The Legend of Full Moon Rising

The legend of Full Moon Rising

                                   By Steve Harrison

      A man of white beard and brown hair crawled across a barren desert in desperation.  Dune after dune of endless sand lay before him for as far at the eye could see.  Making his last stand, the man committed himself to achieving the top of the next dune; beyond that he wasn’t sure he would be able to continue.  An hour later the man finally crested the top and peered over into the depression below. With the sun blazing in his eyes the man could hardly believe his good fortune; a small wooden structure revealed itself in the duned valley below. Not having eaten in the last four days he found himself clinging to this one bastion of hope.

      The man, with renewed purpose and waning energy set out to reach the structure which, as he got closer, looked more like a shack or a stand of some sort.  “Could it be a food stand?”, he thought to himself.  He allowed himself this thought briefly and then scolded himself for raising his hopes too high.  There appeared to be signage on the front with colors and numbers and pictures of which he could not make out the details.

      Still unable to walk, the man crawled closer and to his delight, discovered that yes it was indeed a food stand, a farmers market specializing in the sale of the humble onion. A large white wooden onion was attached high above the roofline in cartoon caricature. Not believing his own eyes he rubbed them and re-focused affirming his discovery. 

      The man, reared in a small outpost of fertile lands on the other side of the world, had grown up on the onions of his region and had developed a deep seeded love for all variety of Allium Cepa, the common bulb onion.

      “To what deity do I owe my good fortune?”, he thought to himself. “Not only have I discovered my only salvation of food for miles around in this forsaken desert, but they are serving my beloved onion, my best meal. Oh I can almost feel the crisp crunch on my teeth and the clear juice running down my chin. Oh happy day, oh happy day!”

    He crawled forth a little faster now but at his current pace it would still be a good thirty minutes to the shack; His mind turned to all things onion. 

     He remembered that his grandfather who had lived to the ripe old age of 100 years old had been quoted in his village ledger, as attributing his long life to two distinct things: Hard daily physical work and eating lots and lots of onions.

    The hard physical labor bit had always made sense to the man.  The regular exercise, he knew increased circulation and was good for his heart. But what was it about the onion? Was it the vitamins and minerals that manifested the fountain of youth in the onion or was it something more, something intangible or maybe mystical? He didn’t know for sure, he just knew that he loved to eat them and if it led to a longer life then it was a good thing. Deep down though, he suspected that even if strong scientific evidence pointed the other way towards the onion leading to cancer or other illness, he would probably eat them anyway; he simply loved them.

      The man had a wonderful childhood growing up in a small agricultural town where his mother and father tended to a bountiful garden yielding everything from rowed corn to melons of water, and of course his beloved onions.  There were no hard times of famine in the man’s early life such as he was experiencing now. He had grown with a wide variety of wondrous foods that were available in season, or put up into jars for winter subsistence.  It was this variety of foods that shaped the diversity of the man’s palate. There was no food the man did not enjoy as a young lad; sans one, the raisin.

      It is not clear the reasoning or logic behind the man’s aversion to the seemingly innocuous chewy brown fruit, but it could very well have been that heredity played a strong role because all three of the man’s children and his seven grandchildren, to this day, avoid the raisin like the black plague of old.

      Prolific since 1490 BC, the raisin at one time in early Roman times was so valuable that two jars of them was the equivalent of one slave in trade.  To the man though, two jars of them would be to insult the jars themselves.

     Fumbling through the pockets of his torn knickers the man found what he searched for, his last gold coin.  And with the coin tucked in his clutches he managed to pull himself upright, however difficult, to a standing position at the counter.   

     There was a lone person unpacking boxes from the back of the onion stand and was unaware entirely of the man’s presence. Unable to speak due to his emaciated state the man waited to be waited on with what patience he had left.  It was then that the man noticed the small cardboard sign propped up on the counter no more than an arm’s length away from him written in what looked like black pen:

  Sorry! N O   M O R E    O N I O N S.

     TODAYS SPECIAL:  RAISINS

   

    The afternoon sun beat down upon the desert without prejudice or preference. A light gust of wind stirred and swirled sand around the bottom of the shack but it was no match for the heat of the sun. The faint creak of a rusty hinge on the shack shutter was followed by a soft, rhythmic knocking of the plywood each time the wind came up.  A small tumbleweed was hung up on the back corner of the shack.  Riding the next gust, it wiggled itself free somehow and continued on its journey.  It rolled by a lone scorpion that appeared to be watching and was seemingly unaffected by sun or wind.

