Gold, Screaming Fat Cells, and a Great White Whale… The 10,000 Mile Bike Ride

April 22, 2016April 22, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 31 Comments

My plans were to start my trip by cycling down Highway 49 through the foothills of California, which are beautiful in the spring.

It had rained much of the night, big buckets full, with a smattering of thunder and lighting thrown in for good measure— all of which made me thankful for my lumpy but cozy bed in the Old Well Motel. I rallied at 6:30. The clouds were breaking up and the sun was peeking through. It was good day for biking. More importantly, I knew a cup of hot, steaming coffee was waiting next door at the Old Well Café.

Ten people would constitute a crowd in the Old Well Cafe, but several Hollywood stars of yore had stopped there to eat.

Ten people would constitute a crowd in the Old Well Cafe, but several Hollywood stars of yore had stopped here to eat.

“Did you find the treasure?” the waitress inquired with a wink in her voice. She had told me the story the night before. According to legend, a handful of bandits had buried close to $80,000 on the property before being hunted down and killed in a shoot out. “No,” I had laughed, “but I did find a good night’s sleep.”

Tales of lost treasure are abundant in gold country. Some of them may even been true. Growing up in Diamond Springs, 13 miles from where gold was discovered at Coloma, I had often heard such stories. Millions had been taken out of the ground, initially with gold pans and sluice boxes, then with powerful water canons, and finally from deep, hard rock mines. The Kennedy Mine, located a few miles away, measures some 5912 feet in depth, making it one of the deepest mines in the world. It is hardly surprising that some of the gold would have gone astray.

There were plenty of outlaws to help. The most famous was Black Bart, the gentleman bandit. Always well-dressed, he robbed stages on foot since he was afraid of horses. Targeting Wells Fargo coaches, he would politely request that strong boxes be handed over. Since his requests were backed up by a shotgun, stage drivers were quick to comply. On occasion, Bart would even leave a poem behind. Here’s a sample:

I’ve labored long and hard for bread, For honor, and for riches,

But on my corns too long you’ve tread, You fine-haired sons of bitches.

Maybe not great poetry, but it managed to get Wells Fargo and the media excited.

I made my way through a second cup of coffee, putting off the inevitable moment when I would climb on my bike and start up the steep hill that was lurking just outside the door. Other travelers had lingered here as well. Notes of appreciation from Bob Hope and Phyllis Diller were on the wall. I procrastinated for a bit longer by reading them. Finally, out of excuses, I stepped outside and strapped on my helmet. The day had begun.

My goal was another short day. As you may recall, I had done nothing physically to prepare for my journey. I was conditioning on the road, whipping my fat cells into shape. The first day had been 18 miles, my second was supposed to be around 30, the third 40 and so forth. By the end of the first week I was hoping to be riding somewhere between 60 and 70 miles each day.

“The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray…” –Robert Burns

My problem, I quickly learned as I pedaled out of Drytown, wasn’t that I was bicycling 30 miles my second day out (what kind of a big deal is that?); it was that I was biking down historic Highway 49. The foothills of California don’t understand flat. They go up, and they go down… period. Make that steep up and down. My fat cells were screaming after 100 yards. By 200 yards they were so loud I was convinced that people driving by could hear them. I dropped down in gears until I didn’t have any more to drop into. I climbed out of the saddle. I was travelling so slowly that if I traveled any more slowly I was going to fall over.

The foothills of California may be beautiful in spring, but they also make for steep cycling— any time of the year.

This sign really wasn’t pointed this way, but it is how I imagined it.

But enough on that. I made it over the hill and coasted down to Amador City. I made it over the next hill and coasted down to Sutter Creek, one of my favorite towns along Highway 49. I had travelled all of five miles. It was time to celebrate. It was time for breakfast. “Yahoo!” the fat cells shouted in unison. You may have heard them.

Many of the old gold rush town along Highway 49 have done a great job of maintaining their early buildings. Sutter Creek is a good example.

The cells did little more than grumble as I cycled out of Sutter Creek and up another hill. They were too busy scarfing down bacon, and eggs, and buttered toast. But then my right knee started to whine. Screaming fat cells are one thing; a whining knee another. It can be serious. By the time I reached Martel, at the top of the hill, I had a decision to make. Highway 49 promised more hills, lots of them, and I had 9,974 miles to go. I didn’t want to mess up my knees. So I turned right. At 26 miles into my trip, I changed my well-planned itinerary. I was headed for the Central Valley of California, which was as flat as the foothills were hilly.

The road out of Sutter Creek. There will be lots of street shots in this series, since this was my world for the six months I bicycled. Here’s a bicyclist’s perspective: steep hill, narrow/nonexistent shoulder with no where to ride or escape, rough road, and curve coming up. There is danger if someone tries to pass you (you may want to ride out in the road to force motorists to ride behind you until you get beyond the danger).

Decision time. Do I ride on down Highway 49 to Jackson and beyond? Or do I cut right and ride toward Stockton and the Central Valley?

The decision, heading for the flat lands.

Getting there was 90% of the fun. It was mainly downhill. About 35 miles from Drytown, I reached the small community of Clements, a perfect distance for the day— except the grocery store where I had planned to shop was closed. Boy did that create a dilemma for the fat cells. They could go hungry or cycle on. I decided that the Calaveras River, another ten miles, would make a great camping spot— except the Calaveras turned out to be little more than a mosquito-infested ditch. Are you beginning to see a trend here? I went off route for several miles looking for a motel— except I couldn’t find one.

I could have stopped on the Mokelumne River near Clements that still had water, bit I cycled on the the Calaveras.

I could have stopped on the Mokelumne River near Clements, which still had water, but I cycled on to the Calaveras, which didn’t.

My fat cells and my legs were not happy. But they were having a picnic in comparison to my butt. Any bicyclist will concur: few things can match the pain of an out-of-shape abused tail at the beginning of a long bike ride. You don’t get off your bicycle seat, you peel yourself off. And you don’t sit down on your seat. You gently lower yourself and then shoot a foot up in the air from the agony. So there we were: me, my butt, my legs, and my fat cells, unhappily faced with another 20 miles of cycling into the town of Escalon, hoping beyond hope there would be a motel.

The long road to Escalon, with a headwind.

I made it. What more can I say. I turned a 30-mile day into a 67-mile day my second day out. And there was a motel, a beat up old motel, a barely standing old motel, the most beautiful motel I have ever seen. I cycled across the highway to the office… and couldn’t get off my bike. My right leg refused to function. It had gone on strike. I couldn’t get it over the bike. There was nothing left to do but laugh. I finally managed the trick by lowering the bike.

The room made my room at the Old Well Motel look like the Taj Mahal. It didn’t matter. Nothing did. I stripped and headed for the shower, hardly stopping. And made a mistake. I glanced in the mirror. Moby Dick, the great white whale, was staring back at me. Ahab would have taken one look and grabbed his harpoon. What in the world was I doing?

It was a three-beer night. I declared the next day a layover.

The Escalon Motel as it looks today. Peggy and I stopped for a photo. Several restaurants and a Starbucks are now located nearby and the motel looked like it had received a recent paint job. My ‘driver’ was rewarded with a Grande Caffe Latte.

NEXT BLOG: Four days of cycling through the Central Valley. I discover a great air museum, find Bone hidden in my panniers, meet far too many dogs that want to eat me, learn something about the loneliness of the long distance bicyclist, and ride by a prison that tells me I can’t pick up any hitchhikers. Since mass murderer Juan Corona and Charles Manson are housed there, I decide it is a good idea.

Traveling Companions: Peggy, Eeyore, Bone… 10,000 Miles by Bike

April 17, 2016April 17, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 19 Comments

Eeyore rescues Bone from the hangman’s noose in Tombstone, Arizona allowing him to continue his journeys around the world. Bone travelled with me on my bike trek.

