Treehab

by Bob Smith

  The first thing I noticed were all the signs for the upcoming Pride. The flower shop—owned by two lesbians—had their entire window celebrating Pride with rainbow aluminum foils. Even the manly barber-shop had a sign! Pride had lessened the homophobia in Juneau over the past two years.

  I returned to Chris and Jeremy’s apartment, and they were preparing king salmon for dinner. They were pleasantly bickering over how to marinate the fish. Finally ginger and lime juice were agreed upon.

  “You guys should have your own cooking show,” I said. “Who wouldn’t want to watch a gay Alaskan couple arguing over recipes?”

  “What would we call the show?” Chris asked.

  “Juneau Sais Quoi,” said Jeremy.

  “Recipe Ninjas,” said Chris.

  “Kitchen Bitchin’,” I said.

  For dessert, we had nagoonberry ice cream with flecks of dark chocolate. Most Alaskans have never tasted a nagoonberry because they grow one berry to a plant and you have to deal with mosquitoes guarding each berry. Of course that doesn’t deter gay Alaska foodies like Chris and Jeremy.

  “Oh, wow!” I said after swallowing my first berry. They tasted like more sophisticated raspberries with notes of Cabernet. The delicious ice cream convinced me nagoonberries were a northern wonder as remarkable as the aurora borealis.

  I slept on their floor on camping cushions, and it was very comfortable. The next morning I had an ocean excursion with two lesbians, Colleen and Di. I had been put in touch with them by my Native Alaskan friend from Anchorage, Jim Wilkins. Chris drove me to their house. I had no worries because I always get along with lesbians. I think of my cock and balls as a fanny pack. Just one that didn’t interest them.

  We put their skiff in the water at a public ramp. I sat in the front and Colleen and Di sat in back, running the outboard motor. The middle seat was empty. The sea was as smooth as a floor. It looked as if anyone could walk on water.

  We began put-putting down the inlet. There was one house I wished I owned. It was on an island close to shore. The house was modern; it was a long rectangular wooden box with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out to the ocean. We got past the house and a raven landed on the middle seat of the skiff.

  Colleen and Di began throwing him sunflower seeds.

  “That’s strange,” I said. “I’ve never seen a raven so friendly.”

  “He does this all the time,” said Colleen.

  Di added, “He’s our Robin Blackbreast.”

  The raven flew off after devouring a field of sunflowers, and I hoped the rest of the scenery was enjoying us as much as the bird. We can’t just let enjoying nature be a one-sided pleasure. We’re in a long-term relationship with the earth and we can’t behave as if we get to fall asleep after orgasming, but our partner only exists to service us. The animals and plants—even the rocks—deserve mutual consideration and satisfaction.

  We turned around after traveling down the inlet. Almost instantly, a whale’s tail appeared next to us. It wasn’t a humpback or orca, the most common whales around Juneau. It looked like a gray whale.

  I’d seen a gray whale when I went birdwatching with a group of gay guys in Seattle. We were at a marina and a gray whale was feeding between the docks.

  “Is this normal?” I asked. The amazed expressions on their faces was my answer.

  The new whale had a gray tail and, like the whale I’d seen in Seattle, wasn’t gigantic—for a whale! He was feeding exactly the same. He would dive down, his tail surfaced above the water. We were scooting along, and the whale accompanied us.

  I turned back to Colleen and Di. “We’re walking our whale.”

  They laughed. I had made a joke, but this was one of my greatest Nature Boy experiences. A friendly raven and an amiable whale. It was Mother Nature saying the gays and lesbians are part of her world.

  That night we had a camping trip at Sunshine Cove. Naming a place in Juneau Sunshine Cove is delusional. I was there in June and the temperature high was 55 degrees and it rained every day. Although I’m not complaining about the summer weather in Alaska: the rain keeps your love for Alaska real, not a romance novel.

  At ten o’clock, Jeremy, Chris, and I drove to Sunshine Cove, where we would camp with eight other gay guys. The sun was still up, but it was setting. We passed what looked like a swamp on the ocean. “That’s where we picked our nagoonberries,” said Chris.

  “It looks like oceanfront living for mosquitoes,” I said.

  “It’s for the wealthy mosquitoes,” said Jeremy.

