tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89142397097712886032024-03-05T02:27:38.478-08:00Brenda Wilbee's "SkagwayEtc" BlogMany times named Tour Guide of the Month by Princess Cruise Lines and often mentioned in TripAdviser, writer and tour guide Brenda Wilbee takes you back to Skagway, Alaska's, earliest days...and gives you the inside skinny on what happens today when the ships go home.Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-65090078019965658362019-10-14T14:46:00.001-07:002019-12-09T12:39:49.410-08:00#32: Meeting Alice<div style="text-align: justify;">
I don't believe in ghosts, but I met Alice the summer of about 2012. I was researching <i>Skagway: It's All About the Gold </i>and getting frustrated by everyone's ghost stories. Finally, on a dare, I stormed up the stairs of the Skagway Inn.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBWf69QdwyU2WaDcFKuIqiB6XMEETH7CFdLvyVRc78RunnEPZU0bb9p8kWVy_89X55ZCqmA0nlnKcGxmxyelAijhH-9s2NPLQYPvA2BKoG-GNQYJEh7ygij4nt-nLiXOg2fm06c8ygvj6b/s1600/SkagwayInn_Front-web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="\Skagway Inn" border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="600" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBWf69QdwyU2WaDcFKuIqiB6XMEETH7CFdLvyVRc78RunnEPZU0bb9p8kWVy_89X55ZCqmA0nlnKcGxmxyelAijhH-9s2NPLQYPvA2BKoG-GNQYJEh7ygij4nt-nLiXOg2fm06c8ygvj6b/s400/SkagwayInn_Front-web.jpg" title="Skagway Inn" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj12rVYKQG-DgDcPygrAApoAhXPPqBF36Bdv5G9ZzhWxxXpVRtjbls_t_6sryDrQ9u0wV38CKL5HFcOYdrBHS-5VDShD7gkX3uRPBkHG_iFYVT08GAxH7PxQFJLHE_rILVC1YsoeQpmHFvB/s1600/Skagway-Inn-Hall-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Alice's Door" border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj12rVYKQG-DgDcPygrAApoAhXPPqBF36Bdv5G9ZzhWxxXpVRtjbls_t_6sryDrQ9u0wV38CKL5HFcOYdrBHS-5VDShD7gkX3uRPBkHG_iFYVT08GAxH7PxQFJLHE_rILVC1YsoeQpmHFvB/s320/Skagway-Inn-Hall-1.jpg" title="Alice's Door" width="240" /></a></div>
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I arrived at the top of the steps full of scorn, stepped into a hallway, and took a quick right, steering for the room at the end, the one I knew had windows overlooking Broadway. I'd always been curious. But when I passed the dress forms standing politely by, hallway decor, the hair on my neck and arms went straight up. <i>What's this?</i> I can't say the experience was unpleasant; more curious than anything else. I continued on but an energy came gunning down the wall so forcefully I staggered back. Goosebumps riddled my skin. </div>
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</i> <i style="font-style: italic;">Okay, this is crazy. </i><i style="font-style: italic;">You're a writer, you're susceptible. You had an imaginary playmate once. The girl downstairs just got you all worked up.</i> I tried again. This time the hair on my arms BUZZZZED. </div>
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<i>Shake it off,</i> I said and turned the other way, poking my nose in the other empty rooms without a problem. <i>See? Just my imagination.</i> Back I went. But just as I approached the dress forms waiting for me in the hallway, the hair on my arms again shot up and the energy I'd encountered earlier pushed hard. Again I staggered back. The hair on my arms settled down. The energy went away. I stepped forward. <i>Yikes</i>. We were in a dance across some invisible line at the dress forms, skin hair rising and falling. The predictability astonished me.<i> Okay, so there's no shaking this off</i>, I said. And I more or less told Alice I was coming in, not to cause harm but because I was feeling nosey.<br />
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Whoever <i>she </i>was (I don't believe in ghosts), she did <i>not </i>want my nose in her business. The resistant energy increased with each step, like a steady wind intensifying. I managed to make it to the door, and was startled to sense her standing about two feet away. I was further startled when she suddenly glided kiddy-corner to a doorway leading out to the sun porch, the one with all the windows visible off Broadway. She was leary of me, reluctantly tolerant. I stepped in.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip1-_Y5zIwNKhwJQaesovoBHHElaJoMAbv_tY_kmzwLXcY_rMgmYogbANEQYaDJG9zkAgRLqf94FyTySMGfiE5EkyBEb84DBJ_93zt36PKu9rT5VoKrSXv6SCsCbriH8Xr-KN19xs0H6vT/s1600/Skagway-Inn-Alice-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="GHOST ALICE'S ROOM" border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip1-_Y5zIwNKhwJQaesovoBHHElaJoMAbv_tY_kmzwLXcY_rMgmYogbANEQYaDJG9zkAgRLqf94FyTySMGfiE5EkyBEb84DBJ_93zt36PKu9rT5VoKrSXv6SCsCbriH8Xr-KN19xs0H6vT/s320/Skagway-Inn-Alice-3.jpg" title="GHOST ALICE'S ROOM" width="320" /></a></div>
An old bedstead stood before me. Left of the bed, by the door, a nightstand--and a small 1898 book. Intrigued, I picked it up. Alice vanished, everything normal. Curious, I set the book down and looked around. But as soon as I let go of the book, she was back, energy chaotic in the corner. So too the hair on my arms and neck. I picked up the book. She vanished. Bizarre. I put it down. She came back. I did this a couple of times, the predictability of it--as in the hallway--astonishing. What did touching the book have to do with the price of rhubarb? Then came the realization that in my wildest imagination I could <i>never</i> have come up with anything so remotely absurd. <i>All right, Alice, who are you? </i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9bQJz4OOwCxjCUsX1glqb82f27mR9H-ucA7KDQX2-E771wOGIKS8Jjmsk11L0ZsV7_X2hcpRFv2up6xOhj-1bYCDbQLkyvDyAUZM7dig_OHbjjd8CQUYCylr2v-eFR8k7_RIqP_GFtWp6/s1600/Skagway-Inn_AliceSunroomDoor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="GHOST ALICE'S ROOM" border="0" data-original-height="1192" data-original-width="1546" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9bQJz4OOwCxjCUsX1glqb82f27mR9H-ucA7KDQX2-E771wOGIKS8Jjmsk11L0ZsV7_X2hcpRFv2up6xOhj-1bYCDbQLkyvDyAUZM7dig_OHbjjd8CQUYCylr2v-eFR8k7_RIqP_GFtWp6/s320/Skagway-Inn_AliceSunroomDoor.jpg" title="GHOST ALICE'S ROOM" width="320" /></a></div>
She hovered at the door-way into the sunroom on high alert. I felt badly. <i>I just want to snoop. </i>I took a step toward her. In a wink, she slid into the sunroom. I followed, stepping through and passing a blue dress hanging on a coat rack. She retreated around the bay windows of her room to a corner I couldn't yet see. I kept going, though concerned by her mounting panic--at least that's the way it felt. I stopped the instant I "saw" her.<br />
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She was standing on a single bed, "looking" like the stereotypical woman scared of a wee mouse, cowering on a kitchen chair in red high heels and a mini skirt. Only she wore period dress with buttoned shoes and standing om a bed. What am I to do with this? I wondered. Me, who doesn't believe in ghosts. What follows makes no sense at all, and sane people must conclude I'm nuts. But, God's truth, this is what happened.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-gpV0RKtKI_KtQOEwGIxoc361iJkPDxsbTTUs_8jFOuHABKftZqcAgVtRdidKndOXmjhMuhk5OFH1QdCW6Iy2JP-W9-ePCVV-Jtt498E8VSU5gF-AWa_0qxpAi170rIyD0W1L1GoFfGaV/s1600/SkagwayInn_AlicesBedFull.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="914" data-original-width="1286" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-gpV0RKtKI_KtQOEwGIxoc361iJkPDxsbTTUs_8jFOuHABKftZqcAgVtRdidKndOXmjhMuhk5OFH1QdCW6Iy2JP-W9-ePCVV-Jtt498E8VSU5gF-AWa_0qxpAi170rIyD0W1L1GoFfGaV/s320/SkagwayInn_AlicesBedFull.jpg" width="320" /></a>I backed away from her, even as she came off the bed in a frantic attempt to get past me. I was so rattled, I paused at the doorway. I didn't want her to mow me down. What then? She squeezed by me so closely I flattened a hand against my abdomen and went up on toes in an effort to give her room. Her tumultuous energy pressed my spine against the jamb, and before I could catch my breath she beelined up the right side of the bed, against the nightstand and full-length mirror on the wall. She eyed the door across the bed--as if to sprint across the mattress at any moment and escape. And this is where it got weird. I started talking to her.<br />
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In my head.<br />
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I wanted to know why she was hanging out in a room for (maybe?) a hundred years. The front structure of the Skagway Inn had been the original home of Skagway's only Jewish family in 1919. But the owner had expanded over time, bringing in brothels and cribs and other gold rush haunts, adding them to the original in order to accommodate his growing family. Was she part of the gold rush, then, with a sad history in Skagway's early, very seedy days? Why couldn't she just get on with her death or life or whatever it was that confined her here to this space. <i>Isn't it boring?</i> I asked.<br />
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The upshot was that she calmed down, and then totally shocked me by following me out of the room. One step beside and behind me. <i>Seriously</i>. Down the hall, down the stairs, out the side door, through the garden, across Sixth Street. We stood on the boardwalk, staring at each other. Only she wasn't visible. <i>What in the world? </i>I asked, looking back at the inn and her room out front, the sunlight bright in her sunroom.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSEMT5flIxNkIBzn1AKK-HGxaTAIjiRPHALCjqyKkbkjRrqEghDzKJHmJOM4yjYxiw7_QY7vSJ5QZrM9leOGOblLNjpUgEI0SnWgtgmh_7lEVkx7STcmKE6R8Px0oLMJ7vZv4JXdwDcNSs/s1600/SkagwayInn_Garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1185" data-original-width="1600" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSEMT5flIxNkIBzn1AKK-HGxaTAIjiRPHALCjqyKkbkjRrqEghDzKJHmJOM4yjYxiw7_QY7vSJ5QZrM9leOGOblLNjpUgEI0SnWgtgmh_7lEVkx7STcmKE6R8Px0oLMJ7vZv4JXdwDcNSs/s400/SkagwayInn_Garden.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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She seemed bewildered to find herself outside. I sure was! <i>I'm going to the library, </i>I told her, not knowing what else to do. <i>Do you want to come along? </i>She did not. <i>I know, </i>I said, <i>let's go talk to my boss. He'll know what to do.</i> I pulled out my cell, put a call into Trent, not exactly a conversation anyone ever has with their boss. But I knew he was into Skagway's ghosts. He was. He said to bring her down to the office. But when I told Alice what was up, she vanished. Gone.<br />
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I haven't seen her since. I've returned to her room many times over the years. But it's always empty. Where did she go? What did she do?<br />
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Here's the truth. I don't know, but she's been calling me whenever I return to town. It doesn't matter I hang my hat, she finds me. "Brenda!" she calls in audible voice, <i>always </i>startling me. Usually it's in the evenings when my mind is on something else. Many times in the middle of the night, waking me up, sometimes so persistent and urgent I get up and try to find her. She sounds like she's in trouble.<br />
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Tell me, what am I to make of this? I don't believe in ghosts. But I met one. And she keeps calling.<br />
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<br />Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-44106696250235475412019-10-03T15:51:00.001-07:002019-10-03T16:57:12.130-07:00#31: Just Booked My Tickets to Skagway!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIW6mLtF2-C-YSIy8Xg4Hfs5xXuErrb-J8dlnnl67l6EnMeujSpr-p_1YwqF13slxPGzKHKFr3W_8uaTgxFAb-Gs8HOV7jrHbCQ1xpEtbw8vDQH6f-1GfKgksChuGZcSyNeN5NKuOZfnlH/s1600/MeFBface_34Below.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Brenda Wilbee at 34 below" border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="250" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIW6mLtF2-C-YSIy8Xg4Hfs5xXuErrb-J8dlnnl67l6EnMeujSpr-p_1YwqF13slxPGzKHKFr3W_8uaTgxFAb-Gs8HOV7jrHbCQ1xpEtbw8vDQH6f-1GfKgksChuGZcSyNeN5NKuOZfnlH/s200/MeFBface_34Below.jpg" title="" width="200" /></a></div>
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MY WRITER FRIEND DAWN and I just booked our tickets for another wild spree in the North. This time we're flying to Whitehorse. So much to do in the capital of Canada's Yukon, where it's much colder than Skagway 90 miles south. We'll enjoy the hot springs, swimming pool, Beringia Museum, and, if luck holds, attempt to drive the pass down into Skagway.<br />
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Now why would we want to do that? It can be whiteout conditions at the border! I've been stranded before, holed up in my car with a sleeping bag and granola bars, waiting for the snow plow to come through. This time I'll take some of Whitehorse's chocolate red wine and cheese. It's actually kind of fun. Seriously.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8xvrkB0J4W0r7i8n3X9LIFI2fe6theQYHZR9svMrY8EtdGZRLn_8YNfQtRM64hAfvnDat_k1O66PD8vEN3rnYfqmSqnmRQLqX7EAi_sTXuJMJBame1ZkRwP5DdLhg0wFlY0kLFO7769D/s1600/ActualBorder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="Border at Skagway AK" border="0" data-original-height="656" data-original-width="1600" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8xvrkB0J4W0r7i8n3X9LIFI2fe6theQYHZR9svMrY8EtdGZRLn_8YNfQtRM64hAfvnDat_k1O66PD8vEN3rnYfqmSqnmRQLqX7EAi_sTXuJMJBame1ZkRwP5DdLhg0wFlY0kLFO7769D/s400/ActualBorder.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i style="text-align: justify;">If </i><span style="text-align: justify;">we get to Skagway without driving off the road, a walk down Broadway will reveal signs at just about every window, creatively announcing CLOSED FOR WINTER. So why are we doing this?</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt5gWPumSGM0sAP5ArDvo1hejfbMnretIAdw7Z0dxdtmCRzsMwOAhclbrptWDIcg3kRQkLSiN1M9RSFNSMmgV42APBdCHB4J-e69U0S7UQ8uVYyjmIEjxTZPLw_bOUTVlS659adAKqPSCE/s1600/ClosedOnTop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="832" data-original-width="1600" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt5gWPumSGM0sAP5ArDvo1hejfbMnretIAdw7Z0dxdtmCRzsMwOAhclbrptWDIcg3kRQkLSiN1M9RSFNSMmgV42APBdCHB4J-e69U0S7UQ8uVYyjmIEjxTZPLw_bOUTVlS659adAKqPSCE/s400/ClosedOnTop.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="text-align: justify;">Because not everything is shut down, and everywhere you look beauty will knock you off your feet faster than black ice. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWxc78qDUvsDhG1m_fegRA5XNYx-_A1uIQ6iLcgN-FuFgTi8l9FqkPJV1Rgh6vHcBgExWcDrFhL1ctZvsoFYEiQERmZ_Hn1CqRDBYfxVhAJyZJqVxhBOUG7xxG3TS_WkVcZdhfVkBlYceu/s1600/BroadwayN-Snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWxc78qDUvsDhG1m_fegRA5XNYx-_A1uIQ6iLcgN-FuFgTi8l9FqkPJV1Rgh6vHcBgExWcDrFhL1ctZvsoFYEiQERmZ_Hn1CqRDBYfxVhAJyZJqVxhBOUG7xxG3TS_WkVcZdhfVkBlYceu/s400/BroadwayN-Snow.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div>
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I've always loved Skagway in the winter; Dawn got her first taste last year. It's not just the pristine beauty of the place. It's the people who live in this far-away, isolated town of 1,000--that sees more than a million tourists come through in the summertime. Fifteen hundred summer workers go home in the fall and all winter a smattering of restaurants stay open to serve the local hard-core residents.</div>
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Coffee at the Sweet Tooth, lunch at Glacial Smoothies, dinner at the Brew Co. Other places stay open as well, thank goodness. The library. Radio Shack. Liquor store. Grocery store, bank, post office. The Clothes Rush to replace the mitten you lost. Thankfully, the 22 jewelry stores are shuttered.</div>
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And there's always friends to visit, historical archives to poke about in, rock painting at the O'Donnell's, senior lunch at the white church, Knit Wits at Grandma Ginny's, alley driving with Miss Bea. The town matriarch, Miss Bea has stories of every era and everyone, hidden in plain sight, in every nook and cranny. I need to catch up on how the wood wars are going and what new sinkhole has emerged. Thankfully the 22 jewelry shops are shuttered.</div>
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If you've got nothing to do the week of January 9, 2020, I'd love to introduce you. You can accompany me on my pilgrimage to Harriet Pullen's old hotel, once the swankiest in all of Alaska.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiREYv-xbHsEJkv1YPSO7az0-ZO72I6Mo0kmud5NWMEfTOU6K17a-OjigW9FfcIt2JFD8R23lD53YHOV27uJsBJosKuOIc5wgiyY2MK72OlxInzotj-4KKGuBrwJ9MT5uyS1bk-raD32O0O/s1600/PULLEN_BeforeAfter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="1600" height="126" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiREYv-xbHsEJkv1YPSO7az0-ZO72I6Mo0kmud5NWMEfTOU6K17a-OjigW9FfcIt2JFD8R23lD53YHOV27uJsBJosKuOIc5wgiyY2MK72OlxInzotj-4KKGuBrwJ9MT5uyS1bk-raD32O0O/s400/PULLEN_BeforeAfter.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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All that remains is the chimney. And this is why Skagway is so cool: A ghost town of the 1898 Rush with all of today's amenities--crawling with good people that outnumber the ghosts that still haunt. But that's another story...</div>
Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-27277216887631935732019-06-17T15:23:00.003-07:002019-06-21T10:10:09.548-07:00#30: Rest and Restoration<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih69lb1bkrdc8p2ZYRY5mrWAlq42E7JIbLb6LkKKlhFnCNqq-d-AKwMv-0Y_YmiyvAJc0Uwo4ycLUtmicVzpI35FN4il1C4bNgdEzOZJwyfmyPnNLlBH7-SexAx7k0Zqe675XI1Y6s29eM/s1600/335.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih69lb1bkrdc8p2ZYRY5mrWAlq42E7JIbLb6LkKKlhFnCNqq-d-AKwMv-0Y_YmiyvAJc0Uwo4ycLUtmicVzpI35FN4il1C4bNgdEzOZJwyfmyPnNLlBH7-SexAx7k0Zqe675XI1Y6s29eM/s320/335.JPG" title="Taiya River" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<span e13="" font-size:="" x-small=""><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">I WAS FEELING A BIT OF BURNOUT</span> </b></span>from juggling two jobs and still fretting about lack of hours, a rather chronic problem I was heartily bored with. Too, I was far from home and a prevailing sense of isolation and loneliness was taking its toll. But then <span style="color: #3d85c6;"><u>Chilkat Float Tours</u></span> of Skagway treated everyone at <a href="https://www.alaskaexcursions.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><u>Alaska Excursions</u></span></a>, where I worked part time, to a ride down Taiya River.</div>
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<i>Can a day be lovelier</i>? A lazy river, salmon spawning, eagles soaring, sun looping through a cerulean sky, hang gliders adding color to a glacier glinting off the horizon. Everywhere I looked the raw wilderness spread forever, untouched and pristine as the day God made it, gently lifting me into a place of peace.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6GsYvquwKkmUSZNFMVvb_BbxHrf19NkvIFITnX-VvT4-jrjFi5DEG1dmKLlmrXhXPdIi2Tz9RWLFB74z_E8JHIKDcPFjx7FDaVTeqUz9UVymOFAf12WHYkDq85qfEmqgou923vv2Q9nhyphenhyphen/s1600/hang+glider.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6GsYvquwKkmUSZNFMVvb_BbxHrf19NkvIFITnX-VvT4-jrjFi5DEG1dmKLlmrXhXPdIi2Tz9RWLFB74z_E8JHIKDcPFjx7FDaVTeqUz9UVymOFAf12WHYkDq85qfEmqgou923vv2Q9nhyphenhyphen/s320/hang+glider.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hang Glider Above Nelson Glacier</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNBC3oVbYnbjU8rdk-H9nzS2Otp6xcwr8f_wXpZ-i74QWv7GVYS2MFby9oOA5cy12-1R6YTtWuFeh9uwVVTa012i-b1v11GRc2CfzyjUDdE1pPhMfxQ3jQqWUs4o_k0PNo85eUHFq-yRiv/s1600/Raft+Steve+and+Hunter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNBC3oVbYnbjU8rdk-H9nzS2Otp6xcwr8f_wXpZ-i74QWv7GVYS2MFby9oOA5cy12-1R6YTtWuFeh9uwVVTa012i-b1v11GRc2CfzyjUDdE1pPhMfxQ3jQqWUs4o_k0PNo85eUHFq-yRiv/s320/Raft+Steve+and+Hunter.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steve and Hunter<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI1lB4AfL_uGLwfiEqjKvzI_SCz0UexH7rE8mHndtqRQfBfmJ8mSdD6ByLU-fcefWUqclfQ4wSvZo7s_TL0M26UMexr767LmWhDaDoaWLebhL_-Ha0fNB3KMErQN0HTJt1EKpJZZPbwxSj/s1600/Raft+Shady+On.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI1lB4AfL_uGLwfiEqjKvzI_SCz0UexH7rE8mHndtqRQfBfmJ8mSdD6ByLU-fcefWUqclfQ4wSvZo7s_TL0M26UMexr767LmWhDaDoaWLebhL_-Ha0fNB3KMErQN0HTJt1EKpJZZPbwxSj/s320/Raft+Shady+On.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shady </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoVB_EbIUVYdyabqVfW7tKjswhqLu-hy_XGZWtgLd4X6N_KgZD4UBM4BYCzsHGSFuEPVl_GyqGY0o3vV2j9u0REWzcPLpLyoldk2fmzBVcRodpPrkdR7kY78IefVtKFiQjnJSw6A8iFrR3/s1600/333.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoVB_EbIUVYdyabqVfW7tKjswhqLu-hy_XGZWtgLd4X6N_KgZD4UBM4BYCzsHGSFuEPVl_GyqGY0o3vV2j9u0REWzcPLpLyoldk2fmzBVcRodpPrkdR7kY78IefVtKFiQjnJSw6A8iFrR3/s320/333.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">End of the Float</td></tr>
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“Hey! Anyone lose $10?” Our guide pointed to a ten-dollar bill floating on the river’s surface.</div>
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Rest. Renewal. Reassurance. Someday I'll go home, but I'll take with me this moment of time and abundance.</div>
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Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-49525355311668003982019-04-11T11:51:00.001-07:002019-04-11T13:23:34.200-07:00#29 - Friends Forever<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJkN16TPr_IH_9BzPZzb9W2HhTlSt_h-nI9_DSRVEzjx3kWMfAC2Cb_nmSmGtfIscOVPeOw-EhDdydmWC0F2zV_wgFU_8NoQ-KyHj77RCAtBVHGm9LdM5l_RM4viDQow86i85HpfLtnnn2/s1600/CollageSandy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Collage of Norma, Brenda, Sandy Jr High" border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="1102" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJkN16TPr_IH_9BzPZzb9W2HhTlSt_h-nI9_DSRVEzjx3kWMfAC2Cb_nmSmGtfIscOVPeOw-EhDdydmWC0F2zV_wgFU_8NoQ-KyHj77RCAtBVHGm9LdM5l_RM4viDQow86i85HpfLtnnn2/s400/CollageSandy.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9JDFvpAKyzwORrTxHWwCrXqkftm2nT1OWapoDunlX-HJwmcpZnGRVukxTunXPbIwrg3lQkplLBnI5lm41nkM6sd6uMYfHjeS9l_T40jiM0Lq1Tc8OA1l7LaFI4w6ON1_k2ePxx49AqEbs/s1600/NormaMe_72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Norma Miller, Brenda Wilbee, Skagway AK 2019" border="0" data-original-height="588" data-original-width="1280" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9JDFvpAKyzwORrTxHWwCrXqkftm2nT1OWapoDunlX-HJwmcpZnGRVukxTunXPbIwrg3lQkplLBnI5lm41nkM6sd6uMYfHjeS9l_T40jiM0Lq1Tc8OA1l7LaFI4w6ON1_k2ePxx49AqEbs/s400/NormaMe_72.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></div>
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MY BEST FRIEND from junior high days came to visit me in Skagway. I'd moved to Ann Arbor, MI, in the mid-sixties, a skinny little thing from the beach outside Vancouver BC. My younger sister Tresa and I went to a two-room school, where we played four-square under a tin roof, and I memorized all the kings and queens of England. Ann Arbor was a whole different story.</div>
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My family landed in a country fighting over racial injustice. I watched the news in horror as Governor Wallace of Alabama ordered the water hosing of people, watched as they were peeled from their hold off lamp posts, skidded on their backsides down sidewalks, rolled like sausages in the streets. I entered a junior high where the racial tension ran high.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikrzWuafRTPA112VNpVtPDzXRwunqiDGmWT-__3KIhCrmrFsPYGfUfBmOFn7MJxTuN24_iJPIPYjM9RJCPACtImf5Yf_0JZhZjsOt5BL_LMawatJi1A7_7LPRt13pWa31q_oqTf5jV9jlV/s1600/NormaMeTresa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Norma Linebaugh, Brenda and Tresa Wilbee" border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="810" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikrzWuafRTPA112VNpVtPDzXRwunqiDGmWT-__3KIhCrmrFsPYGfUfBmOFn7MJxTuN24_iJPIPYjM9RJCPACtImf5Yf_0JZhZjsOt5BL_LMawatJi1A7_7LPRt13pWa31q_oqTf5jV9jlV/s320/NormaMeTresa.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Norma, Me, Tresa</td></tr>
