Returning to Alaska

Returning to Alaska.  In many ways it was bittersweet.  The first thing I noticed was the lack of snow on the mountains.  I saw it from the window of the airplane.  It had been a long time since I saw my home city of Anchorage.  It's been a long time since I was able to witness the snow capped mountains of the Chugach. 

My boss picked me up at the airport and drove me the hour long Seward Highway.  Although the snow levels were much depleted in this early May, there was still that amazing contrast of white against the greywacke rock of the Chugach mountains.  Familiar territory.  Winding roads.  Silt filled rivers.  I had come home again.

I was there to start a new adventure.  Forest Ranger.  Who'd have thought?  At the end of our drive, we ended up at Portage Glacier where I was dropped off at the Forest Service bunkhouse:  my home for the summer.  Out there, there are no convenient stores.  There are no shopping centers. There wasn't even cellular service.  My only communication was the lone bunkhouse phone and a slow wireless internet connection.  And in the early season, even the lodge was closed.  The bunkhouse was nice though, with 13 bedrooms, two living areas, a double kitchen and dining area. 

The remoteness of the area told me that I was given a glimpse of what life could be back there.  Before I lived in the city of Anchorage.  Now I was given the chance to witness Alaskan life alone, with only my fellow rangers for company.  The days were mostly raining, with an occasional wind that would tear through the soul.  But I went for a lot of walks, thought of bear and moose, and looked up at the glaciers and snow capped peaks in wonder.  I was back in Alaska, and my adventure was only beginning.

 

Circle of Bears

A circle of bears.  We go round and round with wondering what to do about predators in our world.  In the lower 48, most of the grizzlies have been hunted to near extinction with only pockets in Montana and Wyoming.  And now Alaska is pushing to remove bears.  In the past two springs, they've opened up very liberal practices, including killing of all bears within a 540 square mile area in western Alaska. 

I wanted to document it.  I wanted to see what works.  Does this practice really show that we humans are stewards to the wildlife around us?  Or are we making the same mistakes they'd made a hundred years ago?  What biological approach could possibly support such a move?

To make a promotional video, I had to shoot bears.  Not with a rifle, but with a camera.  Being in Oregon, bears are somewhat scarce.  Especially the Alaska types.  However, I was able to find two Alaskan bears within a half hour of home.  Who would have thought this could be possible?  But Wildlife Images is a rehabilitation center that take in orphaned or wounded animals.  They took in two Alaskan bear cubs with the idea of getting them ready for the wild, then setting them free. 

That was 20 years ago.

Kodi, the male, and Yak, the female, have lived around humans for so long, I really didn't feel fear as I stood within 8 feet of these majestic creatures--only a fence post and two electric wires that separated us.  I ran the cameras.  Personnel got them to move around, to pose, to maybe even smile.  They went round and round--a circle of bears within a circular environment.  They alone were the symbol of what was lost in America.  They alone are what's left.  And they alone could symbolize where Alaska may one day be.

Kodi went after a thrown piece of cantaloupe.  The wild stuff they usually find in the wilds of Alaska.  Yak stands on her hind legs and puts her paws together.  She eventually ends up with a rib bone and wanders off the gnaw on it.  Laying down in a grove of pines, she looks back at us with a look one might find if we were to actually see a wild bear.  Distain.  But why?  After all, food comes at relatively the same time every day be a group of volunteers.  And today was special.  Some goof with a camera was allowed in her pen to do some video and photography.  I was that goof, and I was having the time of my life.  Still, when I look back at her expression, I wonder if it was distain for lack of freedom.  If she were in the wild, she would be leading her own life among the glaciers and mountains of Alaska rather that succumbing to the heat and occasional smoke fires of southern Oregon. 

Still, if we could save one bear, then maybe we could save a hundred.  Then a thousand.  And perhaps our world would be a little richer as we wander out into bear country feeling that fear--that wildness that makes the backcountry unique. 

And perhaps then, and only then, would this circle of understanding be left to the natural lifecycle of seasons that have allowed man and bear to endure for thousands of years.

Looking for Anchorage

It's been a long time since I've lived in the arctic north.  Although it's been 9 years, it feels like centuries.  A distant memory.  A faded dream. 

