Dot Bardarson

17. Anchorage and Beyond

I camped for the night at Talkeetna Park. There I met David Cornberg who was at the campsite next to mine. Other than myself, he was the only person I met on the whole trip who was camping alone. He turned out to be quite an interesting fellow. He was a Stanford graduate and had majored in philosophy. A little younger than I, he was an artist and poet who made his living as a resource person for schools in Anchorage. Primarily, he taught poetry to children. During our conversation, I mentioned that I just finished reading John McPhee’s book, and David told me that he was the last individual that McPhee mentioned in the book. He was using the name River Wind at the time. I remembered he made a strong impression on McPhee and it was easy to see why. He had many positive aspects  and they were all part of a friendly, outgoing personality.

Out the Pop-Top Window

Out the Pop-Top Window

(click on image for larger view)

We had an extended rap session and I showed some of my work and read him some of what I had been writing. He offered some excellent advice, and read me some of his poetry. He was quite good! As we parted he gave me two salmon steaks from a fish he had just caught. I fixed them that evening with some rice. They were quite good too!

The next evening, while camped just outside of Anchorage, I made preparations for selling art work to the local galleries. I opened the phone book to the yellow pages and made a list of sixteen galleries that looked promising. I eliminated those that professed to handle mainly native art. Half the population of Alaska lives in Anchorage so I had high hopes.

One by one, the following day, I started checking them out. REPRODUCTIONS! Nothing but reproductions; I couldn’t believe it, even the “high class” galleries right downtown! A lot of the smaller towns had galleries that carried mainly reproductions, but I figured the “big city” would have more sophisticated tastes, more cosmopolitan subject matter. I called on fourteen of the galleries that were on my list. Many times I found myself having to explain to the gallery manager the difference between an original print* and a reproduction**. All I would get is a blank stare of incomprehension.

There were two exceptions, the Museum and Stonington’s Gallery, and the latter only took things on consignment. It was a total washout for art sales. What a contrast to Fairbanks! Maybe it’s the presence of the University of Alaska at Fairbanks that makes the difference. It certainly is a much more knowledgeable city where art is concerned. The Anchorage Museum was a definite bright spot in my experience of that city. There I saw an exhibit of John Sloan’s etchings and lithographs which I enjoyed very much. It was inspiring.

I settled for the night of July 2nd at Portage Glacier, Black Bear Campground. Georgia would have liked this site. I wondered how she was doing. I had to admit it was easier and freer traveling without her . . . also lonelier. Just before she left though she was becoming so wild and independent that she wasn’t even good company. I think she made a conscious decision to go wild, but she probably didn’t realize that it would be irrevocable, and I’m sure she didn’t have any idea about the long term consequences.

The next day I arrived at Seward and was favorably impressed. It sits at the head of a deep bay and is surrounded by majestic mountains. It has a port, and a small boat harbor, you can camp right along the waterfront, and NO MOSQUITOES! The town is small but not too small, and there’s a nice little gallery with original art. They bought some of mine.

The Governor had designated Seward as Alaska’s 4th of July city for 1986, and I decided to stay for the festivities. I was told there would be a lot of visitors in town and a parade.

On the morning of the 4th I decided to treat myself to a nice breakfast at a local restaurant. After I finished eating, I was sipping coffee and reading the local newspaper when I happened to look up and my eyes met those of an attractive blond seated at a nearby table. She was wearing a bright red sweater that fit rather nicely. She smiled and I smiled in return then went back to reading the newspaper without thinking much about it. Later, while I was waiting for the parade to start, I walked around town and looked in the various shops. During my wanderings there were a couple of “chance” encounters with “Red Sweater,” and on each occasion I got that same smile. At about noon I found a spot along the parade route and was watching the passing scene when I noticed Red Sweater was standing directly to my right. There was a man standing on her right and I assumed they were together.

Since Georgia left, I had thrown myself into writing in order to take my mind off losing her. I had been working on a piece in the back of my mind that morning, and, even as I watched the parade, I was still turning things over upstairs. Red Sweater and I spoke several times during the parade, commenting on this and that. Toward the end of the parade I made up my mind that I would go get my portfolio afterwards and approach another gallery that I had noticed. When the parade ended, Red Sweater turned to me and smiling said “Well, I think I’ll go in there and get a drink.” I looked where she had indicated and saw we had been standing directly in front of one of the local watering holes. I said something  innocuous like “have a nice day,” and started off down the street. As I left I noticed the other guy was nowhere around.

