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The house guests arrived this week. From a distant land which anymore I to refer to as America. It’s just we’re just so damn far away from our fellow countrymen my sense of nationalism has faded over time.

Welcoming the house guests when they arrived

Good for them, not so much for Happy Wife. She looks to forward to a warm sunny day the way you look forward to a root canal appointment. Odd, I know, but I love her.

The house guests (4) left this morning in an R/V (24′) to go fishing for King salmon on the Deshka River, continuing on the next day to Talkeetna where they take off for a flight-seeing trip to Denali, followed the next day by a drive to Denali Park where they’ll take a bus into the park, followed by a two-day drive to Valdez (350 miles), a ferry ride across Prince William Sound to Whittier (a place where We Alaskans like to say the weather’s always “Shittier“), and finally a drive to Seward where they’ll rendezvous with us and the Dog at our place for three days of partying. Only one short week from now! Finally, if anything’s left of them, they’ll drive back to Anchorage, return the R/V , get on a plane and fly back to America. Specifically, Wisconsin.

They texted us from the Deshka this afternoon – The Kings Are In!

I know, right?

But hey, they’re Cheeseheads, so they’re cool.

Today, Happy Wife and I took a breather and went to the Solstice Festival downtown.

Cruel me: I thought to throw a bone (if I’d had one), just to see what might happen

Happy Wife at Holgate Glacier this past weekend. Click to Embiggen.

An ultra fine day outside. Bluesky and nary a breeze for my morning beach walk with the Dog. The tide was in retreat, exposing shoals atop which shore birds lighted to pick at what the water had left behind. The Dog was a black streak darting from one shoal to the next trying in vain to catch himself a bird. Or maybe that’s wrong. Maybe he understands he has no chance of catching a bird and only wants to run and play and scare them away. I’ve seen young children do the same thing. Put your average toddler who’s recently learned to run in a large field and point him at a gaggle of birds and watch what he does. Learning early in life that some goals are futile saves wasting time later on trying to achieve them.

Happy Wife and three (four?) other women went to Aialik (Aye-Al~lik) Bay to paddle Kayaks. To orient you, see the Red Dot

Zooming in to Holgate Glacier Bay, where they’re staying at a cabin

 

Two hours by water taxi to get out there. They left yesterday morning. Today should be fantastic for Kayaking. I spotted a whale in Resurrection Bay this morning during the beach walk with the Dog. I expect there will be plenty more to see in Aialik.

Supposedly this video is representative, less the wide-eyed guides. My women are out there on their own

I don’t mean to sound overly possessive of them, or suggest all of them really are mine. I’m no wannabe polygamist; longtime husbands especially will understand one is enough. The futility of sustaining multiple romantic relationships is a lesson best learned early in life. Chasing skirts and chasing birds is pretty much the same thing. Nevermind that I was a slow learner in this way.

And don’t tell me you’ve never Googled old girlfriends (or hetero-women, old boyfriends). I don’t think there’s any shame in doing so. It’s only natural to be curious about how Chris or Sue (or Larry) turned out. Especially Sue. I don’t know how many times I fruitlessly chased that bird. The problem comes when simple curiosity on Google gateways to rekindled infatuation, too often followed by the belief delusion that surely sending her one email can’t hurt. And before you know it’s, “Awesome, I can’t wait to see you at the class reunion!” This actually happened to a guy I worked with many years ago. Carl (made-up) had a wife and three nice children, a great job, a good circle of friends, he was a fine church-going family man. Really a storybook life (or so we all supposed). Then one day Carl’s wife gets a phone call from the husband of the wife Carl had just had a romantic affair with while at his high school reunion. His old high school sweetheart it turned out. The way I remember it, ol’ Carl was served with papers the second he returned home. Being a church-going man, and the fact he really did feel bad about the fallout at home — although, eventually, he did marry the high school sweetheart, after her husband divorced her — he repented for what he had done during a Sunday morning church service. In front of the entire congregation. So I was told.

Old Carl, it seems, had never given up chasing birds.

Me? A slow learner maybe, but eventually I got it

 

A day at the Dog Park

Sort of.

No fences. No gates. No struggles finding a place to park the car (in fact we walked). None of that. While the Dog ran and explored and sniffed and did whatever else an alacritous dog does in wide open spaces, we watched for whales. Name me a Dog Park where you can watch for whales while the Dog plays?

…

I thought so.

And still, after all the years we’ve lived here some people continue to ask, “Why do you live in Alaska?”

See above.

Trump and Clinton both claim they want to Unify The Country. If unification would mean the dilution of what we enjoy up here, then no. Count me out. I’ll stick with division. It sounds like a sour attitude I know, but really, can you blame me (us). If this were your backyard?