  Sunshine Cove is almost at the end of the road in Juneau. Thick forest stood along the shore. Our tents were set up in the woods. Mine was all ready for me. I supposed they thought the guy from LA was too urban to camp, but actually I was too lazy. It felt great that I didn’t have to do anything.

  The first two guys we met were Rorie Watt, an engineer for the city of Juneau, and an old man visiting from Gustavus, a very small town of 442 bordering Glacier Bay National Park. The old guy was sharing a tent with Rorie. I wanted Rorie in my tent. He had brown hair, a great smile, and beautiful eyes and was athletic and very handsome. I wanted to know more about Rorie but was too shy to ask.

  The old guy pulled out a brass pot pipe that looked like Thomas Edison invented it. He filled it with weed, and we all took a hit. Getting high in Alaska feels like doubling down; the scenery is so mindblowing that pot actually sobers you up.

  The guys had set up an area where a tarp blocked the rain and a fire was being lit. I grabbed a seat and was offered another brewed-in-Juneau beer, an Alaskan Amber. The rain started up. We huddled around the fire, smoked pot, drank beers, and told stories.

  Jeremy told a story about being trampled by a moose. “Chris and I went for a hike on Pioneer Peak, outside of Palmer, Alaska. Only one car parked at the dusty trailhead. As we slowly wound our way up through the dense willows, alder, and devil’s club, each footfall kicked up mushroom clouds of dust. It was like walking through a stream of baby powder.

  “‘Hey, look at that!’ said Chris. ‘Is it a bear?’ He pointed at a clean, crisp print in the duff at our feet. Closer inspection revealed the sharp outline of a large cloven hoof of a moose.

  “‘No worries. Come on!’ I said, distracted by dreams of the warm wildflower breezes above us. We continued dusting up the trail, but within minutes we clomped to a stop: this time the dry peaty ground was vibrating and a deep hollow thumping sound broke the silence.

  “‘It’s a bear!’ Chris whimpered.

  “‘Nah, no sign. Probably just a trail runner,’ I replied, too smug for my own good.”

  “I didn’t whimper,” said Chris.

  “Yes, you did,” said Jeremy. “The path had begun bending into a series of gentle switchbacks and when I glimpsed the green blur of movement through the brush above us, that was exactly what I hoped was streaking down the trail toward us. Rounding the corner of the next switchback, we saw it: head down, ears up, and breathing hard, a mother moose with a calf hiding behind its spindly iron legs. Shit.

  “Fresh from southeast Alaska, bears were foremost on our minds. Therefore our first instinct was to put our hands up (to make you look bigger) and talk to it. ‘Hello Moose! Don’t mind us! We are just here for a visit. Just relax, Moose. Hello, Moose!’ Chris and I shared a hopeful look . . .”

  “You should have told the moose you were gay,” I said. “That might have helped.”

  “We should have tried that,” said Chris.

  Jeremy added, “But, the moose really didn’t like our attempt at being neighborly and charged. That instant Chris, who was in front and closest to the coming freight train, jumped off the trail and into the thorny embrace of devil’s club. Glad he was safely out of the way, I had paused one second too long.

  “BLAM! I was flying through the air, completely out of control. My eyes were open but dark shadows were all I could manage. SLAM! I impacted the dust. BAM! Floating then violently tumbled in a tangle of legs. SPLAT! Spit out into the brush on
the side of the trail and pancaked face down, I thought to crawl away from what was certain the end to come. Yet, only my fingers obeyed and weakly clawed at the ground as I imagined the moose rearing up on its hind legs like an elephant and stomping down with all its bulk.

  “I waited, but seconds passed and my sight slowly returned. The pounding hooves had disappeared. The assault was over. ‘Are you okay?’ Chris called from above.

  “Still reinflating my lungs, I croaked, ‘No. No, I’m not okay.’ I pushed myself up to all fours and slowly started taking an inventory of the damage. I patted down my arms: one sprained wrist. No obvious breaks. Teeth still there. Hot pain coming from my groin. Oh, man. I pulled away my waistband and peered with dread: a raised red outline of a hoof print glared up at me from my inner thigh, a millimeter shy of my cock. Phew! A relationship spared.

