Joe

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It's worth a trip to see Alaska's vast wilderness and majestic scenery. But its people are at least as impressive. Characters like Bill, I reckon, are more common there than in the lower 48.

I met Joe while working as a deckhand on a "Captain" Mobley's barge in the Yukon flats in 1977. I got the job because a previous deckhand had broken his arm while winching off a sandbar on Birch Creek. Mobley hadn't wanted to pay for a proper boat pilot so made the mistake of going up the smaller mouth of Birch Creek and was frequently grounded. That trip took weeks instead of days, and the barge was behind schedule.

We loaded up at Fort Yukon in late June: 50,000 gallons of diesel fuel for the village generator in Chalkyitsik, on the Black River. Joe knew the river, so Mobley hired him to pilot. Joe lived in Fort Yukon with his wife, Diane, and an assortment of dogs and buildings, one of which he let me sleep in. His dogs would occasionally join others in town at night barking at some real or imagined threat. In a brief lull I could hear Joe say "Shut up," and all his dogs (at least) would cease their barking.

The barge headed up the Porcupine to the Black River, water levels dropping. On the Black we found ourselves scraping bottom. It was late when the hull slid onto a sandbar that we couldn't winch off of, so the captain let us sleep; we would try in the morning. Before going to bed we put a stick in the bank of the river where the water met the shore. Next morning the water had dropped four inches. The barge wasn't going anywhere before the next rain, so Joe and I took a canoe back to Fort Yukon.

Joe and I corresponded occasionally after that summer. I had intended to write about Joe, but reviewing a letter he wrote in 1979 convinced me I couldn't improve on his own account. So I'm publishing his letter here, including an endorsement of a now defunct company, as a snapshot of life on the last frontier.

January 5, 1979

Fort Yukon, Alaska

Tim,

Received your letter a few minutes ago and since I’m sitting home “babysitting” I thought I’d get a letter off to you.

I don’t know how to type but I’ve owned a typewriter for over ten years now and thought it’s time to get some use out of the thing, so I’m trying to learn how. Please bear with me and maybe you can make some sense out of this.

You asked quite a few good questions, and you’re sure to be interested in some of the answers. Then I will have a few questions to ask you.

We are going to have another baby this summer, then it will be four. Also we are down to two dogs now and using just snow-goes for transportation. We bought a 1959 Dodge flatbed truck and shipped it in on the barge. I use it in the summer and fall. Mostly to haul water and firewood. It’s a lot easier to cut and haul wood in the fall by truck than waiting and doing it in the winter with the sno-go. I’m always too busy trapping in the winter anyhow.

You sure couldn’t find anything around here for $45 a month, if you could even find a place for sale. [I had told him of the land contract we took over for our first home, 600 sq ft for $6500.]

The dog you said you found on Birch Creek? Well I have a little background on that one. Shortly after you left Fort Yukon the State Troopers found a car parked near the Birch Creek bridge on the Steese Highway. The car belonged to a fellow that had escaped from the federal prison. He was doing time on a cocaine dealing charge. Well he escaped; met his girlfriend in Anchorage; bought 10 rifles, 3 pistols, 15 cases of ammo, grub, winter gear, etc. and started floating down Birch Creek on a raft. He planned to build a cabin on the creek and spend the winter there while things cooled off. I guess the police figured out what he was up to and flew up and down the creek looking for him. He had planned to hold off the police with all of the firearms he had, but they landed downstream from where they saw him floating along and waited for him to come floating by. I guess they caught him floating down the creek like a sitting duck without a shot fired. Jim and I sat in as jail guards when they brought him into Fort Yukon. He said that he had a dog and it ran away and was left behind on Birch Creek. It’s my theory that is where your dog came from. How’s that grab you?

We’ve been having what we call mild weather here: it hasn’t been colder than -50 degrees f. more than a few days so far. A little more snow than usual.

Trapping has been good, though it could always be better. Pres. Carter is doing his best to put us out of business though. When Carter signed the Antiquities Act into effect last month it put 10,600,000 acres of the Yukon Flats into National Monuments in which trapping will not be allowed as we know it now. That is we will be able to trap to some extent, but will not be able to sell the fur. This will put me out of business since the majority of our income is from trapping and selling our fur. Jim and I are now in the process of packing an outfit to move over to his cabin on Kevinjek Creek, some 175 miles east of here. It is just out of the boundaries of the new National Monument, which means we will be able to trap and sell the fur, but since is is so far away we won’t be able to come in and visit our wives since travelling the 175 miles to Fort Yukon would be impractical, expensive, and too time consuming.

