My First Year in Alaska, Wes Warner - Part 3

The Christmas of 1967 was especially difficult for Wes. He told me that he had married the prettiest girl in school, thought it was a happy union, but surprisingly found it to be illusion. He dropped everything and came to Alaska after they broke up. One morose evening he told me that he considered his life to be over. That thought proved to be false; life had just taken a new direction for him.

 Bill Smith, Tim, & Wes Warner, Big Lake, AK, Septermer, 1967
Four of us had driven north to Big Lake the preceding September. That had been the extent of our exploration till May when Wes and I took an impromptu trip to Homer and Kachemak Bay. During the summer we tried our hand at fishing, but often found the streams to be “sterile” - our way of justifying fishless returns. We had yet to learn the ways of fishing in Alaska; that waters could be full of fish at certain times of the year and empty at others.

    

Wes Warner fishing the Sisitna River, AK 1968

One weekend, while fishing down on the Kenai, we decided to try the Lower Russian Lake. We’d heard that it had some nice Rainbow trout. It was a bit late on a Sunday afternoon, after another fruitless day without fish. We started up the three mile-long trail with nothing but fishing poles in hand. I don‘t remember much about the trek other than it was a nice sunny day, and we walked along at a brisk pace. It probably took a hour to walk in; we fished for no more than an hour, and then walked back out - shows how determined and desperate fishermen can get.

Joe Buckingham with Pink Salmon on the Sussitna River, Ak, 1968

Mom and Dad drove the Alcan the following summer, 1968. They arrived in mid -June and stayed several weeks. We flew up to Kotzebue and Nome on Alaska Airlines during the Solstice. Mom and I were having a beer at the local saloon in Nome when I went out to take a photo of Main Street at midnight. Later the three of us walked an ice field at Portage Glacier, drove a very rough road to Lake Louise, and then fished for Red Salmon on the Russian River. They had a memorable time, and reluctantly headed back in July.

Mom and Dad at signpost in Nome, AK, 1968

Dad and Mom left their small travel trailer with me to sell as they did not wish to tow it back to Indiana. I sold it to a couple, that had just arrived in Alaska. I remember they were in their forties, had just obtain jobs in the boom town of Kenai, and were excited about starting a new life. The price was $900 dollars, they paid $300 down and were to make two monthly payments of equal size. The next payment did not arrive as promised, so I had to drive down to Kenai to look them up. I found his wife working as a waitress in a popular bar, and she went and got him. His arm was in a cast. He had a accident shortly after beginning work, and they were up against it. The trailer was in a local park, and his mother was living with them.

Mom and Dad on Snow field, Poertage Glazier, 1968

Dad with Red Salmon catch, Kenia Peninsula, AK, 1968

Mom with her first Red Salmon, Russian River, AK, 1968

I had borrowed Bill Smith’s truck and driven the hundred and sixty miles to Kenai thinking I might be taking it back with me, but I didn’t have the heart to put them in the street. I had a potential sale lined up with a contractor in Anchorage, but told the guy I didn’t want to do that if he would make the two final installments. I gave him another month. I did not tell him I was heading back to Indiana in a couple weeks. Both payments arrived on time.
GO TO: Buying a House and other adventrues with Wes, Part 4

Seldovia on Memorial Day Weekend, 1975

Four of us stayed at the end of the Homer Spit in Land’s End bunkhouse Friday night while awaiting our Memorial holiday adventure to Seldovia. Two guys from Kodiak joined Dan and I on the excursion. Roger was an old friend of Dan. The other’s name has escaped me. The three had purchased property in Seldovia, and wanted to walk over and inspect their new acquisition. They had bought about 25 acres on the Slough near town. Each had a two acre lot on the water, and the rest of the property, laying adjacent to the lots and climbing to the top of a hill behind, was held jointly by the three. So we had a two part objective. The other - to retrieve our fishing gear from Yukon Island, where we had stashed it a week earlier

This time out the waves were not so big, the wind not so calm. Calm seas usually occur in early morning or late evening. In between, as the day bores on, the sun warms the air, and starts it to moving. High winds and high tides go together. We were in a high tide cycle that weekend, and higher winds were definitely with us - choppy seas rocked the boat as we rounded the Spit and headed for Yukon Island. A gentle morning breeze pushed two and three foots waves at us, a little spray portended heavier stuff to come.

The four of us, big deckhands, quickly hustled the gear off Yukon, and directed the skiff into the Eldred Passage, running parallel to and just off the island‘s shore. We decide to stop for a break, though it escapes me as to why. Maybe it was for lunch, maybe we wanted to do some clamming, or maybe the weather was picking up. I no longer remember, but we put to shore on either Yukon or Hesketh.

We spent a couple hours on the island. The first thing we discovered was that none of us had thought to bring food. There wasn’t a candy bar between us, and we were all prepared to dine. Nothing! Dan had brought some old frozen fish to use as bait. Roger and his buddy stuck pieces on the end of a stick and tried roasting them over the campfire; can’t remember if any were consumed; don’t recall any accolades about the seafood cuisine.

Dan and I retrieved our fishing poles and used an old fish to try an catch a fresh one. No fish, but we were flabbergasted to land a small King Crab. Its legs probably measured a two feet span. We broke the leg joints into pieces small enough to fit into a like-sized pan, and suspended it over the fire. There was enough to provide four modest meals. No butter! I did not know King Crab were in the bay, and never heard of anyone catching them before or after.

Entrance to Seldovia Bay

We made it to Seldovia without further incident, but I can’t tell much about that visit as memories of it have merged with hundreds of later ones. We probably ate at the Seldovia Lodge. We did slept on Dan’s land, on bare ground, with sleeping bags laid on plastic sheeting with other piece draped over us - tent like. In the morning we probably returned for breakfast at the Seldovia Lodge and then set sail for home.

Seldovai Boat Harbour

The passage out of Seldovia Bay proved easy. We rounded Seldovia Point, Barber Point, passed McDonald Spit, and tacked into the Eldred Passage without much trouble. When we came to the end of Yukon Island and started across the open bay, the boat began to ship water. Wind knocked the top off waves and sent a continual spray into the boat. Within a short interval there was several inches of salt water sloshing around in the bottom. I grabbed a coffee can we used for bailing and started scooping water over the side. Two buckets of clams sat in the bilge, and before long the two Kodiak guys dumped the clams to the side and started bailing. We were able to keep up but decided the wiser move would be to turn back, find shelter, and wait out the wind for a few hours.