Now that you have had an initial introduction of my journey, it’s time to introduce my travelling companions as Peggy and I cross the country in Quivera the Van retracing my 10,000 mile bike route. If you follow this blog, you know Peggy, of course. She is integral to this story, as she is to all of my blogs. Remember, I met her at the end of my bike trek. Sparks flew. She is the conclusion to this story… and the beginning of another.

I mentioned Eeyore in my first blog of this series. He was peering out the back window, his favorite location when we travel. He prefers looking backward instead of forward. He is a bit of a contrarian. It’s the jackass in him.

Everyone knows this lovable donkey who has trouble keeping track of his tail. He’s been travelling with us for ten years when we travel by van. Normally his life is rather calm. There have been a couple of exceptions, however. The first was the time the teachers kidnapped him from Peggy’s office when she was working as an elementary school principal. They demanded chocolate for ransom. Peggy dearly loves her chocolate, however, and Eeyore was almost out of luck. He could still be hanging out at Olive Grove Elementary School while being abused (whoops sorry, meant loved) by first graders. Fortunately, Peggy finally gave in. It wasn’t like the teachers were demanding higher salaries…

Bone faces the gallows in Tombstone, Arizona. He'd been cheating at cards, hanging out with loose women, and robbed a bank.

Bone faces the gallows in Tombstone, Arizona. He’d been cheating at cards, hanging out with loose women, and robbing banks.

The second time was scarier; he had to save Bone from the hangman’s gallows in Tombstone, Arizona. “Wait a minute,” you say. “Who and what is Bone?” Thanks for asking. Those of you who have been around my blog for longer that three years will know the answers. But for the rest of you, here’s the story. In the beginning of my blogging efforts, I had in mind writing a book called “Travels with Bone.” (It’s still coming.) So I developed a blog titled, The Peripatetic Bone. When I decided to write The Bush Devil Ate Sam about my Peace Corps’ experience I changed the blog to Traveling through Time and Place. Here is the very first paragraph from my very first blog.

This is it, the Peripatetic Bone’s blog. And no, I am not Bone. My name is Curtis Mekemson. My wife Peggy and I participate in, or one might say, facilitate, Bone’s wandering ways. Like the ubiquitous gnome, Bone shows up in some rather unique places. Burning Man is an example. Peripatetic means to wander about. It’s a good description for Bone (and me).

My friend Tom Lovering and I found Bone in 1977. He was hanging out half buried in snow in a patch of corn lilies along the Tahoe-Yosemite Trail south of Lake Tahoe. Tom and I had a game when we backpacked. If one of us found trash, the other person had to pack it out. I found Bone, declared he was trash, and Tom had to carry him— at least until he could sneak him back in my pack. Here is Bone’s perspective on being found:

I didn’t plan on seeing the world and becoming famous. Once I was part of a horse located just above the hoof. I had no freedom; I had no glory. Wherever the horse went I went also, a mere slave to his desires. During the summer this meant carrying greenhorn tourists into the backcountry of the mountains above Lake Tahoe. The added pounds gave me bone-jarring headaches. Then the horse died; I like to fantasize that a large bear with big teeth and sharp claws ate him. Hopefully he ate the tourist as well.

Whatever happened, I was free to be me, Bone. Yes, that’s right, Bone is my name. A kindly coyote picked me up and carried me to a high meadow filled with Corn Lilies. It was there that I discovered my Zen-like nature as I meditated through the seasons. I was alone except for a mouse that came by and nibbled on me occasionally. That hurt. In fact, it interrupted my meditation and scarred me for life; you can still see teeth marks. I blame all of my subsequent bad behavior on that flea bitten miscreant.

My annoyance at the mouse, however, was minor in comparison to my anger at the large two-legged creature who yanked me from my meadow home and begin yelling I was trash as he ran down the trail in pursuit of another two-legged creature. Can you imagine the insult? I had no way of knowing that this was the beginning of my world travels or that the two creatures, Curt Mekemson and Tom Lovering, would become my servants.

World travels indeed. Bone has now been in over 50 countries and all 50 states. He travelled with me on my 10,000-mile bike trip and with Tom in the back of a truck from the Sahara Desert to South Africa. He has wandered close to 200,000 miles with Peggy and me as we have explored North America. Other people have also carried Bone. He has been blessed by the Pope and attended a Bill Clinton Presidential press conference. “Excuse me, is that a gun in your pocket.” He has been on top of Mt. Kilimanjaro, at the base of Mt. Everest, and on top of Mt. Whitney. He has gone deep sea diving in the Pacific and boated up the Amazon. You get the idea. It’s only proper that he be along with Peggy, Eeyore and me on our present journey.

Bone is going to answer the ten most common questions people ask him in my next blog. After that, I will get back to my bike trip and the big white whale that scared the hell out of me.

Wyatt Earp arrests Bone in Tombstone. Doc Holiday checks him for weapons.

Bone checks out Billy Clanton’s grave on Boothill— thankful it wasn’t him.

A 10,000 Mile Bike Trek Begins with the First Pedal… Maybe

April 14, 2016April 14, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 33 Comments

This would have been my first official stop sign on my bike trek. My first grade teacher, Mrs. Young, had lived across the road. She kicked me out for a year when she learned my mother had forged my birth certificate to get me out of the house.

The first official stop sign on my bike trek. My first grade teacher, Mrs. Young, had lived across the road. She kicked me out for the year when she figured out my mother had forged my birth certificate. The cut off for first grade had been March 1st. I was born on the 3rd. It was a poor forgery. I was happy to return home. My mother, not so much.

“So, you are going out beyond the clouds this morning.” –Pop

I had planned to leave on my birthday, March 3. I liked the symbolism. But it was raining, and I had a few things left to do— like buy my bike. It wasn’t a big thing; I had owned several over the years. My first had been a one speed bike with coaster brakes and handle bars that would have made a laidback Hell’s Angel jealous. It was well-used. Some kid would have been proud to call it new back before World War II. My parents paid five bucks for it. The bike provided me with the freedom to zip around my home town and the surrounding countryside for several years until impending teenagehood suggested it wasn’t cool.

My Trek 520 cost a lot more. It was designed for touring. According to the company: “If you’re a committed touring cyclist looking for the utmost in comfort and durability to carry you to familiar destinations and unexplored vistas, 520 is your ride.” The ad went on to claim that the bike was “ultra-stable even when fully loaded.” Well, I was definitely headed for ‘unexplored vistas’ and ‘fully loaded’ for my trip meant close to 60 pounds of bike gear, camping equipment and books— plus Curt. It was a lot to ask of a bike.

A funny aside on Trek Bikes. The company once threatened to sue the American Lung Association for using the name “Bike Treks,” which was silly, to say the least. When I pointed out that I had trademarked the name two years before the company was created as The Sierra Trek, it became a question of who should be suing whom. The issue was quickly and quietly dropped.

I decided to begin and end my trip in Diamond Springs where I was raised, a small community 30 miles east of Sacramento on Highway 49. Here’s the opening paragraph in my bike journal:

3/10/89

The journey starts today, where so much of who I am started. That’s why I am here. That, and because my father is here and I wanted to spend some time with him.

As I wrote, Pop was out in the kitchen of his trailer meticulously preparing eggs and grumping because he hadn’t prepared everything the night before. At 84, he liked to have things just right. In fact, he had always wanted things to be done just right, maddenly so. Maybe it had come from his training as an electrician where he had once done something wrong and come in contact with a live, 11,000-volt high power line. Those type of lessons stick with you.

Pop in his 80s

I’d been visiting and sleeping on his couch for the past three days. It had been a good visit, as we relived his youth, and mine. He’d been born back at the end of the horse and buggy age and the beginning of the horseless carriage era. He’d seen a lot, but his favorite times were still when he was growing up in Iowa. I had heard the story many, many times. It was a well warn groove in his brain, to be remembered when everything else was forgotten. He was functioning well for his age, however, even though he had suffered a minor stroke. I treasured our time together.

