Revenge of the Nerds

We did it!!!  Yes, we finally became the 7th to the last people on earth over the age of six months to acquire iPhones or their equivalent.  That’s partly because we opted to clear out deleted stuff from our previous Samsung phone —  all 7.99 Gigabytes of the 8.0 Gigabyte phone that refused to depart when we said “depart,” “OK, please depart.” “PRETTY PLEASE!”  

The writers of software inserted in every modern electronic device have one personality defect, er, trait — they delight in human suffering.  It’s revenge for being harassed for acting nerd-like during their middle school years.

Thus, unable to take even a single photo with the Samsung, thereby reducing it to no more than a metallic object useful for alerting TSA agents that we needed full body pat downs because we forgot it was in our pocket and little else, we followed Miss Google’s advice and pressed reset to factory settings.  

“Are you sure?”  

“Yes”

Surely that would truly purge everything we had purged including photos I can’t replace and viola, we’d have a healthy, practically new cell phone — the one ATT gave me free for forking over $100 to sign up for our original plan back when — I forget.

Purge completed we turned the phone on and began setting it up again, a process as smooth as talcum powder until….

“Enter the google password you used to set up your phone.”

What Google password?  There was no Google password.  I never could get on the internet to access Google with that contraption — ever!!!  And I don’t want to get on Google anyway.  I just want a phone.  A TELEPHONE!

However, those programers provided no options and over the eons I had Google passwords, maybe 38 of them, all deleted.

Enter the world of three guesses and you’re out!  Reset your password and wait 24 hours until you get to try again.

And again but each time just one try before having to enter another new password on that tiny screen where my finger spanned three letters.

And again.

And again.

Did I mention again, each time another 24 hour wait?

Are there any humanoids out there?

Another 38 passwords later that cold piece of Samsung metal with all it’s electronic components and rare earth components and unlimited minutes of calling and texts and 3 G of internet usage per month that I never could use because of — see discussion above — that I recently paid $200 plus tax to use until next April, sits glaring at me with its one eye, daring me to try again.  I narrow my eyes and glare back.

So now I am the owner of a brand new Apple iPhone which I wii never ever ever press reset to factory settings — if I can only figure out how to use it.  Hint — so far when I try to take a photo, half the time I take a short movie, the other half — nothing.  But, if I keep at it, I’ll soon be able to splice the movies together to create a feature length film.  You can look for it coming out at a drive-in theater near you next winter.

OK, this needs a photo.  How about a couple of Karen's from this week?

                                           Looking across Wrangell Narrows from Petersburg

                                                 Just checking up on ya. (Sitka black-tailed deer)

Miracles

A prudent pilot leaves their plane tethered to the ground when fog rules the skies.  However, a co-worker whom I'll call Joe (by coincidence his real name) failed to return from a moose hunt the previous evening.  We had to do something, anything, so Lyman (actually his real name, too) offered to start an aerial search.

The call reverberated through our office.  Any volunteers to add a pair of eyes?  So there I was sitting in the back seat of a red Citabria headed towards a snow encased birch forest west of Talkeetna, Alaska.  Never mind that visibility in the area could be compared with peering through random keyholes while Lyman squeezed the plane between the frozen tree tops and a dense fog bank, a layer of air barely wide enough to accommodate the plane, it’s red-painted wings the only color in our line of sight.  Down below we knew searchers reinforced our efforts, but the thick mantle of snow on the trees obscured any sign of them -- and of course, Joe.  Undeterred, we persisted.

We knew it would take a miracle to spot Joe, but the point of the entire exercise, we were doing something and you can never spot a miracle in advance. 

Now, daylight, if you want to call it that, ends early in November at that latitude.  That also coincided with our similarly dwindling fuel supply.  Reluctantly, we turned towards Anchorage in the early afternoon.  That's also about when a voice in Lyman's headset gave us the news.  Searchers had found Joe, or was it vice versa?  Either way, he had simply lost his race with nightfall to get back to his car the previous evening.  Other than a frigid night and feeling embarrassed, he had a story for his grandchildren. 