I had gone about half a block when suddenly all the dots connected and I stopped dead in my tracks. This attractive woman had been making a rather transparent effort to get my attention, and I had been totally oblivious. I considered going back to the bar, but now I was so embarrassed that I didn’t want to show my face. I kicked myself mentally for several days after that because I would have enjoyed some female company at that point in my trip.

There is a saying I have heard from women who have spent time in Alaska looking for romance. It goes:

“The odds are good, but the goods are odd.”

I’m sure that my behavior that day did little to counter this conclusion.

Dot Bardarson who ran the gallery that bought my prints, and who is an excellent  watercolorist and printmaker herself, invited me to a 4th of July picnic at their place “down by the river.” It was a small group of very pleasant and interesting people. I got to see Dot’s studio which is something I always enjoy. Dot introduced me as one of her artists. Then she laughed apologetically and said “Listen to me talking about myartists.” Frankly, I felt honored.

* Original prints, etchings, engravings, lithographs, woodcuts, etc. are presented in the same medium             in which they are accomplished.

** Reproductions are accomplished in a medium  such as watercolor or oil and presented in print  medium       such as off-set lithograph and a camera is involved in the conversion.

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Monday, September 7th, 2009 Chapters 11 — 20 No Comments

20. Going South

The ferry trip between Whittier and Valdez was punctuated by a short side trip to the Columbia Glacier which comes right down to the sea and breaks off or “calves” icebergs. It must be miles wide at the face and 200 feet high. On the floating ice in front of the face could be seen hundreds of harbor seals Sunning themselves. The ferry, E.L.BARTLETT, moved right in close pushing ice floes aside as it went. You could hear them scraping along the hull. At about 10:00 PM the Sun was still up but low in the sky, it cast a golden, slanting light over the whole scene. The visual impact was stunning.

“The Sun was shinning on the sea

Shinning with all his might:

He did his very best to make

The billows smooth and bright

And this was odd, because it was

The middle of the night.”

Lewis Carrol

The Walrus and the Carpenter

This was probably the most spectacular of many spectacular sights that I saw in Alaska.

Arriving in Tok on July 12th completed a big loop inside Alaska. Unfortunately, I arrived on a Saturday and had to wait until Monday to pickup my mail, but I found a KOA with shower! laundry! and car wash! so I was able to get everything reset to zero again before continuing south.

I also checked on the Tok fire station as a favor to Dot Bardarson. She had sold several watercolors to the State of Alaska to be hung at that location and asked me  to see if they were actually on display. They were, indeed, prominently displayed in the station’s office and the staff was highly complimentary. I mailed a postcard to Dot with this news. We artists need our positive feedback.

I was limping about my campsite in Tok when I noticed the couple at a camp site nearby had a rig identical to mine. It was the same year, color, everything. Naturally, we had to compare notes and we were soon chatting away in a friendly fashion. I said I was from Palo Alto when he inquired and he said he had spent time there while attending the University. At that time my daughter, Deanna, was attending Stanford, and I had a cousin on the faculty, so we had more to talk about than just our vans. In addition, we had both been discharged from the service (marines in his case) at Treasure Island in San Francisco. It turned out he was a doctor (Gaylord Clark, M.D.) and an orthopedic surgeon.

I don’t believe in miracles and think the vast majority can be explained simply as low probability events or coincidence. But if I did this would certainly qualify. After all what is the probability that I would run into an orthopedic surgeon in the wilds of Alaska two days after a serious knee sprain. I told him what had happened to my knee and he gave it the once over. “Yes, you’ve got water on your knee all right and its probably going to be a while before its fully recovered.” Of course, there was nothing that could be done under the circumstances other than a superficial diagnosis.

He was certainly right about the time required to heal. I drove all the way back from Alaska with my left foot working the pedals and my right leg stretched out on the passengers side. Even after returning, I slept for several months with a pillow under my right leg to keep my knee flexed, and twenty years later, as I complete this writing project, I still feel occasional little twinges from that knee.

