The Abandoned North, Part IV – Adak Island: Unexploded Ordnance

 

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Craig Goodnight at the top of a porphyry dome, Adak

Unexploded ordnance: these are two words I encounter often during my visit to the Aleutians. Called UXO for short, it comes in many forms – bombs, artillery shells, bullets, torpedoes. In the Aleutian Islands, it also comes from many

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A warning poster aimed at children to avoid UXO, featuring Boomer the Otter

places – ordnance left by the United States during World War II to defend against Japanese attacks, ordnance left by the Japanese to defend against U.S. attacks, ordnance used for weapons testing during the Cold War, ordnance launched but unexploded, and ordnance intentionally buried, or maybe even stored and forgotten. Large tracts of land on the northern  part of Adak Island are still being cleared of UXO, and we’re told that it’s possible to find it in unexpected places outside of this area. Warnings are everywhere, most prominently warnings for children. UXO even has its own mascot, a helmet-wearing Boomer  the Otter.

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Warning signs along the perimeter of an area where UXO is still being cleaned up

Unexploded ordnance is not the only danger to people of Adak Island. There are also a lot of abandoned buildings with hazards like disintegrating materials and broken glass. Some date back as far as 1942, when the U.S. Army first arrived. At the peak of the World War II Aleutian military campaigns, Adak Island was home to 30,000 people. There were probably between 6,000 and 7,000 residents living here later, during the Cold War, maybe more. According to the 2010 U.S. census, it is now home to 326 people, although the year-round population is said to be closer to 100.

Humanity’s ruined structures hold a particular fascination for me, as they do for many others, and, like skeletons, they only become more fascinating as they age. Don’t ancient Egyptian tombs hold more intrigue than homicide scenes? For this reason, I find the older quonset huts more compelling than the newer barracks, the older Bering Chapel more beautiful than its newer replacement.

Two World War II era quonset huts built in the 1940s. According to a historical guide published by the City of Adak,  the structure on the right was part of an early hospital facility.

Left: The historic Bering Chapel, built in 1944 by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, with newer windowless, abandoned dormitories in the background. Right: The now abandoned Bering Hill Chapel that replaced the older structure in the 1980s.

Left: View of an abandoned neighborhood in Adak. Some of the condominiums are missing walls, probably from Arctic hurricanes. Center: More abandoned condominiums, with snow-capped mountains emerging from the clouds. Right: A derelict vacuum cleaner, complete with its cord, outside one of the empty military facilities on the island.

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Unexploded ordnance is on the menu at Bay 5

As I expected, my favorite thing about Adak Island turns out to be the natural world, but before I get to that (in Part V), there is one more piece of UXO to mention: the Unexploded Ordnance at Bay 5. A fellow named Bernardo Diaz is the proprietor of Bay 5, Adak’s Mexican American restaurant. The establishment offers a unique dessert that consists of a deep-fried Snicker’s bar topped with cinnamon-sugar, chocolate, and whipped topping. It’s tempting, but I decide not to buy one, as I am already full from delicious chicken enchiladas swimming in unpredictably fresh and authentic red chile. Surprises from remote Alaska never cease.

The Abandoned North, Part III – Adak Island: Birthplace of the Winds

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Horseshoe Cove on Adak Island

When I was in high school in Denver, Colorado in the late 1970s, we were all trained to fear the Soviet Union and to worry about potential nuclear warfare. At that time, I’d never heard of Adak Island, although it was an important military base. Activities on the Adak Naval Air Station were not advertised during the Cold War. It wasn’t easy for civilians to visit, and other facilities such as Shemya Air Force Base, west of Amchitka, were completely top secret. The base on Adak closed in 1997, and officials chose the least expensive option to disposition the facilities: abandonment. Most of the buildings are now empty, their shattered windows and tumbled walls open to the wind and rain.

We land at Adak Airport, on a runway that I later learn has been in continuous use since the end of World War II. As we descend the aircraft stairs, we are greeted by a large sign reading, “Welcome to N.A.F. Adak, Alaska, Birthplace of the winds.” Inside, a small crowd is forming to await the delivery of our bags. There is an old map of the city on one wall, a diorama of shorebirds on another, and a video on a high-mounted television warning about unexploded ordnance. Nobody is paying any attention.

Adak Airport sign

This is the sign that greets us as we step off the jet and into the Adak airport. Unangan call the island the Birthplace of the Winds, although the name “Adak” comes from the word “Adaq,” which means “Father.”

