71 Degrees North

Some people argue that travel can be immensely disappointing. We visit places to escape our current lives and situations, only to find that life carries on much like our own in the places we visit. I suppose if you are predisposed to pessimism this view makes perfect sense. I don’t subscribe to that line of thinking. However, there are some places that even the most pessimistic travelers would be hard pressed to find disappointing; places that are so unique and different that we overlook the similarities and simply gawk in awe at the novelty of the place itself.  I set off on a whirlwind weekend adventure and found myself in just such a place – Barrow, Alaska. 

Hanging forlornly on the wall of the airport terminal (a generous term to be sure) is a small picture of Sir John Barrow, the namesake of the northernmost town in the United States of America.  Barrow was a British naval officer who advocated the exploration of the arctic regions in the late 1700s.  Though he never visited the point and city that now bears his name, Barrow can rest in peace knowing that his name is now synonymous with the idea of being “really, really far north.”  At 71 degrees north latitude, Barrow is as far north as you can go without leaving land in the USA, though that is misleading as well. There are no roads to Barrow. None at all. The only way to come and go is by plane, which is what I found myself doing on a Saturday in July.

Accompanied by a fellow Alaska Airlines intern, Sam, I stepped off the plane to a refreshing temperature of 38 degrees (Did I mention that I was there in July? I did? Okay. Just want to make that point clear).  Sam and I briskly stepped into the airport and met with Debra, the Alaska Airlines station manager in Barrow. After exchanging pleasantries (and a bribe of fresh fruits – a commodity that far north), Debra gave us the keys to the late-90s Ford Ranger the airline uses around town. We were told that the road to Point Barrow, the true northernmost spot of land in the US, had been washed out in a recent storm, but that we were free to drive as far as the road was navigable and anywhere else around town that we pleased. She must have been secretly laughing inside at her knowledge about how little there was to drive to, but we were grateful none-the-less.

Yes, people live lives in Barrow that are not too-different than the lives we live down here in the contiguous 48. There are schools, a hospital, and a post office. There’s a very nice library carrying the latest new releases and computers connected to the internet with teenagers eagerly posting Facebook status updates. There’s even a fairly well-stocked grocery store, though the prices…well, those are unique. Still, life goes on at 71 degrees north. What drove us to Barrow and what made our trip to the town immensely exciting and rewarding, was the knowledge of how far north we really were.  Literally, there is nothing/nobody to the west, east, and north of you at that latitude. Only the extreme northern reaches of Russia and Canada, and the icy expanse of Greenland, are level with you. 

Because of the excitement of finding ourselves in such a remote outpost, Sam and I loaded into the truck and set-off at once for the road to Point Barrow. We wanted to go as far as you could go, right away.  After making our way down the dirt roads and among the elevated wooden homes of Barrow proper, we found ourselves driving parallel with the icy Arctic Ocean. Wow! We were staring at a sea that was, until this moment, almost mythical. To begin with, very few people ever actually find themselves along the coast of the Arctic Ocean. Secondly, the ocean only resembles an ocean a few months a year. For 9+ months every year the Arctic Ocean becomes entirely covered in ice.  Even now, in mid-July, icebergs floated idly off the beach and the ice-shelf began a few hundred yards away. It looked cold, and it felt cold! Sam and I pulled over, ran down the rocky beach and stuck our hands in the water. Almost immediately, I lost feeling in my right hand. I didn’t care. I had just touched the mythical, elusive, and mighty Arctic Ocean! I stuck my hand in again. And again. And again. And I spent the next ten minutes feverously rubbing my hands together in a desperate attempt at generating heat. It was wonderful.

Farther down the road we came across, entirely unexpectedly, a sight that I was hoping to find but unprepared for at that moment. Sandwiched between the Arctic Ocean 30 yards to the north and an expansive bay ten yards to the south was the home field of the local Barrow High School Whalers football team. I had seen an ESPN vignette about the team and its field, the true Frozen Tundra (sorry, Lambeau), almost 6 years earlier. Surprised and saddened to learn that the Whalers had been playing football on gravel for years, a rich woman from Alabama had paid for an artificial-turf field to be built for the school. Years after watching that vignette in awe and wonder (mostly amazed that Barrow High played football at all), I found myself running across the blue-turf in near-freezing temperatures in July. How on earth could they play football here in October with wicked winter winds coming in off the frozen Arctic Ocean a mere 30 yards away?!  Again, it was wonderful.

