Theo Finds a Musk Ox Friend

I have to admit. I never heard of a Musk Ox before I went to Alaska. I never saw one in a zoo. I never saw one on TV. 

Theo is also suspicious. We have a chance to visit a Musk Ox Farm.

"Sounds like fun," I tell him. 

He squints up at me, seemingly disbelieving every word that comes out of my mouth.

"No, they're real animals," I hasten to add. "I'm not kidding."

"Do I have a choice?" He doesn't say those words, but I can usually tell what's rattling around in that cat brain of his.

So we are here. A beautiful day. A rambling farm where the musk oxen roam. In Palmer, Alaska.

We learn there's an organization FOMO that's dedicated to protecting and teaching the world about musk ox. And, of course, selling some products and making some money.  

We learn that back in 1954, to help preserve these animals, John Teal domesticates a few musk ox calf on his farm in Vermont. Ten years later he moves his animals to Fairbanks, Alaska. His idea is always compassionate caring for animals through gentle, low stress husbandry. 

We learn that the musk ox goes back 2 million years and are often confused with the bison or the yak. During the last Ice Age (10-20,000 years ago) the musk oxen roamed the earth with woolly mammoths. 

We learn that both males and females have horns like sheep and goats. They also shed and regrow their coat every year, a process that is spurred by on by the warmer and/or colder weather.

Finally, the process of socialization (getting used to people) is important for the musk oxen on the farm so they feel comfortable and safe.

We are anxious to get out and see the musk oxen in person. They are behind a fence. But we can get fairly close to them.

They are magnificent creatures. I try to imagine their existence even 10,000 years ago. It is truly a look back into time itself. I want more than anything to get on the other side of the fence. I want to get closer. 

I glance down at Theo. He is here by special permission, a solemnagreement that states Theo must stay on our side of the fence. 

I see him mosing around, closer and closer to the barrier that separates him the musk oxen and his chance to sniff. I fear he'll find a way to break through, which would not be a good thing. 

"Don't even think about it. Remember you promised."

Sometimes Theo seems to have a hearing problem. Can he hear me? Do cats enter into their own world where they block out everything else in the pursuit of a single goal? Chase a squirrel or bird. Sniff a bug crawling on the floor. Slip into a closet where there's a giant bag of snacks.

"Maybe you should pick him up just to be sure," I say to Dan.

"He's fine."

"I'm afraid . . ."

"Theo can see how big they are. He's not going anywhere."

But then everything changes. We go to a separate part of the farm, still fenced in, where most of the baby musk ox are. There's something about seeing a miniature version of the musk ox, how small and cute they are. How cuddly they must be if you could pick them up. Theo seems to be thinking the same thing.

Suddenly, a baby musk ox wanders up to the fence. 

He's as curious as we are. I turn to see where Theo is. He's at my feet, his nose already in between the openings of the fence, sniffing, sniffing. By gosh, he begins to sniff the baby musk ox. No fear. And the baby seems perfectly content to sit there and be sniffed!

I feel guilty. Right above the musk ox's head is a sign--Do Not Put Hands Through Fence. Technically, Theo is keeping his paws on his side of the fence, but that sniffing nose . . . 

It's over even before it's begun. Theo is safe, but in that short amount of time, he's made a friend. They both stare at each other. Close encounters. How wonderful!

Theo Naps and Snacks in Historic Talkeetna

 Traveling around with a gangster cat can be a chore, at times. You want to do one thing, and he wants to do another. How do I convince Theo that Talkeetna (yes, the place where he had ice cream) is worth checking out--especially the historic places that go back to the 1890's?

The only sure fire method is a bribe. You do this for me and I'll do this for you. Of course, we're talking about snacks, plenty of snacks.

One tour is all we want, we tell him. 

He issues back a plaintive meow. 

We strike a deal.

The first known people of the Talkeetna area were called "mountain people." They lived in the area 6,000 years ago. They were nomadic Indians who hunted caribou and fished the three rivers that joined together nearby. The last of the mountain people died in 1918 during the flu epidemic. They left only oral stories behind, no written records.

Isabella Grindrod arrived in Talkeetna in 1917 and worked many jobs (laundry, cook) before buying her own cabin near the Talkeetna River, starting a freight company with two brothers, eventually marrying one of them which led to the Talkeetna Trading Post. When her husband died, she added a dining room to the trading post and began to serve meals. She kept chickens and a large garden. Unfortunately, her cabin no longer exists but here's a photo:

We're excited to walk into a cabin that does still exist, a railroad era style 1920's cabin to glimpse the inside  and see how people lived. This cabin was bigger than most. The owner also had a horse barn and small blacksmith shop and was the village blacksmith for ten years before he moved away. 

We visit another cabin, which was typical of a one room cabin built in 1916. The owner worked for the railroad, trapped and practiced gold mining. When he married and started a family, he didn't do the obvious thing and enlarge the cabin but built another cabin nearby. 

Theo likes the cabins. He spends as much time as he can sniffing around. He jumps up and looks out the window. When he tries to take a nap on one of the beds, it's time to go.