Crab boats in Seldovia Harbour

Dan directed the skiff onto the leeward side of a small peninsula projecting into the bay. It lay almost due south and about four miles off the tip of the Homer Spit. We beached the boat, water logged, and clothes soaked through, but happy to be on dry land. Roger built a fire, while the rest of us finished bailing the boat, and restoring the clams to their buckets.

The peninsula was narrow, jutting out a hundred yards from the mainland. A homestead sat at the junction of land with smoke flowing from its chimney. Before long three or four left the cabin and headed out the peninsula toward us. The men arrived well armed. They carried rifles and at least two had holstered revolvers strapped to their side. They wanted to know our intention. Why were we camping on private property?

We apologized for trespassing, and explained our dilemma; that we were returning from Seldovia and thought it prudent to wait out a dangerous sea. We told them we were four harmless seafarers temporarily cast upon their shore - two teachers and two Alaska Fish and Game biologist taking refuge from the storm. They accepted our explanation and withdrew. A short time later they sent am unarmed emissary to invite us to share their Memorial Day dinner. We thanked them for their gracious invitation and ask when they should expect our presence.

We four tidied up as much as possible (combed out hair), and preceded, single file, down the path to the house. After introductions to maybe a dozen people, adults and children, we were all seated at a very long table to share a pleasant dinner - fried chicken wings being the main entrée. The unusual offering was pickled kelp, that tasted like…pickles.

Before leaving we had a chance to return their gracious hospitality. Upon stepping from the house we noticed the owner was in the act of removing debris from a nearby area, and were told the place use to be a fox farm. Fox farms were found all over the Bay in the 1930s and 40s - a major industry of the region. The fox cages had to be wired on all sides, including the bottom, to keep them from digging out. Now they wanted to put in a garden but found that old chicken fencing lay beneath the ground and was matted in the sod, nearly impossible to dig out.

We took long coils of rope, laced them through the fencing at strategic points and harnessed them to two teams of pullers. Like plow horses, we strained against the buried obstacle, broke it loose, and rolled the ancient fencing out of its shallow grave. Half hour later we were walking single file back down the path to the boat and heading toward Homer over a moderate sea.

Homer and Kachemak Bay, First Visit in 1968, Part 2

The remaining drive to Homer proved uneventful. We marveled at the beautiful grassy meadows that topped the sloughing bluffs along the coast, at the sight of the Redoubt and Iliamna volcanoes standing tall across Cook Inlet. We were impressed by the giant fragments of ice floes that had been stranded on the mud flats by the receding tides, some the size of trucks.
We took the main drag, Pioneer Street, through downtown Homer because the by-pass swinging south of there didn‘t exist, so we did not see some major landmarks along that stretch - Alaska Island & Ocean Visitors Center, the Carrs/Safeway store, the U.S. Post Office, McDonalds - all lay in the future.

East End Road is a paved highway offering sweeping views of Kachemak Bay for most of the twenty plus miles it runs along the high ground overlooking the bay. It was not like that in 1968. The road disappeared in a mud rut a mile or two east of town. Wes and I did not explore that feature. Its “cow pasture” attribute was left for us to discover a couple years later.

We went straight through town and headed out the long, narrow sand bar known as the Homer Spit. The Spit is one of the longest in the world, stretching four and a half miles into the Bay. Its not very wide, sometimes no more than the road, and its elevation above sea level allows big storm waves to crest over it at some spots.

In 1968 the Spit could claim a few facilities: the small boat harbor; the Whitney-Fidalgo Cannery; a couple restaurants; the Alaska Ferry dock; and located at the very tip, Lands End Hotel - but not much more. There use to be more to the Spit, a copse of trees in one area for example, but the Good Friday Earthquake of 1964 lowered the whole region by about six feet, and a portion of it now resides in Neptune’s domain.

Four years had passed, but we could still see evidence of the quake’s reshaping of the land. There were buildings along Turnagain Arm, near Girdwood and Portage that sat on land now invaded by tidewater. Standing forests of dead trees offered further evidence. Some of the bridges on the highway were still doing temporary duty awaiting new construction.

It was a bit early in the season for the annual invasion of the “Spit Rats”. That is the term applied to the young, mainly college age summer adventurers that descended on the Spit every year. Many worked the cannery, some found fishing jobs. They camped in make-shift housing: tents, drift wood shelters, etc, wherever there was an unclaimed few feet on the Spit. By mid-summer the spit would be overrun with rat’s nests. It was a free-wheeling time, and when shrimp were present, the Ferry Dock would be loaded with people lowering homemade nets and then quickly raising them full of the wiggling crustaceans. An ice chest could be filled in an afternoon. You can’t even go out on the dock any more.

The Rats were driven from the Spit years ago, and it was gradually commercialized. Expensive condos now block the view of the far shore mountains, and there are numerous piers aligned along both sides, crowded with shops that offer a variety of products: tours of the bay, fishing charters, souvenirs, art, and food - everything that a tourist might covet. Some days, especially during high tide, when there are so many parked vehicles, and people milling around, one has the sensation it’s sinking.

Wes and I explored the Homer Spit, walked the docks looking at the fishing boats, ate dinner at the nearby Porpoise Room, and then started the long drive back to Anchorage.
THE END

Homer and Kachemak Bay. First Visit in 1968, Part 1

The first time I visited Homer, Alaska on Kachemak Bay was in early May of 1968. The trip was impromptu, the decision made after a Saturday night of bar hopping. Some might conclude the midnight adventure was nothing more than an impulsive, alcohol fueled piece of foolishness, but people of northern latitudes would recognize such an act with sympathetic understanding. Those who have endured a dark, seemingly endless winter, will appreciate the need that wells up when longer days and cloudless skies clearly register the impending spring; when cabin fever finally breaks, when the need to get outside, to do something, go anywhere, becomes overpowering.

So, Wes Warner and I were off on our first look at the Alaska that exists outside of Anchorage. Wes and I shared an apartment with two other guys. We had been friends since the previous September. He was a recent divorcee just arrived from Idaho, and I had pulled into the state over the ALCAN a couple months before.

I don’t remember why we arrived at a Homer destination, but were, never-the-less, driving through a moonlit night along Turnagain Arm, climbing the long incline onto Turnagain Pass, and going by landmarks that we would revisit hundreds of more times in the years to come. The road through the mountains was narrow and tortuous as it followed the contours of the land, but oil money, flowing from the North Slope, would eventually transform it to super-highway quality.

Fatigue replaced exuberance after three hours. Morning light showed behind us as we cleared the mountains and preceded through the “Kenai Burn”. We figured the fire had swept through the forest, maybe a year or two before, but were surprised to learn those white skeletons of dead trees, thousands of them, had been standing there for more than twenty years. I discovered at a later date that there were as many trees crisscrossed on the forest floor as were standing - obstacles, one after the other, to step and climb over.

