Theo Sniffs Totem Poles

 We arrive in downtown Anchorage, Alaska, which I can't describe as a thriving metropolis, but it is Alaska's biggest city. Finally, you feel like you've returned to civilization as we know it, the good and the bad. 

Anchorage is home to half of Alaska's population. James Cook arrived here in 1778 on his search for the Northwest Passage. At that time Russian fur trappers lived here and traded with the local natives. The Gold Rush of the 1880's and the Alaskan Railroad in 1915 brought more settlers.

We decide to visit The Alaska Native Heritage center in Anchorage, even though the moment we mention "museum," Theo puts on his saddest pout face. We lure him with snacks. 

"There'll be plenty of snacks along the way," we promise. "This museum is special," we tell him--marketing is key in this kind of situation--because it not only has indoor exhibits (Theo ho hums his disapproval) but also a model outside of authentic Eskimo dwellings and customs. 

First the inside where we glimpse rare finds of eskimo art and totem poles, which Theo sniffs. We can't resist telling Theo that totem poles tell us a lot. The carved animals and figures are a kind of family crest and represent ancestral spirits and supernatural beings that connect to the village.

In a time when there was no central heating in a colder than cold climate, we see what kinds of clothing the natives wore:

Outside, we wander along a path and see what a native village would have looked like a century ago. The only thing we know are igloos, that the natives built in the snow. We have a lot to learn.

Since Alaska is 14.2% water, measuring 94,743 miles (the largest total amount of water in the USA) fish was their staple food--they built racks to dry the fish on:

Theo trots over to sniff the rack.

The locals stored their food high off the ground so the animals couldn't reach it:

Theo needs to sniff the poles.

The villages were tight-knit for survival, focused on hunting.

The native people built large communal spaces for the men to meet. It was used for ceremonies, dances, council meetings and where the men and older boys worked, ate and slept.

Individual families lived in smaller sod-insulated houses which were built underground using whale ribs, driftwood or logs and heavily insulated with layers of sod to combat extreme Arctic winds and sub-zero temperatures.

Theo had a field day sniffing the communal houses.

The locals also invested time in building tunnels, heavily disguised, that they could use to escape the village in case of an attack. These tunnels also connected dwellings. They could be 72 to 90 feet long.

Theo trots ahead of us as we try to imagine what life was like back then. The local people fished for whales, seals, and used the blubber to light and heat their homes. They melted water from the frozen rivers around them for drinking water. They used kayaks for traveling. 

We can't resist walking through one of the tunnels to see where it leads. This escape tunnel ended outside the village, near a waterway.

As we're leaving, we pass one more totem pole (which, of course, Theo sniffs). "Remember what we told you about the totem poles."

Theo sighs.

"Well, would you like living out here, Theo, a hundred years ago?"

"Would I have snacks?"

"No, probably not, but there would be plenty of fish."

He nods.

"And, of course, plenty of totem poles to sniff." 

Can Theo Sniff Exit Glacier?

 If you love being outside surrounded by spectacular views, go to Alaska. We visit--Dan, Theo and I--hoping to see wild animals in Denali National Park and whales in Resurrection Bay, hoping to see the top of Mt. McKinley when the clouds part, hoping to see the seals and octopus--in short, a world that's so different from where we live. 

What we don't expect to see is a glacier cascading into the bay. We also don't expect to see another glacier--Exit Glacier--or what is left of it receding into some of the most beautiful country. WE want to serve as witnesses to what some call global warming, others climate change. The once magnificent glacier is disappearing, receding into the distance. It looks closer than it is, and we're reeled in like a fish on a line. 

We want to see this glacier up close. Theo, the gangster cat, can see but can he really see? He would prefer to sniff, which means that even though we can see this glacier from the road, to actually sniff it means hiking the trail. 

You may wonder why glacial ice is blue when water is clear or white looking.  It has to do with light and the compression of snow and ice. The deeper the glacial ice, the less air which deflects the light so the ice appears blue. But Theo doesn't care about that. 

Our first glimpse of the glacier is from the road. 

