I admit it was an impetuous and poorly-judged decision.
I had just arrived in Anchorage for my annual teaching assignment at the University of Alaska and the temperature was twenty-plus degrees below freezing.
I spent the first night at a sleazy motel not far from the airport. The walls were thin, the carpets reeked of old cigarette smoke and daylight seemed to come and go within the blink of an eye.
After months surrounded by the magnificent Selkirk mountains, fast-flowing rivers and gorgeous vistas at our wilderness home in British Columbia, I felt caged, miserable and desperate to get out.
When an apartment became available I jumped at the chance. It was small. It was expensive. It was uncomfortable. It was garishly decorated with the worst of faux Alaskan kitsch.
But I simply couldn’t bear the motel so I took it and handed over an unwisely large fistful of e-dollars through an online payment system to a smooth-talking agent.
The very first night in my new residence I realised I had made a mistake. Not 20 yards from my bedroom windows was a busy highway. Cars, trucks and lorries rumbled along well past midnight.
After months in the wilds where every nocturnal sound means something, this was more than my heightened senses could take.
With Kristin still in Canada, I determined to put a brave face on the discomforts of my new life. It would only, after all, be for four months. The neighbourhood, surely, would make up for it.
When I trotted off to the university on the first day of term, my fellow professors soon put paid to that notion.
“You live where!?” said Ron, a colleague and former public relations man with the Anchorage Police. “But that’s the ghetto. That’s where the Bloods hang out. That’s a bad part of town.” He stretched out the word “bad” making it sound even more sinister than it otherwise would.
Glen, another colleague, was equally unimpressed. “You live up by that Carr’s [supermarket] on 13th? I only go to that area when I’m looking for a really shady bar.”
Fred, the head of department, muttered to me with a furrowed brow: “It wouldn’t look good if the Atwood Chair was knifed on his way home from work.” I could tell he was only half joking.
The next day I took the local bus to work and began to see what my colleagues meant. In Alaska, it seems, only the poor, destitute and clinically insane travel by public transport.
Each day there would be a new collection of misfits and weirdos on Bus No 15. Drunks, bag ladies, down-and-out Natives (Alaska’s indigenous population) and people who argued loudly, usually with themselves.
Heading to the local Carr’s a few days later, I witnessed a fight between two local bums. It was really only screaming and shouting as they were both too drunk to land a punch.
As poor districts went – and I have seen a few in my years trawling round the third world in search of news stories – this one wore its suffering on its sleeve.
Being truly poor anywhere in the world must be tough, but to be in the suffocating grips of penury while living in the richest and most powerful country on earth must be doubly galling.
Each day as I walked to the grungy supermarket (I was carless at the time) I would see the people who had fallen between the cracks of the American dream. I began to feel a quiet empathy for them.
I even developed an absurd sense of pride in my new neighbourhood. When people asked where I lived I would say “Denali and 15th” daring them to respond.
If they didn’t rise to the challenge I sometimes added: “You know, by the Carr’s on 13th. Down in the ‘hood.”
But just as I was settling in, my flirtation with life in the ghetto came to an end. For one, Kristin wired me a chunk of money and my bank balance climbed out of double digits.
Then came two momentous events: the purchase of a fancy Land Cruiser (our plan is to use it to take guests wildlife-viewing back at the ranch) and the arrival of Kristin, a far more sensible and down-to-earth human than I.
As to the former, I couldnâ€
t even park my beautiful new purchase in my adopted part of town. The temptation for the locals to strip it of its exterior paraphernalia would, I am sure, have been overwhelming.
I had visions of bumping into my tough new neighbours at the supermarket with the large gold-coloured emblems that had recently adorned the back of my car hanging around their necks on chains.
Down-heartedly I parked the Toyota elsewhere and continued to take the bus to work.
A week later, and with Kristin now in Alaska and unimpressed by the ghetto, we moved. We found a beautiful little apartment in a gorgeous house in posh southern Anchorage.
Sally, the charming landlady, runs the place as a highly succesful Bed and Breakfast in the summer (if any of you are coming to Anchorage look up www.alaskamangymoose.com) and rents out bits of it in the winter.
We are now living the lives of the privileged American middle class. Each day we drive to the local shopping centre, we drive to work, we drive to the woods, or we simply drive. That’s what middle-class Alaskans do.
Nothing, but nothing, is within walking distance and if the buses do come down this far I bet they run empty, shunned by the well-to-do locals who wouldnâ€t be seen dead sharing a vehicle with a stranger.
It’s very pleasant here and many days we look out of our windows and see moose walking through the snow. There’s not a poor person in sight and most of the land is marked “Private Property – Keep Out.”
If the temperature is a little chilly we can even start the Toyota from inside our house, saving the inconvenience of those first few minutes with a cold bum.
I can’t pretend that I preferred the apartment on 15th. But I no longer have that note of proud defiance in my voice when I tell someone my address.
My street cred in the eyes of the local toughs, never high, has evaporated altogether.
Last week I dropped by the old apartment on 15th to give back a key to the postbox I had mistakenly taken with me.
As I hurried back to my leather-upholstered 4×4 and pulled away from the curb I found my nose rising a shade as I surveyed my former neighbours.
I couldn’t help but wonder: “How could I ever have lived in a part of town like this? These aren’t my sort of people.”
The transformation from streetwise urban gangsta to the male equivalent of a soccer mum was complete.
