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We opted out of the 5-day drive back to the Lower 48.  And instead, are spending 5 days on a ferry.   Low and behold… our ship… the mighty Malaspina.

The Malaspina

Our journey begins with a 14-hr drive to Haines, where the ferry departs. The sequence of Love Boat stops:   Juneau, Sitka, St. Petersburg, Wrangell, Ketchikan and finally Bellingham, WA with another 4.5 hour drive to Portland>> just in time to R.I.P for H’ween:)

22 surprised me and sprung for a private cabin – woot!   I was looking forward to the chaise-lounge, heat lamped, top-shelf oasis, but the cabin is sure to be grand.
First night on the road we made it to Tok and grabbed a room at the Snowshoe Inn.
Second day, we were shooting for Kluane or Haines Junction and instead made it all the way to Haines and spent the night there.

Haines

We toiled the day away in Haines before boarding at 7 that evening.   Itching for chowder (none!) but we found a local yocal fish provider, Bells, who hooked us UP with black cod and salmon bellies.

The next four days were a watery mosaic of Spice and Malice (NZed card game), jaunty shells on the deck, im-port-ing, ex-port-ing, torrential rain, backpacker stove cooking, cabin cocktails and of course, other shenanigans.   In case you wonder, the ship is pretty rustic, amenity-wise. Dobbers in hand,  I couldn’t find the BINGO or gambling lounge to save my life.  There were no candlelit Rack of Lamb and Prime Rib dinner calls.   Swimming pool was decommissioned, but (lucky us!) we were surrounded by an even bigger body of water.   22’s back and my feet hurt, so we decided against the Salsa lessons.

Sitka house on the bay

On the sea, my theory of wilderness bathing takes hold.   If you reach Day 4 with no soap and water, then you can go on interminably.   After that, it’s just gratuitous.   After 4 days on a boat, there is no longing to get off and return to normal, civilized life.   You become one with the boat and the water and could sail indefinitely.

Dinner in Ferry Cabin 148

Although it was about Day 4 and our  3rd ocean crossing that the sea sickness took hold.   I quickly remedied it back in 148 and after a good night sleep, we deboarded on Friday am in Bellingham and swayed our way into the first Irish pub with greazy bacon breakfast.

After a few more hours in the car and a pint plus chowder at Fish Bowl in OlyWA, we were back in Haig House.

Phase Numero No Se.   I can’t remember.   T minus 21 days until it’s Costa Rica or BUST, with the very best of intentions to celebrate Thanksgiving with some ticos and margaritas in hand on black sand beach, swinging the day away in a hammock and the only work being done is wax ON wax OFF.

Inside Passage

Moose joust

AK bound to fetch my beloved 22 and bring him to the Lower 48.
Two months in PDX sans 22 have been slow, although I’ve personally accomplished a lot.  Being back in AK suddenly, feels like I never left.

Despite these two things:
(1) C Camp is NEKKID.  It has not changed entirely, but enough for anyone to visibly notice.  By that, I mean way too many trees have been removed (*tear*), old cabins taken to the cabin graveyard, new ones moved in, parking lots and future roads created.    C Camp is now officially and literally on the map.  It used to be that you couldn’t get an aerial view of C Camp on Google Earth due to it being encumbered by spruces.  Now you can count just how many buildings, cabins, lots and probably even cars (or lack thereof now).   63°43′25.59″N  148°57′31.22″W

C Camp

(2) It’s dark.  Really dark.  And quiet.  Eerily quiet.  A headlamp is essential at night.    Many late nights were spent in hope and search of the Northern Lights, which were not officially seen.   (another *tear*)

(3)  So, nekkid and dark.  And empty. With the exception of a handful of winter volunteers,  pretty much everyone has gone to their respective winter abodes or on vacation for this portion of the season.

