Catch 22 upon Catch 22: I could blame the ravens, but actually, it is all my fault

I want to go to bed right now - in fact, I wanted to go to bed an hour ago, but I have fallen behind on this blog and if I don't catch up right now, when will I?

I have a good excuse. I had a little project that had to be postmarked no later than March 1 and it ate up all my time, day and night, and then after I drove to Anchorage late Sunday night, got the postmark, bought a cheese quesedilla, a cheesy-bean burrito and a strawberry mango drink at the Parks Highway Taco Bell all-night drivethrough and then drove home, I was drained and have been ever since.

Taco Bell. That is where the problems started. Not the one on the Parks Highway in Anchorage, but the one here, in Wasilla, Saturday, where I photographed this and the other two ravens seen here. 

This is how it happened: I had no cash on Saturday when I went through the Wasilla Taco Bell drivethrough. Margie was stretched out across the back seat of the Escape, so pulled out my wallet, slipped my debit card out of that, paid with the debit card, slipped the card back into the wallet and then put the wallet...

Where did I put the wallet? Did I put it on my lap? I don't remember. Perhaps because I was paying too much attention to the ravens. I always pay attention to ravens. They demand it.

Did I put it in the little pouch on the inside of the drivers door?

Just where did I put it? It was black. These ravens are squabbling over and eating something black. Did they take it? Did they eat it?

All I know for certain is that, after we finished dining, I drove up to the outside Taco Bell garbage can. I handed my sack of Taco Bell garbage back to Margie, she put her sack of Taco Bell garbage into it, handed it back to me and then I got out of the car, walked to the garbage can, threw it in, got back in the car and then drove straight at the ravens, thinking that they would fly before I got to them.

But they didn't. They called my bluff and I had to stop and then go around them. It is not because they were stupid and did not understand the danger a Ford Escape could pose to them.

They are smart. They just knew that I was bluffing, and that I would stop. And if by chance I didn't, they had it all calculated down to the micro-second just when they would actually need to hop and flap out of the way.

But they did not want to do that unless it was absolutely necessary, and they knew it wouldn't be. They wanted to call my bluff, to humiliate me, and they did.

Margie wanted to go to Carr's to buy some groceries after that. So I drove her to Carr's. I thought that she meant that she wanted me to go in and buy some groceries, but she meant she wanted us to go in and buy some groceries. It would be the very first time that she had gone into a store since she suffered her injury, January 20.

I drove her as close as I could to the door, got out of the car, opened up the back door, helped her out, made certain she got through the new fallen snow to the walk that leads inside the store, then got back into the car. By then, the lady and the boy above were in front of me, so I took their picture.

I then found a place far from the store to park the car. Being a rough, tough, Alaskan, I did not care at all about the falling snow. I hiked from the car to Carr's as if it was not even snowing at all. As if I was in Phoenix, Arizona.

That's how I did it. I then entered the store and these two boys - I assume the one with a beard is a boy, but who knows, he could be a girl - how could I tell? - offered me a Peanut Butter Cup. First, I took their picture and then I took the Peanut Butter Cup.

That is the kind of thing of thing that you do when you are a serious photographer, which I am. You take your picture before you take your Peanut Butter Cup. It does not matter how badly you want that Peanut Butter Cup, you take the picture first.

If you can't do that, then, hell, you might just as well throw your damn camera in the trash.

I wonder if I threw my wallet in the trash at Taco Bell? I wonder if I had accidently placed it in the Taco Bell sack when I was eating, the one that became my trash bag?

All I know for certain is that when I got to the check-out stand, with Margie hobbling behind, and the checker rang up the $200 plus bill, I reached into my pocket for my wallet, but it was not there.

I went back to the car and searched in and all around it. My wallet was not there. I went to Carr's customer service, to see if someone had turned my wallet in. They had not. I drove back to Taco Bell, to see if someone had turned in my wallet there.

No one had. I asked if the garbage can had been emptied. It had.

The Taco Bell ravens laughed at me.

You don't believe me? You don't believe that a raven can laugh? Then come to Alaska and you will learn otherwise.

