THE LITTLE RED CHAIR

My father bought me a little chair when I was three. It was WWII. We were living in Aurora, Colorado, and Dad was a military doctor at Fitzsimmons Army Hospital. The chair had a maroon wool needlepoint seat with a flower pattern. I loved the chair; it was a part of my life and our home as far back as I can remember. It sat in my parents home for thirty five years, and five more children and many grandchildren rubbed their bottoms across its flowered seat. When my son Thor was born, my father gave me the chair which I hauled from Salt Lake City to our log cabin home in Alaska. Thor and Daphne sat on it from the time they were babies. The little flower in the center of the seat finally lost its threads, but the outline remained. Broken many times, it finally came to rest under the crawl space of the house, splintered parts of the back lay separated from the seat. Somehow I managed to keep all the pieces and moved it many times, intending to put it back together.

A few weeks ago, I found the chair under the house, dragged its broken pieces up to the shop and went to work. Most of the glue joints had loosened, so I took the chair completely apart and delicately removed the chunks of glue from the mortises and tenons. The shellac had mostly flaked off, so I lightly sanded the whole chair. The needlepoint had been tacked on. I lightly pried each of the 60 tacks and took it to the dry cleaners to remove the 60 years of crud. Now to reconstruct the chair: several pieces were splintered beyond repair, so keeping as much of the original as possible, I spliced new pieces on with a variety of hand-fitted joints. Next I filled in the dents and gouges with a wood slurry. Originally the wood had been had been stained a red mahogany, so I restained each piece, then coated it with urethane, rather than the original shellac. Finally I glued the entire chair back together, tacked on the needlepoint, and brought it into the living room. A labor of love!

The next day, my friend Rebecca brought her 3-year old grandson by. He saw the chair and made a beeline for it, smiling as he sat down. Kids know a piece that's made for them.

THE SUPER CHAMPION

Lance Mackey is nearing the end of the Iditarod Trail Sleddog race. Early this morning he arrived at Elim, a small village along the Northwest Arctic coast of Alaska, 825 miles into the thousand mile race, way ahead of his next competitors. The temperature is -11 F., with wind to 35 mph, bringing the windchill to -35 F. It was worse last night. A following musher, Hugh Neff is reported to have serious frostbite on his face, in spite of the huge parkas with fur ruffs to keep him warm. No one can catch him. He's obliterating the competition. Mackey's dog team is amazingly fast, and he is unbelievably tough. Lance's grandfather, Dick Mackey, and his father, Rick Mackey, were both Iditarod race champions. But Lance is in another class.

Everyone has heard about Lance Armstrong and his bout with cancer, but Mackey is also a cancer survivor, and throat cancer at that. Just competing would have been a major accomplishment. But Lance is more than just a competitor; he has won the Iditarod the last two years. Incredible, yes! But, he also won the 1000-mile Yukon Quest race between Fairbanks, Alaska, and Whitehorse, Canada, those same two years! And, these huge races are back to back. I've been fascinated by the races for my near 30 years in Alaska, having run the Yukon Quest myself three times. I was so tired and done in by the end of one race I couldn't imagine getting back on the sled for a second time a few weeks later. So I'm mesmerized by his performance.

Two weeks ago I stood at the starting line of the Junior Iditarod and watched his stepson blast out of the starting gate with the family team. The dogs, the real champion athletes in this race, had already raced in the Yukon Quest, and now the pulled young Cain Carter to the finish line first, the fourth scion in the Mackey hall of fame.

If you want to read more about his fascinating and inspirational life, check out: http://www.mackeyscomebackkennel.com/index.html

And for race updates and to see his amazing finish: http://www.iditarod.com/

ALASKA ICE CLIMBING FESTIVAL

"Lost Cord" up Hunter Creek


The first Alaska Ice Climbing Festival was a roaring success! Jayme Dixon (at right below) was the originator and prime mover of the whole event, so I have to give her credit up front.

