Mt. Ellinor Climb 6-6-2014

I had the day off Friday so I thought I’d do a solo trip up Mt. Ellinor in the Olympic Staircase area. I used Google Maps to guide me to the trailhead. I use that whenever I want to find an alternate route to a destination I’ve been to many times before and want to explore. This sent me off on a logging road exploration along the Skokomish drainage.  The Google Map lady had me going slight right and slight left at areas where either alternative would have been a woodland bushwhack excursion through the forest where there wasn’t even a hint of a ghost of a distant memory of even a game trail or a plunge over a cliff. I spent about two hours crisscrossing gravel back roads where 4 wheel drive and high ground clearance on the Ford Escape was, if not required, at least highly desirable. At the point I thought I might be close to the destination Google sent me down an overgrown road that was more of a trail, noting this was 22 minutes shorter than the much better road. I plowed ahead with alder branches slapping both sides of the car. 15 minutes later the Google Map lady indicated 2.7 more miles straight ahead. I got out of the car and look over the abyss that was in front of me. I decided to forgo the well-meaning advice and not plummet to my death down this road. Perhaps it was a gateway to an alternate universe, but my desire for a little adventure was overcome by my selfish desire not to die.

 

I backtracked out to 101 and Hoodsport and turned off the Google Map lady. I missed her company and her complete confidence in her route finding skills. I found the upper trail head without incident despite my failing memory and the fact the people had been using the signs as target practice for high powered deer rifles, assault weapons, shotguns, for what appeared to be several years of enthusiastic exercise of their right to bear arms. It made me proud to be an American and regretful that I’ve yet to fill out my NRA membership application. At two O’clock I parked in the upper trail head for the hike, checked my old log book for that last time I did this and noted it took me 1:40 min to reach the summit in 2008. The faded sign from 2012 noted that the trail was closed due to aggressive goat activity. The lady at the Ranger Station didn’t indicate that the trail was still closed and 8 or 10 cars in the parking lot seemed to confirm no actual closure was in effect.

I started booking up the trail, jogging the flatter sections pacing myself not look too much like a wheezing geezer. Folks I talked to indicated that the winter route up the snow chutes was getting thin, so I choose to take the summer route. About 15 minutes past the summer winter trail split the summer route trail became snow covered and essentially disappeared. I pulled out my beat up old ice axe and headed up the steep chute. As it steepened and I had to kick steps, I was wishing I’d had the crampons I’d left in the car along with the glissading pants for the trip down. The clouds started to roll across the summit ridge but it was still pleasantly warm and relatively wind free. I made the summit in 1:09 minutes passing a couple groups of young men so I was feeling pretty good about myself.

 

Two goats, a Mom and last year’s kid were grazing about 25 feet from me on the backside of the summit. I watched them and took some pictures and video. After about 10 minutes they moved on and a minute or so later I saw them 400 yards away crossing a snowfield toward Mt. Washington. How do they do that so quickly?

 

I had a snack and headed down. Between the goat trails and random hiker paths through the snow it is next to impossible to retrace your steps. I wandered a bit but came upon the correct trail without the help of the Google Map lady. The snow ran out and turned to dirty ice before terminating at the base of a 6x6 step held in place by re-bar. I managed to slip fall on my ass and slide out of control for about 10 feet. That is when I realized the re-bar sticking up about 2 inches above the wooden step was in direct line for my family jewels. All of a sudden I had a vision of a torn scrotum and my testacies wrapped around the rebar dangling like a pair of fuzzy dice on a car mirror. With not a millisecond to spar I rocked up on my left butt cheek and lifted my leg like a dog peeing on a fire hydrant just clearing the hazard enough to only feel the top of the rebar slide past my right butt cheek. Thus I avoided the nickname of the gilded geezer and my wife will not have to contemplate leaving me for a more fully equipped man.
 

I posted a short 2:00 minute video on YouTube for those who can’t get enough of my long winded ramblings. http://youtu.be/rJzF8PdtZPY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heart Ablation Procedure

I had a successful surgery on Tuesday. By successful, I mean they put me under and did unspeakable things to my body poking and rooting around with all kinds of tiny implements of torture and mayhem, and I woke up 5 hours later not dead. Thus it was a roaring success. Did they fix what they intended to fix? That question won’t be answered for two to three months.. I believe that translates into “we’re not going to commit to anything until the bills are submitted to the insurance company and the checks all clear the bank.”

Prior to committing me to the abyss of unconsciousness they did manage to poke and prod me with little mini tortures, kind of a warm up for what was to come. They seem to enjoy putting tape for electrodes and such in not quite the right area so they could slowly rip out small patches of hair. Ordered lab tests were somehow missed or the results  lost in digital black hole of lost patient data. A few more pokes for what seemed a large gauge dull needle and they had the pint of blood to finish their test. I guess they got what they needed and I passed the tests because the continued processing me through the system.

My brother came to help watch the fun and keep Joy company. I think he kind of enjoyed being in the spectators box and not on deck for surgery after his incident of getting his fingers sucked into a shaper. Of course this wasn’t really a surgery, it was a “procedure.” Apparently if no external stitches are involved it is a “procedure” and not a surgery.  They even get their one little section in the hospital, the Procedure Care Unit (PCU).  I said my goodbyes and shuffled off to the elevator, hospital gown flapping in the breeze with my stylish gray hospital socks with grippy traction surface and an arrow pointing forward. I guess the arrow was to remind you forward is the hospital approved safe walking direction. I hopped on the gurney waiting for me and off I went to what must be called a procedure room. Four very efficient people were there waiting for me. Those I hadn’t already met introduced themselves and before I knew it they’d bared my chest shaved a large square of hair off my chest and placed all sorts of electrodes and large square patches on the front and back of my torso for 3D ultrasound and other imaging devices. I barely had time to glance around the room at all the computer screens and equipment before they placed a mask over my face and said you’ll breath oxygen for a couple of minutes and then we’ll start the IV to put you to sleep. That will take 30 seconds. That’s the last thing I remember. The doctor wasn’t in the room, probably stuck somewhere on Interstate 5. They kindly waited until I was unconscious before they subjected me to the final indignities of shaving my groin and putting an IV in my heel, of all places. The heel IV was for heparin, a very strong anti-clotting drug. Then they stuffed a breathing tube and temperature probe down my throat.  Then they started threading equipment up the big veins in my legs. They spent the next five hours or so rooting around in my heart, electrically stimulating various section to try and isolate the bad wiring so they could freeze or burn that tissue out. Kind of like having an auto mechanic locate the general area of a short in your car and then applying a blow torch to that area to fix it.

I woke up in recovery and then everyone kept asking when my birthday was. Apparently they want to throw me a big party. It seemed I must have been quite a hit in the PCU. The nurses all wanted to come by and check out my groin and comment on how good it looked. Some even went so far to say it looked great. I was kind of embarrassed. It seemed pretty forward, and they made all these comments in front of my wife. I was feeling quite proud of my groin too at that point, so I decided to take a peek. I was aghast to find they had given me a pubic Mohawk. They’d also decorated the area with blue green dye the color of teenage girls eye shadow. The only thing that was missing was glitter and hair gel. Not really a look I would go for personally, but apparently it is quite popular with young nurses, or maybe it was just the swelling that impressed them.

 

They wheeled me into my private room on the 7th floor. Virginia Mason Hospital was built in the 1960s and I don’t think they’d got around to upgrading the decor in the PCU recovery area since Carter was in office. The Hilton this was not. Half the buttons didn’t work on the bed. To work the overhead light they hooked a piece of stretchy gauze to the little pull chain that was positioned just out of reach, designed to taunt the patient but never quite allow them to turn on the light themselves. Later I hooked it with my pillow and tied it to my bed frame. The view, however, was spectacular. A big window overlooked downtown Seattle, you could even see a bit of Puget Sound off to the north. On a clear day the Olympic mountains would be viewable.

