Hiking the Chilkoot Trail

“GOLD! GOLD! GOLD! GOLD!” screamed the front page of the Seattle Post Intelligencer on July 17, 1897. The lead story told of the landing that day of the SS Portland, a steamship arriving from the Alaska Territory. According to the paper, the ship carried 68 fabulously rich miners and “more than a ton of gold.” Although the “ton of gold” line was a sensational guess; there was actually more - over two tons of gold was on board. This event began not only the richest placer gold strike in history, but one of the greatest gold rushes of all time. The gold was discovered nearly a year earlier on August 17, 1896, deep in the remote Klondike region of the Yukon Territory of British Canada near the confluence of the Yukon and Klondike Rivers. It had taken the gold laden miners nearly a year to make it back out. Thanks to cheap transportation, sensational (and often false) journalism, rapid communication, and greed, as many as 200,000 people would attempt the journey to the Klondike. They had no idea what they were in for - they would have to traverse thousands of miles and sail over rolling stormy oceans, climb colossal mountains, float down roaring wild rivers, cross arctic tundra, and endure horrific storms of snow, ice, and rain just to reach the Klondike gold fields. Most found the journey impossible. Of those multitudes of gold seekers, only about 30,000 made it all the way to Dawson City, the wild boom town created at the site of the strike. And by the time they arrived, most found that they were too late - the gold fields were already staked and claimed. Of those 30,000 that made it all the way to Dawson, only about 1,000 struck it rich – although most of them became rich by selling goods or services rather than finding gold.

The Klondike gold rush transformed both Alaska and Canada and the impacts are still felt today. Towns such as Dyea, Skagway, Whitehorse, Carcross, and Dawson City were born; railroads and infrastructure were built; and a global depression – particularly devastating in the U.S. – came to an abrupt end as tons of new found gold (in an economy still based on the gold standard) caused prices to drop and most importantly - the sudden impact of tens of thousands of people spending millions of dollars attempting to reach the gold fields. Talk about a stimulus package. As Gordon Gecko said in the movie Wall Street, “Greed works.”

Most of the gold rushers, or “Stampeders,” left the U.S. by boat and sailed from the lower 48 along the Canadian coast, and continued up the inside passage into Southeast Alaska. The boats landed at the end of the Lynn Canal – the longest fiord in North America – and soon two towns were built only a few miles apart, Skagway and Dyea. From there the Stampeders would disembark and begin the daunting trek up the colossal Coast Mountains whose jagged peaks were carved by glaciers not long before. To get over the mountains there were two choices: the White Pass route, beginning in Skagway, or the Chilkoot Pass route, beginning in Dyea. Both were extremely difficult, especially considering the fact that Canadian authorities demanded that anyone entering the country for the gold rush bring enough food and provisions to last an entire year (and weighing about one ton). To enforce this rule, Royal Mounted Police were posted at the mountain summit of each trail (the exact location of the U.S-Canadian boarder had not yet been established) armed with Maxim machine guns and bright red uniforms.

For nearly a year, the greed crazed hordes clambered up the mountains even braving the harsh frigid winter. By 1899, the rush was over and a railroad connecting Dawson City to Skagway was under construction. When the White Pass & Yukon Route Rail Road was complete, Dyea, the town at the foot of the Chilkoot Trail, was deserted in a matter of weeks. In the midst of the Stampeders during the actual gold rush came another group of people – people who still come today for the same reasons: tourists. And it is largely thanks to those people that the towns of Skagway and Dawson City still exist.

Today much of Skagway and the Chilkoot Trail is part of Klondike Gold Rush National Historical Park – where I work. The 33 mile Chilkoot Trail is jointly managed by the National Park Service and Parks Canada. The trail begins near the Dyea town site. Today, little remains of the once bustling community that for a time rivaled Skagway in size and importance.

Back in August, some fellow NPS employees and I began our own effort to follow in the footsteps of the Stampeeders and climb the infamous Chilkoot Trial. This is our story:

Our plan was to hike the 33 mile trail from Dyea to Bennett in three days and catch the train from Bennett back to Skagway on the third day. Although we were prepared for all possible weather options, we were nevertheless apprehensive at the weekend’s weather forecast of heavy rain and 40 mph gale force winds. Despite the ominous forecast, the morning seemed calm – if somewhat overcast. We began at eight on Saturday morning, August 15. The trail began with a startling climb up a steep slope entitled “Saintly Hill.” The stampeeders reckoned that if you could climb the hill without cursing you must be a saint. We paused at the top of the hill for a moment to remove a layer of clothing or two and continued down the opposite slope. The rest of the hike for the day would be comparatively easy. After pausing at the bottom of the hill we noticed that one of our group – Steve – was missing. We waited for a while then continued on.

Miles later we ran into Steve at Fennigin’s Point. Fennegin’s point was one of the many town sites that developed along the trail. Most of these places were tent cities that provided goods and services to the stampeeders such as hotels, food, alcohol, coffee, women, and other desired comforts. After a quick snack, we continued on to Canyon City.

Canyon City was one of the largest settlements along the trail. Aside from several hotels, restaurants, and other establishments, it boasted electricity thanks to a steam generator built to power a massive cable tramway to help ship gear to the top of the Chilkoot Pass. Today all that remains of the town is the large steam boiler.

After lunch at the Canyon City campsite, we continued on. The trail began to gently climb up the narrow glacier valley and light rain began to fall. We began to notice more and more artifacts along the trail. Once garbage and refuse cast aside from the exhausted stampeeders, the century old junk made the trail “the longest museum in the world.” Soon we were at Sheep Camp – our destination for the night. Sheep Camp was the final resting place before the daunting climb up the “Golden Stairs” and over the pass. It too was once a city. Upon arrival we were graciously welcomed by our fellow NPS coworker – Jeremy.

Jeremy was one of two seasonal trail rangers working in shifts at Sheep Camp. His duties included patrolling the trail to the pass, briefing hikers on trail conditions, responding to emergencies, and serving as the eyes and ears of the park along the trail. Jeremy made room in the modest ranger cabin for our one night stay. For one night at least, we would stay indoors in luxurious comfort while the other hikers pitched tents in the rain. While Jeremy went out to brief the other hikers, we made dinner. Everyone had carried up something to contribute for the meal my contribution were two giant fresh Coho salmon filets. Once Jeremy was back, we feasted on a wide variety of tasty dishes.

At dinner Jeremy gave us an updated forecast – it was worse than before. He advised an early attempt at the pass – as early as we could. He explained that upon learning of the weather conditions, one group of hikers actually turned around and went back. We were unfazed and remained upbeat. The rest of the evening was spent recounting stories of our various NPS careers. Jeremy, however, had the most dramatic stories – harrowing rescues and medevacs (via helicopter) from the trail. After one particularly disturbing story involving a couple of men falling head over heels down the Golden Stairs resulting in broken bones, severe lacerations, and a helicopter ride he added, “but now with the weather conditions there is no way a helicopter could make it up here for days maybe weeks.”

The next morning we rose at 5 am, quickly scarffed down some food and coffee and hit the trail. Before we left, Jeremy had his morning radio call with the Parks Canada folks just over the pass. Jeremy gave us the latest information at the pass, now 60 mph gale force winds and driving rain, but decided not to tell us that the Chief Ranger back in Skagway had chosen to close the trail.

