Ben in Guam

The Guam-pire Strikes Back

2011-08-23T03:08:00.000-07:00

So, after a hiatus of 18 months, I have a blog post. I'm back. On Guam. Actually I got back in June, 2010, over a year and two months ago. A lot has happened since I posted on this blog some 18 months ago. Where should I begin? Where can I begin? I'm back as a permanent interpretation park ranger at War in the Pacific National Historical Park, which is awesome. Also, after a six year educational journey (only two of which was spent in school), I have finished my thesis and graduated from Middle Tennessee State University with a Master of Arts in History. Instead of boring you with a vapid description of the mind numbing thesis approval process, I'll be using this blog again to share some of my travel experiences from the past 18 months and beyond. Topics may include trips I've taken and adventures since April 2010: driving from Alaska to Tennessee with stops at Jasper and Banff National Parks (Canada), Glacier NP, Yellowstone NP, Little Big Horn Battlefield, Devils Tower NM, Mount Rushmore NM, Badlands NP, a week in Honolulu, trips to Saipan and Tinian, a week in Omaha Nebraska, a weekend in Washington, DC, a week in New Orleans, trips to Palau, Hong Kong, and Koala Lumpur. Needless to say, it was an eventful year. More to come.

Winter

2010-04-05T00:53:00.000-07:00

Wow. Has it really been six months since the last time I wrote on this blog? Crazy. Time does indeed march on. I have to admit that back in October I had a distinct presumption as to how the winter would unfold. The romanticized ‘Alaskan’ winter I imagined would be unforgiving, frigid, and above all protracted, yet I found the opposite to be true. Although there were certainly cold and relentless periods, overall the winter was relatively mild (thanks global warming!) and it went by much more quickly than I ever could have imagined. In fact, Skagway was sometimes warmer than much of the lower 48. I’m going to take a few moments and recount some of the last six months.

Trip to Anchorage

In late October, I got a fantastic opportunity to travel to Anchorageas part of the Skagway Volunteer Fire Department to participate in the annual Alaska State Firefighters Association Conference. Following a 900 mile drive, four SVFD members and I spent the week practicing how to break down doors, throw ladders, carry people, repel, pull cars apart, and a lot of other fun stuff that I can’t remember six months later.

Washington, D.C.
In early December, I traveled to DC for the last installment of an introductory training program for NPS employees. While in DC, I got to hang out with my old roommate from Guam, see some sights, and meet Ken Burns.

Christmas:
One of the most memorable parts of this winter was being in Skagway for Christmas. The entire town of Skagway participates in a number of events leading up to Christmas and gathers on Christmas Eve to revel in the Christmas ‘spirit’ so to speak.

Winter weather:
Of all winter, January had the most severe weather. Although the entire month was cold and windy, there was about a week with brutal blizzard like weather and temperatures far bellow zero. The rest of the winter was comparatively mild with moderate temperatures and highs in the twenties and thirties, lows in the teens and single digits.

Unbelievable Beauty:
For some of the clear days, words can't do the scenery justice.

Training:
Throughout the winter I continued to participate in training opportunities with the Fire Department.

Vancouver:
Late in February, I got another chance to fly down south and ironically, I had a layover in Vancouver during the 2010 Winter Olympics. So, I went to the Olympics.

Sitka Centennial:
At the recommendation of my Superintendent, I got to help with the Centennial Celebration for Sitka National Historical Park. This was one of the key highlights of the winter and it allowed me an opportunity not only visit an amazing park and part of Alaska, but do the kind of work I really miss.

Buckwheat Ski Classic:
Every year Skagway hosts a ski event in nearby British Columbia. Although the site of the ski event is only 15 miles from Skagway, it is technically in Canada. The event is widely attended by hundreds people from across the state, many from Juneau, Whitehorse and the Yukon, and even some folks from down south. For the people of Skagway, it is mostly an excuse to go outside and drink all day.

That’s about it for winter. It may not yet look or feel like it is over, but winter is long gone. Everyday more people are arriving in Skagway to begin gearing up for the summer season. The activity increases almost on an hourly basis as Skagway shakes off the winter snow and prepares for five months of hyperactivity that accompany the onslaught of 850,000 disoriented tourists. The first cruise ship arrives in less than a month. Damn. Where did all that time go?

Hiking the Chilkoot Trail

2009-10-13T23:28:00.000-07:00

“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

2009-09-01T00:20:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-05-17T23:43:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-06T21:22:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-04-16T23:26:00.001-07:00

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

2009-02-23T08:08:00.000-08:00

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

2008-10-08T04:31:00.000-07:00

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

The Car Saga Continues... Damn it.

2008-09-23T02:24:00.000-07:00

I hate to interrupt my self enforced thesis sabbatical, but I must utilize my blog to lament my seemingly inescapable curse (a.k.a. vent and bitch). Unfortunately the never ending car saga continues to plague my miserable life. Just when I finally sold my last Guam Bomb after four months of searching for a buyer and breathed a long overdue sigh of relief, hopeful that my car troubles were perhaps finally over, that after purchasing three cars I had finally found an economical and DEPENDABLE method of transportation... but no. My third car car is dead and I am again forced to scramble to find a quick solution... with minimal financial resources.

It all started on Monday. It was my day off. After preparing for a series of errands, I slid gracefully into the driver's seat of my 1993 Toyota Corolla DX Waggon, put the key into the ignition and started the engine. As the car idled, I thoughtfully selected a suitable compact disk and inserted it into the player. At that moment the car died, yet I remained completely unfazed. It was not uncommon for the car to stall during idle, especially when it was cold or raining. But, much to my frustration, it would not start again. Although I was frustrated, I was still largely unconcerned. It must be the battery, I thought. I had not used the car in nearly three days and the battery probably lost its charge somehow. I went back inside and waited for Robert to get home from work.

Once Robert arrived, he pulled his car next to mine for a jump. It had no effect, the car would attempt to start like before, but stubbornly refused to turn over. Umm... Now we have a problem. But wait, I thought, the car is almost out of gas and has been setting at an acute angle for days, perhaps if we only push the car onto level ground, it will start. We tried in vain to push the car up the incline, to no avail. Next, at my request, Robert tried to push the carolla with his jeep. As you can imagine, this insane attempt to push my car not only ended in failure, but added further damage to the front bumper and headlight of my carolla. Luckily, Robert's jeep was unscathed. Next we ventured down the road into Talofofo Village proper to investigate the availability of rope. I found a $7 tow rope made of cheap nylon next to an ancient set of pantyhose and Drano. After racing back home, we strapped the rope to our cars and much to my surprise, pulled my car onto a level part of the lawn. It still refused to start. Crap. Now I have to pay to have this piece of shit car towed down from Talofofo to a repair shop. I expressed my growing anger to Robert, who suggested a bold and perhaps rash plan of action. He offered to use my new rope and pull my corolla down to Agat - a distance of almost 15 miles over hills, valleys and hairpin curves. What an insanely idiotic foolhardy idea - not to mention dangerous and totally illegal!!! It could not only result in a hefty fine, but serious damage to both of our cars. I quickly agreed.

We waited until the cover of darkness - about 9:30 and began our trek. We tied the nylon rope to our frames (not the bumpers) and took off. Robert drove his jeep wrangler while I rode in my unresponsive corolla, but before we began Robert gave me a quick and dirty tutorial on pulling cars. "Try to keep the rope taught at all times. OK? Let's go." As we drove through Talofofo, with people pointing and staring, I quickly realized that this towing business was going to be far more difficult than I initially realized. Robert would only slow to a crawl at stop signs, and of course I had no control to stop or go, I was primarily concerned with making sure I didn't slam into Robert's jeep a mere three feet in front of me. Soon we were out of Talofofo and into the deep hills, and sharp curves of the 11 miles of "Cross Island Road" to Agat. It was sheer terror. My heart raced and I hunched over the wheel in a death grip, sweat poured from my brow in puddles. As we navigated the turns and steep descents, the only periods of relief were the slow laborious ascent up hills. Finally, after about 45 minutes, and what felt like eons, we were in Agat. Phew. At the end of our journey, as we waited at a stand still to turn into a service center, I heard the horrible sound of a car screeching to a sudden halt behind me. I closed my eyes and prepared for the inevitable crash, but it did not come. I looked behind me and saw the car only a few inches from mine. Then we began to move into the parking lot. WE MADE IT! What an adventure. On the ride back home I realized, looking down at my still trembling hands, I was in desperate need of a tall bourbon.

The next day, I returned to my car. It was at a gas station with an attached lube and tire shop. I kindly asked the mechanic to examine the car and call me with an estimate. I returned with Robert at lunch. He suggested that I purchase new plugs, wires, distributor cap, and rotor (a tune up) for him to install. I purchased the items at a nearby Napa ($187) and returned. After another few hours, he called me with some bad news. The tune up had no effect on the car. It still refused to start. The mechanic confessed that he had a suspicion that the problem was electrical in nature and he did not have the tools nor the expertise to diagnose or fix the problem. Crap. The mechanic refused pay, but I gave him twenty dollars anyway and after calling almost every tow service on island, I found the best deal for a real tow to yet another mechanic. I met the tow guy an hour later and followed him in Robert's jeep to Pacific Tyre

By this point the Pacific Tyre mechanics new me by name. I had been in and out of that place at least a dozen times since I got my first car back in March and I had recently purchased new tires for my corolla after one of the tires had a severe tread separation occur. "It's me again," I greeted the guy at the front desk. "I'm concerned you're not getting enough business, so I thought I would bring you my car to look at again." After a few laughs, they took a look at my car. I watched as they bypassed the car's computer using a paperclip to connect two fuses. It immediately started and ran. "Awesome!" I nearly yelled. I spoke to soon. I continued to watch as they pulled the car's computer out from underneath the dash. The computer, or the ECU (Engine Control Unit) manages the car's air-fuel ratio and fuel injectors to ensure the best fuel economy and lowest emission of carbon monoxide. If you ask me, it only exists to create tremendous anger and disgust.

After they pulled the computer out, the mechanic asked me to smell it. Much to my horror, it had an overwhelming smell of burnt plastic. They opened the computer's metal case to reveal the circuit board - almost a third of it was blackened and burnt, it was totally fried. "So how much does a new one of these cost?" I hesitantly asked. "Over $1,000 new, but you probably can't find one on island." The mechanic, seeing my utter shock continued, "there might be a used one in a junk yard, but this waggon is different than most corollas so you will probably have to order it on ebay."

So now I am frantically searching ebay and the interweb for a model 7A-FE computer box (ECU) for a 1993 Toyota corolla dx wagon.

Well, at least I am consistent - every car I have purchased on Guam is a piece of shit. I wish I had paid the $3,000 to ship my truck over here.

The Great Guamanian Car Saga Part IV: The End?

2008-09-05T04:15:00.000-07:00

So I finally sold my Cadillac on Saturday. Whew, what a relief. And I only lost $400. Awesome? I bought that damn car an drove it for two weeks then it sat broke down for over four months. Now maybe I can afford to take a trip somewhere... Perhaps Manila, Chuk, or Bali, maybe Hong Kong, or Palau, or Tokyo. Or maybe not.

Actually, dear readers, I will be taking a hiatus from the blog for a long while. If you are dying for a post I might throw up a chapter of my thesis (which I will be working on diligently until it is done). No really, I will.

Seriously.

Tinian

2008-09-04T03:31:00.001-07:00

After a few days on Saipan, a couple of coworkers and I took the ferry to Tinian, five miles south of Saipan. Tinain, like Saipan, was once a Spanish then a German colony. Japan captured the Mariana Islands from Germany during WWI. Over the next thirty years, Tinian and Saipan were converted into huge sugar cane production colonies and tens of thousands of Japanese colonists moved to the islands. On July 24, 1944, American forces landed on Tinian and executed what would later be called the most successful amphibious landing of all of WWII. Tinian was then transformed into the largest air base in the world for the new B-29 Superfortresses built to bomb Japan. Over 1,000 B-29s were stationed on Tinian alone.

Tinian

Tinian is roughly the same size and shape as Manhattan. The Americans created a huge road network and named all the roads after streets in New York. This was the main road - and still is today - Broadway.

Prewar Japanese shrine

Another Prewar Japanese shrine at what was once the a terminal on Tinian's railroad

Japanese communications bunker. The Americans used it as a slaughterhouse

Another Japanese shrine

White Beach - American forces landed on this narrow beach. The Japanese, who expected the Americans to land on the southern beach were totally taken by surprise.

Japanese bunker on White Beach

American landing craft a short distance from White Beach

Part of the North Field complex of 4 huge runways (named Able, Baker, Charlie, and Dog), this was a specially built "Atomic Bomb Pit" designed to hoist a 9,000lb atomic bomb into the belly of a B-29. Today they are covered by a protective glass roof.