So I drove Margie home and checked my online bank account. No activity. Checked my credit cards. No activity. Still, I had to cancel them all. Each and every one.

Worse yet, I had no cash. Worse still, Margie had no cash. Even worse, when I cancelled my cards, I also cancelled her's, because we share accounts.

We do not have a pre-nup, either. Don't need one.

Although she was a little irritated with me, right now.

After that, there was nothing to do but go home and work on the project that I was telling you about. I worked on it all day Saturday for the remainder of the day and then when the day ended, I continued to work on it.

I did not stop until 5:00 AM. I then went to bed, pulled the covers over me and then the cats piled on. I sleep better when cats are piled atop me. Unless they grow mischievous. They grew mischievous.

I got up a bit before 10:00 AM, fixed Margie some oatmeal, fixed me some oatmeal and then got back to work. I did not stop until I was done, and that happened about 8:45 PM. At that time on Sunday, the only open Post Office in the whole state of Alaska is the airport Post Office in Anchorage, so I climbed into the car and drove - without my driver's license, because that was in the lost wallet.

Margie could not drive me, because her leg is in a brace and still cannot be bent. Her arm is in a cast and she could not grip the steering wheel.

So I drove, without my license. I set the cruise control to four miles above the speed limit to make certain that I would not accidently speed and get pulled over without a license.

I drove very cautious and carefully, so as not to attract any undo attention.

I drove past car after car that had gone off the road. Some had flipped over, some were on their side.

The road was dry. It was not icy. All those cars must have slid off the road the day before, when it was snowing. A whole lot of cars must have slide off the road Saturday, for so many to still not be retrieved Sunday night.

Probably, in the past, some of these drivers have laughed at news reports of snow-caused traffic mishaps in Lower 48 cities, especially in cities unaccustomed to snow that suddenly get snow.

Today, we seen such reports come out of Tennessee, and other southern states, like Maine.

I bet these drivers didn't laugh today.

Others did, though. Their time is coming.

As for today, it dawned clear, cold, and beautiful. -20 at our house. For you celsius people, that would be -29 on your scale. But I drove over the hill that is behind me in this picture and on Wasilla Main Street, it was +3. We live in a cold sink, that's why.

The good thing is, I now have so many bars on my cellphone right in my house that I haven't even bothered to count them, as that would require me to put on my reading glasses. But there are a lot of bars. No more dropped calls - thanks to this ugly monstrosity that just got turned on.

Now here is an amazing thing: when we flew out of Salt Lake City on the way home from Washington, DC, there was a guy at the gate next to ours peddling Delta Airlines American Express credit cards. He said if I got one and made just one purchase, why, hell, right there I would get enough free Delta Airlines miles just for doing so that I could fly free on a Delta Airlines roundtrip ticket  anywhere they go.

He said Margie could sign up and we could get two free round-trip tickets. I did not want another credit card, but I did like the idea of those free tickets. So I signed us both up. Margie was too broken up to sign herself up.

Those cards arrived the other day, but I just ignored them. This meant that I did not put them in my wallet. This meant that they did not get lost.

That is how I paid to mail my package from the Anchorage airport Post Office - with that Delta Airlines American Express card.

That is how I bought gas to drive back home from Anchorage - with that card.

And now I can fly anywhere in the US that Delta goes...

So today, driving illegally once again, I drove to the Department of Motor Vehicles in Palmer, figuring that I could be legal when I drove back.

When I got to the DMV, a sign asked me to please fill out all the relevant forms before my number was called. So I took my number from the number machine, then found the basket for the form that I needed.

It was empty.

Next, I sat in a chair and waited for my number to be called. My number was 241. As you can see, the couple in the picture here had number 237, and I had already been waiting awhile when I took it.

See the two portraits hanging on the wall? The one on the left is of our Governor, Sarah Palin. Ever hear of her?

I doubt it. It seems unlikely.

Anyway, 241 was finally called. I journied to the counter. The guy who helped me was most friendly. He gave me the form that had not been in the basket and patiently waited while I filled it out. He then had me take the eye test, which I passed just fine.

