Recognizing an Unintended Yet Authentic Compliment

     It was Sunday and Tamra had been busy all morning cleaning the kitchen and living room.  The house was looking nice.  Anyone with kids knows how difficult it can be to maintain a tidy house.  I was doing my part clearing snow from the driveway.   

    This was the last day of our Spring Break and we had awoken to a foot of fresh new snow.  After a couple of hours of snow blowing and shoveling I unloaded our snow machines off of the trailer and lined them up neatly in the driveway.  We would go riding later.   I was kinda proud of my neat and tidy snow removal job.

    “See you later, I’m going to go see Jojo.”  Tamra’s aunt was recovering from a knee replacement surgery.  

    “Okay, see you later, have fun.”  

    So there I was in the kitchen holding-down-the-fort.  The kids were upstairs and I had just began cooking some chowder.  I had a few packages of Kirby’s razor clams thawed and the moose- bacon was already sizzling on the stove.  I dumped in the diced red onions, carrots, and celery.  The aroma was filling the room. This is going to be good, I thought.

      Although there wasn’t even so much as a knock, suddenly the front door swung open.  Was Tamra back already, I thought?

    In walked a couple of Japanese girls.  They looked to be mid twenties and were now standing in the arctic-entryway apparently making themselves at home.  They were wearing trendy clothes and had carry-on bags in their hands. My mind raced.  Are we expecting company? I thought.

    “Hello.” I said.

    A smile overcame me as figured it out.  Our next door neighbors run a fairly busy bed and breakfast.  Often throughout the summer, rental cars will come wheeling up into our driveway asking directions and wondering if this is the right spot.  It doesn’t bother me, in fact I find it complimentary that so many folks mistake our home for a fancy bed and breakfast worthy of rental.  

    I have had conversations with wayward travelers from England, Australia, Germany and after today, Japan. “Next one down” I tell them and although they are really close to their destination, for some reason they always seem to pull into our driveway.  

    “Check-in?” The first girl said.  It might very well have been the only words of English that she knew.  The strong Japanese accent was unmistakable.  Although she was attempting to communicate with her limited English, her eyes were looking up and into the greatroom.  Both of them were checking out the place.  Eye-contact was lacking as per Japanese culture.  It was obvious that they just wanted to be welcomed-in and shown their room!

    We have a lot of cool Alaska “stuff” hanging on our walls and banister.  Under the high arch leading out of the arctic entry is a large caribou rack.  I’ve got a bunch of furs hanging on the wall from trapping and hunting, and the two giant spruce burls are centered on the living room.  Our open kitchen is tucked into the back and can be seen beyond the river rock bar.  Our walls are covered with paintings of local artists.  

      I was amused at the situation and I tried to let them down gently.  “I’m sorry you’ve got the wrong place.” I said, “Next house down”.  I pointed in the right direction but there was still confusion in their eyes.  After another minute or so of confusing and somewhat pantomimed communication there was suddenly understanding.  It was like a light bulb was turned-on and suddenly they seemed to understand.  I picked up on a slight change of demeanor though and I got the distinct feeling that they were in fact let-down.  

  Walking backwards, they backed their way out of the house still looking around at all there was to see in our home and still avoiding eye-contact.  

    When the door shut close and I had a chance to reflect on the moment I headed back to the kitchen. I might have been walking just a little bit taller than I was before.

Harrison B&B???

     

     

Shamrock Race Review and Keeping Portland Weird (one pub at a time)

Shamrock Half Marathon Race Review

Nice weather.  Let's go run 13 miles with 3000 of my closest friends.

    The word of the day was rain. Not drizzle, sprinkle or mist.  Solid, steady, unfaltering rain.  It was the Portland Shamrock run so I had to wear green but I was beginning to doubt my choice of clothing.   I thought that my green Alaska Moose shirt would be a good idea but it wasn’t; it’s cotton.  Oh well.  I pulled it on and carefully slid it over my band-aids that were strategically covering my nips.  I had a bad experience a couple of years ago in the Mayor’s marathon in Anchorage.  I had felt a little rubbing half way through the race and by the end I had blood stains running down my chest on both sides.  Fun. This time I would rock the bandaids.  

