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Large, pan-fried shrimp on an underlay of risotto, a medley of fruits drizzled with evoo, an amorphous helping of Burrata. Obtaining the latter for Happy Wife (HW), especially when she doesn’t expect it, often places me in her high favor. And that’s all I care to say about that.

That was last night’s dinner. Today I ate grass-fed beef. Tomorrow, who knows. We tend not to plan very far ahead when it comes to meals. I marvel at the inventiveness of HW who can open the stainless steel refrigerator doors, pause briefly to gaze upon the mishmash therein, and conjure up a perfectly respectable dinner for us. By the way, if the refrigerator doors are stainless steel why doesn’t a magnet stick? You know the answer. Are the counter tops also not really granite? The faux brickwork on the front of our house should’ve tipped me off.

As leader of an upcoming bike tour I needed to pass an online first aid and CPR course. Took the exam today after a brief review of the relevant material. 50 questions. I’d assured myself when I left school for the last time five years ago (can you believe it?) that if nothing else, at least I’ll never need to take another exam again. Oops. Passed with a score of 96%. Did you know that before administering CPR to an infant you’re supposed to check for consciousness by tickling her foot while making noise? Try that on an adult victim and you could end up being the one getting checked for consciousness.

I was not the winner of the Nenana ice classic. You may recall I purchased seven guesses, the earliest one being April 29th @ 3:42 pm. The ice went out on the Tanana River this past Friday, April 25th @ 3:49 pm. I was within seven minutes of the actual time of day, but late by four days. Damn global warming.

Shaping up to be another warm year. Recall last summer? Daytime temperatures are already in the 50’s and it’s still April. Been out riding at least a half dozen times so far. And would you look at that? The sun is out again today. Time to go shed a pound or two.

Later…

Got word yesterday from an old friend that he’s retiring soon. I have a problem calling friends old. It’s not the chronological connotation that troubles me — I readily accept we are, all of us, getting older — but rather in the sense it means, “former; something from the past.” A kind of “that-was-then-this is-now” sentiment, as if to say, “He’s no longer my friend.” That leaves me feeling deeply melancholic, losing touch with the friends that shaped me, and me them, while we were all coming up. There’s a separate human emotion that captures this affliction and I don’t what it is, precisely. But it is.

I accept that geographic separation has a lot to do with this, as much or more even than does the child-childless fork in life’s road. “Oh, they’re pregnant with their first? Well, we’ll never see them again. Haha.” Still, people can and do stay in touch in a meaningful way even when separated by thousands of miles. I’m especially covetous of the accounts of old shoe boxes filled with letters inseparable friends exchanged with each other right up to the end.

I also accept that the different forks we take expose us to different people, places, relationships, opportunities. In a word: Experience. So much so in fact that friends on different forks may no longer recognize each other years on. Who wants to keep in contact with somebody he once knew who time and distance has transmogrified into somebody unrecognizable? “Remember? That guy we used to party with in the basement. Listening to Cheap Trick thunder away on the JBLs upstairs, draining a case of Rhinelander beer, he drove that beat up Valiant with the acrylic window on the rear door, he had to replace the glass because some jerk smashed it while parked downtown when we all went to that concert together — who was it again, Queen? Anyway, yeah, he moved away years ago. Somewhere on the west coast now. Don’t what happened to him, or when, but it seems like he kinda got radicalized.“

I admit that at certain times on my fork I’ve not stayed a good friend. In the way I presume I was at one time, where people I called friends genuinely enjoyed me and valued my companionship enough to say, “He’s my friend.” If I’ve lost that, and I feel I have, I’d like to have it back. I won’t say I’m ashamed of how experience — my experiences — have shaped me, but if those experiences have shaped me into somebody unrecognizable by old friends, I regret that.

Intellectually, I understand the fragility of relationships, how separation and dissimilar experiences may fracture them, but whatever it was that held us together in the basement so many years ago, idling away the hours of humid summer days, unsure of ourselves and what fork we’d eventually end up on, whatever glue that was, I’m sure of one thing: We were, all of us back then, friends.

Did an overnight at our Nest in Seward this weekend. Needed to empty and refill the hot tub. Something happens to a tub of water kept at 89 degrees or warmer for 4-5 months that I’m concerned may render it incompatible with human immersion. The water kinda smelled weird, too.

First, I remembered to drop the power to the tub — don’t want the pump coming on when the tub is empty! That would be a very costly mistake.