     The Raisin stand attendant, some ten minutes later, made her way up to the front counter to wipe it clean.  There, not at all upright anymore, was the cardboard sign with a ball point pen jousted through the middle like the axel of some strange wheel.  Confused, she looked out to the desert beyond and with a stoic look of oblivion and genuine befuddlement witnessed a man crawling away with a white beard and brown hair. The man was slowly moving back up the sand dune hill adjacent to his own down-tracks; Not at all dead yet, and still of sound mind he made painstaking headway back into the heart of the desert from whence he came.  His knickers were pulled down just far enough to expose his entire backside.

The Gift of the Rotting Biomass

   The Gift of the Rotting Biomass

The rotting fish was a king salmon and it was upturned just below the surface. A fine fuzz had encased it like the seedlings of a dandelion. The next one was still alive. “Look at that ghost” I said. An almost entirely white king was swaying drunkenly in the current, flaps of pale skin washed over it’s back clinging and waving. It was barely alive and was hovering near what looked like a log protruding from the gravel. “Yeah, looks like he wants to hang out with his old buddy”. Tom pointed out. I looked into the water again and noticed that the “log” wasn't a log at all. It was, or at least used-to-be a salmon and was melded to the bottom of the creek bed completely covered, decomposition in full-swing.

I took a quick lesson from Tom on using the air bag to fill the pack raft. We topped off each bladder by mouth, lashed down our packs and pushed off. The pinks, not as far along in their schedule of decay as the kings, were nonetheless a ubiquitous force to be reckoned with. A school of them in varying degrees of disparity moved out of my way as I paddled into the current. Their white and yellow streaked bellies and patchy darkened skin are a dead give away not only to their identity as pinks, but also to the inevitability of their time clock. The male of the species is a curious case. Somewhere along their journey, the males become grotesquely flattened and humped reaching their hideous peak as they near the spawning grounds. Ironically the waters they negotiate here are the shallowest they have encountered. This exposes their humps topside and a likeness is easily made to the movie Jaws (cue music here). The disfigurement is so pronounced it’s almost cartoon- like. It’s hard to believe that this strange evolutionary adaptation could be of any benefit. Maybe in the eyes of the female pinks these humps are a sexy indicator of fertility. Are the flattest males with the largest humps more likely to pass their seed than the ones with the more traditional salmonid shape? Whatever the reason, the pink salmon seem to have stumbled upon a successful formula for procreation. They’re everywhere. As the kings dwindle in numbers, it seems that it’s the humpy that might inherit the earth. With only a few bends of the creek under my belt, I was scrambling to dial-in my rookie level technique on the pack raft. A big school of chum salmon darted out from under the boat. Their green and purple stripes are unmistakable. More humpies mingled on the other side as I maneuvered the raft around a boulder.  

Earning my junior paddlers badge.

I quickly found my rhythm a few bends lower as I dropped into a large pool. Some dark red torpedoes moved under me. These big kings darted up the sweep I’d just conquered without so much as a goodbye kiss or second thought. We wouldn't get a good look at the silvers until lower in the system and they were mixed in with everything else. The last to arrive at the party, the silvers were the brightest of the salmon that day. The waters were alive....at least for now. Without a doubt, the gift of the salmon's return each year plays to the delight of the sport and commercial fishing crowds. Their postmortem gifts in the form of the nutrients they pass is nothing to snub noses at either. Good science tells us that the mass of salmon that push into their natal streams each year have significant impact upon the surrounding riparian flora. These nutrients find their way to the banks and then into the woods proper through a number of delivery systems including the gut of the bear. Birds are also diligent scavengers and account for much of the deposition and distribution of these nutrients. Trees are said to grow up to three times as fast in these areas because of the nutrients from the salmon (primarily nitrogen). That’s a good payoff for the fish because along with the clear, cold waters and clean gravel beds, they need the trees to shade the sun's heat to create ideal spawning conditions. In addition, without their roots systems in place, the streams would likely clog the spawning grounds with sediment washing away from the banks after the rains. Stream health is also enhances by the rot. Salmon that never leave the stream, like my friend the upturned chinook, eventually break-down and distribute carbon, nitrogen, phosphorus and other micro-nutrients back into the system. It is estimated that 50% of the nutrients consumed by juvenile salmon come from their rotting parents ( and their friends). The complex relationships between the salmon, the forest and the stream has flourished for thousands of years in the Susitna basin and it's only now in our short window of time that it's facing it's greatest threat; The proposed Susitna-Watana dam. If the construction of the dam goes through, the outlook is bleak. Currently there is no shining example to point to in the world of a successfully dammed river that can sustain its wild salmon population. Dams kill salmon. “How many fish do you think we saw yesterday?” I asked Tom after catching up with him at school the next day. Both of us were secretly licking our wounds a bit from the trip. We’re not eighteen anymore. The 11 mile hike and 12 mile paddle is rough on us old boys. In the morning I burned my mouth a little as I washed down my ibuprofen with hot coffee but I wasn't about to admit that out loud either. “ You mean total?” He asked. I could see his wheels turning. Tom’s a math and physics teacher. “ Yeah, what’s your quick estimate of total fish?” The bell rang for the second time and the students were clearing out for their next class. “ Two thousand?” “ Yeah. The biomass is in for sure.”

