Having barely slept the night before, and then only cramming in a few hours on the plane, I was quite worn out when it came time to explore. I made a half-hearted attempt to get in the adventurous mood as I wandered around Zocalo, the historic center of town, but even the festivities all around me failed to move me. I wandered amongst the throngs in the main square. There is a large winter festival going on and there was a large ramp covered in imported snow, which local children were sliding down in inner tubes. Nearby was a 100' tall fake Christmas tree. Another area had a make-shift arena which people were queuing to enter but I couldn't tell what was inside. Perhaps an ice rink? It was all a bit surreal as it was sunny and the temperature was in the high 70s. I was wearing sandals, shorts, and a hawaiian shirt.
I wandered over to the adjoining Templo Mayor, the only Aztec site in Mexico City not completely razed by the conquistadores, but I simply was too tired and so stumbled back to the hostel to read and relax. The inelegantly named Mexico City Hostel is actually quite a jewel. Tiled floors, stone and plaster walls, a pleasant inner atrium which let in the right amount of sunlight, and numerous amenities all belied the fact that I'm paying only $14 a night. Sure, the dorm room itself had the sickly-sweet locker-room/barracks smell that hostels the world round have, but all in all, it's one hell of a place.
As I sat and read in the atrium, others watched a violent Andy Garcia movie about the Cuban revolution. A local man, a guide hired by the hostel it turned out, asked me if I were part of the Lucha Libre group. I told him I wasn't but that I wanted in. For those who don't know, Lucha Libre is Mexican wrestling in which the wrestlers typically wear masks and flamboyant costumes. The guide informed us that there would also be midget fights and perhaps even "chick fights", though he did reluctantly warn us, "not sexy..."
The group I joined was a pair of Aussie college guys and a twenty-something couple from California. We all made our introductions but, in all honesty, I didn't even attempt to remember their names. In the course of this trip I'll meet several hundred people, most of whom I'll only be around for a matter of hours, if even that. It's enough for me to enjoy their (brief) company. At any rate, the guide brought us complimentary tequila shots and corona. I really wasn't feeling drinking because I was so worn out, but I figured it went part and parcel with watching sweaty men in TIGHT tights manhandle each other.
We left the hostel and met up with a group from another hostel. Several more tequila shots and off we went. I can honestly describe Lucha Libre as being akin to a high school production of the WWE. The wrestlers were mostly burly, pudgy men and they were as convincing at delivering their stomps and punches as porn stars are at reciting lines. That being said, an open palm chest slap from a 230lbs man or a seven foot dive off the ring on to the wooden floor has to hurt regardless. We arrived after the first match had begun.
There was not a strict midget fight; instead, a midget in a white and silver mask and white body suit ws on one of the "teams." He was on the "good" side. He was by far my favorite performer because he was so amazingly acrobatic. He'd jump off the ropes, land on the chest of his standing opponent, spin himself around the man's body twice, and then fling the opponent across the mat after wrapping his midget legs around the opponent's head. Every once in a while the opponent would catch him mid-air and dwarf-toss him across the ring. Whenever this happened, the crowd erupted in laughter. The match ended when one of the bad guys kicked the midget so hard in the groin that it lifted him off the ground. Of course, the referee wasn't looking until the midget had been pinned. He writhed on the mat after the match as the victor raised his hands and the audience booed.
Vendors patrolled the aisles offering beer, popcorn, souvenir masks, and even, strangely enough, light sabers. My personal favorite was the woman selling Maruchan Cup of Noodles.
In the other matches, the only other item of note was the gigantic white wrestler. He was blonde, about 6'6", and 260lbs of chiseled muscle. He towered over all the other wrestlers. He wore obscenely tight blue latex briefs with his name, Marco, in white letters across his butt. Several times he would stop in the middle of fighting, place his hands on either side of his head, and gyrate his hips at groups of ululating women in the audience. Of course, he was pinned twice in the course of the match and kicked repeatedly in the groin.
After that excitement, we were led to the Plaza Garibaldi, the only place in the city where it is legal to drink beer on the street (otherwise it's a $200 US fine). I wanted to eat, so I went over to a little eatery on the plaza and after a few minutes the others joined me. Apparently, drinking beer in the midst of 20 mariachi bands had grown tiresome quickly. We all sat and traded travel stories for awhile over a few beers and then I bid them an early good night.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
It Begins Again
Last night, my mother wanted to go out to supper since I was leaving the country for the duration of my Christmas break. She wanted to get Mexican. ¨I´m going to Mexico tomorrow for three weeks and you want to take me for Mexican? Really?¨ Dutiful son that I am, I obliged.
I now sit here in a hostel in Mexico City, preparing to go out among the natives. The thought of getting kidnapped or mugged has weighed heavily on my mind since I first decided to come here. The State Department´s travel advisory did not help at all when it mentions that kidnappings have now gone from solely occurring to the wealthy tourists and businessmen and has broadened to include the middle class. Sensing a challenge, I determined to make myself look less than middle class, a difficult thing to do for a southern man who´s had braces (when in foreign countries, teeth tell you a lot about a person). I packed what I affectionately term my ¨hobo gear.¨ I did not shave for three weeks prior to leaving. Now, this may not seem that out of the ordinary to any who remember my various previous wanderings, but the difference is that this time I have not groomed my pathetic attempt at facial hair at all. I´m currently sporting a sad attempt at a goatee, surrounded by varying outposts of mangy whisps of multicolored whiskers. I look, to the best of my estimation, like a vagrant. Mission accomplished.
Having only a broad plan (to see Aztec and Maya ¨stuff¨), I packed the absolute basics of underwear, socks, two pairs of pants (one 15 year old pair of black jeans, one pair of camouflage pants), two pairs of shorts, a pair of swim trunks, five hawaiian shirts, a poncho, an Inka Cola T-shirt, a pair of sandals, a pair of sneakers, a fleece jacket, a knife, and about 7 books (to include a spanish-english dictionary and a college spanish textbook). No sooner had I got to the hostel than I changed into the shorts and sandals (it´s well over 70 degrees here right now).
