“You’ve got bear spray?” is a commonly heard query in the summer.

Recently we picked up our truck from Rick, a mechanically inclined neighbor some three miles down the Annie Lake Road from the Outpost. We had just told him we were off to head up the Alligator Lake trail on our mountain bikes. The plan was to ride six or seven miles and then rest our “bush ponies” as Nancy calls them, and hike to the summit of Goat Mountain. We assured him that we had a couple of cans of the potent pepper spray.

Pepper spray, also known as OC spray (from “Oleoresin Capsicum”), OC gas, and capsicum spray, is formally known as a lachrymatory agent. This is a chemical compound that irritates the eyes to cause tears, pain, and even temporary blindness. It is frequently used in riot and crowd control, and personal self-defense. The pepper spray used on bears is far more potent than the human deterrent.*

In writing the series of regional books, Things That Bite: A Realistic Look at Critters that Scare People, I have consistently found that across the continent, there is an overriding fear of bears. (The book is available online, in most major book stores, Amazon or through Adventure Publications.)

I believe there is a deep-rooted, primal fear of large carnivorous animals. Somewhere in our brief history we were prey to larger animals that sometimes found our flesh tasty. These included alligators, sharks, large cats and bears. Most people believe that all bears are inherently dangerous and consequently many bears are killed without a charge of guilty.

Let’s set the record straight. The wild critters that cause more human deaths every year than any other beast in North America is the honeybee and other stinging wasps and hornets. And the only reason they sting is that when they feel threatened they will sting to protect themselves and their home colony. Two percent of the human population is allergic to their venom and could go into anaphylactic shock. Without proper diagnosis or medical attention the person who has been stung can die of breathing complications.

Rick, the mechanic, went on to say that in his thirty plus years in the Yukon he had never seen so much bear sign as this year. Other long time residents have been echoing Rick’s observations. Indeed we likewise had noted the abundance of piles of bear crap alongside the road. And no, there was no distinct odor of pepper spray nor any bear bells in the feces.

When we get visitors from Minnesota, they almost always ask about bears and usually show real concern when we venture out for a hike. While Nancy and I are out mountain biking, backcountry hiking, canoeing or camping at least three times a week, we have yet to spray our bear spray. This summer we have had two encounters with grizzly bears and one night while I was on my mountain bike I suddenly found myself less than ten yards from a husky black bear. Both of us looked surprised. I kept pedaling, no faster and no slower, the bear simply stood and watched me moving on.

Two years ago we had a very blonde and very adult grizzly come ambling down a hill towards our campsite while on a canoe trip in the remote country of the Wind River of the northern Yukon. The bear came within 35 yards of us; six of us all huddled together to make ourselves look large and ominous. It was a sudden flap of the tarp in a gust of wind that scared that bear away.

Three weeks ago we were taking a break from hiking up in the alpine area above Fraser Lake in northern British Columbia, when we spotted a very large grizz ambling along swinging its massive head back and forth as it munched on the abundance of wild produce. It was about 300 yards from us and we simply sat and watched. With a breeze blowing towards the bear, it suddenly stopped, lifted its snout skyward and sniffed our presence. In the briefest of moments, the bear swung around and took off running. We watched the bruin gallop for at least a mile.

Then yesterday we were up on top of White Mountain in the alpine area. We hiked over s a slight rise and there was a grizzly bear about 150 yards from us. The bear paused to look at the four hikers and three leashed dogs. I might add that the dogs stayed silent but they were straining at their leashes. The handsome bear did not dally and it turned an about face and loped away.

Seeing grizzly bears is a tremendous highlight but we have learned that the best deterrent is to simply be aware of where you are. You are in the bears “house.” It is best that you do not slip in quietly. You should be making noise.

Last summer I interviewed Rick Sinoff, a wildlife biologist from Anchorage, Alaska. He is very aware of bear/human issues. “You don’t want to ever surprise a bear. You should make noise, sing a loud song or whatever it takes to make your presence known, particularly while in thickly vegetated areas.” Most bears will do their best to avoid you if you let them know you are in the area.

And traveling with others is a good idea. Sinoff noted, “Grizzly bears rarely attack groups of 4 or more people. Because almost all brown bear attacks are defensive, often involving cubs or food, and contact is rare, the best way to avoid an attack is to talk to the bear, increase distance without running, and play dead only when contact is made. Black bears are usually much less dangerous. They tend to avoid people. However, if a black bear follows you or approaches closely, the bear is not behaving defensively, so be prepared to fight it off. It’s too late to wish you had a can of bear spray in your hand when a bear charges or approaches very closely: much better to carry it with you within easy reach.”

Just this morning Nancy and I walked downstream through the brush along the Watson River hoping to find two plastic chairs that blew off our river deck during a recent blow. While we didn’t find the chairs, we did find some blueberries.

And yes, we carried the bear spray and chattered along the way.

*In the past few years the US Fish and Wildlife Service conducted a study comparing the effectiveness of bear spray to firearms. The following is a synopsis of that study:
When it comes to self-defense against grizzly bears, the answer is not as obvious as it may seem. In fact, experienced hunters are surprised to find that despite the use of firearms against a charging bear, they were attacked and badly hurt. Evidence of human-bear encounters even suggests that shooting a bear can escalate the seriousness of an attack, while encounters where firearms are not used are less likely to result in injury or death of the human or the bear. While firearms can kill a bear, can a bullet kill quickly enough — and can the shooter be accurate enough — to prevent a dangerous, even fatal, attack? The question is not one of marksmanship or clear thinking in the face of a growling bear, for even a skilled marksman with steady nerves may have a slim chance of deterring a bear attack with a gun. Law enforcement agents for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service have experience that supports this reality — based on their investigations of human-bear encounters since 1992, persons encountering grizzlies and defending themselves with firearms suffer injury about 50% of the time. During the same period, persons defending themselves with pepper spray escaped injury most of the time, and those that were injured experienced shorter duration attacks and less severe injuries. Canadian bear biologist Dr. Stephen Herrero reached similar conclusions based on his own research — a person’s chance of incurring serious injury from a charging grizzly doubles when bullets are fired versus when bear spray is used. Awareness of bear behavior is the key to mitigating potential danger. Detecting signs of a bear and avoiding interaction, or understanding defensive bear behaviors, like bluff charges, are the best ways of escaping injury. The Service supports the pepper spray policy of the Interagency Grizzly Bear Committee, which states that bear spray is not a substitute for following proper bear avoidance safety techniques, and that bear spray should be used as a deterrent only in an aggressive or attacking confrontation with a bear.

Yukon residents generally keep to themselves but our neighbor to the west, Watson, must never sleep. Always restless and on the go and always, always making noise.

