Thursday, December 01, 2005
Beards! Alaskan Style!
Flash! Anchorage will host the 2009 World Beard and Moustache Championships! Yup! Anchorage beat out tiny Liechtenstein, the only other applicant, for the honor. The date will be moved to March to rev up interest in the Iditarod Great Sled Race. The last time the championships were held in the United States was back in2003 in Carson City and the Americans got walloped. The same thing happened again this year. The Germans claimed 14 out of 17 gold medals. One even boasted a mustache and beard combination that looked like the Brandenberg gate in Berlin. Whew! Now what those Europeans may not have known is that Anchorage has had a beard-growing contest for 54 years. What they also probably did not realize is that Alaska has a sizeable Russian Orthodox community. Russia is not a member of the sanctioning body of the World Beard and Moustache Association for an obvious reason. When Peter the Great decided to force his Cossack countrymen into the modern era, he ordered them to shave off their beards. After suppressing a near riot, the now clean-shaven Russians collected their shorn beards so that they could be buried with them in their coffins. There was no place in heaven for the clean-shaven. The Russian Orthodox faithful take their beards quite seriously. And surprise! There are oodles of them just waiting here to display their tickets to paradise. What the Europeans also failed to realize is that every July, Fairbanks also has a beard-growing contest as part of their Golden Days celebration but with an added twist—a hairy legs contest for the ladies. When the mushers come to town, you can just randomly pluck hundreds of potential gold metal winners from among the spectators. After all this is the land of Yukon Jake where “His eight-months beard grew stiff and weird, And it felt like a chestnut burr.” The local club it would appear is so confident of a new gold rush, that they did not even bother to include a hairy legs contest. And just wait until the fish heads come flying at the contestants.
Flash! Anchorage will host the 2009 World Beard and Moustache Championships! Yup! Anchorage beat out tiny Liechtenstein, the only other applicant, for the honor. The date will be moved to March to rev up interest in the Iditarod Great Sled Race. The last time the championships were held in the United States was back in2003 in Carson City and the Americans got walloped. The same thing happened again this year. The Germans claimed 14 out of 17 gold medals. One even boasted a mustache and beard combination that looked like the Brandenberg gate in Berlin. Whew! Now what those Europeans may not have known is that Anchorage has had a beard-growing contest for 54 years. What they also probably did not realize is that Alaska has a sizeable Russian Orthodox community. Russia is not a member of the sanctioning body of the World Beard and Moustache Association for an obvious reason. When Peter the Great decided to force his Cossack countrymen into the modern era, he ordered them to shave off their beards. After suppressing a near riot, the now clean-shaven Russians collected their shorn beards so that they could be buried with them in their coffins. There was no place in heaven for the clean-shaven. The Russian Orthodox faithful take their beards quite seriously. And surprise! There are oodles of them just waiting here to display their tickets to paradise. What the Europeans also failed to realize is that every July, Fairbanks also has a beard-growing contest as part of their Golden Days celebration but with an added twist—a hairy legs contest for the ladies. When the mushers come to town, you can just randomly pluck hundreds of potential gold metal winners from among the spectators. After all this is the land of Yukon Jake where “His eight-months beard grew stiff and weird, And it felt like a chestnut burr.” The local club it would appear is so confident of a new gold rush, that they did not even bother to include a hairy legs contest. And just wait until the fish heads come flying at the contestants.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Fake Icebergs!
Portage Glacier is a little over 50 miles to the South of Anchorage. Once upon a time the Begich, Boggs Visitor Center on Portage Lake offered a magnificent view of Portage Glacier. However, due to global warming the glacier has now retreated so far that it can’t be seen from the visitor center. When visitors gaze upon the icebergs in the lake, they ask such questions as “How did you make those icebergs?” and “Do you tow them in just for the visitors?” Many other people insist that they are fake because they can’t see the glacier. Well! Virginia there is a Santa Claus and the glaciers are alive and well—well maybe not well! (Most have been downsized over the last few years). But they are here. Oh! Did I mention that Portage Valley can get over 400 inches of snow a year? Probably most of that is fake too!
