Alaska's Mountains and Motorcycles
Bonjour!
Several years ago, before I returned to school to finish my Bachelor's degree, Rachel and I lived in Alaska for about a year and a half. This was after leaving California, where Rachel was born, before moving to Arizona (where I finished my BA), and so of course before life now in Montreal. She was a toddler at the time. Our life placed us on a mountain over looking the city of Anchorage, and it's surrounding inlet, which hosts the second largest tidal range in the world. I worked at the University and in the winter to drive into town we'd have to wake up extra early to snow blow a two hundred yard stretch of driveway to get through what was either new snow fall, or snow blown over again by 100 mph winds. To get back up to the house at night I honestly would have to traverse back and forth up the road sometimes. My front wheel drive sedan mostly kicked that mountain road's butt all winter long. But there was one stretch of road that consisted of a very steep up hill climb. On occasion, after a major snow storm, to get up that climb I'd have to put my car perpendicular to the road and drive the car back and forth, slowly moving sideways up the hill. That year we had a record snow fall in the Anchorage area of 28" in less than 24 hours. All businesses and schools in town were of course closed. A friend of mine had to go into work to pick up some paperwork though and to make it to the front door of her building, which was at the bottom of a hill, she walked through powdered snow that reached up to her chest. Somehow she kicked enough snow away from the front door to pull the thing open, and then later managed to push her way out again.
Life in Alaska can be a little over the top. Facing the elements in such radical form takes shape in the people in strange, unpredictable ways too. People tend to be rather to the point when it comes to conversation and saying what they want, what they have to do, or what they damn well expect you to get done. Members of my family, including myself, have on occasion been described as "refreshingly direct" by those from outside of Alaska that enjoy our company, and not described as anything at all (to our faces) by those that find our "refreshing directness" uncomfortable.
This Spring during a brief visit I had several odd little encounters, some of you may have heard of them. Attending a local concert at a log cabin bar in the middle of the woods one evening, a man I'd never met before walked up to me and asked if he could have a hug. He seemed harmless enough so I decided to oblige him briefly. Afterwards he asked (in response to a sleeveless Harley Davidson shirt I was wearing) if I owned a Harley. "I think of it more as a long-term goal." I responded. He looked at me hard in the face and then said, "I've got a garage full of Harleys." I nodded, getting ready to turn away. Before I could he looked me hard in the face again and said, "All I can offer you are all my Harleys and my love. All I need to know is that I can trust you with my life." It turns out becoming a philosopher is one way to obfuscate Alaskan directness. I explained that while hypothetically a person probably could trust me with their life, in actuality he would not. Rachel and I spent the rest of the summer trying to work that conversation into a Country and Western song.
A few days later I was buying coffee from my favorite local café--Kaladi Brothers on Northern Lights, snuggled between Title Wave Used Books on one side, and REI on the other. On my way out I saw that a man was hand carving wooden spoons. It appeared to me that he was sitting there carving the spoons in order to sell them. Thinking I was being helpful, I stopped and asked the man how much for a small purplish spoon he had displayed. By this time I'd finished my coffee and thrown away the paper cup I got it in. "Where's your coffee?" He said. Confused, I asked him what he meant. "Where your coffee? You went and threw it away. Didn't you?" Still missing his point I answered him smiling, "No, I drank it." He scowled at me. "Don't lie! You threw it away. That plastic lid. That paper cup." I changed topic asking him again how much the purple spoon was, telling him that I only had $20 but perhaps one of his spoons cost that much. He looked up from his carving and raised his voice at me, "As long as people like you buy your coffee without a reusable container, my spoons will be too expensive to buy! You can't buy my spoons!" I have to admit I almost laughed but instead told him I respected his cause, and his spoons, and would make a point of changing my cup habits, then walked away. The next day I returned to the same Kaladi café and found a sturdy ceramic travel mug. You coffee connoisseurs know that drinking from metal or plastic changes the taste in a way a ceramic cup just doesn't. The spoon man, though, was no longer there.
Rachel and I just enjoyed nine days in Anchorage, returning this Monday to Montreal. As usual, I spent the first five days sleeping, and the last four sleeping more. Rachel turned 8 the last Friday of our visit and our family celebrated with the moose bone soup she'd requested. The bones came from a moose my brother in law, Kevin, got just last month during a hunting trip he and my dad took out to Naknek on the Western Coast of Alaska, where our family spends the summers commercial fishing.
While there I also visited that same mountain road I'd lived on top of to go for a hike and overlook the inlet. Without snow on the road it was an easy drive. I hiked through a valley that stretches across the Chugach Range looking to either side of me at the peaks stretching up over head. Long before I ever lived in those mountains as an adult, I spent ample time running around in them, or skiing there with my father. The valley was dotted with moose I could make out against the yellowed fall tundra in the distance. Before and after the hike I stood and looked over the city of Anchorage--a bowl built in the marsh land encircled by mountains and the water. By the time I began my drive back down the mountain it had started snowing.
It's a big contrast, now here in Montreal again, to return my self to that spot. There is a great rootedness in knowing I come from such a strongly built place. I appreciate the way in which, even as I live right now in a city with its quick pace and boxed in housing, those mountains are back there reminding me snow happens. Keep both feet on the ground and be prepared for anything. You never know when you may have to push your way through chest deep snow, on the one hand, or be faced with an offer of a garage full of Harley's, on the other.
Cheers!
Hope you all are doing well!
