I think I know what I did last summer, Part I: Convergence

Snow again. Does it have to come every year?

The white stuff fell first in early September, but we got a reprieve with above-freezing temps until late October.

But winter was inevitable, and yesterday morning the chill of -4 caused my limbs to shudder.

Not that I mind winter in Fairbanks. Already, folks on the street are a little bit nicer (Hey, that young man in a Gators shirt might not be a tourist after all!) and there’s this underlying sense that this town’s been faking it for the sake of appearances the past four months.

Don’t get me wrong. I love summer here. But with so much to do in such few days, the freedom of light and warmth almost becomes a burden. You can’t put fun things off to take care of the important things. Both must be done immediately or not done at all. The best most of us can do is squeeze trips and hikes in among work, chores and whatever sleep you can get during the sunny night.

If you’re broke and tired at the end of a Fairbanks summer, my best guess is that you did something right. That’s my case, and I feel satisfactorily accomplished.

Yet, there’s that nagging itch. Everything you did only makes you think of something you didn’t do.

I floated the upper Chena River three times and the Clearwater Delta River, but I only had one round of fly fishing and missed out on a three-day float through Chicken.

I drove to Valdez and Manley Hot Springs with James, but another summer went by without a trip to Dawson City or the Kenai Peninsula.

I hiked the Angel Rocks to Chena Hot Springs Trail and Granite Tors, yet the trails in Delta Junction were once again out of reach.

Yeah, rough times, huh? Guess you can’t do it all.

The main thing I’m proud of in the past few months is the 10 days I spent with my parents. They visited for two weeks around the summer solstice in late June.

The trip started off quite mellow. I showed them around Fairbanks, which fairly impressed my folks. Apparently, this blog makes Fairbanks sound like a desolate wasteland. Maybe that’s because I post mostly during winter.




Either way, they liked it. Here’s the highlights:

* I played nine holes from 10 p.m. to 12:30 a.m. on Fort Wainwright with my dad (the course was closed, and we played it for free). I forget the score. I remember landing a 3 wood shot 20 feet from the hole before three-putting for a bogey and the light of the sun setting over Birch Hill as we tried to find our drives from the No. 18 tee box.

* We went to the Midnight Sun Game. We found a baseball in the street (presumably from batting practice) as we approached the park, which we later marked with the date, game score and our signatures. We sat next to a middle-aged couple from Alabama and traded SEC barbs with them, though all five of us were united in telling the people standing on the dugout to sit down -- again and again.




* We drove to Chatanika and Angel Rocks and had drinks at the Big I (where dad played pull tabs, our version of scratch-off tickets) and the Boatel. We went to the Midnight Sun Festival and munched on kettle corn while watching a 3-on-3 basketball tournament.



The next morning, we hopped on a train to Denali National Park. The track cuts through the Nenana Gorge, one of my favorite sights from the Parks Highway that’s even more breathtaking from the train. This photo does it no justice.



At Denali, we met up with my friend Heidi, who won my folks over in about 3 seconds. Especially because she took us to see sled dogs.



A hiking guide at the park, she was awesome enough to give us a walking tour off the clock and tell me what plants were edible. I ate a lot during that walk.

The next day, we were up at the break of dawn (3:30 a.m.) to catch an eight-hour bus tour into the park. Luckily, we were on the right side of the bus, from where all the wildlife was easily visible. The people on the left were ticked.

It was a nice day, and Denali (aka Mount McKinley) was in clear sight the whole time. That’s rare, and we took advantage with loads of pictures. Most people who come to the park don’t get to see Denali, and if you’re one of the majority, feel free to cut and paste your head(s) over this:






We got better views of the mountains later, as we took a flying tour of the Alaska Range. I believe my initial reaction was mouthing the words “holy s---” to my mom as she snapped away with her telephoto lens.






We landed in Talkeetna and stayed there for two days. There’s not much in Talkeetna, but we found a startup brewery that served $3 pints of Alaska-made beers. That’s the best deal in the state. I can’t even get a Molson for less than $3.50 in Fairbanks.



Properly fueled, we tromped around the quaint little town, seeing some bald eagles as we strolled along a four-wheeler path along the railroad tracks.




