By: Jane Stillwater

In honor of Kim Jung-Il’s passing Jane Stillwater regails us with stories of her visti to North Korea in 2008.

Because NK’s Dear Leader just passed away, I dug out some of my old photos of Pyongyang

The city was a nice place to visit and North Koreans DO want to live there — because the alternative of living in the countryside is rather nasty.

There were wide avenues and almost no cars. People walked and used public transportation a lot. No huge gaseous cloud of CO2 here.

Kim Jong Il was sick even back then — and he is my age. Life is short, start doing good deeds ASAP before you end up like Kim — dead. That seems to be the moral of this tale.

North Korea from the air is a very green and lovely country — like Ireland or something. Our plane flew in over miles and miles of verdant farmland — with the fields surrounded by what looked like electrified fences. But I didn’t see any cattle.

At the airport, much to my surprise, everything there looked totally NORMAL. You coulda been in any mid-sized airport anywhere in the world. “What were you expecting? That North Koreans were going to have horns and tails?” Yeah. And I guess I was also expecting the airport to look like the Stone Age or something. Sure, it wasn’t as fancy as the Beijing airport — but it was NORMAL. Airline counters, computers, restaurants, souvenir shops and customs agents. No bunkers, tents or grass huts. And no little green men.

Then we got on a bus just like the bus that took us to the airport in Shenyang — just like the bus that takes people to the airport in San Francisco. The DPRK appears to be westernized, up-to-date, modern and NORMAL. Get over it, Jane.

I guess that the U.S. media’s effort to turn North Koreans into “The Other” has worked, even on me. But why am I so surprised that North Koreans are just normal people like the rest of us? I found out in Israel/Palestine that not all Palestinians were mad bombers and in Afghanistan I discovered the Afghans were the nicest people on earth. And even in Iraq and Zimbabwe I found lots of new friends.

“You notice that all the buildings appear to be built relatively recently?” someone asked. Yes. And they all look alike too. “That’s because most of the buildings here were flattened by the Americans back in the 1950s. The entire city was destroyed.” There are no really old buildings here.

And I had somehow thought that everyone here would be wearing native dress. Not true either. Everyone is wearing western-style clothes. Not many cars. And it’s a warm evening and everyone is out walking.

“There’s a revolving restaurant on top of our hotel,” said our guide. “And as you can see, there are many tourist buses in the parking lot — so remember your bus number.” Buses for tourists? The DPRK is a tourist destination? Does nobody besides me think that is weird? And the hotel was even more strange — a 46-story four-star hotel set up to accommodate thousands of tourists. And all this in a country that is supposed to be poverty-stricken. No signs of poverty so far.

“I want to go to the big 60th anniversary celebration,” I argued over dinner.

“I want to go to the DMZ!” pouted one man in our group. Apparently we can do both.

This is it. We’re actually driving around the DPRK in a tour bus. So far, the entire city seems to be composed of Soviet-style housing blocks, Soviet-style massive monuments and Soviet-style office blocks.

“Today we are going to go to a Buddhist temple and climb a mountain,” said our guide, as we drove through the streets of Pyongyang. Everyone who lives here seems to be walking everywhere. There are very few cars. “But we do have a subway. It’s the deepest one in the world — 120 meters deep.” All the people we drive by look relatively happy, look like they could be walking down the street in one of San Francisco’s Asian communities. I still can’t get over how normal it all looks here — in a country that has been totally cut off from the world for the last 60 years. I wonder where they get their clothes. Wal-Mart or JC Penney, it looks like.

We drive 160 km — about two hours — to Mount Myohyang. It is one of the country’s five famous mountains. It is 800 meters high. So far I love the DPRK! The only things I haven’t liked so far were the mosquitoes that flew into my room last night — how do mosquitoes fly up to the 26th floor? — And the wake-up call loudspeaker at 6 am that seemed to be designed to wake up the entire city.

The streets are very wide here. Tree-lined avenues, greenery, parks and Lots of high-rises and open spaces. Did I mention that the capital city has three million residents? But it’s not congested. Why not? There’s hardly any cars.

This place is so GREEN.

I’ve decided that my basic attitude toward the DPRK is that, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” The North Korean leaders appear to not like Bush and Cheney. Hey! I don’t like Bush and Cheney too!

“Our rainy season is in July and August. We also grow corn, rice and beans.” Soy beans. “Potatoes, cabbages and radishes.”

The countryside is lush. Poplars and birches line the roads — giving the countryside an almost French flavor. Not that I’ve ever actually been to the French countryside. “23 million people live in the DPRK.”

“Some areas are covered with snow in the winter.” One guy in our group is a skier. “Yes, we have a sky resort.” I’m not interested at all. I went skiing once when I was in seventh grade, discovered that snow was cold and never went back.

“The universities, factories, farms, etc all are run by the government.” Sounds like China 30 years ago. And just look at China now.

According to the Lonely Planet guide, 30% of the DPRK’s budget goes to the military. In America, however, it is 54% — and rising.

Did I mention that the freeway to the mountain is bordered with flowers? Marigolds, cosmos, daisies, black-eyed-susans, poppies, columbines. Gladiolas. Lovely.

More corn fields. And rice fields, a lush green highlighted by white cranes. I bet they don’t have to deal with Monsanto shoving genetically-modified seeds down their throats here.

On one level, I am well aware that the DPRK is pretty much a dictatorship but on another level, I like that everything seems so — organized. And un-complex. I wouldn’t mind living here, out in the country, for the rest of my life. It’s so peaceful — as long as I didn’t have to get my hands dirty a lot. And I would definitely miss having DSL.

We’ve been driving for an hour through some of the most bucolic countryside ever. And on a four-lane freeway — two lanes each way; we have yet to see another car. Works for me. Imagine a whole country that pretty much runs successfully without cars. Heck. That’s the wave of the future. North Korea appears to be doing fine without cars. So now we know that it’s do-able.

In America, we are being choked to death by cars.

I think that the DPRK has something very important to teach Americans. But who would have thought it would be that?

In North Korea, the average citizen’s basic identity doesn’t come from what kind of car he or she drives. Sure, it would be nice to have a car, but without owning a car, their basic sense of who they are is still secure.

“80% of the territory in the DPRK is mountainous area,” said our guide.

Apparently last year the DPRK suffered from major flooding and there was much damage to the crops. International aid organizations sent food and all tourist groups were cancelled for a few weeks. Apparently canceling the tourist groups had a big impact because there is a growing tourist business here in the summertime, especially involving Australians and Europeans. But Americans? Not so much. “It’s harder to get in here if you are an American.” Tell me about it. It took me six whole months to get a visa. Yet another country added to the list of those who have been antagonized by Cheney and Bush.

“No, you are wrong, Jane,” said someone in our group. “It’s a list of countries that have been antagonized by every president since World War II ended and American industrialists took over America.” Well, let’s not argue about that. We’d have to go back to Teddy Roosevelt and beyond if that were the case.

Then we arrived at the mountain — only it was a series of mountains. “Next we will go to the International Exhibition Hall.” It had lots of marble walls and bronze doors. “Here are exhibited the gifts received by our Great Leader Kim Il Sung — sent from the leaders of countries all over the world.” It was like a giant antique store. There were lots of vases and sculptures and paintings and clocks. Ceremonial swords. A chandelier from Kuwait. A miniature crystal train set from Russia. A rhinoceros horn from Zimbabwe. Fascinating.

The next room contained photos of all the wildlife received by the Great Leader, sort of a photographic zoo. Giraffes. Zebras. Monkeys. Lots of peacocks. Then there was a gallery of plant photos, another roomful of vases, silverware, paintings, statues, scrolls, lacquer ware, mirrors and — oh look! There’s a piano.

Then there was the Southeast Asian room. Buddhas from Cambodia, stuff from Vietnam. Balinese puppets, batik from Indonesia.

More rooms, more gifts. North Korean school children, my tour group and me all tried to take this all in. “It would take all day and all night to see it all,” said our guide — so we hurried along. “This exhibition hall was built in 1978.” Then there was another large room, holding what turned out to be “souvenirs”. Now we were just hurrying through room after room. OMG! There’s a whole train! One coach was from Joe Stalin and one coach was from Chairman Mao. Next? A roomful of European gifts. Beer steins, pewter flatware, Greek statues, Viking boats, knick-knacks. Ah, the African room. Then the Latin American room. And a silver plate from Billy Graham. Go figure.

“Then this is the last room, containing a statue of our Great Leader,” a wax figure dressed in real clothes. Very life-like.

The second exhibit hall was all constructed of marble too and contained gifts given by various heads of state to Kim Jong Il, the Dear Leader.

Afterwards we went up to the observation deck on the roof of the hall and some high school boys offered me their chair. Boy I really have reached little-old-lady status.

Next stop: A 400-year-old Buddhist temple. They had some big-ass old statues of various bodhisattvas. 20 feet tall. Carrying swords and trampling demons. Then a bunch of gilt Buddhist statues, etc. And a very holy-looking monk who I was totally honored to meet. Highlight of the trip — so far.

Then I was forced to deal with a squat toilet.

Tomorrow we are going to a world-famous circus. Hey, this is supposed to be some hard-scrabble nation that’s been demonized as being totally evil — not the latest hot tourist destination!

“Let’s cut short our visit to the Buddhist temple and go hike up the mountain,” someone suggested and then everyone got all excited except me. Will I get a wheelchair on the mountain too?

Sure, the country folk here have a hard life. But all around them lays the beauty of nature. But there are other countries in the world where people live in even prettier places — like in the DRC — yet they have no education, no healthcare and no physical or economic security. Plus in the DRC, women there face the horror of rape every single day of their lives.

And there are even more than several places in the USA where this is all true too — no education, no security, no healthcare. Plus the voting machines don’t even work.

The only real danger I’ve faced in the DPRK so far has been from mosquitoes.

But in all honesty, I can’t really say if the people in the countryside get free healthcare like the people in Pyongyang do. But I’m assuming that they get education because one of the school groups we met at the Great Leader’s Exhibit Hall were obviously children raised in the country. They all had farmers’ tans.

Even though the trail up the mountainside wasn’t very primitive — it was paved with asphalt — I had to stop half-way up and fall by the wayside and contemplate some rocks for about an hour while the rest of the group persevered on up to a magnificent waterfall of epic proportions. How do I know? They all showed me their photos of it.

Then there was also a weekend camping event for children up on the mountainside and the kids were all happy and smiley-faced and cute. The future of a country is always pointed out through its children and these ones looked like they had a bright future. Good.

On the long bus ride back to the city, we only saw one checkpoint while nearing the capital and it was mainly just a table and chair, manned by one person. This is a hecka big difference from, say, the checkpoint outside of Ramallah in Palestine. THAT checkpoint is totally out of control — ten football fields wide and taking all day to get through.

Back in Pyongyang, it was after dark. Night in the capital city is weird. Imagine Washington DC with no cars and not streetlights — but lots of trees and parks and people strolling around. The low levels of energy use in this country never cease to amaze me. This is definitely no Las Vegas. They simply do not pig out.

At dinner, we had fun telling each other ghost stories about all the rumors, innuendos and hot gossip we’d ever heard about current and past leaders of the DPRK. “The Lonely Planet said that the life of a political prisoner here was ‘hell on earth’.” Is this still true? Or have things mellowed out? Sometimes as things get better economically, the old, harsh ways relax — as new generations who have experienced happy childhoods grow up. Too bad that the opposite seems to be happening in the U.S.

“And remember the famines? I heard that a million people died of starvation.” I’d heard that too — that things got so bad in one province that they just sealed it off one winter and came back in the spring to see if anyone had survived.

Then there are the stories about how the past president had been dead for five years before anyone in the DPRK was told, or that the current president was dead and some actor had taken his place — like the stories they tell about Fidel Castro and Saddam Hussein. Then there are the kinky stories. You gotta love kinky stories. Which brought up the stories about George Bush and that former male prostitute who spent 20 nights in the White House — and don’t even get me started on Sarah Palin stories!

Aha! The Lonely Planet has set us straight. “Surprisingly, the presidency rested with [the dead president even after his death was announced officially], making him the world’s only dead head of state.” So, He WAS dead while still president. But everyone here also knew he was dead too.

Apparently, according to several other tourists I’ve talked to – there are tons of tourists here! – The 1995 floods and resulting famines WERE extreme and extremely large numbers of people did die. “Stories of stunted children with swollen bellies fighting over grains of rice in the mud are famous all over the world.” What a fascinating and complex place this is! And today we are going to see even more of it.

“I am SO not a morning person,” I profusely apologized to my wonderful roommate. I thought I had given her the room key and that she had gone off for a walk and left me locked out, so I waited outside our door and inwardly stormed and raged at the injustice of it all. Crap. I had to pee!