Silence, real silence, is difficult to secure. Even in the wee, dark hours of a new day, any home might sound quiet, but true silence is nearly impossible. Granted, such noiseless moments are more difficult for those who live in urban areas or near a highway or hospital with its string of sirens. And if you live in a rural area you will likely find that long after the lights and bedding have been turned down and all seems quiet, you can focus your fading attention to the simplest of whispers. In some houses it is the quiet hum of the fridge or the seasonal blow of cool air-conditioned or heated furnace air.

Here at the Outpost, only seven miles inside the power grid that allows me to type these words and listen to my own fridge, we are always in the company of a lively neighboring river titled Watson. Some would argue that even a formally named neighbor who constantly drones on in liquid tones would be tiresome.

How is it that the music of moving waters, whether they are hurried downstream by gravity, splashing over rocks, boulders and sheets of gravel settles my inner being, lowers my blood pressure and carries away tensions? Or how can wind-heaved waves cast onto lake and ocean shorelines draw my attention and then peacefully hypnotize me? Even small drops of a steady rain on a roof or tent will inspire me to pause and anchor to rest in my quiet place.

What is the magic hold, the power to stop us, to slow us down from pretended urgencies, that moving water has on us? I wonder if it is a primal calling. A calling us home so to speak. That would put us in the company of the salmon that are called home from the ocean to the very stream from which they were born. Powerfully, they swim, leap up hefty rivers and subject themselves to a gauntlet of nets, claws, teeth and talons as they are determined to drive on towards their home waters.

Does my homage to the moving water align me with the ancient waters from which our evolution as a species might have come from? After all my own blood is more like saltwater than freshwater and it could be that I carry my birth waters within my humble frame.
Or could it be that the fondness for water symphony is not unlike the internal watershed of our own circulatory system? Perhaps our nine months, or in my case seven months, of floating in our mother’s amniotic pool and surrounding circulatory flow has left an indelible emotional bookmark, an affinity towards songs of serenity delivered by moving water.

From spring through fall and even into early winter, no matter what the weather is, Watsons ramblings are the first thing we hear when we step outdoors. We often stroll, coffee in hand, to the small section of dock that is perched over the river. The river’s movement and score of music demand our attention so we often sit in silence and just watch and listen. We are not alone in our attraction to Watsons neighborliness. One day a mink hurried by as it bobbed expertly through the rapids in passing us. More recently, a trio of red-breasted mergansers dawdled, preening themselves on a mid-river boulder that sits at the river bend just upstream from the dock. Was it the river’s restful noise that attracted a mid-May cow moose and her newborn, gangly calf to the river’s edge near the merganser resting rock? And even bears have left clues of their riverside dining in the diggings of succulent roots located just feet from the river.

Spending enough time with Watson has made us keenly aware of the river’s cadence and signature song. So it came as no surprise when we suddenly became aware of a new sound coming from the river. Curious I went down to investigate and discovered that Watson was being retuned.

I am married to a fine musician. Nancy loves jamming with other players and does so weekly. While she adds her lively fiddle to the mix, I sometimes will join them by contributing some simple and tentative percussion. We have found that a cylindrical Scotch container housing a handful of rice makes a good shaker that almost sounds like raspy snare drum. Or beating our five-gallon blue water container adds an amazing variety of percussion tones. While mindlessly beating or shaking, I like to watch the real musicians. The guitarists, usually a pair of them, will often affix a clamp, called a capo on the neck of their guitars, compressing the instrument’s strings to raise the guitar’s tone.

Down at the river deck, I looked upstream towards the merganser’s boulder and discovered that Watson now had its own capo. A long, smooth log had floated downriver during the late spring high water period and had jammed itself up on the boulder. It had now swung on its rocky pivot point and stopped perpendicular to the river’s flow creating an instant small ledge from which new river notes were coming. Like a metronome, the log slowly rose and fell in the surging current, as if it were tapping its thick trunk in time to the music.

I wondered if I were to brave the cold, mountain-born waters and wade into the river and roll some of the large rocks into new positions if I could, in fact, be a composer of sorts. I would argue that such a task would make me a songwriter of liquid lyrics.

The capo log has not gone unnoticed by another neighbor who lives north of the Outpost. The other day, ten-year old Anthony urged me up Pulpit Hill to look down on the river. Excitedly, he pointed out the recently stranded log. I loved the fact that he had found this newsworthy event worthy of neighbor news. Earlier in the day I had noticed that the log had also attracted the attention of a passing spotted sandpiper that paused and bobbed its tail up and down as it inspected the river log. I like to think it stopped to take in the new music, raising and lowering its tail in time to the rivers beat, rather than look for small invertebrate tidbits on the log’s surface.

Our bed is less than forty feet from the river. During the we often open the window above our heads. When my head settles into the pillow, the river never fails to lull me to sleep. In the evening, Watsons flow sounds like a distant applause that rises and falls but never tires.

Good night Watson.

******

ADDENDUM TO LAST WEEK’S RIVER QUEST BLOG

Nancy and I made the trip to Dawson last weekend to watch some of the River Quest Canoe and Kayak Race come into the finish. The total race distance was 460 miles. Due to the rainy, cold weather at the start and then facing a very rough paddle on Lake Lebarge, nearly 1/3 (around 22 teams) of the teams that started the race scratched. The winning team, the Texans, a voyageur canoe with six paddlers won the race again this year. This mens team has won the race three of the last four years. They finished the grueling race in 42 hours and 48 minutes. Eleven seconds behind them was a solo kayaker from Sausalito, California.

I spoke with Rod Price, the Floridian, when he finished at about 7:30 AM. He said that at about 6 AM, that morning, he had drank two cans of Red Bull to try and stay awake. Not long after drinking them, he actually lost his balance during a stroke due to his drowsiness and he tipped over into the cold river. Alone and no one in sight, he had “to do a Michael Phelps” and swim after his drifting canoe, grab it and get he and the boat to shore where he could empty it and change into dry clothes. “It did wake me up though.”

Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Overcast and rainy all AM,
Morning Temps (F): 40-mid 40s

I was out of bed before six o’clock. Rain was falling and it looked gloomy. I was supposed to be in Whitehorse at 7 AM. I had shuffled to the kitchen, got a pot of coffee going and turned on the computer to log in for the regional weather check. Hmmmm. . . .what was this? A “Rainfall Warning? ” Predicting up to 15mm of rain!?!? That means a deluge of just over a half an inch to those of you metric phobes out there. Is that an ark I see the worried neighbors building? Why back at Basecamp in Minnesota, a half-inch of rain is generally praised in platitudes rather than deemed a “warning.”

Perhaps in this part of the Yukon, that is officially deemed arid or semi-arid, such warnings are necessary. Visitors are surprised by the dryness found here. No cacti or hump-bearing moose mind you, but plenty of sand and stunted and sparse vegetation.

Watersheds are fed by numerous creeks and freshets and they will rise when a rainfall occurs. The mighty Yukon River is fed by a whole landscape of gurgling and rushing circulation. And on this day, this mighty river provided a speedway for the start of the “Yukon River Quest, the Longest, annual canoe and kayak marathon.” The 460 mile race starts in Whitehorse, the territorial capital and goes to Dawson City. . . .a city built during the famed Klondike gold rush back in 1898.

