Alaskan Marine Highway

In the summer of 2015 I was up in Alaska staying at a little hostel in a town called Skagway. I was the only one there- when I arrived the owner was cleaning his shotgun. Not that there was anything menacing about the place, it just sticks out in my mind. I didn't do much in Skagway. I took a short hike. It was beautiful, staggeringly so. Glaciers creeping over mountain peaks surround the port town. The bay is brilliant blue. Real postcard material.

I bought a ticket for a ferry ride on the wonderfully titled Alaskan Marine Highway. It's cheap if you are on foot. For a 48 hour ferry ride that crosses the Canada/US border I think I paid 100 bucks. It also follows the same route many of the popular Alaskan cruise ships take, down through what they call the Inside Passage between the islands of the archipelago. So, again, really nice to look at.

The ferry was full of American retirees on long road trips. I don't think I spoke a word to anyone except the cooks in the cafeteria for two days. I overheard conversations about the best places to stay in Graceland, autumn in Vermont, rotary clubs and veteran associations. They seemed to be having a hell of a good time. I read two of the books they had on a little shelf in the games room- one was  "An American in the Gulag". I think this book has slipped out of public awareness, but its a real gem if you're interested in the history of the 20th century.

The cheapest tickets don't include a cabin berth on these ferries- I suppose they expect you to sleep in the seating galleries on the mid-decks. I slept on the top deck under the stars. Luckily there were no clouds. For two nights in a row I set up my sleeping bag on a reclining deck chair and watched the night sky. This was all to say that of everything I saw in my trip to the Yukon and Alaska, sleeping alone on the top deck of a ferry gliding through the archipelago in the darkness under a vivid night sky was the best.

JELLYFISH + the end of the world

Not being a coastal dweller, I've only come into the future death zones of jellyfish we know now as our sick and dilapidated oceans occasionally. Jellyfish, in their way, can sometimes be beautiful. They also die like old rotting meringue pies and wash up on beaches world wide. Plus they kill, indiscriminately, and regardless of the logic of the evolutionary food chain, everything they can 'bump' into. Now they are destroying our oceans, hastened by a range of human activities like pollution, over-fishing, indifference etc. These primitive death balloons are expanding their range and threaten to wipe out our marine biodiversity, and consequently, irreversibly and destructively change our planet beyond recognition. 

When you are in Oslo, have a tent, and are cheap (which is everyone because Scandinavia is the European disneyland of insanely high prices) you can camp on any of the municipal islands for free. Some people live on them, in tents or little makeshift shelters. When I was there we didn't have any trouble finding a spot that overlooked the westerly horizon. Good for watching the sun go down. Public transit ferries motor around the fjord to take you into the city. 

One day we thought we'd go swimming. It's not that warm in Oslo, or at least not while I was there, and the water is chilly even in summer. But there was a beach on the island, and a dock a bout fifty metres out you could swim to. I knew something was amiss when we had to pick our way through dead jellyfish the size of pizzas on the beach. Like a minefield. Jellyfish are such devious fuckers, truly the spawn of Satan, that they've probably evolved to kill even when they're dead and drying on the sand. So we were careful. I poked and stabbed a few with sticks.

We swam out into the bay toward the dock. It was cold. Fifty metres is not so far under ideal conditions but being a bad swimmer, wind picking up etc. can stretch that distance out quite a while. We climbed onto the dock for a little rest. The clouds rolled in and the wind picked up, not in any dramatic sense, just because the weather wasn't great for swimming. We decided to swim back. Luminescent circles appeared around the dock, in the deep water. Not many of them, just a few on either side. Jellyfish! I was paralyzed with fear. For a while we checked each side of the rectangular dock- a delicate circular form rising from the depth on each. Death afloat! When it started to become dark we swam back. In the water the horizon is short- the shore seems further away. You can't see anything under the dark glass of the water. I kicked frantically. If my friend had been stung I wouldn't have stopped. On shore, my companion went back to the tent. I lay on my back panting. This is not a vomiting story, but I threw up in the woods. Swimming wears me out; the cold and deathly afraid I felt of the cloud of jellyfish lingered. On the beach I watched the sun in its northern arc- never really leaving the horizon. A group of Norwegians drank wine and laughed on the shore. One of them, a girl with blond hair, through whom the light of God shone, pushed the jellyfish from my mind. There is a life beyond the primordial harbingers of water and death. Her legs lay against the grass, perfect in my mind. Eventually I got up, and my fear of dying without ever touching legs such as those supplanted my fear of washing up dead, bloated on a northern shore in a jellyfish bloom.

