We’re alone now. All alone in this big wilderness. Oh My Dog!

It’s a complete sensory adjustment and what stands out is the silence. The total lack of sound.

Kernal hears it too. He barks and the echo taunts him so he responds and it turns into a contest with himself and he doesn’t even know it.

Otherwise, NO NOISE! NO SOUND! Blank! Nada! Nothin’! Gone!

The breeze’ll rattle some branches, the birds sing, otherwise, there’s no noise. Occasionally my tinnitus kicks in but for the most part if we ain’t makin’ it there’s no sound…WOW!

The lack of audio settles on us like a physical presence.

Even the middle of the ocean had sound, at least the low hum of the turbines and the twin screws and the waves slapping the sides of these navy ships I’ve been shanghaied to work on. But it’s black out there. When the ship goes dark there’s no artificial light and, standing at the bow, or hanging out on the fantail, you can’t see your finger 6 inches from your nose unless the cherry on the end of the joint is glowing. When the stars are out though, and the moon, especially the moon, a full moon is like street lights on a city sidewalk; but no moon and just stars lights it up enough to maneuver in, walking around a boat or walking around the woods. The lack of artificial light is another bonus of our new lives in the bush.

Me ‘n’ Korn explore our surroundings from all sides, day trips, night vision, terrain, travel time, distances, altitudes, modes of transport, bodies of water; creeks ponds, rivers, springs.

I have to hike a half mile to get my drinking water from a spring till there’s enough snow to satisfy my needs.

My needs require a minimal supply as I don’t do laundry, I barely bathe and dirty dishes don’t bother me.

We follow game trails. To the trained eye they’re as obvious as the concrete slab connecting Palmer to Los Anchorage. Ya got yer little rodent trails; mice go bush to bush, the rabbits establish runways from their homes to feeding grounds, beaver have their mud-slides, squirrels, weasels, porcupines and some frozen north’s version of chipmunks or prairie dogs all have their routes. Then you have the k-9 kind of omnivores-fox and wolf; there’s the grazers, the moose and caribou (they call em ‘boo’) getting nutrition from lichens and other ground munchies. Topping the chart is ursa major. They go wherever they want and they use all trails. The brown bears are king shit out here except a human with a gun. That’s why I have to carry the shotgun, so I can be king.

We tackle the switchbacks winding up the thousand-foot hill behind the cabin and I have to take 2 breaks on the way up to catch my wind. I really should quit smoking.

We find another valley 5 miles from the cabin some five hundred-yards across. A StonyRiver tributary meanders through the middle. I spot a brown, humpbacked mom hurrying two two year olds toward the far ridge.

She must have caught our scent.

We hike the ridge on our side a few miles traveling what I take to be a game trail through pristine wilderness; we come across some empty beer bottles-Alaska Ale…so much for pristine, it reminds me this is a hunting lodge. This ridge offers a commanding view of a lot of territory. The water running through the middle supports the variety of wildlife, like the bears we just spooked, animals tough enough to endure the extreme winters. I imagine hunters scope this valley all season and take lots of game out from this ridge.

A spotting scope becomes standard gear on our hikes. It really opens up distant views. The challenge is recognizing routes and environments inviting to various species, then the patience to study the area.

We’re puttering around the far side of our valley when Kernal gets wind of a couple caribou a few hundred yards halfway up the mountain. He takes off in hot pursuit. They notice him charging up the slope and gracefully and effortlessly disappear over the crest.

These animals dodge wolves their whole lives. Kernal is no match. When he tops the rise I call off the chase and he trots back down looking pleased with his efforts.

I, too, am pleased. That was a grueling ten-minute sprint up and down a sixty degree slope and he seems unphased and breathing regular. Tough guy. It would take me twenty minutes to get to the base of that hill-and then I’d have to take a break. I gotta quit smoking.

I experiment with the four-wheeler but, too much noise and the foul odor that goes along with gas engines; I keep that activity to a minimum. The chain saw’s two-stroke is harsh enough and that’s a necessity, a necessity I’m vaguely familiar with-I think I worked one once-Steve showed me how to mix which gas with what oil and how to choke it and start it.

