"Meditations on Automotive Access and Excess"

Kanakanak Road, the main avenue into Dillingham. Kanakanak features junctions with the 3-mile Wood River Road
and the 19-mile Aleknagik Lake Road. Besides Aleknagik, no other towns or villages can be reached by road from here.

THE VIEW FROM OUT WEST (part two)

Meditations on Automotive Access and Excess

When I was in my early teens, my father informed me: “When Soldotna gets stoplights, it’ll be time to move.” He failed to smile when he said this.

His proclamation worried me. I may have been an unruly and grumbly teen-ager, but I liked where I lived. I had no desire to move. And it seemed likely to me that if the traffic on the central peninsula continued to multiply and intensify the way it was in the 1970s, stoplights were coming, eventually.

It took a while—until the late 1980s, when all three Fair children were adults—but Soldotna did get stoplights (at the junction of the Sterling Highway and Kalifornsky Beach Road, and at the junction of the Sterling and Kenai Spur highways).

But my dad didn’t jerk up the tent stakes. He may have gritted his teeth as the stoplights kept coming, but he didn’t sell the homestead. He and Mom stayed put.

Chalk it up to inertia or entrenchment, to basic fatigue, or to some resigned recognition of the inevitable. The Fairs remained, and the traffic signals continued to increase.

At least there were no stoplights out on our own little gravel lane. (Heck, there were barely any road signs.) As he drove back from work each weekday evening, Dad could take solace from the rooster-tail of dust behind his truck and the absence of artificial illumination he encountered down the homestretch.

It’s not that my father disparaged public safety. Quite to the contrary, almost anyone who knew him well would say he was a meticulously safety-conscious man. But, having been raised in a rarely changing, blink-and-you’re-through-it Indiana town (which to this day still has no stoplights), he simply was no big fan of rapid progress. He liked his development at glacial speed. And he preferred narrow country roads—trails were even better—and plenty of mountains and water and wildlife.

I think he would have enjoyed where I live now in Dillingham.

There are no stoplights here. There aren’t many stop signs, either.

It must also be said, of course, that there aren’t that many roads.

The farthest that one can travel by road here without turning around is about 25 miles—from the hospital  at the southern end of Kanakanak Road to the sprawling Lake Aleknagik at the northern end of the road named after the lake—so the opportunity for intersectional conflict is greatly diminished. During that entire route from south to north, a driver must use his turn signal only once and will encounter no stop signs. Driving the same route in reverse requires halting at one stop sign and then turning right. Period.

In Dillingham it is possible to drive from one end of town to the other and stop at no more than three intersections—and at those only briefly.

Traffic here, frankly, is minimal overall and pales by comparison to the summer chaos on the Kenai.

I have been here since the beginning of September and have seen not a single motorhome.

That fact alone would mean almost Traffic Nirvana to peninsula residents, if it weren’t for one little snag: limited access.

While the shortage of roads means a relative dearth of traffic snarls, it also means that it’s more difficult to drive to this area’s abundant mountains and fish-bearing lakes and streams.

Peninsula residents, by contrast, can drive along the length of the Kenai River and through broad valleys of the Kenai Mountains. There are well-maintained gravel roads leading to Skilak and Tustumena lakes. There are boat launches from Homer to Nikiski, from Kenai to Soldotna to Seward. There are old mining roads and state and federal trail systems that open up the backcountry.

Snake Lake Road leads, of course, to Snake
(Nunavaugaluk) Lake, via Aleknagik Lake Road.

Here, a single access point—the unmaintained Snake Lake Road—leads to four trails that venture uphill—to Warehouse Mountain, Snake Mountain, China Cap, and Nunavaugaluk Overlook. The rest of the mountain trailheads, I’ve been told, lie across large lakes or streams or vast stretches of boggy tundra.

And this place, which includes the largest state park (Wood-Tikchik) in the United States, is nearly surrounded by gorgeous peaks and ridgelines, and some amazing fishing spots, which is why most people who live in Dillingham have remedied their vehicular-access ailments with the following cures: private airplanes, power boats, snowmachines, and four-wheelers.

Planes and boats are the key means to
reach the distant mountains and the
prime fishing spots.

In the summer, the rivers, creeks and lakes in this place are liquid avenues to the great beyond. And in the winter, I’ve been told, the tundra and frozen lakes around here are transformed into veritable snowmachine highways.

