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.

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!

Theo and the Arctic Ground Squirrel

 The morning we actually go into Denali National Park (meaning tall one--referring to the mountain which is 20,310 feet high and North America's highest peak), we're riding a school bus and are part of an official tour. For a price, we have a seat, a lunch and a window that we can look out of. There's a guide in front of the bus, who's visited Denali before, and a kind of television screen to the side that projects images from the outside. Our guide has a transmitter that helps him locate where the animals are.

That's why we're going to Denali. To see the animals. More specifically, Denali is home to 39 mammal species (red foxes, Arctic ground squirrels, marmots), 169 bird species (willow ptarmigans, golden eagles, ravens) 1 amphibian (wood frog) and the Big Five: Grizzly bears, wolves, caribou, Dall sheep, and moose.

The problem is Denali is a big place (6 million acres or approximately 7,408 miles) and the road we're traveling on (92 miles long), which twists and turns, which goes up and down, doesn't take you into the real interior of the park. To get there, you need to be a hiker and have a good map and days and days to spend tramping around. In the middle of almost nowhere. 

So, we'll spend the entire day driving around, hoping to see something, even though if you know anything about spotting wildlife, the best time to see them is early morning or early evening--not mid afternoon. 

Why a tour? Theo wants to know. Because private vehicles can ride into the park only so far. Tour busses can go in further. And, even though we wish we were, we're not professional hikers who can carry twenty pound back packs and use walking sticks. 

We lower our expectations. We're not going to come within two feet of a grizzly bear. We won't see any wolves. Anything we do see will be super far away. At this point I realize that's why those screens are here--to magnify what we can't see so we can see it. 

As I'm realizing all of this, Theo is eating his first snack of the day. He seems relatively unconcerned. I feel a bit devastated. 

BUT, Dan reminds me, we will see magnificent views. Scenery that is over the top. Awe inspiring. The day is beautiful--cool breezes, blue skies with lovely billowing clouds that drift past the mountain top, greenery, streams.

We spot a bird? Not sure what it is:

"Is this okay, Theo?" I whisper. "I mean . . ."

He gives me a withered look. "I can take it, see?"

And then we spot the smallest animal--the Arctic ground squirrel--but, gosh, they are cute. Imagine Theo--his face pressed up against the bus window--as the most adorable squirrels peek their heads out of their burrows and run around.

Our guide tells us that these burrowing rodents are known for their extreme hibernation. Their body temps drop below freezing. Their heart rates slow to a crawl. Which is why they can survive the harsh Arctic winters. They eat plants, seeds, insects and other small animals.

Be grateful, I tell myself. No. Arctic ground squirrels are not a moose or a wolf, but they are animals. 

Theo, surprisingly, takes another view. He's enthralled. He crouches down, with his eyes just above the bottom of the window. Stalking posture. Ready to pounce at any second. If the bus window wasn't there.