Sights To See Along Dalton Highway

Copyright 2011 by Gary L. Pullman

Dalton Highway was just another Alaskan route to nowhere until Ice Road Truckers made it famous. Now, it’s a renowned Alaskan route to nowhere.

Well, that’s not exactly true. It goes places. In fact, it goes several places: Livengood, Coldfoot, Wiseman, Sagwon, Deadhorse, and Prudhoe Bay.

Come to think of it, even though Dalton Highway does go somewhere, technically speaking, it really is pretty much just another Alaskan route to nowhere, because, whether a traveler’s in Livengood or Prudhoe Bay, he or she’s still pretty much in the middle of nowhere.

People from any of the dots on the map along Dalton Highway who are arrogant enough to call their homes “towns” (no one’s supercilious enough to refer to such a speck as a “city”) are used to having conversations like this:

None-native: “Where are you from?”
Native: Livengood.
Non-native: Where’s that?
Native: Near Fairbanks.
Non-native: Where’s that?
Native: Alaska.
Non-native: Where’s that?

Named for James Dalton III, one of the original members of the Dalton Gang that harassed Coffeyville, Kansas, the highway runs through mountainous, snowy terrain, startling polar bears, white foxes, and caribou, for a distance of 414 miles before calling it quits at Deadhorse. It was built, Alaskan Eskimo spirits claim, to supply the construction of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline System, or TAPS, back in 1974.

People with positively no lives whatsoever--we’re talking the walking dead here--actually travel the Dalton Highway so they can see the Arctic Ocean. Their first stop, as they travel north out of Fairbanks, is Livengood, where the living’s not all that good, the median annual family income being approximately $26,000. Travel time to work is roughly 16 years, round trip.

The population, which numbers 29, is three percent Asian, six percent Eskimo, and 91 percent Caucasian, neither African-Americans nor Pacific Islanders being stupid enough to live there. The good news about Livengood? It takes just three minutes, by bus, to pass through the town.

 

Coldfoot’s not a town per se. None of the “towns” along Dalton Highway are. It’s a glorified truck stop. It was founded by Dick Mackey, who, homeless after an illustrious career as an Iditarod dog musher, began selling dog meat “hamburgers” out of a broken-down school bus. Pitying the fool, truckers helped him build a truck stop and a decent café. Viola! Coldfoot was born.

That’s not the most interesting fact about Coldfoot, though. We saved that for last, so here it is. Before it became the sprawling metropolis it is today (population 13), the place was a mining camp called Slate Creek. Prospectors on their way to Koyukuk River got “cold feet” while wading the river’s icy waters and decided to turn back, figuring what good was all that gold if they froze to death trying to mine it. (Grammatically, the “town” should be called Coldfeet, but this is Alaska, where people are concerned with more important matters, such as getting through another endless winter without being eaten by a starving polar bear).

Today, Coldfoot boasts two stores, a gambling house, a post office, two roadhouses, seven saloons, and 124 brothels.

When the miners left Slate Creek, they had to have somewhere to go, so they started another camp, calling it Wiseman, because, settlers said, the name sounded better than Idiotsville.

Today, Wiseman is famous for its occasional mention on a “not reality, actuality” series, Ice Road Truckers, which features grizzle-bearded, mustachioed men (and one grizzle-bearded, mustachioed woman, named Lisa) who never bathe, smell really bad, and are too unskilled (and unkempt) to earn a living any other way than by delivering freight to Prudhoe Bay’s pipeline terminus and bitching to the camera crew who film their exploits. Topics of the truckers’ “conversation” are mostly limited to road conditions, the weather, and their own sad, pitiful lives.

There’s one other fact about Wiseman that travel guides claim merits mention. A log cabin post office, built over a century ago, has been sinking into the earth ever since, so that it is now a couple feet underground. There’s no denying it: Alaska is inhospitable, even to buildings.
 

Situated above the Arctic Circle, an imaginary arc that encircles the globe as a sort of antithetical equator to warn people not to journey any farther north because they’re entering a really, really cold and inhospitable, if not downright dangerous, part of the planet and should turn back immediately, Sagwon has one claim to fame: the Gallagher Flint Station Archaeological Site and Emergency Frostbite Treatment Center, discovered during the construction of TAPS.

