History Is Messy
Sheesh. The Hotspot on my phone, which connects me to the Interwebs when I’m here at our Nest, this morning is slower than a sloth swimming in molasses. I sent technical support an email, which, of course, took like five minutes to send. A few hours later I get an email back with a ticket number referencing my problem — LTK11177743212X — and a suggestion from a man named Joseph L.
Joseph said, “There appear to be no issues related to wireless data in your area. Shut down your phone, remove the SIM card, wait a minute, put it back together and try to reconnect.”
Seriously? No “issues?” So it’s all in my head? Imagine your garden hose is badly kinked, water dribbles out the end like a 95 year old man takin’ a pee. You call me and I recommend you shut off the water, disconnect the hose at the faucet, wave the hose heavenward for a minute, then reconnect and try again.
“What? No? That didn’t work to correct your problem? Well, thank you for contacting technical support today. Is there anything else I can (not) help you with?”
Double Sheesh.
Anyhoo…
Misting this morning on Lowell Point. At Bear Glacier? I can’t say for sure, but the optimist in me wants to say the overcast to the south appears to be thinning. I should know better. This is Seward, after all, the northernmost reach of a rain forest that extends from southeast Alaska. Locals here dismiss what most people would call a steady rain as merely high humidity.
If you embiggen the picture (courtesy of Google Earth), you’ll see only a thin isthmus separates the ocean from Bear Lake, a freshwater outflow from Bear Glacier. In truth I expect the water in the lake may be brackish owing to the high tides up here which flush into it twice daily. Tidal surges in Resurrection Bay can be up to thirty feet or more. Why Resurrection Bay? In the early 19th century a Russian named Alexander Baranov roamed these waters beating otters over the head to service the Russian fur trade. (Okay, supposedly he did some good things too, but butchering otters… that’s worse even than deflating footballs). Anyway, one year he was aboard his ship far out in the Gulf of Alaska when the weather came up suddenly. He quickly sought refuge in the first bay he could find. When the storms finally relented it was Easter Sunday, so he named it Resurrection Bay. Sentimental, perhaps. Yet today if you ask the Otters out there who call this bay home, they’ll tell you ol’ Alex was just another Asshole who murdered their ancestors. History is messy.
I have a Honey-Do list to get started on today. I shan’t be idle. Well, not going forward anyway. It’s already 11:07 am and I’ve accomplished next to nothing save coffee and breakfast, if you can call it that — one fried egg, two slices of bacon, and a half a hamburger bun toasted w/butter and garlic salt. Absent Happy Wife I’m reduced to the simplest means of existence. A half a man, really.
Let’s see
- A dump run (at least one).
- Visqueen the floor in the guest cabin (“Bear Cub”) out back in preparation for the vinyl plank floor install next week (Honey-Do Phase II).
Replace the broken check valve outside the Bear Cub.(Finished last week!).- Murder squirrels living in the roof of the Bear Cub. (*).
- Laundry (note to self: turn on water and gas in laundry room).
- Shower, Shave, & Read.
- Three Olive Martini (>1 ?) at Chinooks.
The view from Chinooks bar yesterday
Well well, would you look at that, a cruise ship. Tourists! I’ll need to get to the bar early to find an open stool. Some tourists ask the silliest questions. One time I fielded one from the wife of a couple when they learned I was an Alaskan (mind you, this question came right after they had just stepped off a boat, you know, a boat floating on the Sea): “What elevation are we at right now?”
* Unlike ol’ Alexander Baranov I am not killing squirrels just to harvest their fur to further the rapacious interests of some Russian aristocrat. No. It is more like self defense. So history will judge me as morally superior. Besides, not all Otters are cuddly little balls of fur who spend their days floatin’ on their backs nibbling on molluscs and such. Like I said, History Is Messy.