Once, when I was sitting on an lakefront walk in Macedonia enduring the tail end of a rakia hangover in the spring cold, an old man hopped the curb from the street to the path on a tiny motorcycle, barely more than a dirt bike, and drove to the end of the public dock. There were two milk crates straddling the rear wheel, covered with plastic sheeting and full of gear: a sleeping bag, a jacket, some empty water bottles. At the end of the dock he pulled out a map. He marked it with a pen, got out his camera and took a picture of the lake. Then he turned around on his bike and took a picture of the lake with his face in the foreground. I tried to imagine what sort of trip he was on. What checkpoint did this stop fulfill? He was old, probably in his seventies. The embankment was empty, save for me watching him on his bike struggling with his camera. He eventually turned his bike around and puttered over to me. I took his picture at the end of dock, him grinning and holding his bike upright in the wind. He thanked me. I wanted to yell as he rode away and tell him how magnificent he was. Back at the hostel I found this quote from Dante in a Paul Theroux book about train lines: "nothing- not fondness for my son, nor piety for my father, nor love for my wife- could dampen my ardor for experiencing the wider world and human vice and courage." My hangover started to subside. The main thing, when you're travelling (or hungover) is always to keep moving.

Leisure Figures from History: Captain John Palliser, "explorer"

Behold! British surveyor Captain John Palliser: famous for surveying much of Western Canada. Here in Alberta there's a school division named after him and a slew of other public buildings and places. However I think a strong case could be made that the legend has somewhat taken flight of the actual life. His first book was called "Solitary Rambles and Adventures of a Hunter in the Prairies." I've read some of it, skimmed all of it. It's pretty entertaining in parts. By all accounts except for his he was a fearless trailblazer and scientist. His own account reads more like the diaries of a rich bon vivant. He spends a good deal of the first chapter describing gleefully an officer aboard the ship he sailed on who was a midget- his clothing, and especially his demeanor, which he took to be most comically at odds with his stature. In the book he catalogues with Germanic thoroughness each animal he kills. It's a staggering amount.

He makes his way inland from Boston, taking every opportunity to lay waste the native creatures. At one point he steps out of the queue waiting for a ferry, loads his gun and begins shooting at the birds to stave off his boredom: "I went out with my double-barreled gun whilst waiting for the New Orleans boat, and after some wading brought back several ducks and quails." His day to day diary includes entries like "Arose at eleven to a fine morning..." and "Left several carcasses to rot for we could not carry all the meat..." In fact most of the land he is credited with surveying had already been surveyed and explored for a while by the time he brought his swath of destruction along, just not by what the British North American Exploring Expedition considered reputable sources. The title is also misleading- he travelled with at least two native guides at all times, and often with a small crew of lackeys and fellow gentleman of means and leisure. I think this illustration is a perfect summary of his life and work- if only because it's hard to determine whether the man clinging to the tree is evading the buffalo or the trigger happy Englishman's bullet.

If he had shortcomings (I wouldn't call them that) as an explorer (which he wasn't) his legacy has more than compensated for them. I'm glad this Flashman-like character of our history has a proud place among the progenitors of this province. If traveling around in a caravan with pack mules for your wine, pack mules for your guns and ammo, guides and lackeys to make and break camp for you and shooting anything feathered or furry with impunity can be passed off as serious scientific inquiry there's hope for us all 200 years down the road. Hats off to John Palliser.

