Trailer Wife

Taking one for the team

Higitus Figitus: A parenthetical diatribe on growing up

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When I was young, I hated doing the dishes more than anything. I would negotiate, feign illness, resort to violence and little sister abuse to get out of it. I was convinced that my mom purposefully sullied ever dish in the house, especially on meatloaf night. Even after I set them to soak for twenty minutes while I cleared the table, transferred the leftovers into our warped Tupperware and scrubbed down the plastic tablecloth and marbled vinyl countertops, the sticky red leavings clung to the plates and silverware like plumber’s caulk. I would be forced to repeatedly empty the dishpan and scoop the grey hamburger curds and cooked onion from the drain, flinging them with more force than was necessary into the overflowing garbage can. Half of the goop would inevitably slid down a slip of tinfoil and land on the hand-tied rug mom had picked up at a garage sale and placed proudly in front of the stove. I am embarrassed to admit that I once put the heel of my shoe down firmly on the slippery mess, grinding an oily spot into the heart-shaped design, before turning back to the grease-slicked sink to run the water. Again.


So when we walked in to view a flat a few days after we'd arrived in Scotland (could it be almost 2 years ago? Surely not!) I saw that it had a sleek new dishwasher and said, We'll Take It. Having never in my life enjoyed the modern convenience of squeaky clean dishes at the push of a button, the sweet silver appliance quickly grew to be my favorite feature of Scottish life. And when Gusser arrived, I wasn't sure how anyone on earth survived without immediately sterilized baby utensils. There is NOTHING like the comforting hum of a dishwasher on a rainy day. It makes me happy just thinking about it.

Cut to two months ago, when I called Belinda at UAF Faculty Housing to ask if, by any chance, the house we'd been assigned might possibly have a dishwasher. Um, no. In fact, Belinda actually laughed at me. We were extremely lucky that the 25 year old washer and dryer in the basement was still in (halfway) working order.

Of course, I was NOT looking forward to, once again, being on dishwashing duty. Especially since the 3rd member of our family has seemed to double (nay, triple) our daily wiping up, laundry and 401-9 needs. And that was before he discovered how fun it is to throw food on the floor. But I have to say, washing the dishes has taken on a whole new meaning for me. There is something extremely cathartic (now) about rendering a sink full of mess into a steaming, tightly packed little pile in the dish rack. With Gus joyfully beating a pot with a wooden spoon, I can stand in relative peace, getting a mini-steam bath and sponging our crockery while thinking of that scene in The Sword in the Stone where Merlin magics the dishes to wash themselves. It pushes all of my instant-gratification-neat-and-(mostly)clean buttons. Maybe it has something to do with finally feeling settled in a place that feels like home?

Standing at the many sinks of my life up to now, rote chores like dishwashing seemed compelled, plodding, a vexing necessity. One of Sam's favorite jokes to drop at a dinner party is, "You need any help with the dishes? 'Cause Christie's not doing anything." (In my sweet Sam's defense, he has become a fabulous dishwasher, almost always shouldering the clean-up if I cook). And though I've had some pretty defining experiences, never before have I felt quite so grown up as when I'm suds-soaked, in my house, among my things, pondering the set of circumstances that bring me to that spot (and yes, I have a garage-sale-salvaged-hand-tied rug adorning MY kitchen). I guess you come to a point in your life when you realize that someday has actually happened. You are in it. You have arrived.

And that realization has made the trip North feel, suddenly, worth it.

My new dreaded domestic activity: floors.

The mountains are out

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It is currently a balmy 68 in Fairbanks, sunny skies, no wind and (amazingly) few bugs. Gus and I took a walk up the hill this morning, and here's what we saw...

The Denali Mountain Range (I Think)

Mountains through trees - already starting to lose their leaves

The road directly behind our house

A night off!

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In preparation for the graduate workshop that I'm starting in two weeks, Sam agreed to give me Wednesday nights off, indefinitely. So here I am, sitting in a coffee shop near our house (by which, I must admit, I'm rather impressed... low lighting, organic coffee, tattooed baristas - feels like home). And what have I managed on this 3 hour furlough? So far I've updated my facebook status, taken about 2 dozen photobooth shots, twittered, and now, in another effort to postpone ACTUALLY writing, I'm blogging about it.


I have been hopelessly stymied where fiction is concerned for about, oh, 11 months. The novel is moldering, all story starts hopelessly stalled, and no joke, I have three greeting cards I haven't sent because I can't get the personal message just right. It's not pretty.

So here's my solution. I'm asking you, dear reader (all three of you), to post a comment to this entry and give me a little mojo in the form of a Short Story Title. I'll pick my favorite one and, you guessed it, write the damn story. I *might* even post it.

