I roped Irene Gallon, whose mother babysat my younger siblings when I was attending Homestead Elementary School in Eagle River, to join the organization, and immediately be installed as the Financial Secretary - which means slowly steering a ship to the shores of this technological century.
The senior planner for the City of Juneau, Irene is all about best practices, which is why I adore her so.
In a moment of particular finesse, I also roped Shannon Crossley, a historic preservation architect who sits on the Juneau Historic Properties Commission with me, into joining. Immediately had her installed as backfill in my former position of Historian.
Shannon's extended family has been in the Juneau-area for around 10,000 years, literally not figuratively, so she's a perfect choice for the slot.
What I didn't quite understand at the time, until it was far too late, is that these two clever women were conniving (hmm) scheming (well) strategizing amongst themselves and the next thing I know is that I am on the golden (again literally not figuratively) sands of Sandy Beach tossing a sort-of frisbee at a target.
These women like to throw things at things. A lot.
I have never owned a dog that is any sort of retriever. There is a reason for this. When I throw things is it because I am angry and I want them to break, I do not want them returned to me.
Flash forward a year and now the temporary disk golf course at the historic remains of the Treadwell Mine has been installed. Shannon and Irene suggest not-so-subtly that the first group to use the new course is - the Pioneers.
They say it is a test of how well the course works for those with mobility/accessibility issues. They say it is a hot day, and the nine-hole course is entirely in the shade of the rainforest.
They say we have to do more than eat at the Annual Pioneers Picnic at Sandy beach, a short walk from the course, because COVID has made us all fat.
Okay, so they just said that it had made me fat, but I was generalizing so it wouldn't feel so personal.
Finally, they said the mission of the Pioneers is to preserve this history of Alaska and you learn all about the history of one of the largest gold mines in the world with interpretive signage found along the trail as you play.
There is no wiggle room out of this, so I embrace the concept, and set the proper tone - the Women's team will kick the men's team's ass.
I have to admit that I didn't think this through at all.
My cursory analysis was that we had Irene, Shannon, and a couple of wringers from their competitive team that would make up our team. I volunteered my enthusiastic niece, Jolean Lorenz, to help create the course so she would have an inside track, making her a learned caddy/coach.
So in my mind we would have a solid half-dozen Women's players and the guys would be lucky to come up with a dude in a wheelchair and someone maybe with a cane just coming off of knee replacement surgery.
I commenced with some serious shit-talk in a group text with the Men's Igloo officers. The Men smiled politely.
We have this in the bag, I thought. Was I ever wrong about that.
The Men referred to their team as the Bushwackers, they fielded more players that we did, and they were all former hippies with a misspent youth playing frisbee.
Irene and I are book worms not athletes, my niece is a lazy thrower, and Shannon was busy at a real tournament getting her pro-cred so she was a no-show for our challenge.
Apparently, lopping a disk through spruce trees, abandoned buildings, and historic mining artifacts to drop in a chain basket under par is one of those things that like riding a bike.
I don't really know how to ride a bike. I think my last one had monkey bars with streamers, a banana seat, and a flag. No hand brakes or gears.
I did channel my best Laura Croft, for my niece was correct and the course was really well laid out. You felt like you were playing Tomb Raider in the rainforest (because, literally, you were) amongst moss-covered relics from a hundred-years ago.
The course was challenging but not so difficult that I couldn't hit every basket at one-over par, and this was the first time I have ever played.
The birds were chirping, the wild flowers filled the air with their sweet scents, the viewsheds were Instagram worthy.
You got to climb around and explore the area a bit. There was no scorching heat, no perfect grass, no golf cart to drive around like most stateside courses.
There was also no opportunity to send a disk flying at a hiker's head at 50 miles-an-hour, which was disappointing because I love to make others scream a bit.
One naysayers suggested total mayham in his testimony at the public meeting where the-folks-that-bless-such-things decided that the disk course could be installed for a year for a trial run.
Several of the Men, who swore they had never played disk golf before, suggested they were hooked and planned on buying some disks and returning the next day to run the course again.
Even though the ladies lost, by a considerable amount, it was still a great bonding experience that made you a little bit sore the next day, but no injuries, no great expense, and a few were even inquiring if we had to wait a whole year for the next annual picnic to take on the Men's team again.
]]>Lorenz family reunion, for me, is quite unlike many multigenerational gatherings that Americans attend.
Everyone doesn't wear a matching t-shirt and stand for a group photo.
We don't have a well-organized schedule of activities that promote family bonding.
There is no large cornucopia of Pinterest-worthy long tables surrounded by conspicuously-smiling generations passing the non-GMO, no-lactose, no-wheat, no-nuts, prepackaged food options.
Hell, we don’t even have a made-in-China American flag waving.
Instead, my first-cousin Chris Lorenz, a good-natured fellow who is built like a refrigerator and has a laugh you can feel the vibrations from a block away, stakes sign with “Lorenz Parking”handwritten in black Sharpie at the street end of his newly-mowed five-acre sideyard in Howard City, Michigan. This is how you know to park on the grass not in the driveway.
Your face doesn't need to look familiar, and no one has to be clear on what your name is or if or how you are related to the Lorenz family. If you brought something remotely editable, preferably something you made yourself out of something you killed or harvested from the wilds or grew in your backyard in the last week, or picked up from Whispering Pines, a country grocery with an in-house bakery run by Amish ladies who only recently started taking credit and debit cards - you are in.
A well-appointed Port-A-Potty shaded by a large tree marks the end of the gathering area, which runs from an impressive-sized brook, past a swimming pool with a slide, to the other side yard, which is filled with tents and campers and a stack of firewood transported using the bucket of a loader with kids taking a joy ride every time the pile is replenished.
The door of the meticulously-organized garage is always open. Tables lined with every dish you could possibly pass, every salad known to man, and a stunning number of cakes made using instant pudding fill the space. A large refrigerator hiding as a tool chest struggles under the cases of beverages it tries to keep cool in the June heat.
Faces light up at the moment of recognition. The hugs are long, sometimes accompanied by a tear or two shed over years, sometimes decades, of lost time between loved ones.
The oldest generation is in their hundreds, they aren't able to make it this year, but expressions of satisfaction at the quality-of-life they maintain are offered all around. The next generation is in their 80-90s, and a bunch of tattle tales well represents this age group.
My father, Marty Lorenz, has three sisters and a brother present who take full advantage of the fact that he isn't there to regale their childhood memories that mostly revolve around him being “ornery.”
The time he dropped a snake down his sister’s shirt, hit another sister in the head with a hammer, shot a sister with a bb gun and then claimed the welt came from a bee sting, start rapid-fire testimony that even Judge Judy would struggle to keep up with. All sisters independently advise that you could throw my father in a bag with their Uncle Wendel, and it didn't matter who you pulled out, it was the same person.
Then my Aunt Marie, who has come from Florida after finally escaping the 1950s dynamic under her late husband’s thumb and left her kitchen for the first time in nearly 20 years, drops the bombshell that I have the same personality as my father at my age. Still processing that one.
Now, even though I don’t drink, I have come from Juneau, Alaska bearing gifts of local brew to the party since that was requested last time I came. The Alaskan Brewing Co. seasonal Island Ale was thought to be terrible lukewarm and tolerable ice cold, but no one’s favorite. The fresh-from-the-deep-freezer-cold citrus notes of Husky IPA and Pilsner gain quick praise.
My finally-single childhood-crush first cousin (alas) Mike and hunky second cousin (too young for me) Scott soon dive deep into discovering that 7% alcohol makes you considerably louder and more daring than the 2% light Bush they are accustomed to.
The next thing I know, Mike is my very skilled and incredibly gracious cornhole partner. The last and only time I have played this game was the last Lorenz reunion I attended, and they hooked me up with a gal who was a softball pitcher to make up for my demonstrated lack of natural abilities. Mike played just as well as she did, so my job was to not knock his bean bag off the slippery slide with a hole in the middle.
We were winning at one point, just a point away from heaven, when by some miracle of God, I got a beanbag on the board - half hanging in the hole, which then - miracle of miracles - I knocked in with my last throw, which was nothing but the net!
Two bags in the hole with one throw gave me just as much satisfaction as the hole-in-one I hit the first time I played golf with another set of cousins, the Holtin Hooligans.