Though I fantasize about paddling this race, I am reluctant to subject myself to hours and hours of sitting, going without sleep, enduring rain, winds or scorching sun and then continuing for more hours and hours. It’s not that I mind a bit of suffering in a competition, as I have endured running marathons, short sprint canoe races, cross country skiing for over 50 km and more recently cycling a leg of the Chilkat International Bike Relay over the Coastal Mountains from the Yukon to Alaska. I have likely paddled thousands of miles on various remote canoe trips and not-so-remote canoe excursions, but for some reason I have a block on paddling the Yukon River Quest. If I ever do it, it will be simply to do it and not compete in it.

So one way to participate in the event is to volunteer. I did so and so I was there helping with equipment checks on the paddler’s boats. With clipboard in hand, I went down a list of gear that each boat must have. The needed equipment included things like a spare paddle, spray skirt, a throw bag or heaving line for rescue purposes, a navigation light for nighttime paddling, river maps, adequate food as there will be no stores to buy food while enroute, sleeping bags that are rated for 20 degrees F or colder, a proper first aid kit with a minimum of listed items and so on. We had done our first equipment check the day before so that any missing items could be secured for the final pre-race equipment check on race morning.

Before leaving the Outpost I downed a cup and a half of hot coffee, chewed down a bowl of cold cereal and made a sandwich out of leftover salmon cakes before I suited up in stout rain gear and headed out the door.

In a little over a half an hour I pulled into the Yukon Visitor Center parking lot, grabbed my umbrella and made my way through steady rain to the starting area. A green tarp was strung up for the volunteers to gather under and get final instructions. We donned our orange mesh volunteer vests and began greeting arriving racers.

It was a dismal morning and as we did equipment checks it was clear that there were two distinct schools of thought on the weather. One was “It’s quite perfect and lovely.” And the other was “Yuck. . .it’s cold and miserable.”

Teams like the tandem Seattle young men and voyageur team of British fellows actually wanted more wind and chop so as to replicate their respective home training waters. Another paddler, Rod Price, a veteran of several paddling competitions, including the Great River Amazon Rafting Race in Peru. He is the author of a recently published book, Racing to the Yukon. Rod was mixing up a gallon jug of a Hammer energy drink under the Volunteer Tarp. Home for him was Florida, yet he thought the conditions for the race were good and he wouldn’t mind more wind as it would quickly separate the competition. He clearly came here to compete. In fact he was on the winning tandem canoeing team for last year’s inaugural Yukon 1000 Mile Canoe Race down the Yukon River.

Then there are the teams who will measure victory by simply finishing the race downriver in Dawson City. There was the father/daughter team from Cleveland, Ohio. They were easy to check in as they were so organized. With an indelible Sharpie, the twenty eight year old daughter had neatly printed the number of calories contained in each sandwich or snack bag.

Another pair of paddlers, two young men, dressed as a pirate and an accompanying parrot were trying to use humor to relax themselves and other paddlers. Secretly I hoped they would kick ass and win but you know they won’t.

Then there are the teams of voyageur canoes. These boats hold 6-8 paddlers and one of them will most certainly complete the 460 miles in the fastest time. . . .likely around 40 hours. There is the team from Texas, plus one Californian, who barely lost to a team of Canadians two years ago. They created a stir with complaints about the high tech, all carbon canoe that the Canadians used. The Texans came back to win it last year, in a carbon boat, and are here to defend their title.

Looked to me that there were three lightweight carbon voyageur boats in this year’s race. The prize of “most beautiful” arguably went to a team of middle-aged British men. The boat, not unlike several of the entries that have sailed in the highly prestigious America’s Cup sailing race, was kept under wraps most of the morning. In recent years, several of the Cup entries have been cloaked so the competition cannot see design innovations in the boat’s hull. The group of British paddlers, were so properly polite and looked fit. Indeed, it turns out that several had experience in rowing the Atlantic. Their all-black wardrobe of rain gear and head gear matched the canoe color and marked them as the team to be reckoned with. Hardly villains, but why not start the race psychologically before you even get in the canoe? I heard a competing paddler mumble in reverence something about “Men in Black.” Clearly he had already thrown in the towel.

Temperatures not much above freezing had the a pair of paddlers from South Africa concerned. It appears they assumed that a race across the land of the midnight sun, means eternal summer. I suspect the team from Finland and maybe Austria and France were better equipped.

This year marked the tenth anniversary of a Yukon voyageur team of women breast cancer survivors. A dear Yukon neighbor, Claire, who lives about two and a half miles upriver from us, was paddling sixth race for the Paddlers Abreast team. About four years ago a wonderfully moving film was produced by the National Film Board of Canada < > called the River of Life. It is a documentary that tells the story of this amazing group of women.

Two years ago a group of Australian women, all breast cancer survivors, watched the film and were so moved that they have made the long trip to North America and with their husbands or family as support teammates, they are entered in this race. Several of the women have dragonboating experience and all of them have completed a 24 hour paddle challenge. Out of respect and solidarity the Aussies have chosen the team name: “Yukon Buddies.” At 10:30 AM the two cancer surviving teams gathered at the river’s edge and tossed pink carnations into the river’s current. Clearly they are all winners and they hadn’t even shoved their boats into the current.

Finally, chilled to the core, we completed the equipment checks on all the canoes and kayaks. We helped the teams carry their loaded boats to the river’s edge. It was quite a scene looking up and down the river and seeing all the colorful craft with their bows floating in the river and the stern still tucked on shore.

All the racers gathered about one city block away for introductions and comments from race dignitaries. And at noon, the loud horn signaled “Go!” This dash would be the last exercise their legs would have for many hours and even days. Most of them will have to be helped from their craft at the first mandatory seven hour layover in Carmacks, some 200 miles downriver.

I stood watching the last of the paddlers disappear around the distant curve of the river. This wasn’t a day suited for even a leisurely paddle, not to mention a nearly 500 mile outing. I quickly shed my volunteer vest and with water dripping off my wide-brimmed hat, I shivered and hurried for my truck for the ride back to the Outpost. I couldn’t wait for a hot shower and a piping hot cup of hot chocolate. And maybe a mid-afternoon nap under a heap of blankets might be in order.

Gardening at the Outpost is a challenge. While there is ample sunshine in the summer the cold river that skirts our yard is a corridor for cool breezes that wash over our garden.

During our first summer here, two years ago, a Whitehorse gardener friend was visiting. He strolled over to the garden and was mightily impressed with our bonsai garden. I recall my potatoes were about four inches tall and it was the end of July. With the river breezes and being situated low in the valley we have chilly conditions for the garden. It didn’t help that we received five inches of snow on June 9th of that summer.

