From War Zones to the Wildernesstag:frontlineclub.com,2008-10-08:/blogs/julius//542008-12-11T15:15:48ZMovable Type 4.23-enGeneral Winter's last standtag:frontlineclub.com,2008:/blogs/julius//54.27262008-04-21T22:39:34Z2008-12-11T15:15:48ZJust when we thought the winter was finally well and truly over last week the skies opened and the snow began to tumble out with a vengeance. Not the pretty white flakes that settle for a moment and then instantly...Mr Julius
Just when we thought the winter was finally well and truly over last week the skies opened and the snow began to tumble out with a vengeance.
Not the pretty white flakes that settle for a moment and then instantly melt leaving just a small glistening trace of their short magical life.
But huge great gobs of the stuff straight from the freezing Heavens, covering the roads in a treacherous six inch deep carpet and smoothing out the sharp edges of the Alaskan landscape.
It may be mid April up here in Anchorage but it seems that the Arctic God of Weather is not bound by the laws that govern the actions of his more southerly cousins.
Even for Alaskans the latest venting of meteorological fury came as a bit of a shock. They were just beginning to put away their studded tyres and stow their snowblowers when the latest blizzard hit.
Back in the mists of time when the first snow arrived (early last November) we had welcomed it, wilderness neophytes that we are. “Isn't it pretty,†I had said. “Ooooooh. Lovely,†Kristin had cooed.
But now, six months later, we have grown to dread the arrival of the cold, cloying stuff each morning. It sticks to your boots, freezes your bones and follows you wherever you tread.
**************
Ott, a friend visiting from Estonia (Kristin's mother country), was, however, pleased as punch. Two years ago when he arrived at the ranch in March he had been delighted to find several feet of snow still on the ground.
With barely a moment's hesitation he had attacked it with gusto, shovelling it with abandon. He worked with a gleam in his eye, like some tireless but happy Nordic giant brought back to life for just such a task.
By the end of Day 3 Ott had created a new world of pathways and roads in our snow-laden garden. Roads led to and from each of the cabins, to the workshop and to the main house. There were even carefully-edged little junctions and what looked like passing lanes.
So this time as Kristin and I ran for the snowblowers Ott happily grabbed for the shovel, stopping only occasionally for a refill of beer to steady the hand.
***************
Kristin, my beloved wife and partner-in-wilderness-crime, is now officially an author. Her first book, a biography of an Estonian philosopher called Nikolai Maim, has just been published.
Part of a series on Estonian thinkers and other notables, it will soon be available in bookshops. As it is written in Estonian, however, you may have to brush up on your northern Finno-Ugric language skills if you want to make the most of it.
For those unfortunates amongst us who don't read fluently in Estonian, I will keep you updated on a possible English translation. No plans yet is the word from the horse's mouth.
****************
On the penultimate day of Ott's visit we decided to take him to the zoo. Although we live almost within spitting distance, we had never been and were keen to see the animals, especially those native to Alaska.
Like most zoos, Anchorage's is a rather sad and shabby place where the beasts are caged in all-too-small compounds and subjected to gaggles of screaming school chilren.
It was nice to see the wolves, even in their spatially-impoverished surroundings. There were grey and black and beautiful.
But the animal I was most keen to study up close - the wolverine - was, unfortunately, nowhere to be seen. Kristin and I fancied we saw one of these rare weasels during our first year at the ranch while we were hiking up in the high country.
Since then Kristin has decided it was probably a hoary marmot (nothing like a wolverine) but I have stuck stubbornly to my story.
The grizzly bears at the Anchorage Zoo were certainly something to behold. Weighing in at half a tonne each, they had recently woken from hibernation.
But as thrilling as they were physically it was depressing to see them dance and beg for food from the one of the zoo workers.
********************
So next week we finally head back to Canada and our beloved ranch. As we think of the greening garden, the arrival of the spring birds and the awakening of the wildlife the days up here are beginning to drag.
By mid May the temperatures should be well into the twenties and the wildflowers will be beginning to bloom by the roadside.
Bookings for this year are good and I can hardly wait to get my knees dirty and my fingers grimy messing around in the garden again.
Once we get back it will be pretty much non-stop until the end of October. We have bears to spot, mountains to climb and, pending government permission, two wildlife-viewing stands to build.
For those of you planning on visiting us this year, we look forward to welcoming you all. The omens are good, General Winter is finally on the retreat and it promises to be a good one.
www.grizzlybearranch.ca
From Skid Row to the Suburbstag:frontlineclub.com,2008:/blogs/julius//54.27252008-03-17T02:28:39Z2008-12-11T15:15:48Z I admit it was an impetuous and poorly-judged decision. I had just arrived in Anchorage for my annual teaching assignment at the University of Alaska and the temperature was twenty-plus degrees below freezing. I spent the first night at...Mr Julius
I admit it was an impetuous and poorly-judged decision.
I had just arrived in Anchorage for my annual teaching assignment at the University of Alaska and the temperature was twenty-plus degrees below freezing.
I spent the first night at a sleazy motel not far from the airport. The walls were thin, the carpets reeked of old cigarette smoke and daylight seemed to come and go within the blink of an eye.
After months surrounded by the magnificent Selkirk mountains, fast-flowing rivers and gorgeous vistas at our wilderness home in British Columbia, I felt caged, miserable and desperate to get out.
When an apartment became available I jumped at the chance. It was small. It was expensive. It was uncomfortable. It was garishly decorated with the worst of faux Alaskan kitsch.
But I simply couldn't bear the motel so I took it and handed over an unwisely large fistful of e-dollars through an online payment system to a smooth-talking agent.
The very first night in my new residence I realised I had made a mistake. Not 20 yards from my bedroom windows was a busy highway. Cars, trucks and lorries rumbled along well past midnight.
After months in the wilds where every nocturnal sound means something, this was more than my heightened senses could take.
With Kristin still in Canada, I determined to put a brave face on the discomforts of my new life. It would only, after all, be for four months. The neighbourhood, surely, would make up for it.
When I trotted off to the university on the first day of term, my fellow professors soon put paid to that notion.
"You live where!?" said Ron, a colleague and former public relations man with the Anchorage Police. "But that's the ghetto. That's where the Bloods hang out. That's a bad part of town." He stretched out the word "bad" making it sound even more sinister than it otherwise would.
Glen, another colleague, was equally unimpressed. "You live up by that Carr's [supermarket] on 13th? I only go to that area when I'm looking for a really shady bar."
Fred, the head of department, muttered to me with a furrowed brow: "It wouldn't look good if the Atwood Chair was knifed on his way home from work." I could tell he was only half joking.