The City of Adak came into being in 2001, and it is composed mainly of repurposed military housing units, some of which may be rented by visitors. One of the rental companies is Little Michael Lodges, chosen by our team because the condominiums have wifi, as not all of the rentals do. Little lines of caribou skulls are posted like troops along the front of the homes, left by past hunters. Some of the skulls sport green antlers and little topknots of moss. Inside, a bottle of wine and a plate of chocolates welcome us into the kitchen.

It is expensive to bring materials to Adak, so the rentals are not quite like cabin rentals elsewhere. Visitors need to be flexible. There is not a full complement of cooking implements in our condo, so we improvise, and I discover that a wire whisk is actually one of the best ways to mash potatoes. There is plenty of bedding, but the bedroom curtains are thin, so I hang some of the sheets over the windows to block the long daylight that interferes with my sleep. The most inconvenient adjustment is the cold water in the showers upstairs, but otherwise the condo is cozy, clean, and comfortable. None of this is a real cause to complain. After all, I didn’t expect to be pampered in remote Alaska, at the edge of the Bering Sea.The Adak National Forest in its entirety

“Birthplace of the Winds” is a perfect name for Adak Island. Early on my first morning there, I go for a run along the beach with our team geologist, Craig. The temperature is well above freezing, but the wind cuts through me, bracing and invigorating! There are frequently hurricane-force winds here. Although we don’t experience any of these, there is barely a minute during our visit when there isn’t a strong wind blowing. It is so often cold and windy on the Aleutian Islands that trees can’t persist. Many decades ago, servicemen planted small groves of conifers on Adak Island as a morale boosting exercise. One of these stunted groves is famously known as “Adak National Forest,” the entirety of which can still be hiked in less than a minute.

We continue to tour the town. There are one or two small stores, several restaurants,  and warehouses operated by the Aleut Corporation, which owns moSunken Navy tugboat at Adakst of the northern part of the island, and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, which manages the wildlife refuge in the south. There are also a whole lot of empty buildings and a collection of docks in Sweeper Cove, Adak’s harbor. Some are in use, while others are decaying. There is a sunken tugboat in one corner, still tied to shore. It is the Mecosta, built in the early 70’s and sold by the Navy in the early 2000s. A second tug, the Redwing, also once served in the harbor and lies underwater nearby. Something about the repose of the well-crafted boat is picturesque, maybe even beautiful.

 

The Abandoned North, Part II – Anchorage: Midnight Sun

View from Elderberry Park in Anchorage

Mt. Susitna, “The Sleeping Lady,” and Cook Inlet from Elderberry Park, Anchorage

The last time I saw Cook Inlet was in early March, 2012 as my husband and I left Anchorage on the way back from the Alaska interior and the ceremonial start of the Iditarod sled dog race. At that time, the inlet was filled with a flotilla of ice chunks, their edges worn round, dim in the twilight beneath the plane. This summer, the water of the inlet is calm and clear, topped with blankets of low-lying clouds and surrounded by a land shaded green. Plant life abounds in the city as it basks in over 19 hours of daylight. At 61 degrees north latitude, this is the land of the midnight sun.

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View from Room 1229 of the Anchorage Marriott Downtown hotel. A bright rainbow over Delaney Park makes it look like midday, but this photo was taken after 11:00 p.m. on June 11

On our previous trip, a former Anchorage resident recommended the Rusty Harpoon to my husband, and I love this shop enough to return in 2016 with my friend and fellow ecologist, Danika Marshall. I buy some Alaskan malachite/azurite jewelry and ask the owners, Bill and Sheri, about a good place to eat dinner. They send us to the F Street Station with a warning that it will be crowded. They are right about that, but as soon as we arrive, five people miraculously evacuate a table by the front window, and we claim it for the Amchitka team. Along with Danika and I are team leader Paul Darr, geologist Craig Goodknight, and engineer Stephen Pitton. The men have all been to Amchitka many times, and I value their knowledge and experience.

Craig Goodknight, Paul Darr, Stephen Pitton, Danika Marshall in F Street Grill in Anchorage

Craig, Paul, Stephen, and Danika at the F Street Station.

