Dave Menaker at his Great Land Wines, Haines, AK

In Haines, Alaska, we spend a delightful few… oh… I really have no idea how long… hours?… days?… tasting wine at Dave Menaker’s shack cum winery. This ain’t your Napa Valley. Dave greets his guests in a heavy, pullover work shirt, jeans and work boots (he also operates a sawmill out back -- hopefully not running both businesses at the same time). Tim and I were the only ones in the place and the samples ran wild and free -- onion, potato, blueberry, raisin, rose petal and dandelion wines were just a few of the selections, with Triscuits proffered for the obligatory palate cleansing. I was totally blitzed by the time we left (fortunately, he also offers a carry-out service -- not the bottles -- the spouses) as evidenced by my suggestions of possibilities for future vintages, including a cat/dog hair variety, marketed to eccentric little old ladies who’d want to drink a memorial toast to their dearly departed Flopsies. To his credit, Dave was amused. Or, at least the other Dave standing next to him was. Well, maybe one of them was only feigning amusement. But, that was when the room starting spinning, so I can’t really be sure.

Rise and shine!
Our standing joke the entire trip has been “let’s get an early start,” which has usually meant 11 am – if we were lucky. Well... we finally achieved one: After a quick overnight on our way out of British Columbia at a muddy, mosquito infested RV park with only 15 amps of power, you might say we felt no pull to linger. Tim swore he’d have us out of there by 9 am.

“Oh, yee of little faith” he said to my skeptical look. Yup, that’s me: Yee Orion. From the lost tribe of Asian Jews.

Us in front of Mt. McKinley, the biggest draw of Denali National Park. This picture, however, wasn't taken at Denali, since as we found out after our bus ride, the Park is probably the worst place to see the mountain.

In Denali National Park, the only way one is allowed in, is via bus (and no, I don't mean ours). This was not a good thing. It's not that I was afraid… more like constantly horrified. It started with the very first animal sighting, a caribou. An older woman across the isle from us let out a blood curdling scream. I thought perhaps, that the poor animal was being eaten by a bear. Since I had yet to see an Alaskan bear and there would be little I could do to help poor Rudolph anyway, I craned my neck in its direction. But, no. He of the antler bling was languidly grazing in a meadow. Then, I heard the rest of what I suppose is the tourists’ rallying cry: “WALTER! GET THE CAMERA!” Tim and I hadn’t taken organized tours in quite some time, and as we shot each other pained looks, we remembered why. “This is going to be a very long trip,” we said, in unison. What does Walter’s wife do when she needs to get his attention for something really important? Like… say she’s being strangled by a stranger, which nearly occurred several times during the eight hour trip. The rule on the bus was that anyone could yell STOP for anything at any time: animal sightings, picture opportunities, bloody noses (this really happened… they sent the kid off the bus… to be put out of his misery by a bear, I suppose. Or, is that sharks?) Our overly helpful guide/driver even got walkie-talkies for us slobs in the back, so that we could more easily communicate our wishes to him on this hell ride. Unfortunately, “Stop the bus. I’ll catch a cab” was not one of the possibilities. Then, there were the Dall Sheep. Someone would shout, “STOP THE BUS!” and we would… for dots of white, which we were told were frigging sheep on a hill. O.K. He didn’t really say frigging sheep. Being a naturalist named River, he of course referred to them as Dall Sheep. Apparently, no one on that entire bus had ever been to a farm.

“But, they’re mountain sheep,” Tim protested the first time I made this incisive observation. By the sixth, he had come over to the dark side with me and delighted in spotting sheep himself, only to withhold the information from the rest of our wool-crazed herd. At one point, the driver even stopped the bus on his own, saying he was going to scan the mountain ridge with his binoculars for bear. I rolled my eyes at Tim. “If they’re that far away, who gives a sh*t? To which he replied, “let me get the walkie-talkie for you.”

Caribou in Denali National Park. Those antlers -- a bit much. Someone should take the poor animals aside and tell them that there's such a thing as over-accessorizing.

STREET LIFE
Hey, thanks, Serwer! (And, I know the dog is cute, but what am I, chopped liver?)
I've gotten quite a few emails wondering about the bus itself. Check out the Meltdown Cruise entry from June '04 for info on that, as well as our many, many mishaps our very first day out (door flying open at 60 mph with me next to it, nearly getting run over by the bus as Tim backed it up, horrendous hail, cat peeing on bed in terror, wrong turns and not being able to back up... )is it any wonder I developed a bus phobia?

I’ve been dragged on enough death marches by Tim, that I’ve developed…

The 5 Stages of Getting Grief from Hiking with Doreen: Denial (“There's no way in hell I’m going all the way up there!”); Anger (“I can’t believe I let you take me on this f--king hike!”); Bargaining (“If we stop now, I’ll have the energy to do another hike tomorrow. Really, I promise!”); Despair (“Oh, why did I ever let you talk me into anything over 3 miles?”); Acceptance (“This is absolutely, positively, the last hike I will ever go on for the rest of my life!”)

