Miss Kitty knows that cool cats don’t read about Mardi Gras. They do Mardi Gras. Beginning with beads. Lots of beads.
Contrary to common belief, however, Miss Kitty believes that less is more. You’ll never see her draped with so many baubles that she can barely meow. She models her style on that of feline fashion icon Coco Cat Chanel, who said that before leaving the house, a feline should remove at least one accessory.
That’s why she sticks to a few strands of traditional Mardi Gras colors—purple, for justice; green, faith; and gold, power. She’s also a stickler for terminology. People often conflate Mardi Gras and Carnival.
Carnival comes from the Latin for flesh. It refers to the party and parade season that traditionally begins on the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6 and extends until Mardi Gras, which literally means Fat Tuesday. Mardi Gras is the day before Ash Wednesday, the Christian holy day that initiates the 40-day season of Lent that precedes Easter.
This year it is February 21.
The beads, cakes, and celebrations of Mardi Gras date back centuries to pagan rites of fertility. It grew out of the ancient Roman festival of Lupercalia. Observed in the dead of winter, it was an orgy-like festival of wine-induced madness that celebrated chaos, death, and rebirth.
And it all began with a humble bean. An archetype of resurrection and reincarnation, the bean comes from a dead plant and grows into a new one.
For Lupercalia, a man was chosen to be a ceremonial king by being the one who got a bean that had been placed in a cake. (Sounds a bit like a contemporary king cake, doesn’t it?) For several days, he would enjoy as much sex, wine, and food as he could abide. Meanwhile, the peasants imbued in him all their failures and shortcomings. On the last day, he would be sacrificed to atone for their sins and his blood returned to the soil to ensure that the harvest would be successful.
Yikes.
Not coincidentally, it parallels the story of Jesus Christ. Knowing they could not destroy pagan conventions, the early Christians adopted the tradition—minus the orgies—as a prelude to the penitential season of Lent. That’s when the faithful traditionally give up sensual pleasures in preparation for the crucifixion, death, and resurrection of the Christ on Easter.
Speaking of Easter, Miss Kitty also reminded us that the precise date of Mardi Gras each year varies because it is determined by the complex calculations that determine the lunar feast: Easter is the first Sunday after the first full moon on or after the vernal equinox. Mardi Gras falls 47 days before Easter.
This year it is February 21.
Whew. That’s a lot to take in, Miss Kitty tells us. That’s why she keeps it simple. Like her Mardi Gras attire.
“Dress shabbily and they remember the fur,” she said, paraphrasing Ms. Chanel. “Dress impeccably and they remember the feline.”
Chick Stories
A memoir of adventures lived, laughter shared, and lessons learned with my girlfriends
Travesties, tragedies, and comical calamities abound in a series of essays rich with historical and cultural context.
The author, Tanya Lewis, reported on a study published in Animal Cognition that found cats, like dogs, can discriminate speech addressed to them when spoken by their owners. When hearing the same sentences uttered by strangers, however, cats did not appear to discriminate between adult-directed speech (ADS) and cat-directed speech (CDS).
According to Ms. Lewis, CDS is like babytalk, in that it is typically higher pitched and may have short, repetitive phrases.
Researchers Charlotte de Mouzon, Marine Gonthier, and Gérard Leboucher, at the University of Paris Nanterre, recorded 16 cat owners uttering phrases such as, “Do you want a treat?” in ADS and CDS. They filmed each cat before, during, and after playing the recordings of the owners’ and others’ speech. Then they used software to rate the cats’ reactions.
The researchers concluded that felines “reacted distinctively to their owners speaking in CDS, but not to their owners speaking in adult tones or to a stranger using adult tones or to a stranger using either adult- or cat-directed speech.”
Previous research has shown similar findings in dogs. “There are still some people who consider cats independent—that you cannot have a real relationship with cats,” said lead study author Charlotte de Mouzon, an ethologist and cat behaviorist.
Kristyn Vitale, a cat behavior scientist a Unity College in Maine, agrees.
“Although cats have a reputation for ignoring their owners, a growing body of research indicates that cats pay close attention to humans,” she said. “Cats can very much learn that specific vocalizations have certain meanings.” She noted that the study by de Mouzon et al. was small and that future work could expand the research.
The findings mirror those presented in the Netflix documentary Inside the Mind of a Cat, produced by Martin Shore and released on August 25, 2022.
In it, Ms. Vitale demonstrated that cats look to their owners for emotional advice. She attached paper streamers to a desk fan as a social referencing test. When she turned the fan on and the streamers fluttered, her cat Carl modeled his own response to her reaction.
When she acted frightened, Carl tried to hide from the fan, but when she acted happy, he was comfortable and confident. She concluded that 79% of cats look to their owners for clues on how to react to certain phenomena.
Inside the Mind of a Cat also reported that cats may exhibit cultural differences, depending on where they’ve been raised.
