Happiness is Obtainable

I've recently been trying to make a bunch of decisions and I've come to an impasse. It's like all the choices I have sound good, but it's the different paths they will lead me down that concerns me. Do I want to do what makes me happy, but is essentially a shorter path with more uncertainty at the end of the road or do I play it safe and take the path that last longer, helps me more in the long run, but essentially makes me feel like another clog in the wheel? Is sacrificing self happiness worth independent stability?

Ah life, what it throws at us is wonderful and scary. It can make our dreams come true, teach us important lessons, or just allow us to live. But how do we know what is the right choice and what isn't? Can every choice be correct? It's like, if you choose to go right then whatever happens on the right path is what happens and can you really go back and say, "I wish I would have gone left instead?" What if you did go left, you wouldn't actually know how the right path would turn out, so the left path would basically be the correct path for you to choose. Maybe I'm being too philosophical. Maybe there is no correct path or answer. Maybe I just need to follow my instincts, my gut.

I used to believe that there should be no regrets, because really, what is the point of reflecting on what could have been instead of what is now? Why do we feel regret? Is it ingrained in us from a young age or do we watch our friends and loved ones constantly wishing something different had happened to them that we start to doubt the decisions we've made? I guess it's another nature vs. nurture thing. It's just frustrating. Maybe I'm just looking for the essential answer to the ultimate universal questions - what is true happiness and how do I obtain it? Maybe all I'll ever get is the answer: 42.

So, I guess I should just choose a path and be done with it. Either option will yield a result and in choosing a path, more pathways will open up. Maybe I'll think back and ponder if I should have zigged instead of zagged, but what will that actually do in the whole scheme of things? The past is the past and therefore the only way to move is forward. So, I guess I answered my own question. Maybe this helped some of you and maybe most of you just thought I'd smoked something. Either way, choose the path that makes you feel something, gives you butterflies, produces a spark or hope, or leads you on an adventure. Life is short, regret is useless, and happiness is obtainable. 

Writing on my other blog

For my few lovely followers. I am currently writing a travel blog on my adventure in India at esinick.blogspot.com if you would like to read. I will eventually start up this blog again. I'm just looking for inspiration. 

Motivations Leading to Change

There have been so many deaths lately. It's like the world has decided it needs to rid itself of people, but in doing so, it has chosen the able, the amazing, and the valuable. Death has no morals, no favorites. He plucks you from your life and, Bam, you're nothing but a memory. Well, lately these "memories" are more, they have meaning, a purpose. Maybe Death took these people now so that they could be a message to the world? Or this could just be the way I see it..the way that makes sense to me on why so many wonderful people are dying. 



Recently the death of Sarah Jones struck the heart of the Entertainment Industry. I know that many people have written about her, who she was and what she meant to them, but to me, she is "a change." I didn't know her personally, I'd never met her or anyone that knew her, but her death, though truly tragic, has caused a welcome shift in my line of work. I'm one of the many below-the-line lemmings that blindly follows what my superiors says. And although I know that most of what I work on is safe, I know a bunch of what I do, and what I ask my crew to do, is rather "unsafe". But the "buck" wins out in the end and everyone needs green to survive in this world. We keep our mouths shuts to keep a roof over our heads. 



So, in saying this, Sarah's death was horrible and saddening, but what she now stands for in the TV world is very important. She will forever be a reminder to all the bureaucrats, penny pushers, and jerks that take advantage of us lowly workers that we matter. She will make the upper hands think twice, or at least pause for a second, on making that decision on whether or not to use a stunt man, hire security, look out for the best interests of everyone, not just their pockets. When Sarah died, the Industry mourned, banned together, and from this, the business I work in will be safer and stronger.



Another young death is that of Marina Keegan. She was a recent graduate of Yale University. I just read her essay, "The Opposite of Loneliness" and it made me stop and ponder. Marina talks about gradutaing school and setting out into the big, wide world. Some people will shudder at the daunting task of living a life that you must make on your own - no one is there to hold your hand and guide you. You're now a grown up and must accomplish your goals. But in saying this, Marina struck a cord with me on her line, "We’re so young. We’re so young. We’re twenty-two years old. We have so much time." She didn't have so much time. She died shortly after finishing this essay. But to her, when writing the above words, she had all the time in the world. In her essay, she expresses what she plans to do at 30-years-old, at 50. Her life, the possibilities were endless...until they were no more. 