Meanwhile, my own versions of the Dillingham modus transporti include a borrowed inflatable kayak, my mountain bike, cross-country skis, snowshoes, and whatever else I can strap onto or slide over my feet to improve my human-powered progress.

 

Drivers on the Kenai Peninsula, on the other hand, are positively spoiled by access—as was I for many decades—no matter how many gates or regulations we may have denounced.

Peninsula drivers also are spoiled by the very fuel prices that I was bitching about back in August. The price tag here on unleaded gasoline is pushing $7 per gallon.

On the plus side, having so few roads means that it takes longer to burn up a tank of gas.

And finally, peninsula drivers are spoiled by the number of options available to them via the highway system. In Dillingham, there are no car lots—and of course no car salesmen. All vehicles are delivered here either by cargo plane or by barge, mostly out of Anchorage. The little Toyota we drive cost nearly $3,000 to ship here—packed with clothing and household goods—on a multi-village sea voyage lasting approximately three weeks.



Also, since it is so difficult and expensive to get them here, vehicles rarely leave once they arrive. In fact, I think it is fair to say that Dillingham—like many remote Alaska communities, I suspect—is a place where cars and trucks come to die.

Abandoned VW Bugs form a small graveyard along Wood River Road.

The cost of sending old junkers to a salvage yard on the road system is prohibitive. Consequently, many backyards here contain rusting, battered hulks, often tucked in behind or alongside the ubiquitous boats and solid-steel shipping containers.

It is nice, however, to have a reliable source of spare parts lying around. Consequently, even junk here has value….

In the end, it’s up to each individual to decide which is better—all that access and the excess that goes with it, or more limited access but less of the hustle and bustle that my father disliked. In Dillingham, Dad would’ve found ways to get into the wilderness and to all the best fishing holes.

And he would still be waiting for the first stoplight to appear.

Mom, on the other hand….

 

 

"This May Seem Like a Trivial Pursuit, but...."

This was the Redoubt Reporter team in 2011, the second consecutive year we won the Triviapalooza title.

THE VIEW FROM OUT WEST (part one)

“This May Seem like a Trivial Pursuit, but….”

 

SEPTEMBER 2013

I can’t repeat every verbal rejoinder that Trivia Master Sarah Evans unleashes to the throng during Trivia Night at the Willow Tree bar each Tuesday in Dillingham—this is a family newspaper, after all—but I can report that the F-word is bandied about as heartily as the beers are consumed. And while I can’t commend Sarah for her use of proper language, I certainly can praise her ability to keep proper order among the rowdy, suds-swilling trivia buffs seated at plastic tables spread throughout the sprawling establishment:

“Put that phone away, or I swear I’ll cut your F---ing hand off!”

“Come on, guys! No cheating! Don’t be d---!”

“Shut up! Shut up and listen! Okay, question number seven….”

Such exclamations and enthusiasm readily grab one’s attention. Such exuberant vulgarity even has its own kind of charm. And such rawness adds to the flavor of a beloved community event occurring weekly inside a shadowy saloon along the Nushagak River.

In many ways—minus all the swearing, of course--it’s not so different from Trivia Night each Wednesday near the Kenai River at Odie’s in Soldotna or the Triviapalooza benefiting the Triumvirate Theater and held periodically at the Visitors Center in Kenai. The participants in these events are essentially the same, as is the spirit of the competition, the corny or clever and occasionally offensive team names, the consternation caused by the need to recall almost arcane bits of data, and the beer.

Well, the beer isn’t exactly the same. At the Triviapalooza, good beer is dispensed from taps inserted in chilled kegs into clear plastic cups arrayed on a table covered with white linen. At Trivia Night at Odie’s, servers mete out cold craft beers from taps behind the serving counter. But at Trivia Night at the Willow Tree, customers are sometimes left with only domestic American brews (Budweiser, Coors and Miller) contained in and consumed from 12-ounce cans.

Still, it is the games, not the beers, that are important.

Games bring together people across the globe, but the unifying effect of games in small communities seems particularly acute. In villages and tiny towns, with no national branding or television coverage to prompt widespread loyalty, and no metropolitan centers to bolster mass attendance, the allegiance to the games comes from within, from the union of conglomerate souls facing challenges together.

In Dillingham (outside of commercial fishing, which is the hub of the universe here), residents unite for community events—the winter festival known as the Beaver Roundup, the Tony’s Run benefit marathon in September, the slate of sporting events centered around Dillingham High School, and, of course, Trivia Night at the Willow Tree.