F Street serves local and regional beer on tap in pint-sized mason jars. I opt for a Dolly Varden Nut Brown from Kassik’s Brewery in Kenai and order a sourdough crab roll and some Alaskan oysters on the half shell – all good choices. While waiting for food, customers can help themselves to slices of Tillamook sharp cheddar cheese, cut from a huge block placed out on the bar. In what must be an example of Alaskan humor, the cheese block comes with a  warning:

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But there is a cheese slicer sitting  invitingly on top.

The long daylight must be affecting me because I don’t get much sleep, although my room at the Anchorage Marriott Downtown is comfortable and nice. In the hotel lobby, they serve Kaladi Brothers Coffee, an Alaskan brew of a different sort. I buy a cup. I have to confess that I am a coffee snob and only enjoy fresh brews made from Coffea arabica beans. Kaladi Brothers doesn’t disappoint. Strong, black coffee in hand, I take a little walk at dawn to nearby Elderberry Park, where I stroll past jewel-bright gardens and wildflowers. There are exotic-looking mudflats along Cook Inlet and snowy mountains in the distance, including Mt. Susitna, also called “The Sleeping Lady.”

Paul recommends breakfast at the Snow City Cafe, so the team meets there. My “crabby omelette” is well worth the wait. The food is fresh and the service is excellent, but like most American breakfast places, the coffee is made with Coffea robusta beans, so I don’t drink too much. The team has a tight schedule, as we need to buy groceries for our stay on Adak Island and drop them off at Alaska Air Cargo in time for the flight later in the day. We also need some last-minute supplies for our work on Amchitka Island.

Alaska Air Cargo dock

Alaska Airlines runs passenger and cargo service to Adak Island. I love Alaska Air. They still value customer service, unlike many larger airlines. On the flight, they serve tasty, warm food and give us excellent care. We are also allowed 3 free checked bags on the flight.

In midafternoon, we board the jet for the 1,200 mile (1,930 km) flight to Adak Island, where flights end and further travel must be by boat. Alaska Airlines is the only passenger air service to the island, running two flights per week. The passenger cabin is only about 20 percent full, but the cargo bay must surely be near capacity. Reeve Aleutian Airways once ran frequent flights to and from many of the islands, but it shut down in 2000, only three years after the closure of the Navy base on Adak Island.

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Raven sculptures at Ted Stevens International Airport in Anchorage. Ravens are my favorite birds, tricksters of legend. I’m hoping they don’t have too many tricks planned for us!

I’ve been doing some research on the area and am anxious to see what I can of the mountains and coastlines from the plane window. Hopefully, clouds won’t obscure everything. On March 27, 2016, the Pavlof Volcano erupted on the Alaska Peninsula about halfway between Anchorage and Adak. It spewed a fountain of brilliant red lava and created lightning, both visible from the village of Cold Bay. There were some minor explosions and ash fall in mid May, but the volcano was quiet again by June. I watch for the mountain as we fly above and can see a symmetrical white peak in the space between a carpet of clouds. It is likely Pavlof, or maybe it’s an adjacent cone called Pavlof Sister. Either way, it is a stereotypically perfect cone-shaped volcano.

Pavlof Mountain, active volcano

Pavlof Volcano – or maybe it’s Pavlof Sister – from the window of the Alaska Air jet

The Pribilof Islands, far north of the Aleutian chain, were once part of the Bering Sea land bridge. Woolly mammoths foraged long ago on meadows that are now sea floor. According to recent scientific discoveries, the Pribilof Islands were one of the last refuges of the woolly mammoth after the Ice Age. While mammoths went extinct on the North American mainland between 13,000 and 14,000 years ago, they persisted on St. Paul Island until about 5,500 to 5,700 years ago. It seems an unlikely place for huge animals to live, as there are few large mammals up there now. I wonder if any of the Aleutian Islands are hiding fossils too, and what unexpected surprises they might hold. I look out the window of the plane. Through choppy sea-clouds that resemble cave popcorn, I glimpse a wild coastline. It must be at least 20 miles long, with no houses, no buildings, no roads. It tugs at my heart, and it seems like anything is possible down there.

The Abandoned North, Part I – Bound for the Aleutians

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The Aleutian Islands

The Aleutian Islands are a vast, volcanic archipelago that runs west from the Alaska Peninsula towards the mainland of Russia. On a map, the islands are draped like necklace beads between the Bering Sea and the North Pacific Ocean. People don’t crowd to get to the Aleutians, at least not anymore, since most of the United States military installations there were abandoned after the Cold War. Many born-and-bred Alaskans have never set foot on an Aleutian Island.

