Mornings and Litter: You are Always on My Mind

Every morning when I wake up, I lie in bed with my eyes closed and think.   I try to figure out what day of the week it is.   That’s something retirement will do to you—that remembering the day of the week isn’t as important as it used to be.

Unless, of course, I have an appointment that IS important.   Then there’s no problem recalling because I will have been awake most of the night, unable to get to sleep.  Or waking every hour to look at the time and dreading that maddening alarm clock noise to come.   The noise so annoying that it sticks in my head so that I hear it ringing when it really isn’t.

Anyway, once the day of the week problem is solved (or not), next comes trying to make sense of whatever whacky dream I'd just had.  That can be fruitless or rewarding or frustrating,

Then I plan my activities for the day.  Invariable, when there isn’t snow on the ground, picking up litter is at the top of the list. 

Autumn at Jerome Lake

 Lately, my intentions have been good, and sometimes I even make it out there.   But somehow, I lose interest after the first couple of miles and decide I really don’t want to be doing that.

What we are doing these days, after walking the entire distance, is what we call Stop and Go.  We drive slowly until we spot litter, stop, pick it up, and drive on.   It is a time suck, gas suck, and energy suck.

The most photographed cabins on the Kenai Peninsula.   Lower Summit Lake.

In between the rainy days, I had a dump truck load of firewood to work on.  My initial intent was to cover it with tarps and let it age until next year.  

First, though, I had to clear brush from the spot where the logs were to be dumped.

This is the peninsula's organix dump.   Only the trailer load is mine.

 But I couldn’t resist.   Unable to get my newish Stihl chainsaw started, I bought two EGO battery-powered saws.   Why two?  Because the saws were on sale and it was cheaper to buy two than to get one with an extra chain and extra battery.

The two enormous 5.0 Ah batteries.  They didn't last long enough.   I might start a Go Fund Me to buy the larger, 7.6 Ah battery,  which costs almost as much as two more saws.

All with my battery-powered saw.

Then, of course, I couldn’t get my gas-fired wood splitter started.   I simply don’t have the arm strength to pull the recoil starter cord with authority.   My friend Linda decided to help me and brought her electric splitter out, and we got a lot done.

Even in the rain.   Under the protection of the carport.

WHeelbarrow load, by wheelbarrow load.

Next, she brought her friend Damon, and with his chainsaw and ability to start my splitter, we finished up the project.   Three cords of firewood, mostly birch with some spruce, are stacked in my carport and covered.   That chore is done.

Damon, sharpening his chain.

The last load of firewood is protected by a tarp and is in the carport.

And the debris has since been cleaned up.

Back to me being sick of litter.,  

I recognize the litter-tired symptoms because they have happened every year for 19 years.   I’m just tired of picking up after people who litter the 44 miles of highway that I tend through the Chugach National Forest.   Body tired.   Soul tired.   Five months’ worth tired.

This year has been one of the worst for litter.  Mary, my friend who has been helping for several years, has picked up around 300 bags.   I am over 400 bags.   But, Mary, younger and stronger, can fill her bags much fuller than I can anymore.  So, call it roughly 700 bags.

Any other summer, other than the first year I went out and filled 801 bags, so this year is exceptionally bad.   A couple of times, I walked the 44 miles twice and never came close to 700 bags.

Then there’s the stuff that doesn’t fit into the bags—dip nets, tires, boards, cooler and tote lids, and so on.

This year was a pretty bad year for tires.  It seemed like we could never catch up with the rubber scraps that were spread along the road.

Not all the litter we clean up is intentionally thrown from vehicles.   Semis hauling freight account for a lot of it, especially wrapped freight.  Pieces of plastic wrap are blown everywhere; labels land all over the place.   Think about that the next time you see a semi hauling freight with plastic wrap flapping in the wind.

Some litter we find is just plain lost—blown out of the open beds of pickups or boats.  Life vest, clothing of all sorts, cell phones, boat and fishing licenses.   A full propane bottle, for Pete’s sake.   Pilot bread boxes and cans of Spam.  Tents or tent flies.  Camping gear.   Sleeves for those folding camp chairs.   Tools from crowbars to wrenches and sockets, and screwdrivers.

