Univsersal Truth

If you grow it, children will love it.  I'd first realized this truth when working summers with the YMCA.  I would bring in vegetables from my garden - zucchini, carrots, peppers, peas, and lettuce - and students would line up to demand more.  They would devour lettuce - no dressing, no toppings, just straight lettuce.  It would make me laugh every time.

And not it just happened here in Tununak.  Three ten-ish year old boys were yelling from outside my window (a common activity when the everyone in the community is essentially neighbors).  I plucked a few leaves from my kitchen table (the site of my lettuce growing hydroponics set-up) and offered each a leaf.  All three ate their lettuce - and liked it.  This from a group of students are even more averse to vegetables as children I know in the lower 48.

The power of gardening is impressive.  It seems to make food taste better.

Usually I don't like to do this, but...

It's been a while since I have created any outgoing information from Alaska.  I'm going to fall back on my standard excuse - I've been busy.  Which is true, mind you, but if I were you, I wouldn't let me get away with such a petty excuse.  So here it is, a condensed version of the past couple months.

Starting with the present day - it's Tuesday, November 23rd.  The fifteenth week of school(!).  Oh yeah, and it's been raining nonstop since last Friday.  My travel plans over the weekend were canceled as a result of the weather and the snow (what little there was) has melted.

Which brings me to the next event: the weather.  Had I written a week ago it would have been a very different story, for winter had come.  Temperatures were well below freezing.  Snow was beginning to pile up (we were receiving about a quarter inch a day - not much, but I'm not going to complain about that now), the river had frozen bringing with it the earliest ice fisherpeople, and I had been skating on the ponds around town.  Even the bay was beginning to fill with ice.  Of course, that's all gone now.

Before the snow had fallen, I did all the fishing I needed to do to get that bug out of my system.  In a previous post I told the triumphant story of my first real successful fishing trip.  The trip that followed was even greater.  I caught three, THREE!, beautiful salmon.  I finally got a taste (literally) of what fishing can be like, and I have to admit, it is fun.  It's nothing I will be devoting great amounts of time to, but it was enjoyable and fulfilling to be able to bring back food that will last well into the winter.  Robby partook in man's (not being sexist - it was literally us guys')  triumph over salmon and we spent the afternoon vacuum sealing our beautiful fillets.  Some of you may be lucky enough to try some if I can find a reasonable method to transport frozen salmon home.  Ideas in this area would be well received (and I can see to it that if your method proves successful there will be a salmon steak in it for you).

Ready for the freezer

Of course, I've also been busy with school.  Teaching is hard work.  It has it's rewards, but there are days where all I want is a, umm, nap, or something like that.  But I feel much better about this year than last.  Hopefully subsequent years continue to get easier.

I have (rather wisely) opted out of coaching basketball this year.  Okay, "opted" isn't the best word.  It implies I was asked (or assumed) to coach.  I was not.  0-14 is not a record that is sought after, even when the coaching competition is as slim as it is here in rural Alaska.  Instead I will be enjoying my afternoons off.  I might spend a day or two shooting hoops with the junior high, but the my teaching responsibilities  will stay in domains I am proficient (and interested) in.

I am, however, coaching robotics again this year (read: math + computers = my interests).  Our school's junior high participates in First Lego League - a pretty awesome set-up that combines Legos and robotic programming into a competitive team activity.  Teams build and program robots to complete a series of tasks and also create a project centered around a theme (this year: medicine).  We will be flying in to Bethel the week after Thanksgiving to compete against the other teams in out district.  Winning teams move on to Anchorage where winning teams move on to the national level.  It would be nice to get a chance at Anchorage.

Tomatoes that just might ripen

Last update - foods.  My hydroponic experiments have had mixed results.  Hydroponics is a bizarre world.  My plants live a most artificial life - sixteen hours of light created by a 400W bulb, nutrients mixed in water delivered three times daily, pH tested every few days, temperatures adjusted, humidity monitored, the electrical conductivity of the water checked...  And after all that I have tomatoes developing blossom end rot and pepper flowers that refuse to set fruit.  Leaves tend to yellow, wrinkle, and fall while others are deep green, grow voraciously, never slowing to blossom, then snap in half because plants that are only half an inch in diameter cannot reasonably grow to heights exceeding six feet.

Basil, thyme, lettuce, and cilantro

That's all very frustrating.  But on the other hand there have been the successes.  I have eaten dozens of salads from my living room.  I created the most delicious pizza with fresh basil.  Out of control (in a good way) extra basil was turned into a jelly jar full of pesto.  I've dried about a cup of cilantro.  I guess it's a worthy experiment.  I'm going to try another batch of peppers and tomatoes after Christmas.  Ask me again what I think of hydroponics in April.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving. 

I fish for fish, no other reason. Oh, maybe because of the competition.

The Tununak River

I like to complain about fishing.  It's fun for me - to complain.  I'm sure I complain for the same reason anybody complains about anything - as a means to divert blame for one's ineptness.  But this is not a blog of complaint.  Rather, it is a blog of celebration.  A celebration of fishing and how awesome it is.  A celebration of salmon and their wonderful ability to find my hook, bite down, and end up as dinner on my plate.  Ahhh, sweet, sweet salmon.  To think back to those two days of fishing makes me forget what I dislike about fishing.  Almost.

