What sort of idiot Rick Rolls himself?

Rick Roll'd from Tim Sessions on Vimeo.

I ate a whole hat

I'll let the video do the talking

My Hateful Costume

*DISCLAIMER*

If this offends you, I am sorry. It's just my opinion.

It's Halloween time and I have already picked out my costume. I enjoy the spooky and supernatural side of Halloween, but always struggle with what I am going to be. Now, with this costume you might not be able to tell that I am even dressed up. But I have decided to go as Everything-I-Hate-About-Public-Dressing. You'll find many examples of this, walking the isles of WalMart. (One of the many reasons I don't shop there.)

Here goes:

Yup, you guessed it. Flair Hair! See this previous post as to why it's a part of my Halloween ensemble.








And these! "Sayings T-shirts" is what I like to call them. My all time favorite is, "If I throw this stick will you go away?" I am sorry if you own or have owned one of these shirt. No, I really am sorry. If you are wearing one, it reflects your attitude. My example here is fairly mild, because most of them are just plain snotty.







Now, I used to say sweatpants in public was nasty in general. But I am talking about these kind of sweatpants in particular. For instance, elastic waists and cuffs, the white draw string that is one big loop so people don't properly tie them, and usually they have oil, or grease, or spaghetti, or drugs, or baby spit up, or bodily stains. The last place you would want to wear these is at a Friday night Cosmo Bowl when they use the black lights.





And finally, the sandals. Once I dawn these, I will be G'd up from the feet up! I can't explain why these sandals bug me so bad. It might be the weird, villi (intestine parts), massager thingies that you step on. It might be because the only people I know who wear them were either using or selling drugs and were too lazy to get dressed. Oh, and I won't forget to wear socks with them, voiding the massaging sole.

If you have had a change of heart after reading this post and would like to contribute any of these items to my costume cause, I would greatly appreciate it. Heaven forbid I have to buy them. Once I am done with them, I will give them to a thrift store, where they will be circulated for years to come. You can count on that.

My Car Won't Get Me Very Far

For months I have been struggling with the ignition switch in my car. As my buddy, Ben, and I made our long road journey back down to the lower 48 (2500 miles to be exact) I noticed that it was getting worse. Somehow, I have dealt with it before it finally seized up completely yesterday. I thank the good Lord above that it didn't happen in the Middle of Nowhere, Canada.

A phenomena occurred over the last few months where fine muscle movements in my right arm had evolved into a key turning machine. It seemed as though I had the magic touch. I was the King Arthur of my car, twisting the Excalibur key to ignite all 6 cylinders. But even I have lost the magic. It is no longer in my hands. (No pun intended)

It got towed off to John Watson Chevrolet about 30 minutes ago. I know the ol' Mali will be OK, but it's gonna cost me. Not the tow, insurance covers that, but the operation is going to be about 300 bucks.

Most people suggest I get a new car, which I am capable of doing, but how can you part with a chariot that has taken you to the far reaches of the north twice. Once even to the Arctic Circle! Who cares that the rear passenger side door is dented, or that I had to replace batteries, breaks, gaskets, and door locks. It's paid for. I don't owe a cent. Like I said, i know ol' Mali will be OK, but I just want to pay an homage to her.

Enjoy, with me, some of the good times we've shared.





Here's Erin, Trevor, Summer, and I making our first road trip North in 'ol Mali.






Fixing a flat after reaching the Arctic Circle.








Driving across an old wooden bridge in Hyder, AK.








Crossing the border from Canada into Northern Idaho.









Getting her first tow after successfully driving 2500 miles from Alaska.

Soda Famine

This is a call to all my friends and family.

I love soda. I love the feel of the bubbly carbonation tickling my throat. I love the taste of that sweet nectar. I love the slight boost that the caffeine gives me. Mountain Dew, Dr. Pepper, Barq's, Coke, Pepsi. I love them all. But it all has to come to an end.

I am getting fatter, they give me kidney stones, and soda is getting pretty expensive.

So...

I QUIT!!!

With a challenge from my friend, Sarah, and all of your check ups, I can do it. Today is the first day I haven't drank a soda in 6 months. Help me have more days like today. Thanks for taking interest in my personal endeavors.

Thats It!