Denali Ghost Town

Regardless, the week was blazin with parties and potlucks.  Conveniently, we had a fridge and cupboards ridiculously full of food to purge.   We baked copious amounts of cookies and cakes and got the crock rambling.  Much of it was left as donations to the term employees and volunteers.  After a week of binging, we spent almost 4 hours bomb-cleaning the cabin.  How does a 200 sq. foot dwelling get that messy anyway?

Last day in 573

OK, so that’s three things.  But, whatever.   The other crazy-like-a-fox thing is that AK has Zero Zilch snow yet, although the ptarmigans and the snowshoe hares have already turned white.  And confusion sets in…  Air is warm and rolling hills of browns and stale greens and expired fall reds prevail.

Due to the lack of powder, Denali Park road is open so I got to drive into Savage, where became an attending member of this Moose Convention – big Bucks!

Big Daddy M

Moose Convention on Park road

Peacock at Hornings

Sometime in the AM, a text chimes, “Horning’s Hideout? Pick you up in an hour.”  Instantaneously, I rise.  Damn the thermostat and my stubbornness. Or is that midwestern frugality?   At an early age, I learned that the heat does not get switched on until mid December and not a moment before, regardless of frostbitten toes and breath that you can see, in the living room.   I shed the down jacket and toque that I’ve slept in, a piping hot shower awaits.   Lining my quiver with the chosen plastic for the day, I throw the bag over my shoulder and head out.  K&KO’H at my service, java and melt-in-your-mouth cranberry walnut scones in hand.   The 45 minute drive to the course is well, well worth it.

Little KO'H and PP

We pull in and greet another friend, PP, and look around at this special treasure trove.   Apart from a land-wrecked boat, it’s rolling hills, fern-y forests and electric orange deciduous trees as far as the eye can see.  A compound slash commune of sorts, with barns 3x the size of my house and crafty fences lining the dirt and stone drive. Hand-made baskets of big-rig truck tire rims and painted pencil-yellow provide full confirmation.   Blue-y peacocks and pheasants resembling oversized tundra chickens litter the grounds.  I learned that a few of picturesque trees lining the background were planted 51 years ago, by the woman that still lives there today.  Random campsites lingered between the holes reminding us that this was not only a golf spot, but a glorified course-come-Lollapalooza fairground for bluegrass in the summertime.

Unique baskets

Just to be clear, there’s not one course…not two…but THREE courses to be had.   All at once in a day if your arm can muster 54 holes.   Or individually as you please.  We warm up on an 18-hole Roc/Putter course.   Little holes, 100-200 feet.  American feet, not Peacock feet>  tho one might be confused by this in North Plains.    It’s safe to say that birdies only slightly outweighed the bogeys here.  Every single tire rim contraption is a birdie-op with ace run potential.  Good elevation pitches that allow for the calibrated ‘thumber’ or a resounding ‘hammer’ shot.  Confidence builders, these courses…or as the intent would be.

Hamma Slamma!

We moved onto to the original 18, beginning with a few cross-field drives and a couple of lofty anahyzer throws before making our way into the woods.  Those who know my golf game can relate that I prefer shorter, tighter, more technical, obstacle-coated courses that challenge a players skill shot game as opposed to long, wide open, big-arm ridiculous courses.  Even on the worst possible day on the former mentioned course, pinging every single tree in sight and shooting a +38… I will walk away a happier girl than on the latter.

Elevation Shot

Horning’s is an insane amount of property and holes extended deep into the forest, making the hiking in between holes just as enjoyable as the play.  I don’t think I could be more stoked about my company today, even if I tried.  Revelling in the refreshment of playing with talented folks who aren’t overly critical of their game is a treat.    I worked up an insatiable appetite for a Captain Neon burger at McMenamins – and my crew happily obliged.    Full belly and an indestructible grin, I enjoy the ride back home.

Fall continues to creep and seep into Portland, spreading bliss while it’s dry and the sun smiles.  Nothing spells rejuvenation like new people, a new place, a new course in the country.