Denali with a Long Lens

Chris and I got to go to Denali National Park a couple weeks ago, and I'm so glad we did -- it's one of those things we felt like we really had to do while we were here.

There's only one road into the park, and it's closed to private vehicles past mile 15. The rest of the road is accessible only by shuttle bus, so you just pay your $30, get on the bus, and see the sights. The drivers stop for wildlife-watching and photo opportunities, so you can pretty much stay on the bus the whole time and get a decent Denali experience on the 8- to 13-hour round trip (depending on how far you want to into the park, of course).

Or you can do what Chris and I did, and get off the bus to hike. The thing is, there aren't any trails in the park's interior (just near the entrance), so if you take off for a hike, you're pretty much just wandering off into the hills. It's a really odd experience, having to decide which way to go. We had some general route advice from our bus driver (pretty much, "Walk around the back of that mountain until you come to the road again"), but the specifics were up to us.

Find the right route was easy at first, because we'd gotten off at a fairly popular spot (although we were the only ones who got off our bus) and a path of sorts had been trampled in. Once we got to the point where we couldn't see the road any more, though, it was up to us to figure out how to proceed. It was an interesting process, which required a surprising amount of thought.

Should we go down the stream bed, or up to the ridgeline? It's not the easiest climb, but there might be bears in the willows by the stream. Do we plow straight up the hill to the top, or go the long way and ease around the side? How did those other people get way up there? Etc.

The views were amazing, but unfortunately, I'd only brought our long lens (it's better for taking pictures of wildlife), so I couldn't capture the sweeping panoramas as well as I wanted to. I had to get about 30 yards away to get this shot of Chris.



There were a few points when I thought we would have to turn around and go back the way we came -- the descent was pretty steep in places, and there was no obvious hiking route -- but we forged ahead, whistling pretty tunes as we went to let the bears know that lunch was on its way (we didn't actually see any bears while we were hiking, thankfully). It was threatening to rain as we got to the toughest part of the descent, and I was getting kind of freaked out thinking about how it would feel to slide on wet brush all the way down to the creek bed, and whether I could make it back to the bus with a broken head. But it didn't rain, and I didn't break my head, and it turned out to be a very enjoyable experience.

I feel like I'm not telling the story right. It's just hard to describe how huge the landscape felt all of a sudden, when we got off the bus and just... started walking. We could have walked wherever we wanted to. Hey, there's a mountain over there that looks nice -- let's go there. I mean, our little jaunt was really nothing compared to the crazy multi-day backcountry hikes that some people undertake (I wasn't really feeling up to that), but it was still very different from any hike I've done before. And we ended up feeling like we had way more cred than the 90% of visitors who never even get off the bus.

We are the Worst Parents in the World

Soren turned 1 on June 2nd, which happened to be the day we flew from Rhode Island to Anchorage. So there wasn't really time for a party or anything, although we did tell pretty much everyone we saw that it was his birthday. That counts, right? Probably not. We didn't have a party for our sweet, wonderful baby boy on the very first anniversary of his birth! Cf. this post's title.

Luckily, we were guided in the right direction by Grammy and Grampy (AKA Margie and Paul) Anderson, and we finally had a party for Soren last week. I like to think that we were just waiting until we had a quorum for a bona fide birthday party. Or maybe it's just that parents are stodgy fun-stiflers and grandparents are a non-stop Mardi Gras. But with less drinking. And I'm not just saying that to protect Grammy's and Grampy's reputations.



So, anyway, we picked out some fun presents, and a yummy chocolate cake, and lit one of those little candles in the shape of a 1, and we were all set for a cake-smearing, bath-necessitating good time!



I cut a piece big enough to make a photogenic mess, and presented it to the birthday boy.



He promptly picked it up and presented it to the floor.



I tried again, but he wasn't having it. If cake's so GREAT, Mom, why don't YOU eat it?????



So I did. Hey, more for me!

Rest assured that we're having him checked out by several famous specialists, and we hope to discover a cure for whatever horrible syndrome is causing him to NOT WANT CHOCOLATE CAKE. This is a serious problem.

Soren's Vocabulary, This Time With Video

Yes, Soren can say English words as well as animal noises. The problem is, when I ask him to say them, he thinks he's going to get something. Cheese, for instance.



Grammy and Grampy Anderson were nice enough to visit us last week, and they took care of Soren while Chris and I went to Denali -- they taught him "This little piggy went to market," and now he says "weee weee weee" when you ask him what his piggies say (or when he sees toes). It's so freaking cute.