For more posts go to www.grizzlybearranch.blogspot.com.
Perhaps it had something to do with the financial knife he was holding at my neck.
“Oh, yes Sir, the car you booked is $17.90 a day. Just like it says online. Of course there will be some additional fees. Perhaps a little extra for the insurance. The total for the week: just over $360, Sir.”
Well, call me a financial illiterate, but even at two in the morning that one woke me up. I opened my mouth to protest—and then slowly shut it again. I was too tired to argue.
Back home in British Columbia our trusty blue Dodge pick-up, Bob, had gone to the knacker’s yard after coming a cropper on the road. He was big, comfortable and warm.
My rental at Ted Stevens was small, pokey and frigid. It had been washed and left in the car park so that the doors and the boot were frozen. Only when I hit the highway the next morning did I realise what a thrill this little beast would be to drive. Here, in the Arctic in mid-January, it was wearing summer tyres.
Each time I pushed the gas, the only change was a light on the dashboard display saying: “Poor traction, ice possible.” Really!, I thought.
When we did get moving, it was the brakes that made no difference. Given the mixture of slick snow and ice, the brain on the brakes’ anti-blocking system decided that the appropriate course of action was to do nothing.
I slid across three-lane highways, sailed through stop-signs, and sat uselessly at green lights, wheels spinning under me, as impatient locals pushed up behind.
In another city I might have hoped to share my icy misery with other drivers as we sat at traffic lights and stop-signs. Here in Anchorage all I could see were the exhaust pipes, mudflaps and oversized tyres of oversized trucks, almost all of the tyres with shiny metal studs.
I craned my neck to see the faces of my fellow motorists. When they did look down, there was pity in their eyes, if not disdain. I was going through winter in the driving equivalent of leather-soled brogues, while the rest of the town was wearing crampons.
Back at the ranch, we were running our surviving second car on a bio-diesel blend, recycling all our waste, using compact fluorescent light bulbs and not using chemical fertiliser.
Alaska, its wealth drawn from oil, seemed to live in blissful ignorance of the environment. In my small apartment in Anchorage there was more wattage in the bathroom lighting than in our entire house in BC. Each day, as I heard the same ad on the local radio—”If you gonna buy a car, it oughta be a four b’four”—it seemed to make more and more sense.
And so, finally, the $60-a-day in rental fees still eating away at my pocket, and painfully aware that Bob would have to be replaced, I logged onto the local classified ads.
I found a car to dream of. A perfect vehicle for our summer alpine tours. A perfect car for watching bears in the spring and the autumn. A Toyota Sequoia. A jewel from the crown of the Japanese carmaker.
“Can I see it?” I asked the lady owner excitedly when I got through to her. We made a date for that very afternoon. With her two children nagging in the back seat, I kicked the tyres and drove the car around the parking lot.
Sorry I hadn’t been able to see it yesterday, she said smiling, she had been at Church. It was a shame to sell it, she said, but she wanted to pay for her eldest to go to a Christian school.
I rejoiced inwardly. Surely Christians don’t smoke and spill beer in their cars. Christians don’t cut crashed cars in two and glue them back together.
We came to a provisional deal and that evening she wrote me an e-mail confirming terms. And then she backed out. A better offer. I thought unGodly thoughts about her for the rest of the day.
In the end I bought a Land Cruiser. If the seller was a Christian, he didn’t mention it. A government biologist, he was smart, funny, urbane and political. He was selling the car because he could no longer justify the emissions, he told me unprompted. His family had bought a Highlander Hybrid.
I instantly agreed to buy. Didn’t I want to drive it? he asked. Er, oh yes, maybe. Didn’t I have any questions? I struggled to think before asking lamely: Have you crashed it?
And so, if all goes according to plan, if my biologist comes through, and if Canadian customs grants an import licence, our guests at the ranch this year will be in for a treat—a Land Cruiser with big wide seats and a serious 4×4 system, getting us to the top of our wonderful trails in comfort.
And, after that, in the evenings, a glass or two of wine, Kristin’s incredible dinners, and a sundeck by the river. Assuming, of course, I survive my remaining journeys in the rental. ]]>
the drive. Without warning the rear wheels lost traction and shot
violently to one side.
Then our large, heavily-laden pick-up truck slewed onto the opposite
side of the road.
I counter-steered as gently as I could, trying to keep the front
wheels straight and, it seemed, for just an instant, that I might
possibly hold the beast.
But, like a fisherman struggling in vain to grip the slipperiest of
eels, I lost it again. We hit the kerb, hard, and the truck began to
roll.
It rolled violently: onto its roof, back onto its wheels and then on
to its roof again. The glass on my side shattered and I felt, or
perhaps saw, snow, and then sky, and then more snow.
As the world turned topsy-turvy, everything seemed so wrong: this was one of those things that is only supposed to happen to other people, like the death of someone close or being cheated by one that you love.
I had, like everyone, seen such things often enough: the crushed
metal, shattered glass, blown tyres and leaking fluids that are the
hallmarks of a high-speed car crash.
Last year, driving down from Alaska in May to return to our home in
British Columbia, I had even come across a lady who had just rolled
her car off the road and lay trapped inside.
The outside air temperature was dropping rapidly towards zero and she
was clad in little more than a T-shirt. With her body going into
shock, hypothermia was threatening to finish her off.
