(NOTE: View a larger picture by clicking on the photo(s) above.)
While we were back in Tennessee last month for my back surgery, we discovered that we needed two new tires on the front of the truck. We had taken it to the Chevrolet dealer and discovered that the tires had worn because of the need for alignment. We didn’t have time for the alignment then, and the dealer didn’t have the tires in stock. They recommended that we go next door to Discount Tire and see what they had. We did, and a few days later bought the tires and returned to the dealer to have them aligned.
Some days later we noticed a bad shaking and vibration in the truck. We thought that something was out of balance. We went to another Discount Tire in another city in Tennessee and asked if they would look at the tires to see what was wrong. Although the four back tires were not their tires, they checked them as well. They told me that all six tires were out of balance, but the inside, back tire was flat from two nails and a screw. They repaired the tire that was flat and balanced all six tires. No charge for the service. So, when you need new tires, check out Discount Tire.
OK! Now that you have had the commercial, let’s get on with the show.
We left Tennessee on July 7th and made our way back to Fort Yargo State Park in Georgia where our tenure as hosts was interrupted by my little-ole surgery. The trip was uneventful but by the time we arrived at the Park it looked like rain. We had already encountered rain in northern Georgia, so we were in a hurry to get set up before the “bottom fell out.”
The clouds were getting darker as we approached our campsite in Picnic Area 2. As we began our approach up the rock road to out campsite we discovered that a vehicle was setting in front of our site blocking our entry. It is not a parking place, but someone had made it one and was nowhere to be seen. I stopped our rig, got out, and began looking around for the driver. I found a couple down by the lake taking pictures. I asked if they belonged to the vehicle parked in our way. They did. So I asked if they would mind moving it. He did, but not without remarking that he didn’t see a sign that said “No Parking.” He was not real happy at having to move.
By the time I got the rig in position to back into our camping slot, liquid was beginning to descend from the heavens. Gentle at first, then more forceful. In just a few minutes the “bottom” did its famous “falling out.” My mirrors fogged up so I could hardly see were I was backing. I had to get in and out of the truck to check my position often, while Carolyn was standing out in the pouring rain with lightening flashing about helping direct me. She finally said to me, “I’m not standing out here in this lightening. Let’s wait.” I, being stubborn, as I am at times, wanted to get the rig settled before it got so muddy that it would be difficult to get it in place. By the time we did get it in place we were both soaked.
Since we had been gone new hosts had arrived in the campground, so there were new people to meet and work with. Nothing much has changed to the work that needed to be done, but less money is available from the State for materials. So it became the same hunt and search for scrap material to build and repair with. As I told the Park Manager the other day, “We have worked for so long, with so little; we are now qualified to do anything with nothing.”
Carolyn is continuing to work in the Park Office and Trading Post as needed. I am still finding things to build and repair as well as teaching my Spanish class to Park personnel. The first picture above is the Nature Center used for nature presentations of flora and fauna. The second picture is a room in the Center where I hold class.
At least, since our return the night bird that kept us awake off-and-on is no longer sounding off. The Park has also gotten rid of a lot of ducks that made much noise and pooped everywhere. They thin the numbers every year. Now there are only the average types of birds hopping about. By the way, have you ever wondered how a bird finds a worm underground? Here's how: When a bird stands on the ground near a worm that is crawling underneath, it can feel the earth's vibrations with its very sensitive feet. It will also position its head to put into operation the low frequency apparatus of its ears. Then, when it zeroes in on the worm, it pierces the earth with a sudden stab of its beak, grabs the tasty morsel and gobbles it up, or takes it to it‘s young.
Speaking of animals, I guess you call birds animals, or do you? You know that a group of horses is a “herd” and a group of birds is a “flock,” but do you remember that a group of cows is a “kine?” A group of alligators is a “congregation,” a group of caterpillars is an “army,” a group of butterflies is a “flutter,” a group of crows is a “murder,” and a group of cockroaches is an “intrusion.” Boy, they sure got that last one right!
Summer is a very busy time in the State Park as I’m sure you can imagine. The third picture illustrates one of the more popular activities at the Park, fishing. No, I don’t know who the fisherman is.
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This weekend, being the start of a new month, we are changing hosts again. Two couples have left, two new ones are coming in. Last week we all got together (nine of us at the time) for a cookout at the campsite of one of the hosts. Everyone furnished something. We enjoyed both the food and the fellowship. Picture number four is of the couple hosting the cookout in the center, as well as others in the foreground. The last picture is of two of the hosts, Verna and Vivian with Carolyn in the middle.