The free time led mom and I to experiment with her tricked-out camera. We tried to find the best use for the wide-angle lens. This was my favorite:


We caught a train to Anchorage and grabbed a rental car to Girdwood, where we crashed at a nice little B&B and did some hiking.


The B&B owner told us of a nice, easy hike up Mount Alyeska. Her husband sometimes takes the hard way up, a path near the ski lift, which she called “completely crazy.” We wanted to take the easy way, but accidentally ended up being completely crazy. My legs were killing me, so I can’t imagine how my fiftysomething parents were faring.

There were many rests, including a conversation with a woman who casually talked about a black bear chasing tourists down the mountain a few days earlier; I’m glad we didn‘t know about that earlier.

Here we are at the top, tuckered and accomplished.




Later on, mom and I hoofed it to a hand-powered pulley bridge. I helped about five loads of people across before we went halfway out and back. It was a long way down to the river, and there was only metal grating between us and the drop. Freakin’ cool.



Dad’s got a bum leg, so he stayed behind after the uber-hike up Alyeska. He surprised us halfway back. “I figured I’d never get to see a hand bridge if I didn‘t do it now,” he said. Take note: That’s the spirit you should bring to Alaska.

On my final day, we drove to Whittier, where the only route is a one-way tunnel that is also used by trains. You have to enter and exit at scheduled times. We entered at 8:15 a.m.

From the docks at Whittier, we jumped aboard a six-person boat for Gerry Sanger’s Sound Eco Adventures, a daylong tour of wildlife and glaciers. It was a brisk, 60-degree day, and we got to see just about every checklist animal there was in Prince William Sound: otters, seals, humpback whales and bald eagles.



Gerry took us out to the terminal moraine of the Yale Glacier, a massive wall of ice that made violent noises as it receded in the summer sun. We saw several large, calving chunks crash into the water as we sipped coffee to combat the chill of the 36-degree water. We were a quarter-mile away from the glacier, but the moraine was so tall that it looked like we could touch it from the boat.



Hell yes.


I left that night on a flight from Anchorage. I could see Denali from the window. Still incredible.

Mom and dad continued, kayaking with an impromptu marriage proposal, bike riding with an impromptu moose, sampling more Alaska beer and other adventures. Ask them about it. It’s worth it.

The best part of my folks’ visit was that I got to combine both of my existences. For 10 days, my Florida life and my Alaska life were simply my life. Now, when I tell dad about how the greens stole 5 strokes from a nine-hole round, he can relate, and when I tell my mom that I’m heading north to Cleary Summit, she knows the way.

Something a-Brewin'

My calves are sore from hiking 11 miles. I'm sweltering in a house that doesn't have air conditioning or proper ventilation -- it only has heat and insulation -- because 85 degrees at 11 p.m. was not in the minds of the builders of my home nor those who funded its construction. I have to wake up at 8 a.m. to attend Native games.

I guess I've become a bit Alaskan -- maybe.

Then again, there are days when I could not feel more out of place. The days when I talk to the hunters, self-made adventurers and free spirits who roam this great land. I feel I'm not doing enough. I haven't seen the edge of the world; I just know what it looks like.

And that's fine. I can't shoot things, and I'm not much of a fisherman. I've gotten by with wits rather than grit, and I suppose thats just my way. Alaska's an outdoorsman's haven, an journeyman's requiem and a entrepreneur's gamble. I don't fit in any of these scenarios.

But there is one passion I can share with the people of this beautiful state: beer. Sweet, lip-smacking beer.

I dare say I've never tasted anything like the concoctions they brew up here. While most stray toward IPA-ish, alcohol-stingy bitterness to ward off winter's bite, there's brews for all palates.

Thusly inspired, I began brewing my own beer.



Thanks to some help from American Homebrewers Association gold medal-winner Geoff Hall and and Awsome Man (sic) Brian Martin, I'm on my third batch.

I began with some halfhearted online research an a quick perusal of prices and equipment at Gold Hill Liquor, the only homebrew supply store within 350 miles of Fairbanks. It's quaint shop in the hippie enclave of Ester, a few miles east of town. There I met Susan, proud extract brewer and wife of the head of Zymurgists Borealis -- the only brew club in the Interior.

Geoff pointed me in the right direction with some book suggestions, and Brian has supplied me with invaluable troubleshooting and esteem-building.



