Wildflower Extravaganza

 The late spring and cool summer we're having isn't much appreciated by humans, but the wildflowers love it.   These are some photos from Turnagain Pass.

The Self-Appointed Sheriff of Tern Lake

I live quite near Tern Lake and spend many hours there during the summer, watching the varied bird life and kayaking in its little coves and around its many islands.

SATURDAY EVENING:

This time of year, I watch a pair of trumpeter swans who moved onto Tern Lake and made it their home. I am expecting their eggs to hatch at any time, and pay close attention to them when I'm on my way to and from picking up litter farther up the Seward highway.

On this day, I was on my way home from cleaning up litter and was horrified to see three kayaks very near the swan's nest.

They ignored my yelling at them to move away from the swan. I started taking photos, not to shame them, but to report them in case something awful happened with the swans. With the nest abandoned, every bald eagle and gull on the lake could have cygnets for dinner.

I stopped and yelled at them to move away from the swan. No reaction, but the swan was already frightened and swimming away from the kayaks, dipping her head and honking all the time--a sign of high stress.

I kept yelling. Two kayaks went right behind the nest and the third passed in front of it, then stopped. And took selfies!!!

The poor swan is trying to get back to her nest and this girl is sitting there taking selfies! I didn't cuss at her, but I might have said a few choice words sotto voce.

She is very nervous, moving about the nest, checking everything to make sure it's safe to go back to it.   The nest is the brown pile to the left behind her.

When I was sure the women weren't going to return to the nest, and when the swan was--nervously--back on the nest--I drove around the lake to explain to the women why I was yelling at them.

I introduced myself, explained that I have become very protective of the swans.

"We weren't that close," said one.

"The swan thought you were. She abandoned the nest at a time when her eggs might have hatched and there are cygnets in the nest. I am surprised that every gull on the lake wasn't over there taking the eggs or cygnets."

I asked her to please explain to her friends why I yelled and to please stay far away from swans when you see them.

SUNDAY:

I drove to the lake to check on the swans and was delighted to see tiny cygnets.

Note the tiny fuzzy head under her belly.   Plus, there appears to be another right under her head.

Oh, right.   NOW the cob acts like he's defending them.    When the kayakers were near, he was hiding in some bushes.

MONDAY:

Dad takes one of th ecygnets for a paddle and introduces it to their neighbors, the scaup. This is even more evidence that at least one cygnet had hatched Saturday.

Lest you think I over-reacted, take a look at the two photos below. The first one is a repeat of a photo above. I show it because I wasn't you to note the two clumps of grass near the kayak.

In this photo, the swan is on her nest. Note the proximity ofd the two clumps of grass.

TUESDAY:

All the swans are away front the nest. They usually hide them in the far reaches of the lake for a spell before making their grand debut.

I hope I can keep the kayakers away from them until they are old enough to be safe.

The Good, the Bad, and the Really Ugly

 I should have written the title of this post in reverse, but I didn't.   So, I'll present the item in reverse, starting with the really ugly.

REALLY UGLY:

Of all the things that concern me while I'm picking up litter along the Seward Highway--bears, moose, inattentive drivers, bad guys--the one thing that that worries me is some jerk dumping fish carcasses.   The smell of these rotting carcasses can attract bears that will fight over them, or worse, surprise me when I'm in the vicinity.

Yesterday I spotted another dump, of cod, I think.   Big fish.   Dumped in a spot where I park to clean up this section of highway.

They stank!  Coughing, gagging, almost barfing stink.   I didn't clean up the fish but I did pick up the white plastic garbage bag.   To my ever-lasting dismay!   Soon I had to tie off and leave a half-full litter bag because the bag stank.   And I could smell it the rest of the day.

THE BAD:

I sat down to enjoy a cup of tea and opened Messenger.   There was an ominous message from Mary, my neighbor who helps clean ump litter along the highway:  "I'll try to get back from Anchorage in time to help you with the disaster at Mile 60."

"Disaster" is Mary-speak for a lot of litter.

Mile 60?   But I'd just cleaned that mile the day before.   What could have happened?

Someone lost part of a load is what happened.   When I got there, a lady from Seward had already gathered the debris into separate piles and needed bags for the smaller stuff.  We worked together until she had to leave.