Once a week I get email assuring me that major companies are looking for talent like me.

Uh huh.

Like a sucker I click the links and apply for the jobs. I attach my CV. I should link you to my CV so you could look at it for yourself. It ain’t bad, in fact it’s pretty good. Ten publications/book chapters. Hundreds of cites. Proficient and/or Expert in high-demand bio-technologies. Co-inventor of things. Competent Pretty damn good in software development. Etc. etc.. I mean, really, how many CVs combine all that?

And yet my inbox is quiet as a church mouse in a coma. A mouse who’ll never wake up, I’m afraid.

Why? Working hypothesis: I’m Old. That, and I live near a Dog Park where you can watch whales.

And that last is a problem you see. Or, I should say, it would be the problem if my inbox were lighting up. The employer would want me to move. From Alaska to San Francisco, or San Diego, or Boston, etc..  I (we) don’t want to do that. Period. Can you say non-starter? I don’t want to live in a place where whales can’t possibly be seen while walking the Dog, i.e.  parts of the country Clinton and Trump want to Unify.

Which is not to say there are not many, many fine places in this country to live. But I (we) already live in one of those places, and so….?

HW discovered two burners on our gas stove suddenly stopped working. The burners are integral to a single component that plugs in to the stove top. Diagnosed the problem with a multi-meter – bad spark controller. That, and the igniters on the burners could have been bad, I couldn’t say for sure. Hauled the entire component to an appliance parts store in Anchorage, one I rather like and have used before. I went in thinking the entire component would likely be an FRU.

Spoke with a nice man.

“Got another one of these?”

“Nope. But we can probably order you one.”

Part numbers on the box were entered into the computer. Searching....

“Yessir, found it. Jen-Air replacement part. We can have it here in a week or so.”

He points to it on his computer screen.

“What?! $395.00!”

For a shoddy piece of metal, two stamped burners, a spark controller and two igniters. WTF?

“Look here, all I really need is a new controller and two igniters. Can’t we search for just these parts?”

The nice man feels my pain. Click click on the keyboard he goes.

Eventually, he locates a detailed parts list for the entire component. He zooms in and sure enough, there it was – we both ah-ha’d the second we saw it – the controller and igniter, with individual part numbers!

On a different web site he enters each number. Searching...

Bingo. He’d found what I needed, and only what I needed.

Including shipping, delivered to my doorstep – $84.

Big Shout-out to RepairClinic.com

Of course, I had to disassemble the damn thing to replace the parts. To say it was “cheaply made” would be a compliment. It was one of those deals where everything had to be oriented and connected just right before fitting the top into the base. Make just one mistake and the whole thing had to be lifted out and everything done over again. Having hands the size of a four-year old’s would’ve helped.

Finally got it right, screwed it up tight and snapped it back into the stove top. Slowly turned the knob… tic tic tic tic … Poof! Viola!

I give it a year or two, maybe more. Bookmarked the site.

Moving on to Item #2 this weekend.

We saw no bears. In fact, other than a few willow ptarmagin, a moose that sauntered through the campground, a ground squirrel, and a few sheep (you needed binoculars), nothing. A six million acre national park and nothing.

But oh, what a day!

 

Shirt sleeves in central Alaska at 4000′. In May?

Nobody was complaining.

Springtime!

Time to wash the garage door and pose in front of it proudly

That freakin’ door is heavy. Double-pane glass panels – 16 of ’em! – with a metal frame. You should see the size of the two coil springs needed to lift this monster. One of them failed spectacularly this past winter. I was in the house at the time. You would’ve thought someone’s foot slipped off the brake and the car kept right on coming through the door. No really, it was that loud.

Happy Wife’s at our Nest this weekend hosting her office’s Team Building retreat. Being it’s all Estrogen down there, and I’m not a member of the office, I stayed back in Anchorage with the Black Dog and a Honey-Do list. That’s a misnomer, really, Honey-Do list. In my case it was self-imposed. HW would not be the least bit miffed if all I did this weekend was plop on the couch and binge-watch season 2 of Grace & Frankie. Which, now that I mention it, does hold a certain vegetative appeal. But for health reasons I need to remain active. My cardiologist was not the least bit amused by my most recent numbers. I suppose if, instead of a bag of Cheetos Ruffles, I plopped down with a bottle of Fish Oil and Statins he’d be okay with that. Problem is, neither one of those are very tasty with French Onion dip. But Ruffles? Shut The Front Door.