I pulled her out through the shattered windscreen, slowly, tenderly
even, ignoring her bloody hands, praying that she didn’t have a spinal
injury. The nearest ambulance was more than 90 minutes away.
We drove to Alaska last winter too but I hadn’t been keen on doing the
trip again. It was less the danger than the aching muscles and
monotony of a journey that, in winter, takes the best part of a week.
I considered myself, truth be told, a competent and seasoned driver
after more than 20 years experience in as many countries, without more
than the smallest of knocks to blemish my record.
I had even taken courses – one on combat driving paid for by the
newspaper I used to work for – another that concentrated on maintaining
control in icy conditions.
It seemed, in the end however, the only economical way to get Kristin,
myself, our two dogs and our belongings to Alaska in time for the
start of the spring semester was to take the 2,400 mile slog through
the north.
Ironically, some of the worst driving conditions we encountered were
close to home. The combination of heavy precipitation and a
temperature around freezing point makes for treacherous permutations.
Sometimes there is slush on top and snow underneath, sometimes water
on top and ice underneath.
When the temperature drops below minus 15 or 20, conditions usually
improve, the snow and ice become crunchy, squeaky, firmer and less
duplicitous.
So as the sun climbed into the sky on the second day of our journey
and we reached the southern marches of the north (the part southerners
call the north and northerners call the south) the worst seemed to be
behind us.
I had been flipping between two- and four-wheel drive for an hour or
so – north American transmissions, for the most part, are not designed
to run in four-wheel-drive for long periods – but as we pulled out
onto a long, straight, rising hill just out of the small town of
Quesnel and saw clear tarmac ahead, I disengaged the power to the
front wheels and relaxed.
A few moments later we hit a sheet of black ice and began to slide.
In the event, we were nothing if not lucky. The opposite lane was
crowded that morning with heavy lorries heading south, as blithely
unaware of the build-up of ice as we were.
But at the moment we slid across the asphalt and spun violently over
the edge, the entire road was thankfully ours. We missed a large
signpost planted in the ground on concrete pillars by a few feet.
Later that day the driver of the tow-truck who had hauled our wrecked
pick-up off to his scrap yard enumerated the fate of the highway’s
dead and wounded on his small patch.
Kristin had a few cuts and bruises on her lower legs from bits and
pieces flying through the cab as we rolled, but I had escaped without
even a scratch.
Our two German Shepherds, Masha and Karu, who had been sitting quietly
in the back seat (no doggie seatbelts for them) were also unscathed.
When the paramedics had come and gone and the local police had their
statements, we blunted the memory of the crash with a good meal and
some fine local beer.
The adventure wasn’t quite over, though. Since we couldn’t go on, we
had to go back and that meant two days driving on ever-worsening roads
in a rented minivan equipped only with summer tyres.
The final eight hours of the trip back to the ranch I don’t think I
ever topped 30 miles an hour as signs on the highway flashed up
warnings of more black ice and heavy lorries, seemingly oblivious,
hurtled past us.
An hour or so later the radio reported three of them had collided a
few miles up the road. One of the drivers died.
Such are the perils of the British Columbia winter.
For all the snowy beauty and glorious glittering peaks, for all the
world-class skiing and idyllic wintry views, the water, ice and snow
are also agents of death and terrible injury.
As I write this I am happy to say that I am now safely ensconced in a
motel in Anchorage. Tomorrow I begin teaching. This time I came by
plane. Discretion, they say, is the better part of valour. ]]>
Since moving to the ranch nearly two incident-strewn years ago, we have struggled through floods, fought off erosion, cowered under the debris of forest fires and duelled with loved-up stallions.
Meanwhile we have done our level best to set up a small, sustainable business showing off the best of our wilderness and its magnificent bears to travellers looking for something just a little special.
As the grizzly-viewing season came to an end and the last car retreated down our driveway six weeks ago, we perhaps allowed ourselves just a tiny modicum of self-congratulation.
The guests had all come and left happy, we had gone yet another year without the bank foreclosing on our beautiful little property and we were even fairly well prepared for the winter.
By mid-November when the first serious snow began to fall we had chopped, sorted, shifted and laid in our firewood. A not exactly gleaming but nevertheless serviceable snow plough sat in our yard.
All the cabins had been winterized and the summer machinery put away.
We had even planned out, and partially paid for, a three-week trip to Europe – our first together back to the Old Country (well, Old Countries, I suppose) since we left two and a half years ago.
Even our winter was mapped out. The offer extended by Alaska University to teach at their journalism faculty last year, had been renewed and accepted.
For several days we took things easy. We watched movies – a rare treat. We read old copies of the Economist and the New Yorker we had received way back during the busy summer.
We even took our two querulous dogs for long walks in the snow each day, a real luxury and something we would never have dreamed of doing during busier times.
We commented to each other on the beautiful Christmassy scenery. It all seemed so pretty, so easy, so nice. Life was perfect, perhaps a little too perfect. Then, as if on cue, everything went haywire.
It started when I plugged our Land Cruiser’s engine heater (in Canada they have such weird and wonderful devices to stop automotive freezing in extreme sub-zero temperatures) into the main generator.
In the house, as Kristin watched startled, the lights burned bright, far too bright, for a fraction of a second and then our entire convoluted electrical system gave up the ghost.