I don’t remember Soldotna, partly because there wasn’t much there, a filling station, maybe a restaurant, but mainly because I’d dropped off to sleep with my head resting against the front passenger window. Wes, driving his little foreign car, bumped to an abrupt stop, and announced that we had just ran out of gas. I roused from slumber to see a “Y” intersection, of which I’m still trying to figure its location. He said the gas station in Soldotna, only a short way back, was closed and he had hoped to make it to the next one - where ever that may have been. I gallantly offered to stay with the car, and rolled into the more comfortable backseat as Wes took off down the road with a gas can in hand.
GO TO: Part 2

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 6, Part 14

Dan stood by Doug’s cycle talking to him. They were fifty feet from the stream. Doug twisted the throttle handle and surged forward. He bounded into the stream, but was seated, and not in full control when he reached the near side. The front wheel plowed into the bank, and then shot straight up, hanging in the air for a moment. The rear wheel skidded out from under, and the cycle went into the stream. The engine screamed and the spinning tire pin-wheeled a spray of water across the surface. Doug’s leg was trapped under the cycle and he flailed the water for the few seconds it took me to get to him and lift the vehicle off.

“Why didn’t you wait for me to help”, I asked?

“That damn Dan bet me I couldn’t make it alone”, Doug responded between clinched teeth.

“He won that one. You’re carrying too much weight, and its all on the back tire. You didn’t have much chance.”

Dan and Ed came trudging through the stream - wearing Cheshire grins.

“Didn’t make it, did you“, Dan goaded as he climbed the bank and headed on down the trail.

We got back to the trucks at eight that evening, all feeling relieved and a bit complacent at having gotten everything back. We elected Dan to cook the final meal. He won in a landslide victory garnering seventy-five percent of the votes. Being modest, he had refused to vote for himself, casting his ballot for Doug, the runner-up. He fried backstrap, combined it with several cans of chili, and declared he had created an original dish. “Hey, this is pretty good”, he said, half in surprise. “I think I’ll fix this for the family when I get home.”

“Don’t get carried away, they may get tired of it after four or five days”, Ed predicted.

“I can’t believe we’re done. All we got to do is drive home tomorrow.”

“Its been a good hunt - just six days. I still say we‘re crazy as hell though.”

“Yeah!”

”Lets do something else next year.”

“Yeah!”

“Okay!”

“We could take a float trip - pick up a moose close to shore.”

“Sure sorry we didn’t get to fish that lake though. I bet there are some nice trout in it.”

“We just didn’t have time.”.

“You know, if we came in a couple days earlier next year, we could fish and loaf around a little. You know, work on the cabin,, scout for moose, fish.”

That would be nice, a leisure day or two just to dink around.”

“Okay, lets do it.”

“Sounds good”.

“Sure.”

“Yeah.”

Post script: None of us ever made it back.

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 6, Part 13

Day Six

We slept in my Alaskan Camper that night, snuggled in our sleeping bags, while the propane stove ran most of the night. By morning our breaths had covered the windows with heavy frost. I got up first and went to the door.

“Christ all mighty” I said. “There’s six inches of snow out here.”

“You’re kidding!”

“If there’s six inches here, there may me two feet around the cabin.”

“I’m heading up now”, I said as I climbed into my pants and put on boots.

“What about breakfast“ Dan asked?”

“Haven’t got time - we may need the whole day.”

I brushed the snow off my cycle as Doug came out the door. He got his started with some difficulty, and we adjusted the carburetor. The four of us headed up the trail, but Dan and Ed soon fell behind and then disappeared as Doug and I went around a bend. We felt harried. If too much fell we would have to leave the cycles and walk to the cabin. We knew the snow would most likely melt, but there was a chance of getting up there and being snowed in. The sun came out, and we slogged through wet snow for awhile. Much of it melted before we went half way, but the trail turned muddy and slow. My cycle slipped out from under me. I got up, righted it, and kicked the starter lever several times before it caught.
A warm sunny day eventually emerged, and the snow melted completely by the time we reached the cabin. That which had made our adrenalin surge in the morning appeared to have been an overwrought reaction by afternoon. We felt mixed emotions - the high rush of facing dangerous challenges had diminished to a tranquil relief.
The remainder of the day mirrored that of yesterday - hard work and silence with only an occasional variation. We carried everything across the “big slide” by late afternoon. Dan and Ed started hiking the last three miles while Doug and I ferried loads back and forth to the trucks.
I passed the hikers on the last round, and then came to a small creek. It was about twenty feet wide and divided into two branches by a gravel bar. The trail dropped over the edge into the narrower channel, crossed the bar, and then plunged into the wider, deeper part of the stream.

I heard Doug coming up as I stopped at the edge to consider the crossing. I popped the clutch and shot over the edge. The water sprayed over my legs and hissed steam as it hit the exhaust. I raised off the seat as I approached the far shore, bent my legs, and gave a sharp upward jerk on the handle bars. The front tire rose slightly off the ground as I climbed the bank, but the rear wheel skidded to the left and the cycle began to fall from under me. I took my foot came off the peg, struck the ground with a sharp blow, and righted the cycle as I let off the throttle, bringing the machine to a stop. Wow! That was neat. I got off the cycle feeling like a Pro, and turned to see Dan standing next to Doug. They were looking in my direction, no doubt marveling at my expertise, but I knew it was just as likely I could be wallowing in the middle of the stream bed right then.
GO TO: Day 6, Part 14

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 5, Part 12

“We’ll have to build another travois”, Doug grumbled as we sat at the table.

“It will be faster if we don’t”, Ed replied.

“I agree”, Dan relented. “ It worked, but considering the time for building, loading and unloading, and only to cover six miles - that’s too short of a distance to bother with.”

“Doug and I can have several loads to the rock slide in the time it takes to build the thing“, I offered.

“Joe and I will ride in and get everything packed and floated across the corner of the lake”, Doug added. “By the time you walk in we should have things ready to go.”

“And let’s have a nice big breakfast in the morning - hot cakes; sausage and eggs“, Doug suggested. “That ought to keep us going the rest of the day.”

Ed and I glanced at one another, and then eyed the other two. We had done all the cooking. I was never the great hunter, had no eye for game - couldn‘t see a moose in the bush, and had no great skill with a rifle… so I was usually promoted to camp general - i.e. the cook. I can’t speak for Ed’s skills, but he seemed have been elevated to the same rank. We both knew what was expected of us.