I believe I described my work best to Geoff at 4:42 a.m. via Facebook message:

Batch 1:

A kit brew that was supposed to replicate Newcastle, it came out too alcohol-ey for what I wanted a nut brown to be. Still, it got rave reviews from folks at our Memorial Day BBQ (called the Bob-O-Que after its host) and I've come to love it as a writer loves his dyslexic son. It's my first born, even if it was pre-packaged and can't-miss.

Plus, the kid can read better now. It's ripened well after a month and is best served warm in a huge glass. The mondo-sized mugs from Wal-Mart are a perfect vehicle.

Batch 2:

Another kit brew that said "Mexican cerveza" on the can, though everyone tells me that's redundant (they forget there's this lovely country named Spain and about two dozen other independent states that speak its language).

It was horrible 17 days after bottling. Way too sweet and a syrupy mouthfeel. Then I went on vacation with my parents. Upon return, the extra 10 days paid dividends. The flavors are milder and it's best when poured directly in the center of an upright glass.

As for the third, it will be ready in a few days. I'm teeming with anticipation.

It's not hard to find good beer up here, mostly because it costs $5 per pint at restaurants and bars. A cheapo beer like PBR is $3/pint, so you might as well get your money's worth. Thus, the supply of quality beers has met our demand.

It's a major part of why I'm proud to be an Alaskan -- even if I am a half-breed.

The docks of the boondocks

Ktsch!



My foot sunk, and there was snow in my shoe -- again.

I should know that even on May 28 this can happen.



I was halfway up Worthington Glacier on the north side of the Chugach Mountains, and about five minutes earlier, James and I realized that getting up was the easy part. We skidded, crawled and carefully stepped down the slope that provided three footholds: ice, loose rocks or both.

Hey, we weren't going to come this far if we didn't mean to have a little fun, right?

Two days earlier, James and I loaded up his Subaru -- the Jetta's gone, sniffle -- and made wake.



The destination: Valdez, with some detours.

You see, James has this goal to drive all of Alaska's major roadways. There's not that many, so it's pretty feasible. Instead of taking the "quick" way down, a paltry 362 miles down the Richardson Highway, we were going west first to take the entire Denali Highway and then head back on the Rich, thus killing two highways with one trip.

The Denali Highway doesn't need to exist, but I'm glad it does. There's a quicker way to cut from east to the west through Glennallen and there aren't any towns along the Denali Highway, so there's no commercial or governmental reason for it.

Once a trail that connected mines and their surrounding communities to the rest of the world, the road seems to have no other purpose than to get hunters, fishers and sightseers to the Alaska Range.

The choice to take the long way to Valdez was apparently the right one. It was the first time I'd ever been through the Tri-Valley area on a clear day.



More luck arrived in Cantwell as we found a Fairbanks-based racer who was brining his car home. I was taking a picture of his ride when I hear from behind me "Want to get one with you in it?"



Yes, yes I do.



Then it was off to the mostly gravel Denali Highway, 136 miles of slow going that you wouldn't want to blow through anyway.








We found a cool lodge along the way that just opened. The young man that was taking care of the place invited us in for coffee and we took in the view.




There was a more commercial establishment along the McClaren River. We didn't stop in, but we said hi to the bear outside.



Then came McClaren Summit, the second highest highway pass in Alaska. (We'd already been through the highest, Atigun Pass, on our way to Deadhorse.) It was about 4,000 feet up.





The road was surrounded by glacial features like kettle lakes and expansive riverbeds with just a trickle of a stream flowing through it. The most apparent glacial impressions on the ground were eskers, mounds of dirt and silt left behind when glaciers melt.



The road even swerved atop an esker for a stretch.



Then it was down the Rich to Valdez through Thompson Pass, which is famous for being so hard to keep clear during snowy months. It wasn't as tough a ride as I had expected, even at night.

Welcome to Valdez, where the sky isn't the limit because it doesn't exist.





Valdez -- in all its foggy, rainy splendor -- is a charming little port city that has, in true Alaska fashion, boomed and busted several times over. This is apparent to any visitor because the history of the town can be boiled down to three main events.

1) The creation of a road to Fairbanks. It took a long time to find a suitable route out of the embrace of the Chugach Range. Lots of folks died before Valdez could become a useful port city.