According to a friend, Val, who operates three thirty-foot long greenhouses in raising bedding plants for two garden centers in Whitehorse, “All soil does in the Yukon is provide texture, you have to add the nourishment.” So the first step is soil building by seriously composting.

Farming livestock is mostly done on a personal scale up here. It is not unusual for folks to have a few chickens, rabbits and perhaps a horse or two. Occasionally one finds someone raising a pig or two and a handful of sheep or goats. Manure is hard to come by and it is valued. There are some small horse operations for offering tourists trail rides or providing horses for backcountry big game hunting purposes. One learns to scrounge where you can.

Several of our neighbors, including Val, use a brew called “manure tea,” to enhance their crops. All you do is scoop a few cups of manure into a burlap sack, tie the end shut and drop this potent tea bag into a barrel of water. The enhanced fertile water is then doled out to the plants as needed providing both needed moisture and nutrients.

On the way to the Outpost, less than six hours from here, we paused along the Alaska Highway, to gather bison droppings. During the winter and early spring, the bison concentrate along the highway corridor where humans have inadvertently created corridors of pastureland for the big ruminants. After the snow melts the ditches are specked with large brown piles that resemble over baked cinnamon buns. With gloves on, I moved quickly from pile to pile stashing them in my big garbage bag. Most of the mounds of fertilizer were already dried by the spring sun and weighed almost nothing. My hope was that this bag of plop and plunder, when added to our Yukon compost pile, would boost the garden’s production.

Then there is the issue of good seed stock. We learned from a neighbor who grows and sells vegetables for the Whitehorse Farmer’s Market every Thursday that Denali seed grows well here, particularly the spinach. It is a northern variety of seed developed in Alaska. She said that it is available at the hardware in Skagway Alaska, ninety miles from here.

Well who would know we would have the opportunity to marry pleasure a task into one episode. A friend called and asked if we wanted to partake in the “Yukoner’s Special” and take the train ride from Fraser, British Columbia, not far over the Yukon boundary, to Skagway. The cost; a mere $27 each.

The sun shone bright that sunny day as we drove an hour south on the South Klondike Highway to Fraser. We passed four black bears that at this time of the year find the roadside gardens of greenery particularly inviting and sumptuous.

The White Pass Railroad still functions in the summer months, primarily as a tourist attraction. Thousands ride the rails through one of the most spectacular sections of rail line in the world. The passenger cars are replicas of the old ones and you feel as if you have stepped back into time. Each car is named after a regional lake. Amazingly, we were ushered by a historically correct conductor to the car titled Lake Annie on its side. Our Yukon Outpost is located just off the Annie Lake Road and the lake itself is ten miles west of us.

This railroad was built in two years around the turn of the last century as a means to accommodate the floods of gold stampeders and commerce that followed the gold rush.
Over 35,000 men worked year around on the project. At the summit it is not unusual for over twenty feet of snow to accumulate. Hundreds of thousands of tons of dynamite were used to sculpt a mountain pass up and over the Coastal Mountain range.
In that time it seemed almost miraculous that only 35 laborers died during the railroad construction.

Given that we would be descending from the summit up near Fraser to Skagway, we would be moving quite slowly, hopefully, through the numerous bends. We passed through two tunnels cut through the mountain and passed over several trestle bridges.
Those who wanted to brave the outside cool air, could move to the platforms between the linked cars and shoot photographs.

As we descended from the alpine landscape into the temperature, lush forests around Skagway the air temperature warmed and the passing landscape became almost jungle like with ferns and more flowers. Spring was more advanced at the lower elevations.

We pulled into Skagway and were informed that we would have fifteen minutes to stretch and relax before our return trip back up the pass. We strategized and got directions to the hardware. It would be a four-block scurry. And scurry we did. We hustled down the wooden sidewalks, counting the blocks into the old hardware and found quickly found the rack of Denali Seed. No spinach. We grabbed packets of Swiss chard, mustard greens, various lettuces, kale and peas. Since our plans are to return to Minnesota in the fall, we were only interested in cool weather crops that we could enjoy this summer.

Nervously, I looked at my watch as I waited for the man in front of me at the cashier buy his kitchen cookware. With the seed packets jammed into our pockets, hurried back to the train and arrived with a few minutes to spare.

The return trip to the car was slower as we climbed and climbed. No bears were spotted on the way home. The next day we slowly made our way along scratched furrows in the garden tucking seeds into the warm soil that was flecked with crumpled bits of bison gold. I was visualizing fresh salads and crisp pea pods.

Clearly I need to clarify this entry’s title. One might think we are pursuing a coward’s rear end as they retreat, but in this case we are following the vanguard of yellow-rumped warblers as they migrate northward. Prior to leaving Minnesota we got word from our Yukon Outpost that these early migrant warblers had arrived along the Watson River, in the Hamlet of Mt. Lorne. It would be frivolous if I claimed that such news inspired us to pack up our pick up truck and head north from our Minnesota Base Camp to the Yukon but that would be stretching it.

Ever since we returned to Minnesota last fall, we knew we would be returning to the Yukon this spring to recharge our wilderness batteries. With a dependable house sitter in place and a truck packed reasonably full, complete with two bikes and a red canoe tied securely on the topper, we pulled out on the tenth day of May.

The pair of Vesper sparrows that flashed their white outer tail feathers in fluttering out of our way at the end of the driveway reminded me that we needed to start our “trip bird list.” Nancy began the process of jotting down the names of birds as we encountered them on the backside of an old envelope she found in the pocket of the passenger door. This exercise helps to pass the time on road trips and is simply a list of all the bird species that we observe on a road trip. Compiling a trip bird list is a great way to sharpen observation skills and note habitat and accompanying bird species. Some might argue that driving and birding could be the equivalent of driving while drinking a handful of beers or texting messages to anyone interested in such drivel. Since I will not drink and drive nor text or chatter on a cell phone, particularly since we don’t own one, I will periodically scan the roadsides and passing landscape for birds.

While I am very fond of birds and take pride in my ability to identify them, I am not a dyed-in-the-wool bird lister. Some birders are listers. They keep track of “life lists” or a tally of every bird species they have ever seen or positively identified by song or call. While I have had wonderful opportunities to watch birds from the high arctic to the Amazon rainforest and even on Darwin’s Galapagos Islands, I really have no clue how many bird species I’ve seen.

Just beyond our driveway, before the blacktop county road, we had scored our second entry, an American crow. Immediately, Nancy asked me for my prediction of how many birds we would total over the next 2,500 miles. Without any deliberate analytical thinking I blurted out “Fifty three species.”

The first day of birding on the road, particularly if you pass through diverse habitats, is like picking off the easy low-hanging fruit as you tally common birds. For nearly nine hours we drove northwest to a friend Karen’s strawbale home located on a lovely, rolling expanse of North Dakota prairie speckled with wetlands. Her closest neighbor is three miles, much further than our closest Minnesota neighbor. Surprisingly, our nearest Yukon neighbor is perhaps 150 yards away from the Outpost.