Life was tough back then. We pause to look at the breathtaking scenery, which is one reason why people lived there--in so much isolation. 

"Well, what did you think?" I ask my unusually cooperative gangster cat as we're walking back through town to catch the shuttle to our hotel.

He doesn't say a meow, only licks his lips--having just wolfed down an entire plate of snacks. 

Okay, Talkeetna is a hit in Theo's book. And in ours, too.

Theo Visits Talkeetna and Gets Ice cream

 Talkeetna, Alaska, has been called quirky and quaint, boasts more tourists than locals (only 900 residents) and is one of those towns where you feel you've gone back in time when you step foot onto Main Street.

I'm thinking of a small town, circa 1950, although it was settled in the late 1890's. It was the real inspiration for the fictional town of Cicely in the 1990's television show Northern Exposure. It was connected with the gold rush, the Alaskan Railroad and is known for its rustic log cabins.  It is also called the base camp for climbers who want to ascend the heights of Mt. Denali.

If you can block out the crowds of people queuing for ice cream. Block out the people waiting to get seated for lunch at the local pizzeria . . . you can begin to feel what Alaska was like 100 years ago.

Theo loves Talkeetna immediately when he learns that the locals elected Stubbs (and then Aurora), a cat as mayor (honorary mayor), but just the idea tickles Theo's underbelly. 

Our first decision is to take a boat ride up the Susitna River. The water is a grayish blue color which contrasts weirdly with the bluish gray sky. The clouds make a statement. 

We're headed towards historic sites that have been preserved. How did the native Alaskans live before the town was founded? 

They fished and hunted. They hung their animal hides up to dry. They used sleighs pulled by dogs to move across the snow. 

They lived in small cabins and made sure to store their food high off the ground.

We're off the boat and walking towards the main part of town, intending to take an historic tour. I love this part of visiting a new place. I love peeking into what people's houses (I mean cabins) looked like. I love learning the local history.

But Theo will have none of it. He wants ice cream. Before lunch?

The line for ice cream is about 100 people long. And it's slow moving. The sun is out and surprisingly hot. I look over at Dan, hoping he can save the day.

He has an idea. We duck into Nagley's Store, small general store -- smaller than your typical Wawa (but this is where Alaskans shop in Talkeetna) because Dan remembers they have ice cream. No line! 

Later, we're sitting outside in the shade eating our ice cream. Theo hunkers down at our feet, snoozing. He's had a rough sniffing day.

That darned gangster cat was right again. We needed an ice cream break. And then onto lunch. And an historic walking tour. 

Theo and Mt. McKinley Revealed

 I'm at a loss to explain why it's so important to see the snow capped top of Mount McKinley when we're in Alaska. I think it all starts when we hear Alaskan after Alaskan say how rare it is to see the mountain top because of perpetual clouds and mist that swarm the area around it. They tell us the sighting of the mountain top is not guaranteed. In fact, they have the statistic at hand--you can only see the mountain top thirty-five percent of the time. The explanation: McKinley (the tallest mountain in North America) is so tall it creates its own weather system and is frequently blanketed by thick clouds. 

We are, of course, determined to see it. As we travel along from Denali National Park to Talkeetna, we constantly look up and over. And all we see are magnificent vistas and a mountain top covered with clouds.

Our driver, at one point, drives us an hour out of our way, convinced that he has the perfect spot to see the mountain. "You don't want to come all the way to Alaska and not see the top of Mt. McKinley?"

Of course not. We're in agreement on that. Inevitably when we arrive home, someone will ask--well, did you see it? 

Theo agrees. We must see the top of the mountain. But all we see are clouds.

We take a train ride to Talkeetna and the train even stops mid-way so we can try again to see the mountain. Everyone around us continues to say--just wait for a few minutes more. I have a feeling that the clouds will drift away and you'll be able to see the mountain. The few minutes turns into an hour or more. No mountain free of clouds. 

I complain to Theo. "This is ridiculous. How spectacular can the sight be?"

Theo shakes his head. 

"All right. All right." 

Finally the train moves again. And everyone seems perplexed. "We don't understand. Normally we can see the mountain top from the train."

We're staying at the Talkeetna Alaska Lodge. We're shown to our room--very spacious, well-appointed with a giant picture window facing toward the mountain. 

Theo is the first one to make the suggestion: "I wonder if we can see the mountain from here." He jumps up on the ledge and pushes the drapes aside with his paw. 

This is the moment I'll remember. We've spent literally the entire day trying to see this darn mountain top without the clouds. It's as if we're under some kind of spell. Now, tired and hot, I figure what are the chances of seeing that mountain?

"Don't get your hopes up."

Theo seems transfixed at the window. 

What can he be staring at?

And there it is--in all its glory. The perpetual clouds have drifted away. The top of Mt. McKinley is finally revealed. I almost choke on the irony. We could have saved ourselves hours of effort if we'd only known that all along we would see that darn mountain from our hotel window. 

There's a lesson is all of this, but I can't for the life of me figure out what it is. Nevertheless, Theo is happy. He's finally seen the top of the mountain! And it is glorious, indeed.