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To make matters worse, my mother took me into the allergy clinic at the University of Michigan Hospital where residents were allowed to treat me without supervision. I ended up covered head to heel with uncontrollable eczema, an unsightly, itchy mess that on a good day looked like my skin had been turned inside out. Only my face remained unaffected and I thanked God everyday for that small mercy. I had two friends: Norma and Sandy Bird. The two stuck by when no one else did, and I've treasured their companionship and easy acceptance ever since; they allowed me a sense of normalcy in a difficult world.</div>
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I've lost touch with Sandy, though I'd love to find her. Norma and I kept in touch. My family left Ann Arbor after my father got his PhD. We moved to Iowa, but every summer, as had been our habit, we returned to the West Coast. Between our junior and senior years, Norma came to hang out. We were in each other's weddings, and the last time I saw her was 1985. A long time to go until Skagway 2019.</div>
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She arrived by plane, a beautiful sunny day--and I spent a week showing her around and introducing her to the gang.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4cDPBfKDJABz9UxXI3YSa3OFLerI2b51gpQBDJ6J4Y6fIU4fwy6PXKez1hhRA_uAg9IFCwnnoWMJBpmeIexFcpZmqeFZPL7_EruCH8hUXcerTYDWarihLjTHDwZ8uOwTSPorY0x-Dtf8A/s1600/HandicapBeaX.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="261" data-original-width="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4cDPBfKDJABz9UxXI3YSa3OFLerI2b51gpQBDJ6J4Y6fIU4fwy6PXKez1hhRA_uAg9IFCwnnoWMJBpmeIexFcpZmqeFZPL7_EruCH8hUXcerTYDWarihLjTHDwZ8uOwTSPorY0x-Dtf8A/s1600/HandicapBeaX.jpg" /></a></div>
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First on the list, of course, Miss Miss Bea and alley driving. "If you live here long enough," the town matriarch tells Norma, "you end up a little crazy. We're going to go look at the results of DOT being in town too long!"</div>
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I drove us down to the ferry slip and eased over to the guard rail. Yup. What up with <i>that </i>sign? Haha!<br />
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You can't of course come to Skagway without a trip to the Yukon. Judy Mallory and I took Norma up to Whitehorse, YK.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0F4Cw0VchqIwyjsfIQULXtGuv_LzDNDEEsZ58qGaE7jgsFNWw7WJcGox7sBddJV7CPXxccbF2VU5CqCwvRsoIQb_JWHLQPYsC1rsSsfHpZq8Qh26lXoYjJLsEeHgdC_FYUYO1liQNQOg9/s1600/NormaPOOL_4in72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Norma Miller and Whitehorse, YK, pool" border="0" data-original-height="222" data-original-width="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0F4Cw0VchqIwyjsfIQULXtGuv_LzDNDEEsZ58qGaE7jgsFNWw7WJcGox7sBddJV7CPXxccbF2VU5CqCwvRsoIQb_JWHLQPYsC1rsSsfHpZq8Qh26lXoYjJLsEeHgdC_FYUYO1liQNQOg9/s1600/NormaPOOL_4in72.jpg" title="" /></a></div>
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Whitehorse, being a <i>real </i>town meant we had our errands. Norma duly traipsed around with us while we stopped for my chocolate red wine at the liquor store, picked up some art supplies for Miss Bea at the Dollar Store, groceries at the Super Store, lunch at Big Bear Donair. We saved the best for last, of course--an hour at the Whitehorse Recreation Center. Judy and I collapsed into the hot tub. Norma actually went swimming! We were both impressed.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3nxnYprCsoHPXUPRhr7No2BW2SWsMjqTvQSjeiuQzHHp8pQYl5UB3V-IjxIiWhgE9R0TWzZLnd4yE2Rhenq2oRar0zfO2ydDbCrTMOofZK_5WhX1GhWJvk6YPyBWYycaRja1f6AvHI9W7/s1600/LilyPad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Lily Pad, Skagway AK" border="0" data-original-height="216" data-original-width="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3nxnYprCsoHPXUPRhr7No2BW2SWsMjqTvQSjeiuQzHHp8pQYl5UB3V-IjxIiWhgE9R0TWzZLnd4yE2Rhenq2oRar0zfO2ydDbCrTMOofZK_5WhX1GhWJvk6YPyBWYycaRja1f6AvHI9W7/s1600/LilyPad.jpg" title="" /></a></div>
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But it was in the evenings, tucked into the Lily Pad where I rented (my room the upstair's dormer) and Norma A&B'd (her window the other one upstairs), that I found something stir in my soul. She'd brought a picture album of Slausen Jr. High; and I discovered while pouring over those old pictures that, while she and Sandy were my only real friends, other faces became familiar, and rather pleasant, sometimes amusing, memories bubbled up from deep in my head.</div>
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"Oh, yea!" I'd say, discovering Dana all over again, "this is the girl who liked to 'fall asleep' under the tanning light and blister her face!" Yes, a fad. We had our own self-destructive behaviors back then.</div>
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Or, "oh my gosh, that's Jackie Smith! She still play the French Horn? Gordie and Louis Stout, I heard Gordie playing the marimba on the radio one day, one of his own compositions. They must have both gone into music."</div>
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"Oh, I know!" I said, "what about Bob Streeter? He was going to cure cancer. He was adamant about it." I'd actually never forgotten Bob. Only how to spell his last name, apparently.</div>
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Norma was a little fuzzy. Bob didn't go to the school reunions but she'd heard he <i>was </i>a doctor in the Carolinas, maybe. Maybe Virginia.</div>
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"Were you in my French class?" I asked. "When the teacher came up and clobbered me from behind."</div>
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Norma hadn't. I filled her in.</div>
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I'd been sitting in the front row. I sat as I normally did, shy, head down, quiet, minding my own business, when WHAM! I first heard her walking up the aisle behind me; next thing I knew she'd hit me hard, slamming me forward over the desktop, the bridge of my nose smacking the desk edge. My glasses went flying... I actually saw stars, I think, but it was the humiliation that horrified me. All around, stunned silence. Stunned. Frantically, I tried to not cry, blinking back the tears. I could see, blurry on the floor in front of me, my books and papers, an eraser, a pencil. I was in such terrible pain I couldn't move. Why-- What-- The teacher went on as if nothing had happened. I felt sympathetic glances, and began to calm down. Finally, the bell. Everyone got up and quietly traipsed past me. Carefully they skirted my scattered things. Someone retrieved my glasses, set them on the desk. I carefully put them on. And then along came Bob Streeter. He gathered up the rest of my belongings while I struggled to rise. He gave me a hand. "Where's your next class?"</div>
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"Mr. Hart's. Science."</div>
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"I'll carry your books."</div>
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I'll never forget how he kept the crowds from crowding me, casting worried glances at my face. "I'm sorry," he whispered, settling me in.</div>
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From time to time I've tried to track him down, curious. <i>Did</i> he become a doctor? <i>Was </i>he trying to cure cancer? Never did find him; turns out I'd had the wrong spelling of his last name. Strieter, not Streeter. Duh.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0vL25XzwnQBLLdmM0pb7lHV42aJav7esBAeZiT2fXyEGBvpDAWRn4m5zbvlngXBccs-2iKGSYHPH3XYbiSKwEJ8HLAENN9a1AMArXK14DCKW7tEFQjiQ6F1y-ZN0CZR5YryfXGI0Zl2Du/s1600/BobStrieter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="288" data-original-width="288" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0vL25XzwnQBLLdmM0pb7lHV42aJav7esBAeZiT2fXyEGBvpDAWRn4m5zbvlngXBccs-2iKGSYHPH3XYbiSKwEJ8HLAENN9a1AMArXK14DCKW7tEFQjiQ6F1y-ZN0CZR5YryfXGI0Zl2Du/s200/BobStrieter.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Norma and I spent some time googling him, finally tracking him to L.A., where he has a history in cancer research and is a pulmonologist. I was glad to see he'd persevered. I was <i>really </i>glad to see his picture, the kindness that still dwells in his eyes and his gentle, compassionate nature undiminished and evident. He probably has no memory of that terrible day in French class. It's mine to treasure.</div>
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Norma had come my last week of a two-month winter reprieve to the far north. Slowly I began letting go of the fun and friends with her at my side, enjoying so much the fun evenings we shared, holed up in the Lily Pad while the wind whistled around the house. Together we looked back forty-five years, at all the old pictures of past lives that took on the present as one by one Norma caught me up. Many were dead: Mr. Gabrian, David Wheelock, Jan Soefield. Others were alive and doing well for themselves: the Stout brothers, Jackie Smith, Karen Rice... Bob. Pursuing his passion. I hope one day he manages to be part of the puzzle to a cancer cure.</div>
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Junior High is Ann Arbor MI was tough, that's for sure; and racial tension still runs high in this country. But time softens when we look back. Good memories, friendly acquaintances, a kind boy, Sandy, Norma. She and I had a fun week, that final week in Skagway. Friend to the end, and still a friend, I don't think we'll wait so long to see each other again!</div>
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<br />Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-76615582365038280172019-02-12T18:09:00.001-08:002019-02-12T20:46:18.143-08:00#28 - Formline Design and Native Drum, An Art Form 1,000 Years Old<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCC0jrpQ3Pz_S65HAyZfAxfWTUu_54L_ZnSS5UYqax7kZlqnTd05tF7FzRkOvmoFnEnWJo9x3mshJfMYbGjgVj2lwNzEexgiJKqpOg-5US_idq1LI0f2trPmbCe_my4sT6S3I6y0s6Y3Wd/s1600/SkgwayNews-DrumClass_500px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Skagway News Front Page Feb 9, 2009" border="0" data-original-height="337" data-original-width="478" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCC0jrpQ3Pz_S65HAyZfAxfWTUu_54L_ZnSS5UYqax7kZlqnTd05tF7FzRkOvmoFnEnWJo9x3mshJfMYbGjgVj2lwNzEexgiJKqpOg-5US_idq1LI0f2trPmbCe_my4sT6S3I6y0s6Y3Wd/s400/SkgwayNews-DrumClass_500px.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.skagwaytraditional.org/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #990000;"><b>SKAGWAY'S TRADITIONAL COUNCIL</b></span></a> recently held a class on Tlingit drum making, immersing me at least into an art form a thousand years old: Formline Design. I hate to admit, but all my life I've looked at Northwest Coastal Indian art as "seen one, seen all." My eyes glanced right on past to the next thing in the gift shop or museum. I no longer do this. Formline design, I've discovered to my chagrin, is composed of three basic shapes: the U, the ovoid, and S. And by using these three "lego" pieces and endless variations, you can create images of intricate sophistication.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzSoRStHoVMeSoMXgFbJ6PU16jDg4jJmvc9GF_87GqgmTomgosreu8W4yEENfnEHOysMpEReKIjwPB_F8dSdlizOphsjWMGeepy8-GejgwJTyrSg5iLeKLSBPdw6kDBK-nfmAAau6mF8MK/s1600/the3shapes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="the 3 basic shapes of formline design" border="0" data-original-height="60" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzSoRStHoVMeSoMXgFbJ6PU16jDg4jJmvc9GF_87GqgmTomgosreu8W4yEENfnEHOysMpEReKIjwPB_F8dSdlizOphsjWMGeepy8-GejgwJTyrSg5iLeKLSBPdw6kDBK-nfmAAau6mF8MK/s1600/the3shapes.jpg" title="" /></a></div>
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I would have known this had I taken the time to linger and study the drums, totems, dugouts, paddles, and masks I'd grown up with as a child living on the Pacific coastline of Canada and along Washington State's Puget Sound. Never too late to learn, though, and better late than never. </div>
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The drum making was almost immaterial. Abel Ryan, our teacher, a master carver from Metlakatla, AK, hurried us past the construction to the art, where he proved to be a master teacher as well. But first, the drum...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr33oc1iq1xATmQWoGKGsdbFTTB2sMZPgBettuA2ICRhSOYNdVudR-T7qyxLw3cYcDgJY3nzMhu3tpWLtvocRWoEUMmcPX_ESPRT5QDIysDjtCdX-RKTlO5oaBuZRxmNkCzRN4fx4a6p7A/s1600/Judy-Stretching_250px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Judy, Abel, Tom, I think a guy named Dennis--making Indian drums" border="0" data-original-height="205" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr33oc1iq1xATmQWoGKGsdbFTTB2sMZPgBettuA2ICRhSOYNdVudR-T7qyxLw3cYcDgJY3nzMhu3tpWLtvocRWoEUMmcPX_ESPRT5QDIysDjtCdX-RKTlO5oaBuZRxmNkCzRN4fx4a6p7A/s1600/Judy-Stretching_250px.jpg" title="" /></a></div>
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We were given a kit that consisted of a long string of sinew, a 15" hoop, and a pie crust of elk hide that had been soaking in water for how long I wouldn't presume to know. This we were supposed to stretch to make the hide thin. Thin meant a delightful vibration and echo when done.</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijTuwzYs0pr9ufwbUG9gVbmzfluI2WmqIrXSorTdu59c5lU0CFd7wG61oHe_TmLlSWRjvLIfHChOGOvKvoMGKJQyEqc6C37vmj_x4wyfOQSMyRrY7AUxKaTUvDvJ6Y4SNgDrHoYcaHrAY0/s1600/DrumMaking-250px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Brenda Wilbee making Indian drum" border="0" data-original-height="362" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijTuwzYs0pr9ufwbUG9gVbmzfluI2WmqIrXSorTdu59c5lU0CFd7wG61oHe_TmLlSWRjvLIfHChOGOvKvoMGKJQyEqc6C37vmj_x4wyfOQSMyRrY7AUxKaTUvDvJ6Y4SNgDrHoYcaHrAY0/s1600/DrumMaking-250px.jpg" title="" /></a><br />
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Right off, I'm hit with the fact that I don't have the necessary chest muscle or hand strength to sufficiently "stretch" a circle of elk hide that's close to 20" in diameter and an eighth of an inch thick! <i>And how I am supposed to get a grip when it's all floppy and wet? </i>Anxiety kicks in. My efforts will not yield a playable drum. Alrighty then, I think, switching gears. I'll focus instead on the art. In the meantime, keep stretching.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirCXiNKhdB2Ae3R-rdj76uAjG3lV2_pieJyjXTRXafO_ag-vOzTjfVl8c22tO4Ow-4cLbnlgLZBpmimJbfOshXsG6u6tw3zDopVrnQ4A8Uq_GyQmmlkry3ORM0B6nazDSAOiGNRKk1ubDF/s1600/Drum_BackBinding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="Backside of Indian Drum" border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirCXiNKhdB2Ae3R-rdj76uAjG3lV2_pieJyjXTRXafO_ag-vOzTjfVl8c22tO4Ow-4cLbnlgLZBpmimJbfOshXsG6u6tw3zDopVrnQ4A8Uq_GyQmmlkry3ORM0B6nazDSAOiGNRKk1ubDF/s1600/Drum_BackBinding.jpg" title="" /></a>Ten minutes later, we move to the sinew. This, too, has to be stretched. A slippery trick and one that wears out your fingers.<br />
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Now we're roping the hide to the hoop, using pre-drilled holes around the "pie crust" edge--12:00 to 6:00, 1:00 to 7:00, 2 to 8, and all around the clock, trying to keep the sinew taut, the hide centered--lacing, tightening, tying off. Not a job for sissies.</div>
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<i>Finally, formline design. Three shapes. Oh my gosh. </i></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">My spirit animals are bear and buffalo. The Coastal Indians, however, had no familiarity with the buffalo. Bear it had to be, and I determined to create a face-on view. But with just three basic shapes? How? I was flummoxed and frozen. "Help..." I begged.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDqUiepMtC2pAYheXfRRkPJXcslVXIaCcFvcoU38y2XIAEvLN6Vm8S7mGxee9hyphenhyphenMUTq60BCMwGggvd8VWVIpUe_beKa0E_cB9XJtkOg7zh1mGFntr9BpTpeiKtwFC8Wd_bVBlbkIcERz45/s1600/Sketch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Brenda Wilbee's sketch of bear face done in formline drawing" border="0" data-original-height="188" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDqUiepMtC2pAYheXfRRkPJXcslVXIaCcFvcoU38y2XIAEvLN6Vm8S7mGxee9hyphenhyphenMUTq60BCMwGggvd8VWVIpUe_beKa0E_cB9XJtkOg7zh1mGFntr9BpTpeiKtwFC8Wd_bVBlbkIcERz45/s1600/Sketch.jpg" title="" /></a>Abel started doodling. Three minutes later, he handed me the foundation I needed for my first foray into unknown waters. That night I took his design home, scotch-taped together four sheets of paper, and started in with pencil--and eraser.</div>
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</span> <span style="text-align: justify;">Another kick of anxiety. I could </span><i style="text-align: justify;">not </i><span style="text-align: justify;">make my bear face symmetrical to save my life. I took what I had to class and Beau Dennis, a Tlingit man, offered me tracing paper and taught me a trick of flipping it over and tracing my pencil line directly onto the drum skin. Flip, flip, and I had the faint outline of "Big Bear."</span><br />
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</span> <span style="text-align: justify;">The end of our third class, many people were finished with the painting of their designs, many of us were not. </span><i style="text-align: justify;">Mine</i><span style="text-align: justify;"> was not done.</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5O6qOp0XPuiqrFopgglrzSWFXRA3GGEuhixxja2T4aoYdcSYznjR_mfS7NcSdBDr51WM5j2Vsw_tKEMMMFr74obCKgv8grM7cOW8RyidULDAIQS93HY2_HgVatJs7hZ1cAXgNqcQDNFh3/s1600/TrioOfDrums.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Indian drums" border="0" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="750" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5O6qOp0XPuiqrFopgglrzSWFXRA3GGEuhixxja2T4aoYdcSYznjR_mfS7NcSdBDr51WM5j2Vsw_tKEMMMFr74obCKgv8grM7cOW8RyidULDAIQS93HY2_HgVatJs7hZ1cAXgNqcQDNFh3/s400/TrioOfDrums.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: justify;">The problem with my bear--even when I got it's eyes painted in--was that it looked a bit like Felix the Cat clock. All I had to do was paint in the 12-3-6-9 in the eye sockets and add a swinging tail. So I went over to Betsy's every afternoon for a week and the two of us offered suggestions back and forth.</span></span></div>
<span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: justify;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_DwBOp__zC0PL3SmAj-SafXLal4BBphcniUgxE2OVHkpmZiKeyEye77bXgvW_T_8JZhKjmCyYsB-7Szwf7AtReVcV8La8Znpbquo8PUrKQXqBi9YlIOutAwtvJkUUF7FHWFiv-tQliooV/s1600/Me_DrumVariations.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Added blue and framed the drum | Betsy hard at work with Abel Ryan | Painted the nose" border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="900" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_DwBOp__zC0PL3SmAj-SafXLal4BBphcniUgxE2OVHkpmZiKeyEye77bXgvW_T_8JZhKjmCyYsB-7Szwf7AtReVcV8La8Znpbquo8PUrKQXqBi9YlIOutAwtvJkUUF7FHWFiv-tQliooV/s400/Me_DrumVariations.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">added the blue | Betsy Albecker | Abel Ryan | painted the nose</td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn7pZiXrZr_-3rcQWZjy30UqCZ2s61gKcW4D56d60AvS8rMybKi_dKe_o_Hb9rCdUuuAIMfobnDiCVLhzqs2izFE05OhvXglOUvk45d8vz9VBeLC6lrAI9zXRA1OUum-DhNr4QU7ezd0N0/s1600/Drum4_250px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Brenda Wilbee's Drum" border="0" data-original-height="334" data-original-width="250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn7pZiXrZr_-3rcQWZjy30UqCZ2s61gKcW4D56d60AvS8rMybKi_dKe_o_Hb9rCdUuuAIMfobnDiCVLhzqs2izFE05OhvXglOUvk45d8vz9VBeLC6lrAI9zXRA1OUum-DhNr4QU7ezd0N0/s320/Drum4_250px.jpg" title="" width="239" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: justify;">At last, done!</span></span><br />
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<span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Hibernation is over</span></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Wake up, Bear. Open eyes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Needing food, chow time!</span></span></div>
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</span></span>Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-83561359646204587472019-01-22T22:04:00.001-08:002019-01-22T22:04:31.009-08:00 #27: 1/3 -- Dog Mushing | Settling For Less & Finding The Best<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>a 3-Part Story </i>| <i>Part 1</i></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-OhdFWbJRoRgDoFU3UtTu15ZPt0SkNoXzkC3u_haP4YQ2z5F4StCrNbYkOoban2Glc2pMOVhmoajRtAK4COt4VqZC7rU1ypprugYEK7roVKx_LIxf38jv-BCB7LKYDwBtAqPiS82uyKIq/s1600/OfficeMeA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="OFFICE of Sky High Wilderness Ranch. Whitehorse, YK" border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-OhdFWbJRoRgDoFU3UtTu15ZPt0SkNoXzkC3u_haP4YQ2z5F4StCrNbYkOoban2Glc2pMOVhmoajRtAK4COt4VqZC7rU1ypprugYEK7roVKx_LIxf38jv-BCB7LKYDwBtAqPiS82uyKIq/s400/OfficeMeA.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Sky High Wilderness Ranch<span id="goog_1871305250"></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"></a><span id="goog_1871305251"></span>, Whitehorse,Yukon</span></td></tr>
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MY FRIENDS AND I decided to go dog mushing.</div>
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"So what happens if I get out there and find I'm not strong enough to manage the dogs?" I asked the gal in charge, a Yukon Quest veteran and part owner of <a href="https://www.skyhighwilderness.com/html/index.php" target="_blank"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Sky High Wilderness Ranch</span></a> in Whitehorse, YK. I had my doubts. Back home I have to advise the grocery boys to pack my bags light. Jocelyn was good. She told me stories that allowed me to make up my own mind. "Let me put it this way," she finally summed up. "Six weeks ago a woman rolled her sleigh. Today she has a new hip."</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13zGzNNp471qwlmJvE26eKGIfceP7qJeZ7mrrmLh0FYSihKMP6NuV3Aq9AzWsURqipsni4ZfMgQvWxqzDPNRA4zJ_m4E2lsNG5r7YeAuRKfYgOXnzn63bPpm4Wjr-VM7iSiHi8WjXRkur/s1600/DawnPaulBecky_HeadShot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><img alt="Dawn, Paul the tour guide, and Becky " border="0" data-original-height="361" data-original-width="652" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13zGzNNp471qwlmJvE26eKGIfceP7qJeZ7mrrmLh0FYSihKMP6NuV3Aq9AzWsURqipsni4ZfMgQvWxqzDPNRA4zJ_m4E2lsNG5r7YeAuRKfYgOXnzn63bPpm4Wjr-VM7iSiHi8WjXRkur/s400/DawnPaulBecky_HeadShot.jpg" title="" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Dawn, Paul, Becky Set To Go</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><img alt="Dog Sleds at Sky High Wilderness Ranch, Whitehorse YK" border="0" data-original-height="620" data-original-width="871" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpZ_kIk75PGEpCyDdSPEowYT0HGWSi8NnAZ6C9UlH5jpa43XZ7Z_59yqZ0bbnEjuJoK-7f6jb3G5jMXDSmeFa0ApT-cMhUyDPTq8x26eYvvPXSn7wbKlKWIninb7KRrhwyuQrSDYJe0tj_/s400/Dogsleds.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="" width="400" /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">The Waiting Dog Sleds</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpZ_kIk75PGEpCyDdSPEowYT0HGWSi8NnAZ6C9UlH5jpa43XZ7Z_59yqZ0bbnEjuJoK-7f6jb3G5jMXDSmeFa0ApT-cMhUyDPTq8x26eYvvPXSn7wbKlKWIninb7KRrhwyuQrSDYJe0tj_/s1600/Dogsleds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpxtR1fzOG8r5aZXXV0KQtzxIW-Yi30BDRABkhr7ZqyrVcd-uhK0ptidKxelpKMHWk5HwgQagIGynwW5LmddYIcaN__0co2Z7AzpEgORGkE5uDW-ry8IVd8ZD1kCTM8kVQIm-d1vYitjn/s1600/BeckyDawnMushing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="445" data-original-width="650" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpxtR1fzOG8r5aZXXV0KQtzxIW-Yi30BDRABkhr7ZqyrVcd-uhK0ptidKxelpKMHWk5HwgQagIGynwW5LmddYIcaN__0co2Z7AzpEgORGkE5uDW-ry8IVd8ZD1kCTM8kVQIm-d1vYitjn/s400/BeckyDawnMushing.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small; font-weight: normal;">Becky and Dawn On The Trail</span></h2>
