with no ill effect, but we were unarmed and alone, and no match for a sow defending her cub.  Best to get the hell out.  So we did.  (If you don't understand why, read the "Ted" chapter of Peter Jenkins' Looking for Alaska.  I'll leave it at that.)

So our little meet-up didn't happen there.  Instead, when the other half of our party arrived, we had a quick discussion and went back to Summit Lake.  That's where we had a wonderful breakfast, using a big flat boulder as a picnic table.  Homemade muffins, fresh fruit, little Babybel cheeses...it was a blissful way to start a morning.

Then it was off for more adventure, as we came back down and parked at the Gold Mint Trailhead.  We piled out and started to hike.  My friend's wife and her friend took on off, which meant my friend and I were left behind.  But we made the most of it, walking along the trail at our own pace, talking about life, and taking pictures with hearty abandon.  I was glad I'd bought the additional SD card.

 

A couple hours later, while my friend and I were back at the truck, we saw the other half of our foursome emerge from the wild.  They brought with them a craving for pancakes.  So we drove back into Palmer for a late lunch at a favorite little cafe, and sat around the table for a couple hours telling stories.  It was all fun.

You'll recall we'd picked some salmon up at the store on Wednesday. Well, I was to leave the next day, and the fish needed to be cooked or frozen.  So that night, my friend hauled out the salmon, gave it a good seasoning, and broiled it up.  A wonderful spicy orzo dish accompanied it.  And, yes, fresh Alaska salmon was everything I hoped it would be.

That night, I went to bed very happy.  The only bad spot?  Tomorrow, it would be time to come home.

Wandering

One of the ideas behind this year's adventure was that we had no set plans.  In the past, my friend has had a given thing he's wanted to do while I was there -- one year we drove to Seward, another year we flew to Homer, and so on.  But this year, he just wanted us to play it by ear.  This ended up working out very well, and was part of why I enjoyed this year's visit so much.

So this morning we just got in the truck and drove, looking at scenery and finding nice places to stop, walk around and take nice photos.  Like this one:

And here's the old Knik River Bridge.  It's long been closed to traffic, but it remains because it carries the power lines across the river.

Then into Palmer for lunch and a stop at another bookstore.  I found a copy of the AP Stylebook for Alaska.  It was the first time I found one.  There was no way I was going to pass that up.

A little later, we drove back to Hatcher Pass.  The first time I saw the place several years ago, it was cloudy and gray, and I was running around catching snowflakes on my tongue.  In the July sunlight, it takes on a whole new personality.

We hiked back around Summit Lake and took more photos.  It was a balmy day.  I rolled my sleeves up and enjoyed the warmth.  (A few days later, I'd find several mosquito bites.)

Only half an hour from Alaska

Thursday did not start well.  I had been so tired the night before that I'd left my eyeglasses at the foot of the bed.  So when I woke up and started to stir, they fell in the floor.  I was wandering around and felt something under my right heel.  Next thing I knew, I was holding a flattened pair of eyeglasses.  Great.  Nerd emergency.  Fortunately, I was able to twist and bend them back to shape, but it was a scare I could have done without.

In the morning we hopped in the truck and headed for Anchorage, that famous city only half an hour from Alaska.  This was to be the day we did the bookstores, the hobby shop and a couple other things.  So we did.  Title Wave has remodeled and rearranged quite a bit since my last visit, and though it's not quite the wonder it was when I first encountered it a few years ago, it's still worth the visit.  I dropped surprisingly little cash in there, finding a couple books about bush flying (gotta read up about next career, y'know), a book about the town of Whittier, and a deck of these, which are well worth the purchase.

After a quick lunch, it was off to PANC to do some looking at airplanes.  As we were about to drive beneath the approach to 14, we noticed a 747 on final.  My friend stopped the truck and we grabbed our cameras just in time to catch this monster screaming right over us.  Wow.