I'm not trying to sound harsh. It just made me extremely sad that someone with such promise and an inspirational outlook on her life ahead, didn't get to live her imagined dreams. But she left behind amazing, uplifting, and thoughtful gems of personal knowledge and a guide to help others better their lives. She will influence so many people, making this world a brighter place. Maybe making the world that she saw for her own future.



I feel that everyone grows up wanting to be someone, be something important. Whether they want to be famous or just inspire their friends, they want to feel loved and belong...to matter. Sarah and Marina had the whole world ahead of them, but then it was taken away in an instant. They don't know it, but their deaths are the catalyst for change across the world: Sarah will help people be safer and Marina will inspire a whole new generation of thinkers. Even if when they were alive, they never believed they would change a person's life, they are now. Their deaths they will help save lives and so their short existence's mattered.

So, maybe Death does have a plan for all of us. Maybe we live our lives believing that what we do while living is what will leave the biggest impact on the people we encounter, but what if that isn't true? 

Maybe we are meant to die for a reason. Maybe there is no such thing as senseless death, because in the aftermath, change is possible and these two women's deaths have sparked a transformation around the world. We all matter, in life, and in death. Sometimes we just need blind faith to accept that. We're more than memories, we're stories waiting to be written and motivations leading to change.

Super Shuttle Nightmare

My sister and I decided to be nice to our aunt when we touched down in San Francisco last week at midnight by taking a Super Shuttle to her house instead of having her pick us up at the ungodly hour at the airport. This usually works well, or at least when I've taken the Super Shuttles in Los Angeles, but this is not the case in San Francisco. 

After frantically looking for the confirmation email from Super Shuttle, and realizing they never sent one, we just assumed that they would be able to look up our name to find our reservation. I had printed a copy of my bank statement saying they took money out of my account, so I knew that they had our information somewhere. Apparently it was somewhere in cyberspace as the unfriendly shuttle driver grunts a confirmation that he is the driver to our destination, but then walks away from us when we say that we don't have a confirmation number. My sister and I shrug at each other and hope that the driver walking to the driver's door is a sign that he's going to find our reservation info. 

Not quite...he calls dispatch and proceeds to butcher our last name in asking if they have our information. Two minutes later he walks back over to us and just grabs my suitcase from my hand to throw in the back of the van. "I guess we're good to go," I think. We hop inside and sit with two other passengers. The driver is still bickering with the dispatcher, shouting our last name, letter by letter, into the phone as he puts the van in drive and takes off.

We circle the airport once and park right where we got in the van. The driver isn't leaving the airport until he has a full van. Crap. The two other passengers have apparently been circling the airport for twenty minutes and are about to strangle the driver. We're about to kill him as well because he won't tell us anything, but keeps shouting at the dispatcher. Suddenly his cell phone is thrust in my face and the driver tells me to speak to his dispatcher. 

"hello," I say.

"Can I have your confirmation number," the dispatcher asks.

"I was never sent one, but can you look me up by my last name?"

"Well I need your phone number to confirm that your reservation was actually completed..."

I cut the dispatcher off, "Um, no, my reservation did go through because Super Shuttle took the money for the ride out of my bank account. I just need you to find my reservation," I said a little hasty. Seriously, how do you run a business with no one being able to check anything on a computer and everyone giving you shit if you don't have a confirmation number?

"Mam, please don't yell at me, I'm just seeing if you did make the reservation..."

Yea, it's 12:30am, and I'm short tempered, tired, and now annoyed, "you took the money, so you have my info..."

"I'm going to transfer you," the dispatcher cuts me off and next thing I hear it a ringing phone. It goes to the main shuttle line and then says a dispatcher will answer my call in a second. Back to ringing. By this point the driver has decided that the latest passenger we picked up has hit his invisible quota to leave the airport and we're finally headed to one of the passenger's destination. The phone is still ringing.