2) The earthquake of 1964. Basically, the town got wiped out and moved to a safer spot on the Port Valdez shores.

3)The Exxon-Valdez oil spill. The pipeline brought a boom to the city, then the tanker spill brought a cleanup effort that shot the city's population to about 10,000.

The sleepy fishing community is now about 5,000 people strong, has no stoplights and, even without crosswalks, I never had to yield to traffic when crossing the street. The only time Valdez gets packed is when the cruise ships drop off a batch of tourists for a few hours.

These things were discussed at length by our guide on a glacier cruise. I was half listening, half checking out all the animals like humpback whales ...



sea lions ...



puffin ...



and bald eagles.



There were some interesting ice floes and otters that I can't show you because my camera battery died. I was saving my last shot for the Columbia Glacier. Unfortunately, this is as close as we could get to it:



After hardly eating on the seven-hour cruise, James and I dove into a deep-dish pizza that carried an entire slaughterhouse of meat. We could only muster two slices apiece, and anyone who knows how I eat can attest that's an alarmingly low number of slices.

We washed the pizza down with some beers at the Landshark -- OK, so we pre-washed the pizza down with a few beers, too -- and crashed at the hotel.

On our way back, we got to see Keystone Canyon in the daylight.



There were some cool waterfalls with generic names like "Bridal Veil Falls" and "Horsetail Falls" because, well, guess what they looked like?



Then came Worthington Glacier. There's a gravel path that starts alongside the viewing area and takes you to the ice on a narrow hump of rocks and silt. When that ended, we kept going.




There was crevice that we couldn't see the bottom of. James dropped a pebble in, and we didn't hear it hit anything.



And well, you know how that ended. The hike kind of drained us, and we cruised through an unexpectedly scenic Richardson to Delta Junction. Though we did stop to check out probably the most fertile-looking valley I'd ever laid eyes upon.




All in all, a win.

I'm just glad to be home, where the speed limits are in multiples of five.

The yearly rediscovery of that weird, bright dot in the sky

As it so happens, 9 a.m. is a morning hour. An eat-your-oatmeal-and-read-the-news kind of hour. I forget this every year.

From mid-November through February, 9 a.m. seems more like 5 a.m. to me -- the time when no one arises natually. An hour to battle your alarm clock.

My late-night job doesn't help matters. Because I go to bed at 2:30 every morning, I really shouldn't be getting up so early. But up I am, with or without blackout curtains.

It's just more evidence to support that I am a creature of the sun's habits. I grew up walking barefoot to the beach. It's in my nature to be powered by warmth and light and such.

So March is always a fun month in Fairbanks. We're getting more than 13 hours of light now, and there's much to do.

The World Ice Art Championships came back. Here's the winner:

And the favorite in my heart:

James got the ingenious idea to make a King Kong sculpture look even bigger by taking a shot from the ground about 10 feet away. He had to lay in the snow to get this:

People were staring. We didn't care.

The ice park has tons of interactive sculptures, mazes and slides. They're aimed to amuse kids. That didn't stop us.

I waited in line with 5- to 11-year-old kids to go down a slide. One boy's mother accompanied him in line, shoved him off and turned around to exit the adult way. We caught eyes.

"I'm 9," I said with a smile. She quickly exited the slide, possibly to call the authorities.

I had a pretty fun wipeout at the bottom. It must have looked cool. People were concerned.

Can I get a "hell yeah" if you're as lost as I am

There were finally enough hours in the day to take a leisurely hike on the Granite Tors trail about 40 miles outside of town. I'm a heck of a lot better at driving on icy roads now, so getting out there wasn't a problem, unlike last time.

The local grizzlies haven't yet awaken from hibernation, I'm told, but since I was walking alone I wasn't going to chance surprising one. So I sang ... and sang ... and hummed ... and rambled to myself about life ... about death ... about the state of music ... about how much I was rambling.

I exasperated my entire mental Butch Walker catalogue before the going even got rough. Weezer went even quicker. Then Grand Buffet and Astronautilus. Later, pirate songs and Irish drinking tunes gave me a boost.

I was out there for seven hours, just long enough to get to a point where I couldn't find the trail anymore. Finding my way back wasn't a problem; my snowshoes left craters that would give a T-Rex flashbacks.