“That sounds fine”, Ed said. “Which one of you is going to cook.”

“What does that matter”, Dan screeched, his voice raised a half-octave above normal.

“Well”, it seems you two are always coming up with these grandiose menus, but Ed and I are the ones to execute them. I think you two might just starve to death if we weren’t along”, I added.

“Now just a minute”, Doug put in. “I can cook, but you two do it much better. It seems a waste for me to cook”.

“Well, waste us for a change“, Ed shot back.

“I know you can cook, Doug, but I’m picking on him right now”, I said, turning to Dan. “Your wife tells me she has to put your socks out in the morning or you’ll go to school barefoot.”

“What’s that got to do with me not cooking”, his voice raising a full octave.

“I was just offering it as further evidence of your near helplessness when it comes to domestic necessities.

“Okay. I’ll cook breakfast tomorrow morning. How’s that? Will that satisfy you?”

Ed hunched smaller in his seat and shivered a little. “We may not survive this hunt yet.”

GO TO: Day 6, Part 13

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 5, Part 11

Day five

An inch of snow blanketed the ground the next morning. Doug took his camera and went outside in his boots and long johns. The rest of us took photos of him.

“It’s a shock to see snow this early. Its only August.”

“We’re in high country, and this is Alaska. We could wake to a foot of snow one of these mornings. I doubt that it would stay long, but it could give us a lot of misery.”

“It got cold last night. I nearly froze my fanny off. The coffee pot has an inch of ice. Lets get the stove lit and warm the place up a little.”

“How’s the meat doing. We don’t want it to freeze if we can help it.”

“It seems okay; firm but not frozen.”

We intended to transport the equipment and half the meat back to the trucks that day, and began by moving the cargo across a corner of the lake in the raft - a short cut to the trail. The snow had melted by the time the raft was unloaded.. Dan had a brain storm - to build a travois to drag behind the cycle.

“Well, it worked for the Indians; I don’t see why it won’t work for us”. Dan said in defense of his idea.

“We won’t know unless we try”, I added somewhat doubtfully, “If it has a weakness it will be in the horse. There will be a lot of weight on that back tire.”

Ed stood over by a stand of tall birch. “A couple of these ought to do for the shafts”, he called.
We felled the trees, trimmed branches and cut cross pieces. Once readied, an argument broke out as to the best method of construction. Dan and Ed favored one school while Doug and I spoke in opposition. The debate ended in disgruntled mumbling on our part while the other two went about finishing the job. Doug and I stood aside making snide remarks about inferior engineering, poor construction and impending disaster. This appeared to produce enough consternation on their part to give us a smug satisfaction.
Ed and I climbed on to simulate baggage. Doug drove the cycle while Dan walked be. We rambled over ruts and boulders of a rocky washout on our way to the baggage. The travois passed the test.

“Its gonna be slow, but I guess it’ll work, and we won’t have to carry much weight”, someone judged.

We loaded the meat onto the travois, Doug mounted the cycle again while Dan and Ed Walked beside. They each carried a light pack of about 30 pounds. I lowered a front shoulder into my pack, hoisted it onto my back, and then said, “I’ll ferry this to the ‘big slide’ and come back for one of your packs”. With that I popped the clutch, and started the three mile ride down the trail. The “big slide”, was a washout that swept out of the mountains and blasted a wide path as it twisted and turned through the narrow ravine. The slide was bone dry, but large boulders and uprooted trees told the story of repeated natural violence. It was the worse part of the trail - a half-mile of impassible terrain that snaked its way down the valley. Everything had to be carried over it, and a cycle was more hindrance than help. The travois lumbered along while I shuttled back and forth between the lake and slide. Once I had moved my loads to the slide I began packing them across. I took the first over on the cycle, left it there, and hiked back for another. Maneuvering around boulders on foot didn’t take as much time or energy. The others arrived shortly thereafter, and we carried the remainder to the other side, each laboring in silence. The cool weather and silent wilderness made for a comfortable drudgery in solo.

We followed the same plan on the other side. I shuttled stuff to the trucks while the three brought the travois. We were back in camp by eight that night, stored the meat in Doug’s camper, and crowded into mine.
GO TO: Day 5, Part 12

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 4, Part 10

“Let’s beat that Momma”, Ed growled as he picked up the pace.

The “war” lasted about ten minutes. We shot verbal salvos at him. He returned in kind. We took the lead but the trail deteriorated, nearly disappearing. The struggle settled into a one-sided race with the terrain at our disadvantage. We stumbled over rocks and fallen trees, waded through tangled bush, scrambled up one incline and shimmied down another. All the while, Doug nonchalantly steered the raft, even rowing in circles. We tried to pick up the pace, laughing as we tripped and fell. The raft pulled further ahead and we stopped to catch our breath, shaking fists in mock anger. Doug sneered back in scorn.

We returned to the cabin earlier than the previous night, feasted on moose again, relaxed, rehashed the last few days, and make plans. Doug figured it would take two more days to get everything back to the trucks. We decided he and I should ride the cycles. I offered mine to Ed but he demurred as he had never ridden.

“I don’t care what we do or how”, I said, “but let’s get started early. I don’t want to get caught on that trail after dark again - don’t know why we call it a trail anyway - half of it is stream bed, washouts, and rockslides.”

“That’s something…the way we got separated that first night”, Dan proclaimed.

“The hunt started out as a real downer”, Ed added.

“We tried to bring too much equipment. That was a big mistake”, Doug offered.

“That is for sure”, I said, remembering our lame attempt at packing. “Dan tied so much stuff onto the Honda 90 that it looked more like a peddlers wagon - pots and pans hanging and clanging - better than bells for warning against bears.”

“Yeah”, Dan said. “I didn’t get half mile when the load shifted, and half of it fell off.”

“I followed along picking up stuff for a hundred yards before rounding a bend and finding you with the dumped load”, I said.

“And then it occurred to us that you two should have been along by then“ Dan added, “so Joe went back to check.”

“Our cycle won’t start. We worked on it till nine o’clock without and luck. By then Joe felt that he should try to catch up with you. Ed and I decided to stay a the truck and walk in the next morning”, Doug recapped.

“I never ran into so many holes in my life”, I explained. My low beam was burnt out, so I couldn’t see the trail immediately in front of me. I was forever pulling the cycle out of things - ruts, or getting wedged between rocks - got flipped off a couple of times. I finally wised up, got off, and walked ahead to see the best way. I made three miles in two hours, and then I came across your cycle parked in a big rocky area. You were nowhere to be found, and I didn’t know what to think. I figured you had left the damn thing in frustration, and decided it would be faster to walk, so I left mine too”

“I made it to the cabin about two a.m.”, Dan said. “It was pitch dark and I didn’t have any light - spooky as hell. I lost the trail a dozen times - finally made it there by circling around the edge of the lake through that swamp.”