I felt like crap, my chest hurt, my groin ached, my back was killing me and they wouldn’t let me move my legs or even lift my head off the pillow for an agonizing two hours. A few checks of my groin and blood pressure I was given the green light to have them extract the catheter up my wiener. I have now a new found empathy for anyone who has a urinary catheter. It feels like someone let a Gardner snake crawl up the end of you wiener and then left it to die.  The nurse deflated the balloon in my bladder and gave me the Laurence Whelk countdown, “a one and a two and a YOW!”  That felt like you just peed hot coffee and lemon juice. After I caught my breath Edit, my nurse, asks me if I can stand. I stand and sway like a tree about to fall. She has me sit back down and checks my BP, 84/64. After a couple minutes of sitting up I’m better and shuffle off to the bathroom. The catheter  gives you a strong urge to pee. Now you feel like you just spent the weekend in a Tijuana whore house and have a bad case of the Clap. The burning dribbles make me what to scream like a girl. I resist the urge to bare down try and purge the lemon juice some sadist must have injected into my bladder, remembering the warning that it could risk of blowing fresh seals in my veins causing me to bleeding out in the john.

Despite the fun I was glad to be no longer tethered to the auto-BP cuff and the wiener snake. I had Joy order me up a chocolate shake from room service. I was alive, no complications, and I thought I should have a milkshake to celebrate. At about 9:30 PM Joy returned to the hotel room in the Virginia Mason Inn attached to the hospital.  I watched a little TV and read before trying to fall asleep. The nurse offered a night cap of either Percocet or morphine if I wanted. I opted for a couple acetaminophen. That took enough of the edge off to allow me to sleep for about 10 to 15 minutes at a time.  At 4 AM I gave up and called for a Percocet. Between my own discomfort, moans from the other rooms, beeping equipment, and big ticking clock on the wall, sleep had become impossible. Just one little Percocet took the edge off like about a ½ a bottle of Jack Daniels. I slept in a narcotic haze for ½ hour intervals until after 7:00 AM.  By 8:30 then next morning I’d passed all the required tests, I could walk and pee, had no fever and wasn’t oozing puss out of anywhere. I was discharged and walked, not rolled, out of the hospital. The doc, who I saw for about one minute in recovery, says it went great and he’s optimistic I’ll be symptom free in a couple months.

I’ll spare you who read this all the way to the bitter end any more details. I think I may have already crossed the TMI line several times. Thanks for all thoughts, visits, well wishes, calls, text messages and emails. I really appreciate it. Suffice it to say, I’m rehabbing at home and feeling very close to normal. Sorry about that, but that’s as good as it gets. I’ll be walking with our Running buddies on Saturday, back to work on Monday and will be able to do start running, biking and swimming again by Tuedsay or so.

   

Heart Rewiring - Let the Doc do it or Do-It-Yourself

I’m going in to get my heart overhauled on Tuesday. It’s pretty standard maintenance for an increasing number of baby boomer endurance athletes.  According to my logs, my odometer rolled over this year. I’m pretty sure I crossed the 100,000 mile mark for run, bike, swim if you throw in unlogged cross country skiing, kayaking, back country hiking and climbing miles.  Apparently the area around 4 or 5 pulmonary veins in my heart are trying to take over the pace making duties like an evil mother-in-law taking over the wedding planning at her son’s wedding. The fancy name for this is Paroxysmal Atrial  Fibulation.

Dad and I were talking over dinner the other night, and figured Mr. Fixit and I could do the job ourselves and help keep the cost of health care down. We figured all we needed was a pocket knife, a soldering iron and a bottle of Jack. I downloaded the schematic we need off the web. All we have to do is get me liquored up on the jack and have Dad cut down into my left atrium, find the bad wiring area that keeps making my heart race, and burn it out with the tip of the soldering iron. First we had to clear up an argument we had on what side was the left side. I think I convinced him it was my left not his. Just to be safe, I pulled out a felt marker and put a big X on the correct spot. Just when we had it all worked out, we realized we need someone to hold the flashlight. Joy balked at this, blowing all our plans. So much for being a supportive wife.

So now we have to drive all the way to Seattle so some fancy smanshy “electro-cardiologist” and a room full of strangers can knock me out, pull out all their fancy toys, and have their way with me. First they want to shave my “groin” to prepare the area. That right there made me nervous. What a way to introduce yourself to a room full of strangers. Once they’ve got that done I imagine they throw a blanket over me, pull out the Group Health Visa card, and spend the next hour or so shopping online with the windfall of money everyone gets to split after the house, Virginia Mason, takes their cut.

Then they get back to me shivering unconscious on the table. They crank up the music, hopefully not the oldies, and throw back the blanket and cut into both sides of my groin. Here’s where I hope they’re careful, whipping sharp objects around my nether regions poking things into the plumbing. Hopefully they’ll cover up the goods, between the cold and the fact that I’m in a chemically induced coma, the shrinkage will be embarrassingly severe. I wouldn’t be surprised if my little turtle pulls his head all the way back into his shell. Then they’ll thread a bunch of equipment up the big veins in my legs that are reportedly the diameter of your thumb. They’ll be snaking up all kinds of crap into those veins. A HD fiber optic camera, fancy flashlight, a couple of tools, I think one tools a cutter, joy buzzer nerve stimulator, and one has a balloon on the end of it..  When I first heard about the balloon, I was taken aback. What do they need a balloon for in there? Something to create a little party atmosphere? Perhaps it’s a contest to break the Guinness Book of World Records to see how many balloons you can inflate inside a patient’s heart. Apparently this isn’t a conventional balloon. It’s a cryogenic balloon used to freeze the bad mother-in-law tissue to death and send the bitch packing.  Unlike a party pack of balloons you get a target for $.79 for a hundred, I’d imagine this freezy balloon costs about 15 cagillion dollars. They’ll thread all the tools into the right side of the upper chamber of my heart and they punch through the tissue separating the left and right sides and continue threading the gear they need into the left side to do their business.

They’ll stuff some kind of temperature probe down my throat to make sure they didn’t take a wrong turn somewhere and are working in the wrong area and freeze or burn through the back side of my heart and into my esophagus. They will use the fancy joy buzzer they threaded into my heart to stimulate my diaphragm in little pulses to make sure they are not freezing or burning my breathy nerves. I’m assured that the risk of either of these things is very very low but if it happens it is very bad. I didn’t really want any details about what “bad” means. The whole time they’ll be using ultrasound to see where they are at. Complication happen in something like 1 in 1,000 patients. This is one time I hope I’m not that “special” one.

When they’re all done, they’ll pull the snakes out of left atrium, the hole they made will seal up in a couple of days, then it all exits the way it came in. A couple of high fives and everyone is out in time to make their tea times on the golf course. The whole party lasts between 2 and 5 hours. They’ll wheel me back to recovery and then into a private room where Joy can laugh at me and whatever gibberish comes out of my drug addled brain while I come out from the happy drugs they used to knock me out. One night in the hospital and home again the next day. A couple days of taking it easy and I’ll be able to ease back into my exercise addiction activities. Over the next 2 to 3 months we’ll see if the procedure worked. If not, they get to go back in and give it another shot. Stats show a 70% success rate on the first shot, and roughly 90% if they have to go in again.

I’m hoping the first time’s a charm. I hit a new age bracket this year. Maybe I’ll try to qualify for another Boston Marathon. I missed racing this year. After my heart acted up in the Tucson Marathon in 2010 I figured why pay the money for a race only to have a wacky heart act up and have to get another DNF (Did not Finish).