The next day I took the local bus to work and began to see what my colleagues meant. In Alaska, it seems, only the poor, destitute and clinically insane travel by public transport.
Each day there would be a new collection of misfits and weirdos on Bus No 15. Drunks, bag ladies, down-and-out Natives (Alaska's indigenous population) and people who argued loudly, usually with themselves.
Heading to the local Carr's a few days later, I witnessed a fight between two local bums. It was really only screaming and shouting as they were both too drunk to land a punch.
As poor districts went - and I have seen a few in my years trawling round the third world in search of news stories - this one wore its suffering on its sleeve.
Being truly poor anywhere in the world must be tough, but to be in the suffocating grips of penury while living in the richest and most powerful country on earth must be doubly galling.
Each day as I walked to the grungy supermarket (I was carless at the time) I would see the people who had fallen between the cracks of the American dream. I began to feel a quiet empathy for them.
I even developed an absurd sense of pride in my new neighbourhood. When people asked where I lived I would say "Denali and 15th" daring them to respond.
If they didn't rise to the challenge I sometimes added: "You know, by the Carr's on 13th. Down in the 'hood."
But just as I was settling in, my flirtation with life in the ghetto came to an end. For one, Kristin wired me a chunk of money and my bank balance climbed out of double digits.
Then came two momentous events: the purchase of a fancy Land Cruiser (our plan is to use it to take guests wildlife-viewing back at the ranch) and the arrival of Kristin, a far more sensible and down-to-earth human than I.
As to the former, I couldn’t even park my beautiful new purchase in my adopted part of town. The temptation for the locals to strip it of its exterior paraphernalia would, I am sure, have been overwhelming.
I had visions of bumping into my tough new neighbours at the supermarket with the large gold-coloured emblems that had recently adorned the back of my car hanging around their necks on chains.
Down-heartedly I parked the Toyota elsewhere and continued to take the bus to work.
A week later, and with Kristin now in Alaska and unimpressed by the ghetto, we moved. We found a beautiful little apartment in a gorgeous house in posh southern Anchorage.
Sally, the charming landlady, runs the place as a highly succesful Bed and Breakfast in the summer (if any of you are coming to Anchorage look up www.alaskamangymoose.com) and rents out bits of it in the winter.
We are now living the lives of the privileged American middle class. Each day we drive to the local shopping centre, we drive to work, we drive to the woods, or we simply drive. That's what middle-class Alaskans do.
Nothing, but nothing, is within walking distance and if the buses do come down this far I bet they run empty, shunned by the well-to-do locals who wouldn’t be seen dead sharing a vehicle with a stranger.
It's very pleasant here and many days we look out of our windows and see moose walking through the snow. There's not a poor person in sight and most of the land is marked "Private Property - Keep Out."
If the temperature is a little chilly we can even start the Toyota from inside our house, saving the inconvenience of those first few minutes with a cold bum.
I can't pretend that I preferred the apartment on 15th. But I no longer have that note of proud defiance in my voice when I tell someone my address.
My street cred in the eyes of the local toughs, never high, has evaporated altogether.
Last week I dropped by the old apartment on 15th to give back a key to the postbox I had mistakenly taken with me.
As I hurried back to my leather-upholstered 4x4 and pulled away from the curb I found my nose rising a shade as I surveyed my former neighbours.
I couldn't help but wonder: "How could I ever have lived in a part of town like this? These aren't my sort of people."
The transformation from streetwise urban gangsta to the male equivalent of a soccer mum was complete.
For more posts go to www.grizzlybearranch.blogspot.com.]]>
Arctic motoring - 19/01/08tag:frontlineclub.com,2008:/blogs/julius//54.27242008-01-19T18:47:46Z2008-12-11T15:15:48ZThe temperature hovered around minus twenty, and the roads were layered in ice. But even at two in the morning the car rental agent in the bowels of Ted Stevens international airport at Anchorage managed a pearly smile. Perhaps it...Mr Julius
The temperature hovered around minus twenty, and the roads were layered in ice. But even at two in the morning the car rental agent in the bowels of Ted Stevens international airport at Anchorage managed a pearly smile.
Perhaps it had something to do with the financial knife he was holding at my neck.
"Oh, yes Sir, the car you booked is $17.90 a day. Just like it says online. Of course there will be some additional fees. Perhaps a little extra for the insurance. The total for the week: just over $360, Sir."
Well, call me a financial illiterate, but even at two in the morning that one woke me up. I opened my mouth to protest—and then slowly shut it again. I was too tired to argue.
Back home in British Columbia our trusty blue Dodge pick-up, Bob, had gone to the knacker's yard after coming a cropper on the road. He was big, comfortable and warm.
My rental at Ted Stevens was small, pokey and frigid. It had been washed and left in the car park so that the doors and the boot were frozen. Only when I hit the highway the next morning did I realise what a thrill this little beast would be to drive. Here, in the Arctic in mid-January, it was wearing summer tyres.
Each time I pushed the gas, the only change was a light on the dashboard display saying: "Poor traction, ice possible." Really!, I thought.
When we did get moving, it was the brakes that made no difference. Given the mixture of slick snow and ice, the brain on the brakes' anti-blocking system decided that the appropriate course of action was to do nothing.
I slid across three-lane highways, sailed through stop-signs, and sat uselessly at green lights, wheels spinning under me, as impatient locals pushed up behind.
In another city I might have hoped to share my icy misery with other drivers as we sat at traffic lights and stop-signs. Here in Anchorage all I could see were the exhaust pipes, mudflaps and oversized tyres of oversized trucks, almost all of the tyres with shiny metal studs.
I craned my neck to see the faces of my fellow motorists. When they did look down, there was pity in their eyes, if not disdain. I was going through winter in the driving equivalent of leather-soled brogues, while the rest of the town was wearing crampons.
Back at the ranch, we were running our surviving second car on a bio-diesel blend, recycling all our waste, using compact fluorescent light bulbs and not using chemical fertiliser.
Alaska, its wealth drawn from oil, seemed to live in blissful ignorance of the environment. In my small apartment in Anchorage there was more wattage in the bathroom lighting than in our entire house in BC. Each day, as I heard the same ad on the local radio—"If you gonna buy a car, it oughta be a four b'four"—it seemed to make more and more sense.
And so, finally, the $60-a-day in rental fees still eating away at my pocket, and painfully aware that Bob would have to be replaced, I logged onto the local classified ads.
I found a car to dream of. A perfect vehicle for our summer alpine tours. A perfect car for watching bears in the spring and the autumn. A Toyota Sequoia. A jewel from the crown of the Japanese carmaker.
