A Look Back: Matters of Pride, Camping with an Elk in Jasper National Park and the Columbia Icefields

Warm and wonderful in Jasper National Park.

In the most recent "A Look Back" post, I'd shared a journal excerpt from the first day of my journey from Denali National Park, Alaska to a new job in Philadelphia, over 4,500 miles away. After driving along the rest of the Alcan, through the Yukon, Liard Hot Springs and part of British Columbia, we stopped to camp in Jasper National Park. The journal excerpts continue with an account of our unexpected early morning visitor and moving on from Jasper into the Columbia Icefields for some of the most incredible terrain I'd ever seen.

I awoke feeling restless at 5:30am with an urge to use the facilities. I spend a good length of time arguing internally about whether or not extracting myself from the warm sleeping bag was worth it, or if I could manage a little more sleep until the sun rose and warmed the tent. It's one of those impossibly constant cool weather camping problems; one I was glad to have. Dan and I had switched sleeping bags on account of his being warmer and my body's inability to regulate its own temperature. I'd warmed sufficiently by that point to have shed my very top insulating layer, which included my big, marshmallowy Cornell Athletics sweatpants. (To the Athletics Office: I'm not sorry I didn't return them after graduation. After surviving four years of college swimming, I deserve them.) I'd shoved them to the bottom of the sleeping bag and a walk to the bathroom meant retrieving them. Ah, well.

Dan and the fire I finally managed to make!

I finally decided it couldn't wait and was off to the facilities in our Jasper National Park campground, complete with indoor plumbing. I made a silly comment to Dan about how we were roughing it. He gently reminded me that, despite our outdoor sleeping quarters, the bathroom was a shorter walk from our tent than it had been from my employee housing room in Denali just a week earlier. (I lived in one of a handful of beautiful A-frame housing units in Denali without indoor plumbing. If I wanted to pee in the middle of the night, I had to get dressed and head to the nearest bathroom, a relatively short walk away. Good times!)

I'd wanted to make a fire in the morning and was determined to do so before Dan got up. I collected an armful of dead spruce branches and thought I'd have a roaring blaze in no time. Wrong. After crouching near the kindling and fiddling with my lighter, all I'd managed to do was turn the pile of pine needles and bark from brown to black. I was about to surrender when I heard Dan stir in the tent. It had become a matter of pride. I must get the fire started! I must!! I flicked the lighter one last time and managed to ignite the bundle of wet sticks. Victory! It was almost as difficult to keep the little flame lit, but I managed to avoid embarrassment and ridicule by doing so...barely.

our early morning campsite guest in Jasper National Park.

We missed the 11am checkout time because a bull elk parked himself right next to our tent while we'd gone on a little jaunt into town and couldn't get near the tent to dismantle it without fear of being charged. Back into town we went for a wonderful breakfast of homemade bread and eggs. Aurora (my Toyota Corolla), even completely loaded down with all of our worldly possessions, is consistently getting 30-35 mpg. The elk still hadn't moved when we returned. I slowly and deliberately approached the tent and got close enough to unstake it. We moved it closer to the car, dismantled it, packed up and left, heading south toward Banff and the Columbia Icefields.

the beginning of the Columbia Icefields.

I thought I'd seen it all in Alaska, but I was remarkably mistaken. This section Canadian Rockies, save Mount McKinley, seems to be consistently taller than anything I've seen. The peaks are more jagged, the mountains more angry, and the landscape more intimidating the further we go. Instead of  relatively gentle rises from base to summit, these boast thousand foot sheer cliffs staggered from top to bottom like stairways for giants. The summits of each are extraordinarily obvious and the mountains exhibit obvious sedimentary layers. Most are over 3000m tall and as a result, each have their own little glaciers and ice fields. Most look unclimbable without a harness, lots of ropes, lots of people, and a certain level of disregard for self preservation. Small trees grow improbably in the smallest of flat spots. They stretch toward the heavens above deep blue lakes and rivers fed by the endless glaciers. It's just...inspiring. Do we have to leave?

In the next "A Look Back" post on May 13th, the journey continues through the Columbia Icefields and on a backpacking trip to one of the largest backcountry glacial lakes in Banff National Park!

A Look Back: Adventures on the Alcan

Sunset and Mt. McKinley on my last night in Denali. (2007)

I moved to Alaska in the summer of 2006 and lived there for a glorious 18 months. After taking a job back on the East Coast, the biggest decision I had to face was to choose between having my car and belongings shipped to Philadelphia, or to take some time off and drive the 4,500 miles cross country. I certainly didn't dream of selling the car.