Many others donated a tremendous amount of time and energy to make the Fest the gala event that it was. I could write a whole blog just on the volunteerism of the folks who assembled to produce the Ice Fest. Julie Perilla was our webmaster who created the site where you can check out all the details: http://www.alaskaiceclimbingfestival.org/

The event was held in Hunter Creek, Chugach Mountains, Alaska, on March 6-8. Here's a rundown of the events:

Friday night Jamie of the Alaska Backpacker's Inn donated his place for the initial dinner. Tom Devine and Harry Hunt cooked us a great meal of salad and meatball penne pasta. Great Harvest Bread Company donated adult refreshments and cookies. It seemed like nearly a hundred folks came and went over the evening. Sam Johnson, a Black Diamond sponsored local, presented slides of his climbing all over the world: "Getting Steep with Vision: Experiences of a Seeker." Check-out Sam’s blog

Saturday, we met early at Hunter Creek to set up the giant North Face geodesic dome which would be headquarters over the weekend for sign up, equipment rental, and clinics. Jayme Dixon held court here most of the time.

A number of clinics, including: Intro to Ice Climbing, Anchors, Fundamental Footwork, Belaying a Second; and Joe Stock and I taught Basic Rescue Skills.

At noon Harry Hunt had set up a great competition route high on a chossy, overhanging rock wall just to the right of "Lost Cord" ice climb. 20 competitors jumped into the fray. At one point I counted over 75 people in the audience watching the comp. Chris Lindsey was our DJ and had hauled in a generator, speakers, computer, and a PA system so I could announce the comp. The music rocked!

Jay Rowe won the event, just beating the time of second place Scotty Vinchik, with Joe Stock, straight off the couch, coming in third. It was a total crowd-pleaser.

Jay Rowe on the 110 degree overhanging rock wall.

Jay Rowe talks with folks following his climb.

Saturday night we all drove in to the Organic Oasis for a dinner of great food. I was the announcer/auctioneer. The fest made a considerable amount of money from items donated from a number of sponsors, including Black Diamond, Petzl, Patagonia, Mountain Hardware, Ice Holdz, Alaska Mountaineering and Hiking, REI, and others. I even auctioned off my vintage 70's climbing sweater!

Sunday were the day-long clinics, including: Intro to Ice Climbing Clinic, Intro to Mixed Climbing Clinic, Intermediate Ice Climbing Clinic. Troy Roades and I taught the Intro to Lead Clinic. We had a great group, including Mark Boydston, Jeremy Pataky, Jake Wilkens, Andy Mamrul, Greg Encelewski, and Kate Yenik. Our group set up on "Split Decision" and did a mock lead, learning the fundamentals of not falling, rope control, route finding, and other skills.
Kate Yenik leads up "Split Decision", mark Boydston belays with Troy Roades instructing.

Sunday night I was totally bushed! Couldn't move an inch the next morning, only to find out I had bronchitis! It was a fantastic weekend anyway.

REQUIEM FOR THE HUMANITIES

Recently in the New York Times, “In Tough Times, Humanities Must Justify Their Worth” (Arts pages, Feb. 25), the author Patricia Cohen argued that because of the hard economic times, the humanities are under increasing scrutiny to justify their usefulness. Otherwise, they are the first disciplines to be cut from colleges and universities.

The reality of this hit home. I had almost forgotten that I has spent eight years of my life in '60s at universities studying Near Eastern languages. At the end of my studies, during president Nixon's tenure, we were suffering through difficult times. It was the end of the Viet Nam war, speed limits were reduced to 55 MPH to save gasoline, and the world was crazy. And, I couldn't get a job with a PhD in my field of study. Life turned out fine for me, and I had a wonderful career. But I have often looked back and wondered what it would have been like to work in my field. It looks like a similar era is imminently upon us.

It is a tragedy that value is placed on knowledge solely in economic terms. Perhaps it has always been this way. Or is it only a product of the 20th century? Much of what we suffer in the nation and in the world is not the result of too little economic knowledge, too little science, too little engineering, or too little business. Will we overcome the staggering losses of the wars in the Middle East with more engineers? Will we regain our sullied international reputation with more scientists? Will we regain our economic footing with more economists?

I cringe every time I hear the current phrase "Human Capital", as if people are like money. Perhaps that is what our leaders, civil, government, and industrial, think of us. And I mourn the loss of "Personnel" departments and grimace when I hear "Human Resources" departments, as if we are lumps of coal in a factory. We are dehumanized daily on television, and on the highway when police officers refer to people as "individuals", as in "I stopped this individual for speeding." And to lawbreakers as "perps", as in "We arrested this perp for breaking and entering." Men and women are now "males" and "females". Flowers can be male and female! Even animals have special names: cow, bull, calf, steer, heifer, to appropriately distinuish age and gender. How much more human and dignified to call us by the special names the English language has available for us as people: men, women, boys, and girls.