The first community trivia event I ever attended was the Triviapalooza two or three years ago. A small band of us, pulled together by Redoubt Reporter publisher Jenny Neyman, joined at a sturdy table and tested our wits at numerous rounds of questions. According to the tote board, which was updated after each round, we forged a solid victory that returned to Jenny her buy-in money and netted our team a used trophy that had had a previous life at some golf or bowling tournament, I believe.

Beyond the Triviapalooza, my first trivia-competition steps occurred last winter when my friend Stephanie and her boyfriend Ryan drove in from Seward to meet me at Odie’s and test our

With Ryan Ek and Stephanie Wright in the winter of 2013
--our first winning effort at Trivia Night in Soldotna.

intellectual mettle. At Odie’s, Trivia Night, consisting of nine theme-centered rounds of 10 questions each, costs $5 for a small team like ours, $10 for a larger team. Our come-from-behind victory earned us the entire pot of entry fees--$105 that night. After posing for a photo in front of the tally sheet, I walked out with a handful of cash—more money than I’d walked in with.

My first taste of Trivia Night in Dillingham occurred on Sept. 17.

The competition at the Willow Tree consists of a single set of 20 questions, all based on a common theme, yet the game manages to stretch into an approximately two-hour-plus affair, complete with cigarette-and-beer breaks after every five questions. Before the festivities begin, a thirst-inducing pre-game snack is provided—something like cheesy nachos, meatballs, or hotdogs with chili.

Team size is unlimited, and the collection of professionals, fishermen, campus folks, construction workers and others provides a rich tapestry of community life, bound together for a common cause.

One night, the not-exactly-sober crew from the Discovery Channel’s Emmy-nominated Deadliest Catch reality-television show barged into the Willow Tree in the middle of the game, halting the competition with a bell-ringing barrage of bar tabs and good humor. Once the hubbub died down and the TV folks dispersed outdoors, Trivia Night picked up where it left off. No minor interruption, regardless how exciting, was going to stop the game.

There is no tote board at the Willow Tree. If some participant reminds her, Trivia Master Sarah is content to holler out the scores at the end of each round. With so few questions (some of them with multiple parts for extra points), the scores tend to remain fairly close, keeping the competition lively and the commentary raucous until the end.

Sometimes a team like “Tons of Fun” may get the upper hand; other times, perhaps, it’ll be their good-natured rival, “F--- Tons of Fun,” or maybe “The Dillingslammers,” “Pork Chop & Applesauce,” or “The Hospital People.” On Sept. 17, however, it was our turn to shine, as “The Drifters” slid neatly alone into first place on the fifth tiebreaker question (selected from cards out of a Trivial Pursuit game).

Among the prizes available to the winners were several anti-Pebble Mine stickers, a baseball-style cap depicting the F/V Brown Dog, a berry picker, some canned soup, a Lonely Planet book (Europe on a Shoestring), and an assortment of candy, key chains and fishing tackle.

Afterwards, we walked away into the chilly Dillingham night—and into a town with fewer strangers.

 

"Building Up to the Big Move"

 

BUILDING UP TO THE BIG MOVE

LATE AUGUST 2013

The days have begun to accelerate even as they proceed with mind-numbing slowness.

And the finality of it all is beginning to sink in.

I knew this would happen, of course. I had steeled myself for it.

But it has still been strange and more difficult than I expected. Moving into my mother’s house for a few days has heightened the feelings of impending separation from the homestead.

I have only small chunks of days left to spend at my house, taking care of last-minute  
details—wiping the final counters, scrubbing the remaining floors, washing the last few windows, driving the screws into the plywood covering the leanto’s front door and window, snapping a padlock into place over the hasps on the shed doors, harvesting the last leeks and basil and lettuce and carrots and chard and kale from the greenhouse and garden.

Final steps on my way out the door. Soon, I hope, I’ll have paying renters inside this place to assuage the financial demands from the bank and allow me to use my income in my new environs.

As gradual as I’ve tried to make the changes, however, I still have decades of familiarity to let go of all at once.

No more floor plan I can maneuver with my eyes closed. No more Kenai Mountains and river valley to greet me over breakfast or to glow in the light of the setting sun. No more clomping over my snowshoe trails crisscrossing the backwoods of the homestead. No more roaming my circular driveway, my gardens and my old wooden sheds. No more mowing equipment always on the edge of permanent breakdown. No more happy, furry golden retriever loping along to join me. No more teen-agers tromping through my house and eating all my food, no more stressed-out mother needing my help next door, no more nice but scowling neighbor to drive by on my way into town.

