Bear Time in the Berries

Our lives have been so here-and-there lately I worried we wouldn't get a chance to pick any berries this year. Going on our fifth autumn, berry picking is a late-summer ritual I am not willing to give up no matter how busy life appears. Yukon is off to Washington for a week, and in a burst of inspiration this morning, I took Bear.

Weather has affected our berry timeline, too. Officially the rainiest, gloomies, dreariest Anchorage summer on record, nobody has felt much like picking berries in drippy conditions. But yesterday dawned without rain and with a tiny bit of sun, so Bear and I hurredly dropped off Dad at the airport, came home to grab the berry picker and buckets, filled up the backpack with lunch, and drove off.

Arctic Valley is our favorite spot, still. I always enjoy the alpine feel of things that high, where autumn comes quickly and views are endless. We pick crowberries, mostly. Their juice is dark, dense, and extremely yummy in syrup form. So that is what Bear and I were after yesterday as we climbed up the hill to our secret berry place.

It was kind of nice, just the two of us. I'd pick, Bear would create hiding places for his two-headed dragon, and we talked. Kindergarten begins next week, and while he is excited, there is apprehension, too, and as I found out with his older brother, talking to boys is easier when at least one of us is doing something else. I want to establish a rapport for serious discussions now, before he decides I am totally uncool, and the side of a mountain seemed a good place to begin.

Bear has become a good help, too. No longer just a spectator, he applies the berry picker with occasional vigor and is also a good scout for the best patches. Two hours later, we had a full bucket. Bear led the way back, across a little stream he had discovered during his free-range roaming (another advantage of Arctic Valley; I can let him explore safely), up a hill and through some brush. By the time we reached the car the parking lot was exploding with would-be pickers anxious to get started.

I'm glad we began early. All of it.

From the Wolf Den: Climbing the Rock

When Wolf called early Thursday morning for the Hour of Power, we could tell something was different. Relaxed, casual, it seemed almost as if another kid had taken over his body and we were talking to a typical teenager.

He did it, everyone. He made it all the way through a two-day camping trip in the woods of Utah with a collection of his peers and staff, and did not receive any warnings. Not one. And, he told us, he was one of only three kids to make it to the top of the rock they were climbing.

Who is this, again? I'm not sure we know him.

Still at Level 5 after two weeks, Wolf is now entering what staff consider one of the most powerful and most tenuous places in his schooling. Staying where he is. The rock has been attempted, failed, and attempted again, over and over and over, and now he sits at the top of its slippery flank, supporting himself with only his own fortitude.

There is room only for Wolf on this rock, for it is he that has clawed the route from the bottom. But hopefully he can see over the tops of the trees, toward the valleys and rivers and sunsets that await him.

Yukon, staff, and I are realistic, knowing how hard this will be for Wolf. We told him repeatedly that we were rooting for his success because we knew it was possible. New Therapist B. says he has begun to intersperse various life skills into Wolf's daily routine to see how he handles it. There is talk, real talk now, about his homecoming.

Homecoming. Coming. Home.

We all might be ready, this time.

Alaska Travelgram and AK Fam

A few have asked, so we will provide.

Each Tuesday, I get to play radio for a local travel program called the Alaska Travelgram, 2-3 p.m. AST on KUDO AM 1080. You can find a link to the station HERE.

It's always interesting, always fun, and every week is a new experience for Alaskan travel and tourism. We've met a lot of interesting people and hope to meet many more.

So, if you want to give a listen on Tuesdays, you'll hear me, along with my co-host Scott, as we navigate the fascinating world of Alaskan adventures.

Our Love Affair With Rural Alaska

With the final confirmation of the death of Former Senator Ted Stevens (R), Alaska's 60-year servant to the state and most recently one of its most controversial, Alaska is currently swinging between disbelief and shock.

Like him or not, "Uncle Ted" at the very least placed Alaska on the map in more ways than one. At the most, he helped make us what we are today.

Stevens and eight others were aboard a plane owned by GCI Communications, and was on his way to a fishing lodge in the Dillingham, Alaska area, along Lake Nerka near the Nushagak River. This was not an unusual activity for Stevens nor his compaanions, including former NASA Chief Sean O'Keefe, who survived. Visiting rural Alaska is as much a part of life up here as breathing, especially during fishing season. We travel by boat and small plane often, reaching areas with no road access, most especially in the area of the crash.

Yukon and I have been to Dillingham, a small community in western Alaska where five species of Pacific Salmon make their way up nearby rivers, an area so pristine that you would question its very existence if never able to stand on its sandy beaches or see its endless forests.