We should all know how to read a newspaper intelligently and with a critical eye. When the citizenry is educated and schooled in the humanities, it can make critical judgements based on facts; each citizen can form an opinion on his or her own knowledge using the tools we as a civilization have inherited from our forefathers. We would not need to rely solely on the opinions of others. The study of philosophy opens our minds and gives us the ability to question the statements and opinions of others. The study of the scientific method gives us the tools to constantly examine new discoveries and increase the knowledge base of the humankind. Learning history should help us prevent repeating our past mistakes...perhaps. The study of foreign languages should help us enjoy and understand those of other nations. The love of literature and the arts, the crown of civilization, has always been held as that which separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom.

The relegation of the humanities to the basements and attics of ivory towered buildings has allowed us to lose sight of the values we should cherish most: our freedoms, our civil rights, and our humanistic view of our fellow citizens. When we lose the collective knowledge of civilization, we are more prone to accept the simplistic rantings of tyrants and demagogues. We are willing to be led by radical fundamentalists, willing to believe the most simplistic answers to very difficult questions. We begin to look upon education as elitist and not desirable. We are willing to murder our fellow man in the most inhumane ways, through terror and torture. We can then believe that war will solve the problems of the world.

We must never forget who we are; not forget where we have come from and what a long journey the rise of civilization has been. And particularly now that the Earth has, as of March 1, 2009, 6,763,611,245 people to support, mostly in very dense clusters, we must learn to get along with each other better than in the past.

My Alaska Grown Girl

She was born in Fairbanks, Alaska, my skinny blond girl with the high-pitched voice. Her mother, the toughest woman ever, so independent and capable, grew out of the 50's and was so much her own person. And so Daphne learned to be her own woman from the start; she never knew there was anything she couldn't do. At six months old, we wrapped her in caribou hides and a down bag, put her in the dogsled and her 5-year old brother on the back of the runners next to me and mushed across the arctic. It was -35 F. at night. She grew up tough but never knew it. By seven she could jump naked in a glacial river and stay longer than the boys. Daphne could out-hike me going uphill. I've never again caught up.

Denali Park was her first home. We built a beautiful log cabin when she was a baby, and this is the house that comes to her mind when the word 'home' is used in our house. We had 30 sled dogs in the yard, and Daphne would go for rides with me at night after work, sometimes thirty miles up the Yanert river in the sled under the moonlight. As a family we criss-crossed Alaska with the dog team, Daphne on the back of one sled, her brother on the other. Into the heart of Denali she went, to the base of Mount McKinley, sleeping in the canvas wall tent at night, feeding the fire, caring for the dogs. In the summer she floated rivers, hiked mountains, camped in the rain, and swam in the Chena sloughs. One day she tried to touch a wild caribou.

When Daphne was eight, we moved to Kotzebue, Alaska, on the northwest Arctic coast, an Inupiat village where Daphne was part of the ten percent minority. She loved school, made friends with everyone, and made it her home. One day she went swimming in the ocean while the sea ice was just 10 feet off shore. I sat on the sand in a down parka. She swam for half an hour screaming with joy at the water. She learned to drive the Lund skiff, steer a snowmachine, shoot a gun and a bow and arrow. Her mom taught her tumbling and gymnastics; we had a huge tumbling mat upstairs. I taught her to climb rocks and mountains; we had a rock climbing wall from the ceiling.

One Christmas we went to Costa Rica. Daphne spotted birds, played in the ocean, caught sailfish, and spied a leopard. One night we were watching a soccer game, and a black beetle as big as a frog flew and landed in her long blond hair. I picked it up and threw it into the air.

Off to Chugiak, where Daphne really grew up. A dilettante, she could do anything well. The violin became her passion, and she gave the piano a valiant effort. Soon she was first violin in the city-wide orchestra. Music had entered her life and took her for a ride she's still on. With me she went rock climbing at Hatcher Pass, and later she became the best ice climber ever, ascending the frozen waterfalls in Valdez, Alaska, every winter. After her brother left for college, she became my main climbing partner.

In the summers we lived on Lake Clark, the 60-mile long blue gash between the jumble of granite peaks like a hundred Teton ranges piled up on the Alaska peninsula. We flew in single-engine aircraft everywhere, as no roads lead to the lake. Daphne had two African geese, Squach and Bea, who followed her everywhere. With no TV and no radio, I read out loud to the kids every day. "Siddhartha" was her favorite. It lead her to read other great books, like "On The Road", and "The Dharma Bums".

