Tundra Wars: Attack of the Gulls
Part 2 of a travel series.
Anchorage
I’m awakened by a high-pitched "beep, beep, beep." It's not the alarm. That shouldn't go off for hours yet. Through the window I spy a garbage truck emptying the dumpster conveniently located about 30 feet from my bed. Good morning.
I settle back to sleep, only to hear "Hava Nagila" emanating from my luggage. My ring tone. I get to it just as it stops hava-nagila’ing. My voice mail doesn't seem to be working. Can't pick up my messages. So I return the call. It’s Jamie and Tom calling from work to let me know what I’m missing. Apparently, Riley, administrative assistant extraordinaire, brought in a turtle that she found on the road.
Thanks guys. Anything else? I really needed to know that at 6 AM Anchorage time. "You weren't supposed to answer. We were just leaving a message." Oh, okay. That makes sense. I should have sensed that from the way the phone was ringing. Silly of me. Please keep me abreast of all reptile-related events. By the way, Riley, wasn't that some sort of security breach? Did you get the turtle a guest pass? Did you keep it in sight at all times? Did it sign the waiver? Sweet Jesus, I hope you made it sign the waiver!
Fully awake now, I shower, dress, and make my way to the front desk. Ask the desk clerk where to get some breakfast within walking distance, and start walking. The wrong way. Eventually I give up, ask some strangers in an auto parts store. Walk in the opposite direction for a spell.
Apparently, every street light in Anchorage is the territory of one seagull or another. I’m squawked at and harassed as I approach each light. The more militant seagulls make dive-bombing runs at me. They drop from their perches, building speed as they fall, then level off to glide directly at my head, only to break off at the last possible moment. It’s a little disconcerting. Suddenly I'm like Cary Grant in North by Northwest. Except this isn't a movie. This is real. And this is Alaska, not South Dakota. And I'm not Cary Grant. And it's not a crop duster, just an annoyed bird. There’s no danger of being mowed down by a whirling propeller, just the possibility of some sort of unholy bird-mangling. But still, I think the analogy is justified.
Anchorage, Still
Eventually I get some breakfast. Then I walk back to the motel, check out, and catch a shuttle to the airport. My flight is oversold. I’m bumped to a later flight. Six hours to kill in Anchorage, which, from all I can see, is one giant strip mall. It’s like Gladstone, except with a hazy view of mountains in the distance. I catch a cab to the theater, take in a movie, and wander aimlessly about for an hour or so.
The cab ride back to the airport is harrowing. The cabby weaves in and out of traffic, passing on the shoulder, talking amiably the whole time. We pass a wreck across the median. “Tsk, tsk,” says the cabby, “People are in such a hurry. Have to be somewhere NOW. Now look at them.” Then he makes some mocking noises, mimicking the sirens of the oncoming police cars. He was not being ironic. Well, not on purpose.
Still in Effing Anchorage
Back at the airport the flight is delayed again. I feel like crying. But I don't. You know why? I'm a big boy, that's why. So I go to an airport restaurant and eat a godawful teriyaki chicken salad. The chicken is neither warm nor cold. It is room temperature, tepid, and kind of limp and spongy, like most of the greens. But they have Sam Adams on tap. So it’s not a total loss. I fi-nally board the plane, after watching the pilot wind up the propeller. Must be rubber band driven, like the balsa wood toy planes I loved as a child.
Arrival in Dillingham
In Dillingham, Noel meets me at the airport. We're home in about two minutes. Noel introduces me to their dog, Hectra. Hectra is a German shepherd mix. She's a little spooky around me. That will continue for a day or so.
We unload all the liquor and beer I smuggled in. Everything seems to have survived the trip. We chat for a bit. Then we walk out to the back yard through a small wooded area to a large open space – the tundra. We step off of the "dock" which is a 4-foot square of wood facing a large puddle. Two weeks ago, the puddle was a small lake. Now it is earthy, grassy matter floating over boggy mud. Noel cautions me. Do not walk on the tundra alone. You can fall through, die in the mud like some tar pit dinosaur. It's like walking on a giant, moistened sponge. And it's thick with mosquitoes. Aggressive mosquitoes. Noel and Jeremy seem accustomed to them. They've come to some agreement with them. I have not. I will not.
We go back inside. Then we go to bed. It is still daylight. It will be daylight till 2 AM or so. But Noel and Jeremy have set up a small room for me. A safe place with blankets pinned across the entrance and over the windows. It is dark in there. It settles me, like throwing a cover over a bird in a cage. I'm happy. My vacation has just begun, and already I've seen the tundra. Mark that off the list. Bears, moose, mountains, lakes, and Alaska Helen still remain on the list. As I fall asleep, I wish I had a recorder. I would say, "Midnight, Dillingham, Alaska. It's quiet. Too quiet."
Matt Purdy lives and works in Kansas City. He is the author of numerous emails. Matt enjoys ping-pong, well made martinis, and referring to himself in the third person.
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