The flight was delightfully uneventful, but inprocessing at the Mexico City Airport was a trifle disconcerting as I discovered that I´d left my Lonely Planet guidebook on my bed this morning and that I had to report my knife, a ´cuchillo´, to customs. Visions of a strip search in a language I barely understand flashed through my mind, but the customs lady was far from impressed with my daring to bring a pocketknife to Mexico and sent me on my way. One terrifying taxi ride to the historic center of town later (50mph weaving through traffic in a 95 Nissan Sentra), and here I go.
If I´m not back by January 11th, send in the Marines.
I now sit here in a hostel in Mexico City, preparing to go out among the natives. The thought of getting kidnapped or mugged has weighed heavily on my mind since I first decided to come here. The State Department´s travel advisory did not help at all when it mentions that kidnappings have now gone from solely occurring to the wealthy tourists and businessmen and has broadened to include the middle class. Sensing a challenge, I determined to make myself look less than middle class, a difficult thing to do for a southern man who´s had braces (when in foreign countries, teeth tell you a lot about a person). I packed what I affectionately term my ¨hobo gear.¨ I did not shave for three weeks prior to leaving. Now, this may not seem that out of the ordinary to any who remember my various previous wanderings, but the difference is that this time I have not groomed my pathetic attempt at facial hair at all. I´m currently sporting a sad attempt at a goatee, surrounded by varying outposts of mangy whisps of multicolored whiskers. I look, to the best of my estimation, like a vagrant. Mission accomplished.
Having only a broad plan (to see Aztec and Maya ¨stuff¨), I packed the absolute basics of underwear, socks, two pairs of pants (one 15 year old pair of black jeans, one pair of camouflage pants), two pairs of shorts, a pair of swim trunks, five hawaiian shirts, a poncho, an Inka Cola T-shirt, a pair of sandals, a pair of sneakers, a fleece jacket, a knife, and about 7 books (to include a spanish-english dictionary and a college spanish textbook). No sooner had I got to the hostel than I changed into the shorts and sandals (it´s well over 70 degrees here right now).
The flight was delightfully uneventful, but inprocessing at the Mexico City Airport was a trifle disconcerting as I discovered that I´d left my Lonely Planet guidebook on my bed this morning and that I had to report my knife, a ´cuchillo´, to customs. Visions of a strip search in a language I barely understand flashed through my mind, but the customs lady was far from impressed with my daring to bring a pocketknife to Mexico and sent me on my way. One terrifying taxi ride to the historic center of town later (50mph weaving through traffic in a 95 Nissan Sentra), and here I go.
If I´m not back by January 11th, send in the Marines.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Australia OMG!
I watched that movie last night. I should have known better. Baz Luhrmann needs to take his place next to Ewe Boll as one of the worst directors of all time. "Not that there's anything wrong with that" but his films are homosexuals' and washed-up actresses' dreams. Let's run down the line: Strictly Ballroom? Check. Romeo and Juliet? Check. Moulin Rouge? Check. Australia? Put it this way, it prominently features Judy Garland as well as damn near every character singing "Over the Rainbow" and Hugh Jackman's soapy torso. Check and check. His next film, Wicked, will come out in 2010 and will be a musical. Dear Lord.
Anyway, just because homosexuals and washed-up actresses like his movies doesn't mean that he's one of the worst directors of all time, but (and yes I'm dealing in stereotypes) they typically prefer over the top dynamics. Heaven forbid there be any subtlety. If you're going to go over the top there has to be some sort of tongue-in-cheek, self-referential mockery (eg. "Army of Darkness").
Not for Luhrmann. He's as sincere as can be. What a butthead. My example: Having already set up Jackman and Kidman as the "rough and tough man-down-under" and" hoity-toity, well bred little-miss-know-it-all" (respectively), they are forced to ride together across the Outback in a dump of a truck. Oh wow! They don't like each other and yet they're forced to spend time together! LOL! Then she looks out the side window and sees a herd of badly computer-generated kangaroos hopping along next to them. She gets a dreamy "Oh, all my hatred and disdain for this miserable country have been wiped away by majestic marsupials!" look on her face. That's about the point where I leaned over to the person I was with and said, "BAM!". Sure enough. BAM! One of Jackman's Aborigine friends riding on the top of the truck shot a kangaroo. Tight close up of Kidman screaming in abject horror and then next, THWUMP, as the carcass is slammed on the top of the roof and blood oozes down the windshield.
Now, besides the two groups I've mentioned, obviously there are others who like the film. A good fella I go to law school with tried to defend the movie. He said he thought it was "epic."
If epic means horrific pacing, schizophrenic tone, syrupy schmaltz so thick it would choke a bear, ridiculous implausibilities, a pointless last third of the film, and a social message being beaten over your head for the duration, then yes, it was really, really, really, really epic.
That and Hugh Jackman's character is known only as "The Drover" for the entire film. What the hell is that? Just because they say it in Australian accents doesn't make it any more reasonable. If he drove A Semi and they called him "The Trucker" the entire movie, you'd consider the filmmaker touched in the head. Someone must have had pictures of Jackman and Kidman having a three-way with a kangaroo. That's the only thing that explains their participating in the cinematic ebola that was that film.
On a last note, when the hell are actresses going to stop shooting their faces full of "what the hell is that"? It's one thing if a woman has naturally plump, succulent lips; it's quite another when she comes across as having an allergic reaction. It's one thing for a woman to stay youthful gracefully; it's quite another when you can tell she had her forehead embalmed since she couldn't furrow her brow without circus strong-men's assistance. I'm pretty sure I'd have found a 41 year old Nicole Kidman naturally attractive with regular-old make-up. Instead, I was just sort of agog at exactly what she'd done to herself. She had only about three expressions in the film because her facial range of motion has been pretty well destroyed.