Karen joined us for a tour of her 611 acres of restored prairie/wetland complex. While we spotted no sharptail grouse we marveled at the trampled ground where the males had been earnestly dancing a few weeks ago. Karen suddenly held up her hand as if to be quiet and we listened to a pure tinkling sound that drew a smile on her face as she declared “Sprague’s Pipit.” The details of the distant sparrow were not easily observable but Karen, an avid birder and artist, is very familiar with this increasingly rare bird. It was a new bird for me, as I could not recall ever seeing or hearing one. We walked back to her house for a supper of sharptail grouse breasts simmering in a mushroom sauce.
But before we stepped in, I heard the distinctive winnowing of a high-flying common snipe. He was number fifty for the day. Not bad.

The next day we crossed comfortably into Canada, clearing the border in less than five minutes. Not bad compared to the three hour crossing two years ago. We hadn’t gone far when I scored a big hovering rough-legged hawk for the trip list. It was species number fifty-four, the bird that surpassed my own trip estimate of fifty three. We passed through the flat southern Saskatchewan country where oil wells scattered across grain stubbled expanses of fields seem to tirelessly bow up and down to unknown gods.

A couple hours west of Saskatoon, we found a small Fibre Mill Farm, where we would be spending the night in an old one-roomed schoolhouse. That evening as Nancy and I strolled through a yawning coulee that curved down through the rolling prairie, It was there that I got to watch the darting, mouse like antics of a LeConte’s sparrow As daylight eased into dusk, we flushed a great horned owl from a thicket of aspen near a livestock water dugout. It was number fifty-eight.

Two days later we finally reached the Alaska Highway. However, not until you pass through the oil country of St. John and Fort Nelson, where parades of trucks carrying pipeline pipe and other heavy equipment,  can you really ease into an epic landscape that draws out sudden exclamations of astonishment. As we climbed higher in elevation, we encountered some stubborn sightings of roadside patches of snow. The aspens here are only beginning to show the slightest of green blushes. I am confident we have advanced ahead of the primary songbird migration, as any sightings of feathers were less common.

At Summit Lake, in northern British Columbia, the highest point on the Alaska Highway, we encountered winter. The lake was white and frozen while the surrounding area was still nearly knee deep or more in snow. Leaving Summit behind us, we descended and it didn’t take long to come upon the soft greening of aspens again.

Number sixty-eight came shortly after passing five elk on the slope to our right. It was a cautious ruffed grouse that took its time in crossing the Alaska Highway directly in front of us.

The yellow-rumped warbler is generally the first warbler species to make its appearance in Minnesota each year. They move on northward and are common nesters at the Yukon Outpost. We did not see our first one until we were camped at  Liard Hot Springs. I might add I tallied a Lincoln’s sparrow while I slowly and quietly breaststroked across the hot springs to within six feet of the little foraging fellow.

Oddly we never did see a single loon the entire trip and the last bird we tallied, number eighty-six, only two hours from our destination at the Outpost, was a bald eagle. Go figure.

The irony about this whole bird listing exercise is that once we arrived at the Outpost and I settled down to read the Yukon News Newspaper, I found a story announcing that Hollywood is coming to the Yukon this summer. A portion of an upcoming movie, entitled The Big Year will be shot in the northern part of the territory and will star Steve Martin, Jeff Black and Owen Wilson. The movie is based on a book, of the same title, by Mark Obmascik who, in 1998, followed a trio of competitive birdwatchers who raced around North America trying to spot the most bird species in one year. This sort of competition attracts bird fanatics who drop everything in their lives to spend a year scouting out sometimes more than 600 species of birds. I thoroughly enjoyed the book and look forward to the movie.

I wonder if they need any stand in birders?

*****

The following is the entire bird list. I have also included our wild mammal tally for the Alaska Highway portion of our trip.

1) Western Grebe
Double-crested Cormorant
Great Blue Heron
Cattle Egret
Common Egret
American Bittern
Canada Goose
Mallard
Gadwall
10) No. Pintail
Blue-winged Teal
Am. Wigeon
Wood Duck
Redhead
Canvasback
Scaup
Ruddy Duck
Red-tailed Hawk
Swainson’s Hawk
20) No. Harrier
Merlin
Am. Kestrel
Ring-necked Pheasant
Wild Turkey
Moorhen (Coot)
Killdeer
Upland Plover
Common Snipe
Willet
30) Ring-billed Gull
Franklin’s Gull
Rock Pigeon
Mourning Dove
Chimney Swift
Tree Swallow
Cliff Swallow
Blue Jay
Magpie
Common Crow
40) Robin
Eastern Bluebird
Sprague’s Pipit
Starling
Western Meadowlark
Yellow-headed Blackbird
Red-winged Blackbird
Common Grackle
Vesper Sparrow
Chipping Sparrow

Day 2 Bird List

50) Horned Grebe
House Sparrow
Harris Sparrow
White-crowned Sparrow
Rough-legged Hawk
Horned Lark
Rusty Blackbird
Western Kingbird
Great-horned Owl
LeContes Sparrow

Day 3 Bird List
60) Avocet
Savannah Sparrow
Raven
Chickadee

Day 4 Bird List
White-throated Sparrow
Yellow-bellied Sapsucker
Bufflehead
Water Pipits
Ruffed Grouse
Flicker
70) Common Goldeneye
Barred Owl
Ring-necked Duck
Belted Kingfisher
Trumpeter Swan

Day 5 Bird List
Mew Gull
Gray Jay
Common Merganser
Dark-eyed Junco
Yellow-rumped Warbler
80) Semi-palmated Plover
Greater Yellowlegs
Lesser Yellowlegs
Solitary Sandpiper

Bird List Day 6
Spotted Sandpiper
Herring Gull
86) Bald Eagle

Alaska Highway Wild Mammal List
1 red squirrel
1 coyote
1 red fox
9 black bears
8 moose
20 stone sheep
5 elk
33 woodland bison
5 mule deer

In the dim dawning of daybreak on day four, I quietly passed Humility Grove as I headed uphill with my pack on my back and rifle slung over my shoulder to my distant deer stand. The cathedral of half a dozen or so of old white cedar trees seem to demand silence and a humble attitude. They help remind me that I’m not all that important in the grand scheme of things. For years now, I have made it an annual practice to stop and pay my respects the day before the hunt. And then, several days later, I always stop again to pay my respects before heading out of the bush and back home.

It felt good. . .real good. . .to be back in the Minnesota north woods at the renowned deer shack for another deer hunt. Actually I missed the 2008 hunt, as Nancy and I were 2500 miles north in the Yukon Territory. By this time a year ago, we had one-third of a big bull moose in the freezer. A brand new freezer I might add, purchased simply because we were the recipients of this precious stash of moose meat. I had been an unarmed participant in the moose hunt but I had helped skin, gut, quarter and ferry out the big animal downriver, around numerous bends, across small lakes and down a mile or more of exciting rapids.