Then with snow-capped mountains in the distance and a river roaring next to us, we decide to hike the path. There are actually three trails--the easiest to the most difficult, ranging from one mile to 8 miles. Markers along the trail show how much the glacier has retreated during the last century. From 1917 to 1987 the glacier has retreated one mile and currently is losing about 300 feet a year. 

We choose the two mile trail, not knowing exactly where we'll end up but hoping it takes us close to the glacier. We walk through the woods, on wood chips which partially cover the trail, over rocks and boulders, across a stream (where we almost fall in as we leap across), getting closer and closer believing the trail will take us where we want to be. We emerge into a clearing, our feet wet from the stream, with bits and pieces of leaves and twigs in our hair. Dan braves the rest of the way down and snaps a photo.

We see the glacier but learn (after consulting some professional hikers) that to get close enough to sniff the glacier means we have to go back to the beginning and take the longer eight mile trail.

I'm no Math genius but that means two miles back, eight miles forward and eight miles back. 

I look at Dan and he looks at me. We both look at Theo who is craning his neck to see the glacier, still hoping we have further to walk but the river is in front of us and there's nowhere else to go but back. 

"We know you're disappointed," I tell Theo, "but seriously, we need to go back and eat lunch."

I can see the "but" forming on his gangster face. 

"It would mean hiking another eighteen miles, Theo."

It's a beautiful day. The scenery is stunning, and we did manage to get closer to the glacier. 

"I packed you a terrific lunch," I add. 

If Theo has a bucket list and sniffing the Exit Glacier is on it, he gives up his dream and nods. Hiking or eating? Tuna. And like a real trooper he begins the two mile trek back to the food. 

Theo--Love Struck by Octopus

 The SeaLife Center in Seward, Alaska, located on Resurrection Bay is special for a lot of reasons. It's literally home to hundreds of fish. You can watch them and in some places literally touch them. It is also the home to a giant Pacific octopus. 

When we visit with Theo, the gangster cat, we don't know the story of Oceana, the giant octopus that lives in a tank on the premises. But to see her is to fall in love with her. One of the staff tell us that she has a steady visitor (fan) who comes to see her everyday. Remarkably, as soon as he arrives, she knows who he is and she puts on quite a show. 

We stand in front of her awestruck. She is beautiful and graceful and so full of life. She twirls and floats and dances in her tank. As she moves from the top to the bottom, she changes color from a pinkish orange to white. Octopus are highly intelligent and sensitive creatures.

Usually Theo has a bit of a short attention span unless he's watching a bird or a squirrel. Then he's all eyes, stalker still. As soon as he spots Oceana floating by in her tank, he wants to get closer. We watch as he puts his paw on the tank, trying to reach out and touch her. Maybe Theo is in love with an octopus.

"She needs to be in the water", we explain. 

We learn that she was brought to SeaLife Center as a baby when she weighed only 1.5 pounds. Later in the summer she'll be released back into the bay--Resurrection Bay--into a safe spot because she's now fully grown and the good folks at SeaLife want to give her a chance to mate and have a baby. Octopuses can only have one litter so the timing is everything.

We stand in front of her tank for at least a half an hour, watching her. It is a unique experience--to see her so close up. The people at Sea-Life call her an ambassador of good will--hoping that in the real world, you just might act to protect her in the wild.

Oceana looks happy in her tank. She's well fed and healthy. 

"This is a special moment," I say to Theo. "Take time to appreciate that this is a once in a lifetime chance to see an octopus so close up."

Later, I watch a video on You Tube. Oceana is being released into the bay. She's in a large container that two SeaLife workers lower down into the water. She doesn't swim away right away. The men reach down and pet her, gently coaxing her into her new home--Resurrection Bay. 

https://youtu.be/q6an40yxe1M?si=qE4O2XiE9Io_c9Vz

And, of course, a new octopus is now in the SeaLife tank. She or he will stay for a while--serve as ambassadors--and then return back into the bay.

Life is good. 

 

Theo Visits Alaska's SeaLife Center

 It is the visit of a lifetime. At first Theo is not convinced. He loves birds and squirrels. He tolerates whales. But fish? Oh sure, he'll eat fish--tuna and salmon are his favorites--but watching them swim around in a tank? 