Summit Day

      Summit Day

The mountains are calling and I must go- John Muir

    

     As we crested the final teensy hill leading to the view overlooking the football field, I didn’t know I could continue.  Every fiber of my being was screaming for a turn-about.  Instead I called for a sit-down.  Brian was near some cool basalt boulders that would be great seats.  I flopped down on the black rock next to him after he reeled-in the rope between us.  I took off my pack and fumbled around with gear adjustments all the while trying to relax;  I had developed a headache.  19,300 feet elevation isn’t for sissies.  After all I was dealing with less than half of the oxygen available at sea level.  The lack-of- atmospheric pressure wasn’t pushing the oxygen into my lungs at the same comfortable level I was used to.

    “ How you doing?”  he asked.

    “ Good.”

  It was a soft lie.  I was the epitome of total exhaustion.  Ever since Denali pass we had progressed in eight pace increments.  Eight paces were followed by a minute to minute-and-a-half-rest.  This was the amount of time it took to fully catch my breath.  This was the amount of time it took for my legs to flush clean from the suffrage of lactic-acidosis.  

    The view from our perch on the rocks was surreal.  Pillowy clouds filled the North side of the Alaska range far below us.  It’s thick plumage extended to the North as far as the eye could see.  Some of them were beginning to spill over Kahiltna pass.  Mt. Foraker, unimpressed with the barrage of cumilous interlopers stood guard high above,  holding an air of masterful certainty.  

     The south side of the range was bespeckled with a sparse allotment of less ambitious clouds.  Unsure of really what to do,  they hovered nonchalantly and mingled and floated about as only clouds can do.  Mount Hunter standing alone, unbothered by the whims of the clouds sparkled in the sun illuminating it’s cascading hanging-glaciers and precariously perched seracs.  An occasional avalanche thundered from it’s flank, perhaps as a warning or maybe it was like a dog shaking-off excess water after a soaking.

Brian, on the summit, looks towards the cloudy North.

      High above all of this we sat on two charcoal black rocks, two friends on a mission, tired as hell.   We wouldn’t confide until later that night in the tent but both of us had been harboring feelings of doubt and uncertainty.  Neither of us wanted to pull-the-plug so close to our goal, but we were hurting.  We both elected to keep our whinings and whimperings to ourselves.   

    Just then a light breeze cropped up stinging my ungloved hands reminding me of my own frailty.  I put my gloves back on and lifted my pack to my shoulder.

    I looked up at the ominous Pig hill that leads to the summit ridge and didn’t want to continue but I knew something.  I knew that we had been patient this time.  I knew that we had been acclimating slowing over the course of two whole weeks.   We had skinned-up and back country skied over a dozen runs on the way up as a rouse for our acclimation.  It had to work;  This was my third try.

    I knew other things too; I knew that, since my first failed attempt in 2002 I had developed a nagging itch, an itch that worked it’s way into my dreams at night sometimes.  I will finish what I start- an axiom that defines a person at their core wrangled me and prodded at me and taunted me.  I knew I had to get back up there.  This had to be my time.

    “ Let’s go” I uttered with as much enthusiasm as I could manage.   Down we went to the football field making our way over to the dreaded Pig hill.  One surge at a time we inched up the steep hill.  I leaned on my ice axe whenever I could and let my mind wander, hoping that I could escape the agony and trick myself long enough to make it.  And then after what seemed like a small eternity, we were at the top of Pig hill. We had gained the summit ridge!

     I’m going to make it!  The mere thought stirred-up emotion and caught me by surprise.  The moment had played out in my thoughts and dreams for eleven years and now that it was actually happening I was astounded.  The rope between us swung and slithered and slid along the trail one step at a time as we moved slowly along the ridge.  