    It was almost start time so I began to peel off my outer clothing.  Tamra was there with my backpack and I stuffed my coat(s), and pants in there.  It was cold and I wanted to stay bundled-up until the last moment.  “The race begins in one minute!”  The announcer was on-point entertaining and informing the crowd in between songs of energetic music that was pounding through the loudspeakers.  A couple of girls stood atop a scaffolding dancing and singing with colorful outfits high above the crowd.   30,000 runners would brave the weather today. I was running with 3000 of them in the half marathon.

    “Have fun babe.” She told me as the crowd moved closer to the starting line.  Tamra was my support team and had planned-out her cheering spots along the course.  

   “Ten, nine, eight....” Finally a big siren went off and the big pack of green runners lurched forward and suddenly we were off.  

    Within the first half mile we passed under a bridge where a guy was playing the bagpipes.  This is cool, I thought. It was a good spot to be out of the rain.  Portland is known for its bridges and there were many spectators that were finding refuge underneath them.  

    There would be about ten more bands that played upbeat music along the course.  Some were school bands, others were local musicians volunteering their skills adding much to the good cheer.  

     The race followed an industrial frontage road alongside the Willamette River.  I was holding my own comfortably behind all of the speedboat runners but in front of the tug boats.  I was more like a cruise ship making my way and flowing along.

    Observation:  There is no one body style that is prevalent at these things.  You would think that distance running would be dominated by tall, thin, runner types. This is not the case; tall, small, big boned and even chubby runners share the road and as it turns out anyone with the persistence and dedication to train can prepare themselves for a given distance.  

    I was impressed when I was passed by a guy that fit the Irishman stereotype.  He was a couple of inches shorter than me, a little stockier than me, and had a gnarly ginger beard to offset his bald head. Awesome. He cruised by me effortlessly wearing nothing but green shorts, and running shoes, pouring rain dripping off his orange beard.  I thought that maybe he could have been late for a power lifting contest.

    Next we came back into downtown Portland running through the streets passing pockets of cheering fans and before long I saw Tamra.  She was cheering and video taping me at the same time.  I ran over to her to drop off my fancy green gloves that I had bought that morning.  My hands were the only part of me that was warm now and it was time to get rid of them.

     In fact at this point I was very wet and cold and I was trying my best to enjoy the race.  My shirt, hat, shorts, running shoes, and socks were now wringing-wet as I ran through, around, and over the big puddles and streams that had overcome the streets.

     It is a practiced skill to be able to block-out the misery of such things and sometimes it’s hard to find something positive to embrace.  Since I’d never been to Portland before there was a lot of new stuff to see and this was the focus of my mental efforts.

  After slowly climbing upwards, out of the city and into the nearby hills I found myself running in a lush green forest.  “Hey this is just like Hawaii.” I heard a guy say behind me.  Visually he was right.  Big ferns lined the edges of the forest where they met neatly trimmed lawns alongside bike paths. There were beautiful flowering trees with pink blossoms interspersed in tidy little parks along the way.  I wanted to chime-in with something like; Yeah, just like Hawaii without all that pesky heat, but I was too tired for sarcasm.

     The hill I was running-up seemed to go on forever.  Far in the distance I could see runners still winding up and around the corner.  

    Finally we topped out and began the four mile descent back into downtown towards the finish line. I was glad to be running down hill; it’s my forte.  I realize that is a lot like saying I’m good at eating chocolate or I’m a really good sleeper,  but clearly you’ve got to go with what you are good at.  I probably passed over a hundred people on this stretch and I wondered if I would see the Irishman again.  No chance.  He was probably already at the pub clutching his second pint of Guinness.

    It felt good to have a strong finish.  At the finish line I was handed a medal, which had a beer opener built into it, and an official Shamrock finisher's towel.  It was a cool little hand towel with Shamrock screen printed on it but considering how wet and cold I was I was longing for something bigger like a beach towel.

