On the Alaska peninsula, it rains a lot. It rains in a way some Californians can probably not imagine: steadily, relentlessly, and daily. Once, on the Tikchik and Nuyakuk rivers, I had 12 straight days that were mostly rainy. When it wasn't pouring, it was steadily raining. And when you got a good break, it was still drizzling. I was just lucky that the sun came out on the last couple of days so that I could dry out all my stuff -- otherwise my sodden gear would have been so heavy it would have prevented the bush plane from taking off.
In Katmai, where fairly windy low-pressure systems blow in regularly, this is a more likely scenario: I'm laying down in my tent, nice and tired and ready for some rest, and a steady rain is falling. However, both the rain and wind get a little more intense, and now the trees are swinging around (and howling a bit) and letting big blasts of rain intermittently down on my tent's tarp. Have you sat in a tent and heard that abrupt, rattling sound, my friends? It is not conducive to peaceful sleeping.
"BRAAAPP!!!!" (Pause, wind howls). "BRAAAAAAAAPPPP!!!!" (More howling).
Tent discomforts in Alaska are legendary. If you get up in the middle of the night needing to relieve your bladder, you don't just saunter out in your birthday suit and let it rip. If it's raining, you are talking about getting soaked. Unless there's a real good wind, you're talking about getting twenty to a hundred mosquito bites before your bladder empties. If there IS a good wind, you'll be chilled and possibly shivering before you get back in the tent door. So, inevitably, you have to put on clammy rain gear, or your shell layer, and don't forget about pasting some bug dope onto your hands and face, because god knows they will get you in those places.
You do get used to it, but that does not mean it isn't annoying.
Mornings can be tough. My idea of heaven is waking up to already-brewed coffee, being handed to me in a mug, preferably in bed, most preferably of all, by a congenial member of the fairer sex. Obviously, this is not part of the plan in Alaska. And it's worse than you think: I not only have to get dressed, and put on boots, and heat water, and all that predictable shit -- I also have to carefully and slowly approach my food cache, which will be located a decent distance from the tent, calling out softly to let any possible bears know that I am coming. I have to look over my shoulder during the vulnerable moments in which the top of the bear can (and/or kevlar bear sack) is open, and then haul all the morning's eatables, plus the stove and fuel can that also live in the food cache (along with anything else smelly, like handkerchiefs, toothpaste, and pans) another 100 yards or so away from the food cache just in order to get STARTED with the water-boiling and oatmeal-stirring tasks that I wish to god someone else were doing for me while I slept.
On the other hand, it is about the only way I wake up properly without caffeine already in my veins. And when the caffeine starts to flow, it doesn't matter much if there's rain or sun -- I'll start getting very very excited about a day ahead that holds big fish or a paddling challenge or new territory to explore.
That's just a few of the annoyances I'm going to be living with next week, and it feels good to talk about them. They just remind me of the rest of the picture, and they sure as hell aren't going to stop me from heading up there in three days now . . . .
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