And the decision was easy. At the end of the summer season in Denali National Park, I packed what would fit in my car, shipped the rest, and hopped in with my partner in crime for a two and a half week drive through some of the most awe-inspiring and boring parts of North America.. The last night in Denali and first day of driving were, at the very least, memorable. Road trips are the best.

Infamous John Allen, reading at Toklat. (2006)

We woke around 6am after a night of celebrations and bittersweet farewells at my favorite bar in Denali – The Spike. John Allen obliged my request for a hug, which might've been the best part of the evening. He's one of those people I really couldn't ever forget. The next morning, I was happily force fed my favorite biscuits, sans gravy at the EDR (employee dining room). Then we were on our way.

We hit Fairbanks around 10am and continued on to North Pole. Not the North Pole, just North Pole. The only thing differentiating it from any other town in the Middleofnowhere, Alaska is the fact that all of the utility poles are painted like candy canes. We drove around small roads in town just to see what the fuss was about, but couldn't figure it out.

The fall colors were absolutely delicious – a feast for the eyes. None of the photos I took did the birch trees and painted tundra justice by any sense of the imagination. It's times like this I wish I'd taken the time to buy a fancy camera and learn how to use it. Around each corner a new hill, sparkling gold, would jump out, framed by mountain ranges in the distance.

Somewhere in Northeast Alaska. (2006)

Aurora (my Toyota Corolla) was riding low, and still is. It'll be hard to find a mechanic shop that treated her as well as the shop in Denali. The entire length of the Alcan is subject to some of the largest temperature variations I've seen and was built on some of the most volatile, angry land in North America. The entire highway through central Alaska and the Yukon is littered with frost heaves. Some are marked with pink flags, others with small signs. It's as if the road crews surrendered to Mother Nature after she chided us humans for building a road where it doesn't belong. Even slowing to 40mph couldn't prevent me from being lofted slightly into the air more than once.

Dinner was brought to us by my MSR Whisperlite stove and a couple of packages of Lipton side dishes. We'd stopped somewhere along the Alcan after crossing into the Yukon near a river. As we noshed on our very artificial dinner, a native family ferried sections of a moose carcass across the swiftly flowing water in a small boat. The animal's chest cavity, both thighs, and two men fit in the boat, but barely. One of the young men stopped to chat, and I couldn't help but ask a million naïve questions. He explained how big of a task it was to call the moose out in the morning, how many shots it took to bring it down, and how long it took to skin and clean. The entire family waited in a big red pickup for them, and we politely declined when they offered us a look at the carcass.

Kluane Lake, Yukon Territory. (2006)

Evening descended as we passed Burwash Landing and Destruction Bay on Kluane Lake. Dan skipped stones on the lake while I couldn't do anything but sit in a pile of leaves and pick my jaw up off the ground. Stunning. There were no words.

We spent the night in Haines Junction. The inn wasn't anything special, and Aurora looked so small among all the giant trucks in the parking lot. I certainly wasn't expecting much for under $100 at the end of their tourist season. Hell of a view out the window, though.

The first day of a road trip like this is always the best. You're awake, excited, and haven't gone stir crazy from sitting in the car yet. This first day was the beginning of a beautiful journey, one I think everyone should take at some point in their lives. And I had friends in Alaska who did the drive every year as the seasons changed! Keep reading the A Look Back series for more Alcan adventures!

A Look Back: Alone With My Thoughts in Denali

This post in the "A Look Back" series takes me back to one of my most vivid memories of the two years I lived in Alaska - the day before what I planned to be an epic-at-the-time adventure. I was an outdoor n00b living in an outdoor adventurer's paradise, Denali National Park in the summer, and planned to take full advantage. This is an excerpt from the journal I kept while I was there.

sunset on the Healy Range, Denali National Park, 2006.

this place. this wonderful place. this wide expanse of enthralling beauty, so much beauty i could cry, so much beauty i can hardly believe it truly exists. i'd seen the pictures just like everyone else, but i never anticipated this feeling of wonder and excitement just from gazing out my window as the slightly setting sun hits distant ridges i might be lucky enough to stand on. despite the sun that never sets, snow stays unmelted on the highest peaks and in rock crevices that never feel its warmth. i want to see it all. and it's all mine. it's my own giant playground.