"Can I see it?" I asked the lady owner excitedly when I got through to her. We made a date for that very afternoon. With her two children nagging in the back seat, I kicked the tyres and drove the car around the parking lot.
Sorry I hadn't been able to see it yesterday, she said smiling, she had been at Church. It was a shame to sell it, she said, but she wanted to pay for her eldest to go to a Christian school.
I rejoiced inwardly. Surely Christians don't smoke and spill beer in their cars. Christians don't cut crashed cars in two and glue them back together.
We came to a provisional deal and that evening she wrote me an e-mail confirming terms. And then she backed out. A better offer. I thought unGodly thoughts about her for the rest of the day.
In the end I bought a Land Cruiser. If the seller was a Christian, he didn't mention it. A government biologist, he was smart, funny, urbane and political. He was selling the car because he could no longer justify the emissions, he told me unprompted. His family had bought a Highlander Hybrid.
I instantly agreed to buy. Didn't I want to drive it? he asked. Er, oh yes, maybe. Didn't I have any questions? I struggled to think before asking lamely: Have you crashed it?
And so, if all goes according to plan, if my biologist comes through, and if Canadian customs grants an import licence, our guests at the ranch this year will be in for a treat—a Land Cruiser with big wide seats and a serious 4x4 system, getting us to the top of our wonderful trails in comfort.
And, after that, in the evenings, a glass or two of wine, Kristin's incredible dinners, and a sundeck by the river. Assuming, of course, I survive my remaining journeys in the rental.
Topsy-Turvy Mishaps - 13/01/08tag:frontlineclub.com,2008:/blogs/julius//54.27232008-01-13T18:49:21Z2008-12-11T15:15:48ZIt came out of the blue and just as we were finally beginning to enjoy the drive. Without warning the rear wheels lost traction and shot violently to one side. Then our large, heavily-laden pick-up truck slewed onto the opposite...Mr Julius
It came out of the blue and just as we were finally beginning to enjoy
the drive. Without warning the rear wheels lost traction and shot
violently to one side.
Then our large, heavily-laden pick-up truck slewed onto the opposite
side of the road.
I counter-steered as gently as I could, trying to keep the front
wheels straight and, it seemed, for just an instant, that I might
possibly hold the beast.
But, like a fisherman struggling in vain to grip the slipperiest of
eels, I lost it again. We hit the kerb, hard, and the truck began to
roll.
It rolled violently: onto its roof, back onto its wheels and then on
to its roof again. The glass on my side shattered and I felt, or
perhaps saw, snow, and then sky, and then more snow.
As the world turned topsy-turvy, everything seemed so wrong: this was one of those things that is only supposed to happen to other people, like the death of someone close or being cheated by one that you love.
I had, like everyone, seen such things often enough: the crushed
metal, shattered glass, blown tyres and leaking fluids that are the
hallmarks of a high-speed car crash.
Last year, driving down from Alaska in May to return to our home in
British Columbia, I had even come across a lady who had just rolled
her car off the road and lay trapped inside.
The outside air temperature was dropping rapidly towards zero and she
was clad in little more than a T-shirt. With her body going into
shock, hypothermia was threatening to finish her off.
I pulled her out through the shattered windscreen, slowly, tenderly
even, ignoring her bloody hands, praying that she didn't have a spinal
injury. The nearest ambulance was more than 90 minutes away.
We drove to Alaska last winter too but I hadn't been keen on doing the
trip again. It was less the danger than the aching muscles and
monotony of a journey that, in winter, takes the best part of a week.
I considered myself, truth be told, a competent and seasoned driver
after more than 20 years experience in as many countries, without more
than the smallest of knocks to blemish my record.
I had even taken courses - one on combat driving paid for by the
newspaper I used to work for - another that concentrated on maintaining
control in icy conditions.
It seemed, in the end however, the only economical way to get Kristin,
myself, our two dogs and our belongings to Alaska in time for the
start of the spring semester was to take the 2,400 mile slog through
the north.
Ironically, some of the worst driving conditions we encountered were
close to home. The combination of heavy precipitation and a
temperature around freezing point makes for treacherous permutations.
Sometimes there is slush on top and snow underneath, sometimes water
on top and ice underneath.
When the temperature drops below minus 15 or 20, conditions usually
improve, the snow and ice become crunchy, squeaky, firmer and less
duplicitous.
So as the sun climbed into the sky on the second day of our journey
and we reached the southern marches of the north (the part southerners
call the north and northerners call the south) the worst seemed to be
behind us.
I had been flipping between two- and four-wheel drive for an hour or
so - north American transmissions, for the most part, are not designed
to run in four-wheel-drive for long periods - but as we pulled out
onto a long, straight, rising hill just out of the small town of
Quesnel and saw clear tarmac ahead, I disengaged the power to the
front wheels and relaxed.
A few moments later we hit a sheet of black ice and began to slide.
In the event, we were nothing if not lucky. The opposite lane was
crowded that morning with heavy lorries heading south, as blithely
unaware of the build-up of ice as we were.
But at the moment we slid across the asphalt and spun violently over
the edge, the entire road was thankfully ours. We missed a large
signpost planted in the ground on concrete pillars by a few feet.
Later that day the driver of the tow-truck who had hauled our wrecked
pick-up off to his scrap yard enumerated the fate of the highway's
dead and wounded on his small patch.
Kristin had a few cuts and bruises on her lower legs from bits and
pieces flying through the cab as we rolled, but I had escaped without
even a scratch.
Our two German Shepherds, Masha and Karu, who had been sitting quietly
in the back seat (no doggie seatbelts for them) were also unscathed.
When the paramedics had come and gone and the local police had their
statements, we blunted the memory of the crash with a good meal and
some fine local beer.
The adventure wasn't quite over, though. Since we couldn't go on, we
had to go back and that meant two days driving on ever-worsening roads
in a rented minivan equipped only with summer tyres.
The final eight hours of the trip back to the ranch I don't think I
ever topped 30 miles an hour as signs on the highway flashed up
warnings of more black ice and heavy lorries, seemingly oblivious,
hurtled past us.
An hour or so later the radio reported three of them had collided a
few miles up the road. One of the drivers died.
Such are the perils of the British Columbia winter.
For all the snowy beauty and glorious glittering peaks, for all the
world-class skiing and idyllic wintry views, the water, ice and snow
are also agents of death and terrible injury.
As I write this I am happy to say that I am now safely ensconced in a
motel in Anchorage. Tomorrow I begin teaching. This time I came by
plane. Discretion, they say, is the better part of valour.