    There was a bunch of other free stuff that I could have indulged in too like beer at the Widmer beer tent, and there were hot bowls of smoked salmon chowder somewhere as well.  “What do you want to do hun?” Tamra had found me and congratulated me on my efforts.  She had my backpack of warm clothes, her umbrella and a warm smile.

    I was cold and as I reached over to grab a chocolate milk from a friendly volunteer I felt my legs beginning to cramp. “I think I better go back to the hotel and take a shower.”

Keeping Portland Weird One Pub at a Time

     So here we were in Portland doing our best to celebrate our fifteenth wedding anniversary.  After tackling the half marathon in the pouring-rain it was time to our get boots-on-the-ground and check out all the hype.  Is Portland as weird as they say?  If so, how do you keep it weird?  Is weird a good thing?  I had questions.

  First things first.  There are a couple of Portland nicknames that kept rearing-their heads and I had to know more.  Bridgetown is one of them and it’s easy to see why; There are bridges everywhere.  I found out later that there are currently fifteen bridges that span the Willamette and Columbia Rivers.  Another nickname, Stumptown I had to look-up.  Wikipedia says this: “Stumptown was coined in a period of phenomenal growth in Portland after 1847. The city was growing so rapidly that the stumps of trees cut down to make way for roads were left behind until manpower could be spared to remove them. In some areas the stumps remained for so long that locals whitewashed them to make them more visible. They also used them to cross the street without sinking into the mud.”  

    There wasn’t a single stump in-sight as we left the hotel, so we were free to pursue other things...like beer.  If there’s one thing we love it’s beer and food and although that’s actually two things (hey that’s pretty weird!) they go hand in hand and we made a point of exploring as many local brew pubs as we could.   Portland was recently named beer capital of the world by Beer Connoisseur Magazine.  It is home to over 85 breweries and although we couldn’t possible get to them all it wasn’t for a lack of effort.

I very well could be......
the most interesting man in the world.  Best
Oyster bar ever.

    In the end we visited about ten brew pubs during our time in the Portland area including a few of my favorites like Deschutes and Full Sail.  They were all pretty darn good.  Below is an exclusive H-bomb’s review of our favorite stop. Party-on Portland!

    Ten Barrels brewing Co.  Score: 5 kegs+.  We stopped here for a pint and some grub located in the Pearl District.  Danielle Centoni of the Portland Eater calls the decor “renovated industrial.” And I have to agree.   On our way in we had to hold the door for an employee who was wheeling out a big trash can of spent grain. “Thanks dude.” He said.  The twenty something employees were rocking the flannel shirts, trucker hats and were super stoked to be working at such a sick hangout.  

Spent grain lined up right
outside the front door.

    Tamra was easily talked into trying what our waiter-dude called “the most refreshing drink you’ll ever have”  It was a sour beer infused with cucumber.

    “Well how is it?” I asked her after her first sip, “Is it that good?” I had to know.  

    “Yes. Here try it.”  Begrudgingly I took a sip and it tasted a lot like a sour beer infused with cucumber. Pretty refreshing. Huh, I thought as I reached for my own beer.

    

The simple graphics was
"weird"...yeah!

My beer was great too I had an American IPA and it had a smooth hoppy finish and was therefore delicious.  Although the beer was stellar, the best part of our Ten Barrel’s experience was probably the food.  We ordered this monstrosity of an appetizer simply called Gorgonzola steak nachos.  “Woah, I hope you’re hungry.”  Our waiter was impressed that we would order such a bold and burly plate of food.  

Hell yeah!

     It was a giant plate of seasoned fries and freshly cooked Cajun potato chips covered generously with grilled steak and bacon.  The whole damn thing was swimming in the most incredible Gorgonzola cheese sauce.  It was topped with fresh grilled jalapeño rings and diced green onions.  We didn’t come close to finishing it and the 14 dollar price tag was a bargain.  In the spirit of the super hip beer dudes at 10 Barrels I can truly say; it was totally amazeballs, and we weren’t even that hungry. Two thumbs up for Ten Barrels.