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Lauren, it was decided, would take me on the "limo" in a conciliatory gesture to make me feel better. The limo consisted of three wooden seats on a sleigh, drawn by four dogs. Unfortunately, I was put in the back behind two <i>big</i> Japanese girls--yes, I did say big. Since when did they make BIG Japanese girls? I couldn't see a thing. They completely dwarfed me. To make matters worse, a neck injury doesn't allow me to turn my head sideways for much more than a few seconds, so my disappointment got stuck in my throat. I had to blink a few times to keep back tears I was stunned to find lurking. Still, it was better than nothing and I told myself so. "This is better than nothing. Put on your big girl pants."</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5mJYOj9M_pllj2VE4gFXWMYWgidCw7uKc8qopYWHvjswie7e-hJXAXb_dNLv28QwcU1PdnG5exle3MtIDVlZG2u_R6kL0cvifBNxzDMOSjYkbQ5AEDKCNuxXypHu1kndnjhrf2p95CCX/s1600/MeMushing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><img alt="Brenda Wilbee dog mushing, sorta" border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5mJYOj9M_pllj2VE4gFXWMYWgidCw7uKc8qopYWHvjswie7e-hJXAXb_dNLv28QwcU1PdnG5exle3MtIDVlZG2u_R6kL0cvifBNxzDMOSjYkbQ5AEDKCNuxXypHu1kndnjhrf2p95CCX/s1600/MeMushing.jpg" title="" /></span></a></div>
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And it was! And I did!</div>
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"Good boy!" called Lauren from behind me to the lead dog, the sound of the runners smooth against the snowpack and soft in my ears. The wind cut against my frozen cheeks, and I reveled in the slap of the sleighs hitting the earth, the panting of the dogs. All too soon we were back at "start." I was frozen through. And suddenly very grateful to be getting out of the cold. Poor Becky and Dawn, I thought, still out here. I headed for the yurt, an insulated tent just past the Christmas tree.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIaI0plsbkbeU8Sxdk5B_MrasLr80ppOXGhV7YIDTnYczkzC6NlE7_pR7tPzSQaGx4PJZjaLWE81ryX7rOGfIxYtGa0y7lxSElk94h6pbIXp83jBiwGgUaz3RGcY_8aEsw1eyJZe24Rj6w/s1600/XmasTree_Yurt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="341" data-original-width="250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIaI0plsbkbeU8Sxdk5B_MrasLr80ppOXGhV7YIDTnYczkzC6NlE7_pR7tPzSQaGx4PJZjaLWE81ryX7rOGfIxYtGa0y7lxSElk94h6pbIXp83jBiwGgUaz3RGcY_8aEsw1eyJZe24Rj6w/s320/XmasTree_Yurt.jpg" width="234" /></span></a></div>
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Sometimes settling for less is better than nothing. Sometimes it's just what we need.Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-86293835203763091772019-01-22T21:52:00.000-08:002019-01-22T22:06:33.394-08:00#27: 2/3 - A Yurt, a Phone, and An Outhouse--And International Connection<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>a 3-part story </i>| <i>Part 2</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4d9So0umh-LYzJ2e2XD6Ks1b2IazMj6_t8FVo5Jw3yK3r9cgF9q_srJtBm02PAqn78gtmqcbWtxyrlN07eJ2jfTVTXDwsXkBn6STAhFrw0s8H_pMdocmrPDg5sGvIYvo5cM8aaYwVyj5L/s1600/XmasTree_Yurt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Christmas tree outside yurt at Sky High Wilderness Ranch, Whitehorse, YK" border="0" data-original-height="341" data-original-width="250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4d9So0umh-LYzJ2e2XD6Ks1b2IazMj6_t8FVo5Jw3yK3r9cgF9q_srJtBm02PAqn78gtmqcbWtxyrlN07eJ2jfTVTXDwsXkBn6STAhFrw0s8H_pMdocmrPDg5sGvIYvo5cM8aaYwVyj5L/s320/XmasTree_Yurt.jpg" title="" width="234" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>M</b></span><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Y "LIMO" RIDE OVER, </b></span><i>(<a href="https://www.skyhighwilderness.com/html/index.php" target="_blank"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Sky High Wilderness Ranch's</span></a> conciliatory gesture to make me feel better about being too weeny to do real dog mushing with my friends)</i>, I headed for the yurt where I was to await Becky and Dawn and where (tour guide Lauren advised) I could get some hot cocoa and heat. I'd heard of yurts, but had never been in one. I had no idea what to expect.</div>
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I stomped my boots going up the stairs by the Christmas tree, tugged open the door, and found myself inside a hollow-out marshmallow, thinly insulated, and none too warm. A few sofas, some camping chairs--oh, yes, a dining room table with an attempt at Christmas decorations hanging from the chandelier. Wait, where was I? <i>Japan</i>?</div>
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Fifteen to twenty Japanese adults mulled around, tucked into bulky red parkas and toques of every color, the air a bubbled stew of vowels in a thick, savory broth of unintelligible chatter. I felt oddly disoriented.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT5U3-Qc_6KmsUfOUKtAJHLO6-tpJ1MDuxkCNAx20ZvfAE4OtPzgTCD06cj_x0riLfT6CrPgjYcGgH_kGGD4YG__FJvvjIHypLE2Xm2Rs3Q8MaUFMjEmUZSjbfpspInjwmKlFEW5PfKWuw/s1600/YurtInterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Yurt interior, Sky High Wilderness Ranch, Whitehorse, YK" border="0" data-original-height="647" data-original-width="902" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT5U3-Qc_6KmsUfOUKtAJHLO6-tpJ1MDuxkCNAx20ZvfAE4OtPzgTCD06cj_x0riLfT6CrPgjYcGgH_kGGD4YG__FJvvjIHypLE2Xm2Rs3Q8MaUFMjEmUZSjbfpspInjwmKlFEW5PfKWuw/s400/YurtInterior.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></div>
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I edged toward the wood stove in this sea of red and foreign tongue. Midway, a woman gave a startled cry, stood, and started going through her pockets. Everyone shifted, turned in their seats, looked under cushions. Just then Lauren entered. A tall girl, head and shoulders above the rest of us, the agitated woman and her friends flocked around like cardinals seeking suet. </div>
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A lot of jabbering, Lauren guessing, no one understanding, and then the pantomiming got really interesting. Lauren and I figured it out the same time. The young woman thought she'd lost her phone down the outhouse. I'd just come from there. Had I peed on her Samsung?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmM0D_THgr9SatXe0ckNCLFUVmrUPfwSCMbhj3wp0PogBn7wrSLXKmmWdtH0IrbgLMvZDR6B77vOHZkqCs_ujpQ3litDiybZmOJq0At92ZX1n2Lzszvq2UjnbKDIeL4um68vbrDG0aUUMo/s1600/OuthouseCombo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="251" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmM0D_THgr9SatXe0ckNCLFUVmrUPfwSCMbhj3wp0PogBn7wrSLXKmmWdtH0IrbgLMvZDR6B77vOHZkqCs_ujpQ3litDiybZmOJq0At92ZX1n2Lzszvq2UjnbKDIeL4um68vbrDG0aUUMo/s400/OuthouseCombo.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>
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I'd been quite impressed, actually, with the outhouse--an attempt to make any girl feel right at home. With the possible exception of anyone Asian, of course. A picture and red <span style="color: #cc0000;">"X" </span>informed them they couldn't climb up to squat and do their business. Other than that, it was a cozy little corner of everything feminine: hand sanitizer, a bouquet of lavender, candles, matches, a whisk broom. Everything a girl could want, minus the heat. Word of warning, do <i>not</i> touch the metal chain that holds the door shut with bare fingers. It's a burn to make you squeal and jump, skin peeling right off and another squeal. No joke. <i>Now </i>try to lay out the toilet paper on ice crystals coating the royal throne. </div>
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But back to the Japanese woman frantic over losing her phone down this upside-down bucket into a frozen sea of, well, shit.</div>
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"I mean, I can shine a light down there," offered Lauren. "But if it's in there, we can't..." She and the distraught woman left. I pulled out my computer. Two hours to go.<i> </i>I was cold. My pals Becky and Dawn had to be totally frost bitten out there in the wilds of the Yukon, flying along behind race-dog Huskies. I was beginning to feel very grateful for being such a weeny, unable to do the real dog mushing. I was so cold I couldn't type, my fingers too clumsy. My nose dribbled. I finally got up and stood next to the man hogging the stove, hoping he'd get the hint and step to the side so we could at least share.</div>
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No such luck. He did take an absent-minded short step forward, however. Twelve inches. Was I supposed to <i>squeeze</i> in between him and the heat? With seventeen layers <i>and</i> a parka? Another tour guide stumbled in, blowing on her hands. She reached into a pocket. "Someone's lucky day," she said and dropped a phone onto the coffee table.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimgfhyphenhyphenjfZGOQTHzaw498Nc2m_gatMeDELPJnu1Ps6p1YRGlbzi1_ec_pDDu4mTY5EzZqaGmx9EP02YKfaz5SdM6DZ051_gEYWG-cjJa6JXhZe8NxY7YAxSQ-ef5KbBHv2sRr-LUbqGLHQ4/s1600/AppliePhone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Apple phone" border="0" data-original-height="134" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimgfhyphenhyphenjfZGOQTHzaw498Nc2m_gatMeDELPJnu1Ps6p1YRGlbzi1_ec_pDDu4mTY5EzZqaGmx9EP02YKfaz5SdM6DZ051_gEYWG-cjJa6JXhZe8NxY7YAxSQ-ef5KbBHv2sRr-LUbqGLHQ4/s1600/AppliePhone.jpg" title="" /></a></div>
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<i>"Oy! Oii! Ouii!" </i>The Japanese all slapped their hands over their mouths. "Oii!" they giggled and laughed, only their eyes visible above cupped hands. The guide leaned over, rebooted the phone, set it back down. All watched with baited breath, even me, until the apple lit up and made the reassuring ding.</div>
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The shy, excited crowd circled in, laughing and clucking, even the man hogging the stove. I seized my moment. I stuck my backside to the flames, fingers behind my fanny, and shuddered from the thrill of heat going up my spine even while smiling at the gleeful enthusiasm surrounding the discovered phone--a miracle not covered in poop but instead ice and snow. Clearly it had fallen out of a pocket and landed on a trail. The happy owner swooped it up with a wild cry and smile and plugged in her password. She held it over her head. Everyone cheered.</div>
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I let the man rejoin me at the fire, and allowed the bubbled stew of vowels in a thick, savory broth of unintelligible chatter embrace me, feeling oddly connected to these people from the other side of the world.</div>
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Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-65038050518592185652019-01-22T17:51:00.003-08:002019-01-22T18:22:23.921-08:00#27: 3/3 - Frozen Hair and Strangers Now Friends<a href="https://skagwayetc.blogspot.com/2019/01/27-23-yurt-phone-outhouse-and.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: xx-small;">con't from #27:2/3 - A Yurt, Phone, Outhouse--and International Connection</span></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKbGVz5V85Jr970usKqriY2ym8HPh59Gz9oLzMWswiVyfRdfpihUOnI6uDZ9d1leosl9aOEtodyCWaMHKu_IVZaMxlb6nKUej5zgVLcUoFGUKtFTvX4LhHCI7cXBr2r9H0gGPgDgfnlcar/s1600/FrozenHair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Brenda Wilbee at Takhini Hotsprings, Whitehorse YK 2019" border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="872" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKbGVz5V85Jr970usKqriY2ym8HPh59Gz9oLzMWswiVyfRdfpihUOnI6uDZ9d1leosl9aOEtodyCWaMHKu_IVZaMxlb6nKUej5zgVLcUoFGUKtFTvX4LhHCI7cXBr2r9H0gGPgDgfnlcar/s320/FrozenHair.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="color: #bf9000;">"THE THING TO DO," </span></b>said Becky, ducking down into the crazy warm water of Takhini Hot Springs and then surfacing, "is to get your hair wet and watch it freeze."</div>
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Dawn and I dropped. I surfaced, winced, then laughed at the cold biting my cheeks.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHxILI9hLJkHuvhhkssyrnFUnQLplPLtjSesDMcF0ZaSFcT1bCI4J7qAO8jZSfCS2Ceus2MesifQ1fGkZFNuKg3k-y-aQKc7_0b-b4T5DwUt9EGEfbgbIBkseZJ65MUmAnt9Jv9Wg8G-a/s1600/TimHortons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Tim Horton's, Whitehorse, YK" border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="1600" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHxILI9hLJkHuvhhkssyrnFUnQLplPLtjSesDMcF0ZaSFcT1bCI4J7qAO8jZSfCS2Ceus2MesifQ1fGkZFNuKg3k-y-aQKc7_0b-b4T5DwUt9EGEfbgbIBkseZJ65MUmAnt9Jv9Wg8G-a/s320/TimHortons.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></div>
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Our day of dog mushing had called for soup at Timmy's before heading up the road to our cabin and <a href="http://takhinihotpools.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Takhini Hot Springs</span></a> just beyond. For my American friends, Tim Horton's is Canada's hot spot to stop. Donut holes--Tim Bits we call them--to die for. They also have delicious homemade soup, also to die for. So Becky, Dawn, and I drove back into Whitehorse from<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"> <a href="https://www.skyhighwilderness.com/html/index.php" target="_blank"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Sky High Wilderness Ranch</span></a> </span></span>to warm our bellies and thaw our toes. We arrived about four in the afternoon. In other words, twilight.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLE-45iDMsz4FeoypXXT1ohQjs3JkpfRfh2F2icZgCF5wEmeVWzM0UWD5VCLqZtKhd9vqYdsziG-Ku-R6o9aa0xrp22MJ1o-JpK0sgA6haerX_voTgCFNVtRQmxC42STIIHQ-qm9N4WRDR/s1600/Whitehorse40clock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Whitehorse, YK 2019" border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1600" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLE-45iDMsz4FeoypXXT1ohQjs3JkpfRfh2F2icZgCF5wEmeVWzM0UWD5VCLqZtKhd9vqYdsziG-Ku-R6o9aa0xrp22MJ1o-JpK0sgA6haerX_voTgCFNVtRQmxC42STIIHQ-qm9N4WRDR/s400/Whitehorse40clock.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></div>
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Once a First Nation's campsite, the <i>city </i>of Whitehorse has its roots in the 1898 Gold Rush. Named for the foaming, treacherous rapids of the Yukon River--looking like white horses stampeding--the White Horse Rapids once marked the greatest peril on the Trail of '98. Today, however, a hydro-electro dam replaces the once terrifying caldron. Schwatka Lake Reservoir settles peacefully atop a thousand tales of grit and grief. Adventure similar to ours--though deadly and demanding.</div>
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Tummies full, we drove out to our cabin, dumped our bags in "Klondike Kate," lay in a fire, and headed for the "best is yet to come."</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaH-58vGHPFo7xXUPleCkJ1stT1PYM8onEeytN9lnLsVrvccq-q1zQzix0340sFbmKkAhqPP8BmYnB8RA82aedc7NVadv46Vr00P1sPKjpg_hiO1XS2rX9kQBvnbFRRPmti-229mvk3-S2/s1600/Cabin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Klondike Kate cabin at Wilderness Cabins, Whitehorse, YK" border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaH-58vGHPFo7xXUPleCkJ1stT1PYM8onEeytN9lnLsVrvccq-q1zQzix0340sFbmKkAhqPP8BmYnB8RA82aedc7NVadv46Vr00P1sPKjpg_hiO1XS2rX9kQBvnbFRRPmti-229mvk3-S2/s320/Cabin.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.countrycabinsyukon.com/index.html" target="_blank">Klondike Kate cabin, Country Cabins, Whitehorse</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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We drove the quarter mile to Takhini Hot Spring, paid our $9 Canadian!, shivered into our suits, and took the plunge.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5f-kkMumLSGc4WIZC6Tg5xb7WX9h1LjpPF0h7-AQB8qR-vdrGttIp3gggLfMDr8fsNR4tO8mEyq0mK4dtVlJdBvlBFTL-0DeBgHmhwAdv7SjMoKxURIJQY1YzQcjHSspyaTtglS1rBtsY/s1600/BeckyMe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Takhini Hot Springs, Whitehorse, YK" border="0" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="905" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5f-kkMumLSGc4WIZC6Tg5xb7WX9h1LjpPF0h7-AQB8qR-vdrGttIp3gggLfMDr8fsNR4tO8mEyq0mK4dtVlJdBvlBFTL-0DeBgHmhwAdv7SjMoKxURIJQY1YzQcjHSspyaTtglS1rBtsY/s320/BeckyMe.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></div>
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We were strangers, really. Dawn is my social media techie back home, Becky someone I said hello to on the docks every day while waiting for tourists to get off the cruise ships. A woman who'd agreed to rent me a room this winter in her summer housing. But the two hours we spent in the warm womb of the earth, hair freezing over and watching ice grow around the lamps, we became best of friends. <i>How do women bond?</i></div>
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I will tell you. We talk about X's, we laugh at ourselves, we tell stories about our children, more stories about our grandchildren, we split a gut over embarrassing tales, high-five our secrets, and scratch our heads over such questions as "Do you think democracy may fail?" and "Does God intervene in this troubled world?"</div>
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"I'm getting hungry," I said at last. Munchies awaited--on the other side of hell-frozen-over.</div>
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OMG! OMG! OMG! The frozen tunnel from pool to shower will kill you. Water logged, body emerging from the womb, you stumble up the stairs, stagger, throw a hand to the wall. Fingers sink into two-inch hoarfrost. You trip, lurch the last step. Reach dry ground. There's your towel, way down there--way down the icy hall on a hook, but it's too cold to stop, too cold to put it on. You make a grab, sprint, chin chattering your chest, goosebumps the size of goose eggs on your flesh, so mindless you nearly divert to the men's shower, realize your error, veer toward the women's, toss your towel, stiff as a board, to a bench, and hurl yourself with your one last last cogent thought--I'm going to die!--to the communal shower enclave and pull the knob. Hot water descends. You're Jennifer Beals in <i>Flashdance</i>.</div>
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We took turns hopping in and out of the cascading heat until at last, coming into consciousness by fits and starts the thought <i>we're not going to die</i>, we shivered into our clothes. Ten minutes later we were back at the cabin, visit to the outhouse behind us, in bed, munching on apples. We fell asleep talking.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOKKNXpwthedRPtPBkQg0uJiy4IFqLaisT7H9AGEaezXLTUBay6n4CHgsHETLfnqxwrDqKkcxRsByShmvrksSe2pqr0f6Ohkr9dHnUXSoGwBZl2Z2i3FKfxvZY1IY0c3Lyeb6aQ9NQqhZH/s1600/CornerLamp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1245" data-original-width="1600" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOKKNXpwthedRPtPBkQg0uJiy4IFqLaisT7H9AGEaezXLTUBay6n4CHgsHETLfnqxwrDqKkcxRsByShmvrksSe2pqr0f6Ohkr9dHnUXSoGwBZl2Z2i3FKfxvZY1IY0c3Lyeb6aQ9NQqhZH/s320/CornerLamp.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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This is what we woke to.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh32qMJ6IGwmBMh3pwQuMugbgW9qRMWzdLxRz1_JMVemMDFP2bMd2p5cEeIF9_IA0w6fFUWXuN_hrd8hyphenhyphenF9p8SPAS6kaduWbNRNR4lYdfbQLbGgu-6SrMBWETuw3JD8AxKhu64pf9YtMCTL/s1600/WindowBonaCabin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="726" data-original-width="893" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh32qMJ6IGwmBMh3pwQuMugbgW9qRMWzdLxRz1_JMVemMDFP2bMd2p5cEeIF9_IA0w6fFUWXuN_hrd8hyphenhyphenF9p8SPAS6kaduWbNRNR4lYdfbQLbGgu-6SrMBWETuw3JD8AxKhu64pf9YtMCTL/s320/WindowBonaCabin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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We could hardly make ourselves leave. Dog mushing and outhouses, phones on the trail and not in the shit, hot soup, hot springs, and hell frozen over we reluctantly headed back to Skagway...three strangers now friends.</div>
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<br />Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-11328554133420653102019-01-03T21:18:00.002-08:002019-01-19T14:49:34.697-08:00#26: Flying "Over the Top" Into Skagway, AK.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEislMZaetRlbxr1gdQxsS2puAdIP1iXA9INBJ13XaHRJTihOh8nDKZuBTLew5Y1yorTT71xZiuB8dNbkcJWEGXSnb1aIjj6OUpFKiGYrRgS4alyEoaHVVlo3bXqdtogpazTksUXEUabxQFw/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-01-03+at+6.09.19+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="766" data-original-width="1486" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEislMZaetRlbxr1gdQxsS2puAdIP1iXA9INBJ13XaHRJTihOh8nDKZuBTLew5Y1yorTT71xZiuB8dNbkcJWEGXSnb1aIjj6OUpFKiGYrRgS4alyEoaHVVlo3bXqdtogpazTksUXEUabxQFw/s320/Screen+Shot+2019-01-03+at+6.09.19+PM.png" title="" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/BrendaWilbee/videos/10218657165250290/?l=3233547649537926316" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">For video, click here</a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(opens in a separate window)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>"Are you getting excited yet</b></span></span>, about going to Skagway?" my daughter-in-law asked the night before I was to fly out of Seattle for Juneau--and on to Skagway, AK."<br />
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"No, not yet."<br />
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I've been splitting my time between the Seattle area and Skagway, AK, for eight years now, and I'd not been up for two and a half of those years and was missing all my friends and the little Alaskan gold rush town. "You can write up there as well as down here," I decided one day just before Thanksgiving. And so began my plans.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghcIDOt6A2rtNP13xhLhHzEBxeO4LldrS9VU5wcaYE4mSFHnfjkQXxqB0VZ_wVUj9fRPQMLCB5r0Z5h0B9jer2oDv0HdvMiY1AHE4io_L0gnCz_c_Xf-aOZPKpqK2ZjFt_au6i11-ppBHl/s1600/BaggageTicket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Bagge ticketed for Skagway" border="0" data-original-height="822" data-original-width="720" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghcIDOt6A2rtNP13xhLhHzEBxeO4LldrS9VU5wcaYE4mSFHnfjkQXxqB0VZ_wVUj9fRPQMLCB5r0Z5h0B9jer2oDv0HdvMiY1AHE4io_L0gnCz_c_Xf-aOZPKpqK2ZjFt_au6i11-ppBHl/s200/BaggageTicket.jpg" title="" width="175" /></a>Three days after Christmas, the morning's flight to Juneau was uneventful. Just another airplane ride in the rain. But when I checked into Seaplanes at the small Juneau airport and they ticketed my bag, <i>I got excited</i>.<br />
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And then more excited. The sun came out. A young man all of thirteen, I swear, called my name. "You ready?"<br />
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"I am!"<br />
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"Lucky you. This is our first sun in a month. We'll go over the top."<br />
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<i>Yes! </i><br />
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Instead of going up Lynn Canal, pretty enough, we'd go <i>over </i>the mountains, stunning, unimaginable, a world of ice and snow. I'd done it once, and knew I was in for a treat. I grabbed my computer bag and trotted outdoors, into the icy air. "Am I the only one?"<br />