“But, Jane,” she reminded me, “you have the key.” And I did. In my pocket. I’m just all burned out. This has been a hectic seven days. I’m losing it. I seriously considered spending the day hiding under the bed today but I’d better not. I’d just hate myself when I got back to Berkeley – that I didn’t take the tour of the capital city and ride on the world’s deepest subway.

I read some more from the Lonely Planet guide. “Trying to get a sense of day-to-day life is a challenge indeed. It’s difficult to overstate the ramifications of half a century of Stalinism – and it is no overstatement to say that this is the most closed and secretive nation on earth. Facts meld with rumor about the real situation in the country….” But you gotta admit that the rumors and gossip here are first class!

Then we ran into a tour group of Canadian corporate executives that had come here for a tennis and golf vacation!

According to the Lonely Planet, up to three million people died of starvation during the 1990s floods. That’s almost one in seven North Koreans. That’s sad. And apparently this place has a three-caste system, based on political attitudes. If you are hostile to the government, you might end up in a labor camp. That’s almost like when Bush fired all those U.S. attorneys in America who didn’t support the neo-can regime.

“The ‘neutrals’ have little or nothing and generally live the hard lives of farmers out in the countryside but they are not persecuted. While the ‘loyalist’ enjoy many more material things.” They get to live in the capital city, have access to education, don‘t have to perform strenuous physical labor for the most part, and are not in any danger of starving. And at the top, according to the Lonely Planet, there is also a fourth caste. “The Kim dynasty and its vast array of courtiers, security guards, staff and other flunkies are rumored to enjoy great wealth and luxury.”

But what is the real truth here? Guess what? I’m definitely not going to find out in only four nights and five days.

It’s now Monday morning in North Korea’s capital city and people are walking and biking to work. Get over it, America. Don’t be so snobbish. You’re next. I bet you anything that, if it keeps going the way our economy and environmental limitations are now heading, in ten years America will be like this too – less cars, less electricity, more rationing, more militarization and more Stalinism. We may even pass the DPRK on our way down – or it may pass us on its way up.

Next stop? The birthplace of the country’s first president, Kim Il Sung. “I have heard that if you drink water from this well three times,” another tourist told me after we got there, “you may become rich and the president of the country. But if you drink it four times? You may get loose bowels.” Apparently this is a well-known joke in the DPRK.

“Next we are going to visit the Pyongyang subway system, completed in 1973. It runs on over 35 kilometers of track and has 17 stations.”  A sign on the subway wall read, “If the Americans invade our country, we will defeat them.” Too late. We’ve already invaded! The tourist invasion.

The escalator down to the subway platform went so deep that my ears popped. Twice. And we were given free rein to take photos. Yaay! Now I can show the folks back home how well-dressed everyone here is.

I’m still fascinated by the clothes here. The shoes are stylish and some of the ladies are almost chic in a Wal-Mart sort of way. Where do these clothes come from? Are they made here? Made abroad? Who designs them? Do they put out a DPRK Vogue?

“The clothes are made here.” I’m impressed. They don’t dress as fresh-off-the-boat here as one would think. The women don’t, that is. With regard to the men, they are like men in most of the rest of the world – they don’t pay that much attention. Geeks and nerds. You’d think you were at M.I.T or something except I didn’t see any pocket-protectors.

One member of our tour group said that the U.S. has frozen the DPRK’s assets outside of the country and they are not even allowed to buy food from the outside world with it. That’s cold — especially since I just read in the Lonely Planet that as many as 15 million people may have starved to death in the 1990s. That’s totally cold. 15 million dead of starvation? I could make a bad joke here about how at least the North Koreans were respectful enough not to resort to cannibalism because if they had, not that many people would have starved. Sorry. That’s not funny at all. There is NOTHING funny about 15 million people starving to death.

We then stopped at a HUGE monument “to the workers”. It was very Stalinist but a hecka photo op. Next comes the DPRK war museum. I almost got in a fight with my guide about that. “The Lonely Planet says that North Korea started the war.”

“No! No! No!” the guide practically screamed. “The Americans started it!” We are about to find out who is right. After all, Bush swears up and down that Saddam Hussein is responsible for the Iraq “war” disaster. And even Hitler blamed the Poles for his Blitzkrieg. Show me the proof.

Apparently, right after World War II the U. S. military moved in and seized the area south of the DPRK from the Japanese, killing 478,000 North Koreans in the process. I’ve never heard that before. This is interesting, to hear the view of the North Koreans. And the Americans continued to threaten a full invasion of all of the DPRK.

The war went on from 1950 to 1953. According to our guide, these were grisly times, as General Walker ordered as many people in North Korea as possible killed by American troops. They were bombed, slaughtered, dropped down mine shafts, buried alive, whatever. The DPRK’s capital was leveled. And even women and children fought back.

Americans used chemical bombs. Napalm. An article from the New York Times said, “The use of napalm far exceeds its use in World War II…. The U.S. Army’s chemical corps shipped more than 17,000,000 pounds of napalm to the far east.” Five times the amount of napalm used in World War II. They also dropped bombs containing poisonous insects – and fleas. Fleas?

There were photos of an all-woman anti-aircraft hunting team and we saw many of the planes that they had shot down, perhaps 20 or 30. That made me sad — that so many Americans had to die in that useless senseless war. And it also brought home to me that North Korea was a country that had continually experienced war devastation at a level that Americans can only try to imagine.

And then the circus started. Tightrope walkers. Balancing acts. Those guys are crazy. Then they had cute little jump-roping bears and a lady who did a triple on the flying trapeze. We all clapped and clapped and clapped.

Then as our bus drove through the city, I couldn’t help but think as I watched people walk by, “These are the lucky ones – and they know it.” Lucky to be here in the capital city and not out in the countryside or off in some gulag. I forget a lot about how lucky I myself am – to be living in Berkeley, in a place of my own, and not in Iraq or the Congo or something. I forget because I rarely think about the horrors of Iraq or the Congo. But perhaps the people of the capital here know about the alleged 15 million people who starved to death just miles away from them. And, if so, I imagine that they truly appreciate how lucky they are.

I gotta learn to be more appreciative. But should I be appreciative that I don’t live here? Not necessarily. The residents of Pyongyang seem to live a pretty good life. Except for having no internet of course.

Then we went to visit a middle school. Good grief! At an assembly they were holding, two girls were playing accordions. And they were good too. The DPRK’s got talent! And some other musical groups also came onto the stage of the multi-purpose room. And they were good too. And they were having fun. Even I was having fun.

Then the students came off the stage, took our hands and taught us how to folk dance. And I have the pictures to prove it. Then we visited a classroom. About 30 kids per class. And I have the pictures to prove that too. Three girls and I practiced our English together. Our visit to the circus had been nice – but this was more meaningful.

“Now we are going to drive to the Arch of Triumph,” said our guide,” and then we will have dinner at the revolving restaurant back at the hotel.” Is it bedtime yet? I’m worn out.

“Today is our national holiday,” said our guide. “It is the DPRK’s equivalent of the American Fourth of July. And also your trip to the DMZ has been cancelled.” What! No DMZ? That’s not fair!

Apparently there are tensions in the DMZ today. Rats. I wanna see tensions.

“Today we will be traveling to a visit a dam,” said our guide after I had gotten back on the bus. “It will be an hour and 15 minute drive from here. The dam was built in the 1980s, to prevent the rivers from flooding. It cost 40 billion U.S. dollars to build.”

“Does it generate electricity?”

“No. We use coal-powered generators.”

“Do they have coal here in the DPRK?”

“Yes. Lots of coal. And lots of other metals too – such as gold, silver and iron.” So that’s what those people I saw squatting in the river on our road trip to the mountains were doing – panning for gold. I saw a one-ounce Chinese panda gold coin for sale at the hotel but it cost 1006 Euros. That’s twice as much as gold costs in America. “I just bought a gold coin at the hotel gift shop for 40 Euros,” I overheard someone say. Dream on. If that was real gold, we could buy it all up and be rich rich rich! I’m sorry but I don’t have that kind of money karma. If I did, I’d be down by the river panning for gold too.

Then we drove into Nampo on the way to the dam and landed right in the middle of that city’s huge September 9 celebration. The whole place had a festive atmosphere and the streets were filled with lines of uniformed school children and women in “cupcake” dresses – that’s the name that one of our group gave to the DPRK’s female national dress.

The main plaza of Nampo was filled with over a thousand people. Only DPRK nationals were allowed to attend the capital city’s September 9 celebration – maybe because the country’s president would be there – and so our tour group hadn’t been able to secure tickets. But here in Nampo, we tourists were able to attend — if only unofficially, as our bus drove past the plaza.
Cupcake dresses, school children and flowers were everywhere.
Perhaps this city was also bombed and fought over during the DCRP-American war because so far I’ve only seen Soviet-style buildings and monuments here.

On our right are ships and Islands. On our left are many mountains framing the shore – and some large ships. That means that there must be a drawbridge or something here so that the ships can get through to the bay. Also there are some truly jankety fishing boats here – rusted hulls, ancient engines.

We talked with one German guy at breakfast back at our hotel this morning who said that he got his visa within five days of applying for it in Germany. I guess it’s just hard for us Americans to get visas.

In a video at the dam we saw, there had been a scene with the DPRK’s president and Jimmy Carter. “Carter made a deal to take the DPRK off the U.S. short list in exchange for giving up the quest for nuclear weapons,” said a tour group member. “And then Bush came along and screwed up the deal. Now, eight years later, Bush is trying to negotiate the same deal that Carter had made back in the 1990s.”

“Was this before or after 9-11?” I asked.

“Before.” Well. That explains it. Bush’s backers were probably looking for a war even back then so that they could go on with the business of making weapons like they had in the good old days of World War II, the Korean War and Vietnam. Ah, how the Bushies seemed to long for the good old days of Vietnam!

I bet that Bush thought he could get something going with North Korea — and perhaps even China if he was lucky. But then 9-11 happened and Bush got his wars without having to declare war on the poor DPRK.

Which leads me to believe that maybe the North Koreans might have been right after all and that Americans had also provoked the DPRK into war back in the 1950s as well. Just like Johnson lied about the Gulf of Tonkin incident to start the Vietnam War, Reagan lied about Granada to start a war there and Bush lied about Iraq. There’s a pattern here.

“The main meal in the DPRK is lunch,” said our guide. So we sat down and ate nine courses. The restaurant also served rice vodka and rice beer. They served us kimchee, mussels, breaded veal, salad greens, pot stickers, marinated pork, stir-fried pork, red bean cakes, clear noodles with egg, beef with chard, breaded potatoes, cucumbers and rice. “Does anyone want those extra pot stickers?” I asked. No? Feed a cold, starve a fever. I just ate 14 pot stickers.

Then suddenly there we were — at the famous American spy ship that was captured by the DPRK navy in 1968. 83 U.S. sailors were taken prisoner, including eight officers. “The boat was a civilian research vessel,” stated President Johnson, but evidence to the contrary was found on the ship — evidence indicating that it was a military ship, spying on North Korea.

An American crewman aboard the Pueblo had stated that the ship had been ordered to sail closer to the DPRK, apparently into its actual territorial waters — and had done this 17 times before. “The statement of President Johnson had proved to be a lie,” said a video that we saw onboard. Johnson then tried to cover his tracks by accusing the DPRK of aggression, trying to shift the responsibility to the DPRK. The U.S. threatened out-and-out war on the DPRK.

North Korea then tried negotiations, seeking an apology — and if they didn’t get one, then the crew would be put to death. The crew members pleaded for their lives and eventually Johnson backed down and eleven months after the vessel’s capture, Johnson finally apologized. Even Johnson admitted that it was the only such apology in American history. And the U.S. promised never to do it again. Then the video showed the sailors crossing over some bridge to a pro-American country.

“The DPRK will never back down against unwarranted aggression!” said the video. But apparently the U.S. is still doing the same thing because a data-collecting American torpedo was discovered off the coast of the DPRK in 2004.

The document read, “[The United States]…shoulders full responsibility and solemnly apologies for the grave acts of espionage…and gives firm assurance that no U.S. ships will intrude again in future into the territorial waters….”

“The BBC just reported that the president of the DPRK might be dead,” said one tour group member. We get the BBC in our hotel rooms. “No one has seen him since August. But if he were dead, then who would replace him?”

“He does have a son but the son apparently disgraced himself a few years ago when he was caught sneaking into the Japanese Disneyland and with a forged passport.” Sounds like a man of good judgment to me.

“The BBC also said there was a huge military parade today.” Oh, you mean the one right beneath our hotel window? The one that consisted of about 200 olive-drab-painted trucks? Apparently the trucks were going to be used to carry participants to the mass games tonight — not a parade.

On our way to the mass games, the highlight of our trip, we got stuck in traffic. Traffic? You go without seeing a car for hours at a time and now suddenly there’s traffic and we are going to miss the mass games? “Are we close enough to walk?” someone asked our guide.