New York Adventure

Our New York Adventure - The Marathon and the City

Many people have asked about “the story” from our trip to New York. I’ve tossed together my impressions of our latest adventure. It’s incredibly long and self indulgent, but you might enjoy it. If it becomes to much of a chore to read just skim and look at the pictures. Who knows, you might enjoy reading it?

Our New York Adventure

Surviving the trip from the airport: Apparently you have to be an ex-formula one race car driver to qualify to drive airport shuttle vans. We get our Super Shuttle pickup at Newark Airport and roar off toward Manhattan with a Andy (frickin) Granatelli at the wheel. Everyone quickly buckles their seatbelts after about 15 seconds of weaving in and out of traffic and cutting off other drivers. We all get a little religion and say a prayer that we make it to NYC alive. We have a nervous conversation with a tall athletic sun beaten 49 year old Welsh Expatriate living for the past 24 years in Portugal running his 3rd marathon and a couple from London there to watch their son complete his 1st. The English couple had been up north to Vermont to experience the fall colours only to find all the color was on the ground. The leave had already fallen off the trees.

The Lap of Luxury: We’ve booked three nights in the lap of luxury in the historic Essex House on Central Park South. It’s a lavish art deco hotel built in 1931 that recently underwent a 90 million dollar renovation. Rates start at $649 a night. Our room has no view room no pool, no Jacuzzi tub, and we don’t get a complimentary breakfast. Luxury in Midtown Manhattan ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. It does have designer décor, a 42 inch LCD TV, a computerized mini-bar, and a safe. I open the door on the mini bar and take out a strange looking container of clear liquid. It’s water, then I read the mini bar instructions. First the water I just looked at is $6.50, and removing the bottle incurs an automatic charge to your room. I quickly return it hoping I got it back before I purchased the most expensive water in the world. Our fancy LCD TV doesn’t work despite our best efforts at trying to get the thing turned on. That is quickly fixed after we report it to the concierge. We leave and walk the two blocks down to Columbus Circle, the Time Warner building and then through the south end of Central Park, past the finish line, Tavern on the Green and the bronze of Fred Lebow, the race director who died a few years ago from brain cancer after finally running his own race with 9 time winner Grete Waitz. Grete is on this years finishing medal.

We are next door to the exclusive, formally men only, NY Athletic Club. You have to be a member or be sponsored by a member to get in. You also must have a jacket and tie or equivalent “casual business attire” for a woman to grace their foyer. Gym shoes denim clothing of any kind or exposed mid-drifts are strictly forbidden. Apparently you can actually wear athletic cloths and gym shoes in the 21 story facility, but only on designated floor reserved for such behavior. Don’t worry about getting a membership. There are none available, you have to know someone, be sponsored and have a truck load of money.

Essex View from Central Park

Runners Expo: The next morning we hop the Marathon Shuttle bus and head for the Jarvis Center to pickup my race packet. We quickly learned the credo for efficient operation for persons running the NYC Marathon. Just find a line of people go to the end and stand in it. Something good must be at the end. I’m hoping for a free beer or maybe a lap dance. I was disappointed that most just had your race packet or a ticket for carbo loading dinner at the end. One booth had a talk by Peter Reid, Tim DeBoom (past ironman Hawaii winners), Josh or Jason somebody a top US marathoner, and the woman one legged marathon record holder. They are all pumping Power Bars Gels and such except the one legged gal. She was nervous had no idea what she was going to eat or do on race day. None of the rest of the crew was actually racing on Sunday. I got a poster signed and my picture taken with Deana Kastor, the premier US woman marathoner, Olympic bronze medal winner in 2004, US trails marathon winner in 2008, and winner of both the London and Chicago marathons. She’s one tough woman. She was stung by a bee in the back of the throat 100 meters after the start of the World Cross-Country Championships in Portugal. Despite blacking out and falling during the 8k race, she got up and finished in 12th.

Greg with Deana Kastor 2004 Olympic Bronze medalist

We get our picture taken and are told if we text in a particular number our pictures will be shown in Time Square on the Asics Billboard. We’re too pooped to walk down to time square to view it personally but trust that it did appear as promised.
Greg and Joy Asics Picture as shown in Time Square Nov. 3rd 2008
Times Square Asics display where our picture was displayed

Running in Central Park: Joy and I do an easy 2 mile run over the last two miles of the marathon course. She tries to get me to run more but I balk like an ornery horse and refuse to do anything but walk after two miles. Perhaps I was influenced by the sad looking horses dragging tourist through the park on carriage rides, or I was just keeping to my anal schedule. The two mile run gave me exactly 1,300 miles of running since January in preparation for the marathon.

NY 027 Fred Lebow Bronze at Finish Line NY

Carbo Loading dinner at the Tavern on the Green: Joy stood in line to get a ticket to join me for my “complimentary” carbo loading dinner at the famous and highest grossing restaurant/bar in New York. They attached tents to the outside of the building to accommodate the waves of hungry marathoners. We stood in line for about ½ hour waiting for our wave to be let in. We were entertained by a juggler on stilts paid to keep the hungry crowds from rioting. Dinner included hot and cold pasta salad rolls and free Coors Lite. At last free beer! I was saved, my vacation complete. My unfounded exuberance as quickly dulled when I realized I had a race to run in the morning and could not take real advantage of the situation. We kicked ourselves later when we realized there was really no limit on how much beer you could have taken. Plus they gave you fancy Barilla Pasta nylon grocery shopping bags for all the other free stuff they were giving away. I figured later that if you had removed all the promotional crap and carefully stacked the cans of beer you could have squeezed about 42 beers in each of Barilla grocery bags. That’s 82 beers. That would go a long way on deadening the post marathon pain I expected to endure after I’d completed this ridiculously long race.

Race Morning: Wake up at 4:00 AM dress and head downstairs to catch a cab to NY Public Library staging area to catch a bus to Stanton Island start. I share a cab with a guy a 50+ guy from Memphis and the other a heavily accented “Jersey Boy” of about 45. The cab driver asks which one among us is going to finish first. The “Jersey Boy, spouts off that he is. I find out later that I’m the only one who got in with a qualifying time, the other two are marathon virgins who got in through the lottery. When it comes time to pay the fair, who conveniently has no small bills, the cocky Jersey Boy. Memphis and I split the cab fair. I toss him a 10 for the $15 dollar fair and tell him to keep it. Memphis, in true southern hospitality won’t hear of it and graciously give me back the correct change. Two hundred diesel spewing chartered buses are on hand to shuttle nervous runners to the start. We start to head toward the busses and one of New York’s finest tells us that the line starts around the back side of the library. This is a huge library taking up a very large Midtown Manhattan city block. These are the first buses leaving and everyone appears to have had the idea of getting there early. The line moves quickly and before we know it we’ve circled the library and boarded the bus. It’s funny how long the bus ride seems to take, especially when you realize you have to run all the way back to Central Park via an even longer route that the bus took.

Greg Pre Race Fashion Show

It’s a breezy 38 degrees at Fort Wadsworth State Park at the base of the Verrazano bridge. By now it’s 5:30 AM, luckily I’m in the first wave that starts with the professional men (blue wave), elite runners (orange wave), and then my wave the green “locally competitive runners” all starting at 9:40. It’s the first year of wave starts which should help thin the crowd a bit. We’ve got 4 and a half hours to contemplate the daunting task ahead. Despite running 10 marathons I’m still intimidated by the distance. I lay shivering on the ground and try to nap garbed in every spare piece of clothing I felt I could donate to New York charities. I was accompanied by 38,000 fellow nervous runners a couple thousand volunteer in one of 3 or 4 separate areas with tents, free tea coffee bagels and Gatorade, plus over 1,000 port-a-potties. The worlds largest urinal had been abandoned this year. In prior years a open 280 foot piece of PVC pipe cut in half was laid down and men and women alike would stand or squat over the pipe to take a leak. Fred Lebow, the past race director was quite proud of this ingenious yet simple arrangement. Apparently many, including the new race director, didn’t share his enthusiasm for the system and increased the number of port-a-potties to a number that ensured short or non-existent lines. You non-runners may pooh-pooh this essential ingredient of a well run race, but my running buddies know its critical nature. Lack of facilities can reach crisis proportions and the local flora would suffer greatly if the needs were underestimated.