Next, hooked the garden hose to the drain plug and let her rip. Later, I hand bailed the remaining water best I could with a plastic trash can, then Happy Wife (HW) stepped into the tub in knee high pants and bare feet like she was fixin’ to mash grapes, wearing on one hand a terry cloth mitt impregnated with surface cleaner.  First she sponged the last stubborn puddles of water then a wipin’ she went.

Next, I refilled the tub with forty degree water direct from our well deep in Alaska ground.

When you turn the power back on red warnings start flashing on the hot tub’s control panel. ICE ICE and then FL1 FL1. 

I pat the console reassuringly, “There there tub, you’re in Alaska, you’re not going to freeze, just the new water is a little cold is all.”

FL1 means the filter(s) are clogged. How can this be? They weren’t clogged before I emptied the tub, nor have they been moved. This is the nature of things generally, isn’t it? Make any change to a system and everyone’s upset.

“Crap,” I said to HW, “now I have to reach into icy water and change the filters.” (We have several spares).

“No worries, I’ll do it,” she said, “I’ve waded water that cold or worse in the back country.”

“Okaaay.”

“Holy crap you weren’t kidding that’s cold!” She exclaimed.

Finally, the red light indicating that the heater is operating came on. This only happens if the filters are happy. In the meantime the ICE ICE warning keeps flashing and if the console had arms I imagine it would be like Robot in Lost In Space — “Warning Will Robinson! Warning!”

And then the heater light went out again, and FL1 FL1 reappeared.

Dunked my hands in the icy water and partially unscrewed one filter. Heater light goes back on. Yeah!

I go inside and begin to imbibe a Nestarita — 1 can frozen limeade, 1 can Tequila, 1 16 oz Pabst; stir ‘n serve over ice — which HW had prepared for us. I take a peek outside at the console:

FL1 FL1 … ICE ICE

Crap.

Dip hands back in icy water and further unscrew filter. Heater light comes back on.

Two Nestaritas later, same thing, water had warmed eight degrees to just under 50 before the heater light went off again. This time I just remove the filter entirely from its base. Light comes back on.

Much later, after dinner and a movie, I look again and the ICE ICE warning has disappeared, water temperature is over 65. Goal is 103. I daringly screw the filter I’d removed back into its base. Heater light stays on. I turn on one bank of jets. Pump works, jets work. I switch on the other bank of jets.

Jets no work. I hear the pump laboring. Crap. Then the heater light goes out. Crap Crap.

Unscrew filter, heater light comes on, puzzle over non-functional bank of jets.

I see one of the jet nozzles in the tub is not completely submerged. Air in the line!

Fill trash can with water from bathtub and decant into hot tub. Repeat 3 times. Jet is now completely submerged. Try again. Jets no work, at least not very well, although I see one or two sputter. Come on, you can do it. I cycle the pump by turning the switch on and off repeatedly.

Success! Eventually all jets are functional, the temperature is by now close to 80, I screw the filter back in, the heater light stays on!

Next day, mid morning, we both slide into a 103^o tub, naked ‘n giddy.

Fairly captures the essence of my bloated discontent with mankind:

I know of many exceptions.

Take Jeffrey for instance, one of the people I mentioned who is coming to visit us this summer, with his wife Wendy — Dr. Wendy! I first met Jefferey in Cleveland when I was going to school, as was Wendy, she to become a medical doctor. Jeff could be a bit irascible at times but the man has a good heart. Especially around issues concerning dogs he’s a complete mush. When Rufus finally surrendered nobody texted and emailed me more than Jeff did. Lately, he’s done the same inquiring about Lucy (who’s hanging in there, btw). And the back and forth we had when his and Wendy’s dog Dexter was in his final days was heart wrenching. Anyway, one day while in Cleveland at a celebration shortly after I defended my dissertation and officially became Dr. Nibbe, Jefferey overheard me debating with myself whether I should take the consulting job or sign on with the university, because, I thought, you can only perform well in one job at a time, right?

Well, Jefferey jumped on that right quick, “Are you kidding, do both. You’re a PhD now, start behaving like one.”

What he meant, I think, is not that getting a PhD invests one with a god-like power, whereas before you were a mere mortal and now you are omniscient, but rather that a heightened level of respect comes with having earned the degree, more people will be interested in your highly specialized knowledge and there’s no reason why you can’t, and shouldn’t, think in parallel rather than serially. In other words, as he said, do both jobs at the same time.

Jeff, a PhD himself, I should point out was teaching bioethics courses at Case Western while also consulting for a company in Washington D.C..