The calm was now officially over. For an hour I frantically investigated with a spanner in one hand and a voltmeter in the other.
I checked the generator fuses, the main panel, the subpanel and the batteries, but all were fine. By now the long and early hours of winter darkness were fast approaching.
As I mentally ticked off all the different components, a horrible thought dawned on me. I hadn’t, I couldnâ€
t have, blown the inverter – the most expensive and precious part of our electrical system that we had bought only last year at huge expense.I tested it. I held my breath. It was as dead as a dodo. Now under the gun, and with no power running to the house I carefully unwired the proud but inert piece of machinery.
In its place I wired in the old inverter we had removed last year. True, with this old dinosaur, it would take 10 or 11 hours to recharge our batteries, not four, but at least we would have light and water.
“That was quick,” Kristin said as the lights flickered back to life. I allowed myself a tiny masculine swagger – it’s not every day you get praise from an Estonian, even is she is your wife.
And then, like a series of mini IEDs controlled by some malevolent roadside gnome, our prized electrical appliances began to blow. First the wireless phone went up in smoke. Then the computer router.
As we watched incredulous the satellite television died. I rushed to measure the voltage coming through the plugs. 150 volts! This where a modest 120 should have been. Ahhhh! No wonder the electric mayhem.
When we finally sat down to count the cost we had lost four major appliances – including the brain for Kristin’s shiny exercise bike. Among other things it controlled the level of stamina resistance.
Putting a brave face on the setback, Kristin sat on the stationary bike and gallantly pedalled regardless as if to say: “Don’t worry, darling, I know we live in the bush, I can do without the electrics.”
But as her legs spun ever faster and more erratically even she was finally forced to admit that an exercise bike without a brain was no exercise bike.
Heroic measures were now called for. After some searching I found a renewable energy whizz who could sell me a new inverter. It would cost – such machines are not cheap – but we were firmly over a barrel.
The only snag was that his location, Kelowna, was five hours drive away along mountain roads that had just been given a heavy dousing of snow and freezing rain. And the whizz was leaving for the coast in 36 hours.
Next morning early I departed at dawn leaving a worried looking Kristin on the doorstep. The first section of the road – fairly flat – was, well, bad. More like an ice rink than a highway.
When I reached the mountainous section, a single-lane gravel track 20 miles long, with a drop of several hundred feet into a lake on one side, things just got worse.
It was so slippery that at times all four wheels, each adorned with an expensive new winter tyre, spun crazily.
Then, with a wave of relief, I came across another car. The fact that this ordeal was being shared by a second human being somehow brought immense comfort.
There was also a cunning tactical element to my joy. “I’ll just follow him,” I thought slyly. “If he falls into the lake, I’ll know not to proceed and I’ll turn back.”
But my new-found comrade-of-the-highways, replete with a dog as travelling companion, was showing little inclination to move. So, as I pulled alongside, I beckoned for him to wind down his window.
“Are you ok?” I asked. “Just fine,” answered the man, a local as it turned out, probably in his early fifties.
“Been here long?,” I ventured. “Three or four hours,” came the reply. Still, maddeningly, no clue as to his motives.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” I finally demanded to know.
“On this ice,” he said looking at me as if I was a fool. “I’m waiting for someone else to go first.”
So over the mountain we went. Me first. Then him.
At the top of each small slope I selected first gear, four-wheel drive, low ratio. Then I would feel my heart thump through my chest as I slid down the hill with as much control as a spider heading inexorably for the drain.
Each time, as I made it down unscathed, my new friend cautiously followed. My very own plan served up to me with a brazenness that was enfuriating.
I made it to Kelowna and back. I installed the new inverter, replaced the router and fixed the TV. The exercise bike still stands neglected in the corner, but Kristin doesnâ€
t really seem to care.Outside the snow is falling, the dogs are barking at the shadows and in an hour or so Sunny, our much-loved musical neighbour is coming round for dinner.
As always, the conversation will be earthy in nature, practical in application and, over a bottle of wine or two, the three of us will each tell our own stories of wilderness hardship.
Infused with Dutch courage, we will laugh off the precariousness of our existence in this gorgeous and sometimes immensely inhospitable valley and toast the Gods of Fortune that have kept us here for another year. ]]>
An accomplished skink man, a bat expert, a Chinese medicine practitioner and a clutch of bear biologists all gathered around our dinner table last weekend to swap ursine opinions.
We had sent out an invitation to the eminences of the local bear world (and their partners) with a view to soliciting their advice on how best to nurture and protect our beautiful grizzly bears.
We also wanted to thrash out best practice on thorny issues such as habituation, discuss the effect of hunting on the bears and assess the provincial government’s policies.
Perhaps surprisingly British Columbia, which has an image of being one of the most wildlife-friendly places on earth, still allows grizzly bears to be hunted as trophies.
Although the wholesale slaughter of yesteryear it now outlawed, 28 permits are to be given out by the government to hunt grizzlies next spring, just in the area around our ranch.
In the event we talked a little bear, drank a deal of wine and, gorged on Kristin’s cooking.
To celebrate the mini-summit on the second day we launched an impressive armarda down our river comprising our large blue raft and three inflatable kayaks.
It rained a bit and Heather flipped her kayak in the rapids but otherwise it was a wonderful day.
With the second season here at Grizzly Bear Ranch now over and the first snow beginning to fall we have decided that now is the time to get serious about our grizzly bears.