After less than a mile, the forest canopy that had helped cover us from the steady rain gave way to the open rocky alpine. Although the rain continued unrelentingly, the wind and fog were light. Soon we were surrounded by the indescribable beauty of the naked mountains. There were torrents of rivers and streams and large swaths of icy snow. The steep terrain not only rose steadily in altitude, but became increasingly rocky. Several times we were forced to cross mountain streams that had quickly become raging rivers. Soon we were all wet bellow the knee. The wind increased with the altitude and the rain continued without pause. We pushed on in silence.

After several hours, we reached the “Scales.” The “Scales” was the last stopping place before the final climb to the pass over the Golden Stairs. In half a mile the trail shoots up nearly 1000 feet. During the gold rush, the packers would weigh the heavy loads again to charge more for the final push – hence the name “Scales.” In the winter and spring, the Golden Stairs were actually just that – stairs cut into the ice and snow. But in the late summer, with the snow and convenient stairs melted, one must climb over large boulders and rock scree – making the effort even more difficult. Although it is only half a mile, the climb usually takes two to three hours or more.

Following a brief pause, we began the climb separately. We wanted enough space between ourselves in case of a fall. The wind was howling all around as I struggled on my hands and knees over the precipitous rock-strewn slope. There was no trail of any kind to follow, save for a few plastic orange sticks bending at strange angles in the hash wind. The wind, pushing at 60 mph through the narrow mountain pass, continued to increase as I climbed. The rain, driven by the gale force, stung as it pelted my exposed face. The wind would howl at a constant speed for a while then all of a sudden an enormous gust would shove me into the rocks or push me to the side as if some unseen force were tossing me around like a rag doll. My 40 pound pack acted as a sail – either propelling me up or to the side. I began laughing uncontrollably, unable to contain my amazement and joy – totally in awe of the powerful forces of nature at work. I would compare it to one of the greatest roller-coaster rides I have ever ridden. I lost all track of time but eventually ran into Lauren. We paused for a picture and a movie.

I then noticed that Lauren was missing her bright yellow pack cover. I asked her why she had taken it off. “What!?” she exclaimed, obviously not aware that it was gone. But it was gone – ripped off and carried away by the relentless wind. We looked around briefly, but then I yelled over the wind, “Let’s go on - it’s probably halfway through Canada by now!” We pushed on and soon we were at the pass. We again paused for a photo opportunity amid the remains of the old cable tramway and continued on into Canada.

Once at the border, we regrouped inside the tiny Parks Canada staff quarters and were treated to hot coffee and tea. Everyone was exhausted and soaking wet. We stripped off some wet layers of clothing and tried to warm up. It was strange to enter another country without border and customs authorities or any fanfare whatsoever.

The Parks Canada warden cordially invited us to dinner that night at Lindeman City, about 9 miles away. I was ecstatic. While our original plan was to push on to Deep Lake for the night, there were some in our group that were now proposing to stay at the much closer Happy Camp. To be honest, most hikers take this option, but I was dead set against it. Originally, I had argued to push from Sheep Camp all the way to Lindeman City (about 13miles). The Lindeman City campground might provide housing via our Parks Canada counterparts and at the very least enable a relatively short hike out to Bennett the following day. If we stayed at Happy Camp or Deep Lake, our hike out would be longer and stressful – since we had an afternoon train to catch. And, I argued, we could cause a diplomatic incident if we were to turn down a written invitation to dinner. After half an hour, we decided to get moving again undecided of our ultimate objective.

Having crossed the pass, we not only entered Canada, but we were thrust into a completely different ecosystem. The crystal clear alpine lakes, swaths of icy snow, occasional but tenacious plants, rocky terrain, and fog looked as if it were ripped right out of the Lord of the Rings. It was truly amazing. But even though the wind had faded away, the rain did not.

After some miles, our excitement had faded with the wind. Eventually, after a couple hours, we made it to Happy Camp. Like most of the camps, Happy Camp has a warming shelter. We stormed up to the cabin only to find it completely full of people. As the group hesitated at the door, unsure of what to do, I pushed on through and entered the cabin. I was no mood to be polite. I was immediately overwhelmed by the intense humidity and heat of the small one room cabin crammed with people. It was as if I had entered a sauna – a sauna reeking of smelly campers and bad rehydrated food. Some were cooking dinner while others were merely resting from the trail. I saw an open seat and asked if I could sit. The astonished person could only shake his head. I sat down and looked around the room – everyone was staring at me. Unfazed, and ready to play the obnoxious American role, I said in a loud voice, “Howdy, where y’all from?” The group busy cooking dinner began to talk to me. The other half of the people in the room – apparently not eating, began to gather their things and file out the door. To my surprise, none of my compatriots from my group had followed me into the room, but upon seeing the room clearing out, they entered one at a time. I pulled out some food as my group gathered inside. I was preparing to argue against staying at Happy Camp for the night. Most of the group agreed to keep going for Deep Lake but I continued to press for Lindeman City. There was no warming shelter at Deep Lake, I reminded. If we stayed there we would have to pitch tents in the rain. We agreed to postpone a decision yet again and continued on. The next section of the trail – from Happy Camp to Deep Lake was by far the most difficult, not difficult in terms of terrain, but in terms of low morale, exhaustion, and above all continued wetness. Much to the dismay of some in our group, Dash and I pushed to the front of the pack and continued at a quick pace; stopping only long enough to make sure the rest of the group was still behind us. Our goal was to keep everyone moving at a pace fast enough to ensure we would make it to Lindeman that evening. Still, it seemed like the trail would never end.

After many miles, we finally made it to Deep Lake. It was still raining. I was overjoyed, ecstatic, and relieved.

It was still early enough to make it the final three miles to Lindeman City. Once we had regrouped, I posed the question – “On to Lindeman?” To which everyone agreed – some reluctantly so. Several minutes later we were back on the trail. I was motivated only by my desire to be dry and fed. I didn’t stop until I reached Lindeman.

Lindeman City was once a dense settlement teeming with Stampeeders. It, along with Bennett, was the place the Stampeeders stopped walking, built boats and waited for the ice to break up to allow navigation on the Yukon River all the way to Dawson City some 550 miles away. Now, Lindeman City is a Campground and (like our Sheep Camp) the field HQ for Parks Canada trail operations. Every summer Parks Canada erects a small tent city at Lindeman and we were invited to stay with the wardens and treated to an awesome taco dinner. It was heaven. We stayed up late swapping work stories and questions with the Canadians. The Canadian wall tents were pitched on top of wood platforms (reminding me of Boy Scout camp over a dozen years ago) and were both spacious and dry. We might as well have been staying at the Ritz Carlton.

The next morning we had breakfast with the Canadians, and after thanking them gratuitously, left for our final destination – Bennett a mere five miles away. With lots of time before the train, we were able to savor the short hike and stop whenever we felt the need. We paused at the last campground at Bare Loon – it was clearly the most beautiful. Finally we reached Bennett.