Inside one of the pits were pictures of the atomic bomb being lifted into the Enola Gay.

Runway Able

On this lonely 8,000 foot stretch of concrete in August, 1945, two planes took off carrying atomic bombs that were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki

Tinain from the air - you can barely make out runway Able in the center of the picture.

Saipan

2008-09-04T01:51:00.000-07:00

As part of my very tedious and boring job, I was sent on a trip to our sister park, American Memorial Park (www.nps.gov/amme) on the island of Saipan to help celebrate their 30th Anniversary. Those crazy people PAID me to go to Saipan! MUHA-HA-HA-HA!

Being a park ranger is a tough job, but somebody has to do it...

Seriously though, Saipan was a very bloody battle that was much more difficult than the Americans anticipated. After almost a month of fierce fighting, nearly 3,500 Americans and over 28,000 Japanese were dead. Afterward, Saipan, along with Tinian and Guam became a major American airbase for the strategic bombing of Japan.

Saipan is amazingly beautiful. In many ways it is more stunning and remarkable than Guam. The only downside is that due to a totally dysfunctional government, there is no power about half the time. I mean seriously, the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands (CNMI) government is so corrupt and dysfunctional it made Gov Guam look like a model of efficient bureaucracy in comparison. That's saying something.

Here are some photographs:

Me in my living history costume... Once a fake Marine, always a fake Marine!

The crew

An American Sherman tank the floundered on the reef flat on its way to shore June 15, 1944.

Marpi Point - over 8,000 Japanese civilians jumped to their deaths from this cliff

Japanese monuments at Marpi Point also known as "Bonsai Cliff"

Looking north from Marpi Point towards "Suicide Cliff"

NPS produced wayside interpretive marker at Marpi Point. One of the original titles was - I kid you not - "Don't Jump!" I'm glad they went with "Death and Duty""

An interesting rock formation at Latter Beach

Huge Japanese munitions bunker at the Aslito Airfield, renamed Isley Field by the Americans, now known as the Saipan International Airport.

Japanese air raid bunker - there are at least a dozen of these all over the place.

Japanese Type 97 Medium Tank with 75mm gun near the airport

Looking south at Tinian, then Aguijan (uninhabited) then in the distance, Rota

Bird Island - Saipan actually has birds... for now.

Looking south at Marpi Point from the heights of "Suicide Cliff" where thousands of Japanese soldiers jumped to their deaths.

The "Last Command Post" Japanese bunker

Various Japanese guns, most are 120mm. They were moved from their original emplacements.

A Japanese 6 inch gun (1900 British Witworth-Armstrong model) in its original casemated emplacement at Naftan Point. One of four in a battery (the other 3 guns were removed by scrap dealers in the 1950s).

Me with the gun

Also on Naftan Point deep in the jungle were 3 Japanese concrete gun revetments that were never completed

Japanese "German Style" bunker

Inside the bunker

According to local legend and much speculation, Amelia Earhart was executed in this Japanese built prison after crashing on a Japanese held island during her tragic trans-Pacific flight in 1937.

Japanese Prison Cell Block

On Mount Topachau, at 1,500 feet, the highest point in Saipan.

From the plane ride back to Guam - Saipan is on the right, Tinian on the left.

I don't mean to rub it in your face but that was a business trip.

Flashback!

2008-08-20T08:01:00.000-07:00

As I was looking through the blog today, I realized there are no pictures or stories from my first National Park Unit - Stones River National Battlefield. So I thought I would toss a couple pictures in. Also, I spoke with a friend from Tennessee today, she is working on her PhD in the same program I am still in. Actually the work on my thesis could more aptly be called FORLORN HOPE: the never ending struggle against procrastination. She mentioned that I am now an official cautionary tale at MTSU. They now tell students, "Whatever you do, DO NOT get a job in the National Park Service UNTIL you finish your degree!" Am I pathetic or what?

Anyway, so here are some memories of last year:

Jim, John, me, and Gib

Giving a program at the National Cemetery

Dressed in my finest Yankee wool

Me with Ed Bearss, former Marine and WWII vet, notable Civil War historian and former Chief Historian of the National Park Service

GUNS!

Cool car

Killing exotic plants

And finally, me firing the cannon. I am at the 3rd position (pulling the friction primer) at the piece closest to camera.

30th Anniversary

2008-08-19T19:35:00.001-07:00

Last weekend War In the Pacific National Historical Park turned 30. After much preparation and stress, we held two events to mark the occasion. First, on Friday night we hosted a reception and dedication of the T. Stell Newman Visitor Center. For the occasion we flew in Cy O'Brian, a WWII veteran who was with the 3rd Marine Division during the battle for Guam. On Saturday provided a "Meet the Park Units" program with free busses. I conducted a program at Asan Bay Overlook. Here is my program:

"When we talk about what happened during the liberation of Guam we often talk about the leaders – the generals and admirals and the movement of large bodies of troops across Guam’s rugged landscape. This is important in how we understand what happened here but it also overshadows some of the most important stories this island has to offer. For as much as the Liberation of Guam is a story of leadership and strategy it is also the compilation of tens of thousands of stories of the remarkable men and women who lived through the catastrophic events of World War II and each of these stories is significant and compelling. Today I would like to share one of them with you.

Geary Ralph Bunschu was born in 1919 in Oakland, California. Geary had one older sister, Barbra. He was named after his granddad, Thomas Geary, a former member of Congress. Geary’s great grandfather, Charles Bunschu was born in Manheim, Germany in 1842 and immigrated to California where he started California’s first winery. As you can probably imagine, by the time Geary was born, the Bundschu family was pretty well off, one of California’s leading families. While Geary was growing up on Monte Vista Avenue in Oakland, the United States was still struggling to recover from the Great Depression. At a time when many Americans were wondering if they were ever going to find a job or even a meal to eat, Geary was wondering where he was going to college. This was at a time that only the elite could get into college let alone afford it. In 1937, the same year that the Golden Gate Bridge was completed near Geary’s home in Oakland, the same year Japan invaded China and began a war that would not end for eight years, Geary enrolled at the University of California at Berkeley.

For the first time in Geary’s life he was away from home and independent. Geary flourished at Berkeley and became a very popular man on campus. He was a member of the Delta Upsilon Fraternity, the Winged Helmet Society, the Beta Beta Men’s Honor Society, the Skull and Keys Honor Society, and he also somehow found time to run on Berkeley’s track team. Needless to say, Geary was very busy. While Geary was attending class, planning fraternity formals or running in track meets, he probably wasn’t too concerned about world events. He probably didn’t consider how a war in Asia thousands of miles away could possibly have any impact on his life or even during Geary’s junior year when Germany invaded Poland he probably didn’t stop and evaluate how a new war in Europe would effect his career options.

After four busy but fun years, Geary graduated in 1941 with a General Curriculum degree. The future looked bright for Geary – anything was possible. But the veneer of solace and isolation misleadingly imposed by distance and ignorance was irrevocably shattered on the morning of December 7, 1941. On that fateful day, Japan not only bombed Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, but also this island (Guam) and began an unprecedented offensive that captured thousands of miles of territory from Singapore to Hong Kong and from Guam to Rangoon. Like countless other young American men, Geary was confronted with a momentous and life altering decision. It wasn’t if Geary would serve his country in a time of war, no, that was a given. The question for Geary was how.

Geary was a member of a prominent California family and he was college graduate – a rare commodity. Geary could serve in many capacities in fields such as planning, logistics, intelligence, or perhaps serve as a staff officer for a general. There were literally hundreds of options for Geary – options that did not involve immanent danger or combat. But Geary didn’t choose those options. Geary chose the United States Marine Corps and with this choice, Geary certainly understood that he would inevitably be put in harm’s way.

As a college graduate Geary was eligible to attend a new program – the Officer Candidate School or OCS. After completing OCS, Geary was commissioned a second lieutenant in the marines. In June of 1942, he was ordered to report for duty in North Carolina and became part of a new regiment forming there – the 3rd Marines. After only two months, Geary was back in California where, along with his new regiment, he boarded a ship to destinations unknown. As his ship sailed away from San Diego, perhaps Geary watched as the California coastline disappeared through the horizon and maybe Geary wondered when – if ever – he would see his home or his family again.

After a long and uneventful voyage, Geary disembarked at American Samoa where the 3rd Marines would engage in the most intense mountain and jungle warfare training the Marines had to offer. The Samoa’s were far from battle, yet the 3rd Marines began to have significant casualties not from bullets or bombs but from jungle diseases like malaria and especially filariasis. Eventually, Geary and his unit were transferred to New Zealand to recuperate not from battle but from training! After a couple months, they were transferred to the newly captured island of Guadalcanal. Several more months passed and Geary had been in the Pacific for over a year, but had not heard a shot fired in anger and had still not seen the indescribable carnage of battle.

Finally, in October, 1943, Geary boarded a boat that would take him into danger for the first time. Geary and the 3rd Marines, part of the 3rd Marine Division were headed for Bougainville. Bougainville was heavily defended by Japanese soldiers. On the early hours of November 1, 1943, Geary climbed down a cargo net into a landing craft. For the first time in his life, Geary was experiencing the sensations of battle – the deafening sounds, the acrid smell of gunpowder and cordite, and the unbelievable sights of death and destruction. Geary would never be the same. During the ride to the beach, Geary watched in horror as the landing craft to his left took a direct hit – killing all on board in an instant. Somehow Geary made it to shore. Once ashore Geary learned that the landing craft he saw destroyed contained most of the officers of his battalion. Not only did he have to lead as a junior officer, but Geary had to step up and help lead his battalion. After a short but intense battle, Bougainville was over for the 3rd Marines. Geary’s 1st battalion suffered more casualties than any other battalion in the regiment.

After Bougainville, Geary and the 3rd Marine Division were transferred back to Guadalcanal to recuperate and train. Geary became a captain and commander of Able Company, 1st Battalion, 3rd Marines, 3rd Marine Division. As a company commander, Geary was responsible for over 200 young Marines and knew that he would inevitably order many of them to their deaths. After another six months, Geary again boarded a troopship destined for battle, but this time it would be different. Unlike the dozens of island battlefields before, the next battle was not just another island or another step towards Japan, no, this island was Guam. Guam was America and the fate of 22,000 Americans hung in the balance. Geary and the men of the 3rd Marines were imbued with a sense of mission and understood the significance of the coming battle. Guam was the first American territory invaded by Japan and 150 Marines were captured in the process.

While on board the troopship, Geary studied his company’s objective. It was the first ridge rising from the beach and his men named it “Bundschu Ridge.” (Here I point to the actual ridge) It was Geary’s ridge and they were to capture it in the first hours of the attack. But Geary and his men waited on the ship as two weeks ticked by, then another week and another and another and another. For six long miserable weeks Geary waited aboard the wretched, stinking, cramped, reeking troopships for the battle to begin. What Geary didn’t know was that the Guam invasion had been postponed for nearly a month because the battle to capture the nearby island of Saipan had taken far more time and proven far more difficult than anyone imagined. Finally in the predawn hours of July 21, 1944, Geary again climbed down a cargo net into a landing craft for the short but terrifying ride to the beach.

The sun rose above Guam as Geary rode in to battle and perhaps Geary remembered the fate of those officers at Bougainville. Despite heavy Japanese fire, Geary made it in and immediately began to organize his company under fire. Geary set up two of his three platoons in attack and one in support and then advanced toward his ridge, but was immediately shocked and appalled. The ridge he saw in front of him was completely different than the one he had studied for hours on the maps aboard the ship. It was much higher, larger, and steeper. The maps Geary was given were totally inaccurate. The men of Able Company would not only have a difficult fight to capture an essential Japanese position, but they had to climb on their hands and knees in an arduous awkward scramble in order to do it. Despite this setback, Geary couldn’t stop and reevaluate his options; he didn’t have time to create a new plan. Geary had to attack anyway.

Geary’s ridge was not only much more imposing geographically, but more importantly it was honeycombed with determined Japanese defenders. As much as Geary and the Marines had planned, so too had the Japanese. Their objective was to hurl Geary and his men back into the ocean. Geary and his men were under constant fire from dozens of well positioned machine guns and mortars. Soon after the attack began, Able Company was taking intense fire from the front and enfilading fire from both flanks. Geary committed his third platoon. Things looked bleak. At 10:45, Geary radioed his superior, Major Aplington at 1st Battalion. He requested stretcher bearers but above all, water. Any water that Geary and his company drank had to come from the ships to the shore and then carried up the steep slope. Very little water was making it to Geary’s men. Now, men were not only falling from Japanese fire, but from exhaustion and dehydration in the sweltering jungle. By noon, Able Company had suffered nearly 50 percent casualties. After hours of heavy fighting and severe losses, Geary had come to a distressing conclusion; Able Company could not capture the ridge. Geary again radioed Major Aplington and requested permission to pull out. Major Aplington refused and reminded Geary that there was no where to go accept the beach – the ridge had to be taken. Geary was given a direct order to launch a new attack.

