This weekend we went on a quick overnight camping trip on the upper Chena River. It was Memorial Day weekend, so prime spots by the river were a little crowded, but we found a nice shady, sandy, sunny, rocky place on the first level of heaven to spend and evening, a night, and a morning.

Of all the aspects of camping with kids, sleeping has been the most difficult to master. This time around, we put Jacob and Toby in a tent by themselves. Stephanie and Sarah had a tent with space for me, and Jamiee was in her own.

I was up for a while, reading and poking the fire. Stephanie was in the tent trying to coax Sarah to sleep, but Sarah would not submit. The light, the heat, and the unfamiliarity kept her wailing in distress for over an hour. Next time, Benadryl. When she finally quieted, I heard Toby wake up not knowing his whereabouts and start to cry. I went in to comfort him and leave, but the effect was short lived and he started up again. I ended up crowding in beside him and Jacob, stuffing the three of us in a one person, junior tent. It wasn’t very comfortable, but I was sleeping out of doors, next to my wonderful boys, and listening to the eternal sound of flowing water smooth countless stones.

In the morning, we were up and moving around when Jacob said he wanted to go home. His comment came on suddenly, seemingly unrelated to anything happening at that moment. When Stephanie asked him why he wanted to go home, he said he needed to poo poo. I knew this was a daddy job, and started toward him, prepared to go for a walk in the woods, when Stephanie mentioned that she had seen an outhouse at the entrance to the campground.

I drove him over and walked him into the outhouse. I lifted the lid, and he got one glimpse of the distance down that hole and lost interest. Nevertheless, I got him settled without the aid of his big butt to little butt adapter he uses at home, which required double hand holding with dad. He said several times that he no longer needed to go, which I understood, but I continued to encourage him anyway. After a moment or two of boredom, he asked if we had any books, another norm from home. I told him no, we didn’t, but that we could just talk instead. I asked him how he liked camping, I asked him how he slept last night, and I got the typically short answers of an almost four year old. Then I continued and asked him, what are you going to do when you get home, and without a moment’s pause he said flatly, “Poo poo.” Yes, son, that’s what most of us do after a night away from home.

After having had returned to camp a while ago, Tobias also announced he had to poo poo. Stephanie and I glanced at each other, she volunteered to take him, and they walked off into the woods. A few minutes later, Tobias bounded back in to camp, seemingly lighter than he had left, and announced, “I’m a real camper now, dad!” I guess his woodland walk had met with success.

As ever, Stephanie makes camping comfortable. I am still surprised by her enthusiasm for being in the outdoors, and I still expect her to be disinclined to go. But this trip was her idea, and she is planning for the next outing. In the morning as we started to think about packing to go, she reflected, “We need to stay out two nights next time.” Far from ready to go, she is looking forward to staying longer.

And as long as we can pack it in the car, she is ready. I mentioned backpacking sometime, but she hesitated.  She cannot understand the appeal of A.) lugging everything around, and B.) not having everything a person might want. And especially since we have kids, we are dedicated car campers.

The day concluded back at home. We had dinner on the back deck while enjoying the late day sun. During dinner, Toby spontaneously stood on the bench where he was sitting and walked over to me and said, “You’re my best friend at all!” before hugging my neck. I don’t know where he got that, but it’s the highest compliment I have been paid in some time. Good weekend. 

The page is turned once more. This morning I’ll pack the few things left in the shack that has been my home, I’ll grab the last few things out of my classroom, and I’ll leave Circle to join my family in Fairbanks. The school year is ended, another chapter is closed. 

As I leave Circle, I will pass by that hairpin curve where Stephanie went too fast one time and lost control of the truck. I’ll see the place where Scott put his car in a snow bank and tried to walk to town before realizing almost immediately that it was far to cold to walk. Then I’ll come to that one place where I saw a bear while Jacob was sleeping as we drove together in to town.