“It’s not a traffic jam,” our guide replied. “It’s a military parade.” Oh. Not just the personnel carriers that went past our hotel this morning? And the BBC was right?

“The mass games are like a cross between the Radio City Rockettes, the American Ballet Theater, the Super Bowl, a Busby Berkley movie, a circus, a flower show and a Maoist production of ‘The East is Red‘.” That pretty much sums it up. Wow.

Last night at the hotel, something happened that I am still trying to sort out the meaning of. The BBC had announced that the DPRK’s president didn’t appear at the September 9 celebration, hasn’t been seen since last August and might be seriously ill or even dead. And apparently someone in our tour group told a North Korean that she had met in our hotel lobby about this, and the North Korean was totally horrified. Apparently North Koreans love their current president very much and this statement that he might be in poor health shocked this person to the core.

“It’s like some stranger coming up to you and informing you out of the blue that your father was seriously ill — your father, who you dearly love.” It was really unsettling to the North Korean back at the hotel. I felt really bad for her. North Koreans feel very strongly about their current president.

Now that I think about it, I feel very strongly about the man who is currently occupying America’s White House. And if someone had just told me that George Bush was seriously ill, I too would have been devastated — that now he might not be able to serve time in jail.

After touring the monuments and experiencing an intense hour or two of people-watching, we all went to the airport to fly back to Shenyang. There were lots of tears at the departure gates. We all loved our guides.

So. I spent five days in the DPRK and what have I learned? Not much. One would have to be Superman and have X-ray vision to know everything about the DPRK after just five days. It is a very complicated country. But I do know that I will miss the friends that I made there very much.

Okay. No more getting maudlin. Time to focus on Shenyang. “Want to go for another massage?” asked a member of our group. Me? Turn down a cheap two-hour massage? Like that’s ever going to happen. But for the most part, the big neon-lit word that is flashing across my brain right now is “Internet Café!” I’ll have five whole days of e-mails to sort through — over 200 a day.
Back at the hotel in the DPRK, I talked with a guy who knew more about North Korea than I did — which isn’t very hard to do even after I just spent five whole days in that country.

“40% of the citizens of the DPRK are malnourished,” he said, “and the reason for that is that they are unskilled agriculturally.” Still and all, 40% malnourishment is way up from 40% death by starvation — assuming that the rumors of 15 million having starved to death in the 1990s are true. The official DPRK government figure is three million deaths, so it would probably be at least double that. But in any case, that’s a whole lot of dead people.

Last night at the banquet, I got an earful of hot gossip. “One of our tour group had a secret camera and was caught taking pictures of soldiers.” someone said. We had been asked to refrain from taking photos from the bus when we had first arrived in the DPRK, and to not take any photos of soldiers.

“This guy was seen holding this tiny camera down low and when they checked his memory card, he had about 50 photos taken from the bus and 15 of them were of soldiers and bridges. I think that he was a CIA plant,” said one group member.

The guy was stupid to do that — or impolite at the best. He deliberately broke a clearly-spelled-out rule. What had he been thinking? He could have gone to jail as a spy. But was he actually CIA? We may never know.

“I don’t think that he was,” said another group member. “I think he was just an over-enthusiastic tourist. Plus if he actually HAD been CIA, he would never have been caught.” The DPRK authorities simply gave him a lecture and asked him to delete his memory card.

And speaking of censorship, another group member announced that Sarah Palin had just published a list of 95 books she wanted banned in the United States — and two of them were by an author in our group! That’s hot gossip. But when I checked it out on the internet later, it said that, “Palin did indeed ask the librarian of her town if she would be willing to ban books and when the librarian said no, Palin worked to get her fired. But no specific list of books was mentioned.” I want to get MY books banned by Sarah Palin. Maybe that would kick-start my sales.

We also talked about the health of the president of the DPRK. “Yahoo News says he had a ‘circulatory problem’ in his brain and was operated on.” A stroke. How in the world do they find out stuff like that?

“Every time there’s a holiday in the DPRK,” someone else said, “American media trots out the same old story that the president is dying, ill or already dead.” Speculating on DPRK politics is endlessly fun. Speculating on ANYTHING in the DPRK is endlessly fun.

Palace of Fine Arts, San Francisco-Grainne Rhuad 2011

By: Grainne Rhuad

We were headed to the City by the Bay to Listen to Neil Gaiman read and listen to Amanda Palmer play the shit out of her Keyboard and Ukulele and as it turned out the Mandolin as well.

Right off we learned something.  Never trust what you read online when booking a hotel.  We booked a “boutique hotel” that was four blocks away from the venue.  Somehow however, I didn’t understand that “boutique” meant “painted over in trendy brite colors”.  Because as far as I could tell that’s as far as they went in their upgrades.  Also never in my life have I known “continental breakfast” to mean toast and instant coffee.

Also while I did advertise a perverse request for haunted hotels I did not expect to be kept up all bloody night by the sound of a cleaning lady’s cart going up and down the quay above.  I think that’s what it was; I was too exhausted to check it out.  If it was a ghostly cleaning lady I feel bad about that, I should have found out more about her story.

What did make me feel better was the fact that parking was free and the Palace of Fine Arts was literally 10 min away by foot.  A big plus as we and most everyone that night were held up on the bay bridge and got in late.

The venue was lovely, if what you crave is a working theatre-which I do.  You are surrounded by smells of dust and preservatives and old velveteen curtains.  There isn’t a lot of extra fancy inserted but you feel warmish and comfortable.

Opening up for Amanda and Neil were The Jane Austin Argument, an indie group from Oz that stole my heart with their story telling lyricism.  Nicely done and also they have a new Album coming out, Under the Rainbow.

I was wondering how a reading (which Neil did) and a punk cabaret bent rock goddess (AFP) was going to fit together on stage and the answer was while not seamlessly; it was better, it was comfortable.  It was just as they announced, quite different from what one would expect from the both of them.   Almost like being let into their parlor.  Maybe that had something to do with the crowd as well which was comfortable, and while definitely not silent, neither were they dancing.  I have heard that other venues have been different.

Especial favorites from the night were Neil’s reading of “The Man Who Forgot Ray Bradbury” which I assume to be about and for Terry Pratchett.  As far as Amanda’s performance, I cannot pick a favorite although Ampersand has not left me, following me to very awkward places as I sing it in my head during the last week.  But then again the same is true of Half Jack which was taken by request from the audience.  I did miss Brian Viglione on that one though.   The honest sharing of experience and emotion was electric and lingering in its effect.

The plan for the next day which was a Saturday was to try to connect with the Occupy group in San Francisco.  We missed them at the reserve bank where we had planned to catch them as the timing and/or event changed.   The main camp, what can I say: in some ways it was very much like a festival.  It made me wonder when people were going to get bored, broke or cold and head home.  In other ways it was one of the best organized Occupy groups I have seen thus far.  Check their webpage HERE.

As a side note, Amanda Palmer has been stopping to play her Ukulele at every Occupy protest she has travelled through from Boston all the way to Vancouver (thus far) follow her tweets @amandapalmer and her BLOG to get her take on the vibe of the different Occupy movements.

Here she is playing to a crowd at Occupy Wall St.:

While we were wandering about however, there was something I noticed.  It was brought up last week on South Park of all places.  You can watch their episode HERE.  In any case the question has been raised, does the 99% actually represent 99%?

Guy Fawkes masks are manufactured under contract by the 1%

I saw as we walked about the homeless queuing up for food, they weren’t at the Occupy rally.  Indeed I have read in several places that they are either pushed out or hidden from sight at the Occupy rallies around the country.  It seems to me that those who are most active in Occupying are those who still have the means to do so.  Does this represent 99% of Americans?  Who are we if while we are protesting we are not feeding the neediest amongst us because we see them as dangerous or detracting?

Homeless Queue- Grainne Rhuad 2011

As I watched I had to ask myself, are the Occupy protesters going to keep to the streets until these homeless queues disappear?  And while they are doing this occupying, who is serving?

Another split I see occurring in the so-called 99% is the shame heaped upon those who decide it is in their families’ best interest to still work.  I have listened and read comments to the effect that to not take to the streets to protest is to turn your back on your fellow man.

It seems to me that protest at this point is almost an elitist’s game.  It’s something the very young and those who are near retirement can do.  I didn’t personally come across any occupiers that were without shelter or the means to purchase food.  This is not something someone who is raising a family can do.   We cannot expect those with dependants to support who still have jobs to give them up and cart their children out for the one week it would take them to blow through their resources in order to make a point.

I’m not entirely sure that the protests themselves however well meaning are going to make a long term difference at all.  Our President who has sent support to other protesters in other countries has said almost nothing about the Occupy movement.  More importantly he has done nothing other than lose his cool in sophomoric fashion whenever the congress cock blocks him.  As commander in chief doesn’t he at least have the power to call off police forces that are abusing protesters like the ones at Occupy Oakland?

What taking to the streets has done is raise awareness.  Now that we are not ignoring the problem quite as much as before it’s time to bring this message home.   We can I think be more effective in our homes for much cheaper than it costs to buy a tent and travel to an Occupy location.

Here’s how:

1. Save your money for a month and pay nothing other than what is absolutely necessary for survival.  That means food and shelter
2. Get some Kerosene, Butane, Solar power or something in place because when you stop paying your bills you will be going dark.
3. Along the same lines stock up on water (and winter is the perfect time to set some barrels out) and food.
4. Close your accounts.
5. Dig in

Here’s the thing, not enough is going to change until we effectively shut down commerce.  As long as people are Occupying places they are promoting consumerism.  They have to buy their coffee, water, food and whatever else they feel they need.  If Americans stop paying for things for a month or two guess who else won’t have money?

The people who can make a difference.  The companies that benefit from our money will ask for help from the government and they will be heard much louder because guess what?  They paid to put people in office.  Something absolutely will be done when we close down the flow to companies’ pocket books.

Also there’s no better time than now, with the holiday season gearing up, there is always an expected spike in spending.  What if the gift we gave ourselves was a little bit more freedom instead of trinkets under the tree?

China Town-Grainne Rhuad 2011

We finished up our visit in Chinatown, which somehow was fitting.  It wasn’t planned, we had some time and pulled neighborhood names out of a hat.  After fuelling up on noodles and soup we tooled about the fresh food markets where the colors were more filling than anything we could possibly eat.  Somehow we ended up in one of those tiny shoppes that sell both trinkets and treasures talking with the proprietor about Fung Shui.  By the end of our discussion our house had been remotely Fung Shui’ed by sketch.

All in all it seemed we had a good house and with some tweaking we could expect prosperity or da ji da li. The proprietor explained to us also the difference between the cheap tourist trinkets and the more lasting strongly built relics.  “This coin here,” he showed us bends.  “While this coin while it costs more, my grandparents used for money, it is strong, it will last.”

It was a tad bit oxymoronic when we ponied up for this prosperity.  Prosperity it seems can cost a lot.  The shock on my companion’s face was almost worth the price but I did skim it down.  Leaving the shop he made the remark “I think my wallet has been Fung Shui-ed.  Indeed it had.

But herein is the lesson. While we had participated for fun, it’s one that applies to all belief systems. When you are in the right state of mind, things will fall into place.

It’s the same I think for the Occupy movements.  Keeping our minds and hearts in the right place which to me seems to be providing for those who cannot provide for themselves will help us reach our goals.  It will help us to make the large sacrifices, the ones that really cost that perhaps others cannot make, so that they can have prosperity.

It’s also not an easy task; shiny promises easily broken can be enough to let us off the hook.  We must wait for the stronger commitment.

By: Izzy Woods

About the author:  Izzy Woods is a freelance travel journalist. She writes for several publications, currently seeking out the most exciting cruises 2012 has to offer, but she spends half the year travelling the world on her own adventures.

This journey starts in the recently devastated sea side town of Unawatuna on the southern coast of Sri Lanka. Over 300,000 people were killed in the tidal waves that hit the coast and I remember with much sadness hearing about the little roadside town being swept away in the storms. It was in Unawatuna that I experienced a Devil Dance, a private village ritual seldom seen by Westerners.

Unawatuna is a beach town, with some of the best diving locations available anywhere in Sri Lanka. When I was there it was totally undeveloped, with just one beach hut serving freshly caught fish. It was very simple, just a canopy with a roof of banana leaves. But my partner and I got to know Saman and his family who ran it, and within days we were totally at ease in each others company. We fell in love with the white sandy beach and Saman took us out to sea in his dug out canoe, and laughed when I got sea-sick. I played with his little boy, and cuddled the orphaned monkey they had found in the forests.

It was a wonderful week. Every morning we would stroll down  from our hotel to breakfast on the beach, much to the annoyance of the female hotelier. We had fallen out of love with the place since our first night when we were forced out of the bedroom by bed bugs. Resolving never to eat there, we decamped to the beach restaurant during the day, eating papaya for breakfast and ordering freshly caught prawns for lunch. Everything cost pence, and it was lucky, for it was all we had. Everything was suffused with the taste of coconut oil, for that was all they could afford to cook with.

