It was a fine day for fly-fishing on the Big Wood River in Ketchum, Idaho last July. However, in calf-deep water, I slipped and completely lost my rod and reel. Gone. Disappeared. I’m in the outdoor industry and the gear was free, but still, how often can I get another free rod and reel? Which is why I spent an hour looking for it, came back the next day, and returned home dejected.

My lost & found ad on Craigslist reeled in a scammer. He wanted payment by Western Union, which was a definite tip-off to the rip-off. He might as well have been calling from Nigeria.  I didn’t fall for his trick. Meanwhile,  my Sun Valley buddy Mike bought a mask and snorkel and found the gear in a tree wheel that I would never have been able to reach otherwise.

So not only did I retrieve my rod and reel, but I got to expose the scammer. Give a listen:

http://www.komonews.com/news/consumer/101385804.html

—Jeff Blumenfeld

FYI, it's not a good idea to try and sell the Bill of Rights.

In the new non-fiction book Lost Rights: The Misadventures of a Stolen American Relic, David Howard retraces the surreal travels of an original, handwritten copy of the Bill of Rights. The 221-year-old document was stolen by an infantryman in Sherman’s army at the end of the Civil War and went missing for 138 years before turning up in an FBI sting in 2003. Here, Howard talks about his journey in pursuit of a prized parchment estimated to be worth as much as $30 million.

How far can a multimillion-dollar object like an original Bill of Rights really travel?

Pretty far, actually, during that many years on the lam. The soldier who looted it took it home to Ohio and sold it a year later for $5, and the guy who bought it carried the parchment all over the Northeast before settling in Indiana. And then in recent years the Bill of Rights began moving again; I went to Ohio, Indiana, Connecticut, North Carolina, Chicago, Philadelphia, New York City and D.C., among other places.

What was the oddest place the artifact turned up?

It hung on the wall of a nursing home for a while. And in a library vault. But the strangest spot was probably in the home of an ultra-high-end antiques dealer in Litchfield, Connecticut. That guy, Peter Tillou, told me that for a while he kept the Bill of Rights under his bed.

Any edgy moments?

I think people in the story were more scared of me than anything. It was a very sensitive matter involving a lot of high-end dealers of old things who didn’t know what I was going to write, and a lot of people weren’t happy when I kept showing up. I went to one antiquarian show to find a dealer who had been avoiding me, and his face registered, “Oh God, him again.” I also had a Chicago auctioneer kind of threaten me.

But both you and the Bill of Rights survived.

We did. The document is now in a vault in Raleigh, back where it belongs, and I pieced together the whole story. Funny thing is, with all that rooting around in the lives of wealthy strangers, probably the scariest single moment came after I interviewed Wayne Pratt, the antiques-dealer superstar who was trying to sell the Bill of Rights when the FBI pulled off the sting. He had never spoken to any journalist about it when he agreed to talk, but he wouldn’t let me tape the interview, so I had to take notes by hand. Then, when I flew to Chicago for another interview, I nearly left that notebook on the plane. This would have been catastrophic, because by then Pratt had died of heart failure.

I literally stood up to walk off the plane, and a guy across the aisle said, “Is that yours?” And pointed to the seat pocket in front of where I’d been sitting. I said, “Oh, my God, it is. Thanks.” It’s amazing, sometimes, the kindness of strangers.

You can buy Dave’s brand new book here.

Only one piece of carry-on luggage allowed? Make it this book.

Dear Readers, as you head into that great American tradition, a long, lost weekend of drunken pyromania family, friends, and tasty BBQ, take a minute to consider the less fortunate, like adventure travel writer Carl Hoffman, whose new book  ‘LUNATIC EXPRESS: Discovering the World…Via its Most Dangerous Buses, Boats, Trains, and Planes’ has just hit the shelves, despite his many apparent efforts to off himself while reporting it. Hoffman just returned from Thailand, where he traveled to write a piece about his 81-year old father’s restaurant in Chiang Mai. We caught up with him just as the jet lag was wearing off.

In one sentence, please defend your sanity. Thank you.