Robby and his giant fish

My success story started one evening.  I had been invited to go up river by one of my students.  Duh...I'm going.  At the time, I'm thinking that even if I don't catch any fish, the river is fantastic to be on in the evening.  Oh yeah - the mosquitoes had retired for the year (the last trip they were worse that anything I could have ever imagined.  Northern Minnesota has NOTHING on Alaska mosquitoes.  I'm not kidding).  Anyways, I grab my rod, tackle box, and throw on my rubber boots.  We pick up Robby (my neighbor) and head out to the boat.  A twenty minute journey and we are at our little spot.  And then the most amazing thing happened.  Seriously, in the history of time, this is probably the single greatest thing.  I cast my line out...and caught a fish.  I had a fish on the end of my line before my fishing guide or Robby had even gotten to their spots let alone had the chance to cast.  Oh glorious day.  In the boat I had a beautiful silver salmon.  The score, for those of you keeping track at home is now 1-0-0, with me in the lead.  Of course, minutes later my guide gets a bite.  I try to be a good sport.  But his fish is so much bigger than mine - and it's bright red.  Apparently the longer the silvers have been in the river, the less silver they become and they take on a beautiful red color.  They are striking to look at.  Raw score... 1-1-0.  No big deal.

Perspective is everything

Fishing goes on for a while with bites and fights and fish interrupting the evening often enough to keep things interesting.  Final score for the evening 2-3-2.  I lost.  It's okay though because I caught not one, but two beautiful fish: one smaller silver salmon and one trout (called a dolly vardon(sp?) for whatever reason I have no idea).  Robby ended up with two nice sized reds (which are technically silver salmon).  My host: four large reds.  Figures.

It's amazing what this night did to my faith in fishing.  Up until this moment I was convinced that there were no more fish in the river.  I would be out fishing, share my opinion with my fishing partners only to have them catch a fish in the next five minutes.  "Okay then," I would say, "now there are no more fish in the river.  That was the last one, and you caught it.  Time to go home."  But this most recent event changed everything.  Not only were there fish in this river, they were huge, and beautiful, and delicious, and best of all, they were willing to bite my hook.  I needed to get out fishing at least one more time.  That chance came that weekend, and is the topic of the next blog.  Stay tuned...

The definition of satisfied

Nazi ghostbuster?

I was creeping on my blog stats and one thing stuck out.

Someone found accessed my blog through a keyword search with the phrase "nazi ghostbuster".  How frickin' awesome is that - that my name comes up as a possible match.

Man that's great.

Random story from a few years ago

“Hey! Eric!” Someone was whispering urgently at me.

What time is it? The sun’s not even up yet. And then I remembered. Today was the day. The reason we were even in Spain. Adrenaline surged – my stomach doing a quick little somersault. I quickly dressed – bleach white pants, a white tee, my blood red sash and neck-scarf. It was too early to find any places open for breakfast, but that was okay – I probably wouldn’t be able to eat anything anyway.

We weaved through the cobblestone streets, were glad we’d decided to get such an early start. People were coming from all over. A white mass converging on a rapidly filling plaza. Being early ensured us a place in that plaza. Now we had about an hour to wait. Wait and contemplate our decision. Was this really such a good idea? Is that guy drunk? Yeah, he is definitely drunk. That doesn’t seem like a good idea. He better not trip. What if I trip? What if I get hurt? What if I get gored? That was the big worry. The I spent the most time trying to ignore. Gored?! We’d seen the bulls the day before. They were not small. Not even close. In fact they were huge. And those horns. The horns that tapered to point so fine one couldn’t be sure where the horn ended and the pain began. And then of course there were the horror stories of previous years. There were pictures of gorings, videos of tramplings. In less than an hour that poor, pain riddled face could be mine.

SCREEEECH!!

The sound of the first rocket being fired. All thoughts about what could be vanished. All thoughts about what had been vanished as well. The only thing yelling in my mind was the fact that the door had been opened. The bulls were coming.

SCREEEECH!!

The second rocket signified that all six bulls were out and running...toward us. Oh dear God.The crowd starting moving, filing along the narrow barricaded streets. Barricaded to keep the bulls confined, but I now realized how confined I was as well. Panic? Um, yeah. But this was nothing compared to what was coming.

The speed of the mass slowly started to increase. Those around me were feeling the fear grow as well. It wouldn’t be long now. All I wanted to do was turn around look for the bulls. But if I stopped to turn around I would be run over by those behind me. Quick peeks would have to do. Each peek was terrifying because we were so closely packed. People around me had already stumbled and fallen - either on the uneven cobbles of the road or on the legs of the people in front of them. Those behind the fallen had to act quickly to prevent a serious pileup. Three or four peeks showed nothing different. People were jogging along, faces focused on not tripping. And then suddenly everything changed. Looking back over my shoulder I instantly saw that the look on peoples’ faces. The slight smiles of the joggers had been replaced with looks of sheer terror. This was the moment it all sunk in.