My Alaska summer is over. Tomorrow I'll hit the road and head south back to Utah, beating the snow. For the past three weeks I have been watching the snow slowly creep lower and lower down the mountain. 5500 feet, 4000, and two days ago there was fresh snow on the summit of the Klondike Highway at 3292 feet.

The leaves on the trees have been turning for four weeks now. But I'll be turning back ecological time seeming how Alaska is slow to thaw in the spring and quick to freeze in the fall. Usually three or four weeks ahead of where I'm going.

It will be nice to feel the sun on a regular basis, with out worrying about when the rain is going to come next. I will miss this simple life, though; hauling people up a mountain, telling the same old stories, being able to walk every where, knowing exactly where everyone is or where they are going to be, people not worrying who they are with or what they look like.

Goodbye Alaska, hello Utah

Bearded Occupations

When ever I put on a flannel shirt people say, "You look like a REAL lumberjack!"
When ever I put on a wide brimmed hat people say, "You look like a REAL pirate!"When ever I put on a buckskin jacket with tassels people say, "You look like a REAL mountain man!"
When ever I put on a boot with a hole in it, sling a pick axe over my shoulder, and wear a button up shirt people say, "You look like a REAL miner!"
When ever I carry a large king salmon down the road wearing Helly-Hansen rubbers people say, "You look like a REAL fisherman!"
Why? Because I have a REAL beard! Who woulda thought it could be so much fun?

King Me

I went King salmon fishing today with my buddy, Marc.










Earlier this summer, I pulled my bus over when I noticed some passengers from another bus company strewn along the highway. Maybe "strewn" isn't the right word. It makes the situation sound like they were thrown from a wrecked bus. Their bus had broken down and the driver was looking for a way to get them down the mountain. They were all still very much alive, so I picked them up and took them back down to Skagway.

On top of the tips I received from the once stranded passengers, the owner of the company, Larry, told me that any time I want to go out on his boat, to let him know and he'd see if there was room for me. The time came and here are the results.

Reeling one in.








Captain Garry says, "Throw it back!"








Marc and his new Chum.











Another little King. I think we'll call him Prince.











Finally, a keeper. Frank (right) and Jim (left) are jealous.








Legal size this year for a King is 28 inches. Mine was close enough. He only weighed 10 pounds, but he's going to taste like a dream. We didn't see much action after that, so we headed home.

Take us home, Captain Garry.








Here's a nice video of the prize catch:

Don't Stare, It's Flair Hair

Remember when "frosted tip" hair was cool? Then cool kids wore visors with their frosted tips spiked out? Then the even cooler kids wore them backwards and upside down. Then boy bands became cool and they wore visors backwards and upside down. Then boy bands became lame. Then visors became even lamer. Then frosted tips became lamest of all. Only middle aged lesbians can pull of frosted tips and visors these days.

On a side note, the style has changed, but the types of guys who sported them remain the same. They're simply called Bros.

Well, there is an older generation that is digging back into 1998 to bring back the look. How ever, the frosted tip hair isn't their own. Visors with spiky hair already poking out are springing up all over in public places like a noxious weed. Their called Flair Hair. What started out, I am sure, as a gag, is now becoming a fashion statement from Bro-hell. Some strange phenomena is going on here. Men in midlife crisis put on one of these hairy visors instead of buying Just For Men. The wearers of these hats can go from respectable business men, to vulturous douche bags in no time flat.

Note to the makers of these visors: Maybe your next product should include pencil-thin, well-trimmed, chinstrap/goatee/mustache combo.

I have provide examples of subjects of my whimsical rant.


So real, It's scary.









Because I have been seeing these hats more and more lately, I decided to write this entry. I observed this last Thursday at lunch.

This man sat down at the table while his wife ordered his food. I thought to myself, what's with these hats? I am seeing them every where!

The hair on top matched his real hair. White.








Then his friend sat down next to him, wearing the same hat, but a different shade of hair color. Grey.










This post needs a conclusion, but I want the reader to draw their own. If you own one of these hats, I hope you bought it because you thought it was funny. I sure do.

A Boy and His Bus

A bus is a funny thing. Not so much when it's empty, but once it is full of passengers.

