I'm more a Fighter than a Breather

Ok, I know that I never finished writing about Alaska, but I promise I might. ;) What I want to write about today is the fact that I took everyone's advice and tried Yoga for the first time yesterday and realized I strongly dislike it. All my friends and half the crazy world that goes on about Yoga releasing the mind and the body's stresses, seriously do not have ADD.

I'm laying on the floor with my left leg practically bent in half over my stretched out right leg and attempting to focus on my deep breathing, but I can't stop all the asinine thoughts running through my head. It's like recess for my brain; nothing to do (yes, I don't count concentrating on breathing acceptable as a attention grabber) to occupy my mind, therefore it's conga line time for my thoughts. My eyes want to wander, so that they can focus on something, but my head is tilted to the side that faces spinning machines blocking my view of the mirror. But I didn't really think I wanted to look at myself in the mirror, probably wouldn't have been a great image anyhow.

"Ok people, exhale into the Downward Dog and inhale into the Upward Dog. Make sure your butts are sticking out," the instructor drones.

He's so at peace with himself that he's lost his ability to put inflections in his voice. I would be getting sleepy, but I'm more focused on my shirt riding up and if the weird guy behind me is more focused on his breathing or my ass sticking straight up in the air. I don't have much time to dwell on this particular problem as the instructor moves in rapid succession through a bunch of twists and bends that everyone, but me, seems to be following.

I can't figure out how everyone just knew all the moves that the teacher was telling us to do; is there not a beginners class where someone explains what a Vinasa move 1 or 2 is, or how to twist into the Downward Dog correctly. I felt like I had just stepped into a school on the first day of class and everyone had known to read the required literature before showing up, but I of course, hadn't received the list.

We're standing with our right knees bent and our left legs straight shooting imaginary arrows at the front of the class, giving me the perfect opportunity to let my eyes wander. I would be moving my head around looking at people, but then I might get chastised for not concentrating on myself and my breathing. Hell, half the time I forgot I was suppose to be breathing. I was more focused on what I doing with my gangly limbs than my breaths. Besides, breathing deeply when I'm not having an asthma attack somehow seems to induce them, so I'm not a huge fan of concentrating on my breathing. I like to just let my subconsciousness handle that aspect of my life. Anyhow, it seemed that a lot of people's legs were starting to shake from the strain of the position and here I was going, "what the hell is so difficult about this pose?" I guess each to his own, because the leg lift things we did next seemed to kill me.

I also couldn't understand how every time we put our palms on the mat and lifted a leg or held our bodies above the mat, no one, but me, seemed to be having the "sweaty palm disease". I swear, after 3 seconds of touching the mat, my hands wanted to slide in whatever directions I was stretching. How are people suppose to hold a pose when they're hands are about to spay outward at any moment? I wonder if it would look really stupid wearing gloves during Yoga? Can't look as stupid as falling flat on your face.

"Ok we're going to come straight up while bringing our hands in front of us. Don't straighten out your hair or fix your shirt, we're just going to mess them up again. Just focus on your breathing. It's all about the breathing," inspirational words of advice from the teacher.

I think my mind was starting to go into overdrive of boredom. My eyes sought out the clock while my inner voice chanted, "are we done yet?" over and over again. I was barely sweating and the only things that kind of ached were my arms from holding an imaginary ball over my head and rotating it. This definitely was not the "sport" for me. It was cool that someone was telling me what to do, as I have a hard time following through with exercise if someone isn't there to direct me, but I didn't feel like I got that much of a workout and my knees were killing me from digging them into the ground to hold poses, plus, I'm definitely not a fan of sticking my ass in the air for extended periods of time. I can see why men take Yoga.

If I'm going to be stuck exercising on a mat with sweaty palms, I'd rather be fighting an opponent than struggling to keep myself from falling. But this is just my opinion. I'm sure Yoga is great for the people that have tamed or trained their minds to turn off. And I salute those people, because it's a damn difficult accomplishment.

Hitting the Wall

So I realize I haven't typed anything in a long time. I think that I've just hit that wall, the one that you just one day go, "hum, I really don't want to be doing this right now. I just want to be anywhere but here." (It more pertains to this job then the writing, but semi similar). John hit it the other day as we drove through five mud pits while a storm thundered at our heels to film the closing of an outer camp. He was so grumpy.

The last of the participants will be leaving camp tomorrow and that leaves a smattering of crew members to clean, put away and close down everything and anything for the winter. It seems so daunting right now after 7 weeks of harsh weather, long days and very little appreciation. Tempers are flaring, feelings hurt, stress points reached for my crew as well as the Camp's crew. You would think that being in a camp like setting doing what you love for months would be wonderful, but it wears you down and after a certain point, you just want out. You're body and mind are screaming for every little thing you've taken for granted, but have lived without these past months - TV, flush toilets, central heat, non wet shoes, a mattress, food other then something canned and able to survive decades in a tin can - you just want creature comforts...badly.

Right now, Beau, John, Chris and I are sitting at the Polar Cafe typing away on our computers, soaking up 56K Internet like it's the best thing in the world, maybe it is for all we know, just a small peace of normalcy to what our lives were before coming to the end of the world; the end of what we've lived with but didn't know we had until we didn't have it. I don't know, I sound so unappreciative and whining. I've traveled all over the world, visited 5 Continents, and never hit cultural shock, but I guess being still in America and not having what you know America has to offer, is a cultural shock.

I think that I'm in this Television Industry because I have this lovely vagabond nature and I have a constant need to do something different every few months or year. I'm like the main character in Chocolat, the east wind is calling my name and urging me forward. This Alaskan experience has been an amazing, exhilarating experience, but I feel a growing breeze at my back...an urge for a new adventure closing in on me.

The other day Chris, John and I drove 16 miles on a dusty and partly muddy road to town after shooting all day in the rain to eat a decent meal in town. When we arrived at restaurant Chris turns around and starts laughing. John and I had been driving behind him on the road and we could barely see as our goggles fogged up from the bandannas around our mouths and noses and the mud spattering on the lens. We looked at each other and our entire front halves were covered in a fine layer of mud, as well as our ATVs. It was hilarious, walking into the clean and cozy dinning hall and leaving dust tracks in our wake. Maybe not as funny to the waitresses, but it made the ride from hell amusing. The hot meal, sounds of people chatting on subjects other then gold prospecting, and the warmth of a heater alleviated rest of our foul moods and reset our minds to continuing the journey for rest of our 10 day stay in Nome, Alaska.

Hopefully I'm good to go these last few days because I really could do with a new subject matter for work or just more traveling away from Camp. Maybe just a good weeks sleep in a room with a heater, who knows. I apologize for the ranting and will leave you with lovely photos to look at as a prize for not wanting to kill me after reading this post.

Cute Sislex

The pet fox at drege Camp trying to eat yucky stew

Adam and John imitating superheros

The Boy's shooting

John Backflipping

DeadBunny trying to steal all the gold draw gold.

Lola, the most photographed woman in Camp (that i didn't know about until yesterday)

Mud and Rain

Hi Everyone,

I assume about 3 of you are still reading my blog. So to catch you all up on what’s been going on… hum… I’ve been sitting around the chow hall drinking coffee; playing cards with all the teenagers who think I’m a cooler, older version of themselves and that I’m about 20-years-old; nursing a 3-week cold that’s developed into a dual ear infection; trying to find a new camera since mine committed suicide and refuses to close the lens or turn on anymore; and avoiding my birthday by not telling anyone at camp because who really wants to be sung to in front of strangers and eat a half-stale cake?