One night, as we were the only travelers there, we went to watch turtles laying their eggs on the beach and, wading through the sea on the way back Mark, my then partner, walked into a swarm of jelly fish. Their poison made his leg begin to swell and he fell onto the sand writhing in pain. My first thought was to get him to a hospital so that the barbs and venom could be removed, but Saman told me they would cut his legs to ribbons to get the barbs out. “Wait here” he motioned, and we sat by the fire and waited. He returned with a very old lady who carried a branch from a nearby bush in her hands. She snapped off some leaves and started to squeeze the sap from the plant onto the wounds. Next, she took a glowing ember from the fire, held it close to Mark’s leg and began to blow. The ember fired up, right next to his skin. The pain was clearly great, although I was not sure at that point whether it was from the fire or the jellyfish barbs. The old lady explained that the heated sap was drawing out all the poison and would bring the barbs to the surface. She was right. By the next day all the swelling had subsided. We knew we could trust these people and they had saved us unimaginable trouble and possible lifelong scars from surgery.

Saman came to see us in a state of high excitement two days later. Mark had studied anthropology and, knowing something of the country’s culture, has asked if there were any Devil Dances being performed in the village. They are not common, but by chance Saman had heard of one planned for that very evening. We should bring a gift for the family. Something sweet. And be ready by five. We headed off to Galle to shop.

Devil Dances are a village solution to several types of problems, be it domestic or medical. If a family is suffering a run of bad luck, or someone is ill, a thovil is arranged. The reason for this Devil Dance was simple. Ill fortune of any kind is widely thought to be caused by the unseen forces of evil. The illness is a manifestation of this and must be sent away through ritual. The patient in this case was a very demure, miserable young woman of about twenty. She had been struck dumb and nothing could induce her to speak. She had been silent for a month. We arrived and were introduced to her family, who were most gracious. The drumming had started, which is a sign to surrounding villages that a dance was about to be called. Neighbours and friends began to turn up, all looking solemn and worried.

They offered us Coke and the drumming continued for about three hours, mesmerizing us as night began to fall. At some point, through the sweltering heat and darkness, a masked man arrived, and the whole scene began to resemble a nightmarish film set. A chicken was trussed and thrown on the floor, a fire was lit and the dancing began. Long bouts of chanting from the masked ‘priest’ of ceremonies seemed to be working, and soon the young girl began to howl back at him. The Devils were answering him back.

We stayed all night, watching this play of forces. The good defied the evil and evil writhed upon the floor and screamed back. Evil frothed at the priest, who mocked it’s pitiful display with exaggerated outrage. Was the play for the watchers or the participants. It seemed to be tapping into a mutual pact between the two, a working out of conflicts, a purging of emotion. Evil spat at the priest, who sent up plumes of smoke with a magicians flash, by way of a powder thrown on flame. It was spectacular. A terrific show of deadly import. The ‘daha ata sanniya’ were listed, which refer to sixteen ailments and the demon responsible for each one of them. The drumming never stopped.

At about five o’clock the priest, still masked, decided that the devil had given up and he let the girl rest. A torch-lit dance in the dark through the village saw order restored and the patient definitely started to look happier.. By six o’clock we could stay awake no longer and bid farewell to our hosts. I was greeted by the young girl, smiling and chatting, as if nothing had happened. Whatever had occurred that night had certainly cured her. I could make little sense of what I had witnessed, other than the transformation of a silent miserable girl into a normal one. Something beyond my comprehension had happened. We walked back down the beach at dawn, seeing the fishermen already on their poles far out at sea. The sun was rising, and I reflected that it was one of the strangest events I was ever likely to witness.

–

By: Jane Stillwater

http://jpstillwater.blogspot.com/2011/11/visiting-vancouver-asian-fusion.html

My granddaughter Mena is a sixth-generation Undocumented American.  Her great-great-great grandfather came over to California from China for the gold rush and stayed on to help build the transcontinental railroad.  But then, back in the 19th century, EVERYBODY in California was an Undocumented American.  And, today in Vancouver, I also learned about documented and undocumented Canadians as well.  And also about documented and undocumented marijuana users.

Vancouver is a magnificent “Jewel of the Pacific” type of city in the grand old tradition of Shanghai, Valparaiso, San Francisco and Sydney — built overlooking water, it has an interesting history, a cosmopolitan population and lots of trees.  Vancouver is a beautiful city — with an element of Asian-fusion to it that also makes it interesting, exotic and chic.

At Vancouver’s exquisite Sun Yat-Sen Classical Garden, I learned a lot about ancient China.  First I learned that scholars were highly regarded there back in the day.

“The most highly-honored class of people in ancient China were its scholars,” commented a museum docent.  “And next in order were its farmers.”  Did I hear that right?  Somebody actually honored farmers way back when?  They must have been referring to some ancient Chinese agribusiness CEOs.  Nobody I know of has ever honored mere farmers, the people who feed us each day.

“The third category to be honored were the artisans.”  Apparently arts and crafts were really big in old-school China.  And apparently the last, least important category of importance in bygone China days were the corporatists.

In ancient China, however, this four-tier categorization obviously didn’t work out so well over the long run — but at least they tried.  Here in America, a country that is supposed to be a democracy, corporatists are obviously kings — and 99% of us know how badly that arrangement is working out.

Next, I learned that every Chinese scholar’s garden must have four basic ingredients — a building, a plum tree, a pine tree and some bamboo.  “But what about Feng Shui,” I asked the docent.  The four principles essential to having good Feng Shui (usually translated as “harmony”) in one’s life are safety, beauty, organization and comfort.  “This scholar’s garden is certainly beautiful and safe and definitely organized — but is it comfortable?” I asked.  Would I just want to flop down, kick off my shoes and watch television here?  Not.

“The comfort that scholars got from their garden was in its beauty,” replied the docent.  Oh.

I also learned that in modern-day Vancouver, 25% of its population is between the ages of 18 and 25 — because students from all over Asia come here to study English.  “And just before Hong Kong was taken over by mainland China in 1997, many Hong Kong residents moved here and bought condos in downtown Vancouver,”  There is also a large Japanese and Tibetan presence here, giving this city a real feeling of Asian-fusion, cultural diversity and Pacific Rim internationalism.

Next I went off to Vancouver’s large Granville Island farmers’ market to honor some farmers by buying a peach.

By now I’ve been traveling for over 2,200 miles and my knees and right ankle were really hurting, forcing me to forgo visiting the famous Capilano suspension bridge’s cliff walk and tree house.  “Why don’t you try some medical marijuana to ease the pain?” someone then suggested.  Medical marijuana is legal in Vancouver?  They don’t have drug cartels and drug lords running it up from Mexico with AK-47s like they do in the States?

“Of course it’s legal here.  We are a civilized nation.”  Except, perhaps, for Steven Harper — Canada’s answer to folks like Bush and Reagan and Obama and Blair.

So off I went to a doctor and showed him a medical report on my knees and ankle, and also showed him my nifty blue handicap sticker which I love so much that I’m thinking of having it tattooed on my arm.  Then the doctor asked me a few questions like, “How did you get injured?”  So I told him about falling down some stairs in the Peace Corps in South Africa back in 2007.  And then, after asking me about how easy it would be for older people to join the Peace Corps (pretty easy), he signed a paper saying I needed marijuana to ease the pain, and I was good to go.

Next on my tourist agenda is going to be a trip to a marijuana dispensary.  Should I do this?  Will it help?  Is medical marijuana expensive?  Will it make a good souvenir?  I’m about to find out!

PS:  Speaking of Feng Shui, I just gotta mention that the corporatists who currently control both the government and the economy back in the States have not created any beauty or comfort or safety or organization in America (nor any democracy either).  American corporatists have bad Feng Shui!

Let’s do something about that.

Perhaps we also need to occupy Congress, the White House and the Supreme Court as well as Wall Street — in order to bring good Feng Shui back into our lives.

What a great slogan to chant that would be.  “Beauty!  Comfort!  Organization!  Safety!”

******
From Sandra Barr on FaceBook:
Under Muammar Gaddafi women had equal rights.  Four decades of Libyan women have now had the freedom to get a good education, marry who they chose and wear what they want.  The new NATO backed terrorists have introduced Sharia Law, women are now the property of their Fathers or Husbands and MUST wear the burqa.  This very beautiful Libyan woman is an airline pilot.  This could never have happened only for Muammar Gaddafi.

****
Occupying the Future — with Keith Olbermann:  Fox News is trying to make us afraid of rioting in the streets (as compared to economic slavery and exploitation?) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cBV7ACTl-Bc&feature=colike

****

Whittier Harbor @2011 Karla Fetrow

By: Karla Fetrow

The Temperature is Sideways

Whittier has everything.  Tall, snow capped mountains surround the ice-free deep water port, glaciers slide into the bay, waterfalls thunder furiously, seals and sea otters paddle close to shore, eagles scream through the air and alpine flowers decorate the estuaries.  Called the Gateway to the Prince William Sound, even giant cruise ships nestle in its harbor, and the Alaska Railroad attracts tourists regularly in special train cars.  The fishing is astounding.  What Whittier doesn’t have is good weather.

The Prince William Sound is covered with islands, riveted with small inlets and is ideal for kayaks and rafting adventures.  The coastal towns southeast of Whittier; such as Juneau, Valdez and Cordova; are notorious for their rainy days.  They average out with over two hundred days of precipitation a year.  Whittier has about the same number of days of clear weather.  The biggest difference is that while the southern towns below its gate count their days of precipitation with overcast skies and light, drizzling rain, Whittier exuberantly enjoys downpours.  At the end of summer, the blustering winds move in.  The weather alternates between hard rain and sideways rain.  As winter creeps along the path of furious gales, the sideways rain turns to sideways sleet than sideways snow.  There it remains blanketed, usually a good two weeks after the rest of Coastal Alaska has been blessed with the budding greenery of spring.

From Military Base to Industry

Whittier received its birth as a secret military defense base during World War II.  By blasting a three and a half mile tunnel through the side of a mountain and laying down railroad tracks, they developed a perfect route for sending cargo from the heavy barges that could not make it into the far more shallow Anchorage harbor.  The tunnel makes it a straight, sixty mile shot from Whittier to Anchorage, a route that would have been over a hundred rough, treacherous miles if a road had been designed through the crown of mountains that cradle the Portage Glacier.

For years, the train remained the only access in and out of Whittier, apart from the ferry system.  Travelers wishing to visit Valdez, Juneau or  further south to the Panhandle towns, shortened their travel time by boarding their cars on the train going into Whittier, then shuffling them to a ferry.  For local residents, a train ride to Whittier was as entertaining as spending the day in a giant water park.  Boarding the cars was expensive; twenty dollars for the five mile ride, plus a head count fee, but you got to stay in your car while it boarded up and remain there as the train chugged through the tunnel.  It was party time in the dark bowels of the earth, dim yellow lights flickering by, the churning of the train engines deafening in the echoing chambers of the tunnel.

In the year 2000, the State of Alaska completed a project to turn the Whittier Tunnel into a one-way combination rail and highway access.  Traffic going into Whittier passes through on a fifteen minute hourly schedule.  The traffic returning to the Cook Inlet is scheduled for fifteen minutes at half past the hour.  As there is plenty of sight-seeing on both sides of the tunnel, if you time your visits strategically, there is never a very long wait at the toll booth before being allowed to pass through the tunnel.  For twelve dollars, you can step from the modern hustle of mainland Alaska to the robust coast of the Prince William Sound.

Entering the Twilight Zone

There is a sense of surrealism in driving the tunnel to the other side.  Not only is the climate markedly different, there is a sleepiness, a laid back ease about Whittier that makes you forget there is such a thing as appointments, schedules and pressing issues.  If the weather is good, you pass your time on the hiking trails, picking berries and wandering among the quaint shops along the water front.  It the weather is poor; well, there is only one reason why you are there anyway.  You’re a hard core fisherman and you want to fill your freezer with the last of the migrating fish before the winds of winter drive them into deeper waters.  The torrential down-pours, the sideways rain, the hail and the sleet don’t bother you.  Once the season is over, you can take off your saturated boots, change into dry clothing and curl up in front of a warm fireplace, satisfied that you’ve insured your family sustenance for the winter.

There is a sense to Whittier of always being a little behind the times, of attempts at modernization that eventually became discouraged in the face of newer technology that will deteriorate with the relentless climate or slowly incorporate itself into the existing structure.  The first buildings; old army barracks and military quarters; are still standing, although rusted and crumbling.  A row of apartments remain half cared for, half deserted.  The majority of the town own apartments in a condominium called The Begich Towers, which also includes the City offices, the Police Department, A medical clinic, the Post Office, a grocery store, a Laundromat, a vending snack area, and Bed & Breakfast units.  Built and incorporated in 1974, it was hoped the 196 apartment units would attract more people willing to settle in the town.  Whittier has never, nor currently has more than two hundred year round inhabitants, despite receiving over 160,000 tourists per year during the summer months.

