Thursday, July 14, 2016

Ever Northward

Apparently someone named Claire Veligcan flew over the Arctic Circle:



It was really sweet of them to make out a certificate, freeloader that I was.  And the nice shuttle driver drove me the extra 15 miles home so I wouldn't have to hitchhike at midnight with dubious truckers.

Speaking of truckers, I didn't realize until I arrived at Coldfoot Camp that it is a prominent feature of Ice Road Truckers.  It's one of a handful of places to refuel and get a bite to eat on the highway alongside the oil pipeline (Fairbanks to Prudhoe Bay -- 500 miles).  The vibe was surprisingly similar to McMurdo -- lots of heavy machinery, trucks roaring down dirt roads, cafeteria-style buffet, aging utilitarian buildings, and a collection of odd, delightful people that don't want to be anywhere else.  I had to turn around after two hours and fly back as there was no guarantee I'd snag a spot the following day, but I'm determined to return.  The flight itself is fascinating, traversing endless miles of shallow permafrost lakes that mingle with thinning boreal forest before you reach the Brooks Range.  We passed a wind farm as well as a government anti-aircraft microwave test facility (our pilot calmly pointed out the dishes pointed away from us).  And it just so happens to be the time of year fields of purple flowers bloom up north, coloring the hillsides.

It was a very clear night, and Denali was visible most of the way back, pink in the lingering sunset, over a hundred miles away, catapulting above the horizon.  (It looked a lot more awesome with my eyes than this camera-phone-shot-through-the-window.)


  


I was all set to lay off the cafe patrons this week, but then someone ordered deconstructed halibut tacos with substitutes for wheat and dairy allergies (which = four bites of fish + cabbage pile + limp corn tortilla).  Would it be too scary to have us place your fish bites and cabbage pile on the tortilla for you?  You want to do that step yourself, or do you just like using extra dishes?  Thankfully, I had handed over the reins momentarily to another cook, took a moment to close my eyes and shake my head, and continued slicing onions while she dealt with this inanity/insanity.*

---------
*You could stop reading now, or you could proceed with caution and take in this footnote about the purpose of a restaurant.  I suppose I'm in the minority here, but I have always operated under the assumption that businesses, while providing courteous and thorough customer service, must have some sort of limit to what they do.  For instance, at the shoe store are a bunch of items with prices.  Do you say, "Gosh, I'm in the mood for suspenders, could you guys whip me up a pair?  Or perhaps you could dye these shoes for me, as I'd prefer them a different color."  I could see how an optimist/narcissist might be tempted to ask...but in fact, no, your typical shoe store does not have a secret cache of somewhat-related accessories, nor do they manufacture products at a moment's notice.  Perhaps what you're looking for is a cobbler, who, for several hundred dollars, would painstakingly construct your most detailed footwear desires.  And those of you who would like something not on the menu -- the list of stuff we just spent at least a day prepping and cooking and heating so you could breeze in and eat meatloaf without waiting three hours -- what you're looking for is a private chef.  They would be thrilled to stop everything and make a single serving of mac and cheese for your kid for the market rate of $50-100/hour.

No comments:

Post a Comment