Bennett was once a large city teeming with activity and people. Unlike the rest of the cities along the trail, Bennett did not die immediately following the end of the Gold Rush. Thanks to the White Pass & Yukon Route Railroad, Bennett continued to thrive for several years as a port town. People would ship goods up the rail road and transfer them to boat at Bennett. Ultimately, however, Bennett shared the fate of Canyon City, Sheep Camp, and Lindeman and died when the railroad to White Horse was completed. All that remains from the original town is the restored Presbyterian Church.

Once we arrived in Bennett, we leisurely ate our prepaid lunch at the railroad cafeteria and waited for the train to leave.

Upon boarding, I was pleased to find a cooler of beer a buddy that works for White Pass left for me that morning. Everyone on the train was immediately jealous. Most of the people on the train were cruise ship passengers from Skagway on a day long excursion. As trail hikers, we were segregated to our own car in what one passenger aptly titled a “stink vortex.” Almost everyone immediately fell into a deep sleep. The train ride back took nearly four hours to cover 33 miles that had taken us two and a half days. I stayed awake, sipped cold Rainier beer, and savored every moment – it was a suitably relaxing end to another adventure in Alaska.

A Very Special Blog Edition: Tokyo

Travel is a must for anyone living on Guam. Any direction requires a long flight and the longest is back to the states. The flight to Hawaii, some 3,800 miles to the northeast, takes about eight hours. Guam, however, is close to dozens of amazing but otherwise remote tropical island groups such as Palau, Yap, Pohnipe, and Korasai. Before I left Guam, I was hoping to visit one of these islands or perhaps Bali, Indonesia - also very close. In the end, however, I went in the exact opposite direction.

Oddly the closest major city to Guam lies just 1,500 miles to the north - a mere 3 hour flight - Tokyo, Japan. This relatively short distance was utilized by the Army Air Corps during World War II and thousands of B-29s were stationed in the Mariana Islands. Nearly 100 Japanese cities were destroyed by planes based on Guam, Saipan, and Tinian during the most intensive bombing campaign of the war finally culminating in the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Back in December, Brett, a friend of mine from the hash, asked if I would be interested in a trip some time in March. We explored various destinations beginning with Japan. Japan was quickly discarded - too expensive - and other options were explored such as Palau, Manila, Yap, Bali, even Hong Kong. After nearly a month of searching for flights, accommodations, and things to do, we took another look at Japan. Since I had a large amount of Continental miles, I could fly for free, but Brett would have to pay. But for some reason, by February flights to Japan were cheaper than they were in December so in the end we opted for Japan.

We left Guam on an afternoon flight and arrived in Narita Airport in the early evening. Japan in March is crazy cold, of course much colder than Guam but remarkably similar to March back in Tennessee. It was easy to see why Guam is a primary vacation destination for Japan - a short three hour flight away from winter to a tropical island. Strangely, Tokyo's airport is some distance from central Tokyo. We had to take a 40 minute train ride to our hostel. The hostel was very clean, but full of people, almost entirely European students. Brett and I shared a room with an Australian, a German, and an Italian. After checking in to the hostel, we began to explore the area. It was around 9PM, but there were very few people on the streets.







We finally found a place to eat dinner - our first meal in Japan. It was outstanding. The terrific food found throughout Tokyo was one of the highlights of the trip.

Food so good, the camera can't focus.

After diner, we continued to walk around the area. I was surprised to see quite a few homeless people sleeping in boxes on the street. Unlike most American cities I've visited, Japanese streets are clean, with hardly any garbage - even the boxes inhabited by the homeless were somehow organised, discreet and uniform.

We went back to the hostel and tried to recruit some of the other guests to go exploring with us, but could only convince one person, a girl from California. The disinterest and seeming laziness of almost everyone else in the hostel would continue to annoy and confound us for the remainder of our stay. Other guests seemed to lay around pretty much all day, drink a lot of tea, watch Japanese television (which was strangely addictive) then go to bed early. No one else seemed interested in going out during the day or night. After walking around for some time, we were totally miffed that the streets were pretty much devoid of people and almost all of the bars and restaurants were closed, but it was a week night. We decided to call it a night early and went back to the Hostel.

The next morning we awoke early for our first day in Tokyo. The streets were totally different than the night before, full of people briskly walking to their various destinations. One immediate observation was the seeming uniformity of clothing. Nearly everyone was wearing dark coats and all the men wore dark ties and suits. Even the young teens wearing more punkish attire and strange hair styles adhered to the same dark basic colors of the more conservative dressers. We looked around for a place to eat breakfast before finally choosing Denny's. I wanted to explore the Japanese version of an American breakfast. Apart from the language, the menu was totally different than a typical U.S. Denny's. We chose our meal by pointing to pictures and waited and waited. After nearly 45 minutes, our meals arrived. My meal came with eggs, a small salad with ginger dressing, a pickled radish, and rice. Not exactly the All American Grand Slam Denny's breakfast I was used to, and certain not as filling. After the less than satisfying breakfast, we descended into the subterranean labyrinth that is Tokyo subway system in transit to our destination - the Tokyo fish market.

The Tokyo subway system is amazingly efficient, on time to the minute, clean, intuitively mapped, and most importantly, utilizes English in its maps and PA announcements. Sure there were moments of confusion, but the uniformed subway employees were always willing to help, though not always very helpful. I quickly began to use the phrase that I would wear out throughout the trip - "gomenasai" which means I'm sorry or excuse me. The subway cars are almost always crowded during the day and people are not shy about their desire to board or leave a car. Once aboard the train, everyone seemed to observe a few universal rules: do not speak in loud voices, never talk on your cell phone, and don't stare at anyone. Most people read, listened to an ipod, texted on their cells, or slept.

Once we arrived at our station, we began the search for the fish market. The Tokyo fish market is the largest and most famous fish market on earth. Everyday thousands of fishermen bring in hundreds of tons of fish to sell to the tens of thousands of fish buyers, suppliers, and individual people - in a state of barely controlled chaos. At first we had some difficulty finding the exact location of the fish market. After asking about half a dozen people, we finally found the fish market by following the intense smell radiating from a large covered plaza. It was nearly 10AM by the time we found the market and the day's fish selling was for the most part complete. The market opens before 6AM and is concludes around 9AM, still the slowing activity left the impression of the chaos that had only recently concluded.


After walking around the fish market, dodging the small motorized carts speeding haphazardly down the narrow corridors lined with white Styrofoam boxes of ice and fish separating the individual sales booths, we decided it was time to eat some fish. We settled on eating at the famous Daiwa Sushi, only a few yards from the fish market. After waiting in line outside for nearly half an hour, we finally made it inside. Daiwa Sushi is a tiny, tiny hole in the wall with barely enough room to walk through. We were seated at the bar, packed tightly between two other parties, and given menus, again, we pointed at pictures to make our selection. I chose the "chef's choice." Like most of the items on the menu, it cost 3,500 yen (about $35). The sushi was delivered as the chef finished making it - one item at a time. Daiwa Sushi certainly lived up to its reputation as the best place for sushi in the world and well worth the price of $35. As the chef gave us one piece at a time, I quickly devoured what ever was put in front of me. Eventually, I was given an item with shrimp. I was uncertain what to do with the shrimp tail, so I left the tail on the small plate that all the sushi was placed on. The chef, looking somewhat bemused, took the shrimp tail away. A few minutes later another piece of sushi was placed on my plate. It appeared to the very same shrimp tail on a new piece of rice. I hesitated, then thought 'what the hell' and ate the tail. The chef immediately burst out in laughter, said something to the waitress, and soon the entire establishment was busting a gut at my expense. Even Brett was laughing uncontrollably. I have to admit - it was pretty funny. I can imagine what they were saying "That stupid Gaijin (foreigner) ate the whole shrimp tail!"