Spaghetti in memoriam

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One of my father's more endearing attributes was his ability to, without a recipe or any real direction other than dad-magic, whip up a batch of delicious spaghetti. It was the one and only thing he could make (other than charring a steak under the broiler) and it was one of my favorite meals as a kid. When called upon, he would stand thoughtfully in front of the pantry, pull out cans and jars at random, and an hour later, be serving up an aromatic slop of crimson noodles.


Thinking of him today, I repressed my type-A tendencies, and attempted to wing it, a la Gary. I have to say, the results here better than I would have dreamed. Using my trusty faux Creuset, here's what I threw together...

1 lb sweet italian sauage
1/2 an onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 can tomato sauce
1 small can tomato paste
1/2 large can crushed tomatoes
3 tsp dried basil
2 tsp dried parsley
1 tsp red pepper flakes
handful brown suger
1 tsp salt
dash of fresh ground pepper
1/4 cup red wine
1 cup chicken stock

Brown the sausage. Throw in onion and cook until limp. Throw in garlic, tomatoes and chicken stock. Mix well. Add basil, parsley, red pepper, salt, pepper and brown sugar. Add red wine last, and let the whole mess simmer for at least an hour (I went for closer to two) stirring pretty frequently.

I used a package of quinoa (pronounced Keen-wa - Hi Cathey) noodles. Be careful about the noodle to sauce ration - the sauce is a little on the rich side, and I think I could have used a bit more noodles and been fine.

DELISH. Seriously, it was so good that Mr-Fussy-Eater-Gussy wolfed it down tonight. THAT is a ringing endorsement. I'm hoping to train Sam in spaghetti making... every dad needs at least one good recipe under his belt, right?

The plural form of Moose is Moose, just in case you're wondering

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I haven't got around to writing very much about the landscape of Alaska, mostly because I've been spending my time indoors arranging, organizing and stocking the cupboards of our new home. This is odd because a) I'm a big landscape person, and b) there is really nothing else here to write home about except... dramatic landscape. It is achingly beautiful in a scraggly, barely restrained and wild sort of way. The kind of beauty that you really need double-reinforced knee-high steel-toed boots to enjoy. But the University of Alaska must have anticipated cupcakes like me joining their ranks, because they've built a network of sun-dappled manicured trails just behind campus. In the summer, these trails are perfect for running, biking or even strolling with the buggy (which Gus highly approves of). And in the winter they are transformed into wonderful snow-shoeing and cross country skiing paths. This photo was taken with my iphone, and barely represents the glory of the captured afternoon. Yes, that is blue sky you see through the trees - it happens!


As park-like as these trails appear, there is still the Alaskan wild to consider. This sign, at the trail head, made me ponder the relative danger one might find themself in when confronted with a Moose. I've heard stories about the wily and ferocious habits of these cow-like beings, which are, frankly, hard to believe. Bill Bryson (whose book, A Walk in the Woods I just read) describes these enormous animals as, "the most improbable, endearingly hopeless creature to ever live in the woods; its spindly legs, its chronically puzzled expression, its comical oven mitt antlers--looks like some droll evolutionary joke." And I couldn't agree more. The name Moose is algonquin for "twig-eater," for heaven's sake.

Nevertheless, a quick search on youtube gave me plenty to think about. Clip after clip shows wild-eyed loping attacks on dogs, hunters, and even a speeding locomotive! Maybe there is something about the Alaskan Moose (the largest of the species) that makes them particularly aggressive. In any case, I'll be clapping my hands around every bend on my pretty little trail to let them know I'm coming, and vamoose.


Health Scare Reform

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In Alaska, a state trumped only in its libertarian spirit by "live free or die," New Hampshire, government sponsored healthcare is a very hot topic. It's in the papers, it's on the radio, and yes, it's on TV. I saw an ad today with a breast cancer survivor imploring the world to strike down any policy that would allow poor, defenseless women to DIE. That's right, the British, the French, and other backward, fumbling governments don't care enough about their people to treat their terminal illnesses. In fact, a death panel will likely decide your fate before you even make it to a specialist, an appointment you'll have waited two years to get. That's what socialized medicine will get you.


It's enough to make me want to buy a handheld loudspeaker.

Do these people not read? How many ways do you have to say that a public option is an OPTION - you can keep your crummy old policy just the way it is if you want to. And - are we all listening here? - there is NO SUCH THING as a death panel. I'm sick of hand-wavy conservatives touting America's "2nd to none" status with regard to medical technology and the health of its citizens. It is just not true. The American health-care system is not best in terms of coverage, access, patient safety, efficiency or cost-effectiveness. It does not produce the best outcomes of diseases such as cancer, heart disease, or diabetes; for the elderly, the middle-aged, or the young; in terms of life expectancy, rates of chronic diseases or obesity. No, we are not first. We are not even 5th or 12th or 25th. We are behind France, Britain, Switzerland, Japan, Canada and 32 other countries. On the World Heath Organizations list, we are 37th.