Dr. Saho Takagi at the University of Kyoto, noticed that cats from Japan appear less comfortable in unfamiliar environments than cats from the United States. She attributes this to the fact that cats in Japan are primarily kept indoors and rarely encounter strangers. After running these same experiments with Dr. Vitale, they concluded that these differences could be handed down through generations.
So, John, it seems that cats can indeed tell when you’re speaking to them.
Science simply has confirmed what feline aficionados have known for millennia. Communicating with cats is purr-fectly understandable.
Chick Stories
A memoir of adventures lived, laughter shared, and lessons learned with my girlfriends
Travesties, tragedies, and comical calamities abound in a series of essays rich with historical and cultural context.
When Mickey Blanchette went snooping for Christmas gifts, he donned his Santa hat. Then he found a stash of unwrapped copies of Ghost Girl.
He pawed through the book and was delighted to read about the two felines that lived in Companion Moon, the haunted inn that served as the focal point of the novel. Pretending to be mousers, they had wheedled their way indoors to chase non-existent mice. What they really wanted—and readily found—was comfort and warmth. So did everyone who visited the inn.
A creature of nine lives himself, he appreciated a central theme in the book, that where there is no death—where past, present, and future are indivisible—one has the freedom to live.
Mickey liked reading about Mo, a gray tabby, who liked to slink around, offering her nose for a scratch; and Willy, a black cat, who purred his way out of dark corners at the mere mention of his name. Along with the dog, Angus, and 17 ghosts, they led Bonnie, the 12-year-old protagonist, on a journey of self-discovery.
But Mickey seemed to focus not on Bonnie’s self-discovery, but on the journey exemplified by the old proverb that explains cats’ nine lives. “For three they play; for three they stray; and for the last three, they stay.” Like Mo and Willy, Mickey knows a good thing. He relates to unconditional comfort and warmth. Why else would he deign to wear a costume?
It may have to do with being a creature of nine lives himself. He seemed to especially appreciate a central theme in the book, that where there is no death—where past, present, and future are indivisible—one has the freedom to live.
Mickey was so intrigued with the cats, the cozy setting, and the timeless theme that Ghost Girl offers, that he asked for his own copy.
He also suggested it would be a perfect gift for a pre-teen on your holiday shopping list. Or for that matter, any adult interested in Celtic mythology. He tapped his paw on the back of the book, noting the endorsement of George Cinclair Gibson, Ph.D., author of Wake Rites: The Ancient Irish Rituals of Finnegans Wake.
According to Gibson, a Celtic scholar, “Young readers will find Ghost Girl a relevant and positive guide for their own lives. Older readers will find Ghost Girl an attractive introduction to the deep and profound mysteries and spiritual precepts of the Irish Celtic tradition.”
“And cats,” Mickey purred, “Will find it deep and profound.”
As he snuggled into his favorite bed for a long night of reading, he alternated his gaze between the book and me. I understood he wanted me to read Chapter 1 to him, and share it with you.
My friend Reggie turned me on to Where the Crawdads Sing. Seems she did the same for her feline housemate GiGi.
GiGi seemed disappointed that the book wasn’t a cookbook. After all, crawdads is simply another name for crawfish. And since Reggie loves crawfish etouffee, turtle soup, and anything cooked ala Creole or Cajun, so does GiGi. Maybe she wasn’t disappointed, merely lost in another world—one in which she’d have crawfish for dinner.
So I closed my eyes and joined her. First for memories of crawfish, then for the marshes and swamps where they thrive. Then for the marshes and swamps themselves. I conjured the scene painted by the opening lines of both Delia Owen’s bestselling novel and its movie version. I wish I could have written them. I know I have experienced them.
Marsh is not swamp. Marsh is a space of light, where grass grows in water, and water flows into the sky. Slow-moving creeks wander, carrying the orb of the sun with them to the sea, and long-legged birds lift with unexpected grace—as though not built to fly—against the roar of a thousand snow geese.
Then within the marsh, here and there, true swamp crawls into low-lying bogs, hidden in clammy forests. Swamp water is still and dark, having swallowed the light in its muddy throat. Even night crawlers are diurnal in this lair. There are sounds, of course, but compared to the marsh, the swamp is quiet because decomposition is cellular work. Life decays and reeks and returns to the rotted duff; a poignant wallow of death begetting life.
Delia Owens
Critics praised Where the Crawdads Sing for its well-crafted plot, complex characters, and engaging mystery. For me, though, it was the setting that consumed my imagination.
Although the story was set in North Carolina, I read the book in Virginia, and watched the movie in Florida. But I experienced it as if I were in Louisiana, where critters emerge silently in flotsam-flecked swamps, blue herons noisily bark at any intrusion into their sunny marsh, and screech owls pierce the pitch-darkness of a thunder-filled night.
I got to know swamps and marshes up close. I could smell the difference.
