The Yosemite Journals, Chapter One

There aren’t many things that will get me out of Alaska during its very short and very precious summer months.  The chance to go with my best pals from California to a place I’ve never seen is definitely at the top of that “will do” list.

The destination was Yosemite National Park, located in the western foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.  Created by glacial carving and cataclysmic movements of tectonic plates, Yosemite covers almost 1200 square miles of the Sierra Nevada, but it is the valley lying between long ridges of granite and spectacular cliffs that lures more than four million visitors a year.

The tall trees of Yosemite.

My friends have been going to Yosemite every year since their childhoods when their parents chose to vacation there for a week or two.  Every year.  They know it well.

First though, I had to get there.  I demolished my mileage account at Alaska Airlines and got a round trip ticket to Oakland and back.  Because this was a last minute (almost) trip, I was awarded a 5 AM red-eye flight, but that put me into Oakland at noon, the perfect time for Missy to avoid the horrendous traffic in the East San Francisco Bay area when she picked me up at the airport.

I jammed my sleeping bag, a day pack, clothing, and a bunch of other stuff in a suitcase and carry-on.  On the appropriate day, gray and drizzly, I headed for Anchorage.  Two miles from home, I was stopped in my tracks by a police barricade across the highway, not what you want to see when you’re on your way to catch a plane.   

 My 5 AM departure time, however, was 15 hours away, so I didn’t sweat this interruption.  After a few minutes, a trooper pilot car escorted south-bound traffic past us, then escorted the north-bound traffic past the obstructions.

On the TV news that night, I learned a woman had been stopped by a trooper, who determined she was impaired and called for a wrecker to impound her vehicle.  After waiting for a hour, the woman suddenly left the scene.  Apparently she drove off the road and tumbled down an embankment in a fatal crash.

Once again, I was reminded of how my perceptions of a specific place change when a fatality occurs there.  I’m in that area frequently, passing by or picking up litter.  Now, I will always remember that someone died in that spot.

The road blockage resulted in an extensive investigation at the site.  This is, you understand, the ONLY highway to Anchorage from the Kenai Peninsula.  I wasn’t held up very long, and continued into Anchorage, did some errands, and hung out at a friend’s condo before going to the airport at 3 AM.

Missy picked me up at the Oakland airport and drove me to her home, where I would stay the night and then leave with the group the next morning for Yosemite National Park.

Dang, it was really a tough place to hang out:

Missy's back yard.

Coming Back to the Country

Guess where I've been:

Guess who wasn't exactly happy to see me:

In the middle of filming this "welcome," I realized I can't upload it in portrait format, so half way through it changes to landscape format.  Hang in there.


Not only was Sweetie Pablo so thrilled to see me, I came home to dead phone lines and no internet service.  Because it was Friday evening, I had to wait until Monday to get the problem corrected.  At 3:30 in the afternoon, my phone rang and my internet service was back.

My bags are packed...

I'm ready to go...

I intended to stay home this year, or at least until the end of October when I leave on a voyage to the Antarctic.

Then my friend Beth at Memoir on the Fly began posting photos of her trip to the Grand Canyon and places in Utah.  My feet started itching.

Along came an e-mail from a long time friend (and travel buddy) in California.  "The usual suspects are going camping in Yosemite for a week."

So am I.

See you after June 22nd.

Ironically, other friends from California will be staying in my house while I'm gone.

He said he wasn't good at anything and he was right

I don't usually watch America's Got Talent.  Tonight it was the default channel, left over from the evening news, as I hustled to get my house cleaned up, my suitcase packed, etc., in preparation for an up-coming trip.

So, it was simply serendipitous that I was in the same room as the TV when a peculiar young man walked on stage for what he said was his first performance in front of anyone.

Dressed in black, weird contact lenses, makeup a la Marilyn Manson, and a definitely nervous demeanor, I didn't know what to expect from him.  Something hard rock or worse.  I think the judges were skeptical, too.  They are used to dime-a-dozen singers and no-talent wannabes.  I started to leave the room, but something about the man's peculiar looks trapped me like watching a train wreck.

The music began.   The judges looked at each other.  My eyebrows went up.  Andrew De Leon opened his mouth and out came an exquisite falsetto voice singing opera!