I lay on the cold ground and waited for nature to run its course. I usually visit the little general’s quarters a ridiculous 3 to up to 9 times before a race to make a deposit. Race morning, in spite of several cups of tea, my bowels were holding fast to all the free pasta and beer I drank the night before. This began to concern me greatly, but there was nothing I could do to push things along. The sun rose and the air finally began to warm. Is this too much information:

The wind was blowing quite a bit with gusts of about 20 mph. The great masses huddled like homeless vagabonds in the tents and behind trucks trying to stay warm yet converse energy. With roughly 1/3 of the participants being from over 100 different counties you heard announcements on the loud speakers in 5 different languages. I try to move to a vantage point to see the sun rise but am quickly admonished from a police car loud speaker to not go any further. I comply not wanting to run with a gun shot wound to slow me down.

I hear an announcement for the green wave to move to the starting corals. I head for the port-a-potty hoping for the best. Ten minutes later I hear the green wave start is now closed. If you’re not in the corals you will have to start with the next wave – CRAP! It’s still 40 minutes until the start! The next wave doesn’t go off until 10:00 AM. I shuffle toward what I assume is the coral area where it is indeed fenced off. I see a kind volunteer is letting in athletes with green bibs numbers through the fence. I’m saved. I join the 12,000 or so in my wave and shuffle toward the bridge as helicopters hover overhead. I can make out loud speakers with music and dignitaries speeches. I’m glad I can’t make out what a bunch of blowhard politician have to say two days before the national elections.

The start: I hear the gun for the wheel chair athletes and later for the professional women who start at 9:20. Everyone begins stripping off the several layers of cloths and pitches them onto the ground or the provided boxes or huge dumpster. A runner behind me start to play his trumpet that he’s brought along and apparently plans to run the entire race with. Several men stop between parked buses to relieve themselves. Now is when I remember sage advice given to me by a NYC veteran runner. If you are on the second deck of the Verrazano bridge, stay toward the center. If you run toward the outside you’ll think it is raining. It’s not, you are getting pissed on by the elite runners on the top deck as they stop and pee over the side realizing they really shouldn’t have listened to all that, “make sure you drink enough before the start” nonsense.

I can make out the National Anthem being played among the mayhem. The howitzer goes off and we begin to shuffle toward the start. Frank Sinatra’s New York New York is blasting on the PA system. A fire boat is spraying water below us the sun is shinning and everyone is pumped to be off. It only takes a couple of minutes to reach the pad that records each of our official individual start times via the chips on our shoes with a chip from the pad. There are so many people crossing at one time the timing pads are letting out a continuous high pitched screech. Just a few steps later and I can actually run. I quickly move to the center of the bridge and hope for no “rain”. A stiff head wind is blowing and it is about 44 degrees but feels colder. I tuck behind various runners as I maneuver through the crowd. Before I know it I hit the first mile mark at the center of the 2 plus mile long bridge at 8:43, about 20 seconds faster that the elevation adjusted split times I got printed out at the expo for my goal time of 3:36. I’ve got the printout in the pocket of my shorts. I remember I’m supposed to hit the second mile down the other side of the bridge in 7:43, I hit it at 7:05. So I’m already a minute faster than my goal pace. I dodge cloths in the road that people are shedding in droves. By the end of the bridge I ditch the long sleeved shirt and stocking hat. The head wind has diminished considerably after exiting the bridge. We hit the first water stop at a little beyond two miles. I down the first of what will be roughly 25 cups of lemon lime Gatorade. The road is buried in cups and slick with sticky Gatorade at every water stop, getting progressively worse at the miles click by.

There is at least one band playing per mile of the race. I refer to them as the good the bad and the ugly, some are very good, some not so much, and some were pretty terrible, or perhaps that is the grunge sound they were going for. The miles just fly by through Brooklyn I’m continuing to run well below the 8:12 min/mile pace I need for my goal time. The ethnic area blur past, I know what ethnic group predominates by the music and the faces where enthusiastic cheers go out to the Italian, and Mexican runners. There are lots of runner with Obama on there shirts. And I hear a lot of Obama shouts as we run. I do spot on runner with a McCain shirt. I’m hoping she isn’t lynched before the finish. This is definitely Obama country.

Mile 10: I’m starting to feel the distance. I hit mile 11, the Bedford area which is prominently a Hasidic Jewish area. Men are clad in traditional black robes, hats and the women are dressed in black as well with their heads covered. None of them cheer for us and they avoid eye contact with the runners. There are a few Hasidic Jewish runners but I didn’t see a Jogging Jews, or Synagogue Striders teams, and the community support of such a secular activity has still to take hold despite the past race directors effort to bring his fellow jews into the running community.

Halfway: I hit the half in 1:44:00 as we cross the Pulaski Bridge going into Queens. I begin to realize I’m going to need to back off a bit to avoid bonking before the finish. I come up on four or five runners with orange 3:30 Pacers on their bibs. They are there to help people make that goal. I figure that’s great just stick to them and I’ll make my goal. We hit the Queensboro Bridge over the East River and head into Manhattan and the 16 mile mark. Joy was going to jog over to mile 16 and try and spot me in the crowd. I told her if it hit 45 degrees I would take my shirt off so she might be able to spot me in the crowd. I figured there wouldn’t be many nut balls running shirtless in those temps, 50ish skinny balding men on the other hand made up about 1/3 of the field. I stripped my shirt off and wrap it around my waist tucking it into my shorts. People start yelling hey naked guy and the like. There is a wall of cheering spectators and I scan the crowd for Joy. At one point I think I hear her yell Go Greg! Later I find I must have been hallucinating. She never did pick me out of the crowd. I pass some guy in a huge rubber President Bush mask, and shortly after Bunny Man for Obama and then a cross dresser in a frilly dress, big blonde wig and fake boobs. It’s not a pink tutu like the guy in Boston but close. Joy gets pictures of these guys but somehow misses me.
Greg on at mile 16 or so

We head down 1st Avenue for 4 miles crossing into the Bronx over Willis Ave Bridge run for a mile in the Bronx and then cross back over the river at the Madison Avenue Bridge at mile 21. The bridges make for a pretty hilly race. They are all high enough to sail cruise ships under so you gain at least 100 feet on each one. Now were on 5th Ave and I start looking for Central Park. We pass the Marcus Garvey park and I think we’ve reached the park and the final miles only to have my hopes dashed, the park is still a half mile away. We hit the northwest edge of the park at mile 22.5 and the miles are starting to take there toll on my legs. I’m seeing my mile split times start getting slower but there isn’t much I can do about it. We cut into the park at mile 24 and I know I’ll make my goal time. The 3:30 pacers are still around me so I figure I’m good but I start doing the math and don’t see how we’re going to hit 3:30.