Close to 80 million acres of Alaska land are included in these monuments, with 666 trappers on record trapping within the boundaries, earning about $887,015.00 per year. I took these figures from a report I have concerning the Antiquities Act.

Last summer I worked for the Alaska Department of Fish and Game Division of Commercial Fisheries as a fisheries technician. During June and July I was in the Anvik/Grayling area on the lower Yukon River. I worked alone monitoring the commercial fishery. When fishing was closed there I moved back to Fort Yukon. Then in October I went back to work on the Sheenjek doing some data collecting and sampling salmon. It was interesting work and I hope to work there again next summer.

Diane’s sister Mabel is renting the large two-room cabin from us now. I sold the small frame building that you camped in and towed it away to the new owner’s property with a cat. Last summer we started building a new log cabin near where the frame building stood. The new cabin is 15’ x 15’ with a wood burning range and heater. Also a sleeping and storage loft. This coming summer we hope to have time, money, and materials to finish it.

Captain Mobley is another story.

I was called up a year ago last fall (the same season you and I worked for him). Mobley wanted me, my boat, and motor up at the barge where it was stuck when you and I quit.

I went up there and agreed to help him get the barge moved for $75.00 a day for my boat and $35.00 a day for me, he would pay all gas, oil, and groceries. We winched for a week and finally got the thing moved, but only after the water came up some. Before that the water got so low that the barge was high and dry and the river was only 12” deep at the deepest place. Mobley had hired some kind of expert bargeman from Homer and the two of us strung a cable and winched for 16 hours a day, while Mobley sat and watched us. When we finally got the thing floating Mobley got excited and ran it aground about 2 miles below where it was stuck before. Two more days of winching and we were floating again.

Mobley decided to park the barge in a slough and leave it there for the winter, which he did. The people from Chalkyitsik and Fort Yukon stole all the drums of gas and oil. Also propane, tools, etc. . Then when spring rolled around and the water started rising he thought the ice might freeze the barge down so he dynamited it out and cracked the hull. Finally he went belly up and sold the whole thing to Roy Smyth and Albert Carroll. Albert is Diane’s uncle and Smyth was the guy that lived down on the river-bank where you stored your canoe. Mobley never paid me for all of the work I did for him.

Do you remember the time Mobley’s motor quit on us at the mouth of the Porcupine River and he bought another one from Smyth? Well Mobley tore the two motors apart and overhauled them. He made the two motors into one. And the first time I took the boat out the thing threw a connecting rod. Some overhaul job.

Here’s the address to the place that I order my glasses from:

Prism Optical Inc.

10992 N.W. 7th Avenue

North Miami, Florida 33168

I have ordered about three pairs from them myself and Diane probably the same. One time they sent the wrong lenses and I returned them. They were good about it and straightened everything out for me. I have the catalogue here in front now and they have a 1/2 off sale on all frames. The average price for frames runs about $20.00 regular price and glass lenses go for $9.95 a set, so it looks like you could get a pair for around $30.00. I don’t know if there’s any difference in quality between $100.00 glasses and $30.00 glasses or not. I guess you can order a pair and find out.

I’m down to my last 1/2 sheet of paper so will start thinking of closing.

A few questions: How long did it take you to line up Birch Creek to the bridge? What did the people at Birch Creek Village think of your little expedition? No one ever mentioned seeing you that I heard about. Did you run into any other people along the way? Do you still have your Chevy Pick-up truck?

Don’t think we have any relations in Michigan named Firmin. My mother’s relations live there and the name is Morand. Most of our relations in Mich. live in Essexville, Bay City, Kalamazoo, Midland and that’s about all I can think of now. We do have some cousins in Essexville named Petty also.

Jim and I will be leaving for the trapline soon. Expect to be back in March. Maybe I will hear from you again by that time.

Do you still have the tent I sold you? Did you get much use out of it?

Your friend, 

Joe Firmin  

With trapping becoming less feasible, Joe got a pilot license and started an aviation company in Fort Yukon. In 1992, while helping a biologist from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service conduct a moose census, he crashed and died.

I hope this letter describing his life in central Alaska serves as one small tribute to him. It was a privilege to have known him. 

 

Matter of Fact

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The most telling statement of the vice-presidential debate on Tuesday was, "You guys weren't going to fact-check."

Nothing these days says Republican like "We lie. The truth is not in us. And don't you dare hold us accountable."