I did not jump out of a plane or climb a mountain or plunge down a waterfall in a kayak; I merely bought tickets on regularly scheduled buses, boat, trains and planes that millions of people take every day.

Seriously, should travelers throw caution to the wind and take their own Lunatic Express trips? What is it about moving around the world through these kinds of corridors that you found so compelling?

The whole point of the journey wasn’t some death defying macho thing, but to use those conveyances as a window through which to see and understand the world as it is for the majority of its people.  The world is changing rapidly and huge numbers of people, mostly poor, are on the move, traveling from countryside to city, from one end to the other of enormous cities, from country to country, on epic and often dangerous and uncomfortable journeys.  If you’re looking for an authentic travel experience, if you’re looking to meet people and plunge deeply into the world, than there’s no better place than an overcrowded Indonesian ferry or a jam-packed Kenyan Matatu or Mumbai commuter train.  And I found that the further off the beaten path I got, the more I put myself into places few westerners went, the more gracious the people became and I was treated with great care and hospitality.  So, in a word, yes.  Everyone should take their own Loony journey.

Any points in your reportage when you thought, ‘Feck. Now I’ve really done it. Goodbye, world.’ What happened next?

A few times I felt really, really out there – when I squeezed into a shared car in the Peruvian Amazon or when I boarded a small ferry in the Molucca Islands of Indonesia for a place called Buru, and I had no idea where I was going or what I’d find when I got there, and I carried no map or even extra food or water.  But those times were the best!  I felt a total freedom and exhilaration at moving through the world into this great unknown, and at giving up control and surrendering to whatever lay ahead.  And on a bus through Afghanistan, well, it broke down for a bit in a bad area and that was the only time I though, ‘uh oh, I’m stupid and if I die or get kidnapped it won’t be fun and what was I thinking?’  But then the bus coughed to life and off we went.

What’s the most important item in your bag or suitcase, aside from your passport?

My notebooks.  Everything else was replaceable, but those weren’t.  I kept them in sealed zip lock bags and close at hand, hoping if the ferry sank or the bus plunged off a cliff, I’d be able to keep them safe.  And something to read.  And Ibuprofen.  A must for hangovers.

Why do they hate us?

They don’t.  They love us.  They’re dying to know everything about us and they all want to move here.  The only people who hate us are urban Europeans, and that’s because they’re really so much like us.  And maybe a few Taliban, but they secretly all want to move here, too.

I’m a fan of writer William Boyd. His debut novel ‘A Good Man in Africa’ made me howl. What fiction and non-fiction travel-themed writers do you love the most, and why? Do you see yourself writing fiction? What’s next?

I love Tobias Schneebaum, a gay, New York artist who shed his clothes and disappeared into the Amazon in the 50s, and then lived with the Asmat in Indonesian Papua in the 70s.  ‘Keep the River on Your Right’ and ‘Where the Spirits Dwell’ are haunting, unbelievable books, and they’re all about the outsider in his own culture who seeks connection in the exotic, and sort of finds it, but not really, because a white Westerner is even more of an outsider with a bunch of natives than he is at home.  Naipaul’s old stuff like ‘A Bend in the River’ and ‘A House for Mr. Biswas’ really take you into the Congo and Trinidad, and Ryszard Kapuscinski’s African books are wonderful.  I loved Lawrence Osborne’s ‘The Accidental Connoisseur’.  John Burdett’s thrillers like ‘Bangkok 8′ and ‘The Godfather of Kathmandu’, about a half Thai, Buddhist detective in Bangkok, are pretty insightful about Thailand and fun to breeze through.

You seem totally unafraid of riding trains like the one on your book cover, overloaded with thousands of death-defying maniacs clinging to the roof. What are you afraid of in the United States?

I always get scared when I tip over my sailboat in the middle of the Potomac River.  Which is ridiculous, because the River is about four feet deep and warm and full of boats and only a mile across.  But it always freaks me out.

What’s the best skill or piece of local knowledge you’ve picked up from your book project?