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"Yup."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9QMZpKmKmK82gaKn4PgjzU8pwVzD5Bp8GBis59JNaaM9n55dqIeHY4IA-2iLSBz9PszkJcgWZegiDsWw4WhpfGaOYJSaR5J9l9fH4CyPXlLHrli1ZfPjZd7ftwoCt1Qo25GJX8YuaNjq9/s1600/Seaplane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="Seaplanes, a ride to Skagway" border="0" data-original-height="284" data-original-width="720" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9QMZpKmKmK82gaKn4PgjzU8pwVzD5Bp8GBis59JNaaM9n55dqIeHY4IA-2iLSBz9PszkJcgWZegiDsWw4WhpfGaOYJSaR5J9l9fH4CyPXlLHrli1ZfPjZd7ftwoCt1Qo25GJX8YuaNjq9/s400/Seaplane.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></div>
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I settled into my seat, breathless. The pilot, I'll call him Dan, gave the propeller a few good whacks, it whirled and whirred into motion, and soon we were taxing out for take off.</div>
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We veered away from Lynn Canal and headed straight for the Mendenhall Glacier...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCW8s-6YZp4bcMVbtC1jT3WlTg6ykmnTPKFkyaw8T9pVw8tnzZzpcRWhLoCorBr61qH8X1CEQlvQYFFXX5X2gutNFm2KEsZcnjs67LSRzZQAij-mD9Lg-Lg4zNwNPzJ0Bhfqx3U4QoPItU/s1600/MountainsUnderFog2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCW8s-6YZp4bcMVbtC1jT3WlTg6ykmnTPKFkyaw8T9pVw8tnzZzpcRWhLoCorBr61qH8X1CEQlvQYFFXX5X2gutNFm2KEsZcnjs67LSRzZQAij-mD9Lg-Lg4zNwNPzJ0Bhfqx3U4QoPItU/s320/MountainsUnderFog2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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...rising swiftly, steeply, straight for the ice, up, up, up toward the tree line, a layer of fog, sunshine beyond, and the snowy mountains. </div>
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Dan dipped and leveled out, wings just yards from the tectonic uplift of mountains unbelievably beautiful, their tops jagged, uncompromising, the tips sharp enough to have bitten through the earth's crust eons ago and tall enough to escape the glaciers of yore that grind smooth the lesser heights.<br />
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And then my phone died. No more pictures to capture the ragged snow-covered mountain tops that framed vast valleys stuffed with snow--heaped atop the Mendenhall Glacier; a snake of crushing weight, a river of ice bent on carving out stone and rock and gouging deep troughs, pressing the earth as it winds north to meet the ice sheath that goes 100 miles up and to the Yukon.<br />
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As far as eye can see, ice cream as silky as a cat's ear. Whipped cream. Way, way down, ribbons of navy blue cut through the ice and snow and run out to sea. Sometimes the whipped cream tumbles, with lines like hen scratches, then gives way to cobbled snow. Where the glaciers drop steeply, turquoise sparkles brilliant against the blinding white.</div>
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Serrated mountains tops circle like Roman amphitheaters, plunging down to fields of white fluff. A high range sends spikes up like a dragon's back, rounding out to make a sculpture of a fat, plodding Tyrannosaurus Rex frozen in time.</div>
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To the west, Lynn Canal sometimes shows up, a deep cobalt blue, then the mountains rise straight up and spread to the horizon. All razor sharp mountain tips, endless white. To the east, they stagger and coil and tower with nothing to tell me they don't circle the world and meet east to west.</div>
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Curling away from the white castles in the air, I worked up enough nerve to ask the pilot to take a picture of Skagway for me when we made our final descent. He pulled out a charger. Well, darn! For once I should have spoken up earlier. He plugged in my phone and by the time we eased down to the tree line and wound west and north, Haines hoving into view, he handed me my phone. 47% charged. <i>Yes!</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Skagway AK" border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJRx7kTpB_JRD0U1HDrGzXKdoETA0IdO3DQRGyFE95QQ_l5PggUQvIfnrv5HnPpV4SX9dsA1sEeXEo0dPYLr44CrbnX3UwLkkFgculWpias_Zz6PJpHqxtUJ6UdcBP8Dale-9m7fS855bg/s320/Arial_ThirdGlimpse.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="" width="240" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">SKAGWAY, ALASKA</td></tr>
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Seventeen miles on, I spot my home-away-from-home. Caught between two mountain ranges, this gold rush town of 1898 is five blocks wide at the docks and narrows to just three. The only road out crosses the river and winds up White Pass to Canada. And while it's gorgeously sunny from the plane, the mountains drop shadows. It's 11:00 a.m., and I know it's cold down there and veiled.<br />
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In the twilight, though, my friend Judy Mallory is waiting at the airport to welcome me home.Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-46649661333564376702018-12-06T17:30:00.001-08:002019-01-19T14:49:23.165-08:00#25: So WHY Are You Going To Skagway In The Wintertime? <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxscqn0iolCbPDJsln9yGFqw0ZuJmqzz25YHlet7aKpDqjQ737rkzH-57Vh974aF8b8x7q48c61jxZa5jnlSUlM-OA8dYAGWXIzJCuIrztcL72YtWQnRm_5LFWxZtXxLGk90IPNwcOePCB/s1600/SledDogs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Sled dogs" border="0" data-original-height="493" data-original-width="1200" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxscqn0iolCbPDJsln9yGFqw0ZuJmqzz25YHlet7aKpDqjQ737rkzH-57Vh974aF8b8x7q48c61jxZa5jnlSUlM-OA8dYAGWXIzJCuIrztcL72YtWQnRm_5LFWxZtXxLGk90IPNwcOePCB/s400/SledDogs.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_F8IUwrb3GmjDAV3HgIKwQy6ke5rN-exqUfHBppHnQFPe4PpazU2Yr8_zoKW2732Q2A2ox3g7Rk1FxPmEP7-87pPdKc61hsQ-VXRnNLuuavw30cGriZpdOrcQdnpmmBLYEo1SiiPs4QB/s1600/ArialShot_BedfordFalls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Bedford Fall - Brenda Wilbee's Christmas Display" border="0" data-original-height="288" data-original-width="384" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_F8IUwrb3GmjDAV3HgIKwQy6ke5rN-exqUfHBppHnQFPe4PpazU2Yr8_zoKW2732Q2A2ox3g7Rk1FxPmEP7-87pPdKc61hsQ-VXRnNLuuavw30cGriZpdOrcQdnpmmBLYEo1SiiPs4QB/s320/ArialShot_BedfordFalls.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></div>
<b><span style="color: #cc0000;">IT'S CHRISTMAS 2018, </span></b>and my normal outlay of decorations are conspicuously absent. No cedar boughs on the patio rail, only a bare-bones light string, a mix-match at that, with no attempt at artistry but embarrassingly tacky. Indoors, I have but one tree, the <i>tiny</i> one. Bubble lights on the mantel, the standard creche. No Bedford Falls village with its street lights and pond where Harry nearly drowned, and icicles hanging off the roof of Bailey Building and Loan. I find it all so understated that the Christmas mood of 2018 evades. Ah, but into the vacuum rushes a thrill far more exciting. <i>I'm going to Skagway three days after Christmas!</i> There is simply no time to take down all my decorations <i>and </i>pack. And I'm sure as heck not going to take it all down in March when I get back. Hence the stripped-down attempt at holiday cheer in favor of the adventure ahead.</div>
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<span style="color: #cc0000; font-weight: bold;">"So why do you think Skagway in the winter is a good idea?" </span>friends ask.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHxUDIXadZ-hJ8VLfJLOjlnutMLFKBD3r-obFUruN0UV20qFJz8hgqyeR5Os9NUJTR99gagYDNWqwv83aJc3_pCfvgjSqUcZw-G2M_UTD1uX1ZtQbdN8Prns4FfMBvk7CS1bcChPenP17y/s1600/BeaLinglePorch_BeaMe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt=""AMiss" Bea Lingle, the last Gold Rush baby" border="0" data-original-height="149" data-original-width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHxUDIXadZ-hJ8VLfJLOjlnutMLFKBD3r-obFUruN0UV20qFJz8hgqyeR5Os9NUJTR99gagYDNWqwv83aJc3_pCfvgjSqUcZw-G2M_UTD1uX1ZtQbdN8Prns4FfMBvk7CS1bcChPenP17y/s1600/BeaLinglePorch_BeaMe.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miss Bea and Be (me)<br />
at her summer cabin in Carcros, YK</td></tr>
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Well, coffee with the gang down at the Station. Knitwits every Saturday at Grandma Ginny's for another. Good music from "Jess and J-Dot" and "One-Juan Stand." Miss Bea, of course, the last gold rush baby. If I remember right, the story goes that her father was a gambler in the Gold Rush of 1898. At some point he gambled away the house. Miss Bea's mother left the guy and moved to Juneau. Some years later, Miss Bea's father made good and got either his old house back or made enough to buy a new one. He sent word to Juneau and Miss Bea's mother hopped the ferry and came back. Guess what? Miss Bea was born--circa 1920s--the very last of the gold rush babies.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9t8rdINq9o3kcjGXpfIFK7dlpV5wcKK9b4dYE5kVHbfm48DlSxS-PBuDweMY_J6XD8lHBYghFn9yP6TdxZyvwKIMC3vjNSTEwPm_EBaG5ATV_csk3c3BpDdkTNbd3hDnwcOnWGXO4rv1u/s1600/Skagway-Inn-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Alice the Ghost's room at Skagway Inn" border="0" data-original-height="170" data-original-width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9t8rdINq9o3kcjGXpfIFK7dlpV5wcKK9b4dYE5kVHbfm48DlSxS-PBuDweMY_J6XD8lHBYghFn9yP6TdxZyvwKIMC3vjNSTEwPm_EBaG5ATV_csk3c3BpDdkTNbd3hDnwcOnWGXO4rv1u/s1600/Skagway-Inn-1.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alice's room: the front upstairs room<br />
with all the windows</td></tr>
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I'm anxious, too, to see if the ghost who lives (or <i>used</i> to live) in the bedroom above the Skagway Inn's dining room is sound asleep in the great big bed between the floor mirror and bed stand, with a diary from 1898 on top of it. Or whether she truly did "get on with her death" like I suggested she do. She did follow me out of the Inn the summer of 2011, but abandoned me the minute I crossed the street and told her that my boss (yes, I called my boss, not knowing what else to do with her) suggested I invite her to down to the HAP office. <i>Whoosh. </i>She was gone just like that. And in all the summers that followed, I haven't found her. <i>If </i>she's still there, maybe she and I can have a nightcap of Jack Daniels and toast the mysteries of the past.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKqhtYyInV8chz-ZOHwYWbhEN0mE7p6oswmK6y66ttxRYRJZ2Iq_i9az2C5QzE8cXZQNrmafEMMnOQQ5a_ESVg_fxXHFQ2tS5rxrTsHbryH2eS7CjSrczz32mEtCWeBlkDebRRkSjApK0n/s1600/JamiesSnowyLynnCanal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Lynn Canal - Jaime Goebel, copyright 2018" border="0" data-original-height="153" data-original-width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKqhtYyInV8chz-ZOHwYWbhEN0mE7p6oswmK6y66ttxRYRJZ2Iq_i9az2C5QzE8cXZQNrmafEMMnOQQ5a_ESVg_fxXHFQ2tS5rxrTsHbryH2eS7CjSrczz32mEtCWeBlkDebRRkSjApK0n/s1600/JamiesSnowyLynnCanal.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font-size: 12.8px;">
Lynn Canal, Skagway AK</div>
<div style="font-size: 12.8px;">
copyright Jaime Goebel 2018</div>
<div style="font-size: 12.8px;">
Owner AK Green Jeeps</div>
<div style="font-size: 12.8px;">
and <a href="https://www.southeasttours.com/" target="_blank">Southeast Tours</a><br />
Used by permission.</div>
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I want to tromp out to Smuggler's Cove, too, to see if the eagles are out. To see the sun glance of Lynn Canal in the afternoon light. To see if I can find a fox trail.</div>
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I want borrow a four-wheel jeep and go out to the once-upon-a-time Dyea Gold Rush town, where 20,000 people prepared for the ridiculously steep Chilkoot Trail and gold beyond, now just one propped up wall of a real estate office. My understanding is that the National Parks Service has cleared a few of the hemlock and Sitka Spruce from the natural forest reclamation of the last 120 years to expose the old grid of streets so one might get a better sense of history. To snowshoe in the shadows is a number one adventure to be had. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirwU3ACgfrN6dI49pcn9crFudS-hpLJABf9nQYtSvIfzdk1E6qMtJNTv1VXhe14FMsMEX07PQU1hM3g8VGqJjXo73xaBBLPwT_BKKWZCwhY9iaUrI4AgmtAOP1_5LGUeBBk1JvUK82wK5v/s1600/TimCounter2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="166" data-original-width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirwU3ACgfrN6dI49pcn9crFudS-hpLJABf9nQYtSvIfzdk1E6qMtJNTv1VXhe14FMsMEX07PQU1hM3g8VGqJjXo73xaBBLPwT_BKKWZCwhY9iaUrI4AgmtAOP1_5LGUeBBk1JvUK82wK5v/s1600/TimCounter2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tim Saulter</td></tr>
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Of course I want to catch Senior Lunch at the "White" church every other day, where Tim Saulter cooks up enough food to take some home. A guy who describes himself as a hairy Pillsbury Doughboy, Tim is a self-confessed admirer. But while I'm highly amused by him and can at times take advantage of his generosity and find his friendship one I'd be loath to lose, I don't share the same ardor. I try to tell him not to take it personally: I find most men unappealing. In 66 years, my heart has gone thumpity-thump but twice--both men finding someone else to marry. "Mitty" takes my apathy with good humor, and lunch at the white church is something I look forward to. It's where all the cool "old" people hang out and the best stories are told.<br />
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The <i>real </i>adventure, though, is the dog-mushing. A friend is coming up to visit in January and a whole gaggle of us girls in town are going with her--one more thing on just about everyone's bucket list.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaaqxOfHynLKYQ3wTknxL5ZWhM-uGMP3uHt4s9Jn6vJazna9k9ASltzxowvb0_NKEZ-fCHwxb8xUT4KQVeD7hivtsfZkxmpnRtF29q0kLTcwP8cqQ_hIXtHnSTde8s6KbkHrrviz3x5jts/s1600/dogs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="172" data-original-width="418" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaaqxOfHynLKYQ3wTknxL5ZWhM-uGMP3uHt4s9Jn6vJazna9k9ASltzxowvb0_NKEZ-fCHwxb8xUT4KQVeD7hivtsfZkxmpnRtF29q0kLTcwP8cqQ_hIXtHnSTde8s6KbkHrrviz3x5jts/s400/dogs.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-40570397430827269062018-11-03T14:28:00.000-07:002019-01-19T14:48:49.958-08:00#24: Puttin' the Happy in the Birthday!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg056x51wsL84O8JTu8IZ4UMAQUcsZUhcGHKt-yPBHw4LI_pqleYzJQKDfUP4vN0whnAQ9L3ztV_CKjmKUpEEPRjnW9vi0ahY-z0SjTKkSzrDN5tMOgWJLnycjEUdm0NSeB2IJLre6s7JKk/s1600/1-LongBay-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="an eagle on Long Bay, Dyea AK" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg056x51wsL84O8JTu8IZ4UMAQUcsZUhcGHKt-yPBHw4LI_pqleYzJQKDfUP4vN0whnAQ9L3ztV_CKjmKUpEEPRjnW9vi0ahY-z0SjTKkSzrDN5tMOgWJLnycjEUdm0NSeB2IJLre6s7JKk/s1600/1-LongBay-72.jpg" title="" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Remember when </span></span></b>it was so important to be six and a <i>half,</i> six and<i> three-quarters</i>?<i> </i>I don't know about you, but I'm sixty-six now, and I don't measure my years like this anymore. I measure them in decades.<br />
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I've had some pretty cool birthdays, but one of the most adventuresome was seven years ago when I turned 59, one year shy of rolling into my sixth decade. I was driving motor coaches out of Skagway AK and on May 29, 2011, I opened my eyes to the Alaskan sunlight that had been pouring through the crack in the blackout curtains since 4:30 a.m. I no sooner got my teeth brushed and pants on when Shari two doors down the hallway texted, "Happy Birthday. Coffee's on."<br />
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"Want to go geocaching?" she asked when I arrived, cream from the community refrigerator in my hand for the both of us. "There're geocaches in Skagway!"<br />
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Two passions Shari pursues. Crosswords and geocaching. Who would believe there is such adventure in each?<br />
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We invited two others to join up: Stanley, my roommate, and Teri from the dispatch office. After a good breakfast, the four of us headed out to the lot behind our hotel and under my window to receive instruction from Shari on how to geocache, me side-tracked with a birthday call from a son.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3yi6nCz9afM_n8xAHt0O0FqCS8rYkqN_MqSSCBnfGtdHJnsqL6M_InzGDyQxYp1uFY-vPNtoS2PtuG6h56ZUjLAmbPXooH3yvaBwdSwXHOJ3tcG5sOMvm9xlnFUAK3nD2y-7lqjFYte7/s1600/OnPhoneGPSParkingLot-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Brenda Wilbee talking to son Blake from Skagway AK" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3yi6nCz9afM_n8xAHt0O0FqCS8rYkqN_MqSSCBnfGtdHJnsqL6M_InzGDyQxYp1uFY-vPNtoS2PtuG6h56ZUjLAmbPXooH3yvaBwdSwXHOJ3tcG5sOMvm9xlnFUAK3nD2y-7lqjFYte7/s1600/OnPhoneGPSParkingLot-72.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Standing below my window, talking to Blake</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2gIIgTsENjvPBPdwlAzTIR8OhYlXuZuQR_pm1YH_aFbUlxvJPp8WX2BLaLOZ3o4yGWDz0sQINTgGBpMvpCyZUV-LZgarveVKtDhcK2mF0_ySIs9MZYOTWL_OoOooe2WQyhIDZBDeMFDDe/s1600/Instruction1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Shari Guida geocaching" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2gIIgTsENjvPBPdwlAzTIR8OhYlXuZuQR_pm1YH_aFbUlxvJPp8WX2BLaLOZ3o4yGWDz0sQINTgGBpMvpCyZUV-LZgarveVKtDhcK2mF0_ySIs9MZYOTWL_OoOooe2WQyhIDZBDeMFDDe/s1600/Instruction1.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Instruction from Shari</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"Geocaching is pretty simple," Shari repeated when I hung up and started to pay attention. People all over the world hide things for other people to find. You can both hide a cache and find one. Into a small tin, baggie, box, or whatever, you insert a small surprise and a cache log where you write down your name and where you're from. The rules are simple. You must leave something new behind or leave what's there, there; and, always always, sign the log before re-hiding the cache.<br />
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The game is the pursuit. The reward is the finding. Which involves a gizmo sort of like a compass. I'm not sure how it all works, but out in the parking lot we turned in circles, waiting for the needle to pick up and point.<br />
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Shari's neon yellow gizmo guided us northeast through the parking lot, across the road you see in the picture, and up past Captain William Moore's cabin three blocks away. We paused for picture-taking. Teri told us that if we put one foot forward and turn sideways we'd all look skinnier. <i>Really</i>?<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiELrOLlMONPbAEzRA0sc00RwVmk6tkvHhGA2VSzu7bCHXqcwy3icZSwM0KM9TGUZaMpJYqOftce0MNNg1LeUz4aYFWx2SjVbbXRTOJqo0Y8EMxtqRDPQpR0wsQj7ylMmSbc4cx-iyhS2GF/s1600/MooreCabin-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Posing outside Captain Moore's cabin, Skagway AK" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiELrOLlMONPbAEzRA0sc00RwVmk6tkvHhGA2VSzu7bCHXqcwy3icZSwM0KM9TGUZaMpJYqOftce0MNNg1LeUz4aYFWx2SjVbbXRTOJqo0Y8EMxtqRDPQpR0wsQj7ylMmSbc4cx-iyhS2GF/s1600/MooreCabin-72.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, Stanley, and Shari posing our skinny angles</td></tr>
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Do you think?<br />
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We moseyed on, heading north and deeper into the picture you see, behind the trees and over to an abandoned White Pass engine and box cars. Stanley poked her nose is one of the box cars. "Hey!" she said. "This is great place to come make out!"<br />
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I looked and said, "Hey! This is a great place to <i>live</i>!"<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkOtiR5MPsDF8WDgbk6-CflSZyrxHb3zWum3qxIkH_lO8ClJd4X2te-19LON_dDtoUcdXjP5W2FdjXY1nO8AjEHuak4Jt7tuPwSFRIiz78bP9t-LWI5bCmyIcMkW006JxKp9imz5aiz-T3/s1600/trainAbandoned-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="abandoned White Pass engine and box cars" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkOtiR5MPsDF8WDgbk6-CflSZyrxHb3zWum3qxIkH_lO8ClJd4X2te-19LON_dDtoUcdXjP5W2FdjXY1nO8AjEHuak4Jt7tuPwSFRIiz78bP9t-LWI5bCmyIcMkW006JxKp9imz5aiz-T3/s1600/trainAbandoned-72.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"A great place to live!"</td></tr>
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Our needle started going a little wonky. Shari told us that when we're within 25 feet of the cache, it'll do this. You have to just start snooping around. So snoop around we did. Teri found it. Who'd o' thunk it was <i>there? </i>In a crevice of one rusty hunk of metal.<br />
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</i> For Teri, Stanley, and me it was thrill. Shari stood by with a grin. We gave Teri the honor of pulling out her find, and the excitement of seeing what was inside took me back to childhood with my sisters, when we tried to drum up adventure, getting by on a whole lot of imagination. This took no imagination. Just look at what we found!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ6sngM6AeiJKhHFKaE8Zmz7bGM1SmC7HdaQ3ABGUIK1fz1rkcAIV0qP21R_KryApyL8z9tU7GJgn86S4OMt76ESL85U5_mTo44gzxTRF636gDI6zJyPT6-1vYahXJQLxzCKs5-PpOVZEo/s1600/TeriShariStanley-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Stanley, Teri, Shari find the cache!" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ6sngM6AeiJKhHFKaE8Zmz7bGM1SmC7HdaQ3ABGUIK1fz1rkcAIV0qP21R_KryApyL8z9tU7GJgn86S4OMt76ESL85U5_mTo44gzxTRF636gDI6zJyPT6-1vYahXJQLxzCKs5-PpOVZEo/s1600/TeriShariStanley-72.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stanley, Teri, Shari</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXRkeAT-3vgPKWvY3QDiJZ62-NI9I1HKcx8GujTKsAL3Y7sLuuq9sru4VQMxsDO8-l6qzoKc9Z2WuZ7ToSI37iHo9zcCABY-60n5AznkTkX1ztlFwFKFzvWFlZo7LOYc63HsD1FVpBVdHb/s1600/Geo1Box-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="The cache!" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXRkeAT-3vgPKWvY3QDiJZ62-NI9I1HKcx8GujTKsAL3Y7sLuuq9sru4VQMxsDO8-l6qzoKc9Z2WuZ7ToSI37iHo9zcCABY-60n5AznkTkX1ztlFwFKFzvWFlZo7LOYc63HsD1FVpBVdHb/s1600/Geo1Box-72.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our cache!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-vvHIJtwi2VhU4eYEGcfjXoFN9V9b8XMl_OjwKr48yjZIImU3yMBJr5MKZFvwxd1mQ4T4V0q2lGo8xdnSWRRGVHONvfElX99unLSTKAUsYZR4hu6mfqMk6QnT0drgC2m5KzBOOqi9pu2m/s1600/MeSigning-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Brenda Wilbee signing the cache log" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-vvHIJtwi2VhU4eYEGcfjXoFN9V9b8XMl_OjwKr48yjZIImU3yMBJr5MKZFvwxd1mQ4T4V0q2lGo8xdnSWRRGVHONvfElX99unLSTKAUsYZR4hu6mfqMk6QnT0drgC2m5KzBOOqi9pu2m/s1600/MeSigning-72.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me signing the log</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJK8xdqCHwO_xRDsYyRlHcuy3gY5mrjXDpdpklMO_GwnU-fTRouE5f8UiH5l2l8JvH_f8WrDOXBQ5OKAn7X8BdKBJ-PuW2yBJaDmL7AaHoFPlPYDKVsQepzY5fd7k9or1DNOpTm3XbwgBC/s1600/AB-BuildingUp-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Skagway, Alaska's AB Hall" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJK8xdqCHwO_xRDsYyRlHcuy3gY5mrjXDpdpklMO_GwnU-fTRouE5f8UiH5l2l8JvH_f8WrDOXBQ5OKAn7X8BdKBJ-PuW2yBJaDmL7AaHoFPlPYDKVsQepzY5fd7k9or1DNOpTm3XbwgBC/s1600/AB-BuildingUp-72.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">AB Building -- Arctic Brotherhood</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Our next little adventure took us to a "virtual" geocache at the AB Building on Broadway, Skagway's main road. This is the most photographed building in all of Alaska--though don't ask me how anyone actually knows this. We had to find the date on the building, easy; a plaque on the wall, easy peasy; and something else inside. I don't remember. <br />