Much of the church I have known and participated in all my life has enthusiastically said, "Yes, this is who we are!" I had thought that truth was a major tenet of my religion. I was wrong. Maybe truth is defined only as what one believes in spite of reality.

I may also be wrong about the mark of the new Republicans. What defines today's Republican Party could be cruelty.

Rural Democracy

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Last year we drove across the country from Michigan to Washington and back, a trip we have made frequently over the years. I love the high plains of Montana, Wyoming, and the Dakotas. But I admit a feeling now of driving through hostile territory.

A couple of years ago we made the same trip with my pickup, which has a small Hillary 2016 sticker. A pickup pulled up alongside us on the freeway across Montana and the driver flipped us the bird repeatedly before accelerating again to pass. We had been just rolling along in the right lane and hadn't made any sudden lane changes that might have pissed anyone off, so I expect the gestures were due to the sticker. It was disconcerting, but not enough for me to remove the sticker. (I understand Trump stickers provoke similar reactions in parts of the country.)

The plains and mountain states include Democrats, but they are all but invisible. One reason is that minorities tend to be quiet and avoid drawing attention to themselves. But the party, it seems, could do more to make itself felt and understood and accepted. 

I recently read the book Dirt Road Revival, by Chloe Maxmin and Canyon Woodward. It points out that the Democratic Party has largely abandoned rural America, concentrating its attention on the more heavily populated urban and suburban areas. The authors think this is a mistake. I agree.

Rural America has a disproportional influence on American politics. The state of Wyoming has the same number of senators as California, whose a population is 67 times greater. The Electoral College, weighted toward rural areas, has repeatedly gone against Democrat presidential candidates who have won the popular vote. So simply for pragmatic reasons Democrats should do more to court rural voters.

But there are other reasons. One is symbolism. The roots of this country are essentially rural. Many Europeans migrated to America for an opportunity to have land to farm. While only a small fraction of the population are now farmers, many of us have a heritage of farming. There is a lingering nostalgia for farming and farmers. A place in the country is still a dream of many who live closer to work sites in populated areas.

Another is need. Poverty rates are higher in rural than urban areas. Democrats, generally speaking, do more for those in need than Republicans, so they should demonstrate concern for all areas of the country where poverty is high. I think help often sounds like handouts, which is something that independent rural folks tend to dislike, so we need to think of new ways to offer help and to communicate those offers. It sometimes surprises me that Republicans provide handouts to the wealthiest and still appeal to rural voters, but I suspect it has something to do with the messaging.

A Democratic Party office should be located in every rural county, maybe just off main street with a tall flagpole and the biggest American flag in the county. Democratic candidates should be encouraged to run, not necessarily with the aim of winning their local and state elections, but as a members of a coalition that listens to rural voters while advocating for practical progressive policies during their campaigns. Quite a few folks might be more willing to serve as two-way liaisons than as elected politicians. And if they happen to be elected, they will have the distinct advantage of understanding what the local issues and concerns actually are.

It was largely rural citizens who decided we wouldn't serve and obey a king without representation. A lot of rural America still feels like they are not well represented. Is that one reason many are now willing to revolt against democracy itself in favor of a would-be king?

Lotus

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As I was making my way up Birch Creek from Fort Yukon back to Circle, where my truck was parked, I found a dog. Other than the residents of Birch Creek Village, where I stopped for a couple of days, I met only a man and woman floating downstream on a makeshift raft.

I heard whining one evening and wondered if I might have come across an abandoned wolf pup. But while eating supper I spotted a medium-sized dog across the river with the build and coloring of a Doberman Pinscher. Next morning she swam across the river to join me for breakfast. We became fast friends.

Five days after Lotus and I met, the two of us reached the Steese Highway. We walked to Circle to get the truck, and I went inside the store/bar to celebrate completing the trip. Lotus waited outside while I talked about my trip and was treated to more drinks than I should have had. When I came out a couple hours later, Lotus hadn't moved from her spot by the door. 

We drove back to the bridge at Birch Creek to load up. Along the river was a camping area, with no facilities. We stayed there for the night. Lotus had apparently learned to scavenge during her time alone in the woods, and she must have found where the campers did their business. She was difficult to live with on our drive to Fairbanks, but I didn't kick her out of the truck other than for a few much-needed breaks.

Not long after my canoe trip, Lotus and I headed back to Michigan and to Dianne, who had agreed to marry me in spite of my wild plans to try living for a year as an Alaskan mountain man. When I arrived in Hudsonville, I was road weary, so I took a nap. Dianne decided to take Lotus for a walk. She practically dragged Lotus for a block or two away from the house, until she gave up. Then Lotus dragged Dianne back to the house. Lotus had been left behind before and apparently didn't want to take the chance I might leave while she was away.

