Rubber boots not included

Date: September 3
Mileage: ~5
September mileage: 5

This morning, Geoff and I did a nice hike-a-bike on a boggy trail near Eaglecrest Ski Resort. It was the beginning of what will probably be the slow elimination of many nearby trails - beautiful, unrideable trails. And still, I have this determination to hoist my mud-soaked mountain bike through ever mile of soggy peat until I know for sure. Today's ride, the Treadwell Ditch Trail, had several hundred yards of tentative but exhilarating balance-riding on narrow wooden planks, interspersed by much longer stretches of slimy roots, slick stairways and sludge.

For a failure of a mountain bike ride, though, it was oddly satisfying. This is the first time I've ventured into the thick of the rainforest, dripping brilliant shades of green from every dead tree trunk, sinewy vine and bolder. When I look at this kind of landscape, I can imagine what people must see the first time they step into the redrock desert that I grew up in - it's like stumbling upon an alien world. People in southern Utah call it "Mars." With its giant mosquitoes and burgeoning bear berries, Tongass National Forest looks to me like a prehistoric remnant of Earth. I can almost imagine mammoths milling about, though it dosen't take a very wide stretch of the imagination to see the backside of a big black bear. For a split second today, I could have sworn I saw a furry butt ... but I can't be sure. By the time I cranked my head for a second look, all I could see was a mass of bushes. Probably spending too much time daydreaming.

Beautiful day, ugly couch

What is that strange color breaking through the clouds, or those streaks of light shimmering on the water? Could that be blue sky? Sunlight? How easily it is to forget.

My newspaper reported that 29 out of 31 days in August had measurable precipitation. One of those two days without rain was my birthday. The other, I'm guessing, came before I moved here. The climate is going to take some adjusting to, so my bicycling miles are way down. This kind of weather demands fat storage anyway. I have been logging more mileage on an indoor elliptical trainer. I was rifling through the magazine rack today when I realized I had already read nearly every Newsweek with the year 2006 on it, and found myself debating whether to read "US Weekly" or a two-year-old issue of "Self." And, suddenly, I realized that I need to cowboy up and return to a less soul-sucking physical outlet.

Today would have been a perfect day for some much-needed bicycling. However, Geoff and I decided to forgo our morning for a different kind of soul-sucking activity - the hunt for furniture, which people of our tax bracket call "garage saling." One of my favorite fringe benefits of owning a beater vehicle is all the ways I can prove that, contrary to popular opinion, trucks are not requisite to living in Alaska. So far I've hauled all of my stuff, a new bed, new table, and now the world's ugliest couch, on top of my little, two-wheel-drive sedan.

We bought this thing today because it was small for our small apartment, included a twin hide-a-bed, and came with an dark green slip cover - meaning it doesn't have to look like a 80-year-old woman's acid flashback gone awry. Driving down the road with the thing strapped to my roof generated more drive-by smiles than I've seen all month. Hauling the lead-weighted monstrosity down two flights of narrow stairs cost my back at least two years of use, but it was all worth it to set it down on my blue carpet, throw a multi-colored afghan blanket on top, and stare in horrified wonder at the visual train wreck happening in my own living room. I hope when I get home, the slip cover has been applied. Because no amount much garage saler's remorse is going to lift that ugly couch back out of my apartment.

Hindsight

In my last post, I admitted my faith that winter will come to Juneau - or, at the very least, the mountains above Juneau, and wow ... I haven't received that much of a comment lashing since I called Alaskans entitled.

I know it rains a lot here. I know that what snow does fall is wet snow. But - as long as it snows one in a while and the temperatures occasionally drop below freezing - wet, shallow snow can be the base of ideal snow biking conditions. But, I concur. I wasn't always so blindly optimistic. The first time I rolled through Alaska, as a tourist in the summer of 2003, Geoff, two friends and I spent four days shivering in the rain shadow of a run-down campground near Thane. After that mini-trip, we had very little - but nothing good - to say about Juneau in our trip blog:

"Juneau's a depressing town really, that has hardly anything going for it other than government jobs and cruise ship business, but we're making our best here and things certainly could be worse."
— Geoff, July 31, 2003

"We spent the entire ferry ride parked on plastic lawn chairs in the solarium of the boat, watching the sun set beneath an endless stretch of steep costal mountains. In the red-streaked darkness there was nothing besides the billowing shadows of spruce and slate-smooth water — and then suddenly, lights. Lots of lights, sprawled out along the black shoreline. This is Alaska's capitol. The center of the state's government commerce, and it sits alone, stranded on the southeastern panhandle between mountain walls and the sea."
— Jill, July 28, 2003

Those blog archives can really come back to haunt you ... enough to make me question my current state of sanity. However, while I was digging through the past, I also ran into an entry a week later, where I broke down my top 10 favorite and least favorite things about my trip to Alaska. Number 7 on the least favorite list: "Homer, Alaska" ... right before "Camping at the Juneau Ferry Terminal" (No. 6) and behind "Working for Dave in Haines" (No.8 - and a story I really must tell someday.)

So I wasn't so crazy about Homer as a tourist, either. And yet I moved there anyway. And, after a short time, it was hard to imagine a more scenic, more invigorating place to live.

So it didn't seem beyond reason to give Juneau a try. And who knows? You know what they say about hindsight ... it has this amazing way of glossing over the bad stuff to make room for new experiences.