I did end up serving in two separate roles for a time, drawing two salaries, but eventually moved full-time into just one. Nevertheless, I’ve not forgotten Jeff’s wisdom. It’ll be good to see him and Wendy again.

Speaking of bumper stickers, what ya wanna bet the driver of this truck works for the Department of Environmental Conservation?

Stood in front of a door at the grocery store mall yesterday, bags in hand, for what must’ve been ten seconds waiting for it to open before I realized it wasn’t an automatic door. An awkward moment when you look left and right to see if you’ve been observed or not. You can never be too sure that someone with an over exaggerated sense of public safety won’t whip out their cell phone and call security: “I just saw him walk out the door, officer. He was standing there mumbling to himself. He’s in the parking now, moving among the cars!”

Later on during my errand run I was waiting in line at the Walgreens wearing my new hoodie when it caught the eye of a woman in front of me.

“Pathetic, right?” I said.

No no she said, I completely understand. Emphasis hers. Right then I knew she knew that I knew what she meant. I’d stopped in to buy a Paypal cash card, loaded it with $200 and paid the $3.95 fee. Odd they charge a fee to deposit money. Can you imagine your bank doing that? Still, it’s a convenient way to pay service providers monthly, Netflix for instance, and you know what they say, no convenience shall go uncharged. We’ve been watching House of Cards on Netflix. I sorta like it. Okay, sure, the Underwoods are the kind of couple who’d thrust a dagger in your back and enjoy a smoke or run together afterward, not exactly empathy begging behavior, but the show is reasonably well plotted and entertaining overall. Plus Claire is pretty hot. Happy Wife said Claire (Robin Wright) used to be married to Sean Penn. Srsly? Ick.

Earlier in the day after a few hours of productive work I ventured out for a bike ride:

BIGGER.

I’m leading a bike tour up here this summer and thought to myself, “Dude, it’s already mid-April. Better get that winter-fattened butt of yours in the saddle and get in shape.” Happy Wife and our friend Sally will be the sag drivers for this tour. Before that, in May, we have friends visiting from Oregon, then a wedding in San Fran in June, followed by the tour, then my sister, niece and great nephew are coming up for a week.

Not long after that the leaves will begin to turn and… I’ll be seen in front of that grocery store door again, mumbling to myself.

Happy Wife was in Fairbanks — aka Sqaurebanks — most of the weekend. Visiting her brother (Mike), his wife, their two adorable girls, and the sled dogs. They must have a dozen or more. Most of them are hand-me-downs from professional teams that race in the Iditarod, dogs who are either too old to race or for other reasons no longer fit enough. Mike mushes them in winter. He seems to enjoy that a lot. Clears his head, especially I suppose after a maddening week as the City Engineer of Fairbanks. I only joke about it being Squares-ville. In truth there’s a lot of nice folks living there, but I’ve no idea how they cope during the long winters. While it can get very warm in Fairbanks in the brief summer, 90+ is not unknown, it also gets brutally cold during the long winter.

According to Wikipedia:

Average winter low temperatures range from −15 to −25 °F (−26 to −32 °C), but extremes can range from −60 to −75 °F (−51 to −59 °C)

Isn’t it crazy weird then that Fairbanks, Alaska’s second largest city and home to the state’s largest university and several military bases, has no natural gas service. Anywhere. Coal, heating oil, and propane. That’s it. This, in a state that has the two largest oil fields ever discovered and developed in North America, both with ginormous gas caps. Problem is, the 700+ mile trans-Alaskan pipeline was engineered to deliver oil, not gas. Plus there’s no feeder stub to Fairbanks anyway.

There’s been a lot of talk up here about building a pipeline to ship gas from the north slope, problem is the only credible bid was to ship it to Canada, where they’d use some of it domestically, and send the rest to America (lower 48). Others are clamoring for an interstate pipeline, including a feeder stub to Fairbanks, but so far the economics aren’t there. Turns out the world is awash in natural gas, so there’s no point in China, for instance, importing natural gas from Alaska when they have closer, cheaper alternatives.

Plus, for a lot of people up here the very notion of sending the gas to/thru Canada is going over like a fart in church:

Heard a piece the other day on NPR, possibly by the breathlessly sentimental Robin Young, about how wonderful it would be to have written a letter to yourself, to be opened and read by your older self. For instance, a sixteen year old writing to his fifty year old self. Which set me to thinking (praises be!), wouldn’t the reverse be more provocative? Suspend your notions of the Laws of Physics for a moment and consider what you might pen to your much younger self:

Dear Former Self,

Hi there. It’s me. You!