Nothing is known about the archaeological significance, if any, of the site, but it was felt that some sort of tourist trap was needed as a “point of interest” to include on the Rand McNally road atlas’ map of the area.

Deadhorse was founded by a Pony Express rider who got lost in a blizzard in Kansas and wound up in Alaska. When his horse froze to death, leaving him stranded in the middle of nowhere, a. k. a. Alaska, he pitched a tent and incorporated himself as a “town,” named in honor of his deceased companion.

Deadhorse is famous for its caribou, geese, swans, seagulls, eagles, arctic foxes, arctic ground squirrels, grizzly bears, polar bears, musk oxen, and arctic hares. (It’s also a good place to lay in a supply of chewing tobacco and to catch an exciting episode of Ice Road Truckers as it’s being filmed.)

Prudhoe Bay (population, 5) is located on Prudhoe Bay, but that’s not how it got its name. It was named by a British explorer, Sir John Franklin, after his classmate, Captain Algernon Percy, Baron Prudhoe, with whom the explorer had, it appears, an unusually close personal relationship.

Because of the oil fields located just to the east and south of the “town,” it is the home away from home of thousands of transient workers, and a good time can be had there by all. Even the sun cooperates, extending daylight to twenty four hours a day, every day, for six months of the year, so bring plenty of suntan lotion, a swimsuit, and some dark shades. The beaches are plentiful, beautiful, and pristine, despite the massive oil spill that occurred here in 2006, spewing 267,000 gallons of crude across two acres of beachfront property and causing a spike in gasoline prices as far south as middle America.

In addition, Prudhoe Bay is one of the “Six Official Places Mentioned on Ice Road Truckers” and the place at which trucker Lisa had her upper body depilated during the inaugural episode of the show’s second series.

Note: In the interest of Full Disclosure, Ice Road Truckers is not the proud sponsor of this “article.”

Walking the Dog, or Why Dogs Are Not Man’s Best Friends

Copyright 2011 by Gary L. Pullman

 

 

Recently, my wife Paula took a nasty header over the step that leads from my niece’s foyer to her sunken living room.

 

The tile is the same color in both rooms and it perfectly matches, so that the rows appear continuous and on the same level whereas, in fact, they are merely continuous. The step has sent many a visitor stumbling. More than once, I myself have resembled a clown juggling invisible bowling pins, balls, or hatboxes (since they’re invisible, they can look like whatever you want them to). Paula is the first one actually to have fallen headlong onto the tile.

 

Fortunately, although she’s petite, she has a hard head and didn’t break anything.

 

At the time, I thought she’d fallen by accident. She even made it look like an accident, careening off the furniture and flailing about like a pinball with arms. Then, with a perfectly executed splat!, there she was, lying on the floor, moaning with a sprained wrist and a knee the size of the Hidenburg, before the crash.

 

We were all horrified. In fact, I was so shocked and alarmed that I promised to do all the chores around the house while she recuperated.

 

At the time, in my concern for Paula’s welfare, I forgot that “all the chores” included walking the dog--and, more to the point--cleaning up after him.

 

Now, after having walked him for two weeks, I know the truth: Paula took the fall on purpose; she was setting me up.

 

I know what you’re thinking. Why would anyone fall down the steps--or even one step--and suffer a sprained wrist and a bruised and swollen leg just to get out of walking the dog?

 

Let me describe a typical walk. Then, my claim might not seem quite so incredible.

 

I know it’s 5:02 AM because I watched the local weather report on TV last night, and the meteorologist assured me that the sun would rise at precisely this time, and not a moment sooner or later. Teddy Bear Boo Boo knows it’s 5:02 AM because he’s been up all night, waiting for first light.

 

Why? He’s a dog, and dogs live to take their morning constitutionals, each and every day, precisely at the crack of dawn.