The dirt in the raised bed will be turned and the Black dog walked, away from dead porcupines I hope. The last time we walked him at Kincaid park he got into one. Came away with a few quills in his mouth, nothing too serious, but if he gets on a live one I can’t predict his behavior. Or mine for that matter. One of many vicissitudes of hiking with dogs in Springtime in Alaska.

Afterwards, time permitting, an exploratory bike ride throughout the city, a visit to the nooks and crannies about town to see how they fared the Winter (meager as it was). Although as I write I see a fist of clouds moving in over the mountains. Hmm. In my thirties or forties a threat of rain and cool temperature would never have kept me from a bike ride. But now, at fifty six, a poor excuse somehow holds more sway over me. A growth area I guess. Besides, there are a number of more cerebral chores on the Honey-Do list begging my attention. Long-term budgeting being one. We have set some near term goals for ourselves which may or may not be achievable financially speaking. I need to spend some time analyzing this. From time to time our friend who lives in London texts me links to Youtube videos warning the End of Times is nigh. It’s not like I think all these tocsins of impending world wide financial collapse are bogus. I’m just unsure of what to do if they’re not. Buy Gold? Vote for Trump? Neither one seems very wise, both equally futile.

Anyway, the bike ride really is something I ought to do, if only to get some miles on my legs. We’re headed to Denali Park next weekend to ride mountain bikes into the park. We rented an RV, a twenty-two footer – on sale for $65/day! We’re meeting up with a bunch of other people at Riley Creek where we’ll be camping for two nights. The only road into the park is closed to vehicles for a couple more weeks, so we won’t be getting dusted by tour buses. I hear we should expect to see plenty of wildlife, including grizzlies. No guns allowed in a National Park so I’ll be leaving mine at home. Pepper spray? Sure, why not, I can spray it my own eyes to avoid seeing the horror of being devoured. At the planning meeting the other night at our friends’ house, Mark shows me pictures on his phone from when they were there last year. Many were of grizzlies just sauntering across the road, some less than 100 feet away, seemingly oblivious to the nearby snacks dressed in brightly-colored Spandex. Stand Tall! Raise your bike over your head! Appear Large! Uh huh, like that’s gonna help.

Wish us luck!

Some Facts.

Fact 1: I will not vote for Donald Trump for POTUS.

This bears repeating: I will not vote for Donald Trump for POTUS.

Fact 2: The statement, “X is usually wrong,” DOES NOT mean, “X is always wrong.”

Example: I do not generally approve the policies of Obama. However, I do specifically approve his  foreign policy decisions over the last (roughly) 8 years. This, I hope you understand, is an expression of  intellectual honesty; I believe it is right to give credit where credit is due.

Similarly with Trump (please review Fact 1). Consider a paragraph from a recent report that appeared in the New Yorker, regarding a supposed “agreement” between Cruz and Kasich to prevent Trump from winning the nomination

Collusion is an ugly word. In his statement, Trump said that “collusion is often illegal in many other industries,” which is true, in terms of price-fixing and other antitrust violations, but politics is not one of those industries. As many observers have pointed out, political parties get to set their own rules. But that does not mean that voters like those rules. The problem for the public is that these days there is generally no effective way into the political process except through one of the two major parties. The Democrats and Republicans have become duopolists—too big for anyone else to succeed. That reality creates an expectation that the parties themselves will be reasonably democratic. Collusion is the new “rigged,” the word that Trump uses to argue that there is not a free market in elections, that he is not getting the delegates he deserves, that Party insiders want to steal what’s his. He is trying to make Cruz and Kasich sound like a couple of cartel-backed price-fixers.

Trump is right, the reporter wrong, if she really believes this isn’t an example of collusion. It is an example of collusion, that is, if the definition of words really matters (emphasis mine)

noun: collusion:

secret or illegal cooperation or conspiracy, especially in order to cheat or deceive others.

Here, “others” refers to all the primary voters who voted for Trump (and  thus secured his delegates) .

“Secret” refers to the nature of the deals agreed to by Cruz & Kasich, and the machinations many fear will be carried out by Republican party operatives at the convention, to deny the putative Will of the People.

Where, Will of the People = We vote Trump to be the Republican nominee.

You may not like the People’s Will, Kasich and Cruz may not like the People’s Will, party operatives may not like the People’s Will — I may not like the People’s Will! But an effort to subvert the People’s Will (“others”) via mysterious (“secret”) rules/agreements – sorry folks, that’s Collusion. And so far as I recall from High School civics (very little to be honest), it’s exceedingly un-Democratic. Trump is right about that much.

To summarize:

Fact 1: I will not vote for Donald Trump for POTUS.