Scratch that. Let’s start over.

How about this: I am you. I’m writing to you (me) from the future. Better?

I know this must seem absurd. I’d feel the same way. But of course I would! You and I — we — are the same.

Take a deep breath. Right. So the first thing I need to say to you, me, is that nothing I’m about to tell you (me) can be used to change the course of your (my) life. For instance, when I tell you that I (you) will stop smoking one day, while true, it is not be possible for you (me) to avoid taking up the habit to begin with. I could not have stopped doing something you (I) never started. Crazy, right? You see, while I am able and willing to tell you things about the future, down to the most intimate thoughts you’ll experience, some of which I have (you will) share with no one, the immutable law of cause and effect remains to this day ruthlessly deterministic and applicable at all scales of matter. From the tiniest atomic particle up to and including the vector of an organized human life. Everything is subject to the Laws of Physics. Everything. Well, everything that we know of anyway. And by “we” here I don’t mean just you and I (one in the same — told you this would seem absurd), but rather the collective we of the world. And herein is an important lesson of epistemology: Whenever you reason, always leave yourself an out. Qualifying your claims with “…that we know of anyway” is a handy way to do this.

What I’m trying to say, kid, is that your (my) life will unfold precisely as it has been determined to. (Who or what is the determiner? This remains the topic of an open letter to Reality.). Oh, it will certainly seem to you along the way that you’re choosing your own path, you’ll wave your arms and shout, “See, I have free will!” No sane person will deny you’re correct. But I (you) am here to tell you that I already know, down to the most indivisible detail of your life, what you’re going to think and do. How? Because I (you) have already done it!

Do you see where we are going with this? Now, what I’m going to tell you in terms of what’s coming your (our) way will at times be exciting, and at others, terrifying. I know this must seem absurd to you, getting a letter from your future self. But surely you can take comfort in one thing: I’m here. You’re still here.

To be continued…

Eye candy first.

A stranded starfish:

BIGGER.

Happy Wife returned this still alive star to the ocean. Or should I have said sea? When does a sea become an ocean? At the same time a boat becomes a ship? In either case, instead of what I expected would be a coddling re-introduction to shallow water this star was flung, as one might fling a Frisbee, into deeper water where it landed upside down with splat! I shot her a look; half surprise, half dismay.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like that!” she said, a dreadful look on her face.

There there dear, I’m sure it’ll be alright. I wrapped my arm around her and pulled her close.

A few more reassuring steps down the beach and viola!

BIGGER.

The washed up egg case (or “purse”) of a Sea Skate. (Note to self: Not Ocean Skate, Sea Skate.)

Supposedly, baby skates may remain in the purse for up to three years as they develop. Unless the purse washes ashore. I’m thinking there’s a very limited amount of time out of the water before it’s lights out for good inside the purse. Probably less time than it takes the next high tide to re-float it back to the nursery. Nature’s gamble.

Our friend Tom died suddenly this week. Heart attack. He’d recently opened his own wine store here in Anchorage after years of working for others. No matter where Tom worked that’s where we preferred to shop. His knowledge of wine was broad and his taste preference matched mine. That’s as important as it is rare. Whenever Tom recommended a wine I’d try it without hesitation. Can’t recall a time when I thought, “Nope, not my style, Tom, you missed on this one.” Not once. Tom was polite, witty, always eager to extend us a “good guy” discount, and I’d come to learn he was pretty well read too. Lately, when I’d stop by his store we’d talk about the latest book his book club was reading, or the merits of this or that author’s short story collection. Frequently, his dog Bolly was in the store at rest on a soft blanket Tom had placed near the cash register.

You’re never prepared for the suddenness of sadness. We will miss Tom. A lot.

…

Happy Wife crust skiing on Portage Lake last weekend. Pardon the low quality. This is a screen capture of a photograph she sent me as an attachment to a text message. Think Xerox of a re-sized Xerox.

See those people back there, near the base of Portage glacier? Moments earlier they’d been touching the columns of ice, posing, I suppose, for a “cool” selfie. Foolish if you ask me. Just one week earlier this video was taken. Recognize the place?

Note near the end the videographer’s recognition of the pressure wave, if I recall correctly from my days as a geophysicist, also known as a standing P-wave.

Fifty years ago today, fourth avenue in our quirky town, Anchorage. Note the creep factor provided by the overhead banner advertising for a showing of Our Town. More pictures of devastation here.

Just to the left of that powder blue Oldsmobile (?) is one of our favorite present-day date night hangouts.