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Outside again, I wanted a photo of Stanley standing in the same spot a prospector once wearily posed under a heavy pack before setting off to find gold six hundred miles to the north. So here's Stanley doing her thing, not weary at all and with a whole lot of sass. And ass.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOCvPI814LG_4kY7suHw2VuYiAK_nZ9xX6uCO3Ol-3gz17X1ccjdjswUNEcwhN95aRroad9OpahFIdjGjhNUTjLJTwhCRAE8NPDDEbhdetSAzXownHMsEgvTajNf-J2HM0dAjjLOV2_qOa/s1600/Stanley317-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Stanley Burton poses in Skagway AK" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOCvPI814LG_4kY7suHw2VuYiAK_nZ9xX6uCO3Ol-3gz17X1ccjdjswUNEcwhN95aRroad9OpahFIdjGjhNUTjLJTwhCRAE8NPDDEbhdetSAzXownHMsEgvTajNf-J2HM0dAjjLOV2_qOa/s1600/Stanley317-72.jpg" title="" /></a></div>
"There's a cache on the way to Dyea," Shari told us. "Shall we go out there?"<br />
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"Yes, please."<br />
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Dyea is the "other" gold rush town of 1898. Today it's a ghost of a place, silenced and secreted away in a century's growth of forest claiming the ground that rises out of sea. Glacial rebound in the area is about an inch a year, which in Dyea reveals itself significantly because the inlet is long and shallow. What had in 1898 been a dock, is now tide flats. What had been shoreline is now woods.<br />
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Both Skagway and Dyea were trailheads for the two routes over the Coastal Mountains, into the Yukon and fantastical gold. Prospectors who chose to go by way of the Chilkoot Pass instead of White Pass rowed four miles from Skagway, or they steamed into the long shallow bay of Dyea on a steamer out of San Francisco or Seattle. Today you drive. The road is a circuitous nine miles and around AB Mountain, around Long Bay, up the mouth of the Tyea River, over the bridge, and back down into Dyea.<br />
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Along the gravel road beside Long Bay we braked hard. An eagle had serenely perched itself on the branch of a Sitka Spruce and was looking down Long Bay without a care in the world. <span style="text-align: center;">Suddenly, a second eagle swooped in, the two lifted together and circled south, landing in a tree behind us. I'm never </span><i style="text-align: center;">not</i><span style="text-align: center;"> amazed at how tiny a sound these majestic birds have. One might except a mighty shriek. Not so. We tumbled out to take a better look...and to listen. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5w6FfCAOOQQpbNU2JEB98hWRlP2qOkhHG73HhOgIHHYJwoCosVn5QYvrFi0kO1cHDSynvUAkxFGt-kGcPgZBWdl75Y3KtDaJC39LrD9LcYXAh67CH5fcdsh4kNMVR1jHznx9fl7CMu85_/s1600/FindingLog-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Shari Guida pulling away wet log paper for a Dyea AK cache." border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5w6FfCAOOQQpbNU2JEB98hWRlP2qOkhHG73HhOgIHHYJwoCosVn5QYvrFi0kO1cHDSynvUAkxFGt-kGcPgZBWdl75Y3KtDaJC39LrD9LcYXAh67CH5fcdsh4kNMVR1jHznx9fl7CMu85_/s1600/FindingLog-72.jpg" title="" /></a>Back in the truck and coming around the north end of the bay, the needle jumped in Shari's gizmo. Shari found the cache hanging off a tree, quite soggy. Whoever hid this cache, didn't understand that Skagway and Dyea are in the Tongass National Rain Forest, and it took some time for Shari to peel back the wet paper so we could all sign the log.<br />
<br />
Finally, Dyea. I love the place. Teri had never been.<br />
<br />
The first stop was Slide Cemetery where 63 men lost their lives on April 3, 1898, in an avalanche that caught them under a 30-foot cloud snow. Today the cemetery a somber place, a quiet place, where sunlight dapples in through the spruce and onto gigantic, prickly devil's club.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdSH1R0GWU-nVYfOo3l5UXefH98HelTxz_wnvqa9W2xz5dUxHwqhjZ252MCQagn4OE5DDBzTxf0it2RYTYNsp7L57fZv0UD0bT4T1BJNv7k6nZo8klAqKo4wY6b2jgRYt8sCsm0K6jTANw/s1600/TeriStanSlideCemetary-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Stanley and Teri at Slide Cemetery, Dyea, AK" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdSH1R0GWU-nVYfOo3l5UXefH98HelTxz_wnvqa9W2xz5dUxHwqhjZ252MCQagn4OE5DDBzTxf0it2RYTYNsp7L57fZv0UD0bT4T1BJNv7k6nZo8klAqKo4wY6b2jgRYt8sCsm0K6jTANw/s1600/TeriStanSlideCemetary-72.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stanley, Teri</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqzqvDDEk2hgA6E1l2uFaoNSj9mZHX8gRV9yl34pyEEow0VgCNoz9WbStIFMhS4_zVsKwmFGZwZT_ZuwenOg5WSMzNkvZzAucpv884IfBV96rAcsurXzsrmwT_bnfL_UAmRwnDiUOBa_lS/s1600/ForestLight-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Dyea AK Slide Cemetery" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqzqvDDEk2hgA6E1l2uFaoNSj9mZHX8gRV9yl34pyEEow0VgCNoz9WbStIFMhS4_zVsKwmFGZwZT_ZuwenOg5WSMzNkvZzAucpv884IfBV96rAcsurXzsrmwT_bnfL_UAmRwnDiUOBa_lS/s1600/ForestLight-72.jpg" title="" /></a></div>
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It is, of course, hard for Stanley to remain reverent for long. Or was it me who suggested that one of us really needed to crawl into a sunken hole and have an eulogy said? Whatever, it was Stanley who of course jumped in.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHLvNklcU7Xfl3sWWaKxj2HgrDzo0GOhzaJfLbQ1bszX0dG4ekwkQtub82MdOOdOqcnqsu_93VbNFQm8oWpZ88ywo0va7_TjBGA4Jsv4n3ehXO-r_OPpEtJeEoinutqUkwozQObxxQvLBn/s1600/StanDead-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Beth Knouff pretending to be dead." border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHLvNklcU7Xfl3sWWaKxj2HgrDzo0GOhzaJfLbQ1bszX0dG4ekwkQtub82MdOOdOqcnqsu_93VbNFQm8oWpZ88ywo0va7_TjBGA4Jsv4n3ehXO-r_OPpEtJeEoinutqUkwozQObxxQvLBn/s1600/StanDead-72.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here Lies Stanly, A Pirate Who Died Not at Sea But Under the Snow<br />
A Story of Woe Too Sad To Be Told</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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Where the town of 10,000 once was is now forest, with few reminders of its former hustle bustle, the very air electrified by hope and energy and con artists.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheBXVJsPvxX9qcq5mPi-uOpgft3WYFSPEEq0phfZGIbNMyMsGBgHqcIjPX_utuweugnxTUPEtXIGQzeHa7F1kCUxVvCkyF3Azae2NKNn1GvywIibeONtSIbxAOtESQioDHMCgbcVMpbJj4/s1600/ThenNow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Then and now of Dyea AK " border="0" data-original-height="181" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheBXVJsPvxX9qcq5mPi-uOpgft3WYFSPEEq0phfZGIbNMyMsGBgHqcIjPX_utuweugnxTUPEtXIGQzeHa7F1kCUxVvCkyF3Azae2NKNn1GvywIibeONtSIbxAOtESQioDHMCgbcVMpbJj4/s1600/ThenNow.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1998 > 2018<br />
Middle building on the left is all that stands. And see how big the row of planted trees is now?</td></tr>
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So tell me, now that I've gotten you to Dyea, is there a more satisfying place in the world?<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvuJSv61Ioc1YGP0BL0KOMU7_O2t5xL7XP92aWAf5lUbqxdWorrowj-xtYodgAo-QTp9qpFNAzVyU2QzCYp-LFQUeVE58iMOMxDGeSUBoB_uI6El0gNZ2gKoGMnJI3f8K65lB9I1PDffu/s1600/Wharf-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Dyea wharf exposed by the tide" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvuJSv61Ioc1YGP0BL0KOMU7_O2t5xL7XP92aWAf5lUbqxdWorrowj-xtYodgAo-QTp9qpFNAzVyU2QzCYp-LFQUeVE58iMOMxDGeSUBoB_uI6El0gNZ2gKoGMnJI3f8K65lB9I1PDffu/s1600/Wharf-72.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Old Wharf, 1897, 1898, 1899</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG3XfgxKYz7-KjjjISA6mfaldh72njWrsOlU0-2DRORpLjExrH1THA51Jpr9oSnT9hohkt3JiOVPRBidUTzNK2DLB8GkbuxzKsw-kuptLsn5oESZWoZUra0zWu-DsJqg7SdWSrm2gb6ZbK/s1600/Creek2South-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="a glacial creek running into the Lynn Canal, Dyea, AK" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG3XfgxKYz7-KjjjISA6mfaldh72njWrsOlU0-2DRORpLjExrH1THA51Jpr9oSnT9hohkt3JiOVPRBidUTzNK2DLB8GkbuxzKsw-kuptLsn5oESZWoZUra0zWu-DsJqg7SdWSrm2gb6ZbK/s1600/Creek2South-72.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Creek running down into Lynn Canal</td></tr>
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I find Dyea to be a place where there is no boundary between me and the space touching my skin. I <i>am</i> the space, in limitless time, in the very breath of God.<br />
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And dare I get so mundane as to say, where else can you find a glacier fed creek bed full of gold? Winking up all shiny and yellow, and drawing me at least down into the frigid water?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM_0uZI_5qWcbVX49F0morn6frgj4z73vE2gNv98TXnYJ6kj8GaIhGrvPZoYqUMbJzV9pfh2t07Pm-3fCJ_1yuQvw9mfqWdH0kWgbFm4cLSKToG0oPp20r1IiP2ih1AYCtZzG8YtzFSM0b/s1600/FoolsGold.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM_0uZI_5qWcbVX49F0morn6frgj4z73vE2gNv98TXnYJ6kj8GaIhGrvPZoYqUMbJzV9pfh2t07Pm-3fCJ_1yuQvw9mfqWdH0kWgbFm4cLSKToG0oPp20r1IiP2ih1AYCtZzG8YtzFSM0b/s1600/FoolsGold.jpg" /></a></div>
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It was of course fool's gold and I hobbled out with feet so cold I couldn't move my toes.<br />
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Driving back to town in company of new friends--and my first but not last geocaching adventure behind me--my 59th birthday seemed a magical thing. But the day was not yet over.<br />
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Back at the hotel, Jazz, a young girl from Michigan, had baked me not one cake but two! <i>Two</i>? Yes, two for all the HAPA drivers there to celebrate. And Davey had his own birthday gift for me. Just to catch you up, the year before, just two days before my 58th birthday, a preacher in town had told me I was too old to fit in. It was Davey I'd found in my tears, it was Davey who'd wrapped me in his arms and decried the preacher man who'd dare say such a thing. So what better way to end my birthday, another year older than the year before, with Davey singing me "Happy Birthday"?<br />
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I've had seven birthdays since that day, but as nice as they've been they don't quite measure up to the one where adventure and friends in AK put the <i>Happy</i> in my Birthday!Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-65914140427616783892018-11-03T09:39:00.001-07:002019-01-19T14:48:37.301-08:00#23: Soapy Smith, A Cracked Head, & It Takes A Bullet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_P1QbW2gEk5h4Li8jUef7VnoxwQ3L0hKaD_09l82KqyAit6gzmFnJC6CtPFCKTgBOgs1fZpTr2uaogXdVqaM3PzVvFviLXpWjfMC2V9gPXydzR-UngJmu1FNEH8gim3PDDOd4eNOTReZq/s1600/SF--Chronicle-SSmith.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="sketch of Soapy Smith's death" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_P1QbW2gEk5h4Li8jUef7VnoxwQ3L0hKaD_09l82KqyAit6gzmFnJC6CtPFCKTgBOgs1fZpTr2uaogXdVqaM3PzVvFviLXpWjfMC2V9gPXydzR-UngJmu1FNEH8gim3PDDOd4eNOTReZq/s320/SF--Chronicle-SSmith.jpg" title="" width="281" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;">EVERY TOWN HAS ITS VILLAIN STORY.</span> Skagway is no different.<br />
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I was driving motor coaches for HollandAmerica-Princess the summer of 2011. When assigned a tour to Skagway's Pioneer Cemetery, I took to acting out the famous shoot out between our legendary Soapy Smith, villain, and Frank Reid, hero. I played all three roles: Soapy, Frank, and the narrator as Me, Myself, and I.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0iTvIz8_S15O8Z2tMxauMnig4VSuKRElvEzaOaGarw9Dywh6s_PEPUr04AYdW1Mzq_RqsrwPSyoXAjMGt2RyAkfmmSAQh9pulUHLC2M3OxrEmWD8f0VwNYj_v9CHFAn9wLKQWjuG_YTZ/s1600/Frank+Soapy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Photo of Frank Reid and Soapy Smith" border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0iTvIz8_S15O8Z2tMxauMnig4VSuKRElvEzaOaGarw9Dywh6s_PEPUr04AYdW1Mzq_RqsrwPSyoXAjMGt2RyAkfmmSAQh9pulUHLC2M3OxrEmWD8f0VwNYj_v9CHFAn9wLKQWjuG_YTZ/s320/Frank+Soapy.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></div>
The real event happened the night of July 8, 1898, after an eight-month "reign of terror." Virtually all coin and gold coming in and going out of Skagway was funneled through Soapy's pockets. This bothered Frank Reid, a businessman. Each man desired to run Skagway in his own way and bad blood thickened. Their last shots, fired at each other, still linger.</div>
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So now, a hundred-plus years later, we take Skagway's visitors up to the old Gold Rush Cemetery to visit these dead men and tell all about the bitter rivalry and deadly dual. On July 8th of 2011, however, exactly 109 years later, my friend Shari and two other drivers decided to act it out to rousing applause. I liked the tips that came in. So straightaway I took the idea for myself and ran with it--acting out the whole thing starring, as I said, Me, Myself, and I.</div>
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The cemetery sits a mile north of town, up on the east bank of Skagway River. A gnarly place. Trees have grown up, their roots spread all through the site and tipping headstones off balance. Paths lined in rocks take people through the haphazard markers. <i>Sharp</i> rocks.<br />
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I chose my "stage" carefully, leery of both roots and stones. But one day in mid-August I got myself a bit off stage, and in the full spirit of the story and playing the part of Soapy, I flung myself straight backward, shot through the heart by Frank Reid, and whacked my head with a thwack and a crack on a rock. I heard the sound--like a baseball bat smacking a ball clean over a fence. I then heard a collective gasp from my audience. But the show must go on, bump on the head or no. Still flat on my back, I flopped my head to the side and hung out my tongue per usual. Soapy fully dead, I got up to carry on as Reid. People started to rush me.</div>
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"That hurt," I agreed, "but I'm all right, and I'm not done." As Frank, I staggered about with a bullet in my groin, finally falling to my side while firing simultaneously at the dead Soapy and gasping, "I got him, boys, by God, I got him." And I smiled--as did Frank, heedless to his pain and euphorically pleased with himself.</div>
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But no one was smiling a minute later when, after wrapping it up as the narrator--"Frank Reid lingered 12 agonizing days before he too drew his last breath and died"--when it was discovered I had blood running down my head and onto my shirt.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglC3ZYCzNh34pzryl3lC0OaZTxeeR2CCsfW3TOCBod_qsmZ8fK8jH_aT75AOFq1fDUWYi2fOO56fp2YUzDcU4TpefDo9lIkBdorJvMM5W01GwjH49NRHSKoP2xEm0M9I_zzgYiD1JandiZ/s1600/AtBusDoor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="BRENDA WILBEE driving motor coach" border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglC3ZYCzNh34pzryl3lC0OaZTxeeR2CCsfW3TOCBod_qsmZ8fK8jH_aT75AOFq1fDUWYi2fOO56fp2YUzDcU4TpefDo9lIkBdorJvMM5W01GwjH49NRHSKoP2xEm0M9I_zzgYiD1JandiZ/s320/AtBusDoor.jpg" title="" width="184" /></a>Lovely. Ducky. Now what? I still had to get everyone up to the Overlook, where on the other side of the river my guests could look down on our town and see just how beautiful it is. But the growing chorus of concern gathering around me was making this awkward to navigate. I kept insisting I was fine until one kind lady showed me her hand with my blood all over it.</div>
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A second shock wave. I was determined, however, to finish the tour. "Really, I can do this," I insisted, everyone digging into their pockets for tissues to staunch the flow of my blood. Finally a big fellow by the name of Dan came alongside and took my arm, "Sweetheart," he whispered, "we don't want you to take us up there. You need to call your dispatch."</div>
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"Oh."</div>
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I was really quite bummed. Folks herded me back to the bus. We broke into the first aid kit. The cold compress didn't work. A tour guide from another company supplied me one of his. And then <i>my</i> tour was snatched away from me and handed off to Bronn. One kind lady slipped me a fiver. And then the next thing I knew Casey, goddess of our dispatchers, had me at the health clinic where the PA (no doctors in this town) fired three staples into my head. </div>
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"Can I go back to work?" If I kept my coat on I figured, over the bloody shirt, I could still catch my second tour of the day. Transportation boss said no.</div>
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In fact, I wasn't allowed to go back until the staples came out.<br />
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I went right back at it, of course, re-enacting the shootout. </div>
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Because that's the way it is up here in Alaska. A knock on the noggin doesn't slow us down. <i>That</i> requires a bullet.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKKkD5CSj80TnK0FIX-QGJcXBc4wlWoNsVMYbS0iMvowe8UGiNn6JNhWkH0LSNmcTLEcFPB273bOSE2hY4fhuAXUzQ1BJyYKrP6xK3PjGe7T3M-XEA42e2d5cvpDJXVNvJvMvmYEg4zelT/s1600/ReidMonumentWiki.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Frank Reid's tombstone 1898" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKKkD5CSj80TnK0FIX-QGJcXBc4wlWoNsVMYbS0iMvowe8UGiNn6JNhWkH0LSNmcTLEcFPB273bOSE2hY4fhuAXUzQ1BJyYKrP6xK3PjGe7T3M-XEA42e2d5cvpDJXVNvJvMvmYEg4zelT/s1600/ReidMonumentWiki.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frank Reid's tombstone<br />
Remembering Him As Skagway's Fallen Hero</td></tr>
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Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-3826043745588775972018-10-05T17:00:00.000-07:002019-01-19T14:48:21.850-08:00#22: What DO People Do In Winter?(reposted from January 1, 2013)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Nxjc09KiZbqmBdVRY_SIMkTOJbsmukHU5l0WdqUbL_MtnpVcyH_caxA6PvtQStCr4Q_3cdrOV1N37BAZcbxxCNg6AZH_r4rE8p_wWqhGz6EHwZ8ulI7ML2bc0hzx7XPcHoklxbK4mM-u/s1600/View_YouSay1_72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="You Say Tomato in Skagway AK, Winter" border="0" height="240" oea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Nxjc09KiZbqmBdVRY_SIMkTOJbsmukHU5l0WdqUbL_MtnpVcyH_caxA6PvtQStCr4Q_3cdrOV1N37BAZcbxxCNg6AZH_r4rE8p_wWqhGz6EHwZ8ulI7ML2bc0hzx7XPcHoklxbK4mM-u/s320/View_YouSay1_72.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>You Say Tomato, across the street from my studio</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 20 px;"><span style="color: #134f5c;"><b>Skagway in the winter</b></span></span> is an interesting place to be, and I’ve been here since Thanksgiving—the idea being that it’s just as easy to look for nonexistent work in Alaska as it is in the Lower 48. A few years ago, my son Blake introduced me to Skagway and seasonal work, driving motor coaches full of tourists into the highways and byways of Alaska and the Canadian Yukon.<br />
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Anyway, so here I am after three seasons, trying out Skagway in the wintertime. I’m keeping myself busy working on my book <em>Skagway: It's All About The Gold</em> and applying for everything from park ranger to police dispatcher to bank teller—and the usual office administrator and web design positions. All the while, I’m immersing myself in the history of the 1897 Gold Rush, reading, writing, drawing, my creative nature for the first time in years surging forth. I wake up each morning in the dark, wind howling outside; go to bed at night in the dark, wind howling outside. (They were not exaggerating when referencing this wind!) Rarely have I been happier. And it’s occurred to me that Skagway’s 1,000,000 summer tourists might be interested in what this place is like in the frozen dark months. What the heck <em>do</em> people do in the wintertime? How <em>do</em> they get through the day with a smile on their faces?<br />
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One of the things they do is socialize. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNKDPfMnj_U4iLGy-wCJuUCVyIVFJdHl3Uxe9rSoQp5WW8b-DHs8cjHJ655T1niM-0ILpuTQ6YtBuHp9ij-tNdWucujrVj9pmBi1uin3_p8Pbw1DqR8P6mlgpBYwoOP7WcikRhjHDd-aEJ/s1600/LunchboxSnow1-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Brenda Wilbee's car buried in snow, Skagway AK" border="0" height="240" oea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNKDPfMnj_U4iLGy-wCJuUCVyIVFJdHl3Uxe9rSoQp5WW8b-DHs8cjHJ655T1niM-0ILpuTQ6YtBuHp9ij-tNdWucujrVj9pmBi1uin3_p8Pbw1DqR8P6mlgpBYwoOP7WcikRhjHDd-aEJ/s320/LunchboxSnow1-72.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Arizona Lunchbox, a long way from home</b></td></tr>
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I arrived on Thanksgiving. The room I’d rented at Windy Valley Lodge (a once-upon-a-time motel remodeled into apartments across the street from You Say—actually, You Say Tomato; I’m giving you the local lingo here) was not available as expected. Not for a few days anyway. <em>What to do</em>? Did I say they weren’t kidding around about the wind up here? Temperatures below zero, snow everywhere, wind punching down off the pass. I sat shivering in my car, my faux-fur-lined jacket meaningless, watching the boughs of Sitka spruce whip and snap. <em>Mitty</em>! I could call my buddy Mitty.<br />
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I’d met Tim Saulter while working for Alaska Excursions the summer of 2010. He’s a year-round resident. With shaking, numb fingers I poked at his name in my cell phone.<br />
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“Sure, come on over!” he boomed, talking tightly around his ever-present baby cigar.<br />
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I was once sick while driving for HollandAmerica-Princess…could hardly talk for the barbed-wire ball lodged in my throat. “Mitty,” I’d texted, “Can you go buy me some throat lozenges?” Half-hour later showed up at my hotel room (HollandAmerica housed us in the old Westmark, two to a room, kitchen and free laundry down the hall for a measly $196 a month—love, love, love that company) with a grocery bag full of stuff that he tumbled onto my bed. Throat lozenges, EmergenC, ginger root, fruit popsicles, mixed nuts. “What do I owe you?” I mouthed.<br />
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“Nothing."<br />
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Knowing I could count on him three years later, I drove over to the corner of State and 15th in the biting cold. This is how we identify residences here. No street numbers, no mail delivery. “I live across from You Say.” “I live on the corner of State and 15th.” “I live behind the Molly Walsh Park.”<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIM2xqYrAdtD84IbjbPLHO15uFjG03OkjSCz8RSgp_CrhH9dLwKYxiSeSHKlm1YiYgGW6bJiQghKWsCPfPyysvzCotTEQSnyIEGZERD6TlPaFuDX8CZt0nmq5aCgXEdi8wftvlSboA2ozV/s1600/DSCN0195.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Tim Saulter Fixing Food For Senior Lunch, Skagway AK" border="0" height="240" oea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIM2xqYrAdtD84IbjbPLHO15uFjG03OkjSCz8RSgp_CrhH9dLwKYxiSeSHKlm1YiYgGW6bJiQghKWsCPfPyysvzCotTEQSnyIEGZERD6TlPaFuDX8CZt0nmq5aCgXEdi8wftvlSboA2ozV/s320/DSCN0195.JPG" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>"Mitty" Tim Saulter cooking for the senior citizens</b><br />