Finally, after breakfast, I loaded my four panniers and a day pack I would be carrying. Pop came out to wish me a safe journey and take photos. He always carried a camera and was quite disgusted I didn’t. It was one of three complaints I heard regularly. The other two were that I wasn’t happily married and making little Mekemsons (lots of them), and that I had strayed from my Christian upbringing. Of the three, I am still convinced that he believed not taking photos was my greatest sin.

A solid hug sent me coasting down the hill from his trailer in the Diamond Manor Mobile Home Park, a bit teary eyed. I couldn’t be sure he would be around when I returned. My first pedal rotation at the bottom of the hill stopped halfway. “Damn,” I thought, climbing off my bike and almost falling over. I was ever so glad that no one had been present to watch. The problem was immediately apparent. I’d put my panniers on backwards, not a great start. I righted the wrong and began again— the first pedal of 10,000 miles.

Thomas Wolfe said, “You can’t go home again.” He was right, of course. The 46-year old Curtis of 1989 was a world apart from the 6-year old Curtis of 1949. And both were different from the Curtis of today. And yet you never totally escape from the home of your youth, and in ways, it always remains your ‘home.’ My first short day of bicycling was packed with memories. I’ll let photos tell the story. Pop would be tickled that Peggy and I are redriving the route— and even more pleased that we are carrying cameras.

I am rather amazed that the house I was raised in still stands, given that it's parts had been prebuilt foe a World War II army barracks. My room was on the far left.

I am rather amazed that the house I was raised in still stands, given that it was an early version of a manufactured home, prebuilt for a World War II army barracks. My room was on the far left.

Every few feet of bicycling brought back a memory. This sunken ground was once a cave that included the crystal clear springs that gave Diamond its name.

Every few feet of bicycling brought back a memory. This sunken ground off of Main Street was a cave when I grew up. It included the crystal clear spring that gave Diamond its name. It had once provided water for Native Americans and later was a watering hole for 49ers passing through town. When a group of miners found a 25 pound gold nugget nearby, they decided to hang around and the town was founded.

Now it hosted a Tea Party sign. Thinking Tea party led me to think of Alice in Wonderland and I wondered if that was where the name had come from. The Mad Hatter tea party seemed to fit a lot of politics.

Now it hosted a Tea Party sign. Thinking tea party led me to wonder if the Boston Tea Party or the Mad Hatters Tea Party in Alice and Wonderland provided the inspiration for the name. A crazy hatter who had inhaled too many mercury fumes and a March Hare who ineffectively threw tea cups willy-nilly at anyone and everyone seems to be a great model for much of today’s politics.

As I made my way down main street, I came to this barber shop. I’d had my hair cut there in the 40s and 50s! Even further back in time, it had served as a one room school house.

The old Diamond Hotel is just across the road from the barber shop. It still serves good food. Now days, like many old establishments along historic Highway 49, it claims to be haunted. Ghosts are good for business.

The old Diamond Hotel is just across the road from the barber shop. It had served good food when I was growing up and still does. Now days, like many old establishments along historic Highway 49, it claims to be haunted. Ghosts are good for business.

The Graveyard: I could write a book about it. It was just across the alley outside our back yard and dominated many of my early memories. In the day time it was an elaborate play pen. At night it became the dreaded home of dead people and ghosts.

Heavenly trees on the edge of a graveyard in Diamond Springs, CA

It was a wild place covered with Heavenly Trees like these that served to hide the tombstones when we were young. They still lurk on the edge of the Graveyard, waiting to reclaim it. I prefer the wild look to the manicured look.

This old Incense Cedar dominated the Graveyard. It was probably planted in the 1850s. it’s lower limbs held a tree fort that Pop had built for my brother and me. He built it when he caught us trying to build a fort 60 feet up in the tree. Our big sport was racing each other to the top.

Flowers burst out all over the graveyard in spring, and provided many a bouquet for Mother, picked dutifully by me. This lilac bush was still blooming away.

Flowers burst out all over the graveyard in spring, and provided many a bouquet for Mother, picked dutifully by yours truly. This lilac bush is still blooming away.

Our alley didn't have a name at first. Then the County decided to name it Graveyard Alley. Mother gave Marshall and me our orders. "Make the sign disappear. Don't tell your father." We did. The County put up another sign. It disappeared. Finally, the County decided to namer it Georges Alley after the first man who lived on the alley. We liked him. The sign stayed.

Our alley didn’t have a name at first. Then the County decided to name it Graveyard Alley. Mother gave Marshall and me our orders. “I won’t live on Graveyard Alley. Make the sign disappear. Don’t tell your father.” We did. The County put up another sign. It disappeared. Finally, the County decided to name it Georges Alley after the man who built it. We liked George. The sign stayed.

This beautiful old gold rush era building is about a 100 yards away from our house. The school was a block beyond it.

Tony Pavy lived just outside of Diamond on the road to El Dorado. As I cycled past it, I was reminded of the time he threatened to shoot me with a shotgun. We’d been hunting squirrels near his property when a bullet ricocheted and took out his pig. “Get my gun, Mama. They shot my pig!” he had screamed. We figured he wasn’t in much of a mood for an explanation and hightailed it. When the sheriff caught up with us later we had a good alibi.

Poor Red is long since dead but his Bar-B-Q restaurant lives on in Eldorado, an historic eatery from the 1940s well-known throughout Northern California.

Poor Red is long since dead but his Bar-B-Q restaurant lives on, an historic eatery from the 1940s well-known throughout Northern California. I consumed many a rib and Golden Cadillac there. I forget the ingredients of Golden Cadillacs but I do remember they tasted wonderful and after two, you didn’t care what was in them. Reds is in the small town of El Dorado, two miles outside of Diamond. I had turned left on my bike there and began making my way south.

The foothills of California are beautiful in the springtime. Shortly after this Highway 49 began its steep, curvy descent to the Consumes.

The foothills of California are beautiful in the springtime. Shortly after this, Highway 49 begins its steep, curvy descent to the Consumes River. It was my first downhill.

I once organized a student strike so we could have a ditch day as seniors. I wasn’t expelled and we got the day. We held our party on the Consumnes River a couple of miles upstream from this photo. I had stopped for lunch at a small greasy spoon restaurant along the river on my bike trip and was kept company by a cat and a drunk. “You are fucking crazy,” the drunk had told me when he learned of my journey. Maybe.

This is an historic spot. I was on my first ever official date. Mom, boyfriend, and Paula had taken me with them to dinner in Sutter Creek. On the way back, boyfriend and Mom had climbed in the back and insisted I drive home. "But I just got my learner's permit last week," I pointed out. I was just beginning to gain confidence when I ran over the skunk here.

This is an historic spot dead skunk spot. I was on my first ever official date. Mom, boyfriend, and Paula had taken me with them to dinner in Sutter Creek. On the way back, boyfriend and Mom had climbed in the back and insisted I drive home. “But I just got my learner’s permit last week,” I pointed out. Didn’t matter. I was just beginning to gain confidence when I ran over the skunk.

I made it 18.3 days on day one and stopped at Old Dry Well Motel and Cafe in Dry Creek. My plan for the next day was to make it 30 miles! The world had other plans for me.

I made it 18.3 miles on day one and stopped at Old Well Motel and Cafe in Dry Creek. Old stories report that outlaws once buried thousands of dollars here. My plan for the next day was to make it 30 miles! The world had other plans…

A photo of the well. Another relic from the Gold Rush.

Peggy has volunteered to drive the whole trip so I can take photos and write notes. What a woman! Eeyore, another of our travel companions, peers out the back window. The world famous traveling Bone is seated up front.