We drove even farther down the road, past the remains of an old Navy airfield and radar station, and eventually encountered a sign informing us that the road beyond was impassable. We had made it! It was now impossible to travel farther north inside the United States without hiking and risking death-by-polar-bear.  Mission accomplished.

The town of Barrow itself is nothing much to write home about. Every building is elevated off the ground a few feet and built on pillars that dig into the perma-frost below. The homes are little more than sheds with a few windows. Everything is incredibly simple.  As we drove back into town we chanced upon a rare town festival – a Nulakataq. In celebration of a successful whale-hunt, the town gets together once-a-year to feast and party the day away. The town “park” (a dirt and gravel lot about the size of a soccer field) was enclosed with a tarp-fence, a noble effort to keep the winds from pummeling Nulakataq party-goers. The entire town was inside. Literally, everyone was there – children, adults, elders, visitors. Teenagers, all wearing the same bright-yellow hoodies, walked around the perimeter of the park and passed out food. Rice pudding, watermelon (a special treat), whale blubber, macaroni salad, and Halloween-like proportions of candy were given out freely to all in attendance. Music blared loudly in the background. 

Lying loosely on the ground in the middle of the complex was a circular mat attached at four points to long ropes.  No one seemed to be using the contraption, but it was evidently a key-piece of the celebrations to come.  As Sam and I stood discretely to the side and observed the scene before us, an elderly white lady turned to us and asked us who we were. We explained where we were from and that we were only visiting for the day. It was clear from her obvious New York accent that she was not from Barrow either. She had visited the town 20 years prior and fell in love. She never wanted to leave. Unfortunately (her words), she had a family back home in New York and a life to live there. Still, every summer for 20 years she had moved to Barrow to “live the life.” She loved it there. Between numerous part-time jobs around town and a broken leg suffered at the football field mentioned earlier (she was hit by an out-of-control player), our New York friend had managed to become more-or-less a local over the past two decades. She knew everyone and everything about Barrow. She explained that the circular mat was dried and stretched seal skins and that they would use it later to toss people into the air. This sounded immensely exciting to watch, but alas! she told us that the toss wouldn’t be for hours more. We were scheduled to leave in only a few hours.  I cannot remember her name anymore, but Sam and I made a friend that day in Barrow. She fed us watermelon and offered us candy. It was a wonderful experience.

Freezing and finding little more to do in Barrow, Sam and I decided to head back to the airport and wait out our flight south.  After making a detour at the town craft store to buy a postcard (an interesting store that sold cloth, trinkets, souvenirs, postcards, and an extensive selection of tobacco products), we pulled up to the terminal, parked, and sought shelter inside. Sitting next to us inside was a middle-aged couple from Tennessee. Like us, they had traveled to Barrow simply to say that they had been to Barrow. And, like us, they had found Barrow to be much like the rest of our great country, but at the same time, satisfyingly unique and special.  They were not disappointed, and neither were we. Yes, life goes on in Barrow much like it does in less-exotic locales. People wake up, eat, go to school or work, return home to families, and live life like the rest of us. All of that didn’t matter. We hadn’t traveled that far north to escape anything – we were there to experience Barrow. We were there to know what normal life is like at 71 degrees north. We were there to feel like we were a long ways from anywhere. We were there to be there. And it was wonderful. 

  

How Do They Do It?!

Travel writing, as it turns out, is an incredibly challenging endeavor. I am convinced the only souls capable of putting travel to paper are those too stubborn to quit, or too blissfully ignorant not to. How do they do it? How can someone condense a million images he sees surrounding him, each unique, each hiding a story, each worthy of further exploration and investment, into words? And not just words, but crisp, to-the-point kind of words that manage to accurately tell the story but also do so concisely? And then, to make the task all-the-more difficult, how does one make that appealing to others? It is a monumental task, to be sure.

Over the past year or so, my mind has consistently settled upon a desire to document and share my copious travel experiences.  I'm not sure why I feel this inner desire to write. I've never been much of a writer before. I suppose I feel incredibly blessed to have been so many places at such a young age and, seeing the lack of wanderlust and travel experience in those around me, desire to share my blessing with them.  The challenge, of course, is beginning. Moments of pure inspiration will come to me at the most inopportune times. Driving in bumper-to-bumper traffic always seems to open the flood-gates of travel-writing inspiration. By the time I reach a computer to document my now-finished brainstorming session on the I-405, the thoughts have stormed away, rarely to be found again. The moment my fingers grace the slick surface of this keyboard, my thoughts fade away, and distractions creep in. If only there was a thought vacuum to capture my moments of inspiration and save them for a later, more convenient time. If anyone manages to invent such a device, I would really appreciate the heads-up.