So she came with us when we went somewhere that evening. Dianne sat close to me on the bench seat of the truck. Lotus jumped over her lap and wriggled between us. I occasionally took her with me to school and left her unleashed while I attended class. She wouldn't budge from where I left her until I returned. Over time, though, Lotus became more fond of Dianne than of me and became more relaxed about my absence.

About a year after returning from Alaska I wrote a letter to Joe Firmin, who lived in Fort Yukon. I had met Joe while working on a river barge. I told him of my travels, which he had helped me plan, and said I had found a dog. He wrote back with some background on Lotus:

Shortly after you left Fort Yukon the State Troopers found a car parked near the Birch Creek bridge on the Steese Highway. The car belonged to a fellow that had escaped from the federal prison. He was doing time on a cocaine dealing charge. Well he escaped; met his girlfriend in Anchorage; bought 10 rifles, 3 pistols, 15 cases of ammo, grub, winter gear, etc. and started floating down Birch Creek on a raft. He planned to build a cabin on the creek and spend the winter there while things cooled off. I guess the police figured out what he was up to and flew up and down the creek looking for him. He had planned to hold off the police with all of the firearms he had, but they landed downstream from where they saw him floating along and waited for him to come floating by. I guess they caught him floating down the creek like a sitting duck without a shot fired. Jim and I sat in as jail guards when they brought him into Fort Yukon. He said that he had a dog and it ran away and was left behind on Birch Creek.

I found it impractical to keep Lotus in the apartment I shared with friends when I returned to college that fall. My sister lived in a house with a fenced yard near Chicago, so I asked her to keep Lotus. Three times she dug her way under the fence and ran away, to be returned by an increasingly frustrated neighbor. So Lotus joined us at the apartment, where she produced a litter of pups. We managed just fine.

Dianne and I married, had our first child, and then took a job in West Africa. It wasn't feasible to take Lotus along, so good friends adopted her. She lived where she had room to roam, not far from Alaska, MI, and the Thornapple River, where it is similar in width to the part of Birch Creek we traveled together.

By the time we returned on our first visit from Liberia, she was gone. She had become nearly blind and been hit by a car on Thornapple River Drive.

Something New

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Last night at the Democratic National Convention, a lot of revered Democrats were featured. A PBS commentator noted the contrast to the Republican convention, which featured none of the old guard and a singular focus on one man.

David Brooks, whose views I have often respected even when mine differed, noted that at least the Republicans were featuring something new and not the same old same old.

I guess he's right: the celebration of tyranny is new to America.

On the other hand, it's older than the nascent democracy of ancient Greece.

What's really refreshing is a president willing to sacrifice personal aspirations for the good of the country. It's not entirely new, mind you. Our first president, George Washington, did the same many years ago. But the decision was so unexpected that it caught the entire Republican Party off guard. It seems that such an act is beyond their imagination.

Little Big Men

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Nicolas Maduro of Venezuela claims to have won an election that he didn't.

Venezuela was a reasonably stable democracy at a time when military dictatorships were common in South America. Now it lives under an autocrat. A fair percentage of the country, though not a majority, seems to appreciate the so-called strength of a dictator. Enough at least to keep one in power for now.

Maduro is sending the military to arrest opposition leaders and protesters. People who fail to fall in line signal to autocrats that they fail the test of true leadership—attracting followers. Coercion follows.

Coercion is the antithesis of freedom. It is a sure sign of authoritarianism. Sometimes it is brutal. Often it is more subtle. If you don't join the party, your job options are limited. If you don't support our candidate, your own candidacy is in jeopardy. If you don't tailor the news to fit a certain narrative, your news agency is shuttered.

At one time, I thought this sort of thing, common in poorer nations, would not happen here. Now I know better. A whole party (or what once was one) clamors for a big man.

In a wealthy democracy we are currently enduring a campaign based on the lie that our last one was stolen, while in a country beset by problems and poverty, a sitting president has graciously conceded a close election. 

When Nixon's demands for loyalty were exposed, as a nation we were disgusted. We haven't lost that disgust, but the forces that counteract it are stronger now. The Supreme Court, once a venerated institution, has decided that it alone can arbitrarily decide who can get away with what. Republican politicians fear for their families and their jobs if they voice an opinion based on conscience. Excessively wealthy people have publicly declared their allegiance to ending democracy in favor of the "freedom" to take advantage of the rest of us.