After our meal, we began walking towards our next destination - the government district. We could have taken the subway, but we wanted to walk and see the city. I wanted to see the Diet building - Japan's capitol building. Along the way we walked through a city park.

Eventually we made it to the Diet. Built in the 1920s, the Diet building miraculously survived World War II, and still serves as the meeting place of Japan's legislative body - the Diet. Once merely serving as window dressing to the Japanese Emperor and the military junta that effectively ran the country, today the Diet is the ultimate authority of the Japanese government. After some difficult negotiation, I managed to convince Brett that we should take a tour of the building. My main argument consisted of - "Dude, its a free tour and nothing else is going to be free in this town."


Before the tour began, everyone gathered in a museum in basement of the building. Some of the artifacts included Emperor Meji's throne. Emperor Meji, who ruled from the late 1800s until the early 1900s was responsible for not only uniting Japan and kicking out the Shoguns, but also an unprecedented and unequaled industrialization, preventing Japan from becoming a European colony (like the entire rest of Asia) building Japanese colonies and imperial ambitions, and defeating Russia in 1905 (making Japan the only non-European nation to defeat a European nation in modern warfare).

Across the expansive floor was a mock Diet desk - just like ones found in the chamber of the lower house. This would be our last indoor photo opportunity, for photography was strictly forbidden inside the actual chambers, offices, and hallways of the Diet building.

For the next 90 minutes we traipsed through the marble halls, massive legislative chambers, and corridors of Japanese power. Despite not comprehending anything that the uniformed tour guide was saying, a couple of things stayed with me. Although the building was certainly impressive and ornate, there were tremendous cracks throughout the marble floors indicating nearly a century of earthquakes and while the main halls were expansive and intimidating, the rest of the building was surprisingly plain and well used. The puke green carpets were worn and dated and the wood trim and doors were in need of repair or at least some touch up paint. Also, several hallways contained large Plexiglas closets with enormous vent fans - for smoking. I would have never guessed what they were for had there not been people smoking in them. They reminded me of the movie ET - when the NASA scientists transform Eliot's home into a series of fans and plastic tubes. Despite their best efforts, the place stank of stale cigarette smoke - immediately reminding me of my internship with the Kentucky Chamber of Commerce, a job which required me to choke down the thick acrid smoke in yet another legislative building - the Kentucky State Capitol.

After the political and cultural history bonanza, we left the government district and walked toward a destination on Brett's list - the Tokyo Sony store.

The Sony place left us pretty beat, so we took the subway back to our hostel for a nap. Our intention was to wake back up later that evening and head back out to experience Tokyo at night. Let's just say it was an unmitigated disaster that ended with us waiting in a McDonald's for the subway to reopen at 5 AM.

After getting back to the hostel around 6 AM, we slept for a few hours then walked over to the local shrine. Along the way we discovered this large open air market.Of course, I couldn't help but notice the hilarious Obama mask. At first I laughed out loud, snapped a quick picture and showed Brett, but then I stood thinking in an almost reverent contemplative silence. Brett, puzzled, asked me what was wrong. I told him, "I forgot what its like not to be embarrassed and ashamed of the President. Its kind of nice." To which Brett responded, "Enjoy it while you can, he's still new."

The Asakusa Shrine was originally built in the 1600s, but burned to the ground during the firebombing campaign in 1945. Speaking of which, in one night, on March 9, 1945, over 100,000 people were killed during one firebombing mission over Tokyo, more than either of the atomic bombs. It was a strange feeling to tour a magnificent cultural icon only to find out that it was destroyed by the U.S. military less than six decades earlier.

One of my favorate parts of Tokyo were the crazy illogical signs. Here are a few:

I have no idea what this is, but I like it.

Sunkuss stores were everywhere. They are a lot like 7-11s but strangly there were quite a few 7-11s as well.

Tommy Lee Jones = BOSS

Taste Long!!

If only I took more pictures of them... they were everywhere.

We also went out one night to participate in a Tokyo Hash. Although the hash was essentially a small group of us running through back alleys, cemeteries, and parks through the rain, it was nevertheless priceless. Afterwards we cramed into a small restaurant.

The next morning we explored the financial district and the East Gate to the ginormous Imperial Palace grounds.

One thing you quickly realize about a city as crowded as Tokyo is that the most decadent luxury of all is open space and the Emporer has plenty of it - almost all of which remains completely off limits to people accept twice a year - the Emporer's birthday and New Years Day.

After the Imperial Palace, we continued to the Tokyo Metro Government Office building - a huge monolith with twin turret-like towers and a free observation deck. From there we had sunning views of greater Tokyo sprawling in every direction as far as we could see.

Until then I had not fully grasped Tokyo's sheer size and density. It was remarkable.

After the observation tower, we walked over to the nearby Toto Superspace. Toto is a major Japanese appliance manufacturer - specializing in toilets. Japanese toilets are a work of art and technological masterpeice. With functions such as heated seats, white noice or music feature, badets, and built in faucets, for Japanese toilets, form truely meets function. They even have remote controls. Although it took some persuading to get Brett to go, I'm sure he would agree it was well worth the walk, we did get some strage looks though. I guess a toilet showroom in not a typical tourist destination.

We happened to walk by the United States Embasy our last evening in Tokyo. We wouldn't have noticed it had it not been for the obsentatitious security presence. I wanted to go over and recreate the Simpson's episode where Homer visits the U.S. Embassy in Australia, but I couldn't. The security is so tight - they don't even let people walk on the same side of the street as the building - not even U.S. Citizens!

The next morning we got up early to catch the Shinkansen (bullet train) to our next destination: Hiroshima. To be continued...

Ben Hayes... Firefighter?

As part of my ongoing effort to confuse and confound anyone that still reads this so called blog, I'm going to spring back to the present and report some the latest events of Skagway, Alaska. So instead of conjuring up old memories and report them in the order that they occurred, you'll have to bare with me as I discuss things that happened over the last couple of days.