When I first moved to Anchorage, it was late September when I arrived and already the termination dust was half way down the Chugach Mountains, announcing winter was a short distance away.  The sun came up lower on the southern horizon already giving the illusion that I was on top of the world.  It snowed within the week, although the real snows didn't come for almost a month. 

The northern lights would become a familiar friend, almost a constant companion in the winter months.  They would dance, swirl, appear to send shards of crystal glass down upon me, and fade.  Sometimes I wouldn't see them for weeks.  Sometimes for months.  Sometimes I'd travel to Healy to spend some time looking for them.  But I always knew they'd return, somewhere.

In 2001, the snows came early and by October 11th, the city would remain covered until May.  That same winter, on St Patrick's day 2002, I would witness something I haven't seen since.  It was late evening when I first witnessed the moose tramping and stamping across the street.  She was agitated about something.  When I stepped out onto my deck, I could hear her unnerving noises.  She quickly disappeared into the darkness between the houses that was shadowed from the streetlamp.  Within 20 minutes, the snow would start falling again, only this time it wouldn't let up.  By morning, I awoke to a alien world.  24" of fresh snow fell overnight.  Nothing outside was recognizable.  Most of it was simply gone.  It would take a week before many could venture out of their homes again.

My last summer there was steeped with tradition.  Being alone at that time, I found myself looking for solstice from the tragic life I had come to know.  I would wake up on any given Saturday morning, buy a white mocha from the local coffee stand, and drive out Northern Lights boulevard past the airport to the point.  I would park, walk down to the sand along the inlet, venture north about the bend until I could see downtown Anchorage and the Chugach's beyond in the distance.  The moments there were steeped with a spiritual sense that touched the heart and healed the soul.

I left Anchorage in 2004--a decision I had no control over.  My work and my life was leading me elsewhere.  I would find myself struggling, fighting, and wandering.  I would see new places and meet new friends.  I would end a career, and go back to school for another--that dream part of me that once discovered couldn't be let go.  And every so often, I would sit down on any given day with my white mocha, pull up my laptop, wander through Google Earth, and see the city that once cradled me.  I would write, dream and wonder.  And everyday that I'm far away from the city I call home, I always feel like I'm missing something.

One day I will return.  I look for Anchorage all the time in the deep imaginings of my mind, dreaming and wandering.  When the day comes for my return, it will no longer be that distant memory.  That faded dream.

Reflections

It was a time of reflection. 

It was the typical story of leaving a horrible situation in search for yourself.  Having been pinned down with Elton John's "Someone Saved My Life Tonight" running in my mind and relating to it for the first time in 30 years, I soon found myself having escaped to a magical land of cascading mountains, illuminating rainforests, and glacier fed lakes that seem to reflect within one's own soul.

I had come to Ketchikan, Alaska not just because I had finally landed a job but because I needed a solstice--a certain solitude from the chains that once bound me.  I found myself wandering through a forest trying to find reason and independence and contemplation on the things of my life that just didn't make sense.

I came upon McConnell Lake.  The mist seemed to shroud the lower elements of the snow capped mountains, as if hiding something sacred within their hem.  Broken and dead spruce peeked up through the stilled waters reminding me of the relationship that was no longer living. 

The lake itself reflected back on me, showing me the person I never thought I was, and  never could be again.  Or perhaps never was.

Photography section.  Photos taken with themes.

Shadow and light

Sit, Seat, Sitting                                                    Mask of Shadow

             (Submitted to a photography contest)

The Lego Train                    The Clockmaker's Shop

Whiskey Lullaby

Sports: It All Started with a Closer.

A journalists story of capturing Avila's winning season

 

New:  Video link of this story: https://vimeo.com/65618786



I grew up on Vin Scully and the Dodgers.  Weened on players such as Steve Garvey, Ron Cey, and Dusty Baker.  My father used to listen to Scully call the games most evenings in summer.  Then baseball sort of evaporated in my life for a time, replaced first by marriage (it does that to you sometimes), then by basketball.  I followed the Mariners in 1995 when they had that miracle season of coming back from 13 games out of first place starting in August to tie the Angels in the American League West by season's end.  It appeared baseball would always come back and mark the time of my existence.  So when I took an introduction to Journalism class at Avila University, it's not a far stretch to my covering baseball.  Like the Mariners of 1995, I would find my self fortunate enough to be the one to capture something magical.