THIRTY-SEVENTH.

I'm not just running my mouth here. I lived with a nationalized health care system for almost two years in Scotland. I'd heard the horror stories, and was a little anxious when, two months after we arrived, I discovered I was pregnant. And there is nothing that can bring on the tornado of worry-driven hysteria than growing another person in your body.

But my experience couldn't have been better. Not only was the care I received professional and prompt, I never had to wait more than 12 hours to get into see someone who could instantly ease my fears. Pre and post natal care was thorough yet non-invasive. And while I never saw a doctor (leading up to and including labor), I found that I much preferred the capable midwives who took care of us. My midwife, Rosemary, came to our house (OUR HOUSE) every day for ten days following Gusser's arrival, just to make sure we were both healthy and coping. And for a month after that, a certified health visitor came once a week to ensure all was well.

Outside of my experience with childbirth, going to the neighborhood doctor was easy peasy. Anytime something came up (and as a new mother, I was constantly convinced Gus was on a fast track to the ICU) all I had to do was call the clinic and schedule a time, usually that day or the next, to bring him in. Sam also saw the doctor several times about a recurring foot problem, for which he was prescribed free acupuncture and physical therapy.

Yes, Britain's National Health System has problems. So does Blue Cross Blue Shield. But in the long run, not having to worry about financial ruin resulting from an appendectomy far outweighs the few weeks of waiting you might have to endure to treat your tendonitis (or other non-life-threatening/non-disabling ailment).

How is medical care NOT a universal human right? Under what circumstances is it civilized to let families be left destitute by a broken arm? Can someone please explain this to me?

Saturday morning light

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Pot Poser

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For as long as I can remember, I have longed to own a Le Creuset dutch oven. LONGED. For just as long, I've never been able to afford one. But in the throes of our epic shopping spree this summer, I talked myself into getting a wanna-be enamel pot, made by Martha Stewart. It was much more reasonably priced, and I figured it would give me a chance to really use it and see if the Le Creuset investment was worth it.

So last night, I made Green Curry with chicken. I was very happy with how the pot performed, and loved how it looked sitting on the stove so much that it is still there (sans green curry, of course).


PS - the green curry was awful. Anyone have a wonderful green curry recipe? I'm all ears.

Our First Bear Sighting...

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Here are some (late) pictures of our outing for Sam's birthday. Gus was completely unperturbed by the 8 foot Grizzly. His father, however, was slightly flummoxed by the post-dinner cigar along the Chena River...





Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes...

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Actually, it's Copper Lane, but I haven't been able to get that song out of my head for DAYS. Here are the photos I promised. It was a gorgeous, bug-free day today, and Gus and I spent some quality time eating rocks and assorted leaves in the yard. A neighbor kindly informed us that we have ten more days of pleasant weather before the rain, and with it, the chill, sets in. First snow by the end of September - I'm oddly excited.




A rant on motherhood, female sacrifice and things I am sick of doing for stupid reasons, in that order

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So, this is the part of the program where the dormant, buried-under-the-surface bitterness behind "trailer wife" rears its niggly head. Under normal circumstances, I gratefully, even gracefully, accept the circumstances of my life. After-all, it is pretty good: successful, supportive partner, rosy-cheeked tot, no creditors on our tail, 600 thread-count sheets... blah blah blah. In fact, when I'm feeling discontent, it is almost immediately blotted out with guilt for having the gall to want more when I've already been given so much.


I know that this won't come as a surprise to anyone, but motherhood is hard. HARD. I'm not sure what I expected... surely that any Child of Mine would be too well adjusted and above average to pose any real inconvenience. Oh man. And though I would lay waste to anyone or anything that came between Gus and happiness, and I love him with an intensity that is violent and bone-deep, I'm going to say it: I (sometimes) miss my old life. I miss my old body, the hours upon hours of aimless freedom, the afternoon meanderings through used bookstores, smoking cigarettes on porch steps, the gourmet recipe exploration with half a bottle of wine... I miss it. I have kept the door to this old life ajar for the last eleven months, peeking in every once in a while when I had a few moments to spare. But with this epic move and a new routine that is focused squarely on Mr. VanClammyhands, I realize now that I must shut the door. I might need to dismantle the door and put it through a wood chipper.

The 14 year old inside of me laments how patently unfair this is.

Maybe unfair, but necessary. And isn't that so often the conclusion women come to? Yeah yeah yeah, I know that being male puts you in a whole other pressure cooker, but seriously - when you think about the sacrifices and choices women are asked to make, it's a little uneven. As a woman, it is virtually impossible to be wildly successful at both your career AND motherhood. It seems to me, one must be sacrificed to the other. And even when you've planned everything out, waited for the ideal time to conceive, scheduled your (unpaid) maternity leave, lined up the best, most qualified nanny out there, you still feel like an asshole at the end of the day. Or if, like me, you decide that "there is no perfect time," and grad school can wait one more year, you end up feeling secretly resentful.