“I didn’t have a clue as to where the cabin was located, not with it being so dark”, I said. “I lost the trail. It ended suddenly and I couldn’t find where it took up. My flashlight was getting dim, so I decided to pitch my tent there… which was nowhere as far as I could tell. That was about two in the morning. It was cool that night and I didn’t have my sleeping bag, so I did a lot of shivering and kept nipping on a flask of brandy most of the night. The next morning I discovered the cabin was only a quarter-mile from the tent.”

GO TO: Day 5, Part 11

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 4, Part 9

“He's hurting, going slow and is some ways back.”

“Blisters?”

“Yeah! He’s real gimped up”

“I’ll go on and see if I can give him a hand”, I said.

Doug, a Los Angeles product, had been in Alaska for five years. He and his wife, Nancy, moved north immediately after graduating from college. Doug was medium height, with a stocky frame. He once told me that in high school he shaved his head, donned a tight fitting tee-shirt, an ear ring, and walked around with a raised eye brow in an attempt to imitate Mr. Clean. I had no trouble visualizing that particular impersonation. Doug taught history and coached wrestling at West Anchorage High; Nancy was at Turnagain Elementary.

We met as he limped up the last slope, head down, and sweat flowing over his temples. “Its all down hill in another few steps. You want me to take that pack? I’m fresh.”

“No. I can make it”, he stubbornly replied. “But your company is appreciated.”

“I think Doug ought to row back”, Ed opined as we lay along the grassy shoreline.

“Me too”, Dan added. “Besides, I don’t want to be in that damn thing when bottom breaks loose. By the way, can you swim Doug?”

We had heard stories about overloaded rafts, stories of hunters loosing everything when the bottom split open, dumping the contents into the blue. The image haunted us - of rifles, equipment, and nine bags of meat sinking into the depths.

Doug wrinkled his nose. “That raft’s gonna hold”, he snorted. Just make sure we get the meat tied to the sides so all the weight isn’t on bottom.”

He climbed in, got positioned, and we handed items to him. He tied the meat to the sides, and laid the rest of the equipment on top, carefully balancing things. When all was ready, we shoved him off and started down the trail.

We trotted over the first part, following an animal trail that paralleled the shore. Doug leisurely paddled the raft a few feet off shore. The wind was to his back so he was getting pushed toward the cabin, casually dipping an oar now-and-then to maintain course. Ten minutes later we coast runners became mockingly resentful.

“Look at that jackass - like he’s on a Sunday afternoon excursion”, Dan audibly grumbled.

“Hey, you silly bastard, can’t you row in a straight line”, I added through megaphone hands.

Doug paused long enough to raise a war flag in our direction - his finger.
GO TO: Day 4, Part 10

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 4, Part 8

We crossed the lake in half an hour, beached the boat, then started up the trail heading toward the big bull. We found Magpies flying around the carcass, feasting on scraps, but they were the only ones to have found it.

“They’ve crapped all over it - not good table manners. We stripped that side last night anyway, and they’re just picking the bones clean. We ought to get a lot of hamburger off the neck, and there is the inside backstrap.

“I don’t know how much is salvageable on the other side. He was lying in that muck and we couldn’t turn him.”

“There’s not a whole lot left - mostly rib meat. We might save some of it.”

It didn’t take long for the four of us to strip the moose bare, wrap sections in game cloths and drop them into gunny sacks. There were six heavy loads setting on the ground when we finished. We dropped four into backpacks, and then helped each other to shoulder the load. Ed slipped into his while sitting.

“Here! Give me a hand in helping Ed up. Hell! If one of us get separated and then falls he’ll just have to lay there till someone finds him.”

The return march commenced, a single file inching its way down hill toward the lake, each of us taking care to pick our step. The trail on the valley floor was good, weaving its way through the brush and around small ponds. We stopped about half way for a break. Overcast had replaced blue sky, and snow fell on higher elevations. We sat and watched the snow move down the mountain tops.

“Its in the trees now. You can see where its turning into rain; a line across there where the snow stops.”

“Its getting colder. Weird isn’t it. Yesterday it was warm and sunny - this morning too, and now its snowing like a son-of-a-bitch up there.”

“Yeah. And its been raining on us for the last fifteen minutes. Let’s get on our way. There’s still blue sky over the lake. Maybe this will pass over.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

We walked from under the storm by the time we reached the lake. Dan squatted and then fell on his pack. That seemed easy so the rest of us followed suit. I undid by shoulder straps, retrieved some candy and jerky, and tossed pieces to them. We laid back looking up into a broken sky.

“You know! I’m beginning to think we’re four crazy bastards. Here we are, busting our butts and enjoying every minute of it.”

“And we’re not even a third done. Its going to be a bitch carting this back to the trucks.”

“And the snow’s coming. That, I don’t like.”

“It seems a waste of time for all four of us to go back for the last two loads of this one”, I ventured. “I can’t handle the mountain - found that out yesterday. Going up is no problem, but I have no control on the way down. If you guys can get it off in a load each, I’ll bring in the those two.

“If we bone out some of the meat, we might be able to do it”, Dan said. “There would be three big loads though - eighty to a hundred pounds each. That’s quite a load for coming down a mountain.”

We a make a platform of driftwood for the meat, covered it with the inverted raft, and started up the trail taking light footed strides. Twenty minutes later I cut off to the left as the others angled toward the mountain.

I packed my loads to the lake by four pm. The others were not in sight so I inspected the raft, found two small slits, patched them. I then headed back up the path, meeting Dan and Ed about a half-mile in.

“Where’s Doug”, I ask?

GO TO: Day 4, Part 9

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 4, Part 7

Day Four

Doug sat on a log stool with a bare foot across his knee. “You got any of those big bandages left. Joe?”

”Three or four; How’s your blisters?”

“Look at this one - half dollar size, and bleeding. I wish I hadn’t bought these new boots. I wore them for a week - figured they’d be broke-in by now.”

“We’re all gimped up in some way”, I said. “Your blisters, my stiff leg, and Dan’s got a weak ankle from an earlier accident” I looked over at Ed. “Well Ed. What’s wrong with you?”

“Yeah! How come you ain’t hurt?”

“Hey now”, Ed screeched. “My Achilles’ tendon is sore; I can barely walk.”

“I knew he’d come up with something; couldn’t stand to be left out.”

“I just don’t complain like some people I know.”