That's also about the time we crossed the Petersville Road.  Now remember, we constituted the filling between a white layer of fog and a white layer of snow-covered tree tops.  What we did not know was a power line had been added to that filling -- strung along that road, just above the tree tops.  That frost encased line bore a striking resemblance to everything above and below it.  Talk about cammo!

That was the moment the lights went out in some homestead along the Petersville Road.  However, all I felt was a slight hesitation in our forward momentum.  That's all.  No sparks, no flying wires, no Hollywood-style pyrotechnics, just a momentary hesitation.  Lyman turned to me and muttered, "we just screwed up." 

With that he banked left towards Talkeetna to make a stealth approach.  We landed far out at the end of the runway, hoping our landing gear was intact and to escape notice.  Lyman leaped out of the cockpit and dashed around the plane to make a hasty inspection of the plane's exterior. Satisfied that the apparently thin wire hadn't inflicted any obvious damage we roared off into the gathering twilight aiming south towards home.  Joe was safe, we were safe, and we’d let someone else puzzle over the mystery of the severed power line.

Today, well beyond 40-years later I wonder why we survived.  I've read multiple accounts of aircraft encounters with power lines.  The wires always won.  Always.  Except this time.  Like I said, you can never spot a miracle in advance.

              ------------------------------------------------------------------

Lacking any digitized photos from the days of this event back in the 1970s, this seems like the time to augment a post with some of Karen's images that include, surprise, fog.  

Wise "aviators" remaining grounded waiting for fog to lift.

A commercial fishing boat sails into fog in SE Alaska.

Fog bank over Frederick Sound, Alaska.

Disaster at Five Finger

While getting my second covid shot, a member of Alaska's Five Finger Lighthouse Society asked me to create a piece of artwork to be auctioned off in an online auction.  The auction will fund needed maintenance projects at the lighthouse.  What could I say?  No, I was not the only artist they asked.  I had just missed seeing two previous email requests sent to a number of artists.

Possible subjects swirreled around in my brain until I settled on the idea of another gnome painting figuring it would be something different from what other artists would produce.  Of course it needed a story to go with it.  As I painted my idea expanded and my level of fun in creating the piece and story increased. 

             Disaster at Five Finger    12 x 16 inches     Alkyd on canvas

                                      Excerpt from Whackopedia

During the early years, a colony of seafaring gnomes inhabited the site of the later years Five Finger Lighthouse.  Technologically advanced, they invented a powerful light consisting of a candle flame magnified with the lenses of the eyes of five giant squid and one bald eagle.  For thousands of years, they argued they didn't need sophisticated technology, that their manual "lighthouse" used the best available science. 

Thus, generations of "keepers of the "light" positioned themselves on a rock outcropping to warn passing ships of the danger posed by the islands -- until that fateful night.  Ole, the current keeper of the light, had an addiction.  Sadly, the demon, lutefisk, wrapped him firmly within its clutches.  It also kept resident gnomes from checking on how well he performed his duties.  They only connected the heavy scent of lutefisk on his breath and clothes with the same scent along the shoreline surrounding the "lighthouse" and the pile of noseeums laying on the ground gasping for breath each morning.

That night, after succumbing more than usual to his addiction, Ole snoozed during his shift.  Some say he passed out as did the first rescuers who inhaled the lutefisk fumes upon discovering the disaster.  Either way, a grizzly scene greeted the remaining rescuers left standing.

A passing gnome transport vessel, the captain lounging in the galley refilling her plate with, you almost guessed it, leftse, failed to notice a large land mass looming dead ahead.  Ole, unable to perform his duties, did not signal the ship with the light, nor with his back-up warning method, a stern three blows from his nose followed by a trebled burp.

Fortunately all aboard survived the ensuing shipwreck, but responsible area residents decided time for a more reliable solution had come.  There would be no more drama of this sort.

