Alaskapade Tunes - Code Blue

I just received a 16Gb memory chip for the GPS/mp3 player I'll be taking on the trip.  I needed to upgrade from the 8Gb chip I had previously installed because I have so many tunes and a small library of audio books stored that I actually ran out of memory.  While I was transferring all the data from one chip to the other, I began adding music from my media storage drive that wouldn't fit on the smaller chip. In doing so, I started listening to some tunes I haven't heard in years.  One of the folders I copied over was a collection of tunes from my old band Code Blue.  I hadn't listened to any of our stuff in a few years and when I did, it really took me back.  While this series of entries is barely relevant to the Alaskapade, it satiates a need I've felt for a while to document what were some pretty cool years in my life.  I suspect it will take me a few entries to wrap my head around all the memories and document them. I won't let these entries interfere with the true purpose of this blog. Nevertheless, if non-Alaska related material bores you, stop reading here.

L to R: Jim Ken, Stu, me & Steve

Code Blue came together in 2001 when my best friend (the prom photo friend) and I decided to quit talking about someday playing music together and actually did it.  He and I used to sit around in high school and draw album covers talking about how we would someday tour the world and elsewhere.  Stu played bass and I was a drummer.  We managed to jam together a couple of times while I was in the Air Force, but he was a teacher up in Dallas and I lived in Austin so there was never any real collaboration.  I played in bands down there and he had projects up here.  When I exited the service, it took me a few years (eleven to be exact) to get my career together to a point where I had enough free time to pursue music and commit to a band.  I ran a Craigslist ad and had numerous responses right away. One of those responses was from a singer/guitarist named Jim who brought a guitarist along for a casual jam session with Stu and I.  The guitarist (Steve) was a weird little dude, but he had good gear and the guy could really play. Jim was a pretty good singer, but his ego was larger than his balding forehead.  I was weird also and so was Stu, so what the hell?  We cranked out a few electric blues tunes and instantly had a tight sound and a rapport that seemed to click.  We decided to select a few more tunes and get together again the next week to see if that excitement was genuine or fleeting.  As we parted ways, I mentioned that my friend Ken played keyboards and offered to ask him over for the next session.  Ken was an excellent singer, keyboardist, rhythm and lead guitarist, and drummer.  Recognizing Jim's ego, I kept Ken's additional talents to myself for the time being.  Ken joined us the following week and things really clicked.  Those early jam sessions were instrumental (no pun intended) to the band's future success because jamming instantly identifies the presence or lack of musical chemistry among the musicians.  Within a few weeks, we had a nice repertoire of tunes and the neighbors who heard us playing were always complimentary.  It seemed we were on to something and it was time to play in front of a crowd.  We needed a name.  I don't recall who came up with Code Blue, but we all liked it and the name fit well with slogans like "Blues that take your breath away" and "The blues never hurt so good".

First Gig - "Woodstock" in North Texas

Not many bands have the luxury of having their first gig compared to Woodstock. Ours was, but only in that Woodstock was also held in a cow pasture.  We drove a hundred miles to play a dirt motorcycle event held in the middle of nowhere.  We set up on a large flatbed trailer and powered our instruments and amplifiers with portable generators.  The weather was great and the crowd of about 200 people seemed genuinely appreciative.  I was especially nervous for a number of reasons.  I hadn't performed in front of a crowd in twelve years and this crowd was comprised of many of my friends. I was one of the organizers of the motorcycle event, so my reputation was on the line on many levels.  All the tunes were covers, but our renditions of some of them were pretty unique and some of the tunes were so obscure that many in the crowd might have assumed they were originals.  We finished the gig and knew without question that we indeed had the makings of a decent band.  We just needed time, more tunes, and gigs.

Our second gig was in downtown Dallas on Mother's Day at an event that was sponsored by a local radio station.  Dallas has a ritzy area called the Swiss Avenue District with enormous old homes that are worth millions.  Each year, the Swiss Avenue Tour of Homes is held on Mother's Day and is centered around a park in the middle of the district.  The tour is an opportunity for the common people to wander through the rich peoples' homes and admire their stuff.  I never  really grasped what enticed the visitors, but I was glad they were there because they made for a large audience and we were right in the middle of the action. I did wonder however, if people who were interested in fancy Tudor homes would be interested in the music we were bringing.

This was an easy gig because we didn't have to bring any PA gear.  All we had to do was show up, play, and be good.  The event and our band name were advertised heavily in Dallas area television, radio, and print media in the days preceding the event. and all of our friend sand families came out to see us. No pressure!  There were a few opening acts on stage before us and we made it a point to get there early enough to see them and size up or competition.  We missed the first act entirely, but apparently everyone else did too because there was no crowd gathered as they were unloading from the stage.  The next act was a quartet of little old ladies who called themselves Flute Salad.  Seriously.  They each sat up on the stage in chairs and their music stands were draped with miniature quilts adorned with their names and cutesy little pictures of flutes. The five of us stood looking at the quartet in their full-length dresses and then at each other in our sleeveless black rock and roll t-shirts.  Well, all of us except Ken.  Ken was older than the rest of us (around 60) and was sporting a collared golf shirt, Bermuda shorts, loafers, and tall white socks.