"the phone is just ringing," yell up to the driver.

Silence.

"Do you want me to keep on the line?" More silence, more ringing.

A minute later I hang up and ask the passenger in front of me to hand the driver back his phone. I'm not gonna sit on the phone waiting for someone to pick up to fix a mistake that isn't my fault. The driver just takes his phone and asks for our destination address, proceeding to type it into his gps system while driving on the freeway. So safe.

Two minutes later, at 1:13am, my phone starts to ring. 

"Hello," I say.

"Yes, you order a Super Shuttle? I'm waiting to drive you," an Indian voice inquires.

"Um, yea, I'm in one."

"I'm at the airport waiting for you. Where are you?" the voice asks.

"I'm already in one of your shuttles, driving on the freeway," I say. 

"But I'm waiting for you, to drive you."

For a Super Shuttle you just make a reservation online or on the phone and go out to the sidewalk at the airport, hopping in the first van headed your direction. They don't actually have specific shuttles waiting for you with your name on a sign, so I'm slightly confused why this man on the phone is distraught that my sister and I have not shown up two hours after we've landed to have him drive us home? It's also funny to me that this man calling me has my phone number and knows I have a reservation, and yet our current driver and his dispatcher could not find our information in their system.

I manged to obtain my confirmation number from the phone guy and I tried to tell it to our driver, but I think he was past caring as he grunted and said he didn't need the info anymore. I wished I hadn't prepaid the tip. We continue onto one of the other passengers locations and then, finally, our Aunt's house, only slightly almost dying 3 or 4 times on the way there.

Once, when I was on the phone, the van suddenly swerves right across two lanes, then stops sideways on the exit ramp before the driver looks at his gps unit and then charges back onto the freeway. Apparently he turned off an exit too soon and decided to rectify his mistake. The rest of the near death experiences were due to "California stop" inducing whiplash and a swerve left to actually go right, turn. 

Once at our aunt's, we quickly exited the death trap, grabbed our bags, and grunted a thanks to the "still ignoring us" driver. San Fransicso Super Shuttle drivers, dispatchers, and customer service all receive a half star on service from me. It would be no stars, except for the fact that my sister and I did make it to our destination alive and in one piece. But seriously, if you're going to run a business, make sure your employees are courteous, helpful, understand English, and problem solvers. Plus, they should never type GPS in the computer while driving. So dangerous. 

And that concludes my Supern Shuttle rant/review.

Jumping into Adventure or Playing it Safe?

If you were told by someone that you really trusted that they wanted you to move to a foreign island and help them with a venture that may, or may not, prove fruitful, would you go? If all expenses were paid and you had a place to live and a job to work? But you'd have to leave in the next month, pack up everything, say goodbye to your loved ones, and leave everything you've ever know. Would it be a sad good bye to your past life with a cathartic start over of new hope or a gut wrenching self deliberation that has you wishing to go, but playing it safe and staying?

People are often asked to make life changing decisions and I think that we always want to go with the one that sounds the best to us, the most fun or adventurous, but then our brains get the best of our inhibitions and start to tell us that what we want and what is stable for us might not necessarily be one and the same. How do you make the decision that keeps you happy, but also gives you no regrets? Is this a catch 22; trying to eat your cake too?

I sometimes think that freewill sucks because you never know if you're making the right choice, but if you jump and go for it, sometimes it turns out alright or leads to things that will make it all better and sometimes you fall, fall hard, but doesn't that also add a notch to your life story, build up your character and help you choose a different path next time? Maybe all our various paths are there and we were always meant to choose the one that we chose because it lead us to another path, our life's path? I guess we'll never know as there are no true 2nd chances or do overs. Just moving forwards and living life to the fullest.

So again, would you open your arms wide and jump into the fantastical unknown or keep on with the daily mundane? Maybe your mundane is what keeps you ticking and therefore it is your adventure. I'm just curious and thought I would express a psychological question to everyone out there. I'm sure you've all wished you had an opportunity to just up and leave your life and start new somewhere else, so if the chance ever came, would you take it or let it pass you by? Who would you trust enough to follow into the unknown?