I always jump into the front seat of taxis; it establishes a little dominance and rapport.  Never be afraid to eat street food or to walk into that dingy, crowded little restaurant.  And when in doubt, keep your back to the wall or keep moving.

Any countries you’re still dying to get to? Why?

So many!  All of Africa, especially the weird, crazy little countries of West Africa, like Liberia and Sierra Leone that are full of music and life and are recovering from horrible wars.  Ethiopia, because its landscape and its people are beautiful.  Burma, because its hot and wet and in a socialist authoritarian time warp.

My father used to tell me when I was little about DC’s inner city: Don’t be afraid; they’re just like you and me, only poor.’  I never forgot that and it’s true about the whole world.

The worst?

Don’t go there, it’s dangerous.

[Journalist Carl Hoffman traveled 159 days in 2008 and 2009 for The Lunatic Express, published by Broadway Books on March 16th, 2010. Buy it here. He is a contributing editor at National Geographic Traveler, Wired and Popular Mechanics magazines, and his stories about travel, adventure and technology – and often the nexus between them – also appear frequently in Outside, National Geographic Adventure and Men’s Journal. His first book, Hunting Warbirds: The Obsessive Quest for the Lost Aircraft of World War II, was published by Ballantine Books in 2001.]

Excuse me, but are you Betty White?

I was on vacation in France in September 1999 when my friends and I headed south to a wonderful small town called St. Remy de Provence.  We happened to arrive just before their “Ancient Festival” in late
September where the locals, dressed in traditional outfits, celebrate their heritage. There was a parade
through the village complete with shepherds with their sheep and goats, carts with shepherdesses pulled by donkeys, the French cowboys on horseback and women dressed in long gowns and mantillas on horseback. Delightful!

We had noticed signs posted throughout the town with bulls and “Attention” in large letters. After the parade we watched while the locals attached tall, sturdy metal fencing from building to building and it was explained in broken French/English that there would be a “bull demonstration”. The trip was getting better every minute.

Then suddenly with a massive  cannon boom the bulls were loose in the streets, buck wild and running in every direction. The cowboys rode with the bulls, goading them on with long poles, and the local men, now dressed in white and red sashes were running in front, by the side and behind the bulls.

Since this was a vacation, I decided, after watching a couple passes of the men and bulls, that this was an opportunity of a lifetime….


What happened next might seem hard to believe, but I swear it’s true. I shoved my packpack into my sister’s hands, squeezed through the fence and took off, trying my best
to run like the wind. I watched and would dart through the fencing when a bull was in hot pursuit…. sometimes more successfully than other times, as the locals didn’t always give me much room to escape. At one point while I was running a policeman ran up beside me. He was very worried for some reason (”attention madame…dangereux!”) and told me to climb into a phone booth but I decided that the phone booth could easily be a bullseye for a bull so just kept running. One man had run up a stairway to a hotel and the bull came right after him, ramming him in the thigh. Too bad for him; he was carried off as I circled around again. Hey, I thought, this is fun!

I ran for over two hours, my adrenalin wouldn’t settle down until late that night….and I had the time of
my life.  I was 54 years old and celebrated my adventure/survival that night with a great meal,
wonderful wine and a very early morning call home to my husband and son. —Linda Miller is a travel agent based in Portland, Oregon and told me this story on a recent flight when we happened to be seated in the same row. Then, as now, I thought, ‘I’m not worthy.’

Hang on to your Doritos!

St. Paul is a barren, five-by-seven-mile speck of rock in the middle of Alaska’s Bering Sea, the largest of five tiny islands collectively known as the Pribilofs. I found myself there last winter—ostensibly to report on the Coast Guard helicopter rescue crews that are forward-deployed to the frigid, windswept island during the deadly winter fishing season. (Ed note: the author, my friend Kalee Thompson, has a riveting new book about the Coast Guard in Alaska, Deadliest Sea, out this month. By all means, pick it up.)

I’d imagined spending every day flying with the air crews over the icy Bering, witnessing as they heroically swung into action to respond to life-of-death emergencies in the fishing fleet. Instead, the island was socked in for almost a week straight, and distress calls were scarce….