So we drove around a little more, and ended up parking and hiking up the hillside to the corner of the cargo ramp and 14-32.  (This is the same place the famous Tupolev incident took place.)  From there, you can get some rather stunning photos.  All I had was my little point-and-shoot, but even with it, I managed to do okay: 

And Everts even obliged us with a DC-6, which did a run-up in front of us, showing all the youngsters in the background how it's really done.

Then it was over to the other side of 14-32 and up on the hillside to catch the afternoon departures...

...and an arrival or two.

We also got another treat when one of Everts' C-46s, "Dumbo," came rumbling out.  There's no mistaking this one when she starts down the runway.

Soon, though, things turned into a parade of big brown airplanes, and when things all started to look the same, we took our leave.  We stopped in one of the local hobby shops for a little while, and then started out for home.  I gave hubby a quick phone call while we were in cell phone range and checked on things back home.  It had been a busy day, but fun.

Getting there

So I got up Tuesday morning of last week.  The usual "here I go" stuff was already chewing on me, all the angst and a little bit of guilt about leaving the boys at home, being so far away for so long.  I did my morning stuff and took my leave a little before noon.  Traffic was calm, at least until I got near the city.  I drove to the airport, found a place for my car, secured everything, and went on in.

Things went easily enough at first.  I had checked in online and printed my boarding passes from home, so I could just go on through security. The TSA folks were very friendly that day, unlike the last time I went through there so many years ago.  I stopped off at a newsstand for a couple cold drinks and a snack.

That's when the "goofy" started.  The appointed time came and went; no airplane.  I started to get concerned, and could see the itinerary unraveling in a string of missed connections.  Finally, it arrived about half an hour late.  There had been weather problems.  Thankfully, they were able to hustle the turnaround and get us aboard quickly.

This was a weird departure for me.  The last time I'd gone down this runway, it was in an airplane I was piloting.  But that was three years ago.  This time, someone else was driving.  Anyway, we screamed aloft with no hiccups.  Once we were at altitude, I started giving the iPod and the Bose headset a good workout.  They worked very well indeed.  On we flew, over the Gulf of Mexico.  I could see fellow passengers craning their necks, trying to see if they could see oil down below us.  (What I did see at one point was a close-up view of one of JetBlue's more recent color schemes, as an A320 whizzed past just below us.)

Houston looked to be coming out of some weather.  We came on in and toddled to our gate.  We'd only lost about 20 minutes in total.  Be that as it may, I thought it would be wise to hustle on over to my next departure's concourse, so it was up the stairs, onto the shuttle train, and off.  Turns out that was wise.  As I was sprinting to the gate, they'd just commenced boarding.  I rapidly bought a bottle of Diet Coke for the flight (not helped, of course, by a slightly leisurely transaction in front of me) and waited.  Finally, it was time.

Continental's seat selection system threw me a curveball at first; if you want an "extra legroom" or exit row seat, those are held until 24 hours before the flight, and you buy that extra legroom when you check in.  I didn't like the idea, but I remembered the last time I'd been on a 757-300, I'd been crammed into a space for four hours, and hated it.  I popped for the very first row in coach, and it was money well spent.  No stowage in front of me, but that was no hassle, and I liked the lack of claustrophobia.  I had two very nice seatmates, too.  It wasn't a bad way to spend four hours.  I had my tunes, I had a good headset, I had something to drink (and they supplied us with something to eat on the plane), and I'd brought some things to work on.  It's four hours from Houston to Seattle, and last year it felt like a sentence.  This year, it wasn't bad at all.

We landed at Seattle, and the nice thing was, this flight continued on to Anchorage.  We had about an hour's layover, and we had the option of getting off the plane for a bit.  This was my immediate seatmate's destination, but the guy sitting in the aisle seat stayed in his seat and we talked for a minute.  I told him I was going to get out and stretch my legs, and asked him if he wanted anything while I was out. He said he didn't need anything, but thanks.  So I took my bag with me, went landside, used the bathroom and stopped off for a quick bite, and got a quick picture or two.