i'm waking up, stretching my legs, and realizing the world as i knew it has changed. it's surreal. this place is altering my consciousness every minute of every day. i'm going out into the wilderness alone tomorrow for the first time, my first solo camping trip, and i'm so scared-excited. i'm going out on my own because i can. because it's there. because i want to experience silence.

the sun's turned Mount Healy an impossibly fluorescent shade of pink. an Alaskan sunset - the absence of the actual disappearance of the sun over the horizon, but rather defined by the vibrant colors and shadows it brings while the larger inhabited part of this hemisphere is dark. it's almost midnight and i can still see every tree, clear as day, clear as i will seven hours from now when i pull myself out of bed for my little adventure. Sanctuary Creek, where i'm headed, we'll see if it's actually a sanctuary. it sure looks like one. and sounds like one.

a self portrait on the Denali Park Road at Sactuary Creek, 2006.

i fit a tent, sleeping bag, food, a map, two nalgenes and other mini-essentials into the North Face Slingshot backpack i used to take to class every day. tent pegs and extra clothes are tied to my unbelievably heavy mountain bike frame. i'm hoping i'll actually be able to pedal. i'll catch a camper bus to mile 22 on the park road, set up my little tent, and just be. for a day, a night, and another day.

tomorrow, i'll leave it all behind. i will just be. i will exist, Denali will exist, and that will be enough.

Embarrassing as this is to admit, my not-so-badass self and I didn't spend the night out in Denali National Park. I set up the tent as planned, went on a hike and came back to make dinner. At that point, I realized I was alone, and lonely. At 22, being alone with my thoughts was a little much. I wasn't scared, just lonely. Time passed so slowly, and I realize now I just wasn't ready to be completely alone with myself, yet. I packed up my 30 pounds of gear after seven or eight hours out there, saddled up and biked the 22 miles back to the park entrance. I'd never biked that far in my life. The park road is hilly, long, and mostly gravel. I made it back in the middle of the night, sore and slightly defeated, but optimistic. I look back at this and smile because that trip seems so small and silly now, but it was such a big deal then!

Revelstoke, Here We Come! (In Two Months)

Alyeska, where I learned to ski in 2007.

Normally, Mondays are days I don't particularly look forward to. But this Monday was...awesome. I booked my flight to Kelowna, British Columbia for my first real ski trip "out west." For someone who's grown up on the East Coast and spent the last few winters skiing in Pennsylvania, I'm not entirely sure what skiing "out west" entails, but I know it's going to be awesome.

I started skiing back in 2007 when I lived in Alaska, though you can bet it took me at least a month into real winter to try it at all. "You want me to hurtle myself down a giant mountain toward the icy Turnagin Arm on pieces of wood attached to my feet? Seriously?!" But try I did, and I discovered that those years of figure skating lessons paid off. I realized my instant, although uncontrolled, ability to parallel ski. (I figure skated until age 10, at which point I decided I was not, in fact, graceful, and swimming was much more fun.)

That winter, I spent almost every weekend at the Alyeska Resort outside of Anchorage. After a month of skiing, my "instructor" finally let me use poles, and I finally figure out how not to trip over them. I still don't plant them properly, though.

So, after much deliberation, waffling, and general arguing both internally and out loud, I booked my flight to British Columbia to ski at Revelstoke. Life's full of trade-offs, and I knew there would only be one big trip this winter. But I'm psyched that this is it! We'll spend a few days wandering around the Kelowna area, hopefully discovering a handful of outdoor adventures to be had. Then our little group will head to Revelstoke for several days of jaw dropping views and feet of beautiful snow.

I'm not going to lie, I'm nervous. As far as skiing goes, I'm about average, and I'm going to British Columbia to ski with a few folks who are, to say the least, incredible skiers. Black runs here in Pennsylvania give me a run for my money, and I didn't make it down a single black run at Alyeska without biting it at least once. A few days at Whiteface Mountain outside Lake Placid, NY last winter left me a little more fearless. But after several hours of steep skiing, my legs are jello, and concentrating enough not to fall is quite challenging. I know powder is akin to gold for skiers and boarders, but I have absolutely no idea how to ski in it. The closest I've come to skiing powder was sloshing through inches of fluffy snow that had fallen one day at Alyeska. That was three years ago.

Nerves aside, I'm beyond excited. I can't wait for the Canadian Rockies to take my breath away. I'm guessing just sitting at a window staring outside would be enough to keep me occupied for the entire week. But, this blog is called "Adventure-Inspired" after all, and I'm so looking forward to taking on the challenge of skiing in a brand new place, and learning as much as I can.