After my loud hollering and dance-of-joy, I discovered that my great moment in athleticism set us back points, and the other team rallied and won. Classic.
Since we are Lorenz’s, there is no trophy or much memory of who won the cornhole tournament last year, and the attention was quickly diverted to the steaming piles of roasted flesh coming off the bbq grill.
I note a throw-away comment about rising federal interest rates as I fill my plate with chocolate cake and even sweeter seedless watermelon, and sit with the ladies under a tree. The men start getting loud, and my cousin runs over to remind her husband that talk of politics has been banned, and the only football team we cheer for is the Bears, mainly because a cousin is on their coaching staff and gives us copious amounts of swag.
I see this group of people for an average of 20 hours every five years. We always note recent losses, this time two of my brothers, and welcome new faces into the fold by marriage or birth. Our footprint swings from Florida to Alaska, South Dakota to Texas, yet despite the differences in economic prosperity, religion, and politic and civic sensibilities, we can make it through a weekend celebration of our shared heritage will no spilled blood or hard feelings.
This is the America I know and love. I am grateful for the opportunity she has afforded the descendants of several generations of Northern European war refugee farmers, my Lorenz family. Through the centuries, they escaped the French revolution at Alsace-Lorriane to settle the German colonies outside Odesa, Ukraine, to then be displaced by the Russian Revolution.
An American Indian boy demonstrated his affection for my Grandmother, Katie Ehli, with the gift of a painted pony when they farmed the Dakota territory before migrating down to the gently rolling hills and rich soil of Michigan.
Perhaps our Lorenz family gathering is a universal American experience after all, and we are just pioneering what a reunion will look like a few decades from now. All sustenance, no flash.
]]>Holland is a pretty little town on the white sand shores of Lake Michigan, the millions of tulips that bloom around May are not to be missed.
Cultural experiences set up just for the tourist trade can be found a plenty.
At Nelis' Dutch Village I learned how to Klompen dance in wooden shoes, watched them carved, and purchased an extra large pair to bid Welkom bij one to my guests.
I took this trip with my mother, who enjoyed video-taping by dancing efforts significantly more than I enjoyed the dancing.
I was able to score a couple boxes of Droste Dutch Cocoa - famous for the repeating image in the artwork known as the Droste effect.
Since shipping costs for a box of cocoa to Alaska is often more than is charged for the cocoa itself - this was a key acquisition.
I spent the better part of three weeks perfecting a double Dutch double chocolate chip cookie recipe that I'm now obsessed with.
Spoiler Alert: using Alaska Flour Company barley flour makes the cookie chewy perfection. Barley fed by ice cold glacier water, grown under near 24-hour daylight, in grounds shaken by the prehistoric wood bison herds that roam nearby, craft a memorable taste that blends well with the dark-colored, mellow-flavored Dutch-process cocoa.
The Museum is filled with exhibits that run from early farming tools to recently produced art by local artists, but it was the old Dutch exhibits that caught my interest.
Having not thought it through, I wasn't expecting to find a treasure trove of beautifully crafted furniture and art from centuries ago.
Frankly, the digital collection “highlights” on the museum website is so underwhelming that is rather encourages you not to go.
The Dutch collections are worth walking up the staircase in the historical post office. The lovely hand sewn traditional costumes, classic woodcuts, and paintings reflect the lifestyle of early Dutch settlers.
Cornelis Engelsz’s oil “A Haarlem Civic Guard” circa 1609 rather caught my eye. Engels also painted the St. George Civic Guard of 1612 (in Strasbourg), and the 1618 Banquet of the Officers of the Haarlem Cluvenirs (in Haarlem).
These men protected their cities as an armed civil militia and were celebrating the beginning of a twelve-year truce with Spain.
The facial expressions on such an important occasion is a great study of human nature. How this painting ended up in Holland, Michigan is a story I would love to hear.
With demonstrations and homeless filling the downtowns of most the cities I have visited recently, the peace and beauty of Centennial Park across the street from the museum was appreciated.
Nearly six quiet, litter-free acres hosted birds, squirrels and a handful of families - small children running in the grass playing tag.
The flower beds were well maintained and respectable for a community of this size, a lot of love went into this park’s creation and maintenance. Most of the features were donated, starting in 1876 when the land was set aside for public use.
I have to say it did my heart good to see an American town where the residents who are cast in bronze are still honored and respected, where public spaces are a joy to visit, and nature’s beauty coexists brilliantly with the orderly landscaping of the community.
Holland, Michigan was an unexpected stop on my itinerary but a welcome one. The peace I found there is easy to return to.
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THE MONEL RESTAURANT - ARCADE
If you would have suggested to me that I would have a pellet gun in my hands and be shooting at twirling duck targets in an arcade while waiting to be seated for a dinner reservation our first night in Islamabad - I would not have believed you.
My Alaska street cred was put to question by my fellow American journalists so I had to represent. They called out the name of my former governor, Sarah Palin, for Godsakes.
I outshot our armed guard, which is not a good thing, because I am not a good shot. I elected not to shoot any of the little white babies that were spinning on the bottom row of targets, just couldn't dive into such cold waters.
The restaurant, of course, is the exquisite The Monel, seven terraces on a hillside overlooking the glittering capital city. It is a box to be checked on the must do list.
Named after a brilliant-colored pheasant native to Pakistan, the menu reflects the memorably pleasing native dishes of this beautiful country as well as traditional international crowd pleasers. The menu is so extensive that ordering can take a while for the uninitiated.
This is a great spot to share dishes family style with your group, and try a few bites of the over-a-dozen different flavors of freshly baked Naan bread to find your favorites.
For those dining with companions who chose a deep pan pepperoni pizza or Chinese chicken chow mein, there are individual platters that offer generous helpings.
My Pakistani platter was a delightful feast of juicy Chicken Seekh Kebab, Chicken Tikka, Marsaka Biryani, boneless Chicken Bhartam, Kachumer Salad and Gulab Jaman.
ISLAMABAD SERENA
My favorite hotel in the world is Islamabad Serena. Why? Not the comfortable bed or well appointed guest rooms.
Not the lovely pool, which I chose not to visit because I wasn't thinking poolside when I packed, and the swimsuits available for sale on campus were ... well, let's just say no one wants to see this body in something that skimpy.
Not the customer service, which was impeccable or the security which was very apparent as the other guests were a rather highbrow mix of sports teams, fashionistas, business tycoons, diplomats, and men dressed like third world dictators - some of whom might have actually been third world dictators.
No, she won me over to the point that I named my next pet, a stray feral cat from Hoonah, Alaska - Islamabad Serena because of the exquisite breakfast bar.
No joke. Live music, exceptional people watching, and several lines that went on forever overflowing with the heavenly delights of every civilized country in the region and beyond.
If I never left the property and just ate there I would be happy for years tasting inviting dishes made from who knows what, but some of which were amazingly delicious! The gracious staff cooking the fresh hot meals to order could not be more accommodating.
PAKASTANI TRAFFIC
I was not allowed to drive while I was in Islamabad, not because I was a woman or because I had the odd habit of actually obeying traffic rules - something that is not a part of the local culture.
This was fine, because I was too busy gawking out the window trying to take photos that adequately captured things I found fascinating.
Take, for example, the very popular family-on-a-motorcycle. This was a new thing for me as we just don't have that many motorcycles in Alaska and no one is putting the baby on their lap while driving. Loading up the family in the back of a pickup truck, women and children sitting in the bed - was also something I saw a lot of.
Let me throw out that traffic in this city travels at a relatively slow pace - you could overtake just about anyone quite easily on a trotting horse.
This is mostly due to the fact that what is traveling on the road is very varied.
In American Amish-country the horse-drawn carriages clip along on the side of the street, but in downtown Islamabad the bulky size of some loads forces them to meander right down the middle.
Since this is the norm, no one seems to raise an eyebrow, or honk a horn over it, everyone just gets out of the way and diverts to another - I want to say lane, but I don't recall lanes being marked even if there was space for half-a-dozen of them on the street. Buses, donkeys, motorcycles, Mercedes, and bicycle-drawn carts all share the same space.
I only saw one accident while I was there, a minor one where a woman caught her shoe and fell off a motorcycle. No blood.
