Grizzly Bears And Hats With Ears

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Times camped before: A handful
Consecutive days expected to camp on this trip: 42
Times felt inadequate as a man: Several
People to cook for: 16
Hours of darkness per day: 0
Portaloos cleaned out: 1
Dollars wasted on the most pointless day tour of all time: 38
Days spent travelling to and from said day tour: 5
Bears encountered: 1
Wolves encountered: 1
Items lost: 1 (bandana)... well 2 really but see the last paragraph for the story behind the second
Houses sold: 0
Cars sold: 0
Blog-in-a-Sun-word: Exposed

Baxter: Leave these people alone. They mean you no harm.
Bear: We Bears are a proud race. They must pay for their intrusion.
Baxter: On my journey I met one of your kind. His name was Katow-jo. We became friends.
Bear: Katow-jo is my cousin. Go in peace.
Baxter: I will tell tales of your compassion.
Bear: Fare thee well, Baxter. You shall always be friend of the bears…

The bears are a proud race alright, and by embarking on a camping trip through the Alaskan outback we were entering the bear pit. Now I know what you’re thinking, I’m exaggerating perceived threat for effect here; boys from Bishopbriggs don’t get mauled by bears. That only happens to guys with names like Chuck and Lester from places like Beaver Creek, Oregon or poor wee Amrit from Bengal. I thought the same, and how can you blame me for lacking any meaningful trepidation when my childhood experiences were drawn from Yogi, Biffo, Gentle Ben, Balloo, Paddington, Rupert, Teddy and the Care Bears? Even Danni wasn’t all that bad although I suppose Broxi and Andy Goram should’ve indicated that perhaps some of them could be a bit nasty. But even my blasé attitude was soon quashed by the number of warnings, tips and the general scare-mongering that we received from our, let’s face it, more in-the-know hosts.

I mustn’t get ahead of myself though. My first impression of Alaska was made before I landed in Anchorage. As you could imagine, the flight in was a sight to behold: endless miles of snow-capped mountains, pine forests, winding creeks and glistening lakes. I was entering the land of the midnight sun in pursuit of outdoor adventures and initial appearances did nothing to suggest that I had made a bad choice. The idea of days upon end without darkness had intrigued me. I must confess that it felt very strange walking back from the pub at 1 am with the sun still in the sky and I wondered what havoc this would play with my sleeping patterns. Indeed, the last night in Chicago would prove to be my last in darkness for weeks. Of course, for every long, bright summer day, there is a corresponding day in the winter where the sun doesn’t rise at all. Now that must be weird: Morning, dark; Lunch-time, dark; Afternoon, dark; Night-time, as dark as it was at lunch. I contemplated what effect it must have on the locals who choose to stay and see out the winter, and I shouldn’t really have been too surprised to find them a little odd. When coupled with the freezing temperatures that can plummet to minus 80°C, I can’t imagine that even the magnificent aurora borealis would be enough to keep their spirits in check. I was unnerved by one guy in particular with whom I had the misfortune of sharing a dorm room in Anchorage as he lay in bed laughing intermittently at his book… he was reading The Bible. That said, a significant portion of Alaskans make a southerly exodus during the winter months and I found these people very endearing. Interested in their visitors without prying, and keen to make you feel welcome at the Final Frontier State.

I had one full day in Anchorage before I was due to meet up with the group with whom I’d be spending the next 6 weeks. I spent it rounding up all the camping stuff that I still needed to buy (which was basically everything), replacing my (Power Rangers) rucksack with one that wouldn’t cause me to display daily outbursts of Tourette’s Syndrome and watching more Tommy Burns clips on YouTube. That night I called round to visit Will and Karen, the couple running the expedition who gave me a taster of things to come with a welcome treat of pickled salmon, moose pepperami and moose burgers, all of which tasted a lot nicer than they sound. I slept that night with high hopes but in the bitter-sweet knowledge that it would be the last indoor bed I would see for 6 weeks come rain, hail or shine.

I guess the maxim that has governed my mindset for this trip since I first confirmed the booking was that I had no expectations. But even against this blank canvas, I hadn’t envisaged for a second that I’d be the youngest member of the crowd. In fact, if you were to take an average age of the 14 in the party it would be closer to my parents’ ages than my own. Still, I wasn’t so naïve as to pre-judge people based on age and if it was Club 18-30 I was looking for then I would’ve hit Ibiza for the summer. As it turned out, as often happens with me, it was the eldest ones I got on with best. Nigel and Sue are a Welsh couple in their 50s who have tackled everything with smiles on their faces and their patter is brilliant. Rixy and Andy are two ex-Army guys that have taught me a thing or two about the great outdoors. Al, Chris and Charlotte are nearer my age and usually up for a few beers and a laugh. Whenever I’m having a whinge about being dirty or cold, Sonia and Linda are on hand to tell me to man-up. Jackie is the same age as my mum, but, embarrassingly, manages to show me a clean pair of heels on the up-hills when we go out on the bikes; I think her husband Simon is grateful for the respite after suffering the same fate through the years. Which leaves Donna (Kebab) and Amy (Winehouse) who I’ve not spoken to so much yet even though I have assigned them nicknames.