    The trail snaked along the sharp snowy ridge and led up the backside of a giant overhanging cornice.  The summit itself was perched innocently and quite neatly up and just behind the cornice providing a nice plateau.  

    Brian, having summited on our first trip eleven years ago, gave me way, granting me access to the top first. In a teary mess,  I dropped to all fours as I touched the top, tears joining and freezing to my beard, adding one more icycle.

Advise from a Wizard

                       Advice from a Wizard

    I could tell she was on edge.  Finals week was weighing heavily on her mind along with the pending state Track and Field Championships this weekend.  She would have to miss another two days of school to compete with the state’s best shotput and discus throwers.  A standout volleyball and basketball player already,  she is also the student body president and a member of the National Honor Society.  In my mind, she represents the best of what Susitna Valley High School can be.  

    “You seem a little stressed today Em.”  I opened the field shed door and we both walked into the dimly lit shed.  We joined Coach Gunderson who was already inside gathering the high jump equipment.  Emily was getting the shot puts and I was looking for some batons to practice relays with.  

    “Yeah I guess I am. It’s finals.”

     I asked her about her finals as I rummaged through the shed.  Apparently she had a pretty tough math final coming up along with a debate in history.  Those grades were in-the-balance and depended heavily upon the outcome of her final exams.  I found the white plastic basket of batons near one of the hurdles.

     As I headed out the door I heard Mr. Gunderson’s voice, “Focus on what’s most important Emily...”  

     I lingered in the doorway long enough to hear the conclusion of what I thought was going to be heartfelt advice . His gentle tone spoke of one who cared.  Already resembling Gandalf of the Tolkien tales his wisdom was a matter of course.  The wizards staff he was clutching doubled as a high jump standard.

     Gundalf the Grey, cutting his own sentimentality short, chose a different angle.  “Focus on what’s most important Emily......Shot put.”

    Emily smiled.

Freshies in the Valhalla

Freshies in the Valhalla

“Well, the rain exploded with a mighty crash as we fell into the sun,

And the first one said to the second one there I hope you're having fun.

Band on the run, band on the run.”  Paul McCartney

    Sliding my skis up the ridge one at a time,  I took pause to look up at Gornick.  It was about time to put my coat on.  The wind was blowing the sugar- snow over the ridge like sand in a desert. The skin-track in front of me was filling in with snow right before my eyes.  He was ahead of me and uphill.   The sun was behind him piercing through the blue sky.  The way the snow was twinkling as it moved  over the ridge made the mountain seem mystical and alive.  It was quite ethereal and in hindsight I should have unpocketed my camera.  Damn.

    We were coming up on our second hour of climbing but the end was near.   I followed him up the ridge until we were high enough to traverse over to the top of Valhalla run.

“Wow, look at that” I said when I first saw it.  “ That’s beautiful!”

A half dozen perfectly linked “S” turns spilled and braided their way down from the pass and into the bowl below like the flowing curls of a lovely virgin maiden.

     We wouldn’t be the first on this run, Gornick lay claim to that two days prior, but there was plenty left to be had.  I had my sights on a sweet line just above the highest of the maiden’s snowy tresses.

        Eighteen inches of fresh snow had graced the valley as a late springtime gift.  What was underneath though?  Would this new layer bond with the existing snowpack or create a dangerous weak layer between?  It’s all good-times until you find yourself floundering in the brunt of a full-on slide.  I patted my coat and felt the avalanche beacon secured snugly underneath.

   “Do you want to go first?” He asked.

“Hell yeah!” I responded without much hesitation.  I climbed up a little higher to the spot I had picked out.

  “ Hey look there’s the band on the ridge.” said Gornick.  I followed his gaze downward.  Sure enough, in the distance far below us were four specs making their way up the ridge that we had just conquered.  

     Gornick’s friends, aside from being super-cool backcountry skiers are also members of a local band called “Hot and Awkward.”

 “Band on the ridge......band on the ridge.”  

    So with Paul McCartney’s timeless jingle echoing in my head I pointed my boards downhill and did my best to add another lock of lovely hair to the fine maidens coiffure.

Martin Buser: All the way to Nome!

    Martin Buser: All the way to Nome!

     “Do you want a hotdog?” At first we didn’t know who it was.  The team was getting closer.  I could hear the rhythmic breathing of the dogs.