Look to my other blog

So, I'm currently chronicling my adventures in Scotland and Ireland on my other blog. So if you're checking this blog for updates, please look at: esinick.blogspot.com. Thanks! :)

Optimism and Chotskis

I'm moving again. It's been 5 or 6 years since the last time. The longest I've stayed anywhere, ever. Wow, time flies. I remember the days when I moved 2-3 times a year. Whether it was from college to home for the summer and then to a new dorm at the beginning of the semester, or moving with my parents from apartment to apartment, or from changing jobs and cities, I've been a vagabond. Not that I particularly love the art of wrapping everything in paper towels, newspapers, or magazines (I'm cheap, so whatever is free or easy to come by is my packing "popcorn") and hauling all my crap up and down stairs after begging my friends to work for food - pizza mostly, while fending off a hernia, I've just had the urge to move on.

I kind of relate to the movie, "Chocolat", where the main character moves with the East Wind. It calls to her gypsy nature and says, "time to visit another place...there's much more to see." Maybe I'm an honorary gypsy? Staying in one place too long makes me complacent, which in any normal person is what everyone strives to achieve, a steady happiness or safeguard, but in me, it's a death wish. I can't just settle down and stay...what of all the countries to visit, the people to meet, the stories to tell, the memories to make, and the inspirations that lead to new creations?

I'm sitting here wrapping all my delicate knick knacks in paper towels, studying each one before it's incased in Bounty, reminiscing about where they came from and what they mean to me. I guess the tedious task of making sure everything is packed safely away for transportation gives me the opportunity to truly see everything that I have and to appreciate all the things that I've managed to accomplish. There are so many mementos, but to me, each one is special. A small purple clay chair I bargained for at my very first craft fair, little micro cars that I played with everyday when I was seven, lots of toy devils given to me by the people who know me best, a wooden "tuk-tuk" bought in Thailand during my semester aboard in college, a photo strip of my sister and I sticking our tongues out, and many more colorful keepsakes. Memories are the key to living forever and possibly staying young.

I guess if I get past the annoyance of begging the grocery store employees for their banana boxes, not seeing the sun while stuffing books in overflowing boxes, sneezing from the accumulation of all the dust I missed in my last "room cleaning", and the general, "oh crap, where do I even begin?!", moving isn't so bad. It allows me to "spring clean" and rearrange my furniture in my new place. I get to experience different coffee shops and restaurants, drive 15 minutes to work instead of an hour and 20 minutes, sleep in a little or rather get up and exercise, have my friends visit me at home (because to them, driving to the west side is "far"), explore a different place, and create new memories.

Hum, I intended to write this blog on how much I hate moving, but I guess when my figurative pen hit the paper, my true opinions came to light. There is of course a silver lining to everything, but I just figured I was forever the pessimist when not combated by someone else's dark thoughts (then I turn to an optimist because really, someone has to debate the other side), but I guess optimism snuck up on me. Strange...I guess with this new move, I'm subconsciously changing as well. Maybe that's what they call maturing?

Anyhow, I'm turning into a procrastinator, sneaking away to write while half my shelves still have chotskis on them, but hey, everyone needs a break now and then.

Second Time's a Charm

You're strapped to a strangers back inside a tin can 13,000 feet above the ground. The wind whips through your hair as your stomach does flip flops into your throat. “No, no, no,” you mutter as your instructor edges you to the open door.

“Go?” the instructor questions, misinterpreting your “No’s.” It’s too late to correct him as you’ve just been hurled out of the plane at 120 mph, straight towards the little green and brown patches of land way below. Your brain takes about 1 second to realize you’re falling before you manage your first exhilarating scream. You quickly realize, it’s not a scream of fear, but one of wonder, amazement, and awe. You’re plunging towards the ground at terminal velocity, what 5 seconds ago was a spec is shaping into trees, roads, and cars. The ground is rapidly approaching, but you don’t care because you’re falling in a wonderful bliss of uncertainy and freedom. Suddenly you’re yanked upwards, a direct stop to your impeding doom, replaced with a calm float to safety.