Then it was time to get back on board.  When I got back, the guy was gone.  I figured he'd gone out to do what I did.  A few minutes later, they closed the door and we were pushing back.  I had no seatmates.  I had the entire side of the plane to myself.  Better than first class!

We soon screamed aloft once again.  Climbout took us directly over Boeing Field and the Museum of Flight.  I looked down and cooed at Queenie, who's still as lovely as ever, as we flew over.

I'd brought a copy of John Henry Faulk's Fear on Trial to read on the flight.  I'd had it forever, but had never had time to read it.  It turned out to be an excellent traveling companion, and I finished it on this leg.  Most of the flight, I just stretched out and let the scenery crawl past, knowing that we were headed to a place I loved but had let lapse.  A couple hours into the flight, though, I started to get those old feelings back.  The wonder of it all started to get to me.  I punched up the song beloved by astronauts, "Southern Cross," on my iPod.  (The line "When you see the Southern Cross for the first time, you'll understand now why you came this way" -- always gets me.)  I could look out at our wing, at the big Rolls-Royce turbofan working away out there, at all the beauty beneath us, at the lovely evening sky, and it was perfect somehow.  The flight was great, the cabin was quiet, and life was indeed good.

Soon I looked out and the scenery was becoming familiar.  Then there was Turnagain Arm out there, the familiar esses of the Seward Highway I've traveled so many times.  The runways at Merrill Field out in the distance.  And then, out on its own corner, Anchorage International.  We descended, turned a dramatic base past Fire Island, and then came on in.  The 757-300 has seriously good brakes, as I was reminded after we landed.

So, there we were.  I was back in Alaska after three years.  I'd been told by my friend to call him once I was there, because the parking situation was goofy.  But, sure enough, there he was, standing in the terminal waiting for me.  There was some comedy as we struggled with a balky parking garage pre-pay unit that tried to eat my friend's ticket and cash, a situation that required the intervention of a couple of people and the completion of some paperwork.  (Isn't automation great at reducing the amount of human intervention and paperwork?  I didn't think so, either.)  Finally, we could depart.

Midnight had passed already, but, with it being summer in Alaska, it was still sort of bright out.  It's a measure of my innate sense for the place that it didn't disturb me any.  The midnight sun let me get a good look at everything I'd missed seeing for so long as we drove out of town.

Adventure was coming tomorrow.  For now, though, it was time to get rest.  This traveler was joyous, but weary, and a comfortable bed with warm blankets awaited.  Adventure could wait.

Back away

The other day I got drawn into something, and I started to get an idea.  Wouldn't this idea I had make a great book?

Few thoughts are more exciting, or more terrifying, to me.

I've had several book ideas.  At first, they're great.  There's an idea I've carried around for a book about a two-year stretch in auto racing history that carried with it a lot of tragedy and change.  Then there's this other idea, sort of an inside look at why people get involved in historic preservation.  Of course, first and foremost, and closest to being done, is adapting my dissertation into a book.  (That one's actually been shopped to a university press, and though the response was receptive, the outside readers made quite a few demands, and I need to get a history expert and a literature expert to help me out.  In the crush of things that need doing, that one's been shelved for the moment, although once I can convince/bribe/commandeer some people to help me, it may go back on the front burner.)

There's an excitement you feel when you get the idea for a project like this.  You think about all the possibilities, the places you could go to do research, and all that.  But once that initial buzz wears off, you realize what kind of commitment it is.  A ready, but imperfect, analogy is that it may be fun to think about having kids, and at first there's excitement and daydreams.  But then you think about morning sickness, 2 a.m. feedings, diapers...all the things that symbolize that it's yours, to keep and nurture, for good or ill, and there's no going back, so instead you decide to just stick with having a cat.  (Which, yes, there's 2 a.m. feedings there sometimes, and barfed hairballs and litter boxes to clean up, but it's more manageable, at least for me.  And you don't have to think about how to pay for a cat's college tuition, either.)