     

Tamra checking out a giant waterfall along the scenic Columbia Gorge.

    On the last day we ponied up for a rental and shoved off for the Columbia River Gorge.  It was well worth the drive.  Starting at the quaint little town of Troutdale, the old highway meanders along the foothills of the Cascades.  We stopped by a few incredible waterfalls and marveled at all of the hiking trail heads that took-off into the lush green hills.  “Look, there’s Sasquatch!” I declared.  Tamra didn’t even turn her head to look.  Her loss.

   We ended our drive when we discovered that the town of Hood River was the home of Full Sail Brewery.  There was no need to go any further. It didn’t dawn on me until I got there but Hood River is the unofficial wind-surfing capital of the World.  That’s why they named it Full Sail.  Apparently the wind is epic for some killer rides where the Hood River joins the mighty Columbia.  Inadvertently I noticed that there were several wind surf shops in town as we made our way over to the Full Sail Brewery.  We figured that we should probably cool-our-heels after such an intense day of exploring.  More and more I felt myself identifying with Lewis and Clark.  Too bad those boys couldn’t have pulled over for a pint of Session IPA back in the day; suckers!

    To end our trip we wheeled over to Canby to visit my long lost cousin Phil.  Phil had spent a couple of his summers with us during his adolescence and it was good to reconnect with him and his family.  Years ago I knew him to be “all elbows and knees” and by all means a nice yet goofy young man.  Phil has grown into a thoughtful, responsible man and it was nice to see how well he has done for himself and his beautiful young family.

After a great visit and home cooked spaghetti dinner we said our goodbyes and hit the road, back to Stumptown.  The next morning we would rise early and start the journey back home to our own family that we started fifteen years ago.  

Fifteen years and she still loves me. I am a lucky man.

    

    

We met up with Tamra's long lost friend Jen Maynard at Tugboat Brewery.

Strolling along the Willamette River

Two weird things here: 1) interesting way to off-load unwanted material from the
top of the building. 2) Interesting parking choice for the red truck.

You have to check out VooDoo Donuts don't you?

Weird

The Yardhouse

Banana Fritter at VooDoo.  Unreal.

The beauty of Oregon.

     

2016 Iditarod Update

2016 Iditarod Update

                                   or.......The Legend of Burle Haggard

When I die and they lay me to rest

Gonna go to the place that's the best

When I lay me down to die

Goin' up to the spirit in the sky-Norman Greenbaum

It was the mushing mortician that came through first; Scott Jansson.  Someone started singing the song. We were waiting there with baited breath.  All the work was done and it was about time.  Some of us had peeled a fiver on who would be the first through.  “Hey that’s Jordan’s musher.” 45 bucks.

..........................................................................................................

“One, two, three!”  we lifted up on the bottom edge of the burl.  It took a trying effort to get it to move but eventually it rolled over the edge of the fire pit and into the dancing flames.  The damn thing weighed about three hundred pounds and fit rather nicely next to its smaller brother that I named Burle jr.  Junior had been on fire for about thirty minutes and was sporting a good shine-on.  Before long they were both were on-fire despite the quiet protests of my darling mother, who is a self-admitted burl fanatic.

Pete

    Due to poor snow conditions last year’s Iditarod restart was moved to Fairbanks.  Rumor has it that the fine folks at Pike’s landing in Fairbanks have been making a strong lobby to keep it there for good.  I don’t blame them. I like owner Jay Ramras.  His free ice cream tokens, and his efforts to power the place with solar are commendable but you don’t mess with tradition.  The Iditarod trail has snaked its way over the Alaska range from day one and to nix the most challenging section of the trail would be akin to lopping off the top 6,000 vertical feet of Denali.

     As it turns out the snow cover wasn’t that great this year either but according to the Iditarod Trail Committee it was “good enough”, and so I knew that it wouldn’t be long before it would be time to cut some block. Build it and they will come.

Levi and Pete working over time.

    This year we made short work of the snow-block wall and with the addition of Tom and Levi Rollman, placement of the high blocks was a cinch.  They are both well over six feet tall.  I’m not above bringing in ringers.              