It all started with a closer.

I was sitting in my journalism class.  Professor Snorgrass was covering photography and how to make a photo tell a story.  In a moment, he suddenly sent us out onto campus.  "Go out there and photograph something going on right now." he said sending the group of us out to find a story.  It was class time for most, and the campus seemed desolate.  The campus was about as empty as my coffee cup in late morning.  Not knowing what I would find, I had a thought of baseball.  Perhaps practice was happening.  Perhaps there was something going on that would be story worthy.

I wandered over to the baseball field.  It was empty.  No game.  No practice.  But something caught my eye.  A lone player was in the dugout adjusting his footwear.  A bat and duffel sitting beside him.  From the edge of the home team dugout, I snapped a quick photo with my Nikon digital.  I wandered over to the player who'd exited the dugout by this point, and took up a conversation.  It was closer Steven Johnson.  Hailed from northern California and known for his mean curveball.  I quickly compared him to then Mariners pitcher Jamie Moyer.  He had shown up 30 minutes prior to practice to devote some extra time to working out.  Dedication.  I had my story.  Returning to class, I told my instructor what I had come up with, and he seemed satisfied, if not impressed with my interview and story.  Although I had covered a campus ministry story prior to this (also published in the Talon), this would be my first story created from the moment of opportunity.  I submitted the story to the Talon as a last minute "stop the presses" sort of urgency.  The problem was that my photo was taken too far away and came up grainy in the magazine.  They couldn't use it.  But the baseball bug had bit me, reinfecting it's fever deep within my soul.

Matt Ricketts fly

I returned to the field on April 9th.  My journalism assignment wasn't even baseball.  It was capturing both a single photo story as well as a 6-photo story.  What better place than a baseball game?  I must have taken 70 photos of that event.  I had learned to put the lens of the camera through the netting of the backstop to focus in on the plate or the pitcher.  I'd also began planning strategies for anticipating where the play would be.  Avila was tied in the first.  Quinn Barrett pitched a solid game through the 5th.  Matt Ricketts hit a fly ball into left center.  But it was a pitcher's duo up into the 7th and final inning.  Avila ended up losing with a barrage of bats by the opposing team. 

My single photo story was of Quinn Barrett (left) where I was able to capture him releasing the ball.  I also took a pitcher's sequence with Steven Johnson completing both my single photo and my 6 photo story. 

The pitching sequence of Steven Johnson can be seen within this blog below, or in "April". 

Quinn Barrett's photo (above) is now displayed in Dallavas in the Communications hallway, where it will likely remain for the next few years.

The real magic came on the very last game of the season.  My journalism assignment was to do an actual news video story.  Sticking with the baseball theme, I decided to again cover Avila baseball.  I looked at the schedule and saw their last regular season game was on a Sunday.  One of my classmates informed me they'd already made the playoffs, so I figured the story angle would be about how Coach Cronk would be approaching this game.  Would he play his starters hard hoping to keep the mojo going, or limit them and keep them rested in time for the tournament?  It wasn't a great news story, but it was decent considering all that could be going on around Avila near finals week.  But what ended up happening is just one of those lucky turns that shower a journalist with the gift of a great story.  Their double header on Sunday was rain delayed.  Their first game was played that evening, but their final game was rescheduled for Monday at noon.  I wasn't able to attend Sunday's game in what turned out to be an exciting emotional rugged event where defense and pitching defined the moment and the final play was getting Baker University out at the plate in the final inning preventing a tie, and winning the game.  It ended up setting the stage.  I found out just an hour before the game, that a win would place the team in 1st in their conference for the regular season.  It suddenly wasn't about how the coach would play them.  It became about whether they'd win and in a sense be champions in their conference. 

Catcher Nick Fields between plays

I went over the field with my video and digital cameras.  I took some preliminary reporting of myself, as well as batting practice.  I finally caught up to Steven Johnson being the familiar face, and acquired an interview with him.  Surprisingly, he gave an awesome interview that seemed to echo Coach Cronk's very philosophy of approaching each game individually.  I was also able to interview the coach.  I learned not only how personable he is, but also what he's done with this first year as Avila's men's baseball coach.  I had most of my video story.  Now I just needed to photograph the game, take video, and see what happens.


