Opening Day. 1981

Preface ...

Decades ago, my father, brother and I enjoyed an annual ritual that was a remarkable tradition.  It was a bonding of father, sons and friends: the adventure of Opening Day on the duck flats across Cook Inlet.

Dad was a partner in a duck shack that remains standing to this day.  It's grandfathered to our family and one two others who continue to kick around town.  It's only accessible by float plane.  We traveled there via Cessna planes and even a Grumman Goose on one or two occasions.

Many portions of the following story were written and left uncompleted by my father before he passed.  Dad was a successful and well-respected (and rightfully feared) attorney for decades in Alaska.  He and his partners built Resolution Plaza (corner of 3rd & "L" Street) in Anchorage - the big red building that stands next to the Captain Cook statue overlooking the inlet.  Appropriately, Swan Lake can be imagined in the far distance from the vantage point of where Dad's office and desk was located.  There was no coincidence involved in choosing that office space or view.

While his writing was unfinished, I've added my two-cents throughout.  It's not completely politically correct. And I haven't hunted for more than 30 years.  But as you will see, it wasn't really about 'the hunt.'

I'll add photographs as they float to the top of my archives.  With or without photos, the writing is a portrait in itself.

This is a 'colorful' story.  Some discretion is advised.

I hope you enjoy "Opening Day, 1981"

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An original writing by Ken and David Jensen

How do I know that opening day of the duck season is at hand?  “Obvious,” I say.

The skies are clear and blue, the wind is blowing hard from the north and no self- respecting Mallard, Pintail, Widgeon, Teal or Shoveler would dare be found or made dead flying lower than five hundred feet.

And there I will be with a 12-gauge shotgun loaded with what?  Why, steel shot of course.  Thank God our government is protecting us and birds from the evils of lead shot.

Now I hate to be a whiner.  But steel shot tends to be as limp as an Alaska Duck Hunter’s cold whickerdick when its trajectory reaches some 25 feet beyond the muzzle.  Trust me on this ... a cold Alaska Duck Hunter’s cold whickerdick is limp enough without the handicap of distance!    Obviously the United States Fish and Wildlife Service has never heard of the advantages of putting a little lead in one’s pencil or whickerdick, much less any south-flying fowl.

Instead of using those wonderful shells which used to contain jillions of little deadly pieces of #5 shot, today’s steel loads include a pathetic group of gargantuan BBs about the size of the suppositories used by large animal veterinarians.

What does this do to the odds?  Simply, God would have to detest a particular duck to permit it to wander into the path of one of these cannon balls.  Such a duck must have some sort of social disease to have provoked such Divine wrath.  The duck, after all, has already been assured a generous safety buffer provided by the government as well as the ineptitude of those Alaska Duck Hunters who hope to defy logic by launching the before-mentioned suppositories into the sky.

I’ve digressed.  There’s more to The Hunt than just The Hunt.   Preparations for opening day included provisions for fifteen ungrateful and selfish alcoholic food eaters.  Crates of supplies included a plethora of steaks, sausage, cheese, baked beans, crackers, bacon, ham, cookies, eggs, bread, biscuits, sweet rolls, nuts, chips, dips, potatoes, hash, candy bars, shoe string snacks, pickles and last, but not least, Bufferin.  Some of these gluttonous bastards claim that the aspirin helped prevent hangovers.  These are the same miscreants who remain conscious long into the evening drinking copious quantities of alcohol provided by the booze genie. 

Before sunrise, there will be much drinking, laughing, poorly-played hands of poker, smoking of badly-chosen cigars, and courageous stories about opening days past.  Somebody, usually one of the young ones, will throw up profusely after the others have sacked out.  Bunk-dwellers will pretend not to hear - but come late morning, after the shoot, they will unmercilessly rag on the poor unfortunate. 

I’m reminded of a spray-painted human outline of my youngest son on the shack’s deck one year.  It was forensic proof that youth doesn’t necessarily promise endurance when it comes to all-nighters or overabundance. 

Eventually, the shack will shake and rumble violently on its pilings thanks to talented soloists from the renowned Duck Shack Snore Choir.  Each will unwittlingly perform arias from their upper or lower squeak-laden military bunk beds.  The thin mattresses provided little insulation to buffer that rumble (if one was lucky enough to have a mattress).