 

Why? So they can sniff things, pee on things, chase things, and poop. Like other dogs, Teddy isn’t discriminating: he’ll sniff pretty much anything--poison ivy, road kill, other dogs’ day-old urine--or anyone, for that matter. (I have to keep Teddy on a short leash when our neighbor, Ms. Baxter, is outdoors.) He’ll chase almost anything, too--cats, squirrels, Big Wheels--or anyone, including the mail carrier. Teddy will poop anyplace, too; he’s not picky: our driveway, the fairway, or the guardhouse at the entrance to our gated community, Painted Succulents. It’s as true of man’s best friend as it is of man himself: when he has to go, he has to go.

 

All night, while he’s waiting for dawn’s early light, Teddy’s probably dreaming of sniffing things, peeing on things, chasing things, and pooping, and, when the hour has finally come round at last, no power on earth is going to keep him from his appointed rounds!

 

Precisely at the moment of sunrise, Teddy bounds into our bedroom, where he bounces off the walls, tosses his head, wags his tail, and whines, a kinesthetic as well as an audible alarm clock in canine form, announcing--or insisting--that’s it’s sunrise and demanding to be taken on his morning walk.

 

Since I’m not quite ready to brave the day--I still have to get out of bed, go to the bathroom, comb my hair, get dressed, supply myself with plastic grocery bags (for cleaning up after Teddy), and find the leash--Paula occupies Teddy’s attention by petting him and talking baby talk to him. “Ahh! Is Teddy Bear Boo Boo ready for his walk? You have to give Daddy time to get ready, too, Teddy. But then you can make a big, big poo poo, just for daddy. Yes, that’s a good boy!”:

 

While I prepare for his walk, Teddy bounces off the walls, tosses his head, wags his tail, and whines, while he listens to Paula ask him deeply personal questions that would, no doubt, be offensive to him if he weren’t a Labrador retriever: “Teddy Bear Boo Boo have to go poo poo? Teddy going pee pee?” If he didn’t have to go before, he’ll have to go now. Hell, I have to go myself, now.

 

It takes me five minutes to pull myself together. By then, Paula’s pretty much a wreck, and so is our bedroom. Unless you have a big dog who’s eager to undertake his morning constitutional, you have no ideas what a few wags of a tail as large as Minnesota can do. It’s a good thing Paula collects knick-knacks and bric-a-brac; otherwise, the bedroom shelves and display cases would be empty.

 

During the walk itself, I have three simple goals in mind: manage to stay awake, keep Teddy out of our neighbors’ yards (unless I know for sure that one of them is out of town), and collect Teddy’s “golden nuggets” without choking to death on my own vomit.

 

Teddy, on the other hand, has a full agenda: identify the urine or spoor of ever other dog in the neighborhood that’s passed his way in the past six months, “mark” his territory by urinating where other dogs have previously urinated to “mark” their territory, chase cats or (if no feline prey is available) squirrels, entangle me in his leash, and, at the most inconvenient and/or embarrassing moment possible, defecate.

 

A creature of habit, Teddy insists upon taking the same route each day, which is comprised of visits to Mrs. McQueen’s azaleas, the Browns’ compost pile, the fire hydrant in front to the Kinkaids’ house, the wall along the Franks’ place, Mrs. Becker’s rhododendrons, a storm grate near Willow Way and Elm Street, and our side yard’s fence. He could be offered an all-expenses-paid trip to Disneyland--or Paris--and Teddy would insist upon his customary constitutional round his own stomping grounds.

 

Teddy dispenses the contents of his bladder as if he were sharing the very nectar of the gods with the shrubs, trees, and fire hydrants which he deems worthy of receiving his intermittent streams, but he’s not at all anal retentive about sharing the golden nuggets he’s all-too-eager to deposit upon any horizontal surface, natural or man-made, that he encounters. Unfortunately, not all that is gold glitters, and it’s up to me to clean up after him, which just proves who, man or dog, is man’s best friend.

 

Before the fall, Paula used to collect Teddy’s droppings, and, she insisted, when I took over the job, all I’d need were two plastic grocery bags, one for collecting and the other for the actual bagging (and storage). I should place one on the ground or street, next to the collectibles, and use the other bag as a makeshift glove to “scoop the poop.” After depositing Teddy’s deposit inside the storage bag, along with the bagging bag, I should tie the bag’s plastic handles together, and viola, the task would be completed. How difficult could that be?” she’d asked me.