Since my arrival here in Skagway, I have become part of the Skagway Volunteer Fire Department. With an average population of 850, Skagway can not afford nor does it need an entire crew of permanent full time firefighters. On the other hand, the nearest fire department to Skagway is two hours away by road... in Canada. So, there is certainly a need to have one on hand - especially when you consider the fact that Skagway is almost entirely made up of 100 year old wooden buildings. Like many small rural communities, Skagway has a volunteer fire department. Except for three full timers, the entire SVFD is made up of non-professional firefighters with other 9-5 jobs. The department is not only responsible for fighting fire, but more importantly emergency medical service as well as search and rescue. Needless to say, but without some dedicated and talented individuals, lives and property would be lost and things that most people take for granted such as someone responding to a 911 call might not occur. I mean could you imagine if you had a life threatening emergency and when you called 911 the response was, "Oh, I'm sorry, our only emergency medical technician is out of town this week... can you pick up your unconscious father and take him to the clinic yourself?" or "Well, we would like to put out your house fire, but there aren't enough professionals to operate the fire engine." We all expect to have a quick and effective response to an emergency, and thanks to volunteers, the citizens of Skagway always have just that - quick, effective response to emergencies. With this in mind the SVFD is always looking and always welcoming new volunteers. This is certainly the case during the summer season, when the town more than doubles in size due to the addition of hundreds of seasonal workers, many of which live in R.V.'s and tents (literally deathtraps in a fire). As a new arrival, I was interested in becoming part of the department and I was not alone. A couple of weeks ago the department held a kind of 'basic training' over a weekend for new volunteers which introduced basic skills and orientation of fire fighting. Among other things we learned how to operate power tools and hand tools, cut into cars, break windows, break down doors, set up and use a basic tactical hose lay, make and break connections to hydrants, and most importantly how to take down and care for the equipment. It was very well done. I was surprised at how skilled the volunteers were as well as their abundant patience and dedication. Before becoming full members, new volunteers must be voted in and serve a probationary period of six months. Eventually some of the new volunteers and I were given pagers so that we too could begin to help out during actual emergencies. And we didn't have to wait long.
At 9 am Saturday morning, I gathered at the fire hall with the other "probies" to learn about the SCBA - self contained breathing apparatus. SCBA is the equipment that supplies air - one of the most basic tools for firefighting. After learning about it, we suited up in bunker gear (the heavy duty pants, jacket, boots, and helmet) and proceeded on a hike - while wearing the SCBA. It was quite difficult, not to mention hot. The point was to show how much harder physical activity can be while wearing the gear, and that the 45 minutes of air in the air bottle never lasts 45 minutes (my bottle only lasted 29). Like all the training before, it was effective and succinct.

Later that evening, I was back home when my pager went off - someone had reported a burning vehicle! I froze for a split second - was this really happening? I was actually going to respond to a fire? After fumbling with my shoes, I jumped into my truck and raced the ten blocks to the fire hall. About a dozen people, both veterans and probies, were already there - most of them getting "bunkered up" and about to leave. One of the veterans yelled, "only veterans on 23!" meaning none of us new people were allowed to go on engine 23. Instead, we went in the ambulance.

By the time we arrived, police had already blocked off the street. Smoke was in the air, but I could not see anything on fire. The veterans on engine 23 had already made a connection with a nearby hydrant and deployed a hose line behind an older red building. I checked in with the chief, and was told to put on an SCBA from 23. After putting on the mask and gear, I followed the hose around behind the building and saw the burning car - it was an old VW bus. I had been on the scene for no more than two minutes, but the car was already largely extinguished. Flames still lept out of the rear engine compartment, but the remainder of the car, although blackened and smoking, was no longer engulfed. At this point, they were trying to open the doors and hatches and break the remaining windows to gain access to the interior. I was told to go back to 23 for tools. Let me tell you one thing, communication amid the cacophony of noise of the engine, flowing water (or in this case foam), fire and through the SCBA masks is nearly impossible. For the next several minutes, I went back and forth from the car to 23 fetching tools. The rear hatch was finally opened and foam poured onto the flaming engine. It went out, but as soon as the flow of foam abated, flame kicked up again. After another dousing of foam the fire finally ceased and we could see an open fuel line leaking a steady stream of gas. After tying the line off, we opened what doors we could and removed the contents of the car as the hose team continued to pour the foam into the interior of the blackened vehicle. After carefully picking through the car for any possible hot spots, we began break down and clean up. Although the car was a total loss, it was successfully extinguished before the fire had a chance to ignite the building or the fuel storage tank it was parked next to. It could easily have been much worse. The fire was quite an experience, but what surprised me the most was that the newest volunteers, like yours truly, had played a critical role in the effort. While I had only served a gopher, my presence did free up the senior guys to tackle more difficult tasks. About half of the fire responders where as new as me and we all had stuff to do. It was easy to see even with minimal training, new volunteers are important in a fire incident.

I was pondering that very thought the next morning while I ate breakfast when suddenly my beeper went off. Another fire call - smoke spotted from a building on 9th and State! This time I didn't hesitate. In a matter of seconds I was again in my truck headed towards the fire hall, but three blocks from the hall, I ran into a road block, a private citizen had positioned his car blocking the road. I parked my truck and jumped out and began running towards the fire hall. On my left I saw the building - smoke was pouring out of a broken window and I could see flames inside. I quickened my pace to a full out run. Engine 23 was pulling out of the fire hall as I arrived, seeing me, one of the guys yelled something at me - but I didn't understand what he was saying as the fire truck sped away. I quickly bunkered up and looked around but another probie and I were the only people left. There were three other fire engines but no one to drive them. Seconds later another call for help came over the pager (technically this made the fire a two alarm fire) meaning that more help was needed. Knowing that we were not qualified to drive a fire engine, I resolved to drive the department's Ford truck to the scene. As we approached the police roadblock, the police officer quickly removed road cones allowing me to drive closer. After jumping out, I could see that the guys on 23 had already connected to a hydrant and set not one but two hose lays. In fact one team was inside the building with the hose. Again I was told to put on an SCBA and stand by. Soon more guys arrived on another engine. A few minutes later and the fire was out. The building was not only saved, but the fire did not even have time to spread to other rooms (and other business). After the fire was out, I was sent into the building with two other guys with a heat sensitivity device to look for lingering hot spots. The destruction was staggering.

The burned office belonged to a company that ran back country tours of the area. Nearly all their office and hiking equipment was destroyed. The room was completely black and the floor was covered with blackened foam and puddles of melted misshapen plastic that had once been a copy machine and computers. There were overturned racks of burnt and melted shoes, backpacks, and other now unidentifiable gear. A shelf full of small canisters of cooking propane had exploded helping to fuel the fire. It was a stark reminder that modern technology for all its convenience, is as combustible as 100 year old wooden buildings if not more so.

I have been an official member of the Skagway Volunteer Fire Department for less than three weeks and I have already been part of two major fires. Although I am excited to have been able to help fight fire so soon after becoming a volunteer fire fighter, more importantly I am thankful that in both cases, no one was hurt.

That's me on the hose.

A couple of weeks later this article about volunteer firefighters, mentioning SVFD, appeared in Parade Magazine.

A Very Special Blog Edition: Rota

So, now that I am in Alaska - living in the last frontier and all - here is a post that is not only completely unrelated but somewhat old. Unfortunately, there were many things that happened over the past five months that were not immediately recounted on this blog. As time marched on, events, such as the one I attempt to remember bellow, continued to not only occur with surprising regularity, but ultimately became entrapped by sort of intercontinental time vacuum. Time itself was destroyed, vaporized, exterminated, stolen. I would go to sleep on a Monday and would wake up on Thursday - this would happen every week. One time I went out for lunch on a particularly beautiful day and when I finished my meal it was 2009. Recently, as I was preparing to post a new blog entry, I realized that unless I included some older adventures, they would be forgotten - perhaps lost forever. So to address this issue I will weave older adventures along side the more contemporary and future Alaskan adventures under the heading: "A Very Special Blog Edition." So, for your reading pleasure, here is the first Very Special Blog Edition - Rota.