Fact 2: The statement, “X is usually wrong,” DOES NOT mean, “X is always wrong.”

HW in her sh*t kickers. Our last day in Texas I think. You do not want to end up on the wrong side of a kick from one of those bad boys.

We had a good time in the Texas Hill Country. Though it’s always a little sad at the end of a tour. I’ve been on many over the years.  At the start you’re pressed together with people most of whom you’ve never met before, and for a week or more you do everything together – cycle, eat breakfast, meet each night (to discuss the next day), sleep in the same hotel, etc.. Then before you know it – Poof! – the tour’s over. There’s the hugs, the goodbyes, the great-to meetchayas, and the everyone goes their own way. It feels a bit like drive-by friendship. Although, like the others I suppose, it does feel good to be back home.

Never before had a dog with a built-in carry handle

He likes to run the tide line trying to catch himself a gull. Just once I wish he’d get one. He’s a young dog so who knows, maybe one day one of them birds gets a little complacent, misjudges the dog’s distance or speed, lifts off a bit too late…who can say for sure.

Moving up the food chain

Happy Wife complained at the Starbucks this morning of having high interstitial fluid. (It’s the heat). I reminded her that her latte was a good diuretic. She proceeded to school me that diuresis (the reduction of interstitial fluid) is more involved than merely peeing out coffee.

“Sorry honey,” I said, “I got nothing.”

And so our day began.

One of those days you feel captive inside the airport hotel with few places to venture to on foot. Last night shortly after we arrived we crossed the gauntlet of traffic entering and exiting a major freeway and managed to find a decent Tex-Mex restaurant. We spotted the Starbucks next door. That was about it. Nothing else, really, except freeway and anonymous concrete as far as the eye could see. At least it beat hotel room-coffee and calling out for pizza.

Another few hours before we lift off for Portland. And then a couple more hours there before we lift off for the Greatland. Home after midnight.

But… But!  Eventually, on the pentultimate day of the tour, we found ourselves among the Bluebonnets

HW and I started the tour woefully out of shape. The last time I rode my road bike was probably September of last year. Longer still for HW. I think we were possibly the two youngest people on the tour, yet most days we came in last or near last. Not that there’s anything the least bit competitive about these tours, there isn’t, nobody really cares how fast or slow you are. But when people 10-12 years your senior finish the day a half hour or more before you, you do begin to wonder 1) how the hell they stay so fit, and 2) why they are not reaching for four ibuprofen the second they dismount their bikes.

By night we roamed Main Street in Fredericksburg in search of a decent place to eat. The city was originally settled by Germans in the late nineteenth century and so not surprisingly many restaurants feature German inspired fare. Somehow, though, schnitzel and potatoes over red cabbage doesn’t make the mouth water after 50 miles in the saddle in 82 degree heat. (I think we were also the only two on the tour to refer to an 82 degree day as hot). We tried a German restaraunt one night and the food was awful. The meat was absolutely flavorless, like it had been boiled in gray water. The noodles and fries were equally tasteless with the texture of wet cardboard. I added salt (a lot) to my (so-called) chicken-fried steak. No difference. All I tasted was salt. Which I have to admit was an improvement. A similar disaster played out on HW’s plate. To her credit she was brave enough to try the “blue cheese” dressing on her dinner salad (such as it was). Not me. The stuff came separate from the salad in a small plastic cup. Pretty typical, until you looked closely – small white curd-like clumps of who knows what sunk to the bottom of a milky-white oil substance. Whatever it was it looked to me like it had spoiled. The look on HW’s face after one mouthful indicated maybe it had. I hailed the waitress and asked that she bring us the ranch dressing instead. That, at least, was passable.

On our last day in Fredericksburg two women, at what came to be our favorite wine bar, where cowboys come to Tweet and drink Rose, turned us on to Ottos.

And Otto’s? OMG.  The venue ain’t much larger inside than the living room of a large house, but don’t let that fool ya.

For starters we shared the Foie Gras “BLT”

seared hudson valley foie gras, tomato jam, candied bacon, quail egg

HW’s entrée,  Duck Schnitzel

hand-breaded duck breast, spätzle, rotkohl, kirsch demi-glace, duck cracklins

Mine, locally-sourced Quail with potatoes voulere over broccoli

(special of the night so couldn’t find the fancy description online)

For dessert, a slice of sinfully delicious cheesecake with caramel drizzle and salted pecans

Better yet, one of the women at the wine bar who turned us on to Ottos called the restaraunt while we were eating to tell our waiter she wanted to pay for our drinks! Blown away we were by that Texas-sized generosity, I wanna tell ya’ll.