Elaine
Several years ago, before I returned to school to finish my Bachelor's degree, Rachel and I lived in Alaska for about a year and a half. This was after leaving California, where Rachel was born, before moving to Arizona (where I finished my BA), and so of course before life now in Montreal. She was a toddler at the time. Our life placed us on a mountain over looking the city of Anchorage, and it's surrounding inlet, which hosts the second largest tidal range in the world. I worked at the University and in the winter to drive into town we'd have to wake up extra early to snow blow a two hundred yard stretch of driveway to get through what was either new snow fall, or snow blown over again by 100 mph winds. To get back up to the house at night I honestly would have to traverse back and forth up the road sometimes. My front wheel drive sedan mostly kicked that mountain road's butt all winter long. But there was one stretch of road that consisted of a very steep up hill climb. On occasion, after a major snow storm, to get up that climb I'd have to put my car perpendicular to the road and drive the car back and forth, slowly moving sideways up the hill. That year we had a record snow fall in the Anchorage area of 28" in less than 24 hours. All businesses and schools in town were of course closed. A friend of mine had to go into work to pick up some paperwork though and to make it to the front door of her building, which was at the bottom of a hill, she walked through powdered snow that reached up to her chest. Somehow she kicked enough snow away from the front door to pull the thing open, and then later managed to push her way out again.
Life in Alaska can be a little over the top. Facing the elements in such radical form takes shape in the people in strange, unpredictable ways too. People tend to be rather to the point when it comes to conversation and saying what they want, what they have to do, or what they damn well expect you to get done. Members of my family, including myself, have on occasion been described as "refreshingly direct" by those from outside of Alaska that enjoy our company, and not described as anything at all (to our faces) by those that find our "refreshing directness" uncomfortable.
This Spring during a brief visit I had several odd little encounters, some of you may have heard of them. Attending a local concert at a log cabin bar in the middle of the woods one evening, a man I'd never met before walked up to me and asked if he could have a hug. He seemed harmless enough so I decided to oblige him briefly. Afterwards he asked (in response to a sleeveless Harley Davidson shirt I was wearing) if I owned a Harley. "I think of it more as a long-term goal." I responded. He looked at me hard in the face and then said, "I've got a garage full of Harleys." I nodded, getting ready to turn away. Before I could he looked me hard in the face again and said, "All I can offer you are all my Harleys and my love. All I need to know is that I can trust you with my life." It turns out becoming a philosopher is one way to obfuscate Alaskan directness. I explained that while hypothetically a person probably could trust me with their life, in actuality he would not. Rachel and I spent the rest of the summer trying to work that conversation into a Country and Western song.
A few days later I was buying coffee from my favorite local café--Kaladi Brothers on Northern Lights, snuggled between Title Wave Used Books on one side, and REI on the other. On my way out I saw that a man was hand carving wooden spoons. It appeared to me that he was sitting there carving the spoons in order to sell them. Thinking I was being helpful, I stopped and asked the man how much for a small purplish spoon he had displayed. By this time I'd finished my coffee and thrown away the paper cup I got it in. "Where's your coffee?" He said. Confused, I asked him what he meant. "Where your coffee? You went and threw it away. Didn't you?" Still missing his point I answered him smiling, "No, I drank it." He scowled at me. "Don't lie! You threw it away. That plastic lid. That paper cup." I changed topic asking him again how much the purple spoon was, telling him that I only had $20 but perhaps one of his spoons cost that much. He looked up from his carving and raised his voice at me, "As long as people like you buy your coffee without a reusable container, my spoons will be too expensive to buy! You can't buy my spoons!" I have to admit I almost laughed but instead told him I respected his cause, and his spoons, and would make a point of changing my cup habits, then walked away. The next day I returned to the same Kaladi café and found a sturdy ceramic travel mug. You coffee connoisseurs know that drinking from metal or plastic changes the taste in a way a ceramic cup just doesn't. The spoon man, though, was no longer there.
Rachel and I just enjoyed nine days in Anchorage, returning this Monday to Montreal. As usual, I spent the first five days sleeping, and the last four sleeping more. Rachel turned 8 the last Friday of our visit and our family celebrated with the moose bone soup she'd requested. The bones came from a moose my brother in law, Kevin, got just last month during a hunting trip he and my dad took out to Naknek on the Western Coast of Alaska, where our family spends the summers commercial fishing.
While there I also visited that same mountain road I'd lived on top of to go for a hike and overlook the inlet. Without snow on the road it was an easy drive. I hiked through a valley that stretches across the Chugach Range looking to either side of me at the peaks stretching up over head. Long before I ever lived in those mountains as an adult, I spent ample time running around in them, or skiing there with my father. The valley was dotted with moose I could make out against the yellowed fall tundra in the distance. Before and after the hike I stood and looked over the city of Anchorage--a bowl built in the marsh land encircled by mountains and the water. By the time I began my drive back down the mountain it had started snowing.
It's a big contrast, now here in Montreal again, to return my self to that spot. There is a great rootedness in knowing I come from such a strongly built place. I appreciate the way in which, even as I live right now in a city with its quick pace and boxed in housing, those mountains are back there reminding me snow happens. Keep both feet on the ground and be prepared for anything. You never know when you may have to push your way through chest deep snow, on the one hand, or be faced with an offer of a garage full of Harley's, on the other.
Cheers!
Hope you all are doing well!
Elaine
posted by hawkbrwn at 1:29 a.m.
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