It may have been an Australian movie, but it'is everything that's wrong with America.
Anyway, just because homosexuals and washed-up actresses like his movies doesn't mean that he's one of the worst directors of all time, but (and yes I'm dealing in stereotypes) they typically prefer over the top dynamics. Heaven forbid there be any subtlety. If you're going to go over the top there has to be some sort of tongue-in-cheek, self-referential mockery (eg. "Army of Darkness").
Not for Luhrmann. He's as sincere as can be. What a butthead. My example: Having already set up Jackman and Kidman as the "rough and tough man-down-under" and" hoity-toity, well bred little-miss-know-it-all" (respectively), they are forced to ride together across the Outback in a dump of a truck. Oh wow! They don't like each other and yet they're forced to spend time together! LOL! Then she looks out the side window and sees a herd of badly computer-generated kangaroos hopping along next to them. She gets a dreamy "Oh, all my hatred and disdain for this miserable country have been wiped away by majestic marsupials!" look on her face. That's about the point where I leaned over to the person I was with and said, "BAM!". Sure enough. BAM! One of Jackman's Aborigine friends riding on the top of the truck shot a kangaroo. Tight close up of Kidman screaming in abject horror and then next, THWUMP, as the carcass is slammed on the top of the roof and blood oozes down the windshield.
Now, besides the two groups I've mentioned, obviously there are others who like the film. A good fella I go to law school with tried to defend the movie. He said he thought it was "epic."
If epic means horrific pacing, schizophrenic tone, syrupy schmaltz so thick it would choke a bear, ridiculous implausibilities, a pointless last third of the film, and a social message being beaten over your head for the duration, then yes, it was really, really, really, really epic.
That and Hugh Jackman's character is known only as "The Drover" for the entire film. What the hell is that? Just because they say it in Australian accents doesn't make it any more reasonable. If he drove A Semi and they called him "The Trucker" the entire movie, you'd consider the filmmaker touched in the head. Someone must have had pictures of Jackman and Kidman having a three-way with a kangaroo. That's the only thing that explains their participating in the cinematic ebola that was that film.
On a last note, when the hell are actresses going to stop shooting their faces full of "what the hell is that"? It's one thing if a woman has naturally plump, succulent lips; it's quite another when she comes across as having an allergic reaction. It's one thing for a woman to stay youthful gracefully; it's quite another when you can tell she had her forehead embalmed since she couldn't furrow her brow without circus strong-men's assistance. I'm pretty sure I'd have found a 41 year old Nicole Kidman naturally attractive with regular-old make-up. Instead, I was just sort of agog at exactly what she'd done to herself. She had only about three expressions in the film because her facial range of motion has been pretty well destroyed.
It may have been an Australian movie, but it'is everything that's wrong with America.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Out and About: Day 2
The NC couple I had met the night before had recommended I spend the money and flightsee Mt. McKinley. It was rainy when I woke up but had stopped by the time I made it the few blocks over to the airfield it had let up.
I scheduled a 2pm flight that would take me up and around the mountain and included a glacier landing; however the flight was tentative due to low clouds blanketing the skies. I crossed my fingers and headed into town.
"Downtown" Talkeetna consists of a street with a handful of buildings on either side of the road. I walked into the general store to buy batteries for my camera and discovered a restaurant in the back.
After eating lunch, I checked back in with the flight company and they'd scratched the flight. the clouds had not lifted. Argh!...but that was the known risk of trying to see Denali. I'd spoken to many a tourist who'd come back to Anchorage, glumly, having spent a week or more in the rain waiting for a view of the mountain. I gave the company my cell number in case the clouds miraculously lifted but I set out, on foot, for a hiking trail I'd learned about from the locals.
The trail weaved around several lakes and up and down hills. I sang loudly, not as a madman, but to put any bears on notice a human was around. Of course, I had the pistol with me, round chambered, but not cocked. Fortunately, and unfortunately, I had a pleasant scenic hike and wandered back into town.
I considered staying another night to give the flight another go but decided against it. Talkeetna is a quaint little place, but I'd seen evertyhing there was to see in town in a matter of hours and gambling with the weather is an exercise in futility up here.
I purchased a train ticket back to Anchorage. As the train arrived, I took a picture of it, but, when I sat down and took the camera out of my pocket, the view screen was cracked and broken. Damn. The ride was unspectacular but nice enough and I got into town at 8pm, ready to get back to the depot at 6am for the reportedly magnificent route to Seward. Anchorage was sunny.
I scheduled a 2pm flight that would take me up and around the mountain and included a glacier landing; however the flight was tentative due to low clouds blanketing the skies. I crossed my fingers and headed into town.
"Downtown" Talkeetna consists of a street with a handful of buildings on either side of the road. I walked into the general store to buy batteries for my camera and discovered a restaurant in the back.
After eating lunch, I checked back in with the flight company and they'd scratched the flight. the clouds had not lifted. Argh!...but that was the known risk of trying to see Denali. I'd spoken to many a tourist who'd come back to Anchorage, glumly, having spent a week or more in the rain waiting for a view of the mountain. I gave the company my cell number in case the clouds miraculously lifted but I set out, on foot, for a hiking trail I'd learned about from the locals.
The trail weaved around several lakes and up and down hills. I sang loudly, not as a madman, but to put any bears on notice a human was around. Of course, I had the pistol with me, round chambered, but not cocked. Fortunately, and unfortunately, I had a pleasant scenic hike and wandered back into town.
I considered staying another night to give the flight another go but decided against it. Talkeetna is a quaint little place, but I'd seen evertyhing there was to see in town in a matter of hours and gambling with the weather is an exercise in futility up here.