There were six, two thousand pound bulls chasing me, each capable of ending my life. In all likelihood, however, I wouldn't die. I'd merely be gored. A foot long horn stabbed through my stomach. Or I might trip and be trampled, my legs broken and chest collapsed as twenty-four hooves crash down around me. I’m sure my face changed at this moment to mirror those behind me. The panic raced forward as those in front of me, making their quick peeks, noticed this our faces. Hysteria erupted. People starting sprinting. Others merely stopped, frozen in fear. Collisions were commonplace. People were lying on the ground, scrambling to get out of the middle of the street. Bodies were tangling with bodies. Legs and arms were everywhere. Some of the runners were trying to climb over the barricades. This is when I caught my first glimpse of the bulls. They were massive. So much larger than I had remembered. The first to pass held its head high, horns at the level of my head, and it was moving so much faster than the crowd. The runners began to part, fleeing to the sides to allow the bulls to pass through the middle. Before I could even think the bulls were upon me. I watched in horror as the unlucky, still lying in the street, were overtaken by the stampede. One, two, three passed me. I was certain the people on the street were dead. Then the other three came rushing past. All six had passed allowing my mind to slow down enough to begin rational thought again. I was alive, but where were the other two I ran with? A quick scan of crowd and I saw Chris, his red hair standing out against the mass. It took a while longer to locate my brother. Chris and I scanned the injured, fearing the worst. Miraculously the injuries were all minor. Those who I had seen trampled were not dead. In fact most were up and walking around. My brother, however was not in that mix. His absence there was a relief, and our search continued. We finally found him outside the stadium alive and well. All three of us had survived unscathed. It was now only about 9:00 in the morning. The hardest part of our day was done.

Feria San Fermin is a nine day festival taking place annually in Pamplona, Spain starting on July 6^th and ending on July 13^th.  The encierro, better known as the running of the bulls, takes place each morning of the festival. I ran in the summer of 2006 with my younger brother, Bryce, and friend, Chris.

A follow up from before

I wrote a while back about the baby seal that was rescued (?) from its dead mother.  Anyway, here is a little blurb from Alaska magazine.

To be a hunter takes a lot

As many of you know, I have become a hunter. Well, at least up until the very last aspect of a hunter. I have all the required things a hunter needs: a gun, a camouflage jacket, a hunting accent. I even have a great hunting pose and a pretty good hunting creep. Yeah, totally a hunter. I’ve got everything – except a kill. This is the story of my attempt at a first kill and thus my induction into the world of hunting. 

The rain eased up enough today to allow Robbie and myself to get outside in search of some ducks or swans or geese or anything else that my license covers (read: snowy owls – no joke, also no limit). Robbie is the husband of one of our new teachers, hailing from Idaho, and has slightly more hunting experience that me. We were ready to get some dinner. Wandering through the tundra brought back memories of last year walking to Toksook. Ben in that deceivingly deep puddle…good times. Karma to follow, however when I, while watching an airplane, took a step backwards into a knee-deep hole.

I was excited to try out my new image. Robbie was trying out a new image of his own. Being in the Wild West, Robbie was packing some serious heat – a .44 mag pistol strapped to his hip. John Wayne – yep, that’s Robbie. Umm…a 6-5 red haired version. Turns out, neither of us lived up to our attempted images.

Sometimes I wonder why I am such an unsuccessful sportsman. Reflecting on these thoughts always bring me to the same answer. I have yet to go fishing, and now hunting, without any irony. Always it follows along, scaring away any potential prey, obviously. Perhaps it’s a safety net for my inevitable failure, or perhaps it’s my response to the cognitive dissonance I feel with a gun of my own cradled in my arms. Who knows.

I’m learning a lot of things about the great outdoors. Each trip teaches me important lessons. For example, safety glasses are awesome. But a more recurring lesson that I’m slowly coming to understand is that I am the worst sportsman in the world. I’ve been fishing about six times since getting back here in early August. I have caught nothing – except my leg. And that while trying to prod George with the end of my rod. The latest reminder came today, while hunting. I took one shot with the shotgun. I hit nothing - except my face. Seriously. Some freak ricochet sent a shotgun pellet back at me and struck me directly in the right lens of my glasses.

And so now I sit, waiting for my hamburger buns to rise – or I should put more accurately, my black bean burger buns to rise because that is what I am having for dinner. My induction has been put on hold – in all liklehood indefinitely. It’s okay. I’ve come to a realization. I’m not a hunter. I never will be. I may kill some animals. But I’m not a hunter. I also am not a fisherman. I may catch some fish, but that won’t make me a fisherman. Guns, rods, reels, cammo, accents. These are just things sportsmen have. And me I guess, I also have those things. The big difference between those people and me, however, goes beyond an image. I don’t want to be a hunter of a fisherman. My constant irony and sarcasm are proof enough. The real reason those are there is because I’d rather be doing other things. To a true hunter or fisherman this, of course, is never true.

I have friends who give me a hard time for my less typical Alaskan subsistence activities. Things like breadmaking and a hydroponics garden in my living room, not to mention my vermicompost and semi-vegetarian diet. Weird maybe. Unusual sure. But if I had to survive on my sportsmen’s skills alone I’d be dead or at the very least very hungry. And so I’m okay with my way of life.

Tununak Round Two

Am I excited to going back to Tununak?

While I wasn’t looking forward to leaving Minneapolis on Sunday, the oppressively awful temperatures made things a little easier. I don’t believe it is possible for humans to survive in weather like Minnesota has been having. Mid-nineties, dew points over seventy…miserable. Sixty in Bethel will be a welcome relief.

I am in the process of traveling, process being the key word. Yesterday was the day for bulk mailing, listening to the postal clerk telling me eleven days all the while knowing that twenty is a much better estimate. And my bike. My bike is in the mail. Right now, somewhere, my bike is being handled by the United States Post Office. This should offer me three to four weeks of stress. And now I am in between two of the three flights necessary to arrive in Bethel where I stay for a few days for district-wide inservice then one final flight to the village. Days are needed to get to my final destination.