About once a year the Guam Hashers take a trip to a remote tiny tropical island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean - lucky for them it is only about 76 miles (or a 15 minute flight) away. Rota, along with Saipan and Tinian, is part of the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands. Last November I went on the annual trip to Rota.



Rota is the smallest of the inhabited Mariana Islands, yet rises dramatically out of the sea, boasting the highest elevation of the entire island chain. Although 3,000 people call the tiny island home, Rota remains largely uninhabited. For the first and perhaps only time (until I visited Iwo Jima), I truly felt that I was on a tiny isolated island surrounded by a vast ocean.





We took the Friday evening puddle jump out of Guam, rented a car and drove to the capitol of Rota, Song Song Village. 'Song Song' is a Chamorro word meaning village so in effect the place is called "Village Village." As we drove toward the hotel in the dwindling twilight I noted two unusual things - the almost complete absence of streetlights and everyone of the few people we passed gave us a big wave. Rota is know for its friendly people which is personified by waving at anything and anyone. It was so pervasive that I would not be surprised if there was some sort of local statute that made a failure to wave a jailable offense. Despite the evident hospitality, when we arrived at the hotel - no one was there to check us in. After an extensive search of the village, we found someone to check us in - but I'm still not sure if she actually worked there.



After checking in, we walked over to Song Song's bustling restaurant district - there were three "restaurants" one of which also served as a livestock feed store and gentleman's club. Like all business establishments in the Mariana Islands, each restaurant was equipped with karaoke. Needless to say, I had very low expectations for the culinary arts practiced on Rota. Nevertheless, the most surprising thing about Rota was the outstanding food - seriously. We tried out Rota's pizza place - I had the blackened shishimi pizza (outstanding) - and would visit it again many more times over the weekend. After visiting every bar on Rota (all three of them) we called it a night and went to bed.

The next day we drove around the island. We first stopped at the bird sanctuary. Unlike Guam, Rota actually has birds - birds native to Guam. The bird sanctuary is one of the last protected areas on the islands. Next we went to the ancient latte stone quarry. Before Europeans messed everything up, the Chamorro people would construct houses atop stone pillars called latte stones
Some of them were quite large.


Next we decided to go for a swim in the crystal clear water Pacific and unlike Guam, there was no garbage strewn across the beach.


Finally, after a brief sojourn back at the hotel, came the Rota hash. It was fantastic. We began at the top of the 1,600 foot peak of the island and raced down the steep slopes through thick jungle. Immediately we came across large heaps of crushed and broken blue glass - the remnants of Japanese sake bottles. Unlike the other Mariana Islands of Guam, Tinian, and most famously Saipan, Rota was not attacked by U.S. forces during World War II. Instead the Japanese garrison of Rota was allowed to languish unsupplied for nearly a year and a half with only the occasional bombing raid to break the tedium and near starvation. The garrison finally surrendered after Japan surrendered in September 1945. The most remarkable feature of Rota are the largely intact Japanese fortifications and bunkers located throughout the island. The trail continued but I was surprised at terrain differences between Rota and Guam. The ground surface of Guam is largely covered with soil providing for an easy running experience. The ground of Rota, however, is covered with jagged razor sharp limestone rock - once coral reef. Making matters worse was the generous growth of thorn bushes throughout (Guam also has few thorn bushes). With this in mind, the terrain of Rota was certainly more painful. After climbing down through the jagged rocks for a while we emerged at a vista overlooking Song Song Village just as the sun was making its final approach bellow the horizon.


After a break to savor the view, we again ran through the jungle and much to my excitement, into a Japanese bunker. The bunker was tastefully lit with tea candles courtesy of the hares. It was awesome. The bunker was long and included several different tunnels - a very impressive accomplishment. Those guys must have had a lot of free time.


The trail finally ended at an abandoned water park. The celebration was somewhat excessive, but then again when is the next time we are going to be in Rota? Perhaps a year for some, perhaps never again for others...

The next morning we again awoke to yet another beautiful day.


Again we ventured out to see some of Rota that we had missed. Lucky for me we came across this Japanese coastal defense gun. It was in near mint condition and still pivots with only a light push. Note the red tape - if it is pushed all the way out it blocks half the road in front of it.

Next we explored the large Japanese command bunker complex - fantastic. Afterwards, we boarded the evening flight back to Guam. Rota was by far the most beautiful island in Mariana Islands. Its small, friendly, and trash averse population are truly stewards of Rota's resources. Yet despite the beauty and historic remains, I probably could not live there very long. It is very small and there is nothing there in terms of many modern conveniences and establishments. Like I said at the beginning - Rota was the first time that I truly felt that I was actually on a small island in the middle of the Pacific.

The Last Frontier?

I was getting ready for work one morning back in February and as I was walking out the door when the phone rang. For a split second I debated if I should even answer the phone, but I did. It was a call from Klondike Gold Rush National Historical Park (KLGO) in Skagway, Alaska (www.nps.gov/klgo).

The park surprised me when they called a week earlier. The earlier call was an inquiry to see if I was still interested in a job I had applied for months before and to be honest at the time of the call I could not remember what type of position I had even applied for. Since I began working for the NPS, I have applied to countless jobs and the jobs I have been lucky enough to land, while amazing gigs, have been seasonal or temporary in nature. The coveted and highly competitive permanent park service jobs always seemed to elude me. So even though I was uncertain about the specific job, I was certain that I had no chance of getting it for that very reason – it was permanent. As I was till struggling to remember the job or even applying for the job, Reed, the administrative officer at KLGO, asked if I would be willing to do an interview right then and there. So I thought, what the hell and went for it.

It was a completely different type of job interview in that I was totally unprepared yet somehow comfortable, at ease, and oddly confident. It was as if my utter lack of faith that I was even remotely competitive for the position released my normal nervous and unsure - though mostly prepared -interview style and instead my loose and confident answers transcended the expected responses. For instance,

"No. I don't have any substantial experience in government requisitions and procurement, but do you know what I do have experience in? Gettin' things done."

and

"No I don't have much to tell you about my experience with PMIS, AFS, IDEAS, FFS, UAA, and those other acronyms that you just said, but I can tell you that I support the use of acronyms and have substantial experience using acronyms on a daily basis such as USA, TV, NBC, GM, UK, DVD, and many others."

Needless to say, after this out of the ordinary "interview" I assumed that I would definitely be blacklisted from ever working at KLGO - maybe even all of Alaska - and never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would get a call back. But that's exactly what happened a week later as I was walking out the door to go to work. Not only did I get a call back, I was offered the job.

My immediate reaction was disbelief and confusion. Is this some kind of joke? What kind of place is this to hire me? I had no answer. I asked for two days to think it over but I only got 24 hours.