By now, Geary was certainly frustrated and exhausted. Many of his best men and officers were dead or wounded. Those that were left were severely fatigued and demoralized. Yet Geary had no choice – he had to obey the order. Geary, now wounded in the arm, organized what was left of his company and because there were only two other officers left, he had to personally take command of one of his three platoons. He ordered the company to wait until dusk before launching the new attack. Despite some initial resistance, the Japanese appeared to give way. Soon the top of the ridge was only 100 yards away then the resistance stiffened. Geary and his platoon encountered a machine gun nest that blocked any advance. Geary ordered his platoon to take cover and personally reconnoitered the position. Despite his wound and making himself a clear target, Geary was able to lob grenades into the enemy position, destroying it and enabling the platoon to advance. During this action, Geary was again severely wounded. During the last few yards of the attack, the Japanese were so close they began rolling grenades down toward Able Company. But despite the enemy resistance, despite the odds, Able Company reached to top of Bundschu ridge… but they couldn’t hold it. The Japanese launched a strong counter attack throwing Able Company all the way back to the beach in disarray. They carried with them their wounded commander, Captain Bundschu.

As night fell on Guam, Geary was placed in a hospital tent on Asan Beach. Major Aplington counted what was left of Able Company – only 20 percent. Able Company had lost 80 percent, lost all but one officer, and was back where they started that morning having accomplished none of their objectives.

As the sun rose over Guam on July 22, 1944, it had been over three years since Geary graduated from Berkeley when the future seemed so bright and the world wide open. But instead of realizing his dreams, Geary Bundschu died in a crowded hospital tent on Asan Beach 7,000 miles away from home. He was 25. The battle for Guam had only just begun.

Geary is now back at home in California buried at the Golden Gate National Cemetery, Section K, plot 156. He was posthumously awarded the Navy Cross, the second highest military honor. Today Geary’s name is one of over 16,000 names that appear on the Memorial Wall (point towards wall) remembering the Americans servicemen that died and Chamorro people that were killed or suffered war atrocities during the Japanese occupation and Liberation of Guam.

That was just one of tens of thousands of stories that make up the battle to liberate Guam. I hope that this story has perhaps given you a more intimate and human perspective to what this war was like to one person caught up it it’s furry."

Cy O'Brian came by and listened to my program towards the end of the day. I was intimidated by his presence, but managed to finish the program. Afterwards, Cy came up to me and thanked me for doing the program and mentioned that he had met Geary on Bougainville and watched Able company fight on Bundschu ridge.

The next day, Sunday, I was on the front page of the Pacific Daily News (Guam's newspaper).

http://www.guampdn.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20080817/NEWS01/808170307/1002/NEWS17

Movies from Guam

2008-07-30T02:03:00.001-07:00

To my surprise, there have actually been a few movies filmed on Guam: Son of Godzilla (1967), No Man Is an Island (1962), and the most recent (straight to DVD) dismal failure: Max Havoc: Curse of the Dragon (2004) starring David Carradine and Carmen Electra.

Max Havoc was an unmitigated disaster that resulted in several lawsuits. Everyone associated with the film lost money, including the Government of Guam that lost $800,000. According to an L.A. Times article, the movie was a bomb from the beginning. "The crew worked 14 to 16 often chaotic hours a day mostly 'shooting people running up and down the hallways' of the luxury-class Outrigger Guam Resort hotel," adding, "I'll give you 20 dollars if you can watch 20 minutes."

Today a friend brought a new movie to my attention. Its an indie production shot on Guam last year. I watched the trailer online - the filtered yellow hue and tragic urban decay milieu gave it a gritty, depleted and sinister perspective more reminiscent of East L.A. than Guam. Frankly it was interesting recognizing many of the locations, yet I was totally unable to grasp any of the locations in the movie's ominous context. And nothing on Guam is ever that yellow, not even the school buses.

I also noticed that they filmed in the National Park - without a film permit!!!

The horror.

Check it out: http://www.shirosheadthelegend.com/

Liberation Day

2008-07-28T04:19:00.000-07:00

On July 21, Guam celebrated the 64th anniversary of liberation from the Japanese. On December 10, 1941, Japan invaded the American territory of Guam and began a harsh two and a half year occupation. The first two years were not particularly harsh compared to the last few months. By 1944, Guam, along with the other Marianna Islands of Saipan and Tinian became Japan's last line of defense. During the last few months of occupation, the Chamorro people, who remained loyal to America despite not being American citizens, endured forced labor, scarce food, execution, and removal to concentration camps. Over 16,000 Chamorros were killed or endured atrocities. Once Japan lost the Marianas, America began strategic bombing that devastated Japan. Over 86 Japanese cities were destroyed and hundreds of thousands of Japanese civilians were killed. On the night of March 8, the firebombing of Tokyo left over 100,000 dead (more than either of the atomic bombs). All this was before the Enola Gay took off from Tinian with the world's first atomic bomb. The capture of the Marianas directly led to Japan's defeat. In 1950, the Chamorro people were finally given American citizenship. Today, Guam has the highest per capita enlistment in the military in the U.S.

July 21, 1944 - 1st American Flag on Guam in two and a half years

June 15, 1944 - Marines landing on Saipan

Men of the 77th Army Infantry Division landing on Guam

Battleship USS Tennessee bombarding Guam

Marines landing on Guam

March 8, 1945 - Tokyo Burning

For 64 years, Guam has celebrated the day that American forces returned to Guam. It is the largest most important holiday on the island. The biggest event is the Liberation Day Parade. People take Liberation Day very seriously. Everyone takes off work, all the stores are closed, and people camp out along the parade route partying for days in preparation. I was off work, so I went to check it out. It was a pretty interesting parade - for the first two hours. The next three hours were boring as hell and I eventually fell asleep.

Marine band

Navy

Float from the village of Yigo (pronounced Gee-go).

Just because they were in the parade doesn't mean they can't grill.

On a sad note, a B-52 scheduled to perform flyover of the parade crashed into the ocean with no survivors. They were from Louisiana.

Random Pictures

2008-07-28T03:18:00.001-07:00

Inside a Japanese pillbox on the Navy base

Outside the pillbox

Ritidian Point National Wildlife Refuge next to two latte stones

Inside a cave at Ritidian Point

Inside Japanese air raid bunker near Hagatna

Japanese 20cm coastal defense gun near Tumon

Latte stones - ancient Chamorro settlement

War dogs cemetery

School group at Asan Bay Overlook

School group at the Memorial Wall

View of Tumon from Mt. Santa Rosa

View of Andersen Airforce Base from Mt. Santa Rosa

Hagatna, Guam's Capitol

The Dark Side

2008-07-27T21:16:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago I participated in a different kind of Hash, the "Dark Side Hash." The Dark Side Hash is more or less a glorified pub crawl or rather pub run. Like the regular hash, there is a trail complete with marks, but instead of blazing through the jungle, the Dark Side Hash blazes through the brightly lit streets of Tumon, Hagatna, or Tumuning stopping at some of Guam's finest beverage establishments to partake in carefully brewed libations.

Actually, the Dark Side Hash targets bars that we would normally never think entering. Instead of running into the regular places we visited karaoke bars, "buy-me-drinkie" bars, and the worst possible dives you could imagine. It was... different. We practically reenacted the blitzkrieg of Poland as we rampaged through the sleepy bars and shady back alley beer joints. The look on the regulars as thirty sweating rowdy and thirsty people burst through the doors utterly shattering the veneer of solace and peace they were accustomed to was priceless. We boldly took control of the bars, demanded the mike for karaoke (every single bar on Guam has karaoke), sang annoying songs badly and eagerly devoured any and all pretzels, peanuts, or snacks that were available. One bar refused to give us the mike, so one hasher jumped on the tiny stage and belted out "Baby got back" in its entirity from memory.

On one occasion, we entered a back alley bar that is most likely a front for a bordello. The proprietor was so shocked at our sudden and loud entrance, she stood mouth to the floor in a catatonic state for at least five minutes, completely unable to take even a beer order. As quickly and suddenly as we entered, we would run into the night to the next destination leaving in our wake shock and disbelief. Even as we ran though the streets, dodging groups of people and cars, the hords of Japanese tourists would stop, stare and point in disbelief, perhaps furthering their stereotype of Amerians as loud and obnocious crazy barbarians. USA! USA! USA! Fun was had by all, but for me the reaction we caused was unforgettable.

Tennessee Highways

2008-07-15T05:15:00.000-07:00

I was suddenly interrupted from my computer coma this afternoon by Anita, one of the AMMA (Arizona Memorial Museum Association) employees that manage the bookstore. For several days I have been completely immersed in the thirtieth anniversary program, barely able to look up from my ancient government computer for hours at a time. This has presented some difficulty, as part of my job also includes providing orientation to visitors. Lucky for me there are painfully few visitors to the visitor center and AMMA staff are sometimes willing to greet those few so I can get some project work done. So it was a surprise when Anita barged into the museum curatorial crypt and motioned for me to leave my small table top “desk” and follow her out into the light.

I was pleasantly surprised to greet an older couple from my home state of Tennessee. This was the first time I have met fellow Tennesseans here on Guam. They were visiting from Knoxville and had lived on Guam for over a decade many years ago while working for the government (like me). It had been nearly twenty years since they had been back to Guam. They asked me a lot of questions, many were typical: “How long have you been here? Do they transfer you anywhere or do you get to choose? Do you like living here?” But then they caught me off guard with “What do you miss about Tennessee?”

I paused for a moment. I left Tennessee in August last year, so over the past eleven months I have consciously thought about some of the things I haven’t experienced in a good while. And to be honest I do miss Tennessee surprisingly more than I anticipated. I miss spring, where one day it can be hot and breezy but the next cold and rainy. I miss the unambiguous change of seasons that help determine the progress of the year and allow me to appreciate the cold, hot, wet, and dry. And somehow like them all.

But after thinking I answered, “I miss fall. You know, the colors. Nothing beats the Smoky’s in the fall.” I was referring to the Great Smoky Mountain National Park (www.nps.gov/grsm) located in the beautiful Appalachian Mountains of East Tennessee and the transcendental majesty of the fall colors that appear every year, but I also was thinking of going back to school, college football, the relief from Tennessee’s oppressive summer heat, and countless fleeting memories of growing up.

The couple agreed enthusiastically, completely understanding not only the beauty of the Smoky’s but somehow more. Talking with these folks, I suddenly I felt taken away from Guam and if only for a brief moment back home. They asked if I had ever thought about working at the Great Smoky Mountain National Park but then took the conversation on a completely different trajectory.

“I bet you miss the roads!” the old man said. Growing more passionate he continued, “I’ve been all over the world, but Tennessee has the best roads anywhere.” I was caught off guard for a second by quickly recovered. At first, swept up in my sentimental journey, I agreed with enthusiasm. I nearly shouted, “Tennessee’s got the best roads, hands down!” A wave of pride swept through me as I recalled how Tennessee’s roads are the most smooth, straight, and well-built roads in the nation. The roads are so smooth, that I can’t even count how many times that I have fallen asleep at the wheel and woken up thinking I was in bed at home. I mean these roads are the greatest roads mankind has ever created. The Ancient Romans would weep at the sight and engineering brilliance of Interstate 40. Tennessee’s roads deserve a place among the Seven Wonders of the World! GO T-DOT! WHEE-WHO!! (Tennessee Department of Transportation). After our spirited approval of Tennessee's roads, I bid my new friends an affectionate farewell and went back to my office.

Unable to go right back to work, I pondered the encounter. Why did they bring up the roads? It was kind of weird. Does Tennessee really have nothing else to offer except smooth sexy roads? I began to recall the nightmare of Nashville traffic, the constant, inconvenient and ubiquitous road construction across the state, the lackluster driving ability of most of Tennessee’s citizenry, unusually high driving fatalities, and finally the omnipresence of Tennessee’s state troopers. My pride began to wane.