Going back for the second year will be nice though. Teaching many of the same classes as last year, I am anticipating less time spent planning. Of course that will probably prove to me wishful thinking, I have made a number of interesting investments over the summer to fill the empty (here’s to hoping) time in my upcoming year.

As I noted before, my bike is coming along this year. Jokingly I had told people I plan on just wanting to look at it. This probably has more truth to it than I want to admit. And coupled with the fact that there aren’t any paved roads it is a little hard to deny. But if all things work out I will be getting a stationary stand for it for endless hours of going nowhere in the gym.

My other two investments deal with food. My forages into eating more vegetables and less meat has initiated a number of impulse hydroponics system buys. The first was a system I purchase from our outgoing principal at the very end of last year. The second system I purchased just earlier this week. Fresh salad in December, tomatoes in February. Maybe.

The second food investment is a shotgun. Ignoring the above goal of reducing my meat consumption, I have borrowed a twelve gauge shotgun (don’t call it a rifle) from my grandpa. After an interesting conversation with the salesman at Gander Mountain about shells (don’t call them “bullets” or “things to shoot out of my gun”) I believe I have everything I need to take down some ducks. I acquired both the hydroponics system and the shotgun last week. It is impossible to describe how different they feel in my hands, yet both will be used for the same purpose: to provide me with fresh food.

Those things should keep me somewhat busy. And of course there is teaching. Second years aren't known for being unbelievably easier than first years. So that's it - year two is all planned out. We'll see how that goes.

This is what summer was made for.

I am loving summer.  This is my first summer since the summer after ninth grade where I haven't had a job.  I mean sure, I've been putting in random hours at the Y, but you can't really call bowling with first graders work.  Ahh the benefits of teaching.  So what have I been doing?

Well I arrived home in Minneapolis in late May.  I spent the next couple weeks on a spending binge - food, drinks, things, groceries.  Not sure what all I bought, but it had been months since the simple pleasure of immediate gratification could be fulfilled in the shopping world.  The instant return on my wants was, well, intoxicating.  Following that bender, I set off on another binge of sorts - biking.

I missed biking.  A lot.  And so I went on some bike rides.  I spent a weekend riding from Duluth to Minneapolis with the fund raising event known as the MS 150 (a charity ride for the muscular sclerosis society).  This was my second year completing the ride and, as before, it was nice.  Our team raised over $2300 (thanks to all who donated by the way) and rode about 100 out of the 150 miles in a light
drizzle.

Using the MS 150 as a warm up, I left a week later on the Amtrak with two friends, Aaron and Adam, headed for Portland.  Our bikes safely boxed were stowed aboard ready to carry us south down the Pacific Coast.  Unbelievable weather (a total of zero days of any form of precipitation and a considerable tailwind) followed our trek to San Francisco, approximately 850 miles up, down, and around the coastal mountains.  Elaborations on this ride will follow in future posts, for at the moment I am letting the experience ferment a while longer before getting into it.  Needless to say, bicycle touring is one of the most incredible ways to travel.  For anyone interested, Aaron, one of my riding partners has a nice little blog where you can read and see some nice bits of media from the ride here:  The Western Expanse.

Now I am down to about three and a half weeks left in Minnesota before I return to Alaska.  I have many things I still want to get done, but am actively looking for more things to add to that list.  If you have any ideas, want to hang out, or whatever, get ahold of me.  I am in.

Twenty-four hours, four planes, and two seasons later

I left Tununak yesterday with Ben and Sara about twenty-four hours ago. The temperature was near freezing, the clouds were about 300 feet off the ground and intermittent fog reduced visibility to under a mile at times. All three airlines were on weather hold. After two hours of stressing out, communications with the airline hinted that a plane would indeed be landing. We loaded up the trailer and instructed Brett to avoid the puddles. He failed. Not that anyone could have done any better. The house-high drifts recently had a path plowed through them resulting in a knee-deep puddle that
stretches from the BIA, through the village, almost all the way to the airport. Pretty great. Our flight was uneventful, and we caught our next flight to Anchorage without problems. After a quick meal at the Anchorage airport I said goodbye to Ben and Sara and rushed off to my gate. Ten minutes to spare - no big deal. Yeah, last to board is pretty awesome. Then Denver, now Minneapolis.


And now summer. Serious summer. The sweatshirt, coat, hat, gloves, and boots I wore out of Tununak were no longer needed. In fact, I'm pretty sure clothes in general are not needed. The thermometer states 100 degrees right now. I can't quite handle it. I am melting.

Took a journey down to the garden (about a mile downhill) on my bicycle. So good. Strawberries are raging. Tomatoes are trying to sort out the seasons, which is nice to see that I'm not the only one. Peppers are loving it. A few rogue bean stalks are erupting from the earth. Tomorrow the work begins. Trellises need to get back in, fence needs to be creature proofed, and obviously, the plants and seeds need to get in the ground. Exciting. Maybe it'll be 70 tomorrow. Probably not. Better get sunscreen.

Left the garden and thought I'd take the long way home. Here I realized some things.  Biking downhill with the wind is way easier than biking uphill into the wind after nine months of not biking. I seem to have misplaced my legs and lungs. Of course the heat didn't help. I have a bit of work to do to get back in bike shape. The five miles I rode today were annoyingly hard. Good thing I have the summer off to get some things done. Teaching is awesome.