The game resembled many of the others.  The main battle was pitching.  Baker came ahead with one run in the 1st, and Avila tied it later in that inning.  Then it was all about pitching.  Jason Paul came in and just simply dominated.  I was able to capture my first strikeout on video with him.  But it was the bottom of the 7th that things really started to happen.  Shane Cobert got on base, was walked to second, and a sacrifice fly moved him to 3rd.  Standing in my familiar spot on the 3rd base line, I had my digital camera sitting on top of my video camera focused on home plate to capture the possibility of the winning run or play happening there.  I didn't want to lose the moment.  A sacrifice fly was hit and Colbert tagged and sprinted for home.  I captured the event on video and snapped a photo of his head first dive for home.  I had captured it.  Now it was all about celebration as the entire team dog piled the field.  Professor Snorgrass suddenly emerged by my side.  "Did you capture it?" he asked.  I looked back at him with a smile ear to ear.  "Oh yes!" I said.  "I got it all!"  I jumped down onto the field and took more video, and in the end was able to interview the coach.  I would've also interviewed Shane Colbert, but lost him in the crowd.  

In the end, I had my story.  Arguably, it would've been Avila's story of the decade.  I went back to the lab, edited through 22 minutes of video and another 50 photographs.  I caught Jason Paul striking out the other team.  I had filmed the final play at the plate.  I captured an amazing moment of Coach Cronk catching his son who leaped in his arms in celebration.  There were no major production of multiple film crews and angles.  There was no editing team to put this together.  It was all mine. 

And when I look back on the events of discovering Steven Johnson in the dugout that day in March that set the chain of events that ended with celebration, I come to realize that unlike most games that begin with the starting pitcher, my story started with a closer.

The News video can be seen in the separate blog below.

Travel: Alaska to Avila

Travels From Alaska to Avila

Sometimes life takes you on a strange journey that leads you into places you never thought you'd go.  Last year, I was happily attending the University of Alaska, Southeast (UAS) in Juneau as well as holding down full time employment with the US Forest Service.  Although the Forest Service job wasn't what I expected as it kept me behind a desk, I did enjoy UAS very much.  I was majoring in English with an emphasis on Literature and the Environment.  Like many of my fellow students there, I had this dream of becoming another nature writer in Alaska. 

Don't think that's an original idea, however.  Alaskan outdoors writers are about as common as universities in Kansas City. 

Aside from the constant rain in summer in the Alaska's southeast, there was plenty of outdoors to be had.  While in Ketchikan, I hiked many trails, did a little camping, and even happened upon some pretty cool picturesque views, such as McConnell Lake (pictured - right).  When I moved to Juneau to continue school, I found the campus actually had a view of a glacier in the distance from a pavilion (pictured above).  Like Avila, everyone seemed to know each other in a short time.  I got to be known as the "pun master" due to a nature paper I wrote about living in Anchorage entitled "Anchored into Place".  One class, we even had a weekend field trip in February (in Alaska!!) where we hiked over ice 3 miles to a cabin to spend the time concentrating on "Travels in Alaska" by John Muir, who'd been all over the southeast.  We'd discovered we couldn't get the heater going, and much of the weekend was spent just keeping warm.  But my fellow classmates were of Alaskan upbringing and took the event as an adventure.

I didn't sleep much that night.

By semesters end, I had a personal issue come up with family in Kansas City, and decided to move here permanently, having to change schools.  With my Catholic upbringing, I discovered not only that Avila was a welcome change, but that my decision to go from English to Communications has been extremely satisfying.  With English, you study a lot of authors, write papers, and really wait a long time to see the labors of your efforts.  With film and journalism, I discovered it was appealing to my creative side enabling me to produce and write things with almost immediate response.  I happened upon Avila's baseball team at a time of great successes and celebration, and my short films were fun to create.  Avila may not have the pristine lakes, rainforests and abundant wildlife around it, but it has been a place that has been easy to call home.