And thus, Ole had to file for temporary unemployment compensation as the colony moved to a quieter, still undisclosed location while construction of the first iteration of the present day structure began.  Some say they moved east.  Others, west.  Still others, north and small contingent, even further north.  However, on foggy nights a tiny speck of light on a neighboring island suggests they are still present warning passing vessels of dangers hidden in the gloom.  However, now as backup, the odor of lutefisk in the air alerts ship captains to the dangers that lie nautical miles ahead.

Frontier Justice

In the early 1970s, the Palmer game warden, Fred Smith, occupied the corner office two doors down from where I was stationed as an Alaska Department of Fish and Game game biologist.  Well past retirement age with fleeting eyesight and a receding gray hairline, Fred still made as many cases as the best of them.  

The reason: people identified with this friendly grandfatherly gentleman.  Fred didn't have to sneak through dense willow thickets to pounce on poachers.  Everyday citizens, fed up with seeing someone else steal their moose or salmon dinner, simply reported violations to Fred.  He excelled at being a kind old man telling stories about the good old days.  The public reciprocated with modern day versions.  

My opportunity to assist Fred came the night I registered for a mid-winter watercolor painting class.  Returning home that frigid night on the winding remote (at that time) Matanuska Valley roads, a parked car seemed out-of-place.  Strange, I thought, so slowed to read its license plate number.  The notion that something didn't seem right gnawed at me until back home, I turned around and drove back.

The car had disappeared.  Instead I found blood in the road.  Armed with a flashlight, my boots squeaking in the cold, I followed a trail of crimson flecked snow to a steaming moose gut pile.   Back home I dialed Fred.  

Fred said he would check on the license number.  A few minutes later my phone rang.  It was Fred.  Rumor had it the owner of the car whom I shall call "Robert" was a moose poacher who sold the meat to the poor.  Fred still hadn't been able to make a case against this supposed modern-day Robin Hood.  He said Robert would be at the Pioneer Cafe the next morning.  I should meet him there.

At 7:30 AM, sure enough, I found Fred standing in the Pioneer Cafe parking lot next to the drab weathered sedan I had seen the previous evening.  The key to the trunk remained fixed in place, obviously ready for quick action.  Fred twisted the key.  The trunk popped open to reveal a blood-stained interior and moose hair, not the typical trunk used to transport suitcases to the airport.  Fred directed me to collect a blood sample on a microscope slide and close the lid saying he'd be right back.  I complied then dashed inside not wanting to miss the action.

Inside the Pioneer Cafe Fred found a tall angular man clad in Army surplus "bunny boots" wearing a grease-stained parka right where he knew he'd find him, sitting at a counter stool in front of a plateful of bacon and eggs.  

Fred approached Robert and with a friendly smile, simply said, "When you're done, come on over to my office," and left.  That was all.  That's sure not how they do it on TV, I thought to myself.

Fred and I went back to our respective Fish and Game offices and waited.  It didn't take long before I saw Robert slouch past my door.  I listened intently.

"You never know when your friends are going to rat on you," I heard Fred say.

"Who told you?," a panicked Robert replied.  "Who was it?"

Of course Fred was only making up a story, but that sounded like a confession to me. 

After more unsuccessful pleading from Robert about how Fred knew,  I heard Fred state, "we need to go get the meat, it would be unlawful to leave it where it was."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.  "Unlawful."  Since when did that bother Robert?  However, he fell for Fred's bluff and with that the two of them got up and Robert led Fred to the evidence -- the evidence Fred needed to make his case, a case for which Robert spent six months in jail. 

Today I muse at the chances.  My love of art led me down that road.  I had been disappointed that all we did was register for the watercolor painting class, receive our materials list and an announcement the class would begin the following week.  Feeling let down, I drove home hours earlier than expected that evening.  Later, when class would normally have ended, Robert would have vanished and, at best, I might have seen blood on the snow-covered pavement. 

Otherwise, a flock of ravens, maybe a pair of eagles at the top of a cottonwood tree would have alerted us that another moose had been poached.  Why didn't we ever catch these guys?  Chances -- chances and a bit of bluff from a kind old man broke the familiar pattern leading, for once, to frontier justice.