     “No thanks I’ve got sixteen of em right here!” Ah, Martin Buser.  Right on time. Right on cue.

     He’s been hitting us with that line for over fifteen years.  Every year we ask, “Do you want a hotdog?” and every year he comes back with “No thanks I’ve got sixteen of em right here!”  

      Despite the customary Buser denial, we managed to hand off our hot dogs to over ninety percent of the mushers again.  We have a good spot.  Our Igloo/ bonfire is about sixty miles into the race.  Most of the mushers are hungry by then.

      Buns are warmed on a propane grill then loaded with a big Costco wiener hot out of the boil and nestled atop a conservative smear of our secret sauce. (pssst- it’s  ketchup, mustard, and relish-we call it ketchtard.  Patent pending.)

      Before we could begin cheering for Martin though, he pulled another one on us.  Quick as a wink he flopped two big bags of dog treats on the snow in front of us.  Vacuum packed loosely, one was filled with about twenty frozen salmon steaks; the other was filled with about five pounds of bacon. Hmmm, Interesting.

    Before we could contemplate this move our friend Bill sounded off with his telltale call:  “All the way to Nome!”

       A grateful “Thanks.” was heard from Martin as he turned to look back at us.   Commence cheering.

     This wasn’t the first time we’d been graced with Buser’s droppings.  It’s been about ten years but one time he plopped several neatly vacuum-sealed meals on the trail at our feet after cheerfully denying a hotdog.  Portion sized squares of lasagna, garlic bread, and even a plastic fork were all pressed neatly together in each of the clear plastic bags.  Hmmm, Interesting.

      I learned later that these sealed meals are dropped into the boiling pot with the dog water, ten minutes later Presto; a hot home-cooked meal.  Beats Ramen.

     Always the shrewd tactician, Buser is known for his innovations and carefully calculated moves.  I remember the year he started using a ski pole on the flats to lessen the burden on his dogs as much as he could, and what about the year he constructed a wind sail with an extra pair of pants strung between poles to help when the wind was right.  What’s next, a solar powered booty defroster?

      But why was he giving us this food?  My guess is that he wants to go as light as possible between checkpoints and anytime he can drop some extra weight he knows it will speed him up.  I imagine its all these little things coupled with his attention to detail that make the difference when competing at such a level.  

        Buser is making a strong bid this year.  After passing our little soiree at top speed, he continued all the way up and over Rainy pass in one big push.  Then, in a move that surprised everyone, he took his mandatory 24-hour rest in Rohn.  Most mushers save their 24 until later in the race.   During those 24 hours over thirty-five mushers passed him but with the long rest and lots of nourishment for the dogs, Buser’s team was raring to go.   Over the next few days he slingshot himself back into the lead.

      Will he be the first one to pass under the burled arch this year? It’s very possible but one thing’s for sure, like usual, he’ll keep us guessing all the way to Nome.

prep work for our little soiree

Of Mice, Men and Trail

  

  “You watch him be become a God...and watch peoples head’s a roll...”   Megadeth has proven to be the jam of choice on the trip to the cabin.   Countdown to Extinction...hell yeah!
      I was in the lead cruising down the wide path towards the truck.  Bryan was thirty feet behind me keeping up with my forty mile-per-hour pace.  The trail was as wide as a road and Bryan was off-set to my left.  Together like riding Sturgis we were the kings of the trail.  Do they make Ape-hanger handle bars for snowmachines?
    We had been at the cabin all weekend tidying up, doing chores, and performing general prep work for Iditarod weekend.  The wife had called while we were out there.  “ What are you guys doing out there?”  
    “ You know, we are tidying up, doing chores and performing general prep work for Iditarod weekend.”  I explained.  Apparently she didn’t realize;  there’s a lot to do!  Between the tidying up and everything else,  we barely had time for the beer drinking.  Alas, being as talented and cagey as we are we did manage to take care of that part too.
    I digress.  There we were making good time toward the truck when low and behold,  I spied what at first I thought was a leaf blowing across the trail.   Quickly I realized that no, it was not a leaf but rather a mouse no larger than a thimble scrambling across the trail for all he was worth.
    I quickly pointed at the wayward rodent to my trail mate.   By the time I could look back again Bryan had goosed his throttle and was pumping his fist in a gesture of triumphant glory.  
    “Hey did you see that mouse back there?”  I asked once we had loaded the sleds onto the trailer and settled into the cab of the truck.  
    “ Yeah, that little guy is either dead or had the ride of his life!”