October 17, 2008: Kodiak, Alaska

I never saw the world's largest land carnivore, the Kodiak Bear, while growing up on Kodiak Island. Even though I lived with my family in a tiny log cabin 21 miles out of town on a gravel road in prime bear country, I never saw one. I heard them growling in the alder, saw fresh tracks and scat, yet never actually glimpsed a bruin in the flesh. They were a bit like Bigfoot in my mind's eye as a child (complete with a grainy black and white image) -- a large and potentially menacing presence hovering on the edge of my reality. Eventually, I had numerous bear encounters in other parts of Alaska when I spent summers counting fish for the Alaska Department of Fish and Game, but they weren't a Kodiak Bear which I was convinced would be a majestic creature the size of a Hummer (H2 at least), fur continuously ruffling in a light sea breeze. Now I know they are more like vermin.

2008 was the Year of the Bear in Kodiak. More than 80 bears were taken on the island in hunts, 25+ on the road system alone (which is impressive on only 70 miles of road). It seemed like a person couldn't walk more than 10 feet without tripping over one. When the bears weren't trying to gnaw their way into someone's home (this really happened, I just can't seem to find the link through the local paper), they were busy developing dumpster diving skills to pass the time until the salmon and berries arrived. At one point a friend counted 12 of the lumbering beasts on the two rivers within a mile of my mother's house. It became a daily occurrence and cars would line the main road to gawk and take pictures when one of the bears appeared. It was as though they had unilaterally decided to stop skulking behind chicken coops and go public in some sort of weird Bear Pride movement.

I was excited at first, I admit. It's hard not to get excited when your childhood grainy black and white image becomes tangible and viscerally real. So real, in fact, that on a couple of occasions I thought I might have the opportunity to examine my own viscera. One morning I was blithely biking along on my roadbike enjoying the 6 a.m. sun on my shoulders when I belatedly noticed a large boulder start to move out of the corner of my right eye on the side of the road. Much slower than the gears on my bike, my mind recalled that there are no boulders in the river marsh flat and boulders don't typically move on their own and wait a minute THAT'S NO BOULDER! I accelerated from cruiser speed to Tour de France sprint finish speed in half a pedal stroke before my brain had even processed the word "bear." I'm pretty sure I left some rubber on the pavement. It took half a day before I lost the coppery taste in my mouth from all the blood vessels I had spontaneously burst from my overdrive effort.

Another time I had decided to try out a different trail for a run. My typical route by the house had become a dicey proposition with an ever increasing number of tracks indicating the bears were interested in asserting their ownership and might be setting up a toll booth. With all the thick brush and high grass, my morning runs had become about as relaxing as that scene in Jurassic Park where people keep getting picked off by velociraptors in the field.

Not what a runner wants to see hanging out by the trail:I wasn't about to let some bears stop me from getting a run in, however, even though my options seemed rather limited -- I have yet to see running shorts featuring gun holsters or pockets to accomodate pepper spray. There was some logic to the idea of testing an area outside my normal pattern, one away from the bears, for instance. They all seemed to be congregating around the rivers at sea level for the salmon so a nice mountain trail seem reasonably safe. Silly me.

The day I chose to run up the mountain was a lovely Autumn day. Sunlight dappled the ground through the trees and the light perfume of wild roses suffused the air I sucked into my lungs in heaving gasps. With quivering quads I took a moment to survey the phenomenal view at the summit, then headed back down the rocky trail. I was in the grip of a full-fledged runner's high when I passed back into the thickets of alder from higher alpine meadows, in love with everything in the world and completely relaxed. With no warning, the trees exploded with sound about 20 feet from me and I saw a large, brown mass go hurtling away from me through the brush. I took three running steps while my mind considered the fact that I had spooked a bear by the side of the trail which made me wonder if I smelled really bad or just looked really scary. I was just about to try breathing into my hand to see if my breath stank when my brain finally went on full alert and injected enough adrenaline in my system to resuscitate an elephant heart. I can't say for sure because I don't remember much from that point until I got to the car, but I might have reached terminal velocity. Who says runner's lose speed as they age? I think it is only a matter of proper incentive. Life or death is pretty effective, I'd say.