Like Kya, I paddled, hiked, and fished the wetlands. I had a pirogue—a flat-bottom canoe—which was perfect for low-lying, muddy waters. I also had a friend with a small motorboat and a retreat on the Tangipahoa River. There, rustic camps still bury themselves among the hardwood forests, bald cypress groves, brackish marsh, and swampy bayous of the long, lazy river named after a local indigenous tribe. And though separated by a thousand miles and half a century, I pictured Kya’s cabin looking like one of them.
Thanks to my friend with the boat, I got to know the people who lived off the liquid land on that river. Names like Duke, Zelda, and Shelby were reminiscent of the Crawdads’ cast of characters—Chase, Mabel, Tate. Jumpin’ Bait & Gas could well have been the Bedico Marina 50 years back.
Imagine my delight to learn that the movie version of Where the Crawdads Sing was filmed in the same mysterious waterways I loved. That Kya really lived in a simple house like those on the Tangipahoa. That as Marsh Girl, she could indeed live there. That her environs looked familiar because they were. I know the remote reaches of Fontainebleau and Fairview-Riverside State Parks, Big Branch Marsh National Wildlife Refuge, and the Tchefuncte—and Little Tchefuncte—Rivers where the movie was filmed. I read that production was often disrupted by severe lightning storms, floods, heat, and bug bites. Been there, done that, too.
I didn’t know, but found it quite interesting, that the courtroom scenes were shot in the Historic St. Bernard Parish Courthouse in Chalmette, Louisiana, where the people are affectionately known as Chalmations. And Houma, known for its annual Shrimp and Petroleum Festival, was the site of the fictional Barkley Cove. It didn’t take much to transform the Cajun city into an early-60s fishing village.
While GiGi looks like she’s dreaming of crawdads for dinner, I’m dreaming of where they sing. That place, according to Owens’s character Tate, is “where critters are wild, still behaving like critters.” Where, according to Owens herself, marsh and swamp and water flow into the sky, where grass grows in water, and death begets life.
I opened my eyes. It’s time to read the book again.
Send your ideas and photos to pat@pattimwalsh.com
Chick Stories
A memoir of adventures lived, laughter shared, and lessons learned with my girlfriends
Travesties, tragedies, and comical calamities abound in a series of essays rich with historical and cultural context.
While Kitty’s housemates Tania and Nancy were out playing pickleball, they had no idea that their feline housemate was practicing her own game.
That is, until they came home early one afternoon to find Kitty reading Pickleball Fundamentals and practicing her serves.
“Who do you think you are?” Tania asked Kitty. “Pickles?”
She was referring to the dog who has been credited with the name behind one of the fastest-growing sports in the United States. But Kitty corrected her.
“The dog was named for the game,” she purred, “Not the other way around.”
It all began, Kitty chattered, in 1965 when necessity, the Mother of Invention, met Joel Pritchard, the Father of Pickleball. Although Joel had been an army sergeant in World War II, a congressman, a member of the Washington Senate and House of Representatives, and the state’s lieutenant governor, he is renowned for his response to a hot day, bored kids, a welter of equipment—and perhaps a dollop of guilt.
As the story goes, Joel and his friend Bill Bell returned from a golf outing to a buzzkill chorus from their kids of, “There’s nothing to do.”
Kitty could relate to that. She loves to be played with. That’s why she took up pickleball. “That’s why a lot of people play,” she said.
According to Joel’s son Frank, in a story posted on the Pickleball Hall of Fame blog, Joel suggested making up a game to relieve the boredom. After all, that’s what he did as a kid. So Frank, being a hot, bored kid, challenged him to do just that.
Although the property on Bainbridge Island, Washington, had a badminton court, there were no rackets or shuttlecocks. But Joel found some ping pong paddles and a wiffle ball.
Joel’s wife Joan lightheartedly named the game “Pickleball,” a deliberate reference to the thrown-together leftover non-starters in the “pickle boat” of crew races.
But Joel and Bill were not to be deterred. They made paddles out of plywood, tinkered with the height of the net, and eventually replaced the wiffle ball with an injection-molded one. Thrown together or not, this pickle of a game needed rules. Dads (especially if they’re legislators) like rules. So, Joel and Bill enlisted another dad, Barney McCullum, to devise the do’s and don’ts.
Kitty thinks that since they were inspired by a game named after a food, they came up with silly rules, like, stay out of the kitchen, i.e., the non-volley zone, and “dink” your opponent.
“You must consider the strategic aspect of the game,” Kitty explained. “It’s like chess. You need to out-think your opponent.”
What began as a hybrid of badminton, tennis, racquetball, and ping pong to appease some bored kids evolved into a competitive sport just a few years later.
In 1968, Pickle-ball, Inc. was created, “to develop the game … [and promote it] in a lawful manner.” By 1972, the company sold paddles, nets, and balls that were created specifically for the sport. The organization also helped transition the game into a legitimate sport. To wit, it was named the official state sport of Washington in 2022.