NEXT BLOG: I will introduce Bone. You probably already know Eeyore.

A Ten Thousand Mile Bike Trip… Let the Journey Begin

April 5, 2016April 5, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 24 Comments

28 years ago, after wrapping up my part in increasing California’s tobacco tax, I decided to go on a 10,000 mile bike trip around North America. Peggy and I are now driving the route. Peggy first met me when I stepped off my bike in Sacramento. She said I looked svelte and seemed to appreciate my tight bicycling clothes. Having been by myself for six months, I immediately fell in love.

It had been an exciting night at the Proposition 99 Campaign Headquarters in Sacramento. The tobacco industry had just spent $25 million ($56 million in today’s dollars) trying to defeat our efforts to increase California’s tax on tobacco, which, up to that point, was more than it had spent on any single political campaign in its history. The industry regarded our efforts as the most serious threat it had ever faced, not because we were increasing the tax, but because we were proposing to spend a significant amount of money on prevention. It had hired some of the best political operatives in the nation, including Ronald Reagan’s former media director— and, it had run the kind of campaign you might expect from an industry that had made billions off of successfully marketing a deadly, highly addictive drug to children.

The prevention part of the equation had been my idea. If we succeeded, we would embark on one of the most extensive prevention program ever, anywhere in the world. The industry was right to be worried. And we were right to be nervous. As the full force of the industry’s campaign had come to fruition in the last week before the election, we had seen our once comfortable lead drop to .05%.

But the night was ours. Heroic efforts by our friends in the health and environmental communities, including my future sister-in-law, Jane Hagedorn, made the difference. Early returns showed us leading. Later returns showed that we had won. I gave a talk on the power of a small group to take on one of the world’s most powerful industries and win. I then led the group in a series of cheers as the TV camera’s rolled. I ended my night by consuming more alcohol than a health advocate should. Jane drove me home.

California’s health community went on to prove that prevention works. The state moved from having the second highest incidence of tobacco use in the nation to the second lowest. Five years ago the California Department of Health estimated that over one million lives and $70 billion in health care costs had been saved to date.

The Proposition 99 battle was won in 1988, over a quarter of century ago. Ancient history now— except it relates to the story I will be telling on this blog for the next 2-3 months. The campaign wrapped up an important chapter of my life, and it left me with a question: what would I do next? I decided to buy a bike and go on a solo, six-month, 10,000-mile bike ride around the US and Canada. It was a completely reasonable decision, right… kind of like taking on the tobacco industry. So I went out and did it.

And this brings us to the present. I earned a huge number of husband brownie points last year— billions of them. I spent lots of time with kids and grandkids, supported Peggy’s various efforts to improve our community, and did many manly chores around our property. The wife was impressed. She made a mistake. “Next year is yours, Curt,” she announced. “What would you like to do?” It was like a blank check. I got a wild look in my eye and (before she could reconsider), tossed out, “Take our van and follow the route of my North American bike tour… for starters.”

That’s the reason Peggy and I are sitting in a Big O Tire store now in Roswell, New Mexico while Quivera, our van, has some work done. I am sure a UFO is circling above us, the same UFO that caused us to have a blow-out last night.

Quivera, the Van. We put a sing on Quivera to encourage people to follow my blog. The blue bike on the outside is the bike I rode around North America.

Quivera, the Van. We put a sign on Quivera to encourage people to follow my blog. The blue Trek bike (creatively named Blue) is the bike I rode around North America.

We were quite amused by the sink in the Big O Tire restroom.

Even the toilet paper dispenser followed the theme.

The staff at Big O was great. Putting new shocks on Quivera was a massive challenge. She is not mechanic-friendly. The mechanic on the left worked diligently. The front desk man helped us maintain our sense of humor. "Twenty more minutes" he told us several times.

The Roswell staff at Big O was great. Putting new shocks on Quivera was a massive challenge. She is not mechanic-friendly and objects to people working on her undercarriage. The mechanic on the left was one of three who worked diligently on her. (He is trying hard to smile.) The front desk manager helped us maintain our sense of humor. “Twenty more minutes” he told us numerous times.

Starting with my next blog, I will take you back to the beginning of my bike trek in Diamond Springs, California. I’ll talk more about my reasons for the trip and I will outline the extensive preparation it takes for such an adventure: I increased my nightly consumption of beer from one to two cans.

The blog will cover both my original journey and our present journey by van. For example, here’s what we have done in the past couple of days:

Visited a small town museum in Springerville, Arizona that included a Rembrandt among its treasures that could probably buy the town, or maybe the whole county.
Stopped off in Pie Town on the crest of the Rockies that is nationally famed for the pies it sells. The owner, who once gave me a free piece of pie, came out to have her photo taken with Peggy, me, Quivera and our bikes. (Crossing the Rockies was my first 100-mile day on the bike trip.)
Magically showed up at the annual open house for the Very Large Array of radio antenna/telescopes that have been featured in movies like Contact and Independence Day. Scientists from around the world compete for time on the radio telescopes. We were given a tour by a scientist who is looking back in time to the very beginning of the universe.
Contemplated the devastation created by nuclear bombs as we viewed the Trinity site where the first atom bomb ever was exploded.
Paid homage to Smokey the Bear by visiting his gravesite and singing his song. (Do you know it?)
Walked the streets of Lincoln where Billy the Kid fought in the Lincoln County range wars of the early West.
Kept a sharp eye out for UFOs as we drove in to Roswell.

And that’s just two days. My challenge will not be in finding things to write about! This is a back roads journey through America and Canada, a Blue Highways Adventure. I’ll give more details on my next blog, but to get you started, here is a rough map of the journey I made by bike and we are now making by van. Please join us.

This is the route I followed through the US and Canada. I began and ended my trip in Northern California.

From Anchorage, Alaska to Fairbanks by Rail… A Perfect 10

March 31, 2016March 31, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 41 Comments

One of many views we had of Mt. Denali as we rode the Alaska Railroad from Anchorage to Fairbanks.

The conductor told us we were a 10, or I should say he told us we were among the 10% of people who travel by rail from Anchorage to Fairbanks and get to see Mt. Denali. Normally it is covered in clouds, or maybe you get a teasing glimpse. Having lived in Alaska for three years, I know how special it is to see the mountain.

Once, I was camped out at Wonder Lake, which is way out at the end of Denali Highway. I’d been backpacking in Denali National Park dodging grizzlies and had a small backpacking tent that I had pointed in the direction of the cloud-hidden mountain. I woke up early with the sun (in summertime Alaska, that’s really early). A huge mountain had appeared out of the clouds. “Wow! I said to my friend. You have to see this.” And then a larger mountain appeared behind it. As we sat there in awe, the clouds parted and a third, even larger mountain appeared, a massive mountain, Mt. Denali. At 20,310 feet, is the tallest mountain in North America.

Denali has only recently reclaimed the name it was known as for centuries by the Athabaskan natives of the region. It means big mountain, or the tall one. In 1896, an Alaskan gold miner named it Mt. McKinley in honor of the man he hoped would become president. McKinley won and the name stuck. Alaskans have been lobbying for years, quite rightly I would argue, to return the name to Denali. Their efforts had been continually blocked by a small contingent of politicians from Ohio, McKinley’s home state. On August 28, 2015, President Obama renamed the mountain Denali on the basis of a recommendation by the Alaska Geographical Society. I suspect the Ohio politicians are trying to impeach the President because of his action.

The sky was clear on our whole 350 mile trip from Anchorage to Fairbanks and we had several views of the Mountain. The engineer would stop the train each time we saw it. In fact, the engineer stopped the train several times to point out other things of interest as well, like moose for example. There’s a reason why the trip took 12 hours! Alaska is a state of great natural beauty, and we were privileged to see much of it on our trip. Following are a few of the many photos that Peggy and I (along with grandsons) took along the way. Enjoy.