But have no fear,  It’s just 2-3 hours before the wake up alarm announces the crescendo of another opening day’s sunrise.   Thirty minutes seems barely enough time to suit up in hip waders, to fill a thermos with tar-black coffee, and to row one’s wobbly skiff past tediously choreographed decoys as they bounce in the breeze and wonderous muck of Swan Lake.  Eventually, hopeful gunners are settled into blinds that seemingly lead the blind.

Sunrise occurs.  Opening day has arrived. 

A blast in the distance is heard.  It’s possibly the result of too many beans.  Or, quite probably an act of someone’s desperation as a wise flock of Merganzers fly overhead at the safe distance of 26.’

In reality, I suppose lead shot has nothing to do with a successful opening day for an Alaska Duck Hunter.

The whole thing is sort of artificial.  And the whole thing is very real. 

Another opening day will pass. 

A bunch of grown men being boys again for a day.

I can hardly wait.

Pouring out my heart for the love of dogs and cats.

I hit a brick wall today.  I’m trying to rappel over it.  But I hit it hard.

This week alone, I’ll photograph at least one dozen dogs and cats from two separate local animal hoarding cases.  The portraits will help find homes for these dogs and cats.

Dog and cat overpopulation in Anchorage is as ripe as it’s ever been.  Some of the dogs I’ll photograph this week resulted from dog breeders who turned their passion for small dogs into a puppy mill.

While walking into a local animal care organization’s offices this week, I spotted a black dog running through the parking lot.  I tracked it down as it ran into a store in a business park along International Airport Road.  The door was propped open allowing the dog access to the parking lot, busy streets, disease, predators and more.   I explained to the owner that the dog should have a collar, identification, a dog license, vaccinations and not be allowed to run loose in parking lots.

The owner‘s nonchalant reply to my rant about letting his dog run free:   “Oh, I see ’Sadie’ was a bad dog again!”   My retort was “No, she’s not a bad dog, her owner is bad.” 

I now understand that the owner of this lab/staffie mix dog may actually want his mixed breed dog to have puppies one day.  Sources have subsequently told me that this dog is not spayed.  It's just a matter of time before it becomes pregnant - if it's not already there.

So I wake up each morning and go to work wondering how to get the message through to irresponsible people about pet overpopulation, neglectful breeding and animal abuse.  I’ve used a positive approach and messages.  I’ve used rants.   I’ve donated lots of time and my family’s money.    I’ve tried to remain energetic throughout the years when it comes to finding solutions.  The homeless dogs and cats keep coming.   In 20+ years, I’ve photographed more than 2.000 rescued dogs and cats for countless organizations in Anchorage.   They keep coming.  They just keep coming.

Hurting in my heart, I continue to load the camera, set the lights and snap more portraits of abandoned dogs and cats for posting on facebook, my blog, newspapers, posters and where ever the images might make a difference to each soul.  I’ll do it again tomorrow.  The next day.  And the next.  They’ll keep coming.

What’s the solution?  How do we get the message across that dogs and cats are not property.  They are a responsibility.  Dogs and cats are living, breathing creatures that deserve better.   We as a society have created these souls.  They depend on us.   Why do we allow this to continue?

Solutions include increased animal care education, public policy that focuses on the socio-economic impacts of pet overpopulation throughout Alaska, and funding that addresses solutions including spay/neuter programs and the strengthening and enforcement of animal neglect laws.

I’m not sure when I’ll see Sadie’s offspring in front of my lens.  It’ll probably happen.  And Sadie’s owner will never think twice about the anguish he’s created because of his cavalier and careless actions and inaction.  This is as certain as the fact that other local dogs and cats I will never be able to assist are lined up each day to be euthanized because no body wanted them.

The solutions:
   - Spay and Neuter your cats and dogs.
   - Report animal neglect.
   - Support public policy that strengthens ethical animal care responsibilities.
   - Volunteer, adopt and foster abandoned dogs and cats.

Thank you for reading and understanding.  I appreciate your support, love and good hearts.

Alaska cabin life in the 1960s

As I recall…..

Winter Wonderland at the Disney Cabin

Copyright David Jensen, 2011

Moss, Mud and The Big Score.

Memories of the Disney Cabin at Mile 43.5, Seward Highway.