My positive memory of Tennessee’s roads probably has something to do with the horrid state of Guam’s road (yes, I said road). Guam essentailly has only one major road and it is the worst road that can ever be imagined. Giant holes, huge bumps, open manholes, and worse abound. In one of the worst examples, erosion is threatening to wash away an entire section of the highway. Instead of fixing the problem, the highway repair agency has merely barricaded off the washed out lane of traffic, somehow hoping that nature will cease and the erosion will somehow not continue to wash the entire road away. There are bridges that are so old and dilapidated along a major road that only one care is allowed to drive through at a time yet there are no plans to build new ones.

The government of Guam is totally dysfunctional, I thought. Gov Guam is a lot different than Tennessee. Or is it? Tennessee spends billions a year on roads, but why? Just like Guam, Tennessee spends its money as directed by a very elite and connected group of people – people that own road construction firms. It seems that there is always money for roads, but not much else. I remembered an old Tennessee aphorism, “Tennessee has the best roads, leading to the worst schools.”

There are some things I don’t miss about Tennessee.

But seriously, Tennessee has got some kick ass roads.

Holy crap! I have lost my capacity to discern the passage of time

2008-07-10T04:28:00.000-07:00

Today I realized that it is nearly the middle of July. How could this have happened? Is it already July? July, 2008? July 10, 2008 A.D.?

Yes, I know it is July. I’ve known that for at least a week. In fact I signed several documents this week that required me to write down the current date. But the authenticity of it all did not hit me until today and frankly I am stunned and bewildered.
I have been here for almost four months and for some reason I am having great difficulty believing it. Although in some respects, I feel as if I have been on this tiny island for quite a while, for the most part I still feel as if I have only been here for a few days, at most a week or two.

This realization occurred during a call to the Guam Army National Guard Public Affairs Office. I was calling to schedule an appearance by the color guard for War In the Pacific NHP’s 30th Anniversary (or birthday) next month. We are planning a major event to commemorate this milestone. Many important locals such as the Governor, Congresswoman and NPS people, such as the Regional Director, are coming from the mainland for this occasion. Needless to say, the closer we get to August, the more stressful it has become at work. To be completely frank, we are woefully unprepared for this event. But I digress…

So, after nearly an hour being passed around from one National Guard officer to the next, I finally reached an officer that attempted to help me. But even he could not compete against the astounding level of bureaucratic incompetence that saturates all government entity that exists on Guam. Once again I was placed on hold. Then suddenly music came on over the phone, music that I had not heard in over a dozen years. I kid you not, it was the theme song from the 1980s cartoon “Inspector Gadget.”

“Da-Da-Da-Da-Da Inspector Gadget! Da-Da-Da-Da-Da DA-DAAAA…”

I nearly dropped the phone. “What the…,” I mumbled as I tried to understand why this song was playing. The entire song played through and then to my continued amazement started over from the beginning.

I can guess what you are thinking – who cares what song is playing while you were on hold. Normally you would be right, but as the song played over and over and over, I started to day dream and soon fell into a deep trance-like state.

“Da-Da-Da-Da-Da Inspector Gadget! Da-Da-Da-Da-Da DA-DAAAA…”

Moments of my life began to unfold in my mind. I immediately remembered watching Inspector Gadget on my family’s ancient turn dial television set. Other moments flashed by until I was remembering last summer working at Stones River Battlefield. I was there a year ago, but it seems like only last week.

“Go, Gadget, Go! DA-DAAAA…”

At this same time last year my stint at Stones River was already half over. The surreal experience continued as I remembered working at Manzanar.

I wondered to myself, wait – something’s happening. Where am I?

A moment ticked by as I tried to abruptly shift back to reality. “Hello… is anyone there?” the voice on the phone asked again.

Oh yeah, I’m on hold. How long have I been on hold?

I almost asked the voice to turn back on the music.

After I got off the phone, again unable to find anyone who could help me, I began to realize how quickly not just the last four months had gone by, but the last year.

I know time flies, but today time gave me a round-house kick to the face. I can’t believe it’s already July. Maybe I’m just getting old.

The Berserk Hash

2008-06-21T20:38:00.000-07:00

Well dear reader, as I mentioned before, I am currently without the use of a camera. For this installment you will have to endure writing sans pictures. But even if I did have a camera, I would not have been able to take it with me on my most recent adventure. Many of my previous posts have been about some of my hashing adventures, but none so far are as epic and remarkable as the one you are about to read. This post is about my first “Berserk Hash.”

The Berserk Hash originated years ago thanks to a slightly crazed and salty Vietnam vet affectionately called “Berserk.” Berserk has lived on Guam for many years and is one of the few that remembers the inaugural Guam hash that began on June 21, 1981. Over the years Berserk developed a taste for setting extraordinarily long and difficult runs. With blatant disregard for safety and exhaustion, Berserk set trails that tested the limits and finally the patience of all of Guam’s hashers. Berserk set trails that sometimes took up to nine hours to complete and most were not able to finish them at all. Berserk not only became a living legend of hashing, but for the safety and sanity of all involved he was eventually banned from setting trails altogether. After a lengthy cooling off period, a compromise was reached; Berserk could set his own “Berserk Hash” on occasional Sundays and would only be allowed to set one regular Saturday hash trail per year. The day chosen for Berserk was the Saturday closest to June 21, the longest Saturday of the year.

Unlike North America, the length of the day on Guam (much closer to the equator) does not fluctuate very much during the seasons. While in June, the longest day of the year lasts thirteen hours, the shortest day of the year in December is only two hours shorter at eleven hours. Guam does not practice daylight savings time.

Over the last ten weeks or so, I have been on some difficult hashes. In one particular hash three weeks ago, several people got lost. Despite the length and difficulty, I managed to make it in before dark. After several hours of darkness veteran hashers were sent out and successfully found many of the dozen or so lost hashers. One guy was found up a tree, holding his glowing cell phone aloft and yelling for help. Another guy was not found at all and ended up spending the night in the jungle. The remarkable thing is that most of the lost hashers, including the guy that spent the night in the jungle are in the military!

After the easiest hash ever last week, I began to develop a false sense of security and frankly arrogance. I can handle any hash now, I thought. I should have known better. Despite my self deception and conceit, I was still wary of attempting a Berserk hash. I had heard and taken heed of the horror stories and warnings and while I was confidant I was physically up to the challenge, I was uncertain that I wanted to subject myself to such torture. Over the next week my coworker and hash guru James launched an effective psychological offensive, attempting to convince me to go on the Berserk. It worked.

At two pm on June 21, 2008 I gathered with the other brave hashers to begin the Berserk. While most hashes have around forty to fifty sometimes sixty hashers, our group only numbered fourteen. We had all been drinking copious amounts of water since Friday in preparation and packed water, food, flashlights, and cell phones (in waterproof bags) for the journey. The run began on the East side of the Island at Pago Bay on the Pacific. Before it began, Berserk recalled the first hash on Guam, “It all began here at Pago Bay twenty seven years ago.” Berserk then turned and ran into the jungle, his maniacal laughter echoed in his wake. He asked for twenty minutes head start but we gave him only fifteen before we began the trail.

The trail started out normally enough. Beginning in a single tight packed group, we ran into the jungle and swam across a large brackish saltwater estuary then we began a short climb. The trail then descended into a river valley and followed the river for some time before we began to recognize the trail from a previous hash. We were on the exact same trail that we had run on the Cinco de Mayo run back in May. In fact, the guy who had set the trail that day was with us. The trail was almost completely in a river teeming with mosquitoes. I remember hating it back in May and I hadn’t grown to like it any more in June. In one deep area of the river, I smashed my left shin against a submerged tree. The pain was excruciating but it was only the beginning.

J.J., the hasher who had set the trail back in May, suggested we take a shortcut up an off-road trail parallel to the river. About half the group and I took his suggestion and left the river trail for the road. After a mile or so, it was clear that the shortcut was anything but. We emerged in a junk yard and then into a village, Chalan Pago. We got on to a main road and ran about two miles back towards a bridge over the river where the May trail had ended and we found the trail again. Although everyone in our group of four thought differently, I was certain that we were far behind everyone else. By this point, I had consumed half my water. We were only at most a fourth of the way through.

The trail continued up the river. We were all thoroughly sick of the river. For hours we had been wet, the rocks were slippery and we were all starting to get very tired. We began to slip and fall more often. Our pace slowed. Mile after mile the trail continued up the river and the sun began to fade into the horizon. After an interminable period of time, the trail climbed out of the river and up onto a steep grass-covered ridge. After an exhausting climb, we reached the pinnacle and collapsed in a heap. We took a break to eat some food and catch our breath. As we continued on, the trail weaved over the grassy ridge and then suddenly, much to our disgust, descended back into the same river valley. While we paused to curse Berserk and his reckless trail, we evaluated our options. Unfortunately the ridge we were on was inaccessible to any roads, to get out we would have to follow the trail back down to the river and up the ridge on the other side. The sun was gone, leaving perhaps only twenty to thirty minutes of diminishing light, but we soldiered on nevertheless. By now, my legs were weak, rubbery and beset with cramps but since I was almost out of water, I couldn’t drink very much.

As we clamored down the steep descent, we re-entered the jungle and plunged into almost total darkness. We paused to take out our flashlights and slowly continued. As we neared the river, I slipped on a rock and fell head over heels, tumbling onto several sharp rocks. As I landed on my rear, pain shot through my body and I shrieked in agony. Before my brain could determine which bone I had broken, the rear leg muscles in both legs (I believe the biceps femoris) began convulsing in excruciating cramps. New shrieks and curses spewed from my mouth in rapid succession. The group came to an abrupt halt to investigate my predicament. After a few moments, I was able to gather myself and struggle to my feet. “I think I broke my ass,” I said. “You all will have to carry me out,” I kidded. After a brief laugh, we continued on.

The trail ventured back into the river. About a month ago I bought new shoes specifically for hashing. The New Balance shoes were lightweight all terrain running shoes that were on sale. After wearing them four times, I realized that they were woefully inadequate for hashing. Although the light weight, thin sole and mesh material was nice when wet and dried quickly, it did not provide any protection whatsoever to my feet. After hours of walking on sharp rocks, my feet had gone from numb to steadily throbbing in pain.

The trail finally exited the river for the last time and began to go straight up the grassy ridge. I finally ran out of water climbing the ridge. On all fours climbing up the ridge, I was experiencing new levels of fatigue I had never before known. As I was climbing on my hands and knees through the pitch black seven feet tall grass, one hand grasping a flashlight, I slammed the side of my face into a tree. I fell backwards momentarily stunned. I felt as if I had been punched in the face when it began to dawn on me; I did this on my own free will. All the warnings were correct this is unimaginably hard and painful. Why on earth did I choose to do this?

After we reached the top, it was night and we could not find the trail marks. After a brief search we located the trail which thankfully followed an off-road vehicle trail towards Nimitz Hill. Thinking we were home free, we began chatting, but the road continued on an on. I noticed that a piece of my left shoe had begun to fall off. I reached down to yank it off and half of the bottom of my shoe came with it. I had only worn my new shoes five times. After nearly two hours we came across Dave, another hasher who we hadn’t seen since our “shortcut.” He was surprised and relieved to see us. Apparently Dave, who had been with the other group, became so exhausted that he just laid down and fell asleep on the trail. He woke up right before a 4x4 truck was about to run over him.

Eventually we made it up to Nimitz Hill and walked past a water tank. “Water!” I yelled. Much to our dismay, however, the tank was surrounded by a barbed wire fence. While we pondered our options, Dave scrambled over the fence, through the barbed wire, and turned on a valve. A powerful blast of water shot through the fence. We greedily drank and refilled our camel-backs with water. We continued down a paved road and attempted to call James. It was 9:15. After walking another half hour, James called back only to tell us that we had passed the on-home (finish) about a mile and a half ago. After a collective groan, we turned around and walked back finally reaching the finish. We were the last ones in. It had taken us over seven hours. During the campfire I was given the honor of an official hash name: Overdue Goo.

Today, as I write this my entire body is sore. My shin has swollen to nearly twice its normal size. There are bruises and cuts all over my body, even the bottom of my feet are bruised and I will probably have a black eye. Despite the exhaustion and pain, the Berserk Hash is not something I will soon forget. So, will I try another Berserk hash? Perhaps, but once a year might be too often for me.

Talafofo

2008-06-18T19:00:00.000-07:00

So, my camera is gone so here are some older pictures of the village I live in.

Catholic Church

Downtown

Home

Store

Talafofo Mayor's Office (usually closed)

Baptist Church

La Isla de Los Ladrones

2008-06-18T12:00:00.000-07:00

In 1521 Ferdinand Magellan became the first European to discover Guam. The native Chamorro people provided the famished Magellan and his men with food and supplies and expected to be paid or compensated. Magellan, apparently unaware of the basic concept of trade, refused to give anything in return. Angered at such an insult, the Chamorros clamored aboard Magellan's ships and began taking anything made of iron. The fact that the Chamorros already understood the intrinsic value of iron prior to European discovery suggests a preexisting trade network with Asia. Magellan, however, did not pause to ponder this conclusion and began to kill the Chamorros and burn the villages. Magellan named Guam "La Isla de Los Ladrones," the Island of Thieves. Luckily, the islands were later renamed.

