Ridiculous & Marvelous

Three events marked the progression of Thursday, each incident simultaneously ridiculous and marvelous.

Para-sailers: we saw them
on our way to the trail.

My morning started as most mornings do: a brisk walk to the bus, a 15 minute illuminating ride; wave to Pandora at the front desk; glass of orange juice as I check my emails; Sales Team trickles in; my manager arrives toting her new Michael Kors (pink and exclusive to NYC). Is it your birthday? she asked as she handed me a green envelope from downstairs. "No" I said, drawing out the "o" with equal surprise and curiosity. The card had a cat, a fat cat, pictured on the front. "Just thinking of you," stated the bold font…"and pie, lot's of pie" it continued inside. Paul scrawled a couple of "CATastrophic"(e.g.) sentences. I laughed later when he asked me if I had shown this ridiculous card to my coworkers. Though I kept the card to myself, my unanticipated smile could not have been bigger. 

As the afternoon wore on and my morning glory lingered, the office printer, formerly deemed essential for all progress, quit. Calls were made to the service providers. Calls were made to Corporate. Calls were made to "Jim"—we don't have an IT department at the hotel but we have Jim. After an hour of plugging and unplugging, calling and holding, we began to discover new and clever ways to continue progress in the Sales Office. Suddenly, "Caleb" from the service providers appeared. His morning was slow so he’d decided to pop in. A savior! How kind! How marvelous. Well, by the end of the afternoon, he had disappeared, leaving things in slight disarray and although some of us were able to print, he may have accidentally deleted all printing capabilities from one of our manager's computers. Ridiculous.

From the honest peak near sunset.

That evening, Mom and JP picked me up 45 minutes late. We started towards Bird Ridge trailhead regardless, a 2.5 mile and 3400 foot climb looming in our near future. I lost track of the number of false summits and near submissions to the perpetual incline. Because of our tardiness, the hike started as a "we'll just hike this trail for a while" but as each false crest continued to break its promise and the next one seemed ever closer, the friendly romp became a resolute, hangry* stomp to reach the honest peak. The hike took several hours but the view and sense of accomplishment remain. Still, as I tenderly slid my quivering legs under the bed sheets at midnight I wondered at our ridiculous week night venture, a lesson supposedly learned on Wolverine (see previous post). But peaks are like a box of my favorite Triscuits: marvelously addicting, and once you start'em, it's so hard not to finish.

*hangry • han·gry • ⁄ h 'a NG gré ⁄ • adjective ( -gri·er , -gri·est )

Showing annoyance and hostility due the inability to quench an intensifying hunger.

Star

Five nights a week, Route 7 takes me from work to the transit center near the fourplex. Five nights a week, we roll past a large cage dominating a side yard on the edge of downtown. Even the top of the cage is enclosed by a fine yet strong mesh wire. What is in there?  But after work, my curiosity always lacks the energy required to answer this question.

Today, as we were picnicking at the Delany Park strip, I finally met the cage resident.

When I looked up from my chinese "chicken" and saw the movement in the cage, I immediately dashed barefooted across the street to relieve my recurring curiosity.
A reindeer. Is that it? As I laughed at my flattened expectation of some jungle beast, a couple walking by sourly remarked that the caribou probably dies every couple years but they replace it, keeping the name: "Star." Star? Sure enough. There was an official, weather proof name tag and facebook friending suggestion. That's probably why they keep the name.
"Star" was more thrilling as a mystery monster.

Woman Retreat

After work on Friday, Mom called the Talkeetna Roadhouse for availability. Nothing…well, we could buy a bed in the bunk room. Mom decided to buy all the beds in the bunk room to avoid spending the night with any random travelers. By 9 o'clock that night, we rolled into my arguably favorite Alaskan town, Talkeetna, where we spent the next 25 minutes yoked by the intention to eliminate the hord of mosquitos that threatened to poison our sleep in our private bunk room.

River at the end of the main street.
These guys know how to be.

The next morning, we sat at breakfast family style with a Belgian woman with a notebook, an elderly couple with strong opinions about f***ing Republicans, and an employee of Uncle Sam who longs to escape the prison of Fairbanks winters.
The rest of the day, Mom and I walked up and down the main street which is about three blocks long—and the only street in town. We paused only to sit on a bench in the delightful sun, legs extended and faces turned up to welcome the warmth of the day.