That’s about it. Most of the time we plan to go shooting, but then the stupid sky opens up and cries. Seriously, is summer in Nome really this wet or are the Nomites this year getting screwed out of their 3 months of sunshine? If so, that would really suck for them – 9 months of darkness and up to -60F to have 3 months of 30F and rain. And people live here willingly. I keep coming to town and I hardly ever see the same people twice. For a town of 2300, there sure are a lot of under 30-year-olds that pop up. Most of them were born here and choose not to leave. Maybe since this is what they’ve always known, they figure it’s safe to stay and not explore the rest of the world.

I met a young lady that was born here, went to College in Las Vegas for 4 years, and still came back to Nome to work fulltime. It must be something in the water, why else would you come back once you’ve escaped. We stopped by one of the tents scattered along the beach on the way back to Camp the other evening and chatted with an ex-camper who still comes to Nome to prospect ever year. He says he pays $200 a year to camp on the beach and that it’s peaceful.

Not sure living with a sand floor, using wet wood to heat your stove, and having the tundra as a toilet counts as peaceful, but him and about 30 other guys, they seem to think it’s heaven. He even convinced his wife to come up and stay in the tent. Most women I know are all for vacationing on a beach, but I don’t think that the cold, wet, and gloomy beach of Nome is what they had in mind.

Then again, I willingly came up here, but someone paid my way and I get to make a documentary on the crazy people that chose to pay to come to a wooden campsite in the middle of nowhere. I often wonder if some random person were to fly over Nome and down the coastline, when they’d come upon the camp, would they mutter, “who the hell lives out here?” or “hum, I’d like to stay there?” It’s a remote and strange sight to someone who doesn’t have a clue what GPA is.

One of the only adventures I went on lately was yesterday when the guys and I ATVed out to Creosos camp, about 12 miles on the ATv, but along a heavily mudded dirt road. 2 months ago the road was just dusty, but the lovely 18-day stretch of rain has created potholes and mud puddles that sallow ATVs. Everyone is always saying how so and so had to tow them out and I was a little worried about going on the journey because my boys like to drive really fast and I always feel the need to keep up with them so they don’t think that I’m “just a girl” and suck at ATVing – which I kind of do. Maybe I just have a self-preservation gene that kicks in and say, “slow the F**k down, that’s a 3 foot drop,” where as the boys see the same drop and go, “Weeeeeeee!!!!” as the skid all over the place.

Anyhow, driving through the mud turned out to be awesome. I didn’t get stuck and I got covered in mud from the back splashes of driving head first into numerous bogs. It was awesome. I was even tailgating a bit. I feel a lot more confident in driving along a crappy road now and I love being covered in slim, as long as I’m wearing my waterproof clothes.

That’s about all that I’ve done. I now in a coffee shot typing this blog after transversing the soft, ATV eating sand and petting rain. My goggles kept fogging up making it really hard to see, but taking them off just allowed the rain to pelted me and therefore squint. It was kind of a catch 22, but I made it, I’m now dry, enjoying a great cup of coffee and when I finish this blog in 2 sentences, I’m headed to the movie theater inside the Subway to watch Kungfu Panda 2 and eat dinner. Thanks for reading and have a great day!!!

The Bear Experience

It’s always nice to be joy riding back to camp after a pleasant day of internet surfing and shopping in town, when you happen to look up and spot a rather large, brown blur galloping across the sand 200 feet in front of you. As you slow down the ATV and your brain has a chance to process what you’re seeing, you piece together that a Mamma Grizzle bear is hauling ass up the beach embankment and disappearing into the Tundra. It‘s only natural that the first two words out of your mouth are, “F**k!” and a few seconds later, “F**k.”

Everyone at camp likes to tell tales of their bear encounters. They round a corner and see one on the Tundra or they have to sneak around it as it’s lounging by the river. They always sound like it’s no big deal when you run into a bear, just keep riding up wind and you’ll be fine intermixed with horror stories of friends and Nome locals getting their faces ripped off and their tongues eaten. One of the participants even joked to her husband that she wanted to bring a 22 pistol to camp and the husband was like, “why would you want that? I’m bringing the 357.” The wife replies, “so I can shoot you in the leg and get away.” Ah, true love.

About a month ago, there was a Mamma Grizzle and her 2-year-old cub playing at the Cripple River. We managed to capture some blurry imagines of them on camera, but we didn’t feel like getting too close. After that there’ve been sightings of the 2 bears up at Dredge Camp and out where prospectors metal detect. The bears haven’t come back towards main camp since…until 2 nights ago when the baby cub was spotted along the far shore of the Cripple, trying to fish the salmon. From where I was standing, Mamma wasn’t in sight. Not good considering how protective she is of her baby.

A crowd gathered to watch the cub play but then it moved into the Willows and we’d all thought it had run away. Not 5 minutes later, the cub prances out of the trees on the camp side of the Cripple, right at the entrance to where everyone drives across the river, 200 yards from where I was. Right behind baby, Mamma’s head pops up from the bushes; she’d been on our side of the river the whole time. The two of them start sniffing the air and then head up river through the Willows…or so we thought.

You might have seen from the previous pictures that I posted, John standing over a dead, headless 8-foot whale half buried in the sand. The whale washed ashore last Friday, 20 yards from the A-frame. Apparently Mamma Grizzle and her cub could smell an evening meal and came exploring. They rounded the corner of an outer placed Hooch and started towards the A-frame, the last anyone saw of them that evening.

When I went to breakfast the following morning, the crew asked me if I’d heard the gunshots. Mamma and baby had been back at the river fishing and the men had to fire over their heads to scare them off. I’d slept through the shots. Neither John, nor I thought of the bears again as we went into town to hang out for a few hours. It wasn’t until we were riding back to camp, speeding along the beach, I just happened to pay attention to my surroundings and Mamma Grizzle was galloping across the beach, up and over the tundra.

She’d been having a mid-afternoon snack of whale when the noise of our ATV’s frightened her into the Tundra. I stopped once I spotted her and turn to John, who barely realized there was a bear on the loose. “What do we do?” I asked. I had no idea if we were down wind from the bear or not and if we should play it safe and head back the way we’d come or continue the last mile to camp. John replies, “Just go and don’t stop.” I put the ATV in 5th gear (the highest) and sped along the rough terrain, alternating between watching the Tundra for Mamma and the giant, gravel speed bumps in front of me.

Surprisingly I wasn’t scared. My heart rate didn’t go up and my palms weren’t sweating. It was just a natural reaction of “F**k!” when I first spotted the bear and then driving by, hoping the thing didn’t come back. A little ways past the A-frame, the dead whale, and the bear, I spotted a lone prospector braving the cold weather. John and I stopped and when the guy wandered over to me, I told him to watch out because there was a bear and her cub feeding on a dead whale not a 5th of a mile from where he was standing. The guy looks at me and says, “Oh, that was a bear? I thought it was a dog.” Maybe I should have just kept going and let the moron get eaten.

I came back to camp to alert the staff that the bears are hanging out near the road to town, but no one seemed to mind. They just said not to get in the way of Mamma and her cub and you’ll be fine. Some of the prospectors were packed in a truck headed to town; instead of worrying, they all got out their cameras. It’s definitely a different breed of people out here.