Between 1972 and 2022, the number of players skyrocketed, thanks to enthusiasts who brought their paddles with them from the Pacific Northwest to California, Arizona, Florida, and other Sun Belt regions. In Hawaii, the game became known as pukaball. Puka (meaning hole) referred to the game ball but eventually became the name of the game itself.
Over the last six years, the number of pickleball players has increased by 650%, according to USA Pickleball Association (USAPA), the sport’s official organization. Likewise, the Sports & Fitness Industry Association (SFIA) estimated that in 2017 there were 2.8 million pickleball players in the United States. Earlier this year, SFIA estimated 4.8 million players, making it the fastest-growing sport in the U.S.
Ironically, the sport that was created for bored children is synonymous with retirees. Yet USAPA reports that players over 55 make up only 30% of total players; 29% of players are in the 18–34 category; and remarkably, 6–17 year-olds make up 21% of all players.
Alas, pickleball injuries have also increased. The Journal of Emergency Medicine estimated 19,000 pickleball injuries in 2017, with 90 percent of them affecting people 50 and older. Noting that she and her housemates live in an active-adult community, Kitty reminded them that many of those injuries can be prevented by stretching, staying hydrated, and not backpedaling.
“It was a niche sport that started in the sixties,” Kitty demurred. “But now that baby boomers discovered it, it’s the rage.”
Nancy and Tania agreed. One proof of its popularity is the availability of specialized equipment and clothing that incorporates fabric technology with style. Another is the number of tournaments offered, and the increase in venues where the game is played. It can be found in virtually every municipal parks-and-recreation program across the country.
The Florida community where Tania, Nancy, and Kitty live recently increased the number of pickleball courts from 6 to 12. The courts are in constant use. That’s because most people play the sport for fun, fitness, and to reduce stress.
Just ask Kitty.
“If life hands you a pickle,” she said as she practiced a dink shot. “Start playing pickleball.”
Photos by Tania Batdorf
Chick Stories
A memoir of adventures lived, laughter shared, and lessons learned with my girlfriends
Travesties, tragedies, and comical calamities abound in a series of essays rich with historical and cultural context.
The last time I talked with my friend Sharyn Tufts, she told me that her feline housemate Louie was so enthralled with Gerald Ciccarone’s The Shadow of Giants that he insisted she share the premise of the book with our readers.
The Shadow of Giants is the first book in Ciccarone’s Millennium’s Gate trilogy, a collection of metaphysical and political thrillers that spans two hundred years. The protagonist, Ignatius “Iggy” Marcus, was raised to believe that a “proper philosophical operating system and motivation for living” was the only way mankind would thrive and survive in the future.
Iggy believes that an honest, genuine self-image can only come from individual achievement, and that self-image is the driving force behind man’s survival.
On the other hand, aberrant behavior emanates from a lack of information or mental acuity, deleterious self-aggrandizement, and immediate self-gratification. Such behavior is the driving force behind man’s destruction.
The Shadow of Giants opens with Iggy being struck by lightning, an incident the author refers to as a “bizarre accident by design.” Iggy awakens with heightened perceptions, expanded mental and physical powers, and a mission—to shepherd humanity away from aberrant behavior to redemption at Millennium’s Gate.
If he is successful, the world will be transformed and the old elitist power structure will be swept away and replaced by the power of the individual. If he fails, the parasites who have always run the world would unleash self-destruction on it through momentous tragedies and the consequences of corrupt schemes.
Of course, the powers that run the world must stop Iggy at all costs. The battle is epic and humanity’s survival hangs in the balance.
In conceptualizing Iggy, Ciccarone states that he wanted to create the epitome of integrity, bearing the standard for all honest men and women everywhere who abhor the destruction of America, which the author calls “man’s greatest political creation.”
According to Mick Tufts, Louie’s other housemate, the book is “phenomenal.” Writing in an Amazon review, Mick says The Shadow of Giants “puts a face on the demons we all know exist and flourish at our expense. The reader becomes immersed in a world we suspect exists behind the scenes, but are now shown how it operates, and why. The characters are brought to life in grand fashion. Anyone who reads this book will wish … that Iggy would step up and save our world. Make no mistake though, the world, as portrayed in this book, will ring genuine and frightening. It will remind [us] that we, and only we, as the citizens of that world, can save it. The scary thing is, Iggy and his actions, are the product of a genius imagination. The rest I’m afraid, is all too real.”
Louie, being a cat, likes to watch, more than he likes to read. Thus, he suggested watching this video clip of MILLENNIUM’S GATE: The Shadow of Giantson YouTube.
He also informed us that On the Shoulders of Giants, the second book of the Millennium’s Gate trilogy, was published July 15.
Chick Stories
A memoir of adventures lived, laughter shared, and lessons learned with my girlfriends
Travesties, tragedies, and comical calamities abound in a series of essays rich with historical and cultural context.
