No Problem?

If Congress doesn't get its act together by August 2 and reach an agreement about raising or not raising the debt limit, it falls on President Obama to decide who doesn't get paid.  Social Security pittance recipients and active military are at the top of the scare list.

Seems to me the answer is obvious:  You don't pay the guys who didn't get the job done, i.e., members of Congress, the President, and all their staff and other employees.

Seniors did their jobs and then retired.  The military is doing its job.

If not enough money is saved by not paying Congress, the President, and staff, well, suspend all paychecks to government employees.

Tough love, guys, tough love.

Four Days, Twenty-six Miles

BEFORE:

Bright and cheery at the Resurrection Pass South trail head, Thursday afternoon

DURING:

 

Bookin' it.

AFTER:

Twenty-six miles later, slumped in a lump at Devil's Pass trail head, Sunday afternoon

POST SCRIPT TO AFTER:

Memo to self:  Don't do this again until you get those bunions fixed.

All that white goo is from adhesive tape.

More later.

Automatic Out of Office Reply

My nephew does things like that--have an automatic message reply to any e-mails when he's out of the office on one of his trips to chase sea lion poop or whatnot in various oceans and seas.  He's clever like that.  The computer stuff, I mean, though he does gather sea lion poop, too.

I learned a long time that if you live in Alaska, you can't let the weather interfere with your plans, unless,of course, you plan on flying in a small plane.  Then you MUST let the weather dictate your plans.  The weather was supposed to get nice today and nicer tomorrow.

Right now it's raining.  Thus, very shortly I am off an hiking in a cloud of raindrops.  Fits right in with doing stupid things all my life.

Be back in a few days.  Or maybe a few hours.  By the way, I changed my route after Irene told me she had seen LOTS of bear signs on the Hope end of the trail.  By bear signs I mean bear poop.  (This post is stuck on poop, isn't it?)  So, I will go in from the Cooper Landing end of the trail and maybe come out Devil's Creek trail, which ends three miles from my house.

By the way, I told you a few posts ago that Sailor Boy had announced they were going to stop making pilot bread, but that such lamentations went up from Alaskans that they now continue making it just for us.  Remember?

You thought I was either exaggerating or telling an outright fib, didn't you?  Maybe placing too much importance on we few Alaskans?

See ya.

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?

Affliction

I recently discovered that I was infected with a virus while still in utero.  Whether the virus originated with my mother or whether she was a carrier, I don’t know. 

I do know that she exhibited many of the same symptoms that I have had throughout my lifetime.

There is no treatment or cure for this ailment and, in fact, its symptoms grow exponentially with age.

None of the myriad of diseases affected by the research into Henrietta Lack’s malignant cells has any bearing on my problem.  If you don’t understand my reference here to Henrietta Lacks, then you really must read The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot.

But back to my problem.  As a result of that virus, my Facial Recognition software is corrupted.  Combine this with my Random Access Memory (RAM) becoming more random with each advancing year, and my ability to recognize faces and to access their correct file name is severely impaired.

I first became aware of my mother’s symptoms when I was nineteen.  I had by this time left the parental network and set up my own. 

A chance meeting at the Piggly Wiggly grocery store provided the first clues.  I turned down as aisle and saw my mother before she saw me, so when I approached her, I had the advantage of having my browser fully functioning.  Hers was not. 

When my network initiated contact with hers, there was a long pause during which her RAM and Facial Recognition software failed to connect.  I watched the brief episode with interest as she went through the process:  female, late teens, bears a strong familial resemblance, ergo must be a daughter.  Two daughters are with me, ergo must be eldest daughter.  Name… Uh,….Jeanne.   “Oh, hi, Jeanne.”

My father, on the other hand, seemed to have no problem in this regard, though in searching my various files, it is quite possible he concocted names without premeditation.

I have attempted to defrag, with limited results. 

My system seems to work best when faces are encountered  in situ familiar, but fails miserably when their situ is not where I expect their situ.  Dark glasses further compound this, which is the reason I did not recognize a neighbor named Dave until the hostess mentioned that Dave had brought his guitar and was getting ready to sing.

I looked at the folks gathered around the campfire and saw the fellow who had earlier said hello to me and who I had not recognized.  Because of his dark glasses, I tell you.

A couple days ago, I took my truck to a repair shop in Seward.  I did not recognize Sue, who was NOT wearing dark glasses, until she mentioned following my blog.  My processor began writing an error message immediately.  I looked at the name embroidered on her vest:  “SUE.” 

I did not expect Sue to be behind the service counter because Audrey had called that morning regarding the truck situation.  Audrey was supposed to be there, not Sue.  Not even the name on the vest had given me a clue until I realized this was not Audrey.

Good grief.

Litter Notes for July 8, 2011

Goal Tending:

We all have goals.  Little goals, big goals, spoken goals, unspoken goals.  Some goals we aren't even aware of until we fail or succeed, then we realize we actually had been working toward that outcome, or not.

A huge Arctic daisy.  Not only do you get a picture of this huge bloom, but you can read my palm as well.

My particular goal was a big goal as well as a voiced goal:  I wanted to reach Ingram Creek on my walks of cleaning up roadside litter.  I'd done it last summer and this summer would be no different.

Ingram Creek marks the beginning of the Silvertip highway maintenance section.  This is where the Seward highway curves sharply left, leaves the large valley of the saltwater Turnagain Arm, and rises into the mountains through the Chugach National Forest. 

It's also where a large sign welcomes everyone to the Kenai Peninsula.

Ingram Creek was a natural boundary for me.  It's forty miles form my home.  I've walked every mile of it with a grab stick in one hand and a yellow litter bag in the other.