Cross Dressing Finisher Bunny4Barrack.com

The finish: The hills in Central Park are taking extracting whatever reserves I have left. The huge boisterous crowds are yelling and it’s about all that keeps me going. I scan for Joy at mile 25, our other designated spot, but finding her in the crowds is hopeless. I’ve run this last mile past Columbus circle and toward the punishing uphill finish. I push the pace as much as I can but although I’ve increased the effort giving it all I’ve got but I’m just maintaining the pace. I hit the signs for 800 and then 400 yards. It is the longest half mile of the entire course. At 200 yards I finally see the grandstands and the finish. I remember to raise my arms, no small task at this point, as I cross the finish line and then I hit my watch 3:33:48. Of course the finish picture didn’t happen until I dropped my arms to hit the watch. So much for the posed finish shot. I feel kind of bad for the 3:30 goal runners who stuck with the pacers only to come up short of their goal. I’m elated and thrilled to have run fast enough to qualify for the Boston Marathon in Mid April. I’m also totally whooped.

I get my finishers medal draped around my neck by a volunteer and stop for the official race finish picture and a Mylar blanket. Then I try to cut over the fence in knowing my Hotel and Joy are just a block away. The police guarding the fence won’t tolerate it and chase me back. I guess they think I might poop on the grass or something. Volunteers cut the timing chip cut off my shoe then I make another attempt at a short cut to the hotel and that inviting bed that is beakoning me. I put my sweaty shirt back on and wrap the Mylar blanket around me and get in line and trudge with the rest of the exhausted masses the 1 ½ miles out the official exit around Columbus Circle and then back to the Hotel. I have a nice conversation with a fellow runner and Cop from Brooklyn who finished just a couple minutes ahead of me. I’m beat hungry and my legs ache in every conceivable location, Achilles, insteps, calves quads and hamstrings. No part went unpunished. Thankfully, no toenail lost or blisters to deal with.

Random people congratulate me on the street and are actually making eye contact. I walk past an bunch of Amish women doing an beautiful rendition of amazing grace, it is touching and a bit surreal. I hit the lobby of the Essex and look for Joy to no avail. I vacantly ask a bell hop where the phones are to call the room. It takes considerable concentration to remember our room number. I finally get to the room and lie down on the bed for a few minutes then stuff down some chocolates and some ibuprofen and run a hot bath to clean off the Gatorade, sweat and grit that accumulated over the many miles. Joy has a chicken wrap and other goodies there for me. I wolf down everything in site.

We lie around and watch the ABC broadcast of the race at 3:00 and then shuffle off to find dinner. I’m still starving. We stop at a close by bistro and I order the lobster ravioli. It comes and is so salty it is essentially impossible to eat. Joy tries a bite and agrees. For possibly the second time in my life I send a meal back. I have them bring me the spinach quiche. It’s lousy but edible. I eat it just the same hoping there isn’t too much spit on it from a overly sensative chef seeking retribution for critisizing his cuisine.

The next day: The next morning I knew what to expect. My legs are screamed to me, “What did you do to me? Now I’m going to make you pay!” And pay I did. Some people bounce back after a marathon and are out jogging the next day. I am not one of those people. Check out the video clip of me going down the stairs if you want a laugh.

We take the elevator downstairs and I think I’ll just have breakfast in the hotel restaurant. The waiter asks if I want orange juice, I think yeah that would be good and then I glance at the menu, $11.00 for orange juice. I’m about to get up in spite of the pain in my legs and find breakfast on the street. Joy orders tea and I think screw it I’m on vacation. I order tea to and then check the menu $8.50 for tea. In spite of the price we order breakfast and pay $64.00 for eggs and toast. We were doing our part to stimulate the economy.

We finish breakfast and walk over to Traven on the Green to buy a hat and get my finishers medal engraved with the time and my name. Everyone is shuffling around like zombies from The Night of the Living Dead. If misery loves company, I had a lot of company.

We fill our backpacks and grab our Barilla bags of freebees and check out of the Essex. I’m glad to see I didn’t get charged for the $6.50 water I admired from the mini-bar. We and head down to the Econo Lodge on 47th Ave and 8th Street, two blocks from time square. It is noisy but clean and our 42” LCD is now shrunk to a 19 inch that barely comes in. We’ve downsized to a double bed, but on the plus side we get complementary breakfast of bagels croissants cereal and tea. No Wall Street Journal, or NY Times delivered to our door in the morning, but we do get USA Today. If I listen hard from our two story room the size of the interior of a minivan I can hear the clicking of the 3 inch heals the high upkeep women wear as they head down the street amidst the shout and yell, sirens, horns and car traffic din that is never ending in the city that never sleeps.

We check in and stop by TKS to pick up tickets to Avenue Q, a tony award winning Broadway show that has been playing since 2004. It’s a bit raunchy with a bout of puppet sex, and some great songs like I’m a little racist. We have a great time.

Election Day: We thought what would be more appropriate than to visit the statue of Liberty on Election day, and so we did. We hopped the ferry to the big lady dressed in a the towel and then bounced over to Ellis Island for a little tour. I skipped most of the stairs as my legs still insisted on punishing me for the abuse I’d put them through. We did the Greyline Bus tour around downtown past ground zero, the empire state building Wall Street and the like. The election returns started coming in around 9:00 PM and we walked Time Square past the ABC broadcast center where the crowds were beginning to get boisterous and you could hear constant shouts of Obama. We watched election returns and could see on TV the Times Square crowds we had just been a part of. At 11:00 is was obvious that Obama would win and we faded off to sleep. At 11:30 PM when they officially called the race for Obama the place went nuts, with people yelling and horns honking.

Statue of Liberty Joy and Greg on election day 2008

Then next day we toured the Rockefeller Center which is owned by GE/NBC. We took pictures of the US Map on the ice rink with the red and blue states painted. We did the NBC Studio tour and got to visit and touch the desk from which Brian Williams announced the historic event and the studio for the Today Show. Joy and I volunteered to do a fake broadcast from a side studio where I was the weatherman and she was the anchor woman. I have a whole new respect for the whole green screen mirror image stuff folks do on TV. It’s much harder than it looks especially with half a dozen strangers looking on. No one else would volunteer. We tried to buy the DVD of our broadcast but their DVD burner wouldn’t work.

Time Square Day After the Election Rockefeller Center Election Map Nov 6th Obama Win

Other sites and sounds: We went up the Empire State building at night and took a few pictures.

Toured the United Nations, Museum of Modern Art, Radio Music Hall, the National History Museum, Grand Central Station, and saw Wintuk, a Cirque de Soli at the Madison Square Garden. We did a bus tour of Brooklyn and walked for hours in Central Park. We spent the last night outside of Newark across from the New Jersey State Prison for less than $100 a night with a King Bed. The good deals are all in Jersey.




It was a great trip and Vacation. We’ve done New York and may never return, but we can check this off our Bucket List.

If you read this completely to the end, you too should get a prize for enduring this e-mail Marathon. Your eyeballs may be a little sore for a couple of days but, don’t worry, they will be OK after a little rest.

Take care and thanks for your indulgence,

Greg

Turn 50 and get a birthday present from your health care provider

This year I was happy to go to my 50 year old physical. Being fit, thin, and athletic, I expected a hearty pat on the back, a turn a cough, a finger up the butt, a kiss on the cheek and a heartfelt keep up the good work from Marius, my HMO doc.

Things went pretty much to plan. Marius finished up my extensive 7 minute exam and gave me a card. How thoughtful, a birthday card, what a nice touch; perhaps that’s what all my co-pay increases have been going to. I opened the card and there was no funny line or pictures of flowers, Marius began to explain to me this was for my poop samples. What a let down. So down to the lab without so much as a kiss on the cheek or even a half hearted hug, so I could share a few more of my precious bodily fluids and then limp on home feeling rejected and unloved.