I would add a sixth stage, one which only occurs in extreme circumstances, at a perfect storm of elevation gain, total distance, mud and bugs: Confabulation (“Look at the dog! You’re killing him!”)

Finally, when I’ve nagged enough to make even Tim agree to quit, I clutch the poodle to celebrate, beaming as I attempt to reinforce the wisdom of my husband’s capitulation.

“I’m so glad you didn’t make me continue to the top. That way, I could actually enjoy how beautiful it was. I’d even do it, again.”

“Really? Tim replied. “I wouldn’t.”

Miles and me. Harbor Mountain, Sitka, AK.

Eagles were always thought to mate for life, but Captain Jim told us that while recent DNA analysis indicates that monogomy is dominant (I guess that depends on what your definition of "is" is), they do fool around. Birds with benefits.

On our jet boating trip down the Sitkine River in Wrangell, Ivan Simonek, a naturalist and professional photographer extraordinaire was on board with his lovely wife, Jeannie. (Check out his website for amazing pics: alaskansmugmug.com) He took this one of Tim and me, a few hours before our pilot, Jim did a "Hamilton Manuever." I won't go into the physics of it, but suffice it to say the boat turned end to end in 40-50 feet and the G forces were better than an E ticket ride. After the first try and my scream when the frigid water hit us, Cap'n Jim hollered, "That was only practice!" I yelled back, "Good! "Cause that was just a practice scream!" I wasn't kidding.

Of our first stop in Alaska, Ketchikan, Tim says he's never seen such dense forest. I wouldn't know.

Tim getting the bus on the ferry. He's an animal, I tell you!

Loading the bus on the ferry to Alaska.

Border chic

ALASKA – both of us were a little worried about going, albeit for different reasons: Tim was concerned about the trip up through Canada. He thought, given how Americans are perceived in the world these days, that we’d encounter nothing but hostility. Then again, he had also never had a burning desire to go to Alaska. I was the one who said, even before we ever headed out, “Well, if we’re doing this bus thing, then we should at least go to Alaska.” What an idiot.

At least now I’m not just restricting my fears to the bus. Oh, no. Now, I’m terrified of the roads (are they even paved?) hitting a moose, getting mauled by a bear (I had a dream we both were the night before we left Seattle). And, since my bus phobia had generalized to any moving vehicle, I’m also a little nuts about the ferry rides. I love boats and the water, but I’m actually fixating on the stuff in the bus crashing around, (just like I still do when I’m riding in it) even though we’ll be topside. I’m a wreck from worrying: did we have all the paperwork we needed to take a bus, a Jeep and three pets across the border? How will we navigate (our GPS has no CDs for Canada)? Why didn’t we bring a gun (for bears)? Tim says we just have to make noise in the woods while we walk and that that’s why people carry bells. Well, we don’t have any bells, do we? He says we don’t need them with my mouth.

I was half hoping we’d be turned back at the border, but we weren’t. They didn’t even ask about the pets’ vaccinations, trusted us on the ridiculous amounts of alcohol Tim said we had (a few bottles of wine, less than a 12 pack of beer and 1 bottle of hard liquor. Right. That’ll be my consumption the first night – if I survive). Tim says one look at me and the border guards knew no self respecting smuggler/terrorist could possibly dress this way (see the picture above for my tres bus chick outfit: pink track suit with big pink furry socks).

I guess that’s why they didn’t even bother aboot us.

Driving to the Oregon coast from Portland, we pass through Scarpoose and the “peace candle;” really a peace silo, painted red with a giant fabricated flame on top.

I could just feel the world drawing closer together as we whizzed by on Hwy 30.

More bus phobia. I now realize why psychotics engage in “self quieting behavior” such as rocking, repeating words, etc. My new mantra, as we twist over Hwy 199 East from CA to OR is “kill me kill me kill me kill me.” It’s all mindless until I suddenly realize what I’m saying. It’s not that I’m afraid of dying, it’s that I’m afraid of dying like this. So, my new, new mantra; “kill me, but not like this… kill me, but not like this…”

Finally, I can’t wait anymore. I say I’m just going in the back to kill myself. Tim replies, "so, I guess you'll be back there trying to slit your wrists with your electric razor." What an empathetic guy. I guess he gave at the office.

Olive Dell Ranch, the family nudist resort.

In a nudist park, everything is striped down, so to speak. As Tim observed, there’s no macho, no posturing. Your balls (and whether or not you have any) are out there for everyone to see.

On our first night, Tim starts closing all the curtains in the bus. I wonder why -- we’ve been nude, anyway, all day. He explains it’s because he’s going to cook, so wants to put on clothes without offending anybody.

Our favorite nudist has to be the maintenance guy, who walks around with nothing on but a tool belt. Every time he turns around, I nearly exclaim, “Hey! You dropped your…” Oops. Never mind.