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Tight quarters at Mitty’s. In winter, he cooks lunch three times a week for the senior citizens. His living room is a storage room for a winter’s worth of canned peaches, boxes of pasta, sacks of flour and rice. Floor to ceiling. This is where you'll head should World War III break out. It’s also the place to be when you have no place else to go.<br />
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But Mitty barely had time to buzz my cheek with a kiss and mumble around his cigar “make yourself at home” before flying out the door to Thanksgiving dinner. Like I said, everyone socializes. Being Thanksgiving, all my friends were over at someone else’s house. Lonely, but not lonely, I poked around and opened up a can of Mitty's tomato soup.<br />
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SO THIS IS SKAGWAY. This is where you never go homeless, where you never go hungry, where friends move over and let you have their bed. Even it means they have to sleep on a camping cot next to a bicycle next to a crate next to a freezer.<br />
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I'm learning what folks do during the winter. And I like it.Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-36622802283482711282018-10-05T16:54:00.002-07:002019-01-19T14:48:12.133-08:00#21: Curling In Dawson City, Yukon, Canada<div style="text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="color: #45818e; font-size: x-small;"><i>(reposted from February 13, 2013)</i></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #45818e;">I Give It A Go!</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="color: #45818e;">If tourists used to ask me</span></b> what people in Skagway did during the winter, they certainly asked the question of Dawsonites in Dawson City, Yukon, some 400 miles even farther north. It seemed inconceivable to visitors that anyone would actually live way up there. "What do they <i>do?"</i></div>
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Less than a minute out of the Westmark Hotel Breezeway, motor coach full of the curious, I'd answer. “Do you see the green building to your right? Well, that’s the curling rink. They curl.”<br />
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<i>And this is what I intend to try</i>, I’d think to myself. Lucky me, last week I did just that.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggtQ2UP8zZIlUqlH0F2DBW8zgUuxruh7Tq9z1aWoHR6kug3paCVz6qhh47cY-3TpSDnC7bivZs3AqMC8Kmg8i5BP0QA-F7cs1S9Lv12G1nrteT8gcGXTroNxxPDKeU0Ss1EBZZM_yrmjvc/s1600/Curling_ScoreBoard-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Bonspiel Score Board" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggtQ2UP8zZIlUqlH0F2DBW8zgUuxruh7Tq9z1aWoHR6kug3paCVz6qhh47cY-3TpSDnC7bivZs3AqMC8Kmg8i5BP0QA-F7cs1S9Lv12G1nrteT8gcGXTroNxxPDKeU0Ss1EBZZM_yrmjvc/s320/Curling_ScoreBoard-72.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></div>
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First of all, scoring is complicated. The easy part is that you play the ice first one way, a team of four going with eight rocks (40-pound circular stones with a handle on the top) and then playing the ice the other way. Each is considered an “end” and the game is over after eight ends—or unless the losing team loses heart and quits. And this does happen. Too far behind to catch up, people give up.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLxrxM5wnTF4UnILQc9VqInjELwpYu5_7C6WxosDeHW2KwmL1-5eadBuZisepit9StIipxErzxIA7-WHHVUiAT3JzcwbI1V1l6bt2rdWykNrGjnX0oFfq1kHiFNcPmo8FNmaFXCUdBmP6b/s1600/Curling_Rink1-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Curling rink in Dawson City, Yukon" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLxrxM5wnTF4UnILQc9VqInjELwpYu5_7C6WxosDeHW2KwmL1-5eadBuZisepit9StIipxErzxIA7-WHHVUiAT3JzcwbI1V1l6bt2rdWykNrGjnX0oFfq1kHiFNcPmo8FNmaFXCUdBmP6b/s320/Curling_Rink1-72.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></div>
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I first watched four games at Dawson City’s 114<sup>th</sup> International Bonspiel, fascinated by the skill, strategies, and scoring, perfect strangers happy to answer my questions and teach me the finer points of what was going on. I could hardly wait until Thursday night—when I could try it for myself.<br />
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It’s harder than I thought. I’m not strong, and you’ve got to figure out how to push off, keep yourself balanced, and get enough oomph to spin the rock down the ice far enough to “get in the house.”<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPTyNGKT0szf74qjnEm-a8zzDIV_HeXpr7NfXyx3HC-oxQjLW3C9irDgFUPaalE4QLmrct76ebT_2l7HRPKpAotjjYcuKoqdXt_-PmalhrzCISbGT8WgT6oqiIwDRbv7ZXsMYOyom5qQil/s1600/Curling_Me1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Brenda Wilbee tries to curl" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPTyNGKT0szf74qjnEm-a8zzDIV_HeXpr7NfXyx3HC-oxQjLW3C9irDgFUPaalE4QLmrct76ebT_2l7HRPKpAotjjYcuKoqdXt_-PmalhrzCISbGT8WgT6oqiIwDRbv7ZXsMYOyom5qQil/s320/Curling_Me1.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></div>
I played with a friend I was staying with, two strangers, and a Swiss woman I’d made friends with during the bonspiel. All were patient and helped me along, which was all part of the fun. <br />
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I actually got off two good shots, and when we played girls against boys, the girls won. Meet the winners: Myrta, Me, and Larissa.<br />
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So curling is one thing at least that people do in Dawson during the winter.Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-66347087303441205722018-09-21T09:22:00.000-07:002019-01-19T14:47:58.530-08:00#20: Skagway Gets A Facelift: Gold Rush to Tourism<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: x-small;"><i>(reposted and updated)</i></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sixth Avenue: Looking west from Broadway<br />
Today Hotel Mondomin sits kitty-corner, today's Eagles Bldg</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #134f5c;">Skagway began </span></span>as a gold rush town with mud-sticky streets and a rash of tents and shacks: A “scrap heap” one early tourist described her at the turn of the last century. But once her mud-and-puddle youth was over and early adolescence in full swing, the inevitable "teenage" self-consciousness forced a sprucing up. And her get-rich-quick psyche matured into a more realistic psychology of economic sustainability: Tourism.</div>
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In 1907 she rooted out many of the old gold rush shacks, and business owners moved the better buildings to Broadway, relocating them along the railroad track. Shops and saloons, restaurants, hotels, and sundry offices from Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Avenues were shifted ninety degrees and then reset to face the main thoroughfare, their Victorian false storefronts aligned to make a tidy wall. Curlicues, bright paint, some recessed doorways, elaborate lathing, these ornate facades anchored signs that swung over Broadway to announce the various establishments, often displaying decorations like boots and horseshoes, clocks and barber poles to distinguish one from the other. Fire towers and churches were left on the cross streets. Brewery chimneys—amidst the hodgepodge of cigar shops, saloons, and cribs (tiny shacks where the lower class prostitutes plied their trade)—were confined to the alleyways with names like Hiroshima, French, and Paradise, an altogether shady business in the shadows, brisk and uninterrupted. But out of sight.<o:p></o:p><br />
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By 1910 the town’s once heady population of 10- to 20,000 (depending on who you listened to) had dribbled to 872. But if the Skagway Commercial Club is to be believed,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she was coming into her own as a port of tourism, editorializing that she was “the natural headquarters for tourists and sightseers..., richer than the imagination can paint, greater in majesty and beauty than the far-famed Switzerland, and unsurpassed in loveliness of nature.” Nested between mountains at the mouth of a glacial river, approachable only by ship, and her only road out a narrow-gauge train track snaking up from the narrow valley floor to the fabled White Pass, she was a gem in the wilderness. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Yet there was still a cluttered and disorderly feel about town: mismatched boardwalks, too many seedy alleyways, empty lots vacated by yesterday’s hordes. In an online book published by the Parks Department, Robert Spude wrote that in order to walk down Broadway the pedestrian’s path would meander around the fruit crates at Rapuzzi’s store, by the sandwich sign at the Alaska Steamship Office, under the canvas awnings—some with signs on them—and through a host of space defined by the overflow and overhangs, openings and closing, of each narrow building. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She evened out her boardwalks, consolidated the red light district to just Paradise Alley between Sixth and Seventh Streets and closed the gap between the beach and Third Avenue by plucking two- and three-story buildings from other parts of town. When in 1914 the Red Onion Saloon and Brothel was hauled by a single horse from Sixth and State to its present location on the corner of Second and Broadway, Skagway found herself a mature, pretty little town with Victorian false storefronts corseted in tidy rank, flanking the railroad tracks and with the blush of youth and health in her face. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The wear of time began taking its toll, however; the sting of winter winds chafing her cheeks, peeling her paint, gravity sagging her storefronts and slanting her floors. The Depression years all but did her in and Skagway’s Chamber of Commerce began talking of a face lift. Not until June 1976, though, did a congressional bill establish the Klondike Gold Rush National Historical Park, a necessary first step if Skagway was to undergo not only a much needed face lift but reconstruction as well. A decade passed. Finally, when she was 86 years old (her downtown core absorbed by the park and well past her prime) she got the first of her reconstructive surgeries in a ongoing historic preservation project that makes today’s Skagway “one of the best preserved examples of the turn-of-the-last-century architecture.” This is the Skagway we see today. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Notice. No franchises. No golden arches, no Walmart, no Kentucky Fried. Not even a theater. Nothing to disrupt the illusion of yesteryear. Well, one disruption—Radio Shack down on Fourth, better known to the locals as the tanning salon, single booth in the back. Okay, one other disruption. But not in the historic district. The Harley Davidson shop up on 8th and Broadway falls into a block that simply has to “look” historical. Besides, it's not really a Harley Davison. It only sells T-shirts. And there is one other teensy-weensy exception. On the window right across the street from the old train depot you’ll see a Starbuck’s logo. Don’t let it fool you. This is just another place to shop where Mr. Star and Mr. Buck, I hear, are still selling their lattés and espresso. The rumor going around town is that when they landed in Skagway in 1897 they discovered their entire ton of goods to be nothing but 2,000 pounds of coffee. They’re still trying to get rid of them. But leave these three exceptions out of it—Radio Shack, Harley Davidson, and Starbucks—the rest of the town is authentic, which makes walking down Broadway and some of the city’s side streets a step back in time. You can tromp the wooden boardwalks and touch the walls of living history. What do they tell?<br />
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They tell a lot. Echoes beckon, linger, and whisper in every doorway, up the stairs, and all around. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>“a gem in the wilderness”</b></i></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #45818e; font-size: x-small;"><i>If you're interested in more on Skagway, you can purchase my book <span class="Apple-style-span">Skagway: It's All About The Gold. </span>Click on the cover image in the left sidebar.</i></span>Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-52033277329171255052018-09-17T20:04:00.000-07:002019-01-19T14:47:47.648-08:00#19: Destination: Skagway, Alaska<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #3d85c6; font-size: x-small;">(reposted from May 2010)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">My son, </span></span>Blake, insisted I apply for a summer job in Skagway, AK, as a tour guide at Jewell Gardens. He was up there last summer and is up there again this summer driving tour buses. He got it into his head that I’d love it, do well, and probably make some pretty good money in tips. "For someone your age," he tells me, "you look hot." Do I feel insulted? or not? More importantly, he felt it would do my unemployment streak a world of good. It could even be fun. So I applied. Long story short, I’m headed for Alaska this Thursday morning.</span></div>
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Here’s the truth. I’m scared to death. I have to pay my own transportation and it ain’t cheap. Too, there is no housing. Apparently people just land and “stuff” works out.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You remember I’m pushing sixty, right?" I tell Blake. "I <i>can’t</i> do the camping thing. I<i> can’t</i> do cats and dogs if someone <i>does </i><span style="font-style: normal;">take me in.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he says.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">Here’s the kicker. There is no doctor, no pharmacy in town. I have to take up five months worth of medication.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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He arranged for free housing with the preacher, at least for May. Okay, a compromise. A place to lay my head for a couple of weeks. So I’ll go and see if “stuff” happens. If not? I’ll just come back and consider the adventure one thing I can scratch off my Bucket List. I’ve always wanted to get up there. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcQbfRa1ul-ej4L_8yT43Qtsj0Wl0AHvctPlK_d7o0Z3KPIa8wOcf0dxvE-lu3N60C6DcEvhgJ4G9NlsEDaT7-zCTstGbAKDbdGtOKkRleD08vUZecgvMCKg3tSVBJXLJJj_gU8zQ-RVvd/s1600/teahouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: justify;"><img alt="Charlotte Jewell of Jewell Gardens" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcQbfRa1ul-ej4L_8yT43Qtsj0Wl0AHvctPlK_d7o0Z3KPIa8wOcf0dxvE-lu3N60C6DcEvhgJ4G9NlsEDaT7-zCTstGbAKDbdGtOKkRleD08vUZecgvMCKg3tSVBJXLJJj_gU8zQ-RVvd/s200/teahouse.jpg" title="" width="126" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charlotte Jewell</td></tr>
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My job at Jewell Gardens will be to take tourists through the gardens, a glass-blowing factory housed in the gardens, and help serve my specific group at the tea house, also housed in the gardens. All of which I can handily do, and which I will enjoy.</div>
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A forty-hour week, I'll have time to explore, hike, maybe take a train out to some gold-rush sight, and probably write. Write lot. I always do.</div>
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To get there, I’ll be driving the AlCan highway. The 2,000-mile route will put me in beautiful landscapes and my son Phil has lent me his camera to I can capture the wildlife. I am to begin in Bellingham WA.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKJInf57lWINpCrpixyGXx9JJu9hoqHIOMbddKUSAa5z0746RjPccuWL3hA23_prGHXvi-YiItKhPmtGPtG85uoNs3ZFmuM5nkXSwKOxuvXJ5Qzl81XVg5SPWi6PekF-koACKtuJejN_mo/s1600/map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img alt="Map of car trip Bellingham WA to Skagway AK" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKJInf57lWINpCrpixyGXx9JJu9hoqHIOMbddKUSAa5z0746RjPccuWL3hA23_prGHXvi-YiItKhPmtGPtG85uoNs3ZFmuM5nkXSwKOxuvXJ5Qzl81XVg5SPWi6PekF-koACKtuJejN_mo/s320/map.jpg" title="" /></a></div>
<span style="text-align: justify;">My first day will be up through the Fraser Canyon to my sister's house in Quesnel. A night or two to catch up, it'll then be into the mountains to Hudson's Hope and my cousin Carolyn’s house. </span><span style="text-align: justify;">Then a long haul through wilderness where I’ve been told the wildlife is un</span><i style="text-align: justify;">believ</i><span style="text-align: justify;">able to Liard Hot Springs on the B.C./Yukon border. For $19 I can soak in the hot springs and pitch my tent with the bears. </span><span style="text-align: justify;">Last leg to Skagway takes me to Whitehorse where Blake tells me I need to stock up on food. I’ll arrive Sunday night at the preacher’s home/hostel. </span><br />
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I am now officially jazzed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, see ya in Skagway!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-31386757826063432382018-09-16T14:33:00.004-07:002019-01-19T14:47:34.269-08:00#17: Skagway's First Frame House<!--StartFragment--> <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD3heFZ26Iv2eM01o4Mnw-bJcA1MYaNbYofvJRHJom2Mopp7G5RTrTTLrhCi9fjHpP84NjrP2aMzMsEnhakyuAQVTT6h0azGx3inRiAp0ypVrxkzJbwbvA42udqdUFDJVJ1zl1szj0fHTd/s1600/BenMoore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Ben Moore, built first frame house in Skagway AK" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD3heFZ26Iv2eM01o4Mnw-bJcA1MYaNbYofvJRHJom2Mopp7G5RTrTTLrhCi9fjHpP84NjrP2aMzMsEnhakyuAQVTT6h0azGx3inRiAp0ypVrxkzJbwbvA42udqdUFDJVJ1zl1szj0fHTd/s1600/BenMoore.jpg" title="" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #134f5c;"><b>Ben Moore</b> began building Skagway’s first frame house</span> </span>about the time his father arrived in mid-May of 1897—a simple structure. One and a half stories tall, rectangular, clapboard siding—set directly in front of the cabin. At some point it was absorbed into the house but eventually shifted fifty yards westward to create a backyard. And as Ben’s family grew so did the house—a porch, a kitchen to the east, a parlor to the west. When he and Minnie left Skagway in 1907, Herman and Hazel Kirmse first rented then purchased the home.</div>
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Sadly, Ben and Minnie Moore’s marriage was an unhappy one. What began as a pretty love story ended badly. They’d met at a potlatch in March , 1890, near present-day Haines. Ben was twenty, Klinget-sai-yet, fourteen. “She saw me at the same time I saw her,” Ben later wrote. A pretty girl with a delicate appearance and long black hair, “refined and modest,” “a way above any of her class.” She turned out to be Chief George Shotridge’s daughter, to whose home Ben had been invited after the potlatch. He writes of this princess:</div>
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<span class="s2"><span style="font-size: small;">"…a bed was made up for me in one corner of the room. I lay there thinking of this meek and modest little native maiden in the next room. No warning whisper came to me to flee and dismiss this child of nature from my mind. Thoughts of home in Victoria and of another girl down there came to mind but were chased away. I was in faraway Alaska, living in the present… Thus it was with me, and thus it was that lifelong unhappiness was brought about for her and for me, and which one’s fault was it? Surely not hers, but mine."</span></span></div>
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<span class="s2">T<span style="font-size: small;">hey were happy at first, and in his journal Ben often referred to her as his “little girl bride.” They settled mostly in Juneau, Ben working the canneries and sawmills, transporting freight, occasionally foraying up to Moorseville to continue improvements on the homestead. When they moved up permanently in April, 1896, Benny was four years old, Edith Gertrude four months, and they were happy. Not until after they’d moved into the house, a third baby on the way, that life together began to sour. Some credit Ben’s temper. Others Captain Moore’s prejudice. Certainly Skagway was to blame.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: small; text-align: justify;">Benny, Francis, Minnie, Edith Gertrude</b></td></tr>
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Isolated from her family and culture, Minnie endured the lonely, not-so-subtle ostracizing of Skagway’s incoming “Muffin and Crumpet” ladies—who, try as they might, couldn’t welcome a “Siwash Squaw” into their very “proper” Victorian circle. There were exceptions, of course, and Minnie entertained these more gracious folks in her cozy, lovely Victorian home. However, her children were taunted at school, and by 1906 Minnie’s unhappiness ran deep. To escape the terrible unkindness, she and Ben moved to Juneau. To no avail. Plagued by depression and alcoholism, her unhappiness deepened. She and Ben finally divorced three years later. In 1910, she remarried—a plumber from Victoria—and while she may have known some happy years, by 1917 she knew only unhappiness and sadly took her own life.<span class="s2"><span style="font-size: small;">To stand in the walls of this home one can hear laughter and joy—not all was sorrow. But ultimately, the sorrow sighs—both Minnie’s <i>and </i>Ben’s.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlog6_4EsasPeweQVOG1UcedWxWaCeiwR9iA8Fe4Lm7Q42Jp3bPbjD_McxVoHoQsATMvjt8VHtlBY9iXyBQQwd389Vlk9NtIdtjBqVfL-9jnubBQ9klY2hf5L5UmaKZisWSCYe3M9vnwEg/s1600/BensHouseNow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlog6_4EsasPeweQVOG1UcedWxWaCeiwR9iA8Fe4Lm7Q42Jp3bPbjD_McxVoHoQsATMvjt8VHtlBY9iXyBQQwd389Vlk9NtIdtjBqVfL-9jnubBQ9klY2hf5L5UmaKZisWSCYe3M9vnwEg/s1600/BensHouseNow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Ben Moore House today" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlog6_4EsasPeweQVOG1UcedWxWaCeiwR9iA8Fe4Lm7Q42Jp3bPbjD_McxVoHoQsATMvjt8VHtlBY9iXyBQQwd389Vlk9NtIdtjBqVfL-9jnubBQ9klY2hf5L5UmaKZisWSCYe3M9vnwEg/s1600/BensHouseNow.jpg" title="" /></a></div>
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Today the Ben Moore home has been restored to its 1904 appearance, the interior reflecting what it would have been like to visit the Moores in those early days. Too bad pretty Minnie, “refined and modest,” “a way above any of her class,” was not good enough for Skagway’s pioneer women. We might have had a different story whispered from these walls.<br />
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<span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: x-small;">Skagway: It's All About The Gold for sale in right side bar</span></div>