Pictures Galore...Kinda

John and Beau filming Blake on a rainy day. We do work in crap weather.

The sun at Midnight - although it isn't really this dark here, just my camera taking liberties.

Finally, a picture of my hooch and it's sign.

Awesome sky over Nome right before the giant storm came.

Driving on the washed out beach.

My friend Sarah, whom I splattered in mud because she was right behind me when I got stuck in the mud.

Cute baby seal

John investigating the dead whale.

Rainy Days and Nasty Waves

I think people that have experienced a snow day can understand being trapped indoors, hanging by a fireplace and playing cards, but thinking about all the things they’d really like to do outside, but aren’t able to. That is kind of how it’s been at camp the last few days. It could be Mother Nature taking her revenge Nome or the Chaos Theory being applied to the most recent earthquake, but whatever the reason, the ocean is obliterating the beach. We’re essentially trapped between the Penny River and the Cripple River, a mile distance.

On the 4th of July we ATVed into town on a relatively smooth beach. Most of the annoying bumps were gone and the ride only had me jumping out of my seat 2 or 3 times. We filmed the 10 minute parade that primarily consisted of GPA members ATVing down the street throwing candy to all the kids intermixed with 2 school groups, a badly misplaced Santa Claus, and about all the fire trucks and police cars in the entire area. After the antagonizing slow string of off road vehicles completed the ¼ mile parade route, the street was turned into a bike racetrack. Ranging in age groups, kids would races 50-300 yards, full speed on their bikes across a finish line, mostly blocked my moronic viewers. I don’t know about you, but standing in the way of a 10-year-old intent on winning $5 is not too smart. The kid isn’t gonna play Chicken with you, he’ll run you over for the candy money without a second thought.

After filming this spectacle of stupidity, we had a relaxing lunch before heading back to camp, the first of the rain clouds hitting the coast. I have to say that I’m not a huge fan of racing along a rocky beach on an ATV at speeds of 40mph, but I’m especially not a fan of being pelted by icy raindrops at the same time. Those evil clouds ended up crying for 2 days, soaking anything in their path. There used to be about 150 feet distance between the ocean and the cliff face, but during the lovely rainstorm, the distance shrunk to 20 feet. All the hard work the GPA members spent digging in the sand to find pay layers were wiped out with the rough waves that filled in the holes with water and then sand.

I usually spend a vast amount of time in the Chow Hall sitting by the Wood Stove trying to keep warm, but since most people couldn’t prospect on the beach and many of them were too much of wimps to brave the weather and ATV to other camps, they all crowded into the Chow Hall, stealing my seat and chatting to everyone. My once semi-quiet, warm spot was being over run by most of the prospectors. People would come and stand right in front of me, blocking the heat and start up a conversation, regardless of my nose being buried in a book. I wanted to tell them to move, but sometimes they were dipping wet and I was dry from having not moved in several hours. It could have been considered rude.

The wind blew in and out of all the holes in the hooches, shaking buildings and rattling doors, it even blew the Hovel’s stovepipe off the roof – leaving the Boys without heat for 2 days. People were taking all the firewood faster then it was being cut, just throwing it in their wheel barrels as soon as it hit the ground. The waves rose higher and higher, turning an angry grey. They made great pictures, but essentially trapped everyone at camp. It wasn’t the best of a vacation for the recent arrivals to camp. They’d mostly come to beach mine and now they were stuck waiting out the storm.

Good thing that the majority of the people that come to Cripple River are interesting prospecting, but they’re also interesting in relaxing, meeting people, and just generally having a good time; making the best of any situation. Only a small percentage of the prospectors are diehards for gold. They spend 18-20 hours a day digging in the dirt and sluicing their concentrates. They don’t care to make friends, partake in any of the camp activities, or show up at meal times. They want to make back the money they spent on this trip and then some. So far I’ve only seen flower gold – minuscule dots of color that you have to constantly run through water to separate from the sand they’re mixed with. Not too promising and a hell of a lot of work to gather. I think they real spirit of the camp is in getting to know the volunteers and prospectors and the gold is just secondary. Maybe the diehards will realize this, maybe they won’t, but I guess, to each his/her own.

Today the rain has let up, but the beach is still very rough and the waves a tad angry. The trucks are able to make a relatively smooth ride to town, but it’s a bumpy and wet ride to town on the ATVs, you have to ride in and out of the waves, often over large stomps of driftwood. At least people are out of the Chow Hall and back to digging in the dirt or walking about searching for beach glass and enjoying the fresh air. No longer is it a “Snow Day”.

Em's Hooch

My very first fire.

So I have my own Hooch. When we all got back from our Klondike Adventure, Greg, Adam (our other cameraman who came to camp late and missed out on shooting the Klondike trip), Brandon, and Amber (Brandon’s girlfriend) all moved into the “Buzzard’s Roost”, while John and Beau got their own cabin, leaving me to be by myself. I love my own place, but the Roost has a TV, a shower, a running toilet, a full kitchen, and people who know how to start fires. The Hovel (what I named John and Beau’s hooch) was supposed to be my cabin, but when the boys saw that it had a running toilet, they claimed it and kicked me out. It’s pretty much the only thing that I miss from that hooch because at 3 am, it sucks to crawl out of your warm sleeping bag, find shoes and a jacket half awake in the dark and then walk 500 yards to an outhouse.

The plus side to my hooch is that it’s 100 yards from the Chow Hall, and coffee! I have neighbors that will watch my place (because I don’t have a lock) and make sure that everything is safe, and the best part…I have a sign with my name on the door. Why is this special, important? Most of the old timers, the people that have volunteered to work at camp for more than 2 years, most 15 years, all have signs on their hoochs. They’re given nicknames by other staff members for something they’ve done, usually something stupid, and then a sign appears on their hooch. It’s a sign of endearment.


A foggy evening.

Luckily I wasn’t given a sign for my little bath in the Baltic Sea the first week I was here, nope, it’s just a simple sign that says “Em’s”. When it was put up I wasn’t around, but Paul, made a point to let the boys know that he was tacking it up to my door. Greg and Adam have been to Cripple River for 4 years, Beau 2 years, and John is a newbee like me. None of them have signs, so when they saw mine they were slightly jealous. I wasn’t even around when it went up. I was the moron that strolled by one afternoon and actually looked at my door to say, “wow, I have a sign. Cool”. The Boys just down-casted their eyes and huffed.

Paul later told me he was the one that put it up, explained the importance of having a sign before being at the camp 2 years, how special I was, and then made me go on a treasure hunt to find the person who made me the sign. It turns out it was Diane, one of the old timer’s wife. She felt that if I was stuck working with the boys and living on my own, I deserved a sign. Plus she liked me and wanted to see the boy’s reactions to the sign. Hahaha.


About 10pm on the Cripple River

Over the first few days in my new hooch I kept ending up with presents on my front step or right inside the door. I found a bundle of kindling on the steps, I nearly tripped over a log of wood someone stuck right inside the door, my neighbor gave me his air mattress pump since the boys took mine, and Lisa handed me a blanket when I told her I was freezing at night. Things that have been handed to me: a bandana because a participant felt bad for me when I came back to camp and my face was covered in dirt; an air mattress, since mine deflates every night; a random rock; and a pack of wasabi peanuts since I mentioned at dinner I liked spicy food.