Ice patches and Inverters - Dec 07tag:frontlineclub.com,2007:/blogs/julius//54.27222007-12-16T18:27:47Z2008-12-11T15:15:48ZIt's been a week of close calls and minor disasters here in our beautiful little corner of the universe. Just as we thought the learning curve was beginning to flatten out. Since moving to the ranch nearly two incident-strewn years...Mr Julius
It's been a week of close calls and minor disasters here in our beautiful little corner of the universe. Just as we thought the learning curve was beginning to flatten out.
Since moving to the ranch nearly two incident-strewn years ago, we have struggled through floods, fought off erosion, cowered under the debris of forest fires and duelled with loved-up stallions.
Meanwhile we have done our level best to set up a small, sustainable business showing off the best of our wilderness and its magnificent bears to travellers looking for something just a little special.
As the grizzly-viewing season came to an end and the last car retreated down our driveway six weeks ago, we perhaps allowed ourselves just a tiny modicum of self-congratulation.
The guests had all come and left happy, we had gone yet another year without the bank foreclosing on our beautiful little property and we were even fairly well prepared for the winter.
By mid-November when the first serious snow began to fall we had chopped, sorted, shifted and laid in our firewood. A not exactly gleaming but nevertheless serviceable snow plough sat in our yard.
All the cabins had been winterized and the summer machinery put away.
We had even planned out, and partially paid for, a three-week trip to Europe - our first together back to the Old Country (well, Old Countries, I suppose) since we left two and a half years ago.
Even our winter was mapped out. The offer extended by Alaska University to teach at their journalism faculty last year, had been renewed and accepted.
For several days we took things easy. We watched movies - a rare treat. We read old copies of the Economist and the New Yorker we had received way back during the busy summer.
We even took our two querulous dogs for long walks in the snow each day, a real luxury and something we would never have dreamed of doing during busier times.
We commented to each other on the beautiful Christmassy scenery. It all seemed so pretty, so easy, so nice. Life was perfect, perhaps a little too perfect. Then, as if on cue, everything went haywire.
It started when I plugged our Land Cruiser's engine heater (in Canada they have such weird and wonderful devices to stop automotive freezing in extreme sub-zero temperatures) into the main generator.
In the house, as Kristin watched startled, the lights burned bright, far too bright, for a fraction of a second and then our entire convoluted electrical system gave up the ghost.
The calm was now officially over. For an hour I frantically investigated with a spanner in one hand and a voltmeter in the other.
I checked the generator fuses, the main panel, the subpanel and the batteries, but all were fine. By now the long and early hours of winter darkness were fast approaching.
As I mentally ticked off all the different components, a horrible thought dawned on me. I hadn't, I couldn’t have, blown the inverter - the most expensive and precious part of our electrical system that we had bought only last year at huge expense.
I tested it. I held my breath. It was as dead as a dodo. Now under the gun, and with no power running to the house I carefully unwired the proud but inert piece of machinery.
In its place I wired in the old inverter we had removed last year. True, with this old dinosaur, it would take 10 or 11 hours to recharge our batteries, not four, but at least we would have light and water.
"That was quick," Kristin said as the lights flickered back to life. I allowed myself a tiny masculine swagger - it's not every day you get praise from an Estonian, even is she is your wife.
And then, like a series of mini IEDs controlled by some malevolent roadside gnome, our prized electrical appliances began to blow. First the wireless phone went up in smoke. Then the computer router.
As we watched incredulous the satellite television died. I rushed to measure the voltage coming through the plugs. 150 volts! This where a modest 120 should have been. Ahhhh! No wonder the electric mayhem.
When we finally sat down to count the cost we had lost four major appliances - including the brain for Kristin's shiny exercise bike. Among other things it controlled the level of stamina resistance.
Putting a brave face on the setback, Kristin sat on the stationary bike and gallantly pedalled regardless as if to say: "Don't worry, darling, I know we live in the bush, I can do without the electrics."
But as her legs spun ever faster and more erratically even she was finally forced to admit that an exercise bike without a brain was no exercise bike.
Heroic measures were now called for. After some searching I found a renewable energy whizz who could sell me a new inverter. It would cost - such machines are not cheap - but we were firmly over a barrel.
The only snag was that his location, Kelowna, was five hours drive away along mountain roads that had just been given a heavy dousing of snow and freezing rain. And the whizz was leaving for the coast in 36 hours.
Next morning early I departed at dawn leaving a worried looking Kristin on the doorstep. The first section of the road - fairly flat - was, well, bad. More like an ice rink than a highway.
When I reached the mountainous section, a single-lane gravel track 20 miles long, with a drop of several hundred feet into a lake on one side, things just got worse.
It was so slippery that at times all four wheels, each adorned with an expensive new winter tyre, spun crazily.
Then, with a wave of relief, I came across another car. The fact that this ordeal was being shared by a second human being somehow brought immense comfort.
There was also a cunning tactical element to my joy. "I'll just follow him," I thought slyly. "If he falls into the lake, I'll know not to proceed and I'll turn back."
But my new-found comrade-of-the-highways, replete with a dog as travelling companion, was showing little inclination to move. So, as I pulled alongside, I beckoned for him to wind down his window.
"Are you ok?" I asked. "Just fine," answered the man, a local as it turned out, probably in his early fifties.
"Been here long?," I ventured. "Three or four hours," came the reply. Still, maddeningly, no clue as to his motives.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" I finally demanded to know.
"On this ice," he said looking at me as if I was a fool. "I'm waiting for someone else to go first."
So over the mountain we went. Me first. Then him.
At the top of each small slope I selected first gear, four-wheel drive, low ratio. Then I would feel my heart thump through my chest as I slid down the hill with as much control as a spider heading inexorably for the drain.
Each time, as I made it down unscathed, my new friend cautiously followed. My very own plan served up to me with a brazenness that was enfuriating.
I made it to Kelowna and back. I installed the new inverter, replaced the router and fixed the TV. The exercise bike still stands neglected in the corner, but Kristin doesn’t really seem to care.
Outside the snow is falling, the dogs are barking at the shadows and in an hour or so Sunny, our much-loved musical neighbour is coming round for dinner.
As always, the conversation will be earthy in nature, practical in application and, over a bottle of wine or two, the three of us will each tell our own stories of wilderness hardship.
Infused with Dutch courage, we will laugh off the precariousness of our existence in this gorgeous and sometimes immensely inhospitable valley and toast the Gods of Fortune that have kept us here for another year.