Although my skin and bones are still intact after my encounters, it is probably only a matter of time before someone gets hurt. Familiarity breeds contempt, after all, and it happens on both sides of the equation. When the bears get too comfortable around human habitat they can be removed or shot, like the bears that were frequenting areas near school bus stop sites (But Mooooommmm, I don't want to go to school because there are bears at the bus stop...). When humans get too comfortable around the bears, however, someone is going to become human confetti.

My, what big claws you have:

I was flabbergasted to watch one person in full camouflage gear try to sneak up on a bear chewing on salmon. The Timothy Treadwell wannabe was literally crawling toward the bear commando style, popping his head up occasionally to determine his progress. Who tries to sneak up on a bear? Yes, things do get rather large in Alaska, but that 2,000 pound animal is not, I repeat NOT, an overgrown ground squirrel. I almost hoped the bear would get surly and smack the dimwit down so that I could nominate him for the Darwin Awards. Another time I saw a bear approach a woman fishing on a river. She simply crossed the river in her boots and continued fishing while the bear stopped directly opposite her on the far bank and watched. I couldn't believe it. I've seen how fast a bear can move and that bear could have been across that river in three steps and had her head in its mouth before she had a chance to drop her fishing pole. This isn't a zoo, for crying out loud. Please, have a little healthy respect toward keystone predators, people. Some healthy respect and we can all co-exist.

September 14, 2008: Kauai, Hawaii

Everyone should go to at least one wedding held in Hawaii. The island vibe promotes a much more laid-back feel to the proceedings and...it's Hawaii! A couple of good friends from college decided to get married on Kauai, an island they lived on for awhile and vacation to quite often. I'm always up for a good wedding and just had to go because...it's Hawaii!

How can a person not be happy when there are palm trees?:
I've been to Oahu several times (a couple of times for work, no less, back when I was working), but never Kauai and was excited to see another island. It was lovely, of course, and with my keen eye for detail I discovered a few things about Kauai which are unlikely to be found in any guidebook.

1. There is one fire eater on the island.

We took the groom to a luau as part of his bachelor party

Clockwise from top left: Bill, Soykan, Jose, Diogo (the groom), and me after a few drinks:and thought the fire eater there was amusing even if his lines seemed a little too polished. He had to leave in a hurry to go to a wedding. A couple of days later he made an appearance at my friends' wedding reception, sandwiched between two other weddings he was performing at. Busy fellow. I'd say with his crammed schedule there is room for an understudy.

2. There is no bungee jumping on the island. The guys took the groom out for a zipline adventure the morning after the luau (It wasn't anything like the world's longest zipline in Namibia, but it was thankfully a whole lot safer.), and, while it was not perhaps the most brilliant idea to be speeding through the trees suspended in mid-air from a harness with a hangover, Dueling zipliners!:we did learn from one of our guides that there is no bungee jumping on Kauai.

There are great rope swings, though. Bill freefalls into a lake:Yet another business opportunity. That is, of course, if you don't want to be a fire eater. From the same guide we learned that...

3. ...the Sheraton is built on a massive known traditional burial site. Creepy. Not to mention ethically problematic. And a bit unsettling because we were staying at the Sheraton. The guide, who once worked there as a bartender, claimed that the hotel is haunted, citing several examples of unexplained events that happened with some regularity in the system of tunnels under the hotel. A system of tunnels? That got my attention. I had never thought of it, but of course there is a system of tunnels under all large hotels to allow housekeeping and room service and maintenance personnel to get from point A to point B without being seen by guests. More importantly, was it possible for me to get into those tunnels?

Turns out it was and I did, and it freaked me out. Not because of anything ghostly, but because of the tunnel layout. There were your garden variety service hallway tunnels with mattresses and linens etc stacked up along the walls, and then there were the tunnels at the equivalent of dugout height that skirted the edge of the outdoor public areas. Noting the decorative cutouts allowing unobstructed views of even the "private" hot tub, I was struck by how easy it would be to eavesdrop on and take pictures of people without being seen. That was creepier than any ghost story. No more skinny dipping for me!

September 4, 2007: Ross Lake, Washington

Taking a miniscule inflatable raft loaded with four days of supplies and camping gear for a two hour journey on one lake, a mile portage, then another two hour ride on a second lake to an out-of-the-way campground seemed like a good idea at the time. Pleasant, even. In my mind I pictured Diana in a bikini sitting in the bow of the boat under the hot sun squealing in mock terror as the occasional wave misted over the bow of the boat while we roared across the lake, a huge rooster tail in our wake. Like a music video set in Miami. The fact that we were on the opposite side of the country from Miami, had a 3 horse Johnson outboard, and that Diana does not, under any circumstances, "squeal" in mock terror did nothing to dispel my fantasy. Too bad the reality almost turned into our version of the Perfect Storm.