When I visited neighbors Nancy and Vince Baclawski recently to share my May 25 feature in the Florida Weekly, co-bloggers Rocky (top) and Beamer insisted on reading the newspaper before Nancy and Vince could get their hands on it.
Editor Cindy Pierce had interviewed me in conjunction with a story I had entered in last year’s Florida Weekly Writing Challenge, an annual contest in which readers craft short stories based on photo prompts.
Although “Burned” didn’t win, it placed Number 10 out of more than 600 entries—enough to earn a write-up as a means to introduce the 2022 competition. The prompt was a photo of two sunburned men asleep on a beach in front of a mansion.
“Burned” is one of a dozen pieces of short fiction in All That Remains. The collection features ordinary folks—and a few odd characters—overcoming adversity in a variety of settings: mysterious Southern swamps, vast Western mountaintops, and unexpected crevices in between. “Patti sweeps you in,” says author G. P. Whelan.
A digital book, All That Remains is available on Amazon for $1.99, or FREE if you sign up for my newsletter, Come to Think of It, at PattiMWalsh.com.
Coming Soon!
One girl, two worlds, and 17 ghosts: What if an alienated 12-year-old girl could restore her family’s past and then lead it into the future?
Ghost Girl, a contemporary middle-grade novel based on Celtic mythology, will be published this summer.
Learn more and sign up for notice of its release at PattiMWalsh.com
Mickey, who lives with Nancy and Rick Blanchett, is enjoying his copy of All That Remains, a collection of my short stories, now available on Amazon for $1.99.
But he got his copy free by visiting www.PattiMWalsh.com. That’s right. Free.
All That Remains is a book about ordinary—and some extraordinary—folks overcoming adversity. From the brokenhearted to the buoyant, they emerge from mysterious Southern swamps, vast Western mountaintops, and unexpected crevices in between. For example, there’s Penny, who is stuck in the swamp with the remains of her loved ones; Donna, who is trapped by a spider; and Stannum, who steadfastly loves Francesca.
Beginning June 1, 2022, Come to Think of It will invite you each month to grab a cup of coffee or a glass of wine for some musing, schmoozing, and amusing. To gather with friends. To come to think about things.
It will also include interesting facts about writing and publishing, coming events, and a link to What the Cats Are Reading. Yes, this blog will continue. For even though Ron and Nina are no longer with us, their spirit lives on through this blog. It serves to encourage adoption and promote Feline-Americans as family members whose antics, tranquility, and reading habits enrich our lives. So, keep sending pictures of your cats enjoying their favorite books.
And speaking of favorite books, get your complimentary copy of All That Remains by visiting www.PattiMWalsh.com and subscribing to Come to Think of It.
Bucket lists. You know, the silly name for things to do before we kick the bucket.
You can read about them, as my friend Kathleen’s cat Lollipop is doing; check them off a list, as Kathleen and I recently did on our adventures in Alaska; or count the blessings of accomplishing a goal. That’s where magic happens.
Yes, I danced with the goddess Aurora, trailing her borealis beneath a gazillion stars; mushed through a midnight forest aglitter with hoarfrost; and bathed in hot mineral waters that gushed from ice-bound rocks.
But I also met everyday people in and around Fairbanks, who were checking off their own bucket-list items. I began to notice that achievement is often a beginning, not an end. It triggers an honest smile and a humble confidence that can affect others’ lives.
Take, for example, Michi Konno. Born and raised in Japan, he moved to Alaska in 1999 to mush dogs. After checking off his goal to compete in the grueling Iditarod, he now opens his home to aurora seekers to share with them the enchantment of the night sky when it comes to life.
Kathleen and I met him when he fetched us—and 10 other seekers—at our downtown hotels at 9:30 p.m. and drove us 35 miles to his remote A-frame with a 360-degree view of the Alaska Mountain Range. At least that’s what he claimed. All I could see from the frigid deck of his warm abode was a moonless, obsidian sky generously sprinkled with countless stars.
“There,” a fellow trekker cried, jabbing a mittened finger northward. “Below the Big Dipper. Can’t you see it?” I couldn’t. “Use your phone. It can pick up what your eyes can’t.”
I wanted more than the illusion of light recorded through the lens of my phone’s camera, but I followed his advice. Sure enough, the phone captured a pale green streak over the horizon.
“Okay, God,” I prayed into the midnight grandeur. “If this is what I was meant to see, I am grateful. But an astral wisp was not what I had in mind.”
“Be patient,” God whispered through Michi’s soft voice.
Michi knows that patience is hard, especially when awaiting a bucket-list experience. So he offered his guests cocoa, cookies, and chocolate. Then, as if to illustrate that elusive yet discernible confidence that can transform lives, the former musher sat back and played a documentary on the Iditarod, which had just commenced in Anchorage, hundreds of miles to our south.
I’d heard about the brutal thousand-mile, multi-day race that showcases the athleticism of Alaska sled dogs while commemorating the 1925 dash to transport lifesaving diphtheria drugs from Anchorage to Nome by dogsled.