Yep, I went skydiving, not for the first time, but the second. My instructor tells me on the plane trip up, "the second time is worst than the first." "What, why?" I choke. I'm already having second thoughts and previously he was distracting my nervousness with mundane questions of where I'm from and what I do. Maybe it's a sick game to have you all calm and right before you leap, to mess with your head a bit; get the heart racing. "'Cause now you know what to expect," he smiles. Last time I jumped I pretty much hated the free falling. Yep, the reason most adrenaline junkies skydive in the first place is the part I despised the most. 

People say that after you jump it's like floating because you're falling at terminal velocity. No, nope, nah uh. They're all mistaken. Falling is falling. At least it was the first time. I just remember jumping (all wrong I might add to the point where they asked if they could show my video to educate other jumpers on what NOT to do when you exit the plane) and my blood pressure skyrocketing because I had a consent stream of butterflies the whole 45 seconds down. My instructor was urging me to smile for the camera, but I was too busy trying not to hyperventilate. Thank God the parachute opened and then it was the most serene 10-minute float back to Earth.

I determined then and there that I was not a "faller" but a "floater". To be able to glide through the air as effortless as a bird and take in the world below me was a wonderful treat. It was what I wanted to do again. This time I was loaded onto the plane with a few friends and my sister. She had always said she wanted to jump, but never had the courage to do it. So when her friends invited her along and I agreed to jump again, she had no excuse to back out. 

We made her go first because we had all jumped before and I'm pretty sure if she saw all us leaping into mid air before her, she would have grabbed onto the plane and never let go. It's one thing to say you'll jump, but to be 13,000 feet up and wait long enough for your brain, and its negative thoughts, to catch up with your body, and it's ability to use it's limbs, is not good. The door opens, you're pushed out, the end...At least for her. For the rest of us in the plane, well, it was priceless to witness your sister/friend's face scrunched up in terror, eyes to the ceiling, and then hurled through the sky. Priceless.

I got to go last because I informed my instructor that I'm not really a fan of falling and if I truly hated it again, "could I just pull the parachute and float down?" He looked at me like I was a little crazy, but agreed. Funny enough, after the initial shock of, "f**k, I'm falling," I really didn't have the butterflies and although it wasn't a total "float" feeling, it wasn't a horrible falling feeling either. Just when I was accepting this strange new feeling of skydiving, I was yanked upwards and my drastic descent ceased. I had enjoyed myself. All my earlier anxiety flying up and looking over the edge of the plane was in vain. It so wasn't as bad the second time as the first time. It was more enjoyable and the parachute ride to the ground was still just as exhilarating as I remembered. 

So, although I love the floating aspect of skydiving, I think I will enjoy the falling part just as much next time. Especially because I want to do some somersaults or other tricks on my way down, and of course, enjoy the looks of terror on other jumper’s faces. 

“I’ve never let anyone ride the plane down. ‘No,’ sounds a lot like, ‘Go,’ when you’re sitting at the edge of the door.” – Instructor Sean Harrison.

Memorial Day Weekend Parking Lot

I have to say, "shame on the California Department of Transit and CalTrans." Who, in their right minds would decide to do construction on one of the biggest, most traveled interstates over Memorial Day Weekend, causing "up to 5 hour delays" without actually warning the travelers in advance? Did the DOT conveniently forget that I-5 is one of the 2 main routes connecting LA to Northern Cal and that you can't really go anywhere but through a traffic jam once you've reached the Grapevine, i.e. the 5-hour pile up of idiot drivers, douche bags jerks who put their hazards on and drive the shoulders, and the cluster-f**k of people trapped at the mini city at the start of the hill attempting to park so they can pee before their 1-mile-an-hour crawl home.

Well, there was a sign 104 miles before the construction was to start, but at that point you're driving freely at 85-miles-an-hour thinking, "yea right, 5 hours? The sign must be broken." So you drive onwards, not heeding the advice to drive 56 miles out of your way to the alternative route, especially since you just came from that direction.

