Learning to ski

So I took the new cross country skis out for a little slide today. It was my second time ever - the first being at least four years ago. It was an experience that left both my ego and knees so bruised that I put the memory out of my mind to the point of repression. But I remembered today as I snapped into my brand new bindings and started to slide forward ... wait ... I’ve been here before. It was the kind of thing that comes flooding back in a moment of silent dread ... the borrowed boots that were too small, the pair of battered skis waxed too much and a small misstep that sent me careening into a creek.

But it’s funny how much you can learn about something in the space of four years, even when you haven’t revisited it even once. Since that humbling first experience, I learned to downhill ski, took up bicycling for the first time since I was a child, learned to ride with 60 pounds of weight dangling from the frame, began riding in mud and gravel and even snow. My balance has improved; I’m a little stronger and a little less afraid of eating snow (tastes much better than sand, you know). So when I started sliding beyond control today, I just pulled the other foot forward, and kept going for three miles.

Sure, it wasn’t all sunshine and giggles ... I was dusted by a few skate skiers on the groomer, lost the trail and had to tramp through an open field of thorny bushes, and walking uphill was no picnic - I must of looked like a crippled duck as I thrashed up some of the steeper ones. But it was cool. I don’t regret purchasing the skis. And I got to see this ... the sun dropping over Kachemak Bay. So, all in all, a good hobby, I think.

Too warm for biking?

Temperatures here have started to inch just above freezing again - which means slush everywhere. Yesterday I finally convinced Geoff to go winter biking with me, but my "it will be great now that it’s warm" argument backfired. As we dropped off the ridge, we were bombarded with black goo, mostly melted snow mixed with dirt and gravel fragments. Pretty soon I was only able to keep one eye open, then only half open, and my steering wobbled as I furiously wiped mud from the small part of my face still exposed to the elements. When we reached town I was laughing out loud and Geoff was looking at me through his mud-caked bike mask, obviously annoyed. I know what you’re thinking - fenders, Jill, fenders! But acquiring gear doesn’t happen overnight, especially when you live in a town that doesn’t even stock underwear. I still need to buy studded bike tires and biking booties and gloves (all I own now is a pair of mittens.) And I need a tail light and long johns and weatherproof pants, and maybe one of those hats to go over my helmet, and while I’m at it, I remembered that Geo needs a new clutch and some shocks and I just bought cross country ski boots online that arrived as size 42 - 42s! Who even knows what size that is, but they’re entirely too big for me. In conclusion, fenders are on the short end of a long list, so here’s hoping the cold snap comes back.

Everywhere you want to be

Visa Quest ... it's kind of a bluegrass festival started by three guys who used to live in Fairbanks and never lived in Homer; it's 500 people and makeshift bands packed into a tiny hotel lounge and overflowing into the parking lot, foyer and even rooms; it's a congregation of old-timey musicians from Alaska and California and Pennsylvania and West Virgina who meet in Girdwood for no discernable reason and take a beer-driven bus trip all the way to Homer in November just because someone, somewhere, a decade ago or more, thought it sounded like a good idea. In short, Visa Quest is a Homer tradition.

As dancers herded the non-dancers into a neck-to-neck ring at the back of the room, I executed feeble attempts to get back to the stage so I could take photographs for the newspaper. People flailed everywhere and it was enough to make me nostalgic for the sweaty punk show mosh pits I used to swim laps in as a teenager. I must have looked pretty official with a giant Nikon around my neck, because people kept worming through the crowd to ask me questions.

One guy from Talkeetna: "What the hell is this?"

Me: "Bluegrass concert!" (duh)

Talkeetna man: "I've never been to Homer before. I'm just here to visit a friend. You guys sure know how to party here!"

Me: "Oh, this dosen't happen every weekend. It's sort of an annual event."

Talkeetna man, looking around with a blank smile: "So what the hell is this?"

And so on. It was fun, though. Geoff and I danced even though I was wearing two cameras and way too many layers for a room where temperatures easily climbed into the 90s (and I'm from Utah. I know how that feels.) This time next year? Count me in.

Breaking trail

Today Geoff and I went on a backyard expedition of the rolling woods behind our house. And when I say backyard expedition, I mean we literally strapped on some snowshoes, tramped through our backyard and spent three hours traversing the moose tracks and ravines that weave through a veritable wilderness. Geoff has dreams of forming our own personal network of trails where we can cross-country ski, snowboard and hike all winter long; but, man, breaking trail is tough work. While bounding down a steep hillside toward Bridge Creek, I started sliding out of control. I instinctively turned my toes together right before I hit a large root, which sent me flying forward - knees, hands and even face into the snow. The only worse for wear I sustained was a slightly twisted ankle; and only later did I discover that the plastic protectors were still covering my back crampons (I recently bought these snowshoes on eBay and this was their virgin trek). So it was my fault, after all.