It's not fair.

That's usually where the soothing platitudes of Dennis Leary drifts in - "life sucks, get a fucking helmet." And, under normal circumstances, that's enough to get me back on track. But here I am, in the fricking arctic, blind with jealousy over my partner's sleek new "I've arrived," grown up University office, too crippled with fatigue to change out of the yoga pants that have become my daily uniform, finding no comfort in the prospect of mommy-and-me play groups full of mommies making friends, and a stack of magazine imploring me to, "say goodbye to that last ten pounds," and, "fire up the frill!" Groan.

Maybe I'm more selfish than most. Or more independent. In any case, I can't go along with the apron-clad masses. And I find, suddenly, that I'm okay with that. Moving to frontierland has been, for me, an amazing opportunity to leave the white picket fence behind. Part of what makes the decision between motherhood and a career so difficult is the encyclopedia of expectations, hard-wired in infancy, that says unless your ambition is omnivorous, you're not trying hard enough.

So, perhaps this won't mean anything to anyone, maybe you stopped reading at the absurdly long title of this post. But I'm going to get a full sleeve tattoo, cancel my subscription to Perfectly Pretty Parenting, and break into the 15 year old Single Malt I've been saving to impress my future dinner party guests. I'm not going to apologize for being the only person in the room without a higher degree. I will be loudly political and quietly homespun. The novel I'm writing will be as dark and dirty as it needs to be, without concern for who might someday (oh if wishing made it so) read it and object. I may even get a job in the seediest bar I can find and occasionally cuss in public. Because as far as I can tell, Gus has a much better shot at a good life is he's surrounded by people who know, and like, who they are.

I'm going off the grid. And I'm taking the kid with me.



Chez Gus

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Birthday and some blues

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Yesterday was Sam's 38th birthday, and to celebrate, I had total emotional meltdown.


Sigh.

It's not too surprising I guess. It was a week to the day that we had arrived in Fairbanks and things had finally slowed down enough for me to take a breath - and I sort of sputtered. Being on the move for the last two months has been mind-numbing for both of us. There was always something to do, to plan, to buy... but now we are HERE. And we are actually looking at this New Life between the eyes.

It doesn't help that Gus has been having a few challenging days. And I haven't written or exercised in, oh, MONTHS. And that I am still exhausted from our trip from one side of the world to the other.

Poor Sam. Good thing he loves to Talk Seriously.

The day wasn't completely ruined. We went on a nice walk through a system of trails built around campus (also the locale of my run this morning) - clapping our hands around every corner to let the Moose know we were coming. And then we had a delish dinner at The Pump House, a quaint Alaska-themed restaurant complete with tin siding and a massive stuffed Grizzly at the entrance. I bought Sam a new Blu Ray disc (Terminator 2), and Gus got him a set of wireless surround sound headphones so he can actually enjoy watching it. He bought himself a cigar.

On the bright side... Launching into a new routine this morning (Ah, Monday!) is making me feel slightly better. I begin a graduate writing class on the 9th of September, the gym opens at the end of the month, and the new tactic of duck-taping the dummy to Gusser's PJs seems to be working.

As if I don't have enough to obsess about, today is Day One of The Dreaded Diet. I was up at 6:00 AM, ran for 45 minutes, had a healthy breakfast, and now I'd like to go finish off the rest of Sam's birthday cake, but will do some laundry instead.

Baby Onboard - to take, to do, and to avoid

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Now that we are a week removed from the Great Alcan Road Trip of 2009, I feel qualified to make a few suggestions to other courageous parents who are compelled to travel en famille.


Our trip was well over 2,200 miles long - from Oregon to Alaska - which meant at least six long days in the wretched confines of the car. Gus was only 11 months old when we struck out, but he is a very active kid, thus the following could apply well into the toddler years.

To Take:

1. A comfortable car seat is a MUST. We decided on the Maxi Cosi Priori because it didn't cost a fortune, has superior safety features and a 3 setting recline (SO great for naptimes!). These car seats are much more popular in the UK (where we had spent the last 2 years prior to our trip), but can be easily found online at good prices. A dark color is smart, since you will undoubtedly experience a few spills (baby-expelled and otherwise) on the road. We also took and old towel, cut a few well placed holes, and lined the seat for added protection and absorbency. Retails around 179.00.





2. Unless you want to do serious damage to your upholstery/leather, I strongly suggest the Eddie Bauer Car Seat Protector. It covers the seat without bunching or gumming up the buckles, and has nifty pockets that hang down for easy access - that's where we kept the sippy cup, wipes and spare pacifiers. We bought ours at Target for $14.99.
*E.Bauer also makes great sun screens for baby's window. We bought two to overlap and were glad we did.