Over the next few days I dutifully placed my dookey deposits on my card and mailed them off feeling sorry for the mail carrier having to handle my smelly letter. A few days later I get my results and a letter from Bubba’s Butts and Guts Fun Emporium to set up my appointment for a full blown colonoscopy. Oh, goody, a bunch of complete strangers get to fish 20 feet of garden hose up my ass hooked up with a video camera, lights, a microphone, 2 production assistants and a grip or two. I don’t even get the chance to yell, “stunt double”, just before Bubba zeros in on me with the hose and I say my big line, “All right Mr. De Mille, I’m ready for my close up.”

Today is the big day. I biked down to Group Health on Monday and picked up my pills and my gallon jug of Crappuccino powder. Yesterday was an all liquid diet. I breakfasted on popsicles, had popsicles for lunch, and nasty chicken broth for dinner. I cracked a Corona for dinner after I realized this was a clear liquid. Joy quickly grabbed my instruction sheet, doubting that beer was an appropriate clear liquid. I told her they had just been derelict on their abbreviated list of acceptable clear liquids. At least it wasn’t specifically disallowed, so therefore it was allowed by omission. After getting a great one beer buzz, I’m going to suggest they add it to the list as a highly recommended clear liquid.

Two minutes after Dad left for home after dinner the Crappuccino kicked in with a vengeance. This stuff is a crime against nature. After choking down almost 4 liters of this nasty tasting clear beverage your plumbing gets reversed and you’re peeing out the wrong orifice. Not a pretty sight. However, adhering to this regiment is a great weight loss technique. By morning I had lost 5 ½ pounds. I have visions of all the Oscar nominated starlets scoring Crappuccino on the black market and spending the night before the big event on the pot like me so they can fit into their $50,000 Armani dress. I think this could be the new big drink at Starbucks that could cure their recent flat sales.

The”procedure” was pretty uneventful; an all female staff with the exception on one poor fella. I was curious what they’d find up my butt. Who knows what kind of stuff was lurking in the depths of my virgin colon. The woman doctor was nice and gentle, and with the drugs I had in me from the IV the video was pretty exciting. I expected her to switch to old episodes of The Golden Girls when things got dull, or at least have the stock market and sports tickers running across the bottom of the screen. But the only thing on was, What’s Up Greg’s Hairy Butt TV. “She did run across a three foot section of hot wheels track and a Herbie the Love Bug, hot wheels car. Even though It was a 1962 classic it was in pretty rough shape, so she decided to leave it in and not hock it on EBay.

In the recovery room we had several people recovering like me that were given the green light to fart like pack mules with total abandonment. I can’t tell you how liberating that is. I felt like I was in Junior high again. We got together and tried to start a little Mormon Fartirnacle Choir. We couldn’t quite get out Flight of the Bumblebee. It must have been a little too fast paced for the geriatric member. We had to settle for Row Row Row Your Boat in 3 part harmony. We all decided to get back together in 10 years and for our next rectal exams and bring our recording equipment. Look for the CD around Easter in 2018.

Is this story what they refer to as too much information?

My sister Kathleen is next up for the Kirkpatrick’s trifecta of colonoscopies. Let’s all hope she comes up with a clean slate like her two much younger brothers.

Palisades Hike - Mount Rainier

We had a great time this weekend, just Joy and I on a long overdue camping hiking excursion. I’d forgotten how much we enjoyed doing these. It had been a couple years since we made a trip. I packed up Thursday to get us ready to vamoose as soon as I got home Friday. Guilt set in and I removed the rocks and six pack of beer from Joy’s pack. It seemed way too easy for her to give me a little push off a cliffs edge to repay my ill advised attempt at personal merriment. Of course we didn’t make it to the campsite until well after dark. Fresh out of large quantities of gasoline or a hose to siphon some from the car, we were forced to start a fire with only sticks and matches. I have heard this can be done, but should only be attempted in emergency situations. After a few attempts and some excessive hyperventilating we achieved some success. I wouldn’t advice attempting this much heavy breathing at one time without hopes of some kind of award or a Commemorative T-shirt, perhaps accompanied with large amounts of body lotion.
We made camp and set up the tent well before midnight. This assured us an early start and a shot at a backcountry camping permit at our destination, the Palisades area, near Sunrise at Mount Rainier National park.

We got to the trailhead permit in hand about 9:30 the next morning and were greeting with exceptional September weather and a spectacular view of Mt. Rainier.


The short of it is this is a great hike that can be done in one day, or if you want to savor the moment as we did, an overnight excursion with full packs. It’s a hike of many alpine lakes, 9 or 10 depending how you count.

We awoke the next morning at 3:00 AM to the sound of a bugling bull elk with a little too much enthusiasm for that time in the morning. It was about 30 degrees and we couldn’t drive ourselves outside for a view of the stars, except through the tent door, in spite of dangerously full bladders. Suffice it to say no leakage occurred into our fancy down sleeping bags in spite of our advanced age. This was no small accomplishment. We were further serenaded throughout the trip with the EEK of pikas and the whistling of marmots who hung out very near camp. We even got some good pictures of the little beasts. On the way out we saw a huge 4 or 5 point (8 or 10 eastern count) black tail buck that would have made any self respecting deer hunter salivate like Jimmy Swagart at a hooker’s convention. Sorry, too far away for a good picture.

I’ll waste no more words nor your time. What follows is a few of the pictures with captions that describe the scene.

Black Hills Triathlon 2007

Yes, Saturday was my annual endeavor to humiliate myself at the Black Hills triathlon. After mentioning it to everyone in the family, friends, acquaintances, and co-workers no one chose to come out and see me suffer for snippets of the almost 3 hours of racing. Even my lovely devoted wife said, “ yah whatever” and went running with our running buddies, went out to breakfast and celebrated a few birthdays, one milestone 60th for our buddy Bob Lanouette (happy birthday Bob! and Becci too!), rather that be bored at the race. Perhaps my insistence in arriving 2 hours early and my annoying pre-race jitters had something to do with it. Needless to say, feeling unloved and uncared and under appreciated, I drug myself out for what, on intent reflection of my history of the race, appears to be my 18th time racing in this event in some capacity.

Luckily it’s like going to a high school reunion at this race. After all the years the old race junkies like me congregate, mingle, and reflect on their various races, exploits, injuries, cholesterol counts, and upcoming joint replacemnt surgeries over the past years. Now we lament about slowing down, gimping up and yet we still show up year after year for our punishment of swimming ¾ of a mile biking 30 and running 5 miles.

This year it wasn’t sprinkling rain at the start like last year. It was a brisk 46 degrees at 7:00 AM but the sun promised to come out and warm us up into the high 70’s by the end of the race. The water was in the low 70’s, about as warm as it gets for this time of year. It was dead calm until the pre-race meeting at 9:20 then the warming sun kicked up a substantial wind. It’s always windy on the bike ride in the flats of south Thurston County; this year didn’t look any different.

This year is the last year in the sub-geezer category, so I was in the 3rd wave of 4. I got a good start and sucked in behind Olympia’s triathlon legend, Linda Nelson. She didn’t train at all this year but she still swims straight and fast so I was amazed to see I was in the front of our group coming up on the first buoy. No anxiety attacks this year and I didn’t find myself tied up with the swimming area ropes like last year. I lost Linda and my sweet draft at the buoy and had to rely on my own navigation skills for the rest of my 22:38 swim. I watched my buddy, Bill Penn, a butt kicking 55 year old master swimmer and ironman triathlete, blow past me at the last buoy making up the 5 minute head start I had on him. Again, visions of the exact same pass in last year’s race.