The next act was a solo vocalist named Angie Streck.  Angie sang to a CD soundtrack and was excellent.  She captured the crowd and sang her heart out. I sat at a table near the back and just listened.  She looked as good as she sounded.  I commented to the one other guy at the table that her voice was as hot as she was.  He just nodded.  After her performance, I went to say hi to her as the crew prepared the stage for our gear.  I told her how much I enjoyed her act and we chatted a moment.  Then she introduced me to her husband; the same guy who was sitting at the table with me moments before. I was sure glad I included her vocal talent in my description of her when I spoke to him.

Code Blue @ Swiss Avenue (Notice Ken's Socks)

Code Blue were up next.  We set up our gear and did a quick sound check.  I stood at the front of the stage before we went on and noticed a big sign the radio station had printed that read "Code Blue - Smokin' Eclectic Blues".  It was supposed to say "Smokin' Electric Blues". As I read it, I wondered if it was an error or a judgment call based on the previous acts.  It was too late to care.  I hopped on stage and we kicked off our set with our arrangement of "Turn It Up", a mild, bluesy number littered with smooth guitars and old school Hammond keyboard sounds. The moderate-sized crowd applauded politely.  The tempo of our set ratcheted up sharply with a tune called "Big Leg Woman" during which a much larger crowd gathered and applauded more enthusiastically.  By our last tune, "Superstition" we had a huge crowd which we figured were the people who were dragged out to the event, but had no interest in touring the houses.  This was no Stevie Wonder rendition of "Superstition".  Ours was more like George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic meets Metallica and it ended with Steve's whammy bar guitar wailing feedback echoing off the houses across the park.  The crowd of previously subdued suburbanites went crazy as the guitar squeal faded.  There were plenty of onlookers who were just confused by what they heard as the others were enthusiastic, but the majority of people there got it and we were stoked.  I'm not sure what the ladies of Flute Salad thought of our set. We killed despite the absence of a gimmick like custom quilts.  Maybe it was Ken's socks that bridged the generation gap. We left that event having been offered (and accepted) two club gigs on the spot.

Legendary Hole in the Wall

The highlight of Code Blue's beginning was a twenty minute set at a place called The Hole in the Wall.  The Hole was Dallas' premier blues dive and its name aptly described the place.  It was a tiny shit hole of a bar with a postage stamp sized stage and had no lighting or PA.  It also had the best burgers in town.  The place was such a wreck that you'd never use their bathroom, but you couldn't resist their burgers.  We were offered stage time by a guy named Brian Calway (better known as Hash Brown) who ran the Hole's Wednesday night blues jam.  Blues jams came and went, but the Hole's blues jam was the place to be in Dallas.  Hash's band would play a while and then various musicians would join them on stage to jam.  If a drummer wanted to play, Hash's drummer stepped aside. Same for guitarists, horn players, singers, whatever.  Jim convinced Hash to let us take over the stage to do a couple of numbers.  It was a gamble for us and for Hash.  If we were a hit, we all won.  If we sucked, the mauling we would receive from the Hole's crowd would probably be just as entertaining.  As we hit the stage, Hash flashed five fingers three times, signifying that we had fifteen minutes.  I don't recall what tunes we played, but after the third, people were standing on chairs and tables. The parking lot emptied and the tiny bar was crammed well past the fire code.  These were hard core blues players and fans who had a chip on their shoulders because their music was pretty much ignored by the rest of the world and they did not like it played poorly.  Amazed at the crowd response, were all looking at each other and collectively thinking "holy crap!"  Jim was saying thanks when Hash yelled out, "do another one".  Getting an entire band on stage at a Hole int he Wall jam was one thing, but getting twenty minutes was unheard of.  Among the tuna-packed crowd was the Hole's owner, Tom Ford who approached us and offered us a Saturday night gig on the spot.  None of us knew what our respective calendars looked like, but we all just said "yes".

Cover Looks Cooler in Person

As the months went by, our set list grew, our fan base grew, and our tightness as a band grew.  However, nothing grew as fast and as large as Jim's ego.  We had established ourselves as a tight, rocking blues band with a reputation for bringing a crowd to the venues we played.  We played all the Dallas club districts; Deep Ellum, Lower Greenville Avenue, and branched out to suburban gigs, city festivals, and private parties.  As the band's primary booking contact, I was always scheming for ways to distinguish Code Blue from other bands.  When a print publication listed us on their agenda, I would clip and copy that ad and include it in our booking packet. when the booking agent listened to our demo CD, they would see all the venues we played.  If I couldn't get us into a club, I'd book us next door and remind the other place who we were when we filled the place up. We had t-shirts made emblazoned with our logo and gave them to our real fans who always showed up.  We sold the rest for a 100% profit at $10 each. T-shirt revenue was sometimes more than the gigs themselves paid.  We did a live radio broadcast show from a club in Dallas one night from which we cut a short five-track CD "Code Blue - Live in Deep Ellum".  I shot the album cover from behind my drums and to this day, I think it's one of the coolest covers I've seen.  We used that CD for promotions and gave it away with the t-shirts we sold.  We returned to that same venue and had a tongue in cheek celebration of our Live CD going "tin".

We had our share of dead venues.  We worked one club where literally the only person in front of the stage was the janitor sweeping the floor as we played.  It was the dead of winter and Dallas had just had one of its infamous ice storms.  The building had a power outage and tapped electricity from the building next door.  Our gear barely functioned and there was no stage lighting or heat.  They didn't even bother to open the bar and probably wouldn't have opened the doors had we not shown up.  Nothing puts your ego in check like playing to a janitor in a dark hall while your teeth are chattering.  Every note of every tune seems to pass like a snail crawling through salt and all I wanted was for the gig to be over.