Every Memorial Day weekend a group of Diana's friends makes their way to Ross Lake in Washington -- a National Recreation Area requiring passes and accessible only by boat or hiking. Hemmed in by 10,000 foot peaks on the eastern side of the Cascades, Ross Lake is a narrow, 21-mile finger of water pointing into Canada. There are no cars, no houses, and no Costco on the corner. Other than the motorboats rented by a small lodge, no engines can be heard. Ross Lake is, understandably, popular with the canoe and kayak set.

Most people hike the mile in (downhill) from the highway holding their boat of choice aloft, or hire a boat from the lodge which will also taxi people to and from the various campsites. In an effort to avoid both hiking and paying the extortionate rate for a water taxi, we chose the more adventurous option of boating across a neighboring lake and portaging over to Ross Lake. With an inflatable raft and outboard at our disposal, why not?

Why not, indeed. It took under 5 minutes to inflate the raft with a foot pump and over 2 hours and 5 minutes to try and make everything fit in it. The raft was clearly 10 feet too small. In the end, we perched precariously on the pontoons and set off -- hours behind schedule.

Not quite a pleasure yacht:
It was a glorious voyage until we rounded the corner of the dock and were promptly assaulted with gale force gusts. Wind was whipping the lake into a frenzy of white peaked waves that broke over the bow of the raft, soaking us with spray. Our little motor barely provided enough power to move through the surge and was completely helpless against the gusts that pushed the inflatable to right angles of our intended course. It was like trying to drive a bathtub across the high seas during a hurricane. Except for the small detail that the high seas were mere 6-inch wavelets.

The raging wavelets were still high enough to crash repeatedly over the bow, however, and my toes soon became squishy as an alarmingly large amount of the lake collected inside the raft. We had no bail bucket, of course (no room for one, anyway). Thinking fast, Diana grabbed my beloved Death Ride water bottle which I carry everywhere with me and started bailing. It was a bit of a David vs Goliath contest. In a moment of clarity I realized how ridiculous we looked: two people perched on a tiny, overloaded raft blown around by a light wind in oversized ripples using a water bottle to bail out the boat. I couldn't help laughing when a light rain started falling.

It was funny for the first 20 minutes -- especially when we found ourselves locked in a dead heat with a two person kayak (they must have been incredibly annoyed with the whine of our straining motor pacing them). As 20 minutes stretched into an hour then 2 hours and we were wet and cold and had not even made it halfway, it was a lot less fun. Just about the time we were considering returning to the dock we rounded a corner into a gorge that led to the portage site and found ourselves mercifully protected from the wind. Hallelujah. I was just excited that I could open up the motor full throttle.

Forty-five minutes of blessedly calm water later, the engine started to sputter and ran out of gas. Luckily, we a) had a small gas can with us and b) were about 100 feet from the portage point. We hauled out the oars, discovering to our chagrin we made much better time rowing then we did using the motor. At least we had made it halfway!

After a 20 minute search to find the alleged "conveniently located phone" to call about a portage, we settled in to wait for our transport. A couple of kayakers turned up and admired our raft. "Great idea!" they exclaimed, apparently not noticing that we were soaking wet and shivering. They were clearly excited about the concept of a motor. I gave a non-committal grunt in response, deciding not to point out that the shape of a kayak is much more efficient in water than a tiny outboard motor attached to a bathtub. I got some satisfaction out of hearing them grunt when they helped load the raft onto the transport truck -- it was quite a bit heavier than their sleek kayaks.

Remarkably, Ross Lake was mostly calm and there was even a little bit of sun when we arrived after a slow mile in granny gear on the portage truck.

No raging waters here!What a difference a mile makes! Energized once again, we fired up our deathtrap and headed toward our campsite, trying to mentally block out the obnoxious whine of the motor in the stillness by looking at the scenery.
It was with a huge sense of relief that we finally docked at our campsite in late afternoon.

Evening views from the campground dock:

We had managed to survive the storm, arrange for portage, and, most importantly, we had not lost a single beer. I promptly opened one in celebration. Let the weekend begin!