All very interesting, I thought, as I paced between the warmth of Michi’s lodge and the frigid outdoor deck. But I wanted Aurora—the phenomenon that results when charged particles from the sun collide with Earth’s atmosphere, the magic that ancient cultures feared, my reason for being here.
Then, shortly after 1 a.m., Michi shattered the frozen ennui with a booming voice that sounded like a musher spurring his sled dogs into action.
“Now!” We jumped to our feet like sled dogs. “Everyone. Out back. Now. Now.”
Before our wonderous eyes, the lazy green streak began to pulsate, then dance. Like smoke breathing through the sky, Aurora swooshed then bloomed like a feathered plume up to the zenith. For nearly an hour, she consumed the boundless sky swaying and shifting this way and that.
It’s one thing to understand the science, or to conjure the myths. It’s another to stand in wonder beneath a roiling green maelstrom tinged with purple, yet neither feeling nor hearing wind. I pocketed my camera and absorbed Aurora’s magnificence. Pictures, even videos, are inadequate. It was impossible to document.
So was dashing through the snow in an eight-dog-open sleigh, two nights later, again commencing at 9:30. (Magic, you know, happens mostly at night.) Our guide was another bucket lister. Like Michi, Ron came from elsewhere—Pittsburgh—to run the Iditarod.
Dog mushing, we learned, is not only Alaska’s official sport, but also its obsession. And race fever is contagious. Through osmosis, we learned the names of the top contenders, the scandals that plagued them, and their dogs’ lineage.
Who knew, for example, that Brent Sass would finally win after six losses? Or that he would beat Dallas Seavey by more than an hour, depriving the third-generation musher of a record-breaking sixth title? Or that Dallas’s father, Mitch, would poorly strategize his finish, coming in at a distant 16th? Behind Michelle Phillips, no less (the 52-year-old musher, not the 77-year-old singer), who placed 11th.
For our midnight run, Ron selected 8 of his 20 prized Alaskan huskies. Unlike the stereotypical sled dogs associated with fluffy fur, blue eyes, and curly tails, Alaskan huskies are pedigreed mutts, if you will, with lineages that include huskies, hounds, setters, spaniels, shepherds, retrievers, border collies, and, of course, wolves. They are well-conditioned athletes who can burn 10,000 high-quality calories a day; their training is overseen by specialized veterinarians; and they are bred for speed, tough feet, endurance, and an unbridled love to run.
In fact, when Ron hooked his team to their gang lines, they yelped and howled in excited anticipation. So, I joined in. At which point, they all abruptly stopped, as if to ask, “WTF?” After a moment of silence, they resumed, as did I. I’ve never seen such happy dogs.
Atticus and CiCi were the lead dogs that night. Leads must be intelligent to sense the trail, follow commands, and set the pace. Behind them, swing- or team- dogs maintain speed and help with corners. Wheel-dogs, generally the strongest, are positioned closest to the sled.
“Ready?” Ron asked us, as he flicked on a powerful lamp clamped to his head. We were. “Hike!” he commanded his team. And with that, we bolted into the arboreal forest aglitter with what looked like millions of diamonds spilling like fairy dust amidst branches of spruce and willow. A golden crescent moon waxed on the horizon.
And when he switched off his headlamp in search of the northern lights, we hurled through utter darkness at 10 m.p.h. in zero-degree air. Flying among the stars was pure magic.
Ron steered the gleeful dogs with Gee (right) and Haw (left). As they raced nonstop, they licked snowbanks to cool themselves off. Kathleen and I, on the other hand, were cold. Although we had layered our clothing appropriately and stuffed mittens and boots with warmers, the ride was bone-chilling.
So, when we arrived an hour later on Chena Lake, we rushed into a warm ice-fishing hut to crowd the fire and drink cocoa. Our companions, a family from Minnesota, were catching chinook salmon for their bucket-list adventure.
Once thawed, we all took turns watching and photographing Aurora as she brushed the horizon with delicate neon strokes.
After a couple of hours, Kathleen and I bundled ourselves back on the sled for another frigid ride. We slept like dogs that night, dreaming of our magical mystery tour.
Our third tour guide, Aaron, led 20 of us—polar pilgrims, if you will—on an 18-hour trek from Fairbanks to the Arctic Circle and back along the Dalton Highway. He also was a bucket-list achiever with an Iditarod story of his own.
A grad student at the University of Alaska studying rural economics, Aaron had been a photographer in Los Angeles when he gave it all up to live in a dry cabin (i.e., one with no water) to work with a kennel of sled dogs. He was, in fact, scheduled to photograph the Iditarod—another item on his own bucket list—when the opportunity fell through. But exuding the humility wrought by achievement, he was content to drive a tour bus.
Along the Dalton Highway
It was really a diesel truck equipped with CB radio, satellite telephone, safety kit, and spare tires.