The first mile is a flat stroll that winds alongside the Chena River's north fork. 

Then it goes up a small hill that leads to a flat traverse to another, steeper uphill slope. This curiously painful cycle coninued four or five times.

This is where I thought I was as high as I could go:



And this is as high as I actually went, two hours later -- I was nearly atop the foothill:

In the quarter-mile between hills. I stopped for lunch -- munching on the cheap trail mix you can find in any airport's Hudson News. I love that stuff.

During the lunch break, I somehow found a cell phone signal. I called my mom, who was probably freaked out that I was hiking alone.

It was wonderfully silent. Several times, a king-bed-sized chunk of hard-packed snow would move under me and make a loud groaning sound. I nearly jumped out of my skin every time this happened. But mostly, I heard nothing -- other than my own voice, that is.

When I neared the top, I learned several ways to maneuver uphill in my snowshoes. Naturally pigeon-toed, I discovered the value of pointing your feet outward while climbing a hill. Also, lowering my center of gravity and clawing at the slope seemed to help at some junctures. I fell a few times, only once so awkwardly that I had to remove my snowshoes to get back up.

When I got back, I was bushed ...



... but happy.

The Wind Blows

Yes, that's a double entendre.

There's a trade-off that gives the frigid outpost of Fairbanks, Alaska, its ability to nestle a reasonably populated American enclave with modern sensibilities.

We take -40 degrees; everyone else takes precipitation and wind. Simple enough.

But you, silly Lower 48ers, you had to have that horrendous cold snap. I'm looking at you, New York, so now we have to endure some actual weather.

For the past few days, we've had about a foot of snow and a whipping breeze to add a little chap to the -10 degree temps. This is a "Hah! So What?" scenario in every other northern city. Not here. There are 50,000 Alaskans freaked out by snowfall right now. It makes no sense.

But enough of the weather. I'd've been outside if it were still the bad side of zero.

Got back on the snowshoeing trails.

My favorite aspect of March up here is the mass of snow atop everything that hasn't moved in five months. Here's a chair on the UAF West Campus trails.

You Conquest (Yukon Quest)

I also love this time of year because the Yukon Quest is back. It finished in Fairbanks this year, which was pretty cool to witness, even though it took some patience.

The end of a 1,000-mile sled dog race is difficult to time. Making matters worse is Eagle Summit -- the steepest and most dangerous traverse on the trail that is shortly followed by another climb, Rosebud Summit -- which is a little more than a day's trip from Fairbanks. The difference between a smooth run over Eagle Summit and one with a few problems can be as long as half a day.

So while it's cooler to catch the end of the race, the start is a bit more fun because, such as 2008's start in Fairbanks, the whole town comes -- on a Saturday with a set beginning time.

Case in point: James and I showed up at the Chena River finish line at 9:30 a.m. -- the frontrunner's earliest estimated finish. He was on a record pace, so we didn't want to miss it if he rewrote the books.

Then we waited, trotting up and down the Chena, keeping out eyes directed east.


Nothing.

I contemplated grabbing a cup of coffee about 10 times, each time resigning myself to the fact that the minute I left, the leader would come roaring 'round the bend.

Around 10:45, Sebastian Schnuelle arrived, early enough for the record.


He was followed by Hugh Neff about 10 minutes later:

Before I finish this part of the story, here's a pup:


Awwww. Next!

Epic Failure at Birch Lake

A buddy of mine who works in the press room, Mark, rented a public-use cabin on the frozen banks of Birch Lake.

It was booked well in advance. We had the cards. We had the beer. We had the guile. We had one heck of a view.


No one showed up, except us and Sam, a photographer, who stayed until 7:30. He had a friend arriving at the airport at 9.

So we took a cruise out on the lake and checked out the ice fishing huts.


And then we drank -- heavily -- and enjoyed the view -- groggily.


We awoke to a refreshing -20 degrees. My car started, somehow.

Make 'Em Say Uhh, Ne-na-na-na

I missed last year's Tripod Days in the tiny town of Nenana, but I wasn't going to skip out on something with my moniker twice. So Joe, Betsy and I cruised down in the Kia.