The police presence is impressive. At every major intersection there seems to be a manned police checkpoint, that, oddly, appears to be sponsored by Pepsi cola.
How Pepsi police has come to be a thing is of great interest to me, but no one I found had an answer or was wiling to postulate a hypothesis.
I did ask, and they were not handing out free samples of Pepsi or participating in the Pepsi Challenge at these locations. Pepsi also was not sold there.
There is a seven-year-old reddit.com that asks "Does Pepsi really sponsor police checkpoints?" that was archived after three comments, two of which were deleted.
PAKISTAN NATIONAL COUNCIL OF THE ARTS
This impressive collection is worth a day trip.
The PNCA's focus ranges from film to puppetry, and its efforts to preserve historic art forms while encouraging and educating new artists is commendable.
I appreciated the range of visual arts on display - from classical paintings to very modern interpretations of social issues and concerns. The installations were meaningful and important.
What I learned is that Pakistan is a very complicated place - especially for women. The textures are multi-layered with a lot of nuance.
I was met with a lot of kindness, curiosity, and individuals going out of their way to make sure that I felt safe, welcome, and respected.
What I saw on the streets and reflected in the art in the museum demonstrated to me that for a woman in Pakistan, that was a very unique space to be in. Let's be clear that the women here absolutely do not enjoy the same freedom and autonomy as women in my world, which is amazing short-sided. There were so smart, resourceful and clever - get out of their way and they would flip the Pakistan economy to one that was far more robust.
Women, especially young women, felt very comfortable approaching and engaging with me whenever I strayed a few feet from the rest of my group.
A bit too comfortable - there were times when I felt I was being viewed as more of a sideshow curiosity than a random person.
I was told that for many I met that I was the first American - White - Blonde - Christian -Journalist that they had ever come in contact with. I guess this explains the bewildering experience of having total strangers ask for a photo with you.
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This was a girls trip, so the first thing we did was go shopping at an outdoor mall. At Kierland Commons, I stumbled across a three-wheeled car that holds one person named Solo. She is manufactured in Canada.
My years in Arizona were some of my best car years - spent most of my time between a blue MGB with New York "Go Mets" plates, a Porsche 914 Sports Edition, and a triple-white VW bug convertible.
I adore the little cars and would love to have one in Alaska, but hope soured quickly when I found that Electric Meccanica suggests that you don't drive Solo in the snow. In fact, they expressly recommend against it. Spoiler alert: it does snow in Arizona.
She goes 80 mph, but only has a 100 mile range which would be an easy day of driving around Anchorage and would leave me stranded on the side of the road trying to get home to Seward. Non-starter for me.
The curbside sales staff wouldn't let me take her for a test drive and asked me not to "clown them" in this post when they kindly took this photo of me with their car. Solo starts at $18,500 but apparently can't qualify for the federal EV tax credit. Impulse buy fail.
WILD WEST TRAIL RIDES, NEW RIVER
Not to be confused with the same-area Wild West Ranch, I had a difficult time locating contact information for Wild West Trail Rides because their website is jacked. It is well worth the effort to text the congenial former movie-star-cowboy owner directly and tell him what your needs are - 602.316.3360.
Since I was going with a group of less-experienced riders, some in tennis shoes or high heeled fashion boots, I was expecting a slow-paced head-to-toe trail ride over a well-worn dusty path on a bored-to-death horse.
It was pleasantly not that experience. The horses were mostly Quarter Horses with a few local mustangs mixed in - retired ranch horses that were push button to ride. My gelding let me know that he still had some get-up-and-go left in him, but behaved himself well on the two-track trail when I expressed my regrets and obliged the group's walking speed.
All of the riding was done on the owner's private ranch, which we were told is one of the largest in the North Phoenix area. It felt very exclusive, very professional, and the experience was well tailored to our group. The operation moves to the mountains in the summer.
Our wrangler was reputed to be a multi-time national champion bull rider, all cowboy-ed up, full of swagger. He told trail tales as we rode - which this group soaked up. Yes ma'am, the charm factor was high and his horsemanship was demonstrated when his horse slipped and fell during the ride. I was directly behind him when this happened, the cowboy did everything right going down and afterwards. He kept his cool the entire time and put his horse's safety first.
Talking points included natural history, for example, that palo verde trees only grow in the Sonoran desert, live for hundreds of years, and have the deepest roots and most leaves of any tree on the planet. The history of the area was expressed in the relics we passed by, mostly a busted up moonshine operation. The cowboy took advantage of his baritone voice to regale the ladies with several romantic western-themed ballads during the ride. Home run hit.
ROADRUNNER RESTAURANT AND SALOON
The ranch owner suggested that we go to the local watering hole after our ride, and the my tired and dusty ladies begrudgingly agreed. Cowboy-world really isn't their thing.
Dunking deep-fried beer-battered pickle spears into jalapeño ranch dressing in the open air seating by the outdoor bar one would never guess that by the time we had given up on the super greasy Arizona Cheese Steak sandwiches and started thinking about Dirty Bird Nachos the live western band would start playing, the dance floor would fill with young people who looked casting-ready for Yellowstone, a large pallet-board bonfire lite the night, and the bull riding would have caught the attention of my ladies...mostly because they wanted to support our wrangler should he be competing.
I spoke with the informal bull rider wives club who offered typical western hospitality and allowed our group to have a couple rows in their bleacher so we could watch the outdoor event while maintaining a proper social distance.
We bought every version of the Roadrunner sweatshirt to keep the girls warm - the desert can get chilly at night.
Their bumper sticker says the Roadrunner is Known for A Buckin' Good Time. All I can say is that my verified city slickers had so much fun they want to go back again, and scheduled another trip to the area the next quarter.
This is a first. They rented us a larger house assuming more friends would want to join our party having heard about this experience, they doubled down on the horseback riding, the bull riding, and scheduled a trip on the first day to buy cowboy hats. Who knew?
]]>I was somewhat familiar - but had never read anything - by current Alaska State Writer Laureate Heather Lende when her publicist sent me a copy of her latest book, Of Bears and Ballots.
Lende lives in Haines. My understand of Haines consists of a two-hour stop in an 18-hour drive that ended in a dark, rainy wait for a late-running Alaska State ferry when I was driving my two dogs to our new home in Juneau. We never left the Haines ferry terminal parking lot.
Visiting Haines through Lende's prose confirmed my suspicions that is very much like my hometown in Southcentral Alaska. Haines and Seward are about the same size, both sit on a thin slip of land carved by glacier through granite mountains, populated by gigantic spruce, and nurtured by glittering deep turquoise waters. In both cities there is the tension between new people and old, those who have competing and mutually exclusive ideas about how to use resources, and issues that fester over generations.
We all wear multiple hats, so cocktail party small talk makes introducing the wedding coordinator/crab fisherman/Sunday school teacher/belly dancer to the dog musher/hair dresser/hockey coach/bartender a mouthful.
I know this world, and have great appreciation for how nimbly and kindly it is explored in Of Bears and Ballots. My own term on Seward's City Council did not include the drama of a recall effort, but it was traumatic. Most all those I served with are gone, either under the ground or out-of-state, but they are still with me. The battle wounds scared and moments of solidarity tempered my resolve.
And, like Lende expresses, relationships grew around disagreements and through betrayals. At the end of the day, neighbors rely upon one another in meaningful ways whether comrades-in-arms or sworn enemies.
We all learn different lessons from our experience, and project them on others, which made it profoundly interesting to me that early in the book Lende references one of my friends who was hiding out in Tenakee when her best intentions came back around to violently end a once-promising political career. Lende suggests that the State Senator elected to write a very controversial letter of support as a favor, trying to be nice and make others happy. This couldn't be further from the truth.
Do What is Right Let the Consequences Follow often meets To Hell with Politics Do What is Right for Alaska - two rallying cries burned deep into the souls of Great Land statesmen. The Senator elected to bet the farm to right an injustice after she had done extensive homework. She embraced her small town values of freedom and justice and put effort behind intention.
After the experience of the Fairbanks Four, why wouldn't you do all in your power to secure the freedom of someone you strongly believed to be wrongly accused? When there were no witnesses, no guilty plea, no physical evidence of wrong doing, and the alleged victim recanted, multiple times to multiple parties - including the prosecutor? When there was no previous history of wrongdoing and the accused was well known and highly regarded in the community for all the good they had done over a lifetime of community service?