From a distance, we could always view tyrants with disdain. Look how they oppress! Look how they cheat! Look how they purge their own ranks! All because they can't get sufficient grassroots support for their policies. Without public support, which might actually make them great, they reduce themselves to schemers and thugs.

I spent time in Africa, where this substitute for leadership is common. But I don't recall any of those heads of state standing by and cheering as a mob tried to murder their own hand-picked vice president.

That is about as small as it gets.

Circle

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The summer of 1977, a friend and I followed our dream (of spending a year in the wilderness) to Alaska. We were a couple of the “crackpots from the Lower 48 who come north to live out their ill-considered Jack London fantasies,” as Jon Krakauer puts it. 

Better sense prevailed for my friend, and he hitch-hiked back to Michigan. I kept going north out of Fairbanks to Circle, so named because on the longest day of the year you can watch the sun not quite sink into the Yukon River before it starts rising again. I wrote about the Yukon in my journal.

June 27: The Yukon is unlike any other river I have seen. My first real look at the Yukon was when I walked to its bank at Circle. It's wider than the Mississippi and faster, with swirls and boils all the way across. It's loaded with silt this time of year. I washed my face and heard it fizzing, like a freshly poured 7-Up. It took a while before I realized it was the silty water brushing against a nearby aluminum boat and the stones on the bottom. No wonder the stones along the Yukon are so smooth.

I worked on a barge on the Yukon, Porcupine, and Black rivers for a few weeks. I bought a Canadian-made wood and canvas canoe in Fort Yukon. When the barge got stuck on the way to Chalkyitsik with 50,000 gallons of generator fuel in the hold, Joe Firmin, the recently hired pilot, and I took the advice of the barge operator/owner and left him and his wife with the barge as we paddled back to Fort Yukon. The last mile was upstream on the Yukon. We paddled hard, stopping frequently and holding onto tree branches to catch our breath.

There was no way for me to paddle the canoe upstream on the Yukon back to Circle. I was owed a flight back, which I accepted. I drove back to Fairbanks for maps and supplies before returning to Circle. There I hitched a ride with three floaters, downstream to Fort Yukon, in the second seat of a Klepper canoe.

From Fort Yukon, I headed downstream for about 30 miles to Birch Creek, a tributary that runs roughly parallel to but slower than the Yukon. I kept notes of my trip.

July 20: I left Fort Yukon this morning at 11:45 and made it to the upper mouth of Birch Creek by 7:00. I navigated the route Gilbert Stevens drew on my USGS maps through the many islands and channels of the Yukon, which is a couple miles wide at the creek's upper mouth. 

As soon as I got onto the glassy, still creek, a 2-foot pike came up beside the canoe and looked me over. It was then I realized I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I did catch one of those. At the first bend I saw loons, ducks, a muskrat, and beaver. 

I caught a pike with a daredevil lure tied to a tent cord and stopped to camp. In some cases it is better to ask for a blessing on the food before the preparation begins. Tonight’s supper was pretty miserable; I was spitting bones and scales much of the meal. (Note: I learned to cook pike and enjoyed them for many a meal.)

July 23: Saturday morning. Raining. I’ve got the runs.

The water was up today. More junk floating on it and swifter. I occasionally had to get out of the canoe because the current was too hard to pole or paddle against. From the looks of the map, for the next few days I’ll have very few of the deep and wide sections where the water barely moves.

July 24: Bread-baking break. The sun is warming the cast-iron Dutch oven where the bread is rising, and I started a fire. When the bread has risen and the coals are ready, I'll heap the coals onto the cover of the oven for baking.

The maps make great companions. During nice weather they’re always there in front of me in the canoe so I can tell where I’ve been, where I am, and where I’m going. I figure the total distance is about 250 miles. At night I review the maps and mark down my camping spots. I should mark down interesting things but then I’d always be marking instead of paddling.  This trip would be more boring without my maps.

July 25: I’m in Birch Creek Village. 

I saw a cow moose with twin calves and a pair of bald eagles on my way downstream from the fork. David James, son of the retired town chief, invited me to his house for coffee. Sanka—and it tasted pretty good. He asked if I'd seen moose. When I said yes, he asked why I didn't shoot one. "It's like walking past a $50 bill and not picking it up."

July 26: This morning three younger guys invited me over for coffee, before they went to bed. They had worked all night getting logs for a new building. I asked why they worked at night when the mosquitoes are at their worst. “It's too hot during the day.”