Instead of reporting on the Coasties’ emergency response, I spent a lot of time watching them shoveling snow and playing poker. I helped them build the most impressive snow fort I’ve every seen (an effort spearheaded by two producers from the Discovery Channel show Deadliest Catch, who were also there to tag along with the Coasties). And I realized that one of the best things about long-form journalism is the opportunity to become fascinated by things that weren’t included in the assignment memo. The history of life on St. Paul Island was a case in point.

Zacharof. Lestenkof. Merculief. Melovidov. Like in many of Alaska’s native communities, the surnames on St. Paul are Russian, even though 85 percent of the island’s residents have Aleutian ancestry. With a population of 450, St. Paul is the largest Aleut village in the state. Russian traders first “discovered” the Pribilofs in 1786. Aleut history holds that the foreign sailors were led to the chain by a native hunter. For centuries, the most striking thing about the place has been its fecund population of northern fur seals: Each summer, hundreds of thousands of the sweet-faced mammals gather on the islands’ shores. The number used to be in the millions.

The Russians already had established settlements in Dutch Harbor and on Kodiak Island in the 1790s when they began forcibly relocating Aleut people from the Aleutian Chain north to St. Paul and the nearby island of St. George. On the Pribilofs, the Aleuts were forced to hunt and skin seals for the Chinese market. Over the years, many of the Aleut women married Russian men, and virtually all of the native Alaskans joined the Russian Orthodox religion, whose onion-domed churches remain the most distinctive buildings in St. Paul, St. George, and many other small Alaskan communities.

St. Paul residents still hunt fur seal. The “harvest” is for subsistence only, and is subject to strict government regulation. A few hundred sub-adult males can be taken each summer. Only Aleuts can participate in the hunt, and only they can eat the meat. Not only it is illegal to sell the lean, bloody steaks, it’s against the law for hunters to share the seal meat with outsiders, even over their own dinner tables.

Traditionally, Aleut men hunted fur seals with a harpoon, from a kayak. The animals rarely come ashore near their Aleutian Chain villages. In the Pribilofs, a more efficient method was, and still is, used: The animals are herded from the beach into a pen, much like cattle. Then, one hunter clubs the seal on the head to stun it, while a second hunter stabs the animal through the heart. The process was designed to avoid damaging the seals’ valuable fur. Today, that fur is discarded—it, too, is illegal to sell, and both the equipment and skills that St. Paul hunters once used to dry and preserve the pelts have been lost.

Most of the money that comes into the St. Paul community comes through fishing, I learned. Aleut fishermen spend a good part of the summer trolling for halibut, a high-value white fish whose harvest is managed through quotas that are largely reserved for native communities. There are two fish processing plants in town: the Trident Seafoods factory on St. Paul Harbor, and the Arctic Star, a floating processor owned by Icicle Seafoods. In the warmer months, the island supports a small tourist trade of extreme bird watchers. But in the winter there isn’t any tourism, and almost no activity in town. For many Coasties, the best thing about the place is the caribou (reindeer, technically) that were imported as an alternative food source when the seal population plummeted in the early 1900s. Today, a herd of about five hundred roams the island, which is more than the land can comfortably support. The local tribal council happily allowed the Coasties to buy a $50 tag and do some culling.

When hunting season is over, there’s still hiking. I borrowed snowshoes and trekking poles and joined the “airdales” for treks along the ice at the edge of the beach. On the days when the roads were clear, we could drive a couple miles into town, where we spotted a Deadliest Catch boat offloading crab. There’s a small museum near the port, and the island’s only store, which sells groceries and bathroom supplies and knock-off Deadliest Catch sweatshirts. You can buy an ATV there, or a bunk bed, or a $9 bag of Doritos. Sometimes the Coasties went there just to look, just for somewhere to go.

I visited the store about four times, never buying anything. Just taking notes about a place I knew would likely be among the oddest and most remote I’d ever visit. —Kalee Thompson

Thompson’s new book, Deadliest Sea: The Untold Story Behind the Greatest Rescue in Coast Guard History, is out this month from HarperCollins. Visit her Web site at www.deadliestsea.com.