I purchased a train ticket back to Anchorage. As the train arrived, I took a picture of it, but, when I sat down and took the camera out of my pocket, the view screen was cracked and broken. Damn. The ride was unspectacular but nice enough and I got into town at 8pm, ready to get back to the depot at 6am for the reportedly magnificent route to Seward. Anchorage was sunny.
Moving Right Along
I finished up my last day of work. In the last two days I managed to pocket nearly $700 in cash. Oh, how the gods do tease me! If only my entire summer had been like that... Nonetheless, while the waiting tables gig has been interesting, but I find it would only be so if, as it has been, it were a temporary diversion.
Even as I was finishing up a near record day (having sold nearly $2900 in food and booze), managers and co-workers alike continued to say/beg/plead/pray/joke that I'd be back next summer while some simply couldn't believe that I was actually leaving. I'm willing to bet that if there's a Purgatory, that's how the denizens behave when a fellow leaves. Perhaps prison as well... I've experienced this before, when I left the little town of Beaufort for good after high school. Though Anchorage is the largest city in Alaska, it has a very small town perspective in thinking that there isn't a world outside.
There is a world outside, and, in fact, there's a pretty damn big state outside of Anchorage. Though my flight is on the 14th (and arrives the 15th), I'm going to do a whirlwind exploration of Alaska and see as much of it as I can. I'm armed with a reasonable amount of cash, very little sense, no concrete plan, bizarre facial hair, and a sizeable firearm.
______________________________________________________________________
Random Thoughts/Incidents (Oh, the People You'll Meet)
1. I waited on a couple from Philadelphia who were quite pleased with my being from South Carolina. That is, until they discovered that I have never been to a NASCAR race. I found this quite peculiar until, out of nowhere, the husband said, "We agreed with y'all about the Confederate Flag!" and the wife said, "Yeah, we understand. We live with them."
2. On one of my few nice days up on the top deck bar, an old man with a white beard, wearing cowboy boots, blue jeans, a denim jacket, and a stetson came up to my bar while there was a lull. He asked, "You got any 'Matanuska Thunder(screw)'?
"Um" I gamely but confusedly said, "I only have beer, wine and soda up here. You might wanna try the bar downstairs. They do the mixed drinks."
He looked consternated. "Nah, man, it's weed!"
"Oh!" I said, surprised, "nope, sorry. Not my thing."
He squirmed, "it's for medicinal purposes...I gotta use it for my..." and he slinked away.
When I wear this facial hair, I get asked about drugs a lot. A few weeks before, a guy riding a bike stopped me on the middle of the sidewalk and asked if I wanted weed or cocaine. When Andrew and I were in Cuzco, same deal. "Quieres marijuana o cocaina?" I may have a future as a Narc.
That should scare the bejesus out of some of my law school friends to say.
3. I hear some pretty stupid conversations when I'm waiting tables or bartending. As I was doing my thing behind the bar two hispanic men struck up a conversation with a vapid woman. She asked if they were Mexican and when they said they were, she asked if they were from Mexico City. It turned out they were.
""What a coincidence! First boy I ever french kissed was a Mexican named Eduardo... from Mexican City...It's a small world."
Small world? Let's see...the woman probably would have a hard time naming another hispanic country other than Mexico and then the only city she probably knew was "Mexican City". Add to that the fact that Mexico City is the LARGEST CITY IN THE WORLD, and it's not much of a coincidence. Sorta like if those Mexican men ever meet another Alaskan down in Mexico City who turns out to be from Anchorage (where half the population of Alaska resides) they can say, "What a coincidence! I wasted 3 minutes of my life talking to an idiotic woman from Anchorage...It's a small world."
Even as I was finishing up a near record day (having sold nearly $2900 in food and booze), managers and co-workers alike continued to say/beg/plead/pray/joke that I'd be back next summer while some simply couldn't believe that I was actually leaving. I'm willing to bet that if there's a Purgatory, that's how the denizens behave when a fellow leaves. Perhaps prison as well... I've experienced this before, when I left the little town of Beaufort for good after high school. Though Anchorage is the largest city in Alaska, it has a very small town perspective in thinking that there isn't a world outside.
There is a world outside, and, in fact, there's a pretty damn big state outside of Anchorage. Though my flight is on the 14th (and arrives the 15th), I'm going to do a whirlwind exploration of Alaska and see as much of it as I can. I'm armed with a reasonable amount of cash, very little sense, no concrete plan, bizarre facial hair, and a sizeable firearm.
______________________________________________________________________
Random Thoughts/Incidents (Oh, the People You'll Meet)
1. I waited on a couple from Philadelphia who were quite pleased with my being from South Carolina. That is, until they discovered that I have never been to a NASCAR race. I found this quite peculiar until, out of nowhere, the husband said, "We agreed with y'all about the Confederate Flag!" and the wife said, "Yeah, we understand. We live with them."
2. On one of my few nice days up on the top deck bar, an old man with a white beard, wearing cowboy boots, blue jeans, a denim jacket, and a stetson came up to my bar while there was a lull. He asked, "You got any 'Matanuska Thunder(screw)'?
"Um" I gamely but confusedly said, "I only have beer, wine and soda up here. You might wanna try the bar downstairs. They do the mixed drinks."
He looked consternated. "Nah, man, it's weed!"
"Oh!" I said, surprised, "nope, sorry. Not my thing."
He squirmed, "it's for medicinal purposes...I gotta use it for my..." and he slinked away.
When I wear this facial hair, I get asked about drugs a lot. A few weeks before, a guy riding a bike stopped me on the middle of the sidewalk and asked if I wanted weed or cocaine. When Andrew and I were in Cuzco, same deal. "Quieres marijuana o cocaina?" I may have a future as a Narc.
That should scare the bejesus out of some of my law school friends to say.