The massive two and a half minute earthquake with its fifty three after-shocks that occurred in Alaska in 1964, destroying half the City of Anchorage, burying the town of Portage in a mud slide, buckling the road between Butte Sutton, forty miles away from the epic center, also triggered a tsunami that washed out the towns of Kodiak, Seward, Valdez and Whittier.  Power generators out, the railroad tracks destroyed, an uncontrolled oil fire burning from stored barrels at the docks, Whittier was stranded.  Two young men, carrying a list of the dead and the supplies needed for the living, walked out of the town and through the tunnel to the other side where Portage and the Turnagain Arm lay twisted and sabotaged beyond all recognition.

A rescue helicopter spotted them and picked them up.  The bereaved families were notified and a team went into Whittier to assist the survivors.  Washed out Portage perished with the earthquake.  The silt water tides returned again and again to reclaim the land where once had sat buildings, homes and gardens.  Whittier resurrected.

With nineteen people dead; a tenth of its population; Whittier began to rebuild.  Although the railroad tracks had been destroyed, the tunnel was intact, proving itself to be an incredible feat in modern engineering.  The reconstructed town turned its head toward tourism as a means of supplementing their shipping and fishing trade, hoping that the additional job opportunities would entice new people to stay.

slammin' salmon @2011 Karla Fetrow

The Tunnel People

The population has remained stubbornly the same.  Apparently, most Alaskans would rather brave the more temperate climate of the Cook Inlet, or the frigid winters and hot summers of interior Alaska than the riotous gales of Whittier.  Even though the wages for construction workers and laborers was two to three times more than the pay in the Anchorage Bowl; just sixty miles away; most field workers preferred to take three to six months contracts, fluffing up their bank accounts while their families  remained on the Cook Inlet.  They viewed their contracts with Whittier much as they viewed a hitch on the North Slope oil fields or a remote Aleutian Islands.  Said a sheet metal worker after a six month, forty dollar an hour job in Whittier, “it’s the most desolate place on earth.  There’s nothing to do in the winter except sit around in a bar.”

It’s possible these temporary workers had not learned a secret about Whittier that has come to the surface only in recent years.  Not only were the early inhabitants of Whittier capable of building a tunnel that could withstand an 8.6 earthquake, they had seeded the later inhabitants with the idea of building a tunnel system between their buildings.  Tunnels connect the row of 1960′s apartment, the Begich tower and the school building.  When the rain, the sleet and the snow pummeled sideways into the town, the school children no longer had to battle it to go to school, neighbors did not have to brave it to visit each other, the long hours of winter did not have to be spent idling in a bar, waiting for the weather to clear.  They could commute, safe, warm and dry, through the tunnels.  There is even a tunnel for the general public of tourists who make their way to Whittier during the spring and summer that burrows between main street and the docks.

There has been a change in the attitudes of the younger generation seeking work in Whittier.  One young man from the Cook Inlet region was hired on to work the docks shortly after graduating from highschool.  At the end of his six month contract, he decided to make his home there.  “I like Whittier,” he said during a visit to his home town.  “The pay is good.  Rent is reasonable.  The people are friendly.  I think Whittier can grow.”

In the All American town of Anchorage, which reflects the same problems exhibited in cities all across America; a collapsed housing market, spiraling cost of living rates, homelessness, joblessness and racial tension;  other young people are weighing the advantages of relocating in Whittier.  With the opening up of the Anton Anderson Memorial Tunnel to vehicular transportation, commuting between the Prince William Sound and the Cook Inlet has never been easier.  There is an appeal in Whittier to the pioneering spirit of Alaska’s youth in its largely unexplored wilderness, its foothold with the Panhandle islands, its earnest attempts at progressiveness, its strong determination to survive.  And, like all pioneers whose attraction is more towards novelty and innovation than to tradition, they contemplate what it would be like to be one of the tunnel people.  The town that wouldn’t grow might yet one day be, the town of the future.

harbor tunnel @2011 Karla Fetrow

Killaloe Heritage Town-Alexandra Pratt

By: Alexandra Pratt

Most people who visit the west of Ireland dash straight to the drama of Kerry’s coastal mountains, the brutal loneliness of Connemara or even just the small towns, for the music, the Guinness and, of course, the craic. But what about that forgotten corner where Limerick,Tipperaryand Clare – considered on the whole as less scenic – come together? It’s called Lough Derg and this 30km stretch of water is possessed of a certain tranquil beauty that, while not entirely undiscovered (at least by the Irish), is seriously underrated.

We arrived late at night and, unfamiliar with the area, we noticed little that evening other than a total absence of streetlights, a darkness that deepened into the depths of woodland and soft, fragrant air. We had booked a cottage overlooking the lough on its east shore. Set in a hamlet that is really no more than a tiny quay for fishing and pleasure boats, Kilgarvan is one of several such little harbours and the perfect place to put notions such as mobile phones, heavy traffic and the blare of modern life out of mind.

Known as ‘Ireland’s pleasure lake’, Lough Derg connects to the Atlantic via the Shannon Estuary to the south and to north, it is possible to travel all the way to Fermanagh via theShannonRiverand a series of equally pretty lakes. This, naturally enough, makes it very popular with yachtsmen, fishermen and all types of boaters. Yet Lough Derg is far from crowded and its silvery expanse is home to rare birds and plants, including orchids, as well as the occasional medieval tower house, pretty village and quay.

Dark Age Round Tower, County Claire- Alexandra Pratt

Each such village now has at least one pub that offers food. Ireland’s former reputation for great drinking and terrible eating has now been comprehensively banished. It was a theory we tested thoroughly and I can confirm that the lakeside villages, such as Terryglass (winner of the all-Ireland Tidiest Town competition. Twice.) are unspoiled and offer wonderful local food such as local Burren lamb.

The surrounding landscape is rich and rolling up to the north of the lake, where the fields flatten out and the bridge outside Portumna (a brief foray into southern Galway) is raised twice a day for the yachts and motor cruisers to continue up the Shannon or down towardsLimerickand the sea. The town is pleasant, with an extensiveforest parkon the lakeside, where small herds of deer bounded through the dappled sunlight at the sound of our approach.

Portumna Castle-Alexandra Pratt

Portumna is worth a visit, even if only for its strikingly beautiful castle. A rare Jacobean semi-fortified mansion, this treasure once belonged to one of the cruellest famine landlords inIrelandbut the building suffered a worse fate than even he deserved, when it burned down. Now, only the exterior remains, but this has been restored by the Irish Government, so we paid the tiny entrance fee of 2 Euros and were pleasantly surprised to get a personal tour thrown in.

Not only is the landscape around Lough Derg varied (the west shore is broken by the hills of Clare), but it also provides easy access to a range to places. From Portumna, a short drive through East Clare took us through scattered medieval ecclesiastic remains, Norman castles and Dark Age round towers built in defence of the Vikings, to the Burren. This remarkable place is world-famous for its bleak limestone plateau, a harsh cap of pewter-coloured stone in otherwise lush countryside. Cromwell’s surveyor,Ludlow, described it as

“A savage land, yielding neither water enough to drown a man, nor a tree to hang him, nor soil enough to bury.” Which rather gives away his boss’s intentions for the place!

Wildflowers on the Burren-Alexandra Pratt

The unusual parallel grooves in the limestone are called ‘grykes’ and were probably made by rainwater. Occasionally, after a heavy shower, whole new lakes form, sometimes for days, sometimes for just a few magical hours until the water seeps away. In fact, the Burren is only sterile from a distance. Up close, it is an astonishing – and unique – home for all kinds of flora. Although many rare plants and flowers grow in abundance here, it is the variety that makes the Burren special. Alpine and Mediterranean flowers bloom side by side, which botanists think has something to do with how the rock soaks up the sun’s warmth, then releases it when the temperature drops.

On this western side of Lough Derg, villages such as Mountshannon mirror those on the opposite shore, while inland has some treasurers of its own. The Craggaunowen project near the monastic town of Quinwas created by John Hunt, a respected medievalist. He restored the 15^th century castle, then, in its grounds, created an open-air, working museum that is as fascinating as it is unique.

A walk through woodland took us to both restored and re-created pre-historic dwellings and hunting sites, past original artefacts such as an Iron Age road, found in a bog in CountyLongfordand best, of all, the Brendan. This small leather boat was built in 1976 by the explorer and author Tim Severin. He sailed it across the Atlantic from Ireland to Canada, proving possible the story in a 9^th century manuscript that claims a monk called Brendan made that same journey in 583AD, making him the first European to see North America.

A few miles from Craggaunowen is the castleof Bunratty, set in a wonderfully strategic location on the banks of the estuary. Built in 1460 and restored in the 20^th century, the castle is certainly one of the finest examples inIreland (don’t miss the ceiling in the solar, its colourful detail is extraordinary). This explains why it is also extremely popular with visitors, as is the adjoining ‘folk park’. An extensive collection of real (relocated) traditional Irish homes, this park may sound horribly tacky and it is. It is also endlessly absorbing, thought provoking, and entertaining, particularly as each house has a ‘guide’ in traditional dress who makes butter, bakes pies etc.

Across the waters of the Shannon lies Limerick, Ireland’s 3^rd city, famous as the location for the best-selling book and film Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt. A short way to the south however, the ‘Golden Vale’ has a history that goes back much further. The area around Lough Gur in particular is not only extremely attractive, but has a wealth of historic remains, including castles, stone circles, and Stone Age burial chambers. The lough itself was lowered in the 19^th century by three yards and cart loads of artefacts were discovered, including a bronze shield dated to 700BC.

From Lough Gur, it’s a scenic drive up brand new, pleasantly quiet roads, until we turn back onto the country lanes that plunge away to the quays. We count them off; Killaloe, Dromineer, Mota, and finally home to the peace of Kilgarvan.

Lough Derg Sunset-Alexandra Pratt

Alexandra Pratt is a British journalist and author you can read more of her writing at her website, www.alexandra-pratt.com

The Popular New Trend in Wilderness Recreation

Blame it on the bear man who spent years photographing and living with bears until a bear finally killed him.  Blame it on the Katmai Reserve, a destination so popular for International tourists intent on photographing bears, the bruins have begun behaving more like very large dogs than wild animals.  Blame it on Sarah Palin’s expertise as a wilderness hunter, but bear country has become more and more the vogue place to visit.  This would be fine if bears were putting out the welcome mat, but they’re not.  Bears are notoriously territorial.  Nor are they impressed with six weeks of wilderness training, a college education, a bright future or lessons from the animal whisperer.  You enter their territory, you play by their rules.  End of discussion.

Bear attacks were prevalent this year all the way around the northern rim; Russia, Eastern Europe, Alaska, with the victims usually  fly-in vacationers to remote wilderness areas.  These vacationers have read all the books, practiced all the survival methods, but have not graduated from the law of humans to the law of bears.  Primary bear law; stay out of their feeding grounds during the summer months; mainly bear populated salmon streams and berry patches.  As far as they are concerned, you’re raiding their kitchen.  While in Alaska, fish and game merely scratched their heads and concluded the victims must have come between a mother bear and her cubs when a team of young wilderness survival trainees were attacked and hospitalized (thankfully, there were no deaths) by an enraged bear, Russia decided to hunt down a mother bear and her three cubs and destroy them, when the bear killed a young woman and her step-father in a far eastern province of Siberia.  The Russian story had a particular emotional appeal.  Three times the young woman called her mother on a cell phone, crying, “mum, a bear is eating me,” while the mother frantically tried to dial her husband, who was already dead.

While the story was unfortunate and tragic, the message was clear.  Human inhabitants have encroached more and more into wilderness areas and the bears don’t like it very well.  It makes one wonder how rural settlers were able to survive in the wilderness at all.  Did they barricade their doors and send their children out to play only with rifles in their arms?  Did they send in death squads to remove all bears from the settlement?  Did they talk to the bears and explain that capital punishment was in order if they destroyed humans?  The answer is no to all of the above.

Living with Bears

Bear stories have been part of my itinerary for as long as I can remember.  When I was five, my grandmother reluctantly visited our wilderness home by flying in from San Bernardino, California.  She accepted that our water came from a spring above the house, that the ice had to be cracked in winter and the water hauled in jerry cans.  She accepted that our electricity came from a cranky, oil-run generator that had to be fired back up every few hours, but she was just a little indignant at having to use an outhouse.  She was even more indignant that we had bears.