    Speaking of ringers Paul (Uncle Paulie) Johnson returned this year after a three year hiatus.  To say that Paul has the gift-of-gab would be like saying that Dallas Seavey is an average musher.  Paul, having just returned from Argentina with his brother Dennis was full of incredible fishing stories.  Come to think of it, Paul was full of a lot of stuff;  mainly B.S, a few hot dogs,  and several brewskis.  

Bryan Kirby staying warm

Roughing it

    Pete and his whole family made a strong showing along with my sister Trish and the whole Miller clan.  Bryan Kirby and his family rounded out the crowd roughing-it in their Arctic Oven tent.

New vinyl sign this year.

    Luckily this year the hot dogs were, one again,“really good”  just like it says on the sign.  Although they were indeed good they paled in comparison to dad’s Jambalaya.  Dad brought out his big propane cooking rig with two burners and set-up shop inside the snow wall shelter. The spicy rice played-nice with the shrimp and okra.  It was right about then that I looked up and noticed the stars.  Wow, I should stay up late more often!

     “Hun, do you want me to make you a Bloody Mary?”, I snapped out of my celestial trance and looked over at my wife.

     Tamra was her normal workhorse-self prepping dogs, buns, and apparently bloody mary’s .  “Sure, that would be great!”  Who doesn’t want a Bloody Mary with their jambalaya?  

    She was finishing the next hot dog by slathering-on our own special sauce known locally as ketch-tard.  Good luck figuring out both the ingredients.  Hint:  It’s orange.  It wasn’t long before I was sipping a Bloody Mary next to Burle Haggard and the gang.

Jordan Starr, number 9 in your programs, number 1 in our hearts.

     Jordan Starr was in rare form this year.  His Iron Dog team, known to some as “team 9” finished 7th place this year.  Not bad. More impressive though was that he was able to find time afterwords for one more ride up to our camp.  He was an integral part of the action this year.   Jordan decided to let-loose with us well into the night despite the fact that he had to be at work early the next morning......in Anchorage.  

    Normally his folks Bill and Jacque are part of the festivities too but this year Bill was having issues with his Super-cub.  Ironically, Jordan, who has become one heck of an airplane mechanic was unavailable to show up at the drop of a hat to help the old man.  “I’ve got a job now dad.” he was reported to have said.

     We missed Bill.  This year no one fell into the Yentna.   Chalking-it-up to “testing the waters”, Bill was one chuckle away from calamity back in ‘02.  Luckily I was there to lend a hand,  only one though, the other was clutching a beer.  A guy has to have priorities. Good ol’ Bill.  

Check out Brooklyn Harrison running in the background.

    Pete brought out a keg of local craft beer.  The boys at OMR in Eagle River have been out-doing themselves and currently have eleven beers on tap.  We figured that we’d snap a few good pics with the keg.  Look where OMR beer has been kind-of-a-deal, but all we could find to make it interesting were a pile of slimy pike.  Here have a delicious IPA along with a nice frozen Northern Pike!  

This curious Gray Jay was interested in our fishing efforts.

Brenton "B-Tod" Harrison

Three floppers

All in a day's work

The sun even shines on a dog's ass every now and again.

    On Monday after some had left we focused our efforts on fishing for Pike.  The fishing was stellar.  After a slow start using tip-ups and herring, we switched to jigging with big flashy spoons.  Fish on, hell yeah!  Brenton earned top honors for his tireless efforts which brought in four or five big slabs.  In all we roped in eleven in just over two hours.  Dad and Paul cleaned them all on the deck and probably still smell like fish, but in some countries far-far- away that smell is considered an aphrodisiac.  Who knew?

   Since we were fishing nearby our party spot on the Yentna, I decided to ride out there and check out the after-math.  As I pulled around the corner I couldn’t help but notice the prolific smoke stack.  As I got closer I couldn’t believe my eyes, although it had been over sixteen hours since ignition, Burle Haggard was still on fire!  

     

This burl is on fire!