Chickens, dogs, and wind

Necessary background information needed for this story:

• My principal has eight sled dogs
• He also has chickens
• He also has rabbits

The other weekend our principal was out of town and needed help tending his creatures.  Fellow teacher, Ben, had been enlisted to help, and I offered to help Ben a few times.  Most of my help consisted of staring at chickens and taking pictures for this here blog.  Yeah, I am helpful.

After attending to the animals we took a jaunt up the hill.  We were escorted by one of our students.  I believe she enjoyed going down the hill a bit more that going up.

But pictures will speak louder than words, so here they are.  Enjoy.

Class of 2010!

I am proud to announce that this past Friday we graduated our four seniors from Tununak High School.  Congratulations Paul, Harry, Virginia, and Carl!

Probably the coolest thing anybody on the planet is doing right now.

My two good friends left Minneapolis this morning atop their bicycles.  They are headed out to Portland via Yellowstone.  I plan to meet up with them there and then on to San Francisco via the redwoods.  Here is their blog if you want to keep tabs.

The Western Expanse

I am so jealous right now.

*Note - I stole these pics from their blog

On zombie movies

I have had a good deal of time to sit around over the past nine months.  Often, while sitting, I find myself watching a zombie movie with my neighbors.  Here's an annotated list of what I've seen.

Night of the Living Dead  
Best to start with this one.  This 1968 black and white film is a must see in zombie movies.  NOTLD is responsible for creating the zombie that we know and love today. 

Fido - Speaking of loving zombies, Fido is set in the 1950s.  Radiation from space has been turning the recently deceased into zombies.  Rather than fighting zombies, a corporation known as Zomcon has developed technology that blocks the zombie's need for flesh thus turning them into docile servants helping out around the house and even playing a game of catch with the son whose dad is too busy.  Yeah, this movie was awesome.


Shaun of the Dead 
Also awesome, this movie exploits the comedic slowness of zombies.  Lots of dead zombies result.  (Dead?  Redead?  Not sure what you call a zombie that is killed).

Zombieland
This gem includes a set of rules to survive the zombie apocalypse and a cameo appearance by Bill Murray complete with the a Ghostbusters reenactment.  So good. 

Død Snø
A Norwegian film (with English subtitles) with Nazi zombies.  This film had promise (zombies, Nazis, many scenes depicting intestines being extracted from non-zombies, and chain saws), but I thought it was kind of a dumb.  My critique was dismissed based on the simple fact that this was a zombie movie, and by definition, kind of dumb.  Whatever - it ranks lowest on my list.  

May 7th, Alaska.

Nine days of school left.  On the last day we have this planned: "Thursday morning we will have school clean up around the building if the snow is gone.  If not, we will stay in our classrooms cleaning and organizing."

Legos!

Huh, look at this Lego kit:

It's Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater.  There is also a Guggenheim Museum and some other models in their architecture collection.  Who new? 

I've been listening to an interesting podcast - Stuff You Should Know - and they are discussing Legos right now.  Pretty awesome.

Here are some facts to amaze your friends:
4 million children and adults will play with Legos this year
Lego is the number one producers of tires in the world - 306,000,000 tiny tires
On average, there are 62 Lego bricks for every person on Earth
People will spend a combined 5 billion hours this year playing with Legos
Lego has 150 designers on staff (fyi my dream job runner up - after playing baseball for the Twins)
There are 4 billion Lego people on the planet
Eleven people have been certified as Lego professionals
Lego is a combination of two Danish words: Leg Godt meaning play well
Coincidentally, Lego also means "I put together" in Latin

Sea lions are neat.

Here is just one more reason why National Geographic is phenomenal.

Octopus vs. sea lion


Shark vs. octopus


So if octopus > shark and sea lion > octopus, what is the relationship between sea lion and shark?

All videos taken from National Geographic's website

The baby seal that almost wasn't and how I missed it

"There's a baby seal in the hall." This is the first thing out of my tardy student's mouth as he enters a room full of studious writers silently pecking away. "We should go see it."

"Sit down Ken. What are you going to work on?" This is the first thing out of my mouth in response to this interruption. My initial reaction is that there is no way a baby seal is in the hall of the school. In my teacher mind I am analyzing the credibility of this student against an attempt at getting me to lead a class of twelve high school students into the hall in search of a non-existent baby seal. I take the safe route. I convince myself there is no seal, most of my class seems to be okay with that decision, and class proceeds as normal.

Only later in the morning do I find out that there was indeed a baby seal in the school. A living, breathing baby seal. The story of its arrival is quite amazing. With the coming of spring comes the beginning of seal hunting. The warmer (a relative measurement) weather and longer days make traveling out to open water more desirable and the prospect of bringing home a seal (dead all cases but this) is an opportunity thats siren's call is impossible to ignore for many of the males in the village. This story starts on a day like this: The day before Ken's interruption in my class. His grandpa had gone out hunting and shot an adult seal. Upon the butchering of the seal they found that she was pregnant, and more importantly, that the seal in the womb was alive. Removing the baby from its mother they found that it was mature enough to survive outside the womb and that in all likelihood it would be able to survive into adulthood with proper care. It was this baby that found itself miles from open ocean, worlds away from its mother, and in the hallway of a school surrounded by large-eyed children.