3. Contrary to what you might think, you can't always find restaurants with high chairs - especially in small towns. And often, the travel snap-on seats are very difficult to install on the fly (contrary to their advertisement). So we brought a free-standing, collapsalbe high chair, which proved invaluable when long stretches of barren landscape left us with no option but to pull over and feed Gus out of the cooler. We found a great option at Ikea - the legs snap on and off and the seat is small enough to stow just about anywhere. Add a tray and you're set. All told, $25.00 and well worth it.






4. A couple of open-topped baskets saved us from constantly rooting around in diaper bags and grocery sacks. I just set two of them - one for snacks and beverages and the other for toys and books - on the floor of the back seat where they were easy to reach. Easy to replenish from larger stores in the trunk or hatch and super convenient to bring with you into hotel rooms. Make sure they are sturdy though, or you'll have a hell of a time grappling it and the contents with one hand, with your rugrat in the other. I found mine at a garage sale, but these would have worked just as well. $20.00 for two.






5. Believe me, when you finally reach the hotel at the end of your day, no matter how tired the kid is, you'll want to give them a bath. We brought a few of his normal toys and chucked them into a nylon mesh stuff sack along with his shampoo, toothbrush and after-bath lotion. That way, we could pop them all back in post-bath, and let the bag hang on the shower head overnight to dry out. Also, it keeps everything you need in one place so you don't spend maddening minutes trying to locate the rubber ducky before baby loses his mind. We bought ours for $14.99 at REI (but cheaper versions surely available elsewhere).





To Do:

1. A few days (or even weeks) before your trip, take a few of baby's favorite toys and hide them away. Then, dole them out one by one (it was better for us not to give Gus many options) and it will be like Christmas again. I even bought a few special road-trip toys for him to experience along the way. But honestly - the most popular/distracting thing he played with was a half empty water bottle. Go figure.

2. Set up a changing station in the back of your car. We took an inflatable mat from Ikea and set it up atop the ice chest, with wipes handy. And seriously - change the baby EVERY time you stop. The last thing you need is a diaper rash en route. Take it from me.

3. Plan for colds, bites and invading molars. We had been waiting for Gus' top teeth to come in for months. And wouldn't you know it, they decide to tear through his tender gums on day three of our trip. Luckily, I had packed a see-through zippered bag with all of his baby Tylenol, Orogel, and other in-case meds (calomine lotion, baby zertec, decongestant rub, thermometer). Might also be a good idea to throw some teethers into the cooler - if nothing else they will be a nice distraction from the cramped, stuffy ride.

4. Position the car seat behind the passenger. This seems counter-intuitive, since you'd have easier access across the car (behind the driver). But it's actually a shorter distance to reach (albeit, there is some spine-twisting involved), and worst-case-scenario, you have to crawl into the back seat, it'll be much more manageable.

5. Hydrate! I repeat, Hydrate! The biggest concern for traveling babies is dehydration. We bought several sippy cups, mixed water with low-sugar apple juice, and stuck them into his face every fifteen minutes or so. Even then, Gus was none-too-interested most of the time, and had to be seriously persuaded to imbibe. Unfortunately for us, he ended up with the potty-trots, as my southern godmother calls that particular condition, (exacerbated by teething, causing a diaper rash and Mommy's slow decline into insanity), which was, in a word, horrific. We eventually managed to get him back on track with a bottle filled with water, ice chips, and fun but messy sips through a straw.

To Avoid:

1. Fruit Overdose. If you're experience was anything like ours, you'll find yourself in a constant meal-time standoff. Gus was just too aggravated and uncomfortable to want to eat anything but... you guessed it, fruit. And it's a super easy/portable/basically mess-free food, so we gave in for the first couple of days. I'm sure this contributed to the potty trots. Be sure to provide a nice assortment of bland foods. What worked for us: Gerber Graduates L'il Crunchies, boiled and chopped sweet potatoes, and Babybel cheese rounds.




2. Overheating. Gus is a hot baby and will regularly sweat through his T-shirts on long stroller/car seat rides. Even when the AC is blasting, I would lift him out and find him steaming. So I suggest picking out light, cotton traveling clothes, the afore-mentioned towel liner in the car seat, and socks to keep in your handy side pockets. That way baby won't have to suffer a sticky back AND chilly toes.

3. Leaving your schedule behind. If at all possible, I highly recommend keeping baby's sleep schedule intact while on the road. We managed this the first four days, but abandoned it when the fever to reach our destination took over. Let me tell you, Gus noticed. Not only did he sleep more fitfully, he also woke MUCH earlier. Say, 5:00 AM, on the mornings when he'd got to bed late the night before. And then he was a Holy Terror the next day. So if at all possible, decide that you will drive X hours a day, plan your route to allow for stops just prior to dinner time, and give the kid a play break, bath, and normal bedtime routine. This means you'll have to tiptoe around the hotel room for an hour or so, but you'll be glad you did.