All of you skiers out there, what advice do you have for someone who's about to go on their first real, honest-to-goodness ski trip? I've got two months to get myself ready!

Being Thankful for Nature's Gifts

Sunset and alpenglow in Denali National Park.

This morning, friend Amy Christensen of Expand Outdoors posed a question on her blog about gifts from nature. As far as gifts go, hers is, without a doubt, the ability to ask questions that force me to think more critically and more openly than I ever thought possible. She's certainly got me thinking before, and this time is no exception. 

I took some time today to reflect on those of nature's gifts I'm most thankful for, and narrowed it down those I thought were most meaningful.

Thanks to nature, I understand the true meaning of "awestruck". Alaska, the Canadian Rockies, Mount Rainier, and everything in between taught me that. The landscapes take my breath away. They awaken a longing, a sadness, buried under my seemingly silly obsessions and worries.The feeling is an addiction; as soon as I'm away, the only thing I can think of is how to get it back.
Thanks to nature, I've put a new definition to what it means to be challenged. Outdoor sports (climbing, mountaineering, wilderness backpacking and hiking) have humbled and fascinated me. I've been petrified and exhilarated all at the same time, every time. Despite the fear, I keep going back. I want to learn, grow, and accept the fear as part of being human.

Nature gives me an escape with a purpose. It's not just about being distracted from life's everyday responsibilities; television can accomplish that. It's about leaving everything else behind, immersing myself in and becoming completely aware of my surroundings. Even when I'm on a hike, I'll have to force myself to pay complete attention and to stay present. When I'm able to completely focus on the smells, sounds, and sights, it's unlike any other release.

Nature forces all of us to be creative, think critically, learn and grow. In Alaska, I was fascinated by the need for an engine block heater and studded tires on my car. The concept of building a house, a hotel, or a high rise on such a volatile landscape was incredible. The terrain constantly shifts, and if we're going to inhabit place like it, we've got to adapt. That need for adaptation is exciting, and the constant challenges fascinate me.

The kindred spirits I've found make me feel constantly thankful. Through nature, I've discovered passionate friends I never knew I could have.

Thanks to nature, I'm reminded of how small I am, and that there's more to the world than just me. Than just us. Than just my apartment, my car, my job, the noise, and the hustle and bustle of life.

If you've got gifts from nature you're thankful for, post them in the comments section and be sure to let Amy know what they are, too!

A Tribute to John Allen

I moved to Alaska a month after college graduation to start a job working in Denali National Park in the summers and living in Anchorage in the winter. The impact the 18 months I lived there had on who I am is something I'll never really understand, both with respect to the awe-inspiring beauty and unwavering harshness of the land itself, and the people I met.

One such person was John Allen. Thinking of him reminds me of how truly being yourself, oddities and all, can be so wonderful, and how endearing those oddities may be. He's been a Denali Visitor Transportation Service bus drive since dinosaurs roamed the earth, and has more stories than you can imagine. He's also a poet and a writer, and after I left he'd send me stories written on a typewriter about all sorts of things. I have one of his poems "glassed, framed, and hanging on the wall," as he would say.


Last night, Dan's father sent me something he'd written when they came to visit and we had the pleasure of riding out into Denali National Park on John's bus, and I can't wait to share it. Thanks so much, Joel, for documenting a monumental event in bus riding, and for allowing me to share it!

The Sweep
Joel Herscovitch

About a half-hour in, John informed us of the “big four”: caribou, moose, Dall (mountain) sheep, and grizzly. To sight all four was extremely rare. He termed it “the sweep,” and he had a broom ready to hang in the highly unlikely event we spotted all four.

John, our bus driver, was the kind of person often known as a “character.” He was about fifty and would have been otherwise non-descript if not for twinkling eyes and a bushy Walrus mustache. As we bounced along deeper and deeper into Alaska’s Denali National Park, John provided “a few words.” Our attention was riveted by his encyclopaedic knowledge of the park, its history, inhabitants, topography, flora and fauna.

Riding John’s bus was no accident. My son’s girlfriend, who worked in the park, had insisted on it. We are forever in her debt. Bus is the only way into this enormous park spanning an area larger than Massachusetts. The crown jewel is Mount McKinley (or Denali), at 20,320 feet the highest mountain in North America. McKinley is generally shrouded in clouds, but when she “came out” briefly, it took our breath away.