We played many venues that had no door cover charge.  Always looking for a marketing angle, I would place a printable Code Blue logo on our web page's performance schedule with instructions to print and bring to the venue for free admission.  They would have gotten in free anyway, but when the venue had multiple acts, it always impressed the management when there was a pile of Code Blue pages at the front door.  One club owner brought a pile of them to me as we were loading out after a gig and asked me what I wanted to do with them.  I replied "use them to remember who brought the crowd." Those pages and the crowd of Code Blue t-shirts always sent a clear message to club management.  We were the headline band at our next gig there.  The bigger the crowds, the bigger the paychecks, and the bigger Jim's ego grew.

After a couple of years, we had a large catalog of original tunes and a new lead guitarist named Dennis.  Dennis was an accomplished player and a great songwriter.  Between Dennis, Jim, Ken, and Stu, we had some serious musical creativity.  As the drummer, I had no real musical skills.  All I could do was count to four. I just did it very steadily.  My contribution was musical structure and dynamics, especially in our performances.  Any band could play the middle of a tune.  The transitions from tune to tune, starts and stops, and key modulation were all elements that few people in the crowd understood, but knew instantly when they were lacking or inappropriate.  People kept asking where they could buy the tunes we played.  People actually still bought music back then.  We decided it was time to cut a real CD.

Robert Johnson (circa 1936)

As egotistical as Jim was, the man had connections.  Stu had pointed out to the band that there was a musically significant and historic location right in downtown Dallas which was all but forgotten.  The dilapidated building at 508 Park Avenue had once been a  film distribution center for the Elm Street theater district.  Elm Street was revitalized as a club district in the 80s and became known as Deep Ellum.  The 508 Park building had the distinguished history of being the last place that Robert Johnson (the father of delta blues) recorded his music back in 1937. Stu had the brainstorm idea to try to get into 508 Park to record our CD of original tunes.  Jim's connections paid off and we secured access building - for one day.

The wheels were in motion.  We found a recording engineer, picked ten tunes to record, and cleared our schedules for a marathon overnight recording session.  We loaded our gear into the building which was in major disrepair.  The place had electricity because it was for sale and prospective buyers might need it.  But, it had no plumbing, heat or air conditioning, and most of the windows were either broken or boarded up.  None of this would have really mattered had it not been January and Dallas was in the grip of freezing rain.  508 Park was directly across the street from The Stew Pot; a church ran kitchen that fed the homeless.  As such, every square inch of sidewalk anywhere near our building was lined with homeless people sleeping under whatever they could find to shield themselves from the rain and cold.  We were a blues band and if the scene outside didn't inspire us to make a good record, I can't imagine what would.

508 Park - Outside & In

We started loading in early in the morning and wound our gear up the street past the indigent sprawled out around us.  Occasionally, someone would ask who we were and I one even asked for my autograph...and any spare change I might have. We were recording by noon and continued through the cold, rainy night.  At one point, an editor and photographer from Southwest Blues magazine showed up to document the event for what would eventually become a pretty cool cover story.  Word of what we were doing had spread among the Dallas blues scene and thus the pressure was on for us to deliver musical justice to the legacy of the building.  Hash Brown notwithstanding, the Dallas blues scene could be pretty cut throat and we heard rumblings of "why them" when the story got out.  Why not us?  We thought of it and we seized the opportunity.

Bright-Eyed & Bushy Tailed (Before the Sessions)

We recorded all night long, taking turns bundling up to go outside and check to see if our vehicles were still there.  The crowd of homeless people grew as the hours passed.  I doubt any off us had any idea how arduous the recording process could be.  We would record a scratch track for each tune.  The scratch track was a basic playing through of the song with no fills or solos.  Then, each of us would play along with the scratch track with our particular instrument removed from our headphones.  This process afforded us a chance to establish the "official" structure of the song and then accompany the rest of the band in the actual recording.  It also allowed us to record "live" as an entire band rather than cutting each track one instrument at a time.  Our goal was to reproduce the environment and sound that Robert Johnson had when he recorded.  We had all become pretty close friends over the last couple of years, but nothing tests a friendship like five creative minds being cooped up in an abandoned concrete building in the dead of winter for 23 hours straight.  There were times when we all just had to stop and separate from each other for a while.  Stu and I would bundle up and head to the rooftop to unwind.  The skies were crystal clear, yet there appeared to be no stars.  The night sky was as cold as the air around us.  I remember looking down at the street below and seeing dozens of people just standing around, many looking back up at us.  The Stew Pot would be opening soon and the hungry were jockeying for position in line. It reminded me of a scene from Dawn of the Dead where the derelict zombies were just standing waiting for living flesh to eat. 

After countless takes, arguments, curse words and even a few tears, we emerged from 508 Park Avenue in the morning daylight with blurry eyes, hoarse voices, sore limbs, and ten original tunes.  It didn't take us long to come up with a name for the CD.  Since the other guys had the writing credits, I took on the artwork and production responsibilities.  I ponied up the cash to have 1,000 copies pressed with the clear understanding that any and all band proceeds came to me first until my investment was repaid. We had a CD. Now what do we do?

508 Park CD Cover Art & Fold Out

Rear Cover

CD Insert Art

To be continued...

Bear Attacks in Canada

This is just what I needed to read about with 50 days to go before the Alaskapade begins.