Though the annual event is steeped in ritual, this year’s hunt was very different. A little over a month ago, the deer camp patriarch, Ev Nelson, had failed to wake up. The day before he slipped away, he had gone to church in the morning and then as usual volunteered at The Villages, assisted living center, where he helped push residents in their wheel chairs to lunch, where he always joined them. That evening he spoke with his younger brother and two of his sons before going to bed for the ultimate rest.

Less than a month before his passing, Ev had turned 96 years old. Not only was he one of the builders of the 1940 deer shack, but also he had been hunting in the vicinity of the shack since 1932. The only time he missed the annual deer hunt was during his three years he was in Europe during WWII and a couple of years during the Korean conflict.

For years Ev’s brother Tip, another one of the shack builders, had been part of the shack brotherhood. He died in his eighties at least ten years ago but his stories, sense of humor and presence are still felt here. In fact for this hunt, I am borrowing his old 30.06 from his son and my buddy, Nels.

For over a decade Ev has put aside his old Model 94, lever action .3030. His vision and hearing were going downhill and so in recent years he has provided our camp cook, Howard, with support while fully imparting his decades of knowledge and wisdom on the rest of us. He never smirked when he would adamantly interpret a deer track. “Now this one is a doe.” Pausing, he might add, “and she has known a buck this year.” To “know” a buck is a biblical interpretation of having had sex with it.

His deer-hunting prowess was legendary. Ev’s ability to stay in a favorite birch tree for the entire day, without any nailed boards or portable stand to aid in his comfort, is still spoken about in a tone of wonder and awe. He would wrap an old rope around his waist, tying it to the birch trunk to prevent his falling to the ground, wedge his foot, alternating it through the day with his opposite foot to prevent it from going totally numb, and stay from dawn to dusk. Only at midday would he climb down and eat his leftover breakfast pancake lathered in jelly. Then he’d go back up in the tree. Ev consistently shot deer from the Medusa-limbed birch. The tree is still standing and if you want to find it, Ev would tell you, “Cross the river, head out east, past the Sugar Tit and just north of the Black Forest.”

Every deer camp has a mythical buck that never dies. Generations of young hunters find sleep difficult on the eve of their first hunt simply because that limb-antlered buck keeps weaving its way through the tangle of their dreams. At day’s end, as the hunters returned to the shack, Ev often asked if they had seen ‘High Boy.’ High Boy, named for his towering antlers, was a favorite buck that a local North Shore bachelor used to feed in his deeryard every winter.

The last buck Ev shot was in 1988, when he was 86 years young. When I asked him how far the shot was, he answered, “Oh about a five wood.” Having golfed with Ev some time ago, I translated that he killed the deer from 100 to 150 yards. . . about a five wood.

The man was fit. I recall a story when he had a bit of a heart episode years ago, sometime in his 80s. He was in the hospital and they wanted to do a stress test so they got him on a bicycle. First thing he did was to pedal briskly along. . . backwards. Turns out he had never learned to ride a bike. He was an inveterate hiker. He walked a third of a mile on his morning pilgrimage to the town bakery, post office and grocery store. Until her death he hiked four miles each day to and from Green Acres Nursing home to visit his wife, Dorothy. In the winter he would take the shortcut and snowshoe cross-country. He golfed at least one round nearly every day, spring through fall.

Three years ago, at the age of 94, he goaded one of the upper bunk sloths into joining him in a round of morning calisthenics. During his time in the army as Staff Sergeant Nelson, known by his army buddies as “Snorkie,” Ev would sometimes lead his men with calisthenics.

In recent years Ev’s loss of hearing allowed him to easily disregard the snarl of snoring in the close sleeping quarters of the shack. After one particularly explosive night, one tired hunter wondered, “Maybe we should add another story to the shack to accommodate the snorers.” Ev quickly responded, “Shoot, we have enough stories in here now!”

And while he didn’t hear the detail in words he could make out the cadence and rhyme. Two years ago I had mentioned it was twelve degrees outside. He nodded and replied, “Oh sure a little breeze doesn’t hurt.”

When I told the news of Ev’s death to an older neighbor of ours back home, he exclaimed, “Oh gosh, you don’t say? You know that’s how Irving Anderson died, peaceful like, in his sleep.” I nodded, “I remember. . . Irving was my grandpa.”

Dr. Andrew Weil, world renowned leader in the field of integrative medicine and best selling author, speaks of how we should all ascribe to living a full life, eating right, moving the body, engaging in community, reducing stress. He lectures that we should strive for “compressed morbidity.” Which basically means when you die you don’t linger, you go fast and hopefully easily.

Now as I glanced uphill at the giant cedars in Humility Grove, I wondered how their aging process was going. For years and years, this temple of trees has not openly changed. Stout trees and men like Everett teach me much on how to live and how to die. His oldest son Mike shared, “You know I never knew dad to be angry or say an angry word about anyone.” I’m not sure Ev even knew what the word ‘stress’ meant.

The hefty buck I shot later that morning died quickly. Feeling the usual mix of emotions upon approaching a dead deer, I was mostly grateful for a winter’s worth of prime meat. It had been a privilege to pause among the giants of Humility Grove. And I lived a day long prayer in sitting up in a tree watching the climb and drop of the sun’s arc.

I leaned the rifle against an old birch snag near the dead animal and silently thanked Tip for the use of the gun. I turned and walked slowly over to the buck, knelt down by his head, took off my hat and said aloud “That’s for you Ev.”

It’s Halloween and I’m a zombie. . . .and I haven’t even dressed up or applied any pallid make-up. I’m feeling beat after a day of multi-tasking and my little plate of pickled herring and crackers and a cold beer are my own treat.

Nancy and I have been back at Basecamp in Minnesota after leaving the Yukon Outpost, a little over a month ago. Much of our time has been catching up with family and friends, getting settled in cleaning, unpacking and trying to find a garlic press. I suspect we might find it as we ready ourselves to follow the bird migration north, returning to the Yukon, next May.

Perhaps I was punished and transformed to an eventual zombie for languishing in bed in the gray dawning this morning while I enjoyed time reading my current novel. Maybe the fact that I am reading fiction, rather than the usual non-fiction, was enough to send me towards the dead.

Nancy is in the cities staying at a sister’s house so I am tending the fire here at the Basecamp. With daylight coming on, I had a terrible thirst for a cup of coffee, but first I had to earn it by cleaning ashes out of the kitchen stove and then lighting a warming fire. Then I began assembling the components for a big pot of French Canadian split pea soup. While the soup simmered, I sipped strong coffee dusted in the bathroom and swept the kitchen floor.

I was nursing a second cup of coffee while reading a handful of emails when I learned of the death of a friend’s father. I immediately sat down and wrote him a card. This was followed by another sympathy note to another dear one who lost her husband.