If you wouldn't throw your best effort to right a wrong that had significant impact to your town, an Alaskan family, and the Alaska Native community at large under these circumstances then how are you "representing" your constituency with integrity and conviction?
Years after I sat on the Seward City Council I was able to do a service for my community, I helped wrangle a memorable gift - Jason Momoa hanging out in Seward in the dead season, rubbing elbows with the locals.
I think that brought more people joy than anything I voted for or against while a public official.
Lende correctly asserts in Of Bears and Ballots that we are all needed and essential in our communities, and meaningful service takes many forms.
Her heartfelt reflections on difficult and decisive years offer confirmation that community begins and ends with lovingly serving your neighbors.
]]>One of those magic DML moments was listening to Foreign Ministers from arctic nations giving Finland’s then-days-old Foreign Minister grief about which country had the most power, before all of the diplomats concede that Alaska ruled the world because I have Santa Claus as one of my favorites on my cellphone, and when I dial Santa he calls me by name and obviously knows who I am. That, they quickly agreed, was real power.
Of course we are referring to Santa Claus, the former president of the North Pole Chamber of Commerce and at this writing a member of the North Pole City Council. He was kind enough to offer up a live Christmas Day recap of Christmas Eve activities for me when I anchored ABC/FOX Alaska news. On the deadest day of news, no one can compete with that coverage. I’m a big grateful
One will find exactly what you expect to find at the Santa Claus House - a dozen reindeer mulling about the yard, a giant sleigh, a workshop where the elves make toys, candy, stockings, Christmas decorations, and, of course, the Santas.
There are remarkably few toys for sale, but tons of Christmas-themed merchandise. If you think this through it shouldn’t shock you.
The selection of Christmas books is exquisite, and one is encouraged to have both Santa and Mrs. Claus sign The Night Before Christmas.
The jolly and accommodating Claus couple will also pose for photos and say a few choice words on video if you would like to make a recording for a special someone. There is no charge for the Santa love, and if you think that through it shouldn’t surprise you for the same reason.
When my daughter hit a certain age she argued with her classmates that Santa was real - Casmir had been to his house in the North Pole, several times, fed the reindeer carrots, and got a letter from him every year. I love that.
Santa decorates the arctic entries of his house with the letters he has received from children all over the world. I love that too.
Set up for the tourist trade, you won’t find any great shopping deals here. What you will find is the spirit of Christmas that you can bottle up and take home with you. The variety of themed Christmas goods on the market it impressive, and the merchandise offered turns every year. I am envious of their shopper.
Inside scoop; Target has apparently swiped the ‘big red balls in the parking lot’ idea from Santa. Brilliant.
Discovered in 1905 by minors who used these slightly sulphuric-smelling waters to cure their aches and pains, the Chena Hot Springs Resort gathered all their relics and created a must visit destination.
WARNING: Chena is a rustic location that is as charming as it is dusty, will well meaning but poorly trained staff. If you met the owner you would understand that the Alaska version of Caractacus Potts has opened his workshop to the public, so adjust your expectations and embrace Chena for what it is - a place to rest and relax.
After an hour-long drive with jaw-dropping scenery, one arrives at Chena hungry, so the restaurant is stop one. The vegetables are grown on-site using geothermal energy and are very flavorful.
The staff are ernest and sweet, but are a bit clueless as to American restaurant service norms. All of the soup in our section was delivered a sloppy mess that the server never considered tidying up, and my grilled cheese/tomato sandwich was luke warm. Consider that the site’s water source leaves a light oily residue on the glasses, and everything, before you decide to just have ice water to drink.
There is an ice house hotel/bar, but the springs were calling and we forgot to consider that proper protocol is ice house first, springs second, and not the other way around. Didn’t care to be cold after being warmed to the bone in the hot spring lake - so we will save the ice for another visit. Also on that to-do list: horseback riding, dog sledding, ATV and side-by-side rides, snowmobiling, ice fishing, and a river float tour.
Randomly, there is also an airplane that is being used as a sculpture. I don’t quite know what to say about that, but, why not?
The pool doors open at 7:00AM and close at midnight. Day visitors pay $5 for a towel hot from the dryer, 50 cents for a locker, and $15 for a pass to the indoor 90 degrees fahrenheit salt water pool and chlorinated hot tub, the outdoor chlorinated hot tub and the reason why we are here - the outdoor hot springs.
The pea gravel bottom is easy on the feet, the large granite stones that define the edges hold heat and provide privacy, a place to anchor oneself for a nice float. The depth ranges naturally as does the temperature, but it stays around four feet deep and 106 degrees fahrenheit. The clientele is very cosmopolitan and respectful.
Soaking in the springs while ones hair is frozen and the northern lights are dancing above is a most quintessential Alaska activity.
The experience is so spectacular spectacular that folks in iceland try to copycat - but Iceland charge twice as much to use their hot springs and barely gets below freezing the winter. Chena doesn’t raise an eyebrow for ten below zero and whiteout snowstorms so it easily scores more adventure points.
UNIVERSITY OF ALASKA, MUSEUM OF THE NORTH
One of the first orders of business by the Alaska Territorial Legislature was to set up a school of mines in Fairbanks. Move forward a hundred years and you will discover some jaw-dropping finds in that school’s natural history museum.
Yes, there is the large-enough-to-be-made-into-a-bathtub-for-four-people dark green jade boulder. Yes, there are large remnants of petrified palm trees and dinosaurs - all kinds of arctic dinosaurs - from back when Alaska was tropical and no one was complaining about global warming.
Global warming, they keep promising but never deliver. Why people think it is a great idea to keep my country stuck in an ice age is beyond me. It was not what gawd intended. Alaskans for Global Warming - because freezing/starving isn’t fun.
I digress.
I could go on all day about the dinosaurs, it is worth the trip for just for them.
Who could not love the quirky, frightening, giant beasts that tromped around with Yukon horses, musk ox, and … yes, there is frickin’ ginormous Blue Babe, a Paul Bunyan-sized steppe bison mummy and the details of what big cat took it down, and Effie, the cutest little baby woolly mammoth mummy you have every seen.
You can read about these discoveries, as I do with relish as anyone who follows my Facebook feed will attest. It is another thing entirely to view them up close. Experience the wonder.
You really need to pack a lunch and plan to spend all day and do a deep dive because the natural history they have collected is worth the time investment.
The Museum of the North has a worthy holding of 4,000 pieces of Alaska fine art that includes several of my favorites - Steve Gordon, Rockwell Kent, Ken DeRoux, Alvin Amason, Eustace Ziegler, Jules Dahlager, and Sydney Lawrence.
There is a whole floor dedicated to stuffed animals, vintage finds, and collectibles including an incredibly ornate outhouse that is Insta-perfect.
They have an entire bowhead whale skeleton hanging from the ceiling, which is fantastic, and that stupid bus 142 that the poor sap from stateside died in. No, I didn’t read Into the Wild or see the movie, that kind of obvious-Darwinian activity is to pathetic to be interesting to me.
Fortunately, the museum is open seven-days-a-week from 10AM-5:30PM and is only $12 for Alaskans, up to $16 for everyone else to get it. Well worth the price of admission, and I love that the lowest price point is for locals to encourage us to visit our own musuem.
Scoop: The museum gift store carries jewelry. The offerings are from all over the State and I’ve never seen such high quality, great range of offerings and cheap cheap cheap prices. While the museum has a great virtual presence for its exhibits, the offerings for its gift shop are subpar at this writing, which is a crime.
Seriously, I spent what I would normally spend on one pair of earrings and came out with - this is me bragging - teal Neptune gneiss with nickel ore beads from the Alaska range that have a natural gold sparkle from mica crafted by Curvin Metzler; a pair of sea otter fur hoop earrings, three pairs of seal fur hoop earrings and a stunning sea lion strip earring by Inpuiat Marcus Gho that made me put away my pearls during my Fairbanks stay; amber bead earrings by Don Forest of Two Rivers; two porcupine quill and bead necklaces, gold Alaska state map earrings, and, by far my favorite, a pair of earrings made from glass beads strung over a walrus whisker with thin gold wire. Average price, $20 per pair, no lie.