Imagine for a minute, while driving down the Interstate, that you had x-Ray vision and you are looking at a bus. The bus disappears out from underneath its passengers and there they are, exposed, sitting there, just moving through space, doing their own things. Trust me, it's funny to think about after you've thought about it for a while.

Then there are the passengers, themselves.

There are those who demand the front seat, claiming they need it for road sickness when all they really want is a better view. But what about those who need the front seat? They struggle up the four steep steps, holding up the line. If it's a disabled woman, usually the husband is barking orders at her to move along quickly because she is making a scene.

There are the retired bus drivers who ask questions every time the bus stops, like "Do I smell brakes?" "Is this a Detroit Diesel?" "You runnin' your Jakes down that hill?" "What grade is this?" Or comments like, "Hey buddy, I hear a tick coming from the back of the bus. I hope it's not your dualies." (Short for dual tires) These are my least favorite passengers because they lower the morale of the other passengers. They convince the others, with little persuasion, that the bus is going to break down. Suddenly, they have become the expert.

Then there are the young families that sit in the back by the bathrooms, not only trying to keep their kids quite, but suffering the smell of chemicals and urine every time someone opens the door to use the bathroom. Then there are those who always need a bathroom. Every time the bus stops they wonder where the bathroom is, or when the next one will be available.

Then there are the language barrier passengers that feel that because no one understands what they are saying, they can talk as loud as they feel. If you're on a tour bus, this can become extremely frustrating for both the guide and those trying to listen.

And finally, there are the diamonds in the rough. Those who actually enjoy the ride. They are glad that they are sitting down, out of the sun, out of the rain, just watching the scenery go by. They let their minds wander to places that their legs probably can't take them any more. They are happy to be sitting next to the ones they love, or thinking about the ones they left behind. When the ride comes to an end, while everyone else is pushing and shoving to be the first one off, as if the first foot to hit the ground claims the territory, these dear old passengers grab the bus driver's hand and thank them for the ride.

Here are some pictures from a boy and his bus.

New Territories

This probably is not the most interesting blog entry, but because I started it off with this sentence, you will read through it anyway.

This entry his been written as I sit outside along the Klondike Highway connecting South East Alaska with the rest of the outside world. I am waiting to play crossing guard for 8 people on trail horses, while the rest are paddling canoes. I am watching the locals buy off-sale alcohol at Spirit Lake Wilderness Resort because the grocery store lost their license to sell alcohol due to an ownership change. A salmon salad sandwich awaits me inside.

I love to travel. I have yet to expand my horizons to a new continent, but someday I will. For now, I have to explore my own country. It's obvious that I am a simple minded fellow, thus I find comfort in my wonderful union of states. I am going to make a list my 2010 state destinations and I expect anyone who reads this to hold me to accomplishing this goal.

Tennessee
(Because you're the only 10 I see)

Hawaii
(Just to say I've been)

New Mexico
(Something, or someone, is enchanting about this state)

All different in geography, culture, and scenery. That's what I love about the US. How many countries are there in the world that are smaller than states in the US? I don't know, but I am sure there are several, meaning that citizens of those countries don't have the opportunities to experience different territories with the luxury of staying in their own country.

Thin, Red Line

I remembered a story from my childhood in St. Anthony, ID yesterday.

One day, while walking home from school, my friend, Chad, and I noticed a red streak that lead down the road. They were two thin, red lines that first started out dotted, but soon turned solid as we followed them for a few blocks.

Our normal walking route took us down East 4th North, crossing Bridge Street, past the Forest Service Building where my dad worked. Sometimes, when we would pass by his office window, he would bang loudly on it to get our attention. Once he did, he would squeeze the bulb on his Seymour Buns doll, causing the doll to drop his pants and greet us with a plastic butt. My friends would always tell me how funny my dad was, which surprised me because I can quote him saying, "I barely like my own kids, let alone other peoples'."

Once past the Forest Service building, that's where our red trail picked up. We walked along the church ball fields for a while and then crossed into the road, something that our mothers always told us not to do. When I saw the red lines, my imagination soared. What if they were blood streaks from a recent murder? I convinced Chad to follow them with me, he being a little hesitant.

We continued down 4th North, past 3rd East, then 4th, then 5th, then 6th. As we followed the trail, the red lines in the road got thicker. They rounded the corner to 7th East. That was my street!