3. I hear some pretty stupid conversations when I'm waiting tables or bartending. As I was doing my thing behind the bar two hispanic men struck up a conversation with a vapid woman. She asked if they were Mexican and when they said they were, she asked if they were from Mexico City. It turned out they were.
""What a coincidence! First boy I ever french kissed was a Mexican named Eduardo... from Mexican City...It's a small world."
Small world? Let's see...the woman probably would have a hard time naming another hispanic country other than Mexico and then the only city she probably knew was "Mexican City". Add to that the fact that Mexico City is the LARGEST CITY IN THE WORLD, and it's not much of a coincidence. Sorta like if those Mexican men ever meet another Alaskan down in Mexico City who turns out to be from Anchorage (where half the population of Alaska resides) they can say, "What a coincidence! I wasted 3 minutes of my life talking to an idiotic woman from Anchorage...It's a small world."
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Out and About: Day 1
I meant to get moving early but a night of fitful sleep left me glued to the mattress much later than I intended. It was raining when I finally got out of the hostel, having broken down my 'hovel' and stored my unnecessaries in an employee's room. As I went to leave, a young man from Richmond asked if I were planning to hitch. He'd been in Alaska for 2 months and had hitch-hiked everywhere.
"Yeah. It's the way to do it. Everyone's been great. Not one problem. People want to give you beer or get you stoned."
Truth was, I'd been kicking around the idea of hitching because I'd heard from many that it was the cheapest way to get around and it was still safe in Alaska. Nonetheless, the idea of thumbing in the rain didn't appeal to me, so I headed to the rail depot to find out about catching a train.
My plan was to head to Talkeetna, a tiny little town that was the basis for the town in the TV show "Northern Exposure." As I wouldn't have much time for my sight-seeing, I wanted to pack in as much as possible. Though Alaska is a big place, it can essentially be broken down into two: inland and coastal.
Typically, tourists head to Denali National Park for their inland experience. That was my original choice but when I mentioned it to my co-workers they uniformly scoffed. The DNP was fine, they said, but overrated. The chief attraction of the park is Mt. McKinley (Denali) but due to the monstrous peaks all around it, it is nearly impossible to see from the park. True, the park has wildlife, but everywhere in Alaska has that. No, they recommended I go to Talkeetna. It had the best view of the mountain (if the skies were clear, a huge if considering this is the worst summer here any can remember); it's a good representation of a small Alaskan town (if a bit touristy); and, being in the middle of nowhere, it's got as much wildlife as anywhere. I was won over. Talkeetna it was.
Unfortunately, I'd missed the train for the day, so if I wanted to get to Talkeetna, it would be by hitch-hiking. True, I can appear reckless, but I do try to temper my folly. Four miles and Forty-five dollars later, I was back in the hostel strapping on my .50 cal in its shoulder holster with two (2) seven round magazines of newly purchased hollow-point ammunition. Over all that went my gortex camouflage jacket and 40lbs backpack and I was off.
It was a hike to the highway out of town but I caught my first ride in minutes. Travis was a short bearded pipeline worker with a gigantic mutt (named Scraps) in the SUV. I had the pistol loaded, a round chambered, and the safety off, but I hadn't cocked the hammer. We chatted for a minute or two before he asked me, "Wanna get stoned?"
"Ah. I can't. I'm on scholarship at school and they have a personal conduct requirement stipulation and they piss-test us. I go back in two weeks. I wish you'd gotten hold of me two weeks ago," I politely lied.
"Yeah, that sucks. Figured...when I saw that you were headed to Talkeetna you were headed to the bluegrass festival and had weed on you or you wanted to get stoned."
He dropped me off shortly thereafter, 11 miles out of town. I still wasn't quite far enough out of town yet so it took another five miles of walking til I got picked up again. George,an Anchorage garbage truck driver, picked me up on his way home after a 12-hour day, We chatted pleasantly about the refuse biz for an hour as we barrelled along. We passed through Wasilla and Houston and he dropped me off on the outskirts of Willow, seventy miles away from Anchorage.
Twenty minutes later, a couple in a pick-up truck picked me up. I gamely jumped in the back. There hadn't been any rain since Anchorage but it started to come back down. Fortunately, the air pocket the cab of the truck produced kept me dry even though the bed of the truck was open. They drove me through the storm about 20 miles, and dropped me off in the middle of nowhere.
Within 5 minutes I was rolling along with Alex, a 20yo University of Alaska rising junior on his way to Talkeetna for his summer internship with the state, checking on water balances.
It was nearly dusk when I got into Talkeetna and Alex dropped me off.at the 62 degree Latitude lodge/bar/restaurant. I hadn't eaten since lunch so I went to the bar for a bite to eat and to get the lay of the land. After my Halibut sandwich, I struck up a conversation with a couple from North Pole, AK, but originally from NC. The husband, in his 50s, was a mechanical engineer who'd dragged his wife to Alaska in '82 because he was an avid mountain climber. In Alaska, he'd become a bush pilot and hunting guide. We got to talking about bears.
"With a grizzly, they 'woof' at you first if you're in their territory.
"That means they're sizing you up to see if they can whup your ass. Best to raise your arms over your head. Make yourself as big as possible.
"They start clicking their teeth, that means, 'I'm pretty sure I can whup your ass.' You need to get out of there.
"They start 'pogo-ing' on their front legs; that means get ready, because they're coming."
Finally, I spoke, "Does it do any good to shoot them?"
"Hell, a bear's heart only beats three times a minute. It can take a kill-shot to the heart, run 300 feet and tear your head off without realizing it's dead. Best to aim for joints and limbs. Cripple it; then take the kill shot."
"Yeah," I said, "I always heard to aim for the front shoulder."
"I aim for the neck. Try to sever the spine," he said coolly.
"I also heard, if you have a six-shooter, to use five on the bear..."
"...and use the last on yourself," he interrupted and finished with a guffaw.