It wasn’t like we had bears romping around in our yard all hours of the day and night or that they were canvassing the area for the most tasty human delicacies.  Mainly, we were just in the pathway from their caves high up in the mountains to their fishing spots on the rivers, but occasionally one would nose around awhile before ambling on its way.  Nosing around meant getting into anything it could; the garbage, the tool shed, rampaging the garden and even toppling the outhouse.  What my grandmother couldn’t stand was a particularly obnoxious bear that had decided one corner of the cabin made a great scratching post.  This bear always came in the evening, just as we were settling down for bed.  As it scratched, it made great rumbling yawns of satisfaction.  My grandmother swore it caused the entire cabin to tremble.  Dutifully, my father would take down his rifle and go out to stalk the bear, but apparently the bear was on to him.  It always disappeared before he could get a clear shot at it.  When my grandmother left, she swore she would “never enter that barbaric land again”, and she never did.  Every other memory I have of her were our own visits to California, in which she would sit us down and tell us how pitiful our lives were for having no experience with civilization.

It actually didn’t take very long for the community of bears and the community of humans to understand each other.  Since we weren’t really in their territory, just in their transportation routes, they were more curious about their new neighbors than aggressive.  We had an effective alarm system; barking dogs.  The bears didn’t really like the loud yapping and when it was combined with pots and pans being banged together, along with shouts and guns going off in the air, the bears usually decided it was time to get the hell out of there.  Occasionally, a bear would decide to stick around despite all the racket.  “Bear sighting” would go through the grapevine like wild fire.  Children were instructed to stay inside.  Mothers limited their visits to auto transported ones, the young men prowled the country side with rifles in their arms.  Once the bear was shot, we all breathed a sigh of relief and went out to play as usual.

I was instructed as a child to hold absolutely still if I ever encountered a bear in the woods.  Bears rely more on their keen sense of smell and their hearing than they do on their vision.  With this in mind, I walked quietly in the woods, keeping my eyes open for any brush movement.  Usually, the movement was nothing more than a moose or a porcupine, but one day, when I was around twelve, I encountered a young black bear while prowling  just outside the boundaries of a Denali campground.  The bear didn’t see me, but it did smell something that distracted its interest in pulling out the bugs in a dead log.  It sniffed the air.  I stood perfectly still, barely breathing.  It swung its head from left to right, uncertain.

We remained in this suspended state for several minutes, the bear trying to analyze this foreign smell while I stood fascinated with the animal.  A park ranger happened upon this scene, and from a hundred yards away, he slowly began lifting the firearm from his hip.  I don’t know if it was the naivete of childhood, completely unafraid, bubbling over with curiosity, but instead of showing signs of relief, I slowly and carefully put my finger to my lips, then pointed to the bear.  The ranger halted, his hand still close to the gun, but waited to see what the bear would do.  After sniffing the air a few more times, the bear decided that whatever the close encounter, it wasn’t threatening.  It dropped back down on all fours and ambled away into the woods.  The ranger had a talk with my father, telling him it might be wise to keep his daughter confined to the campground.  My father agreed but added it might not be all that easy.  At twelve, I had already decided to bust into more wild country than Daniel Boone and the only real way of holding me back was to keep me tied to the picnic table.

The Garbage Bear
As the community firmly established itself as human territory, we received fewer and fewer problems with bears.  An odd thing about wild animals is they generally respect boundaries.  The area we lived in we shared with the moose.  Although a bear can take down a moose easily, the moose were left alone as long as they stayed in their territory.  We all lived more or less harmoniously together and rarely worried about wild animal attacks.

In the nineteen eighties, things started changing.  The new influx of people did not want to live crowded closely together in the established communities.  They wanted more space.  They found it on the mountain ridges above the Cook Inlet.  They found it in bear territory.

By the time people got around to building on the mountain ridge, the bears were already accustomed to humans, and knew a bit about what to expect from them; loud noises, barking dogs, machinery and wonderful, delicious garbage.  A new sub-species of bears was born; the garbage bear.  By the time garbage bears became a major problem, many of them had been practicing the fine arts of garbage raiding for several generations.  Most early attempts to keep them out were in vain.  If you placed rocks on your full garbage cans, the bears removed the rocks.  If you placed your garbage in a shed, the bears tore down the shed.  They were bold.  They went up on your porch to clean up your picnic leavings.  If your kitchen door was unlocked, they opened it and helped themselves to your pantry.

The garbage bears were completely unafraid of people.  They were witnessed in trailer parks, raiding the dumpsters.  They’d amble down the bicycle trails to discover whatever morsels you tossed in the litter cans.  They would even wait for the fishermen to go out on the water and steal their beer from the coolers.  It was difficult to know what to do about them.  They were no more aggressive than extremely large dogs, but they were holding banquets in people’s yards.  The solution has been to tranquilize and remove the bears to a game reserve, but the removal of these bears posed one major difficulty.  These bears had adapted to human fiestas for so long, they didn’t know how to forage like a wild bear.  While a few adjusted and many starved, some eventually found their way to a settlement where they could continue raiding for garbage.

I encountered my first garbage bear while my children were young.  I had set up on my property for only a couple of years.  So as to teach my children proper subsistence skills, we owned a few goats, some chickens, and a fat, female Shepard mix to guard them.  On a warm summer day, the children were outside playing on the swings.  A neighbor had come over to visit, bringing along his four year old son, who also rushed off to play in the yard.  We were talking amiably when we heard a sudden loud sound outside the dining room windows.  We looked out.  The goats had escaped their pen and were trying to get under the house.  We found this a little odd and decided to go out and see what had alarmed them.

We didn’t notice anything at first, so scratching our heads, we tried to coax the goats out from under the house.  They were having nothing to do with it.  When we tugged on their collars, they rolled their eyes and bleated pitifully, but they were not coming out.

As we walked around the yard, we happened to look up to where the kids were still playing on the swings.  That’s when we finally noticed it.  Lurking in the bushes, about seventy yards from the swing set was a fully mature black bear.  This fellow was huge.  His head was about the size of a powder keg.  He was sitting on his rump, his paws folded over his chest, watching the children swing.  Keeping my voice as level and firm as possible, I called to my daughter.  “I want you to come inside now and I want you to bring Casper with you.”

“Why?”  She asked.  “We’re having fun.

“Because I’m telling you to.  Take his hand and walk slowly toward me.  Do exactly as I say.”

I had mustered up every last bit of my don’t argue with me voice.  My friend was beside me nodding agreement, beckoning for the two kids to come into his arms.  Sighing, she did as she was told, leaving the swings reluctantly and bringing the younger child with her.  With each step she took, I felt my heart pound harder.  The bear continued to sit and watch.

About half way to me, my daughter stopped and looked behind her.  She gasped and trembled.  “Don’t run,” I cautioned.  “Walk”.  The bear snuffed, and she broke into a run.  In the next second, before she had stumbled into my arms, the Shepard came bolting out of the house.

I did not know a fat dog could run so fast.  She headed straight for the bear, her lips folded back and snarling for vengeance.  Nobody messed with her kids.  That bear took one look at that one hundred pounds of fury going after his six hundred pounds of flesh, and turned around as rapidly as a ballet dancer doing a spin.  Long after he disappeared, we could still hear him crashing through the bushes, the fat dog right behind him.  Worrying that at some point the bear would figure out that the demon on its tail was only one sixth its size, I finally called the dog home.

“Wow, “ I said, when the excitement had settled down.  “I wouldn’t have thought the dog could intimidate the bear so much.”

My friend chuckled.  “It’s her size.  That bear probably took one look at how fat she was and decided that must be one helluva successful hunter.”

Eating People for Pleasure
Along with the increase in garbage bears that have become so emboldened they’ve even broken into Anchorage homes, completely undisturbed with their urban setting, there have been more incident reports of bear mauling; even of bears eating people.  Bear mauling didn’t surprise us.  Bears are easily offended and there probably couldn’t be anything much more offensive to the bears than someone moving in on their property and telling them they’re going to start behaving just because that person has a one hundred thousand a year income and the city planners on his side.  What seemed peculiar was, bears eating people.

Several years ago, the local newspapers rocked with the story of a man who lost his wife to a human eating bear.  According to the man’s account, they were camped out at their summer cabin near a lake to do a little fishing.  Surprised by a bear, they ran to their cabin and barricaded it.  They heard the bear tearing away at the barricade, so went through the window in their loft and climbed up on the roof.  The man left his wife there, telling her he was going to make a run for the boat and bring back help.  When he returned several hours later with the troopers, the wife was still on the roof, half eaten, and the bear was gone.

While it was an open and shut case of bear ate wife with a consequent guilty verdict for the bear, there were still a lot of holes in the story.  To begin with, nobody could understand why the wife would consent to remain on the roof, essentially as bear bait, while the husband ran across the yard and took off in a boat.  Most people agreed if there was a clear shot at making it to the boat, they’d be running like hell to get ahead of the husband.

Another strange aspect was the bear’s determination to get up on the roof.  Like most animals, bears prefer the easiest pickings.  If there was a full pantry in the cabin, that would be the bear’s main interest, giving both the husband and the wife time to dash across the yard and jump into the boat.

Most puzzling of all was that the wife had in fact been half eaten.  Except for the Polar Bear, who thinks salty human flesh is a good substitute for seal, bears don’t actually like the taste of human flesh that well.  Bears that maul their victims do so in the same manner a cat plays with a mouse it has no real interest in eating.  Most mauling victims who were able to survive a bear attack said they did so by playing dead.  The bear cuffed them around awhile, but when it received no response, it walked away.  There was a lot of tongue wagging and speculation among the locals.  They began to wonder if perhaps the husband had seen a good opportunity to get rid of the wife, hit her with a shovel, covered her with fish oil, than dragged her up on the roof.  There’s not much of anything a bear likes better than a good fish.

Campaigning for a Safe Wilderness
The human population keeps pushing back the boundaries of the wilderness, until the creatures of the wild don’t really have very much room at all.  Intentionally or intentionally, we domesticate the wild creatures we move next door to, creating in them a dependency for our food products.  Moose freely walk through our streets.  Bears caper in the back yards.  Porcupines raid the gardens.  Many of the people who move into the wilderness learn to accommodate their back yard neighbors.  Others do not.  They bring human law with them and a human perspective of looking at things.  They want the animals that cross the boundaries prosecuted for trespassing, or try to treat them like obedient pets.  They are outraged when an animal, following its naturally wild instincts, does them harm, yet we are the trespassers.

There is a current mood that the wilderness should be preserved so everyone can enjoy it.  However, this wilderness doesn’t consist of just miles of forest climbing over undisturbed mountain ranges, of song birds, ducks on the water and fish.  It contains moose and caribou, porcupine and beaver, foxes and wolves, and bears.  If we go into the wilderness, we should be prepared to go acknowledging we are visiting their homes and they play by their own rules.  We should go aware that the wilderness can be dangerous and full of unexpected surprises.  We should go realizing that if everyone goes into the wilderness, it’s no longer quite wild.  We represent food supply to a wild life no longer fearful of humans.  There are precautions that can be taken for safety; the buddy system, a firearm, staying away from areas where bears are feasting on fish or berries.  If you’re observant, you can see the signs; trampled bushes, excrement, splintered logs where the bears have been digging for insects.

If we are to preserve the wilderness, it must remain wild.  It must remain deadly.  It must remain free, for these are the balances of nature.  We must accept responsibility for the animals we’ve domesticated by making them dependent on us, and understand that though they are domesticated, they are not tame, nor should we consider taming them.  We should realize that going into the wilderness means exposing ourselves to all that nature has to offer; the wind and rain as well as the sun, the hulking beasts as well as the birds, because like driving down the freeway, there may be accidents.  There may be fatalities, but to try and make it otherwise; to try and make the wilderness safe; you no longer have bear country, only a Disneyland for those who fantasize themselves Daniel Boone.

By: Ronald West

In 1981, while living in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains on the border of the Blackfeet Indian Reservation with the Glacier National Park in Montana, USA, a remarkable man knocked on my door.  This man was Pat Kennedy, a Plains Ojibwa Oral Historian and Medicine Man who had married into the Blackfeet tribe 30 years before. Speaking 7 native languages fluently, including the Blackfeet language, and with a fluent and creative use of the native pidgin English we held our initial conversation in, Pat had never been to school. His Irish name had been assigned to his family by the government when the apartheid system called Indian reservations had been established.  When Pat had knocked and I opened the door for him, his introduction was: “I’m Pat Kennedy. I like where your house is and I would like to use it for ceremony”.

For the following 24 years I was this remarkable man’s student and became one of his close friends.  One of the most important ancient Native American traditions of Pat’s clan or associated group of ceremonial healers was that of the Peace Chiefs. These were a remarkable last and now going extinct generation of men schooled in their ancient ways, men like Dan Buffalo, Louis Fish, Tommy Youngman, Bill Hameline, Tyrone Gopher, Kenny LaPope, to name a few, now gone together with much or most of their knowledge. One example of many instances of why large segments of Native America will never be the same.