We lived at the end of the road. The Henry's Fork of the Snake River was also at the end of the road. A perfect place to drop a body. We continued in hot pursuit, taking the role of half detectives, half blood hounds, going through all possibilities in our heads if we discovered a body.

At the end of the road, I could see my dad's 1970's blue Ford pick-up, Ol' Blue, in its usual parking spot, all the way at the end of the road, up against the red barricade that marked the dead end. The red trail continued on toward the river. We passed through the intersection of 7th East and 2nd North leaving no doubt that whose ever body the blood belonged to was well on it's way through town via a water route and heading on toward the slow moving current of the Snake River.

But then it stopped.

The red line traced along the right side of the road, right to the bed of my dad's truck. At first I was in denial, but then I reasoned that my dad must have been hunting that day and killed a deer. The blood easily could have leaked out of his white canvas bag that he usually wrapped his big game in. (By the way, my mom hates it when he washes it in the washer.) It was only late August, deer season didn't open until October and I could have sworn I saw him dressed in his olive drab uniform, wearing his gold name tag that scraped my face when I would give him a hug. My dad couldn't have gone hunting, but there was no way he was the culprit, either.

Then it dawned on me. No body was murdered... Yet.

My dad and brother had just finished painting the wood paneling on our house a nice, dark red and Chad and I had climbed into the back of his truck that weekend to play fisherman, or something. My dad had an old, magnetic CB antenna that we would stick to the side of his truck as our fishing pole. The shine on the truck had long since faded, so we didn't have to worry about scratching it. He kept the used paint in the back of his truck and I distinctly remembered taking the lid off, but I didn't remember putting it back on.

When my dad drove to work, I guess the paint stayed upright just fine, but for what ever reason, on the way home, it tipped leaving a nice red trail.

Chad explained that he needed to go home to do chores, which I knew was a lie. His lawn was never mowed, his room was never clean, and his basement smelled like mildew from water damage long ago. I stuck around to face the music. When my dad saw me, his face was as red as the paint. By the end of it, so was my butt.

My dad remembers better than I do the details of my punishment, because for me, I felt like I deserved it. He on the other hand, feels that he was a bit too harsh. But like a good father, he showed an increase of love and a lesson was learned. I would often follow that line home in the warmer Idaho months before the snow would cover the road and later, St. Anthony's high-quality, chip-seal method of paving. My dad sold Ol' Blue in 1997 as well, so the visual reminders have long since gone. When I would walk home with friends from school, I would tell them, "Yeah, that blood is from a murder that could have happened."

Slaves? In Alaska?

While driving up the pass, describing the construction of the White Pass and Yukon Route railway, completed in 1900, a conspiring passenger grudgingly suggested, "I bet they used slaves to build the railroad."

Instead of blatantly calling her an over-exaggerating idiot, I simply explained that there were enough people who came up here to find gold and didn't that they could be put to work on the railway.

I wanted to say:

A. This wasn't 1860

and

B. This railway wasn't transcontinental

They just keep on coming.

**UPDATE** on my beard

As of April 27, 2009 I have not allowed a razor to touch the more parts of my face. As of now, it hangs about an inch off of my chin. Two and a half more months to go.

People who don't like my beard getting out of hand:
Mom and Dad
Bishop
Most girls in Utah

People who do like my beard getting out of hand:
Alaskans
Most guys (They give me props because I am doing something they wish they dared do)
Passengers (Because of the jokes I make about it)
Most girls from Utah in Alaska

Enjoy!

A Biker With a Biker's Attitude

It is in most peoples' interest to take "been there, done that" pictures while on vacation. One of the most requested or anticipated stops along the Klondike Highway is the Yukon sign. Only one of our tours goes past the sign and usually multiple buses from various companies are stopped there taking pictures in front of the sign.

More often than not, bus drivers will let their passengers off and give them a free for all as the guests crowd the sign to take pictures. People are always getting into other people's pictures. To help the process along, drivers will draw a line in the dirt on either side of the sign about 10 feet in front and have their passengers stand on the lines. The driver can then take a picture on his side of the sign, while another driver takes pictures on the other side. The cross angle prevents strangers from getting in other people's pictures.