The Puppies Who Train for the Iditarod

 You might assume that Dan and I and Theo are not dog people. That we have no place in our lives for any creature that barks and doesn't meow. Not true.

In Alaska, we're privileged to visit a place that trains dogs for the famous Iditarod, a yearly long distance sled dog race where man and dogs travel for 938 miles (from Anchorage to Nome) and compete to come to the finish line first. It's a grueling trek, requiring intense training for man and dog. But who are these dogs and where to do they come from?

They are huskies--some Alaskan, some Siberian, and of course, start out as puppies. They spend the first few years in a training camp with other puppies--the owners looking for those few rare dogs that can pull a sleigh through snow and sleet and ice, up and down mountains, across wide expanses of Alaskan wilderness. They race through blizzards, white out conditions, sub-zero temperatures and gale force winds. The wind chill can dip as low at 100 degrees below zero.

This is no task for the faint of heart. 

Theo wanted to come to visit the puppies. We were concerned though that a cat roaming around near all these dogs would cause needless chaos. 

"I'll be good," he promises us, but we've already decided.

"Too much of a risk."

His tiny face is looking through the car window at us, at the puppies he (maybe) can see from the parking lot.  

The Iditarod is a tradition that began in 1973 in order to test the best sled dog mushers and teams, but it's now a highly competitive race. Each team has a musher and between twelve and sixteen dogs that pull the sled. Nowadays the winning mushers and their teams are local celebrities. The usual number of competitors is around fifty teams--most Alaskan--but mushers have come from 14 different countries. In 1985 the first woman musher won the race. The next year another woman won and then won again for the next three years. The fastest time was clocked in 2017 at 8 days, 3 hours, and 40 minutes. 

Some animal rights groups consider the Iditarod animal abuse, noting that over 150 dogs have died during the race over the years. They believe the intense competition results in dogs being pushed beyond their endurance or capability. 

All of these thoughts swirl through our heads when we visit the puppies. We are totally enthralled. In this training center, these dogs are loved and well cared for. They're trained from an early age to pull a sled and work together. They are prized for their potential. 

We have the wonderful opportunity to pick up a puppy and hold him. He is the cutest thing and cuddles in our arms as if he wants us to take him home. We hear a story that a visitor fell so in love with a puppy that she tried to smuggle him out of the facility. So we know that as we're holding our gem, we're being watched. 

It's interesting to note that we learn that these puppies--although cute and friendly when they're babies--are not bred to be someone's pet. They're not socialized for home living. They're taught the skills they need to pull a sled, obey commands. They're groomed for a grueling race. 

Afterwards, Theo is all about sniffing. Me. Sometimes he's jealous. After all, I was cuddling a dog. But this time, when we get back into the car, he sniffs and sniffs and then seems to be okay. 

"That little puppy was cute," I assure him, "but not as cute as you."

Meow!

Can Theo Spot Wildlife in Denali?

 Finally we are cruising along the road in Denali. We're concentrating, so much so, that our eyes hurt--desperate to see wildlife. My expectations that we'll be up close and personal with the grizzlies or the wolves or the caribou are dashed. Instead, we're surrounded by breathtaking scenery--mountains in the distance, clouds floating by overhead, streams and trees and so much greenery that we'd bet the landscape is greener than Ireland. 

"Where are the animals?" I ask no one in particular.

"Out there somewhere . . ." I imagine someone saying.

Everyone on the bus is given the same mission. Shout out when you see something, if you see something. We hear a shout. Our first sighting. But the animal is so far away we don't know if we're looking at a boulder or a living thing. Ah . . . suddenly our guide focuses the lens, and an image is projected on the screen.

Now we can see. But I can't help thinking--this is so ironic. We're out here in the middle of Denali National Park and looking at the animals on what looks suspiciously like a television screen. Really?

"Get a grip on yourself," I can almost hear Theo meowing. "Why would these animals walk along the road, in danger of buses, etc. They live up there." He means the land we can't get to, the wilderness.

No he isn't pointing with his paw, but he's looking at me with that disappointed look on his face. And then he's peering out the bus window. I suspect he can see farther than I can. I suspect he doesn't need the screen to see wildlife.

We have other sightings. The white blobs are Dall sheep. There are caribou. Ironically, we have seen more bears and wolves in Yellowstone National Park--at dawn or dusk. Through binoculars. 

Dan saves the day. "Forget about the wildlife," he tells me. "Look around. Isn't the landscape magnificent?"

He's absolutely right. The park is a glimpse at a world that no longer exists in too many places. Nature. The air is clean and fresh. Water flows downstream. The trees seem to be saying--we like it here. It's one of those special days when you feel a spiritual presence. When you realize we humans can't be alone on this earth. When you vow to protect our natural resources and, of course, the animals. 

Theo is in his glory. He snacks away. Spots some wildlife. 

And when we stop occasionally and get out of the school bus, Theo is all about sniffing the ground and the flowers. He's immediately connected. And as he boards the bus, he's grateful that he got sort of close to some birds.

"Thanks," he meows. 

Our gangster car is cowed by the beauty and the majesty. And the birds, of course! And, frankly, so are we.