I finished picking up the smaller stuff--mostly household garbage--then rearranged the piles to make them more attractive to DOT to haul away.   The majority was large plastic bags with handles for lifting with heavy equipment.   Also, cardboard, pieces of a broken pallet, tarps, several bags of household garbage, two pillows, a quilt, and a fishing pole.

Scattered along the curve.

One of three piles.

The three piles.

THE GOOD:

Whenever a vehicle stops by me, I become super aware and cautious, as I did when a truck with camper stopped right where I was yesterday.   The driver motioned me to the passenger window.

I expect things like "where's the nearest gas station, am I on the right road,"   

The driver said, "Hi, I'm Pat from Homer and I've seen you out here working tirelessly for years.   I just want to express my thanks."   And he extended his hand, not to shake mine but to give me this:

This will go to gas as I'm using a tank a week.

I Did Everything I Shouldn't Have Done and Lived to Tell about It!

 I felt like going back to bed.   I didn't.   I forced myself to get ready to clean up more litter and drove to the Silvertip area.

It's my favorite of all the areas to clean up litter, except for my absolute favorite--Tern Lake.  Silvertip is about as flat as a highway can get, given that it runs though mountains on both sides.

I'd finished cleaning up 0.7 of a mile, which was a long, boring chore because there were so many chunks of blue high density foam board that had been mulched by the highway mower, as well as a gazillion pieces of fiberboard in the same condition.    It took far longer than a normal clean up.

When I was done and at a perfect stopping part along the highway, I decided to take a short loop drive that's between 0.2 and 0.3 of a mile long.   It's part of the old highway that was bypassed during road rehab some years ago.

It's a nice, quiet little drive that gets very little use and I decided to do drive-by clean up, wherein I lower my driver's side window and drive slowly along the shoulder in the wrong lane.   When I saw litter, I stopped, picked it up, then drove farther.

At one point, I started checking the opposite side of the road too, just walking over and picking up whatever was there.   That's how I spotted a kitchen stove that had been tossed over the side of a steep hill that leads down to Six Mile Creek.

As ususal, pointing a camera downhill diminished the steepness of the slope.   That white object is the stovetop.  Beyond it is the dead, down spruce and the rest of the stove.  (And this little pocket camera needs to spend some quality time with a Nikon repairman.)

It was a ways down there and I had no intention of going down the slope that far.   Instead, there were some beer bottles and food wrappers closer to the top of the hill that I could get if I just went down about ten feet.

So I did.

Well, one beer bottle leads to another and pretty soon I was farther down the hill than I intended because what I thought was white plastic turned out to be a five gallon pail filled with paint, if the contents matched the label.   Nope, too heavy for me to haul up that hill.

Well, what the heck.   The stove was so close.

And then I was at the stove, which was lying right next to a dead, downed spruce.   That's when I spotted the rope that was on the path.   Must be how someone tugged items up hill, I thought, and began considering all the ways I could use that rope to get that stove out of there.

The stove.   The full bucket of paint is that light spot in upper right.

I stepped over the dead tree and SUDDENLY MY INNER OLGA KORBUT  emerged and the involuntary gymnastics began.   Down I went, not just to my knees, but rolly poly down, doing somersaults, slamming into the sharp knots where branches had broken off the dead tree, rolling over rocks, doing at least two complete rolls feet-over-shoulders.  

 I remember my head was in the leaves during one roll and looking up at the sky the next time.   About the time I was wondering if I was going to go all the way down the slope, my body hit something hard and unforgiving and came to a stop.

I could tell nothing was broken.   Battered and bruised, yes.   Contused and abraded?   Oh, yeah.   Bleeding?   Didn't feel anything.  My shins are going to be an unusual color tomorrow, I thought, but nothing was broken.

And what if something was broken?   How the hell was I going to get out of that mess?  Very few people come by here.   How long would it take for someone to notice my unlocked truck and decided to look around?

My cell phone was in the truck at the top of the hill.    My bear spray was also in the truck.   But I was only going to go down about ten feet, I thought.   Why bother taking that stuff with me?   Famous last words.