Also no lie, the sign on the whopper 5,498 pound Dan Creek copper nugget in the hallway encourages you to touch it.
Hidden in the Gold Rush section of Pioneer Park you will find the bequeathed collectibles and artifacts of members of the Pioneers of Alaska.
Most will walk in the door, turn left, and be ready to leave twenty minutes later. Lots of Alaskana, not particularly sophisticated in how it is presented - although it is displayed with a lot of love and respect.
If you are an early railroad aficionado, you will be well pleased and may even be able to assist in the restoration of Alaska Engine Number 1. Admission is free.
Insider Tip: - show up between 11:30-3:30pm Memorial through Labor Day, walk in the door, pay $4.00, and turn right. This is the hidden gem.
Every hour on the half-hour hour you can listen to the iconic radio voice of Alaska State Poet Laureate Ruben Gaines take you through The Big Stampede - the 1898 Klondike and 1902 Fairbanks gold rushes.
The theater seating turns with the story, as seen through the 15 large oil dioramas by Magnus Colcord “Rusty” Heurlin. The Alaska 49ers Hall of Fame inductee influenced later artist Fred Machetanz. Heurlin died at age 90 in his cabin in the gold mining town of Ester.
The Fairbanks Pioneers say this is the last theater of its kind that is still working, and their volunteers have done an exceptionally fine job of maintaining it and the paintings. Show your appreciation in the donations box.
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Reykjavik is, in a word, boring. It feels like a pale step-sister of Anchorage, Alaska. The November weather was similar to Anchorage in April. I try not to be in Anchorage in April.
You can buy a 24-hour city card to gain entry to the museums, swimming pool, art galleries and pop around town using the bus. This option did not appeal to me so I rented a small car.
I spent my 24 hours in Reykjavik fumbling with multiple trips to the ATM which for some reason I found difficult to master, racking up a ridiculous amount in international fees trying to acquire enough cash to purchase an overpriced and very bitter hot chocolate from a nearby vendor who for some unknown reason was allergic to credit cards.
Stopped in the Saga Museum - a bit of a wax viking historical experience, a second-hand clothing store called Spuutnik that seemed not to be the best value proposition, and the Kling & Bang art gallery where I found nothing so compelling that it warranted considering a purchase.
Everyone suggested the group tours where you stare out the window on a bus filled with other people staring out the window before waiting in line behind said people to view the scenery and then follow them on a head-to-tail trail ride where the horses walk in a big circle.
Dear Reader, in case you are wondering, that is my understanding of one of the circles of Hell as described in Dante’s Inferno.
I stayed at the Blue House which is owned by Zeno, who is German, so it was predictably clean, filled with other Germans, and had decent enough internet that I could stream a Masterclass over the sleepless night. My single room with the twin bed had a youth hostel feel and the chilly air made me feel like I was camping. I hate camping.
They provided a hippie-chewy, home-baked, must-be-good-for-you-if-it-tastes-like-this bread and spread breakfast, which was enough to get me to check out and drive far, far away to a magical place recommended to me by the lovely German girl who baked the bread.
ASAHREPPUR
It occurred to me as I was driving through the pass that literally no one on the planet knew where I was and began to wonder how long it would take to identify my body if it was dragged 100 feet off the side of the road. At least the “mountains” in southern Iceland were not rugged or tall enough that avalanche were a concern, I think officially they are referred to as ridges populated by a few volcanos.
The communities are a couple hundred souls perhaps, Asahreppur was my destination. The grassy plains seemed to go on forever with farm after farm after farm filled with flocks of sheep and herds of horses of every color and pattern imaginable. In a word, HEAVEN.
Judging by the architecture, it is an understandably Spartan life. Modern, clean, efficient farmsteads with a few charming nods of whimsy that hinted at the humor of the owners. Regretfully, I found no advertisement for either Hatari or Fire Saga playing anywhere.
Hestheimar was the name written on the scrap of paper by the German, she thought they might rent horses. It is located about an hour away from Reykjavik between two visitor destination locations - the Vik scenic drive and the Golden Circle of Geysir, Gulfoss, Kerið, and Þingvellir.
HESTHEIMAR FARM
There are six cosy cottages available for rent that boast panoramic views of what must be a hundred head of Icelandic horses moving over Hestheimar’s pastures framed by the Hekla and Eyjafjallajökull volcanos. They are well worth the price point.
It is tranquil here. There are two outdoor hot tubs for soaking off the journey. Bathrooms are stocked with organic soaps and shower gel made from wild-harvested therapeutic ingredients from the local highlands. The restaurant features homemade bread and pastries for breakfast. That the heat and electricity is geothermal bears mentioning. This is the Iceland I had intended to discover when I booked my flight.
Renting horses for tourists to ride is not really what this property is about, however. Hestheimar is a breeding farm and training facility owned by Sigurður Sigurðarson - known as Siggi Sig. Icelandic horse aficionados, in case you are wondering, just lifted their heads and perked up their ears. Training facility Hestheimar and the adjacent breeding farm Þjóðólfshagi are the HaDvir of the 1,000-plus-year-old breed’s temple. Siggi holds several Icelandic championship titles, a world championship title, and is a former world record holder. Plus he is handsome.
For me, life doesn’t get better than a full day on powdery snow paths in a winter wonderland while experiencing all the gaits of an exceptionally well-trained, well-bred horse.
All of the tours are private, and I was able to break out in the afternoon sun with a engaging guide and an endearing Icelandic sheepdog as companions for as long as I wanted at a very reasonable price point.
If I could have packed my pony in my luggage I would have, unfortunately not an impulse purchase for me. A willing partner, I dare say he enjoyed the ride as much as I did. I’m rather in love with the Icelandic saddle as well - very comfortable. I am seriously considering having an Icelandic as my next horse.
Speaking of purchases, my Oros Orion parka, with its solar core panels, did a great job of keeping me toasty warm under Icelandic winter conditions. It allowed for nice freedom of movement in the shoulders and was easy to roll and pack. Oros Explorer leggings were warmer than most, but really needed some insulation on the front of the thighs and knees. I would have ridden several hours longer if it wasn’t for that design fail.
The Tindfjallajökull, Eyjafjallajökull and Mýrdalsjökull glaciers were in view as well as the Hekla volcano. I plan on returning in summer for excursions to the nearby Geysir geothermal area, Gullfoss waterfall, Stöng Saga Age farm, and the Icelandic Saga Centre at Sögusetrið for a deep dive in Norse mythology.
]]>The flight from Anchorage to Juneau had a three-hour weather delay, so I stopped by Mosquito Books and quickly found a worthy read that was started over a Humpy’s Great Alaskan Alehouse smoked red salmon caesar salad and finished tucked under my bedcovers later that night.
I had to finish it in one sitting. An honest snapshot of a difficult year that is relevant, relatable and important. A primer in how to find joy in the moment, even when the moment seems very small and insignificant.
My review of Letters from Happy Valley: Memories of an Alaska Homesteader’s Son by Dan Walker comes from a different perspective than most, as I have known the members of the Walker family for nearly fifty years. To deep dive into such an intimate portrait of their beginnings homesteading in the Kenai Peninsula of Alaska was unsettling and cause for significant reflection.
Walker sums it up quite neatly in his closing chapter when he determines that a review of these letters will not find him the father he lost as a young age, a man who is more myth and legend than a real person to him.
Chet Walker is someone I never met, he died the year before I was born, but his oldest son, Tom, became my step-father when I was eight. We never spoke of Chet, so I have nothing to offer Dan, and that saddens me.
There is great truth and honesty in Dan’s interpretation of these letters and how he frames the circumstances surrounding them. They illuminate a path of introspection that is most universal - that place matters, that going back and revising the spaces and people that shaped your youth offers greater understanding of your values and worldview. It is a healthy and needful thing.
When drifting on the current, nothing is as grounding as a visit with someone who knew you well when you were young - they allow you to remember the person you were before all the bad things happened that fractured your heart and made you a more resilient, compassionate, and empathetic person.
These priceless letters are a time capsule loaded with the subtle sweetness of a tough year as it was happening.