No convenience is overlooked in Paradise!

APRIL 18, 2010…After 25+ hours of traveling, my mom and I made it to Delhi from Denver. I was going to volunteer for three weeks, and roped her into a week of sightseeing first.  Although we consider ourselves seasoned travelers, my mom’s experience with Third World countries was non-existent, and she had a lot of apprehension, to say the least. I assured her all would be fine and I would handle it all. So, naturally, we were on Indian soil for only an hour, and already there was a story worth repeating.

As we walked out of the Delhi airport we looked for our hired guide among the hundreds of guides lining the exit waiting for their tourists to arrive…

Quickly, my mom spots a card with only my name, odd because our reservation was under my mom’s name, but whatever, we’re exhausted.  We get outside, it’s hotter than Hades (96 degrees at 10pm) - you can see the heat in the air.  And let me tell you, you can smell India. Then, the compact car is a true contender for the Wreck of Fame.  Odd, too, because we booked with a pretty high-end tour agency.  No matter, the guide and driver are friendly, and we are happy to be there.

We drive towards the city and it is that crazy-foreign-anarchy-driving-with-rik-shaws thing, complete disregard for lanes, mad honking and bright lights whizzing by.  We eventually take a right into what appears to be the “real” India, the kind you don’t see in magazines.  Swarms of people, men sleeping in the street, unbelievable heaps of trash and dirt, blinking lights, and oh yes, cows.  Lots and lots of cows, having their way with the streets, chowing on garbage. Suddenly, we park.  Something is up.

We are commanded to get out of the car and my mom and I look at each other with slight—well, real—confusion and dread. We watch or bags go up a dark, narrow alley way towards what is apparently out hotel for the night.  As we walk we pass tiny computer stalls lit-up by the monitors, rows of steaming food being sold out of silver pots, crisscrossing wires everywhere, and other skinny alleyways sprouting from this main drag. Our hotel was at the top of the walk, decorated in Salvation Army chic. It was like a scene from the Mel Gibson movie, “The Year of Living Dangerously”.

Apparently when I was researching different hotels and tours, the Paradise Hotel - irony of ironies - did not understand that I did not confirm with them and assumed we were coming.  So, our posh-and-paid-for tourguide was apparently still at the airport, while we’re in Hotel Hell’s 5×5 lobby. We never felt in danger, but I was sweating like a nervous Chihuahua. I just worried that they would leave us there to fend for ourselves - in the middle of Delhi, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a crisis. And don’t forget, I’m with my 60-something year old mother whose eyes are bugging out of her head.

Eventually I was on the phone with the Paradise’s tour guide who was yelling at me. We were getting nowhere fast. Next I was on the wrong hotel’s archaic computer trying to prove my case through email, also getting nowhere. When I asked the men in the background to make a call for me on their cell, they pointed to the cricket game on TV.

Awesome.

A lot of broken English and 2,000 Rupees later (with no clue how many dollars that was), these kind souls took pity on us and did indeed drive us to the correct hotel’s steps, which we kissed upon entry. Our new hotel was cow-free and the usual Armageddon scenery, thank God. My mom immediately tried to order a bottle of Chardonnay from room service, which was entertaining.  Fortunately, she succeeded.

Of course this happened. —Colorado native Kristin Rust has visited 27 countries in six continents, with a never-ending “Must Go To” list and a zealous desire to collect airline miles. A trip to Kenya last summer prompted her to quit her 15-year PR career and look into a life and career of world service—and hopefully, more misadventure.

Look kids, a real live bear!

To hear most family members tell it, the annual camping expedition of 1997 was a total disaster. First off, we took our local Catholic priest with us. He stole bread and wine—body and blood to most people we knew—from the church’s sacristy. After a thirteen-hour drive from Kentucky to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, within the hollow walls of the Ironwood Motel, we held mass. We asked for a blessed trip.