Suddenly at midday, the clouds parted and the sun broke out. Rather than run for the shadows in a Dracula sort of way, I scurried from the dirge and headed outdoors. I grabbed my limp, leather gloves and hustled out to the woodshed to split some firewood.

It’s irritating to establish a rhythm of swinging a maul, bisecting a hefty piece of oak and then have the splitting block tip over. Clearly, the stout chunk of wood that I used to set my blocks of oak on had seen its better days, as it is a bit tippy and punky. So my task was interrupted by the need to head to the woods to cut a new stable piece of oak for which to serve up pieces of firewood.

I confess I am easily sidetracked. My wife, Nancy, is often directing a started conversation back to the original source of discussion.

As I fetched the chainsaw and other tools to load in the garden cart, I wondered what it would look like if I had simply assigned one task to this Saturday. What if I made it a mindful Saturday and wallowed in the silence that could be a viable option. What if we all practiced an occasional ‘Zen-turday?’ Somehow the idea of having a single task to perform seemed lovely and indulgent. Why is it that I tend to mark a ‘good day’ by measuring how much I have accomplished? Am I cursed by a Midwest work ethic? Or am I insecure in my accomplishments and need to boost my ego by crossing off those tasks scribbled on a scrap of paper?

In the Yukon, splitting wood is much easier than here where we have multiple species of hardwoods. At the subarctic Outpost I have two choices of firewood and both are softwoods. Lodgepole pine and spruce. Reading grain prior to delivering the arc of a swinging six-pound maul is not as critical with softwoods as it is when dealing with hardwoods. Yukon friends who make their living in working with wood wince when they hear that we burn mostly oak and some black cherry.

So looking for a new splitting block was like going on a hunt. I was hunting a dead oak that had its growth rings crowding each other making it dense and capable of fending off years of delivering well-aimed splitting maul blows.

I had forgotten how tangled the woods are here in east central Minnesota compared to the boreal Yukon. The pine forest where I cut in the Yukon was mostly clear of underbrush and made for easy walking. Here I had tangling vines of wild grape, hazel brush, young cherry trees, elderberry and multiple saplings of at least half a dozen species of trees. It was like a jungle.

I lost my focus for an hour as I confronted the alien buckthorn. Pursuing yet another task, I trotted back to the house for a strong herbicide and a bucksaw and lopping shears. I sawed the invasive buckthorn trunks, dribbled the toxin on the cut stump and moved on to the next.

In a corner of our woods oak wilt disease provided me with a good selection of splitting blocks. It didn’t take long to locate the perfect one. I found a section of red oak trunk where three large limbs spread out like an upside down tripod. Cutting this junction of three distinct platters of concentric rings was slow but I knew that this oak platter of merging growth rings would stand up to many years of my swinging maul.

I manhandled the newly designated splitting block into the cart and weaved my way through the woods pulling my treasure back to the house. Daylight and my body were fading. I was hungry and tired and the prospects of a cold beer and pickled herring and crackers urged me on.

Inside the house, I added some kindling to the reenergize the kitchen stove. I glanced to the side and my eyes landed on a lovely lace valence that I was going to hang. And so once again, my intent was thwarted by yet another task. Luckily, hanging the sweet lace valence over the door window took only ten minutes.

So perhaps I should honor Halloween as a ‘renaissance guy.’ A guy who can wax poetic in a sympathy card, split stubborn oak chunks and hang lace curtains all in the span of a day.

Someone’s at the door. Now where is that bag of candy?

In January of 2007, after nearly thirty years of working with the Science Museum of Minnesota, I not only walked away from a memorable job, but I was cutting our household lifeline to health benefits. No more easy six month dental check ups, no more running to the clinic when a persistent cough urged me to make an appointment. Consequently for over two years, Nancy and I have chosen to gamble and participate in the Larger than Life Health Plan.

Formally, we are covered under a catastrophic health insurance plan—more formally known as a High Deductible Health Plan. This plan lowers overall medical costs by providing a lower monthly premium in exchange for a higher annual health insurance deductible. We pay out-of-pocket for most medical bills until the total of payments reaches the amount of our annual deductible of approximately $11,000.

The high deductible insurance we purchased is intended to protect us in the event of costly and catastrophic health services. We are responsible for the not-so-catastrophic. While it would be easy to wallow in the place of fear and keep ourselves locked in a padded room stocked with food and water, we have found it more healthy to act in the contrary and breathe big.

Though we are sitting North of 60°, in the evil den of socialist Canada, more than 2000 miles north of our home in Minnesota, we are not closed off from the loud southerly ruckus debating health care in the “Excited States of America.” The discussion mostly frustrates and infuriates me, as the debate seems to fall in line with the usual bipartisanship whining. And through all the discussion of “becoming Europeanized or socialized” we, the supposedly greatest nation in the world, continue our unhealthy ranking of #37 in health care among all the countries in the world.

I wondered if the problem lies in the fact that our North American culture has become beset with insecurity. Or at least the machine of consumption would like you to believe that you are a pathetic and insecure mass of protoplasm and could break out of that dismal form if you only used their products. So in our depression and eternal chase for ‘beauty and success’ we keep eating and buying stuff.

Could it be that our unhealthy ranking is largely due to unhealthy practices? In a recent Op-Ed piece published in the New York Times, author Michael Pollan reported, “according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, three-quarters of health care spending now goes to treat “preventable chronic diseases.” Not all of these diseases are linked to diet — there’s smoking, for instance — but many, if not most, of them are.

We’re spending $147 billion to treat obesity, $116 billion to treat diabetes, and hundreds of billions more to treat cardiovascular disease and the many types of cancer that have been linked to the so-called Western diet. One recent study estimated that 30 percent of the increase in health care spending over the past 20 years could be attributed to the soaring rate of obesity, a condition that now accounts for nearly a tenth of all spending on health care.”

So in search for my own answers on this national dilemma. I took off for a mountain bike ride where after eight or so miles, I would stash the bike and begin hiking up the gilded slope and into the reddening alpine. I scrambled up the steep slope and in short order had to jettison a lyaer of closthes and stow them in my day pack. Pausing to wipe my brow I drank deeply from my water bottle. . . .chilled water taken directly from the clear flow of the Watson River. I munched  on fresh blueberries and lingonberries and moose jerky that we had dried over the wood burning stove the previous winter. It was during one of those hiking halts that it suddenly occurred to me  that the best health plan is one I call the Larger than Life Health Plan.

Let me explain the title. As you enter the Yukon from one of the three highways, you encounter a large, handsomely designed sign. There is an image of a sun rising from behind a range of mountains. The sign welcomes you to the YUKON.’ The brief, but beckoning message in both English and French is hard to forget. It says, “Larger than Life.” Obviously Yukon tourism lavishly uses that compelling phrase and now I have lifted if for my health plan.

The Larger than Life (LTL) Health Plan is really simple. It costs only a few hours of your time and is more of an investment than a cost. I can summarize the policy provisions in four words: “Get off your ass (GOYA).”