No Fair presence to the north of me, and soon no unclaimed lot to the south of me.

With all this loss, one might logically assume that I’m consumed with sadness, but I am not.

While some of these things may have been lost to me forever, others—such as the Kenai Mountains and our friends throughout Southcentral Alaska—will be only temporarily out of reach.

I am making all these changes of my own volition, in control of all my faculties, and with a greater goal in mind. Even as Ii am fearful on the cusp of this commitment, I embrace these changes, the sense of adventure, and the opportunity to form a more permanent partnership with the woman I love.

Besides, I refuse to dwell on what I leave behind; I choose, instead, to dwell on the here-and-now and what lies ahead.

In only six days, I’ll be in Dillingham, ready and willing as this new chapter begins.

 

"Forged in the Fires"

Three-year-old Clark Fair examines the rainbow trout he just pulled from the Kenai River.

FORGED IN THE FIRES

SUMMER 2013

NOTE: This piece was my winning entry for the “Pen the Kenai” contest, which was accompanied by the “Paint the Kenai” contest. The winning entries, featuring a large rendering of the winning mural, will be displayed at the Kenai Airport. See https://www.facebook.com/PaintTheKenai for more details.

I was forged in the fires of the Kenai Peninsula. My thoughts rise and fall with its topography. My movements are informed by its changing seasons.

Clark soaks his feet in a remnant pond high on Cecil Rhode
Mountain near Cooper Landing in the late 1990s.

My entire life has been here, from my infancy in Whittier, the neck of the peninsula, to my childhood in Soldotna, its crossroads; from high school and my first real job in Kenai to my hiking, biking, running, boating, and exploring from Kachemak Bay to the Kenai Mountains.

Without the Kenai Peninsula, I am a different man.

I dress for the roiling rhythms of its annual weather — winter, thaw, breakup, return of sun and salmon, autumn yellow, autumn brown, more winter. My footwear alone tells the tale — spiked running shoes for winter, cleated trail shoes for summer, Xtra-Tufs for anything wet below the knees. I have Sorels, Tevas, bunny boots, rock-worn hiking boots, sneakers, dress shoes, hip boots, chest waders.

Clark and friend, in the early 2000s, high on Hideout Hill in
Kenai Mountains.

I plan around the light that the peninsula provides — from the almost limitless sun of summertime to sometimes oppressive darkness of winter, from sunglasses during the explosion of growth and green, to the careful packing of headlamps and matches and extra layers in waning light and intensifying cold.

Being a part of the peninsula, however, is more than simple reactions and planning. I am shaped in my thoughts by my home.

I compare new places to this place. When I started college Outside, I scoffed at the hills they called mountains, wondered why they had so few small planes motoring through the skies, fretted at the absence of saltwater and sockeyes.



Canning salmon. (Yvonne
Leutwyler photo)

Too much flat land makes me nervous.

Too few rivers and beaches leave me parched.

A dearth of moose cannot be compensated for by a fenced-in field of dairy cattle.

I want to fish through the ice of the lakes down Swanson River Road, climb to the saddle on the Skyline Trail, watch from my dining room window as the sun rises over the Harding Ice Field. I want to taste what has been harvested from this place — highbush cranberry jelly and liqueur, canned red salmon, a sheep roast, a fireweed salad, razor clam chowder, steamed blue mussels. I was raised on fresh Dolly Varden, rainbow trout and silver salmon from the Kenai River; king crab, shrimp and halibut from Kachemak Bay; bull moose from the Kenai lowlands and Dall sheep from the Kenai Mountains. My mother served up moose steaks for dinner, then chopped up the leftovers to stir in with our scrambled eggs for breakfast. She ground moose meat into burgers, dumped it into chili and onto homemade pizza, stirred it into casseroles.

Clark's father, Calvin, stands over a 1965 kill.

We lived on the land and took what the land provided. And, as much as possible, we tried to nurture the land, careful not to soil our own nest. And even today, 55 years after I was born in Alaska, I am dancing to the beat of the Kenai Peninsula — always my home, no matter where life takes me.

Late winter 2013 on the Skyline Trail, Clark poses with (clockwise from himself) Yvonne, Trevor, Tony, Mike,
Oliver the black Lab, Nate, Ryan, and Stephanie.