Charismatic Megafauna - Time To Go

-13 this pre-sunrise Fairbanks morning and the song Charismatic Megafauna by the Ratfish Wranglers (a strummy Alaskan punk folk band - think Bare Naked Ladies crossed with the Vampire Beach Babes) is blaring within my cranium. 10 days ago I came to Fairbanks following in the steps of Jack London and the adventure of the Yukon Territory, today I leave 10 days later. I have new friends Jess, Murray, Johnny, Susan, Larry. Jameson and a closer friendship with my pal Marty. The 7 of us tacked the Northern Lights for 6 days and ate great.

One of the highlights was on the road to the Chena Hot Springs Resort. We had found a trappers cache, a sort of free standing tree house on stilts. It had a wooden ladder, moose antlers and a moose jaw at it's enterance. We wanted to use it as prop for the foreground of our photography. The cache was located in frontof the Angel Creek Lodge/Saloon. A log cabin that was a big rectangle, on the left was the bar, the right was the liqour store part. It had 9 bottles of booze. The customary pool table was on the right hand side while a tubular wood burning stove with a convection fan on top, was in the mid-left foreground.  Seka the tan white lab roamed the premises with a laconic ambling that reflected true ownership in the building. We stopped for a drink and to plot our next few hours. Some of us bellied up to the bar and got a Makers Mark bourbon or wine. We were the only people there and as we talked, laughed and grew into our seats we started to feel really comfortable. The bar was laden with tchochki momentos - antlers here, a cheesehead there, my favorite bumper sticker on the trip so far: "Eat Moose, 12,000 wolves can't be wrong!" all made it this lodge charmingly tacky.

Our waitress Maria made the room warmer. She was of a certain age or slightly older. She wore jeans and a gray Harley Davidson T-Shirt. A petite figure,dirty blond pulled back she made sure everyone was happy. Steve, owner and bartender, not the same. A 6 foot curmudgeon Steve, with a truckers hat, begrudgingly got us our drinks.Our team gelled and felt very comfortable together, much more comfortable than our suburban. We left Angel Creek feeling we should go back. We went to Chena Hot Springs and waited for a teammate to bath in the rejuvenating waters of Chena. We went to check out dinner at Chena and almost immediately called Angel Creek, "will you stay open for dinner for 7?" Curmudgeon Steve answered, "Are guys the old group or the young group." I guess he didn't like the younger group. We went back for burgers and had a blast. We would soldier on into the hours of the night where morning starts, taking pictures, but I think Angel Creek is one of my highlights.

The green dreamsicle.

Wafting across the way

The lights dancing into view.

Makers Mark - artificial heat!

Me by Murray

Marty & Murray enjoy a drink while Seka decides to recline wherever she wants.

On the road home from Angel Creek.

More from the icy road back.

Angel Creek Cabins under the lights

  

Inglorius Bastards: The Alaskan Huskie

50 pounds of prancing athlete, the Alaskan Huskie is the main breed for sledding. On their hind legs they come up to my chin and they love to play. In fact, as Jameson the Dog Musher put it, "These dogs only want to please and run." I have never been around more playful creatures in my life. If they are not playing they are running, and the dogs run with effortless abandon. While they are all roughly the same size, their coats vary, just like there lineage. Chubby has a black top coat with a brown undercoat. Otello, the elder father from Norway is pepper gray and powerful. Winnie and Winfred are all black except for white front legs. Off course there are few ivory white and tan dogs too. When the Alaskan Huskies are around, there are no whips or evil menacing of any type, just love.

I keep hearing how people are disappointed that they are not seeing the Siberians or Malamutes, of which the Huskie obviously owes there lineage. It's like being pissed that I could see Stevie Ray Vaughn and not Jimmi Hendrix. One Asian tourist actually graded down a dog sledding service on Tripadvisor.com because the dogs were too small, not what she expected or wanted. Honey, you're brain is too small! These are athletes that want to have fun, and incidentally, kick a Siberian's ass when it comes to speed. The Alaskan Huskie is the perfect American mutt: Fast and Fun. They may not get the glory, but they are uniquely ours! I used to want a Siberian dog as a child...I'll take an Alaskan Huskie any day of the week.

The Huskie TEAM - Athletes coming into the turn!

I have spent two afternoons at the International Championships here at Dog Mushing HQ.

Gratuitous Siberian pick - My Huskies above had a better time...these guys were confused from the start.

Picture This.....Heather!

I am in Alaska on photo safari and my good friend Heather pointed out that I hadn't posted any pictures. Last I night I took over 200 so I would like to edit before I show anything but...because I love Heather...here are a few:

My Team! Chubby can't wait to get started...like me!

Leaving the warm tropics for the Arctic Circle. Where's the red line from the globe?

Denali on the horizon.

Todd getting the Cessna ready to go back to Fairbanks. Where's the runway?

Coming out of a steep turn leaving Coldfoot.

