We Have Only One Wish

Deep Subject

It's impossible to overstate the depth of the Alaskan night. The sky seduces through a kind of magnetism like brilliant jewels to the eye. A moonless, aurora-free night shines like a million golden coins in Ali Baba's cave illuminated by candle light.

Staring upwards, an Iridium satellite flashes, a meteorite streaks to the Northwest Territories, a faint, blue-gree glow arcs earthward across the eastern quarter of the sky. I can sense a shift to red, but the film camera tells the truth. The uncertainty of a photographer's mild red-green blindness is resolved with Fujichrome.

A heavy snow descended last night, a thick fuzz of tiny, sugar-white crystals. Today remains windless, and the trees' flock lingers. Oblong impressions from a fox's leaping body span the front yard twice over. At one point they shift to tiny paw prints delicately tracing out a felled tree and disappearing into the brush. No doubt the fox was stalking voles, whose industrious tunelling leaves a web of subtle indentations on the surface.

The moon of late brings a certain levity with its brightness, and if Luna and Aurora cooperate, the landscape and dancing lights complement each other like diamonds and velvet. Polaris and the Ursas smile down upon us, as if they are proud to meet their earthbound admirers. We smile back.

http://lighttrekker.photography.com

Mush!

A decent snow base finally covers many of the trails in these parts, and to some, their time has been a long time coming. Sled dogs live to run the trail. They are natural athletes with one thing on the brain.

Outsiders with no knowledge of the sport might have you believe dog mushing is simply cruelty enforced on the beasts, but I can tell you, a stationary sled dog is an unhappy sled dog. Mushers and their racing teams pass stringent checks to ensure dog health and safety is number one. Moreover, even casual mushers consider their dogs part of the family. Besides, you're not going to mix and distribute dog food to 20-plus hounds at 50 below unless you LOVE them.

http://www.sleddog.org/

Termination Dust

The northland mountains take on the appearance of ginger cakes topped with powdered sugar in late August and early September. The early snows ease down the slopes day by day bringing signs of the impending winter closer to the valley residents below. The poplars and birch lay their golden leaves on the ground. The once-blazing fireweed is long past and turns brownish-black. Grizzly bears take final swipes at the lingering blueberries and high-bush cranberries. A few late-year salmon make their way to spawning grounds a thousand-plus miles from the sea. Their bodies are battered and turning ashen white in the final days before death.

A mild panic sets in for a lot of us. No one finishes all the outdoor chores planned earlier in the year. Cutting and stacking firewood and filling the freezer with moose and caribou take on higher priorities. The locals call the first snows termination dust, and for good reason. It signals a time to shift gears.

Photographers get excited with the changes. Stars return to the skies and with them the possibility of aurora borealis. With each shortening day, the light quality moves from crisp and brilliant greens and blues to pastels with lingering, long shadows, almost like interminable sunrises and sunsets. Sundogs and light pillars -- those miracles of "diamond dust" (fine ice crystals), reflection, and refraction -- start to appear.

The magic is just beginning.

http://www.gi.alaska.edu/AtmosSci/index.html

My Pet Moose

Well, not a pet exactly, but he is a frequent visitor. I named him Billy. Billy and his mother, a rather large but lean cow, spent much of the late winter and spring browsing and resting in the yard. They eat a lot. An adult will fill its belly with 30, 40, or even 50 pounds of vegetation each day. In the colder months, they ruminate on twigs from aspen and poplars. I have also observed them snack on tree bark. They seem to like the lilacs in the yard, but so far the lilacs have survived many moose attacks.

I see a lot of moose, but Billy seemed special. Just before Memorial Day, I watched him browsing on the new leaves on some recently felled trees. Easy pickings! After a little while, I saw his mother appear from the woods, and he slowly approached her. She was looking towards me, and I saw her ears go down, a good indicator she would charge. I was puzzled, because I was silent, and I knew I was too far from her to see me well. When Billy got within about 20 feet of her, she snorted loudly and bolted towards him! He backed up a safe distance and turned away, but soon he drew closer once more. Again, Momma Moose made it abudantly clear he was not welcome. He was a yearling, and it was time to leave her side.

Billy's little antler nubs were the size of golf balls. I estimated he weighed 400-500 pounds. Even so, he looked a little vulnerable and...well...cute. For the better part of a week he lingered in the yard munching on the spring greenery and bedding down among the spruce. Finally, he wandered off to presumably greener pastures, but he returns every week or two to see what's new on the menu. Billy has grown a lot over the past couple of months. Aside from the sores on his hind hocks from moose flies, he looks well. His velveted antlers are respectable for a young bull. His coat is thick and toasted-nut brown.