I don't know why I'm doing the Power Fist there. Just am. Maybe because it's a little bit less aggressive than the Projecting Strength pose. Maybe because I don't have to explain it 20 times a day. Maybe because my earlier Commando pose with Joe was epic enough and I didn't want to tip the balance of a nice day.


Anyhow, Tripod Days is a weekend festival surrounding the raising of a tripod on the Tanana River for the Nenana Ice Classic. The tripod holds a tripwire that's pulled when the ice on the river breaks. People across Alaska place wagers on the minute the wire is tripped (in standard time, not daylight saving, which confuses several people per year).

We walked into the festival. It was just a one-room deal with a bunch of beads and trinkets being sold around a dance floor. There were kids everywhere. Every-where.

It wasn't our scene, so we moseyed across the icy street to the Jester's Corner, where we planned to knock down a few cold ones until the potato race -- just to see what the hell a potato race is.

While tipping back a brew, the locals took kindly to us. One had a batch of moose chili that he couldn't submit for the contest. He was a few minutes too late. We were right on time for free helpings. Mmmm, delicious failure.

The people of Nenana are awesome. I wish it were near Fairbanks, but I guess the fact that it's an hour drive away from the city is what makes the folk so open to visitors. They invited us back. They asked us for weed. They asked if we played guitar (Joe does; I used to a long, long time ago), I said "kind of"and they offered to jam with us, right there at the bar. I didn't -- how do you jam when you know three chords and haven't played them since college?

We headed back to the festival two beers later. What a potato race turned out to be is the most frustrating game on the face of the frozen Earth.

Teams of two must make it back and forth across the dance floor with a potato wedged between their knees. One person crosses the floor and gives the potato to his or her partner, who goes the other way. Exchanging the potato is the ridiculously difficult part. You can't use your hands. Only one group succeeded exchanging and then dropped the potato on the return trip. Joe, Betsy and I giggled on the sidelines, knowing we couldn't do it ourselves.

There was a 40-mile sled dog race each day, which we didn't know was happening until we saw an unexpected dog team coming upriver.

But that was all hubbub leading up to the moment we scooted, slid and stomped across the river to watch the townspeople raise the tripod.

Here's what happens when one great Tripod meets another:

We clashed, but I allowed him to stand.

That's all my adventures as of late.

Grandma: Here's looking at you, kid.

Shifts in Luck & Breaking the Rule: Here's What Happened in Las Vegas.

You can call it Karma. I do.

The ups and downs of my second winter in Fairbanks are many, and that trend will probably continue.

I go to Las Vegas and leave $80 ahead, but my camera gets stolen a night before I leave.

I miss a week of -40 degree temperatures while in sunny Sin City, but I am sidelined two weeks (including a wonderful three-day stretch of 40 above temps) by bronchitis.

I delve in weekends of drunken revelry followed by limitless and delightful brunches, but it is incurred by a dear friend's departure -- Christi left for Cambodia.

I shoot a 45 at a virtual St. Andrews in the local golf simulator, but ... OK, I'm still waiting for that one to bite me back.

It didn't all start with my Vegas trip, but that's where I'm going to begin for lack of better inspiration.

After a surprise stop in Sonoma Valley, Calif., I landed in Vegas and cabbed it to the timeshare Russ and I would share for the next eight days. I arrived a day ahead of Russ and took the opportunity to do some last-minute grooming. Long story shortened: I cut my own hair these days. I screwed up this time. I had to trim my dome to why-not-just-shave-it-bald? levels and had to do the same with my beard (I'm NOT shaving it until the ice on the Chena River breaks).

I hit the Strip and got several complimentary beers, 15 extra bucks and a small cold from Excalibur, Luxor and Mandalay Bay. I discovered there was no open-container law and grabbed some call girl cards from the Hispanic fellows near Paris. Some waitress gives me attitude while serving me an $8 domestic beer, and I gave her a retort that would make a sailor giggle. All in all, success.

Russ arrives. We talk sports, constantly. Gators this. Redskins that. Bucs here. Capitals there. I wouldn't have it any other way. We watched out NFL teams crap out in their season finales and spent an easy night on the Strip before Russ' traveling finally caught up with his stamina.