Bear Attack in Churchill, Manitoba, Canada

These are pictures of an actual polar bear attack.          

The pictures were taken while people watched and could do nothing to stop it.

Reports from the local newspaper say that the victim will make a full recovery.

The photos are below.

To the Arctic Circle (and Beyond or Back?)

This is it.  Today, I head north on the Dalton highway and into the Arctic Circle.  I'm told that the Circle officially lies about 200 miles north of Fairbanks and that the terrain isn't too bad this time of year for an experienced rider.  I suppose I'll see for myself today, but all I know is I'm so close to my goal I can taste it.  My friend Jeff has been giving me updates from the pump stations along the Trans Alaska Oil Pipeline.  I rained up there yesterday, but stopped last night when I hit Fairbanks.  Jeff advised that I wait it out today and let the sun dry out the roads.  I needed to get the tires I purchased mounted, so I heeded his advice.  With fresh rubber and new brakes, Hester is ready to roll.

Once I get there, I have some decisions to make.  My original goal was to just make it to the Circle monument and place Martin's hat there. Shortly thereafter, I expanded the journey northward and wanted to try to get as far as Deadhorse near Prudhoe Bay. I abandoned that later goal upon reading of horrific road conditions between the Circle and Deadhorse.  Now I'm rethinking the rethinking that I rethought a while back and I think (again) that I want to try to make it to Deadhorse.

I don't imagine I'll ever be up here again, so this is likely the only chance I'll have to truly ride to the top of the world.  I still haven't decided which way I'll turn after my little Arctic Circle arrival celebration. Weather, road conditions, and my general mood will all impact my decision.  If I turn right, the adventure continues and I'll go as far north as I can.  If I turn left, the adventure still continues as I head back home via the Black Hills.  I'll send a satellite check-in message from the Circle when I arrive there.  Since I won't have a means of updating this blog until I get back to civilization, you'll have to check in here and view my GPS status to see if I turn north or south when I leave the Circle.

Watch my status on the map, look for my update alerts, and wish me luck.

Second Amendment Rights & The People's Republic of Canada

This entry will probably rub some people the wrong way.  That said, please know two things:

1. I am sensitive to your feelings and do not wish to offend you in any way.
2. #1 is complete crap and I couldn't even type that with a straight face.  My concern over the opinion anyone disagreeing with me might have regarding the topic at hand can be measured in micro give-a-shits.

Actually, I don't intend to offend my friends in Canada. We have plenty of stupid policies down here too.

I've mentioned before that the majority of my nights on this journey will be spent camping in a tent.  I love tent camping and used to be an Olympic caliber camper.  These accommodations are as much a preference as they are a financial necessity, especially given the skyrocketing price of gas and its impact on my Alaskapade budget.  Nevertheless, when I consider the fact that Alaska boasts the highest population of bears and wolves in the United States, I have a legitimate reason to be somewhat concerned for my safety.  I don't go looking for trouble, but anyone whose read any of my stuff knows trouble and stupid situations just seem to find me.  Obviously, I can't get to Alaska without passing through Canada. The Canadian portion is not just a logistical requirement, it's also something I look forward to.  Riding through the Canadian Rockies, Banff, Lake Louise, the Signpost Forest, and the ALCAN are all aspects I am excited to see.  The one aspect I'm not looking forward to is the Canadian requirement that I travel unarmed.

All you left-wing voluntary victims can unroll your eyes now.

I have a squeaky clean past and as such, have passed FBI and local background checks and earned my Concealed Handgun License. Most states have reciprocal carrying agreements with Texas and I'm allowed to drive or ride with personal protection while in them as long as I abide by their specific requirements.  I am not paranoid; I am prepared.  I do not live in fear.  I live with the quiet yet confident knowledge that I am willing and capable of defending myself and those I love should the need arise.  I find it ironic that so many anti-gun people would throw a fit if they learned that the school they send their kids to didn't have fire extinguishers, but wouldn't tolerate that same school allowing its faculty to carry a weapon.  The irony becomes obvious when you ask yourself when the last time a student died in a school fire compared to when a student died because no one was allowed to defend them against an armed assailant.

Wanted for Assault of Clueless

I've been a helpless victim before.  In 1990, I woke up on the side of the freeway in east Texas, my face crispy from my own sun-dried blood and seeing blurry black dots that eventually came into focus as buzzards circling over me as laid on the highway frontage road. I had the living shit beat out of me by three guys who looked like Larry, Daryl, and Daryl because I was unaware of my surroundings.  I have also been on the other side of the fence.   In the years that followed, I took measures to learn to protect myself and those measures paid off when I successfully did so against two assailants in Chicago's O'Hare Airport.  I was arrested on the spot, but was released after witness statements were collected and ultimately exonerated when video surveillance revealed that I was actually the good guy.  In January of 1996, the State of Texas enacted its CHL program and I earned mine in May of that same year.  The way I saw it, I had been getting my head kicked in in martial arts training for the previous five years and if the State was offering me another level of defense, I would be dilatory for not taking it.