Barely eighteen months ago we still thought that the way forward for us was a mish-mash of mechanised machinery, campers in our yard and possibly – Kootenay-style – a small grow-op for when times were hard.
But the beauty, rarity and fragility of the area we now live in mean instead we are striving to become all those politically-correct cliches that we once eschewed – stewards, custodians, guardians.
In my times as a newspaper correspondent I travelled to some remarkable and picturesque places. Some where so vibrant the sense of beauty was almost tangible.
But even compared to the majesty of the Hindu Kush, the stunning beauty of the north Caucasus, the volcanic glory of Kamchatka and the craggy vistas of the Dalmatian coast, our valley, with its blue-green river set against a backdrop of snow-capped peaks, is something special.
Unfortunately not all seem to have the same appreciation for this little valley that we do.
One of the scourges of the valley is a growing number of quads. Each year more and more of these noisy machines head for our little paradise to race through the fragile alpine and along its tiny forest trails.
(Here I have a confession to make – I too am the owner of a quad and have used it on the mountain trails. Last year we even took some of our guests up into the alpine on ATVs to enjoy the view.)
Now, however, it seems half of western Canada heads to our little valley for their motorized recreation. This summer on one weekend we found around 30 riders high in the alpine on just one trail.
They all seemed to be in their sixties or older – a sort of a mobile geriatric convention. One had the temerity to ask me why I had walked up the mountain when I could have just ridden a machine.
Another meance to our valley is the beer-can-out-the-window brigade. It seems that not a day goes by that I don’t pick up a can of Budweiser from the verges of the road that runs past the ranch.
Of course the easiest way to deter such environmental thuggery would probably be the Chechen method. A well-placed piece of piano wire across the road followed by a couple of minutes work with a Kalashnikov would no doubt be effective.
But this is Canada, not the Caucasus, and violent retribution is frowned upon, illegal even. Negotiation, often long and tortured and leading to painful compromise, is the way of this peace-loving nation.
British Columbia is, for the most part, socially split between rednecks (hunters, quadders, loggers, beer-drinkers) and hippies (weed-smokers, veggie-eaters, welfare-collectors).
Each have their own distinctive aspirations: Ford F350 vs Subaru, Carhatt’s vs hemp biodegradable, Cabela’s vs Mountain Equipment Coop.
Kristin and I were never quite sure where we fit in. We cut our own wood, but recycle our trash. We drive a big truck, but use biodiesel where possible. We love animals, but wash ourselves often.
We must be one of the few households that, in the last year have, at different times, subscribed to ATV monthly (or whatever it is called), BC Sport Fishing, The New Yorker and the Economist.
Like us, the biologists around our table last weekend were also culturally cross-starred. At least two of them hunt and one is a self-avowed former hippy and US draft-dodger.
Whatever Canada’s failings, it justifiably prides itself on its high level of tolerance.
Once we were all around the table last weekend and the wine was flowing political differences were set aside and everybody was as comfortable as if they had known each other for years.
There was none of the awkward class-consciousness a room full of freshly-acquainted Brits would have felt.
Our efforts to preserve our little valley and its amazing nature will, doubtless, also have to follow a Canadian model too.
We will coil up the piano wire and try our skills with that all-too-rarely-used tool – gentle persuasion.
That is, after all, the way of the Canucks. And, happy immigrants that we are, it is time for us to verse ourselves in those arts too. ]]>
To keep our guests and friends up-to-date with the latest we have started an online wildlife journal, which we will use to record our bear sightings and other interesting sightings we have here in the wilderness.
The latest is a posting of a large grey wolf, almost black in colour, photographed by Andrea, a guest from Graz in Austria, just as she left the ranch.
She wrote to us from Austria: “You must know, I’m very proud taking a picture of a wolf. First we thought, “Oh, not a bear, again a dog… but then we took a closer look and I made the picture… He was standing there really for a while, looking at us before he moved on. Studying the picture, his view, the tail, we were very sure, that it must be a wolf.”
If you would like to check out our new wildlife journal, please go to http://www.gbrwildlifejournal.blogspot.com.
We have also changed our packages around a little and are now concentrating on black bear and wildlife viewing in the spring, the mountains and lakes in the summer and our grizzlies in the autumn. Please check our website for all the latest details. ]]>
This most noble of acquisitions was accelerated by my impatience after many years of horselessness as I hopped from city to war zone to city during my financially productive years.
By the time the snow was off the ground last year I was simply dying to do that most western of things – to go out and find me a fine ol’ stud and gallop him around the fenceline of my new piece of land.
With Henry (still going by his maiden-name Remington in those days) things went more or less badly from the start. A fine horse to look at, he soon showed himself to have a foul temper and a sneaky disposition.
I had barely taken him a couple of times around the exercise ring on a test-ride when, without warning, he began to buck and kick and snort and jump in a malicious attempt to unseat me.
I kicked him in the ribs, yanked on his reins, swore at him a little and stayed firmly seated in the saddle and eventually he settled down to a steady trot.
“Must have been a one-off,” I shouted cheerily to the lady who was trying to sell him, in a strange role-reversal. She smiled uncertainly. Then Henry tried it again.
This time, again without warning, he went sideways, bucked a couple of times and then hopped and jumped first this way then that. Finally he scraped me hard against the fence.