The Yukon sign is always a headache as far as stopping goes and most drivers dread taking the time to get the photos. However, we do it anyway in hopes that the passengers will pay out in tips in the end. In my few years of experience, I have learned that most drivers will stop at the sign on the way up, so I usually hit it on the way back to avoid the crowds.

Last Monday, I was taking a group to enjoy a morning and afternoon in the Yukon. As I dropped down the hill just south of the Yukon border, I could see that the sign was free. This isn't normal when heading north, but I was ahead of the pack and decided to stop. Just as I was pulling into the turnout, I noticed some bikers (not motorcyclists) occupying the space around the sign. One was propping his bike up against the sign, while others had already gotten themselves situated in the shade of it.

I came to a stop, set the brakes of my bus, and told my passengers to hang tight while I talked to theses guys. While under the assumption that most bikers are "earthy" types and respectful to most people, I approached them and asked them if they wouldn't mind moving out of the way. I said, "I don't mean to be a jerk, but do you guys mind moving your bikes? There are a lot of people on my bus who would like to take a picture."

"Well, I hope they don't mind having my bike in their picture," one of them said.

"I don't give a s__t, I ain't moving." another one said, while stuffing his face with a sandwich. "I'll stay out of the picture, but I am staying here."

I responded by telling them to use common courtesy.

"Well, tell your friend down the road to use common courtesy when we stop and ask for a cup of coffee. They wouldn't serve us, because we weren't part of a tour," sandwich man argued.

"That has nothing to do with me," I said. "I don't even know what you're talking about."

"Well, we're not moving," he insisted.

I just smiled and walked away. I got back on my bus and faced 39 curious passengers. They were watching the confrontation and were eager to hear about it. It wasn't hard to get them to rally against the bikers, because they wanted their sign picture. I pulled out and opened my door telling them to have a nice day. Knowing that another bus was behind me, within radio contact, I called the driver.

"Justin, are you stopping at the Yukon sign?" I asked.

"I planned on it," he responded.

"Will you do me a favor? Drive as fast as you can into the turnout and slam on the brakes?"

"O.K...?"

My intent was to have him kick up a lot of dust to cover the bikers. Luckily he didn't. He approached the sign as usual. Before he could stop, the biker who was the most outspoken walked up to Justin's bus and said, "Hey, I think I just offended one of your other drivers and I am really sorry. I am an old man, I just pedaled through a 30 M.P.H. headwind, and he just caught me at a bad time. Tell him I am sorry."

Confused, Justin unloaded his passengers and took their pictures in front of the sign as usual. I guess he saw my 39 passengers, weeping. Not really, but something gave him a change of heart.

At the end of the day, the bikers finally made it to Skagway. Just as Justin was coming to my house to fill out paperwork, they group of three rode by. The same biker stopped Justin again, making sure Justin would tell me that he was sorry.

O.K. So this story was more of a heart-warmer than it was humorous and it wasn't that heart-warming anyway.

That Was A Perfectly Good Towel

This week proved to be semi-eventful.

Long-time friend and stunt diver, Ali Smart decided that on Friday, June 12th she would light her self on fire and dive off the Railroad Dock 20 feet into 45 degree ocean water. With a last name like Smart, how could anything she does be stupid?

The event took place around 9:00 PM AST just after the final ship disembarked for its next port of call.

Items used to complete the stunt were:
2 hooded sweat shirts
2 pairs of sweat pants (If you know me, I despise all sweat pants, but that's just a side note.)
1 pair of long socks (mine)
1 pair of Carhart work gloves
2 gallons of gasoline
1 towel fastened to Ali by 1/4 thick wire to resemble a cape
1 8 foot pole with a dirty rag strapped to it, used to light the gas-soaked cape


The towel was dipped into a bucket of gasoline and strained to get a nice vapor. In the meantime, Ali did an initial jump into the water to soak her clothes. This gave some buffer time before her clothing would actually start on fire.


The gas-soaked towel was then placed over Ali's head, camera people took their positions, extra people fled the platform, the dirty rag on the pole was ignited, and the cape was set afire.