My girlfriend Winnie in Coldfoot.

Indian Gil playing Harp on sushi...um frozen fish?

Same girl, only closer playing harp.

The Aliens are coming!

"Chief, the Greeks did take your land! We merely opened restaurants so you could eat!"

Not sure the first argument worked.

Driving the dogs mad. I would say "Mush!" and they would reply "Lose Weight!"

Heading into the narrow trail ahead.

So some pictures round one. I'll keep this stuff short so Heather can understand :)

I've Gone To The Dogs

Call of the Wild is one of my favorite books. My grandparents bought it for me to read when they took me to Greece in 6th grade. The story of the dog Buck, beating the odds, to survive dog sledding and the tough Alaskan Wilderness took me somewhere fascinating and to a place I thought I would never see. Fast forward about 40 years and suddenly I'm on a river bank in the Alaskan Tanana Valley listening to some dogs grumbling, moaning, barking, yipping, snorteling and a variety of other noises. Immediately I'm told they are communicating, and being Greek, I'm reminded of the cackling at any Greek gathering. Don't understand Greek...don't understand dog...I fit right in. The tempo and volume are working a steep crescendo that seems to match the beating heart of my youth. I'm stoked, I've thought about this for 40 years and now I get to experience it just like the book (only more expensive and without Buck's struggle between the socialist and bourgeois allegories that I missed in 6th grade. Shouldn't have reread the book upon arrival).

My dog musher is Jameson (He'll be detailed in another post). A 5'10" bearded lad who had 12 Alaska Huskies connected to our sled. The Alaskan Huskie is smaller than a malamute, saluki, Siberian but bigger than a breadbox. They are about 50 pounds each and powerful athletes. They have a variety of coats.Traditional black & white, black & brown, white (couldn't dance either), plaid...you get the idea. They are paired up with a nylon rope that bisects the team and yellow bungee chords attached to a black with Nordic stitching dog harness. The lead dogs, Chubby and his partner are in front, they set the pace. The bottom line is that more dogs don't mean speed, they mean power. "Huskie Power!" The next two dogs, Helium & Kai are the swing dogs. The others have a name that escapes me, but Otello from Norway anchors my team on the right. Two of his progeny are also part of the team. There are no reins or whips. Barbaric to even mention such tools. Simple calls: Hah for left, Gee for right.

We are getting ready to start and the dogs must have a pulse monitor to my heart because they are jumping up and down, communicating. I take my place in the sled, Jameson warns me about an upcoming bump and he releases the brake. At that moment, silence. The dogs stopped barking and they pulled the sled over the river bank and onto the river. We are running a river that is the frozen tundra in Green Bay only 42 inches thick and no Lombardi. The sun is in our eyes and what civilization is still there disappears within 15 minutes. The dogs are in full prance. All you hear is the prancing feet and the wooden runners of the sled cutting a swath through the pure white river. Looking onto the horizon is Denali state park mountains, then snow covered trees, and the hind end of dogs running with controlled abandon. We cut through trails lined with cat tails, trees lurched at us as the ground beneath them got so cold it pushed up the root system. Snow 8 inches thick drags down tired branches that form a sort of military sabre salute. God has breathed upon these trails.

Otello, his progeny, and the rest of the team are amazing athletes. They love to run and it shows. I think the only complaint from the dogs is that it's too hot at 5 degrees (and maybe I could loose another 50). They run in unison with a quick gait. I am amazed at there athleticism and then at there studliness. They can run, pee and crap at the same time. My right Orvis Jacket sleeve catching the latter. That's impressive.

I came to Alaska to take pictures but my dilemma is this: In order to be a good photographer you need to capture a moment. You cannot be the moment, you have to stand outside and observe. I wanted to absorb the moment. God has breathed on this land, the Spirit of the Earth calls to the dogs and they race to that whistle. I'm on this journey with my new friend Jameson and his team of dogs. My camera stays in my lap. I want to drink in every second (10,800 seconds to be exact). My favorite moment seems to be the shortest.

The dogs are full out. Snow is flying from the runners and the dogs' paws. Suddenly Jameson belts out: "Gee, Gee!" The dogs make a 90 degree right turn on a dime, I look forward and the swing dogs are already going right, the back dogs still straight. Jameson has the sled and we are whipping around the vortex of the turn. At that moment we were one with everything. It was like the perfect catch, the perfect shot, the perfect reversal to a pin, the chord that gave you shivers at the end of the nine hour Mahler tonal poem. The dogs looked like the horses galloping to the west in a Remington painting. I was part of the moment, to hell with the picture, there is nothing to develop, it was etched into my memory forever. The moment ends as we are straightened out and Jameson yells "Good Dogs, Good Dogs."

The day had other moments like that and I will revisit that river bed. I did get some decent picks, but today was about being in the moment, not observing.

Today I found Buck and White Fang.I've gone to the dogs.