Not much adventure to share this month. So I’ll wow you with words. Some of you may know that the first thing I read in news each day is the cartoons. To me, it is the only sane thing in the news. I have always enjoyed cartoons, having been an art major and cartoonist in high school. In this regard, have you wondered what those symbols that represent profanity in cartoon bubbles (#@$%!) are called? The word for it is “grawlix.” It was coined back in 1964 by Mort Walker the cartoonist of “Beetle Bailey” and “Hi and Lois.” Also, the word for the wiggly line representing shaking in drawings is called “agitrons.”
If you want to read about a real adventure, continue reading. The following is written by the son of a long-time friend. The son, the author, lives in Alaska. I guess it proves that more goes on in Alaska than politics. Enjoy!
Remember, Heritage makes the person; Attitude makes the life.
Rainy Day by Andre Martin
# I have bad weather-luck. Nearly every excursion I undertake is met with rain or snow blowing sideways. The following account will demonstrate thus. The setting- Fall time on the giant, rugged Chichagof Island at the north end of the Alexander Archipelago. The temperate rain forest panhandle of Alaska . The people- besides me, my Blackfoot Indian friend Jim. The hardest worker I have ever known. That’s saying a lot because this is a state full of loggers, miners, fisherman and oil workers. He had ten years on me and could out work me to death. He was also a professional drinker. Although, he never called in sick or came in late no matter how hung-over he was. He often stumbled into my bunkhouse room late at night to declare his brotherly love. He grew up bucking horses for a living in Montana. Or sent out into the Rockies for two weeks alone to round up stray cattle. His nose was bent one way and his jaw the other. A born scraper, would never back down from any fight. We worked together at the cold storage throwing fish at each other in the 40 below freezers.
After a few debacles taking cheechakos (white men new to the country) on bush-whacking hikes I stopped going with just anybody into the wild. But Jim could handle himself and teach me a thing or two. So we often left our warm women to explore treacherous country together. The fastest back-packing I have ever done is when he would run out of cigarettes and we would b-line back to town.
We had a good friend in Chris. A hard working, intelligent, cheerful guy in his late twenties. He was from Santa Cruz but had some experience hiking in the Sierras. He noticed Jim and I prepping for a trip and begged “take me, take me!” We said “ Do you know what happened to the last guy that came with us?” “We had to radio the Coast Guard to helicopter his butt to safety.” (true story) We agreed to let him come but after this one trip he never asked again.
We set off into the dark forest behind the amphibious, boardwalk fishing town of Pelican (pop. 300). Nestled halfway down the Lisiasnski Inlet. Don’t tell anyone but this is the most beautiful place in Alaska and probably the planet. Wet emerald mountains, waterfall draped cliffs descending directly into the dark depths. A cold, dark, and deep fjord 1 mile wide and 35 mile long filled with life. Kayaking I have seen starfish 6 feet across, 20 ft. long Lions Mane jellyfish, and schools of herring that take 3 days to pass. Watched in awe as Humpback Whales did full, out of the water, breaches. Counted 50 Bald Eagles in the sky at once. Paddled with lively Orcas, friendly, brown eyed Seals, cute as hell Sea Otters, and intimidating, Stellar Sea Lions.
We back-packed into the old growth. I hear tell of trail hikers doing 15+ miles a day. Let me tell you on this island you would be doing well to make 6 miles a day in the summer, half that in winter. No trails except those made by bear or deer. Massive Douglas fir and Sitka spruce shadow the quite, mossy valley floor. Underneath a tangled maze of blueberry bushes, willows, alders, and devils club . A prolific thorny plant that is as much fun as it sounds.
We followed Pelican creek valley into the island. The basin is only 5 miles long and 1 mile wide. Surrounded by 4,000 ft mountains rising like walls on three sides. After the fifth mile the creek makes a 90 degree turn and becomes an impassable ravine with 50 ft. waterfalls. Every stream on the island does this. As if to hide their sources as best they can. High alpine lakes with colors that would make emeralds and sapphires embarrassed.
The first day we hiked a few miles in. Staying in the big timber following deer trails as best we could. Crossed two small creeks without getting our feet wet. There’s a memorable tree about a mile from town I always liked to show newcomers. I stop next to a 4 ft wide trunk with a solid mass of sticky, sweet smelling sap covering all the bark. Usually gets an “ah-cool!” After they poke and gawk for a minute and are ready to proceed, I look them in the face and point upwards. Their eyes get quite large as they realize the source of all this sap. Row upon row of deep vertical gouges. The lowest of them higher than a tall man can reach. A Brown Bear sign post years in the making. This prehistoric forest is guarded with tooth and claw by giant, furry druids.
We camped that night next to a tree so large the first branch is 150 ft above and the trunk a 6 ft wide wall next to us. Pelican creek, crystal clear and cold about 20 ft across and 2 ft deep filled with fresh snow melt murmurs nearby. The weather was perfect that night. Clear, dark sky brimming with stars partially visible through the tree tops.
However, when we emerged from the tent in the morning it was raining, hard.