The first tree I attempt to take down is a twenty-foot tall dead spruce 100 yards from the cabin. It’s about a foot around so I notch it and slice it and I don’t know which way it’ll fall so I stop cutting with a half inch of wood left and think about Mikey, in B.C., gimping around, then I think about my two responsibilities while I’m here, one of which is ‘Don’t hurt yourself’. I leave it there. I abandon the site. I’ll let the wind push it down and see which way it falls.

Wood isn’t necessary the first weeks anyway. I’m just practicing.

One ‘on the job training’ session starts easy enough, the pull cord fires up the noisy, foul smelling tool after two jerks and my trigger finger makes the motor whine like usual but the chain won’t spin. Piece of shit! I dial Gary up via sat phone at 3 bucks a minute and explain my dilemma, “I need another saw.”

“Is the brake on?” Gary must be confused.

“I’m talking about the chainsaw.”

“I know. Is the brake on?”

It has a brake?

“The bar on top…is it pulled back?”

“Oh. Okay.” Geez. I’m living inside a Pollack joke. I’m glad nobody but my dog is watching this.

The fall weather reminds me of the Midwest, temperatures anyways-not the colors. Spruce keep the hillsides green year round, not too much beetle kill this far out so the rusted needle color dead spruce wears, is spotty. Fall colors are restricted to the red alder thickets in the draws and along the water, and a smattering of gold cottonwood and birch leaves hanging on stunted trees in small groves, scattered and trying to gain a foothold in this climatically unforgiving, permafrost valley. The ground cover goes through some interesting changes, green to red then purple and dormant. The lichen stays a greenish gray, the moss just green and the blueberries, on brittle stems hidden under long dead leafy cover, are still tasty even after frozen nights.

After a couple week adjustment period the owners fly out and check on my progress. They deliver mail and a care package from John.

A Nikon and a tripod.

I send some exposed film back for processing and retire the Leica.

Another visit three weeks later and they interpret the facts that I’m still alive and the place is still standing as competence so they’re heading to South Dakota for a month of bird hunting. He forgets the tobacco part of my order on this run.

I’ll make do.

The nearest store is Anchorage, 150 miles east. I’ll have to make do.

Maybe I’ll quit. Maybe I’ll have to quit. The nearest store is… and I have a two week supply and no re-up run for a least a month. This’ll be interesting.

At least he remembered the booze.

But not enough.

Out of a two gallon order he brings two bottles. Fuck all this food! I want more vodka!

I’ll make do.

My film’s processed. At least they deliver on that. I check ‘em like they’re polaroids. My exposures are close. Framing, composition, lighting, my choices are good, my timing solid.

I have 20 fresh rolls of film, and more photographic capability with the new equipment from John’s ‘care package’. I’m gonna start shooting myself, me and my dog, me and my dog from various angles in front of a variety landscapes with different pieces of gear and equipment. People back in the Midwest aren’t going to believe it without visual proof. Hell, I can’t believe it and I’m in the middle of it. For the next 8 months I’ll be in the middle of it. Plus…I’m getting paid!

Reminds me of one of the few cartoons I’ve ever cut out of a newspaper. A crude drawing of an american couch potato in full sprawl, a pot gut leads the eyes past oversized feet to a humongous schnaz framed with a smirk. He’s stretched out and napping. The caption reads something about, “Lowell enjoys the perfect melding of a complete lack of stimuli with an absence of any personal responsibility.”

It makes me laugh.

This caretaker gig makes me laugh.

While I won’t be lacking in stimuli and I do have some basic responsibilities this gig is every bit the relaxed, stress free state of mind the cartoon character seems to revel in. So do I. I’ll while away my first Alaska winter like it’s an 8 month nap. A twenty first century, speeded-up version of Rip van Winkle’s hiatus, only I intend to stay conscious most of the time.

Photography will fill in some tobacco and alcohol gaps ‘cause the light, the landscape, the flora and the fauna offer an infinite variety of fresh images for this flatlander. Plus, I have a duffel bag half full of books.