These were not Disneyland Indians, none among them ever desired to be great men, or to be on tv. In a context of laughing and joking at nearly anything, yes, joking at NEARLY ANYTHING, especially life adversity and the Whiteman who had brought disaster upon their world, but most of all laughing at and joking about themselves in this circumstance, these were men who took life seriously in ways the modern world has largely let go of.

They were honorable men above all else. Life for them meant an ethical self discipline of honest kindness living in a gentle way, in effect counter balancing peoples aggressions and resultant life traumas with example of living their lives as a prayer of peace that was never sanctimonious or hypocritical, rather a principled patience instead. Always praying and working for peace and healing between peoples, these men’s lives typically were expressed in a close and personal relationship of awareness to our creation, beginning everyday at daybreak, listening to the quiet and then sounds of life stirring with the miracle of each day, in sounds such as the music that might be found in the wind, the original source of many native melody compositions, or seasonally, the birds singing.

For all of their possible justifications to hate the society who had destroyed their world and people’s happiness, they taught a person should not hate. And they lived the example when I was welcomed into that world and all worked together, to prepare my personality to learn how to love, but not in any western or superficial sense. To love in a sense of understanding a reality at a higher level than the reality of aggression. To know we create our reality as Human Beings. To understand this reality can be peace. To see our inter-relationships to all things and step out of the trap of ego, to learn to live as a ‘Real Human Being’, to know life as ‘One of the People.’ To grasp the sacred nature of our existence is not an abstract concept but rather depends on steeling the self to an attitude or approach to life as a principled prayer in kindness lived in relation to all of our fellow beings.

All stereotypes and anthropomorphism aside, this is what Native America had once been, ruled first by self rule in the person practicing a law of non interference in the affairs of others, others being not only people but as much as humanly possible, nature as well. This, and a kindness in approach to all relationships that was not self-serving in a sense of feeling like some kind of holy person, but merely principled. Only that. A principled kindness. No Popes, No ministers, No reverends, no vows, no chastities, none of these. People were expected to learn and guide their own spirit to the good through self principled behavior and these Peace Chiefs were meant to live the highest example of that, including most importantly of all, self humility in relation to our creation or cosmos. They never bragged about who they were, in fact the world would not even be aware except that someone would tell their story.

At the end of this generation of ethical titans, whose knowledge I can claim only a very small part, this is what Pat had asked me to do towards the end of his life, to tell the story of his world, to translate the teaching to western terms, as now I am a trained story teller fluent  both in the Native American Peace and Western Political traditions. There is a ceremonial Peace Tipi of this Native world has found it’s way through what these men had taught me, to a time of great conflicts in the Western world. It is this tipi meant to bring about an awareness of possible change. Not myself. The tipi.

Pat was last alive for his annual “Peace Encampment” in the Summer of 2004. Earlier that year, when the leaves were returning and creation once again manifesting it’s endurance in the present phase, I had a dream of a painted tipi. I had painted tipis under Pat’s tutoring for years already, a sacred privilege that must be earned and I did earn, but I’d not had a dream of a painted tipi unrolling itself before my eyes before.

The morning I woke from sleep and the dream I called Pat and told him of the tipi. Pat accepted the dream and we agreed I would paint the dream into the reality of the Peace Tipi at his annual summer peace and healing camp in a few months time and it would belong to the vision of peace, not to any man. That happened.

At the time of Pat’s approaching departing of our physical reality, he gave detailed instructions to his wife, Lorna, that the tipi should begin a world journey for peace. It is to be welcomed anywhere in the world where people will open to it’s message and meaning of Human Kindness, Love between Sisters and Brothers, and Beauty and Peace between Peoples, across all Ethnic, Religious, Racial and National and Social boundaries.

Pat’s widow, Lorna, has sent the Peace Tipi to Germany to begin it’s journey.  My name is Ron West and I speak these words to the truth of peace.

Sunrise at Sundew-Buck's Lake- Grainne Rhuad 2011

By: Grainne Rhuad

My longtime travelling compatriot had just laid down cash on his almost dream car, an older Jeep.  With gas prices soaring and people in need of quick cash it was, very easy to talk the seller down.  However my compatriot was a little concerned that the seller had barely blinked at an almost $1000 dollar difference, not even bothering to haggle. I was of the opinion from the start that the owner needed cash badly.  It was written all over him, but to assuage the fears of the new Jeep owner I suggested he take me camping.   Win/win!  As I am now completely bicycling and he needed to test the mettle of his new purchase, it was Camping Road Trip on!

The destination we chose was Buck’s Lake.  A high Sierra Lake situated at 5200 feet above sea level about 17 miles outside of Quincy California in Plumas County, California.  It was close enough that should any problems occur with the vehicle being tested out we could get home fairly easily and it was far enough away to be about 30° cooler.

The beginning of our trip took us through Oroville, CA.  Not a terribly picturesque town.  It has in the recent past been known mainly for its high volume of methamphetamine production.  On a more positive note, Oroville, which translates to “gold town”, boasts the United States’ tallest Dam.  At 770 ft, it provides power and irrigation for most of the Sacramento valley and beyond.  It is also one of the world’s largest earth dams.  Although strictly speaking it’s not all earthen, it has a concrete core where the mechanisms for converting water into electricity are held.  The outside too is coated in concrete.  Up until 9/11 one could take tours of the inside and see this miracle of modern technologie at work.  However the Patriot Act fixed that, now you must satisfy your curiosity with the visitor’s center and old educational reels.  In addition to being a point of pride, it’s also a point of fear.  It sits on top of an active fault line and has been shown to contribute to earthquakes due to its size and the amount of water it holds back.   As in a 5.7 earthquake that occurred in 1975.

But even more exciting for me, in Oroville there is Sonic.  Now, I do not eat fast food very often but I am a sucker indeed when it comes to Sonic’s incredible array of refreshing drinks and shakes.  I cannot pass one up and I am just glad there isn’t one in my hometown yet or I could see myself scrounging through couch cushions for change to get a raspberry lime aide.  Of course we made a stop.  For me it was Tots and a Blue Coconut Shake; Sweet Heaven.

A  Sweet Heaven I would come to regret about half an hour later when a detour took us on a twistier road than we had planned on and I lost my blue shake.  It looked exactly as if I had gobbled up a smurf and spit it back up.  It was a very lovely shade of blue, and I thought to myself every camp trip should begin with the loss of some sort of mythical creature.  It just adds to the excitement.

Feeling better we rolled into the Buck’s Lake region about five minutes later.   We had planned on staying on the lake at a campground called Sundew.  It’s a relatively small campground and the last time I was up, it was entirely full.  We had come prepared as our second pick had no piped water, but as we came in we found the campground half empty with a few lovely sites still available right on the water, one of which we picked.

Geese Landing- Grainne Rhuad 2011

I suspect the name came from the fact that the lake looks golden and sun kissed just as the sun rises.  It is a beautiful thing to see.  Pine trees almost all the way up to the shoreline with about three feet of granite at the edge.  The granite glitters in the sun no matter what time of day it is lending a magickal quality to it.  A flock of Canadian Geese hung about the shoreline looking like they had made this their permanent home.  However there were also loon families and ducks swimming lazily back and forth.  What was especially nice to see was while the birds weren’t terribly bothered by their human neighbors, they weren’t hassling for food either; which indicates people were not hand feeding them a very good sign that the humans were doing the right thing and the birds had enough in their environment to get by.

This night we pitched our tents to the sound of our single neighbor who for some unfathomable reason felt the world wanted to hear his country music station, got settled and cooked one of my favorite campfire foods: Pizza.

I know, it sounds strange.  Hot dogs and marshmallows are campfire food, not pizza you say.  However I will tell you I have learned there is absolutely nothing easier for a first night than pizza and if you get your coals right it comes out crispy and bubbly just like a brick oven pizza.  Also, no dishes.  I’m all about ease when I go out in the almost wilderness.  Of course this wouldn’t work if you were backpacking, could you imagine a pre-made pizza sliding about in your pack?  No way.  But for campground camping, nothing beats it.  You must have hot coals without flames right under the grill with about 2 feet in between.  7 min later you will have the best pizza you ever ate outdoors.  Be sure to use a thinner crust and don’t load it up with toppings.  A Margherita or something equally simple works best.  Afterward we settled in and tried to outplay the country music station with guitar and ukulele, playing up everything from bluegrass to Radiohead to SpongeBob.  Magickally the country music stopped.  Okay, it wasn’t magickal; it was 9:00 and common courtesy.

Bedding down we came upon our first unfortunate event.  A hole in the air mattress.  I have written of this before, it happens nearly every time and I really don’t know why I don’t prepare better.  Last time I was forced to pay more for a patch kit than a bottle of tequila would have cost me.  This time I was lucky enough to have a third person in the tent who leaned up against it, making it a slow leak; and while I was on the ground come morning the air did its job most of the night.

One of the funniest things about camping out is the morning bathroom run.  Not just my own but everyone in the campgrounds.  If you wake up early enough, which I did you can make yourself a cuppa and watch the hugely entertaining show of person after person looking exactly like Zombies shuffling all the way to the potty.  Their bodies stiff from sleeping on the ground and probably from the exertion of fishing, hiking, etc. the previous day making them look just like the living dead as they try to get to the pit toilet.  There’s also the inevitable swaying back and forth as they wait in line sometimes losing their balance causing them to moan unintelligibly and do a little spin to stay standing up.  Honestly morning campers at the potty look like more convincing zombies than The Walking Dead

This day we had decided to rent a boat and explore the lake.  So we headed out to the Buck’s Lake Marina  . It was well equipped and actually very reasonable priced for all of its rentals from wave runners to patio boats.  We chose a fishing boat.  As we walked out the dock to the boat, we passed beautiful, lovely boats.  Pretty boats that looked comfortable and easy to drive until we got to the end and saw our boat which had remained conveniently hidden from sight.  It was the ugliest little boat and so banged up that we were truly hoping it had no leaks.  In fact there were immediately apparent several welds, patches and even a couple of holes.  It was, without question a clunker.  But for the day it was going to be our clunker.

Mill Creek off N. Fork of Buck's Lake-By: Grace MabRhuad

It did its job well however, that little boat should be commended.  It handled my own speed demon manner of driving as well as the inexperienced hand of a first time 10 year old.  It was well worth the rental as it took us to secluded beaches where we found hidden streams and sand covered with butterflies like something out of a fairy story.  It managed underwater willow trees and navigated us around huge granite rocks just below the surface.  We played a little at catch and release, picking up some brown trout and brookies.  But really we mostly drew, read, rested and watched loon families with their babies and even witnessed a bald eagle swoop down about 10 feet in front of us to catch its lunch.

We winded up the day back at camp, resting, eating and just taking in the sunset.  Until the unbearable country music station began in again; this got me to thinking.

I don’t think I have ever before been camping where people didn’t want the quiet.  I’m not talking about family noise, or even musical instruments played around the campfire.  This was something different that I have rarely encountered in the woods.  Someone who thought their soundtrack ought to be everyone’s soundtrack.  It wasn’t the music so much as the invasiveness of it.  It felt aggressive.  Also when I say it was loud I am in no way exaggerating.  I love my music loud, I play it in the car loud, I sing loud, but this was concert loud.  Also I thought, I cannot think of another type of music listener; not rock, not reggae, not classical, not bluegrass, not Mexican Polka that imposes their noise so readily on others than country music listeners.  I know there must be a point there, something to that.

I much prefer the music and show that nature provides.  The slapping of waves up on the granite.   The raccoons trying to see if you’re asleep yet so they can try to raid your campsite.  The chipmunks chattering away and the birds calling to one another.  The odd baby crying and the mums and das soothing them with words and song.  The ultra clear view of stars uninterrupted by electric lights.

A.M. Fishing at Buck's Lake- Grainne Rhuad 2011

We left the next day. I always think it’s good to leave off a camping trip while you’re still having fun.  I have learned over the years that that warm feeling that says “oh we should tarry a bit longer” a lot of the time results in overstaying, mishaps occurring and nobody wants to remember their trip that way.

On the way back down perhaps the saddest and yet most important thing occurred.  We were driving back on that winding road, no Smurf colored food in my belly this time.   When out of the corner of our eye we saw two little ladies waving their hands at the side of the road.  They seemed very out of place.

“Were they waving or should we turn and go see what’s up?” my compatriot asked me.

“Dunno what they were doing out there.” I said, “But of course we should go see.”

It took us a couple of minutes to find a place to turn around and we kinda figured someone else would have stopped by then  but turn we did and it was a good thing too as by the time we got back around they were still there, still waving.

There sat two older Hmong ladies who explained in their broken English that they were having car problems, there was no cell service and they needed help.  The Jeep was packed to the gills but we shifted about and got them in.