Last week I had a run in with some thieves or rather some thieves had a run in with my unlocked car. It was after a hash that ended at Piti beach. It was well attended by about fifty hashers and we all parked within fifty feet from our bonfire. During the post-hash rituals, someone stealthily raided several of our cars. I assumed that my beat up P.O.S. vehicle would not attract attention but I was wrong. The culprit stole my backpack given to me by my late step mom. Inside the backpack was my digital camera and my government issued cell phone. Yes this could have happened anywhere, but petty theft is somewhat endemic here on Guam. One coworker recalled the time her car was robbed when she was inside the post office and another told me about when his car was broken into when he was at church.

Perhaps I should lock my car.

Underwater World

2008-06-17T01:57:00.001-07:00

Recently I got to take a trip through Guam's aquarium, Underwater World. One of my new friends from hashing, Elaina, works at Underwater World and invited me on a special VIP personal tour. Of course I jumped at the chance. Underwater World showcases fish that inhabit the waters around Guam. Elaina demonstrated her knowledge and skill as she guided me through the glass tunnel of the main aquarium. It was an incredible tour. I'll let the fish speak for themselves.

I renamed this fish the "Drag queen Fish"

Close second, "Tammy Fey Backer Fish"

If you step on this Stone Fish, you will probably die.

From the poison
(its poisonous - the poison will kill you)

Unless you get immediate medical attention in which case you might live but languish in the hospital for several months wishing you were dead

and still die.
In conclusion, don't step on this fish.

The infamous Brown Tree Snake.

It looks like I caught him getting undressed.

How embarrassing for him - screw you Brown Tree Snake!

This hurt turtle washed up on shore recently.

Behind the scenes, or rather above them

My Job Sucks

2008-06-04T05:23:00.000-07:00

So, I've been here for over two months. Perhaps you're wondering what exactly I do here between hashes. Well, as a Park Ranger at War In the Pacific National Historical Park, my responsibilities are multifaceted. And no, I don't hike around with a gun looking for poachers or bears stealing pick-a-nick baskets.

For all NPS employees, our fundamental objective is to preserve the parks for future generations. To achieve that objective, I help people experience and understand the park. How does that help preserve? Allow me to quote an African philosopher:

"For in the end, we will conserve only what we love. We will love only what we understand. We will understand only what we are taught."

So by helping people understand the significance of places like War In the Pacific, I help preserve them. It's really that simple, not to mention highly enjoyable and very fulfilling. As a new employee, however, I am still struggling to understand the park myself. I have not visited every park unit, hiked every trail, climbed every rock, or read every book.

Much of the past two months I have been doing those things. My job has been one of orientation. For instance, last week several of my colleagues and I spent the morning hiking up to Mount Tenjo, one of the most remote park units. In 1910 the U.S. Navy used the commanding view of Mount Tenjo to build a coastal gun battery emplacement. Although the guns were dismantled in the 1930s, the same mountain witnessed the two U.S. beachheads come together during the fight to liberate Guam from the Japanese, thus assuring victory.

Guided by James, the intrepid Cultural Resources Park Ranger (and fellow hasher), we hiked up to Mount Tenjo. It was outstanding.

Here we are about to get started.

Erosion is a major problem on Guam, here it is caused by off road 4x4 driving.

Some great views from Tenjo.

Rain in the distance.

Soldiers carved their names and "DEC 25 1929"

Here we are where the guns were.

Last Tuesday, I accompanied two of our Natural Resources Division staff for a field day on the reefs off Agat. Over half of the park's 2,000 acres are underwater, so I needed to see firsthand some of the most threatened areas of our park. Natural Resources Division does extensive SCUBA diving to monitor the impact of sediment from runoff on the reef. I tagged along on the boat with my snorkel to watch them in action. It was yet another fantastic experience.

This is me, just signaling the girls on the boat that I saw a sunken World War II Amtrac (landing craft).

Oh yeah... I forgot to metion that they pay me to do this. With money.

The Best (or worst) Hash Yet

2008-05-25T03:58:00.000-07:00

After an amazing afternoon among the fish, I headed out for another hash. Hashing has only become better and better. Each week the hash is somewhat easier, somewhat harder, always different and always an adventure. I am a very lazy person by nature and sometimes it is difficult to find motivation to do something, especially something physical, even though I know I will enjoy it. But this is not the case with hashing. I can not wait to hash and look forward to Saturday evenings.

This week we again ventured to the southland (third week in a row). The south of Guam is more mountainous and hilly than the rather flat plateau of the north. The south has a mixture of grassy and rocky mountain sides combined with jungle river valleys and waterfalls. This time the two hairs quickly begin the hash with a warning, “You all had better run faster this time, because this one is going to take a while.” This warning turned out to be prophetic.

The run began normally enough with the prerequisite waterfall and steep hill side, but then began to deteriorate. The trail ran right through a large patch of “boonie bees” some sort of Guamanian wasp. Although there was much hilarity, "BEES!!!" this broke up the group and the trail. I ventured off on my own going through a desolate valley where a wild fire had recently ravaged the area. After an exhausting climb, I collapsed at the top of a hill and was ecstatic to see some of the front runners close by. This was the first time I have “flown” on a hash, or run off trail on my own, thinking that I knew where I was going. Luckily it worked.

Over an hour and a half had gone by, the end must be near I thought. The trail led us on to an amazing vista, a sea side cliff that overlooks the Philippine Sea and the sun was close to the horizon. Although I always regret not being able to bring a camera on the hash, this was by far the best view I have seen on Guam. I looked down the cliff and into the deep ocean bay hundreds of feet bellow. Much to my surprise I could make out a few tiny people on the deserted beach and then it began to dawn on me, those guys are hashing. This trail is not even close to being done.

Eventually I made it down the cliff and onto the beach where we walked completely around the bay and then straight up the cliff on the other side. After getting to the top, I looked back to the north and saw people on the cliff opposite me where I was about an hour ago. Whoa, I hope they have flashlights, I thought. Then I looked to the south and saw another group of tiny people on the horizon several hills over ahead of me. Screw the trail, I thought, I can find my own way over there and save time. After all, I’ve done it before and it was starting to get dark.

Much to my surprise, an FNG (F%*@g New Guy) – what everyone calls the rookies, decided to follow me. After much initial progress, I nearly led us both off the side of a cliff and in the growing dark I couldn’t see the bottom. We had to retrace our steps all the way back to the trail in order to continue. After over three hours total and the dark of night, I arrived at the on home utterly exhausted and spent.

Despite my time consuming error, however, most of the hashers were still unaccounted for. Over another hour and a half went by before everyone made it in. Some were enraged at the difficulty and length, but most were just glad it was over. Everyone demanded a full explanation from the hairs. Instead of planning the hash as a team, the two hairs had divided the task in two and neither of them was familiar with the trail in its entirety. As a consequence, it was nearly double the length of a typical trail and one of the hairs had lost his glasses, gone astray, and had to be rescued. Everyone relentlessly eviscerated the hairs for their many errors and celebrated the conclusion of another Guam hash.

In my opinion, it was by far the greatest hash yet.

The Ocean

2008-05-25T03:54:00.000-07:00

I suddenly woke up Saturday morning in the middle of a vivid dream. In the dream I was scuba diving down to a sunken ship in Apra Harbor. The ship was in excellent condition and I ventured inside the wreck into someone’s former living quarters then I awoke.

Later that morning as I was trying to remember the dream it dawned on me; I have been here almost two months but I still haven’t snorkeled or even so much as dipped my feet in the ocean! So Saturday I decided a snorkel trip was long overdue. After a leisurely breakfast of oatmeal and coffee, I lathered up my torso in 1000 SPF sunscreen so that my pale skin wouldn’t spontaneously combust after contact with direct rays of the sun. I was once a lifeguard and although I am in all probability doomed to skin cancer, I don’t want to further antagonize either the sun or my skin.

I set out to Tumon, the tourist Mecca and also the best beach on the island. Amid the towering beach front resorts and hotels is a small public park, Ipao Beach. After fighting the weekend traffic, I arrived at Ipao. Clearly Ipao is a beach for the locals. Nestled in between the Hilton and Marriott resorts, the beach parking lot was loaded with the run down cars and Chamorro people that tended to clash with the swanky resorts and Japanese tourists a few yards away.

Perhaps the public beach park is merely an attempt to placate the local people so that they might not notice that hotel chains and resorts have gobbled up the best beachfront property on Guam. I parked my run down sputtering corolla next to another run down sputtering corolla and made my way to the white coral beach. I gathered my newly purchased snorkel gear and waded into the surprisingly clean teal water.

The ocean is almost always a perfect 82 degrees. Many people have told me about the fantastic snorkeling at Tumon, but never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that it could be so amazing. A few dozen yards from the shore, I was suddenly inside an aquarium.

I couldn’t believe the tremendous amount of fish and coral. There were large schools of fish of a vast rainbow of colors and shapes. After swimming around for a while I just floated still and watched the show. Several times I surfaced to look around, certain that I had unwittingly ventured miles out to sea, only to realize I was still less than fifty yards from shore and a few feet from kids playing in the water.

I don’t know what impressed me more, the tremendous sea life, or the fact that that sea life could exist and even thrive despite the impact of millions of tourists. I left Ipao blown away and more determined to get a scuba certification.

My First Earthquake

2008-05-11T04:04:00.000-07:00

It was a quiet Saturday morning, it was my day off and I was asleep. In the middle of a particularly entertaining dream, I feel a jolting sensation as if someone is shaking me awake. I open my bleary eyes ready to punch someone, but to my surprise no one is around yet the shaking continues. I am utterly confused. In my sleepy stupor it begins to dawn on me what is happening - an earthquake! Before I can panic or try to enjoy the ride it is over. I look around briefly and then glance at the clock - 7:52AM. I mutter out loud, "earthquake... I'm alive... cool." I immediately roll over and go back to sleep. I wake up two hours later not sure if I was dreaming or if it was real. By the evening I have completely forgotten about it. Robert gets home from work at 6 and the first question he asks is "Did you feel the earthquake?" So it was real! I described my dreamlike experience and ask him to give his accounting: Robert was awake and getting ready for work. He began to hear a distant deep moan that grew closer. The sound quickly intensified until it resembled a freight train. Suddenly the entire house shifted violently to the north followed by another sudden shift back to the south. Then the house shook for another three to four seconds in its place. Today I looked up the quake on the USGS website, it was a 6.7:

http://earthquake.usgs.gov/eqcenter/recenteqsww/Quakes/us2008rvcj.php

Living in "God's Country"

2008-05-11T03:32:00.000-07:00

I have moved to my new permanent house. My new street address is along Enrique San Nicolas Lane in the village of Talafofo high in the southern hills of Guam. It is beautiful and quiet, save for the occasional rooster crow. The San Nicolas family lives in the dozen or so houses along my street which terminates into the jungle a few hundred yards away from my house. There is almost no car traffic and because of the elevation, it is about ten degrees cooler than down on the coast. Most of the time, my roommate and coworker Robert and I don't even use the a/c. We simply open up all the doors and windows and let the constant ocean breeze flow gently through the house. The local people call Talafofo "God's Country."

This is my bedroom.

This is the view from my window.

The Guamanian Car Saga Part III: Hope, Obama Style

2008-05-11T03:01:00.000-07:00

Well, dear reader, I bring you yet another episode of the expensive and frustrating Guamanian Car Saga. To review, I have already bought two vehicles for use on Guam. The first one lasted twenty minutes. The second lasted two weeks. I was able to drive a coworkers car for a week and a half while she was off island. Desperate for a functioning car and with my bankroll growing smaller and smaller, I called a girl named Delores about a 1993 Toyota Corolla Wagon. She apologized but she could not show me the car for several days. She was volunteering for the Obama campaign here on Guam.

This month Guam was center stage in the presidential race. The 2008 Democratic primary will probably be the first and only time that Guam will play any significant roll in any election. After the primary, Guam will revert to its unremarkable and nationally irrelevant status as a territorial pariah. Not only does Guam lack any electoral votes, but there isn't even a meaningless popular vote. On this island, no one can cast a vote for president at all. Period. So, with the added importance of the democratic primary, both Hillary and Obama bombarded the Guamanian airwaves with adds, totally perplexing the local people unaccustomed to political commercials. For once people on Guam were actually given an opportunity to cast a meaningful vote for president, if only in the Democratic primary.