I used this photo earlier on another post but you are getting to see it again because I like it so much and feel it is symbolic of our trip with the train, mountains, rivers and trees.

Another photo of the train. I liked the perspective, and the trees.

My nose was glued to the window for the whole trip. (Except of course to eat and pay attention to the family.) Many of the views, like this one, were right beside the track.

Snow, trees and shadows provided interesting compositions.

I thought these birch trees deserved a black and white look.

Numerous rivers dot the Alaska landscape we found several along the tracks.

Numerous rivers dot the Alaskan landscape. We found several beauties along the tracks.

Another example.

Homesteaders living along the railroad give a new meaning to ‘off the grid.’ Most live several miles apart and all depend on the railroad to provide access to the outside world. The conductor/guide told us the homesteaders stood along the tracks and flagged the train down when they needed a ride out.

While bears hibernate during the winter, moose operate year around. This open, ice-covered river provided a moose highway as indicated by the trails.

We were there long enough to see them moving along at the upper end of the small lake.

The engineer had stopped the train on the bridge over Hurricane Canyon when we spotted this family of moose following a trail.

I liked the shadows they cast in the bright sunlight.

Looking the other way across Hurricane Canyon provided this magnificent view of the canyon and the Alaska Range.

Looking the other way across Hurricane Canyon provided this view of the canyon and the distant Alaska Range. (Click on this for a larger view.)

Much of our time was spent admiring magnificent mountains. A different kind of animal made the tracks in this photo, people on snowmobiles, a primary form of transportation in backcountry Alaska.

Much of our time was spent admiring magnificent mountains. A different kind of animal made the tracks in this photo, people on snowmobiles, which are a primary mode of transportation in backcountry Alaska. I think these guys was playing.

More impressive mountains…

Mountain Scene on Alaska Railroad between Anchorage and Fairbanks.

And more.

And a final view of Mt. Denali in the distance.

Our son Tony and his family talked us into the railroad trip and other great adventures we had on this visit to Alaska. We owe the family big. In this photo, Tony and Cammie's son Cooper has decided my head is a good place for a snooze. (I took this as a selfie.)

Our son Tony and his family talked us into the railroad trip and other great adventures we had on this visit to Alaska. We owe the family big time. In this photo, Tony and Cammie’s son Cooper has decided my head is a good place for a snooze. (I took this photo as a selfie.)

I usually don't have much luck with photos taken out of airlines but I feel this photo of the Alaska Range taken on our Alaska Airways trip back to Anchorage from Fairbanks is an exception.

I usually don’t have much luck with photos taken out of airlines but I feel this one of the Alaska Range I took on our Alaska Airways trip back to Anchorage from Fairbanks is an exception. It seems worthy of concluding my series on Alaska. (Click on this for a larger view.)

NEXT BLOG: A new adventure! Peggy and I hit the road in our 22 foot van retracing the route I followed on my 10,000 solo bike trek I took around the US and Canada in 1989.

Sled Dogs Are Among the World’s Best Athletes… Alaska

March 28, 2016March 28, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 24 Comments

A sled dog strains against its harness as it leaps to take off in the annual Fur Rendezvous championship sled dog races. He was jumping the gun, so to speak, and still held in place. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Note: I’ve been away from the Internet for several days. I haven’t been up in the cold north of Alaska, however. I’ve been hanging out in Death Valley, California, warming up. Peggy and I returned from our adventure up near the Arctic Circle and immediately jumped into another.

A number of years ago, as many of you know, I went on a 10,000 mile solo bicycle journey around North America. Over the next two months, Peggy and I will be retracing the route in our van. I rode through Death Valley on the trek, which is why I am here. I’ll start blogging about my adventure soon, but first I have two posts left from Alaska. Today’s is on sled dogs; the next will be on our railroad trip from Anchorage to Fairbanks.

“On King, On you huskies!”

I was eight years old when I climbed on my first sled and went dashing across the wilds of the Yukon in hot pursuit of bad guys with Sargent Preston, his team of loyal huskies, and his faithful dog King. So what if I was sitting by the family radio. So what if my dash through the snow was totally in my imagination. Sargent Preston and King were as real to me as the Lone Ranger and Silver. My brother Marshall and I never missed an episode.

With this background, it is hardly surprising that I was fascinated with sled dogs when I first moved to Alaska in 1983. I watched with interest as the mushers and their teams raced through Anchorage in preparation for the Iditarod. I jumped at the opportunity to recruit Libby Riddles to be a spokesperson for the non-profit I ran immediately after she became the first woman to win the race. “I am doing a spread for Vogue,” Libby told me. “Pick me up at the airport when I get back and we can run around and do media together.” It was a great coup for the organization but even a greater coup for me. We talked sled dogs nonstop.

I missed the Iditarod in my recent visit to Alaska. Our timing was off by a day. But I did get to watch the world-class sled dog races that were part of Fur Rendezvous. What struck me most about the dogs was how eager they were to run. There was no, “Do we have to?” It was “Let us go. Now!” They couldn’t wait for the start command. I was fascinated by how powerful the dogs are. To keep them in place, each sled was attached to a snowmobile, several people were assigned to hold the sled, and dog handlers stood beside each of the dogs. At the start command, everyone simply let go. Off they went, every muscle straining to pull the sled.

Championship sled dog races are held each year in conjunction with the Anchorage Fur Rendezvous. This year snow had to be brought into the city and put down on the streets.

Sled dogs are highly honored in Alaska as this statue on 4th Street attests.

Naturally, our grandsons wanted their photo taken with the sled dog.

When we arrived, mushers were busily harnessing their dogs. 4th Street was lined with vehicles like these.

When we arrived, mushers were busily harnessing their dogs. 4th Street was lined with vehicles like this.

As I mentioned above, sled dogs love to run and compete as much as the finest of Olympic athletes. This dog is saying, “I’m ready, Let’s go!”

These people were assigned the responsibility of holding the dogs back until the start of the race. It is a great indication of the strength of the dogs. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Dog handlers are assigned to keep the dogs in place until it is time to run. The far dog seems to be barking, "Now!" While the near one says, "Are they ready?"

Dog handlers are assigned to keep the dogs in place until it is time to run. The far dog seems to be barking, “Now!” While the near one says, “Can I go, Boss?” (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

And they are off! (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Racing sleds are engineered for speed with every ounce of weight considered.

While more traditional sleds are built to haul loads, or, in this case, our Daughter-in-law Cammie and Grandson Chris at Chena Hot Soprings.

While more traditional sleds are built to haul loads, or, in this case, our daughter-in-law Cammie and grandson Chris at Chena Hot Springs.

Peggy caught the dogs racing for the finish line.

These animals are superb athletes and can sprint up to 20 miles per hour. Even more amazing, is the ability of the Iditarod dogs to run a thousand miles in little more than a week. Few animals can match their capacity to work, compete, or eat. It takes 10-12 thousand calories per day to fuel the dogs on their dash to Nome.

Dogs are raised from puppies to be sled dogs and develop a close bond with their mushers. Before they learn the discipline of being a sled dog, they learn that it is play. It’s a lesson they remember their whole lives. As they grow older they are tried out on different team positions. The most important is the lead dog. He or she responds to the commands of the musher and keeps the dogs in line. An occasional nip may be required. Lead dogs also help keep the musher out of trouble. “Um, there is a moose up ahead you might want to worry about.” Moose think of sled dogs as wolves and wolves are enemies. You don’t want a thousand pounds of angry moose charging your team.

Next in line are swing dogs who help assure that the team follows the lead dog. Behind them come the strong team dogs who are responsible for providing power to pull the sled and maintain speed. Finally, the wheel dogs are next to the sled and are responsible for turning it. The dogs work together closely, along with the musher, as a finely tuned crew.