I will be crossing the bridge over Birch Creek, where Stephanie and I got water from the river to filter when we first moved to Circle. Where we had a cookout and swim one hot summer afternoon. Where the Watsons and the Rozells ended an all night canoe trip.  Where I spent a summer night dragging two bedraggled hunters out of the river one inch at a time.

I’ll blast through Central and wave at the Steese Roadhouse where Stephanie and I had a few better-than-nothing Spaghetti dinner dates. I’ll look up that road to Ketchum Rocks where we took the boys on a couple of fun and frightening afternoons.

Crossing Eagle Summit will bring a flood of memories: Bernard getting stranded deep in winter and my going to fetch him in the middle of the night. Too many white knuckled passes through deep snow drifts and white out conditions. Spending the night of the summer solstice locked out of the Trooper and taking pictures of the midnight sun before catching a ride back to Fairbanks the next day with a stranger. 

I’ll remember the spot before 12 mile summit where I broke down and spent a cold night in the truck. As I crest 12 mile summit I’ll think about the time Stephanie and I shared a wine and cheese picnic before I set off for three days on the Pinnel Trail. I’ll remember Jan driving with us to Circle and not wanting to eat any of those wonderful blueberries.

At 80 mile, I’ll see the Montana Creek plow station and think about Bones and Mack, and the guys who drove the big snow plows and blowers; who kept the road as open as they could, and always gave me a wave as I blasted past.

I’ll stop and shoot at that fifteen foot wall of ice that forms each winter from a natural spring in the side of a hill; that ice that will still be there in June. Stephanie and I stopped one time and fired jacketed hollow points at that ice and then collected the mushroomed lead bullets and peeled brass jackets. They rattled in our ashtray for months after that.

When I see the Long Creek roadhouse, I’ll remember having breakfast that rainy morning with Stephanie, the morning after seeing the Indigo Girls in concert and cozy tent camping without kids.

Maybe I’ll stop at that place along the Chatanika where we used to stop so that Jacob could throw rocks in the water, and where Stephanie breast fed Toby that one time, way out in the middle of nowhere. I’ll throw some rocks for Jacob and say prayers of thanksgiving for my life, my family and these incredible experiences.

As I get close to town, I’ll eventually get to that point where the gravel road becomes paved again, and though I promised Stephanie I’d go slow, I’ll start thinking about being home, and about Jacob and Tobias waiting for me, and I’ll start driving faster. I’ll pass that one pull off where we fished for grayling, I’ll pass that log cabin with the great windows, I’ll cross the bridge over the Chatanika that has made me think of the Watson family every Sunday and Friday this past year, and finally I’ll be at the corner, the fist turn in a hundred and fifty miles, and I’ll be home. Ready to see what is around the next bend and on the next page.

I've used this comparison a couple of times, but it works: If you have ever stood at the rim of the Grand Canyon and just looked out in to the distance and allowed that grandeur to penetrate your senses and your soul for at least a moment, then you have experienced a degree of wonder that I can use to compare to a number of other experiences. Standing here and watching this mass of ice move down the river in one unending slurry, I experienced the same level of wonder as that at the Grand Canyon. The experience was as big. And no RV's. 

Yukon River Ice from Brian Rozell on Vimeo.

Yukon River Ice from Brian Rozell on Vimeo.

Yukon River Ice from Brian Rozell on Vimeo.

Yukon River Ice from Brian Rozell on Vimeo.

Untitled from Brian Rozell on Vimeo.

Yukon River Spilling Over Retaining Wall from Brian Rozell on Vimeo.

It's that time of year again. The ice on most of the interior rivers has gone out over the last week or so. Last and most dramatic, the Yukon River is beginning to break up and roll out. In Eagle, the next community up from Circle, the ice jammed up (which means that instead of all the chunks of ice flowing freely, some of it has clogged up and all the ice behind that is stacking up like so much traffic on an LA freeway) causing the water to flood the community with the worst flooding on record. All that ice should be making it's way down river to Circle sometime today or tonight.