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IN THIS ISSUE

Dixie Augusteijn continues her description of a recent trip Zvonko Springer describes the process of warming up in winter Jim Olson reflects on the dogs of war Gerrit de Leuuw sends a prize-winning poem Jack Peaker´s post should make you feel your age Marilyn Magid forwards a mildly-sexist joke Dick Monaghan and Jack Peaker sneak in a couple of websites

Dixie Augusteijn and her daughter embark on a bus tour on their

ALASKA/YUKON TRIP

Come morning we were early at the park entrance, only to find we should have booked earlier - there were only two places left on one of the busses which had been picking up passengers from some of the hotels. Chris nobly let Elizabeth and me go on the bus, which would be an all-day tour, and said he would hike some of the park. Cars are not allowed entry, but in addition to the tour busses, they have shuttle busses which will drop you off at certain points and pick you up on a return. I´m afraid I would be thinking, "What if I miss the bus, or lose my way?" You can also fly over in a helicopter. A lady who had done this flight said the mountain views were unforgettable.

Denali National Park and Preserve is huge - larger than the state of Massachusetts, and contains Mt. McKinley. This mountain was first known as "Denali", which in the native Athabascan language means the "Great One". In 1897 a local prospector renamed it after the president, although President McKinley had nothing to do with it.

The park is unique in allowing you to see different habitats: forest at the lowest elevation, then taiga with its scrubby trees, before merging into tundra at middle elevation, and finally into rock, glaciers and snow. Taiga to me had always brought up visions of Russians losing their way through endless wilderness, and tundra was only a dark grey mass over permafrost. What a difference in reality! A friend who was there in June said the flowers were gorgeous, but this was fall, and the dwarf birch, blueberries and fireweed splashed red trails through white and black spruce and the lime green of the aspens. The white spruce looked raggedy and dead but the driver said it was its natural look. I tried to compare these colours with our fall colours back in Ontario, which are also spectacular. I think in Ontario you are enclosed in the colour, where here it is spread out in a vast expanse at your feet, an offering of colour for a Van Gogh.

We asked about fire. Fires are strictly prohibited in most areas and they clear biomass away from any park buildings. They have had fires - one took five years to extinguish as it burned under the tundra on top of the permafrost.

The road trip covered about 90 miles and because of the permafrost, only a small part was paved. We started in the boreal forest area through taiga and tundra, stopping at different special points of interest where the driver would explain and perhaps point out some wildlife, to Polychrome Pass, and were lucky enough to see Mt. McKinley in all its shining glory. In the distance we saw Dall sheep on the mountainside, at one spot a grizzly at a kill, and there were a few caribou. We did not see any wildlife up close, except for one wolf which persisted in running ahead of the bus, and later a multitude of snowshoe hares.

At another place we saw three hikers up on the mountain and on the same mountain, just over a low ridge, a grizzly slowly making his way in their direction. We watched for some minutes, wondering when the hikers would see they were not alone - they eventually did.

We had a satisfying box lunch , but it was another long day and dark when we pulled up where Chris had brought the van near the back entrance of the lodge. We wanted to make Anchorage this same night, which meant another long drive, unfortunately in the dark, and we were tired when we pulled in to an RV park at the north end of the city and near the railway tracks.

It was interesting to see the different RVs, but one there was more different than most - it had attached to it - a small greenhouse! I´ve no idea what the motive was. Also at this park was a group of perhaps twenty people - it must have been some organization - and among them they were carrying the makings of quite a large marquee, which they set up, gathered tables underneath it, and then had what they would call - I suppose - a party, in this RV park! There must have been some purpose behind it, but it seemed a strange place to have a party.

To be continued.