Whatever this is, I found it.   Posted it on Facebook with no results.

We find stolen stuff, too.   I found two rifles that were collectibles.   Stolen mail.   Mary found a new computer, monitor, and printer that she reported to the troopers.   They hadn’t been reported stolen, so they are now hers.

Money—bills and coins, though in small amounts.

Nails, screws, bolts, nuts.   Construction staples.  And tie-down straps from bungee cords right through freight straps.

I’m tired of it.   I might or might not get out there today.  My intentions are good, but I’ve delayed this long, so I suspect I won’t.

Next spring will start my 20^th year.  I’ll be itching for the snow to leave so I can begin.   I hope.  Right now, I’m tired of it.  What I should do is take a drive to see how bad it is.   That might inspire me.

 

Tern Lake.

Autumn at Jerome Lake.

The Endorphins of the Cycle of Goodness

 True story about my week: "To feel good, do good."

I went to Cooper Landing to take my trash to the borough transfer site. A woman saw me trying unsuccessfully to open the roll-off container's doors and came over to help.

I proceeded on to the borough organics dump site to offload a trailer load of cottonwood, spruce, and alder saplings, then drove around the site looking for firewood to scrounge. A woman saw me and came to help with one stubborn piece. Her husband said he had lots of standing beetle-killed spruce that I was welcome to.

I was in the Lowe's parking lot, pushing a cart with two large EGO battery-operated chainsaw boxes. They weren't heavy, just awkward. A man said, "Can I help you with those ?"

Bemused, I almost answered that I can do it, but instead said (with a big grin), "You know what? I'm going to make your day! Yes, you may!" He got a big laugh out of that!

"To feel good, do good." See how I made all those people happy?  

And now, if the rain holds off, I'm going to pick up litter and give my shoulders a break.

Second Chances

I missed this shot during the afternoon.  When I saw the Lower Summit Lake swans near shore, I took only my camera with its 200-500mm lens.   

It was too much, and I was left with only thoughts of what could have been.

A couple of hours later, when I was on my way home in light rain, I again saw the swans near shore.  I pulled into a nearby pullout and hastened to the spot where I thought the perfect framing is.

And I got these shots.   Good enough, but I can only imagine what they would be like on a sunny day.

 

JUST SAY NO !!!!

On the other hand, the golden hour at Tern Lake was exquisite last evening.   I found this Ring-necked juvenile enjoying its bath.

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The golden hour is that time just after sunrise and just before sunset when the light is infused with red and golden hues.  It's the favorite time of day for photographers.

And another juvenile, a Red-necked grebe.

From these ducklings, I learned two things.   One is that the ring-necked are nesting at Tern Lake, which I love.   And two, that a pair of grebes somewhere on the lake had a successful hatch.  You can still see its "prison stripes" that the young grebes have as camo.

The pair that nest near the highway, and that I watch, had two nest failures this year for unknown reasons.

(For Cap and Patti, a long-ago story)

 

Roads Less Traveled

 

 

 

 

 “Have you ever read The Velveteen Rabbit?” asked my house guest.  I replied that I had not, nor had I ever heard of it.  He hesitated, obviously wanting to say more, but perhaps unsure of my reception.  Then he said, “Things speak to me.”

 

I kept, I hope, a straight face.  I’m not sure what surprised me more, hearing those words from an ex-Marine in his seventies, or that I understood what he meant. This certainly was a road less traveled, so I decided at once that I would take this trek.

 

“I saw the box of crayons.  The unopened ones.  They’re sad because they aren’t being used.  They don’t feel loved”

 

Oh, definitely a road less traveled.  I wondered if there was even a path there.  I didn’t know this gentleman very well; he was a longtime friend’s companion.  I knew, though, that he was a very spiritual individual.  The crayons of which he spoke were a collector’s tin box of sixty-four classic Crayolas, including rare and discontinued colors.  The cellophane wrapper still enclosed the box, though I had accidentally torn it one day.  