In school she studied hard and did well academically. Gregarious and fun, she joined the cross-country ski team; I remember standing by the trail ringing the cowbell to cheer her on as she rounded the corners at zero degrees, snot pouring from her nose, frostbite on her cheek, and steam shooting from her lips. But volleyball became her passion. As a tall willow with great jumpers, she became the center of the varsity team. I never missed a game, screaming at the top of my lungs for her and the team.

On the weekends she and her coterie of friends would head to Hunter Creek for music fairs, or to Hatcher Pass for camping, returning home covered in dirt and smoke. More and more she spent nights away from home with the friends. I missed her on the weekends.

When she was seventeen, she, her brother, I, and some friends climbed 20,320' Mount McKinley in Denali National Park. She was the toughest and strongest member of the team. It was cold, hard, and steep, but Daphne was so tough. On the way to 17,000' camp the wind frostbit her cheek so badly it turned into a giant blister. Her mother made me promise I'd bring her home safely, so she and I with tears in our eyes turned around near 18,000'. We may return some day...she's a very determined woman.

That fall we put Daphne in the little van and drove 4,000 miles down the AlCan highway to college in Durango, Colorado. Fort Lewis was a whole new world and a social set she loved. I lost track of the day-to-day as Daphne blossomed into womanhood and made Colorado her home. She jumped in with both feet, never returning to Alaska. Weekends she climbed mountains, skied, and hit the rock concert circuit from Nebraska to Vegas.

After a few years she wanted a break from school. I was superintendent of Grand Teton National Park, so Daphne came to Jackson Hole with her Pomeranian, 'Sir. Didymus', to live with me. What a treat! But I still looked on her as my little girl, as I probably always will. She had grown and had become her own person, just like her mother likely was at her age. I returned to Alaska, and Daphne stayed to work in Jackson, the perfect hostess at the Cadillac Cafe. One day she took off and followed Pfish on it's last six concerts through New England and ending at Woodstock.

But in spite of the adventure of the Tetons, she wanted to finish college. I don't know if the early Kerouac was the influence, but she decided to go to Naropa University in Boulder. For Christmas that first year she sent me a tape of Allen Ginsberg, the founder of the school. I never was very practical, and I'm sure my father cringed at my choice of a major: Classical Greek. So, I was delighted when she told me, probably with trepidation, that she finally settled on yoga as a major. Her father's girl!

Although we live thousands of miles apart, I visit her often, fix her car, take her to fun restaurants, and do the things that fathers do. I love every second we are together. Last summer we climbed a mountain above Boulder together with her little dogs. This winter she drove to Ouray, Colorado, where I was staying and went ice climbing with me, just like the old days. She can still climb with grace and speed. We invited Annie Whitehouse, one of the women who first climbed Annapurna, to dinner and they became friends. Daphne had worn out my old T-shirt from Annie's expedition: "A WOMAN'S PLACE IS ON TOP", printed on the front.

Last week Daphne called to say she had made me one of her five cell-phone favorites, so we could talk for free. How much better could it get!

The Oscars

I had seen hardly any of the films nominated for any category in the Oscars. There were many reasons for this: Hollywood put out most of the good movies in one gob after Christmas, so it seemed like they weren't even '08 movies. I rebelled and didn't see them. Besides it was the holidays and I was playing in Colorado.

So, I had not planned on watching the Oscars, but since I had hardly ever missed one in the past half century years, I finally succumbed and turned it on, grabbed a beer from the fridge and plopped into the Ekornes chair. After promising never to watch it again, here are the reasons I found for having watched them:

First, the women! Every woman surrounding the lovely Meryl Streep on the front two rows wore a strapless formal. I live in Alaska where last week at the opera, The Barber of Seville, most of the audience wore Carhartts.

Hugh Jackman looked fantastic for the women of America, although my friend Rebecca didn't care and wished Andy Garcia were on the podium.

Sarah Jessica Parker's dress. I couldn't believe it; maybe thay was why I was staring and hoping for another Janet Jackson Moment!

Jessica Biel, stunningly lovely, need I say more? I wiped the drool off my shirt...

Beyonce Knowles in her smashing red dress saving the somewhat illogical and boring melange of musical nonsense. Did I notice Hugh Jackman's fingers hold her by the chest?