I think the dog is jealous.

http://www.adfg.state.ak.us/pubs/notebook/biggame/moose.php

A Friendly Visit to the Merlion

I am ignorant of many things. My inquisitiveness partially eases the symptoms of what seems, at times, a chronic condition. I observe, I ask questions, and I try to listen. Oh, do I try, but sometimes the voice in my head spews out more questions before the first one is fully answered. I often leave a place with lots of information but more puzzles to solve than when I started. My appetite whetted, I resolve to return (and often I do). My experience in Singapore was no different.

Anyone watching an ad for Singapore Airlines could come away with the impression their hospitality towards customers has deep cultural roots. It's an understatement. I arrived aboard a United Airlines 747 at nearly midnight. Tired and feeling more than a bit grubby from the trip, I steeled myself for a typical customs gauntlet as we parked at the gate adjacent to a beautiful new giant of the sky, an Airbus A380 in SA livery. Stepping into Changi's Terminal 3 was a release of first order. It's a very welcoming venue with open concepts, shiny glass, sparkling stainless steel, and generous greenery.

T-shirts in the souvenir shops declare Singapore's municipal stereotype: "It's a fine city," with stiff penalties for littering, chewing gum, and smoking in public places like theaters. No bullet-proof clothing, toy guns, pistols, weapons, or spears. Chewing tobacco, toy currency, and "obscene" materials are strictly verboten. With such restrictions on the books, one might expect a tortuous grilling and cavity search at the border. Luckily, I had left the Kevlar vest, Monopoly set, Red Man, and Jugs magazines at home, so I had little to worry about. The smiling immigration agent working the late shift made me feel like he was happy I had arrived safely. I thanked him for his service, and he offered me a piece of candy. (I would be careful where I put the wrapper.)

The chatty taxi driver discussed shifting values. His grown children were successful in Singapore, but one or two had left for jobs in Canada. "Money isn't everything, but to young people you can't explain it." The city was becoming a bit more dangerous these days. "Pakistanis," he said. Still, he assured me, there was no place like it. The hotel desk clerk knew Alaska. She used to work on a cruise line sailing the Inside Passage. We had some common favorite places, and the conversation took on a tone of instant familiarity. The sole bellman in the wee hours loaded my hands with maps and tour books and suggested a couple of organized outings. He sounded truly proud of the place. After dropping the bags, I stepped outside for some fresh air before retiring. A lone prostitute approached me and seemed genuinely friendly and polite, even when I declined her services. I talked with her a few minutes. Business was slow. A foreigner, she liked Singapore. She liked the people, and she had a comfortable life there.

In the subsequent few days, I meandered with my camera from Orchard Lane to the Esplanade, from Newton to Little India, and beyond. Invariably sweat-drenched, I would frequently find a shady spot or a shop to cool off and to observe the throngs of passersby. The entire spectrum of skin tones and eye shapes swooshed by in a cosmopolitan rainbow. Wafts of grilled meat, curry, citrus fruit, and fresh fish punctuated my walkabout. The usual urban smells of diesel and BO seemed almost not to exist, my consciousness diverted by the new, colorful surroundings.

I would ask questions, whether of a clerk or a random pedestrian, and again, strangers would smile and offer generous guidance, or even to share a meal! I noticed in Little India a certain "edge," particularly apparent from some of the young men. (Perhaps my camera or my home country's politics made me suspect.) Nevertheless, my politeness always was reciprocated.

I left Singapore intrigued, really, knowing I had just scratched the surface as a casual guest. It's as if I had been invited to dinner for the first time. What's going on beneath the smiles? What do Singaporean folks discuss among themselves? What do they really think? The mystery and confusion in my mind is a lot like my visit to the Merlion: "Just what is this beast, anyway?" The head of a lion, the tail of a fish, it always seems to smile.

http://www.visitsingapore.com/publish/stbportal/en/index.html

Far from Home, and Yet...

In late May, I dipped a toe into the raging torrent of 21st century China by visiting Shenzhen near Hong Kong. The experience was electrifying in a literal sort of way. I came away dazed and amazed. Parts of the trip made absolutely no sense to my traditional Western mind, yet there remained a strong sense of familiarity. Of the many things I saw, of the many people I met, the theme I inferred was a burgeoning consumer society in hyperdrive. Most Americans, I would venture, don't have the slightest clue of the power behind Chinese economics and their society's dynamics.

