Partying with the Old Folks Like We Were Thirty-Something Again

I went out last night for a rare time on the town.  One of the reasons I drove 50 miles to drink beer was that two of my friends from Maui are in Alaska for a few days and they wanted to go.

Oktoberfest was held in the third incarnation of the Day Lodge.

Anyway, I was with a bunch of old folks who have been friends of mine since the early 1960s.   We used to party together then, too.   I was the youngest of the group last night, just a few heartbeats short of 75, though I admit there were a couple women whose ages I don’t know.  Most of the group hovers on one side or the other of 80.

The eldest, Jerry, is looking 90 straight in the eye with the same disbelief that I feel about my age.

Jerry, almost 90 and still dancing.

Jerry in the red plaid shirt, in front yard of Double Musky at a Sunday afternoon BBQ, 1965.

Yet, there he was on the dance floor, showing his moves in the waltzes.  He joked that his dance partner’s obligation was to keep him from falling.   He left the strenuous polkas to the youngsters—the 80-somethings.

Jerry and Lou

Dancers don't hold still.

Back in the 60s, he was one of my two favorite dance partners at the old Double Musky in Girdwood, where the ski resort town of Alyeska is located.   That’s where we were last night—at the resort for Oktoberfest.   The Musky, as it’s called, is now a world-famous Cajun restaurant.

Skiing brought us all together at first, but a Polish fellow named Dan Zantek kept us together until we bonded like family.   Every Saturday night, polka dancing at the Musky until late at night.   We look back upon those days now and wonder if we were somehow blessed, if other people have years in their lives that were magical, and if more than 50 years later, those same people are still your dearest friends.

The one and only Polka Dan, himself in his 80s.

Polka Dan back in the day

There I was, drinking a lager with my “family” (it was Oktoberfest!), eating bratwurst, pan-fried spaetzle, and braised red cabbage.  The only thing missing, I thought, was one of Chef Werner’s crisp-crust bread rolls.   And some of our friends, either moved away or gone in reality.

Chris Von Imhof, former manager of Alyeska Ski Resort and his wife Brigitte.

We stayed much longer than intended.   It’s hard to break away from a fun “family” gathering.

We were there for Polka Dan’s set.   Soon after he finished for the evening, we watched as another band took the stage.   What kind of polka band includes drums, guitars, and a sax, I wondered?  

Then, they started to play and darned if they didn’t sound like a polka band:

                ♫ In Heaven they have no beer,

                That’s why we drink it here……♫

And then they stopped.    The volume went up into the stratosphere and they started playing ….   Well, I don’t know what kind of music to call it.   It was enjoyable, but way too loud even for folks who are already hearing-impaired.

Bruce and Betsey Ficke, developers of the first hotel at Alyeska as well as the first condominiums in Alaska, also located at Alyeska.   They are visiting from Maui.

We hugged, kissed, and said our goodbyes, then headed for the exit.   Beside us, the entrance stairs were crowded with young folks coming in to see the new band.

As I descended, I thought, “You youngsters have no idea what you missed…..  Either tonight or 50 years ago.”

More Photos:

John, expert photographer and still a Girdwood resident.

Chris in his hat.

The Day Lodge is located right at the bottom of the mountain so we can see only a portion of it.

Food is part of Oktoberfest.

And beer, of course.

Even more beer outside in tents.

Chris and Brigitte's grandson eating chocolate cake.

So is grandpa.

A couple in traditional dress.

Daddy dancing with his son.

Chris and Brigitte dancing with their granddaughter.

C

Bruce and Betsey kicking up their heels.

A whirling dervish I was trying to get in focus....

Because polka music makes you happy.

There she goes again.

And some not-so-typical dress.

The Chilkoot Trail Journals, Ch. 2, Getting There

During the winter of 1972-73, my friend Kathy decided it was time to get serious about a career, one with benefits like health insurance and retirement.   She gave notice to her employer at the Alyeska Ski Resort in Girdwood, Alaska, and loaded her belongings into her Toyotal Corolla  station wagon.   

In mid-June, she headed north, because  if you are in Alaska and yu want to get to southern California, you had to drive north a few hundred miles and then turn south on the Alcan Highway through Canada. When she passed through Canadian customs at Beaver Creek, she was in Canada’s Yukon Territory.   Not even a full-blown Canadian province, but a territory.

The Yukon, as it’s called for short, evokes its own colorful images—the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, a town on the Yukon River called Whitehorse, and a gold rush that brought a hundred thousand hopeful, gold-rush-crazed people to a little spot called the Klondike.

At the same time Kathy was preparing to drive north/south, I decided my life needed new horizons.   Unlike Kathy, I couldn’t load all my possessions in my 1965 Ford Mustang, though I gave it a sporting try.
 

My lead dog, Kolega.

