Girl, Thou Art Outdoorsy — High Uintas, Utah

One girl from Alaska and one from Montana, we've got nothing to prove. We are tough, by God, we eat outdoorsy for breakfast. So I am absolutely NOT ashamed to admit that we spent the night in the car. 

TENT — By Subaru

We did set up the tent. And we did spend about an hour and a half in it. We were the only people in the China Meadows camp ground, the end of the road before the trailhead up to Red Castle Peak in the Uintas. So when a dude on a four wheeler drove into the campground, made a slow circle through the sites, paused near the tent and drove off, we raised our eyebrows. When he came back a few minutes later to do the same thing, our creep factor alarm began its sharp internal dinging. There would be no rest beneath nylon this night. So we retreated to the Impreza, admitting that the reclined seats were a touch more comfortable than the ground.

      

The next day our feet took us on a 16-mile trek through rocky timberland and iridescent green meadows. Free range cattle weaved through meadow and trail, providing ample opportunity for this Alaskan to snap pictures of the mystical beasts. Yeah, I know. Bear with me.   

Sometime around noon, my beautiful friend Chandra reached some sort of blood sugar precipice and plunged off into the land of despair and fury. We'd been silent for a while, both quietly trying to figure how far we'd come, and where we were in relation to the vague map in the guidebook. Since we'd been hiking for four hours without seeing a glimpse of the purported castle-like destination, and were nearing our agreed upon turn around time, a little ire had begun to rise amid our fresh-air optimism. 

"This is...this is so fucking STUPID!!" Chandra's even pace never slowed, but her voice rose above the chirping birds and creek gurgles. 

"We're not going to make it. We came all this way, and we're not going to make it to the damn MOUNTAIN." 

I muttered some annoying crap about the journey versus the destination, something about following ones own personal path through the wilderness...which understandably was ineffectual. 

We had underestimated how much a rocky trail, plus backpacks and occasional snack breaks would slow us, and it had become clear that we would not make it to Upper Red Castle Lake. My very goal-oriented friend found this to be utter horse shit, and under the dark cloud of hunger could not, at that precise moment, see the intrinsic value in the hike itself. 

And then, we cleared the trees. 

We'd made it to the lower basin, about eight miles in, in view of Red Castle Peak in the background. After some turkey jerky and Wasabi peas and chocolate, we agreed that this did in fact count as "making it." High five. 

Adjustments - Portland, Oregon

Upper arm...

Forearm...

She's Goin' to the Chapel - or - The Piano Douche — Seattle, Washington

***WARNING*** Explicit content. Please don't read if you are 1) Under the age of 18. 2) Offended by discussion of sexual innuendo and bad language. 3) My parents.

For months now, I've been prepared for last week's bachelorette party to be the low point of the next three months. To the bride Kristina, don't stop reading here. 

Cheesy debauchery, the exuberant well wishes to a friend that's having more sex than you are, and booze by the bucket. Having sworn off the stuff and therefor the enhanced decision making that comes with it, cocktail-swilling bridesmaids just remind me of what I'm missing. So when I pictured how that night would go, this is what I was expecting:

But that's not how it went down. Thank God. 

I pulled my hot pink wife beater on over my relatively normal clothes — displaying the "Team Tena" label that would mark me as a friend of the bachelorette — and walked in to one of the best forms of entertainment I think there is on the planet. Or at least in the city. 

I had never heard the phrase "dueling pianos" before I walked into Keys on Main in Seattle. These two absurdly talented young men sat at pianos facing one another, taking turns meeting the well bribed requests of the club's guests. When one played and sang the main bit, the other provided drum and other back up noises via synthesizer. It sounds cheesy, but I cannot stress enough how AWESOME these guys were. And their smart ass, wildly inappropriate comedy did help to bring it home. They sang a version of "She'll be comin' round the mountain" to the bride whilst she sat atop the piano that would make any decent woman blush. (Luckily I've slid down the other side of the scale.) 