The neon lights made my head swim. Giant towers of glass and steel dominate the sky. Raw skeletons of girders and cranes pepper the pave-scape both in the city and on the fringes. They portend a near-future of much the same. The Mix, one of several high-end shopping centers, featured a Cadillac dealer's wares. I saw a $450 pair of casual loafers there, a bargain compared to the shop's more formal shoes. The Calvin Klein franchise displayed headless mannequins in suggestive -- no, nearly explicit -- poses. They were well-dressed, though. Almost invariably, people I met, businessmen and young professionals, had arrived from somewhere else in the country. Shenzhen is where the money is, and each came for their piece of capitalist pie.

I shared my amazement with a youthful, American-educated, finance professional in Hong Kong. "Shenzhen?" he asked. "That place used to be a dump!" Indeed, it did. According to wikipedia.org, "Shenzhen's novel and modern cityscape is the result of the vibrant economy made possible by rapid foreign investment since the late 1970s, when it was but a small fishing village. Since then, foreign nationals have invested more than US$30 billion for building factories and forming joint ventures. It is now reputedly one of the fastest growing cities in the world." That much I can believe. Twelve million people is a number my local contacts dropped frequently, but how could they know? I think at any given time, 12 million cars jam the wide boulevards and highways.

Instead of riding in one of those cars, I was most comfortable wandering on foot, camera in hand, usually in the steamy afternoon or evening. On foot, I could scratch beneath the glitzy veneer and catch fleeting glimpses of the struggling classes. The crowded, battered ghettos are shielded from view along the avenues by thick foliage and flowers. Armies of broom-swinging elders clean the main sidewalks and tend the greenery. Blue-uniformed children dashing to and from school charmed me with smiles and waves. At night, young boys would approach on foot. "Hello!" they would say, and then hand over a card with a sexy woman's photo and a phone number. "You want good time with her?" In the next moment, a begging woman with a baby in tow would ask for a handout. They would pester me until I rounded the corner or crossed the street into someone else's turf.

In the end, I suppose Shenzhen and its residents are real success stories; that is, if you measure success by how similar they are to us.

http://wikitravel.org/en/Shenzhen

Three, Two, One...

Last Saturday, Old Sol's marigold fringe eased obliquely above the northeast horizon well before 5 AM, when my alarm went off. I was awake already, anxious to share a dream.

I soon departed for town, a 20-plus-mile drive on a two-lane road, rolling and twisting among the frost heaves. Pussywillows as well as tiny aspen and birch buds signaled that the recalcitrant chill of winter was finally behind us. Rotten pond ice and a few shaded patches of snow were not enough to convince anyone otherwise.

Over a leisurely breakfast of coffee, eggs, and reindeer sausage, I bantered with three friends: a grandfather, his grandson, and a soon-to-be-father of twins. The conversation was eclectic and rambling. We talked of birth, dying, and electronic gadgets. However, we had a common theme that day. We all wanted to share the dream.

By 8 AM we saddled up and headed northeast into the hills of gold country, where pioneers and placer miners chased their dreams beginning a hundred years ago. The dreamers' ghosts are everywhere, still lingering along the creeks lined with stands of black spruce. Among them are disintegrated cabins, snapped drag lines, fractured pulleys, and even rusted hulks of giant dredges abandoned in place over half a century ago.

Less than an hour later, we marshalled with a half dozen other dreamers in the roadside shade of ancient black spruce trees and...uh, a rocket. The odd juxtaposition marked the entrance to Poker Flat Rocket Research Range, where scientists scheme to overcome their earthbound status to study aurora and other atmospheric phenomena. It is the perfect gathering place for dreamers of the 21st century.

Within a few minutes, the Dream Team leader, a world-renowned professor, ushered us to a small, blue metal building, where the magic was about to unfold before a motley bunch of scientists, amateur radio operators, and other supporters, including one dog. There the good doctor laid out the long pleats of a latex weather balloon upon a table. (I must confess it looked like a giant condom for an unimaginable beast.)

Others prepared support lines, a parachute, and three tiny foil-wrapped packages containing radio tracking devices and a digital camera. I busied myself studying the parts, asking questions, and snapping photos. Eventually the balloon took shape as the helium rushed in. Two handlers with white gloves corralled the lively blob indoors while the wind whipped inside the partially shut garage door.

Then it was time. Moving outdoors, the launch team gingerly attached the payload lines, and the remaining teammates held the dangling electronics boxes off the ground. At 10:09 I heard, "Three, two, one..." and she was away, heading upward and towards the northwest following a yellow pilot balloon launched moments before. Our dream was alive.