4. Rest-Stop bathrooms. 'Nough said.











5. Other children. Kids are great, love 'em, blah blah blah. But seriously, they are small harbingers of disease and disaster, and will set your baby on a fast-track to misery in a vomit-mobile if you're not careful. They can make friends when you get to where you are going. Is that harsh? Eh.

Copper Lane

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It turns out, I love our new home. If you sense dismayed surprise in that sentence, you aren't mistaken. With faculty housing, you never know what you're going to get. I've heard horror stories that had me up at night. My advisor, upon hearing that we'd been granted faculty housing, told me that when he and his wife drove up to their first university-providing accommodations in Oklahoma, they sat in the car and cried. I was a little apprehensive.

But, by some miracle, we've managed to land a cute little 50's style cottage, complete with imperfect wooden floors, cupboards that stick, and thick, painted moldings. Two large bedrooms, built-in bookcases, and a full part-finished basement. After 2 years in a tiny (badly) furnished flat, and 8 weeks guest-room-hopping, it feels like the lap of luxury.

Here are a few pics. I'll try to get some of the exterior and Gusser's room soon.





Alcan Road Trip

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Day Seven: The Banks are Fair

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Whitehorse, Yukon Territory to Fairbanks, AK - 588 miles


It's taken me a few days to complete this road trip log... with the excitement of seeing our new town and house, madly unpacking, and living with a teething kid (which has transformed him into a gnashing, pissed off little beserker), I've fallen exhausted into bed at every opportunity. But this morning, with the kitchen clean and orderly and the pictures hung, I am feeling extremely self-satisfied and peaceful. Reflective, even.

So, on Sunday we woke up in Whitehorse around 5:00 AM (thank you, teething baby). The early start was a blessing, because we had a LONG day ahead of us. We were eager to get out of Whitehorse, which is full of cranky, pinched looking people. Almost immediately, we were stopped for road construction. In the far north, summer time travel is impeded at almost every turn by large crews. At this stop, the pretty Indian flagger told us it would be at least ten minutes, so we got out of the car and took some photos. She loved Gus, and told us about her son Ezekiel. We loved the name so much, Sam had dubbed the Suburban "Zeke."

It was a short drive to the border, and even though our day was barely started, it felt like real progress to be back in the States again. The landscape almost immediately smoothed out,
putting (mostly) behind us the wretched frost-heave roads in Canada. I had never experienced this before, but evidently it gets so cold up here that the roads actually expand and contract beneath the ice, leaving what is essentially a series of speed bumps on the highway. Not fun. Gus especially took exception to the constant acceleration, brakes, double bump as the car and the trailer passed, and acceleration again. So it was good to be back on straight, black asphalt.

By this point, we had serious peak fever. We barely stopped for the next ten hours, wanting desperately to get to Fairbanks before Gus lost his mind. The roads were bounded by the same thin, graceful pines, but were also peppered with Trembling Aspen, thick ground shrubs and random, swimming-pool-sized lakes full of trumpeter swans. And just when I thought our road trip wouldn't be complete without a Moose sighting, a female shot up out of the woods toward the road, stared glumly at us, and clumsily trod away. Sam assures me that, living in Alaska, I will grow to be much less impressed with Bullwinkle.

I have to say, in retrospect, the trip seemed to fly by. When we were only 50 or so miles away, we stopped at a viewpoint overlooking the Tanana River valley and sort of congratulated ourselves for (almost) making it in only 7 days - 5 really, when you take out our pit-stops.
It had been raining hard, but the closer we got to Fairbanks, the clearer the sky became. We passed North Pole first - undoubtedly this little Christmas-themed town will inspire future posts - and then Eilsen Air Force Base on a large 6 lane highway. Now, Fairbanks is not the kind of town that you can get a sense of by just driving through. As we pulled off the highway, I noticed the typical smattering of fast food, Jiffy Lubes and big box stores. But there were also more interesting buildings with unfathomable purposes - left over from the oil/gold boom? Not sure. There were trees everywhere (yay!), the air was fresh and crisp, and it was a balmy 59 degrees. It was around 6 PM.

We drove straight to the university. Our rental, a little 50's style cottage provided by faculty housing, is smack in the middle of campus. We weren't exactly sure where we were going, but managed to stumble upon our lane, which was up a gravel, tree-lined drive (the whole of UAF is on a hill looking over the town). After some momentary confusion about which house was ours (we backed into the driveway and were ready to barge in when Sam looked through the window and noticed there were alphabet magnets on the fridge), we found 519 Copper Lane and (thank the Gods) took Gus out of his car seat, promising him toys and treats if only he could keep his shit together until we got his crib set up.