Rednecks, hippies and batty biologists - 4/11/07tag:frontlineclub.com,2007:/blogs/julius//54.27212007-11-04T18:53:50Z2008-12-11T15:15:48ZIn the annals of our small and humble valley, it was a notable gathering of scientific minds. An accomplished skink man, a bat expert, a Chinese medicine practitioner and a clutch of bear biologists all gathered around our dinner table...Mr Julius
In the annals of our small and humble valley, it was a notable gathering of scientific minds.
An accomplished skink man, a bat expert, a Chinese medicine practitioner and a clutch of bear biologists all gathered around our dinner table last weekend to swap ursine opinions.
We had sent out an invitation to the eminences of the local bear world (and their partners) with a view to soliciting their advice on how best to nurture and protect our beautiful grizzly bears.
We also wanted to thrash out best practice on thorny issues such as habituation, discuss the effect of hunting on the bears and assess the provincial government's policies.
Perhaps surprisingly British Columbia, which has an image of being one of the most wildlife-friendly places on earth, still allows grizzly bears to be hunted as trophies.
Although the wholesale slaughter of yesteryear it now outlawed, 28 permits are to be given out by the government to hunt grizzlies next spring, just in the area around our ranch.
In the event we talked a little bear, drank a deal of wine and, gorged on Kristin's cooking.
To celebrate the mini-summit on the second day we launched an impressive armarda down our river comprising our large blue raft and three inflatable kayaks.
It rained a bit and Heather flipped her kayak in the rapids but otherwise it was a wonderful day.
With the second season here at Grizzly Bear Ranch now over and the first snow beginning to fall we have decided that now is the time to get serious about our grizzly bears.
Barely eighteen months ago we still thought that the way forward for us was a mish-mash of mechanised machinery, campers in our yard and possibly - Kootenay-style - a small grow-op for when times were hard.
But the beauty, rarity and fragility of the area we now live in mean instead we are striving to become all those politically-correct cliches that we once eschewed - stewards, custodians, guardians.
In my times as a newspaper correspondent I travelled to some remarkable and picturesque places. Some where so vibrant the sense of beauty was almost tangible.
But even compared to the majesty of the Hindu Kush, the stunning beauty of the north Caucasus, the volcanic glory of Kamchatka and the craggy vistas of the Dalmatian coast, our valley, with its blue-green river set against a backdrop of snow-capped peaks, is something special.
Unfortunately not all seem to have the same appreciation for this little valley that we do.
One of the scourges of the valley is a growing number of quads. Each year more and more of these noisy machines head for our little paradise to race through the fragile alpine and along its tiny forest trails.
(Here I have a confession to make - I too am the owner of a quad and have used it on the mountain trails. Last year we even took some of our guests up into the alpine on ATVs to enjoy the view.)
Now, however, it seems half of western Canada heads to our little valley for their motorized recreation. This summer on one weekend we found around 30 riders high in the alpine on just one trail.
They all seemed to be in their sixties or older - a sort of a mobile geriatric convention. One had the temerity to ask me why I had walked up the mountain when I could have just ridden a machine.
Another meance to our valley is the beer-can-out-the-window brigade. It seems that not a day goes by that I don't pick up a can of Budweiser from the verges of the road that runs past the ranch.
Of course the easiest way to deter such environmental thuggery would probably be the Chechen method. A well-placed piece of piano wire across the road followed by a couple of minutes work with a Kalashnikov would no doubt be effective.
But this is Canada, not the Caucasus, and violent retribution is frowned upon, illegal even. Negotiation, often long and tortured and leading to painful compromise, is the way of this peace-loving nation.
British Columbia is, for the most part, socially split between rednecks (hunters, quadders, loggers, beer-drinkers) and hippies (weed-smokers, veggie-eaters, welfare-collectors).
Each have their own distinctive aspirations: Ford F350 vs Subaru, Carhatt's vs hemp biodegradable, Cabela's vs Mountain Equipment Coop.
Kristin and I were never quite sure where we fit in. We cut our own wood, but recycle our trash. We drive a big truck, but use biodiesel where possible. We love animals, but wash ourselves often.
We must be one of the few households that, in the last year have, at different times, subscribed to ATV monthly (or whatever it is called), BC Sport Fishing, The New Yorker and the Economist.
Like us, the biologists around our table last weekend were also culturally cross-starred. At least two of them hunt and one is a self-avowed former hippy and US draft-dodger.
Whatever Canada's failings, it justifiably prides itself on its high level of tolerance.
Once we were all around the table last weekend and the wine was flowing political differences were set aside and everybody was as comfortable as if they had known each other for years.
There was none of the awkward class-consciousness a room full of freshly-acquainted Brits would have felt.
Our efforts to preserve our little valley and its amazing nature will, doubtless, also have to follow a Canadian model too.
We will coil up the piano wire and try our skills with that all-too-rarely-used tool - gentle persuasion.
That is, after all, the way of the Canucks. And, happy immigrants that we are, it is time for us to verse ourselves in those arts too.
Wildlife-Viewing Journal - 30/09/07tag:frontlineclub.com,2007:/blogs/julius//54.27202007-09-30T17:55:18Z2008-12-11T15:15:48Z So our second grizzly bear season since moving to the ranch is well underway. So far all our guests - and this year we have been pretty much full - have left after seeing at least a few grizzlies....Mr Julius
So our second grizzly bear season since moving to the ranch is well underway. So far all our guests - and this year we have been pretty much full - have left after seeing at least a few grizzlies. Some have seen many.
To keep our guests and friends up-to-date with the latest we have started an online wildlife journal, which we will use to record our bear sightings and other interesting sightings we have here in the wilderness.
The latest is a posting of a large grey wolf, almost black in colour, photographed by Andrea, a guest from Graz in Austria, just as she left the ranch.
She wrote to us from Austria: "You must know, I'm very proud taking a picture of a wolf. First we thought, "Oh, not a bear, again a dog... but then we took a closer look and I made the picture... He was standing there really for a while, looking at us before he moved on. Studying the picture, his view, the tail, we were very sure, that it must be a wolf."
If you would like to check out our new wildlife journal, please go to http://www.gbrwildlifejournal.blogspot.com.
We have also changed our packages around a little and are now concentrating on black bear and wildlife viewing in the spring, the mountains and lakes in the summer and our grizzlies in the autumn. Please check our website for all the latest details.
Bucking Broncos and Wounded Pride - 03/08/07tag:frontlineclub.com,2007:/blogs/julius//54.27192007-08-03T17:56:40Z2008-12-11T15:15:48ZBuying Henry the Horse was one of the first things I did when I got to British Columbia. I simply couldn't be the owner of a ranch and a self-respecting frontiersman without my very own steed. This most noble of...Mr Julius
Buying Henry the Horse was one of the first things I did when I got to British Columbia. I simply couldn't be the owner of a ranch and a self-respecting frontiersman without my very own steed.