Everyone I talked to said I should see the school teacher, Ed Priest. I paid him a visit and stayed for a 7-Up, lunch, and supper. He also gave me the book Mountain Man, by Vardis Fisher. Ed—the only white in the village—seems to enjoy life here. He's the town cop, teacher, and Red Cross representative.

David James’s father, now in his nineties or older, used to run the village. He visited Ed this afternoon. He didn’t say a word and spent a good share of his hour there dozing off in the rocking chair. “Sometimes he does that,” said Ed. “Other times he really starts talking.” He set up the community in 1905. Everyone I met here is a James, so I guess he’s the village ancestor as well as historian. His name: Birch Creek James.

He used to go through what anyone brought from Fort Yukon or Circle to make sure there was no booze. It was a pretty dry town then; there’s still a $25 fine for possession in town, but it's no longer so well enforced.

I bought jam, a bag of apples, and a 3 Musketeers bar at the store. I guess the trip down here was worth it. I may change my mind as I try to go back up.

July 28: 14 miles today and I’m satisfied. Much of the river was as fast as the Yukon. I spent almost the whole day out of the boat, lining. With one end of a long rope tied to the front of the canoe and the other to the back, I steer the canoe around obstacles while towing from the bank. I was in the boat only to cross sides between pulling from the inside of each bend. Outside banks are typically steep cutbanks; otherwise I would try to stick to one side.

July 29: The geese are learning to fly. All but the one I had for supper. This morning when I got up I heard an outboard and some shooting. About the time I was ready for breakfast, three men I’d met in Birch Creek Village came from upstream. They had gone past earlier while I slept. They were hunting, but saw no moose or bear, just geese. I shared bread with jam and peanut butter and some lemonade for breakfast, and they gave me a goose for my supper. 

At the first bend after I took off a small black bear swam the river just ahead of me. A first on bear sightings this trip.

I met two floaters today, a man and woman on a big raft contraption with styrofoam floats and a shelter on deck. Not a fancy craft, but I imagine they were having more fun than I at the moment. Downstream is easy street. The woman asked who I was talking to, so I confessed I had been talking to the geese. They probably thought I was crazy. I invited them to join me for my goose supper, but they declined and floated by.

July 31: Almost 18 miles yesterday.

I'm taking a day off at Preacher Creek. The mosquitoes here are thicker than I’ve yet seen them. Last night while fixing supper, I took a swipe at my pant leg and killed 25-30 mosquitoes. Now there’s a cloud of them trying to get through my front screen so I’m staying in the tent for awhile.  At this camp spot I saw a wolf print over 4 ½ inches wide. Also there are bear and moose tracks galore. 

I packed away my faithful companions: the maps and my watch. This trip is becoming drudgery. I expected it to be hard work, and it is. I check my maps, pick a spot and try to get there by a particular time, and then I get pissed off at anything that detains me. So from now on, no maps, no watch, no deadlines. If I’m not constantly checking my maps, I’ll be surprised and happy when I see the bridge. 

I never tire of watching the beavers swimming with little more than their blunt noses above water, pushing branches. Or the geese. I chase them up river. The bigger ones are learning to fly: they paddle fast, flap their wings a lot and get above water for awhile, and then settle back down. The slow learners climb up the bank and waddle around looking for a hiding place. Some still bob under water and come up 50 feet away, as they did when small.

August 1: Fallout! The sun turned orange and ashes came floating out of the sky from a forest fire. It was eerie–and quiet. No geese. No beavers. No animals. Part of the effect was the river, which today was peaceful and quiet.

August 2: As I was shaking out my sleeping bag a bull moose crashed out of the willows a little upstream. He crossed the river, went up the bank, and disappeared, his small rack still in velvet. Not much later was a grizzly bear with three cubs. Then a single bear. Then a bear with two cubs. I guess I went through bear country today. 

I got a view of mountains. The Crazy mountains; I checked the map.

August 4: Last night as I was getting ready to boil my beans and jerky, I heard what sounded like a pup whining from the other side of the river. I got in the canoe and crossed the river. On the bank stood a pup, which looked like a Doberman with floppy ears. As I got out of the boat and put my shoes on, she took off. I walked into the woods a ways after her, putting up with clouds of mosquitoes, but no pup. 

This morning as I was fixing my oatmeal, there she was again. I crossed the river, and again she ran away. I dropped some beef jerky and went back to my breakfast. She found the jerky and, while I was finishing breakfast, she swam the river. I gave her more jerky mixed with oatmeal. She ate it and was still hungry. She looks starved. I wonder how long she's been lost out here. When I get to Circle I'll ask around.