The largest roadblock I face, and this could be entirely self-imposed, is finding my "voice." I love travel literature. Reading these books provides me with an insatiable appetite to write down my memories, but it also leaves me feeling terribly far from writing anything resembling the works I read. Bill Bryson is by-far my favorite author. He is endowed with an absolutely mind-blowing ability to relate his experiences in a self-deprecating, honest, humorous, enlightening, informative, and descriptive way. His passages are concise enough to be readable, but descriptive enough to make you feel as if you are riding along with him on his shoulder. Clearly, Bryson has found his voice. J. Maarten Troost is remarkably blunt, delightful, and ingenious in his works. Andrew Evans manages to make his travels personal and pertinent to those reading. While reading his writings, you can almost picture yourself engaged in conversation with him. His words are so real and simple that it makes reading pleasantly enjoyable. I don't know what my style is yet. And that is incredibly frustrating.

Rarely have I ever desired to be ignorant. But in this case, in my personal pursuit to write about and share my memories with others, I sincerely hope I become blissfully ignorant of the difficulty involved in writing about travel. May I bumble along foolishly in my quest to write! May I become 1/100th the travel writer that Bill Bryson has become! May I find my voice! May I press-on in my passionate pursuit.

Update on My 2013 Travels

• So far in 2013 I've visited 10 states (UT, ID, OR, WA, CA, NV, AZ, AK, HI, TX). I've been to United States #49 and #50 (AK and HI), and the only two states that were, at one time, their own legal countries (TX and HI).
• I traveled farther north than I ever had before, reaching a latitude of 61degrees, 13 minutes North in Anchorage, Alaska. (Though I have a strong suspicion that that record will stand only briefly...)
• I've flown through seven airports so far in 2013. Four of those airports I had never flown through before: San Diego, Oakland, San Antonio, and Anchorage.
• Where else will I find myself this year? Great question! We have six more months to find out!

Just When You Thought You Knew Everything...

Today's weather has led me to write another educational piece for my blog.  I promise that the next post I write will somehow relate to my own personal travels. That said, I really hope to visit all of these places someday!

It snowed in Utah today, and although it's April 16th, that is not entirely unexpected.  Weird stuff like that happens here.  After living on the tropical isles of the South Pacific for so long, I welcome snow whenever I can get it. But you know what would be really, really weird? Incredible even? Finding snow in some tropical place like...central Africa, for example. Now that would be truly something, no?! Right. Like that would ever happen...

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So what? What's the big deal about these pictures? Surprisingly, all of these photos reveal that it DOES snow in some really exotic, tropical locations - places you thought snow would never be seen in 1,000 years.

Picture 1: Ruwenzori Mountains; Democratic Republic of the Congo and Uganda. This mountain range, located a mere 25 miles north of the equator, features mountain peaks that rise to an astounding 16,700+ feet! While most people picture equatorial Africa as endless rainforest, a peak or mountain range will occasionally rise majestically out of the lowlands and reveal snow-capped peaks.  The Ruwenzori Mountains are snow-covered year-round and feature some of Africa's only glacial fields.

Picture 2: Mzaar Ski Resort, Lebanon. It turns out that people from the Middle East can stay in their own backyard to ski.  Lebanon features six ski resorts that sit high in the Lebanon Mountains.  Although far north of the equator, Lebanon sits squarely in the middle of the Middle East, a region known largely for sand dunes, heat, and little moisture.

Picture 3: Puncak Jaya, Indonesia. The highest peak in a country straddling the equator, Puncak Jaya defies geographical logic. The peak is located 16,000 feet above sea level and is just one peak among many in the Maoke Mountains of New Guinea.  Although the lowland jungles surrounding the range feature some of Earth's most pristine and untouched rainforests, the Maoke Mountains receive significant snowfall each winter.

Picture 4: Oukaïmden Ski Area, Morocco. Despite overlooking the endless sand dunes of the notoriously hot-and-dry Sahara desert, the Atlas Mountains of Morocco receive enough snow to operate several ski areas in the winter.

Picture 5: Mauna Kea, Hawaii. Perhaps a location most closely associated with sea, sand, and palm trees, Hawaii also receives snow.  The mountain tops of the Big Island regularly receive snow in the winter.  Though the snow-totals aren't grand, there is enough for the intrepid snowboarder to attempt a small descent.

 

Now you know.  It really does snow in some of the most unbelievable locations. 