It is June, 2016. The desert heat in my home town of Grand Junction, Colorado, is already building, but I am loading bags full of cold-weather gear to board a plane bound for Anchorage. Our final destination is the uninhabited island of Amchitka, one of the Rat Islands in the western part of the Aleutian Chain. The site of three underground nuclear detonations, it is distant, cold, and off-limits without a special permit. It is by far the most remote place I can ever hope to visit.

Sitkin Peak above the clouds

One of the Andreanof Islands in the Aleutian Chain is Great Sitkin Island, dominated by the Great Sitkin Volcano. It is an active stratovolcano with a caldera and dome, last erupting with an explosion and a pale plume in 1974. In July and August of 2013, two swarms of earthquakes were reported at Great Sitkin. All is quiet in 2016 as our airplane glides by.

Every five years, scientific teams are sent to Amchitka Island to perform environmental monitoring for the U.S. Department of Energy, the long-term steward of the detonation sites. I am an ecologist by trade, a botanist by education, and I am fortunate to be chosen as a member of one of the teams. My job will be to measure and record the vegetation growing on landfill covers. Plants are an essential part of the cover design. The landfills contain hazardous wastes that were generated from drilling the holes for the underground detonations. The radioactive materials from the detonations themselves are entombed deep underground – none have ever been detected on the surface, in the ocean, or in the ecosystem. The once-classified detonations are now public record, and you can read about Amchitka Island on the Department of Energy Office of Legacy Management’s website. This blog in no way speaks for the Department of Energy or any of its contractors – this is simply an account of my personal adventure.

Left: The greening slopes of a volcano in the Andreanof Islands.
Right: Meltwater plunges down the black cliffs towards the sea

It will turn from spring to summer in the Aleutians, as we will spend the Summer Solstice there. If there is a warm spell up north, the temperature may top out at 50 degrees Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius). Chilly even in summer. The Aleutian Islands and the Bering Sea are not for the faint of heart. But my journey doesn’t begin with Amchitka Island. After a layover in Denver and a long flight, it begins with a night in Anchorage, the land of the midnight sun.

You Can’t Stop Evolution

… even if you don’t believe in it. You can try to get in its way, but you can’t stop it. It’s like trying to stop a hurricane by closing your curtains and making a cup of instant coffee. You feel better for a while, but you don’t stop the hurricane. And unfortunately, you have your back to it  when it arrives.

So I’ve asked myself what the future United States might look like. What might we evolve into as a country?

One thing isimg_0632 for sure: despite political promises, it won’t be filled with millions of coal and petroleum industry and internal-combustion-engine-automobile-manufacturing jobs. It also won’t host teams of men who cut down old-growth forests or slaughter vast herds of wild bison for their tongues and tenderloins. These resources are on their way out, or they are already long depleted, reduced to island populations across our continent. Only so many ancient organisms were long ago turned into coal and oil beds. Their number was vast, but now they’re depleted, too. Like the bison. Like the old-growth trees. It’s a simple fact, no matter how many curtains you draw or cups of instant coffee you brew. Whether you “believe in” global climate change or not, the coal and steel industries are not coming back. We need to choose something else.

When human beings lose resources and their survival is threatened, things usually become violent. That’s the scary part of what could happen, and don’t think that this doesn’t keep me up at night. But what happens after the violence? I’m hoping that the once-great city, Detroit, Michigan, has an answer.

I’ve been to Detroit, over forty years ago. It was a lot like Chicago or St. Louis or Minneapolis/St. Paul. Brimming with people and industry, self-important. Not so now. The auto industry declined. Corrupt politicians took their share. The giants fell. I’ve not been back there in person, but I know there was violence, lots of it. It was all over the news for a decade or more. But while I’ve been out west raising a family and contending with the increasingly difficult business of keeping up a modest living, the affairs of Detroit quietly fell out of the news.

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Recently, I was reminded of Detroit by an episode of “Parts Unknown,” a CNN show by Anthony Bourdain (Season 2, Episode 8). I had no idea that the city had disintegrated so much. Bourdain compared it to Chernobyl, the nuclear ghost city in the Ukraine that was abandoned in the 1980s. But in the midst of all the decay and graffiti are sustainable farms. And artists filled with life. And pop-up and back-yard restaurants serving local food to laughing customers. There is grit and hope and a strong sense of community among all of that bitter Rust. I’m not talking about boutique food or a frou frou future, the latest fad in local agriculture. I’m talking about surviving after the giants fall.