I’ve also received numerous offers for help in the shower (I’ve refused all, no need of a 70-year-old back washer), a few dates to the Friday Night party, and apparently my neighbor has become my pimp, saying it’s $10 for me to screw them – give me $10 and I walk away. Hehe. So far no one’s taken the bait, but I have got free beer. I’m still waiting for someone to give me some of his or her gold…it could happen.


Beach Highway to Camp with prospectors in foreground.

All in all, everyone is really nice. A little crooked, crude humor and rancid jokes from 60-80-year-olds, but it’s all in good fun and I think the old guys like me because I don’t back down, I’m hardly ever offended and I can make them blush just as much as they can attempt to make me blush. I started this trip thinking camp was boring and I would much rather be in the town of Nome, but now it’s the other way around. I can’t walk into the Chow Hall without someone stopping me to chat. I try to get in the food line, somewhat near the front, but it takes me a good 10 minutes to escape all the chatters and by then the line is wrapped around the hall. Oh well, at least people want to talk to me.

Until next time…


Adam, Greg, Me, and John taking a break from shooting.

The end of the Klondike

I am currently sitting in my quaint Hooch at Cripple River, typing away next to a brilliantly warm fire that was kindly started by my neighbors. It’s pouring down rain right now, and the boys have hidden themselves away – most likely watching a movie and not inviting me, so I decided to stay in and write. But, as I’ve been in my Hooch for the last 2 hours, my fingers slowly turning to ice, I realized I was going to have to start a fire if I continued to stay in my cabin.

Needless to say, I suck at being a Girl Scout and my 2 attempts at building a tee-pee from kindling and then lighting pieces of paper under said wood, failed. So, I opened my door, look across the dirt road at two men talking on their Hooch porch and pathetically asked, “Anyone know how to start a fire,” my puppy dog eyes doing the rest. Larry and Mike, my new best friends, made a proper tee-pee, set fire to paper cups and switched out my soggy, wet wood for dry timber. Now it’s approaching tank top heat in my cabin, but I’m not complaining. I just need to figure out a way to have people start fires for me every night….hum….how big should my eyes get next time.

Anyhow, I left off in Skagway last blog entry. After all 4 of us, and an equal amount of gear to total our body weights, piled into a Toyota Camry, we arrived in Whitehorse 110 miles later. It was not the most comfortable of rides, and it wasn’t going to be the longest drive of the trip either.

Whitehorse was a stopping point for the rafters cruising down the Yukon to Dawson City. After the Stampeders built their boats at Lake Bennett, they had to sail 500 miles to Dawson, but the first of many dangers was the rapids spread throughout Miles Canyon. These rapids were so deadly that the Canadian Mounties imposed a law that no man could go through them without an experienced guide and all women and children would have to depart at Canyon City and walk the 5 miles around the rapids to Whitehorse before getting back into their boats. Today, the river is dammed a little above the rapids, creasing them to a mere class one of foaming waves.

We stayed in Whitehorse for 2 1/2 days, starting the ½ day filming at the MacBride Museum. They have a lovely exhibit on gold, including several Gold Rush antiques. The next day we went on a highly informative walking tour of the historical buildings of Whitehorse. The tour was lead by a tour guide dressed in period clothing who definitely knew his history. I learned that Sam McGee, from Robert Service’s poem, “The Cremation of Sam McGee”, was a real person who worked at the same bank as Service and Service took a liking to Sam’s name, so he named his poem’s character after him.

You would think this would be a great honor, but at the time, McGee was just a humble man trying to live his life and all these people who had read the poem in the early 1900’s thought he did everything thing from the poem (despite dying and being cremated), so McGee became a egregious celebrity, trying to hide from the limelight and live his life with no such luck. Poor guy. Also, the reason this story came up is because McGee’s house, along with the birth house of Service, are both in Whitehorse.

After the tour, we impromptu shot aboard the S.S. Klondike, a very cool Sternwheeler ship that cruised up the Yukon carrying goods and people to Whitehorse and Dawson City. Since I planned the schedule and we didn’t have a lot of time in Whitehorse, I convinced the boys to hike out to Canyon City, not only was it was the stopping point for the boats, but also the only place left with an original tramway track and tram built by a creative young man that saw an opportunity for cash during the Gold Rush by building a horse drawn wagon and a track from Canyon City to Whitehorse to carry the women and children kicked out of the boats and to lug supplies the same distance.

Canyon City was only 1.5 kms along a relatively smooth dirt path paralleling the Yukon River, but my boss still cursed the refreshing walk as he was filming the tram cart when he looked over to spot a car driving through the trees, “There was a road?!” Who knew? At least the next activity was flying over the Chilkoot Trail, too bad it started to rain and a very beautiful, but unwarranted fog floated serenely above the “Golden Staircase” obliterating our shot. Greg regretted the $700 he spent to shoot useless footage; I, on the other hand, loved the plane ride. It was my first time in a Cessna and although we didn’t get the shot we wanted, I still think some of the footage is useable and regardless; it was a great experience with cool video and photos of fog and snow covered mountains.

There were more historic interviews and places to shoot in Whitehorse, but since it was such an unwelcoming town, I feel the need to skip over most of the details. Skagway greeted us with open arms, but Whitehorse potently accepted us. Dawson City was much more friendly. Too bad we only stayed 3 days.

The goal of so many and the achievement of so few, Dawson City sits along the Yukon River, a quiet town of dirt roads and wooden buildings. The city of gold, triumph for few, disappointment for many, despair all around, but hope everywhere. Dawson still remains an active mining town with tourism thrown in to supplement the town’s income. Its history is kept in the well-preserved buildings from the Gold Rush era and with the knowledgeable docents in every museum and tourist attraction.

Robert Service and Jack London’s cabins both reside here; along with a huge Gold Dredge that ate up the land, but produced over 18 million in gold in the early 1900’s; the Discovery Claim, where Skoohum Jim and George Carmack discovered the gold that set off the Rush; a informative and elaborate museum on the history of the town; plus it’s home to numerous Klondike Gold Rush prospector’s kin. It’s a town full of vibrant history and beautiful scenery. I wish we could have stayed a little longer, but alas, every trip must end.

The best part (insert sarcastic cough) was the 572-mile drive we made from Dawson City to Anchorage. It was easier to drive and fly out of Anchorage then to drive 375-miles back to Skagway, ferry to Juneau and fly back to Nome. The drive wouldn’t have been so bad if I wasn’t cramped in the back seat of the car with my heavy backpack threatening to smash on to my lap at every turn and the annoying lack of foot room.

For the most part, the journey was uneventful, although we saw a grizzly bear run across the freeway about 100 yards in front of our car and we passed 5 full-sized moose walking by the side of the road. We tried to get Greg to stop so we could get them on camera, but Greg said he wanted to get to the hotel and drove on. I really think he was a little intimidated by the moose and didn’t want to get in a standoff like he did 2 weeks ago in Nome; he had to wait and hour and a half before a moose would let him cross the Penny River. They just stared at each other in a stand off manly stubbornness.