And I missed it. By the time Ken's story was corroborated to my satisfaction the seal was on a plane headed to a rehabilitation center in Southern Alaska. Man...

Spring is in the air

The blizzard warning expired this morning but not before it could unleash its power.  As the wind picked up yesterday afternoon the snow started to fall.  I fell asleep to the sound of wind ripping across the tundra, pounding on the walls and windows of the BIA.

The dance festival that Tununak is hosting started yesterday as well.  Dancers from the surrounding villages began arriving by snowmachine throughout the afternoon and evening, eventually filling the gym at the school with traditional song and dance and the subtle smell of dried fish and seal oil.  Dances usually go late into the night, sometimes ending well after midnight.  I arrived slightly after nine and was told that what I was seeing was the last song of the evening.  Apparently the worsening weather had delayed the arrival of some of the dance groups.  As I helped usher people out of the school for the night I noticed that many of the men in the village were suiting up in their winter gear.  A group coming south from Newtok had not arrived.  With near white-out conditions and night approaching, things could quickly become very dangerous.  A search and rescue group was organizing.  Living in my isolated bubble, rarely leaving teacher housing or the school, let alone the village allows me forget the harsh realities and danger that lurk just beneath the surface of tundra life .  When that danger makes itself present my stomach flips and I get a guilty feeling from forgetting my surroundings- a cardinal sin of living up here.  I went home to my house, the thought of what dying of exposure on the tundra would be like.    

Today, Saturday, when I woke up the wind had died down.  The lost party from Newtok was found. There was an unmeasurable amount of snow spread across the tundra making Tununak look like a cake frosted in white by an amateur baker.  Bare spots showing next to drifts five, even ten feet tall.  The stairs leading up to the school are completely blown over with the railing on the bottom half of the flight completely covered with fresh snow.  Wind lips and cornices have grown on the hill itself drawing my adrenaline-fueled high school boys with their snowmachines.  As the morning wore on, the clouds cleared exposing blue skies and a spring sun growing stronger everyday.

How beautiful it is, spring in Tununak.

Coastal Living

I stumbled across a magazine today titled Coastal Living.  Before rational thought could intervene, what came to mind was "Hey!  I live on the coast."  While true - I do live on the coast, my coast is not the coast portrayed in the magazine.  The coast portrayed in the magazine looks lovely: particularly lovely being spring break season; particularly lovely me being in Alaska in the middle of the winter (regardless of the fact that it's officially the second day of spring); and particularly lovely that it's fifty and sunny in Minnesota and everyone there feels it necessary to advertise that fact all over the Internet.

Whatever.

Here's to my coast.  While swimming in the water is unrealistic, walking on the water is quite nice.  Frozen solid, the Bering Sea is quite striking.  Walking out from shore shows a vista of Tununak that is quite impressive.  The cliffs to the north and the hills to the south shrink the village in comparison.  The fact that I am truly isolated on the edge of nowhere in rural Alaska asserts itself again, reminding me of a reality I still have trouble grasping.  Unable to grasp this fact may explain the trouble I have expressing the feeling that comes over me whenever I glimpse my reality.

Whatever.

Here's to my reality.  Unable to grasp my reality I cannot evaluate my situation.  "How's Alaska?" is a common question.  I have know idea.  I'm employed.  That's good.  I am not unhappy.  That's good.  I'm not unreasonably homesick.  That's good.  I'm learning a lot about everything.  That's good.  And so my response is typically "Good."  Recently, upon receiving next year's contract and using this response, I signed on for another year.  That's good.

Yep.

Another year should be good.  Good for my teaching, good for my students, good for my long-term professional goals.  It's just a hard decision to make because it isn't good for many other things I want to be doing - things I spend a lot of time trying not to think about.  Things like hanging out with friends and family. Things like biking and gardening.

Huh.     

I am a high school math teacher.

I think it's time I come to terms with this statement.  What an interesting group of people I am joining.  When I think back on all of the math teachers I have had I really don't see myself in that group.  Recent circumstances are making me question that view. 

I fully view myself as a teacher, and take great pride in that identity.  But math teachers...they're just so, well, let me give you some examples from my past.  Take one of my high school math teachers with a hair cut that looked like a wide cone - some sort of physical representation of the subject she was teaching.  "Now to calculate the volume of my head..."  Or the other one who would blast WLTE - light FM - before class started.  As if being forced to learn math at 7:20 in the morning wasn't bad enough that my teacher felt so inclined to add a little Celine Dion.  Or my calc professor in college, teaching in the former sanctuary of a church the U of M converted into a lecture hall, that would cough extremely loudly, every ten minutes, into the microphone poorly punctuating his lecture and scaring me every time or another math professor that linked every sentence with a southern drawling "...thaaaat is..." making the number of sentences in any lecture equal to one or the one that used the word "notion" at least ten times per class.  I will stop here, but believe me, I have more.  Do I want to join that group of people and assume that identity?