I showed him my passport and he agreed that I am who I said I am.

"That'll be $15.00," he said.

So I whipped out my American Express card.

"I'm sorry," he said, "the DMV does not take American Express."

Come on, Sarah - for hell's sake! 

So I drove illegally from the DMV to the Palmer McDonald's to buy a cup of coffee and some cinnamon nuggets. I chose McDonald's because I figured they would probably take American Express.

I made my order and pulled to the first window. A girl was there to take my money. I had put my American Express Card inside my passport. I absent-mindedly handed her the passport.

She didn't know what to do.

But when she figured it out, McDonald's accepted the card. I pulled up to the next window and this kid handed me my coffee and my cinnamon nuggets.

I drove out of the lot toward the highway and as I did, these two kids jaywalked right across the highway. They were lucky it was me driving. Most drivers would not have realized what was happening until it was too late and would have run right over them, but not me.

The coffee was scalding hot. Way too hot to drink. It would have to cool down. So I decided to take the long drive home, via fishhook road, which would extend the trip from about 15 miles to at least 20. I figured that would give the coffee time to cool down enough for me to drink while I was still driving home.

Plus, it is a more pleasant drive. 

I hadn't driven far before I grew impatient and decided that I did not want to wait for that coffee to cool down. If the coffee cooled, so would the cinnamon nuggets. I looked at the car's temperature indicator. The exterior air temperature was 10 degrees. That's the thing about this time of year, after the sun comes back. In December and January, if the morning temperature is -20, it might rise to -18 or so, but that's about it.

I looked at the speedometer. It read 55 miles per hour. I did some quick mental calculations and came up with a wind chill factor of -19. I figured that would cool down the coffee real quick, so I rolled down the window and held the cup out into the wind for a couple of miles. The inside of my hand was burning, the outside freezing, but it did the trick.

The coffee was drinkable in short order. The cinnamon nuggets were still warm.

I turned off Fishhook onto Polar Bear. I hadn't gone far when I saw this snow machine, just sitting in the road. 

And a bit later, on Church, I saw this guy. His snowmachine was working just fine.

Which brings me to another dilemma that I face. I might need to do some snowmachining real soon, to do my work which I have fallen so far behind on since I got hurt. Or I might have to hang onto the back of a sled. I have not done either since I shattered my shoulder and got it replaced.

I am much improved now, but I don't think my shoulder is capable of handling a snowmachine on rough terrain - and sea ice is always rough terrain. And neither is my wrist, which got hurt, too, but was completely ignored due to the severity of my shoulder injury. Now, it often bothers me worse than my shoulder. Each night, I lose sleep by the hour to the pain in my wrist, and in my shoulder.

What do I do?

In part, my Muse seems to have solved the problem. I promised her that when she got married, I would come to India to photograph her wedding. I am not a wedding photographer, I do not photograph weddings. But sometimes I make an exception.

For her, I will make such an exception.

Tonight, she informed me that she has set the date for May 3, and said that I must come one week early. That's probably when I would be doing the most heavy snowmachining of all. Now, on the hope that all goes well, I will be India, where it is pretty hard to drive a snowmachine.

You could do it, but it would be mighty hard on the snowmachine.

Oh, good grief! Did I write, "hard on?"

I never intended this to be that kind of blog. I am shocked.

And on a snowmachine! That would be awful. Something might break right off.

I think it is time to get out of this blog and go to bed. I think I am sleep-deprived.

But still, I would like to get on a snowmachine between now and India.

What do I do?

Now, being broke and all, how do I get to India?

My Muse has set her wedding date. I will find a way.

I have never let being broke stop me from traveling.

Now I will click "published," then "saved," and I will go to bed. 

Despite the time listed at the top of this page, it is 4:35 AM. 

How will I bear it, when 200,000 more people live in this valley?

Recent news reports advance the claim that by the year 2030, the population of the Matanuska-Susitna Valley will rise to 300,000. The thought, to me, is unbearable. When we first moved into the Mat-Su 27 years ago, the population of the entire valley was about 30,000, but exploding fast due to the influx of money and jobs that poured across Alaska as a result of the oil boom that followed the construction of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline. 