I went up North to the Bay Area for a Memorial Day Baby's Weekend. It must be something in the air because all my friends have been popping little bundles of joy out for the past few months. I haven't really had a chance to see any of them, so my friend, Nina, and I decided a 3-day weekend was the perfect opportunity. Knowing that Memorial Day is usually packed with other vacationers, we left the Bay Area early enough that we would be home at a decent hour, accounting only vacationer traffic, into our travel time. When we had driven over the 5 on our way north, no signs stated a construction delay on south I-5 for the weekend. We didn't know any better then to assume the freeway was in working order.

I guess we were a little ignorant of not checking news or traffic for the 6 hour journey home, but if something as major as a 5-hour delay is going to pop up, you'd think the DOT would have been advertising for weeks beforehand saying, "construction starting on "so-and-so date, going through to so-and-so date. Be prepared." Especially if you're driving down 101 and you cross over to the 5 via the 152. There should have been a warning telling you what an awful idea that is and to just stay on the 101. Instead, the only warning sign is 50 miles south of the 152, right before the 46.

Now, if you just traveled 52 miles to hit the freeway you want to be on, would you seriously drive 56 miles back to the freeway you came from to avoid a traffic jam you assume wouldn't actually be because you're thinking like any sane person, "there is no construction on a holiday weekend." Case in point, 1000's of people did the same thing we did and drove onward. It wasn't until we reached Lavall Rd, at the base of the Grapeville that all car movement ceased and we exited the freeway to pee and find out about the delay.

After weaving our way through the middle-of-nowhere's version of Carpocalypse - honking horns, people running red lights because they couldn't move on green, utter confusion of travelers, and assholes walking in front of the cars that can actually move - we peed and then asked the gas station attendant what was going on. Apparently there was construction for 13 miles heading up the hill and he had no clue when the crews stopped for the night or if at all. Nina and I wanted to wait it out, seeing as no one could even get out of the gas station parking lot, but if the crews worked 24-hours, we were going to have to endure the snail ride home eventually.

We decided on food and then travel. By the time we exited Panda Express, the cars were at least advancing onto the freeway from the parking lots, a vast improvement from an hour and a half earlier. We decided to risk joining the crowd. I ended up driving in the truck lane, a smooth 5-mile-an-hour lull upwards which turned out to be better then the constant stop-and-go of the other lanes. After about an hour and change, we merged from 5 lanes to 3 and the average car speed climbed to 30 mph. No construction crews, apparently they had taken the weekend off. But by looking at all the road work signs and the way the lanes merged, construction on south I-5 has been shitty for a while.

I would assume that all the locals in the area knew about the problem areas, but if you're not from the area, you're just baffled. So, no construction workers causing the 5-hour delay, just good old fashion freeway expansion and very poorly advertised warnings for the non locals, i.e. the holiday drivers. Hell, when the Bay Bridge was closed for construction there were warnings 200 miles away. So, DOT and CalTrans, next time, tell someone, advertise your massive delay way before it's too late to turn around. And that's all I've got to say!

Us 5.5 Million Matter!

I am annoyed!!! Annoyed with stupid television executives that don't really care about what an above average television viewer wants to watch and instead they focus on the majority of viewers - those middle of nowhere, average people that lounge around in their sweats drinking beer while watching another awful reality show about some moron who isn't them. I found out that The Finder was cancelled due to bad ratings - only 5.5 million people watch it. What?!!!! 5.5 million people are nothing, you say? Sucks, because there are 5.5 million people out there that tune in every week to be entertained while trying to solve a mystery, or two, in a creative and witty way instead of turning into a zombie drooling over a Kardashian or getting their Jerseylicious on like the other 7 billion people in the world (although half of those 7 billion I think live in countries without a TV).

Us, few, but proud, 5.5 million people can actually appreciate when a great show comes along that uses subtlety and riddles to progress the story forward instead of always spelling everything out. I enjoy the twist and turns of a good mystery and when I can watch a show where I don't immediately figure out the killer or the key piece of evidence to solve the case, I'm intrigued. I want to be baffled, shocked, surprised. I don't want everything handed to me on a silver platter with all the answers spelled out. Why can't those Executive Suits understand that? Instead, they looked at us messily 5.5 million fans and said, "Axe the show, we'll make a cheaper and more profitable reality show to fill the time slot." 