Named for the owners mom and dad leased it from in the 1960s, this one-story miner’s cabin was located on a speck-sized shelf about 30 feet above Quartz Creek. It was built from spruce logs and limbs by prospectors who owned and worked the mines that laced the mountainsides. Everything about this cabin was created from the land that surrounded it. In the early days, chinking between the logs consisted of moss, branches and mud. The roof boasted a bed of matted grass and moss with a leaky wood plank base. Squirrels and other varmints considered the cabin home as well. Rechinking their paths with moss between the logs was a regular obsession until The Big Score.

The Big Score happened when one particular evening drive to the cabin yielded several bundles of insulation that had been bounced from a freight truck that lost its load on the road's bumpy frost heaves. Rolls of pink treasures were strewn for miles up and down the highway. That find motivated an ambitious renovation of the cabin’s cold-draft problem as we worked to seal in all of the holes with new insulation, wire mesh and heavy steel wool that slowed critter traffic between the logs. The local community council of rodents was not happy.

Quartz Creek as it flows behind the Disney Cabin property - just below the outhouse in Spring.Getting There.

Driving the Seward highway was different in the 1960s. We rarely worried about other drivers back then. Risks were rarely taken during any season because the narrow road was always peppered with fresh pot holes, soft shoulders and mother nature's speed bumps. Cars like our family’s red Ford station wagon had more bulk and metal back in those days. Couple that with countless blind curves and wildly narrow lanes of traffic and you had no choice but to drive safe and to stay between the lines.

Using the buddy system on this road system wasn‘t just a good deed … it was a mind set.

During the winter months, Alaskans depended upon each other to navigate the roads. Drivers intentionally traveled in packs of two or more. Anyone with car problems could depend on a road buddy for a hand with a tire, a tow or a lift to the next stop. The nearest phone was, well, nowhere close.

Often, drivers would switch ‘lead dog’ position intuitively. During snowstorms, they traded positions because of snow-blindness. Staring through a windshield in whiteout blizzards was tiring. Those in the pack usually knew when the time was right to switch out the lead dog. Drivers rarely rushed to the front as a sort of self-annointed badge. After all, chances were good that the person you were buddied up to on that highway was probably a neighbor you knew. It’s not wise to kick snow in your neighbor’s face.

The Warm up Routine.

Leaving the cabin during the winter for any amount of time meant it was going to be bone cold on arrival. We always knew what our jobs were. Hop out of the car, start shoveling a snow cave toward the cabin’s front door and pack in the groceries, drinking water and other supplies. Dad had more jobs than everyone else. And two of his tasks were the most important and noticeable to all of us: light up the kerosene lanterns and fire up the wood stove.This wasn’t just any old wood stove. Customized and welded from a spent oil barrel, it was modified to include a flat surface on the top and iron legs on the bottom. It worked as a stove top for whipping up flapjacks, eggs, bacon, burgers and steaks. It was also our only source of hot water. An old metal bucket full of water always sat on top of the stove. Even when arriving to a cold cabin, we knew that the metal bucket of ice would soon thaw and be toasty … warm enough for making hot chocolate in just an hour or so. It only failed to work if we neglected to fill it up with fresh water before leaving the cabin the previous visit (often using water that was replenished from a creek supply nicely upstream of the outhouse).

We always knew when the water was steaming hot. The round bucket frame was slightly bent and off-center. When boiling, the bucket would gently wobble and send droplets of water to sizzle on the red hot stove top.

Boots and shoes soon surrounded the barrel stove. Socks and long johns hung on wires strung around the chimney stack as if they were ornaments.

Look directly under the wood stove and you’d see several large shale boulders. Each leaned against the legs of the stove. Those would soon be wrapped in towels as foot warmers stashed at the bottom of our military-era, squeaky bunk beds. We nudged the towels away from the boulders as they became toe friendly. That was all the comfort we needed for a nice cozy sleep. The only disturbances that might wake us up might be the sounds of rogue porcupines gnawing on the cabin’s logs or better yet, Dad stoking the woodstove with seasoned logs in the middle of the night - a task that had to be repeated every four or five hours of the day. Sometimes he’d find a log that would last a few more hours. Those were called “all-nighters.” Those were his favorites.

The Toolshed.

This cabin was quite small for a family of six but extravagant compared to the four by four foot shack that shared duties as an outhouse and tool storage shed. Hooks on the walls held cast iron gadgets that were of no use to me at the time. More memorable, I specifically recall that this tiny building was approximately 27 snow shovelfuls away from the front door of the cabin. You couldn’t open the outhouse door in the winter without a shovel. Needless to say, using the facility sometimes required advanced planning.