At that time, the same sorts of folks who put together this latest prediction were forecasting a population increase to 90,000, right about now. From what I gathered from listening to and reading the recent stories, about 100,000 people now live in this valley.

Way too many for me.

Naturally, there are many who get excited when they hear of such potential growth, as they see new opportunities to make money. Above all else, above open, wild, free country, the right to bear arms and freedom itself, money has been the force that has driven and ruled Alaska during the time that we have lived here. I am certain that it will continue to be.

Were it not for the much-loathed restraining hand of the federal government with its national parks and wildlife refuges, this place would have been ripped apart. Nothing that bore the potential of yielding a dollar would have been left unscratched.

To many, money equals quality of life, but to me, each time a new family moves into the valley to the increase of the population, the quality of life diminishes - perhaps imperceptibly with just that family, but devastatingly upon accumulation.

Please do not misunderinterpret me - I need money too and I do not begrudge any of these families who move here, hoping to improve their circumstance. I welcome each one. We did the same 27 years ago and yes, we diminished the quality for those of like-mind who preceded us.

For example, there was an old trapper's trail that cut right through our back yard. The trapper who had made it had long since disappeared from the country, but many recreational snowmachiners used to buzz up and down that trail and it was a real battle to convince the most bull-headed among them that, now that the trail not only went through a subdivision but directly through yards where children played, they could no longer use that trail.

When the population here hits 300,000, where will the recreational snowmachiners go? Their prospects will be greatly limited. Look at Anchorage right now. How much recreational snowmachining do you see going on in that town? Anchorage is about 300,000. Smaller area than the Mat-Su, true, but the reality will be largely the same.

Perhaps our arrival did increase the quality of life for the developer of our subdivision, who was a bright, energetic, ambitious, enthusiastic man in his forties - a jogger and a musician. We put more money into his pocket.

"I'm really not interested in the money," he told me one day as we drove through the newly burgeoning neighborhood, "what I want is just to be able to drive through here one day with my daughter and be able to tell her, 'when I first came here, there was nothing but trees, but your dad built this - and look at all these families who now make their lives here!'"

His heart killed him, not long afterward. They named a ball park after him and my boys all played American Legion baseball there.

As for the above series of pictures, I took them after I dragged Margie up from her position of convalescence upon the couch and drove her to Taco Bell, where we could eat in the car, just to get her out of the house.

There was no Taco Bell back then, no McDonald's, no Arby's, No Carl's Jr., no KFC-A&W, no fast food of any kind.

As ought to be apparent to anyone who has read much of this blog, and to the chagrin of my oldest daughter, I enjoy my fast food. 

After we ate, I stopped at the Tesoro Station on Seward Meridian and Palmer-Wasilla Highway to gas up the Escape. I damn near froze - not because it was that cold, it wasn't. It was about 18 degrees F., having warmed up from the -5 (-21 C) of the morning. But the wind was brisk and I was protected only by a light jacket.

I then climbed back into the car and took Margie on a good, long, drive. I thought about the cost of the gas and the added pollution and greenhouse gas that I was throwing into the air, but I drove anyway, because I really wanted to.

I need money, too, I really do. Maybe when they start the gas line up, some of the new dollars will land in my bank account. If I can get enough to buy, maintain, and gas-up another airplane, I can still escape the maddening crowd.

Even if by chance these two break all records for feline longevity and are still around in 2030, they will not be bothered by the population increase.

If the economy stays bad in the Lower 48 but the gas line becomes real here - wow! It will get completely crazy! People from all over will pour in up here looking for jobs, just like they did during TAPS construction and the oil boom. Most of them, probably 70 or 80 percent, will not find jobs, but they will still need to eat, they will still need a warm, dry, place to lay their heads and country to play in. The influx will be disproportionately male; they will need females, however they can obtain access to them.

Everyone here seems to be excited about the prospect of a gas line; it just can't happen soon enough.

This picture of Royce and Chicago is one of a series of pictures from yesterday that appeared on Grahamn Kracker's No Cat's Allowed Kracker Cat blog.