The Dalton Highway is the road that built and now services the upper half of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline. Many people are familiar with it from the History Channel series Ice Road Truckers. Not a road for the meek, it’s a 414-mile stretch of gravel and dirt with steep grades. It runs from north of Fairbanks through the wilderness of the Brooks Range to the Prudhoe Bay Oil Field on the shores of the Arctic Ocean.
Our tour went as far as the Arctic Circle, which is about the halfway point on the highway. It marks the northernmost point at which the sun is visible on the December solstice and the southernmost point at which the midnight sun is visible on the June solstice. Crossing it was on Kathleen’s bucket list.
Aaron’s nearly non-stop narration was full of history (the 800-mile pipeline was built in two years); engineering (the pipeline supports accommodate 170-degree temperature variations as well as seismic vibrations from earthquakes); geography (the Yukon River is the fifth largest river in the world, based on water volume); botany (black spruce is one of only a few trees that can grow over permafrost); culture (some ancient myths say the aurora borealis is the gods playing ball with the head of a walrus—or walruses playing ball with the head of a human); and recipes (to cook moose, marinate it first in soy sauce, olive oil, Worcestershire sauce, lemon juice, and spices, then sauté in butter).
A segment of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline
We passed through Joy (population 2), which now serves as a rest station, complete with “dry” facilities, i.e., outhouses. We stopped for pictures at the Enchanted Forest, Yukon River, and the iconic Arctic Circle sign. One young man on our tour was a doctoral student who gathered some permafrost for his bucket. At the Yukon River Camp, I met a middle-aged woman who had driven from her home on the east coast of Florida to fulfill her own bucket-list dream to work in the Alaskan wilderness. On the way home, we searched for Aurora. But I think she may have been tired. We sure were.
Not all of our adventures were cold. Or involved stories of the Iditarod
Two artists at the UA Museum of the North were bucket-listers who warmed my heart. Michio Hoshino (1952–1996), was a Japanese-born nature photographer who fell in love with Alaska as a high-school student on vacation. A renowned wildlife photographer, he was killed by a brown bear while on assignment. Claire Fejes (1920–1998) moved from the Bronx to Fairbanks in 1946 to paint self-portraits, neighbors, and landscapes. After a stint in an Inupiat whaling camp, she mounted a one-woman show back in New York.
Chena Hot Springs was hot. Like 150 degrees hot—the temperature of the water when it steams from snow-covered rocks—and cooled to an average of 106 degrees for bathing purposes.
And far from hot, the Castner Glacier ice cave was definitely cool. So was getting there. It’s an easy 144-mile drive from Fairbanks on the Richardson Highway. The Alaska Range soared to the west, with Denali anchoring its southernmost reach and contrails spun like silk threads by Air Force pilots conducting training exercises.
The crystal-blue day attracted all kinds of day-hikers—families, dogwalkers, military troops—to the level, mile-long, hard-packed snow trail. Yet it wasn’t crowded. We greeted each other with smiles, like fellow travelers upon a mystical labyrinth. When I inadvertently stepped into a hip-deep snowdrift, a couple of young men hoisted me back onto the trail.
“I used to be an accomplished hiker,” I said, humility kicking in as I brushed snow off my leg.
“And I’m becoming one,” the one named Sean replied. He asked if he could walk with me.
“Ah, so you can help an old lady across the street,” I joked.
“No. Just across a glacier.”
A few hundred yards later, we arrived at a blue-ice cave of Castner Glacier. Its walls were like a giant uncut aquamarine—both Kathleen’s and my birthstone. Gold-like sediment threaded through its facets.
I have my photographs—and plenty of them. But the memory of that giant jewel is a souvenir I now wear close to my heart. It reminds me that in traveling from the top of the world to the depths of my soul, I had stumbled—quite literally—upon a humble confidence that holds transformative power.
I had learned to share the wonder of aspirations. And the joy of achieving them. They weren’t all things. Some were as simple as a smile, as complex as patience, or as practical as a helping hand.
It wasn’t enough that my friend Kathleen and I have been dreaming about our early-March bucket-list trip to Alaska. Lollipop (left), one of her feline housemates, recently got into the act.
I have wanted to experience aurora borealis (i.e., the northern lights) for at least 50 years. I never knew it was on my bucket list—or that I even had such a thing—until Kathleen suggested a trip to Norway to celebrate our birthdays. Although she had experienced the phenomenon in Iceland, she wanted to do it again, this time in a dogsled. But international covid precautions sent us in a different—and domestic—direction. Fairbanks, Alaska.
Located 196 miles south of the Arctic Circle, Fairbanks is frequently cited as the best place to see the northern lights in the U.S., and, according to some, in the world.
That’s because it sits a touch above the 65th parallel of north latitude. To get a sense of what that means, picture Earth. The Equator is at 0 degrees latitude; True North—and South—Poles are at 90 degrees north and south, respectively, of the Equator, making the North Pole, by definition, the northernmost point on the Earth.