Size and inconvenience were often forgotten when sitting in the tool shed. Nudge the rickety door outward with your boot and you opened up a panoramic portrait every time. Sometimes the view revealed northern lights bouncing above the snow-laden mountains. Sometimes it was the signature silence and ambience of a winter Alaska evening rarely taken for granted. The Big Dipper glistened nearly every night. The stars always seemed close enough to touch.

Hand’s up Reception along the Reuben Gaines Trapline.

Evenings in the Disney Cabin were always family time. The smell and sound of JiffyPop popcorn cooking on the stove was a favorite tradition as we listened to chart-topping music of the 50s & 60s with humorous anecdotes by Alaskan broadcaster Reuben Gaines.

Battery operated radio was our only connection with the outside world during our Summit Lake adventures. Reception was limited to one radio station at best. Sound faded in and out until one evening when Dad came up with a great idea. He created an external antennae from tin foil. Wrapped into a tight ribbon, the homemade tin wire was attached to the radio and extended to the low ceiling of the cabin. That seemed to work a little but not nearly as well as when one of the four kids held onto the end of the foil. That’s when Reuben’s voice would bellow through the speaker with an extra umphh. Taking turns holding the antennae soon was a ritual whenever the reception was poor. That was a lot of work just to hear Hank Williams, Sr.’s ‘Jambalaya,’ Petula Clark and other country classics.

Puzzle time.

Evening entertainment usually included homework, picture puzzles, tying salmon flies and trading comic books with each other - including classics such as Archie, Fantastic Four, Superman, Dick Tracy and Casper the Friendly Ghost.

Puzzles, however, were the favorite activity for the family over the years. Each puzzle was assembled on the cabin’s dining room table. This heavily lacquered table was hand-hewn from a spruce log.

Placing a puzzle piece correctly was not only a triumph but a challenge to other family members to be the next one to find “the hardest piece.” “Don’t force it in!” Mom would say - when we were trying to wedge a puzzle piece into the wrong fit.

Interestingly, 2500 piece puzzles were always more difficult to complete with only 2499 pieces on the table. It was a small table but big enough for dinner and puzzles. Pieces found the floor easily - sometimes thanks to help from Vickie or Tina, the Jensen’s terriers. Victory was finding a missing piece on the near-dirt floor underneath the puzzle table (while someone held a flashlight or lantern low enough to be able to see the floor). A celebration erupted when finding a piece unscathed by a dog's canine teeth.

The Jensen Puzzle collection seemed in the hundreds when going through Mom and Dad’s storage a couple years ago. I smiled when I saw notations on the boxes such as “Missing two pieces,” “Easy,” “Difficult” or “Awful.”

Very dear friends, Beth and George Jelich, wrote the following note to me, reflecting on their contribution to the Jensen's puzzle obsession:

"I certainly remember 'puzzle nights' at the Cooper Creek cabin. One Christmas we thought we were being smart, and gave the Jensens a puzzle that was 3000 pieces! I talked to them the day after Christmas, and asked them how they liked the puzzle we had given them. Their response was quite positive: you see they had used it in the wood stove and said it kept them warm for quite some time."

The cabin rested on this lot before it burned down in the 1980s. It was located at Mile 41.5 Sterling Highway.Completing the picture.

The Disney Cabin burned in a separate fire. That happened a few years after we left that old miner retreat in the Summit Lake valley. The Jensen family moved 30 miles South to another cabin next to Cooper Creek in 1967. That's another collection of memories to be assembled another winter day.

The Quartz creek property has long been reclaimed by the forest since then. Thousands drive by that ghost cabin every day with few thoughts except where they’re headed. They only see the highway in front of them. They dodge oncoming cars and smile at the sign that says “Passing Lane One Mile.”

When I pass through the Summit Lake area, I see a contoured, picture-perfect portrait filled with intricate pieces and memories. Some pieces fit perfectly. Some of these memories are a littlle bit chewed. But they’re all stored away like an old puzzle box with the word “Fun” scribbled on the side.

For me, driving by Quartz Creek is more about the past than who you can pass. It’s a reminder that everyday of life brings a new memory to be appreciated if you give it a chance.

As Mom would say … “don’t force it.” Every piece and memory has its own place and meaning in this puzzle.