Adventuresome trekkers would get off the buses for hikes. Each time we picked up a new rider, John would restart his spiel. “Hi, my name’s John,” he would utter in his deadpan delivery, “What’s your name?” He would then repeat verbatim a brief and light-hearted orientation for every traveler. John harbored a respect for all living things, including those human. You felt valued on John’s bus.

Bumping along through the scrub and tundra, we searched the terrain. John instructed us to keep voices low and how to report animal sightings. Eventually, someone murmured, “Two o’clock – caribou.” John quietly slowed. Like obedient children, we carefully pulled down the top windows to snap photos. Later, we spotted a Dall sheep atop a cliff and later still, a female moose grazing halfway up a hill.

For the next few hours, we rode in silence, occasionally punctuated by yet another of John’s fascinating vignettes. It struck me this was the furthest north and deepest into wilderness I had ever ventured. Finally, a hushed but urgent “Four o’clock.” John eased the bus to a halt. We held our collective breath as a family of grizzlies crossed the road just behind our bus. Momma Bear and three cubs proceeded to munch on berries and leaves in a meadow by the side of the road. We gazed spellbound, silent.

We drove back brandishing a broom attached to John’s side view mirror. Other bus drivers going in gave us the thumbs up. We were puffed up like warriors triumphant in our mutual quest. We felt bonded to one another and to the animals of Denali. Thanks, John, for helping us sweep the clutter and detritus of civilization from our minds. If for only a moment, we were truly transfixed.

26 Years of Evolution

evolve (v) - to come forth gradually into being; develop;undergo evolution

Today - I have existed on this planet for exactly 26 years.

Last year on this day - I was preparing for a joint birthday party with one of my good friends, which turned out to be one of the best-attended parties I've ever had, a testament to how amazing my friends are here. I was also packing for my first trip overseas ever. Destination: Dublin, Ireland.

 My best work buddies and I at my birthday party, January 2009

 
Two years ago - I was starting to adjust to life in Philadelphia and still trying to find places to play outside. I had just discovered TerraMar Adventures, a group that would soon become one of the most influential parts of my life in the big city. I didn't attend an event until about a month later, and it was an evening climbing event at Go Vertical.

S

Spending quality time with some of my best buddies at home, winter 2008

Three years ago - I was living in Anchorage and learning how to ski. Dan and I were packing for an overnight trip to Seward that weekend where we'd watch the most beautiful sunset I've ever seen over the harbor.

Outside of the Chugach National Forest in Alaska, winter 2007

Four years ago - I was just beginning my last semester at Cornell University. Having just returned from our annual swim team training trip to Hawaii, I was tan and exhausted! But I was so looking forward to enjoying my last semester of college to the absolute fullest. I had just started rock climbing.

One of my favorite walks at Cornell, right behind Mann Library, spring 2006

Although January 1st officially marks the start of every new year, I can't remember the last time I actually used that day to reflect on what had happened in my life over the past 365 days. Sure I'd watch the news and read about everything that happened in the world over the past year, but it wasn't until my birthday this year that I really stopped to think about what's happened to me, how my life has progressed, and how I've evolved (if at all!). When I think about how I've gotten from where I was even five years ago to where I am today, I'm shocked and amazed.

So, this past year has been pretty incredible. I thank my lucky stars for all of the opportunities I've had this year to develop as all around outdoorswoman, a climber, a TerraMar guide, in my career, and as a human being. I've been fortunate enough to have done some amazing things this past year.

• I resurrected this blog, prompting me to really think about how to share my thoughts meaningfully with others.
  
• I learned how to lead climb, and went on my first and second real outdoor climbing trips. I had to face fears I've previously ignored, but definitely still have work to do.
• I competed in my first, and then second bouldering competitions ever, and loved every minute of it! The support from other climbers and friends during those events still makes me smile.
• I went on two strenuous backpacking trips and learned great lessons about preparedness and group dynamics.
  
• I visited some of the most beautiful National Parks in the country, including Mount Rainier, Olympic, and Joshua Tree.
  
• I went ice climbing and summitted the second-highest ADK 46er in January...and have the video to prove it!
  
• I've accomplished a lot at work, and am enjoying my job and how it challenges me.

But more significant than the things I've done are the people I've done them with. None of the trips I've taken or the adventures I've had would be complete without having shared them with friends, new and old, and without the support of my family. I can't thank all of you enough for the gift of your presence in my life. From my fellow TerraMar guides to my three Philadelphia-based "adventure girls," and from my hometown buddies to the absolutely incredible group of people I've met on twitter, I think I might be the luckiest girl in the world.