"So what's the best way to take out a grizzly?" I asked.
"Honestly? Best thing is to cover your neck with one arm and lie flat on your belly. He's gonna bite the hell out of the back of your skull and neck. Then you take your pistol, shove it in his mouth and blow his fuckin' head off. Other than that, play dead. Grizzly's not aimin' to eat you, just make sure you're not a threat....but don't get up too fast after it leaves you for dead the first time or it'll come back and do it all over again."
"What about black bears?" I asked, hoping to get a more pleasant answer.
"Black bears eat berries and avoid contact. If one of them attacks, don't play dead; he's gonna eat your ass."
I bought him a single-malt scotch for his words of wisdom and then made my way in the dark, terrified, over to the local hostel, where I slept, poorly, in my sleeping bag on the porch.
"Yeah. It's the way to do it. Everyone's been great. Not one problem. People want to give you beer or get you stoned."
Truth was, I'd been kicking around the idea of hitching because I'd heard from many that it was the cheapest way to get around and it was still safe in Alaska. Nonetheless, the idea of thumbing in the rain didn't appeal to me, so I headed to the rail depot to find out about catching a train.
My plan was to head to Talkeetna, a tiny little town that was the basis for the town in the TV show "Northern Exposure." As I wouldn't have much time for my sight-seeing, I wanted to pack in as much as possible. Though Alaska is a big place, it can essentially be broken down into two: inland and coastal.
Typically, tourists head to Denali National Park for their inland experience. That was my original choice but when I mentioned it to my co-workers they uniformly scoffed. The DNP was fine, they said, but overrated. The chief attraction of the park is Mt. McKinley (Denali) but due to the monstrous peaks all around it, it is nearly impossible to see from the park. True, the park has wildlife, but everywhere in Alaska has that. No, they recommended I go to Talkeetna. It had the best view of the mountain (if the skies were clear, a huge if considering this is the worst summer here any can remember); it's a good representation of a small Alaskan town (if a bit touristy); and, being in the middle of nowhere, it's got as much wildlife as anywhere. I was won over. Talkeetna it was.
Unfortunately, I'd missed the train for the day, so if I wanted to get to Talkeetna, it would be by hitch-hiking. True, I can appear reckless, but I do try to temper my folly. Four miles and Forty-five dollars later, I was back in the hostel strapping on my .50 cal in its shoulder holster with two (2) seven round magazines of newly purchased hollow-point ammunition. Over all that went my gortex camouflage jacket and 40lbs backpack and I was off.
It was a hike to the highway out of town but I caught my first ride in minutes. Travis was a short bearded pipeline worker with a gigantic mutt (named Scraps) in the SUV. I had the pistol loaded, a round chambered, and the safety off, but I hadn't cocked the hammer. We chatted for a minute or two before he asked me, "Wanna get stoned?"
"Ah. I can't. I'm on scholarship at school and they have a personal conduct requirement stipulation and they piss-test us. I go back in two weeks. I wish you'd gotten hold of me two weeks ago," I politely lied.
"Yeah, that sucks. Figured...when I saw that you were headed to Talkeetna you were headed to the bluegrass festival and had weed on you or you wanted to get stoned."
He dropped me off shortly thereafter, 11 miles out of town. I still wasn't quite far enough out of town yet so it took another five miles of walking til I got picked up again. George,an Anchorage garbage truck driver, picked me up on his way home after a 12-hour day, We chatted pleasantly about the refuse biz for an hour as we barrelled along. We passed through Wasilla and Houston and he dropped me off on the outskirts of Willow, seventy miles away from Anchorage.
Twenty minutes later, a couple in a pick-up truck picked me up. I gamely jumped in the back. There hadn't been any rain since Anchorage but it started to come back down. Fortunately, the air pocket the cab of the truck produced kept me dry even though the bed of the truck was open. They drove me through the storm about 20 miles, and dropped me off in the middle of nowhere.
Within 5 minutes I was rolling along with Alex, a 20yo University of Alaska rising junior on his way to Talkeetna for his summer internship with the state, checking on water balances.
It was nearly dusk when I got into Talkeetna and Alex dropped me off.at the 62 degree Latitude lodge/bar/restaurant. I hadn't eaten since lunch so I went to the bar for a bite to eat and to get the lay of the land. After my Halibut sandwich, I struck up a conversation with a couple from North Pole, AK, but originally from NC. The husband, in his 50s, was a mechanical engineer who'd dragged his wife to Alaska in '82 because he was an avid mountain climber. In Alaska, he'd become a bush pilot and hunting guide. We got to talking about bears.
"With a grizzly, they 'woof' at you first if you're in their territory.
"That means they're sizing you up to see if they can whup your ass. Best to raise your arms over your head. Make yourself as big as possible.
"They start clicking their teeth, that means, 'I'm pretty sure I can whup your ass.' You need to get out of there.
"They start 'pogo-ing' on their front legs; that means get ready, because they're coming."
Finally, I spoke, "Does it do any good to shoot them?"
"Hell, a bear's heart only beats three times a minute. It can take a kill-shot to the heart, run 300 feet and tear your head off without realizing it's dead. Best to aim for joints and limbs. Cripple it; then take the kill shot."
"Yeah," I said, "I always heard to aim for the front shoulder."
"I aim for the neck. Try to sever the spine," he said coolly.
"I also heard, if you have a six-shooter, to use five on the bear..."
"...and use the last on yourself," he interrupted and finished with a guffaw.
"So what's the best way to take out a grizzly?" I asked.
"Honestly? Best thing is to cover your neck with one arm and lie flat on your belly. He's gonna bite the hell out of the back of your skull and neck. Then you take your pistol, shove it in his mouth and blow his fuckin' head off. Other than that, play dead. Grizzly's not aimin' to eat you, just make sure you're not a threat....but don't get up too fast after it leaves you for dead the first time or it'll come back and do it all over again."