  “As Chris was picking the moose hair off my back, rustling and pounding noises arose again from the trail beyond us. ‘Hey!’ Suddenly full of fear again, ‘We are HERE! GO AWAY moose! BEAT IT!’ We screamed. I grimaced at Chris, ‘Did you see where the moose went?! Where is the calf ? Could it be coming back to look?’ We were in no shape for a rematch.

  “‘Did you see the moose?’ A friendly woman’s voice filtered down to us as she and a fellow hiker strode out of the green toward us.

  “‘Uh, yeah. I saw the moose. IT RAN ME OVER!’

  “And we really didn’t want to encounter it again. I tried to regain my feet but stumbling, realized I was unable to stand on my own. There was a sharp pain in my lower back where the beast had first rocketed into me. Chris steadied me while I dug through my mangled day pack for the first aid kit and the vial of 222’s, equal parts codeine, caffeine, and aspirin. I always carry these little gems from our Canadian friends. Popping a pair, I used Chris and one of the hikers as my crutches, and I began to hobble out.

  “It was then that the hikers filled us in on how they first had encountered the mama moose and calf up in the subalpine. They had shooed it down the trail, in front of them, but right toward us. That mama was already pissed by the time we had unwittingly forced her into a moose sandwich on the switchback.

  “Luckily, we hadn’t been that far into the hike at that point. Within thirty minutes of hurried walking, we made it back to the parking lot. Chris glumly eyed our Subaru and then turned back to my crumpling frame. Chris hates to drive. But he grit his teeth and took his seat behind the wheel. I, of course, spoke nothing but encouragement for the ten miles he haltingly ground through the manual transmission.”

  We all looked at Chris.

  “It’s true,” he said. “I hate to drive.”

  “The Palmer hospital’s emergency department was strangely packed for midafternoon on a weekday during the summer. The nurse behind the counter distractedly shoved a clipboard at us and asked us the reason for today’s visit. I couldn’t use my writing hand, so I had Chris write for me: RUN OVER BY A MOOSE. And slid it back to her. She casually glanced at the sheet, but after a double take abruptly looked back up at me. ‘Really?’ she softened. ‘Hey, you guys!’ she turned to her colleagues who were out of our view. ‘This guy was just trampled by a moose!’

  “The inner door to the treatment room immediately swung open, ‘Come right in!’ To this day, I have never had so many parts of my body x-rayed at one sitting. Painful as it was, lying back in a hospital bed afterward, the doctor reported that NOTHING appeared broken. He was still concerned that I may have internal damage that may reveal itself in the next few days. That angry red footprint on my upper thigh, he explained, was a hematoma, a massive blood blister, and would go away eventually. ‘But really, Mr. Neldon, we usually see people who have been trampled by a moose in the morgue. It is a miracle that you are here it all!’

  “This was also about the time my smart-assed teaching colleague and Alaskan badass in her own right, Nancy Peel, gave me my nickname: ‘Lucky.’”

  I thought about their moose-capade. In Alaska, being cautious of wildlife is smart. On a hike if you run into a bear or a moose, most of the time the animal will retreat. Unless it’s a mama. Then keep away. Mamas are going to protect their offspring, and if you get too close, you’re going to have your face clawed or stomped. A hike in Alaska requires courage. There might be the possibility you’ll meet a moose or a bear. (Though I’ve taken lots of hikes in Alaska and have not had the fortune/misfortune to meet a bear or moose.)

  We stayed up until 1 a.m. then hit the sleeping bags. I knew there were bears in Juneau, so I knew not to keep any food in my tent. I just hoped beer didn’t attract bears. I got in my tent and in my sleeping bag. I fell asleep and woke up early.

  There was coffee brewing under the tarp. I grabbed a cup and took a seat. The rain had stopped, but it was 55 degrees. I was dressed for summer in Alaska: sweatshirt and rain jacket. Rorie was up and sat next to me.

  This was my chance to get to know him.

  “Rorie, tell me about your life in Juneau.”

  “Well, I have two sons,” he said. “Their two moms live above me. We’re a family and I feel like the luckiest gay man because I have children. My parents are Scottish. My dad moved here because he had a PhD in laser chemistry . . .”

  A humpback whale interrupted our conversation. It breached right in front of us—for a half hour. I was transfixed. Humpbacks are as big as small ranch houses. The sight conveyed that we’re not the only species that likes to have a good time. The whale’s frolicking gave us pleasure.