When my friend Rebecca called, she said a reason to watch it was that perhaps I'd get a glimpse of Diane Lane. Wow, there she was sitting next to husband Josh Brolin; my eyes drifted past him to the wife...something about the Tenth Commandment gnawing at my conscience.

Ben Stiller as Joachin Phoenix's recent drug addict costume stole the show for a minute. Will Joachin ever get a job? Natalie Portman did a great job keelping a straight face; I in turn was remembering her as I last saw her in "The Darjeeling Limited".

It was a touching moment when Heath Ledger won the Oscar for best supporting actor. A poignant moment in an otherwise self-congratulatory orgy of excess.

Werner Herzog appeared for a moment. Love his stuff

Bill Maher had the best haberdasher, and he stood there so cool, so calm...a class act; the best introduction for best documentary and best documentary short subject. I also appreciated: Megan Mylan's slinky but demure red dress as she won for Smile Pinky, and as she turned it was backless!

Some time went by for stuff I didn't too much care about. I heard the words "Slumdog Millionair" several times in a row as I sipped a beer and wandered a bit. My cat fell asleep on my lap.

Then Jerry Lewis appeared. I'd watched his fims since I was a young boy and admired his work for muscular dystrophy most of my life. What a gentleman! What a beautiful thank-you! What a treat!

Some beautiful music, each tune just tempting me then transitioning into another. I never listen to music like this; what am I doing? However just as I was ready to call it a night and have another beer watching reruns of Law and Order, two short snippets of best vocals with slinky Indian dancers in the background kept me in my chair for another minute. More "Slumdog Millionair" Oscars...

Aaah! Frieda Pinto in a blue sequinned gown. It's been a classy evening for the women.

Reese Witherspoon had another sparkling indigo dress. Didn't recognize her for a moment: has she put on a few pounds? And who did her hair and eye makeup? Don't think she needed it. Amazing...another Oscar for Danny Boyle and "Slumdog". I'm just about to wander off when the announce says: "Coming up, the final awards for best picture, best actor, and best actress." Another beer, then back to the Ekornes chair. My butt is numb.

Shirley Maclaine appears. My mind races back to "Irma La Douce".... My but the presenters are in exquisite gowns. Anne Hathaway looks ravishing, listening to her accolades. Melissa Leo, so lovely and distinguished grabbed my heart. What a treat! Sophia Loren spilling out of her gown introduces Meryl Streep, her lovely broad shoulders rising out of the satin gown, deserving an award every year. Nicole Kidman, (does she always wear white?) introduces Angelina Jolie. Kate Winslet wins!!! She's talking about a bottle of shampoo in the bathtub??? Finally gets an oscar after deserving one for years...

And what's with the 5 presenters for every award? Probably a nice touch; they all get to stand on stage, and the public gets to see them. Party, party, party!

The gushing introductions for each actor are a bit much for me, but the audience seems to love it. Robert DeNiro gives the best line of the evening: "How did Sean Penn get all those roles playing straight men?" First time I smiled all night. Mickey Rourke looks totally wierd; maybe he arrived in a pink Cadillac with fuzzy dice? Rumor has it he will win. Of course Sean Penn won and deserved it; he always does!

Steven Spielberg. He's the best! Nice to see him presenting the award. Well, Wow. Surprise, surprise. All I've heard about movies for two months is that "Slumdog Millionaire is going to win best picture...long before anyone in the U.S. had ever seen it. Talk about an anti-climax. But the recipients were so grateful; I felt happy for them.

I'm not sure it was worth the three hours, but t almost made me want to go to the movies. I could have seen "Slumdog Millionaire" in the same amount of time.

Daryl Miller

Daryl Miller is a great friend. He and I worked together in the National Park Service for many years, Daryl as the South District Ranger in Talkeetna, AK, and I at the Alaska Regional Office in Anchorage. In 1997, Daryl invited me on his patrol up Denali; we spent 37 days together on the mountain and formed a friendship which continues to this day. Rather than steal the thunder of the Anchorage Daily News, I am posting the link to a great story about Daryl which appears today, Feb. 8, 2009 on the cover of the paper. Craig Medred has done a wonderful job capturing Daryl, including a number of fascinating video clips embedded in the article. Just sit down and read it:
http://www.adn.com/outdoors/story/683375.html