The one you see pictured above couldn't stop talking about boobs, and he actually referred to himself as the "piano douche." I can verify the accuracy of that statement, illustrated by the following Story Within A Story:

So our dear friend Kathleen could not come to the wedding festivities due to an unfortunate and sudden illness. I missed her a lot, so I thought, hey, I'll dedicate a song to her. And then I thought, hey, how about the song that she and Kristina used to sing at karaoke bars ten years ago. Even better. Here is the request slip I turned in:

In case you can't read that, we requested Like a Virgin, and dedicated it to "That Skank Kathleen Who Couldn't Come." 

The insta-creep look on the Piano Douche's face revealed that this was indeed a good move on my part. He picked up the slip of paper, raised a hand to hush the crowd, and read the slip aloud.

"For that skank Kathleen who couldn't come? That.....BITCH. Now, what lame ass reason did she give for not joining you on your special day? I mean what the fuck is her problem?"

I'm not sure what he was expecting, but surely it wasn't the response I yelled from the audience.

"She has shingles!!"

Finally, a crack in the Piano Douche's rich sarcastic outer coating. He started laughing because, honestly, the shingles is a really good reason to not be at a bachelorette party. But that didn't stop him from providing us with a video rant chastising Kathleen PERSONALLY for not attending his piano bar on that celebratory eve. Because, you know, when you're a good friend you don't let some petty illness get in the way of a good opportunity for inciting abuse by complete strangers.

It was made clear pretty quickly that you had to be careful with your requests around these guys. Hit on a song they aren't interested in, and you're graced with a two minute sarcastic version interspersed with requests for a better fucking song. And if you request the Piano Man, apparently, you should go ahead and just stab your own eyes out along with them. 

So I learned to be creative. While they never actually sang Like a Virgin, it did start an unforgettable exchange. They honored my requests for that Discovery Channel song by Bloodhound Gang, as well as a kick ass, table-standing version of Thrift Shop. Because of their earlier sarcasm I was never sure if they were just faking their enthusiasm on these songs — for some reason it was important to me that they be genuinely having fun and also liked me and thought I was a good person — but they sure looked like it. And when they delivered a heartfelt rendition of Dick In a Box a la Justin Timberlake and Adam Samberg, my heart truly soared. 

However, no where was their courage more daring than when they singled a pleasantly inebriated asian party out of the small audience, and asked their ethnicity. (Holy risky move, that's some Spider Man crowd reading right there because that could have gone POORLY.) One replied that he was South Korean, following which he was, of course, asked on stage to sing none other than Gangnam Style. Random drunk South Korean on stage singing the year's hit dance song? Questionable? Yes. But he KILLED it. The man was on fire. How can you possibly beat that?

I fully expect every bachelorette party I attend after this to be completely lame, either by nature or in comparison. What a way to wish this beautiful woman well.

Location: Seattle, Washington

love you Kristina...you so pretty

What I Missed — Arlington, Washington

From the beginning of my memory in the world, I have loved and lived with my Aunt Connie through a poem she wrote shortly after my birth — shortly before she passed away. Its thin metal frame is simple, looks like it could be bent easily but remains intact, and houses the small collection of lines that represent our brief interaction in this lifetime. One that was kind, and genuine, and too short. She left a husband and two young boys, four brothers and two parents. Their missing of her was a presence at holidays and those that marked her life and death.

Connie and her future husband Lane, circa 1971, in Bellingham Washington where they got their teaching degrees.

Connie and her sons Ben (Left) and Matt, in the mid-80s.

I've long felt a sort of draw to her, beyond the mere fact that we are blood related, that my father was her brother. And I've wondered, do I feel and seek a connection to her memory for a reason more complex than that? Or is it just my sentimentality, my sadness at never having known her and the mystery and heartache that surrounds her absence in our lives. But I know things about her that tell me, we would have understood one another. She was a writer. She was bitingly funny. She was loving and independent. What would our family look like had she been present to influence us? And is it unfair for me to even ask that question?

Top Row Left to Right: Mike Heimbuch (My dad) Uncle Karl, Uncle Paul, Uncle Doug

Bottom Row Left to Right: Grandma Bonnie, Grandpa Floyd, Aunt Connie

So as I pursue this somewhat vague endeavor to be a writer, I thought I should take advantage of my masters residency being in Washington and take a trip north to see her family — our family —her husband Lane and son Matt. To make better connections where I've long felt there needed to be. To better understand the people and the women with whom I share molecular chemistry. 