"What about black bears?" I asked, hoping to get a more pleasant answer.
"Black bears eat berries and avoid contact. If one of them attacks, don't play dead; he's gonna eat your ass."
I bought him a single-malt scotch for his words of wisdom and then made my way in the dark, terrified, over to the local hostel, where I slept, poorly, in my sleeping bag on the porch.
Out and About: Day 1
I meant to get moving early but a night of fitful sleep left me glued to the mattress much later than I intended. It was raining when I finally got out of the hostel, having broken down my 'hovel' and stored my unnecessaries in an employee's room. As I went to leave, a young man from Richmond asked if I were planning to hitch. He'd been in Alaska for 2 months and had hitch-hiked everywhere.
"Yeah. It's the way to do it. Everyone's been great. Not one problem. People want to give you beer or get you stoned."
Truth was, I'd been kicking around the idea of hitching because I'd heard from many that it was the cheapest way to get around and it was still safe in Alaska. Nonetheless, the idea of thumbing in the rain didn't appeal to me, so I headed to the rail depot to find out about catching a train.
My plan was to head to Talkeetna, a tiny little town that was the basis for the town in the TV show "Northern Exposure." As I wouldn't have much time for my sight-seeing, I wanted to pack in as much as possible. Though Alaska is a big place, it can essentially be broken down into two: inland and coastal.
Typically, tourists head to Denali National Park for their inland experience. That was my original choice but when I mentioned it to my co-workers they uniformly scoffed. The DNP was fine, they said, but overrated. The chief attraction of the park is Mt. McKinley (Denali) but due to the monstrous peaks all around it, it is nearly impossible to see from the park. True, the park has wildlife, but everywhere in Alaska has that. No, they recommended I go to Talkeetna. It had the best view of the mountain (if the skies were clear, a huge if considering this is the worst summer here any can remember); it's a good representation of a small Alaskan town (if a bit touristy); and, being in the middle of nowhere, it's got as much wildlife as anywhere. I was won over. Talkeetna it was.
Unfortunately, I'd missed the train for the day, so if I wanted to get to Talkeetna, it would be by hitch-hiking. True, I can appear reckless, but I do try to temper my folly. Four miles and Forty-five dollars later, I was back in the hostel strapping on my .50 cal in its shoulder holster with two (2) seven round magazines of newly purchased hollow-point ammunition. Over all that went my gortex camouflage jacket and 40lbs backpack and I was off.
It was a hike to the highway out of town but I caught my first ride in minutes. Travis was a short bearded pipeline worker with a gigantic mutt (named Scraps) in the SUV. I had the pistol loaded, a round chambered, and the safety off, but I hadn't cocked the hammer. We chatted for a minute or two before he asked me, "Wanna get stoned?"
"Ah. I can't. I'm on scholarship at school and they have a personal conduct requirement stipulation and they piss-test us. I go back in two weeks. I wish you'd gotten hold of me two weeks ago," I politely lied.
"Yeah, that sucks. Figured...when I saw that you were headed to Talkeetna you were headed to the bluegrass festival and had weed on you or you wanted to get stoned."
He dropped me off shortly thereafter, 11 miles out of town. I still wasn't quite far enough out of town yet so it took another five miles of walking til I got picked up again. George,an Anchorage garbage truck driver, picked me up on his way home after a 12-hour day, We chatted pleasantly about the refuse biz for an hour as we barrelled along. We passed through Wasilla and Houston and he dropped me off on the outskirts of Willow, seventy miles away from Anchorage.
Twenty minutes later, a couple in a pick-up truck picked me up. I gamely jumped in the back. There hadn't been any rain since Anchorage but it started to come back down. Fortunately, the air pocket the cab of the truck produced kept me dry even though the bed of the truck was open. They drove me through the storm about 20 miles, and dropped me off in the middle of nowhere.
Within 5 minutes I was rolling along with Alex, a 20yo University of Alaska rising junior on his way to Talkeetna for his summer internship with the state, checking on water balances.
It was nearly dusk when I got into Talkeetna and Alex dropped me off.at the 62 degree Latitude lodge/bar/restaurant. I hadn't eaten since lunch so I went to the bar for a bite to eat and to get the lay of the land. After my Halibut sandwich, I struck up a conversation with a couple from North Pole, AK, but originally from NC. The husband, in his 50s, was a mechanical engineer who'd dragged his wife to Alaska in '82 because he was an avid mountain climber. In Alaska, he'd become a bush pilot and hunting guide. We got to talking about bears.
"With a grizzly, they 'woof' at you first if you're in their territory.
"That means they're sizing you up to see if they can whup your ass. Best to raise your arms over your head. Make yourself as big as possible.
"They start clicking their teeth, that means, 'I'm pretty sure I can whup your ass.' You need to get out of there.
"They start 'pogo-ing' on their front legs; that means get ready, because they're coming."
Finally, I spoke, "Does it do any good to shoot them?"
"Hell, a bear's heart only beats three times a minute. It can take a kill-shot to the heart, run 300 feet and tear your head off without realizing it's dead. Best to aim for joints and limbs. Cripple it; then take the kill shot."
"Yeah," I said, "I always heard to aim for the front shoulder."
"I aim for the neck. Try to sever the spine," he said coolly.
"I also heard, if you have a six-shooter, to use five on the bear..."
"...and use the last on yourself," he interrupted and finished with a guffaw.
"So what's the best way to take out a grizzly?" I asked.
"Honestly? Best thing is to cover your neck with one arm and lie flat on your belly. He's gonna bite the hell out of the back of your skull and neck. Then you take your pistol, shove it in his mouth and blow his fuckin' head off. Other than that, play dead. Grizzly's not aimin' to eat you, just make sure you're not a threat....but don't get up too fast after it leaves you for dead the first time or it'll come back and do it all over again."