After dumping my wetsuit and donning my mountain bike shoes I sprinted up the ¼ mile hill for a fast transition. Three miles later, Bill again past me on the bike. I guess my transitions are still the best part of my race. On the bike I was pleased to see a tail wind for the first 13 miles of the ride but dreaded the eventual turn around that would change the screaming 25 mph on the flats I was able to maintain to a painful 16 mph grind into the face of the wind. I brushed a yellow jacket off that stuck to the hairs of my leg at one point. It was a déjà vu moment of getting stung in the face last year at the same race. I thought I’d scored the perfect motor pace when some old dude on a scooter pulled out in front of me fully equipped with tassels and nick knacks stuck to various parts of his body and scooter. I did my best to close the gap and tuck behind the old guy but I just couldn’t close the gap. Next year I think I’ll post my father out on the course for a much needed assist. The wind and the hills beat me down to a 19.7 mph average for the bike by the time I turned into the park. There I got trapped behind some truck doing 10 mph. My energetic hand jesters did little to dissuade her poky tour of the park. Finally a sympathetic volunteer guided her off the course and out of my frickin’ way.

I was off the bike and onto the scenic trail run course in 25 seconds. I concentrated as hard as I could on my footing, not wishing to repeat my foot breaking ankle twist last year. You know how you sometimes concentrate so hard on not doing something that you can’t seem to avoid doing it anyway. A half a mile into the run I managed to find some imperfection on one of the widest smoothest section of the trail to twist the same my ankle and nearly fall. For the next dozen steps I lurched along with my nose 2 inches off the dirt trying not to fall and roll my sweaty self in the dirt so I looked like a piece of Almond Roca. This year I avoided screaming obscenities. I was by myself at that point on the trail and we all know if Greg screams pointless obscenities in the forest and there is know one there to hear it, there is no sound. I walked for 100 feet or so and then started to jog. I could feel the bone in my foot that was broken last year but the pain wasn’t as bad. After another ¼ mile or so I was running pretty well again and passed 8 or 10 people before the finish. I got passed only twice, humbled by the fact that they were beautiful strong women but relished in the improvement in scenery as I watched them fade into the distance like mirages.

I finished strong feeling exhausted and at least a little exhilarated for pushing myself so hard for 2:37:11, 47th overall out of 188 individual racers,and 9th place in my age division our of 23. I’m hoping next years move into the 50-54 age bracket will be kinder on me. If I was just t months older I would have placed 2nd. The foot is a little bruised but I’m still walking (at least that was an improvement over last year!). I think I did rebreak it but not as badly as last year. just a little bruising over the site of the old break.

I’ve recycled a picture below of last year’s race since there was no support crew there to take pictures. My buddy Denny Brooks will posted some pictures on http://www.ontherunevents.com/finish.sht. I stole one of his to post here. I know no one really cares, but in case you’re bored and you actually read this all the way to the end . . . Who knows it could happen.

Alaskan Travel Log

Travel Journal Alaska Vacation:

Day 1: travel to the airport. Roll over accident on I5. Bitch of a commute. Inell is a trooper and drives all the way to Olympia, through the gantlet of traffic to ferry us to the airport. It took almost an hour to get out of Lacey. This was a difficult trip to the airport for Dad, who usually sets to the airport 3 hours early; he sat wordlessly in the shotgun seat, nervously wondering if we would make the fight on time. All went well and we were an hour early.

We met Bob and Berna at the airport, all smiles and nearly giddy about the upcoming flight and trip. Well, at least Bob was less Cynical than normal. I walked off and left my two paperback books at the airport. I think I caught some of Berna’s 50th disease. One was a gift, but the other was borrowed so I’ll be buying at least one replacement of a book I had barely started. At least I didn’t walk off and leave this 3,000 dollar tablet PC!

It was a good flight with great views of the Pacific coast Range for the first few hundred miles, majestic and snow covered. Later the coast socked in as is the normal state for the rainy southeast Alaska coast.
We arrive in Fairbanks and are met by the Princess staff where we are told too not get our bags. Then we wait while they accumulate then and we are finally allowed to touch them to retag them to there next destinations. One bag goes to the boat and the other one travels with us for the next couple days. We arrive at the Fairbanks Princess Lodge and hook up with The Fuller side of our couple trios plus Dad. Dad has to fight off one grizzle bear but it doesn’t upset him much. After the long flight cooped up it probably just felt good to blow off a little steam.
The next morning we hop on a big Princess bus and are shuttled a mile or so to the Discovery 3 paddle wheeler for a river tour. They treat us with a great 3 hour tour of the Chena River eventually entering the muddy sandbar ridden Tanana River. They have a float plane take off and land next to us on either side of the boat. The guide talks with the pilot. We stop at the late Susan Butcher’s, four time winner of the Iditarod, “Trailbreaker Kennels. We talk, via guide and headsets with the trainer. He and his staff have puppies to show us and about 60 dogs. 14 dogs are harnessed to a motor-less Quad that they enthusiastically pull as a finale, around the camp at 20 mph pulling a 200 lb musher. Every dog in the place goes nuts with excitement seeing their friends getting to pull.

Down the river a bit more we are entertained by a native Athabascan woman who has a fish camp and fish wheel setup. She explains a little bit about their culture and the need to catch one chum salmon a day for the winter food supply for each of their dogs. They have fish drying and she cleans a chum salmon and readies it for drying in 33 seconds.
Later we meet with the rest of her family who demonstrate and model the fur clothes of their culture. The Sun hood is lined with wolverine which doesn’t freeze frost up in the cols. At their Chena village they have reindeer, a garden with huge cabbages that grow to 30 lbs or more; skins from bear, moose, caribou, among other. PETA activist in the group contemplate burning the place to the ground in protest, however, it is pissing rain and they couldn’t get anything to burn in the area with a blow torch and a big bucket of gasoline (Boy Scout water).

There was a unfounded rumor that their were Kings salmon in the river, noted by a few fisherman. They must have been cruise liner plants for the tourist, cause no one caught or displayed any fish. The fish wheels that were running were running empty. It’s pouring rain on us for much of the paddle boat ride. When we disembark to tour the village we are given umbrellas to make it a little more pleasant. The demonstrations are brought on board prior to keep us from getting wet.

We hope back aboard the train and then a Princess bus to Denali Princess Lodge. The weather clears and we catch a glimpse of Denali, which is better than many tourist experience. We’re happy to have had the glimpse and don’t expect much more.

The next morning we board an old school bus to take a ride with Brian, an Indiana native and long term Alaska resident for a guided trip into Denali National Park. They limit the access to a few bus companies on the park road. Brian, a tall lanky blonde with a scruffy red beard waxes poetically about the parks flora and fauna, geology and history. We stop and admire a cow moose with two calves right next to the road. They entertain us as they bounce around and eat the purple fireweed and suckle their mother until she can’t take it any longer and brushes them off. After 3 or 4 minutes they wander off into the brush and we move on. We continue on until the paved road ends 17 miles into the park. Denali is still 70 miles away, but we catch a peek of it periodically as the clouds part for a bit.

We stop on the return trip to view 25 or 30 Dall sheep on the ridges above the road. Brian brings out a spotting scope that allows us good views of the sheep and their curled horns.


Further down the mountain we stop to view two huge Bull Moose meander along a small alpine lake. My vantage point didn’t allow for very good pictures. Rick got the best pictures. These were big burly moose. They made the cow look pretty homely and gangly in comparison. It’s kind of like comparing Russell Crow with Popeye’s Oliveoil.