So I bought him. For $2,500. Ill-considered? Definitely. Overpriced? Absolutely. I think the lady who sold him, a hard-nosed horse trainer from down towards the border, couldn’t believe her luck.
On paper, at least, I had the skills to deal with a difficult horse. Both my brother and I were brought up on the joys of equine pursuits in leafy Royal Berkshire.
Between the two of us we fell off dozens, perhaps hundreds, of times. I smashed my teeth – I have two now well-worn gold caps to prove it – and knocked myself senseless more than once.
It was a rare day we didn’t both come tumbling from our ponies as we re-enacted a full-contact version of the English Derby in the fields by our house, thrashing at the horses and each other by turn.
Later when my father moved back to Hungary and began to keep racehorses we both rode them out. The thrill of feeling one of those athletes accelerate from a jump start to a full gallop in just a few paces is not one easily forgotten.
The adrenalin-rich sensation of flying across the turf at 30+ mph on a flared-nostriled animal is difficult to match. I even began to understand why jockeys would risk life and limb for such a buzz.
With my work there was often little chance to ride. But when the opportunity came I never failed to grasp it with both hands.
In Afghanistan after 9/11 I covered the frontlines on a local warlord’s horse for several weeks. I mercilessly mocked colleagues who were less horsey than I, laughing at their fear and their awkwardness.
I rode in Russia when on a journalistic swing through the Siberian mountains. I was, as I remember, the only of our distinguished party who could still mount a horse and stay on after of day of vodka.
On summer weekends I liked nothing better than to head off with close friends to a small village on the Volga where we would sauna, swim, fish and ride for hours along the riverbanks.
One time I spent a week riding in the Georgian mountains near Chechnya. I was 10,000 feet above the plains with only a Russian-speaking cowboy and the local bears for company.
Perhaps that was I bought Henry. Or perhaps it was misplaced machismo. Or perhaps I was just being impetuous, foolhardy or, as the north Americans say, dumb.
I had plenty of time to consider my motives recently as a I lay with my leg in the air, waves of pain washing through me and industrial quantities of whisky and ibuprofen coursing through my veins.
In his defence, I suppose, Henry was only being consistent. He had never made any secret of the fact that he hated being ridden. When a young French lady got on him last year he dumped her in under a minute.
At first when I saddled him up for his first ride of the year he seemed indifferent, even happy to be back at work. When I lunged him, first this way, then that, he trotted and cantered out nicely.
Encouraged, I climbed into the saddle, happily surveying the surroundings from my elevated position. Ah, how good it feels to be back on a horse, I thought.
Then, without warning, and with my feet not yet in the stirrups, Henry reared. I clung on. He went down and then straight up in the air again. This time I lost my balance and fell.
Then, to add injury to insult and as I scrambled to get out of the way of this snorting, rearing monster he brought his back hoof down hard on my lower leg and put his weight on it. Instantly it went numb.
Fear, pain and anger raced through me. “I think it’s broken,” I told Kristin who was looking on with horror. Then I began to chase Henry across the field, whip cracking.
Needless to say the horse outran me. He’d have done that even if I had been on two healthy legs. Kristin just stared on as if I’d lost my senses.
Nearly two weeks later I’m happy to say that, after a few days on a stick (a particularly fine ebony walking stick that was a prescient wedding present from my brother), I’m walking normally again.
My knee and ankle, which took a lot of the weight, are damaged and may take a while longer to heal. My pride longer still.
Finally common sense is beginning to reassert itself. Recklessness may have served me well in my younger years or out in the field with a large newspaper to pay my medical bills.
Here, however, I am as uninsured as any panhandler and the co-owner of a small, unprofitable business that requires lots of physical work and effort and has no time for excuses.
So it seems, on deliberation, Henry will have to go. Cola, our other horse, an aging gent who we were given and kept as a companion for Henry, left this morning for a new home with some friends.
They made the 12 mile trip to their house on foot in a little over four hours. We’re pretty sure he will be loved and treasured.
And Henry? He faces a less certain future. I feel morally constrained from repeating what his previous owner told me – that even teenage girls could ride him safely.
But I’d rather not see him end up as sausages. So – anybody know a good home for this equine eccentric? It’s true he is a little psychopathic but we will give him away to somebody who thinks they can use him.
Next year, when we return from our second annual posting in Alaska, we may even get another horse. This time, I promise, it will be calm, manageable and without vices.
As exciting as Henry? Perhaps not. But at least we might be able to ride him. ]]>
Journalists and cowboys, farmers and photographers, crooners, lawyers, professors, biologists, bikers, loggers, carpenters and former soldiers all came together earlier this month as Kristin and I got married at the end of our garden.
For those of you who are followers of this blog – and I claim no grand or great readership – my apologies for the tardiness of this posting. We have simply been overwhelmed with preparation, the event itself and the inevitable clean-up.
Seducing our family and friends all the way to our remote valley from their homes in Europe and beyond, we offered the promise of a wedding that would last a week or more. And it did. The first guests arrived at the end of May and the last to leave pulled out of our driveway only a week ago.
The Estonians were a force to be reckoned with. They set up camp on the northern marches of our land, drank prodigiously and shoveled down huge quantities of roast pig.
The Hungarians, who arrived by camper van, took the southern flank and distinguished themselves by conjuring up a goulash for 30 (actually it was a porkolt for those of you who are experts in the cuisine of the Magyars) and some mighty fine folk dancing on the big night.