Canada offers nothing for handguns and while a rifle strapped to Hester's hip might look cool, it might also draw unwanted attention. I spent weeks researching the Canadian Firearms Center web pages looking for a legal way to carry as I make my way to up Alaska.  Canada classifies all handguns regardless of barrel length as restricted and the ones small enough to reasonably conceal are prohibited altogether. There is a special provision to the law that allows US visitors with licenses issued in the States to carry a pistol after a stack of forms are filled out and temporary license fees paid.  This provision comes with one caveat. The pistol cannot be carried for personal protection, nor for hunting.  So, unless there's a national shooting competition for which the Customs officer can verify I am registered, I'm out of luck. Don't think I didn't consider trying to sneak mine in.  I'm told by other riders who have ridden into Canada that Customs Officers at the smaller points of entry practically disassemble your motorcycle and actually make riders unpack everything for inspection before letting them through.  I know that having Hester impounded and myself tossed in jail on firearms smuggling charges would make one hell of a blog story, but I think I'll pass.

One member on HDForums.com mentioned that he had heard of a Canadian program wherein your handgun is sealed in a tagged container at the Canadian port of entry and allowed to be carried through by the owner.  At the exit border, the tags are verified as legitimate and unbroken and the pistol is unpacked. As unlikely as this seemed, I called around the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Customs offices and asked if such a program did indeed exist.  I received mostly laughter from everyone who answered.  Interestingly enough, I had a few private emails telling me several places along my route where I could buy a pistol from individuals on the street.  I suppose the old saying is true: If guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns.

I have a workaround though.  I found a Federal Firearms Licensed dealer in Tok who will receive my weapon for me. Tok is the first town I'll reach after I enter Alaska.  I'll ship it from a FFL dealer near my home a week before I depart and it will be waiting for me when I arrive. I found another FFL in Washington and will have my Tok FFL ship it there so I'll have it for my return trip.

It seems not only unfair, but puerile that I have to expend so much energy and money just to exercise my Constitutional right to self defense.  I know, I know.  Canada doesn't care any more about our Constitution than I do about their maple syrup or Celine Dion (the two of which I find equally interesting). Still, it's not like they can't completely check me out in mere seconds while I'm at their station. I read about a rider who was denied entry into Canada because he had a DUI over five years prior and had to seek a Canadian Minister's Approval of Rehabilitation and pay a hefty fee to enter.  I've never had a DUI nor a record of any kind other than a traffic ticket years ago. My point is that with existing INTERPOL networking capabilities, they clearly have the ability to look into the legal records of American citizens whereupon in my case they will see that I have passed an US FBI background check and have been issued a CHL.  Admittedly, that alone will probably incite them to crawl up my butt with a microscope.  Nevertheless, I find it incongruous that as a proven law abiding citizen I must be subjected to the same obligatory victim status to which they subject their own citizens when all I'm trying to do is get to my country's state of Alaska or back to the lower 48.

I'll stop whining now.  A few hours of my time and some cash are minor annoyances compared to the experiences I'll have on this journey. At the very worse, it gave me fodder to vent here. As if I needed that...

Happy Easter!

Manopause?

This week, I was asked if taking this journey is just me going through "manopause".  I suppose that's a contemporary slang term for what was once referred to as a man's mid-life crisis.  I looked it up at UrbanDictionary.com and found this:

man·o·pause
noun \ ma-no-pȯz

A mental condition typically found in men in their mid to late 50's brought on by the realization that old age is just around the corner. Symptoms include: frequent reminiscing about the “good ol’ days”, cranky judgmental attitude and a closed minded approach to anything new. Usually punctuated by the chronic need to play a lot golf and vote republican. The condition is difficult to cure and almost always progresses into oldtimers disease. 

Personally, I don't think that definition comes close to describing me.  First, I'm only 48 and although my hair may be in its mid to late 50s, it's all still there. Nevertheless, I embrace age. I don't think how old you are matters. I think it's how you are old that counts.  I don't believe I'm cranky, but I have been labeled judgmental a time or two.  I don't think I judge people per se.  I simply form resolute opinions based on astute observations. I'm very open-minded and love to try new things. I have no desire to chase a ball across finely manicured lawns and I think they named it golf because all the good four-letter words were already taken. Finally, I never simply vote for a political party. I generally vote for fiscally conservative candidates without regard for their political affiliation.

So why can't a man pursue an adventurous dream without his sanity or commitment to his family being called into question? It's not like this idea just sprang up. I am many things, but spontaneous is not one of them.  I've thought about Alaska for years and over the last six months, have taken a systematic approach preparing myself physically, mentally, financially, and equipment-wise to see it through to fruition. Nevertheless, people see my growing hair and shrinking belly and then look around expecting to see a new Porsche and a twenty-something girlfriend.

I haven't gone off the deep end, nor have I lost my mind.  I have lost the willingness to suppress my goals to the benefit of those who don't share them and for those who possess an irrational sense of entitlement to the time and freedom for which I've worked so hard my entire adult life.  Furthermore, I refuse to act old just because I'm getting old.  I'm chasing a dream. I'm going to Alaska!

"I swear by my life and my love of it that I will never live for the sake of another man, nor ask another man to live for mine."  - John Galt/Ayn Rand

I'm trying to apply this mantra to my life, one aspect at a time...

' 

Alaskapade on Twitter

I have been asked by several readers to set up a Twitter account for the Alaskapade updates.  It seems to me that there are already plenty of other ways to keep up with me on the road, but I appreciate the interest.  It was minor effort to set up the Twitter account and I linked my Spot GPS transponder to the account.

So, if you're into the Tweeting scene and you prefer to keep up with Hester and I that way, you can follow me on Twitter under the username @Alaskapade. I don't plan on tweeting directly to the account. The updates will come from the messages sent from My Spot transponder.