Letters from Happy Valley speaks of profound loss, of doing the best you can with what you have, and not being afraid in an uncertain world despite disappointment and failure. Small moments - an ax cut, a shovel full of dirt, a hammer swing - craft a true home out of the wilderness that offers comfort and shelter in the most meaningful way. There is so much here that is relevant to the times we are in, this book is really a gift.
]]>The 45 minute drive from Cape Town to Wellington is just long enough to get accustom to the shift of the steering wheel to the opposite side of the vehicle, but not long enough to not be jarred by the billboards warning you not to stop for fear of death.
Wellington is surrounded by mountains – Groenberg, Limietbberg, the Hawequas, and the two Sneeukoppe. European settlers arrived in 1677, developing South Africa’s Napa Valley into a picturesque agricultural area populated with lovely wineries, beautiful Cape Dutch homesteads, and thriving gardens.
It should be noted with respect that Reverend Dr. Andrew Murray inspired the building of the Huguenot seminary, making Wellington the birthplace for education of women in South Africa.
DIEMERSFONTEIN WINE AND COUNTRY ESTATE
In the heart of the Boland wine area, this iconic Cape Dutch manor was built as a family retreat and stands as a testament to the elegance of the cultivated lifestyle of Diemersfontein’s third-generation owners. Since 1942, it has been transformed into a ground breaking winery and known for its coffee/chocolate Pinotage.
A delicious, cooked-to-order, proper English breakfast featuring locally-roasted Kaleidoskoop coffee starts adventures with a full stomach at the on-property restaurant, and is included with the manor rental.
Locally-produced cheeses, charcuterie, spices, cordials, and sweet treats can be purchased to pack a lovely picnic to enjoy while taking in the expansive mountain range views of the estate, complete with music of the farm’s cows, horses and
There are eight golf courses within half-an-hour’s drive from Diemersfontein, and sunset game drives are available.
Farms on the Wellington Wine Route, cheese and olive estates, the world-famous Bains Whiskey Distillery all offer tours for those who wish to imbibe. Point of note, the Bains estate is phenomenally beautiful.
Conversations with Diemersfontein’s owner, David Sonnenberg, prove most enlightening as the lessons he learned in the bumpy apartheid conversation have been applied to creating the same empowerment that Alaska Native corporations experienced with the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act. In short, education and opportunity has enriched the enterprise extensively.
Unique in the South African wine industry, the estate has been transformed by offering a majority of ownership shares to the 65 employees, and focusing resources on training and development as an absolute necessity to achieve sustainable economic empowerment. They support an area school to lift up the opportunities of those who live nearby the winery as well.
The setting is inspiring on a number of levels. The Diemersfontein Estate treats its patrons as if they are guests in their own home, and that level of graciousness is felt and beautifully expressed.
The well-maintained interiors are heavily stocked with art and books rich with the history of the area, and vibrant flowers are ever present. The decor fells very British, and comes by it honestly over decades of well-curated additions.
Very much an experience that engages all the senses and encourages guests to sit back on the veranda and listen to the birds as the sun sets over an exceptionally lovely vista.
FYNBOS TRAILS
Working out of the Diemersfontein stables, Fynbos Trails, offers half, one, or two-day trail rides that gallop through Wellington’s vineyards, fruit farms, herb fields and natural fynbos with unparalleled views of the Hawequa Mountain valleys.
They also offer wine tasting trail rides to prestigious boutique cellars on historic farms in the area.
I found my guide to be exceptional - a very capable and fun riding partner. She also does horseback tours where you ride within the great herds of zebra and giraffe. Count me in for that on my next trip!
I really enjoyed the athleticism of the South African creole horse, a mix of Arab and Boerperd blood. I much preferred it to the bouncy gait of the Frisian that was also offered as an option at this stable. Must say though, the Frisian was very well trained and was a flat handsome mount.
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The British Commonwealth of Saint Lucia is the only sovereign nation named for a woman. She is a Windward Island of the West Indies with a population of under 190,000 souls of mostly African-descent who speak British English as fluently as their French-based Creole Patwa dialect.
Writer James Michener describes Margot Bay as the most beautiful bay in the Caribbean by land or by sea, which is how I found myself there in the first place. I come from Alaska, and as the scenery of Alaska is much grander than anything else of its kind in the world, my capacity for enjoyment naturally falls to seeing the finest first.
The deep turquoise waters run bathtub warm between 70-80 degrees and form a natural hurricane hold betwixt steep green hills.
An elegant golden sand peninsula dusted with palm trees holds gateway to a safe harbor where brightly-colored water taxis ferry passengers past the most luxurious of mega-yachts. It is a blissful hideaway from the cruse ships and couples resorts that terrorize the locals.
Changing hands fourteen times between France and England, St. Lucia is one of the most fought-over places on Earth, and Margot Bay itself is home of two remarkable battles - one where colonial masted ships disguised themselves amongst the palm trees of the peninsula to evade enemy forces and another where Dr. Doolittle is doomed to the death of 10,000 screams by the highly educated and cultured savages of Sea-Star island.
Yes, Doctor Doolittle, as in the poorly-aging Academy Award-winning 1967 musical feature film that left sets behind that are still in use today.
MARGOT BAY RESORT
An engaging panoramic view of exotic tropical flowers, lush green palms, and smart yachts moored in the deep blue-green waters of Margot Bay Marina is enjoyed from a private plunge pool in the residences of the Margot Bay Resort. This five-star resort allows indulgence in all the pleasures of paradise while enjoying the practicality of bunking next to a modern trading post.
A safe place to land on our first visit to the island, we found this dynamic resort to be a professionally-run tight-ship that held all our worries for us while focused on learning to drive on the proper side of the street.
DIVE FAIR HELEN
A water taxi glides over the short hop between the resort and the penunsula, which is home to a sandy beach with easy access to swimming, snorkeling or sea kayaking amongst the sheltered waters. It is also home to Dive Fair Helen, where I took my first snorkel/scuba diving classes.
An onshore pool is the starting place to gather skills quickly put to use in the open ocean exploring spectacular coral reefs, trenches, caverns and walls nestled with an dazzling array of Caribbean reef fish. The instructor was remarkably patience, graciously babysitting me while overseeing the safety of the experienced divers who were kind enough to to let me tag along on their underwater excursion.
DOOLITTLE’S RESTERAUNT AND BAR
Doolittle’s resteraunt, repurposed from the Sea-Star Island set, is the perfect place to start adventures with a fortifying St. Lucian breakfast featuring hot bakes, salt-fish, fried plantain and cocoa tea.
Also a perfect spot to cap off a busy day with their specialty dessert, a delectable combination of sweet Lucian bananas baked into a moist heavy-bread with a cream cheese center. Served with locally-made banana ice cream for a mouth-watering effect.
Local music and color flows over the casual atmosphere. Trinkets and handmade goods are casually traded from tables set by local artists on the beach. White corals and shells are easily gleaned from the shore.
COAL POT RESTERAUNT
Just around the corner is the island’s largest city, Castries, and the waterfront resteraunt that is not to be missed - the Coal Pot.
The most romantic table in town is its patio overlooking Vigie marina, a location so coveted that it is guarded by historic cannon. Candles flicker in the open breezes, highlighting the colonial decor and stone walls.
Celebrated French chef Xavier Ribot’s menu features Caribbean-centric soups made of callaloo and creamy pumpkin. Authentic West Indian sauces dress caught-that-afternoon snapper and dorado. True to it’s name, the fare cooked using the traditional methods of the Island. Coal Pot is best known for its crab-back and saltfish with green fig/banana, however it is the melts-in-your-mouth French milk chocolate cake that keeps me coming back time and again.
WILD SERENITY VILLA
Chef Xavier also holds the keys to an exclusive La Toc estate that he is known to rent on occasion, Wild Serenity Villa. Exceptionally private, his home’s well-landscaped gardens lead to a secret cove compete with a sandy beach anchored by a shading palm.
The infinity pool opens the sunset’s heavy velvet drapes to a brilliant star lite sky. The British Colonial is perfect for those wanting a private, exclusive, authentic experience guided by locals who are very gracious hosts. Highly recommend for the discerning traveller.
HOOFPRINT HORSE RIDING RANCH
Also a good man to know is Winston, who owns an herd of the local creole ponies and has access through a banana plantation, past lush cow pastures, by the rum distillery, to a quiet beach.
