Some Days

Saturday, June 5th -

8:30 AM. Rough sunlight and wind. Drove my roommate's truck down to Raspberry Road to pick up a 1976 Raleigh Sprite touring bicycle. Took the bike home, tuned it up, and rode the 12 miles to and from Kincaid Park along the Coastal Trail that runs down the western edge of Anchorage. Unstoppable, rustling greenness everywhere. The air smelled green. When light bent sharply around upcoming curves, it came out green and refracted. The overgrown pile of scrap wood by the airstrip was burst of green that rose up on my left, and the valley that followed it was a deep green depression scored by gunmetal-gray water and the shouts of the people who, as is the case in Anchorage, are always playing "disc golf", which they refuse to call "frisbee golf".

As I rounded a corner, three riders came in the other direction at top speeds. One of them mouthed a word to me, his eyes bright: "moose". Because the three had come down the slope so fast, I couldn't tell if the light in his eyes was excitement or fear. Were they escaping a moose? As it turned out, they were not. There was simply a wet, lanky moose about a foot off of the bike path, munching on branches. I dragged my bike up a short slope to watch it, until I realized I was in the middle of a high-stakes disc golf game. I rode past the thing at a distance of about three feet. They're like horses drawn by a drunk person.

On the way back up the coast, I chained my bicycle to a railing and walked down to the rocky, hard-packed beach just south of Woronzof Point. The uppermost line of rocks is made up of stones so flat and smoothed out by wave action that they sound like breaking glass when you walk on them, like a pit full of poker chips. Then there is a belt of gray-khaki sand, and another, broader line of rocks littered with stranded fish about 4" long. The tide was receding, exposing the black, clay-like mud that occasionally devours the feet of unsuspecting tourists on the mud flats and holds them there until they drown. This is a real hazard. To the right, a sign told me not to venture any farther north because high-power cables were there. I didn't see them. But I heard a slight buzzing. As I walked south down the beach, my eyes were on the band of rocks below my feet. At first they look like rocks. They are gray and tan and sometimes white. That does not last long. After a good bit of looking, the beach is red, green, orange, black, blue, purple, and deep, translucent pink. Black rocks have been cracked to show thick veins of what I think is beryl. Orange calcite washes up in wave-mended marbles. The whole sea is gray, the mountains beyond it are gray-to-white, the city is silver in the gray sky to the north. But Cook Inlet keeps spitting out this Crayola shoreline. Along with the glinting, staring dead fish. I rode home.

Keep in mind. It was only noon.

Sophie calls. Hikes. Julia has a car. Okay. I'm in. We have decided to see a glacier, which turns out to be trapped by a well-publicized wildfire at the top of a long but scenic drive overlooking a lake. We head back down the mountain and opt for the trail to Thunderbird Falls. The trail is disappointingly short but lush with plants and insects, and the falls are interesting if not devastating. I saw one interesting mushroom. It had a fleshy, nearly horizontal stalk with a cap of deep chestnut, laced with thick veiny protrusions. It was like someone had just pulled something out of a person and stuck it in the ground, and surrounded it with the tiny white flowers that grow everywhere here. For you to see. Don't touch it.

In need of more adventure, we got a little lost near Peter's Creek in Julia's tiny Civic and eventually landed at the head of the Ptarmigan Trail leading up Mt. Eklutna. (Interesting Note: Chicken, Alaska is a city. It is called that because its first settlers could not spell "ptarmigan".) Just beyond a line of alders, a large circular clearing of gravel lay at the foot of the trail, dotted with fireweed. The path itself was steep but rewarding, with every steep incline topped with a corner which opened onto ever-widening views of Knik Arm. At one point a clearing in the forest opened on the right, punctuated by a birch which had been chopped off at about 16' and stood like a column by the road in the wide display of unobstructed afternoon. It was covered in pure-white oyster mushrooms. It seemed important, as if to say "Still here, fuckers." We nearly reached the summit, but a continuously freshening trail of bear sign made us turn back just below the final ascent. As we turned around, like an omen, the clouds began gathering with time-lapse speed, roiling into themselves and each other and always away to a vanishing point moving closer. Luckily, the ominous display yielded sunshowers on the descent, although in that clearing of fireweed at the bottom, surrounded by the ring of vibrating birch and eastern cottonwood, those sprinting clouds did instill a sort of fear in me. I wish it had rained, I would have felt wild.

Drove home in traffic. Made spaghetti. Ate. Went home. Slept.



Sunday, June 6th-

8:30 AM. Breakfast on eggs and pickled peppers. Headed to Turnagain United Methodist Church. Everyone there is wonderful. A couple exchanges:

I am walking my bicycle up the front walkway. A very old man sees me at the bottom of the walk, turns, and loudly, genuinely says "Shucks!". I continue up the path. By the time I've finished locking my bike at the top, he has caught up. Again he turns to me with wide eyes. "Shucks!" he says. Nothing more. As has been suggested, the bike is now named Shucks. Shucks needs some repair - the bulbous point where the bars meet the stem is stripped and needs a cork-tape shim. It'll work out for old Shucksy.

The church was full of green, this being Pentecost. Everyone was over 40. That being said, everyone seemed to have a son or daughter in the conservation game. Church full of gray-haired greenies. We sang "Tu has venido a la orilla" and heard the pastor talk about those things which belong in the net of the Kingdom of Heaven. We took communion. Afterwards, I spoke with the pastor, who invited me to share my work with the congregation as my campaign moves forward.

I left on my bike. Walking it down the walkway, the old man turned to me. "Can you ride it?" I replied, "Sure, I can!", got on, and rode away. I swear that as I rolled into the street I heard him say "Shucks!".

The rest of the day was a bit hazy. Naps and reading. Finally, at 5:30, Sophie came over for band practice. That night, we played the open mic at Humpy's Tavern in downtown Anchorage to a surprisingly appreciative crowd. They all knew the words. It was nice. We might have to become a fixture there.

Monday, June 7th -

Back at work, things are rolling along. Plans are being made for the Get Out The Vote campaign that I've been charged with. Fighting a battle that hasn't really started yet while loud, booming ones rage elsewhere, in places close to my heart - Palestine and Louisiana - it is hard to remember that the work you're doing from your laptop might help, too. Tomorrow is World Oceans Day, and the 50th day of the BP spill, and there is a demonstration at Lyn Ary Park. We'll see.


Orientation was good. Jonathon Teeters, speaking about organizing in Alaska, got to me the most. This will be a hard road for me, but I believe that community organizing, if not my final goal, may be the best thing for me to be doing right now. It's core values are listening, learning, moving slowly and precisely, and understanding the other, none of which I'm particularly good at. We'll see.


The wildfire is still raging in Eklutna. Maybe one day we'll get out to the glacier. We'll see.


Things are settling down in our lives. We're getting to work. Maybe we'll get something done. We'll see.