I watched open-mouthed, tears running down my face.  The audience was stunned into silence.  The judges gave him two standing ovations.

What did his parents think of his singing?  "They've never heard me sing," answered Andrew.  Self-taught, to boot.  Hiding in his room, taking refuge from a world he felt rejected him, a young man who said he wasn't good at anything took the stage and proved he was really wasn't good.

 He was great.


Andrew will join the likes of Susan Boyle and Paul Potts.

As Howard Stern said, (Andrew)  "blew the roof off the place."

Grab your Kleenex and Google Andrew De Leon.  Or, http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20601545,00.html

A Totally Ditchin' Weekend, Part Two

I'm finally getting around to posting part two of A Totally Ditchin' Weekend.    The delay isn't my fault.  I Inherited....   No, wait.  That's someone else's excuse.

This time it's all Beth's fault.  That would be Beth at Memoir on the Fly.  She has been posting photos of her recent trip to the Grand Canyon and Bryce Canyon and other places where there are fabulous things to see.

My resolution to stay home and try to save money before I go to Antarctica in November began to weaken.   Maybe I could go camping thirty miles from home, I thought.   Work that in with some litter picking.  Save gas by not driving to and from each day.

Then I got an e-mail from Kathy in California.  "The usual suspects," she wrote, "are going camping in Yosemite for a week."  Lickety-split, I got myself invited, spent the last of my airline miles on a ticket, and am packing for camping.

I've never been to Yosemite and I can't think of a better group to show me their "backyard."

Now I have to finish up this post about what a fabulous weekend I had while picking up litter in the Silvertip area.  

There's nothing like the serendipity of being in the right place at the right time, and that's what happened last Saturday.   Friday evening I'd left off at Mile 59, so that's where I started from Saturday afternoon.

Mile 59 is also where the river runners launch their rafts for a relaxing float down Six Mile Creek,

Such a nice creek.  Beautiful water trickling through the mountains, on its way through historic gold fields, then to empty into Turnagain Arm.  So while the rafters gave a short safety talk, got everyone situated, and inflated the rafts just right, I picked up some litter and then headed downstream a ways to watch the rafters come through.

Oh, by the way.  Keep your arms in the raft.  There are a couple tight spots.

Note the guy on the rock directly across from me.  And yes, that is my boot you saw.  I am perched on an overhanging rock, hoping it is solidly attached, splayed out just as if I was trying to keep thin ice from breaking under me.

And this video is from a point and shoot I had anchored to my perch by a stick through the strap and poked into the moss.

If by some miracle this video plays, perhaps it will comfort you to know this section rates only as Class IV.  Two Class V gorges are farther on down, places with names like The Nozzle and Suckhole.

Right after this spot, though, is where you can jump ship if you've had enough.

How Reuben Got His Bible Back

Stop me if you’ve heard this before:  Alaska is a big state.

You could fit Texas, California, and Montana in it, and still have some of Alaska left over.  It is the northernmost, easternmost, and westernmost state in the union.

It is not, as some maps would have you believe, located in a little box next to Hawaii.  Alaska is attached to the same continent as the 48 contiguous states, "contiguous" being a word you learn when you attempt to order something through the mail.

Further, it’s the least densely populated state and approximately half the population lives in the Greater Anchorage metropolitan area.

That leaves a lot of room for the rest of us to spread out.

So one day in April, while I was picking up litter about five miles from home, I spotted a black satchel on top a big snowbank that was slowly melting.  I climbed part way up the rotting snow and reached for the bag with my grab stick.

Whatever it was, it was too heavy to pick up, so I used the stick to drag it down the snow until I could reach it with my hands.

Inside a torn and zipped heavy fabric cover was a Bible, and the Bible was soaking wet.  I managed to pry some pages apart and found an inscription page at the front.

This Bible had been given to Reuben Anderson by his grandmother two years ago, after he made straight A grades in fourth grade.  That was all.

I put the wet parcel in my truck and considered how I could locate Reuben.  I finally decided to write a letter to the editor of the Anchorage Daily News.

Dear Reuben Anderson,

I found your Bible today while I was picking up litter on the Sterling Highway, the one your Grandmother T… gave you two years ago for making straight A grades in fourth grade.  I would like to get it back to you.  I live in Moose Pass and my name is in the phone book.