Several Days after my call, Delores and I met to check out the car. The car started (unlike my first car) and drove and the brakes worked (unlike my second car). Although the car is a little banged up, runs loud, paint is going fast, and the tires are as bald as Mr. Clean, it did seem pretty solid. I recounted my car saga as pathetically as possible. Delores expressed sympathy and offered for me to drive her car for two weeks without paying! In review: Delores will sell me a car that works, allow me to test drive it for two weeks and she is an Obama supporter = Delores is a saint.

After the meeting I followed her back to Obama HQ and offered to help during the primary on Saturday. I returned on the day of the primary to answer phones. On two occasions I delivered more ballots to the polls, but only voted once. Needless to say, the primary was extremely disorganized. In the end Obama won Guam by 7 votes.

Today I am still driving the car. It still runs and the a/c still works. I have not paid for it, but Delores has already signed over the title and given me everything. I can not believe that she has not required some form of payment, her trusting naivete is like a mirror image of my own. Tomorrow I will finally pay her with my last amount of money.

For the next episode: Selling the Cadillac.

The Brown Tree Snake

2008-04-27T02:18:00.000-07:00

On my way back from the hash last night I spotted a snake on the road. It was the notorious brown tree snake. This was the first time I have seen the hated snake and many of my coworkers that have been on Guam for years have still never seen them. The brown tree snake arrived on Guam during or shortly following World War II. The exotic species was the first snake ever to slither through Guam's beautiful jungles and the island would never be the same. Over the past 50 years, the brown tree snake has decimated the bird population. There are practically no birds on the island. The only birds I have seen are a few swallows - an exotic species from Europe.

The brown tree snake on Guam is the first documented case of an exotic species to single handedly drive another species into extinction (unless you count human beings). No one knew it could actually happen. Here are some of the birds that are gone:

The White Throated Ground Dove: Extirpated from Guam

The Bridle White-Eye : Extirpated from Guam

Cardinal Honey eater: Extirpated from Guam

Nightingale Reed-warbler: Extirpated from Guam

Guam Rail: Endangered

Rufous Fantail: Extinct

Marianas Fruit Dove: Extirpated from Guam

Micronesian Kingfisher: Exists only in captivity

Guam Flycatcher: Extinct

Today, the brown tree snake has also been sighted on Saipan. Saipan is one of the last island where many of these birds remain in their native habitat. Rota, the other island, has a feral cat problem that is decimating the native birds.

The only good thing about the brown tree snakes' continued presence on Guam is since they have eliminated all the birds, they help control the rat population - another exotic invasive species.

1350 Guam Hashes

2008-04-27T01:53:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the Hagatna Hash House Harriers' 1,350th Hash on Guam. A hash has taken place on Guam every week for twenty six years. I was on hand for the occasion. It was my third hash. We began the hash at the southeast corner. It was my first time to that region. The drive from Hagatna to the start point took over 30 minutes. While the distance was far short of 30 miles, driving on Guam is a time consuming affair. There is always traffic and at no point on the island does the speed limit exceed 45 miles per hour. We parked at a school that was recently closed by the Attorney General for numerous health code violations including a large rat infestation.

This type of school closing is an all too frequent reminder of Guam's completely dysfunctional department of education. Everyone knew that this run was significant and had made arrangements to camp out and following the hash. Unfortunately, I had to work Sunday and could not stay the night. Although the hash was not as daunting as last week which involved climbing ropes down the sheer 50ft cliffs of two waterfalls, it was nevertheless challenging. The trail included many dead ends which we fell for at one time or another. After about two hours of jungle running, river crossing, hill climbing fun, we emerged near the beach wet and tired. The on home was set up for camping with mowed grass, several large tents, and torches.

For this special occasion, there were additional activities prepared (for which we had paid $14 more than the standard $6). After the standard camp fire ritual there was catered food and even a DJ! I drank bottled water as everyone else consumed mass quantities of beer. I waited for the catered food to be served before I drove back to Tumuning. Although I was disappointed that I was unable to camp out with everyone, I did enjoy the celebration. Hashing is certainly one of the best discoveries I have yet made on this island.

It appears that I will work on Saturdays in my new work schedule, making it extremely difficult or impossible to hash in the not too distant future...

USS Nimitz

2008-04-23T23:00:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week a guy wandered into the visitor center. After he went through the the exhibits and watched the movie, we got to talking. Turns out he is in the navy aboard the USS Nimitz, a super carrier. He invited me back to check out the largest class of warships in the world. Of course I agreed. Normally only navy personnel and guests are allowed on the base so for me it was a "two for one" kind of opportunity. At over 100,000 tons and over 1,000 feet long, the ship is ginormous. They took me all over the ship, on the flight deck, through the hangar, crew quarters, galley, the works. I got to see the new F-18 Superhornets - It was awesome! Some photos:

Random Sunsets

2008-04-23T04:51:00.000-07:00

Sunsets are always amazing here on Guam. Today I realized that I don't have any on the blog, so here are a few:
Just think what I could do if I had a decent camera...

The Great Guamanian Car Saga Part II

2008-04-22T05:56:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday after work, I decided to drive by the Guam tax and revenue building to see where it is. Soon, I thought, I will need to register my new Cadillac and obtain a Guam drivers license.

Getting directions on Guam is difficult because about half the streets and roads lack signs. Oral directions involve buildings and landmarks rather than street names. For instance, "Do you know where the Burger King is Dededo? OK, drive past the Burger King then take a left at the tire swing, drive down the road until you see a big pack of dogs then take a right when you see an old refrigerator..." Needless to say, finding things can be challenging.

As Gov Guam is the epitome of a dysfunctional inefficient bureaucracy, it was highly recommended that I get to the Guam tax building at 7am to get my paperwork done before the place closed. So I took the time to drive up there after work. Traffic was the worst I have seen on Guam. It was a bumper to bumper crawl. Eventually I passed the tax building, duly noting its location, and continued on the sluggish ride home. After over an hour of traffic, I got home just in time to watch my left front tire go flat.

I checked the trunk and of course there was no tire jack. At least there was a tiny spare. Annoyed and with little patience, I removed the hub cap. I was shocked to discover that the hubcap was partially melted. The wheel was red-hot. After waiting several hours for it to cool, my roommate and I removed the wheel and put on the spare. It was clear the wheel was not spinning freely and as a consequence friction was super heating the wheel as it turned.

The next morning I went to a nearby mechanic for diagnosis. To my horror, they gave me a shopping list of repairs needed - basically an entirely new brake system for $1100. But they did repair my tire and put it back on. So now I am driving a coworker's car while she is off island. Thankfully, she offered use of the car if I needed it. But after she returns on May 5, I will have to find something else...

Hashing

2008-04-14T04:27:00.000-07:00

When James picked me up at the airport, one of the first things I noticed were his bumper stickers on his Jeep. One of them, "Hasher" piqued my curiosity. "What is Hasher?" I enquired. "That's only the greatest thing ever." James explained the basic concept of Hashing.

Hashing is half sport-half subculture. Beginning in the 1930s in Malaysia, Hashing is still practiced across America and all over the world. Someone could describe Hashing as a cross country running/drinking club. Essentially Hashing is an overland run with several important nuances. A Hashing group meets once a week at a predetermined location. 2-3 people serve as the week's trail setters or "hares." At the rendezvous, the hares give directions on where everyone is to drive to begin the hash. Upon arrival the hares post the final destination of the run and then begin to set the trail. The hares have five to ten minutes head start before the rest of the group begins to chase them. The hares "set trail" through the jungle periodically leaving markers for the group to find. It behoves the hares to make the trail difficult and not easy for the rest of the group, the "hounds," to follow. After everyone makes it to the end of the hash, beer is ritualistically consumed around a bonfire where songs are sung and people are ridiculed.

On Saturday, after spending all day hiking around, becoming severely dehydrated and exhausted, I decided to go to the Hash anyway. It began in the northern half of the island, near Anderson Air Force Base. We ran down a road a ways and then into the jungle. Running through the jungle was difficult. At times we could manage no more than a brisk walk as we stepped over the roots, vines, plants, trees, and coconuts. After twenty minutes, I was again exhausted. I could run no more. I hiked through the trail in between the runners and the walkers.

After an hour the trail emerged in grassy clearing. I could not believe my eyes, I was in an abandoned city. It was once a housing complex that was part of Anderson Air Force Base. Now abandoned for many years, it looks as if the Apocalypse had occurred and the jungle was quickly reconquering the large dormitories, smaller apartments and family houses on once busy streets and once neatly manicured lawns. There were also wrecked cars and bullet casings everywhere adding to the post apocalyptic vibe - the military now uses the complex as an urban warfare training center. It was an amazing place to behold. Later I asked how long the place had been abandoned - it looked like decades. I was told, however, it was abandoned only ten years ago. The jungle can take over in a matter of years and decades later the place will have ceased to exist.

The trail veers back into the jungle and then into sword grass before heading down into a gorge. The sun is setting and the jungle is very dark. But I can hear voices - the end is near. The end of the trail - called the 'on home' is next to a large cave with an amazing freshwater lake inside. We all take a dip in the cave lake and begin to drink beer. A fire is started and many people leave. Most, however, stay for the fire and beer which is another story. After my first hashing experience, all I can say is, wow.

Boonie Stomping

2008-04-14T04:23:00.000-07:00

Boonie stomping is a wildly popular pass-time on Guam. Essentially, boonie stomping is hiking around the jungle. That's it. The simplicity is genius. There are no trails, no rules, you just get outside and walk around the jungle. Since the island is small, you could conceivably walk from the east coast to the west coast before lunch. Getting lost is possible but difficult. If you keep walking sooner or later you will come to a road or a village. Even though the island is small relative to the mainland U.S., the 225 square miles of island present the pedestrian with significant exploration opportunities.

On Saturday morning I accompanied my roommate Bret and two of his friends on a boonie stomp. Our destination was Singua waterfall and, upon my request, the tank farm. We drove up to Nimitz Hill to begin our stomp heading in an easterly direction. Apparently this is a popular place to begin such walks because there were several cars and a dozen people already there. In any case, we began walking down a heavily eroded 4x4 trail. Erosion caused by construction, grass fires, and 4x4s is an enormous problem on Guam. The soil, tainted with chemicals and pollution, flows directly into the ocean and immediately kills any coral reef that it contacts. Erosion has already decimated a significant amount of coral reef and threatens to destroy more if such practices remain unstopped.

We follow the trail for several miles until Bret, riding a head on a bike, locates a Sherman tank from World War II. Heavy vegetation shields the tank from view but I immediately climb on top of it anyway. Wow! A real Sherman tank destroyed by Japanese fire! Both guns and the engine have been removed, probably shortly following the war. It only occurs to me later that someone's life might have ended inside that rusting hulk.

We continue on the trail and come across yet another Sherman tank. This tank is out in the open, free of vegetation. While the guns have been removed, the enormous diesel engine is still inside - Detroit's finest. It is surprising to me that such an obviously historic object is allowed to remain out in the open to decay and rust away. But, looking around I realize how difficult it would be to move this 20 ton tank without roads.

We continue on to the waterfall, but after a while, Bret admits to leading us in the wrong direction. We move overland, finally leaving behind established trails. It is not easy. The local grass is known as sword grass and for good reason - the sides of the long leaves can cut you very easily and it can grow to over eight feet high. Bret and his friends pull out gloves, but I have none. Very soon my hands and legs are cut from the razor sharp edges of the sword grass. Pushing and manhandling your way through dense grass is an intense workout. Very soon I am exhausted. After a long struggle through heavy growth, we realize that we have gone in a large circle - right back where we started. We head back to the last tank to retrace our steps, the tank is visible on the horizon. From there, Bret finds the correct route. After a few minutes, we see the waterfall. It appears to flow into a deep hole in the earth. Bret explains that in the wet season this is an enormous waterfall with a huge volume of water, but today, in the middle of the dry season, it is but a trickle. We veer down into the steep river valley. This is a very popular destination, clearly demonstrated by the heavily eroded path and the dozens of ropes attached to trees to help with the descent and assent. But it is worth the effort. At the bottom is a deep pool of cool fresh water. We all take a dip and jump off the cliff a few times.

After half an hour, it is 1:30 and time to head back to the car. At 4pm, Bret has to go to the weekly Hash (Detail soon to come) and I too am planning to attend the Hash. The hike back is exhausting. I am out of water and I realize two things: 1. I am out of shape 2. I am very dehydrated. It soon becomes effort just to lift my feet and keep walking. I also realize that despite the 88 degrees and 100% humidity, I have stopped sweating. That can't be good. I borrow a few sips of water and soldier on. Finally we make it back to the car and I can't remember the last time I felt so exhausted. At this point, there is no way that I will be up for any more physical activity today, let alone going to a Hash in less than two hours. But after a quick lunch from Wendy's and as much water as I can drink, I feel better and slightly more ambitious...