I'll think about this project, and perhaps it'll go somewhere.  It is a neat idea, and I think there's a lot that could be explored that's never been looked at, certainly from this perspective.  But I'll have to assess if it's possible, given my means.  And, more importantly, could I sustain the enthusiasm to see it through?  Or, as happens with too many of my projects or ideas, would I go strong out of the gate, only to have to put it aside?

I don't know.

Maybe not

There are times I wish I did creative things more openly, instead of just doing what I do as a hired gun.  For instance, there are times I wish I wrote novels, or performed music, or was some sort of great public thinker.  Something, somehow, where I created something and put it out for the public to enjoy -- and, not incidentally, collect a little money for it.

Then there are times I'm very glad I don't do that.  Why?  Because it's inevitable: be creative, and somebody will take what you do and use it in a way far removed from your intent.  Put something out there over which you've labored, something with deep personal significance, and chances are somebody will appropriate it for something that's far removed from what you want.  If you're a philosopher, people will appropriate your words in ways that would horrify you, or use whatever ambiguities they can find to make your words fit their intent. 

(Or if you've said something really witty or memorable, you can bet on it making its way into Bartlett's.  Then, from there, you'll find it being included in graduation speeches, Speech 101 speeches, political addresses, personal webpages, editorials...so on and so forth.  Every year when the new student government officers are installed, I start wondering to myself which awkwardly-inserted, overused quote from which overquoted historical personage will be cited in the new student body president's inaugural address.  Churchill?  JFK?  Yogi Berra?  It almost never fails.)

If you're a musician, you run the risk of someday finding a song that's deeply meaningful to you being used as the backing track to a nacho chip commercial.  (Especially if you didn't sew up control of the rights.  Lots of musicians have been stung by that one.)  Be a movie star, and 20 years after you're dead, your estate will sell the rights to your image to appear in a commercial for something. 

I put this stuff out here on this blog for fun.  Some of it may seem like good stuff, on occasion.  But let me assure you that the really primo stuff, I don't share on here.  That, I'm saving, and I'm very careful who I share it with.  Because I know what happens.  You put it out there, and you lose control over it.  I've seen it happen too many times.  I don't want it to happen to me.

Technologically spoiled

One of the neat things about my job is that it gives me access to a fast Internet connection.  At home, I'm at the mercy of dial-up on a 56k modem -- broadband out in the sticks will not be happening in my lifetime, according to the utility company, and satellite Internet is too pricey and too buggy for our tastes right now -- and the way my computer's configured, the call-waiting will knock me off the line if someone else calls.  (It's a pain in the rear, and I know I could disable it, but given that an important call could come in, I leave it be.) 

During the week, I remain relatively in touch with what's going on.  On the weekends, I fall out of step.  That has a good side, because I don't get addicted to the Internet and instead I log on every so often, check my mail, and fiddle around just enough.  About 20 minutes is enough for me most times.  At work, though, during the week, it can become hours.  There are websites I check at work because looking at them from home is just such a pain.

That cuts both ways, though.  There's one website I enjoy, a pop-culture website where the comments frequently get snarky.  I like to contribute a little snark every now and then, too.  But by the time I'm up in the morning, the snark's already in the hundreds of comments.  The other day I went to contribute to some snark, only to realize it'd started late on the previous Friday and it was already hundreds of posts deep.  Nothing like being late to the party, right?  So I held my fire.  (My contribution wasn't that funny, anyway, now that I think about it.)

I can't figure out whether I envy or hate people who are able to stay on the Web all the time.  On the other hand, it did mean I was able to get several books read that weekend, so I guess I'll take the richer life that way.

The drawbridge

Of late the literary recluse has been in the news: first with the passing of a certain Mr. Salinger, and then Calvin and Hobbes creator Bill Watterson granted a rare, if brief, e-mail interview to a Cleveland newspaper.  