Kalib at daycare - he seems kind of sad; scenes from the car - life as viewed through the rearview mirrors; the young mother who used to serve us coffee and her sleepy, handsome, new, baby boy

Yesterday, I dropped Margie off at the Alaska Native Medical Center for X-rays and followup orthopedic treatment, then journied elsewhere to take care of some business, returned for Margie, went and got Lavina and then the three of us ventured over to the daycare center where Kalib now spends his days.

It was sad for me, because he looked so sad. Given the nature of Margie's injuries, his parents had no choice but to enroll him in daycare. And he is learning new things and meeting new toddlers, but he is missing the love that his grandmother drenched him with everyday, after his parents went to work.

I kind of miss seeing him around the house, too, getting into cupboards, banging pans together, pouncing on Royce.

This shot is also through the door, as we had to try to keep out of his sight. If he saw us - particularly his mother or grandmother - he would likely cry, and beg to come home with us. In the morning, when dropped off, he tends to cling to his father's leg, and to cry; he struggles to resist the imminent separation.

His mother soemtimes comes by and when he spots her, he immediately starts to cry. In the evening, he is overjoyed when his parent's pick him up.

He is separated from his peers here because he is on a different diet than they, and so is placed at a different table.

Earlier in the day, after we drove to Anchorage and found ourselves stopped at a light on the way to ANMC. As you can see, the scene behind us was quite intimidating - yet, I felt no fear.

Boniface Road, Anchorage.

After I dropped Margie off, I found myself parked at another red light, with a red car behind me, to the right.

This guy jaywalked. The evidence is right here.

These big wheels aren't even rolling, but they soon will be. I am not stopped at a light this time. I am stopped because there is an accident ahead of us. Margie and Lisa are in the car with me and we are drinking coffee, purchased at a kiosk. We are taking Lisa back to work. Her break was short.

We pass slowly by the accident. I see no signs of injury, but it's possible.

Back in Wasilla, headed down Gail Street, on the way home.

In the evening, I drove to Carr's to buy a chicken, salad, rice, oatmeal, berries and such so that Margie and I could continue to eat. It was there that I met this baby for the first time. 

I first heard about this baby early in January, when a bunch of us went to IHOP for Sunday breakfast. There, the young woman pictured above asked me if I noticed anything different about her. Her name is Melanie, and she works at IHOP now, but we first got to know her well before, when she was a coffee barista at the kiosk across the street from the Post Office, the one that looks like a red caboose.

Melanie was always friendly and vivacious, and it only took a couple of visits before she figured out what Margie and I wanted every day. She knew how to make coffee, too - her brew was always good. That's not the case with all baristas.

I tipped her accordingly. 

Of course, I tip the ones who serve bad coffee equally well.

Then one day Melanie left to go work at Prudhoe Bay and we did not see her again until late last year, when we went into IHOP one Sunday and discovered that she was working there and that she was expecting.

And that is what was different about her in January - she was no longer expecting. She had her baby, and this is she and he. She told me his name. I guess I had better start writing these things down, because I have forgotten it. 

It didn't use to be that way, but it is now.

She gave me her phone number and I just called her to get the name and to let her know this post was going up, but I did not reach her.

I will try again later, and afterward I will put in the name.

At least, this is my intent.

February 22, 11:26 am: Donovan. His name is Donovan.

A raven named Fred, and other sights I saw as I drove to get hamburgers and then back again

I went to the fridge to see what I could fix for lunch, but there was nothing appetizing there. I went to the cupboards - same thing.

Poor Margie! She lay miserable at the end of the couch, her leg with the broken knee-cap propped up on the ottoman, her broken wrist on the arm of the couch. She could do nothing to help at all.

So I told her that I would get in the new Escape and drive, until I found some hamburgers.

That is what I did. Along the way, I came upon a school bus waiting at a red light in the lane next to mine.

The windows were frozen; the poor kids trapped in the icy hell inside.

Some say that we here in Wasilla are uneducated, that we are hillbillies - uneducated hillbillies who do not know how to talk right. Obviously, this is wrong. Look at the school bus! You don't have school buses running around communities where the people are uneducated!