The highlights are as follows: Hoover Dam; Blue Man Group; an amazing club called Pure where I swear Russ began melting after the third Captain & Coke; my small cold grows into a debilitating illness and my nightly choice becomes "booze or Day-Quil?"; I choose booze every night except New Year's Eve; on the final night of 2008, we watch extreme stunts and a nuclear explosion that turned out to be fireworks; Stratosphere scares the living hell outta me; and my camera got jacked while I was talking to an aggressively unengaging young lady named Miss Vietnam in a strip club. Can't complain, especially because I came out ahead on my gambling.

I doled out the most cash on sports betting. I was there for the New Year's Day bowl games, so I slapped a wager on each game and a few over-unders. My straight-up picks were poor, but I won all the over-unders. I was about 15 bucks behind because the sports books payout is about 90 percent of the original bet -- i.e. $37.62 for a $20 bet -- and I bought a $2 horseracing wager so that my drinks would be free. I never checked to see if my horse won.

My conservative odds playing was good for at least a $20 nightly profit from the slot machines, which made up for a crappy night at O'Shea's blackjack tables. The big bet that put me over the top was an $80 wager on the soon-to-be BCS champions.

Orange! ...

Wish I lived closer to Russ, the sun and towns where they talk for months about that one time it snowed.

This wish is brought to you by the number -49, which was the temperature when I arrived in Fairbanks. The jetway froze, and we weren't allowed to walk outside from the plane to the terminal. They fixed it, which let me and my fellow passengers the luxury of waiting in the lobby as they open the baggage compartment. It had frozen shut -- not uncommon, but quite annoying.

It had been below -35 for seven days by the time I had arrived in Fairbanks, and it would be seven more before the snap was over. Somehow, the Kia started the morning after I returned. It has never sounded so horrible. The ice fog and poor air quality from a town full of drivers leaving their vehicles running at the grocery store turned my cold into bronchitis. I stopped coughing about two days ago.

More later.



:-)

One-way ticket, yeah

I woke up Thursday morning and spied a neighbor who was checking out my Kia.



He didn't make an offer, but I think he left a pile of what he thought my car was worth somewhere near the driveway.

In summer, the photo ops don't come right to your front door, but that's OK. Getting there is more than half the fun.

Take, for example, the time James and I went to Circle (or as I like to call it "Yukon River 3: This Time It's Personal.")

Circle's a place where shooting at anyone disturbing your sleep is technically illegal but generally overlooked.



The town itself, well, it sucked. There was a kindly couple who ran the local grocery store/gas station/phonebooth. I used a washeteria for the first time (the only spot in town with running water; it's like the prison bathrooms in Riki-Oh: "You can take a (expletive); you can wash your clothes; just do it all in 15 minutes.")

Other than that, the most interesting aspect of Circle was a huge wooden lodge on the banks if the Yukon. It was supposed to be a resort that would pump money into this desolate town of 90 or so redsidents. Instead, its funding was tied to some sort of political scandal, and the lodge, without any wiring or plumbing, was left to rot and sits for sale with a beutiful view of the river.

Just like the Deadhorse trip, the final 40 percent of the drive was seemingly endless. It was like the worlds longest bushwhacked driveway: 100 miles of soft dirt, sharp turns and barely anything to look at.

Before that, though, there was plenty to see and do.








We hit up some spots we recognized along the Yukon Quest such as Eagle Summit, Twelvemile Summit and the steakouse in Central, which has the best steaks in 100 miles -- but that's like being the hottest chick in Deadhorse.

We saw an old gold dredge.



And forged a stream ...



So we could get to a sign that anyone in Alaska should read.



Ah yes, the Adventure Zone. We entered it again in September when James won the right to drive on the Denali Highway. There's a lottery that about 2,000 people win per year to be allowed to do this. James won. We hopped in the Jetta again.

Christi came along.



An amazing feature of Denali is the glacier-made valleys. From afar, they look like enormous rivers, though they're just a long row of anti-scorched earth, ravaged smooth by ice.




We saw Mount McKinley through a light fog. Our cameras didn't.



Oh well, looks like we'll just have to come back.





By the way, the Jetta, our toughest travel companion, took a bit of a bruising when James was driving to Skagway recently. The beloved red one was taken to Whitehorse, where it remains critical condition. I will be pouring a sip of my next beer out to honor my homie VW. I ask you to do the same.