I boxed up most of my extensive collection of books in beer boxes because those boxes were the most readily-attainable cardboard storage containers available in a ski town, and hauled them to Anchorage to store at my parents’ house, along with a dozen boxes of things I couldn’t part with. 

I became the owner of a dubious  surplus military trailer and hired a local fellow to build a “camping box” on it.   It had a bed and two plywood cabinets on either side.  A couple boxes of books and boxes of clothing and supplies went under the bed.

And then I loaded six huskies—no, make that five because the lead dog rode shotgun with me in the Mustang—in the trailer.   But that’s not all I took with me.

Leaving Girdwood on a rainy day in 1973.  The Mustang is loaded, my lead dog is in the passenger seat, the trunk is loaded, and there are a couple 50-lb. sacks of Purina dog show in the back seat..  There are five huskies in the trailer, plus a bunch of supplies and stuff.  Tied on top of the Mustang is a dog sled, two spare tires, and a pair of snowshoes.  On top of the trailer is the base of a 3-wheeled cart for summer dog training, and a spare for the trailer.  I figured if it fit, the Mustang could handle it.

I’ll say this in my defense:  Had I known any better, I never would have had the adventures I had in the next two years, and I’m really glad they are part of my life.  I made it back to Alaska alive two years later, this time with seven huskies, because dogs kept in close quarters have a way of multiplying their numbers.

But in the meantime, Kathy and I were taking the scenic route to Whitehorse where we would meet seven friends.  We had two weeks to get there, so we included visits to Denali National Park and Fairbanks.   We also stopped in Anchorage long enough to say goodbye to my folks.  My mother almost fainted, while my dad just shook his head and turned away with a smile.

Our destination?  The Chilkoot Trail—a 35-mile hike from the gold rush town of Skagway to Lake Bennett, which straddles the boundary of the Yukon Territory and British Columbia.

I left behind my beloved cabin in Girdwood.

Signs for the Seriously Stuck on Stupid

I’ve done some stupid things in my life.  I would like to say I’m the first to admit that, but I think others beat me to it, and they were talking about me.

I frequently failed to learn from the stupid things I’ve done in my life.  I was not the first to admit that either.

Here’s one of the stupid things I’ve done:

This was in 1973.  I was 32, certainly old enough to know better.  I’m at the gas station in Girdwood, waiting to begin a long odyssey down the Alcan Highway through Canada to Outside (the lower 48 states).  Yes, that’s an overloaded 1965 Mustang pulling an enormously overloaded trailer.

I stopped in Anchorage to say bye to my folks.  My mother was aghast.  My father laughed and shook his head.

I had to get towed up steep hills in the Alcan.  I almost burned out the clutch.  I barely made it to Oregon where I swapped the Mustang for a GMC pickup and my cousin transferred the box to the pickup.  All went well after that.

The moral of this anecdote is that it’s a good thing I didn’t know any better, because I never would have gone on that adventure.

Now I’m going off on another stupid adventure, but this time I know in advance it’s stupid.  Unless I change my mind, I’m catching a ride to Hope Thursday morning so I can hike the Resurrection Trail.  Attempt.  Attempt to hike the trail.

Every part of me but my feet is capable of this hike. Also my left shoulder.  And perhaps my right ring finger....and the right shoulder.  Maybe the right ankle, too.

I got the idea last Thursday when my friend Irene posted on Facebook that she and her three young children had hiked the trail over the Fourth of July holiday. 

By Friday night I had disabused myself of the idea.  I’d just walked three miles picking up litter and my feet hurt.  Stupid, I told myself, to think I can still walk 35 miles with a heavy pack.  I’d hiked it forty-plus years ago and since then did part of it by dog team and again on a snowmachine.  It isn’t new territory for me.

Sign:  a discernible indication of what is not itself directly perceptible.

Monday morning I received a sign.  My backpack, which had been hanging on a hook in the garage since May of last year, had fallen to the floor.  Obviously, it wanted to go hiking.

The backpack with its raincoat on the floor.

All right!  Nothing like a sign to help make up my mind.  Preparations began.  No problem with bears, I figured.  They’ll all be in Cooper Landing looking for salmon at the Russian River.

Monday, thinking I could save myself a trip to Seward, I went online to look for trail information.  When I Googled Resurrection Trail, up popped this link:

http://juneauempire.com/stories/071110/sta_674741119.shtml

Okaaaaay, a year to the day.  Bear attack. 

Was that a sign?  Perhaps an ominous omen?  I got to thinking about that backpack falling to the floor after more than a year. 

Omen:  an occurrence or phenomenon believed to portend a future event.

Does the backpack really want to go?  Or is it telling me I’m gonna fall flat on my face for whatever  reason? 

Like, a fetal position to protect from a charging bear?

What do you think?  Is this a backpack that wants to go, or a backpack in the fetal position?