The trip was short but wonderful. I heard stories that were new to me, and got a small glimpse into the life of a woman I wish I knew, from a man that did. Lane has also recently started gathering ancestral information on his and Connie's family, looking back through our heritage at names and places and marriages and all the many papered decisions that come with a life. I learned that she was writing two books before she died — one about the families, ours included, that came to Alaska to fish in her parents and her generation, some of the first of European decent to do so. The similarity to my own writing goals is a little startling, as I try to put on paper my experiences on a family commercial fishing boat. The opportunity to look farther back, to the fish camp my father and Connie grew up working and the homestead in Willow, has me nervous and intrigued at the same time. Would it be too much? To take on the stories of others, of people I've always struggled to ask personal questions of? Or would it be the best way, the only way to make the work and worry worth it. To tell a story that is mine and not mine, that is Alaskan and human and simple and intricate. At this point I don't know what the right direction is. But I think I will soon.

All of these things do not in themselves give me an understanding of Connie, but the desire and direction with which to ask questions. About her, about myself, about what I am driven to write and why, about the extended family I wish I understood better. And until I do find answers to those questions, if I ever do, I enjoy wondering about her. I enjoy wrapping my head around the person I imagine her to be, surely different from her actuality, but something she left for us nonetheless. A version of the woman made up of remembered stories and pictures and notebooks and cassette tapes and the weathered love of those who still miss her so dearly I can hear it in the shapes of the letters of her name when it leaves their mouths. Connie. 

                                         

 

Location: Arlington Washington

My people — Pacific Lutheran University

I'm not sure exactly when it happened.
Maybe it was after the fourth day of workshop/lecture/readings, when I realized that these people were never going to get tired of talking about words, so I'd never have to stop.
Maybe it was when an entire lecture hall full of people laughed at a joke about digression. 
But more than likely, it happened as I was scribbling down the lines of a 5-minute skit, about to rope 10 of my classmates into performing a word-nerd comedy starring a troupe of mouthy nuns, some illiterate children and myself as a priest. 
That's when I knew, these are my people. 

What it looks like when 10 people decide to trust the eccentric Alaskan.
Head scratching, downcast eyes, and A LOT OF FUN. 

I spent the last 10 days in Tacoma, Washington at Pacific Lutheran University. I was attending my first residency of the Rainier Writing Workshop, also known as the people-who-will-help-me-write-good Collegiate Brigade. I have the great privilege of spending my next three years in near and far communication with them, seeking my Masters of Fine Arts in creative writing. 

Harstad Hall, where we stayed during residency.
Dorm rooms here smell the same as they did 10 years ago in Montana. 

The official production of "Thou Shalt Nevery Ask Too Many Questions" was just the icing on the cake of a fantastic week. Not least of which was John here, our Texan poet who played a pretty spot-on Alistair Cooke in order to introduce the play, in the custom of the very best of Masterpiece Theater. 

I have two and a half months of travel left ahead of me. A winter of writing and working back home in Alaska. Years of school, and fishing and breathing in and out, that's all part of the plan too. And all of it — from the wedding I'm currently attending to the West Coast travels planned for August, the trip to Spain and beyond — all is colored by this last ten days. Ten days that basically gave me the green light I've always kind of needed to go ahead and be a full-time word person. Among all these other word people, trying to put the loves and laments of the world down in letters. And laughing. My God the laughing. 

It's fuzzy, but I'm the white-robed one on the right (courtesy of PLU linen supplies.)
This is the very performance that won us the title of Most Recent Suckers. 

Granted, it was a little startling to go from this microcosm of mouthy writers, to the back seat of my friend Kristina's car — where her five year old promptly rolled up the floor mat and began hitting me with the spiky side. But such is life. Without it I wouldn't have crap to write about. Or a reason to write it. And I am so very thankful for all that crap right at this moment. 

Location: Tacoma, Washington