We stood transfixed and flew in our minds side-by-side with the balloon. We could see a shrinking white dot against an azure sky. Two thousand, three thousand, five thousand, ten thousand feet. How high would it go, and what would it see? The earth's curvature, hazy blue below, and pitch darkness above? Would it survive the inevitable fall to earth? We all dreamt of great things, a vicarious adventure into the unknown, to the edge of space.

http://www.bear.437am.com/

Waiting

Often we wait, shackled by what-ifs or if-onlys. We rationalize that our circumstances won't allow anything else, but really we won't allow anything else. A true obligation -- e.g., to care for our children -- is immutable. On the other hand, a burden is a perception, and we can alter our perception by shifting our point of view. This requires courage.

Courage empowers and emancipates, as if through self-manumission we free ourselves to pursue dreams, to open a door into the unknown, or simply to see things in a different light. This is not to lack fear, but rather to cope with it. Perhaps the first sign of courage is to ask, "Why wait?"

http://www.stevepavlina.com/articles/courage-to-live-consciously.htm

Chance Meetings

Does coincidence or fate bring people together? Maybe both. Maybe something altogether different. However, with age and experience, one simply cannot escape the notion that some force or a greater purpose is behind some meetings.

I recently flew South, and on the first leg of my journey over several hours, my seatmate gave me great insight into several things I need to do to get my professional and personal lives in better order. The timing could not have been better. I am in great need of coaching now. We parted, and I left invigorated and resolved.

A couple of days later, in a training session among 27 people with whom I presumably had no common connection, I found two who worked at the same place in England I had been nearly a quarter century ago. These young men were still in diapers then, and yet we discovered we even had some common acquaintances. It was fun to catch up with news of old friends through new ones.

On the return flight, an adjacent traveler enthralled me with tales of sacrifice and hardship during two-and-a-half years in the steamy, soggy China-Burma-India theater of World War II. After the war, he built a homestead and raised a family on 160 acres not far from where I live now. He still cuts firewood and bales hay on the same land. He is 87. The history lessons moved me, and I came away in awe of his obvious courage, strength, and determination.

With over 150 other passengers on the airplane, with hundreds of potential students for the course, what would bring us together?

Weird, huh?

http://psychologytoday.com/articles/pto-20040715-000008.html

Knock, Knock

Opportunity knocks. A painful transition looms. The alternative is complacency coupled with suppressed regret. Hope for the best, either way.

http://www.leadershipnow.com/risktakingquotes.html

Look Into My Eyes

The human condition, properly experienced, involves deep introspection interpsersed with expressions of hope as well as great pits of despair. "Tomorrow is another day!" Life imitates art and vice versa. Failure to look into the mirror is a closed-minded way of demonstrating cowardice.

Eyes tell all. Comtempt or compassion, repulsion or attraction, the eyes emit the entire spectrum of emotion. Through the eyes, we communicate our innermost convictions, our expectations...for both of us.

Alas, the tendency is to look past ourselves and towards others for blame.

http://www.iep.utm.edu/i/introspe.htm

Into the Fire

One might easily believe the desert is the complete antithesis of the arctic. Yet both have many things in common. They are ruthless, often unforgiving of the careless and the uninitiated. They are also great reserves of aesthetic inspiration, expanses of tortured landscape, seemingly empty to casual observers. But humans have clung to life, even flourished, in both places for thousands upon thousands of years.

Not far from Las Vegas, the Valley of Fire State Park handily serves up evidence of the long struggle humans have endured surrounded by breathtaking beauty. Mysterious petroglyphs are a few steps up and away from the pavement at Atlatl Rock. A witness comes away with many questions no one living can answer with certainty.

http://parks.nv.gov/vf.htm

Snapshots & Fortitude

My love affair with the aurora borealis began immediately after moving to Alaska in 1998. The oft-fleeting, dancing lights inspire equally mythology and scientific study. Under a deep polar night sky penetrated by lavender-fringed drapes of green, blue, and red, a viewer can easily swoon and forget their frigid, harsh surroundings...at least for a little while.

Cold-burned flesh and frozen accouterment plague the Northern Lights photographer. Mother Nature has a way of beating back those who would taste too much of Her sweet offering. Spent, I warm myself inside and wait impatiently for another late-night liaison, one more chance to re-capture the beauty. Finally, summer comes, and there are no more. My heart aches for another icy embrace.

http://photo.net/photos/lighttrekker