So, I climbed back up the hill with no trouble, still working on how that rope could be used to haul that stove up the hill.   It's a good thing I didn't have anything that I could use to attach to that rope, or I would have tried it, using my truck to pull it.

I passed the stove top and instead of dragging that, I said it could wait for someone else.

I really, really wanted to follow the path down to the river but not without bear spray.   Smartest thing I did all day.

Proving that I'm Not Stupid

 I listened to the voice of a friend on the phone and, after a pause, replied, "I would be stupid to turn that down.   Totally stupid!"

The friend, Mary, had just told me that she and her husband Shawn were going to come to my house and buck and split a large pile of spruce firewood. I had in my yard.

The very talented Shawn and his homemade fireweed handling tool.   Shawn is widely known as an artist who casts bronze items and owns a business called Bronze Ox.

I'll tell you, my first reaction was to prove that I WAS INDEED stupid and politely reply, "Oh, no.   Thank you so much but I can do it.    In fact, I like doing it."

I came to my senses and, while I can do it and like doing it, who was I kidding?   So, I gushed all over myself at her wonderful offer and there they were on the appointed day.

First a couple cords of logs had to be cut to size.   Then those lengths split and hauled to the woodshed and stacked.

Mary wears a lot more safety devices that I do.   For me, a pair of gloves and ear plugs.

I tried to help for a while by picking out the smaller pieces that didn't need to be split, but after a while I was getting in the way of their well times teamwork.

Mary is a retired RN.

Into the woodshed and stacked!!!

SO, I jacked up the lawn mower so I could air a flat tire and went off to mow the various lawns around here.

So blessed to have such thoughtful neighbors as friends.

Chagrined, but Ever So Thankful.

 

I want to extend my thanks to everyone who responded to my latest tale of woe, that is, the sticky situation I walked into--eyes wide open-- Wednesday night.   I’ve had a chance now to review the timeline as well as my behavior while I had one foot stuck in a bog.

The site of the mishap.   The dark patch of water nearest the willows is where I got stuck.   The white piece of plastic at top center right is what I was after.   All the tramples grass is where I struggled to get upright.

 

First, the timeline.   I left my truck and 6 PM and walked a third of a mile while picking up litter, taking about 10 minutes to sit down and watch a very curious orange-crowned warbler trying to figure out what I was.   As near as I can figure, that took a bit more than 30 minutes to clean up the litter, cross the road and start the return leg.

 

Within five minutes or less, I was firmly stuck in a bog off the side of the highway and down in a spot where no one was likely to look.  When I finally extricated myself and sloshed my weary way back to the truck, it was 8PM.  Allowing 15 to 20 minutes of walking, at the most, that left more than an hour for me to get thoroughly wet and free from the mud.   

Note that 8 PM.   Diminishing traffic and little chance of attracting attention from a passing driver meant little chance of help.

 

Now, my behavior.   I wasn’t worried.   Concerned, yes.   Not panicked.  I spent a lot of time feeling exasperated, frustrated, and thoroughly pissed off at my situation.   And very, very stubborn.

 

What saved me was thinking about a young man who was stuck in the deadly mud/clay flats near Hope on Turnagain Arm.  Fire/EMS from Girdwood couldn’t get there in time (almost 60 miles), the tide came in, and the man died a horrible death.

 

I didn’t have to worry about the tide.   I did have to consider hypothermia from, sitting and lying in that cold water.  At my age of 81, it would probably overwhelm me faster than younger folks.

 

I thought about the rescue technique used by Girdwood EMS to free people from that mud/clay along the Arm.   They jet water down alongside the person’s leg(s) to dilute the clay/glacial silt.

 

It might work, I thought, or I might get both feet stuck.   My right leg, though free, was useless because there wasn’t anything solid to brace against and use for leverage.   So, I rammed it right alongside my left leg, making sure I kept pumping up and down to infuse that mud with enough water to loosen its grip.

 

The photo and the rest below have nothing to do with my adventure.  They are here to break up the text and make it easier to read.   Besides red-necked grebes are cuter than all get out when they talk to each other.

It didn’t work immediately.  I kept at it and at it and, finally, I could twist my stuck boot a bit.   This went on for some time.   Eventually,  and not for the first time, I put both hands under my thigh behind my knee and pulled.   S-l-o-w-l-y the boot came free.   By the time it surfaced, it had four inches of mud still clinging to it.

