Jam bands in the final frontier

Let's talk for a minute about the bar scene in Alaska



Immediately after picking us up at the airport Matt insisted on taking us to a local brewhouse called Humpy's. His friends were playing there and he hadn't seen them in a while and we were so dazed that we agreed to whatever. As soon as we walked in we were immediately transported to mountain college town USA. I seriously thought I'd taken a wrong turn and ended up in Boulder. That vibe is so universal, a dreadlock here, a batik print there, and Tevas everywhere. It was not what I expected at all. But it made sense, that the rugged backpacker adventurer type would be drawn to Alaska. Duh.

There were also far more women than I'd bargained on. I reminded myself that we were in the city and that the rugged mountain men of my weird northern fantasies would emerge deeper in the trip. Still I was disappointed. This was Alaska! Where were the men who actually used their Carharts instead of just wearing them. Where were the men whose beards were signs of life in an inhospitable climate instead of badges of laziness and Brooklyn fashioning? Where were the men who earned their plaid? All I saw was a grip of mellow dudes drinking beer to barroom jams. I could have gotten this in Nebraska!

Not that I was trekking north looking for some great romance but I'm a girl and damnit, a lot of girls think about these things. I know full well that when faced with an actual mountain man I'd probably be skeeved and he would probably be equally as skeeved. After all, the romance of the wilderness is not the reality of it and I pity the survivalist who has to interact with me and my Brooklyn bloggy ways (though I found myself consistently blessing the fact that I was born in Nebraska, as I used it as currency with those who immediately soured at the revelation that I was a New Yorker.)

We went fishing the very next day but upon our return to Anchorage we were taken by Matt on an official bar crawl. The very first stop, the Pioneer, featured a bartender from the Bronx. That didn't seem very Alaskan-esque, but was fitting nonetheless. Then again, most of the people we met in Alaska came from somewhere else and arrived there searching for some intangible ideal. Or, as in our bartender's case, they'd gotten in trouble when they were younger and had come out there to straighten out, loved it, and stayed.

We sure as hell stood out though. Megan especially. She, a beacon of blonde Amazonian appeal amdist the crunchy granola vibeage. I got several lewd comments from groups of older men but they were mainly fixated on my pants (yes, if you wear Judi Rosen jeans out in Alaska you will bewilder the fuck out of many a man.)













All of the photos from that night turned out as weird, obscure, and messy as we did. From selecting Orion on the jukebox to doffing a coonskin cap (hey, it was the property of our genuine Alaskan host!) we were pretty much embarassments the entire time (a feat I regularly managed to accomplish at bars despite my sobriety.) We were the tourists taking cheesy posed photos at every opportunity. Simultaneously exoticizing the locals while they exoticized us. I fell into the traps that I, as a long-ish time New Yorker hate so completely. We were all bad jokes and preconcieved notions, half of the time wrong, half of the time correct.

But jerks and weirdos that we were, we still had a blast.

See?

Never took this to be the face of a killer

Aside from various roadkill and bugs I have never killed another being and the roadkill was accidental so suffice to say I have never deliberately murdered anything aside from a roach or ant or mosquito. I never thought about it either. As a former vegan I am excruciatingly aware of where our food comes from and generally don't dig on factory-farmed raised meat (though I can't really afford another option most times.) Subsistence hunting is a magical mythical notion to me. Hunting was never that major of a pasttime in Nebraska where I grew up and obviously it doesn't have much to do with the reality of life as a New Yorker.

When I was invited on the trip to Alaska salmon fishing was the first activity on the agenda. We flew into Anchorage and the next day drove down to Kenai to meet up with our host Matt's family who were already out on the boats. On the drive out there we got reports from mom who proudly gave the totals of 63 fish the first day and 68 the second. That's a lot of salmon. Matt explained that we would not be doing line-fishing but instead pursuing the method of dipnetting. Now only licensed Alaskans are allowed to dipnet and they are only allowed to do it for a few weeks each July. Graciously Matt's father flouted the law and let us on the boat.



We suited up in borrowed rain gear (I was given a child's set as the smallest adult. I couldn't lift my arms above my head...oops!) We went out on an inflatable raft boat that comfortably sat four, each of us had a net, but the fish weren't swimming. Starry-eyed but the numbers of 20 fish per person I was overjoyed, thinking that catching a fish would be a breeze. But alas...my first time out, not a damn salmon. Only a single flounder which we threw back. After three hours we only caught five fish total and called it a day.

I was pretty heartbroken. When you dipnet you literally dip your net into the river and the fish swim right into it. When you catch one you use the boat as support and pull it out and dump the fish into the boat. Usually they are allowed to flop about for several minutes as they slowly die but occassionally if one is especially spunky they will club it which helps end the convulsions but summons an unpleasant amount of blood.

The following day we were given the opportunity to go out again. Megan had caught two salmon so the family was insistent that I not leave Alaska without catching one. Again, we went back on the boat, with the father at the motor and this time Matt's sister and her friend at the other nets. Mariah was seated in the spot I had been last time and immediately caught two fish as soon as we finished motoring up the river to the bridge. She caught two more before I felt my net tug. Elated I pulled it up out the river and saw a seven pound red thrashing in the net. I swung the net over the side of the boat and flipped the fish onto the floor. I watched it crash and bang as it's life went out. You wouldn't expect them to last as long as they do. And when you think it is over, they'll start right back up again, twisting and thumping as their eyes go blank and their mouths open to nothingness. It's a strange thing, watching something die. Stranger still when you are the agent of it's death.

Matt's father tried to lay it out beforehand in the terms that they were swimming upriver to spawn then die, so we weren't killing anything that was meant to keep living for much longer anyhow. That fact didn't bother me. Whether or not the being was doomed. Just my placement, watching something die, actually killing something. It's not a feeling I get to feel every day. And at the risk of sounding ridiculous or creepy, I found it quite spiritual. Looking at something slowly dying at my feet knowing that thing was going to be food, I felt very much a part of nature's way. An agent of the earth, existing within it's bounds and it's rules.

It's hard not to feel that connection in Alaska no matter where you go. Kenai wasn't the most beautiful spot but it was the most accesible one emotionally. It was good we went there first because while it didn't contain the shock and awe of places like Denali or Hatcher Pass, it was the perfect primer. It exhibits the typical of Alaskan beauty. So constant in it's sunlit mountains and misty skies and wildflowers admist rusted ruins, this beauty becomes almost mundane. It's the typical skyline and god I miss it.






Well after midnight




Round midnight


Commercial nets


Wildflowers and rust




Neighboring campers

The drive from Anchorage to Kenai was our first view of just how insane the place we had arrived was. The following three pictures were taken from the back passenger seat while driving. We wanted to stop and get out every two minutes, it was that consistently mindblowing.







We did finally stop and these were the results:




Megan and me


Megan and me


Matt


Me and Matt



And that was just the second day...

How do you begin to tell a story that's lasted longer than you have?

I'll start with Hatcher Pass. It wasn't the first but it was the best. If we had gotten to spend more time there it would probably rank as one of my favorite places ever. Right up there with Cumberland Island and the nearby cemetary in St Marys. Unfortunately it was raining, we didn't pay the fee, and Matt and Ellie waited in the car while Megan and I scrambled to take pictures.

Independence Mine is a crumbling gold mine located at Hatchers Pass. Gold was first found in 1906 at the site by Robert Lee Hatcher and the mine was active until 1951. The site is now a state historical park.

I'm baaaaack!

Alaska is bonkers.