While I’m on the subject of entertaining embarrassments, I photographed this cute little northern hawk owl wearing a feathered beret. A woman from a bird rehabilitation center in Anchorage broughtit down for a new exhibit at the Pratt Museum. This bird was the star of a children’s program I attended this morning. The program was predictable enough - squirming kids, loud questions and lots of facts, including the woman’s continued insistence that this bird “is a wild animal. It’s not a pet.” Which is true, I’m sure; poor thing can’t help that it broke it's wing and can't survive in the woods anymore. But if you can put a hat on an owl ... has the line between wild and fashionable been irrevocably crossed? Or could this owl be both? Or neither? It is kind of an ugly hat.

Beautiful day for bikin'

"Wake up. It's a beautiful day for biking." During my cross-country bike trip this phrase became a euphonism for "Wake up. It's 35 degrees outside, we're in the middle of Nowhere, Ohio, and we have 50 miles of headwind to burn through before we reach the other side of Nowhere, Ohio, so get your lazy butt out of the tent."

However, today reminded me that this phrase can still be said without sarcasm; even in Alaska, in November. I went for a two-hour ride along the ridge above town. There were a couple new inches of powder on the road and I had to earn every pedal stroke - but it's no worse than thick mud. The new snow clung to needles and bare branches, giving the landscape a rich contrast that comes when color is removed. Near the reservoir I met a pack of cross-country skiers on the road. We nodded in appreciation of each other and moved on, crushing through grains of snow as they sparkled in the afternoon sun.

Homer in Homer

This is a painting by local artist Leslie Klaar, who I interviewed today. She had a contagious enthusiasm that you don’t find much, even in artists. We talked for more than an hour about her life story, and I have to whittle it down to a 700-word profile. Sigh. But she showed me this painting that sparked a little de-ja-vu tingle when I first saw it. My camera flash pretty much washed it out, but it’s a painting of the Sterling Highway right before it drops into town. You can see the Spit snaking out into Kachemak Bay in the background. I liked it because this is exactly what I saw when I first turned this corner on Sept. 11. It was like looking at a reflection of my own memory … an abstract illustration of what I was feeling at the time. I don’t know. It’s one of those weird art things you can’t explain.

I’ve interviewed a lot of people since I came to town, and Leslie was more polite than most when I introduced myself … a hearty handshake and nothing more said about my name. Most often I get “Homer. You’re name is Homer? No! Really?” (Stifled snickers).

A few say, “Are you related to the founder?,” which is dumb. I’ve only lived here two months and even I know that the town was named after Homer Pennock, a gold prospector who I guess liked his first name better.

I was starting to feel like the only Homer in Homer until my co-worker met a middle-school-aged kid named Homer Olsen, while attending a shark dissection lab on a Saturday … voluntarily, I might add. “Is he from here?” I asked. “I think so,” my co-worker said. He’s probably a great kid, but man, what a cruel fate. I feel for you, Homer.

I like ... art

This is a picture I took on Saturday at Dramaslam. It was a strange event to say the least – 35 locals got together Friday night and wrote, rehearsed and performed six short plays in the space of 24 hours. Geoff and I arrived at the Beluga Lake Lodge expecting a garbled mess of bad writing and flubbed lines performed for an audience of maybe three. What we found was a beyond-capacity crowd of at least 200, and six plays that were - well – real plays. Witty, well acted plays complete with props, lighting and coherent direction. I was beyond surprised, but I guess my expectations still reside in Idaho Falls, where the only well-publicized art event in the 10 months I lived there was a craft fair. If there’s one thing that unites Homerites, it’s that they love their art … and their halibut.

I wrote a review of sorts about Dramaslam – here’s the link to that and other ART-icles of mine. I feel the need to apologize for the 1994-era layout of the Tribune arts page and the fact that it doesn’t link to anything. It’s not my fault! The Web page was designed long before I started working at the Tribune, and probably will remain the same long after I’m gone. With my extremely limited HTML knowledge and general focus elsewhere, it’s a battle I’ll probably never fight. I’m copy-and-paste girl, I am.

Speaking of embarrassing copy, I finally read through one of my articles today (probably the first I’ve read post-publication) and found a number of typos and other errors. As a former copy editor, this should be the height of shame for me. I should report myself to the Testy Copy Editors Web group (extremely funny site if you’re an anal retentive word cop). But will this prompt me to read my own articles before publication? Probably not. I have an debilitating mental block when it comes to self-editing. There’s nothing that makes me sick of myself faster than reading my own writing. So why keep a Weblog? Good question. I’ll go ride my bike trainer and think about it.