Now bread is baking and she's sleeping. I named her Lotus after the Indian wife of  Mountain Man. She will be a good traveling companion. 

August 6: Maybe I should start boiling my water again now that I’m close to civilization. I’m within 50 miles of the bridge. That seems close after a trip of about 230 miles so far. I’m both glad and sad that the end is so near. 

Straight east of here, not far, is Circle. I hear planes landing and taking off. 

The way Lotus shivers, I wonder how she made it in the woods without food and my two sweatshirts and a pair of pants to keep her warm. Maybe she’ll survive yet, though.

August 8: A cow and calf today, same as on Saturday. A pair of bald eagles. And a certain bridge that I’ve looked forward to seeing. 

Was it worth it? Yes. Again? Not any direction but down. I’m glad to be done.

August 9: As I was getting everything loaded into the truck by the bridge, a guy came down Birch Creek in an aluminum canoe from near the summit. He came to Alaska with goals similar to mine. His trip took that out of him, he said. It was too lonely. I gave him a ride back to his car on my way to Fairbanks.

Lonely. It hadn't occurred to me to be lonely.

When Again?

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Make America Great! I agree. It's already pretty great, but there is plenty to improve.

But "Again"? What does that mean? When was that era that we want to get back to? I'm not the first to ask.

Some think it refers to the 1950s. Lower-income Americans were catching up with the richer Americans back then. Assuming that's a good thing, it was indeed a good time. Coming out of the war, the working classes had some catching up to do, and catch up they did. Professor Steinhorn of American University, in an article in the Washington Post, says, "It was a time of extraordinary economic growth, with household income rising nearly 30 percent in the four years after World War II and nearly doubling during the decade."

That seems pretty good. And lower-income families gained more than higher-income ones, as shown in this graphic, cited by the Economic Opportunity Institute.

The 50s and 60s were booming. The 70s saw a slow-down, but lower-income families still outpaced the richest ones. Also in the 50s and 60s, income tax rates for the richest Americans ranged from 70% to 91%.

But what happened after that?

In the 1980s, the Reagan administration introduced trickle-down economics. The premise of this model is that the more the rich benefit, the better, because they will improve things for everyone. Among other benefits to the rich, top income tax rates dropped from 70% in 1981 to 33% in 1990. In the 1980s and 90s, the wealthiest Americans became the big winners.

The crash of 2008 pretty much eradicated income gains for all income groups in that decade, but the following decade resumed the rise of the richer folks, while the share going to lower- and middle-income families declined, as shown in these graphs from Pew Research.

The rich did benefit, but the benefits didn't trickle down. You could say it was a failed policy (but you might not want to if you were one of the chosen few).

It is worth noting that the Clinton administration largely continued with Reaganomics. The economy boomed in the 90s and, while lower-income families did better than in the previous decade, they continued to be outpaced by the highest. This trend continued until the recession of 2008 and then picked up again in the next decade.

During the Biden administration, Congress has continued to resist tax increases for the wealthy, but the trend in income has changed back to something resembling the 50s and 60s, in part due to high levels of employment. According to a report from the Economic Policy Institute, policy drove much of this turnaround: "Faster growth for low-wage workers did not happen by luck: It was thanks to intentional policy decisions during the pandemic recession." This new trend is dramatic.

It is fair to point out that the pandemic was unique, and this trend may be short-lived. But after 40 years of watching the rich get richer while the poor lost real income under trickle-down economics, it's worth continuing this change in policy. Something is working to make America economically great again, provided you think improving the lot of ordinary folks is a good thing.

I suspect the MAGA movement is not particularly interested in improving the economy for the majority. They might be more interested in resurrecting the McCarthy purges of the 1950s.

Maybe, like J.D. Vance and Representative Grothman from Wisconsin, they just want women and certain voters back in their place.

The neo-Republican movement has support from some extremely rich people, who really hate the new trend. They may have more money than they can possibly use, but being outpaced by poor people is insulting. If lying and fear mongering gets people to vote for someone with a demonstrated track record of catering to the rich, then they will fund that campaign: no crime is worse than leveling the playing field! 

I don't know, but it seems like retrying some of the economic policies and tax brackets of the 50s could be a good thing. Elon Musk and Peter Thiel and Jeff Bezos and their ilk have had 40 years for their privileged romp. I'm tired of their whinging and tantrums.

Let's keep making America greater. We've got some traction here. Don't slip backwards.

Contents

Here's a list of my posts. Categories are listed in the order of things I write most about. Posts within these categories are loosely in the order of my favorites—or perhaps of which I think most pertinent.