On July 15th I crossed the Yukon River again. That made three times we had met up at three widely separated locations. David Cornberg told me you are supposed to urinate (euphemism) in the Yukon. Its part of the mystique of the country to mix your waters with that great river, its traditional. . .  I honored the tradition.

This third meeting took place in Canada’s Yukon Territory, beautiful country. I was learning to identify the trees that grow in the far North; white spruce, willows, alders, aspens, birch, and cottonwoods. There are others but these seem to predominate. I camped for the night at Teslin Lake which is long and narrow and parallels the Alaskan Highway for a considerable distance. Very few people lived in that region. I imagine its pretty severe in the winter, and in July, I can tell you, the mosquitoes are out in full force.

At this point, I spent a lot of time studying maps to decide which way to go after my mail call at Prince George. The distances were much greater than I had realized. All the miles covered by ferry on the way up now had to be traversed on the road. I could go more or less straight south and connect with I-5 at the Washington State border, but I’d been down I-5 several times before and I wanted to see something different. The other choice appeared to be the Yellowhead Highway toward Calgary.

On the 18th I finally got off the Alaskan Highway and onto Hudson’s Hope Loop. It ran through the scenic Peace River Valley. Here the land was pastoral interspersed with forest. I found a spot down by the river in a steamy, lush, bucolic setting. Because of a noticeable lack of mosquitoes, I got out my shorts and decided to chop some wood for a campfire that a previous party had left. I was working with my shirt off to get some Sun, and as soon as I set to work, a cloud came over and it started to rain. “Okay,” I thought, “I’ll wash the van instead.” But no sooner had I got out my brush and started to work than it stopped raining, and remained cloudy, very perverse weather. It was still warm so I limped down to the river with my wastepaper basket. I figured if I could take a bath out of a plastic basin the van could get washed out of a plastic wastepaper basket. It’s definitely the hard way to wash a van and took a number of trips. I did manage, however, to get enough of the Alaskan Highway off that I could once again see its deep rich brown.

I arrived in Prince George, B.C. on Sunday, July 20th and decided to stay at a KOA in order to get a shower and do some laundry. At this point I started to experience some night again. I could see stars, but even so there was still a dull glow to the north at midnight like the loom of a large city.

I picked up some mail the following day and then headed east on the Yellowhead Highway to connect with the Icefields Parkway through Jasper and Banff National Parks in the Canadian Rockies. The scenery between Jasper and Banff is spectacular! It was well worth going a few extra miles to see. The Canadian Rockies are definitely the real thing! I had hoped that Banff would have some galleries. When I arrived, my first impression was of a tourist spot on the order of Carmel, California, but with a Rocky Mountain setting. The setting is beautiful, however, there are no galleries. Except for the museum, there were only a few gift shops and native craft outlets that called themselves galleries, none of the real thing. I looked in a phone book but there were no yellow pages. I hiked all over town until my knee hurt so much I had to stop. Then I drove around some more. I still don’t understand why, but it had been the same story in Jasper. One reason I had decided on this route was the prospect of some needed art sales. Expenses were ahead of income again and this time they were way ahead.

In the morning I got into a driving mood. Walking was still painful. I drove 450 miles and crossed the border into the USA at the panhandle of Idaho. Immediately after crossing the border I ran into a storm. What a welcome home. . . thunder and lightning, rain, hail, and wind! But I kept on and soon my traveling companion the Sun came out again. There is a not so subtle difference between the two sides of the border at this crossing. The Canadian side is mainline B.C., but the U.S. side is backwoods Idaho. Another difference was the prices. I had dinner in Bonner’s Ferry, Idaho for half what it would have cost in B.C. even considering the exchange rate.

Driving down #95 through a series of small towns I began to notice the churches. I saw Mennonite, Seventh Day Adventist, Pentecostal, and Southern Baptist. With the possible exception of the last, these are not exactly main stream denominations. A number had signs in front announcing the subject of the next sermon. There was a strident quality to these messages very unlike the gentle faith of the farming couple from Nebraska. Then there was the large billboard that read:


All of this, together with the fact I had just entered the U.S. from a foreign country, started me thinking about the parallels between interpersonal and international relations. The eventual result can be read here.

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Monday, September 7th, 2009 Chapters 11 — 20 No Comments