It is something that I have been consciously aware of since switching majors my freshman year.  I started my college career in the Institute of Technology at the University of MN with the goal of becoming a civil engineer.  My classes were filled with your typical high flying math nerds (hfmn).  Good people, but one afternoon I came to the realization that maybe the math joke I was laughing at may not be how I want to spend the rest of my life...standing around a water cooler with the "guys" (ie hfmn) going over our really cool math pick up lines like "I wish I were your derivative so I could lie tangent to your curves" that to date has worked on zero potential dates (full disclosure - this is actually the name of a Facebook group with almost 100,000 members of which I am a member, but more on my hfmn credentials below).  And so I switched majors, began taking education classes, and became immersed in the world of elementary education which happens to be , by the way, about as anti-math as you can get.  The math classes required to teach elementary school rarely tackled content more challenging that adding fractions with unlike denominators and my math nerdiness slipped into what I thought would be the past.  Accepting this job in Alaska, teaching high school math, has opened the door to this particular skeleton in my closet.  Only recently did I realize that the skeleton was out and about.  Denial can be such a powerful thing.

I mean, everyone, from time to time, goes onto Amazon and buys three books from the 70s on number theory with such inviting titles like An Adventurer's Guide to Number Theory.  I do, after all, identify with adventurers, so why shouldn't I have this book?  And everyone, from time to time, gets completely baffled by the look of boredom on their students' faces after going through a thrilling lesson on divisibility rules and how amazing it is that such things like divisibility rules exist at all in a system (i.e. numbers) invented by humans. Physics and nature follow a set of perfectly beautiful rules of their own, but math , unlike the latter two, is a human construct.  And who doesn't get excited about the math education blog in the NY Times or a podcast by some guy calling himself mathpunk (thanks Ben). Everyone does these things, from time to time.  Right?

Yeah, probably not.  Just a select few.  People like those high flying math nerds I escaped in engineering school.  And people like high school math teachers.  Whatever.  It could be worse.  I have to decided to pick up where I left off on my trip down the math nerdiness road.  I will continue to find things that only a minority of people find interesting or funny.  But hopefully I will also find things that are universally interesting.  Things that make teaching math fun for me and interesting for my students.  Things that turn my students into hfmn.  Because you know what?  It's not that bad.  And if I ever need to, it packs away nicely into any closet.  

What's been in my (metaphorical) pockets

I have been picking things up as the days go by.  Here's a sample of a few of the things that I have collected.

It's pretty much just a bunch of random pictures and videos from my recent travels.  The past three weekends have sent me with the junior high basketball team to three other villages.  We flew to both Newtok and Chefornak, but took snowmachines (ie snowmobiles) to Toksook Bay.

Vehicles waiting to take us to the airport.













Sunrise ~ 10:00 in the morning.













Snowmachines waiting to take us home.

Convoy of eleven snowmachines heading back to Tununak.













Snowmachining part one


Snowmaching part two


Walking to the store in Newtok


I guess that's it.

Pop music is so bad.

Here's a sample of what I have been listening to while stuck with seven junior high students over the weekend.  I will post some of the more amazing specimens of Top 40 lyrics for your enjoyment.  So unbelievably terrible.

"Shawty's like a melody in my head
That I can't keep out, got me singin'
Na na na na everyday
It's like my iPod's stuck on replay, replay

I can be your melody
Oh girl, I could write you a symphony
The one that could fill your fantasies
So come, baby girl, come sing with me, hey"
-Sean Kingston "Replay"

And here's another gem

Wish I could stop by (sounds like bah) and maybe say hi (sounds like hah)
Wish I could by, and lay by your side
-Akon "Keep You Much Longer"

So bad.

How to make bbq musk ox ribs.

This is the tale of my friend and neighbor, George, a Native Alaskan and husband to fellow teacher, Heidi.

Step 1:
Stand in line for many hours for one of the 40 tags issued by Fish & Game.

Step 2:
Wait for the right day to go out hunting.  Weather must be good.  Musk ox must be relatively close.  A good friend must be available to help.

Step 3:
Suit up and cruise off over the tundra.  Recon the herd.  Select an appropriate target.  Attempt to get target to break off from the herd.  Shoot to kill.

Step 4:
Load in snowmachine trailer and drive home.

Step 5:
Dump musk ox and prepare for cleaning.  Using a knife and/or ulu (traditional knofe) begin to skin the animal.  Remove skin from body and legs but leave under animal to prevent it from freezing to the ground.

Step 6:
Slice open the animal taking great care not to rupture the internal organs, especially the stomach.  Remove innards.  Take a small fist-sized chunk of the animal's liver, and if applicable the liver of the unborn fetus (in this case, cut open the womb, remove fetus, cut open the fetus and obtain liver).  Mail liver(s) to Bethel for testing to obtain health of animal and possible baby.

Step 7:
Remove the four legs from the body and set aside.  Cut ribs away from the backbone and place with legs.


Step 8:
Cut remaining fur away from the lower jaw and remove tongue.  Place tongue with other meat.


Step 9:
Bring desired amount of ribs inside, coat with BBQ sauce, place in oven at 350 degrees for required amount of time and enjoy!

Just another weekend in Alaska

"The plane will be here in twenty-nine minutes."  The mix of feelings rushes through me along with a quick little jolt of adrenaline as I hear this from the school secretary.  Nothing is for sure out here, but the odds of leaving just got a whole lot better.  All morning the wind had been howling and the prospect of getting seven junior high basketball players and two coaches (myself included) to a village thirty miles north seemed poor.  But this recent message from the secretary means that all the preparation - bags packed, sub notes and substitute standing at the ready - may pay off this time.  I grab my things, give final directions to my class and the sub, and rush out to check on my team.  They have assembled in the entry way and are in the process of suiting up.  I join in the process: snowpants, boots, parka, hat, mittens, goggles ready if needed for the four-wheeler ride to the runway.  We pile our bags into the trailer behind the snowmobile and we pile into the second trailer behind the four-wheeler.  I am thankful that our ride is with the wind but worry at the same time knowing that this will mean we will be flying pretty much into or across the wind to Newtok.  