Island Style

2008-04-14T04:17:00.000-07:00

After selling me a car, Rick, a rental car mechanic, invited me to a cookout. Having nothing better to do, I decided to go. The people of Guam are known for their love of food and hospitality.

Every Friday evening, nearly everyone on Guam goes to a cookout. Everywhere you look, at the beach, at the park, in backyards, in parking lots, on the side of the road, people are cooking out. They are literally everywhere. Not only are people cooking out with their families, but with friends and more often than not, random passer-bys. If you are walking by a cookout and merely wave, you will almost certainly be invited to join where great quantities of food will be heaped on a plate and pushed into your hand along with a cold Budweiser.

On my first Friday on the island (I arrived on a Friday, but it doesn't count), I joined my new friends Rick and Bruno at their mechanic garage for a cookout. I brought a 1/2 case of Budweiser, the unofficial beer of Guam. When I arrived Rick, Bruno, Bruno's family and others were already getting the fire started. Rick and Bruno left to buy food while I talked with the other folks. I spoke mostly with Bruno's nephew. Bruno and his family are from Chuk (also known as Truk), a small island atoll to the southeast, part of the Federated States of Micronesia (an independent country).

There are many Chukan people on Guam. Chukans, as well as Philippians, Chinese, and Koreans came to Guam for work. But, like everyone on Guam they observe the "Island Style." Bruno's nephew recalled how hard it was to live on Chuk. "Everyday," he said, "you spend most of your time hunting or fishing, just trying to find food to eat." Soon Rick and Bruno return and begin to cook the "chasers." Chasers are what I would call appetizers. For chasers, we have shushini - raw tuna with awesome homemade dipping sauce - excellent. Large quantities of chicken, beef, and thick bacon is put on the fire. Along with the potato salad, it is an enormous meal.

As we eat, Rick explains "this is island style." Rick says most people work six days a week on Guam, get paid little and struggle just to make it. Wages are low, prices are high and even with many people on government assistance, it can be difficult to make end's meat. Yet, everyone takes time out on Friday to chill, eat a lot of food, drink a lot of Budweiser and relax. During the evening, Bruno left two times to go to the store and purchase more food. It was nothing short of a tour de force of binge eating by everyone there (yours truly included). I can't remember the last time I was that full.

THE GREAT GUAMANIAN CAR SAGA

2008-04-13T03:05:00.000-07:00

On my second day on Guam, after picking up garbage all morning, James took me out to his friend Dan to see a car he had for sale – for $500. We drove north on Marine Drive. I see the car as we drive up to the house. James says, “Hey it has wheels.” Dan gives me the key and I take it out for a test drive.

It is a 1988 Mitsubishi Mirage 2 door fully equipped with

automatic transmission,

steering wheel,

windows,

one side mirror,
extensive rust,

two bowling balls (?),

bumper attached by bailing wire,

a large ant colony.

I took it out for a spin and although the doors didn’t lock, the air con didn’t work, the windows took herculean effort to roll down, and the brakes took a few minutes to slow the car down, it did drive forward at slow speeds. After the drive, I offered $450 and Dan took it. Thinking back, I have to ask myself why the hell did I buy that thing? I was desperate. I just needed basic transportation that would last until I got a few paychecks in the bank to upgrade. What I got was a big mistake.

After the purchase, James followed me in my rental car to drop it off. After turning in the rental car, we jumped into my new “Guam Bomb.” But, it didn’t start; it didn’t even try to turn over. I owned the car less than 20 minutes and it was already broke down. The rental car mechanic, Rick, took a look at it and gave a summary diagnosis – “it sounds like the starter’s dead.” Rick agreed to look at it the next day. James and I got back into the rental car and left. The next day, after my first day at work, I went back to see Rick. Unfortunately, Rick hadn’t found the time to look at it. He promised he would move it two blocks away to the rental car garage on Tuesday (the next day). I called Rick on Tuesday and he said that it was indeed the starter. That night I called Dan to see what he would be willing to do. Dan had been explicit before the transaction that the car was “as is” so I did not expect him to take the car back. To his credit, Dan did offer to split the cost of the repair. I called Rick again on Wednesday to get an update. He was having difficulty finding a starter for the car. Car parts are not found in great abundance on Guam, especially car parts for vehicles other than the predominant Toyotas and Nissans. Rick called me back on Thursday to report he had obtained a rebuilt starter and would be finished later that day, but wanted to show me another car he had for sale. Rick was trying to sell a ’91 Cadillac Deville. After showing me what he and his coworker Bruno had done to replace, Bruno then went over the laundry list of additional things that need to be done. The radiator leaked, the brakes needed work, the ignition switch needed to be replaced, and on and on. They recommended that I take it back if I could – they would have nothing more to do with it.

But Rick was persuasive with his Cadillac. Not only did it start and run, but “this is no Guam Bomb,” Rick assured me. It ran very smoothly and braked well. Rick needed money immediately and agreed to multiple payments totaling $1,500 in exchange for the car. He also promised to stand behind the Cadillac if it broke down immediately. So I bought the Cadillac, still unsure of how I was ever going to rid myself of the Mitsubishi.

It also dawned on me that I still own two more cars in the states, a Ford Ranger in California and a Mercedes Benz in Tennessee. I own four cars?

After paying Rick an initial payment of $800 plus $200 for fixing the starter on the Mitsubishi, I realized how utterly broke I was. Long before my arrival on Guam, I had been leaking money like the Exxon Valdez. Not only was I required to pay my way to Guam, but I had to take care of all my incidental expenses once I arrived. I was near the braking point and I hadn't even found a place to live.

Early the next week, I called Dan to get 1/2 of the repair costs that he promised to pay. To my surprise and elation, Dan offered to take the car back and call it even (loss of $200 to me). YES! One car down. On the same day, my Dad left two messages on my cell phone. The first one: "Ben, this is Dad, I think I have someone interested in buying your car. Call me back as soon as you can." What an amazing turn of events! I need to call Dad immediately. The next message: "Ben, this is Dad. I sold your car. Give me a call back."

So as quickly as I had amassed four cars and dire financial straights, I had got rid of two and temporarily settled my money woes.

The Arrival of the Midget Submarine

2008-04-08T03:55:00.000-07:00

If I were to remain true to a strict chronological narrative, I should now begin to spin the tail of my GREAT GUAMANIAN CAR SAGA, but in many respects it is still ongoing and I just don't want to think about it right now. Instead I will regale you, dear reader, with a story of my second day on the job.

My third day on the island is also my first day at my new job. In retrospect it was extremely short sided to begin my job so soon after my arrival. I wish I had allowed myself an entire week or at least another day or two to search for a place to live, or a car or even to explore. But instead on Monday morning, March 31st, I check out of my hotel, pack my bags in my rental car and head to work. Do I know where I will be sleeping later that night? Nope. All I know is I can no longer afford to stay at that hotel. I arrive at the Park Headquarters in Hagatna, Guam's capitol. I do the standard meet and greet followed by hours of paper work then I drive the government vehicle to the Visitor Center about 8 miles south of Hagatna near Santa Rita. Although the VC has been open since July, almost all the exhibits are temporary. A short time later I head to lunch with my new coworkers James and Robert. We meet one of James' friends Bret. Coincidentally, Bret is looking to rent out a room at his house in Tumuning. It is affordable and on a month to month basis. I jump all over that.

After my second day at work, a day spent doing paper work and reading a large volume of "Standard Operating Procedures for Interp Division," NPS people begin to arrive at the VC. I am then told we are about to receive an original 80 foot Japanese Midget Submarine from the Navy base. KICK ASS! Its new home will be right in front of the Visitor Center.

After another two hours of waiting it arrives. Guided by a police escort, the sub sails into view sitting on top of a flatbed trailer. The trailer is only 60 feet long, so about 20 feet of submarine is hanging off the back. It is much bigger than I imagined.

James explains the sub's history: In August 1944, this submarine beached off the southeast coast of Guam. Guam was only declared secure on August 10, a few days before. Marines swam out to the sub but the crew refused to open the hatch or come out. For days the Japanese crew refused to surrender, but finally three days later, the two man crew gave up. The sub was moved onto the island and then as the Navy base was established, began its new life as a large lawn ornament. Earlier this year the Navy decided to donate it to the National Park Service.

During the war, Japan built thousands of midget submarines. The last model, the type C could go 300 miles and reach speeds up to 20 knots. Despite the vast numbers and technical prowess, midget submarines were completely ineffective and only sunk one ship during the entire war. Only six are known to exist. We have one of them.

The sub's arrival is an excellent opportunity to get to know my new coworkers. We talk and crack jokes as we watch and wait. One of my coworkers looks confused. I ask if there is anything wrong. "I was just thinking," he begins, "is it still OK to call it a 'Midget' submarine? Maybe its not P.C. to call it that." I stare at him cautiously not knowing if he is serious. "Maybe we should call the little people sub, or the miniature sub, or something." At this point I can not help but laugh out loud. Lucky for me, people around me also heard the comment and join in my chuckle. After the sub is moved into position in what can only be described as a well choreographed ballet, we head home. In the twilight with the newly placed lighting, the 50 ton submarine dramatically beacons more than any sign possibly could.

Day 2

2008-04-07T07:31:00.000-07:00

I wake up early, shower and then I’m off to the north. The previous day, James suggested I meet up with him and some of his friends at a northern beach for a trash pickup Sunday morning. Having nothing better to do, I decide to go. Guam is bisected by one major road – Marine Corp Drive. It goes from Anderson Airforce Base in the extreme north to the Navy Base in the extreme south. After 20 minutes, I realize I’ve driven too far and turn around. Amazingly I somehow find the correct turnoff and descend the steep cliff to the beach “park” bellow. I realize that this is not a park for tourists, but one frequented by the locals. There are some old concrete signs and a large trash filled parking area, but despite the ill kept appearance, it is beautiful. I meet James and some other people and begin to pick up trash. We head away from the main parking down a dirt road that leads to an amazing cove. Trash covers the beach and road for over a mile. And I mean a lot of trash. There are more than one places where large families have held a cookout and then left everything when they were done. One pile is clearly from the night before complete with food, Styrofoam plates, hot dog wrappers, raw meat wrappers, empty bags of buns, chips, and cookies as well as several dirty diapers and not to mention the dozens of empty beer cans. I am truly disgusted. We pick up garbage for over three hours and barely leave a mark. The sheer volume of garbage is mind blowing. On a side note, a few days before I arrived on Guam, the territorial land fill run by the local government was placed in receivership by U.S. Federal court order. Apparently in 1987 the EPA notified the landfill authorities that the landfill was in violation of a number of environmental protection laws. After over twenty years of warnings and fines with no results, a Federal judge felt he had no alternative than to take the landfill away from local authority and give it to a private company out of Virginia of all places. Reporters from the Guam Pacific Daily News arrive to report the event. They take this picture and even though I've been on the island for less than 48 hours, I've already made the paper (I'm in green). http://www.guampdn.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=2008803310307

Day 1

2008-04-07T04:28:00.000-07:00

I wake up about eight. I am surprisingly refreshed. I head down to the beach bar and restaurant to get breakfast. I order an omelet. Ten minutes later the waitress comes out and tells me the power is out and I won’t be able to have my omelet. Eventually I settle for a bagel and some fruit. Back at the room, I give James a call. He picks me up and and takes me to Cars Unlimited to rent a car.

For $25 a day I get a 1999 Nissan Sentra that has seen better days. It is dented, rusty, the paint is faded and chipped, and the interior isn’t much better. But it does drive at low speeds and the AC works. I follow him south through Tamuning, Hagatna, Asan, and Santa Rita to his girlfriend’s house in the hills overlooking Apra Harbor. Apra Harbor is Guam’s main port and is predominately a naval base. It is a spectacular view. After a few minutes we head back down the hill to the Visitor Center near Santa Rita. James works as a cultural resources Park Ranger which means he works on the museum collections among other projects. On occasional weekends James does a “curator’s corner” program at the V.C. I help him get out some rare WWII guns and get a glimpse of the extensive NPS collection. After the program I head back to Tamuning and walk around the beach for another amazing sunset. After that, I’m back to the room for sleep (still trying to adjust to the time change).