 

The unused crayons, he said, cried out to him for help.  I forget much of what he said.  I suppose I was stumbling along that lesser-used road in the yellow wood that Robert Frost wrote about, and didn’t have the brain power to retain everything he said.  I really didn’t want to unwrap the box.

 

I keep serviceable crayons and coloring books in a desk drawer for the girls from across the road when they come to visit.  They are fascinated with the crayon sharpener, which they feel obliged to use after a few strokes of the crayon.  There is much more sharpening than coloring done during these visits.  They always sit at the dining room table, near Pablo the Parrot’s cage, to do their coloring and sharpening.  Pablo likes the brightly colored crayons and keeps saying, “Hello?  Hello? Hello?”  That’s his way of asking for one, which he never gets. 

 

            But the others were a pristine set, a collector’s set, and I wanted to keep them that way.

 

When my friend and her companion left to go sightseeing for a few hours, I took the cellophane off the Crayola box, opened its lid, and set a coloring book next to it.  When they returned, the gentleman was very happy and assured me the crayons now felt loved.

 

Three months later, I unwrapped a birthday gift from those friends, a copy of The Velveteen Rabbit.   I left their apartment, drove the hundred miles home, and read the story after I went to bed.  I lay awake for a long time.  I thought it a fanciful tale, one with a subliminal message to children to care for their toys, but I was also very aware of my tendency toward anthropomorphism, the assigning of human feelings and characteristics to animals and sometimes inanimate objects.

The next morning, after donning my winter gear for the daily search in the snow for the morning paper, I opened the door and stepped out onto the covered walkway of my house.  There, in the new snow that had drifted onto the concrete, were the oh-so-visible tracks of many snowshoe hares, as we call the long-eared rabbits in Alaska.  Many, many hares, or at least one very busy hare.  I had never seen them before on this part of my five acres, and certainly never on the walkway.

 

Now, every winter since, I see the tracks of long-eared velveteen hares that hop up my walkway to the door, veer to starboard to bypass the flower box, then continue on their journey under the large rear deck.  And every time, I am reminded of the power of love and of how taking a road less traveled can sometimes make all the difference.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

World Photography Day

 And so, in honor of.....

Baboob in a tree, silhouetted by smoke from fires.

Baboon, CHobe RIverm, Botswana

Sunbird, Kenya

Nauka, Ganges River, India

Keeping an eye on the tourists, Ketchikan, Alaska

Arctic Tern feeding her fledgling

India

Antarctic

Fighting eagles, Tern Lake, Alaska

A man and his dogs, Hawaii

Park, Buenos Aries, Argentiina

India

Cathedral Rock, Arizona

Coastal brown bear cub waiting for a razor clam snack, Alaska

Bluetroat, Nome, Alaska

Hummingbird, Brazil

Capybara escaping a caiman, Brazil

Boreal chickadee in snowstorm, Alaska

Second season Coastal brown bear cubs, Alaska

Fly fishing at Jeroma Lake, Alaska

Dove, Arizona

Kizhi Pogost, Lake Onega, Russia

Sunset, Moose Pass, Alaska

Golden-crowned kinglet, Alaska

Fata Morgana, Cook Inlet, Alaska

Trail Lake, Moose Pass, Alaska

Small portion of Half Dome at sunset, Yosemite Park, California

Mules and rider, Homer, Alaska

Kori Bustard, Kenya

Kenai Lake, Alaska

Charging lioness, Kenya

Polar Bears sparring, Churchill. Manitoba, Canada

Musk Ox, Nome, Alaska

Greater scaup and her brood, Tern Lake, Alaska

Early arrival at Tern Lake, Alaska, Trumpeter swan.

Mule rider, Grand Canyon, Arizona

Trumpeter swans, Tern Lake, Alaska

Topi, Kenya

Red fox, Anchorage, Alaska

Wayer lily, CHobe RIver, Botswana

Lesser yellowlegs, Tern Lake, Alaska

American Dipper triptych, Tern Lake, Alaska

Common merganser juveniles, Lower Summit Lake, Alaska

Red hornbill feeding juvenile, Botswana

Rock Pratincole, Chobe River, Botswana