Micronesia is Her Own Country

Before I begin my first foray into the world of travel writing, I want to make something perfectly clear. Crystal clear. I want to educate the world at large and all her citizens about a fact that seemingly befuddles the very best and brightest, as well as the uneducated, among us.  That fact is this: The United States of America does NOT own the Federated States of Micronesia (FSM). Again, the FSM is not a dependency, territory, or colony of the USA; she is independent. Let me explain...

The FSM in relation to other nations

I lived in the FSM for 15 months from 2008-2009 as a missionary for the LDS Church.  I lived on an island named Pohnpei, roughly 1,200 miles southeast of the US territory of Guam (Yes, Guam is owned by America. Confused yet?).  Though endowed with the postal zip code 96941, Pohnpei is not American at all. The island is the capital island of the FSM and about as opposite of America as any place I've seen. Pohnpei is terribly isolated from the western world. Many basic necessities of life (such as deodorant) are either unavailable or available, literally, "whenever the ship comes in."  I was lucky enough to have loving parents willing to send the occasional box full of toys and toiletries alike.  Their deliveries were always greatly appreciated.  I can only imagine how many hours in line at the post office my poor mother must have endured.

 Sokehs Island, Pohnpei, FSM

It was on one such occasion at the post office that my mom ran into an over-confident, and uneducated, geographer/postal-worker.  After filling out the requisite international forms (an obvious clue), my mom walked up to the counter to pay for the package.  The man behind the desk asked where the box was heading, to which my mom replied, "Micronesia."  When she read him the address he quickly responded that she didn't need to fill out the international forms because she was sending it domestically. "No, Pohnpei is not in the United States," I imagine was her reply.  The postal worker explained that anywhere with a zip code like 96941 was American territory. Again, my mom attempted to explain that it was indeed international and that the zip code did not reflect the island's political status.  He would have none of it.  Over and over again he insisted that Pohnpei was in the USA. It is for him, specifically, that I will explain why the FSM is an independent state.

The first westerners to "own" Micronesia were the Spanish in the 1800s.  They ruled with religious zeal, and the occasional sword, until they were defeated half-a-world-away in the Spanish-American War in 1898.  Germany quickly took over the islands following the war and maintained control over much of the region until they struck up a war of their own, World War I.  Japan swooped in to claim the islands in 1914, a move they saw as necessary for establishing a vast Japanese sphere of influence in the Pacific.  World War II was a terribly dark period for Micronesia. Many of her islands were enslaved, fortified, bombed, and then invaded as the Japanese and Americans fought island-to-island across the Pacific.  When the war ended, Micronesia was designated a United Nations Trust Territory to be administrated over by the United States.  I suspect this is the hang-up for most Americans who believe that the FSM is American.  For the elderly and middle-aged living today they were taught that the US owned these islands.  People of my generation and younger have never even heard of Micronesia, and thus have no idea who owns the region.

 Me, standing next to one of the many reminders of Japanese WWII occupation,

a coastal defense gun.

On May 10, 1979 the islands came together and formed a constitutional government in order to become a sovereign state.  The island chains of the Marshall Islands and Palau, for their own reasons, decided against joining the rest of their Micronesian brethren, and were not included in the constitutional government (both would later become independent nations on their own).  On November 3, 1986, the Federated States of Micronesia became a fully independent, sovereign, and self-governing nation with the enforcement of the Compact of Free Association.  The CFA established the FSM as an independent nation and guaranteed American financial assistance in exchange for American military rights in the area.  The USA is granted permission to conduct military operations within the FSM borders, but they must also protect the FSM from other countries.

The FSM Capital Complex, Palikir, Pohnpei, FSM

To make it clear, the Federated States of Micronesia has been an independent country since 1986.  The FSM occupies a seat in the United Nations.  Four foreign nations maintain embassies on Pohnpei: Australia, China, Japan, and the United States.  The FSM maintains embassies in China, Fiji, Japan, and the United States.  The FSM even fields it very own Olympic team, which, unfortunately, has never medaled in the Games.

I hope that this article has taught you something new today.  When I first learned that I would be living in Micronesia I didn't know much about it, besides its relative location, vastness, and unimportance in world affairs.  I'm glad to have lived in such a beautiful, independent country and I feel blessed to have learned so much about it.  If you are ever asked if the Federated States of Micronesia are part of the United States, you are now able to answer with conviction, confidence, and clarity, NO!, it isn't. Micronesia is her own country.

The FSM national flag