Temps are dropping. I let the fire go out at night and wake in the morning to frozen water in Kernal’s dish.

Low clouds come and go; the clouds are heavy with moisture and it snows. Just a dusting at first. The dusting gets permanent higher up and the white blanket spreads down the slopes. Locals call it ‘T-dust’, termination dust, named for the effect it has on tourist traffic. But me and Korn are loving it. Alaska’s a winter state. If you don’t like winter don’t come here! Summertime is nice but you’ll miss the best side of this state. That’s the winter.

A month in we’re getting accumulations. A little bit at first and half of that melts away; then not so much melting and more accumulation; the shit’s pilin’ up. It’s cloudy more often than clear and frequent extreme precipitation events drop more snow than I’ve ever seen in my life. It covers the valley, the mountains, the trees, it buries the steps leading up to my porch and it covers us ‘cause we’re out playing in it. Breaks in the cloud cover provide dramatic lighting on the frosted terrain and the camera is in use often. Between Kernal and the snow I’m burning through some film.

One of my duties is running the snow machine up and down the landing strip packing the powder so the plane can ski in. Boring! Noisy, smelly, Kernal sits in his chair on the porch watching the routine. I wonder what he’s thinking.

Plus, the days are getting shorter.

September, into October, this part of the planet is coming off a peak of over five minutes of daylight loss per rotation; more than half hour a week; over two hours a month; living this close to natural cycles we can’t help but notice.

Kernal takes it in stride. Darkness is not a problem. His vision is a small, weak part of his overall sensory package anyways and he is just as comfortable exploring at night, during snowstorms or gale force wind, as he is in broad daylight trotting down the trail. These outdoors are his element and he’s good at it. He’s got room to roam. There’s sticks all over the place and it seems to be his mission to gather them all and worry ‘em down to toothpicks.

The rabbits are having a banner year. They’re all over the place and they drive him nuts.

My porch overlooks a shallow depression, a 75-yard long, 30-yard wide tangle of alder thicket. The growth is dense and, at four, five, six feet tall, nearly impassible for me but the rabbits have routes worn in around the base. Kernal is low enough to avoid the worst of the tangles and he chases them for hours. They make a fool of him but he keeps at it and it’s great entertainment. The porch sits 10 feet above the thicket and I get elevated, ringside seating for the chase. The rabbit comes into a clearing and cleans itself while Kernal thrashes through the tangle 15 feet back. He starts getting close and bunny dashes twenty feet through the tangle to the next clearing to finish his preening. Kernal thinks he’s hot on the trail. He grunts and snarls and makes funny noises bullying his way through the branches. This is better than TV!

An added bonus, he works himself to exhaustion without me throwing my arm out on the stick game.

“Git ‘em Korn! “Git the rabbits!” “Where’s the rabbit?!” “Git ‘em!” I offer encouragement.

I hope I don’t hurt his feelings. I’m sure he tunes into my glee at his expense. He eventually comes to the realization that he ain’t getting close to those flat-footed rodents. They can travel on top of the accumulations too, with feet the size of little snowshoes.

He adjusts. “Git the rabbit!” “Where’s the rabbits?!” I goad him, “Git the rabbit!” He starts barking and chases his tail instead.

The rabbits start out brown around here but turn white when the snow comes. The tip of Kernal’s tail is white. I like to think there’s a connection. Either way it’s the only trick he does and is every bit as hilarious as the actual chase.

When the snow gets deep, the rabbits make tunnels and we go back to the stick game. They make appearances every now and then so I shoot one, a 22 round from 30 yards. His last jump is into his hole.

Dead.

I gut it and clumsy knife work nicks a hole in the stomach. Half-digested alder bark oozes out. Roughage. Fiber. What a diet! It’s organic though.

I throw the organs to Kernal.

Steam is still rising off the liver, the lungs and the heart and Kernal hoovers ‘em up whole and licks the blood off the snow.

He finally got his rabbit.