One can book a ride at Hoofprint Horseriding Ranch with the rest of the tourists and enjoy a sunset horseback swim or you can get to know Winston, go riding everyday, and self guide your pony over the landscape at a respectable clip. The latter is recommended for experienced riders.
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Lorenz travels to Juneau, Alaska and explores cold water shipwreck scuba diving, the Shrine of the State of Alaska’s patron saint, Auk Bay and the Aak’w Kwaan Tlingit. Review of In Bucco al Lupo Italian resteraunt.
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Early miners had no knowledge of the value of microscopic gold nor the means to extract it. They simply discarded waste rock into piles, known as tailings, and upon this they built what would become the capital of the State of Alaska, the city of Juneau. So when one says that the streets of Juneau are paved with gold, it is a literal statement.
The sparkle of Juneau is natural in its composition, a gem hidden beneath mountains blanketed in the dense greens of the largest temperate forest in North America and tied artistically with massive teal glaciers that make their way through silver meltwater ribbons to the calm waters of the Inside Passage.
Cold water diving in the centuries of shipwrecks is unforgettable. Be sure to visit the site of the Princess Sophia, her sinking was so dramatic the story was made into an opera. All lives lost in America’s worst shipwreck including the Lady named Lou featured in Robert Service’s classic poem The Shooting of Dan McGrew. Bones of the mine work horses trapped below deck are still in their heavy leather harnesses.
SHRINE OF SAINT THERESE
Surprisingly affordable and peaceful, private accommodation can be found in the cabins and cottages attached to the Shrine of Saint Therese. Inspiration to crush the most stubborn writer’s block is readily available in this quiet, tranquil space that one doesn’t have to be Catholic to appreciate or use.
A well-groomed trail with interpretative signage tells the story of the State of Alaska’s patron Saint Therese. The elegant stone chapel is secluded on its own small island and connected to the mainland with a several-hundred-foot-long causeway.
Light a candle, reflect on thoughts and prayers, abide by the honor code of the gift shop. Sunday Mass is held at 1:30 pm. The Juneau Lyric Opera’s Christmas performances will feed your soul and testify to the hauntingly beautiful acoustics of the space.
The Stations of the Cross for the devout dramatically cuts a pathway through the old growth forest. The stones of the thoughtfully-designed Merciful Love Labyrinth are punctuated by robust flower gardens and air filled with the music of shorebirds, seals, whales and eagles. Don’t miss Mary’s View and the Rosary Trail. Be sure to keep an eye out for the ridiculously cute marmot.
AUK BAY RECREATION PICNIC AREA
A walk on the manicured paths surrounding Auke Bay Recreation Picnic Area can take hours not because of the distance but because of the majestic viewshed of Lynn Canal and the Chilkat Mountain range.
Following the northern shoreline of a historic Auk Tlingit Indian village site, the hospitality of Alaska Natives to their honored guests is reflected in the well-kept picnic tables, fire rings, potable water fountains, and vault toilets. The trail and the amenities all are under a heavy canopy of spruce and hemlock, so even a day of heavy rain can afford a pleasantly dry experience.
Whales and porpoise can often be sighted close to shore, ravens and eagles live there. Wear rubber boots or water shoes for the tide pooling offers heavy rewards in limpets, hermit crabs, sculpin, sea stars, jelly fish, and anemones. Locals use the crystal clear 40-60 degree water for swimming, sea kayaking, and salmon fishing. Rock hunters are often rewarded with white quartz ribboned with gold, a reminder that Juneau Goldbelt mines were once a world leader in gold production and plenty of color has been left behind.
AUK BAY TLINGIT
The 78-acre Auk site is the first transitional cultural property in Southeast Alaska listed on National Register of Historic Places. The Aakʼw Ḵwáan Tlingit consider this area sacred territory, both because of its place in their traditions of gathering sustenance and as a burial ground. Indian Point, located between Auke Recreation and the Juneau ferry dock, is the original habitation site for the first migrates to the area - the Yaxte Hit Tlingit, who arrived around 1564.
The small nearshore islands of Auk Cape should generally be avoided out of respect for the power of the Shaman and important historical figures whose ashes have been laid to rest there in highly ornamental carved cedar boxes. Sensible people minimize disturbances and stay a respectful distance from these highly-charged environments as Shamanistic landscapes are potentially inhabited by powerful spirits capable of invading or injuring a person directly
IN BUCCO AL LUPO
Intimate atmosphere, great mocktails, and a well-curated menu of memorable offerings of seasonal Italian food made In Bucco al Lupo top choice for my first “Last Day of Being this Young” dinner party that is my new forever-substitute for birthday parties.
The Pork and Ricotta Meatballs appetizer has mild-but-flavorful seasoning and pleasantly staves off the Hangries. The Antipasto Platter is heavy on the pickled vegetables and plenty for four people.
Wood oven Roasted Cauliflower is not my favorite, nor anything that anyone else in my party wants to order again. It is a lot of food without a lot of wow. The egg yolk Fettuccine Alfredo with the roasted and black garlic cream sauce is simple yet delicious. My go-to is the Leeky Goat 12” pizza, a tantalizing combination of roasted garlic, bacon, leek purée, and soft goat cheese on a wood-fired crust fashioned from fresh Cairnspring’s stone-milled flour.
The choice of mocktails is refreshingly ‘grown up’ as the waiter’s offering of non-alcoholic drinks did not involve any Coke or Pepsi products. An oversized slice of bread pudding dripped with carmel sauce was happily not delivered by anyone singing Happy
The Worst Possible Gift competition was taken seriously by my guests, who bequeathed upon me a trashy novel, a crown announcing that I was “”DONE” with birthdays, a book to be delivered to my daughter upon my death that outlines where in the backyard I buried all the treasure, sporting equipment for a game that I will never excel at that was designed for children, a singing cats from space card with flashing lights that would send most into an epileptic seizure, and, the piece de resistance - a ratty beige bra purchased at a local second hand shop for fifty cents.
Used underwear wrapped in a rainbow/unicorn/sparkly gift bag, the undisputed winner in the bad gift competition. I am still smiling at the memory as I write this, I haven’t laughed that hard in years.
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DAHAMA RANCH
Here in the bright tropical green “wet” side rests the only ranch owned by a Native Hawaiian family, Dahana Ranch.
This is not an industrial-scale cattle operation that grass-feeds beef for your local grocery store or a fancy dude ranch shined up for tourists. It is so much better than that. If you are wanting to find an authentic Hawaiian experience, this is where your journey begins.
Dahana Ranch carries on a near-two-hundred-year-old tradition that embraces a unique, proud, and rare heritage, that of the Hawaiian cowboy or paniolos. Here the family raise, breed, train, and show exceptional registered American Quarter horses as well as working cow ponies, competitive rodeo roping and cutting horses, and polo ponies.
And yes, my friend, for a reasonable fee, you can cowboy up and confidently ride these majestic athletes, even if this is literally your first time at the rodeo.
In 1951, this lightly-forested land transferred through a Native Hawaiian award to William Pa’akaula Kalawaia’nui who broke the ground using a single-horse plow and hand-planted New Zealand grasses.
He turned the sun-drenched fields into a very successful cattle, horse, and hog operation known as Nakoa Ranch. The youngest of his six children, Harry Nakoa, took over the ranch in 1988 and runs it today.
Dramatic black lava boulders punctuate the scenic vistas from the 3,000-foot elevation of Dahana’s 2,000-acre open range, four miles of green rolling hills filled with big-bellied broodmares nursing gangly-legged foals, and the eye-pleasing patchwork of a-hundred-or-so bridled, speckled, and spotted Corriente cows followed by their sweet-faced calves.
Used as sport cattle in rodeo events like team roping, bull dogging, and reining, this flashy breed of Criollo cattle descended from Spanish animals brought to the Americas as early as 1493.
I was pleased to discover Dahana Ranch offered a two-hour advanced ride tailored specifically for equestrians. I found owner Ku’uipo Nakoa a charming, intelligent, gracious guide, and a fabulous competitive horsewoman in her own right.
I say gracious because I do not prefer to ride western, which Ku’uipo immediately discerned by noticing my hands and seat. I’ve ridden western before, mind you, many times over many decades, and I am a good western rider, but good just isn’t good enough on this ranch.