This most noble of acquisitions was accelerated by my impatience after many years of horselessness as I hopped from city to war zone to city during my financially productive years.
By the time the snow was off the ground last year I was simply dying to do that most western of things - to go out and find me a fine ol' stud and gallop him around the fenceline of my new piece of land.
With Henry (still going by his maiden-name Remington in those days) things went more or less badly from the start. A fine horse to look at, he soon showed himself to have a foul temper and a sneaky disposition.
I had barely taken him a couple of times around the exercise ring on a test-ride when, without warning, he began to buck and kick and snort and jump in a malicious attempt to unseat me.
I kicked him in the ribs, yanked on his reins, swore at him a little and stayed firmly seated in the saddle and eventually he settled down to a steady trot.
"Must have been a one-off," I shouted cheerily to the lady who was trying to sell him, in a strange role-reversal. She smiled uncertainly. Then Henry tried it again.
This time, again without warning, he went sideways, bucked a couple of times and then hopped and jumped first this way then that. Finally he scraped me hard against the fence.
So I bought him. For $2,500. Ill-considered? Definitely. Overpriced? Absolutely. I think the lady who sold him, a hard-nosed horse trainer from down towards the border, couldn't believe her luck.
On paper, at least, I had the skills to deal with a difficult horse. Both my brother and I were brought up on the joys of equine pursuits in leafy Royal Berkshire.
Between the two of us we fell off dozens, perhaps hundreds, of times. I smashed my teeth - I have two now well-worn gold caps to prove it - and knocked myself senseless more than once.
It was a rare day we didn't both come tumbling from our ponies as we re-enacted a full-contact version of the English Derby in the fields by our house, thrashing at the horses and each other by turn.
Later when my father moved back to Hungary and began to keep racehorses we both rode them out. The thrill of feeling one of those athletes accelerate from a jump start to a full gallop in just a few paces is not one easily forgotten.
The adrenalin-rich sensation of flying across the turf at 30+ mph on a flared-nostriled animal is difficult to match. I even began to understand why jockeys would risk life and limb for such a buzz.
With my work there was often little chance to ride. But when the opportunity came I never failed to grasp it with both hands.
In Afghanistan after 9/11 I covered the frontlines on a local warlord's horse for several weeks. I mercilessly mocked colleagues who were less horsey than I, laughing at their fear and their awkwardness.
I rode in Russia when on a journalistic swing through the Siberian mountains. I was, as I remember, the only of our distinguished party who could still mount a horse and stay on after of day of vodka.
On summer weekends I liked nothing better than to head off with close friends to a small village on the Volga where we would sauna, swim, fish and ride for hours along the riverbanks.
One time I spent a week riding in the Georgian mountains near Chechnya. I was 10,000 feet above the plains with only a Russian-speaking cowboy and the local bears for company.
Perhaps that was I bought Henry. Or perhaps it was misplaced machismo. Or perhaps I was just being impetuous, foolhardy or, as the north Americans say, dumb.
I had plenty of time to consider my motives recently as a I lay with my leg in the air, waves of pain washing through me and industrial quantities of whisky and ibuprofen coursing through my veins.
In his defence, I suppose, Henry was only being consistent. He had never made any secret of the fact that he hated being ridden. When a young French lady got on him last year he dumped her in under a minute.
At first when I saddled him up for his first ride of the year he seemed indifferent, even happy to be back at work. When I lunged him, first this way, then that, he trotted and cantered out nicely.
Encouraged, I climbed into the saddle, happily surveying the surroundings from my elevated position. Ah, how good it feels to be back on a horse, I thought.
Then, without warning, and with my feet not yet in the stirrups, Henry reared. I clung on. He went down and then straight up in the air again. This time I lost my balance and fell.
Then, to add injury to insult and as I scrambled to get out of the way of this snorting, rearing monster he brought his back hoof down hard on my lower leg and put his weight on it. Instantly it went numb.
Fear, pain and anger raced through me. "I think it's broken," I told Kristin who was looking on with horror. Then I began to chase Henry across the field, whip cracking.
Needless to say the horse outran me. He'd have done that even if I had been on two healthy legs. Kristin just stared on as if I'd lost my senses.
Nearly two weeks later I'm happy to say that, after a few days on a stick (a particularly fine ebony walking stick that was a prescient wedding present from my brother), I'm walking normally again.
My knee and ankle, which took a lot of the weight, are damaged and may take a while longer to heal. My pride longer still.
Finally common sense is beginning to reassert itself. Recklessness may have served me well in my younger years or out in the field with a large newspaper to pay my medical bills.
Here, however, I am as uninsured as any panhandler and the co-owner of a small, unprofitable business that requires lots of physical work and effort and has no time for excuses.
So it seems, on deliberation, Henry will have to go. Cola, our other horse, an aging gent who we were given and kept as a companion for Henry, left this morning for a new home with some friends.
They made the 12 mile trip to their house on foot in a little over four hours. We're pretty sure he will be loved and treasured.
And Henry? He faces a less certain future. I feel morally constrained from repeating what his previous owner told me - that even teenage girls could ride him safely.
But I'd rather not see him end up as sausages. So - anybody know a good home for this equine eccentric? It's true he is a little psychopathic but we will give him away to somebody who thinks they can use him.
Next year, when we return from our second annual posting in Alaska, we may even get another horse. This time, I promise, it will be calm, manageable and without vices.
As exciting as Henry? Perhaps not. But at least we might be able to ride him.