So, we popped up his playpen in the living room, threw some toys and animal crackers in his direction, and, amid a swarm of tiny bugs, started to unload the trailer. I unloaded ONE box, when Sam mentioned, off hand, that I should probably close the door between trips so that the house remained bug free. I don't know about you, but when someone says "close the door," I take them pretty literally. As the handle clicked close Sam looked at me in horror.

"I didn't mean CLOSE the door," he said.

"Actually that's exactly what you said," says I.

"I meant you should just leave it ajar!"

"Then why didn't you say that!!"

Yes, we were locked out. With the baby inside. Along with the keys. And the cell phones.

So, before I was there even ten minutes, I was running toward where we thought a fire/police station might be, while Sam frantically searched for another way in. I can't imagine what the poor fireman must have thought of me when I arrived, disheveled, panting, crazy-eyed at the buzzered entrance. Shouting at him, nearly hysterical, I had a millisecond of self awareness where I thought, "Oh God. I'm THAT woman." He was really nice, and calmly assured me that we'd get in even if he had to take an axe to the door, and with maddening aplomb, casually asked if the big-haired guy toting a baby and running up the hill toward us might be my family. It was really embarrassing.

Sam had managed to crawl in through a basement window and found Gus, playing happily where we had left him.

So... we didn't start out on the best note, but by the time the truck was unpacked, Gus was sleeping, and we were laying, inert, on our new, beautiful king size bed, it all felt worth it.

More on the house (with photos) soon!

Day Six - Wildlife and other roadside shitstorms

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Fort Nelson BC to Whitehorse, Yukon Territory - 590 miles


It says in the famous MilePost road guide that we carry with us that Whitehorse is named after the rapids which, before they were covered by the dammed Yukon river, appeared to the early settlers as white stallions running through the falls. But after our 12 hour drive today (did that really just happen?), I'm more inclined to think it is a biblical connotation, as in, the end is near, here comes a pale horse, and I don't even care anymore.

Weeklong road trips with pre-ambulatory children, a massive Uhaul trailer and a vast network of ill-maintained roads plagued by predatory insects and man-eating bears is a lot of fun, don't get me wrong. But do you want to know what is even more fun? When said car-seat-bound child decides that today is the day to cut his two front teeth. And then has massive, blow-out diarrhea. And then refuses to eat, drink or be placated in any way for almost 600 miles. This about sums up our day.

When we weren't trying to distract Gus from his splitting gums and damp seat, we did manage to see some wildlife today - finally! Although I had my eyes peeled for bears, only elk, buffalo and some stone sheep appeared, walking boldly down the highway and looking at us askance when we stopped to maniacally capture their existence on film.

Another highlight: the signpost forest in Watson Lake - this totally bizarre stand of wooden poles is covered with hundreds, nay, thousands of metal, wooden, plastic signs. The "forest" began in the 40s, when travelers passing through would stop
and leave an indication of where they had come from.
Now it is home to a veritable labyrinth of personal messages, actual street signs, and a scattering of memorable miscellany that is fascinating to behold. Of course, the first thing that caught my eye when we stepped out of the car was this sign from Scotland - the blue and white flag - emblazoned with the Kingdom of Fife, near where we lived in Aberdeen. The world is a small damn place, I tell you.

If it weren't for some pretty serious wildfires burning near Teslin River, we'd have managed to get some stunning photos today. As it was, we decided to charge ahead,
leaving only one more long day tomorrow before we arrive in Fairbanks. I'm planning on letting Gus run around for a few days in the yard, just to get the car crankiness out of his system. Though he doesn't seem to like the outdoors much, nor animals (living or not). When we stopped at a gas station and saw these conveniently positioned Moose and Caribou, Gus nearly crawled up my neck trying to get away from them. Here's hoping he won't have any other physical demonstrations of his distaste when he finds out where this road leads to.

Day Five - AC/DC to the rescue

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Prince George, BC to Fort Nelson BC - 555 miles


Today, this little road trip of ours got serious. After dilly-dallying for the last four days, we decided to grind it out. We got in the car at 9:00 AM and finally landed at the first hotel we saw in Fort Nelson, around 7:30 PM. That means that Gusser, superstar infant, was in the car for at least 10 hours. We stopped only for gas, a roadside lunch stop (literally, we pulled over and set up the high chair), and one amazing viewpoint. When, around 5:30PM, Gus started to earnestly object to one more minute in the damn car seat, we put on "Highway to Hell," and people, I swear to you, his mood immediately improved. We should have named him Angus after all.

The further north we get, the more anxious we are to be HOME. Whatever that will mean for us in Fairbanks. The landscape is much more intense and civilization thins out with every mile we log. Without stumbling over a cliche, there is a wildness up here that seems only barely restrained by the long stretches of asphalt. I keep thinking of some flannel-clad, Canadian Moses parting an evergreen sea to let us pass. You need only walk a few feet from the highway to be truly and utterly alone. This is both thrilling and terrifying.