  After breakfast, Rorie split—wanting to spend time with his sons. The rest of us walked the beach. I saw my first arctic lupines. They are a Christmas tree of purple blossoms. They’re a wildflower that looks prim and decorous.

  After beachcombing, we packed up. The Pride celebration was that afternoon. Minutes after hitting the road a huge black bear ran in front of us. I’m glad that bear wasn’t prowling our campsite looking for a gay nagoonberry. I was the single guy ready to be picked.

  We got home and immediately headed to Silverbow Inn and Bakery for the Pride celebration. We had the use of the six-car parking lot and the room where I performed. Ken Alper had a sign: Straight Guy’s Barbecue! Juneau Pride T-shirts were sold. A local bluegrass band— The Fireweeds—dressed in drag and put on a show. (These were straight guys!)

  There was a march with about six brave people carrying a banner that said “Gay Pride Carnival.” Thousands march in Manhattan, but the courage of marching in a small town was moving. All I could think about was all the young closeted LGBT kids in Juneau’s high school. Sara, Chris, and Jeremy had courageously started an event that would help them. Juneau’s a city of thirty-two thousand—really a small town. Growing up gay or lesbian in a small town isn’t easy, but it’s easier in a city that celebrates Gay Pride. If just one gay suicide has been averted, it means Sara, Chris, and Jeremy are heroes. Pride in Juneau is still happening today.

  Chris made a pink Q, which he draped around the neck of a bronze bear statue. Hundreds of people arrived. The mayor of Juneau showed up. But the best part of Pride for me is I talked with Rorie Watt.

  “Rorie, I love that Paul Bunyan in a dress,” I said, looking at a hulking man in a dress. I’m six two, and he towered over me.

  “I want someone to call him a ‘faggot,’” said Rorie. “So we can watch a bigot get bashed.”

  I laughed.

  “What brought you to Juneau?” I asked as we went in the bakery for some coffee.

  “I joined the Peace Corps and was sent to Africa,” he said. “I had hoped to go to Latin America. When I came back, I worked in a homeless shelter in Richmond, Virginia, and studied history, with the hopes of going to graduate school. I was broke and thought that I could get a job on a fish processor to make money so I could go to Mexico to become fluent in Spanish. I had applied to graduate school in Latin American history—Texas—and had about nine months and no money. So I went to Seattle, but I didn’t know that salmon come back in the summer, and it was winter. A few more random events,
and aw hell, I got on the ferry because I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Rorie’s attractiveness also included that he was smart and had a muscular heart, raising two sons whom he clearly loved and working for the Peace Corps and a homeless shelter.

  “I would’ve hopped off that ferry because of the whales here,” I said. I told him about hearing the whales sing and walking my whale.

  “I love whales,” said Rorie. “So do my two sons.”

  Suddenly Chris and Jeremy interrupted our conversation.

  “Pride is finishing up,” Chris said.

  “We need help putting things away,” said Jeremy.

  After the Pride celebration, I was in the basement of the Silverbow Inn putting away tables and chairs with Rorie. I thought about all the bravery I’d been exposed to in Juneau: Sara, Chris, and Jeremy founding Pride. Jeremy and Chris getting attacked by a mama moose. Me getting away from a psychotic iceberg. It gave me the courage I needed. When we stood facing each other, I kissed Rorie and he kissed me back.

  Alaska had become even more magical.

  My Call of the Wild

  In the eighth grade, I read The Call of the Wild by Jack London and loved it. It was perfect timing; a dog returning to wolf is what every boy feels going through puberty. So when Rorie Watt invited me to visit the Yukon I accepted immediately. Rorie was running part of a 110-mile relay race from Skagway, Alaska, to Whitehorse in the Yukon. The race wasn’t about winning; it was about finishing.

  I flew up to Juneau to stay with Rorie. He has two sons: Jasper and Reuben. Their two moms, Mk MacNaughton (pronounced MK) and Susan Haymes, live above Rorie. The boys had two homes and felt comfortable in both. I also felt at home in either household. I understood why Rorie had chosen to spend his life with two intelligent and humorous women. It was a decision I would make a few years later myself.

  I was impressed by Rorie’s bookcase. Two shelves were filled with books by Latin American authors written in Spanish. Rorie worked as an engineer for the city of Juneau, but he understood that people who don’t read literature are robots.