We return traveling through the town of Talkeetna the jumping off spot for people attempting to climb 20,320 Denali (Mt. McKinley). The next day we stop at the ranger station where all the climbers have to register. To keep their rescues to a minimum, they make them all unpack their gear and inventory their stuff to make sure they’ve got 3 weeks of food and all the necessary climbing gear. No spending money helicoptering off bonehead tourists in flip flops and cutoffs off the glaciers for them. I picked up a book on the first winter summit called minus 148 degrees and learned a whole new respect for the big mountain that dwarfs Rainier. The mountain lift’s her skirts that morning and we’re treated to some spectacular views of Denali along with Hunter (14,573 ft) and Foraker (17,400 ft). It takes close to 3 weeks to climb the highest peak in North America, and arguably the tallest mountain in the world (starts at much lower than Everest). It’s not uncommon to have July temperatures dip to -40 degrees Fahrenheit. Our friends Art Foley and Julie Smith have both climbed Denali; I don’t think I’ll be signing up any time soon. They are both much tougher than I am.

We travel a bit more by bus and train out of the park but closer to Mt. Denali to spend the night at McKinley Lodge; I think it is also owned by the Princess Cruise line. There are a bar called 20,320. Spending time in the bar is the only way I’ll remember Denali’s height.

We finally make our way via the McKinley Express railway, skirting Anchorage, spotting a black bear on the river bed. We have a nice early dinner on the train and drink moose mary’s. That evening we arrive at the little town of Whittier, a narrow little deep water bay that is part of Prince William Sound. We finally spy the Island Princess, our home for the next seven days. The water under the obscene floating hotel cruise ship monstrosities is 6,000 feet deep. The processes like pampered Kobe beef cattle into the comforting womb of the mothership. We’re issue cute little Princess Credit Cards. We quickly start to eat Princess Food. By the end of the trip we expect to piss Princess blue and crap little Princess boats that they sell back to us in the gifts shops.
We checkout our lavish luxuriant accommodations. Joy Dad and I, the consummate tightwads, are sharing what we fondly refer to as the honeymoon suit. The room is about 8 x 10 equipped with single bunk beds. I think some may have referred to it in the past as steerage. Joy quickly claims the top bunk. We have a view out the little port hole of the side of a life boat. We might not see much out the window but we’ll be one of the first out should we pull and titanic and hit an iceberg. We sail away through the night and arrive in the wee hours, 5:30 AM, at College Fjord. After being wined and dined the night before it takes a hearty soul to hope out of a warm bed to view the sights. Joy is that hearty soul. After hearing the naturalist’s narrative droning on with a steady monotone that is impossible to make out actual words down in steerage. Joy pops out of bed, tosses on some cloths and goes up on deck to see if we’re sinking. I stagger up 15 minutes later to a spectacular view of glaciers flowing down into a placid sea that reflects the clouds on a windless morning. Dad follows a bit later. The rest of the gang chooses to sleep in for some much needed beauty sleep. They finally drag themselves up on deck as we are motoring out of the fjord.

We continue on to Glacier Bay for more spectacular views rare sunny skies. Many of the crew members are on deck taking pictures as well. Many have never seen the weather so good where you have views of the glaciers and the mountains above that are normally shrouded in clouds. We spend several hours just admiring the scenery and the occasional calving of the glacier into the water. Bobby captures one of the better ones on film. The cruise ships get very close to the glacier but are no longer allowed to honk their big steep fog horns to break loose the ice for the tourist. The probably caused the swamping of a few wayward kayakers. We spot a harbor seal and eagle on the little drifting ice chunks. We even see a grizzle bear on the far bank that you could only make on through binoculars.

We make cruise out of Glacier Bay and keep our eyes peeled for more wildlife. Bob captures a good shot of what I’m guessing is either a minki whale or small humpback whale. We enjoy another fabulous meal with our waiters who are quickly becoming our close personal friends. We dine on escargot appetizers and variations of lamb, beef, and seafood.
At sunset. Joy and I go up on deck to watch the sunset. We’re treated to an incredible sunset with the wake of the ship leaving a trail back to the white glowing mountains with the orange sky reflected in the clouds above. We suffer minor hypothermia and a dieing camera battery to capture a few memories as we huddle together shivering romantically. The rest of the gang takes in a comedy show, Dad spends the evening between the Library and reading in our room.

We cruise through the night to arrive in the morning at Skagway, population 800 with 65 miles of road. The cruise line crowd swells that number to over 10,000 most days in the summer. There are 3 or 4 in port. After a morning run through touring town Joy and I hop aboard the Yukon Scenic Railway to make a make a run past 2,865 White Pass and the Chilkoot Trail, the road to the Klondike during the gold rush. The poor, adventurous, or just greedy miners had to haul 2000 lbs of gear up the pass. Enough for a years supply. They were checked out at the top before they were allowed to continue. We pass into Canada’s Yukon Territory. The Canadian customs people check out passports on the train that is really in the middle of nowhere. We arrive at Fraser and Bernard Lake for a little kayaking adventure. It’s a bit windy so we head out with our 4 guides and a dozen or so fearless kayakers. We’ll actually some of them look very afraid but all are willing. Joy and I are the most experienced and quickly leave the crowd in the dust to meander into the calm bays and wait for the group to catch up. We sail with a stiff tailwind back barely having to paddle. The rookie guide then is apparently required as a right of passage to do a polar bear dip into the frigid waters of the lake that only lost its ice a few weeks ago. The estimate is the water temp is a balmy 44 degrees. He tries to recruit some tourist to join him. There are no takers. We sit around and swill hot chocolate and quaff Oreo cookies and watch him shiver. If memory serves me, the Full’s and Even’s spend some quality couples time in Skagway shopping for jewelry and gifts. You should have seen the gleeful look on Bobby and Rick’s faces when they heard the morning agenda. Dad took a different train ride that cumulated in a seafood feast. Interestingly the American custom officials didn’t even look at our passports. They just wanted a head count. So much for homeland security. Send this on to any terrorist you know. I think I’ve spotted the weakness in our fight against terror.
We come together for another wonderful meal. We all have frog legs. We’ll at least I had frog legs. Seemed like cheating eating frogs I didn’t catch like we did as kids. They were good but personally I would have let these little frog go to grow up a little. We enjoy another evening of shows and lounging in the Library reading while watching the scenery to by. as we head for Juneau. We watch Dan Bennett, the juggling comedian. The next morning we tour the Juneau Macaulay Salmon Hatchery with thousands of Chum salmon milling around the hatchery. Eagles and Gulls are feasting on the carcasses strewn randomly across the beach. On the wall is a mount of the former world record sport caught King Salmon - a staggering 92 lbs. We make stops at the museum and continue on by bus to a native garden and the Mendenhall Glacier, a long meandering glacier that cumulates in a lake just a 40 minutes or so outside of Juneau. An impressive water fall flows out of one side and we spot a few colorful red sockeye salmon in the little creek that is the outlet for the lake.

Next - a full day and night cruising toward Ketchikan. We take advantage of a seafood buffet and admire the fruit and vegetable carving demonstration along with the ice carving demonstration.
In Ketchikan the gang splits up. Rick and Marie go on a rafting trip and Bobby and Berna take the adventure cart tour. Joy and I do a little 12 mile bike ride with only one other tourist and a guide. With 35 miles of road in Ketchikan the road biking options are pretty limited.

We make the final push the next day for Vancouver. That night we have lobster. Dad and Bob and think tie for the most lobster eaten, both devouring eight of the little crustaceans. The rest of us suck down a paltry 3 to 5. We are treated with traditional flaming baked Alaska (serno cans on top) for dessert paraded around the room by the large staff of wait persons while they belt out the Macarena on the speakers.
It was a great trip and fun was had by all. I’d write more but it is late and God knows you don’t want to read more of my drivel. Enjoy the pictures even it the words put you to sleep. My editor is in Chicago visiting with her family so suffer with my typos and grammatical mistakes. Please don’t point them out to me; my ego is fragile and easily bruised. I make no claims to the accuracy of the chronological order of the events depicted here. If any of our cruise gang wants to correct me they can write their own damn story.