After weighing the pros and cons and calling several people for advice - I had still not made up my mind. It was perhaps the most difficult decision that I have ever made. My 24 hours ticked by, but I still could not figure out what I was going to do. Reluctantly, I picked up the phone dialed KLGO to give them my answer and as the phone rang, I finally decided.

A Post Long Overdue

If you are one of the half dozen or so people that check this blog every month or so, then I owe you a sincere apology. I can’t believe that it has been so long since I have written. I assure you, however, that I did not fail to write due to lack of suitable subject matter. On the contrary, since my hiatus many events have transpired, adventures experienced, and travels traversed. In a brief summary of highlights (and future blog entries), I have visited the island of Rota, taken a trip back to the states including an extensive inspection of Northern Arizona in general of the Grand Canyon in particular, briefly stopped at home in Tennessee, and most recently accepted a new job at Klondike Gold Rush National Historical Park in Skagway, Alaska (I leave Guam on March 20). So despite the ample material, I am taking the time to write about an even more recent event while it remains fresh on my mind – last Saturday’s hash (February 21).

In many respects and apart from my job, hashing has become the singular and defining activity of my Guam adventure. After telling my latest hash episode to my coworkers, I felt compelled to also share the tale with my minute and most likely dwindling blog audience. So here goes…

I have been hashing now for eleven months and over this time I have seen much of Guam. I have been constantly challenged by daunting and dangerous trails, slogged through thick jungle, swift rivers and gelatinous mud pits, climbed innumerous hills and mountains, tripped over countless vines, roots, rocks, and brown tree snakes, and been cut by swordgrass on my legs, arms and face hundreds of times and somehow loved every minute of it – especially in retrospect. Yet despite nearly a year of challenges met and vested, last Saturday was the most daunting and demanding of any hash thus far.

Sometimes hashes have themes and last Saturday was the Mardi Gra hash. Most themed hashes are either easy or go through a population centers in order to cause a scene as well as to embarrass the hashers who are unlucky enough to be recognized. As a consequence, I did not expect the hash be particularly difficult or of note, save for the theme itself. Boy was I in for a surprise. To make matters worse, in my state of mind with my impending move to another continent, I forgot to bring my flashlight (which I usually forget unless warned before the hash) but more importantly I forgot my knee brace (My need for a knee brace will be explained in the future blog post about the Grand Canyon).

But not to worry, I thought, because this is a theme hash and it will be easy! After our initial meeting in Hagatna, we were given directions to the box down south near Sella Bay – the most beautiful area of Guam. After our arrival, I though back to the last hash that I ran in this area. It was probably back in June or July and it was long and many people did not finish before dark. We even started in the same place along route 4. Despite this memory, I remained unfazed, but decided to tie an old shirt around my knee in an attempt to somehow support the knee similar to a brace. Yes, I realize how ridiculous this sounds now and no, of course it did not help, but I seriously believe that the illusion of a knee brace was somehow comforting.

We quickly took off and I hung back at a slow jog – not wanting to cause further damage or discomfort to my knee. The pack quickly found the first beer check. A beer check is a stop along the trail with cold beer or another suitable beverage. Most people ran on without stopping, but I lingered for some time while slowly sipping a beer and chatting with the few people that bothered to stop. From my high elevation, it was kind of fun to watch the pack run down the hills toward the jungle like so many ants. After the beer, I continued on the trail, again in a slow jog. Somehow, thanks to a deceptive trail mark I was back in the middle of the pack in between the extremely fast and extremely slow runners. Heading down a ridge and into a river valley, I picked up my pace and was soon joined by several others. After some time in the river, the trail exited the water and after a steady climb emerged onto a ridge line that extended into the ocean. I paused at the abrupt termination of the ridge to take in the incredible view. From the cliff top I could see down the coast for miles in either direction. To the south were Sella and Citi Bays and in the distance Cabras Island. These areas, despite their amazing beauty, remain untouched by development and their relative natural and unblemished status serves as the foundation of their splendor.

But don’t be fooled, I wasn’t thinking this at the time it was more like – pant pant pant “Whoa, sweet view” pant pant pant.

Soon we descended the near vertical cliff face to the beach below and continued on in a circuit of Sella Bay. In the middle of the bay I was astonished to discover one of the few Spanish bridges built in the late 1500s. Although there is clearly no work to protect or stabilize it and it is covered in vegetation, the bridge remains remarkably well preserved and clearly identifiable. Abandoned and largely unknown by the population of Guam, the bridge’s remote location – inaccessible by road – surely has helped to preserve it. Of course the Guam hashers decided that it would be a suitable location for a beer check. But, since bringing beer to the bridge in a large quantity was a logistical impossibility, shots of liquorish and apple schnapps were offered instead. Again, I paused to climb atop the bridge and marveled at its size and sturdiness (and to have a shot). I wondered how many people had crossed this bridge over its nearly 500 years of existence. As I pondered, the hasher at the bridge with me remarked, “I can’t believe those dumb Spaniards built this bridge out in the middle of nowhere.” I laughed and said, “Yeah that’s probably why their empire collapsed, they were always building bridges to nowhere. Must have been a pork barrel project or something.”

We moved on, but the small cohort that I was with proceeded at a faster pace and soon I was alone. After meandering along the entire bay, the trail shot up again onto another steep ridge. The climb was exhausting. Once at the top, I again could see several people ahead of me down in another valley some distance below. Again I paused to rest and briefly watch the sun as it began to set in the Western horizon. I was still unbothered by any time concerns. Now very alone, I continued on down into the valley. For the first time, the trail entered thick canopy jungle with extensive vines that grabbed at my body like grappling hooks. My pace slowed considerably. Soon I was again knee deep in river, but I began to worry as the daylight grew increasingly scarce. By this time fatigue was setting in and in a big way. Of course I was already extremely tired, but for some reason I was even more exhausted than usual before it dawned on me: I forgot to eat lunch. Crap – now that is something I almost never forget. The immediate psychological impact of this realization made my fatigue much worse. Suddenly the trail presented a choice: the Turkey or Eagle split. I had to choose which way to go – to the left on the eagle trail or to the right on the turkey trial. As you can probably guess, the eagle is intended to be much more difficult than the turkey. Usually I take the eagle trail, but due to my fatigue, the lateness of the day, and my knee situation, I wimped out and took the turkey. Much to my chagrin, the turkey trail immediately left the river through a tiny but long erosion ditch topped with dense root systems. After crawling and cursing for an interminable period of time, the ditch ended, but the trail continued straight up a steep ridge. I had to stop several times to rest along the climb. After I finally reached the top I stopped and looked back down into the valley I was just in. The sun was now fully set and I could not see anyone ahead of me. This worried me somewhat. I looked back toward the ridge that I had stopped at after walking around Sella Bay and saw several tiny people very far behind me. “Wow,” I remarked out loud to myself, “they’re not making it in before dark.” Then I though about myself, I still was not sure how much longer the trail was to last and I had perhaps only twenty more minutes of navigable light remaining. Perhaps I wasn’t going to make it in before dark either…

For about five minutes I continued to follow the trail along the ridge top as it headed away from the ocean and toward route 4 which I could make out in the distance then I stopped again. It was now too dark to see.