What a crazy thought!

And look beyond the bus. Do those look like hills?

No! They are mountains. They are not hills. We cannot be hillbillies.

We are mountainbillies.

And I am a mountain Bill.

After I bought the hamburgers at A&W, I met a raven.

The Raven's name was Fred.

Fred Meyer, to be precise.

Fred Meyer has his own building, among the biggest buildings in all of Wasilla.

Fred Meyer keeps a sign on his building with his name on it.

Fred Meyer wants everybody to know who he is.

Fred Meyer has a big ego.

I have never met a raven who hasn't had a big ego.

I have met many ravens.

Fred Meyer looks to the left...

Fred Meyer looks to the right...

Fred Meyer looks straight ahead.

Having eaten my hamburger and put Margie's in a safe place, I headed to the post office. These guys appeared behind me.

I was pretty sure they were going to follow me to the post office, where they would try to steal my mail.

But when I turned toward the post office, ready to fight for my mail, they continued on, straight ahead.

It just goes to show that Mom was right when she said, "Billy, don't judge people just because they are two men in a truck behind you and you are going to the post office."

As I was growing up, Mom laid this admonition upon me many times but, until this day, I never understood the wisdom in her words.

I met this dog after I pulled in and parked at the post office. It's name was Bernard. Not St. Bernard, just Bernard.

Bernard begged me to take his sweater off, but I refused.

People have gotten shot for removing sweaters from dogs.

I did not want to get shot.

I left Bernard to suffer in his sweater.

If you should meet the humans owned by Bernard and they should dispute any aspect of my story, including the fact that Bernard is Bernard, don't believe them.

They might call him something else, but they don't know Bernard like I do.

Bernard is Bernard, and he resents it when people call him by any other name.

I yield to exhaustion

This picture is from yesterday, not today. Today was sunny and I took some sunny pictures, but am too fatigued to transfer them from the camera into the computer.

Early this evening, after taking a ride in the car going nowhere but back home again, I helped Margie take a seat on the couch and prop her injured leg up on an ottoman. Then I sliced an apple and a pear into a bowl, sat down, placed the bowl between us and shared the fruit with her as we watched the local news.

It was my intent to then come out here, read through my unposted, final Inauguration entry, see if it made any sense and, if it did, post it.

But as I ate my fruit, the tabby cat Pistol-Yero climbed onto my knee and then spread himself out across my lap. I did not want to disturb him, so I stayed put as CSI-New York came on. I figured that I might as well watch it so that the cat could get some needed rest, as he had only gotten about 16 hours sleep so far today. I repeatedly closed my eyes and opened then again to see how the story had progressed and then one time I opened them only to find that the program had ended without me knowing how. For A Few Dollars More had taken its place.

The cat still dozed. I could not budge him, nor could I budge myself. So I stayed put, opening and closing my eyes until Clint Eastwood drove off in a wagon filled with the corpses of the 27 bad guys he and Lee Van Cleef had just killed.

The cat was gone, but another, the black cat, Jim, had taken its place and now snoozed soundly.

I did not want to disturb this cat either, but I knew I had to take action before The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly began, for I could not allow myself to be pulled deeper into spaghetti, but the movie began instantly, and who can get up once those images flash onto the screen, accompanied by that sound track?

Not me. No way.

And the black cat was sleeping. On my lap. There was nothing I could do but sit there and doze in and out as people murdered each other onscreen and then got justifiably killed.

My trip, and all that we have been through, has caught me. I am exhausted. Fatigued. Too exhausted to read my final inaugural post. It will have to wait.

It doesn't matter. The Inauguration is history. Even if I still remain behind, on the National Mall, as President Barack Obama is sworn into office, the world has moved beyond that glorious moment into the myriad of crisis that beset us. Part of solitary me wants to remain there forever, in the midst of two million people, because that's how wonderful it was.

So maybe I will take forever to finally post the final post. Once I put it up, the experience is truly over.

Cats meow at me, 

begging to be fed. 

I must feed them, 

and then go to bed.