On the way back to their car they explained to us they had driven up from Sacramento (about three hours away) for a picnic and their other, older friend was back at the car, not being able to make the hike out.  Where they were, was about 3 miles in on a logging road, it was rough and must have taken them some time to walk out. We asked how long they had been waiting for help and they told us they had been at the main road for about three hours.   Not one person had stopped.  For three hours, these obviously non-threatening elderly women had waited and waved and received no help.  The road was not exactly a freeway but it was busy enough.  The fact that nobody could take time out was incredibly sad to us.

We got them back to their car where their grandmotherly friend was waiting in the shade; she had set up scarves for shade and put their food in a cache.  Apparently, she was ready to wait a while.  As it turns out they had simply gotten stuck in a ditch when they tried to back up a bank in a sedan.  We pulled them out easily and saw them safe on their way.  They were effusively grateful, which I would have been too.

But as we continued I wondered what it was that kept people from helping them.  Was it fear?  They didn’t look scary, they were pretty defenseless, and someone could have at least offered to call someone when they got back down into cell range.   Was it a lack of observation?  Maybe for a few but surely someone else had seen them.  Was it because they were brown?  Was it because people simply didn’t care about anything beyond their own problems?

None of these reasons seem like good ones to me.  All of them scare me more than a couple of ladies in distress.  When we cease to care for each other, how can we feel good being out in the natural world provided for us all by our Mother Earth?

Anyway, the Jeep made the trip fine.  My compatriot got an excellent bargain and a campout out of it.  Maybe a trip to a mechanic for diagnostics would have been cheaper but it would never have been as much fun.  Nor would it have included Ladies in distress, little boats that could and Smurf puke.

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By Karla Fetrow

Responding to the Call

As a region, the Cook Inlet is an extremely diverse culture; both rural and urban, blue collar and professional; military and subsistence; with  Alaskan Native villages, Asian communities, Russian monasteries and pioneer settlements dotting the water front.  There is one thing this mixture of small towns, communities and the big city of Anchorage all have in common.  The people love to fish.

Scratch the Andy Griffith image of walking down a country path, pole in hand, cheery music playing in the background.  We’re talking about serious fishing.  As soon as the last of the snow melts and the rivers are flowing ice free, the people who live on the Cook Inlet are sniffing the air.  They are waiting for the salmon to run.

The first salmon migration usually begins near the end of May.  Leading the parade which drives millions of salmon up the tributaries and rivers each year are the mighty kings.  Averaging between thirty to fifty pounds, record kings have been known to tip the scales at over one hundred sixty pounds.  Close behind them, darkening the water with their thick colors, is the tasty cohoe.  The salmon runs continue all summer, with the last migrations squirming their way upstream, bright run from fresh water burns, in late August.

The Cook Inlet fisherman wants that first run, while the fish are still vigorous from their ocean swim and their scales are like quicksilver.  The barbeques are brought out and the smokers are prepared.  The fishing poles line up, with their fresh new strings and lures.  The tide tables are studied and the weather station listened to religiously.  The fish come when the conditions are exactly right.  “They don’t like the heat,” says one veteran fisherman.  “They wait for cloud cover.”  Another says they don’t like choppy waters.  They want the tide; the spectacular high tides and low 4.6 low tides.  They want the water to carry them, sweep them into the rivers, then die away in massive retreat until the next tides comes.  They stay by their radios or by a campsite and wait for that announcement the salmon are running or that first glorious cry, “fish on!”

Beginning at the most inland point of the Cook Inlet is the Athabaskan village of Eklutna.  Eklutna is sandwiched between the Knik, Matanuska and Eklutna Rivers, all glacial rivers pouring their ice melt into the Cook Inlet.  Although the salmon run through these rivers, the amount of glacier silt makes it difficult to catch anything unless you’re a very skilled fisherman.  This doesn’t stop the area from swelling with visitors each year; some to fish, most to take advantage of the water falls, the challenging mountain climbing, and the large, glacier fed Eklutna Lake.  The real fish fever affected move south.

Sunset Over Mt. Spur @2011 Karla Fetrow

Consciousness of fishing addiction begins as soon as you drive outside Anchorage, onto the Turnagain Arm.  If you leave Anchorage on the weekend, you’re immediately swept into the arms of the weekend warrior traffic.  They have a single agenda.  They leave Friday afternoon as soon as they finish punching the clock, with the intent of finding the best fishing hole and returning by Sunday night with a salmon or two in the cooler.  Every other vehicle is a motor home or a camper.  Every four vehicles contain a boat.  It doesn’t matter if the boat is a handsome cabin affair or a fourteen foot skiff.  Any boat is better than none when facing the battle zone.

The battle zones are amazing.  The first big congestion is around Bird Creek, located forty miles south of Anchorage.  Here, the dahl sheep climb down from the mountains and gaze at the collection of tourists, travelers and fish hungry locals from the high rocks.  Here, the humpback whale often sound, the sea otters swim idly by, and here the hooligan come in, thick as locusts.  The hooligan is a small fish, salty and oily.  Hundreds of people line up on the banks of the Inlet each year with their nets to snag the hooligan run.  The campgrounds become so congested, that cars line up on both banks of the highway.  As impatient as you might be to catch the big fish, you must crawl through the roadside picnic of harvesters crossing the road on their way back to their vehicles, their campsite or their fishing spot.

The rage bubbles up just under the mask of politeness demonstrated for the sake of the harvesters.  As soon as the last barrier of banked cars is cleared, the engines rev up like track stars bursting past their last hurdle.  The flight to reach the mountain pass that descends into the lush country of the Kenai Peninsula is on.

The journey through the pass is worthy of its own sight seeing adventures.  Within the grassy knolls between mountain summits, are crystal clear lakes, sparkling waterfalls and vigorous creeks.  These waterways contain trout, greyling and dolly varden, but the campgrounds for this particular fishing delight are generally pretty modestly attended.  Only one thing satisfies Cook Inlet fish fever; Cook Inlet salmon.

Coming down from the mountains, the first sight to greet you is magnificent Kenai Lake and the broad, flowing Kenai and Russian River’s.  This area is a major stopping off point for a bustling tourism industry centered around fishing, but it doesn’t satisfy the fish fever of the locals.  The smell of salt is in the air now and the only way to feed the cravings is to find a spot along the ocean.  The final destination is Homer.

Old Town Ninilchik @2011 Karla Fetrow

Rolling out of the mountains onto the long, flat stretch of the Sterling Highway, the first instinct is to let her loose after so many curves and climbing hills.  Don’t do it.  The Sterling Highway is the biggest speed trap in the entire State of Alaska.  If they don’t catch you on the main road, they’ll find you on one of the off-roads, where they cleverly abstain from placing miles per hour posts in clear locations coming into your campground area of choice, but have them perched every two miles on the way out. The best thing to do is never go even one mile over the speed limit on the Sterling Highway and never drive more than thirty-five miles an hour on the back roads, no matter how deserted they might look.

This added income is necessary for the upkeep of the city of Soldoltna.  Soldoltna is as nasally congested as it sounds.  Before the pipeline era, which changed everything Alaskan, it was a trailer park, gas station offshoot of the modest town of Kenai.  It was also close to a number of lakes and only a few miles from the ocean front.  The highway was expanded, cutting Kenai out of the loop, and plopping a number of businesses and hotels in the middle of Soldoltna.  Today, you see nothing of its origins.  It’s a clear cut, modern town that looks more like the tail end of Los Angeles than it does a pioneer settlement.  Its greatest commodity is a number of non-competitive gas stations, a MacDonald’s, and a Safeway.  If you want to relax in an All American City, then the place to go is Soldoltna.  If you’re looking for the great fishing adventure, keep driving.

The Zen of Fishing

The journey from the river basin flowing into the Cook Inlet to the final inland town of Soldoltna covers around two hundred miles.  This is a significant enough distance to cool the heels of the rent-a-motor-home tourist or the weekend warriors, who have allotted their fishing pleasure to a timed schedule.  The lakes and rivers are filled with fish, and a pair of waders and a bit of skill with a rod and reel is all it takes to get one.  You might catch a dolly varden.  You might catch a fat trout.  You might also catch a wonderful, thirty pound king salmon.  The campgrounds are crowded, however, throughout the summer, and you usually have to make a reservation to secure a spot.  If you have a rugged vehicle and plenty of time and ambition, you’ll want to look for a beach front.

Beach front access is only for the serious camper.  Reaching an ideal fishing spot by the mouth of a river usually means some pretty rugged driving over a very narrow stretch of semi-solid land just beyond the high tide water mark.  Often, the only commodity is a row of outdoor toilets a good mile and a half from your chosen site.  You must bring in all your own comforts, from your fire making abilities to your sleep arrangements.  Is it worth it?

Your chances of catching a fish from the mouth of a river are as good as catching one on the Peninsula, but there is a major difference.  Across the inlet is the ring of fire and the spectacular volcanoes; Spur, Iliamna and Redoubt. They glow on a sunset that settles briefly on the horizon, never turning quite dark, then mysteriously lightens again as the sun rounds the corner of the range.  There is a timelessness in this exhibition; a blurring of time.  Two days stretch into three and you lose count, aware only of the ocean’s ebb and flow.  The low tide rolls back, obscuring the volcanoes in fog, and the vast mud flats stretch out, revealing what had been underneath the ocean depths.  Little dimples appear in the wet sand, a sign that it’s time to get out your clam shovels.

When God made the world, He built the Cook Inlet last.  His crowning achievement was Homer.  He used all the dreams and tools He had at his disposal to craft the most magnificent view ever known to man.  If you’re not aware of this as you abandon the last vestiges of American life in Soldoltna, you are by the time you reach Ninilchik, just forty miles up the road.

Ninilchik was first settled as a Russian community.  Old town still has its church, its small, clustered village and its Russian population, but new town has a bright, modern school, wonderful coffee shops and a variety of small tourist oriented businesses.  From the highway, you can see the church, sitting on a high cliff, part of the settlement scattered in the gully, the ocean glittering in the sunlight and the proud upheavals of Iliamna and Redoubt.  For the rest of the journey, you are acutely conscious that you are traveling by the sea.  It flirts with you.  It hides behind languid, rolling hills, popping into sight now and then, each time surprising you with its increasing beauty, then disappears once more.

Should You Find Homer

Fifteen miles from Homer, you make a choice.  You could stay at the Anchor Point, with a trembling view so rare, you can; when the conditions are exactly right, see five of the active volcanoes within the ring of fire; Spur, Redoubt, Iliamna, Douglas and Augustine.  It’s an excellent place to set up a base camp.  Its services include friendly convenience stores and bait shops, fresh water access, a news stand and even trawlers to pull out the trucks that got stuck in the bootlegger clay during high tide.  It’s sheltered from the continuous winds that blow into the bay, and has more interesting scores for beach combers.  Or; you could go to Homer and hang out on the spit.

The Homer spit is the longest natural land-locked spit in the world.  Beginning just before the small town, the spit is four and a half miles long and no more than fifty yards across at its narrowest point.  It is the fishing hole of all fishing holes.  People fish from the banks.  They fish from the spillways.  They take out boats and fish.  They ramble over the docks and study the offers on the boardwalk, looking for a charter.

Down by the Boardwalk @2011 Karla Fetrow

The boardwalk has a life of its own.  Not only are there offices for charter boat fishing, there are restaurants, ice cream shops, taverns, bakeries with delicious coffee and gift shops offering everything from local handcrafts to fine Alaskan art.  On the weekends, in the evening, live music floats out of the taverns and onto the beach.

Camping on the spit is comparable to camping in a parking lot.  Motor homes, campers, tents, park side by side, each with its tiny picnic area and fire pit.  The spit never sleeps.  Long after the shops close, the bands go home, and the little ones nestle into bed, the adamant fisherman is still out there fishing.  In the morning, the cleaning tables are full of freshly caught fish, and the seagulls and eagles crowd around for their share of the bounty.

If you choose the Homer Spit, you’ve chosen the party.  Homer doesn’t know the meaning of the word, “stranger”.  You pick a camping spot, and pretty soon half the neighborhood has dropped by to visit.  These visitations often come bearing gifts; some extra wood for your campfire, some new fishing lures, a chunk of fresh halibut, even job offers to work on the docks.

Dude, you are so on my turf! @2011 Karla Fetrow

Whether you’ve chosen your spot at the mighty head waters where the salmon first migrate in, at the base of the rivers, or further inland, whether you’ve chosen comparable solitude or the party, nothing is quite as exciting as that moment when one of the fishermen patiently lining the banks, calls, “fish on!”  The migration has started.  One after another, the lines pull taut with a cascade of water and a fish leaping high into the air.  The grills fire up.  The skinning knives come out and the coolers rattle with ice.  When it’s all over, you realize, it wasn’t just the act of catching a fish, but the whole experience of living close to nature, becoming aware of her tides and her moods, drinking in her beauty, living harmoniously next to others that filled your trip, and you begin to understand just a little bit why Cook Inlet inhabitants unfailingly develop fish fever.