Stupid Part Three - Senior Prom Sabotage

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Alaskapade.com Is Up

I'm not ditching Google Blogspot completely because I like their authoring interface.  But I've managed to port my writing over to my own site and since Google AdSense screwed me, I'd rather not send them any traffic.

Nothing changes from the reader's perspective except that you can reach the site the following ways:

www.alaskapade.com

alaskapade.com

or

http://alaskapade.blogspot.com

.

Stupid - Part Two

For those of you jumping in without reading the articles in chronological order and wondering what the hell this has to do with the Alaskapade, the next paragraph is a repeat from a previous entry.


I was sitting in a client's conference room in the midst of pre-meeting smalltalk when a co-worker brought up the Alaskapade and asked when I was leaving.  One of my clients asked what he was talking about and my co-worker pulled up the Alaskapade.com page on the conference room's projection screen.  We had but moments before the meeting kicked off, so there wasn't much time for me to explain.  There was time, however for my client to express his opinion that "this has to be the stupidist thing [I've] ever done".  My first instinct was to argue the purpose for my trip, but this is my customer and IBM probably wouldn't appreciate that.  So, I just grinned, nodded, and bit my lip as the meeting started.

It did get me thinking though.  I know I'm firmly resolved in my purpose for the trip and I also know that I've done many things more stupid than this.  There are too many to list without starting another blog, so I thought I would describe my top three in no particular order.As promised in a previous post, here is another of the three dumbest things I've ever done.


 Shooting My Mouth Off to a Prison Camp Guard

"That - Mr. Wilson - is going to cost you."

Many years ago, I served in the U.S. Air Force. My primary job was an Electronic Warfare Systems Technician and in that capacity, I serviced aircraft-mounted electronic countermeasures (ECM) equipment. The gear's purpose was to jam or deceive enemy radar by altering the apparent location and/or quantity of our aircraft as they flew over threat radar systems. We also maintained radar warning receivers that alerted aircrews to the presence of various ground and air based radar-guided missiles and anti-aircraft artillery. In their day, these systems were on the absolute bleeding edge of microwave and RF signal processing technology and as technicians on them, we were the geekiest of geeks. Training for and working with these systems required serious security clearances beyond what the general public even knew existed.  While I was in basic electronics tech school, I was constantly hearing from friends and even high school teachers back home telling me that strange people in suits with badges showed up at their doorstep asking questions about my background. I was squeaky clean - the Air Force's wet dream, so securing the necessary clearances necessary to move on to the specific equipment was a breeze for me. I also happened to do really well in the school. Classes ran six hours a day, five days a week for 18 months, at the end of which I had carved out a 98% test score average. My point isn't that I'm some smart guy. Hell, I flunked algebra in high school.  I just got the concepts and excelled in the training.  Nevertheless, that average earned me honor grad status and that status offered me my choice of base assignments as well as opportunities to join Special Operations forces.  In one of the few conversations my father and I had regarding my career, he strongly advised (based on his own experiences) that I stay away from any special duties that involved National security or Special Ops.

I couldn't wait to get into National security or Special Ops.

I took an assignment at Bergstrom Air Force Base in Austin, Texas and worked in an ECM shop in the 67th Tactical Reconnaissance Wing's Component Repair Squadron (CRS). Many there claimed ECM stood for "Easy Chair Maintenance" and that CRS stood for "Can't Repair Shit".  To a certain degree, they were correct.  So when I was offered an opportunity to step outside the box and work in field intelligence, I jumped at the chance.  I would work in my shop until notice of an assignment came to me. These notifications usually consisted of temporary duty (TDY) orders with the location blanked out. Then, I would disappear for a few days and no one in my shop or immediate command structure was allowed to ask where I was. It was a perfect racket.

These assignments had ancillary training prerequisites that were not overly technical.  Short classes in Falls Church, VA were common. You can determine the Government agencies there and put two and two together.  Less common were the field survival courses which were usually conducted in remote locations in the pacific northwest. One of these courses was essentially a prison camp experience wherein the trainees were dropped-in to the forest, captured by "enemy forces", interrogated, and subsequently evaluated on our ability to cope and maintain military discipline throughout the induced stress. There was one other tech in my shop who had been to "prison" and he had related his experiences to some of us.  So when my turn came up, I had an idea what to expect.  In fact, I was pretty sure that I had the entire game figured out.  Hell, at 24 years old, I thought I knew everything.

I was fortunate to be scheduled in the summer months when surviving in the forest is easier.  There were six of us from various armed services in my drop group.  When I said "dropped-in", I meant it.  We bailed from the back of a C-130 cargo aircraft and parachuted into the forest.  They didn't just strap a chute to us and push us out the door.  I had been a sport sky diver in years past and had some Air Force training as well.  We could see the camp facility from above during our descent and we knew they could see us parachuting in. We had been told that once we were on the ground we would most certainly be captured immediately and taken to the camp.

Having had some idea of what to expect, I packed peanut butter crackers and a heating bladder of water to live on in case I wasn't immediately apprehended. The course had a finite schedule and I figured every hour I was on the lam was an hour I wouldn't spend in "enemy" hands. I also knew the forest was wired and our location would be known as soon as we started moving.  So when I hit the ground, I buried my chute, dug a hole, covered myself with leaves,and laid there. I wasn't alone.  I discreetly shared my sustenance stash with an Army soldier before we jumped. We shared a warped sense of humor and clicked in the hours prior to our flight departure. Beyond that, I figured if I was caught with the goodies, splitting the blame between two of us might make my life easier.