Zvonko Springer describes the bus trip on the way to

WARMING UP HOLIDAYS ON KENYA´S COAST

The bus leaves the airport compound through police-guarded barriers to follow the road that passes through relatively newly developed housing estates. After about 1 km it comes to a junction in the main road from Nairobi to Mombasa. The travel continues through the rather old and run-down Chamgamwe suburb north of Mombasa, and then to a large container warehouse of the Kilindini harbour. We pass over a causeway dam built for the railway, and that is the only road link from the mainland to Mombasa Island. Now the driver can choose from several directions to get through Mombasa City to reach the City´s southern crossing of the Kilindini Creek. The Kilindini Creek is a wide gap in the East African Riff and the only approach to the harbour´s bay. I normally doze most of the time as I know too well all these approaches. However, Mombasa City and its centre have changed significantly since the times we lived here (1964-1967).

At the centre there are several high-rise buildings accommodating mostly banks and international companies, but the traffic congestion is certainly much worse now. The cleanliness depends upon the present mayor in charge and his political importance. For any newcomer, these first impressions may result in culture shock, combined with the heat and high humidity. After about an hour ride, the bus approaches the landing strip of the Likoni Ferry. Coming to the last wide round- about at the left, we see a newly-constructed open market with many booths crowded with customers. In front there is a parking lot for dozens of "matatu" (private mini-buses) driven by almost irrational drivers. A matatu driver joins into the passing traffic absolutely unconcerned about other vehicles, strongly believing that the other driver(s) are aware of this chaotic system.

On the right hand short of this round-about there is "Nacomat" - one of the largest supermarkets, a good place for shopping for almost everything one needs - spices, cosmetics, food and drinks, as well as electronic apparatuses etc. The bus normally joins a queue of waiting vehicles to board the ferry. On the right side is the mighty silo station of Bamburi Cement Works, with its own quay for large cargo ships. This station was my first project, designed in CIPAG office that opened in 1967 in Salzburg. There are three huge silos accommodating some 7.000t of bulk cement each, an automatic packing plant for bagged cement, with road or railway loading facilities, storage facilities for cement clinker and fluorspar (and coal recently), with a bridge for automatic feed-in and discharge into ships etc. Long ago, the members of the Sailing Club expressed "great" dissatisfaction with these "mammoth" silos that are taking the wind out of their sails in the Kilindini channel. Hakuna matata! (Sorry, no problem!)

There are several large ferries that cross the harbour channel in about 10 minutes. During rush hours at least three of them transfer heavy trucks, busses, personal cars, and handcarts to the one platform. Hundreds of pedestrians crowd at both sides and at the top bridges too. Pedestrians embark last, but rush out first, mingling with the vehicles that have to start up an often steep landing platform (depending on the tidal level) and the landing strip. This passage wakes me up from my slumber for sure as I have to see whether the silos are still there - uh, oh!

Once on the bus disembarks on the opposite Likoni side, it has to travel for another hour or so to reach the coastal road built parallel to Diani Beach. First we pass through the Likoni settlement that has became a large suburb to Mombasa. The traffic is dense and matatus rush in and out of the traffic, unheeding of other drivers. Provided there is no road accident or a turned-over truck stretching across the pavement, we reach a quieter road section for some 30km, until it turns off the junction at Ukunda settlement. On this road stretch, the bus has to pass several police check points, at which the driver has to slalom between three-metre-long boards with 10cm- high spikes protruding that would stop any vehicle for sure.

Almost automatically I wake up when the bus turns left at Ukunda, which was a small village several years ago but now even has an "international" airport with a short tarmac strip for small charter aircraft. After several more miles, the bus enters the Leisure Lodge Resort (LLR) fenced-in compound that is strictly guarded. Just opposite the LLR entrance are the golf grounds with 18 holes, where international tournaments are now played several times a year.

To be continued.

Jim Olson, whose poems and stories we have missed, writes about

THE DOGS OF WAR

Several times a week I have coffee in the morning with an intergenerational group down at a local coffee shop, where the conversation ranges across the cups from national and local politics to the realm of metaphysics, and on down to daily living issues such as which way toilet paper should unroll from the spool.

The other day one member was describing a new dog he was about to acquire, a special French breed sporting dog whose litter was born on Veteran´s Day, which to some of us will always be known as Armistice Day. It is appropriately associated with France and World War I, or The Great War, the one our fathers fought to end all wars, and even if it didn´t, one that left warm feelings and great memories of France.