The summer’s worst storm began the next morning. To reach our campsite, we canoed the winding channels of Crooked Lake, portaged to High Lake, cut a diagonal, and established camp in the pine trees. I was thirteen that year, and by then the woods were as familiar as my backyard. Usually, the trip and set up took five hours. That day, fighting fierce headwind and spears of drizzle, we clocked ten.

Still, Dad insisted we proceed with all rituals. Before leaving Crooked Lake, he wrestled my brother’s new fishing pole from the bottom of his canoe.

“The honors,” Dad said, handing the pole to Father Dave.

“Been since Boy Scouts,” Father Dave muttered, grinning. He experimented with the reel’s release lever in his palm. He heaved forward and at the peak of his cast, instead of releasing only the lever, released his entire grip. Rod and reel dove together to the lake’s bottom.

My brother extended his small fingers, as if to catch it. “My pole,” he whimpered.

For a moment, no one else spoke. Even the loons were quiet. Obscured by the mist, the water seemed immediately still.

“You’ll love the portage,” Dad said, putting in a hard paddle toward the shore.

Once at the campsite, we hurried through unpacking the canoes, pitching the tent, chopping and covering the wood. Thunder stumbled across the lake.

Dad gathered us for the final task, the food hoist. He tied a rope around a rock, and I threw it over the chosen branch. He threaded the rope through a pulley and tested the knot at the other end. Every year, the knot and pulley secured a week’s worth of dry food—instant chili, bread mix, fruit—from bears. That year, the system also supported a box of wine, a sedative packed at the last minute to quiet our jumpy guest.

Dad wound the rope around his hand, one loop around his thumb, and heaved the load into the air. It was heavy. He grunted and stepped back to wrap the rope around a support tree. Behind him, exhilarated, Father Dave picked up the slack and offered an extra yank. The rope in Dad’s hand tightened and—pop!—his thumb lifted out of socket.

“Son of a—” Dad swallowed. He jiggled his thumb back into place. Rain cut through the upper canopy.

When the storm really unfurled, we aborted dinner and zipped ourselves into the big tent. We ate peanut butter crackers, which Mom made clear were a rare and dangerous treat. We should cross our fingers the storm discouraged the bears from foraging, because otherwise we might all be devoured. My brother curled around his NOAA weather radio, and the mechanical forecast walled us into sleep.

The week continued like this, right up until Father Dave’s last day, when the priest was stoking the fire with wet leaves and smoke billowed low over the whole campsite. Father Dave, however, had to leave a day early in order to make mass back in Kentucky. His last day was not ours. On Saturday morning, after Dad paddled him out and returned alone, we sighed collective relief. With one night of our unspoken rules unexplained, automatically followed, we might resurrect the trip.

Leftovers mean more weight to pack out, so that night we ate all our remaining food. Mom and Dad finished off the boxed wine. Rather, they tried to, but when they were drunk, they waved me into the woods to dump the dregs. Night in the Sylvania Wilderness is the darkest dark. One step feels like ten, and one step uphill feels like one hundred. At least, this is what I realized later.

We woke around midnight to Dad tugging our sleeping bags, almost imperceptibly. He was telling us to be very quiet, real careful now, because we were about to see our first live bear. In the lower right corner of the tent, Dad held the zipper between thumb and pointer finger. In the center of that wall, the center of the tent door, pressed a giant bear head. The head snarfled in the nylon, and with each breath, the fabric retreated into and puffed around the nostrils. Through our sleeping bags, my brother pressed his hand against my shoulder.

Mom went ballistic. Cursing everything north of the Mason-Dixon, she shook the sides of the tent. The bear ran for his life. In the green light of the nylon-filtered moon, my parents seethed at each other.

“Melinda,” my dad said. “You have ruined the chance of a lifetime.”

In the morning, seeing the slope behind our tent, we decided that I had walked only a few feet out of the site, drained the wine onto the hill. The fermented fruit had puddled at the base of our tent.

“So it’s Kate’s fault,” my brother said, diffusing the blame as much as he could, as always.