“Poor Ed. The silent sufferer.”

“Ah crap. Let’s get out of here”, he said as he headed out the door.

Doug suggested we place one of the air mattresses in the bottom of the raft to help distribute the weight. The boat had a small leak, but we judged the repair could wait till evening. We cast off.

Crisp air and muted echoes of a silent morn cast its spell as we paddled the long axis of the glass smooth lake. I rowed while the others lounged with their backs pressed against the sides. No one said anything for a time, reluctant to break into the mood, but finally someone ventured, “This is the type of scene you see in travel magazines. Think of all the people who never get to see a sight like this.”

“Yes! But there’s more to it than just a photo. A photo can’t convey the other things you sense - the feel of it.”

“Alaska is like that. There is nothing more majestic when its sunny… nor more dismal when it rainy and overcast.”

“You guys sound like you’re making an ad for the local tourist bureau. Do you think this weather will hold?”

“Those clouds over there look like snow, and that’s where the weather has been coming from. We’re high enough - could get snow before we get out of here.”

“Which mountain did you get the small one on?”

“The one that’s off to the right. It slopes up a long way and then levels off - looks like it goes on up to the next higher peak, but its actually separate. The level spot is the top.”

“You shot it on the level spot?”

“Yeah! It rolled all the way down to the brush.”

“Then it rolled half way down the mountain. That must have been quite a sight.”

“Let’s hope the wind doesn’t come up before we head back.”

”Think we can get all the meat in the raft?”

“Yes, but three of us will have to walk along the shore. That won’t be too bad if we don’t have to carry anything.”

GO TO: Day 4, Part 8

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 3, Part 6

Once in the cabin Dan and I shed our wet clothes and lounged on built-in bunk beds while Doug stoked the fire, and Ed acted as camp cook. The small place, no bigger than fifteen feet square, was filled with our equipment - backpacks, tents, sleeping bags, rifles, etc., much of it, along with wet coats and clothes, was hanging on nails driven into the log walls.

“I’m glad we got this cabin“, I said. “I kept imaging that we’d get here, and find an army of hunters in and around it. We‘d have to stay in tents, and that wouldn’t be near as comfortable - wet and damp, no way to dry anything, no room to move around, no place to store stuff. - gives me chills just thinking about it.”

“I wonder what’s the story on this old place? How long do you think its been here?”

“Hard to tell, but the back wall is going to collapse before too many more years. I’ll bet there’s fifteen, maybe twenty feet of snow up here in the winter. The weight on this flat roof is probably what’s causing the building to cave in. And that gap between the roof and walls makes it nearly impossible to heat during cold weather.”

“Gosh, that backstrap smells good”, Doug interrupted. “Give me a chunk; I’m so hungry I could eat the ass-end of a skunk.”

“There’s a whole plate full”, Ed shot back. “Backstrap not skunk”

“Who’s got a fork?”

“We have only one and I’m cooking with it. Use your knife.”

“What the hell? You mean no one thought to bring silverware?”

“That’s right, one fork and two lousy spoons”.

“We seemed to have brought everything but the kitchen sink and silverware. We’ll probably starve to death amidst this abundance. Damn, the whole trip’s ruined.”

I was sitting on the edge of the bunk greedily gorging moose, and noticed that Dan had crawled into his sleeping bag and was snuggled down out-of-sight.

“I think we have lost Dan.”

“You guys can talk all night“, he said. “I’m going to sleep, and if a bear drops in to investigate the savory odors, then you guys will have to do the negotiating.”

“See you tomorrow”, three sang in unison.

“Think we can get the moose back here tomorrow, Joe?”

“With the four of us - easily, but it will take all day.”

"Its after midnight, we'd better turn in too."
GO TO: Day 4, Part 7

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 3, Part 5

I loaded about forty pounds of loose meat in my pack, and we started for the lake, two miles down the valley. Upon approaching the lake, we began feeling a light breeze in our face, and as we dropped over the last rise, descending to the shore, the full force of the wind hit us. The lake was a mass of whitecaps. It was two miles long, but narrow, and the wind was being funneled down it. The cabin was at the other end

We stood on the shore looking at the turbulent surf. Dan laid down on the bank. “To hell with it”, he said. “let’s crawl under the raft and stay here. I’m too tired to fight it.”

I was tired, but not nearly as bad-off as Dan. “No way! I’ll row home. We’ll hang close to the shore. We can make it - besides you row in circles most of the time anyway.”

“Well, I’ve only rowed a boat a couple times; there’s not that much water around Amarillo, Texas. You know what I mean?”

Dan’s favorite phrase, “You know what I mean?”. It was his attempt to accentuate a point, and after several years of running with him, I knew it was rhetorical, not requiring a response . “I would never have guessed it this morning“, I said. “I wasn’t sure which direction you were going most of the time.”

I launched the raft, turned it around, and backed it into shore for Dan. He stumbled off-balance into it, and landed full force in the bottom.

“Watch it or you’ll go through. That jaunt around the mountain did you in, didn’t it?”

“I’ve been beat ever since”, Dan said in a tired voice.

“I’ll stay close to shore. If it gets too rough we’ll pull up and stay there the night.”

It took an hour and a half to row the length of the lake. I would row up to the sheltered edge of a point and hold until the wind died, then hurry around the point and into the next cove. That way we did not catch as much spray, though our clothes became sodden anyway. Further down the lake the wind died a bit, and the rowing became easier.

Our two hunting partners, waiting at the water’s edge, stepped forward to help us land. Doug Jackson grabbed the bow line and pulled us onto shore a ways. “Its about time you guys got back; where in the hell you been anyway”, he asked?

“We’ve been hunting. We don’t quit in the middle of the afternoon like some guys.”

“We just got back an hour ago. Did you get anything?”

“Oh! We got two”, Dan answered casually. “How’did you do?”

“Well we got two too,” returned Ed Cerney in a superior tone.

“Christ! We’re in trouble”, Dan spit out as he slumped back into the raft.

”You didn’t really get two - did you?”

“Here, take this,” I said, as I heaved my pack to the front of the raft.

They lifted it to shore, opened it and looked inside.

“You really get two”, one of them said, stressing the “two“.

“Yea! Did you really get any?”

“No”, Ed answered ruefully. “I thought you were spoofing us.”

“We didn’t even see a cow”, Doug added.
GO TO: Day 3, Part 6

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 3, Part 4

We gathered the equipment and started down and across to the other side. Half hour later we were on the valley floor and stopped by a pond for water. I stepped into the water and sank the water bottle, holding it upright so water would pour in over its mouth. “Its brackish, I said. There’s green stuff floating and a bunch of little bugs running around on top. You got any halogen?”