Out of all this has come a good deal of commentary about why these creative men kept to themselves, why they didn't contribute more, what their motivations were, and so forth.  For years, people have tried to track them down.  We've heard from someone who used to help handle Salinger's mail, and those tales are interesting, to say the least.  And journalists have tried for years to track down Salinger and Watterson, sometimes ending up with regret afterward.

Some people can't figure out why these men, with their accomplishments, did what they did: why Salinger retreated into the castle with the moat around it, only letting down the drawbridge when he wanted to.  Or why, in relative youth and with Calvin and Hobbes still reliably funny and poignant, Watterson would call it quits and find bliss in anonymity.  Some of the comments on recent articles have been interesting, with people wishing these men had been more productive or been less publicity-shy, or you name it. 

But I can read these articles and completely understand why they didn't let the drawbridge down more than they did, and why they did things on their own terms.  Why, for instance, they used their creativity as they saw fit and refused to let others dictate how they should spend it.  I have no need to second-guess what they did, because I understand it.  And, to some degree, I envy their self-determination.  I've tried to emulate it to some extent. 

For so long, I took so many orders from other folks, and took on things I hated doing.  It was like an apprenticeship, yes, and I picked up many valuable skills and life lessons.  But I also realized that life was too short, and when I was able, there were certain things I wouldn't do again.  I also came to realize that a lot of things in life that somehow meant a good deal to some people weren't really that important to me. 

To a certain extent, I began strategizing for the day when I could have my own drawbridge.  And, to a certain extent, I have one.  I have a good job that pays the bills, and I now have enough seniority to be a little more selective in how I do my work.  I have a little bit of outside consulting work, but I'm very careful not to overextend myself there, and to only do things that I feel are worth it.  With work and with outside activities, I've gotten rid of a lot of things that didn't justify themselves.  As I've grown older, I've really come to appreciate the utility of the word "no."  I still pop up, but only when I feel it's worth it.  I'm not wealthy, but I don't need to be.  I'd rather be happy.  (As I've long said, I pray not for wealth, but for "just enough."  That "just enough" gives you what you need, but reminds you not to get complacent.)

It also fits in with the fatigue I have with letting others define me, or letting myself be defined by my surroundings.  For example, when I'm not at work, I don't like being considered a "professor," because that's not who I am outside the office or classroom, and I get tired when people throw it at me outside a professional context.  I don't like when people project their hopes, dreams, desires or ambitions on me, even when some of those things might be things I'd otherwise stand for.

A few years ago I began writing a novel (that has since, it thankfully appears, died a merciful death).  The protagonist was a young airline pilot who was caught up in a set of circumstances on a certain September morning, managed to resist the takeover of her aircraft, and landed the plane safely.  Against her hopes and wishes, she became a heroine.  And, out of this, her life became a nightmare because everybody wanted her to be something she didn't want to be.  They saw her as all these things, projected onto her a lot of things she didn't want or believe in.  She just wanted to be left alone to do her work and live her life, and it made folks upset that she didn't want to fill this role other folks created for her.  (It was probably a good thing this never got finished, as without really knowing it, I realized later I'd sort of unknowingly ripped off part of Convoy.)  In the end, she ended up moving to a little town in Alaska where nobody knew her except as another bush pilot, and she created her own new life and destiny, and had her own drawbridge.

I spent a lot of time, and put in a lot of effort, earning what I have now.  And, having spent so long and having dedicated myself to getting here, I'm wary when others want something of me.  Inevitably, I've learned, when you do that, they'll want more.  It becomes the old "if you give a mouse a cookie" deal all over again.  So that's why I'm wary.  I do my work, sure, but outside of my work, I like the ability I've earned to ration myself.  It's not that I'm misanthropic.  It's that I'm careful.  I like, for instance, that I basically write this blog because I like to, and if I get tired of it, I can walk away from it and it costs me nothing.  No endorsement deals, no tie-ins, nothing.  It's liberating, and it stays fun that way.  I like, for instance, that most of the projects I do outside work are for myself.  If I'm building something and it doesn't come along to my satisfaction, I can shelve it and not worry about it because I'm my own client.  That's awfully nice.