So do I. And it sucks. I try roasting the thing with butter and onions. It’s a tough piece of gamey, dark-red meat. Tastes like the bark it’s been feeding on. Has the same color too. But I refuse to waste it. I will share it with Kernal though and we choke it down. He likes it. ‘Course anything’s gotta be better than the 50 pound bags of Walmart’s ‘Old Roy’ sawdust and bone-meal mix the bosses keep us supplied with.

I fortify Korn’s rations with leftovers sometimes. Mornings I mix bacon grease, a strip of fried bacon and an egg over medium with ‘old roy’. It makes a dent in our supplies and sometimes we run out before the next delivery. Then I get oatmeal; he gets straight ‘old roy’ but I’m sure he appreciates the addition when it’s available.

On our hikes we come across skeletal remains, leg bones the length of mine, weathered and bleached white; a sharp rap on the edge of a rock splinters the bone and Kernal slurps up some gelled marrow. It becomes a regular part of his diet till the snow buries the booty.

The bleached bones we find must have been out there a couple years, maybe more. Again, organic. He laps up the gel with gusto, like it’s orange marmalade. He suffers no adverse side effects but he does develop a thick, healthy coat and his hair is getting longer, around his eyes, his ears, growing down between his toes. The half-dollar sized hole in the hide on his leg has shrunk to a quarter, I think the marrow and the bacon and eggs are helping.

I figure out the inverter/battery/generator set-up and start tuning in to John Stewart’s faux news with the satellite. Springsteen sings about 57 channels and nuthin’ on and for the most part he’s right but I find some tasty tunage on the music channels, the Blues, Classics, one is ‘All Dead All The Time’.

What a long strange trip it’s being!

No noise, thin air, I can hear the tunes from far off at normal volume; fifty yards away is like I’m sitting next to the speaker.

I find a foreign language radio station, sounds like Russian, between KGO in San Fran and Anchorage NPR. I have the radio on a lot. I discover ‘Alternative Radio’ with David Barsamian, out of Bolder Colorado and ‘Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me’ from some Jews in Chicago. Quality radio! Who knew?

I hear Bush get another term. I watch the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan get stupider, “Kernal, we’re so lucky! Those people are nuts and we’re far away from them and their madness,” we go out and play in the snow.

The dog has one-track vision, “Come on throw the stick. Come on. Throw it. Throw it. Come on. Come on. Throw it. Goddamn it! Throw it. Throw it. Throw the stick! Come on. Come on.”

“Go get the rabbits.”

“Fuck those rabbits, throw the stick damnit!”

We go back and forth. We have plenty of time and we both enjoy the exchanges.

The snow continues to pile up and snowshoes are necessary for hiking. Kernal battles the deep fluffy stuff then decides to let me break the trail, one of the few times in our collaboration I get to lead the way.

Even on snowshoes, hiking is a grueling proposition. The five miles to the ridge takes twice as long and turns into a real workout but once we establish a trail walking is easier and Kernal moves back to his spot as lead dog in our little parade.

The snow-machine is handy for trail maintenance but, again, loud and smelly plus it scares away the wildlife before we get to see it. Although, rounding a curve on one ride, I come up on a wolf 10 feet off the trail. He stands and stares. What a beautiful animal! I ain’t trapping these things. What a shame that would be. Like setting snares for my dog.

Kernal catches up, spots the animal and goes in for a sniff. Wolfy raises his hackles and snarls at the approach, “Kernal! No!” He senses the panic in my voice and stops in his tracks. The wolf spins around and disappears into the trees.

Whew!

Kernal sniffs the area and gets scent of his ancestor.

The ‘sourdoughs’ around the campfire at Darlene’s warned me to keep my dog within eyesight, “A wolf pack will send a female over to flirt and lead your dog away. Then the pack appears out of nowhere and your buddy is dinner.” I’d go nuts without my dog here, my personal therapy dog, but, ‘within eyesight’ means long distances in this valley so Kernal has room.

