North To Alaska—Or The Cheechako Journals
This is the deal. My husband took a job with the pipeline. The pipeline is in Alaska. I was a life long swamp rat from the Texas Gulf Coast—had transferred to Chicago and loved it—so maybe Alaska would be a great adventure.
Here are the highlights:
Get to O' Hare at eight am.
Stand in line. With three tranqulized cats in tow.
Get to desk.
Attendant with four colors of red hair tells me flight is canceled. Go home.
I don’t have a home. I sold it. The car and the furniture are on their way to Alaska.
The cats wake up.
The cats YOWL.
I get handed off.
I get a ticket on another airline, but I pay for the cats there.
I go to the other airline. I have to purchase another crate. I have to pay for the cats again.
The plane is delayed.
It is now five in the afternoon.
The cats are no longer tranquilized. They are not amused. They are very vocal.
I get on the plane.
Someone else has my seat.
Her ticket looks just like mine.
Plane has been over booked.
Attendant tells me I might have to deplane.
But the cats won’t be unloaded.
I stand in the aisle and tell them in a Darth Vader death-whisper that there could be a possible incident if they send the cats to Seattle where no one will be there to pick them up.
Attendant gets on computer. She will find me a seat. I see them load the cats. Two of them. Where’s Hemingway?
I make them call down and check. Nobody knows—don’t bother them. I stand up and get in the aisle. I am recognized. They call. Hemingway is on board. Okay, I’ll trust them, but just barely.
I get to Seattle. All three cats are there. Great. The United sky cap says he can’t take me to the Alaska Air desk—go get an Alaska Air sky cap. The Alaska sky cap say he can’t go to the United baggage area—United has to take me. And I can’t take a United cart to the Alaska Air desk because it’s in another building entirely. I have a coat, three bulky kennels, three yowling, hissing creatures from hell, two heavy carry ons and a purse. I bribe the Untied Sky cap. Suddenly he is allowed to go to the other building. Isn’t that lucky.
I get to Alaska Air. No problem. Flight not cancelled. Not delayed. How can this be? However, they have to charge me yet again for the cats. They won’t take Delta’s voucher either. The cats have cost almost as much as a first class ticket.
I get to Fairbanks at 2 AM. That’s 5 AM Chicago time. The cats are there. The luggage is there. My husband has finally found a place that will take the cats. I won’t have to sleep in the car. We go there. Hemingway dives behind a dresser and can’t get out. We extract his furry behind and he walks around yodeling at high decibel. Cujo is attacking, hissing, biting and slapping at anyone who looks at him. Buffett just wants to pee and sleep.
I hate everyone.
End of Day One of my Alaska adventure. Tune in for more if you dare. There’s moose, porcupines and lots of snow.

What's That Dangling from Your Earlobes?

One of my first indications that I had moved to a whole ‘nother planet was when I saw a person wearing nugget earrings.
Hah! You’re thinking Alaska—Gold Rush—Gold nugget earrings.
Wrong. Wrong. A thousand times wrong!
Moose are LARGE creatures—a thousand pounds or so or more or less, but BIG. And they produce little brown nuggets, the size of a small pecan. Several in a pile. Produce, you know, like the last part of the digestive process.
Okay, now we’re on the same page.
Enterprising Alaskans gather these nuggets, dry them, varnish them, paint little flowers and stuff on them and add a little of this and a little of that and make jewelry. Earrings, rings, pendants. They also add them to dried flowers and make Poo Pouri.
They are allowed to do this because moose droppings are not an endangered feces.
Could I make this stuff up?
So, if you see someone and they have little brown, pecan shaped things as a fashion accessory—that’s moose poo dangling from their ears. I swear

Brown in Moose Season--More Than a Fashion Faux Pas

See that picture of me being kissed by a moose? You never want that to happen. Moose rarely kiss, they mostly kick. Hard, Moose hunting season is a BIG DEAL here. Hereto fore minimally sane people just seem to lose it during moose season. And the non-hunters need to be even more careful than the hunters—or even the moose. I’ve noticed that no one has a brown coat in Fairbanks. There’s a reason. Alaskans, well, a good portion of them anyway seem to hunt when they are less than sober. Now my body mass, like many other Alaskan women is roughly moose sized. Add that to vision impairment due to liquid nourishment and the fact that the snowflakes here are the size of leaves and tend to fall in formation—a brown coated woman of a certain size is taking a chance of ending up nailed to a cabin wall as a trophy of a “true Alaskan.” Since they wouldn’t be able to identify the brown –coated woman as NOT a four footed ruminant until it’s sober season—brown coats are a no brainer.
Alaskans are as proud of their moose meat as Texans are of venison. They brag that they haven’t bought red meat in X number of years. They omit the fact that it’s costing them about two hundred dollars per moose steak—but hey, the refrigeration is free. There are even a certain number of moose permits given for bow hunters—and they may hunt in the city limits with their bows. Could I make that up? So if you see a guy pulling back a bow in the hunting department at Sam’s--- and you are clad in any of the earth tones--run. He may be drunk enough to think it would be a warmer place to shoot his moose.
There is also a nifty little idea here in Fairbanks. Should a train, or car have a moose encounter of the close kind and the moose is crippled, the driver may shoot the moose (picking on a cripple, how cruel) but this person may not keep the moose. The moose murderer must report the death to the proper department. Now here’s the kicker. People in need can sign up on a list to be called if there is a moose accident. The names are called on the list in order and if the callee can get to the moose in an hour, they are permitted to take the moose home for consumption.
Now, only in Alaska does one sign up for road kill.
I don’t know the legality if an overweight woman in a brown coat is run over.