Subset to the summary include:

1) Get outside and move your body often and vigorously.

2) Eat good healthy food, particularly organic food that is raised without any genetic modifications and best of all, raised close to your home.

3) Laugh abundantly and particularly with others.

4)Partake in music festivals and jams, even if you don’t play. Be sure to have room to dance in a lively manner. In other words make music even if you can’t.

5) Enthusiastically love someone or something alive.

6) Help someone or volunteer for a good cause that benefits someone less fortunate than you.

7) Fear can make a good dance partner at times. Don’t run from it.

9)Pause often, focus on the big breath and give thanks.

It has been far too long since I have put words on paper. Okay so it’s not paper. I confess I am a flaming romantic and I prefer the idea of “putting the pen to the paper” rather than typing at a computer keyboard. I am only writing now because the dark morning clouds overhead seem far too heavy with rain for me to work outside.

For three weeks I have been working on the roof of the Outpost. It has literally become my ‘other room.’ The original project was to have been much simpler than it has become. The original goal was to tear off 30-year old shingles, remove the thin plywood roof decking, re-insulate the roof with a low density foam and blown in cellulose, sheath it with new 4×8 sheets of oriented strand board (OSB), and re-shingle with Aged Redwood asphalt shingles. Simple. . . well kind of . . . at least straightforward.

However the last three weeks have often been punctuated with rain and overcast skies. These are not good conditions when you have already torn off shingles and now have a mosaic roof covered in a patchwork quilt of various colored tarps. But the big surprise came when I tore off the ridge vent and exposed the rafter tips. It was as if two continental plates had met here. The peaks of the rafters rose up and some dipped down, others were left and the remaining were right. Sighting down the range of rafters betrayed an undisciplined row of peaks. No straight line here. They were off by 4-5 inches!!

Suddenly the project has become a Project. I learned that the builder of the Outpost had set these rafters in late November thirty years ago when the temperatures hovered around -25° C. Consequently, a job that demands focus and precision was compromised and hurried by the bitter cold.

When I made the horrific discovery, I was torn as to whether I should throw myself into the river or sit down and cry. Clearly, I was in over my head and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t sleep well that night and the next morning I called two dear Yukon friends, Mike and Dave who happen to be excellent builders who are truly both craftsmen. They are likely the top timber frame builders in the territory.

Together they came to the rescue. Dave, who lives only five miles away, came first to assess things. He sighted down the rafters and uttered a low rumbling that sounded to me like “Holy F..k!” Then he began to laugh and quickly apologized for laughing. “Sorry Tom but I’ve never seen anything like this. I really should get a picture of this.” His words were not comforting.

After a half hour of looking things over, mumbling and head shaking, we climbed down, each cracked a Lead Dog Ale and sat at the kitchen table discussing options. He called his partner Mike. “Hey Mike, we have to help our good friend Tom here.” In the next five minutes a plan of action was formulated.

In order to accommodate the skewed rafters, it was decided that we would strap the rooftop with 2×4s fastened two foot on center and perpendicular to the rafters. These would be shimmed with what turned out to be ridiculous sandwiches of lumber pieces, plywood and even shingle fragments in order to create a level nailing surface to lay down the new roof deck. The new plan is to complete a portion of the roof and then in the spring finish the job on the four small steep pitches.

Oh and did I mention that we are heading back to Minnesota on Sept. 24th, the day that our new renters move in? With all the rain and the immensity of the impending Project, I felt the anvil of pressure growing on my shoulders.

While the passage of seasons is often described in such terms as miracles. It is nothing compared to the miracle of community in action.What has happened in the past week has been remarkable. Dear friends, Mike, Andrew, Claire, Al, Clare, Neighbor Mike and Gerry have shown up with tools and tool belts, ladders, pots of hot homemade soup, cookies, bars, curried lentils and rice and a willingness, in fact, a dose of cheerfulness and sharing has been rampant.

Nancy is quick to tell me that she is not surprised as I have invested great amounts of “social capital” during out Yukon experience. I enjoy getting to know people and I have a reputation as a “talkaholic.” True, I have helped some of these friends out with various tasks of their own. Clearly this is a classic example of “what goes around, comes around.”

So even though I haven’t been able to hike the yellowing mountains or push a canoe onto Bennett to try for a lake trout, I have been getting a workout. Repeatedly I have been climbing up and down the ladder with heavy bundles of shingles, lumber, tools and tarps. I have new aches, no hint of a roll around this belly and my finger tips are sore. But every once in a while I remember to pause while high on the top of my house and look upriver. The river is never tired and it inspires me. The view is great from atop the Outpost. And the gathering of friends is balm for any frustration and ache.

Skies are lightening. It’s time to get to work.

Destinations in the Yukon are still in the realm of newness as I have lived here for only fifteen months. In that time I have had the opportunity to follow each of the cardinal directions, north, south, east and west. In each region I have found new favorites. The excitement of a Christmas morning happens on a regular basis rather than once a year.

My criteria to qualify as a “favorite” are really quite simple. The site must evoke either a hearty or hushed “Wow!” Or if not a note of admiration, it must result in a humble bow and an inner stirring of my heart. And if you experience both you have experienced a genuine place of magic. I tend to have those experiences in remote areas where bumping into the trappings of human civilization are unlikely.

I strive to find newness and beauty on each of my outings on the land. To do so forces me to look through
cheechako (rookie) eyes. . . as if seeing it for the first time. The challenge is not to take any hike or paddle for granted. It is my job to be observant, to see what others have missed.

The other night, a glance out the window from the Outpost on the Watson River, provided a blushing sky with the sun was flirting with bedding behind distant Goat Mountain. I pushed my chair away from the task of sorting through digital photographs and hurried outdoors for evening vespers. Racing the very orbit of the earth as it tucked the sun in for the night, I scrambled up a steep knob of land directly behind the Outpost. I have come to call this small,grass-topped bump, Pulpit Hill. While I don’t consider myself a particularly religious sort, I have my best conversations with any listening gods and goddesses from the summit of Pulpit. Here, I become the congregation rather than the orator of fire and brimstone.

It is here, at this ‘near wilderness’ that I am most often humbled. Here I am reminded that ultimately my very survival depends on the integrity and health of natural systems. Here I can breathe big and whisper “thanks” for the gifts of stunning views and sweet gulps of air made possible by plant chemistry. Each time I come up here is like a first visit. The big sky is never the same. Even a canvas of unclouded blue sky is made different by the tumbling of a pair of ravens. And the briskly moving, sinuous river below Pulpit Hill delivers new, tireless hymns. And if I study, really study the river surface I can always find a new ripple or eddy for me to wonder about. Here I can imagine new adventures when I gaze up the watery aisle towards a river bend that beckons exploration. It is here that I am reminded how very small I am. And it is here that I want to bring others seeking insight into what is truly important.