So how has life on the road been? I’ve got two options here: 1- Lie and come out with a semblance of dignity, or 2 - Tell the truth and come across as a hopeless, coddled, lazy woose. I’m sure you’ll be able to decipher which version of events I’ve plumped for… It’s been hard work. Camping involves the putting up and taking down of tents. No shit, Sherlock. The thing is, I’m not very good at that. I’m especially not good at it at 6am when I’m freezing cold, it’s below zero outside and my tent is caked in frost. Or when it’s windy. Or when it’s raining. Given, of course, that I’ve slept on a mattress as thick as a Daily Record the previous night, cuddling my sleeping bag hood in the vain hope that it might offer some extra warmth. Then once a week it’s your turn in the cook group where you get up an hour early (5am) to make breakfast for 16. The pots and plates don’t wash themselves either. And how do you cook for 16 in the middle of nowhere? You light fires. And what do you need to make fires? Wood. So on the long days of 10 hour drives we spent our breaks foraging through the bush, axe in hand, hacking up logs like a posse of deranged Vikings. And, again, I don’t know what I was expecting but there ain’t no showers out in the wilds. Flushing toilets? You betcha a bear shits in the woods - and only if he can find a spot away from the mosquitoes. To this day, my granny torments me because my hands are not dirty enough for a boy. Not enough cuts. Can’t be working hard enough. Well I’ll be taking a picture of these bad boys and sending it home as I reckon there’s a few seasoned plumbers I could be giving a run for their money after this graft.

I’m half-kidding though. The tent doesn’t pose too much of a problem these days, most people muck in and help the cook group, chopping wood and making fires is great craic and the long driving days pass relatively painlessly with games of cards, Trivial Pursuit and whatever else our imaginations can come up with. Credit to Karen too, who does all the shopping and ensures that the meals are diverse, tasty and nutritious. Will has bikes, rubber bands and pull-up bars on the truck so there’s no excuse for not staying in shape. We even have a toilet tent (although I’m not one for using it) and a clever wee appliance that allows you to give yourself a quick once over with the shower head from a basin of water. Seriously, it could be a lot worse.

We’ve stopped off in some great places too. The cruise on Prince William Sound provided a treat for the eyeballs with some breath-taking scenery including glaciers, fjords and sea-life. It was a bit over-priced at $160 especially if you’ve done Milford Sound in New Zealand before as it was very similar. I spent most of the trip chatting to the narrator who reminded me of Regi Blinker. I told her that she was the best narrator I’ve ever had on a tour and I think it made her day. She later came back to report that one of the walruses.. I mean girls behind the bar wanted to see me after the tour but I told you already I’m not such a fan of sea-life.

Which brings me back to Denali National Park a.k.a. bear territory. Now maybe I’m being overly simplistic, but surely a bit of basic commonsense should be enough to keep you safe - i.e. if you see a wild bear then run like the clappers! But, apparently this is exactly what not to do. At risk of the blog running too long, I’m gonna include the following snippet from Living In Harmony With Bears, principally because I found it really funny:

Bears may come close as they threaten and decide what to do. If we behave correctly, identifying ourselves, standing our ground, or giving the bear room, the bear will make the right decision - sometimes not as quickly as we would like - and move off. If a bear persists and moves towards you, hold your ground. The bear is interested in you or something you have and may cause you bodily harm. Yell and wave your arms. You are trying to tell the bear you are not intimidated. A head down, open-mouthed running charge is a bear’s trump card. It is a defensive reaction to a perceived threat. The bear is telling you that it is highly stressed and you are in the wrong place. If a bear makes physical contact, fall to your ground on your stomach and protect your face and neck. If the bear rolls you over, try to get back into this position. When the bear stops keep as still and as quiet as possible until the bear has left the area. If the attack persists, it is likely making a predatory attack. Fight back vigorously. If you can identify the bear as a black bear, do not drop to the ground. Fight back as if your life depends on it - at this point it may. You are almost certainly involved in a predatory attack and the bear is trying to kill you. Focus your retaliation on the bear’s eyes and nose…

So it was with these warnings fresh in our minds that we set off merrily skipping along on our daily hikes. I was really comforted by the can of bear mace in my pocket which of course I could easily spray in the eyes of the half-tonne grizzly beast in the event of it getting within 5 metres of me…

The first bear we encountered induced plenty of excitement among the group. After days on tenterhooks staying vigilant, we saw a grizzly feasting upon what looked like a deer, fortunately from the safe vantage point of the truck. What we saw next was as shocking as it was disappointing given the reverence we had held for these beasts throughout the excursion. From seemingly nowhere, a wolf appeared and charged the bear in what appeared to be a suicidal mission to snatch the remains of Bambi. We winced in expectation of witnessing a live kill; seconds out, round two. But amazingly, the bear surrendered it’s tucker and took off at a rate of knots whimpering like a little school girl! Wile E. Coyote - 1, Fozzie - 0.