Although I really didn’t expect the paper to print the letter, it did.

I didn’t hold out much hope and, in fact, more than a month went by without word.  I picked up the Bible one day, wondering what to do with it.  Unbelievably, it was still wet though it had been in my warm garage.  Many of the pages were stuck together.  It was much the worse for wear considering its time in the snow and the probability it had been rolled around by the highway snow plows.

The next day there was a message on my answering machine.  It was Reuben’s mother.  A friend of hers had seen my letter in the paper and passed the word.  We played phone tag for a while, but today Reuben’s Bible was entrusted to the care of the US Postal Service and it is now on its way to Reuben.  He lives about a hundred miles from me, and two hundred miles from Anchorage.

Big country?  Yes.  But also a small world.

Boards on Bores

(I'm postponing Part Two of A Totally Ditchin' Weekend because I have something time-appropriate to show you.)

(To view any of the still images below, click on that image.  A row of small thumbnails will appear.  RIGHT click on the photo you want to enlarge, LEFT click on "View image" and when it enlarges, left click on it again.  Or, if your mouse is programmed to do so, hold the "ctrl" key down while you move the wheel on the mouse to enlarge/reduce the image.)

June 6

On this day in 1944, the Allied forces stormed the beaches of Normandy.

On this day in 1948, my family invaded Alaska when the Northwest Airlines DC-4 touched down at Elmendorf Air Force Base near Anchorage, the only airstrip long enough to handle such a large plane.

Late yesterday afternoon, on one of those mind-boggling, stunning days that make Alaskans forget all about long dark winter days, uvula-freezing temperatures, and mosquitoes the size of DC-4s, dozens of thrill-seekers invaded the cold, silty waters of Turnagain Arm.

Low tide along Turnagain Arm.

Armed with surf boards, paddle boards, boogie boards, and teensy-weensy kayaks, they donned their wet suits and waded into the treacherous waters.

Parking, parking, everywhere.

On shore, in every pullout and wide spot in the roads, hundred of spectators confounded State Troopers trying valiantly to keep disaster from ruining a totally wonderful day.  People jammed every pull out, parked alongside guard rails (a real no-no), and otherwise found places to leave their vehicles and head for the water side of the highway.  There, they climbed over rocks and down cliffs, crossed railroad tracks, and settled in to watch the show.

All eyes into the sun, now.

From the peanut gallery, atop the high voltage transmisson towers....

...a couple ravens watched the spectacle below, commenting with deep-throated clucks and caws, and a noise that sounded a lot like Miriam Makeba singing that gutteral clicking noise that Westerners can't imitate.

All eyes toward the west, straight into the sun, watched the shimmering surface of Turnagain Arm for the movement that indicated the show was about to start.

THE SHOW.  A simple notice on the front page of the newspaper is what brought most of audience, a notice that, most likely, the highest bore tide of the year would hit Bird Point around 5:30 Tuesday afternoon.

Note the kayaker being pushed by the wave.

And finally there is was, a roiling white wall of water rolling towards you, a phenomenon known as a bore tide, a true tidal wave (as opposed to a tsunami) right at your feet, roaring past at 10 mph, in one of the few places in the world where they occur.

(I sure hope this works.  It took five different programs and lots of experimenting to get this uploaded.  Then, once I found a program that worked, two hours to upload.)

Once the bore had passed my vantage point, I followed it up the Arm, taking photos along the way.

My second vantage point.

The boarders did the same, except they weren't taking photos.  Ten miles down the road, we stopped to watch again.

And look what I found:  The Alaska Railroad passenger train stopped so the passengers could watch.

On the other hand, perhaps it was the crew that wanted to see this.  If you ever come to Alaska, this train ride from Anchorage to Seward is a must-do.

And, in one of the more ill-considered things I saw, these people decided a close-up view was worth the risk of life.

In many places along the Arm the bed is a mix of sand, glacial silt, and clay.  Water and the slightest of movements cause the solids to form a type of slurry-like quicksand.  Several people have died after becoming trapped in that mixture.

That is exactly why parts of Anchorage were so heavily damaged in the 1964 earthquake.

I didn't hear anything on the news, so apparently these two and their dogs made it safely back to their vehicle.

All in all, it was a glorious day along Turnagain Arm.