The other fun part of the drive was when we got a flat tire. While the boys emptied the jigsaw-puzzled trunk of all the gear to get at the donut, I recorded everything for the behind-the-scenes special they plan to air on the making of Alaskan. I didn’t have to lift a finger in jacking up the under carriage, kicking loose the lug nuts, swapping the tires, and replacing everything in the trunk. I just moved around the guys, capturing the best angles and trying not to laugh at a “how many men does it take to…” joke forming in my head.

Eventually we made it to Wasilla, where we planned to spend the next 2 evenings and the following day off sleeping and relaxing, before heading back to Nome. No, we did not run into Sarah Palin, but I managed to take in a movie and do my laundry, so that counts for something, at least to me.

Now, as I said in the beginning of this long blog, which I’m sure some of you needed a pee break during, I am sitting in my cabin in Nome and awaiting filming prospectors on their search for gold. Before I sign off, I shall leave you with one funny story that Brandon told us when he picked us up at the airport:

“I was speeding down the beach on my ATV, making great time, just jetting it, when I saw a white log. Just ahead on the beach, nice and wide. I head straight for it, with the intent to run it over when, right as I was on top of it, the log rolled over and looked at me….”

“…I swerved to avoid the moving log, realizing at the last minute it was a baby seal. He just looked at me as I careened around him, his big eyes starring. It was freaky.”

More Pictures, More Words

Greg and John "Planking" while a friend watches.


The Boy's doing Laundry. i like how they're dressed similar.


My drinking Buddy. Beau found it on a trash can and knew I would like it. The barkeep said it was a dog toy.


Flying over a fogged out Chilkoot Trail. Stupid weather ruined the video shot, but not the photo shoot.


Little Cessna we all flew in to shoot the Chilkoot Trail


Remains of the Stampeeders at Lake Bennett. Cans like these are everywhere.

Teddy Bear


I tried to steal this little Iditarod Puupy as the crews masscot, but they caught me.


DeadBunny showing off downtown Skagway.


I'm kicking the Mendenhall Glacier


Mendenhall Glacier.

A week down, a week to go.

On June 11th, we flew from Nome to Juneau, hopped in a taxi that drove us to the wharf to meet a bus that took us to a Glacier, and then onwards to a Tourist Ferry, with a minor stop at Haines to drop off Greg so he could pick up the rental car, and finally, after 14 hours of traveling, we stepped foot in Skagway. Yep, no easy way to get around in Alaska unless you have a lot of moola or your own private plane.

But it wasn’t as bad as it sounds, the Glacier was amazing. We stopped for an hour, most of that time I spent out at Nugget Falls – a 45 min round-trip walk from the bus stop. Most of the people didn’t want to venture out to the falls with me because they were scared that they would get left behind by the bus, but it was only 1.2 miles one way, an easy 15 minute walk for a health person and those that didn’t go – my lazy Producer and Cameraman, plus 95% of the bus tourists – missed close up photographs of ice blue glaciers, cairns sitting on a rock bed, and a massive waterfall pouring into a crystal clear lake. It was beautiful and well worth the short walk. John ended up running out to meet me towards the end of the hour. He tried getting me to run back to the bus, but I made it 15 feet, faked an asthma attack and walked.

The boy has so much natural energy, someone should bottle it and sell is as an alternative to bio diesel; he’s always hopping, running and jumping. I’ll be lethargic and he’s half way up a freaking hill, bouncing at the top in impatience while I expend all my energy putting one foot in front of the other to follow. Maybe this is a hint that I’m either getting old (pretty sure that’s not it) or I’m a lazy, out of shape person (yea, that sound about right).

Anyhow, Beau, John and I ended up in Skagway around 8:30pm. Greg ended up being stuck in Haines. Haines was the only place in the areas we were going to that would rent us a car for a one way route – Skagway to Anchorage - but the one problem was that Greg needed to take a ferry from Haines to Skagway and he ended up missing the one that got into Skagway on the same day as the rest of us. Poor Greg, he was stuck in Haines, a very small town with mosquito infested fishing lakes, 3 blocks of tourist shops, and a view of the lake for 24 hours.

The other boys and I spent the next day proving that we could continue shooting the show without our Producer. We followed my schedule to a “T” and shoot amazing footage from Beau, recorded great sound from John, and I got to interview our guest for the day. Greg spent the day texting me, “Get me out of here!!!”

We spent 6 days in Skagway, the main starting point for pioneers heading over the Chilkoot and White Pass Trails to Lake Bennett. Skagway became a bustling metropolis within 6 months of the start of the Gold Rush, offering supplies to the stampeeders before they begin a 33-mile hike along a steep snow covered trail to Lake Bennett. Along the Chilkoot Trail, at mile 16, they encountered the “Golden Staircase”, a 45% incline hill that they would have to lug 1-ton worth of supplies up and over. There was a Canadian Mountie’s station at the top of the summit and if men didn’t have the right amount of supplies, they were not allowed to enter the Yukon Territories. The 1-ton rule was imposed because stampeeders would just head out to the gold fields on the hearsay of lying reporters – “Gold is everywhere, just an easy 12 day trip and you’ll be home in no time with your pockets lined” – and perish due to harsh weather conditions and malnutrition. The average man spent up to 2 weeks just lugging his supplies up the Staircase.

The other popular route over the Summit was the White Pass Trail, but it was muddy, narrow, and steep. It became known as “Dead Horse Trail” because almost every animal that started the trail didn’t finish it. The stampeeders would work the animals so hard, barely feeding them because they didn’t want to have to carry horse food on top of their other supplies, that the animals either laid down and died in the middle of the path or they feel off the trail due to the severity of its incline. The men became desensitized to the deaths and would just buy new animals to continue their journey’s. Sad, the cruelty of man.

Once the stampeeders reached Bennett Lake, they had to build a boat or raft that would sail 500 miles to Dawson City. If they spent too much time hiking over the Summit, they’d get stuck at Bennett Lake for 3 months waiting for the river to thaw out. On average, pioneers made it to Dawson City within a year, arriving when people already living in Dawson City had claimed most of the gold. It was a disappointment for some, arriving after months of strife to find it was all for nothing, but there were numerous accounts of the survivors (yes, survivors – many people lost their lives or turned back when everything got too much for them that only about 10,000 stampeeders actually made it to Dawson City out of the 100 of 1000’s that started) saying that they wouldn’t have traded the adventure/experience for anything. Serious, what else was there to do in 1898?

Anyhow, a brief overview of the places we filmed at:

Klondike Gold Fields - a lovely historic park showcasing a gold dredge, giving panning lessons, and explaining how the Iditarod works while letting you hold 3 week old huskies (so cute! – I tried to steal one for our crew mascot, but got caught). They also dress in period costumes, not the puppies, the docents.

Liarsville – yes, this is actually what the town was called because when the reporters were sent to document the Gold Rush, they saw how hard the trip was going to be and said “Hell no, we won’t go!” But they needed to write to get paid, so they’d butcher hearsay and stories from the true stampeeders and published them as first person accounts. They wrote so many false articles, that the pioneers named the writer’s tent city, “Liarsville”. Today, Liarsville has dressed up people that put on a small show about the history of the Gold Rush and the town. There’s a mock town to visit and gold panning to do.

The “Days of ‘98” Show – great, funny and entertaining show about “Soapy” Smith, a notorious gangster in Skagway who robbed people with rigged gambling halls, fake mail centers, and down right “conking a person on his head and stealing his gold” schemes. I laughed a lot and Beau almost fell off the ladder he was sitting on to film when the gunshot that kills Soapy blasted.