Heatwaves and Hailstones - 19/07/07tag:frontlineclub.com,2007:/blogs/julius//54.27182007-07-19T17:58:45Z2008-12-11T15:15:48ZWhoever said that living in paradise was going to be easy? The year began with an onslaught of thick, white powder snow that crept up over our sundecks to the lower reaches of the windows and then up, up and...Mr Julius
www.GrizzlyBearRanch.ca]]>
A wedding by the river - 23/06/07tag:frontlineclub.com,2007:/blogs/julius//54.27172007-06-23T18:00:53Z2008-12-11T15:15:48ZIt was, in the end, a notable event on the social calendar of our small, quiet valley. Journalists and cowboys, farmers and photographers, crooners, lawyers, professors, biologists, bikers, loggers, carpenters and former soldiers all came together earlier this month as...Mr Julius
www.grizzlybearranch.ca]]>
Glaciers and Gravel Strips 23/04/07tag:frontlineclub.com,2007:/blogs/julius//54.27162007-04-23T18:02:43Z2008-12-11T15:15:48ZIt's been something of an obsession of mine ever since we first arrived at the ranch. Even before we moved in I was already pacing out the yard to see where I might put a small plane down. Every angle...Mr Julius
www.grizzlybearranch.ca]]>
More Moosery 08/03/07tag:frontlineclub.com,2007:/blogs/julius//54.27152007-03-08T19:04:26Z2008-12-11T15:15:48ZLiving as we do deep in the Canadian wilderness, we thought that - at least when it came to local wildlife - we had seen it all. We found a deer in our garage one morning, a black bear staring...Mr Julius
www.grizzlybearranch.ca]]>
Winter Roads and War Stories - Jan 07tag:frontlineclub.com,2007:/blogs/julius//54.27142007-01-31T18:35:48Z2008-12-11T15:15:48ZIt was not an auspicious beginning. The day we were to leave our beautiful BC home and set out on a 2,000 mile winter odyssey across the frozen north we could barely open our front door. Three feet of snow...Mr Julius
It was not an auspicious beginning.
The day we were to leave our beautiful BC home and set out on a 2,000 mile winter odyssey across the frozen north we could barely open our front door.
Three feet of snow had fallen overnight onto an already well-laden garden. Even reaching the snowplough was a manly hike. Then I couldn't get the door open. Then the plough got stuck on the first run.
It was three hours before we managed to make it the 100 yards to the end of our drive and onto the road, the winter goat track pretentiously named BC Highway 31.
Just as we began to relax the first of the dogs puked all over the back of the car.
So began our great ice-bound cross-country adventure.
A month or so before I had been offered a place teaching journalism for a semester at the University of Alaska.
The new posting gave me several opportunities.
First of all I could reengage my atrophying brain during the long barren winter months. Then it was a chance to fill up our badly-depleted coffers.
Even more persuasively it would allow me to bore a captive audience with some of the dog-eared old war stories I had been hawking around the bars of eastern and central Europe since I can remember.
Even the trip itself - 2,500 miles through the most mountainous terrain in north America at the coldest time of year - was tinged with the rose-colouring of a romantic adventure.
Until the dog regurgitated his breakfast.
Actually, the first part of the journey was the easy bit. To take up my new post I needed a US work visa. That meant an interview at the US consulate in Vancouver.
The city was, as ever, a delight. Cosmopolitan, multi-ethnic, great food. We watched Borat, howling like hillbillies as the more sophisticated cityfolk around us grew increasingly uncomfortable.
When the appointed hour came I donned a jacket and arrived at the consulate for my interview with a few minutes to spare.
Call me naïve but I imagined the whole thing would happen something like this: I would bang on a large, worn but solidly-built wooden door. A young but well-educated diplomat, probably Ivy League, would meet me.
"Ah, Mr Strauss," he would say. "Of course, we've been expecting you. We're delighted you're coming to our country. You're going to be the new professor at the University of Alaska. Super. Esteemed retired correspondent of wars and conflicts. Excellent. Now-now, Sir, don't be modest. We know you, of course, by reputation. We'll have your paperwork sorted out in a jiffy (do the Americans say jiffy?)."
The reality was disappointing and a little brutal. "If you don't get back in line now we'll have you at the end of the queue," a bad-tempered security guard balled at me as I stood with dozens of other haggard-looking desperados.
"You're not on the list!" another said when I finally reached the door, eyeing me up and down as if I was about to push a secret button and turn us both into meat shavings. I showed the man my appointment letter. Grudgingly, he let me in.
In the corridors there were large posters denouncing the evil of the 9/11 attacks in categorical language. Then a mountain of paperwork, a long wait and finally a mumbled interview through a glass screen.
The next afternoon, after another bout of queueing - "No bags, I said, or you're at the back of the queue!" the unfriendly security man barked at me this time - I finally had my visa.
That evening we set off north in the throes of a nasty winter storm driving through endless blacked-out suburbs. By midnight we still hadn’t made it to our planned stopover and I was so tired the snow seemed to be falling upwards.
In retrospect it wasn't such a bad trip.
We took the stunningly beautiful Stewart Cassiar highway, a deserted and partly gravel road that runs 400 miles up the inside of the Coastal Mountains, and saw about four cars all day.
Then there was the Nisling Mountain Range and countless other ranges, some almost lunar in appearance. They were opaque, light-filled, rugged and desperately beautiful.
With the sun rising around 10am once we had crossed the 60th parallel, there was only six hours or so of daylight. The rest of the time we drove in a brittle, glittering dark.
Sometimes the snow was so thick and the road so treacherous we struggled to top 30 miles an hour.
Then there were days when the temperature held steadfastly below minus 30 degrees. At one petrol station the pump was frozen solid and we took it in turns with the attendant trying to beat it into action.
At other times the dogs squealed like babies when we let them out of the car as the ice bit into their soft southern paws.
We were temporarily unseated one especially chilly morning in the Yukon. With the temperature colder than ever, our (almost) new Dodge Ram truck, the pride of the Detroit automakers, spluttered and died.
One of the valves froze, the oil seals blew and we dribbled a gallon of the black stuff all over the Alaska highway.
Even in our misfortune we were lucky, however. A local dressed in the garb of the north took a look under the bonnet.
"It's your PVT," he muttered. Reaching over he snapped a small plastic tube leading into the engine. "With a bit of oil you should get to Whitehorse now. Then you can replace that bit I just broke."
We made it. Just. We got a new plastic pipe and the local Chrysler service wired some cardboard to the front of the radiator to stop it happening again.
"That should do it," one of the mechanics said. "Don't forget to take it off in May when the temperature reaches zero."
Two days later - eight days after we had left the ranch - we rolled into Anchorage.
That was two weeks ago. Since then life has treated me grandly.
I am no longer Julius the redneck rancher but Professor Strauss, esteemed instructor on the matter of the world's media and the vagaries of reporting in dodgy places.
I have a nice big office with nice big windows, a 15 minute walk to work (often through moose turds) and a total of 15 or 20 students.
It doesn’t hurt, of course, that all but two or three are keen young ladies.
They even pretend to like my boring old stories from small, forgotten conflicts that would see most people nodding off before you could say Velika Kladusa.
Of course, I do hold the sword of grades over their young heads.
Occasionally, like a skilled tennis player placing a ball, I throw a long stare into the middle distance as if caught in a reverie of heroic deeds left unrecounted.
Unfortunately they're a pretty smart bunch - some of them use words in their essays I've never heard of - and I'm sure they'll see through me soon.