2013

2013. So far I've worked like five days this year.  I think I've been in the hot tub about thirty times. Pruny, pruny and boring is how I'd say 2013 is being forecast. My number one preoccupation is keeping the walkways clear enough from snow so the mailman delivers the books I've ordered. Hoisted by my own petard. Wherefore my band of merry leisure fellows? I may have reached a relaxation saturation point.

Famous Historical Leisure Figures: HUCK FINN

As December starts to middle there's a noticeable change in people's demeanor: traffic is worse, shoes get dirty and slushy, daylight is overwhelmingly truant, and everywhere a mad rush. This isn't meant to be anti-consumption- consuming is one of the most pleasurable activities in the leisurists itinerary. But right now, going to a mall, or a store, or even anywhere trade is practiced is bad for the humours. At the mall today I became furious at an old couple seeking seniors discounts (extra 15% off at the Bay- I'm totally hitting that up when I'm old) for requesting to try on so many pairs of shoes! I stewed and steamed and snorted- but isn't it Christmas, I can hear you say... Isn't it the holiday for photogenic deprived kids to finally get the toys they want... for goodwill and hearty feelings? The black and white cover of Christmas on 34th Street flashed through my mind and chastised me.

Chastised. My soul is too evil and shrinks like Gollum from such manipulative sentimental tropes. Then I decided that because I try to live as far outside the law and social conventional as I can -while also staying comfortably close enough to arrange my benefit through freeloading- that I needn't 'buy' into the purchasing fever. And because it's becoming super popular to cleverly combine proper nouns with normal nouns I'm adopting a total "HUCK-FINNSMAS" attitude this year. When I realized this, I was flooded with zen.

Huck Finn, also flooded with zen. Surveying the world he has conquered by escaping the rigorous routine and confines of Missouri convention. SOLID COMFORT. Rafting down the Mississippi in a raft big enough to float a tent, a fire, and a whole pile of supplies- check. Corncob pipe- check. Picaresque adventures- check. Intoxicating smirk of satisfaction- check. Lose a fortune, nevermind, Huck knows he'll be fine as long as there's floating down the river, fishing line tied to his big toe.

This Christmas is going to be -and here is another trendy grammar foul- very Huckleberry for me. At the first sign of holiday panic I'm heading out the window to the river banks (out the backdoor to the hot tub). I might get a corncob pipe. If you manage to get that gleam in your eye I guarantee no shopping mall hustle will harsh your Huckleberry vibes. Huck Finn, born a natural leader of leisure, is a perfect example of someone who toed the line between convention and corncob smoking professional child raftsman. A reminder to us all. 

MOTORHOME SEARCH Pt. 1

When we finally found the house nestled between concrete silos and the gravel pit in the middle of the industrial park we didn't think anyone was home. The yard was a parking lot- old motorhomes, a teal Ford Pinto, rusted out flatbeds everywhere. Conspicuous on the hood of the pinto was a half-bottle of whisky. We entered the yard. An overweight pitbull wheezed up to us. We stopped, it stopped. The dog lunged and we jumped the fence.
I called the seller. It didn't seem right away like he knew he was talking on a phone-a after some false starts I said we were outside his house. He came out, between swigs of the whisky he picked up as though he had just set it down there seconds before he warned us not to enter his yard or his dog would surely attack.
The motorhome was on blocks- it was a class A, with ample room to sleep about 8 people. There was a rotting hole in the middle of the floor. Does it run? He said, with a conspicuous leer: no, it's more, like for partying. Get a couple crates of beer and some girls. There's girls in here all the time.
He offered to tow it to my backyard for free- 200 bucks for everything! I declined. The atmosphere grew tense. We left on bad terms.
I got a few calls from him over the next couple weeks. Each time it was like a pocket dial, but right next to his face. I would pick up the phone and listen to the the end of whatever he way saying to someone beside him, then he would say "hello? hello? is there someone there?" The first time he invited us to a party. The next time I cut him off and told him to stop calling me. He was so bloated and addled on alcohol I don't think he had picked up on our social cues, or even society's in general.