We laid in the woods through the night and were awakened from the pre-dawn silence by an announcement blasted through a loudspeaker system in the trees instructing us to turn ourselves in. Specifically, the instructions were to walk south until we saw a white marker in the trees and then turn left, and to keep turning left at each marker until we received further instructions.  Looking back, I assume they always knew where we were.  They were just to lazy to come get us.  Essentially, they had us following an inward spiral which terminated at a clearing in the forest. The fort was straight ahead of us in this clearing.

Prior to our flight, we were given details of fake missions, nonexistent technologies, call signs, passwords, and other minutia to memorize. This would be the information that our captors would attempt to extract from us during the interrogations that were almost certain to take place in the days ahead.  The instructors actually used Dale Carnegie memorization techniques to force feed the information to us.

My Army co-fugitive and I exited the forest and made our way towards the fort.  After sleeping in the dirt among insects and Lord knows what else and having consumed only stale crackers and warm rubbery water for the last 30 hours, even prison quarters and inmate chow was starting to sound appealing.  The fort looked like a fort I would have constructed as a kid.  It appeared to be a two-story wooden structure with guard posts on each corner and a row of razor wire surrounding the entire place. As we approached the fort, a person appeared in one of the guard towers and yelled to us through a megaphone, ordering us to stop. It reminded me of the French guard in Monty Python's Holy Grail. That movie cracks me up to this day.  Unfortunately, the association of events cracked me up then too and I started laughing. The night before, we had been discussing the tactics they might employ to get to us and surmised that although they would try to scare us, they weren't going to physically harm us.  We assumed were way to valuable for that. This would turn out to be but one of many invalid assumptions that I will have made by the end of this experience. Another guard appeared on the other end of the wall before us and told us to keep walking. We started walking again and the first guard yelled to us to stop. Again, the other guard said to keep walking and we did.  About then, the most realistic bullets-hitting-the-sand-around-us-effect stopped us dead in our tracks. Apparently, when the first guard said to stop, he meant it.  The other guard was unarmed, or at least never showed a weapon. You can guess which orders we followed. The doors about fifty feet in front of us burst open and several people came running toward us with weapons drawn and yelling in some language neither of us understood.

Instinctively, I dropped to my knees with my hands in the air.  The afternoon before, I was leaping into thin air form a cargo plane and was as cool as a cucumber.  Now, here I was firmly planted on terra firma and my heart was pounding so loud I'm sure the guards could hear it from their posts.  We were instructed to turn to face away from the fort.  My hands were bound to the sides of our waists and my elbows strapped so close together behind me that I thought my arms would snap out of my shoulder sockets. They bound my feet together and them bound my right ankle to the left of my Army buddy.  One of the soldier's placed a black cloth on the ground in front of us and told us to put our faces in it.  Picture me on my knees with my arms and legs bound and try to imagine how I could comply with their order.  All I could do was lean forward and let gravity do its thing. I managed to turn my head to the right so I wouldn't face plant into the dirt and so I could see what was happening next to me.  That was the last I saw for what seemed like several hours.  The thick, opaque, black cloth was wrapped around my face and its base duct-taped around my neck. I couldn't see anything, but I remember hearing the tape being unrolled and torn.  We were brought to our feet, turned around, and instructed to walk forward. Still bound at the ankles, it must have resembled a drunken three-legged race.  I had no idea which direction I was stumbling. We clumsily stepped up into something and I felt cooler air surrounding me.  I assumed we were inside the fort.

At this point, we were separated and I was led into a musty smelling room. The door closed behind me and the room was silent except for the thundering sound of my heart and pulse. I was still bound with my head covered. For all I knew the lights could have been on with a roomful of people watching me, so I just stood like a mummy.  I could hear conversations in adjacent rooms, but couldn't make out what was being said.

After what felt like hours, I heard the door open behind me.  My feet, elbows, and hands were unbound and that damn hood was finally removed. In the room was a table with a chair on opposite sides facing each other. Behind the table was a window into a smaller room with a big, old-school video camera.  Two older Asian-looking men in foreign military uniforms walked in. One spoke perfect English, the other said nothing. The English speaker spoke softly and invited me to take a seat.  I was offered a cigarette and a glass of water.  I declined the smoke, but took the water.  We were permitted to accept basic living necessities, but were instructed to decline luxuries that might lead the other prisoners to think we were receiving special treatment in exchange for information or cooperation. I sat at the table and drank the hard water.

The non-English speaker spoke to the other in what sounded like an Asian dialect.  The other nodded, opened a binder on the table, and pushed it toward me.  I was instructed to sign a pre-written statement or write my own and then read to in front of the camera. I replied that I didn't wish to make a statement.  The non-English speaker said something to the other and he then told me that it was not a request. "You must make a statement." I thought about if for a moment and reached for the pen. It was a standard issue black Bic Click pen with "Property of the U.S. Government" embossed in the barrel.  That pen totally ruined the environmental mood effect.

I scribbled out a short sentence, closed the book, and slid it across the table.  Without looking at it, the English speaker motioned to someone in the camera room and stepped out leaving me alone with the other officer.  A large red light on the camera illuminated and the officer pointed at the book and then at the camera and said something I didn't understand.  I opened the book, looked toward the camera and read the following statement which I had written moments before.