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Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-2513564217740575832018-09-16T13:40:00.000-07:002019-01-19T14:47:19.320-08:00#16: On The Road To Gold...2012 Style<span style="font-size: x-small;">reposted from 2012</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu_i7KXnMsX-g9sJAo63hsOqhoAyz6f9DE0e578CE-xhW1Qs1tjN5cEvt8aK5XSrtLMiSFSMEWxJlhvcDjzf-Sye5gmgcLgC9cPaF-sef3hgd41HDEDFzM-EmeX2hVKfQIJ2M-jh7IutAo/s1600/Dawson1899.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Dawson City 1898" border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="576" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu_i7KXnMsX-g9sJAo63hsOqhoAyz6f9DE0e578CE-xhW1Qs1tjN5cEvt8aK5XSrtLMiSFSMEWxJlhvcDjzf-Sye5gmgcLgC9cPaF-sef3hgd41HDEDFzM-EmeX2hVKfQIJ2M-jh7IutAo/s400/Dawson1899.png" title="" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Dawson City 1899</b></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-size: 20px;"><b>2008's lingering recession</b></span> </span>has challenged many of us in similar ways to the folks back in 1898. Back then, the entire world had been plunged into economic depression through the Panic of 1893 and some of the more desperate (or adventuresome) gave it all up and headed for Alaska and the Canadian Yukon to see if they could get some of that gold everyone was talking about<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQCq1ttjdpyIRfKhbqSx2atVOtV8b_34B5YFdesWp3SxqX7FGj1YYTZXi_-kZtgMbnxY1S2C27iu5AQ_I4Z6G1uYsb-NMVLpmi9bxZkQLFeqYo-s7J9Kbn9wH7_7jdQB_bnfkmg9QwVXO-/s1600/ChilkootClimb.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Gold Miners headed up the Golden Stairs, Chilkoot Pass, YK" border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQCq1ttjdpyIRfKhbqSx2atVOtV8b_34B5YFdesWp3SxqX7FGj1YYTZXi_-kZtgMbnxY1S2C27iu5AQ_I4Z6G1uYsb-NMVLpmi9bxZkQLFeqYo-s7J9Kbn9wH7_7jdQB_bnfkmg9QwVXO-/s1600/ChilkootClimb.png" title="" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><b>A Eric Hegg Gold Rush Photo</b></td></tr>
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They came up over six major trails, the two cheapest and quickest being through Skagway and Dyea of SE Alaska. The two towns were just a few miles apart, both of them busy trail heads to the grueling White and Chilkoot Passes 29 - 33 miles straight up. Each trail had its advantages and disadvantages. Both were misery. One miner said it didn't matter which one you took, you wished you'd taken the other. Another said, "One's the road to damnation, the other to hell." They both ended up at the headwaters to the Yukon River at Bennett Lake.<br />
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The Yukon is a serpentine river of 2,400 miles that winds north and east, slithering south, and then east again to the Bering Sea. Five hundred miles from its headwaters on Bennett Lake was Dawson, Yukon--the miners' destination point--where the richest gold the world had (and has) ever known was found. More gold per square inch was discovered here than anywhere else on the planet. Their stories and resulting tourism industry are all that's left. Some of the stories are inspiring, some are exciting, many are tragic. All tell of human beings redefining themselves.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibeHFcIt_mGGCXgPJHU-5PMlxS7Y7rqHP0DzEw7gF4FFKmGc_misE9hxgSYr9xCsA1pZeM0SdP9YNZXxyNMFVV7fHhyphenhyphenTxO7JWmxhL-8Aajeq4hPFL7Sv7b6EKJdSaL4YTkj6FVlZD7cTlC/s1600/YukonRiver.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Yukon River" border="0" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="288" height="116" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibeHFcIt_mGGCXgPJHU-5PMlxS7Y7rqHP0DzEw7gF4FFKmGc_misE9hxgSYr9xCsA1pZeM0SdP9YNZXxyNMFVV7fHhyphenhyphenTxO7JWmxhL-8Aajeq4hPFL7Sv7b6EKJdSaL4YTkj6FVlZD7cTlC/s200/YukonRiver.png" title="" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Yukon River</b></td></tr>
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I'm headed up there myself tonight, flying out of Vancouver, BC, Canada. Unlike the miners of a century ago, though, my journey will not take me six months to a year, taxing every ounce of fortitude I might muster. My journey will take just two days. I'll overnight in Whitehorse, capital of the Yukon, and the following afternoon hop aboard what I assume will be a bush plane and wing my way over the Yukon River. I will not be required to risk my life by running a scow through its treacherous rapids, nor will I suffer the madness of being devoured alive by mosquitoes. Even so, I can relate to the collective spirit of economics and adventure that caused over 100,000 men, women, and children to give it all up and head deep into the unknown.<br />
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Statistically, only 40,000 ever made it to Dawson. Only 4,000 ever struck it rich. And only a handful managed to hold onto it. Donald Trump's grandfather did. John Nordstrom did. A few others. As for myself, I have no illusions of "striking it rich" (though I hope the tips are good!); but here's the thing. Having lived in Skagway for two summers and being in the midst of writing a book on Skagway's role in the gold rush, I've read scores of journals written by the men and women who made the attempt. Their stories all begin with hope of financial relief. They all end with gratitude and wonder for the adventure itself. They found life redefined.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Dawson City Today</b></td></tr>
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<b>I too am going to Dawson, to find life redefined.</b></div>
Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-28179155499675073282016-06-24T21:23:00.004-07:002019-01-19T14:47:06.781-08:00#15: Shipwreck Near Skagway! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi82-BqlEnYYrSMcjw5591guS88MRf_BJkVW-rIpZReL7WwjIvGaUYoCVZ8uz0AButvUcnCUk1j13lgSZ_pQ9zp8ebMcv3n1sjuxmi4F8BaTOx_6-LtS6nBPDOOt5SrijXDwASvkqYvLILs/s1600/Canada1.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img alt="The shipwreck of the bark Canada, Skagway AK 1898" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi82-BqlEnYYrSMcjw5591guS88MRf_BJkVW-rIpZReL7WwjIvGaUYoCVZ8uz0AButvUcnCUk1j13lgSZ_pQ9zp8ebMcv3n1sjuxmi4F8BaTOx_6-LtS6nBPDOOt5SrijXDwASvkqYvLILs/s400/Canada1.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #45818e;">The bark </span></b><i><b><span style="color: #45818e;">Canada</span></b> </i></span>shipwrecked near Skagway in 1898, 118 years ago. For eight years I've been anxious to explore what remains; however, the tide has always covered her. Today? There she was! Ray Tsang and I pulled my Honda Fit to the roadside and headed down to the beach. Yes, yes, yes! I was excited.</div>
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One might ask, How did the <i>Canada</i> get here to shipwreck in the first place? The National Park Service explains the basics on an interpretive sign up by my car.</div>
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The tale of the bark <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Canada</i> is as exciting as a swashbuckling sea novel. Although her final resting place lies in the cold water below, her surprising story lives on.</blockquote>
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The bark <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Canada</i>, a merchant “windjammer,” was built in Bath, Maine, in 1859. During her 39 years at sea she hauled a variety of cargo to ports on six continents and in over twenty countries. She was damaged by hurricanes witnessed mutinies, enduring labor strikes, and once collided with another ship. Yet the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Canada’s</i> most exciting episode happened toward the end of her life. </blockquote>
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When news of a major gold discovery in the Klondike reached the world, any vessel that floated was pressed into service for the Alaska trade. In late January 1898, the aging Canada with a cargo of building materials, set out on her last adventure.</blockquote>
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She set out on her voyage, but here she ended up. Once we got down to the beach, Ron and I had to first cross a stream. <span style="text-align: center;">He didn't want to go.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyCS62MitG1F8YsZFf2pxislanCFtPTp9H5bAJrVx8qDcSSrirQHihTlO_yrrjXoUNFksyKg0_LJT33Cs7lxlVDu7NeS4V5LMgSuE9E6aUdI1XlsE8fiTD0yYNElZyuHl6Kv1hJugpljn1/s1600/Bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Little creeks I had to cross" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyCS62MitG1F8YsZFf2pxislanCFtPTp9H5bAJrVx8qDcSSrirQHihTlO_yrrjXoUNFksyKg0_LJT33Cs7lxlVDu7NeS4V5LMgSuE9E6aUdI1XlsE8fiTD0yYNElZyuHl6Kv1hJugpljn1/s1600/Bridge.jpg" title="" /></a></div>
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But I was determined. He filmed it, but wait. I'm across and Ray has my</div>
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phone to take that film. I wobbled and shrieked back over.</div>
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I started my second wobble across the creek. Ray came up with the idea of walking sticks for my balance. But it still leaves me skidding over slime and barnacles in my less-than-ideal footwear<i>. Crocks!</i> Half way to the what was left of the ship, I realized he'd changed his mind and was following me. <b>Here is what we found.</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMGeE_rHzag8gzyFtGIkKENofKFl5BkklhQD_gvWlmhQdICJGFzqtLn00ZAiwmGQv5X8Uh1WIh4T17TgJdYYT3hqk62NSsaT2ojFMqyaDdAuA7V0gTdEJ2vr5P1xAzbds7z_nzue_KXCN3/s1600/Ship3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="Part of the shipwreck" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMGeE_rHzag8gzyFtGIkKENofKFl5BkklhQD_gvWlmhQdICJGFzqtLn00ZAiwmGQv5X8Uh1WIh4T17TgJdYYT3hqk62NSsaT2ojFMqyaDdAuA7V0gTdEJ2vr5P1xAzbds7z_nzue_KXCN3/s1600/Ship3.jpg" title="" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTIijLpUvgkqgo5rqX1BHx1ZW4GIPcsatwLqp2ampUGa2yMMRTo8Eq_mnEkgrz115Cu5ziFWrW_ZVT3tdbJWy1-nzFZ23dLmKs4J79Nvhex9MbLZs0poR_Ite_tLLj_aGYmQqXkWyrev-W/s1600/ShipwreckLastMast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Part of the shipwreck" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTIijLpUvgkqgo5rqX1BHx1ZW4GIPcsatwLqp2ampUGa2yMMRTo8Eq_mnEkgrz115Cu5ziFWrW_ZVT3tdbJWy1-nzFZ23dLmKs4J79Nvhex9MbLZs0poR_Ite_tLLj_aGYmQqXkWyrev-W/s1600/ShipwreckLastMast.jpg" title="" /></a><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwKWN_0fy5cu7osh_TG5_68HNEk-ikZtzmX_QyKXXeM4BK4BYgiIjwFr9Bjsxt17OfHGFVb7HvoBVjqnZi6tA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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I must say, there's not a lot left. A century plus 18 years has taken its toll.</div>
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Time to go back. Ray crossed first with his sticks, then hurled them over the creek to me.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>A <i>great</i> adventure!</b></span></div>
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Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-68300813807190480712016-06-17T16:06:00.000-07:002019-01-19T14:46:54.652-08:00$14: Tick Tock, Wrong Dock!<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwXJbErC5-ylikiTvcwOX6zJEpJZ-FgxlfJQc8jvm8av7zYADietb8f4nmGf9rwUWypS7wBI56SD5HPvoRjog' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>This is how asleep </b></span>at the wheel I can get. Our ship-list in Skagway, AK, showed that TWO ships we needed to collect guests from were <i>both</i> at the Railroad dock. Easy peasy. Bryan, the driver, and I, the dock rep, roll out. But wait, check my video. At the beginning you can see one ship docked, right? Do you see it? Of course you do. <i>One</i> ship, not <i>two</i>. I don't even notice.</div>
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Now, as I turn west in the video, do you see the OTHER ship? Yeah? There it is. Clearly, the two ships are <i>not </i>on the Railroad Dock. I must have been snoozing. I carry on.<br />
<br />
I head for the Railroad dock and find 4 of our 13 guests. All on one ship. Time ticks on. And on. Where is everyone from the second ship? I wait some more. "Brenda to Bryan," I radio. "Anyone sneak past me?"<br />
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"Nope. Waiting on 9 more guests."<br />
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Tap my toes. Wait some more. Tap my toes some mre. It's now 7:40. We leave at 8 sharp. Tick, tock, 7:45. Where the heck is everyone??? Bryan calls me on the radio.<br />
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"Go for Brenda!" I radio back.<br />
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"The other ship is over at the Ore dock! The second ship went to the wrong dock! Haha, all our missing people are over there!"<br />
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Yikes! As the British say--I can bloody well see it over there! "We better roll! Ten-four!" I holler into the radio as I race pell mell back to my car to see if I can't beat Bryan over to the Ore dock. Some of those folks, waiting in the wind that defines the Ore Dock of Skagway, might be madder than you-know-what. Nothing's worse than cranky tourists.<br />
<br />
Bryan beat me. He soothed the troubled waters and had all but one safely into the bus, out of the terrible wind. "Missing one," he radioed.<br />
<br />
So I take up position at the gangplank exit, hold up my SOUTHEAST TOURS sign, shout a happy hello through the roaring wind to other doc reps I've known awhie. Mr. Duley has three minutes, just three minutes, to show and then I'm outta here.<br />
<br />
"Bryan to Brenda, it's 8:00! I'm headed out."<br />
<br />
"Roger that!" <br />
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I can't believe it. We actually got out on time, minus Mr. Duley of course--never mind the wayward ship and me asleep at the wheel--all on video.<br />
<br />
Here's the "take-away" point of this story. Never believe the paperwork, believe your eyes.<br />
<br />
Of course, you have to look first! Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-77443703957230891992016-04-03T08:41:00.004-07:002019-01-19T14:46:43.441-08:00#13: White Pass & Yukon Route: A Video (link below)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4HR-QxPH4OxnErQQpYU1ZzvgahdNywPKYXA6iYD5P4pOwgAtYAW3ipoYzV4KV-lb20IiAfyW3CG_Ow0UFL6RErDrUxhZ7oKObhAwxg3FrIS7if59oIs-6DYIRTT2Jsbin_YH78HIhyRhE/s1600/Passengers.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Brenda Wilbee's sketch of first tourists in Skagway AK, 1898" border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4HR-QxPH4OxnErQQpYU1ZzvgahdNywPKYXA6iYD5P4pOwgAtYAW3ipoYzV4KV-lb20IiAfyW3CG_Ow0UFL6RErDrUxhZ7oKObhAwxg3FrIS7if59oIs-6DYIRTT2Jsbin_YH78HIhyRhE/s400/Passengers.tif" title="" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;">
<i>sketch by brenda</i></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><b>Skagway’s #1 attraction </b></span>has always been the White Pass and Yukon Route, built in 1898 for the Klondike Gold Rush. Today, thousands walk off the cruise ship gang planks to scrabble up the three high steps into the old Gold Rush train. This historic, narrow-gauge track takes off from the waterfront with a huff and a puff, a jerk and squeal—and then clankety-clanks along the rails for about five miles to where the narrow valley closes in. Mountains rise straight up on the right, Pullen Creek and Skagway River trickle and rumble on the left, the pulse of the train is something alive as tons of steel push into the curves and pick up speed, as if to ease the train into the climb ahead. But then the mountains converge. The river cuts a scraggly seam between and the train--by necessity--must begin to climb 3,300 feet in twenty miles.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsaouGD5e28SsLtekJ4TnNRGAbxCzSdrC_lLVXKJNeNgmpVlGdvWIF5zyVwpOSVOH8x0EcDBFru1z8w4dQD6CUoRHimoOc3GcJVz9Mr6_c1xbF3HyUP8bkCpqdc4k9Il0AchvbcS99mj1G/s1600/MeOnTrain_e51549d-cover.tif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img alt="Photo of Brenda Wilbee leaning out the White Pass Train, taken by Blake Kent" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsaouGD5e28SsLtekJ4TnNRGAbxCzSdrC_lLVXKJNeNgmpVlGdvWIF5zyVwpOSVOH8x0EcDBFru1z8w4dQD6CUoRHimoOc3GcJVz9Mr6_c1xbF3HyUP8bkCpqdc4k9Il0AchvbcS99mj1G/s320/MeOnTrain_e51549d-cover.tif" title="" width="198" /></a>My first experience on the train was one of exhilaration. The day was May 29, 2009, my birthday—a sunny day, all yellow and blue and green, the air pungent with the scent of the sea and temperate rain forest. I travelled alone, a gift from my son. I was to meet him at the summit of the White Pass Trail, where I’d disembark and board his motor coach to travel with his guests up into the Canadian Yukon. As the train chug-chugged out of the station, as it passed the chimney ruins of the old Pullen House, as it swept by the old gold rush graveyard where death had eclipsed so many dreams, my adrenalin pumped in rhythm, and I found my spot on the carriage apron—the wee porch on the back of the passenger car where I could lean out, take in the view, wind in my face, and breathe a glory so palatable I seemed to be standing on the threshold of eternity.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXPTlKQhJav4J9rPBKPAWDbbqBTNrAp1tnmy2ExscOjxev8Hja3NwxXpHKpUT_XAciVwHUOE7h2UJYDqiijeVZBRK2ITPDmSqyH1ikDHDo76652VPqNkjxHqtikHf-Bej5tzky_wU6vQ-p/s1600/NickMe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Brenda Wilbee and bestie Nick Mistretta" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXPTlKQhJav4J9rPBKPAWDbbqBTNrAp1tnmy2ExscOjxev8Hja3NwxXpHKpUT_XAciVwHUOE7h2UJYDqiijeVZBRK2ITPDmSqyH1ikDHDo76652VPqNkjxHqtikHf-Bej5tzky_wU6vQ-p/s1600/NickMe.jpg" title="" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">standing on the apron with<br />
Nick Mistretta, a bestie</td></tr>
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I’ve traveled the train many times since. Once with a gaggle of friends all the way up to Lake Bennet, another with close friends on a day off. One excursion was an end-of-season staff party, another a partial trip to Denver Point where a handful of us got off to go hiking. I took my grandson once, ten years old, the summer of 2012; John McDermott, then senior conductor, let us ride up in the cupola. Once it was the Santa Train in the middle of December. It doesn’t matter when I go, who I go with, how far I go—I never tire of the exhilaration.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>To take your own ride, click on this link: </b><br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6CvEVut8qcU" style="font-weight: 400; text-align: center;" target="_blank">White Pass and Yukon Rail</a></div>
Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-21924590062242521172014-10-24T10:08:00.003-07:002019-01-19T14:46:33.099-08:00#12: Gold Rush To Tourism: Skagway Undergoes A Facelift<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi10tlHg_n8sdG5zu9VFUs6T0BVwV8GQZxiZ_ZbNhvfoJJHSdwf9pekECD1KQZ2R7_kECmYvm00XVWodHzGkWD8j-hTWbX4wDcXLqnbZR8ykDLTZU3B1aWiB9aXKoPm4boM6OTz5hq6IcLj/s1600/Mondomin_4865.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Brenda Wilbee's sketch of Skagway's Sixth Avenue, looking west from Broadway" border="0" data-original-height="934" data-original-width="1459" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi10tlHg_n8sdG5zu9VFUs6T0BVwV8GQZxiZ_ZbNhvfoJJHSdwf9pekECD1KQZ2R7_kECmYvm00XVWodHzGkWD8j-hTWbX4wDcXLqnbZR8ykDLTZU3B1aWiB9aXKoPm4boM6OTz5hq6IcLj/s400/Mondomin_4865.tif" title="" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sixth Avenue: Looking west from Broadway<br />
Today Hotel Mondomin sits kitty-corner, today's Eagles Bldg</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #134f5c;"><b>Skagway began</b> </span></span>as a mud-sticky street with a rash of tents and shacks--a “scrap heap” one early tourist described her at the turn of the last century. But once her mud-and-puddle youth was over and early adolescence in full swing, with inevitable "teenage" self-consciousness, she began sprucing up. And her get-rich-quick psyche matured into a more realistic psychology of economic sustainability: Tourism.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIsUkyFMBvixiVmq6pJ7-rAVHE3YxE46451tWHbLvVZgy1k_gHghLo-9_lV5SCKKn6J-8dZlD_b3nYmSH0hcY9M0zupqFBOVCNTZmCG1iSNB7g5sF6r48kBrfC-6m1pGRu8AFfrfMKdBGK/s1600/PardiseAlley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Brenda Wilbee's sketch of Paradise Alley, Skagway AK, 1898" border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIsUkyFMBvixiVmq6pJ7-rAVHE3YxE46451tWHbLvVZgy1k_gHghLo-9_lV5SCKKn6J-8dZlD_b3nYmSH0hcY9M0zupqFBOVCNTZmCG1iSNB7g5sF6r48kBrfC-6m1pGRu8AFfrfMKdBGK/s1600/PardiseAlley.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Paradise Alley</b></td></tr>
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In 1907 she rooted out many of the old gold rush shacks, and business owners moved the better buildings to Broadway, relocating them along the railroad track. Shops and saloons, restaurants, hotels, and sundry offices from Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Avenues were shifted ninety degrees and then reset to face the main thoroughfare, their Victorian false storefronts aligned to make a tidy wall. Curlicues, bright paint, some recessed doorways, elaborate lathing, these ornate facades anchored signs that swung over Broadway to announce the various establishments, often displaying decorations like boots and horseshoes, clocks and barber poles to distinguish one from the other. Fire towers and churches were left on the cross streets. Brewery chimneys—amidst the hodgepodge of cigar shops, saloons, and cribs (tiny shacks where the lower class prostitutes plied their trade)—were confined to the alleyways with names like Hiroshima, French, and Paradise, an altogether shady business in the shadows, brisk and uninterrupted. But out of sight.<br />
<br />
By 1910 the town’s once heady population of 10- to 20,000 (depending on who you listened to) had dribbled to 872. But if the Skagway Commercial Club is to be believed,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she was coming into her own as a port of tourism, editorializing that she was “the natural headquarters for tourists and sightseers..., richer than the imagination can paint, greater in majesty and beauty than the far-famed Switzerland, and unsurpassed in loveliness of nature.” Nested between mountains at the mouth of a glacial river, approachable only by ship, and her only road out a narrow-gauge train track snaking up from the narrow valley floor to the fabled White Pass, she was a gem in the wilderness. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPAfeK8nFEuY3OSSCT1b46FL9ZPrq55UDc3BdU2132DwHSApTW4H4qcdQrV-J8_EXijNfPbr7meihS5fjeBE9Mc1peuKt7F2EMN4ofR65C7t4EYQ1EEPn6bSWMm0H4YUZnP8I4TTQa_B8Q/s1600/Rapuzzi+Family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Brenda Wilbee's sketch of the Rapuzzi family, Skagway AK 1898" border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPAfeK8nFEuY3OSSCT1b46FL9ZPrq55UDc3BdU2132DwHSApTW4H4qcdQrV-J8_EXijNfPbr7meihS5fjeBE9Mc1peuKt7F2EMN4ofR65C7t4EYQ1EEPn6bSWMm0H4YUZnP8I4TTQa_B8Q/s1600/Rapuzzi+Family.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The Rapuzzi Family<br />
Outside Their Washington Grocery Store</b></td></tr>
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Yet there was still a cluttered and disorderly feel about town: mismatched boardwalks, too many seedy alleyways, empty lots vacated by yesterday’s hordes. In an online book published by the Parks Department, Robert Spude wrote that in order to walk down Broadway the pedestrian’s path would meander around the fruit crates at Rapuzzi’s store, by the sandwich sign at the Alaska Steamship Office, under the canvas awnings—some with signs on them—and through a host of space defined by the overflow and overhangs, openings and closing, of each narrow building. Not the polished look a tourist-flirting Skagway was after.<br />
<br />
She evened out her boardwalks, consolidated the red light district to just Paradise Alley between Sixth and Seventh Streets and closed the gap between the beach and Third Avenue by plucking two- and three-story buildings from other parts of town. When in 1914 the Red Onion Saloon and Brothel was hauled by a single horse from Sixth and State to its present location on the corner of Second and Broadway, Skagway found herself a mature, pretty little town with Victorian false storefronts corseted in tidy rank, flanking the railroad tracks and with the blush of youth and health in her face. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMU8YyN9jxrDgExbnOv-plKBnk9hlMJtcLH19aVKf3-oex8DXOZ9V3SysbGS0AoN7WFxldJJ1TXLfAyPDwdA-vSwacL6rs-D46Tkd98WQiZDvEih0RlwRhceMqEHyRxs96dL49jxlilQ3R/s1600/Skagway1916_NPS-20060818184030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Picture of Skagway's Broadway, 1908" border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMU8YyN9jxrDgExbnOv-plKBnk9hlMJtcLH19aVKf3-oex8DXOZ9V3SysbGS0AoN7WFxldJJ1TXLfAyPDwdA-vSwacL6rs-D46Tkd98WQiZDvEih0RlwRhceMqEHyRxs96dL49jxlilQ3R/s1600/Skagway1916_NPS-20060818184030.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Broadway</b> </td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