The Arctic Circle (66°33′48.9″ north latitude) is the northernmost point at which the noon sun is visible on the winter solstice. To its north is the Arctic; to its south, the Northern Temperate Zone. Ironically, the city of North Pole, Alaska, lies 125 miles south of the Arctic Circle and 1,744.54 miles south of the True North Pole.
By comparison, Utqiaġvik (Barrow), is 504 miles north of Fairbanks, and 320 miles north of the Arctic Circle. At a latitude of 71 degrees north, it is the northernmost municipality in the U.S. (Sidenote: Bob and I experienced the Midnight Sun there in 2001 while staying at the Top of the World Hotel, with a beachfront view of the Arctic Ocean. Mid-summer temperatures hovered in the 30s.)
In Fairbanks, March is not only a transition month, but it is also high season. Temperatures moderate as skies brighten. Daily highs range from –2°F to 23°F, though they can plunge to –17°F and surge to 38°F. Compared to typical readings of –20°F to –40°F in December and January, March sounds downright balmy.
And bright. Sunrise on March 1 is 7:59 a.m., and sunset is 6:08 p.m., Alaska Standard Time (AST). During the month, total hours of sunlight range from 10 hours, 9 minutes, to 13 hours, 38 minutes. On the vernal equinox, Fairbanks receives 12 hours and 11 minutes of sunshine. On the summer solstice, it gets 21 hours, 50 minutes of daylight. Then it begins to darken again.
With clear to partly cloudy skies prevailing in early March and less than a 10% chance of precipitation, Fairbanks bills itself as an ideal canvas for the aurora borealis. That’s because most northern lights occur in a band known as the auroral oval, a swath that sweeps beneath the geomagnetic pole. The northern lights around the North Pole are the borealis; in the southern hemisphere, they are the australis.
Galileo, the 17th-century Italian scientist called the father of observational astronomy, named the phenomenon after the Roman goddess of dawn, Aurora, who raced her multi-colored chariot across the sky to usher in the dawn.
The earliest record of the northern lights, however, goes back much further. According to NASA scientists, a 30,000-year-old cave painting in France depicts unknown lights in the night sky. Assyrian cuneiform records, dating from 655 BC to 679 BC, and Babylonian texts, made by astronomers of King Nebuchadnezzar II in 567 BC describe unusual red glows in the night sky. The oldest official documentation is dated 2,600 BC in China. Fu-Pao, the mother of Shuan-Yuan, the Yellow Emperor, is said to have observed “strong lightning” that lit up the night sky.
Pre-historic lore is as colorful as the lights themselves. The Vikings believed that they reflected the Valkyries’ armor leading Odin’s warriors to Valhalla. To the Sámis, they were the souls of the dead, and to the Finnish, sparks flying from the tail of a racing firefox. Some Native Americans saw them as giant flames under huge cooking pots. Others as demons chasing lost souls, or as omens of pestilence and war.
In Alaska, some Inuit communities feared the lights as evil while others saw them as playful, or as the animals they had hunted. I like the legend that portrays them as torches borne by spirits to lead the souls of the dead across a narrow pathway to a better land, free of disease, pain, and hunger.
Although solar activity happens all the time, it shows up only against dark skies. It is the result of electrons and protons from the Sun slamming into the Earth’s atmosphere at about 45 million miles per hour. Because the Earth’s magnetic field is weaker at the poles, these particles invade Earth’s atmosphere and collide with gas particles, causing streams, arcs, rippling curtains, or shooting rays. The resulting colors range from red to violet, but most often appear as pale green and purple. The most common auroral color is a pale yellowish-green (like the cover of the book that Lolly is reading), which is produced by oxygen molecules. Nitrogen produces a blue or purplish-red aurora.
Astronomically, we have a good chance of seeing the lights. Skywatchers recommend three to four days in the arctic, synced with the dark skies that straddle a new moon. New moon is March 2. Since geomagnetic activity increases during the equinoxes, when the tilt of the Earth’s axis angles into the solar wind, early- to mid-March is highly recommended. And, according to the University of Alaska Geophysical Institute, the forecasted aurora oval for March 5–10 is high.
While in the interior of Alaska, we plan to go dog-mushing in North Pole—that’s on Kathleen’s bucket list—and swimming in the geothermally heated waters of Chena Hot Springs—that’s on both of ours. There are museums to explore, restaurants to sample, and retail stores to shop. We may take a guided tour to the Arctic Circle, hike to an ice cave in Castner Glacier, or sit around a toasty fire at the hotel. Who knows, maybe we’ll even try our hands at curling or ice fishing.
But the focal point is experiencing the auroras.
Experts say that the best way to see them is by dogsled, guided tour, or asking the front desk to wake you up if they appear. We plan to do all three. With temperatures that range from frigid to frozen, and adventures that range from fire to ice, we’re packing our bags with layers of clothes and arming ourselves with cameras, books, and bucket lists.
What the Cats Are Reading 