These dogs in Chena Hot Springs were prepared to provide our son Tony and grandsons cooper and Connor with a ride. The fist dog is the lead dog, the next are swing dogs, the following four are team dogs and the last two are wheel dogs.

These dogs in Chena Hot Springs were prepared to provide our son Tony and grandsons Cooper and Connor with a ride. The first dog is the lead dog, the next two are swing dogs, the following four are team dogs and the last two are wheel dogs.

In 1983 when I ventured into the far north, three breeds of dogs were considered sled dogs: Alaskan Huskies, Siberian Huskies and Malamutes. These dogs had been hauling sleds through the tundra for hundreds, if not thousands of years. While theses breeds are still a central component of any sled dog breed, short-haired German Pointers and even a little greyhound have been interbred with the huskies to create sprinters for shorter races. The new dogs are known as Eurohounds. Most of the dogs at the Fur Rendezvous seemed to fit the description.

Today’s racing sled dogs look quite different from the sled dogs of 30 years ago. These are Eurohounds, a mixture of traditional Alaska Huskies and German Short Haired Pointers. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

A more traditional Husky. I took this photo at Chena Hot Springs.

We finished our Alaska sled dog experience at Chena Hot Springs where we visited a kennel and the grandkids (along with the required parents) went for sled dog rides.

Dog kennels at Chena Hot Springs. Libby Riddles told me that mushers normally owned a number of dogs. Imagine feeding this lot! And cleaning up their poop.

Luke Skywalker was happy to greet the grandkids. All of the dogs came with imaginative names.

Sled dogs are raised from puppies, such as this cut fellow at Chena.

Sled dogs are raised from puppies, such as this cute fellow at Chena.

A final shot of the sled dogs at Chena Hot Springs as they round a corner carrying Tony, Connor and Cooper. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

So, is this the future sled dog champion of the world? No, I think it might be a Toy Pomeranian. A woman walked by with it on a leash. When I asked if I could take the pups photo, she picked it up, handed it to me, and snapped our picture. NEXT BLOG: The great train trip from Anchorage to Fairbanks.

Alaska’s Fur Rendezvous: From Outhouse Races to Sled Dogs

March 20, 2016March 20, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 23 Comments

The strange looking creature here is a decorated outhouse that belongs to

The Fabulous Flying Duck Farts prepare their duck-billed entry for the Fur Rendezvous Outhouse Race in Anchorage Alaska. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The word Fur Rendezvous immediately brings to mind early American history, fur trading, and mountain men. One of the most renown/notorious of the rendezvous took place in the Green River region of Wyoming in the 1830s. After a long, lonely winter of trapping beavers and other fur-bearing mammals, the mountain men would gather on the Green River to meet with traders out of St. Louis who would purchase their winter harvest. There was lots of drinking, gambling, and snuggling up with accommodating women (for a fee)— which is pretty much what you might expect from barely civilized men who had spent the winter isolated in tiny cabins. I’ve visited the region and backpacked through the mountains where beavers were trapped. You can read about this adventure at: A Rabid Wolf Walked through Camp.

Alaska was a Johnny-come-lately to the fur rendezvous business, deciding to create its event in 1935. Alaska was still a raw frontier at the time, however. It wouldn’t have been much different from the Rocky Mountains a hundred years earlier. It was a wild place, and the people who chose to live there were a bit on the wild side. I would have fit right in.

The Fur Rendezvous in Anchorage, or Rondy as they call it today, has lost much of its mountain man edge. But it is still an excuse to party. And it had become a major tourist attraction. When I was there with Peggy, our son Tony and his family a few weeks ago, we attended four of its many events: sled dog races, a snow carving contest, the Rondy Parade, and the annual outhouse race. I’ve already written about the snow carving. My next blog will be on sled dogs. Today is all about porta potties and parades.

What’s not to like about an outhouse race, especially when one of the main contestants was the Fabulous Flying Duck Farts. Among its competitors were the Willow Fire Department, the Mormon Brigade, the AE club from the University of Alaska, and others. There was even a young woman being pushed in a shopping cart. Not even my fertile imagination could figure out how she fit in, but she was having fun. Both the Fabulous Flying Duck Farts and the AE club are involved in charitable activities. The jet propelled Duck Farts ended up winning, so I checked them out on Facebook. Here’s what they have to say about their organization:

“The Fabulous Flying Duck Farts are a forever funny fabulous formation flying flock of fast, furious, and friendly foul-fowl; a fine festival feature famous for flatulent fueled flight, frequent fierce flapping, faithfully finishing first, and frolicking feathery fun.”

That seems to sum it up.

And they are off! The Ducks’ jet propelled launch is shown on the side of the outhouse. Each entry required that a person be sitting on the “pot.”

The Mormon Battalion lacked the pizazz of the Flying Ducks. The child inside seems a little dubious about his role.

The Mormon Battalion lacked the pizzaz of the Flying Ducks. The child inside seems a little dubious about his job. The Battalion definitely earned points for its ragged roll of TP, however. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

These folks were having fun but any resemblance to a real outhouse is totally coincidental. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Judging from the look, I’d say that the Willow Fire Department provided serious competition. As the start and finish sign notes, the Architecture and Engineering club from the University of Alaska hosted the event. AE uses funds it raises to support Habitat for Humanity. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The Rondy Parade had it all, starting with princesses, lots of princesses. There were also kids, dogs, old cars, older tractors, horses, a reindeer, white bread, M&M’s, Hells Angels, and a very large colon. The only thing missing was a band. I’ve never seen a major parade without a band. In fact, the only parade I’ve ever seen without a band was the Buncom Day parade near where we live in Oregon. It goes one block, turns around and repeats itself. And even it had first graders blowing kazoos. Still, the Rondy Parade entertained us well.

The Rondy Parade must have featured 15 or so princesses and queens. At least it seemed like it. The parade announcer joked all you need is a tiara. This young woman stopped by for a visit.

This ‘pumpkin-like’ float pulled by a handsome black horse was one of several conveyances that transported princesses. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Star the Reindeer lives on a lot in downtown Anchorage. I think there is a requirement that he participate in all Anchorage parades.

Naturally, a good parade deserves at least one clown. I suspect more that one child had nightmares that night.

Naturally, a good parade deserves at least one clown. I suspect more that several children had clown nightmares that night.

The white bread wasn’t nearly as scary unless you thought about its food value.

Bernese Mountain Dogs were out in force at the parade.

This Bernese Mountain Dog stopped by for a sniff.

One pup pulling a cart stopped by for a sniff.

I think these M&Ms had a Methodist Flavor.

I think these M&Ms represented the local Methodists.

This Hell's Angel participant brought a slightly different flavor to the parade.

In contrast, here is a Hell’s Angel participant.

Apparently, this is the latest in macho tricks by four-wheel vehicles. It brings a whole new connotation to ‘mounting a tire.’

There were a number of old cars in the parade. The chains were hardly required on Anchorage’s globally warmed streets.

There were old trucks…

Old tractor featured in 2016 Fur Rondy Parade in Anchorage, AK.

And old tractors.

I recognize that this large colon had an important message. But I can't help myself; it was strange. And what in the heck were the folks dressed up inside supposed to be? There is no way I would dress up and be a whatever in a colon. I'll leave you with this image for my post.

And one very large colon. I recognize that it had an important message. But I can’t help myself; it was just strange. And here’s a probing question: what in the heck were the folks dressed up inside supposed to be? There is no way I would dress up and be a whatever in a colon. I’ll leave you with this last image for today. Don’t forget your checkup. NEXT BLOG: Sled dogs.

More Alaska Ice and Snow Art! Anchorage, Fairbanks and Chena Hot Springs

March 15, 2016March 15, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 27 Comments

Alaska snow sculpture at Fur Rendezvous 2016

While the sun had obviously impacted this snow sculpture of a native Alaskan, I felt it carried a certain power. It reminded me of the fate of so many Native Americans, fading away while continuing to struggle for existence, possibly even regaining some of their lost heritage.