 

The rest of that adventure was an exasperating fight against little upper mobility and I was astonished at how little of that I had.  My left shoulder is greatly compromised.   I can’t reach behind my back nor over my head.  I always get patted down at airport security because I can’t assume the raised arms position.   It is good for holding a litter bag, though.  

Barrow's goldeneye drake.

 

This isn’t the first time I’ve endangered myself.

As a kid growing up in Spaniard, I used to bicycle down to Cook Inlet and play in that deadly clay.   I always made sure to wash off all the clay before going home so Mom wouldn't find out where I'd been.

 

I once came so close to walking right into a huge back bear in Girdwood.   One of my sled dogs had broken her chain and went to explore the swamps across from my cabin.  Of course, she got wrapped up in some bushes.

The red dog on the left was my escape artist.

 

Lucky for the both of us that she was a very vocal dog and I could pinpoint where she was, but not see her.  I started across that swamp in sneakers, so I was picking my way.  I estimated I was about fifty feet from her when I was stopped by a particularly icky slough.   I found a rotten log that crossed it and was carefully inching across it when I heard a grunt.  

 

When I looked up, there was that bear waiting for me at the end of the log, no more than 6 or 8 feet away.   I backed away, rounded up a posse of young guys from the ski resort, and all turned out well.    An experienced hunter saw a black bear farther up the valley the next day and said it was the largest black bear he’d ever seen, estimating its weight at 500 lbs.

Yellowlegs

 

That same dog, again loose with her chain, climbed to timberline along the ridge of mountains just north of Girdwood.   The night was cold (minus 20 degrees) and sound carried well.   My vocal little sweetheart was in full voice when I called her name.  I found a friend, Pete Robinson, and after debating whether those were coyote or husky howls, together we climbed an avalanche chute to a thicket where her chain was tangled.   The thicket was surrounded by coyote tracks, so she had some company while she waited for me.

 

One time I came close to freezing my hands while out with the dog team.  I spent a little too much time at the restaurant that was my turnaround place.   By the time I left, the sun was down, it was dark, and the freezing temperatures were too much for the cotton work gloves I was wearing.   Fortunately, my lead dogs jumped right into the back of my pickup when we reached it, followed by as many of the dogs that could jump onto the tailgate without taking the sled with them.

 

My fingers were useless.   The truck wasn’t locked and I think I used my elbow to depress the round opener on the handle while my club-hand pulled the door open.   Now for the key.  I managed that, and by using the heel of both hands, I was able to pull out the choke, and to turn the key to start the truck.

 

While the truck warmed up, I held my hands under the exhaust pipe until I could feel and move my fingers.

Ring neck ducks.

 

And then there was the time I was climbing to the ridge of Mt. Alyeska and found the easiest footing was on narrow strip of snow.   Which, by the way, was on a glacier and was actually a snow-covered crevasse.  Enough about that.

 

Those are only a few of the situations I’ve gotten myself into, the ones that didn’t involve participation by my mouth, that is.

 

So, the chagrin.  I am feeling chagrined about getting stuck and I am feeling chagrined about blasting it on social media.   

 

When I got home that night, I took a hot shower and tried to warm up.  Settling in at the computer, I made an attempt to tell my tale.   I made a lot of typos.  My fingers weren’t working the way they are supposed to.   I was still stumbling a bit, but not falling. 

 

Once I told the world on Facebook how I’d survived another stupid adventure, I put on a lot of fleece and went to bed.  It was 4 AM before I felt like I was warm.   Then I slept until 3 the next afternoon Thursday.  I got up, had a snack, and went back to bed at 6 PM and slept another 7 hours.   Then, up for a couple hours, back to sleep until noon today, Friday.   It was like sleeping off jet lag.

 

A dipper with a bill full of bugs.

I have found that writing about an unpleasant or "traumatic" situation is the best way for me to deal with it.   I get all that negativity down on paper or a computer screen.   That concentrates it and cuts it down to a size I can manage.

 

Also, I LOVE making fun of myself.   Why else is my pen name “Gullible?”   

 

And posting on Facebook lets my friends and relatives know that, unbelievably, I’m still alive.