The snow makes it easy to read wildlife movement. The bears are in hibernation so I can leave the shotgun at home but there’s lots of other stuff on the move. The numbers and variety of wildlife on the wing is surprising considering the harsh conditions. ‘Camp robbers’ aka gray jays, buntings, finches, sparrows and some little red polls or something, I feed with bird seed and cheerios. The ravens get cheese and leftover moose dogs. Large snow-white birds work the fields 300 yards across the landing strip, I spot them with the scope but don’t recognize the species; falcons, hawks, some kind of snow owl, I don’t know but they travel in pairs, fast and precise in their maneuvers. They’re synchronized. Like a scaled down, quieter, snow-white version of the Blue Angels.

Louise tells me, “The spruce hens are lodge pets, don’t eat them.” They don’t fear humans and don’t panic when I’m around. Some say that’s ‘cause they’re a stupid breed, “If one is sitting on a branch and you walk around the tree enough times the bird will follow you and eventually get dizzy and fall off his perch.” I get close enough to observe the mating dance with the drumming, the puffed out chest feathers and the fanned out tail plumage. I want to eat one!

The flocks of ptarmigan are hard to spot. They spend a lot of time on the ground scavenging seeds and they change color with the seasons. They’re hard to pick out of the snow-white background. I do though and me and Kernal dine on fresh ptarmigan instead of spruce hen. Again, some of the worst wild meat I’ve eaten. I must not be handling this stuff right.

Kernal loves it though. More ‘ol roy’ supplement.

He makes me laugh, korn dog turns into klown dog and he puts on a show chasing his tail, stops in his tracks, cocks his head and gives me a goofy look like he’s high then he continues the chase, round and round, growling, barking, squeaks and other funny noises till he gets dizzy like the dumb-assed spruce hens.

He enjoys flying off the edge of a five-foot snow bank into four feet of fresh powder to track down a stick.

I get a 10 foot square blue tarp (Alaska’s other ‘state flower’), hike halfway up the hill behind the lodge then ride the tarp like a sled and Kernal runs alongside, trying to disrupt the proceedings, all the way to the bottom.

I leave leftover food on the workbench on my front porch overnight. It’s like a freezer. Food starts missing. I wake early one morning and spot a red fox in the front yard helping himself to the left-over noodle shit I had for dinner last night. Kernal stands on his hind feet, looks out the window and growls at him. I step out with a moose dog and toss some pieces his way. He comes close to get the tidbits. We repeat this for a couple weeks and the fox looses h is fear and starts eating food out of my hand.

Kernal’s not real happy with the set-up so he gets shut up in the cabin.

One day the animal shows up with porcupine quills sticking out of his snout. He’ll eat from my hand but he won’t let me pull those quills so I try to come up with a plan short of shooting him. Red returns a couple days later sans quills. Lucky him. He comes a couple days after that with a friend. She’s more skittish and keeps her distance but accepts my food donation. Again, lucky him.

Beautiful animals.

I consider trapping them but decide it would be immoral to kill these k-9s just to profit off their fur.

One morning I wake to a pot half full of noodle shit missing from the workbench.

Bastard!

I look around the yard but the pot is gone. Four o’clock the next morning I hear activity on the porch again. So does Kernal and he’s ready. I open the door and Kernal flies out hot on the trail of the thief. Red keeps his distance after that. He sits halfway up the hill in back sunning himself, keeping an eye on us.

The sky clears for an extended period and temperatures drop. I have a month of 20 below and a week of that is 10 degrees colder. Minus 30. These sub-zero temps are invigorating. It feel’s about like twenty above in Wisconsin. It’s a ‘dry cold’ here. Like a frozen desert covered with five feet of snow.

I cover some ground with the snow machines; we circle the mountain behind the cabin; we visit the next valley and descend the ridge to inspect the tributary; we head towards the Alaska Range; we travel over virgin snow and the machine packs a trail for Kernal to follow. He trots along at his own pace and I pull over every so often and wait for him to catch up.

On the return leg of one of our Alaska Range viewing trips Kernal is out of sight for too long. There’s wolf tracks all over the place. Howling wolves are a regular nighttime serenade and I take the ‘sourdough’ warning seriously. I shut the motor off and wait…and wait…I hear a mournful howl coming from the ‘scenic view’ direction.