Alaskans believe in global warming. “It’s only snowed here twice this winter,” my friend Nancy Babb Stone groused when Peggy and I joined her and her husband Bart for dinner at their home in Anchorage. Many years earlier Nancy and I had taken a small, sleepy non-profit and turned it into a major player on health and environmental issues in Alaska. It was great to see her again. We spent a fair amount of time reminiscing.

The winter, or lack thereof, was cutting seriously into Nancy and Bart’s winter sports activities they told us. It was also melting the snow at the Fur Rendezvous’ snow carving contest. Peggy and I, along with our son Tony and his family, had been there twice to check out the sculptures. I was afraid if we looked away for a few minutes they might dissolve into large puddles of water. Even in their semi-melted forms the snow sculptures were fun, however. I was particularly attracted to the snow monsters.

City destroying snow sculpture monster at 2016 Fur Rendezvous snow carving contest.

This city destroying nightmare reminded me of a Japanese radiation-enhanced movie monster from the 1960s.

Calvin and Hobbes snow monster at 2016 Fur Rendezvous in Anchorage, Alaska

I looked at this huge mouth ready to consume a screaming snowman and something clicked in the back of my mind. I had seen this monster before…

This cartoon at the side of the sculpture confirmed my suspicion. Calvin of Calvin and Hobbes was a master at creating snow monsters.

Thankfully, it was colder at the World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks. As I mentioned in my posts on the competition, the ice park also included a kids’ play area and the pond where the ice for carving is located. The carvers have nicknamed the pristine blue ice that comes out of the pond, Arctic Diamond.

It wasn’t the purity of the ice that captured the attention of our 3, 5, and 7-year old grandsons, however. It was the fact that the park was full of ice slides, things to crawl on, over and into, and fun ice sculptures. The kids couldn’t get enough. They were given special permission to stay up late. We shut down the park. “Would you like us to leave lights on for you?” a park attendant asked at 10:30 p.m.— and was serious. I really couldn’t imagine that happening anywhere other than Alaska.

Ice steam engine at the Kid's Ice Park in Fairbanks, Alaska 2016.

A favorite of mine at the ice park. Note the ice smoke! The boys were exploring the rail cars.

Ice sculptures, such as this train carved out of ice, are lit up at night at the Fairbanks Ice Park.

The train lit up at night.

Tony and sons come barreling off one of the slick ice slides on a plastic sled peggy bought for the purpose. Yahoo!

Tony, Connor, and Cooper come barreling off a slick ice slide on a plastic sled Peggy bought for the purpose. Yahoo! The kids survived the day and night; the sled didn’t.

Granson Chris and I tackle another slide at night, without the sled.

Grandson Chris and I tackle another slide, this time at night and without the sled. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The slides could be quite bumpy and Peggy had just slid over a large one. Ouch! Our daughter-in-law Cammie had loaned her the "marshmallow" jacket.

The slides could be quite bumpy and Peggy had just slid over a large one. Ouch! Our daughter-in-law Cammie had loaned her the fluffy but warm “marshmallow” jacket that made her look a bit like a sumo wrestler.

Another slide was connected with this dragon assaulting a castle.

This mammoth lit up at night fronted for another slide.

And this wooly mammoth as well.

I really liked this snake dragon…

And this whale.

Peggy and I have always wanted a log cabin. But this one may be a little cold! (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Our furthest north adventure was at Chena Hot Springs, about an hour from Fairbanks. We spent two nights there, and, I wish to report, it was ‘put on all your spare clothes’ cold, dropping to a minus 10˙ F at night. Our adventures in ice carving continued at the Aurora Ice Museum, home to Steve Brice, 15-time world ice carving champion, and his wife Heather Brice, six-time world ice carving champion. Both had participated in the Fairbanks competition.

The road to Chena Hot Springs. I kept looking for moose. There were plenty of tracks but I didn’t spot one.

Dinner and service at the rustic Chena Hot Springs Lodge were excellent. Here the family wishes me a happy birthday. “Are you really that old, Grandpa!?”

Our exploration of ice art continued at the Aurora Ice Museum.

This fish with its huge lips was amusing.

This carved ice fish with its huge lips was amusing. Pucker up.

I thought this carved ice head of a seahorse was rather elegant.

Here we are toasting out of carved ice glasses at a bar made out of ice, while sitting on ice chairs. We had hoped to be toasting Tony's appointment as a commander at the US Naval Academy in Connecticut. He did receive the appointment, but not until after we had returned to Oregon.

Here we are toasting out of carved ice glasses at a bar made out of ice, while sitting on ice chairs (fortunately fur covered). We had hoped to be toasting Tony’s appointment as Company Officer for cadets interested in aviation at the US Naval Academy in Connecticut. He did receive the appointment, but not until after we had returned to Oregon.

Chena had great food and friendly people, but the lodging left a little to be desired, especially for the $200 a night price tag. I’d go with second-hand shabby as a description of our room, which they never got around to cleaning at the end of our first day. I could have lived with this except for the lack of sound-proofing.

Whenever anyone came in or went out the door banged. If they lived upstairs, the banging was followed by a mini-earthquake clomp, clomp, clomp. Again, it would have been tolerable had it stopped, say around ten. But on our second night, it went on and on— until one a.m. The lovely Peggy slept through it. I got out my sound maker and turned it on high. No luck: slam clomp, clomp, clomp! I put the sound maker three inches away from my ear: slam, clomp, clomp, clomp! I put a pillow over my head: slam, clomp, clomp, clomp! every 15 minutes, like clock work. I begin to contemplate doing things that a peace-loving guy like me doesn’t do. I begin to hallucinate. Our hotel was drug central for Alaska and people were carefully scheduled to pick up their illegal stash every 15 minutes to avoid running into each other.

The next day a friend suggested another possibility. It was a cross-cultural lesson. Chena Hot Springs occasionally provides views of the Aurora Borealis. Asians, and particularly Japanese, so I was told, believe that a child conceived under the Northern Lights will have great gifts. Our hotel was pretty much packed with people traveling from Asia. What if every 15 minutes or so, one of the husbands would go outside and check to see if the sky was dancing while his wife waited patiently for the great moment? Had I known that, I would have sat in my doorway and wished the guys good luck!

NEXT BLOG: Queens, dogs, and a very large colon in the Fur Rendezvous Parade— and an exciting Outhouse Race.

The Word Ice Art Championships… On the Road to the Olympics

March 12, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 35 Comments

"Ancient Fish" at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska

The detail in the “Ancient Fish” or coelacanths, earned it top billing on my post today.

Aaron Costic had a dream. He wanted to become a chef. His skills at ice carving were so impressive, however, his instructor encouraged him to participate in ice sculpture competitions. His skills brought him to the World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks and then on to winning a gold medal in the Winter Olympics at Torino, Italy in 2006. This year he and his team-mate carved “Concentration” in Fairbanks, the sculpture I featured in my first blog on the competition.

Participation in the Winter Olympics speaks to the popularity of ice carving. It isn’t considered a sport at the Olympics but is seen as a Cultural Olympiad event. The first competition was at the Calgary Winter Games in 1988. On years when the Winter Olympics are held, the World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks is considered a qualifying event.

Many of the best ice carvers in the world come to Fairbanks. The art I have included in this series certainly speaks to the talent of the carvers. It was exciting to be at the competition. I only wish I could have been there to see the sculptures lit up with colored lights. Even more, I wish I could have been in Fairbanks for the multi-block competition. Ice Alaska – Facebook includes photos of both if you are interested.