Many more, and we live in a valley with an eclectic mix of characters, came from just a few miles down the road.
All were greeted at the gate by two former British Guards officers – one from the Grenadiers, the other from the Irish (my brother) – resplendent in Chechen headgear and Yugoslav Chetnik-style attire.
They carried the necessary accessories and a handsome bottle of Polish vodka with which to greet the guests.
At the appointed hour we all gathered by the river. Patricia, a friend from Winnipeg, read the short ritual – although I’m not sure who heard it over the raging river – and we made our vows.
At the moment of greatest solemnity we were joined by Masha, one of our young German Shepherds, who insisted on cozying up to the new union.
Then the party began. Hank, a self-styled cowboy from nearby Meadow Creek, let loose with superior country rap accompanied by a mouth organ. Great songs that strongly featured cows, pigs and waggons.
Sunny, our neighbour, advisor on all matters wood and good friend, crooned some beautiful old love ballads. Warren from Vancouver fetched his guitar from his camper van and joined in.
His wife Nina donned a brightly-coloured gipsy skirt and cowboy boots and danced a few rounds with Dibble, our neighbour to the north, until he collapsed, the worse for drink.
The champagne, cider and wine was joined by a large piglet, which had been carefully roasted on a spit since daybreak. The Estonians began to drink. The Hungarians began to dance.
In true Kootenays style the forgiving guests overlooked the organisational flaws – and there were a few – and the party flowed right along.
Not least of those flaws was the fact that we didn’t really get married that day. Not officially anyway. In all the rush and excitement we forgot the one bit of paperwork required by the province of BC.
It took a Monday afternoon trip to Nelson, our nearest town at two hours away, and a visit to a marriage registrar to patch that one up.
Another disaster was averted early on Saturday morning when we dispatched Thomas Dworzak, an old friend with a fast car, to pick up the wedding cake which we had ordered but forgotten about. It was a return trip of four hours but he made it in time.
On days before and after the wedding we had more great times – walks among our sleepy giant cedars with bellies full of cider, hikes down half-forgotten mountain trails past roaring brooks, boating on sunny Trout Lake, exotic food, lots of fine wine and singing.
With the wedding behind us – our spring/summer season is now underway. Earlier this week we took out our first mountain tour. With Tim and June we went way up to the snowline where the wildflowers are beginning to bloom.
Penny and Sid from San Diego have also been exploring with us this week.
One of the big changes at the ranch is a major renovation of the Eco-cabin which now has its own environmentally-friendly bathroom, a beautiful new interior, a sundeck and a huge window looking onto the river.
For those of you at the wedding – thank you for making the effort to come all this way. It made for a wonderful occasion that Kristin and I will never forget.
And those of you didn’t – we hope to see you soon. The sun is shining, the bears are out, the river is running blue and it promises to be a gorgeous year here at Grizzly Bear Ranch.
www.grizzlybearranch.ca ]]>
Every angle seemed to come with a different set of problems: one took me too close to the trees, another would have me touching down in the horse’s paddock, a third clipping a guest cabin.
I reckoned, perhaps optimistically, that 1000 feet in a fairly straight line might do it. On a good day, with the right wind, perfect piloting skill naturally, optimal braking… and so on.
Two years on and I’m no closer to fulfilling that particular dream. Major obstacles to be crossed include a lack of money, lack of an airplane and an excess of awkwardly-placed trees.
That hasnâ€
t stopped me flying, however, and this weekend in what I regard as a major personal victory I finally persuaded Kristin to come up with me (admittedly with a second pilot also in the airplane.)My history with aviation is as varied as it is long. Terrified as a young man of even the most benign commercial flight I found myself drinking heavily before take-off and often making a fool of myself.
Once I was so drunk on arrival I sat on the baggage carousel with the bags until an official hauled me off.
Another time while taking off in a war-torn country with bullets flying around the airport I realised I was more scared of the plane than the gunmen.
Eventually I determined to rectify the situation in the only way I knew how. I took a private pilot’s course in Hungary. For the first five or six hours, as I remember, I was too scared even to open my eyes.
When the flight test came along a portly old Magyar showed up with an undersized pooch, who hopped into the back of the plane. “Don’t worry,” said my instructor. “As long as his dog doesnâ€
t bark, he’ll pass you.”Those were the chaotic 1990s in Hungary, a period when anything was possible. A girl I met apparently passed her test with only an hour’s instruction after providing sexual favours to an examiner.
Later in my life, usually between conflict assignments, I took the opportunity to move up the aviation skills ladder.
During various holidays from work I got myself a tailwheel check-out, a commercial pilot’s licence, an aerobatic endorsement and a float rating for flying seaplanes.
Even during the lean years (aeronautically-speaking) I assiduously kept my medical current and made sure I had the right hours and training to fulfill the recency requirements.
The excuse for yesterday’s flight was to complete my US mountain check ride.
Since arriving in Anchorage I have flown a number of times. The surroundings are so beautiful and the place so aviation-friendly it would been shame to pass up the chance.
Merrill Field, the airport in the middle of town that we flew from yesterday, is only one of four or five in the immediate vicinity and far from being the biggest.
Nevertheless it has more General Aviation planes (that’s small private plans for those of you who are not aviation nerds) than any other airport in the world.