“No, but I’m parched. Let’s wash our mouth out and find a stream later.”

Dan looked down the narrow valley toward the lake we crossed that morning. “I’ll head toward the lake, circle back and push him toward those alders. He’ll probably go through, and into that open spot on the right.”

“I’ll be at the top waiting for him”, I said. “Give me about fifteen minutes.”

I got to the top of the clearing, discovered an animal trail going through a narrow cut into an adjacent valley, and climbed high enough to cover both routes. Ten minutes later I heard a loud report, then another, and then a final one. I waited to be certain the moose was not coming my way and then began walking in that direction. I found Dan near bottom, walking up toward me.

“Where is the moose?” “Further down. He damn near ran over me. I started up through those alders, but decided I was getting nowhere, so I swung further to the left and came to this opening. No more than rounded those bushes when he bolted out from the right - not ten yards away. Surprised the hell out of me - I didn’t think I was even close to him. I hit him broadside - right in the lungs. He went down on his knees, but popped back up again, so I shot him again. He got up again, but was all wobbly and staggering. I thought I’d try to herd him down through the clearing - like Natives use to do with Caribou herds - but he turned up hill, so I put him out of his misery. Wonder why he didn’t run your direction?”

That line of alders covers a ditch. He couldn’t get into the clearing. He might have caught my scent too.”

“There he is, next to that little stream.”

“That’s convenient. I think he fell a little too close though; he’s laying in a soft spot with his rack buried in the mud - going to be hell to turn.”
Dan stood over the fallen animal with his hand resting on a velvet covered antler. “He’s a big one all right, and the rack isn’t so small either. Its about the same spread as the one I got last year. The base is a lot heavier though. It may not have its full growth; the tine are pretty blunt.”

“How big of a spread do you think it is?”

“About fifty-five inches; maybe sixty.”

“A lot of people would consider it sinful to leave the rack, but we’ve got too much to carry as it is. Lucky for us we’re not trophy hunters.”

“Yeah! Look at the bugs - it didn’t take long for them to find him.”

“They’re probably always with him, a regular entourage, like the sea gulls flying around the white whale in Moby Dick.”

“Let’s get busy. Its late already, and we still have a full day ahead of us.”

We worked till nearly 8:30 that evening. It took the two of us to drag the hind quarters to a nearby spruce and hang them from branches. Some meat remained on the carcass, but the animal was skinned and what remained would cool without problem. We were too tired to do more, and it was getting dark. We had to get back.

GO TO: Day 3, Part 5

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 3, Part3

Dan scrambled down the slope. He was into the ravine and half way to the moose in minutes, but I was having trouble. I tore my knee ligaments in a skiing accident the previous March, spent eight weeks in a cast, and couldn’t bend the knee more than ninety degrees. Going down was a lot harder that up. A quarter of a hour passed and I had made little progress. Dan was sitting on a large rock scanning the mountain slope across the valley. He lowered his binoculars and shouted, “Hurry and get down here. I just spotted another moose.”

I sat and began scooting down the mountain on the seat of my pants, controlling my descent by digging a heel in now and then. “This one is really big”, he said. “You can see his rack without binocs. He’s straight across and just below us - in the clearing to the left of that line of alders.”

“Yeah, I see him. He’s lying down. Isn’t that the luck - another moose, and we haven’t got the first gutted yet. What do you think we ought to do?”

“He’s not very high. We could get there in half and hour or so. Why don’t we gut this one and then go for him. We can come back later and finish here.”

“Okay. I hate climbing this mountain again though. I wish Doug and Ed were here.”

“We should have stuck together. I wonder how they’re doing in that other valley? If we get that one, and they harvest one or two we’re going to be in big trouble.”

“We must be four or five miles from the cabin.”

“At least. And its another six to the trucks. Even with two trail bikes we’d kill ourselves - lose a lot of meat too.”

We made our way to the fallen bull, dropped our packs, took out knives, and prepared for the messy job of field dressing. Its size surprised me. “He’s bigger than I thought. He looked dog-size rolling down the slope. And it looks like he needs some dental work: most of his teeth are busted out, and his antlers are gone. That seems to be the extent of the damage - at least that’s all that shows.”
Dan straightened and looked across the valley. “The big one is still there. He’s up browsing, but he’s staying put. Its late enough, he may bed down for the rest of the afternoon. Let’s do as much as we can, and keep an eye on him; if he starts moving, we’ll go after him.”

Dan and I gutted, skinned, and quartered the animal. We placed each quarter in a game bag, carried it over to some nearby alders and laid it across the branches. The limbs sagged as the meat floated above ground. Two hours went quickly by.

“What time is it?”

“About one. Where is the bull? I don’t see it.”

“Its moved down and into the brush. You can barely make it out. You wouldn’t see him if you didn’t know he was there.”

“Maybe our luck is changing. I was certain we’d get nothing but bone splintered and bloodshot meat from this one, but the broken rib was all the damage.”

“They got thick hides, and he was putting his winter coat on. I guess that cushioned the fall. Maybe all that bouncing tenderized the meat.”

GO TO: Day 3, Part 4

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 3, Part 2

Dan flopped down on the rocky slope, not bothering to take his pack off, still looking at the moose which had rolled halfway down the mountain. I dropped my pack, took out the water bottle and handed it to him. He took a sip and handed it back.

“I sure didn’t mean for that to happen”, he said. “He was balanced on the edge, and I figured I could shift him around so he would be easier to gut. It didn’t look that steep, but he started rolling and I wasn’t about to try and stop him”.
“Yeah. You’d be down there with him. How much hamburger do you thing we got?”

“Hell. He’s probably got every bone in his body smashed. Did you see him bounce just after he went in that ravine? He must have flew ten feet in the air.”

“No, he was out of sight by then. I bet he rolled five minutes; I didn’t think he was going to stop.”

“Well, at least we don’t have to tote what’s left off this mountain.”

“What happened to you?” Dan asked. “You hardly moved after we separated”.

“I hadn’t covered more than a hundred yards when the cow got up. She stood the whole time looking down the mountain in my direction. If I’d been another hundred yards to the right I could have gone on around. I finally laid down and enjoyed the view.”

“I’m beat. I went all the way to the backside of the peak. Its even steeper there. I got to within a few feet of the top and decided they weren’t there and circled back. Wish I’d gone over; it would have saved me a lot of trouble.”

“I saw you making your way back to this side, angling up toward the cow. She turned your way, and I’d swore you could have seen each other.”

“I didn’t see either one until the bull stood up.”

“That was some time later.”