"What about black bears?" I asked, hoping to get a more pleasant answer.
"Black bears eat berries and avoid contact. If one of them attacks, don't play dead; he's gonna eat your ass."
I bought him a single-malt scotch for his words of wisdom and then made my way in the dark, terrified, over to the local hostel, where I slept, poorly, in my sleeping bag on the porch.
"Yeah. It's the way to do it. Everyone's been great. Not one problem. People want to give you beer or get you stoned."
Truth was, I'd been kicking around the idea of hitching because I'd heard from many that it was the cheapest way to get around and it was still safe in Alaska. Nonetheless, the idea of thumbing in the rain didn't appeal to me, so I headed to the rail depot to find out about catching a train.
My plan was to head to Talkeetna, a tiny little town that was the basis for the town in the TV show "Northern Exposure." As I wouldn't have much time for my sight-seeing, I wanted to pack in as much as possible. Though Alaska is a big place, it can essentially be broken down into two: inland and coastal.
Typically, tourists head to Denali National Park for their inland experience. That was my original choice but when I mentioned it to my co-workers they uniformly scoffed. The DNP was fine, they said, but overrated. The chief attraction of the park is Mt. McKinley (Denali) but due to the monstrous peaks all around it, it is nearly impossible to see from the park. True, the park has wildlife, but everywhere in Alaska has that. No, they recommended I go to Talkeetna. It had the best view of the mountain (if the skies were clear, a huge if considering this is the worst summer here any can remember); it's a good representation of a small Alaskan town (if a bit touristy); and, being in the middle of nowhere, it's got as much wildlife as anywhere. I was won over. Talkeetna it was.
Unfortunately, I'd missed the train for the day, so if I wanted to get to Talkeetna, it would be by hitch-hiking. True, I can appear reckless, but I do try to temper my folly. Four miles and Forty-five dollars later, I was back in the hostel strapping on my .50 cal in its shoulder holster with two (2) seven round magazines of newly purchased hollow-point ammunition. Over all that went my gortex camouflage jacket and 40lbs backpack and I was off.
It was a hike to the highway out of town but I caught my first ride in minutes. Travis was a short bearded pipeline worker with a gigantic mutt (named Scraps) in the SUV. I had the pistol loaded, a round chambered, and the safety off, but I hadn't cocked the hammer. We chatted for a minute or two before he asked me, "Wanna get stoned?"
"Ah. I can't. I'm on scholarship at school and they have a personal conduct requirement stipulation and they piss-test us. I go back in two weeks. I wish you'd gotten hold of me two weeks ago," I politely lied.
"Yeah, that sucks. Figured...when I saw that you were headed to Talkeetna you were headed to the bluegrass festival and had weed on you or you wanted to get stoned."
He dropped me off shortly thereafter, 11 miles out of town. I still wasn't quite far enough out of town yet so it took another five miles of walking til I got picked up again. George,an Anchorage garbage truck driver, picked me up on his way home after a 12-hour day, We chatted pleasantly about the refuse biz for an hour as we barrelled along. We passed through Wasilla and Houston and he dropped me off on the outskirts of Willow, seventy miles away from Anchorage.
Twenty minutes later, a couple in a pick-up truck picked me up. I gamely jumped in the back. There hadn't been any rain since Anchorage but it started to come back down. Fortunately, the air pocket the cab of the truck produced kept me dry even though the bed of the truck was open. They drove me through the storm about 20 miles, and dropped me off in the middle of nowhere.
Within 5 minutes I was rolling along with Alex, a 20yo University of Alaska rising junior on his way to Talkeetna for his summer internship with the state, checking on water balances.
It was nearly dusk when I got into Talkeetna and Alex dropped me off.at the 62 degree Latitude lodge/bar/restaurant. I hadn't eaten since lunch so I went to the bar for a bite to eat and to get the lay of the land. After my Halibut sandwich, I struck up a conversation with a couple from North Pole, AK, but originally from NC. The husband, in his 50s, was a mechanical engineer who'd dragged his wife to Alaska in '82 because he was an avid mountain climber. In Alaska, he'd become a bush pilot and hunting guide. We got to talking about bears.
"With a grizzly, they 'woof' at you first if you're in their territory.
"That means they're sizing you up to see if they can whup your ass. Best to raise your arms over your head. Make yourself as big as possible.
"They start clicking their teeth, that means, 'I'm pretty sure I can whup your ass.' You need to get out of there.
"They start 'pogo-ing' on their front legs; that means get ready, because they're coming."
Finally, I spoke, "Does it do any good to shoot them?"
"Hell, a bear's heart only beats three times a minute. It can take a kill-shot to the heart, run 300 feet and tear your head off without realizing it's dead. Best to aim for joints and limbs. Cripple it; then take the kill shot."
"Yeah," I said, "I always heard to aim for the front shoulder."
"I aim for the neck. Try to sever the spine," he said coolly.
"I also heard, if you have a six-shooter, to use five on the bear..."
"...and use the last on yourself," he interrupted and finished with a guffaw.
"So what's the best way to take out a grizzly?" I asked.
"Honestly? Best thing is to cover your neck with one arm and lie flat on your belly. He's gonna bite the hell out of the back of your skull and neck. Then you take your pistol, shove it in his mouth and blow his fuckin' head off. Other than that, play dead. Grizzly's not aimin' to eat you, just make sure you're not a threat....but don't get up too fast after it leaves you for dead the first time or it'll come back and do it all over again."
"What about black bears?" I asked, hoping to get a more pleasant answer.
"Black bears eat berries and avoid contact. If one of them attacks, don't play dead; he's gonna eat your ass."
I bought him a single-malt scotch for his words of wisdom and then made my way in the dark, terrified, over to the local hostel, where I slept, poorly, in my sleeping bag on the porch.
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