By far the best riding instructor I have ever had, Ku’uipo’s causal, thoughtful, well-timed comments on how to ride her reining horse properly was inspiring and fun, with detailed explanations as to why what she was recommending was important.
Ku’uipo carefully matched horse to rider and gave specific instructions so there was an awareness of what bit was being used, how it worked as an aid, correct neck reining for a reining horse, how the horse had been trained to respond to different pressures, the personality quirks, name, sex, age, accolades and pedigree of the mount. Ku’uipo teaches through hands-on learning and humor, and is a very funny lady as only an exceptionally clever woman can be.
Very different from most horse rental concerns, Dahana Ranch Quarter Horses stand patiently without being tied or held when they are tacked up, and when riders mount and dismount. They didn’t move a muscle when Ku’uipo double-checked girth and stirrups after we went through the first pasture. Staying mounted, Ku’uipo opened and closed large heavy gates with ease.
The horses choose their steps as carefully as Grand Canyon mules up and down the hills, be it a bunny slope or a Black Double Diamond. They smoothly ease into a trot or a lope with little encouragement, and slow to a stop with a gentle whoa.
There was no “the herd is moving so I must follow,” “there is grass so I must eat,” or “barn sour” activity. Refreshingly, both horse and wrangler treat you as a rider not a passenger, a friend and not a customer. Remembering my name was important to Ku’uipo, and she used it frequently throughout our ride.
The horses fan out over a several acres the entire ride. Following head-to-tail is strongly discouraged as is riding closely side-by-side or following any cow paths that may be on the open range. At each gate, Ku’uipo points in the distant horizon to the opening of the next pasture, how to get there is left up to you.
When the super friendly pack of cattle dogs, who are a delight in themselves, decided to round up a dozen head and drive the cattle up a hill to give Ku’uipo a bit of a surprise when she came out of a bend, there was no drama. The running cows were back to grazing before John Wayne movie stampede flashbacks could become a concern, and Ku’uipo’s gentle chiding of the dogs was over run with laughter.
It is a unique experience to be able rent a trail horse of this quality in America. It is rare to have the privilege of riding any horse this gentle, responsive, and well trained. Remember this praise is coming from Dorene Lorenz, the woman who doesn’t particularly fancy Quarter Horses, and, in fact, normally actively avoids riding them.
Nakoa’s training methods have been described as the intersection of traditional Spanish horsemanship techniques and the spiritual respect for all life indigenous to Hawaiian Natives. That value shows, and it is easy to understand why when Nakoa Ranch offers a horse for sale it is placed very quickly.
If you were to start your rented trail riding experience at this ranch, with a Nakoa family member as a guide - you would be ruined. You would have a difficult time finding another experience that met up to this level of quality.
I can give Dahana Ranch only my highest possible praise. It is not fancy, not glamorous, much better, it is a memorable authentic Hawaiian experience.
Now that I am more familiar with the lay of the land, and feel comfortable riding the exceptionally well-broken Dahana Quarter Horses, I look forward to my next adventure there - there is an offering where you learn to cowboy-up Hawaiian paniolos-style.
HAWAIIAN COWBOYS - THE PANIOLOS
In 1793, George Vancouver presented five cows and a bull to King Kamehameha I. The King allowed the stock to run wild for four decades, until they numbered in the thousands.
The first horse arrived in Hawaii ten years after the cows, when an American trader named Richard Cleveland presented one as a give to King Kamehameha I. Decades before American cowboys showed up in Texas, the King brought California-Mexican vaqueros over in 1833 to share their knowledge of saddle-making, riding, roping, and cattle breeding.
Hawaii’s cowboys didn’t receive a respectful tip-of-the-hat from their western American counterparts until 1908. Riding borrowed horses, Parker Ranch paniolo Ikua Purdy set a record time while winning the World Rodeo Steer-Roping Championship in Wyoming, and cousins Archie Kaaua took third, Jack Low sixth. Purdy was inducted into the National Cowboy Hall of Fame in 1999.
It didn’t matter if the paniolo was a native Hawaiian, Chinese, Portuguese, Japanese, Russian, Korean, or Puerto Rican they all became culture-bearers by speaking the Hawaiian language while on the range, one of the few occupations allowed to do so.
Paniolo used to have to swim cattle out to ships to be loaded for market stateside, and the suggestion that the current Hawaiian meat market is still experiencing difficulty because of lack of access to slaughterhouses is a bit of an understatement. Food security is an issue here.
PANIOLO ADVENTURES
The 11,000-acre Paniolo Adventures is a ticket to a post-Walt, Disney-esque experience. This is a direct reference of the corporate culture, as the second largest cattle ranch in Hawaii is owned by a former Disney executive. Not Walt, not Abigail.
The black and red Angus cattle ranch covers three-climate zones as it stretches from a rain forest at 4,800 feet to the ocean. Paniolo has an enviable collection of cowboy boots and Australian rain slickers that allow customers to dress the part before standing on a mounting block, having the next horse in line brought up to them, and riding off without even knowing the horse’s name.
My experience was riding an average grade ranch horse that was “recently” shipped in from the Mainland, and was an adequate mount but nothing special. The wrangler kept an eye on their watch and were more focused on getting back in time for the next group than the quality of the experience for their customers.
When it became painfully obvious early into the experience that they had dramatically mismatched an insecure rider on a spirited horse and a competitive rider on a horse that was happy bringing up the rear, instead of swapping mounts they let two riders have a less-than-optimal ride. Time concerns were cited as the reason the request was refused.
Both of our wrangler’s expressed their pleasure that my riding partner was training their soured horse because no one had ever put any effort toward that cause. Respectfully, training someone else’s horse was not what my riding partner paid money to do on her vacation. Pissed me off.
The senior wrangler told an inexperienced rider to hold on tight to the horn and pull back hard on the reins when her gelding bolted through every designated “okay to run here” section of trail before crashing into the group at the other end,
rider expressed her desire to get off the horse and walk it home, but was not allowed to do so. Looking at the fear on her face, I think it would be very difficult to talk this frightened woman into riding ever again. Unnecessary drama and trauma.
The wrangler also failed to stop and adjust another rider’s obviously unequal stirrups after the poor girl started complaining that she was in considerable pain with an hour left on the ride. It wasn’t okay.
Speaking of not okay, having to wait for everyone in our group of 12 who wanted to canter for a quarter mile in a designated “okay to run” stretch, one at a time, then wait at the end-point for those who didn’t want to canter to catch up at a walk was boring the first time and flat out annoying by the third.
The only thing Hawaiian about this trail ride was that it was physically located in Hawaii, and the view sheds were fabulous. As for the ride itself, not impressed by the quality of the experience. Not meaningfully differentiated from any other Mid-America trail ride experience. Not really interested in going there ever again, and would not recommend it.
WILD HORSES
A Big Island Hawaiian riding adventure I am looking forward to is one that was recommended to me by Ku’uipo as she pointed out the most spectacular waterfalls in Hawaii, the 2,000-foot double falls Hi'ilawe and Nanewe, which are easily seen from the Dahana Ranch.
Three bands totaling around sixty wild Hawaiian horses are in the remote area of Waipi'o or Valley of the Kings, an important 12 century kingdom. They are descendants of Spanish Barb horses brought there in 1803 by Chinese farmers to pack taro and rice up the steep gravel road to market. A furious 1946 tidal wave left the horses abandoned, and they have run feral since then.
Apparently, you can ride the tough surefooted Hawaiian horse to view the wild herds at Naalapa Stables at Kahua Ranch. The horses are all from local Waipi'o stock and their experienced guides are reportedly well-versed in Waipi'o's legends and lore. Sounds Promising.
BEST TRADITIONAL HAWAIIAN BBQ PLATE DINNERS
I took Ku’uipo’s advise on where to eat lunch, Ippy’s Hawaiian BBQ, where a half-portion plate of perfectly seasoned, ridiculously tender Kona pulled pork and white rice was so heavenly that at dinner I pushed away the over-cooked, overpriced, pistachio-crusted Ono at Huggo’s after just a couple bites so I could run home to reheat the Ippy’s leftovers.
I wasn’t surprised that the owner, Ippy Aoina, made his hometown proud on with his appearance on the Next Food Network Star.
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