"They were further away than I thought; my first shots hit in the rocks way below him. I finally aimed a couple feet over his back - shooting up hill makes a big difference.”

“Where’d you hit him?”

Dan hesitated a moment. “Gut Shot.”

“Oh!” I said, smiling. “It doesn’t matter anyway - not now.”

“No”, Dan said as he stood. “But we’d better get down there and check him out.”
GO TO: Day 3, Part 3

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 3, Part 1

Prelude: In 1972 I went moose hunting with three teacher friends. I wrote the story about it nearly forty years ago, shortly after the hunt, and then filed it away, not to look at it again till recently. I had forgotten much of the story, and can only attest that I wrote it with little embellishment. It seemed like a good story at the time.

Indian River lies about 60 miles north of Glennallen on the Tok Cut-off (250 miles north of Anchorage) . The Geological survey map shows an old trail or mining road at mile 74, about a mile south of the Nabesna Road turnoff. I think we followed that trail up the Ahtell Creek, past “The Dome” and then east to Long Lake - about twelve miles total. The story begins on the third day of the hunt.

Day Three of the Hunt

The moose rolled onto its back with legs folded against its body. It seemed it would stop, but gravity forced the roll and began the next. By the third, it was in full flight down the mountain; its head wheeling rhythmically back and forth, its legs shooting straight up, and then tucking neatly under. Sometimes it nearly stopped, but then would pick up speed and bounce high in the air. It was like watching a silent movie that alternated between running too fast and then too slow.

I stood off to the side watching its limp body descend until it rolled past and disappeared into a ravine. Looking up the mountain, I saw Dan Wilson standing at the pinnacle where the moose began its descent. His casual stance, with arms hanging loosely at his side, belied the emotions he must have been feeling.

After a while he picked up his rifle, shouldered it, and started down. I began traversing the slope, setting a course to intercept.We were well above timber, and though there were thin patches of alpine scattered about, most of the decaying peak was loose rock. The detritus shifted underfoot, rolling and settling with each step. It was steep, and after watching the moose’s fate, I had an appreciation of the hazards awaiting those who tread the earth too casually.

We had stalked the moose for three hours, following it to the top of the mountain, but now, as we worked our way toward one another, it seemed all had been in vain. This was the third day of a hunt which appeared to be more of a fiasco with each passing day.

Our camp, an abandon trapper’s cabin in the Mentasta Mountains, sat on the shore of beautiful Long Lake. It represented the high point of our outing. The cabin was twelve miles off the main road. The first three, passable with 4-wheel drive, deteriorated into a tortuous trail snaking up streams beds, and bumping over rock slides, and washouts.

It took two days to get the equipment to the cabin, and the first night had been the worse. Nothing had gone right, and now, as Dan and I groped our way toward one another, it appeared that nothing had changed.

GO TO: Day 3, Part 2

Another Time on the ALCAN - 11. Santa Fe, New Mexico

Wednesday, October 14, 2009 thru Saturday - Santa Fe, NM

Angie, her husband Steve, and daughter Angelica planned to arrive late afternoon, so Mary and I saw more sites that morning. Curiosity got the better of us, wanting to see what type of place Angie rented, so we headed toward the center, the old part of town, branched off Cerrillos onto Guadalupi Street, passed the Railyard District, crossed San Francisco Street, and then turned left onto narrow Park Street. Their place was a block down, a casita among a cluster small bungalows, older structures but nice. A number of B&Bs dotted the area along with residential and small businesses.
They arrived that evening, but we did not see them until Thursday morning when we met at their place for breakfast rolls. It was a sunny warm day so the five of us took an easy walk to the Central Plaza. Steve pushed a carriage for Angelica, for times when she tired of walking. The group stopped at the Blue Corn Restaurant for lunch.

Angelica had developed a fever and runny nose by Friday morning. All became concerned because recent cases of the Swine Flue had been reported in the area and people were still jittery about how virulent the strain might become. We spent most of that day at Angie and Steve’s, while Angelica recuperated.

All had a good time for the three days we were together. They came over to the trailer the next afternoon. Mary presented Angelica a large box of Legos that we had accumulated over a ten year span. She and Steve played with them on the picnic table. That evening found us back at their place. I parked the truck at a nearby shopping center as all places were filled by weekend casita renters. Steve and I walked over to retrieve it at ten that night. The front was dark as I went out the door and I was concentrating on unwrapping a miniature Almond Joy, too much so to give serious heed to my passage. I missed the final step, landing on hands and knees, mostly my knees. The candy bar was saved.

Another Time on the ALCAN - 10. Santa Fe, New Mexico

Tuesday, October 13 - Drove 70 Miles Today - South out of Taos on Highway 68, connecting with Highway 84 (again) at Espanola, and that took us into Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Santa Fe is one of the oldest cities in North America, and that helps explain its frustrating traffic pattern. All the early trails converged onto old Santa Fe like the spokes of a lop-sided wheel - the Old Pecos Trail and the Old Santa Fe Trail to name a couple. There is a myriad of other roads that add spokes to the wheel whose hub is the central Plaza of Old Santa Fe.

One of these spokes, maybe the busiest, is Cerrillos Road. We stayed at the Los Campos RV Park on Cerrillos. There are numerous shopping centers, stores and restaurants along the road, and it has great walk-ability as long as you’re content on staying on one side of the street - otherwise you’re taking your life in hand crossing six lanes of heavy traffic. One has to walk four or five blocks to cross at a light, or if driving, turn right before going left. The center of town is truly charming, but the rest of the city is much like any other.

We planned to meet Mary’s sister, Angie, and her family in Santa Fe. They were to get there Wednesday evening so we decided to stay in town for most of a week. Its not our inclination to pay for more than one day at a time as there is no financial advantage unless one commits for a whole week. It is difficult for us to commit to anything for more than a day - two is excruciating, and five is out-of-the-question. So, as usual, we dragged it out by paying for the first night, and then for two more, and then another two.
Within an hour we got the trailer parked, leveled, blocked, and the utilities hooked; after that we were free to enter battle with traffic on Cerrillos Road. Our first stop, only a block away, was Elder Grace, a fifty-five or older co-housing development. We had been interested in co-housing for several years, discovered Elder Grace on the Internet, and wanted to look it over. The facility had twenty-four one and two bedrooms units, all on one level. A nice community center completed the energy efficient construction. An arroyo bordered the property on the back side, and the landscaping was still being completed - half the units were for sale. Drove southeast of Santa Fe twenty miles to El Durado, a big development of large homes on larger lots. Too isolated.

GO TO: Part 11 - Santa fe, NM (continued)