Now, I understand the appeal of a reality show - watching a life you can't have and would like or watching a train wreck and marveling at how some people manage to survive past infancy. Hell, I work in the Reality TV industry, it pays my bills and entertains me immensely while filming, but when I go home, I want to watch something that will make me smart again - reaffirm my faith in humanity that not everyone is a camera hungry lunatic. I believe that Reality TV makes the world dumb, most of it anyways and since I'm out helping to make the world that much stupider, I'd like to come home and relax in front of the tube watching something that will reaffirm my believe that there are some intelligent shows still being made in the world. That there is hope to make people use their brains again instead of letting them slowly ooze out their ears.

So, you Fox Execs that think we don't matter, that our TV interests aren't worth a second glance because it doesn't fill your pockets with the amount of green you want, think again. Our opinions matters. We want smart shows being made and aired. We want to watch a program that has our neurons firing. We want to be awed. Can't you see that? Can't you believe that not all viewers are the average sheep? Please, start thinking about us small 5.5 million not so inconsequential few that matter what they watch. We might surprise you.

Writing Out of Depression

Hi everyone, I'm back! Yes, I managed to disappear for a really long time, I think almost a year. I would like to blame a cosmic accident or being buried under some exotic ruins after a massive cave-in, but the answer is much less spectacular and rather simple... basically, I was depressed. You would think that when you have a lot of free time, you make plans to see long lost friends, you go to the beach, you work on your closeted hobbies and you enjoy life until the next gig comes along and grabs all your time. But, no, I just watched the clock tick by each and every day. Sure, I had jobs to fill some of the time, but not enough.

I'm not one of those people that likes to be alone with their own thoughts...my mind scares me (and a lot of other people). If I was working, I would get home after a 10-14 hour day filming something or other and zone out in front of the TV for countless hours until it was a reasonable hour to go to bed. The next morning I would head right back out to work. No time left for thinking. I love being in the field and working in the mist of chaos, but learning how to be by myself (during my off hours), it was/is pretty tough. When I was between jobs, I'd sleep as long as possible in the morning so I would have less time to figure out how to fill during the day. It gave me time to think, time that I didn't want.

In the end, I read a lot, about 75 books, went on a couple hikes and pretty much begged my friends to run errands with them so that I would have an excuse to put on real clothes and soak up some Vitamin D. You would think that I would turn to the computer to write weekly blog stories, with all my free time, but since I wasn't happy in my own life, I didn't feel like putting anything down on paper (so to speak). I had ideas of stories I could write about, but they were mostly evil thoughts on stupid people that I'd worked with or things that I didn't find agreeable in society and I didn't want to write puff pieces, I wanted to say it how it was; write the gritty truth, which would essentially be a career killer or at least, a black-list offense. So I refrained and just thought my evil thoughts while brooding in the dark.

I also think maybe I am to blame for all my free hours because as a little kid I hated procrastination and therefore I now complete all my tasks efficiently, maybe too efficiently. During the last year I did have ample time to contemplate all those energetic people that run around like their hair is on fire and the world is ending while they try to complete their "never ending" todo lists and I think I've come to the conclusion that they're insane. Seriously, how can they not find the time complete everything? Do they just spend hours deciding what task to finish next that it's become dark outside and they accomplished nothing? How do people like that survive because they seem to always starts things, but do they ever finish them; the stress from that must be killer. Maybe it's another version of depression - active depression, and I have lethargic depression. Hum... But even though I will never understand the chickens-with-their-heads-cut-off people, I might envy them a little because they seem like they'll never run out of activities to complete and so it seems they won't ever have free time to contemplate what to do with.

So now, yes, I'm still not sure how I feel about the world and my small self in it, but I'm getting better.  Last weekend was my cousin Dan's birthday and while we were celebrating he had asked me why I had stopped writing my blog. I just told him I didn't have anything to say, but that isn't really true, so Dan, here's my birthday present to you, I'm starting up my blog again. Hopefully the next post was be a little happier and probably a lot more wittier.

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.