Which made my cycling experience all the more terrifying. One afternoon when I was feeling particularly energetic, I plugged a Killers shuffle into my iPod, unhooked the bike from the truck and headed for the hills. It was one of those cycles where just as you get to the top of one hill, another steeper, longer one appears around the corner. Still, I was looking forward to the white-knuckle ride on the way back. After about an hour’s worth of lactic acid had built up in my quads and calves, I picked a point in the horizon where I would about-turn. I didn’t have a lot left in the tank so my head was down and my legs were pumping. Sensing I was nearing my summit for the day, I looked up. What’s the time Mr Wolf? I froze half-balanced on the hill, recalling at once how I’d seen one of these guys chase off a bear, supposedly top of the food chain around these parts. A food chain that I did not want to be part of. But crazily, there was a piece of me that wanted to reach the point I had set myself and complete my exercise. I broke the Mexican stand-off by gingerly advancing up the hill, half-hoping, half-expecting him to wander off and hunt beaver or whatever it is that wolves do. White Fang, however, wasn’t for budging. Mission aborted. This added to the adrenalin of the downhill back to camp and my mind, as well as my body, was racing. I couldn’t help but think that I’d cost the red-tops back home a decent headline: Cyclist mauled by wolf whilst listening to The Killers…

From Denali, the pace changed as we set off on a 5 day round trip to Prudhoe Bay, where the northern tip of Alaska meets the Arctic Ocean. Honestly, if you ever get the chance to do this please don’t. 5 days of bush camping along the mind-numbingly boring Dalton Highway just to see a foggy oil-field. The guys told me that the Eskimo who ran the tour through the bleak industrial backwater would point out ‘highlights’ such as the local warehouse that workers use to store stuff and the local garbage collector’s mum’s house. I slept so, as Forrest Gump would say, that’s all I’ve got to say about that.

Our final destination on Alaskan soil was more eventful. The one-horse town of Chicken has a summer population of 20 people and is a real ‘Hi Uncle Dad’ kinda place. It provided refuge for miners during the Gold Rush who either got pissed to celebrate striking it lucky or got pissed in a bid to drown their sorrows after another fruitless day working their knuckles to the bone. We got pissed too. It had been a relatively tame trip thus far and Chicken was the ideal place to let our hair down. The pub was like something from a Spaghetti Western. It had Hank Williams on the jukebox and was adorned with a collage of baseball caps left as souvenirs by those who had passed through over the years. Susan, the landlady, had appeared in the local press such was the iconic reputation of the pub within the region. I don’t know if it was the Scottish accent or the fact I had lived in her original hometown of Wildwood, New Jersey but she decided that, of the group, I was the one to receive the ceremonial rite of passage usually reserved for females… to have my underwear forcibly removed and blown to bits from a cannon. As appealing as this sounds, I was reluctant at first but finally succumbed to the peer pressure… or an atomic ‘wedgie’ as it’s sometimes known. I managed to salvage a piece from the smithereens big enough to pin up on the wall as my own wee memento and the night turned into a right good knees-up. I enjoyed fielding questions about Scotland from the locals and getting to know the group better. Commando, I was back in my comfort zone.

Why can’t we all just get along?

God Bless This House.

Ginty

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Photos

Loving the tour guide
..but she couldn't understand why I insisted in calling her Regi

Crossing the arctic circle
Loved Martin Gray's comment on this photo. With his North Face fleece, hiking trousers and hiking boots, Al looks equipped for the Arctic Circle. I on the other hand look like I'm off to see the Arctic Monkeys!

If a bear charges you, stand your ground
eh, what?!

The remainder of my boxers
..blown to bits

Etched in history
..in this wee pub anyway

Comments

[Joe]

Doff my cap.
Pal, I can honestly say i grinned from ear to ear the whole way through that. Couple of good old lol's too. Fantastic! I love the long storys so keep them coming mate. Always fancied Alaska, and I fancy it more now. Keep us updated. Kate and me have 3 weeks of work left in Auckland and then we fly to Christchurch where we have hired a campervan for 3 weeks to take on the South Island, canny wait. In other major news, I am now the proud owner of my very first Season Ticket to Parkheid. I'm like a wean about it, canny sit still. Take it handy me ol mucker. Joe.