But, wait, we're getting ahead of ourselves. Alaska's SeaLife Center in Seward, Alaska, comes highly recommended, and unless you want to spend days and weeks snorkeling in Alaska's vast bodies of water--you'll never get a chance to see--and I mean really see--some mind-blowing specimens of fish. All kind of fish. (www.alaskasealife.org)

The SeaLife Center is located square in the middle of some beautiful, breathtaking scenery that is so Alaska--the mist, clouds and sheer expansiveness of the place sets the stage for what is inside. 

We pass an amazing monument that provides just a glimpse of what is in store when you visit the ocean:

Once inside, we don't know where to go first. You can watch the seals swim in their super gigantic tank--from above and from below.

You can visit smaller tanks that house all kinds of fish--leaning toward the exotic--fish you have never seen before or even heard of.

These tanks represent just a small area of what lives underneath the ocean. The colors. The variety of fish.

 

I particularly love the starfish. Especially when you see them living in concert together. Hanging out. The good life.

And where is Theo during all of this time as we wander from tank to tank? I can feel him stalking beside me, but he's not satisfied to watch the fish from his lowly spot. I lift him up to give him what I would call a Birds Eye view. 

I'm not sure what he actually sees. But his gaze doesn't falter. He's truly mesmerized--watching the fish swim back and forth. 

I point to one tank in particular. "Do you see what looks like a rock with those pink spots?"

I think he nods or maybe he's stretching.

"Well, that's not a rock, Theo. That's a fish. Believe it or not."

He's a little impressed. At first I think he's spending the most time staring at the starfish. But they barely move. They float through the water. But then I realize he's not particular. 

Can it be true that Theo likes all fish? To eat???

 

Theo Visits Resurrection Bay

 We arrive at Seward, Alaska--Resurrection Bay or as it's properly known: Kenai Ford National Park. Promises are made. Board the boat for a six hour, non-stop, tour around the expansive bay, and you're sure to see an iceberg cascading into the water and an assortment of anything that flies or swims. We're hoping for whales, of course. And glimpses of beautiful scenery--which Alaska is known for.

The boat is crowded with passengers so priority number one is to stake out a place to sit. We find a table with chairs inside the boat. As soon as we leave the dock, the temps drop lower and lower. Outside, a brisk breeze can blow an iPhone out of your hands or a nine pound cat into the water.

Luckily, our table faces a window with a view. "I think Theo should stay here. Where it's safe and warm."

I expect an argument. For once, the gangster cat agrees. 

"I'll come get you if we see anything. A whale, for example."

The scenery is stunning. Snow capped mountains, cliffs, craggy inlets, sea water that changes from blue to green and every shade in between, a sun that shines like a white light in the darkened cloud filled sky, and waterfalls that snake down the mountain.  

We see glaciers tumble into the bay, which is not a sight you see very often in the contiguous United States.

Our first sighting are seals sunbathing on a long slim patch of ice in the water. 

Then we spot seals swimming among the ice chunks in the bay.

We run and get Theo. After all, we promised. But when he gets yanked from his cozy spot and carried (he would say kidnapped) to where the seals are, he gives me the stink eye and then a cursory glance at the seals.

Really?

But . . . luckily just as we're about to bring him back inside, we make his day. Small white birds are perched on a nearby mountain side. I mean there's nothing too unique about them. White birds. Kittiwakes? Theo spots them immediately. 

What is it with cats and birds?

We hold onto Theo, expecting that given the chance, he'll leap off the boat and somehow swim across the icy water to get to those birds. Holding Theo captive is no easy feat while you're trying to take photos. He begins to make that cackling sound. His tail is wagging.

"Calm down. You see birds all the time at home." 

What you see you can't unsee! Did someone famous say that?

Now he's twisting and turning with a clearly defined mission. I'm afraid if I bring him back inside, he'll sneak out again.

We are in a quandary. Is it time for a snack? A distraction?

Just as that thought hits me like a bolt of lightning, the birds are out of view. The boat picks up speed. 

We're headed to a family of whales that have been spotted, way out in the distance, barely bigger than flecks of black in the water. 

Yippee!! 

And, believe it or not, even Theo looks excited. Have we finally found something he is keen to watch, besides birds?

Stay tuned for Part 2 next week. 

 

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.