The silence is almost oppressive, but sweetened by the passing log trucks and RVs that remind us how nice the quiet can be. The hills are choked with pines, ferns and trembling aspens, without the ugly patches of clear-cut we're used to seeing in Oregon. The rivers are winding and undammed, with perfect pebbly beaches and grassy banks. I've never been able to relate to the nature-whackos who have this burning desire to walk into the woods. But today I felt the tiniest urge, standing at a pit-toilet rest stop on route 29, to see what was behind the nearest stand of trees, and maybe beyond.

And then I was bitten five times by a mosquito. FIVE TIMES.

On a brighter note... I finished Blindness today, by Jose Saramago. I'll write more about it later, but can I just say, Holy Sh*t. This was a terrific, engrossing, agonizing, torturous read. Rivaled only by The Road in its allegorical, post-apocalyptic splendor. Thank you, Heidi, for the recommendation.

My connection is too slow to upload pics, but I'll try and get them posted at our next stop... which will (fingers crossed) be Whitehorse. Over 600 miles north. Will Gus endure? We're hoping that Black Sabbath will work some baby headbanger magic when things get dicey.




Day Four - Rendezvous on the Alcan

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Today started out pretty good - we were up at a decent hour (thank you Gus) and out the door by 8. And while Gus was a total champ yesterday, he was off his game by noon. Reduced from Mike Tyson to Richard Prior, barraging us with a constant whining lament, letting us know that he's on to our plot to keep him in the car seat for the rest of his life. When we decided not to stop for lunch, and to feed him in the moving car, he had had enough. THAT was a fun meal.

So, while we had hoped to make it all the way to Chetwynd tonight, we stopped at Prince George around 4:oo PM. BUT - by some wild and serendipitous coincidence, Sam's best friend Kyle and his girlfriend Abbie, who had been driving south on the Alcan for the last three days, made it to Prince George a few hours after we did! So we are all hanging out at the Sandman Hotel as if we planned the whole thing. It is indeed a happy accident, as Sam wasn't able to see Kyle (who lives in Seattle) before we left. It is very cool - and very, um, weird. But they've given us a lot of good advice about what the road has in store for us, including wandering Moose, Elk and forest fires.

To get back on Gusser's good side, we stopped at a park this afternoon AND took him for a swim in the Sandman indoor pool. He loved it, aside from some minor hysterics resulting from a Daddy cannonball.


My impression of the trip thus far:
- Canadians are ridiculously nice. Everyone we see says hello, and if you make eye contact, will tell you their life story. Sam is CONSTANTLY waylaid at gas stations.
- Eat too many pumpkin seeds and your lips double in size.
- There are more tire stores in Canada than any place on earth. And not surprisingly, a lot of truck-owning patrons.
- It really is true that babies usually prefer non-toy distractions above the coolest, noisiest, most colorful plastic crap you can find. Gus turn ons: half empty water bottles, plastic spoons, Sunglasses and anything he can tear apart in his hands.
- Dennys is NOT the fine eating establishment I remember from my youth.
- In Canada, bathrooms are "washrooms." And as in Scotland, they act a little offended when you get it wrong.
- With enough diet coke, you can endure almost anything.

Day Three - Oh, Canada

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Ellensburg, WA to Kamloops, Canada: 392 miles


Now that's more like it. A good solid 9 hour day and some real miles to show for it. We left Ellensburg this morning and were all business. Only two real stops for a gas station Taco Time Express (Lucky Gus had a packed lunch) and Chief Joseph's Smoke Shop adorned with mural-painted bear sculptures and a drive-thru espresso bar (how could we resist?). We crossed into Canada in the early afternoon, and the first thing I noticed was the plethora of road side fruit stands. Seriously, in one five mile stretch of highway, there must have been 200 stands hocking cherries, apples, all kinds of berries and various veggies. How do these people stay in business? Although Sam was too miserly with his itinerary to suffer a stop, I could smell the fecund bounty floating in through the AC vents. A Canner's paradise (hi Amy).

In spite of some forest-fire-haze, the scenery is really beautiful. Lots of slender evergreens and massive rolling mounds of solid stone. Arriving this evening in Kamloops made me think of all the other funny town names we came across... Twisp, Osoyoos, Peachland, Olds, and Aberdeen (!!!).

We're a little stunned by how well Gus is taking to road-tripping. He's like the baby Mike Tyson of our own personal road war. A serious badass. He slept on and off most of the day, watched a little Classical Baby (gift from Auntie Heidi) on his own personal DVD player (a gift from Nana and Pop Pop), and would intermittently shout "Hiiiii Da!" when his book fell on the floor or the bunny grahams were out of reach. Looks like he inherited some of my genes after all.

Albums we listened to today:

by Beth Orton






by Barry White




by Beck




by Elton John

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