The Red Onion Saloon – Most popular Saloon/Brothel of Skagway. There were about 10,000 men in Skagway at the time of the Gold Rush and only 300 “Seamstresses”.

White Pass & Yukon Route Train – the train now accomplishes in 4-6 hours what the Stampeeders spent up to 6 months doing – traveling from Skagway to Bennett Lake. Bennett Lake is amazing from an anthropological stand point because there are still remnants of the pioneers – 1000’s of tin cans, gold pans, buckets, shovels, and numerous supplies all needed for the trip. They’re lying in heaps throughout the once thriving town, now taken back by Mother Nature.

Dyea (Di-ee) – Literally the last pioneer town before the Stampeeders began their ascent up the Chilkoot Trail. One building front and a few wooden wharf posts are all that remain of this 20,000-person town. No one really knows what happened to all the buildings, but it just proves how everything will eventually go back to Nature. Like a story from “Life After People” the TV show.

We also shot various Historic Buildings and a Ranger lead tour of the town, explaining its history from creation to present day.

All and all, it was a great 6 days of filming and I highly recommend visiting Skagway, if not for the local history, then for the people that live in the city. We arrived on June 11th to empty streets and closed stores, but woke the next morning to 9,000 cruise ship tourist clogging the sidewalks and shopping to their hearts content. In the evenings, after most of the tourist left, the locals, who adopted us into their small town family, included us in Skagway’s nightlife – singing karaoke at the bar, sharing a few beers, having a meal, and telling stories that had our sides hurting from laughing so hard. What a great town.

A Picture's Worth...

Driving along the New Seward Highway to a Gold Mine in Anchorage, AK.


I know how to make new friends.


Our first campfire: (Right to Left) Beau, Greg, and Jon


Beau "planking" - a new fad where you lie flat on your face and take a picture. Google it because some people are really creative.


The gas line and all our ATVs in town. Brandon is the gas man for the day.


It's a horror film set, it's a ghost town, it's a western, nope... it's Cripple Creek!


The A-Frame, where I stayed for the first couple of days.


View from the A-Frame.

The Tunka Truck Adventure

Cripple Creek is composed of numerous retirees that love to prospect gold, fish, and tell stories. Most of them get paid to be participants of “The Alaskan Expedition” at some point in their lives, but as they honed their gold finding skills, they fell in love with Nome. The fresh air, simple life styles, camaraderie, and common interests among the others, had them coming back every year as volunteers. Some of the guys have been coming to Cripple Creek for about 20 years and staying the whole 2 1/2 months of the camp season. Pretty impressive.

One of the reasons the camp runs so smoothly is the fact that all the volunteers have a specific skill set that is utilized by the whole - there are carpenters, mechanics, kitchen staff, utility crew, and truck drivers. Each section has a “crew leader”, but most of the guys automatically know what needs to be completed to open the camp and run it with out too much delegation - they just know that this cabin needs to be re-floored or that truck needs a new engine or there will be 200 people to feed so they need so and so supplies, etc. It’s a well-oiled machine.

Two days ago I had the pleasure of spending the morning riding in the Foremost, a giant orange truck roughly resembling a Tonka Truck, that drives about 5 miles an hour hauling trucking containers from the town of Nome, along the beach to Cripple Creek. I woke at 5:45am to roll out on the first run of the day. Ralph, the driver, was trying to fit in two trips for the day, a hard feat considering it takes about 1 hour and 45 mins to drive the empty trailer 12 miles to town, an hour to load up the truck, and about 2 ½-3 hours to drive back to camp depending on the conditions of the sand. If the sand is too soft, the truck tires will dig in, getting stuck. Ralph always carries a shovel and a radio for emergencies.


A Tunka Truck...right?



Luckily our trip was routine. After leaving camp, Ralph drove the 2 miles to the Penny River while I shoot footage of him transversing over the bumpy gravel road that the tractor recently carved along the beach. 2 weeks prior to our arrival at camp, the beach was covered in a thick layer of snow and ice, leftovers of a hard winter. Just getting out to camp to open a few of the buildings for the “opening crew” took about 5 hours and a roundabout way to get across the frozen tundra. Now there are just rivets of snow ditches here and there and lazy tractor trails.


Foremost crossing the Penny River.

Once we crossed the Penny, a river that is temperamental at best, occasionally rising to the windows of one of the mega trucks, or to just below the chassis of a 4-wheeler, Ralph pulled over and goes, “You’re turn,” as he crawls across the middle seat towards me. “Um, sure,” I maneuver around him and find myself in the drivers seat looking out at a never end stretch of sand. I look down, checking for the gears, gas pedal and brake. One small problem, there’s only a single pedal. “Where’s the brake?” “There ain’t no brake,” Ralph smiles.

Even though this Tunka Truck looks cute and drives at a snails pace, I’ve seen it turn practically on it’s side rolling up and over a 2-foot mound. “Seriously,” I look despondently at Ralph. “Just put it in 2nd gear, you’ll be fine.” A 1-foot mound sits 20 feet ahead. I switch the gear, push on the pedal, and we’re coasting down the beach. Within a minute, I’m happily bumping along the sand, having smashed the mound beneath the thunderous carriage. “See, just run everything over, we’re bigger then most of the stuff out there,” Ralph praises, “and the brake’s that metal bar on the steering wheel.” He doesn’t even miss a beat.

I was so good at driving, (yes, I know, surprising) that Ralph fell asleep in the passengers seat. He’ll probably claim that he was just “resting his eyes” or “no, I was awake”, but either way, I was queen of the beach for 2 hours and the only things I managed to hit were a few pieces of driftwood. It was great.

We made it to town and I jumped out of the cab to resume my true purpose of this little joy ride down the coast, to document the Foremost’s journey. A trucking container filled with goods was fork-lifted onto the back hitch, the Foremost gulped down 116 gallons of gas, and then it headed back to the beach. Luckily I got to switch to a giant truck, which was in town to pick up some folks from the airport, so I didn’t have to spend the next few hours driving even slower back to Camp in the Foremost. I like hanging out with Ralph, but I think I would have killed him or myself if I had to drive 2 miles an hour on a bumpy road. I just don’t have patience of steel.

Nome Sweet Nome

I managed to make it to Anchorage without any weird people stopping to talk to me on the plane or annoy me with useless questions that have simple answers. I think that my boys – the four guys that I’m traveling with: Brandon, my Executive Producer; Greg, my Producer; Jon, my audio guy; and Beau, my cameraman – have some sort of crazy gene as well because they get people to talk to them, but they’re usually in the form of long legged blonds. Hum…

Anyhow, the five of us made it to Anchorage, where we spent 4 days driving around the city and basically getting used to each other and our filming/working styles. We’d worked together in Seattle for four days shooting the Seattle portion of the Klondike Gold Rush, but it was 3 weeks ago, so this was a reunion start of sorts.

I feel that I should start at the beginning and explain what I’m doing spending 3 months in Alaska. I managed to secure a Production Coordinator position on a TV documentary show about Gold Prospecting in Nome, Alaska. The Gold Prospectors Association of America owns a Gold Mining camp 12 miles west of Nome, Alaska, on the beach. Every year they have people pay to come out to a ram shack town complete with mess hall, outhouses, wooden huts, and a community hall; it looks like a scene from a John Wayne Western, to prospect gold.