Make no mistake, I have been on trail after dark many times before, but in all the other times I was either with a group of people with flashlights, or I had remembered to bring my own. In this situation I was alone without a flashlight there was no moon and it was cloudy.

For the first time in my hashing career, I was going to have to be rescued. Being rescued on a hash is not unusual; in fact someone requires a rescue on most trails. Learning from the mistakes of others, I knew what to do. If you are out after dark do the following:

Stay on the trail, near a mark if possible
Don’t move, stay where you are and wait
Don’t panic someone will come for you eventually

So all I had to do was wait for the rescue effort to come get me, which in previous instances often took several hours. In the mean time, while I sat and waited I reflected on the past eleven months. Eventually, I saw a bright light on the ridge several miles to the East of me. It was the ceremonial bonfire at the end of the hash, also known as the “on home.” I was shocked at how far away I was from the end. Apparently, the turkey trail, instead of negotiating the steep ravine and large waterfall up to the ridge opposite me, went on the comparatively less steep ridge I was on then must connect to the road and over to the next ridge for the on home. I looked down into the ravine and saw at least a dozen lights spread along the valley floor.

Occasionally, if the wind was blowing in the right direction, I could hear loud voices from the on home. After about forty minutes, I noticed a light from the ridge I was on coming toward me. I yelled at the light and eventually I got a response. The light yelled back to me, “Come toward the light!” I asked myself, does this moron actually expect me to walk in the pitch black along a steep ridge? I quickly yelled back, “No!” and then added in a lower volume, “dumbass.” The light continued to move in and out of vision but was not getting any closer. Somewhat perplexed as to the intention of the guy carrying the light I asked, “Are you even on trail?!” but got no response. Soon I heard a screech and then the light shouted, “Shit! I almost fell off a cliff.” Finally, fed up with watching this light continue to move without any progress, I began to slowly attempt to move toward my so-called rescuer. Almost immediately I tripped and slid down the ridge in the wrong direction. I decided it was probably not a good idea to continue further.

A few minutes later I was found. The hare (one of the guys that set the trail) helped me back up. Initially I expected him to take me back to the road which was some distance – perhaps a mile away, but instead he gave me a flashlight and said “go towards the road.” I asked him which way the trail went to which he replied, “I have no idea where the trail is.” Somewhat bemused, I asked “Didn’t you set this trail?” to which he responded, “Well, yeah, but I’m not real familiar with this part - didn’t set this part my co-hare did.” “Awesome” I responded.

The hare took off in the opposite direction and I began my careful walk “toward the road.” The light was somewhat dim, so I could only see a few feet in front of me. This prevented me from being able to see far enough to plan my route. As a consequence, my route went on a zig-zag trajectory and eventually I encountered a wall or enormous ten foot tall sword grass. Sword grass of this height and thickness is nearly impossible to penetrate. It is extremely energy and time consuming as well as painful to force your way through thick sword grass. I pondered my options. From what little I could see, the most direct route to the road went through this sword grass down a ridge and up another slope and while I could attempt to go around the area, there was no way to be sure that any other route would be better. I looked around for a while but finally gave up and plunged in.

Five minutes later I was utterly exhausted and deep inside the impenetrable maze of sharp sword grass when the unthinkable happened – the flashlight died. I was instantly plunged into complete and utter darkness. For half a second, I expected a group of friends to jump out and yell “surprise!” There was no way that this was happening. I quietly muttered, “No way” and then I released a long tirade of increasingly loud expletives. Now I was WAY off trail, deep inside ten foot tall sword grass, no idea which direction I’m facing and without any source of light and no one knew where I was. I said to myself, “How the hell am I going to get out of this one?” After pausing a moment to collect myself, I attempted to continue on in the darkness. I lost count of how many times I stopped to rest. The physical act of forcing through sword grass is grueling and I was already spent. On the other hand I was getting totally shredded and poked from the sharp serrated edges of the tortuous devil grass. Eventually, I found a slight break in the grass. I put my arm on a tiny tree and leaned forward in an attempt to pull my foot free of the grass. All of a sudden the tree collapsed and I fell head long into a deep dark hole. It wasn’t until the fraction of a second that I was in free fall, that I realized what was happening. I landed on my side and laid there for a moment to collect myself. I was relieved that I was not injured beyond bruises, but then I stood up. I was inside an erosion ditch that was about five feet wide and at least twelve feet deep with sides that actually sloped closer together towards the top. “You have got to be kidding me,” I said out loud somehow amazed at how my situation continued to deteriorate. I felt around but could not reach the top of the ditch. I thought seriously about spending the night in hole, but finally resolved to escape. After several attempts, I managed to find a root that didn’t immediately come loose when I pulled on it. Using the root as a pull and the collapsed tree as a stool, I managed to launch myself far enough to grab a handful of sword grass at the top. Using every ounce of strength left, I ungracefully extricated myself from the hole and collapsed in a heap. I rested and probably dozed off before I was awoken by the sudden onset of rain. The rain renewed my determination to escape. I continued the effort of forcing through the impossible sword grass in complete darkness and after a while I realized I had just gone in a circle. Frustrated and demoralized, I sat down to wallow momentarily in self pity. Perhaps I am doomed to sleep out here tonight, I thought. Then I noticed a strange looking tunnel through the grass – a pig trail! I followed the pig trail on my hands and knees for some distance before it came to an abrupt end, but when I finally managed to clear enough grass to stand up, I could see a faint light – a street light! Several minutes later, I emerged onto the street, overjoyed that I had made it out.

By the time I finally got to the on-home, the festivities were long over, but many people still remained out in the jungle. It was definitely a memorable hash, but not one that I would ever want to relive.

Fear and Loathing on the Island of Broken Cars

Wow. It has been quite a while since I’ve posted on the old blog. A lot has happened since September, perhaps too much to record in a narrative format. Instead I will use a quick and dirty bullet point approach. Here goes:

Car Issues:

• As of last post, car was broken and needed a new computer box
  
• Found a used computer box at a junk yard for $125
  
• Had it installed on the car… but it didn’t work
  
• Junk yard refused to take it back
  
• Found guy who repairs computer boxes
  
• Paid guy $400 to fix my junk yard computer box
  
• Computer box guy took 2 weeks to fix computer box
  
• Forced to rent a car for a week
  
• After nearly a month and $900 in expenses, my car runs again
  
• Named car “Howley Carabao” in both disgust and reluctant admiration in it's stubborn refusal to run

Work Stuff

• Work is very busy… increasing demand for ranging
  
• Get to go to Grand Canyon National Park in December for training
  
• Taking a week off after training to visit the Tennessee (Dec 13-21)
  
• Back in time to celebrate Christmas on the beach

Other stuff:

• Thesis work continues… bleh
  
• Interest in thesis topic evaporates
  
• Aversion to thesis topic and Civil War in general increases
  
• Guam’s rainy season has ended, yet it continues to rain everyday but there is more wind and a greater chance for super typhoons
  
• Lived through 2 more earthquakes – last one was a 5.2
  
• Visited Talofofo Falls Park… it was hilarious (I’ll explain in a future post)

Greatest thing that’s happened in many years:

• Barack Obama elected President of the United States of America
• Hope increases