DISCLAIMER

2008-04-02T00:09:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry. I know the few people that check this blog are probably disappointed that I have not yet posted anything from Guam. I have been incredibly busy and while I've already had a major and continuing crisis (details to come), I doing fine and the bottom line - I'm having a great time. So here's a little bit without pictures and as soon as things calm down I will update this with more detail and pictures.

Arrival

2008-04-01T07:10:00.000-07:00

Friday 6:30pm
I got off the plane and much to my surprise both my checked bags had made it. Next I went through customs. Everyone has a passport but me. I’m worried. The officer asks for ID and accepts my Tennessee Drivers license. I’m relieved. “How long are you staying?” he asks. “One to four years,” I reply. I get through and proceed towards the car rental area. I have no idea if anyone will be picking me up and I am very doubtful that anyone will be here. “Ben!” someone shouts from my left. Whoa someone is here to pick me up – THANK THE LORD! Wait a minute… how did that guy know who I am? I must look very out of place. Well, I’m white, most people are not. I am very pale and even the few other white people are at least a little tan. But it turns out, it was my NPS tote bag that gave me away. I am greeted by James. Although he is much older than me, James is a STEP ranger, meaning he is a student working part time. James is actually wearing a Hawaiian shirt (cliché or just coincidence?). The heat and humidity hit me like I’ve just walked inside Godzilla’s mouth. It is similar to Tennessee in August right after a cloud burst. James takes me to his lifted but battered Jeep Wrangler and we take off. He gives me a quick drive around Tumon, the main tourist area of Guam. With the traffic, stores and sprawl, it could be anywhere, USA. Tumon is a mélange of stores and hotels with some English, but mostly Japanese signs. All the buildings are square concrete boxes in various states of decay. While there are many lavish hotels, poverty is very noticeable and the decaying concrete buildings give me a 3rd world vibe. The impressive tourist attractions such as Underwater World, the Hard Rock Café, and Planet Hollywood as well as the trendy and expensive stores such as Louis Vuitton and Rolex clash with the rundown eateries and “XXX” adult themed establishments almost next door. We continue toward the Tumon beach. James pulls up almost to the beach itself. We get out and walk about ten yards to the water. It must be high tide. The red sun is setting over Tumon bay and small puffs of clouds are smeared across the horizon. Both the clouds and the calm ocean reflect the amber hues of the setting sun. It is amazing. “Wow,” I manage to mutter. “Sucks doesn’t it?” James adds. James begins to talk to some of the people around us on the beach. I break away from the sunset and notice that James actually knows most of the completely random people on the beach around us and begins to introduce me. Of course I don’t remember any names. Among the random sampling of people on the beach I meet a French guy who runs the Louis Vuitton store, a former U.S. Olympic swimmer, and one of my future co-workers. After only 15 minutes we head to my hotel in the neighboring village of Tamuning. I check in, drop off my stuff and head down to the beachfront bar. I have a beer and realize how utterly exhausted I am. It’s only 8:30, but I head back to the room and crash.

Getting to Guam

2008-04-01T07:09:00.000-07:00

After leaving Manzanar, I flew to South Carolina to visit family before leaving the mainland. I get back to California and spend a couple of days before I take the big flight. I arrive at LAX way too early on the morning of the 27th of March. After going through the fastest security line I have ever been experienced, I settle down for the two hour wait to get on the plane. I got there way too early – and there were still lots of people. Finally I get on the plane and sleep almost the entire way to Hawaii. About five hours later I’m in the Aloha state waiting in the airport. By the time I board the plane, I am sick of planes and airports. The flight begins and I begin to have a conversation with the passenger next to me. He’s a native of Guam – a Chamorro by the name of Peter Cruz. He is going home to his grandmother’s funeral and he hasn’t been to Guam in over ten years. “You’re gonna have a great time,” he assures me. An hour into the flight, I begin to watch the TV show House on the video screen in front of me. Two hours later I try to sleep but can’t and two hours later I watch the same four House episodes again. After an eternity we land on Guam. Looking out the window as we taxi to the airport terminal, Peter recognizes two people. The door finally opens and I escape. Free at last!

Farewell to Manzanar

2008-03-17T23:28:00.000-07:00

(Please excuse this over the top "emo" post)
As my time at Manzanar comes to a close, I can reflect back to an extraordinary experience. I have lived in one of the most amazing places on earth, the Owens Valley of California.
Every morning the soaring snow crowned granite spires of the stunning Sierra Nevadas greeted me with their colossal beauty. Nature's enormous power personified in the extreme heat, cold, and unrelenting wind reminded me of my human frailties.

The fleeting remains of past occupants from Paiute pictographs to ghost towns and abandoned mines were there at my fingertips for me to explore.

With my twenty seven year old fingers I touched a tree that was old before the ancient pyramids were built. Despite these unforgettable experiences, what I will remember most is not what I did on my days off, but what I did at work. I have worked with an outstanding group of people truly committed to their job. Working with them has not only increased my respect and admiration, but indeed personal commitment to the NPS.

Most importantly, however, I have helped tell a powerful, tragic, and uniquely American story. It is an emotional story, but one that became more personal from meeting the people that were the main characters, enabling me to talk, connect and perhaps better comprehend. It made me better at my job.

In my brief stay I hoped that I served at a conduit for people to make a connection with not only a story, but a place. I hope that I was able to create an understanding that this story is not over and everyone in this country is a part of it. I hope I accomplished those things, but I don't know if I did. At the very least I think people left with a little more knowledge and maybe a little more respect. And hey, that's a start. Because if I have learned anything in life, its that we are all in this together. Farewell, Manzanar.

(visit www.nps.gov/manz)

Winnedumah Lost

2008-02-29T18:52:00.000-08:00

Towering above the crest of the Inyo mountains, the Winnedumah is an 80 foot tall boulder with a mysterious legend of origin. For generations, the native Paiute people have revered the unusual rock. According to legend, thousands of years ago a Paiute tribe was being chased into the Inyo Mountains by a rival tribe. Chief Winnedumah stood at the top of the mountain and began to pray for the salvation of his tribe and suddenly he was transformed into the giant monolith and the enemies were swept away. Today the Winnedumah still protects the Paiute people.

With my time in the Owens Valley growing ever limited, I felt it time to climb to the top of the Dwelling Place of the Great Spirit (that's what Inyo means) and visit the Winnedumah. After some advice and maps from my coworker Richard, I felt it appropriate to set out on the morning of leap year.
After some initial difficulty finding the trail, I was pounding through the sage and rocks towards the mystic Winnedumah.

After making excellent time up the steep mountain slope, I was surprised to encounter snow - not inches of snow, but feet of snow. What had appeared from the valley floor to be tiny insignificant patches on a few of the upper peaks were in fact enormous drifts covering the north aspect and every drainage. Needless to say I quickly lost the trail, but continued on nevertheless.

To make a long story short, after a few hours, my feet and pants were wet and the further I ascended, the greater the accumulation of snow. After hiking from 9am to about 2, I decided to head back, without making it up to the Winnedumah. The following is a picture of the Winnedumah I took, but I did get closer... Maybe next time.

My love affair with the Civil War

2008-02-28T14:37:00.000-08:00

I remember my first experience with the Civil War as if it was yesterday. My younger brother and I were on a family vacation to Washington D.C. We were perhaps seven or eight years old and had never before visited our nation's capitol. The first attraction we saw was Harpers Ferry, WV.

Harpers Ferry holds significant connections with the Civil War and most importantly, the infamous raid by the deranged lunatic Abolitionist John Brown. I listened to the historic account with profound enrapture as if it was the story of Santa Claus himself.

Immediately we were enchanted with the idea of the blue and grey clad soldiers killing each other on a grand scale. What fun we would have reenacting the brutal murder of thousands in our back yard! But before we could begin our countless hours of play, we had to obtain suitable equipment.

First and foremost we had to have guns, preferably rifles. How can we pretend to be fighting an epic civil war without firearms? Next we had to have hats. Without hats, someone might mistake us for soldiers from the Revolutionary War or even worse - World War I!

We quickly engaged the enemy - our parents - in yet another battle in the never ending war for toys. We were young and still prefered the direct assault rather than more nuanced and effective techniques we would learn with age and experience.

Our attack began without warning and in earnest, "Mom, I want a rifle!" Before our unsuspecting foe could react, we immediately escalated and intensified our attack. The enemy was completely caught off guard. We saw our opportunity and went for it with reckless abandon before resistance stiffened. Again we escalated the attack, boldly drawing on a do or die tactic - the temper tantrum.

Once engaged, the temper tantrum will inevitably lead to one of two scenarios. In the preferred scenario, our parents acquiesce to our demands and the temper tantrum ends immediately. But more often the temper tanturm resulted in the second scenario - immediate punishment. For this occasion, it proved extremely effective.

After such a sudden and intense attack, our parents' resistance collapsed like an old barn in a tornado. We won our toy rifles and then, drunk on power we upped the ante and demanded hats as well. Perhaps exhausted from the hours of driving, again our parents gave in to our demands.

"Which hat do you want?" There were not only two different styles of hats but they came in two different colors - blue and grey! We were befuddled. Beyond the demand for a hat, this was not something we had remotely considered. Was this a trick? I watched silently as my brother asked the obvious, yet most important question. "Who won?" he boldly asked. It was an essential question, because how could we pretend to be the losers - we were winners damn it!! "The blue," responded my mother. We would be blue! I got the small kepi style hat and my brother got the larger cavalry style - both blue.

Although we were not allowed to play with our rifles in the car, we wore our blue hats proudly for the rest of our trip which ended at our family reunion in Maryland.

Like all children, we were not happy or excited at the prospect of attending a family reunion yet we dutifully got out of the car and began to greet the myriad of unknown relatives and strangers. As cute children we were descended upon almost immediately. Much to my surprise, many relatives recoiled in abject horror at the site of our blue hats. It was similar to the effect of garlic on Dracula. At first I was confused. I had probably refused to shower the night before - was my smell that revolting?

"What are those children doing with those hats?" one relative demanded. "They're alright with me!" another relative said before giving us both great big bear hugs. It began to dawn on me, our blue hats had a profound effect on adults. At the same time they engendered anger and shock in some while pride in others. These hats were much bigger than I had imagined. Why did these cheap felt and cardboard hats that would probably disintegrate in water cause such strong and varied reactions among my relatives?

I had to find out why. Thus, my interest in the Civil War was born.

A little bit about me

2008-02-28T13:54:00.000-08:00

I guess I should include some background. So here's a short biography:

I was born in Tennessee in 1980. Growing up in suburbia was generally very pleasant. After graduating high school, I went to the University of Kentucky where I majored in fraternity or history (I can't remember which but I do remember a lot of good times). I lived in Nashville for two years and (thanks to nepotism) worked in sales. In 2005, I returned to school at MTSU to get a masters degree in history.

I have to admit, the past three years have been some of the most transformative of my life. I love history and the experience of taking only history courses while working as a graduate assistant doing history was exceptional. Apart from the precincts of poverty and occasional stress, I realized that I could only be happy as a professional in the field of history. Despite this realization, a crucial problem remained; what kind of job could I get in history?

Some introductions

2008-02-28T13:10:00.000-08:00

These days blogs are like assholes; everybody has one but few are worth looking at. At the risk of foolish redundancy and reckless time embezzlement, I too will attempt to transform my random and pointless thoughts to written text for your enjoyment (or disgust).

Why do I do this? I supose it must rank as one of the ultimate clichés - to write (no even worse blog) about a trip or some form of adventure. While I admit it has been done before, perhaps too many times, I remain willing to engage in the ultimate of hackneyed and prosiac exercises, if only for my own contemplation and satisfaction. So I appoligize if you are a friend of mine and reading this at my own behest or encouragement. I promise to include as many pictures as I can and limit the word vomit to a minimum.

I am about to leave the North American continent for a job on Guam. While initially this was not an easy decision, I have become increasingly comfortable and excited at the prospect of this adventure. Why was this a difficult decision? Guam is a tropical paridise with a surprisingly comfortable climate that few have an opportunity to visit in thier lifetime, yet I was not certain that I should accept the job.

Since 2005, I have been working towards a master's degree in Public History at Middle Tennessee State University. Although I have completed 42 hours of coursework and passed the written and oral comprehensive final exams, I have yet to finish a thesis required to complete my degree. Frankly, I had already assumed that this job was not going to happen and resigned myself to return to Tennessee to work and finish my thesis. Once I set an plan of action for the future complete with concrete goals, objectives, and expectations, I find it difficult to fundamentally alter the agenda, let alone completely scrap it. So despite the tremendous opportunities that Guam presented (tropical paridise, dream job, bennefits, travel), I was intially reluctant to accept it. After forty eight hours of contemplation, I decided to accept the postion.

Guam here I come.