And I do think I've done a good bit of evolving this year, mostly in my relationships with others and in learning new activities that test my mind, body and soul. I'm learning what makes me tick, what I'm passionate about, and how best to put that passion to good use. I am gradually coming into being, into my being. And whatever that final being may be, I thank all of you who've been a part of my evolution this year.

Mulling Over Words

I am ashamed to admit I am one of those individuals who reads the newspaper without actually reading the newspaper. I love the feel of the flattened fibers in my hands, staring at the official typeface and the important headlines...but sadly, it seems I can do little but skim the content. What is it about the guts of the newspaper, the actual stories, all of which were produced laboriously by some poor, sleep-deprived press officer, that dissuade me from actually gaining any sort of knowledge about the world at all?

At a training session for ARAMARK this past week, our customer service guru passed out a written exam that was supposed to enlighten us with our individual learning styles. I am always skeptical about these sorts of things; as I have grown, my bullshit meter has become significantly more sensitive. The same is true with management and self-improvement books; what could a story about mice and cheese possibly tell me about my ability to deal with change? Regardless, there are a few fantastic books of that nature available.

But, back to the learning styles...I am primarily a visual learner, complete with a dash of the auditory learning style. My guess is, if I were an expert, which I am not, that the large quantity of small words on a newspaper page indimidates me; I often find myself leafing through looking at the pictures and the headlines. But if someone were to explain a current event to me, or if I were to see it on the news, I would remember it.

But I love reading books, which also contain an intimidating amount of words. However, I always find myself imagining what the scenes look like, and imagining what the person narrating sounds like. But what does it all mean, really?

All Coffee Shops are Not Created Equal

As an judicious, slightly overworked Cornell student, one of my favorite haunts throughout my time on The Hill was the coffee shop in my favorite library. (Truthfully, I could be found haunting any coffee shop on campus.) But this one in particular was favorable because they employed a practice encouraging patrons to transport their coffee from the smiling barista's clenched fingers to whatever dark, dreary corner in the stacks of volumes bursting with knowledge via personal mugs rather than the disposable, chlorine-bleached coffee cups with non-degrading plastic lids.

An individual, upon presenting their own, often quite distinctive, beverage vessel, received a discount on any drink purchase. I would proudly carry my fire-engine red Gimme! mug from home every day, plastered with bumper stickers, in an attempt to quell my insatiable thirst for coffee, and receive my discount.

Of course, I would often get lazy and forget to clean the clumped cinnamon from the bottom the night before and be forced to pollute the trash bins with the chlorine-bleached cup waste created by one individual. But I would often think, what would happen if every coffee addict on campus brought their own mug? True, the all powerful University might lose a few hundred dollars with the discount, but would earn that back disposing infintely fewer cups.

I will not begin to comment on the quality of Seattle's Best coffee in general, regardless of the mug of cup used, but it provoked some interesting thoughts while I was contemplating policies for the food and beverage establishments I will be overseeing this summer in Denali. I am not sure how many guests we could expect traveling from Japan, or even the East Coast, to carry reuseable coffee mugs with them, but it is an interesting thought nonetheless.

Eggshells and Coffee Grounds

The entire night's progression of dreams included eggs. But not just any eggs, the best quality eggs. The thick, brown-shelled, flawless oblate spheroids that require a hammer to crack; the kind that are packed in cardboard cartons, only found in the organic section of the grocery store; the kind that, no matter the culinary naivete, could not produce anything but a perfect omelette.

And then my alarm sounded a mere 30 minutes before my presence was required at work, leaving me no time to indulge in the night's reverie. A combination of raw oat bran and bargain instant oatmeal had to suffice, the meal only complete with a mug of foul office coffee. As with most dreams, this one would have to wait.

After progressing halfway through "Pour Your Heart Into It," one of the many testimonies of Starbucks' (cannibalistic) greatness, I believe I have progressed from a coffee enthusiast to a full fledged snob. Upon moving to the Great White North, I was ecstatic to find myself in a land full of individuals who bled coffee and would not rest until espresso sheds sat on every intersection of every road in Anchorage.

The importance of influence of these coffee carts is obvious; Kaladi Brothers coffee was born out of a small roadside shed in 1986 just one block south of my apartment. I have and always will prefer locally produced food and drink, much better for the planet to but coffee roasted in Anchorage or Juneau than buying that which has been flow on a gas-guzzling 747 from the East Coast. But as with everything else in Alaska, it seems, even the coffee boasts a uniquely perfect personality - strong and free of bullshit.