SHIT!

Two miles back, I haul ass and spot Kernal sitting at the edge of a ridge broadcasting across the plain. Head back, belting out a melody like he wants to join the pack.

I love this dog!

The deep, fresh snow hides creeks and draws where the snow piles up and looks level. Stopping means sinking. The snowshoes accompany all our travels and I have to use one like a shovel too many times to dig a trail out of some hole.

One excursion ends on snowshoes. The sled dies a mile from the cabin and we’re hiking back through deep powder. Again, the motor runs but it won’t move. I look around for a hidden brake; is this another Pollack joke? I return some days later with tools and discover a broken key on the engine shaft that locks in the drive-belt sprocket.

I order parts from Gary and drive the back-up sled in the meantime.

The generator performs admirably for the most part. A heavy four stroke unit, but, a few months in, it won’t start. I break out the back-up Homelite. This generator is not as powerful but it’s easier to haul back and forth from the cabin. I have to warm it up a couple hours before ignition where it warms up a couple hours before I fire it up, then I move it to the snow fort where it sits while it’s running. I built a fort to buffer the sounds and smells that destroy the area’s ambiance when the motor’s in operation. I run the generator to charge a couple of industrial strength, six-volt batteries that power my lights and TV. I probably watch way too much TV but, hey, I’ve never had satellite before, besides, it gets dark at 4 PM around here and there’s some funny shit on some of those 57 (more like two-hundred and 57) channels.

And they’re paying me?! Maybe so but they stopped bringing me tobacco 4 months in. Of course, I stopped ordering it.

I can walk up the side of the mountain behind the cabin without a break now.

I attempt a repair on the regular unit. I give it a valve job and a carb cleaning but nothing seems to help.

I look around for a hidden Polish brake then I call Gary. He delivers a push-button, diesel replacement on the next supply run.

The snow melts. Days get longer, the sun is staying out five minutes longer each evening.

Kernal meets his first porcupine and I have to needle-nose about a hundred quills from his snout and his tongue and his lips and his gums. He really got a mouthful and it takes an hour to clean him up. We come across another one a week later and Kernal starts to go after him, “NO!” I call him off and question his intelligence, “What are you stupid? You can’t remember from one day to the next?” Again with the twisted Groundhog Day.

I get a letter from Laura in DeKalb making me an offer I can’t refuse and I agree to shoot in Illinois for a couple months next fall.

Some siblings and their kids are planning a trip to AK in late June and want me to be their tour guide. They plan to rent a couple RVs and do some traveling. Great, I have to clown around with a bunch of tourists for a couple weeks.

I sound like a ‘sourdough’ after one winter. It’s supposed to take twenty years to achieve that status. Darlene says sourdough means, “Soured on Alaska but don’t have the dough to leave.”

But I fit right in and feel right at home here. So does my dog. I should have come here a lot earlier in my career. My girlfriend from San Diego, via New Jersey, tried to get me to go in the late seventies but I wasn’t through with So Cal yet. I’ve wanted to experience AK since I was a teenager talking to dad about my future but suppressed the idea when he ridiculed me for it. I’m here now though and it feels good!

I like the people I’ve met here except they’re slobs. They have no qualms about tossing beer bottles off the side of their mountains. Otherwise they don’t throw anything away on the off chance parts will come in handy some day so you get acres of junk. Flora conceals it in the summer but the bare woods of winter exposes the abandonment.

Then you have your ‘clear-cut’ crowd thinkin’ nothing of the extensive damage the resource extraction industries cause. The NIMBY principle “Not in my back yard,” doesn’t hold up here ‘cause the backyards are huge. Miles. Alaska’s population is around 650,000. There’s more people than that crammed into metro-Milwaukee where everybody’s backyard is everyone else’s.

Gary flies in the first of June and me and Korn say bye to a slice of heaven. We’re already signed on to return in the fall and spend another season in isolation but for now it’s back to Chickaloon.