        Dance of the Aspens  9 x 12 inches  Alkyd on Canvas  Private Collection

Other than a whimsical watercolor card, this is the only painting I have which includes a moose,  Thus, wanting a moose painting for this post, it'll have to do.  I started Dance of the Aspens as a plein air piece in the Yukon.  There I was drawn to the aspens battered by wind and snow to take on every manner of twisted shapes.  I didn't complete the painting that day, so brought it home to finish in my studio.  As for the moose, she's an add on from a photo Karen took in a similar area Fred would have patrolled although, given his poor eyesight, probably never would have seen.  In fact, neither did I.  But, Karen did.

Lead Astray

Summer made it.  At last.  Every weather service on the internet forecasted three days of golden sun-filled or at least sort of sun-filled skies to beam down on southeast Alaska before rain returned.  Obviously a long overdue explore somewhere around our island had to be on the agenda.  

We selected a seldom-traveled loop with the plan only lacking a written description.  But, this is Petersburg on 17-miles long by almost 10 miles-wide (at the point where it looks like it consumed too many of Karen's chocolate chip cookies) Mitkof Island.  Here, getting lost would require dense fog and a blindfolded driver.

So, Karen packed a lunch, laid out 1/8 bag of lime-scented tortilla chips (the few broken survivors from — was it just the day before) and, naturally…..went outside to see if she could entice Ms Squirrel to take peanuts from her lap.  What else does one do when they’re on the verge of setting off on an epic adventure?

Ah well, sun remained in the forecast for two more days and peanut butter and margarine sandwiches would taste delicious whether consumed with a squirrel in your lap or when we’re “lost” in a remote forested part of our island.

                  Step one:  Lure her close to Karen with peanuts 

                             "Oh Hi.  I'm just looking for peanuts."

"Karen, you are really tempting me."  Notice the jealous, but more wary Steller's jay, Gregory Peck, who just couldn't bring himself to take the risk.

Poor Gregory Peck was losing a feather and couldn't bring himself to risk darting onto Karen's lap for a peanut.

                              Meanwhile back in Karen's lap.

                             "Would you take my picture?"

           "Better yet, how about showing me how to use this camera?"

Alas, Karen finally ran out of peanuts and Ms Squirrel realized she was being watched.  Feeling camera shy with no more incentive to remain in Karen's lap, she scampered into the forest.  

Post script:  Alas, we never made our epic drive.  Exciting activities like manicuring our lawn -- I'm mowing around the buttercups in deference to the rights of insects so it (lawn) looks not-just-a-little sketchy, battling the invasion of migrating rogue salmonberry bushes, and attending a birthday party for a friend who lives (and is) 1200 miles away (I wonder who ate his piece of cake?) -- stuff like that kept us grounded in town until....the sun departed in a thunderstorm that made the Washington Mall 4th of July fireworks show pale in comparison.

Getting Squirrelly

It began with a beat up, not-quite antique bread box — yet another one of Karen’s multitude of Salvation Army Thrift Store “eureka discoveries.”  She lugged it home.

“Don, could you convert this into a squirrel feeder?”  

      Karen finds red squirrels, in fact any rodents for that matter, irresistible.

Karen has been feeding birds, and consequently red squirrels, on our deck for years with constant revisions to the theme.  This, she hoped, would be her finest addition even though it lacked one thing -- any semblance of esthetics. 

And so Karen's dream languished for several years until one day a strange phenomenon struck.  My motivation to make it real.  I’m not sure what sparked my action but I’m guessing it was her 147th “suggestion.”  

The wide ledge outside our kitchen nook where we had meals, made the perfect setting — OK, it’s just a board, but the bread box fit on it.  Soon, with it's only semi-attractive feature, the door, removed, so she could push it against the window, I divided the bread box into two floors, drilled holes at each end, spruced it up with a paint job and viola, we had our own version of a National Geographic TV show directly in front of our kitchen table.  

With zero sense of appreciation for all the free handouts, Ms squirrel scolds Karen for daring to intrude on her deck.