The wear of time began taking its toll, however; the sting of winter winds chafing her cheeks, peeling her paint, gravity sagging her storefronts and slanting her floors. The Depression years all but did her in and Skagway’s Chamber of Commerce began talking of a face lift. Not until June 1976, though, did a congressional bill establish the Klondike Gold Rush National Historical Park, a necessary first step if Skagway was to undergo not only a much needed face lift but reconstruction as well. A decade passed. Finally, when she was 86 years old (her downtown core absorbed by the park and well past her prime) she got the first of her reconstructive surgeries in a ongoing historic preservation project that makes today’s Skagway “one of the best preserved examples of the turn-of-the-last-century architecture.” This is the Skagway we see today.<br />
<br />
Notice. No franchises. No golden arches, no Walmart, no Kentucky Fried. Not even a theater. Nothing to disrupt the illusion of yesteryear. Well, one disruption—Radio Shack down on Fourth, better known to the locals as the tanning salon, single booth in the back. Okay, one other disruption. But not in the historic district. The Harley Davidson shop up on 8th and Broadway falls into a block that simply has to “look” historical. Besides, it's not really a Harley Davison. It only sells T-shirts. And there is one other teensy-weensy exception. On the window right across the street from the old train depot you’ll see a Starbuck’s logo. Don’t let it fool you. This is just another place to shop where Mr. Star and Mr. Buck, I hear, are still selling their lattés and espresso. The rumor going around town is that when they landed in Skagway in 1897 they discovered their entire ton of goods to be nothing but 2,000 pounds of coffee. They’re still trying to get rid of them. But leave these three exceptions out of it—Radio Shack, Harley Davidson, and Starbucks—the rest of the town is authentic, which makes walking down Broadway and some of the city’s side streets a step back in time. You can tromp the wooden boardwalks and touch the walls of living history. What do they tell?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_xshLhm2qVVstIbR2-bpuqD4-XwGmGhj4orX3nFkAnJqG16P2uexUHwYHdMYlL1FosIX5hqcQoY5zMD5NEQamkDHYCFV2LDl8FT-MhE5Nk-sntuNqDn8l6TLvmGsHx8ZwQUadssFYCTFR/s1600/2and3_Wside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="picture of Skagway, AK, 2016" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_xshLhm2qVVstIbR2-bpuqD4-XwGmGhj4orX3nFkAnJqG16P2uexUHwYHdMYlL1FosIX5hqcQoY5zMD5NEQamkDHYCFV2LDl8FT-MhE5Nk-sntuNqDn8l6TLvmGsHx8ZwQUadssFYCTFR/s1600/2and3_Wside.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">“a gem in the wilderness”</span></b></div>
</div>
<br />
They tell a lot. Echoes beckon, linger, and whisper in every doorway, up the stairs, and all around.<br />
______________________<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #134f5c; font-size: x-small;">If you're interested in more on Skagway, you can purchase my book <span class="Apple-style-span"><i>Skagway: It's All About The Gold</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> by clicking</span> on the cover image in the left sidebar.</span>Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-60534663856594728422014-10-23T10:30:00.001-07:002019-01-19T14:46:19.426-08:00#11: Skagway's First Cabin and William Moore's Dream<div style="text-align: justify;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5f7mqpgSYUMJp9s7TMzOZQRe9U27Ss_TYhChSfS7qfEedrhJj3VAr5oSRTKFaQR5vNORMP1ODVmX8MKNWSKMSHo4vC2PXMIbjKPGLGzXPb5Fy0oqPC3rKemCTllifB6fSbjyyjfYpqoT/s1600/Moore+Cabin_4865f.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Original cabin of Skagway, AK" border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5f7mqpgSYUMJp9s7TMzOZQRe9U27Ss_TYhChSfS7qfEedrhJj3VAr5oSRTKFaQR5vNORMP1ODVmX8MKNWSKMSHo4vC2PXMIbjKPGLGzXPb5Fy0oqPC3rKemCTllifB6fSbjyyjfYpqoT/s1600/Moore+Cabin_4865f.tif" title="" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Skagway's First Cabin</b><br />
<i>photograph by Brenda Wilbee</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #134f5c;">Twenty-one-year-old Ben Moore </span></span>filed the 160-acre commercial homestead along Skagua Bay of SE Alaska in 1886, but it that is now Skagway, AK. The property was his, but it was his father’s dream. He knew gold lay beyond the mountains somewhere to the north, and to all who’d listen the old man predicted have a pack trail through pass, followed by a wagon road, eventually a railroad track. Few agreed. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
“Well, I hope the undertaking you folks have started here will fulfill your expectations," was one remark, "but I am afraid you are losing time and energy here in this." Ben writes: “These were the same discouraging remarks we always heard about our Skagway Bay wharf and land location.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Ignoring the naysayers, Ben and his dad worked diligently (though sporadically) to “prove up,” but were often diverted by the need to fund themselves. They piloted steamships or worked in the sawmills and salmon canneries. William Moore appealed to financiers and hired help whenever funding came in. Father and son bumbled along like this for ten years. Finally, in April of 1896, Ben decided to move his family up permanently. He wrote:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
My wife and I worked together fixing up the log house, chinking it better, putting in a good window, a back and a front door a rough floor, and making pieces of rough bunks and furniture out of poles.</blockquote>
Shortly afterward, his father announced good news: He’d gotten substantial financial backing from an English company. In exchange for a half interest in the property, they’d receive a cash advance of $1800. Under the newly formed Alaska and Northwest Territories Trading Company (A&NWTT Co), Ben headed for Juneau to purchase 6,000’ of lumber, a couple of cows, two horses, chickens, pigs, some blacksmith’s tools, shingles, groceries. He returned with George Buchanan, formerly of Enumclaw, WA, along with two native youths, John Jack and Dick Hindle.<br />
<br />
Four months later Skookum Jim found The Gold on August 17, 1896.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAft0YJL4Lv6w-NBFFEDC8RtWxGlO1xES-JtjOvnDNE0FspkpHwfFfBlGClrB_A2nCB4Sv37qhZsFg8FHRpOQ7GdPabZVfJtcpHomneUiPjpP9DZ4AdaxGHJJqzpLq9Rq7aC3p4vfhF_Mv/s1600/Skagua.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Picture of Skagway AK 1896" border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAft0YJL4Lv6w-NBFFEDC8RtWxGlO1xES-JtjOvnDNE0FspkpHwfFfBlGClrB_A2nCB4Sv37qhZsFg8FHRpOQ7GdPabZVfJtcpHomneUiPjpP9DZ4AdaxGHJJqzpLq9Rq7aC3p4vfhF_Mv/s1600/Skagua.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Skagway 1896</b><br />
<i>Library of Congress </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "lucida grande"; font-size: 12px;"><i>LC-USZ62-122304 4-75</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"Mooresville" had just gotten started, boasting only the small cabin, a lean-to blacksmith shop, a bunkhouse, and a rudimentary wharf. It would be a year, however, before word could get to the Outside. Ben and his father--and the newly formed A&TWTT Company--used that time to get their ducks in a row.<br />
<br />
Compelled now by a sense of urgency and with an additional $50,000 from London, coupled with supervisors and hired hands sent up from Victoria, "Moorseville" started to take shape: An expanded wharf, a saw mill, another bunkhouse; the trail widened along the river’s west bank, bridges going in over the creeks and across the river up the east side. A frenzied time.<br />
<br />
Captain Moore, now seventy-five years old, wrapped up his affairs and arrived mid-May to a hive of production under management of his British-appointed directors. He headed up the trail with two helpers. By July he had ten to fifteen men on the job. Mid-month, on the 14th, he declared White Pass Trail open. On July 29, the stampeders arrived. Ten years he’d waited. Ten years.<br />
<br />
<a 0="" height="200" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNT8BSPCLcZ3od4hIu-Bn0bC7eYjE9sJtm3Gl5TYyNWrvfdRtM8tLNXF5Izgg3oaxNFZuWR_Yh5G0q1SjeYvR9_iw-ojSf0QpfZ9LGaILe8PapF9oyf7Nsx4OQsqcWRafijTB6LMjXAXSl/s1600/Switchback_LofC.jpg" imageanchor="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNT8BSPCLcZ3od4hIu-Bn0bC7eYjE9sJtm3Gl5TYyNWrvfdRtM8tLNXF5Izgg3oaxNFZuWR_Yh5G0q1SjeYvR9_iw-ojSf0QpfZ9LGaILe8PapF9oyf7Nsx4OQsqcWRafijTB6LMjXAXSl/s1600/Switchback_LofC.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: em1;" width="139"></a> Two hundred miners tumbled off the <i>Queen</i> onto his dock. Within a days, hundreds more. Within a week, a thousand more flooded his beach with all the flotsam of selfish humanity. A fellow by the name of Frank Reid borrowed some surveying equipment and proceeded to plat “Skagway” on top of “Mooresville.:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR25yKLUR-CbfjTyhnW5OGRTd-_vnDyc2w1rqcvJrmBzL8fwi1H3VVUTO8xZRiUsfsEWts8U5VKGK8sEPyeF_nYMT1gXUJqvMSLEGL9iUDllezP1IaFmSO668TeLpKnwD-rHQtENJBECLq/s1600/BroadwayEarly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Picture of Skagway AK's first stampeders" border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR25yKLUR-CbfjTyhnW5OGRTd-_vnDyc2w1rqcvJrmBzL8fwi1H3VVUTO8xZRiUsfsEWts8U5VKGK8sEPyeF_nYMT1gXUJqvMSLEGL9iUDllezP1IaFmSO668TeLpKnwD-rHQtENJBECLq/s1600/BroadwayEarly.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<b style="font-size: medium; text-align: start;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Broadway, August 1897, Skagway, AK</span></b></b></div>
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The Moores and their A&NWTT Co. objected. They posted notices. They sent their wharf manager with warnings. But their complaints were run up a flagpole of indifference and left to snap in the wind.</div>
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Ten years it had taken Captain Moore to see this day—sorry fruition. He and his London backers filed a lawsuit for full recovery of their stolen property; it would take three years to resolve.<br />
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Today we have the cabin still marks the start of "Moorseville/Skagway," but there is no memory now of the bitter acrimony. Inside, however, its walls are lined with faded newspapers and yellow columns of small print that whisper tales of other unsavory greed and theft. This is, after all, a gold rush town.<br />
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But it's not the end of Ben and William's story.<br />
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Not by a long shot. One cabin became many, and in the end the Moores owned 25% of the assessed value of every merchant on the land they stole.<br />
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<span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: xx-small;">If you're interested in more on Skagway, you can purchase my book <i>Skagway: It's All About The Gold </i>by clicking on the cover image in the right sidebar.</span><br />
<br />Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-82142073197886443792014-10-22T18:25:00.003-07:002019-01-19T14:46:04.425-08:00#10: Before Skagway, Skagua <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj08ymdufjdrABHFu2oPzqte32sQoXp212O3viUHHOVzsxXzxZUwxRVwO7QSA2Tb0G6Z8bwU1lJ4zlkYxFLD3GRU78zaInE9piwM1lUJW070X434s8yij9LjHr2h21rnAjUb2-I3fSKVTv6/s1600/Lonely+Beach.tif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img alt="sketch of Skagway flats when it was Skagua" border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj08ymdufjdrABHFu2oPzqte32sQoXp212O3viUHHOVzsxXzxZUwxRVwO7QSA2Tb0G6Z8bwU1lJ4zlkYxFLD3GRU78zaInE9piwM1lUJW070X434s8yij9LjHr2h21rnAjUb2-I3fSKVTv6/s1600/Lonely+Beach.tif" title="" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Here we will cast our future lots and try to hew out our fortune."<br />
<i>sketch by Brenda Wilbee</i></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #45818e; font-size: large;">Skagua is Skagway's bigger history,</span> beginning when no one lived in it, not even the native Chilkoot of the Tlingit Nation. The natives preferred the more sheltered inlet two bays to the west—and their little village of Dyea at the foot of their ancestral trade trail. A man had to be daft, they figured, to settle in Skagua. Who but a crazy man could put up with such a ferocious wind whipping off the pass at forty and fifty miles an hour, with the bite of the arctic in its teeth?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Sketch of Skookum Jim, Ben Moore, William Moore" border="0" height="129" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3szOXVZncadWLAzOI6BG_St1v6kYbl09-dNQD3YJ5d3UUH0HE2V4ZLQQzgmccAcoTAfMyRnwDfZGu4Ojp1Zf1zcvtguQ7iQwcKvuKevyIeaMKjwI1B8Y56ukwaEup3aDBe4EXCyA0QdRg/s1600/JimBenWillaim.tif" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Skookum Jim, Ben Moore, Capt Wm Moore<br /><i>sketch by Brenda Wilbee</i></span></td></tr>
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Such wind did not stop Captain William Moore. A seasoned steamboat builder and gold miner, Moore had made and lost at least three fortunes—Peru, California, Colorado, Washington, BC, Alaska. He knew too that the big gold was yet to be found somewhere in the Canadian Yukon way up north. When, in 1887, an Interior Tagish man by the name of Skookum Jim showed him a “secret” trail through the formidable mountains—uncontrolled by the Chilkoot—Captain Moore visualized a new kind of fortune. He’d plant a town, open the trail, charge a toll, sell city lots, build a wharf, charge docking fees. He was not too old to make another fortune; only this time he’d mine the miners who would surely be stampeding through.<br />
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His son Ben Moore wrote in his diary dated October 20, 1887:<br />
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[We] arrived at Skagway Bay at 10 a.m. and ran our canoe up in the creek about a quarter of a mile, then put up our tent and camped at the foot of a little bluff on the beach, where a small creek comes down and joins the large creek on the right-hand or east side of the bay.</blockquote>
He later wrote about that day:<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have never forgotten my father’s words to me. ‘Here,’ said he, ‘we will cast our future lots and try to hew out our fortune,’ as I struck my axe into our first tree. Later we reconnoitered up the valley a way and put up notice of location for one hundred sixty acres upland, and measured off six hundred feet for a wharf site and placed our notice on the same. We ran across numerous old deadfall traps for bear and other animals, a short distance up the valley. My father also said on this occasion: ‘I fully expect before many years to see a pack trail through this pass, followed by a wagon road, and I would not be at all surprised to see a railroad through to the lakes.’</span></blockquote>
Son Ben filed the 160-acre homestead under his name and for the next ten years father and son “proved” up, building a rudimentary cabin, wharf, sawmill, platting city lots, and widening the trail. They worked tirelessly, coming and going for ten years, adding a bunkhouse, a cookhouse, earning money as needed by piloting steamships or working in the sawmills and salmon canneries. Ten years they worked and waited, preparing for the invasion of stampeders who would storm the beach once the gold was found.<br />
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Ten years late none other than Skookum Jim found the gold.<br />
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It took a year for news to get out. But by July, 1897, the rush was on. The first 200 miners tumbled off the <i>Queen</i> onto Moore Wharf on July 29, 1897. Within days, hundreds more swarmed the beach. Within weeks, thousands.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Skagway, AK's, first stampeders. July 29, 1898" border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4oCp-HhvHVO9dol1lWBvqzaIEIkAGDM-cdYkySm83ddwW192PwskHue2JiJiHP16-z5hn-VKKCMtjBPvDvjESpL9JR2sP4Mx4wrqW-7Ufut8d7zW_JB49kSnFSjMpRii82r56HZtpAtFG/s1600/First+Stampeders.tif" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Skagway's First Stampeders / July 29, 1898<br />
<i>sketch by Brenda Wilbee</i></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4oCp-HhvHVO9dol1lWBvqzaIEIkAGDM-cdYkySm83ddwW192PwskHue2JiJiHP16-z5hn-VKKCMtjBPvDvjESpL9JR2sP4Mx4wrqW-7Ufut8d7zW_JB49kSnFSjMpRii82r56HZtpAtFG/s1600/First+Stampeders.tif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span></a></div>
Skagway evolved into a city like any other, with villains and heroes and entrepreneurs. The Moores made their fortune, as did a lot of other people. Today, more than a hundred years later, Skagway remains a viable town, growing out of its gold rush roots. And while only a handful of gold rush towns exist intact, Skagway is one.<br />
__________<br />
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: x-small;"><b>If you'd like to know more about Skagway, you can purchase my book by clicking on the cover in the left column of this blog.</b></span>Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914239709771288603.post-35065879084397763322014-02-07T10:39:00.001-08:002019-01-19T14:45:51.515-08:00#9: John Healy: An Irony In American and Canadian History<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivAPlAELdOEY22KLRBhfeSF0S3cHpZGIlZN0nrryjZVYx5yR4oTIopf5kBk1HsDCTeL879n7_-oDaJRnXYb1_K7-BidtGGl324mf-zrmcdlNksauA7F3-jhIsKEW4MeMBrEEwfAC8hGIAn/s1600/HealyWilsonFocused.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Picture of John Healy's store in Dyea, AK, 1895" border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivAPlAELdOEY22KLRBhfeSF0S3cHpZGIlZN0nrryjZVYx5yR4oTIopf5kBk1HsDCTeL879n7_-oDaJRnXYb1_K7-BidtGGl324mf-zrmcdlNksauA7F3-jhIsKEW4MeMBrEEwfAC8hGIAn/s1600/HealyWilsonFocused.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Healy and Wilson Trading Post, Dyea AK, 1885</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #45818e;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Johnny Healy is an interesting man in Skagway history. </span></span>He said she'd never amount to anything. He also has an interesting history with Canada and her Mounted Police.<br />
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A whiskey trader, Indian fighter, entrepreneur, he came to Dyea, AK, in 1885 and started a trading post at the foot of the Chilkoot Trail--the famous torturous path twisting up though the steep Coastal Mountains. A trickle of gold prospectors had been using the trail, headed into Canada's Far North and her promised rumors of gold strikes. Healy saw an opportunity to cash in with a strategically placed spott. So he and pal Wilson built Healy and Wilson. A year later Captain William Moore and son Ben arrived, setting up their homestead next door in unoccupied Skagua, 1886.<br />
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"A waste of time and resources," Healy told them. "Nothing will come from such dark and windy desolation." The future, which any nincompoop could tell, lay in Dyea and the Chilkoot Trail.<br />
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We all know just how wrong Healy was. Skagway is a now pretty little town that sees close to a million visitors each summer while Dyea’s ruins lie buried by a hundred-year-old forest. What most don't know, though, is that Johnny J. Healy was one of the driving forces behind the creation of Canada's Mounties in 1873/74. Yes, true.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV0_p8tlGW7R1YM2WucBg8h8MGYbXheEFDQK1TDaN0sCuv_kQDWcmdM1efh4QFNgAPGNp-WvVzM609aR_fzRFkfbCZXaJx1JFiEB3qAWPz9wjfCJh9a3GwtO1MKPYzeLqq4wWlGsn9CGOM/s1600/FtWhoopUp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><img alt="Fort Whoopup" border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV0_p8tlGW7R1YM2WucBg8h8MGYbXheEFDQK1TDaN0sCuv_kQDWcmdM1efh4QFNgAPGNp-WvVzM609aR_fzRFkfbCZXaJx1JFiEB3qAWPz9wjfCJh9a3GwtO1MKPYzeLqq4wWlGsn9CGOM/s1600/FtWhoopUp.jpg" title="" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Fort Whoop Up, Canada West<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">the flag is <i>not</i> America's stars and stripes</span></b></td></tr>
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Healy was a rather notorious whiskey trader in Canadian history, working out of Montana during the late 1860s and early 1870s. He ran the nefarious Fort Whoop Up post in what is now Alberta, Canada. His whisky—watered down with red pepper, ink, Jamaican ginger, tobacco, and black strap molasses—was decimating the Blackfoot. To establish law and order and protect the First Nations, the Canadian government formulated the now famous Northwest Mounted Police in 1873 to drive Healy and the other traders back across the border. Their primary target, Fort Whoop Up—and Healy.<br />
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When the Mounties arrived after a six-month trek in 1874, their collective resolve sharpened by an epic journey of deprivation and hardship, they expected one heck of a fight. All they got was Dave Akers—a fur trapper the fleeing Healy had left in charge.<br />
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The irony is that years later Healy, after having made his way to Dyea, partnered in 1892 with big money in Chicago to create the North America Transportation and Trading Company in Canada's Yukon of the Far North. But it was becoming a dangerous place up there as more and more gold was being found by the steady trickle of American prospectors. He, among others, began writing Ottawa, asking for police protection from this growing element of American lawlessness. One more time, in 1895, the Mounties showed up. This time not to run him out, but to protect him.<br />
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The ultimate irony is not that Healy once ran from the Mounties and then begged their protection, but that he ultimately took credit for the relatively peaceful settlement of Canada West. "The Mounties got on well with the Indians," he boasted, "because I already whooped 'em."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpCjgR1A9JM2Ha0NH071hJ_YAJilpsNuUTiRgsotd6D5mE-5eePcCtaqtoq1a08u-FY3mlwdEUjYYn99-9Kw8ghxXnm_DfMVMEkIuwBtnKKm3uVZ3CH-mvhkRx6XT7S1SdlO8pBgfyEEA/s1600/HealyCover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Book on John Healy" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpCjgR1A9JM2Ha0NH071hJ_YAJilpsNuUTiRgsotd6D5mE-5eePcCtaqtoq1a08u-FY3mlwdEUjYYn99-9Kw8ghxXnm_DfMVMEkIuwBtnKKm3uVZ3CH-mvhkRx6XT7S1SdlO8pBgfyEEA/s1600/HealyCover.jpg" title="" width="128" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">If anyone's interested in more about this interesting and arrogant man, his autobiography is now available, Life and Death on the Upper Missouri: The Frontier Sketches by Johnny Healy, edited by Ken Robison.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: justify;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: justify;">(http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/life-and-death-on-the-upper-missouri-john-j-healy/1115688131?ean=9780615782867)</span></div>
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________<br />
<span style="color: #45818e;"><b>My own book, <i>Skagway: It's All About The Gold </i>is available for sale. Click on the cover in the left column.</b></span></div>
Brenda Wilbeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08889020141411978829noreply@blogger.com7