All the stories I keep telling take me back to those days, weeks and months sequestered in third-rate accommodation in shady corners of the world fighting for my postage stamp of space on the next day's foreign pages.
Now, at least, I can see that they were not entirely wasted.
For more of our blog go to www.grizzlybearranch.blogspot.com.
Snow ploughs and Santa Claus - 8/12/06tag:frontlineclub.com,2006:/blogs/julius//54.27132006-12-08T19:07:09Z2008-12-11T15:15:48ZIt looked wonderful in the catalogue. Yellow, gleaming, metallic - and all for a very reasonable thousand dollars or so. With funds dwindling but the first snowfall already upon us we decided to bite the bullet. Perhaps nothing defines a...Mr Julius
www.grizzlybearranch.ca]]>
The Kremlin and its critics - 24/11/06tag:frontlineclub.com,2006:/blogs/julius//54.27122006-11-24T19:11:00Z2008-12-11T15:15:48ZFor those of you who read our blog for updates on the ranch and a whiff of wilderness escape, my apologies. The recent shooting of Anna Politkovskaya, a fierce Putin critic in Russia, has left me musing on the future...Mr Julius
www.grizzlybearranch.ca]]>
I admit it was an impetuous and poorly-judged decision.
I had just arrived in Anchorage for my annual teaching assignment at the University of Alaska and the temperature was twenty-plus degrees below freezing.
I spent the first night at a sleazy motel not far from the airport. The walls were thin, the carpets reeked of old cigarette smoke and daylight seemed to come and go within the blink of an eye.
After months surrounded by the magnificent Selkirk mountains, fast-flowing rivers and gorgeous vistas at our wilderness home in British Columbia, I felt caged, miserable and desperate to get out.
When an apartment became available I jumped at the chance. It was small. It was expensive. It was uncomfortable. It was garishly decorated with the worst of faux Alaskan kitsch.
But I simply couldn't bear the motel so I took it and handed over an unwisely large fistful of e-dollars through an online payment system to a smooth-talking agent.
The very first night in my new residence I realised I had made a mistake. Not 20 yards from my bedroom windows was a busy highway. Cars, trucks and lorries rumbled along well past midnight.
After months in the wilds where every nocturnal sound means something, this was more than my heightened senses could take.
With Kristin still in Canada, I determined to put a brave face on the discomforts of my new life. It would only, after all, be for four months. The neighbourhood, surely, would make up for it.
When I trotted off to the university on the first day of term, my fellow professors soon put paid to that notion.
"You live where!?" said Ron, a colleague and former public relations man with the Anchorage Police. "But that's the ghetto. That's where the Bloods hang out. That's a bad part of town." He stretched out the word "bad" making it sound even more sinister than it otherwise would.
Glen, another colleague, was equally unimpressed. "You live up by that Carr's [supermarket] on 13th? I only go to that area when I'm looking for a really shady bar."
Fred, the head of department, muttered to me with a furrowed brow: "It wouldn't look good if the Atwood Chair was knifed on his way home from work." I could tell he was only half joking.
The next day I took the local bus to work and began to see what my colleagues meant. In Alaska, it seems, only the poor, destitute and clinically insane travel by public transport.
Each day there would be a new collection of misfits and weirdos on Bus No 15. Drunks, bag ladies, down-and-out Natives (Alaska's indigenous population) and people who argued loudly, usually with themselves.
Heading to the local Carr's a few days later, I witnessed a fight between two local bums. It was really only screaming and shouting as they were both too drunk to land a punch.
As poor districts went - and I have seen a few in my years trawling round the third world in search of news stories - this one wore its suffering on its sleeve.
Being truly poor anywhere in the world must be tough, but to be in the suffocating grips of penury while living in the richest and most powerful country on earth must be doubly galling.
Each day as I walked to the grungy supermarket (I was carless at the time) I would see the people who had fallen between the cracks of the American dream. I began to feel a quiet empathy for them.
I even developed an absurd sense of pride in my new neighbourhood. When people asked where I lived I would say "Denali and 15th" daring them to respond.
If they didn't rise to the challenge I sometimes added: "You know, by the Carr's on 13th. Down in the 'hood."
But just as I was settling in, my flirtation with life in the ghetto came to an end. For one, Kristin wired me a chunk of money and my bank balance climbed out of double digits.
Then came two momentous events: the purchase of a fancy Land Cruiser (our plan is to use it to take guests wildlife-viewing back at the ranch) and the arrival of Kristin, a far more sensible and down-to-earth human than I.
As to the former, I couldn’t even park my beautiful new purchase in my adopted part of town. The temptation for the locals to strip it of its exterior paraphernalia would, I am sure, have been overwhelming.
I had visions of bumping into my tough new neighbours at the supermarket with the large gold-coloured emblems that had recently adorned the back of my car hanging around their necks on chains.
Down-heartedly I parked the Toyota elsewhere and continued to take the bus to work.
A week later, and with Kristin now in Alaska and unimpressed by the ghetto, we moved. We found a beautiful little apartment in a gorgeous house in posh southern Anchorage.
Sally, the charming landlady, runs the place as a highly succesful Bed and Breakfast in the summer (if any of you are coming to Anchorage look up www.alaskamangymoose.com) and rents out bits of it in the winter.
We are now living the lives of the privileged American middle class. Each day we drive to the local shopping centre, we drive to work, we drive to the woods, or we simply drive. That's what middle-class Alaskans do.
Nothing, but nothing, is within walking distance and if the buses do come down this far I bet they run empty, shunned by the well-to-do locals who wouldn’t be seen dead sharing a vehicle with a stranger.
It's very pleasant here and many days we look out of our windows and see moose walking through the snow. There's not a poor person in sight and most of the land is marked "Private Property - Keep Out."
If the temperature is a little chilly we can even start the Toyota from inside our house, saving the inconvenience of those first few minutes with a cold bum.
I can't pretend that I preferred the apartment on 15th. But I no longer have that note of proud defiance in my voice when I tell someone my address.
My street cred in the eyes of the local toughs, never high, has evaporated altogether.
Last week I dropped by the old apartment on 15th to give back a key to the postbox I had mistakenly taken with me.
As I hurried back to my leather-upholstered 4x4 and pulled away from the curb I found my nose rising a shade as I surveyed my former neighbours.
I couldn't help but wonder: "How could I ever have lived in a part of town like this? These aren't my sort of people."
The transformation from streetwise urban gangsta to the male equivalent of a soccer mum was complete.
For more posts go to www.grizzlybearranch.blogspot.com.]]>