We don't think, much, about what might happen, because we know as Alaskans it could happen. At any time. One in five residents of Alaska is a licensed pilot, and, live here long enough, we will know someone who perishes while flying, including another former legislator, Nicholas Begich, whose son Mark won Steven's seat two years ago. This is the second person we have known.

The tenuous balance between life and death in Alaska is fragile and constant, and a vital part of our existence. We chose it.

From the Wolf Den: Climbing Up

Just wanted to update my readership on our big son, Wolf, who has now, as of today, achieved a stellar ONE WEEK on Level 5, the highest level at CHYC. .

He called to tell Yukon last night that he was still "on Level", as the kids refer to it, and was able to go on a few outings without incident last week. Therapists B&B (as I call them now) also have begun a series of trips with Wolf to stores like Wal-Mart, prime ground for misbehavior. These trips are designed to foster a sense of self in a chaotic environment (and isn't Wal Mart just perfect for that). Wolf is given an objective he must reach by the end of the outing, as well as a list of things he needs to "buy". This week it was milk, eggs, shampoo, and the like; showing him the basics of budgeting and money management. It's about time.

I just got off the phone with Therapist B. and he had in his hand a permission slip. Not just for a day outing, but for a camping/rock climbing overnight into Cottonwood Canyon. I couldn't say 'Yes' fast enough.

It's time to let him go. Struggle, yes, maybe even fall, but know that somebody is below to belay him to safety. Perfect.

So This is What It Will Be Like....

Kindergarten starts in 21 days. With a six-hour, four-day-a-week (school is out early on Fridays) time void staring at me from my Mom-Calendar, I'm torn between doing the Happy Dance of Freedom at putting my second and last child into the halls of higher learning and bursting into tears.

I got a taste of a school day today, when three meetings beginning at 9 a.m. forced me to wake up the Almost-Kindergartener by 7:45 (let me tell you those tears I mentioned in the above paragraph could also be due to the difficulty I had in doing that). I thought I was organized and ready; breakfast, juice, clothes, and backpack all waiting in their appropriate areas, dog fed, I was dressed. Off to a good start. Only trouble is the child wouldn't wake up. Ended up throwing the stuff in the car, the dog into the kennel, and the kid into his booster seat because someone refused to get out of bed. Life is tough, sometimes. Whew.

Once down the road a block or so things evened out and we were one our way to a friends' house where Bear spent the day enjoying his buddies and not eating lunch. Can't have everything.

I, on the other hand, returned home after Meeting #1 and found myself with three free hours of uninterrupted anything-I-wanted. Coffee? Check. Loud music? Double Check. Hey, wait, I can walk the dog; no, I can take the dog for a run, in the middle of the day without an accompanying bicyclist who makes me push him up the hills. Now this is living.

I appeared a the radio station by 2 p.m. relaxed and smiling, causing my co-host to wonder what had happened to have placed such a cheery demeanor upon my mug. I told him I had a day to myself and he said, "Ah, must be the sun."

Or maybe it was the son. I think I can hold out on those tears for a little longer, but ask me in 20 days and 2 1/2 hours...

Who's Been Snacking on My Antlers?

Since Yukon is away fishing this weekend (that is another story entirely, one which I can assure you will be published as soon as I can tell the story with a straight face), I endeavored to mow the lawn on one of the few non-rainy days this summer.

Yukon had trimmed the yard last weekend, and did a good job getting around the trees, shrubs, and flower beds. So when I came outside with the lawn mower and saw the caribou antlers in the front yard all askew, I assumed he had forgotten to replace them to their original location when trimming. So I went to put them back where they usually reside atop an old cottonwood stump.

It was then I noticed the gnaw marks and coarse, black hair on some of the top prongs. I looked closer and saw chips from the top scattered on the ground, not 10 feet from my front deck. Ruh-ro, Scooby. We have had company of the bruin kind. Again.

Two years ago, when we had an equally crappy summer (I can say crappy, this is my blog) the neighborhood had trouble with bears. Even though fish were plentiful, berries and such were not because to ripen, we need sun. And that was/is in short supply. So they went in search of other suitable nutrients. The little black bear that eventually was seen by us had chawed into my other caribou antlers then, too. I'm not sure who is doing it this year, or why they find it so yummy; the things are at least six years old and must be a bit dry.

At any rate, he or she is having an antler-fest at my house, and none of us have seen any other sign other than the occasional grumble from the dog in the middle of the night, but that is not unusual. He talks in his sleep.

I made a special effort to make sure the garbage cans were in the garage and that my own Bear had not tossed a chocolate milk carton in the yard waste can, which would not help matters.

We'll just have to see who/what shows up. Bigfoot, maybe?