"My name is U.S. Air Force Staff Sergeant Scott Wilson. the Geneva Convention dictates that I tell you nothing more."  That was the written statement.  At this point, I thought about that pen and the smart ass in me piped up and I added "Do whatever you want to me, but remember; You never found me out there. I came to you."

I could hear someone in the camera room burst out in laughter and then stifle it.  The Asian speaking officer leaned over to me and with a straight face said very quietly in perfect, unaccented English. "That - Mr. Wilson - is going to cost you."

It occurred to me at that very instant that that might not have been smartest thing I had done up to that point in my life.  The events that occurred afterward would confirm this thought. In fact, I would learn during my time there that I was wrong on many things concerning this experience.  We figured we were too expensive and important to take serious abuse from these guys.  We were wrong.

I was led to a cell wherein my feet and hands were bound to the outside of the bars as I sat on the concrete floor on the other side of the bars. From that position, I learned shortly thereafter that if the bottom of your feet are beat with a pliable rubber paddle, the bones don't break and there's no bruising for evidence.  I also learned that it hurts like a motherf*cker.

They uncovered my water bladder and peanut butter wrappers from the forest where we hid out.  I paid for that too and there was no blame sharing discount.

I towed the line and did my best to play by the rules for the rest of my time there. Once again, I thought I could outsmart them during an interrogation session, so I made up details and lied.  I later learned that they already knew all of the information I was given beforehand, so they knew I was full of it.  I learned also that the reason telling lies doesn't work is because your captors could assume it's true and word will get out among the other prisoners that you are cooperating. Morale suffers as a result. It's not like everyone's morale was high to begin with, but I got the point.

I learned that they had called back to my shop at Bergstrom and asked for dirt on me. They asked about things like gambling and drinking habits, girlfriends, pilfering from the paint locker; anything with which they could claim to know about and use to try to get me to talk.  When I said above that I was squeaky clean, I meant it. So when I was told that someone from my shop reported some lame story that I forged my semi-annual physical fitness test results, I knew it was crap and thought (silently to myself this time) "is that the best you got?" and refused to talk.

When our "sentence" was complete, they blew a horn throughout the camp and it was as if the world around us went from black and white to color.  The entire staff spoke perfect English as they opened up the cells and walked the grounds calling everyone to assemble in the courtyard.  We were told that our training was complete and sent to shower and get back in uniform and meet up for our individual evaluations.

I remember being struck by the fact that the instructor staff were all older and were all veterans who had spent real time in real POW camps during the Vietnam war. At that moment, I felt like a heel for the attitude I displayed more so than I felt like a pussy for whining when my feet were beaten the days before.  These guys were the real deal and I felt like I had disrespected them.

The key thing I took away from it all was a comment I received from the "Asian" officer.  All he said to me was "You could stand to take all of this a bit more seriously".  I'm fortunate that although I faced some wild stuff in my last couple of years of Air Force service that followed my prison camp experience, I never faced the circumstances that were presented to me in the camp.

Updates From the Road - Please Read

One of the (many) devices I will have on board with me on the Alaskapade is a GPS transponder unit which will uplink my location via satellite and will allow me to send short updates from the road during the trip.  A great portion of this trip will be ridden through remote areas beyond the range of cellular service and this device will let me keep friends and family abreast of my location and status via short (max 41 character) messages. The messages will include a link to a scrollable, zoom in/out map with my current location and a track line of my trip from its inception.  Viewers can move their cursor over the track line to see when I was at that location.  This device will also be the source for a similar map with the same features which will be placed atop my Alaskapade.com page.  Readers not receiving the messages from the road can still see my progress.

The unit does not receive messages.  I will only receive text and messages when I'm under cellular coverage or stopped at a location with internet services.

The device also provides 911/SOS monitoring and emergency dispatch through the dedicated International Emergency Rescue Coordination Center (IERCC) based in Houston, Texas. If I happen to find myself in serious trouble, (assuming I'm physically capable) I can press a button and activate the rescue process. While the safety/rescue feature is this device's primary purpose, I prefer to concentrate on the messaging capabilities and think of it as a means of keeping in touch with my friends and family back in the lower 48.

The routine status messages can be sent to predetermined groups of recipients who can receive the information via text or email. If you want to receive these updates, I need you to send me an email with the following information.

Name

Your preference for contact - Text or Email (or both)

Email Address

Cell Phone Number & Carrier (if text is your preference)

Email this information to me at ktm_scott@yahoo.com

Please do so sooner than later because updating the network is a bit cumbersome and I expect to be really busy in the days preceding my departure.

 

Neither I nor the service provider will distribute or otherwise compromise your personal information.  Transmissions will begin on my scheduled June 18th departure date and will cease when I return to Dallas, upon which I will delete the recipient group and your information. I don't expect more than one or two messages per day unless something extraordinary happens.  Recipients can opt out at any time by, but I will have to be in a location with internet access to edit the list, so you may receive a few messages after you opt out.

Finally, if you're into the geek speak for this stuff, you can find details on this device here.

IT WAS A JOKE!

Apparently, I didn't make it clear enough at the end of my last post that the Alaskapade is not postponed. It was just an April Fools joke.  Come hell or high water, I'm hitting the road on June 18th and I'm sure I'll have plenty to write about here before I leave.  I hope to have "Stupid Part 2" up on Friday.