The almost daily routine — dump a couple of handfuls of peanuts in the feeder and watch the action.  Often it involved territorial disputes between warring red squirrels or invasions by Steller’s jays and crows who would warily stretch their necks as far as they could into the box to snatch a peanut.

                    Madam squirrel contemplates reorganizing her feeder.

  "Guess it's OK.  Don't mean to complain but it's not a great construction job."

Thus began the spring of 2020.  A sweet lass of a red squirrel, one of the babies from last year (there’s alway a new family every spring) frequented the bread box feeder.  Karen, as she does every spring, filled various containers on our deck with dog hair for nesting squirrels or birds.  Sure enough this squirrel started packing it off — probably enough to make a pair of socks for every Petersburg resident willing to don a pair of socks knitted by a squirrel.  

Karen even baked cookies in exchange for dog hair from willing dog owners.  Note to dog owners who supplied hair but did not receive cookies: Remind Karen she owes you because I always steal some when she’s not looking.  We also noticed prominent nipples on her belly (the squirrel, not Karen), a sure sign she had a family secreted somewhere nearby.

                                "Sure glad they brushed Molly today."

"Cause when Karen runs out of dog hair she has to dig into her yarn collection to find a substitute."

Eventually we spotted two babies (squirrels, not humans) chasing one another around a nearby tree.  As the days wore on mama squirrel seemed to want to get away from her new brood more and more.

        The babies -- about the only time red squirrels tolerate one another.

Then, one day — she did.  Instead of the bread box feeder being empty, it had accumulated more peanuts than Karen put in it.  A lot more.  And grass.  And sunflower seeds from other bird feeders.  And dog hair.  Our feeder had morphed into a squirrel cache.

                        Oh oh, things have changed in the feeder.

                                   At least she's being neat.

Initially Ms squirrel meticulously filled her larder, carefully placing each item, sometimes even rearranging the nuts and often sweeping the floor of the feeder with her feet.  She even separated highly treasured walnuts from the peanuts in a different corner of the feeder — now storage unit.  Eventually she filled the first level completely.  Time to tackle the second floor.

                                    Guess I'll start in this corner.

As the second floor filled tidiness gave way, at least in our eyes, to clutter.  With no room on the floor to sweep, she stopped.  Peanuts overflowed the second floor through a space between the feeder and our kitchen window.  And they now combined with clumps of dog hair, grass, and wet sunflower seeds that looked like — no, I’d better not say.  Suffice to say you won’t see it on the cover of a gourmet cooking magazine.

Karen finds it considerably less than appetizing as we sit down for dinner and desperately wants to clean up mama squirrel’s cache.  Then I remind her that squirrels have a different set of values than she does (not so much her husband) and if we want to see nature in action this winter (do peanuts, dog hair and sunflower seeds count as nature?) — well, we should be patient.

I'm not sure why Karen doesn't want to look at this piece of abstract art while she eats.  Maybe it's because we can't clean the outside window in front of it so she gets a better view?  Yeah, that's it.

It is now impossible for mama squirrel to add more peanuts without the overflowing additions providing morsels for crows and jays.  So Karen constructed a barrier of chunks of bark to block the entrance while providing a hole for mama squirrel to sneak through.  It works — if you don’t factor in the new “alarm clock” Karen created.  You see, every morning at first light (remember we’re at a northern latitude where that’s about 10 minutes after we went to bed) one jay has decided it is going to peck, and peck, and peck (did I mention peck?) down that barrier.  And this entire contraption is right below our bedroom window.  And I’m a light sleeper.  And that peck sounds more like the jay has evolved into a pileated woodpecker drilling a hole into a hollow log.

         Gregory Peck, the Steller's jay who wakes me up at dawns early light.

However, since this is the year where we’re going “nutty” being grounded by the coronavirus, we should be thankful for a squirrel that is providing us with this distraction.  Not so much the jay.  

I sure hope Karen bakes some more of those thank you for the dog hair cookies.

Guess we'd better leave you with an endearing image of a red squirrel instead of a jay or soggy peanuts.  So here's the next generation learning to climb a tree.