"It's like fire and ice. I feel my role in the band is to be somewhere in the middle, like lukewarm water." - Derek Smalls, Spinal Tap

Pictures with funny captions to follow, as soon as Blogger is taking them again . . .

It was Sunday, and the in-laws are in town. We were sitting around, staring at each other. There was a palpable silence, punctuated only by the occasional blurt of The New Boy as he made his (mostly) indecipherable The New Boy Noises.

So, on a sunny, beautiful, warm day in Fairbanks we sat inside. And sat.

Finally I had enough sitting. I could go cut wood, sure, but that would leave everyone else just sitting. And, I could cut wood only in a theoretical (metaphorical?) sense, since I had finally cut up the last long pieces a week before.

Innocently, I said, “Hey, we could pile into the car and drive north, until we run out of the asphalt pavement that’s bumpy enough to knock your fillings out, and then hit the gravel roads that are bumpy enough to give you a concussion. Anyone want to do that?”

I actually did want to do that, but my proposal was as popular as a pork chop at a PETA conference. (One day PETA will come to their senses and declare that, instead of meat being “murder,” meat is actually a “vegetable,” and stuff greasy gobbets of ribeye into their deprived gullets, until they collapse into a protein and fat fueled haze.)

Dead silence.

Finally a mish-mash of suggestions started flowing, and the end result was a trip to Chena Hot Springs was voted the winner. Chena Hot Springs is a resort about 59.543 miles east of Fairbanks. It’s a nice scenic drive, if you’re the type that considers mountains and trees and wildlife scenic. I have to admit that as I drive, I just look at the trees and think of how good they’d look in my Earth Stove.

The Mrs., however, was being a stick in the mud. Last time her parents were in town, we took a trip down towards Denali. Given that there were more humans than actual padded seats, she rode in the part of the SUV usually reserved for:

• groceries,
• spare tires,
• plastic bottles half full of anti-freeze,
• assorted hand tools, socket wrenches, wires
• cases of duct tape, and
• the occasional John Deere part.

Being stuck in her Prima Dona roll, she insisted that she sit in an actual seat made for humans instead of being perched on the floorboard of the Wildermobile like a commodity purchased from Home Despot. She would have The Boy sit in her lap.

So, packed into the car, we started down the sixty or so miles to Chena Hot Springs.

Chena Hot Springs is a great resort. They have a geothermal well that they use to heat the buildings, and also power a refrigerator (you can do that, but it involves math and engineering and stuff) that keeps a building full of icy stuff (like ice walls, ice tables, ice plates, and other icy stuff) icy year ‘round. It was originally billed as an ice “hotel” but you couldn’t put people in there because their fire insurance didn’t like a hotel having only one entrance and exit. Besides, if the ice caught fire, oh, my, the humanity!

Oh, and they have hot springs that people soak in. We didn’t bring our swimming suits, since they don’t allow children under the age of 18 in the hot spring pool, and The Boy and The New Boy don’t do especially well on their own, since they would trade our house for a handful of “magic” beans. I did that once, and my folks never really forgave me, especially after that giant killed Dad.

So, we went up there and looked around. My father-in-law bought a bumper stick that says, “I got soaked at Chena Hot Springs, Alaska.” For the record, he did not soak.

Net result: 119.086 miles driven, 21 pictures taken, and $2.95 spent on a fraudulent bumper sticker (no taxes).



The one picture I did get to post is the ad for Cemetary Man. Yes, they're sending me a copy of this one, too. I read the reviews on Amazon, and the first few were quite positive, though the one negative review was one of the funniest I've ever read. I'll give you my take when my copy shows up.