We could choose this future, couldn’t we? We could learn to feed ourselves again, to take care of one another, couldn’t we? Is it too naive to hope that we might be able to accomplish it without doing violence to one another? I have been to Las Vegas recently, and it’s beginning to look a lot like Detroit …

Is Detroit only a ruined city? The disgraced giants might think so. Or is Detroit actually a window into the future, a city decades ahead of its time? I want to believe that our future is filled with the seeds of hope that Anthony Bourdain found in Detroit. It looks like evolution to me.

September 23 garden

Winter Solstice

First snow tree at night

Some people believe that the winter solstice − rather than All Hallow’s Eve − is the time when the veil is thinnest between the worlds of the living and the spirits. The mystic in me wants to embrace this idea, but my inner skeptic wonders if there is a spirit world at all. One thing I am certain of: there is more in nature we don’t understand than we do. And that’s okay, as it should be. There is something about the winter solstice, about the interplay between light and darkness, that makes me want to believe in a world of shadow and mystery.

The Old Farmer’s Almanac calls the December full moon the “Cold Moon” or “Long Nights Moon,” according to Native American tradition. I’ve also heard it called the “Moon of the Popping Trees,” because in some places it can get so cold that the sap freezes in trees, expanding and breaking the bark in the middle of the night with a loud crack. In that kind of weather, a person could step outside to relieve themselves, be enchanted by the prismatic beauty of moonlight on snow crystals, and freeze to death in the span of ten minutes. It could take even fewer minutes in a northern ice-scape without trees at all. Best be careful, little human being.

I had the fortune to spend this past summer solstice on the Tiglax, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service research vessel for Alaska’s Aleutian Islands. For years, I’d longed to experience the Bering Sea. It is more formidable than I ever imagined. And more beautiful. Its slate gray waters − even in summer − could have claimed my life in the span of five minutes if I fell overboard. No warning signs are necessary on that boat’s pitching rail.

To some, the whole point of the winter solstice is the rebirth of the sun, the relief that it won’t keep fading away, that light and warmth will come back to us. That’s vital, but only half the story. I believe my Irish ancestors – the ones who called themselves Druids and who named the winter solstice Alban Arthuan – might agree with me. It’s not only about the return of the light, it’s also about embracing the darkness, beyond the recognition that there are things out there that can hurt us, freeze us, kill us. Humans are not in control. We never have been. It’s good to be reminded on this shortest day of the year. Often there is strength, even survival, in concealment.

Civilizations that live near the Earth’s poles seem to understand the winter solstice best. The myths of Iceland are filled with creatures like Jólakötturinn, the Yule Cat. Icelanders are direct descendants of Vikings, who must have loved cats. Recent archeological research hints that they may have been the ones to bring house cats to Europe. But the Yule Cat is not a pet. It’s a creature of the darkness, eating people who have been too lazy to wear out their working clothes during the course of the previous year. I understand that Icelanders still typically give gifts of clothing for Christmas to ward off Jólakötturinn. You don’t have to literally believe in the Yule Cat to embrace a tradition like this, to be watchful, especially in the frigid night of winter.

We need to take care, but we don’t need to fear. Darkness is beautiful, like the silvered waves of the arctic seas. Somewhere in the long night is also a warm hug, a fire, a feast, someone we love. And there is no better time to tell a good story, the sort of intricate tale that emerges from the blackness and takes hold. This solstice, turn toward the darkness as well as the light. Conceal yourself in it. But don’t forget to be vigilant. Always be watchful.

A Wedding and a Dash

Tomorrow morning, my son, Kerry Joseph, is getting married to the love of his life, Katelyn. We love them both so much and wish them well!!! For those who have never met Kerry, I will tell a brief story that says much about him. The other day, he told me that he wants to get a tattoo of a dash (one of these: – ) . When I asked him why, he said that his tombstone will likely read, 1990 – xxxx (date unknown), and the ONLY important part about this is the dash. The dash is important because it represents everything that happens in between. The here and now. The life to live. And tomorrow morning, he and Katie will embrace that life. They will share their strong love with all of us in one of the most beautiful places on Planet Earth. I feel privileged to be able to witness it. Maybe I want to get a dash too …

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