Leland

Chris and I just got back from a wonderful trip to Denali National Park, but I can't write about that right now. This morning, our bird-sitter called to let us know that our beloved Leland died yesterday. We feel lucky to have shared ten years with Leland -- he was a wonderful little bird, alternately sweet (to Chris and me) and fiesty (to everyone else he's ever met), and always funny.

As I've told anyone who's asked whether he could talk, he could make five kinds of kissy noises, squeak like the door, and laugh in a gravelly little bird voice. He would only laugh at funny things, too. Not sure how he knew the difference. He loved to ring bells, fight with bells, sit with his head under bells, drop bells off the side of his cage, and make the sound a bell clapper makes when he chews on it. He would generally make this sound while he was chewing on the clapper of a bell. He used to sit on my knee while I was knitting, imitating the clicking of the knitting needles. He was a much faster knitter than I was.

I loved giving him scratches before birdie bedtime. I loved watching him take a bath in the sink, splashing with his little wings and having fun. I loved just hanging out with him, talking to him while I worked.

I'll miss you, Leland.



Chris's Favorite Leland Story
It was always fun to try to coax Leland across the floor of a room, with his "walk" that was neither steps nor hops nor scuttle. However, any run of longer than a few feet would always be interrupted by side trips, where Leland would spot a bit of food, seed husk or fuzz on the floor that he'd want to pick up and taste. There were almost always enough side trips to ensure he'd never make the destination we intended, no matter appealing we made it (scratches, favorite foods, toys).

However, one night in Pasadena I got home from four days away at a conference. Leland was playing on the floor with Kirsten, and spotted me from across the room. I took a couple steps into the room and set down my rollaboard. I see Leland running around excitedly. Not randomly, or distractedly, but with a destination in mind. On this one occasion, Leland ran 25 uninterrupted feet--and around the couch--to my feet, and bit my shoe to indicate his displeasure with my absence (or, how happy he was to see me).

Leland never did that again, but at that time we'd only had him for a couple years, and he was still "Kirsten's bird" in my mind. That was the beginning of his campaign to convert me to a "bird person"...he considered me a member of his flock, and that was important to him. In the following years, I grew to see what a neat pet he was, and how well he suited me, and we developed a strong bond. I'm deeply saddened he won't have the opportunity to do the same for Soren (though they would undoubtedly have a rocky realtionship of tail pulling and biting for a while). He is missed. CMA

Just to let you know

Can't blog.
Reading.


[Harry Potter, that is]

Blue Poppies and Gold Mines

When summer's only two months long, you have to enjoy your garden while you can, and there are some amazing gardens here. I haven't been brave enough to take any shots of people's yards yet, so you'll have to take my word for it. Anyway, the majority of the yards around here (ours excluded) are full of all types of flowers, blooming like crazy. I'm familiar with most of them, and I always appreciate a nice flower, but there was a particular bloom I noticed one day that stopped me in my tracks.


(lifted from meconopsis.org)

It's a blue poppy -- the bluest flower I've ever seen. Not a trace of violet. At first, I thought it was fake, and wondered why there were fake flowers in the midst of a bunch of real pansies. But they're real -- and they're spectacular. (heh)

So I started thinking, Hey, I've never seen these before! I should find out where to get them and grow them at home, and I'll have the best garden ever! Well, DUH, Kirsten, there's a reason you haven't seen them in New England. You'd have to keep them in the freezer for eight months and then under a 24-hour grow-light in the fridge for the other four. It would be totally worth it, though.

In other news, we've been trying to do more cool Alaska things when Chris isn't off dealing with mortgages and inspections and other fun home-buying things. A couple weeks ago, we visited the Girdwood Forest Fair, which is pretty much a fair in the forest. Run by hippies. I haven't seen that many tie-dyed hemp skirts since my last Phish concert. There were lots of cool booths full of art and knitted items and funnel cakes and such, plus an AMAZING playground for the kids. It might be worth driving an hour just to go back to that playground. I don't have a picture that encompasses the whole thing, but here's one of the playground-tower-thingies against a lovely mountain backdrop:



And Mr. Baby in a swing:



Last weekend, we drove up to Hatcher Pass and visited the Independence Mine, which shut down in the 1950's. It's a beautiful alpine setting dotted with picturesque wreckage (no, really).





One of the notable things about the area was that recreational gold mining was allowed. Not panning, mind you -- mining. We're wondering how much TNT counts as a "recreational" amount.

What a Guinea Pig Says