• Politics
• Miscellaneous Musings
• Faith & Politics
• Faith
• Nature
• Books & Language
• Health/Food
• Technology

Politics

• The True Believer
• Future of Democracy
• The Soul of a Nation
• By the People
• When Again?
• Rural Democracy
• Something New
• Dementia
• The Big Man
• Little Big Men
• Moderate
• Of the People
• An Exemplary President
• Scales of Economy
• Day One
• Independent
• Coalition Party
• How to Rig an Election
• Bull Horn (tongue in cheek)
• A Broader Base
• America First
• Taxation
• In Their Own Eyes
• Monkey Business (tongue in cheek)
• Foreign
• Be it Resolved
• Morning After
• Most Powerful?
• Genius (tongue in cheek)
• Balderdash
• Politically Correct
• Conspiracy Theory
• Electoral College
• The Great Leader
• A Great Victory
• Social Justice
• Class Warfare
• Dirty
• New Regulations
• The Cost of Campaigns
• Planet NRA
• Good Fences (tongue in cheek)

Miscellaneous Musings

• Uh-huh (1st post)
• A Lesson from a Farmer
• Bland
• Bully
• In the Cold
• Followership
• Lack of Leadership?
• Free Speech
• Otherism
• Autos and Fensters
• Service People
• Honesty
• Grateful
• Postmodernism Rules
• Nudge Management
• Bad Guys
• Power
• Room for Optimism
• Madame Secretary

Faith and Politics

• What Choice Do We Have?
• The Judge
• Choosing Life
• Reaction
• Unthinkable
• People of the Lie
• By Association
• Sheep’s Clothing
• Evangelexit
• Hurting God
• Dysangelicals
• A Pro-Life Vote
• Forgive Our Debts (tongue in cheek)
• Action
• The Great Deceiver
• Democratic Platform Change
• Faith and Reason

Faith

• Confession
• Power
• Big Lie
• Guns N’ Idols
• Good Guys
• Graven Images
• Three Camels
• Fat Cows
• Immersion
• Thy Neighbor
• Dear Tony
• Job
• Heresy
• Faith

Nature

• Lotus
• Circle
• Joe
• A Green Deal
• The Apple Tree
• Coincidence
• Directions
• Four
• Railing Halos
• Vole Trails
• Robins
• Maple Leaves
• Momentum

Books & Language

• A Real Funny Guy
• Books
• A Gentleman
• 2nd Amendment, 3rd Comma
• Adjectives
• Absolutely
• Determine
• Hall Monitors

Health/Food

• Bread
• Nothing
• Bad Judgment
• Farm Care
• Milk
• Novel
• Overreact
• Emergency Floss

Technology

• Targeted
• The Ick(s) Factor
• Water
• Two in the Bush
• Flames
• Squirrel Proofing
• Tweets
• Artificial Trip

Bull Horn

In 2010 the Supreme Court decided that there should be no volume control. If you own the biggest megaphone you are entitled to shout down your opponents at maximum volume no matter what the issue. 

(They do not, however, allow these bullhorns in their courtroom. It would be too bothersome. It's only OK when shouting at the public.)

The court declared that there must be no limits on the amount of money spent promoting politicians, because politicians are not prone to corruption. Or maybe it's the ones who pay for the politicians campaigns who are virtuous and wouldn't think of asking favors in return for their support. I'm not sure. But the court is sure that money and corruption are in no way related. Corruption is only of the mind. Anyone who thinks that rich people can be corrupt must have a corrupted mind.

Those of us who have less money must relax and quietly learn from the uncorrupted rich people how to have a pure mind, one that recognizes that wealth sanctifies one's thinking and one's motives. It is for this reason that the Supreme Court went to such lengths to protect the rights of rich people to drown out the voices of us commoners. They really want what is best for us!

Government for the people. Well, no one really said which people, right? Rich people are people too. In fact a rich person is worth many poor people. So the best way to promote a government for the people is to promote those rich ones above all others.

The united citizens were, you guessed it, rich citizens. They have the biggest bullhorns with the greatest volume. What good would those loudspeakers do if they could not be used at full volume? It wouldn't make any sense.

We all know that we must use our resources for what they are meant. These are not just any horns; they have a higher purpose. They are bull horns.

And you see how useful they have been. Now, the Supreme Court can declare that a president also must not be controlled. Even though he is not as rich as those who provide fancy vacations and gifts for the justices, he did nominate others who understand that riches shall not be infringed by something so mundane as justice or liberty for all.