After putting our bags into the belly of the Cessna Caravan we pile into the cabin.  The Caravan, while larger than the 207s I have spent more time in, is by no means large.  It does fit us nine and the pilot comfortably - think conversion van - but still in the single engine category.  I am hoping that this nominal increase in size will keep us from getting too tossed around in the air too much.  Our pilot's words prior to take-off do little to quell this fear, "Buckle up, it's going to be a bit rough."  As the engine roars and we lift off, the increase in elevation provides an excellent view of the bay and frozen Bering Sea below us.  It truly is a sight that photographs cannot begin to capture.  Of course I tried, but gave up after a few shots through the fog gathering windows and grew content just looking out.  While all this was happening I realized something else.  The flight was remarkably calm.  Not even the tiniest bit of bouncing around.  We landed in Newtok twenty minutes later where another trailer and sled was waiting to bring us to the school.

Our arrival coincided with the ending of the mellowest pep fest ever.  After the pep fest we were treated to a delightful school lunch (one thing that is identical to anywhere else) and then the request to go to the store picked up.  Fine, to the store we must go.  A quick journey into the wind brought us to the first store.  After only a few quick minutes, requests began coming in to go to the other store.  Maybe, just maybe, there would be something of great rarity at the other store.  After visiting both stores it turned out that there was not, in fact, anything in either store of great rarity.  Oh well.  We were here to play basketball after all - not shop.

We were slated for three games Friday one final game Saturday morning.  Our team has developed an unfortunate habit.  They go out and play a strong first quarter.  After that the level of play comes down a bit, any lead we had evaporates, and things begin to crumble.  Frustrating to watch, frustrating for the players, and overall not good for team morale.  Long story short - we lost four games bringing our cumulative record to 0 and 8.   

Besides playing basketball and watching basketball our team found time to hang out with, chat with, flirt with, and all the other things one can do with friends and family they rarely get to see.  And of course Friday night I got one more opportunity to experience the life of a chaperone of teenage boys.  Not great.  Here's a quick outline of how it works.  Lights go off.  Everything is quiet, but no one is trying to sleep.  All are waiting for someone to make the first move...or sound.  And then it comes.  A quick little arm fart.  Again - utter silence.  Who will make the next move.  A reprimand, laughter, nothing?  In this case - nothing.  And then another fart.  Braveness from darkness.  Anyone with an arm and a desire can join.  What fun.  Fart.  Laughter.  Long fart.  Longer laughter.  Oh this is so funny.  Or totally not funny.  I find that the level of hilarity is inversely correlated with age.  The younger you are the funnier it is, but as you advance in age the comedy begins to fade.  Factoring in the time of night and the proximity of the wake up call also affects one's opinion of how funny things are.  I am realizing, much to my dismay, that I am no longer finding these things funny, but rather getting quite concerned over how little sleep I am bound to get after all this farting has passed.  Thankfully my boys were not part of the problem and thankfully/eventually the fun wore off bringing a time for a bit of rest.   

Morning came early, as it always does when traveling.  Breakfast consisted of a product I had never had before - pancakes individually wrapped.  Peculiar the things that come in bags.  Two pancakes sandwiched together with something resembling strawberry jam in the middle.  You know they are bad when you have kids complaining about them.  At this point I am praying that the weather clears if merely to eat real food again.  The weather, however, is as deaf to my prayers as always.  We find out that we are on a weather hold.  High winds in Tununak are preventing the airplanes from flying.  Arrgh.

We settle in.  The frustrating thing about flying in rural Alaska is that no one has any idea of what is going on.  Rumors fly, phone calls are made, reports conflict.  It is an experience of what seems to me to be a complete and utter communication failure.  What is worse for me is that the airline, for some baffling reason, is also just as confused as we are.  Here is a typical conversation.
Us:  "Any news on the charter from Newtok to Tununak?"
Them:  "Still on weather hold.  Call back in an hour."
-one hour later-
Us:  "Any news on the charter?"
Them:  "They just left."
Us  "Left Bethel?"
Them:  "Yes.  They are going to Chefornak, then Toksook, then Newtok.  Should be there in an hour and a half."
-one hour later-
Us:  "Is that charter still on schedule."
Them:  "What charter?"
Us:  "The one that was coming to pick us up in half an hour."
Them:  "Two caravans just left Bethel to pick you up."
Us:  "When will they be here?"
Them:  "One hour."
-half an hour later-
Us:  "Is that charter still on?"
Them:  "Yes, pick up ten minutes."
-forty-five minutes later-
Us:  "What happened to the plane that was sent?"
Them:  "One is leaving Toksook on its way to pick you up."

Seriously, this is not an exaggeration.  To make things more annoying, remember that we have been wearing snowpants the whole time anticipating that all-of-a-sudden ten minute warning.

In the end we did end up securing a plane.  Our flight, while quite a bit more turbulent was safe and short.  The views flying over the frozen Bering in February again took my breath away.  We landed on our runway with the school snowmachine and four-wheeler waiting with their drivers to pick us up.  On the drive back to the school and our housing I am struck again at how good it feels to be home.