 

So difficult, I’d replied, that I’d need nothing less that a biohazard suit and a commercial vacuum cleaner with a half-mile extension cord, to which Paula had said something equivalent to pshaw! Telling me to “man up,” she’d sent me forth the first morning of her now-protracted period of recuperation, bright and early, to “walk the dog.”

 

During the two weeks I have walked the dog since that fateful day, I’ve come up with a technique for collecting dog droppings that is so good that I could teach it as an adult extension class at the local community college. Instead, out of my concern for dog-walkers the world over and the goodness of my heart, I contribute it here, as a tax-deductible donation to charity.

 

Steps 1 through 7 of the collection process are performed before you and your dog leave your house. The remaining steps are executed after you leave your residence; they should be performed at a distance of no fewer than six feet from the dog’s deposit*:

1. Collect the following supplies: a backpack (for holding the other supplies, except those specified in step 2; for the backpack, Velcro is recommended over zippers, snaps, or other fasteners); a butterfly net (a lightweight aluminum version is recommended), lined with fastened-down plastic sheeting; thigh-high wading boots (rubber is best); a large hamper (lined with plastic sheeting--I prefer black; a wooden clothespin (which may be hard to find nowadays, but is worth whatever effort it takes to locate); a large (huge would not be too big) disposable (repeat, disposable) sponge, mounted upon a pole of a length not less than sex feet; a dog harness; a length of sturdy, but lightweight, chain; and a little red (toy) wagon.
2. Place all the supplies into the backpack, except the butterfly net, the wading boots, the hamper, the dog harness, the chain, and the little red wagon.
3. Put on the thigh-high boots.
4. Rest the butterfly net over one shoulder.
5. Harness your dog and attach the lightweight chain to the harness, connecting its opposite end to the handle of the little red wagon. Your dog will pull the wagon. You’ll be busy doing--well, let’s just say “other things.”
6. Place the plastic-lined hamper, with its lid open, into the little red wagon.
7. Walk the dog until he or she defecates. (Make sure that the canine collectibles are deposited on the street, not on a lawn or in gravel.)
8. Stop (even if you are tempted to run and hide).
9. Remove and dump (do not unpack--dump) the contents of the backpack onto the street. (You’ll want to make them available as soon as possible!)
10. Locate the clothespin, and attach it to your nose so that the prongs clamp your nostrils closed. (This will prevent gagging and/or vomiting, so it is a critical step; do not omit it.)
11. Using the butterfly net lined with fastened-down plastic sheeting, scoop up the canine’s collectibles.
12. Deposit the collectibles into the plastic-lined hamper.
13. If your dog’s droppings are more liquid than solid (yuck!), use the disposable sponge to mop up whatever’s left of the deposit.
14. Scrape the sponge off its pole, into the hamper.
15. Using the butterfly net, close the lid to the hamper.
16. Lay the handle of the butterfly net inside the little red wagon, alongside the hamper, the net facing away from you and (hopefully) downwind. (It’s okay if the net itself drags). Lay the pole upon which the sponge was mounted alongside the butterfly net handle, inside the wagon.
17. Return home. Do not let your dog dilly-dally. He or she has done his or her business.
18. Leaving the butterfly net, the sponge pole, and the hamper in the wagon, disconnect it from dog’s harness and leave the wagon and its contents in the driveway for about forty years, until the odor of the dog’s droppings are neutralized by wind, sunlight and whatever else Mother Nature throws their way.
19. Remove the thigh-high boots. Leave them in the garage (unless they were soiled by a splatter effect while you were collecting your dog’s droppings, in which case they must first be blasted, from a safe distance, with a hose connected to a high-pressure nozzle or, perhaps, a sand-blasting machine).
20. Retire to the house, with your dog. Remove the clothespin and enjoy the rest of your day. You’ve earned it!

* Yes, of course, a biohazard suit would be more efficient (and probably cheaper), but your wife will not think so. After all, if she’s like Paula, she’s taken a header down the stairs so she’s not the one who’s walking the dog.