As an elder in the group, I was accused of being there at the time, but being born in 1925, I missed that one. I see by the papers that there are very few veterans left who date back to that war, and those of us from the the next big one are gradually replacing them as the disappearing act on the stage of military history. Jeeps and Kilroy will vanish, as did cooties and the Forty and Eight.

As I think about it, however, I was there indirectly because World War I did have a profound influence on the lives of what some have mistakenly labeled the Greatest Generation. It shaped our lives as we grew up in the 20s and 30s. In many ways, as a child I saw the world through WWI colored glasses, from the many WWI books my grandparents had in their living room, to family and schoolmate conversation permeated with references to the war.

In my case, the connection was also very direct. My uncle met my dad in the trenches in France, and later introduced him to his sister. She was being courted at the time by a young farmer, who was a solid enough prospect but lacked the charm and flair of the handsome young veteran. The rest, as they, say is history.

Now it may be time to finish that cup of memory and look toward a future informed but not directed by the past, just as that pup will make her own way into the annals of midwestern sporting life, regardless of her notable birthday.

Speaking of poetry, Gerrit de Leeuw sends this one about

THE CARNATION MILK CONTEST

A woman had been married to a farmer all of her life. They had cows and horses on their farm and also grew a number of crops for sale at the local farmers´ market.

While shopping at the local grocery store for a few items that she and her husband did not raise or grow for themselves, she came across a contest form.

So she completed their jingle and mailed it off to the Carnation Milk Company in an effort to win a cash prize which had been offered for the best entry about those little cans of milk found on grocery shelves.

Carnation had furnished the first line of jingle with these words, "I like Carnation best of all ...." and the contestant had only to complete the remainder of the jingle on their entry form. Each contestant could only use 50 words or less.

A couple of months later, the woman was surprised when a Carnation Milk representative came to her door and told her that her entry was the best one submitted. However, it was unfortunate that the company could not publish it, but they had decided that her entry was worth at least a consolation award and provided her with a company cheque in the amount of $1,000 for her creativity.

Here is her entry:

I like Carnation best of all,
No tits to pull, no shit to haul.
No barns to clean, no hay to pitch,
Just punch a hole in the son of a bitch.

Just in case you weren´t feeling old today, Jack Peaker believes this will change things:

HOW TIME FLIES!

The people who started college this fall were born in 1987. They are too young to remember the space shuttle blowing up.

Their lifetime has always included AIDS.

The CD was introduced the year they were born.

They have always had an answering machine.

They have always had cable.

Jay Leno has always been on the Tonight Show.

Popcorn has always been cooked in the microwave.

They never took a swim and thought about Jaws!

They don´t know who Mork was or where he was from.

They never heard: "Where´s the Beef?", "I´d walk a mile for a Camel", or "de plane, Boss, de plane."

They don´t have a clue how to use a typewriter.

Do you feel old yet? (Sorry.) Pass this on to the other old fogies on your list.

Marilyn Magid forwards this story about

THE NEWBORN

After a woman gave birth to a baby, her doctor stood solemnly at her bedside. "I have something I must tell you about your baby."

"What´s wrong?" the alarmed mother asked.

"Your baby is a hermaphrodite."

"What´s that?"

"It means your baby has both male and female parts."

"Oh my God!" the woman exclaimed. "You mean he has a penis AND a brain?

Ed.: No comment.

A WOMAN WHO MADE A DIFFERENCE

Dick Monaghan suggests this site for an inspiring obituary:

http://www.tulsaworld.com/NewsStory.asp?ID=061118_Ne_A15_Nucle18748

Jack Peaker is a contributor to

http://www.senioryears.com/

You can also read this newsletter online athttp://members.shaw.ca/ vjsansum/ and http://www.nw-seniorsonline.org/stories.html

Those who are hungry have no need of an elaborate philosophy to stimulate or excuse discontent, and anything of the kind appears to them merely an amusement of the idle rich. They want what others have, not some intangiable and metaphysical good. else. - Bertrand Russell