Truthfully, we all knew Dad wouldn’t have unzipped the whole door. There are two layers to the tent, the solid flap and the transparent scrim. Dad isn’t an idiot. The half-awake fear, though, after the ruined fires, the dislocated thumb, the torrential rain, had exhausted all of us. We drove back to Kentucky deflated. Dad chain-smoked out the window, the wind blew the smoke into the back seats, and the White Sox commentators reported more field errors, another loss. Immediately, my brother and I, even with our limited perspectives, registered the trip as legendary disaster.

When my dad tells the story, though, the trip is a near-triumph. Father Dave wasn’t bumbling and I wasn’t lazy. In Dad’s version, that summer he consciously lined up the risks so that stunning success might be possible. When Dad tells the story, he acts out the part with the zipper. He holds the pose long enough so we see the outline of the bear, we strain to know the whole face. In the retelling, we want him to unzip the solid flap, leaving only a transparent scrim between breathing beast and our young, ordinary family. Dad snaps back, skidding into the story’s end. The abruptness is impossibly sad. Right then, the trip has only one real blunder, and it is not meeting the bear face-to-face. —Kate Erickson grew up in Kentucky and now lives in Brooklyn. During the interim, she house sat on islands and drove produce delivery trucks over mountains. She is a frequent storyteller at The Moth storytelling series in Manhattan.

In 1980, Jimmy Carter established the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in the Alaskan Interior, cutting off 19 million acres of prime boreal wilderness from the mitts of fur trappers, oil tycoons, and would-be lodge owners alike. Only six families of white settlers were grandfathered in and allowed to keep cabins in the refuge—of them, only one still stays there year-round living off the land. His name is Heimo Korth, and he is basically the Omega Man of America’s Final Frontier.

Raised in suburban Wisconsin, Heimo set off in his teens to the Alaskan Bush to pursue the Davy Crockett lifestyle in more or less the only place it was still possible. Amid numerous setbacks and misadventures, Heimo gradually learned how to master his terrain, provide for his Eskimo wife, and rear children in one of the most inhospitable environments in North America. Here, the trailer to a 5-part series.

ALSO: Interview on Treehugger with the director of Heimo’s Arctic Refuge.

The full version of Far Out: Heimo’s Arctic Refuge - Now you can watch/embed the entire uncut doc in its awesome entirety.

Interview with James Campbell - Campbell, Heimo’s cousin, wrote a critically acclaimed book about him called ‘The Final Frontiersman’.

Like food? Check out these culinary posts about other Arctic delights. Caribou Tacos are just the start.

ANWAR Caviar - it’s freshest when it’s right out the river.

The defendant claimed temporary insanity.

I lived in paradise: a 500-person fishing village on the pacific coast of Nicaragua, where I taught English and watched the sun set everyday. Problem was, the stores in paradise didn’t sell any chocolate.

And, I like chocolate. “A day without chocolate is a day wasted,” my grandma always said.

“Megan, chocolate isn’t good for you,” said Juan, the manager of the hotel where I worked. “Here, have a tortilla.”

After a month in paradise sans chocolate, I had to get out. I joined a group passing through our tiny town to travel to a slightly less remote town on an island in the middle of a lake. Reason given: I wanted to hike Volcán Concepción, the first active volcano I would summit.

After a twelve-hour slog up and down a rainy, muddy, fog-shrouded mountain—and a less-than-climatic summit (no leaping lava, no spectacular lake view)—we arrived back to town and nursed our sore bodies and misguided expectations with fried food and liters of beer.

I had to make a stop after dinner, I told my companions, still hopeful I could make the trip worth my while. Sure enough, in town’s only grocery store, I found it: a Snicker’s bar. It was too expensive—three dollars, a third of the price of my single hotel room—but, it was chocolate, so I handed over all my money and tucked my treat into the back pocket of my jeans. I limped to the plaza and sunk into a bench, savoring my last moments of abstinence.

And then, a dog—a stray dog, huddled in a group—broke away, darted towards me, and with a well-timed and well-aimed jump, clamped down on the Snicker’s bar and snatched it from my pocket. It hesitated, and then it took off running.