Today I am going to wrap up my photos of the 2016 World Ice Art Championships. In my next blog I will look at the Children’s Ice Park in Fairbanks, the Aurora Ice Carving Museum in Chena Hot Springs, and the snow carving contest connected to the Fur Rendezvous in Anchorage. In other words, I am not quite done with ice art!

"Don't Leave Me Now" Ice Sculpture at the 2016 Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska.

Ice Carvers from Thailand (Is there ice in Thailand?) put the finishing touches on their graceful sculpture titled “Don’t Leave Me Now.”

"Don't leave me now" ice sculpture at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska

“Don’t Leave Me Now” lit up by white lights on the night of the ice sculpture judging.

"First Breath" ice carving sculpture at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska.

This beautiful sculpture reflecting the sky was called First Breath. It would have been an icy one.

"First Breath" ice carving sculpture at 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska.

“First Breath” ice sculpture lit up at night.

"6 H" ice carving sculpture at 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska.

Dean De Marais uses his chainsaw to put finishing touches on the ice sculpture known as H^2.

"H^2" ice carving sculpture at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska.

H^2 prepares for takeoff at night. Or maybe it is landing.

"Son of Sun" ice carving sculpture at 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska

“Son of Sun” was created by carvers from China.

"Son of Sun" ice carving sculpture at 2016 World Ice Art Championships.

“Son of Sun” at night

King Fisher ice carving sculpture at 2016 Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska.

A fisherman displays his prime catch in “Kingfisher.”

The model that “Kingfisher” was based on.

"Snapped" ice carving sculpture at 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska.

There was quite a set of chompers on this fellow titled “Snapped.” I’d give him a wide berth. But there was another reason for his wide open jaws besides hunger…

"Snapped" ice carving sculpture at night at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska

A snapping turtle had him by the tail!

" Mission on Mars" ice carving sculpture at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska.

A futuristic “Mission on Mars.”

"Destinee" ice carving sculpture at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska.

Two carvers from France created “Destinee.”

Renewed Embodiment ice carving sculpture at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fair banks, Alaska.

A carver adds a touch of color to this huge bear titled “Renewed Embodiment.”

" Star Gazing" moose ice carving sculpture at the 2016 World Ice Carving Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska.

Where there are huge bears, there are likely to be moose. His title: “Stargazing.”

"Hard to Handle" ice carving sculpture at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska.

The title to this sculpture, “Hard to Handle,” seems something of an understatement.

This boy seems to have hooked into a whopper! It is my last photo for the 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks.

The 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska… Part II: The Artists

March 10, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 30 Comments

Anne Marie Tabardo takes a break from carving “Alice” at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks.

Anne Marie Tabardo looked up from carving Alice with a smile that was guaranteed to melt an icy heart, or cold art for that matter. A collection of ice carving chisels rested on the ground next to her. A seriously long one was poised in her hand. It was obvious that she was having fun with her sculpture. A tall tree of ice towered over her and the diminutive Alice, who was apparently ready to dive into the rabbit hole. Off to the right were what looked suspiciously like fly agaric: magic mushrooms. I suspect they are quite common in the land of hookah smoking caterpillars. I wondered if the judges would give Anne an A for authenticity, or even recognize the mushrooms.

Alice ice sculpture at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska.

Alice, the tree, and magic mushrooms. Had the mushrooms been real and available, some people may have spotted a white rabbit with a pocket watch as well.

Ice Art Sculpture "Alice" at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska

Tree limbs looking like fingers added to the Wonderland feel of the sculpture.

Anne hails from the United Kingdom where these same hallucinogenic fungi were recently found on the grounds of Buckingham Palace. An official was quick to assure everyone that the mushrooms from the garden would not be used in the kitchen. The Queen would not be prancing around the palace.

Prior to becoming involved in ice art, Anne worked at Madame Tussaud’s and The British Museum creating replicas of famous people. She has a degree in fine arts from the National Art School in Sydney and at the City and Guilds of London Art School. Her father, Juan, who runs a florist shop in Sydney, Australia, flew in to Fairbanks to help with the sculpture.

Ice Alaska, the organization supporting the ice art competition in Fairbanks, includes brief bios on most of the carvers. Some, like Anne, are art school graduates. Others came by their profession by less direct routes. For example, Chris Foltz, one of the carvers of Soul Catcher, is executive chef at the Oregon Coast Culinary Institute. Ice sculptures are often on display at fancy group dinners such as those found on cruise ship. In these cases, ice carving skills are a plus for chefs. Both of the artists for Spark come from culinary backgrounds. Tajana Rauker from Croatia studied culinary arts in Krk, Croatia. Her partner in carving Spark, Ted Wakar, is an executive chef at Ford Motor Company.

Day time view of ice sculpture "Soul Catcher" at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska

The ice art sculpture “Soul Collector” was still being worked on. A tarp had been put up to protect it from the sun.

Ice art sculpture "Soul Collector" lit up at night at the 2016 World Ice Art Championshipsin Fairbanks, Alaska.

“Soul Collector” at night.

Close up of ice sculpture "Soul Collector" at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships.

A night-time close up.

"The Spark" ice sculpture at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships

This sculpture, “The Spark,” was carved by two people with culinary training.

The Spark ice art sculpture at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships at Fairbanks, Alaska

“The Spark” at night with an ice block “?” held by ‘ice tongs’ in the heart. Translate: Is this the One?

Ice carving artists are often involved with related art activities such as wood carving. Ben Firth, who along with his brother Barnabas, was responsible for carving Conflict, also carves antlers, sculpts in bronze, and works in pencil and watercolors. His art is sold out of the family’s art studio in Anchor Point, Alaska. Ivan Loktyukhin, is another multi-talented artist, who has won numerous prizes for his wood carving and metal sculptures as well as ice art. Ivan holds a degree in Architectural Design from the Russian Pacific National University. Along with Vadim Polin, Ivan was responsible for creating Yahoo!

"Nature of Conflict" ice art sculpture at 2016 World Ice Art Championships held in Fairbanks, Alaska.

A close up of the “Nature of Conflict” ice sculpture during the day.

"Nature of Conflict" ice art sculpture at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships.

And at night. A chess game was in progress at the bottom.

Ice Sculpture "Yahoo" at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska.

“Yahoo!” seemed to be an appropriate title for this unfinished ice sculpture of a woman riding her ostrich. (I showed her missing legs in my last blog.)

Yahoo! ice carving sculpture at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska..

And here she is at night, going all out with legs attached!

Head of ostrich included in the ice art sculpture "Yahoo!" show at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships.

I couldn’t resist this close up of the ostrich’s head.

Another artist who caught my attention was Lkhagvadorj Dorjsuren (AKA George) who was the first person from Mongolia to carve ice. He won his first contest in Finland where no one spoke his language. One of his dreams is to start a competition in Mongolia that would draw tourists. Sign me up! He and his partner Enkh-Erdene Ganbataar, (aka Eggi) created the rather humorously named sculpture AAAHH BaaMMM Beee Beeem. (Yeah, I don’t have a clue, either.) George, working with Altankhuu Khishigdalai, also helped create The Beginning of Time.

"AAAHH BaaMMM Beee Beeem" ice art sculpture at 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska.

AAAHH BaaMMM Beee Beeem during the day…

A"AAHH BaaMMM Beee Beeem" ice sculpture during the night of judging at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships.

And at night.

"The Beginning of Time" ice art sculpture ice art sculpture at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships

George and Altankhuu from Mongolia working on “The Beginning of Time.”

The Beginning of Time ice carving sculpture at the 2016 World Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks, Alaska.

“The Beginning of Time” shown at night, my last photo for this post.

I have only been able to cover a few of the participating artists. If you are interested in learning more about these artists or others involved check out the Ice-Alaska website. NEXT BLOG: I will finish up my blogs on the world ice art competition.

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