Wheel planes, ski planes, tail-draggers, amphibians. It even has an ancient beaten up model from the Soviet Aeroflot fleet that somehow made it over the Bering Strait.
In terms of airspace, Anchorage has to be one of the most complicated places in the world to fly. The proximity of the military base to the town means you must hug your prescribed altitude with the utmost care or risk having an F-15 take off your tail feathers.
The previous times I had flown here the winds and weather had made life difficult. With the temperatures way below freezing on one occasion our descent threatened to supercool parts of the engine.
Another time the winds were so high that my check ride pilot looked at me askance when I suggested we go up. I made three landings out of five, which was not too bad given the circumstances.
On the others, as the plane wobbled this way and that, I just hit the gas and went around for another go.
Yesterday forecasts were mixed as we lifted off and headed east, Kristin comfortably ensconced in one of the back two seats.
As we approached the line of the mountains the small plane began to buck and toss a little. Up above nasty looking rotor clouds showed signs of severe turbulence above the ridges.
For the first half hour or so we persevered. We flew over Knick Arm Glacier, a pure sometimes translucent blue in the grey morning. Off to the sides we saw Dall Sheep or perhaps goats clinging to the mountain slopes.
By now the plane was beginning to bump. I looked back at Kristin and she had a fixed, nervous smile on her face. She had taken out her sick bag and was clinging on to it. She was slightly green.
We headed out of the canyon and north towards the Talkeetna Mountains. Yoke back, power full in and a steady climb to 7000 feet. The cabin cooled as we moved into the higher, colder air.
And then, as if by magic, we were soaring among the snow-covered peaks, breathtaking views on every side. The turbulence disappeared along with the wind. For 10 minutes it was almost as it we were in a virgin, glittering world.
We landed back at Merrill a little over half an hour later. It was an almost perfect touchdown, though I say it myself. Taxiing back to the hanger I turned to see Kristin looking relaxed and relieved.
“What you think of the scenery,” I asked animatedly.
“It wasn’t too bad,” she said. High praise indeed from an Estonian.
Not that I think she’s off to get her private licence tomorrow. But I, as always after such a flight, am once again browsing the internet looking for cheap airplanes and loan sharks and reading up on the rudiments of a bush airstrip.
We’re leaving Alaska in a couple of weeks and heading back to our wonderful valley. Can hardly wait to pace out the yard again. Maybe this time I’ll find my perfect landing strip.
www.grizzlybearranch.ca ]]>
We found a deer in our garage one morning, a black bear staring at us from just outside the kitchen window and had a grizzly mum with three cubs traipse along the river at the bottom of our garden.
From the bird kingdom we’ve had blue jays, humming birds, ospreys and eagles. Once a whole extended family of Canada geese took over the yard for a week leaving industrial quantities of bird turd behind.
But, as it turned out, we had to move to the city to get our first real-life wild-animal run-in.
Ever since we arrived in Anchorage a month or so ago we’ve been amazed by the brazen cheek of the local moose population.
These pea-brained animals, each weighing several hundred kilos (the Alaskan Moose is the biggest in the world), seem to run rampage through the largest city of The Last Frontier.
Many mornings as I walk to work, braving sub-zero temperatures, howling winds and all togged up in my Russian military sheepskin and Siberian fur hat, I come head to head with one particularly stubborn individual.
The path I and he like to walk is clear and the snow surrounding it high and neither of us want to vacate the centre line. So far we have passed each other without incident.
I’ve been asking around, however, and it seems I have been a trifle blasé in my dealings with this ill-tempered ungulate.
A lady at the university recounted how she had watched helplessly as another woman was charged by a moose, barely escaping with her life when she dived into the car of a passing motorist.
Another man at the university was not so lucky – he was stamped to death on his way between classrooms.
On an average day the campus police seem to spend much of their time chasing up moose alerts from terrified and newly-arrived students from The Outside, as it is known in Alaska.
When we take the dogs out to blow off some steam in the frigid Alaska winter we often have to detour around stubborn and bolshy looking animals who block the path.
But nothing quite prepared us for the arrival of one strapping young moose in our postage-stamp sized back garden last week.
It all happened when I was away at university and Kristin was working on finishing her book. We had watched nonchalantly for a couple of days as the fine fellow de-twigged the next-door neighour’s trees.
He took each ice-encrusted branch into his huge, furry mouth and chewed and stripped with relish.
Then one day the moose simply stepped over the fence. Masha, the smaller of our two German Shepherds, was having none of it. The hair on her neck stood up and she began to bark ferociously and advance on the enormous beast. It was like a mouse challenging a lion.
Kristin ran to the gate to try and rescue the brainless hound but by now the Moose had got the hump and was chasing both dogs around the garden.
One clip from his formidable front hooves and it could all have been curtains for our brave and faithful canines.
Eventually the Moose got fed up. Unhurriedly, almost elegantly, he stepped over the four-foot-high fence to the next house along leaving our terrified hounds shocked and shivering.
We’ve learnt our lesson.
This huge northern animal may look like a sleepy, peaceable giant but when its blood is up it turns into the rhinoceros of the tundra.
On the scale of such things, it seems, a grizzly at the end of the yard is small fry. The danger won’t pass we’re told until the snow has gone. But by then, I hope, we’ll be safely back in our Canadian wilderness.
www.grizzlybearranch.ca ]]>