Dogs of a different kind.

My first business card.Aside from delivering newspapers for the Anchorage Times and Anchorage Daily News as a very young boy, my first entrepreneurial venture was Alaska Big Dog Company in Fairbanks.

I had lots of dreams back in 1976 when I graduated from Service Hanshew High School.  I was also excited, as is every teenager, to get out of the house and start carving my own path.  My parents were more than happy to help.  Their graduation gift to me was a very nice set of Samsonite Luggage.  Mom and dad were never very subtle.

So off to Fairbanks (my birth town) I drove in my '69 Pontiac Firebird.

Months after arriving there,  I created a vending business called Alaska Big Dog Company.  The concept was this:  Provide hotdog machines to local bars and snack shops for FREE.  My only request of each establishment was that they buy the hotdogs, buns, condiments and other supplies from me exclusively.

The hotdogs I provided were DELICIOUS!  Canadian Hotdogs and Spicy Sausages in warm, fresh buns.  Yummy.  They were plump and tasty.  They were high quality.

I eventually had a dozen vendors selling my products throughout Fairbanks, on Eielson Air Force Base, Chena and Ester.

A year passed by and I was barely breaking even and revenue was declining.  I was noticing two things.  Vendors were starting to use the hotdog machines for other products, too.  Their orders for my product were decreasing.  And the second problem, some of the bars were not maintaining the machines (cleaning or changing out the product when needed).

As a 20-year old, I was too timid to press the issues of exclusivity, presentation of the machines and quality control of the products.   I had ambition but lacked negotiating skills when it came to standing up for myself.

The business quickly failed.  Loss of sales hindered my ability to make loan payments.  I finally decided to sell the machines to the bars and snack shops along with Freezers full of hotdogs and sausages.  I took on a second job to pay off my bills (mainly the loan to secure the inventory).  My parents raised me well - I will never default on a debt to anyone.

I learned a LOT from the Alaska Big Dog Company experience.  And I eventually struck out on another business path with a food wagon I named "Ye Moveable Feast" (a name coined from an Ernest Hemmingway memoir).  I'll write about this adventure sometime soon.

Yep - this is me. 1977. The cat on my Right shoulder was Saturn - my first animal companion as a single man. How do you like that shirt!!The best thing I came away with from Alaska Big Dog Company was that I loved the feeling of being an entrepreneur.  Creating a concept, being your own boss and working to build something from nothing is an amazing sensation.  I love the saying "The Buck Stops Here!"

Other important busness and life lessons from my hotdog experience:

- The importance of maintaining a quality brand.

- Reputation, networking and relationships.

- The importance of community service.

Those are some of the many things that have lead to the success of the studio.  I still have that same feeling of "doing" that I had as a 20-year old.  Silver hair and all.  And I still love steaming hotdogs served in fresh buns.

Side note:  One of those second jobs was to manage a little ice cream shop in Fairbanks called Ice Cream Etc.  It was there that I hired a young lady still in high school - it was her first  job - named Lisa Murkowski.

Whispers of Lindsay

"Stay........staaaayyyyyyy.............stttaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyy........... GO FETCH!!!"

Lindsay, my first dog as a young, single man, lunged into the deep water from her perch on the dock. We repeated this routine more than 80 times that early morning as part of a college photography "Moment in Time" assignment.
Lindsay. 1985
I clicked away from my position, belly down on the dock, and Lindsay was happy to oblige with every jump into Sand Lake. She knew what I wanted. We waited for the waves to settle back into mirror-mode before each new retrieve. There was no LCD screen to view. I had to capture the moment with proper exposure and timing.

Lindsay was a mixed-breed golden retriever. She was my side kick 24/7 as I worked my way through evening classes at UAA. Lindsay provided the first and best bonding experience I ever had with an animal companion. She was an amazing creature with many awards. She provided therapy (People Animal Connection) for residents at Hope Cottages in the 1980s. She won two State Frisbee catching tournaments in Fairbanks. She was my best friend.

And here's the most important thing ... Lindsay accepted me. She helped guide me toward my purpose in life. She was my four-legged soul-mate for 11 years. I learned from her that animals have feelings and souls. She opened my eyes by whispering to me. And I learned to whisper to her and other animal companions thanks to her.

Without Lindsay, I would not be the photographer or person I am today.   True story.