I like it this way.  And I've worked to get to the point where I can enjoy it.  So, while other people wonder why Salinger and Watterson turned "reclusive," I can look at those two and say "Right on, brothers."  Because I get it.

Under review

If I could step out of my reluctance to stick my head out a little in this life, there's several things I'd love to do.  One is that I'd love to submit product reviews to shopping websites.  Not just any reviews, mind you, but really interesting reviews.  Examples: some for an especially good duplex socket, and these for a Family Circus collection. (Hat tip to the always wonderful Warren for the first link.)

Why we fight

Yesterday was Pearl Harbor Day, and as part of a Frank Capra marathon Turner Classic Movies was showing several of the Why We Fight films.  As some of you know, the War Department asked Capra to make the Why We Fight series as a crash course for new recruits during World War II.  It was figured new inductees didn't have the detailed knowledge behind why the United States was at war, so Why We Fight was meant to inform and motivate.

I've often talked about the Why We Fight films in some of my classes, but I'd never really sat down to watch any of them, so I watched War Comes to America.  I have to confess, I wasn't prepared for how powerful they were.  Capra's style of filmmaking -- the triumph of the decent, honest, upstanding little guy against all odds -- is well-known, and applied to the story of good vs. evil on a global scale, it's powerful.

Capra's films are often derided as "Capra-corn" because they have this quaint, almost naive faith in decency and in things working out in the end.  Life, of course, is seldom like that.  (I've found my own life is far from Capra-esque.  It's more like something Preston Sturges would have made.)  All that said, I can still get choked up by a good piece of Capra's work, and that's what worked on me as I watched last night.  Capra's idealized retelling of American history really got to me, and there's a reason.

I was a bookish kid who spent so much of my childhood reading biographies of historical figures.  To me, history was full of great heroes.  The libraries of my schools had these 200-page biographies of great Americans, written for schoolchildren, and I'd constantly have one of those checked out.  They were the stories of great leaders who rose from ordinary childhoods.  I could sympathize with the stories I read.  Henry Ford, the endless tinkerer whose father called his first automobile a fool contraption.  Young, weak, asthmatic Theodore Roosevelt being bullied by older and stronger kids, only to grow up and become President.  I read these books, and they were the stories of people who seemed no more special than I was, going on to do great things, fighting great battles and make history. 

I almost envisioned history as this sort of Camelot, full of these great figures who rose from simple beginnings and overcame the obstacles of life to become noble warriors who fought great battles.  As I grew older, I graduated from the junior biographies to books like Walter Lord's Day of Infamy and A Night to Remember, narrative history as a series of vignettes, and was captivated by those almost innocent images, almost straight from a Johnny Horton song.

Of course, I grew older and wiser, and I found things out.  Every great historical figure has a dark side.  I held American presidents high on a pedestal, only to learn as I grew older just what goes into attaining and maintaining office, and to learn that every President and every public figure had lesser qualities.  There's the line attributed to Pappy Boyington: "Show me a hero, and I'll show you a bum."  Having grown from an enthusiast to a trained historian, I know exactly what he's talking about.

Still, I see certain things in history, or from history, and I choke up a little.  I can watch Howard Hawks' Sergeant York, for instance, and though in some ways it's a very corny movie, oh, how it drills right to that part of my heart: the day is saved by a quiet hero who does the right thing when the moment comes to act, because it's the right thing to do.  It's the same chill that went up my spine when I visited Queenie a few months back: The cynical, grown-up me knows all the dirty political stuff that likely took place on board (and about her planned role as spy aircraft), but the more innocent part of me absolutely reveres that aircraft because I read stories of her in books when I was younger, and I know about all the history she made, and it absolutely humbled me to be aboard. 

The cynical, grown-up me knows the stories are a little corny.  But the seven-year-old me, nose in a book, doesn't need it explained to her.