Ali stood engulfed in a 10 foot ball of fire for what seemed like 10, seconds but was probably only 2. She then dove off the platform blindly (because she was covering her face with her gloves), entered into a perfect swan dive, and was extinguished by the frigid, green water.

When she climbed triumphantly up the ladder, we all gathered our things and headed toward the entrance to the dock hastily.

I was not afraid of getting caught, but I had to hurry because I was scheduled to pick up bus 118 off of the ferry that came up the inlet just as Ali dove into the water.



What would my life be without interesting friends?

Mutiny By Madness

Here are a few tourist moments I have had thus far.

Rushin' Chinese-Canadians:

110 Chinese-Canadians were spread between 3 of our Alaska Coach Tours buses. We were giving them a tour up the pass, but before we headed up, a few expressed that they needed the to use the toilet. There is an outhouse located at the town overlook, so we decided to hit it up before we embarked. It turns out that they ALL need the toilet. Only the ones who spoke English dared ask. As the line kept getting longer, a few of them made their way across the street. Then a few more. Then a few more. Then enough to stop traffic for a mini Chinese-Canadian migration. Men and women both. When one of the drivers asked, "Where are you going?" they covered up their little excursion by saying, "We are camping!"

Chalk this one up on the stupid question list:

As I pointed out a few mountain goats up on the summit, a gentleman from California asked, "Are those wild goats? I mean, nobody owns them, right?"

I guess goats and domesticated go hand in hand in that guy's mind.

Not so witty comeback:

I was driving down Main Street pointing out how the locals live (which most people are interested in). I showed off my house, a few of my friends' houses, and a few other things when a guy yelled from the back, "Take us to the depot, not your cousin's house."

I responded, "I'll get you to the depot, but for now you're on my bus, so you're going where I'm going!"

The whole bus oohed.

**The summer is just getting started.**

Dear Aussies

Dear Australians,

Why don't you tip? You're so nice. You're so courteous. You're so friendly. If you're not going to tip, then stop leading us tour bus drivers on by telling us how "splendid," "marvelous," or "stunning" of a time you are having and not pay out in the end. Sure, the compliments you give are morale boosters after a long day of touring and telling stories and herding everyone around the different picture stops, but nothing deflates that morale like an empty hand in the end.

You're right, us tour bus drivers shouldn't let the amount of tips we receive be the factor by which we gauge how well we did, but it has become part of our culture. Our two cultures aren't much different. I've seen the Outback Steakhouse commercials. You love bar-b-ques, we love bar-b-ques. You love the outdoors, we love the outdoors. You think the English are a bunch of sissies, we think they are too. You see?

It's more understandable when Asians don't tip. They actually take offense when they receive tips. I am sure you wouldn't be offended if I handed each of you a 5 spot as you got off my bus. You could go buy your beer you are always asking for at each stop.

When a busload of your "mates" only shell out 5 bucks for the whole lot of you, that is unacceptable. I'd say I am biting the hand that feeds me, but in your case, I am biting the hand that pets me then slaps me in the face. Please consider these words, more Alaska tour guides may like you in the end.

"Cheers,"
Tim

Open Air

Take a look at where I am at. The picture below shows it visually, but it's up to anyone who cares to let those 1000 words fall into place to tell the story. It's perfect here, for the most part. This is where I imagine that people are imagining they are when they need to escape from somewhere else. Or they're thinking about a similar place. It's nice to be just a little bit removed from the "outside world," where mail, news, and travel take a little more time to get here. The extra time helps one take it all in. The only time that overwhelming feeling sets in up here is at the top of a mountain and one realizes just how big this world really is.

As I sat staring out over the Skagway River Valley, I began to wonder if my imagination was getting robbed. Here I was looking at a place that billions of people could only imagine and I am experiencing it first hand. It was only a fleeting thought. Soon I saw myself standing on the highest peak, or jumping from tree limb to tree limb, or getting chased by a bear through the woods. And with those visual images in my mind came all different feelings: wonder, excitement, fear... It felt good to have those senses stimulated for a moment.

So, it's good to be familiar with such an unfamiliar place. Come fall, I'll be ready to be home, but I know I am where I need to be for now. The view, the friends, and the money are all good. I wish everyone could experience Skagway, Alaska. But then if everyone were hear it wouldn't be the same. Let me spark your imagination for a minute.