After eating some oats with blueberries we left the tent and packs to explore the perimeter for an hour or so. Instantly soaked to the bone Not just from fat rain drops but mainly from trying to dry the brush off with our bodies. Arriving back at camp to see the fire pit and sagging tent in the middle of a 15 ft wide puddle. Did not bother with making a fire. Attempting to make a fire in a rain forest during a down pore requires way to much effort and lots of white gas.
We sat next to the creek to decide what to do. We had originally wanted to bag a peak that day. The stratums was down to the tree tops, discouraging that option. That’s when we noticed the creek was now 3 feet deep and rising. Visibly swelling as we watched. So the decision was obvious to us now. This mission is scrubbed! Time to make a quick retreat, like the French fleeing Moscow.
It became the most intense hike of our lives. The return trip, which the day before took only a few hours, will take all day. Barely making it home by dark. Instead of meandering back and forth looking for deer trails, we take a compass heading and charge straight through all obstacles as best we can. On the topo map the valley looks flat, but the terrain is anything but. Stout brush and devils club that is sometimes completely impenetrable. Also, when a 300 ft. tall tree falls it creates an astounding mess of things. Not only is the trunk itself a sizable barrier but it brings down a half dozen of its neighbors with it. A tangled mass a city block wide and taller than a house. After 20 minutes of trying to scramble around one tends to become frustrated. Even Luis and Clark would have shouted “Holy Hell!” In the whole valley you can’t go more than ten feet without reevaluating your next move. Left, right, up, down, over, under, around, and the worst, backwards. So it’s a route finding challenge even on a good day.
Today though, something was happening we had never seen before. The relentless down pore and the roar of the creeks surrounded us with an enormity of sound. Hiking in a full bath tub with the shower on. As the hours passed the woods began to transform into a different place all together. The wide tree trunks became conduits of water. Half inch deep streams on all sides running down from the canopy. There’s only a few feet of topsoil over bedrock so the water was pooling fast. Every dip in the forest floor was now under 3 feet of water. The small valley was quickly filling up.
When we arrived at the first of two creek crossings we could not believe our eyes. Yesterday you could walk through it without it going over your ankles. Not even 10 ft wide. Behold, thundering white water 5 ft deep and spilling its banks into the forest, 30 yards wide. The booming sound of boulders rolling down stream. Floating logs and detritus adding to the velocity. So now the fun was very much over. Stranded, cut off, no way out. Hypothermia looming as the situation dawns on us. We are now devoted to survival.
Scouting up, then down stream for a way to cross. We found our only option. Climbing over a log jam. With boot laces tightened we tentatively step out onto dark, slippery logs. None of them more than 2 ft across. The sides of the creek have a screen of alders leaning at 45 degree angles out over the water. Branching main trunks the thickness of your arm and about 15 ft. tall. So not only are we stepping from log to log canted at odd angles over the water. We’re also bending this way and that slowly maneuvering ourselves and our heavy packs over, under, and around the alders. Watching out for each other with wild eyes and meaningful looks. Making sure not to get a pack snagged on the branches.
But at least they offered hand holds. As we emerged into the open over the torrent, we sat down. Wrapped legs around and squeezed with all our might. Now we unbuckled the packs and loosened straps so that if you did fall in you could shed that anchor as fast as possible. Serious vertigo because just below our feet was raging white water surging by. As we shuffled our way across, inch by inch, I stole a couple of glances down stream to look at the next log jam you would get sucked under. Better not think about it. Keep Moving. The longer you look at a scary task, the harder it becomes. More alders to snake through on the opposite bank. When we reached solid ground again it was hugs all around.
We had to repeat the endeavor at the next even larger creek ( river). When we got within a mile from town our pace quickened with renewed morale. However, there was to be one last obstacle. There’s a large muskeg meadow near the end. Scattered with 5-10 ft wide pools of dark water, mud holes and trench like streams. Now the whole place was under water over our knees. Side by side we sloshed on. One by one each of us would disappear from view as we fell into deep holes. Pulled harshly out by your partners and continue without a word.
Victoriously we climbed onto the boardwalk. Looked toward the bridge at the end of town. Pelican creeks raging whitewater was just below the bridge. Normally there’s ten feet of clearance. Not caring to look at any more water, with pale, grim faces, we squished our way home. Brief handshakes as we separated at each others cabins. Leaning in the open doorway, a pool forming at my feet, I stood panting in front of Lara.
The next day the storm increased in violence with gale winds. The Inlet turned mud brown (except for the whitecaps) from all the runoff. At Pelican creek the bank was calving off at an incredible rate. Swiftly eroding its way toward the school. 20 men down there with backhoe and sand bags trying to stop entropy. It rained 10 inches every 24 hours for 3 days straight. We were lucky to have escaped the flash flood when we did.