“Alaskan”, the name of my show, is following the prospectors around to see if they can dredge up some golden “color” as the locals call it. In between filming people who I consider a little nuts, coming out to the freezing cold to dig in the sand as a vacation, we’re going to travel along the Klondike Gold Rush Route from Skagway to Dawson City, Alaska.

In 1898 the S.S. Portland docked in Seattle with over $150,000 in gold (that was a lot at that time). Word spread that Dawson City was the place to be and so everyone, from the janitors to the police officers, abandoned their jobs and their families to seek their riches. There were 3 routes to take to Dawson City: Steamer, Train, and walking/boating. Most people either made it halfway and turned around because of the difficulty with the routes or they’d run out of supplies, or they perished along the way. About 15% of the people that started in Seattle managed to make it all the way to Dawson City.

My show plans to follow along all the routes (except the Steamer route because that no longer exist) that the pioneers took and explain the historical aspects of the places that we stop in relation to the Klondike Gold Rush. I had the pleasure of organizing this portion of the trip and I’m excited because we get to take a plane ride over the Chilkoot pass, 33 miles of wilderness that the pioneers had to hike, before reaching Bennett Lake. At the Lake, the pioneers had to build boats by cutting down the trees along the lake and then sail 500 miles, through tough rapids, to Dawson City. I also planned a dog sled ride, a train trip through White Pass, and numerous museum visits. It should be a great trip.

Back to present. I’m currently in Nome proper. We drove in today on a giant truck with the wheels being 4 feet tall, you know the kind that all the annoying idiots have to drive over those LA speed bumps? It was slow going because the truck tried to slide into the bay a few times, but we made it safe and sound. Most of the time I get to drive around on my very own ATV, but it’s nice to give my muscles a rest once in a while. I swear that my thumb will be super strong by the end of this trip because I use it to control the throttle.

So far I’m kind of a terrible ATV driver, being one of the slowest and most timid in the group. Yesterday I managed to practically tip the ATV sideways, throwing me off it, which caused the ATV to continue on, running over my legs (thankfully at a slow speed) and into the Bay. Luckily I was ok, and the ATV didn’t float away, but I got a great bath, having been deprived for three days, by trying to pull it out of the water before it floated out to sea. My shoes are still drying in the cabin I living in.

Speaking of the cabin, I’m staying in an A-frame house that has one bedroom downstairs (mine), a kitchen, living room, and two bedrooms upstairs (the boys). There’s a bathroom downstairs, but the water pump isn’t up and running yet, so it’s into the bushes for now. Not too bad for the boys, but Nome doesn’t have any trees – open tundra, and it’s daylight 24 hours. I’ve become very creative at peeing. The water should be up in the next day or two, good for peeing, but better for a much wanted shower and just the ability to brush my teeth without using bottled water.

Anyhow, we’re in town to film to barge coming in that has all the supplies for the camp that we shipped from Seattle. It’s taken 3 weeks to come to Nome, but we lucked out, and managed to be in town when the thing actually came in. The attitude for the barge in Nome is, “oh, it might come in Friday, but most likely Sunday. Not sure.” It was suppose to come in Sunday at 10am, but I we drove in today, Saturday, in anticipation for the Sunday arrival, noting as we got to town, the barge on the horizon. It ended up hitting dock at 7pm this evening. I guess everyone was wrong on when it would come in, but we got our shot and everyone is happy.

The boys plan to stay in town and shoot some more stuff tomorrow, but since the town is booked up for hotel rooms due to some random conference, leaving only 2 single beds available for this evening, I get to head back to camp on ATV tonight. Sucks because sleeping in a normal bed with running water sounded enticing, but I guess next time.

Bye for now.

A Visit to China House

At the intersection of Highway 237 and Highway 18 in the dusty and remote town of Lucerne Valley, there stands a one story, red shingled, three roomed restaurant named, "China House". At first glance, this restaurant isn't anything special, the token chinese food joint in a small town, but upon entering the red front door, a small jungle announcing your arrival, you're greeted with the friendly invitation to sit anywhere you'd like and a steamy cup of delicious tea.



Robby and I had previously spent the day snowboarding in Big Bear, having departed the slopes as the snow blended into icy mush while the sun dipped lower on the horizon. Usually we would take the powdered lined Highway 333 down the mountain to the 10, but due to winter storms, our normal route was diverted to Victorville via Lucerne Valley. Instead of driving alongside snow-covered trees and log cabins, we were treated to beautiful vistas of golden hillsides inlaid with numerous earthy tones as we wound down the switchbacks, ending at the cross-intersections of the 18 and 237.

China House stood silently, yet welcoming, with the assumption of warmth and a fulfilling meal awaiting us inside. Robby and I checked the cross street before pulling into one of the two open parking spots. We noticed the "A" sign sitting in the side window as we opened the front door. The husband half of the ownership team seated us in a booth along the far wall. Behind Robby, a father/son workman group were having their lunch break, while a birthday party between two 40 somethings women and an older couple were directly to the left of us. The wife of China House's owner brought us tea and wrote down our order. While defrosting from the snow, we relaxed.

Shortly after we arrived, a group of Mexican workers sat down. It was slightly surprising and envious (at least on my part) that the owner spoke fluent Spanish, as well as English (when talking with us) and Chinese with his wife and the rest of the staff. I'm always jealous of people who can master advance English vocabulary, but to understand and communicate in numerous languages, what an amazing skill to possess.

As our food was placed in front of us, the husband owner looks from Robby to me and say, "You two twins?" Robby and I looked at each other for a fraction of a second, simultaneously deciding to tell the truth (sometimes we like to be devilish and tell people we're not related because we feel it's obvious and people shouldn't ask stupid questions), "Yes." "Oh, those two," pointing at the 40 somethings women to the left of us, "they twins as well. Celebrating their birthday today." I stopped eating to study the people at the table. The older couple, finally registering in my mind as the twin's parents while the 40 somethings women, once I looked at their faces (not skimmed over them), looked almost as similar as Robby and my faces are. Not sure how I missed it the first time around.

"Where you from?" our new friend asked, he was still standing in front of our table. We told him we were headed to LA, but had come from Big Bear, had been snowboarding for the better part of the day. This lead to a lovely conversation of driving times to San Gabriel from Lucerne Valley and then to LA. The owner often liked to visit San Gabriel because of all the Asian markets, kind of the same reason Robby and I do. After a bit, we were left to eat our lunch in relative quiet. The owner periodically stopping by to refill our teas and the chinese equivalent of bread for the table, fired wonton sticks.

20 minutes into us arriving, the Father/son team paid their check and stood to leave. "How's the snow in Big Bear," the father asks, stopping at our table; his son standing to the back, his cheeks reddening. Apparently their are non subtle ease droppers left in the world. "It wasn't bad, a little slushy, but at least the slopes were mostly void of people," I respond. It was a Monday. "Yea, it was pack this last weekend." We chatted for a bit on the snow conditions and the best days to ski without dealing with mass human traffic on the slopes before we were once again left to eat our meal.

"Which one of you is driving?" Husband was at our side again. "Um, her," Robby points to me. "Good, I bring you a cup of tea to go." He leaves us slightly bewildered. We eventually figure out that the tea is caffeinated, therefore the owner was trying to imply it was a long drive home (about 2 hours) and he didn't want the driver of us to fall asleep. It was one of the sweetest things anyone's ever done for us, especially when China House didn't have any to go cups and we were presented with a rather large to go soup container filled with steamy tea.