Monday, November 28, 2005
New-fangled shoes
Since the snow on the ground is now up to 18 inches, we decided it was necessary to take extraordinary measures when we go outside. That means wear snowshoes. Now all the snowshoes that I have ever seen look like a pair of tennis rackets with a strap on each one. Well these are a new-fangled model. They have steel grippers on the bottoms and a complicated set of straps that weave in and out and fasten in a couple of places. After fooling with them for about ten minutes I finally figured out how they work or at least I thought that I had figured it out. I walked outside and managed to get them on my feet and then I commenced a methodical march up the hill in our “powder.” My foot plunged 18 inches down into the snow and when I tried to retrieve my foot from this unanticipated dilemma, it emerged unscathed except that the snowshoe was missing. With my foot bent beneath my leg, I plunged my hand into the snowbank and somehow managed to rescue the errant “shoe.” With my other foot still buried deep beneath the snow, I gamely tried to put the shoe back on my foot. The heavy ski gloves on my hands proved useless. I removed one glove and with my foot still in flamingo mode, I try to work the straps back over my Nevada hiking boot. Scruunch! I landed on my derriere. From my backside perspective it was now an easy task to adjust the lashing for my snowshoe. As I righted myself I looked back at my resting-place--not the slightest hint of a snow angel but just a large depression in the snow. If I were to make it up the hill a new strategic plan would be in order. After looking to my right and to my left, I chose to pursue a more compacted trail up the hill. It worked! Once at the top of the driveway, I plotted a path straight down hill with a right angle turn to the mailbox. A quarter mile down and a quarter mile back in my new-fangled shoes. The trip down proved to be uneventful. The trip back up was not! With the mail clutched tightly against my down coat, I try to turn around. Now if you have never walked a half-mile in snowshoes, don’t laugh! I normally make tight turnarounds when I walk. So now rather winded and tired and without thinking I made a lackadaisical, tight turnaround. The footwork could be described by a kind critic as an imprecise pirouette. These new-fangled shoes were not designed for tight turnarounds—let alone “imprecise pirouettes.” Scruunch! Back into another snowbank. The only way to describe my predicament is to think of four left feet tripping over each other. After gathering myself and reclaiming the mail, I headed back up the hill to the house feeling more than a wee bit cold. When I finally made it back inside our warm cozy house both my hands and feet were aching from the cold. There was one consolation. Tomorrow it is Diana’s time to fetch the mail.
Since the snow on the ground is now up to 18 inches, we decided it was necessary to take extraordinary measures when we go outside. That means wear snowshoes. Now all the snowshoes that I have ever seen look like a pair of tennis rackets with a strap on each one. Well these are a new-fangled model. They have steel grippers on the bottoms and a complicated set of straps that weave in and out and fasten in a couple of places. After fooling with them for about ten minutes I finally figured out how they work or at least I thought that I had figured it out. I walked outside and managed to get them on my feet and then I commenced a methodical march up the hill in our “powder.” My foot plunged 18 inches down into the snow and when I tried to retrieve my foot from this unanticipated dilemma, it emerged unscathed except that the snowshoe was missing. With my foot bent beneath my leg, I plunged my hand into the snowbank and somehow managed to rescue the errant “shoe.” With my other foot still buried deep beneath the snow, I gamely tried to put the shoe back on my foot. The heavy ski gloves on my hands proved useless. I removed one glove and with my foot still in flamingo mode, I try to work the straps back over my Nevada hiking boot. Scruunch! I landed on my derriere. From my backside perspective it was now an easy task to adjust the lashing for my snowshoe. As I righted myself I looked back at my resting-place--not the slightest hint of a snow angel but just a large depression in the snow. If I were to make it up the hill a new strategic plan would be in order. After looking to my right and to my left, I chose to pursue a more compacted trail up the hill. It worked! Once at the top of the driveway, I plotted a path straight down hill with a right angle turn to the mailbox. A quarter mile down and a quarter mile back in my new-fangled shoes. The trip down proved to be uneventful. The trip back up was not! With the mail clutched tightly against my down coat, I try to turn around. Now if you have never walked a half-mile in snowshoes, don’t laugh! I normally make tight turnarounds when I walk. So now rather winded and tired and without thinking I made a lackadaisical, tight turnaround. The footwork could be described by a kind critic as an imprecise pirouette. These new-fangled shoes were not designed for tight turnarounds—let alone “imprecise pirouettes.” Scruunch! Back into another snowbank. The only way to describe my predicament is to think of four left feet tripping over each other. After gathering myself and reclaiming the mail, I headed back up the hill to the house feeling more than a wee bit cold. When I finally made it back inside our warm cozy house both my hands and feet were aching from the cold. There was one consolation. Tomorrow it is Diana’s time to fetch the mail.