Click to enlarge and you'll see traffic on the far side of the arm.  This is low tide, or you'd see water where all that gray clay and muck is.

And, there it is.  Just ahead of the motorhome, where the guardrail changes design, is Ingram Creek.

Like the coif?  Hey, you'd look windblown too if you'd been walking facing Friday night traffic heading to the Kenai Peninsula.  Also, I don't wear my best clothes when I'm out there.  Quit with the snarky remarks.

Right here.  

Now what?  Well, hopefully the Silvertip guys will soon get their turn to use the huge mower and start mowing the roadside vegetation.  Then I can do it all over again. 

In the meantime, I'm considering a 35 mile backpacking trip through the mountains. 

By myself. 

Just considering.

But I've already made a list of what I need to take...

A Yarrow of a Different Color

This is yarrow.  It's considered a weed.

I rather like it.  It has a sweet scent.  It's almost always white.  Occasionally, I'll find it in varying shades of pink.

But never before have I found yarrow in this intense rose color.  From a distance I mistook it for dwarf fireweed.  This is really special.

Miscellany:

Sweet peas found growing on the banks of Ingram Creek.  These had a death grip on a small alder sapling with their climbing tendrils.

This dragonfly must have had an encounter with a vehicle.  I put it out of harm's way to recover behind a guard rail post.

Field of Daisies

One of my favorite spots to walk along the highway is this wide level shoulder were the Arctic daisies bloom.

More daisies, these at Mile 53.  All you see that is white alongside the highway are daisies, and this isn't all of the field.

Losing Your Lunch

I saved the best for last.  On the drive home after reaching Ingram Creek, I stopped to pick up a large cardboard box.  Hidden by the grass were these:

 

 This is hilarious and a perfect way to end a goal-accomplished day.  Someone's lunch blew out of their truck/boat/whatever.  Spam and pilot bread.

Alaskans consume more Spam than any other state population except Hawaii.

 

There was almost a panic when word circulated a few years ago that Sailor Boy was going to stop making pilot bread.  What would the bush dwellers do?  The mariners?   Hunters?  Campers?  

Fortunately, Costco continues to carry Sailor Boy pilot bread, which are really big round hard crackers, in the giant economy box.

I have no idea what the tongs were for.

Should I Take the Camera Today or Leave It at Home?

 Maybe I won't take a camera with me today, I thought as I got everything ready for my last day of litter picking for the foreseeable future.

After all, I reasoned, I've taken multiple pictures of every wildflower out there.  And, seriously, what am I going to do with all those photos besides clog up my computer and slow it down ever more.  Then I rebutted my own argument, remembering my self-imposed admonition never to leave home without at least a little point and shoot.

I guess it would be best, I admitted, in case I saw some animals.  So, along with a cooler of bottled water, a chicken sandwich, and an orange, I took both the Nikon L120 and a Nikon Coolpix S8000.

I drove towards my destination forty miles away, stopping and picking up the occasional beer bottle and McFastfood wrappers.  The highway looked pretty darned nice, considering the Fouth of July weekend had just ended and the streams of vehicles that had headed to and from Seward for that holiday.

I found that pink lupine in Turnagain Pass.  A little farther down the road, I dwarf fireweed and some Arctic daisies posed for a picture.

Along the sides of the road, goatsbeard and cow parsnip vied for my attention.  When I parked the truck at Mile 73.5 and started walking, I took the little point and shoot.

My journey took me behind a guardrail.  I hate walking behind guardrails.  The ground is very uneven and difficult to manage.  But who could object to walking through lupine, fireweed, daisies, red clover, and sweet yarrow?

Then, sooner than I expected, I was within site of my eventual goal.

Down at the bottom of this hill is the saltwater of Turnagain Arm.  That's my goal--Ingram Creek just past mile 75.  The milepost on the far side of the road is 74.  A mile and a bit to go and I'll be at Ingram Creek, forty miles from home.

The day was a hot one.  Too hot for this long-time Alaskan.  How I wished I could have been wearing shorts, but this time of year, I know better.  The roadside grasses have seed heads and this little wimp is sensitive  to those seeds.  The first time I encountered them while litter picking, I bent over to pick something up and the grass tickled my chin and neck.

Five minutes later, the sensation was no longer a tickle, but an irritation.  Thirty minutes later, my skin was on fire with stinging.  No shorts for me on this hot day, not until the highway guys mow the grass.

This was as far as I'd go today, though.  Tomorrow my pickup goes in the shop to get those awful noises coming from the rear end silenced.  No time table for its recovery.

On the way home, I came across a young woman near Mile 72, deep into pulling the flowers heads of orange hawkweed.  She already had three bags full.

Hawkweed has a beautiful orange flower, but it's an invasive weed and crowds out native species.  I didn't envy her the job.  Across the highway, the hawkweed was even more extensive.

"Yeah, I know," she sighed.

I stopped to pick up something just beyond her.

Straws.  Plastic straws.  A gazillion of them.  In that grass that has seed heads on it.  The darned things were scattered along a hundred feet of highway shoulder.

No using the grab stick here.  It would take me a week to pick them all up that way.  It was my bare hand or nothing.

Fortunately only my forearm touched the grass seeds, and it's a bit tougher than my neck and legs.  The stinging wasn't much worse than a mosquito bite.

Straws.  A gazillion of them in the litter bag.

I drove towards home, stopping to pick up bits of litter.  Finally I reached a spot with goatsbeard and fireweed growing against a rock wall.  The sun was hitting the goatsbeard just right, and I couldn't resist.

 

Leave the cameras at home?

Who was I kidding?