40 minutes after entering China House, we were leaving with full stomachs, a giant cup of tea to add to the previous three potfuls we'd consumed during lunch, a handful of cookies, and smiles on our faces. The moral of this story, you never know what you'll find when you open yourself to new opportunities and take chances on patronizing restaurants you might think to drive by. You can always find enjoyable conversation and new acquaintances if you're willing to be slightly inconvenienced once in a while.

Encounters of the Eccentric Kind

Three short snippets of random people I met and hopefully the accumulation of two new Karma points:

1) I was at Ralphs (grocery store in LA) waiting in line to pay for my two bottles of wine, and the candy bar I threw in because, g-ddamnit, the buy one get one free sign and having the enticing, yummy goodness staring at me, or any patrons for that matter, works as a viable marketing strategy, when the woman behind me says, "looks like your house is the place to be tonight."

I looked back at her, a early 30's housewife out shopping for ice cream, and replied, "Yep, I supply the wine and she supplies the food."

Hum, my brain went into thinking mode, something it clearly wasn't doing before the words left my mouth, I realized that my innocent statement pertaining to "my friend and I meeting up for dinner" could have easily been mistaken for "I pick up the wine while my girlfriend gets the food". I have to hand it to the lady behind me, she didn't so much as blink, no detouring from her chatting with me. Not that it should matter, but I'm glad she didn't care; kind of shows that California is an ok place to live and there are people out there that are open minded. But then again, she could have thought nothing of the statement and my mind was getting carried away with ridiculous nonsense.

The conversation continued with the lady saying, "You probably got the better end of the bargain unless the food isn't cooked well." "Nope, she's picking up sushi," I replied. Again I left it open ended, but I now thought it was funny because my friend and I have already said that if we weren't both women we would surely be dating by this point. It's nice to have a friend that you can rely on and that doesn't mind occasionally staying in, watching a movie, and drinking a bottle of wine.

This then lead to a whole debate on how I thought sushi was awesome, but my new friend disagreed, saying she was from the Midwest, not a whole lot of fish out there, or fish that you would want to eat. I ended up leaving the Ralphs happy and the woman went on to talk to the cashier until she was finished paying. The random thing was that I wasn't carded for the wine, something that almost never happens to me because I look about 19, or 14 with straight hair. I even got asked for my ID when I went to buy spray paint for work the other day. You have to be 18 to purchase spray paint.

2.) My friend, Bobe, was casually talking one day about her friend's pizzeria, Ball Park Pizza, in Laguna Negel and the awesome food they serves, so I suggested that we should drive down there sometime and indulge. Bobe thought for about a second and goes, "You want to go this weekend?" Me being an awesome friend that is up for all adventures, especially the ones involving food, immediately agreed.

Since we couldn't show up at the pizzeria until the evening, we made a day of it and headed to the art galleries of Laguna Beach for the morning. But first, we went straight to the beach to soak up a little sun (as I'm starting to look like a vampire and I really don't want to ever resemble an Twilight character, except maybe Alice), and to admire the glistening ocean. For it being January, a mostly sunny 72 degrees is amazing. Gotta love Southern California sometimes (sorry all you snow blanketed cities). Once the sun descended low into the sky and I was no longer feeling its warmth, we wandered through the art galleries in town.

Laguna Beach is a beautiful town that houses some 40 or so art galleries, as well as the Pageant of the Masters, a live rendition of famous works of art portrayed by actors. Bobe and I were admiring the paint colors on a couple paintings, similar to Thomas Kincaid's, where his canvases change color with the brightening or dimming of lights - i.e. bright day or dusk for a house scene depending on the light shining across the picture, when we took notice of the conversation of the two women next to us. The artist, Ruth Mayer, turned out to be in the gallery at the time we were visiting and we quickly picked up from her conversation with the woman next to us, that we were in Mayer's gallery and all the paintings were hers. We joined in on the talk and watched as Mayer showed us more of how she designed her paintings to interact with the light surrounding them - a painting of mixed colors turned into John Lennon from the side or a bright, cloudy day turned into a darkening storm with the dimming of the lights.

"A Touch of Heaven" - Ruth Mayer

Of course I took it upon myself to start chatting, as I love art and talking to people. Mayer was explaining how her paintings are in 7 museums and she has been commissioned by all kinds of people including Pope John and her current admirer, The Princess of Thailand. This got me talking about how I lived in Thailand (back in 2003 for a semester abroad) and all the things that Mayer should see or do when in Thailand. I love trying to help people if I know about a subject that they don't. Since neither Mayer nor I had the time to sit down and discuss all the places she should visit and helpful Thai phrases she should know, I offered to email her a list.

"Angel Light" - Ruth Mayer

True to my word, I emailed her a semi-lengthy list of local Thai sayings; vocab for the important words like food, numbers, and mai pen rey (No worries/whatever - the most common Thai phrase); and some places to visit accompanied by certain Thai customs most foreigners don't know about. Mayer emailed me back with her gratitude and signed, "your artist friend". I just wanted to be friendly and help a fellow traveler, but having a notable artist friend, whether for a while or just this moment in history gives me a warm fuzzy feeling.

3.) It was my last day of working on a TV pilot two weeks ago and I was tasked with returning clothes to Walmart. Now usually I regret going to any Walmarts in the Los Angeles area because every time I do something weird with police active happens - a robbery, a police chase, police cars suspiciously driving in circles around the lots, cops tailing me, etc. It's not the shopping experience I particularly want. There's also the rule of "Look both ways before crossing the aisle" in case of hectic shopping cart drivers or run away carts. Needless to say, cheap clothes doesn't always equates to a grand ole shopping experience.

But, as the clothes we had purchased for the show needed to be returned from wince they came, Walmart was my final destination. Luckily the Walmart in Canoga Park is somewhat civilized, as far as police activity and shopper courteousness goes, so I didn't really expect much of a problem returning the clothes. Instead, as I was walking to the entrance, a late 20's young man saddles up to my side and asks, "Do you think you could buy me something to eat?" Now, I've always been a person who tries to help people less fortunate than me, whenever I can, and I'm a sucker for people asking for food instead of money - you never know if they'll buy food with the money you give them or drugs and alcohol (which I've had people actually ask for both instead of cash), so I thought for a bit, Well, I was gonna buy coffee anyhow and since my life isn't actually going the way I want it, why not make someones day."Sure." The kid looks at me as if I have two heads, "I've been asking for the last hours and everyone's ignored me." "Well my life's not much better than yours, so I might as well feed you. Maybe I can gain extra Karma points." The kid shadows me into the store.

We head to the counter of the Walmart located McDonald's and the guy asks if he can have two orders of Cinnamon something-or-other rolls. "I have no idea what those are, but sure. Do you also want real food?" The guys eyes widen a little larger as the cashier is thinking, Does she even know this guy?"Really?" "Yea, sure. Why not," I shrug. It's my last day of work, I'm feeling sad, so why not bring a smile to an unexpected face? In retrospect, helping the kid actually made me feel better. The cashier gives me my coffee with my receipt. I turn to my new found admirer, "Enjoy, hopefully things will look up for you." He smiles and thanks me. I resume my original purpose of coming to Walmart while he waits for his food.