Now. I did not travel to Nicaragua, trudge up and down a volcano for twelve hours, burn thousands of calories, drink a liter of beer, and pay 60 córdobas for a Snickers bar only to have a stray dog steal it out from under me. So, I too took off running.

It sprinted a block up the street—those little mangy legs moving faster than they ever had—and ducked into what I thought was a convenience store, but what turned out to be, I noticed only after I was already inside, mid-grab, a nice, normal Nicaraguan family’s home.

While it may socially acceptable for stray dogs to dart in and out of Nicaraguan homes—doors are usually left wide open in the evenings, inviting in the breeze—it is decidedly less so for wide-eyed gringas.

After I realized where I was—it all happened so fast, reaching for the Snicker’s bar, looking up and seeing an elderly woman sitting in a rocking chair, a man standing in front of a TV—I said, “ay dios, lo siento. Es que…¡el perro me robó el chocolate!”

As there really was no better way to explain my behavior than ‘the dog stole my candy’ I yanked the bar from the mouth of the equally as shocked dog, apologized again, darted out of the house, and arrived back to the plaza with an amputated Snicker’s bar in my hand.

The dog apparently had a quite a grip on the bar when I so lovingly ripped it out of its mouth, securing itself a hearty bite of more than half the bar. I thought about cutting off the infected portion and eating the rest, but seeing as better sense had finally caught up with me, I threw it away with a sad sigh. —Megan Kimble

I know it's around here somewhere...

The good thing about skiing in a ghost town is that you have the slopes—and the bar—to yourself. And the bad would be obvious…if you believe in ghosts. Well, I don’t. But one day last spring, I found myself wondering.

I’d been in Little Cottonwood Canyon Utah for all of three days in April, which sounds late for ski season only if you’ve never skied in Utah. Fact is, April can be prime time here, well after Spring Break but before the snow goes away for good. This is a canyon from Hellgate to Salt Lake City filled with a half dozen ski areas (including Alta and Snowbird) built atop what was once a warren of mineshafts and whisky traps, and at night in late April, in Snowbird at least, eeriness pervades.

Snow does, too. Sometimes when the spring clouds roll in and hit the Wasatch Mountains soaring straight skyward at the edge of town, avalanches rip down the canyon walls and close the roads, stranding skiers overnight. The local hotels often just let the refugees camp out for a fresh tracks slumber party. My housemate at the time and I had ventured out from NYC to try our luck with the calendar, and weren’t disappointed. Soon after we arrived the sky was puffing white, and while the base areas were slushy, we were soon feasting on powder in Snowbird’s higher bowls, like those accessed off of Cirque Traverse, a double black diamond crescent of steeps that seemed to shelter snow as dry and light as crumbled Styrofoam.

But there was definitely something strange going on. For one, our hotel was dead empty and stone silent. We’d been hoping for some aprés-ski tomfoolery, but the bars sat near-empty. Scenes from ‘The Shining’ kept running through my mind. After skiing on day one, as we stood outside the Tram bar, a subterranean watering hole with a widescreen view of the steel wheels that send Snowbird’s tram skyward every day, we listened as a beer-soaked local told us about Big Bertha, a local “entertainer” who’d pleasured many a miner but died unhappily in a slide. Or something. We chuckled. Sure man. Woo, scary. Have another.

Two days later it hadn’t stopped snowing. We’d skied our way around the mountain, having a blast—powder on top, corn at midmountain—and had one more chance to rip fresh tracks in the good stuff before making our flight home to NYC. For some reason I thought of Bertha as we dropped into an upper bowl, carving big GS turns in over-the-knee powder, whooping as we went.

Then I hit a submerged ice block with my left ski, pinwheeled ass-over-teakettle, and glimpsed a streak of color out of the corner of my eye as my now-released ski soared like a javelin. Sideways, I was sure. Had anyone been near me—my roommate was out of range—they’d have been diving for cover. I didn’t see where the ski landed, but I came to rest about 50’ below the icechunk.

“You OK?” Jimmy shouted up from hundreds of feet below. I was, but my ski was AWOL. G-o-n-e. Not a trace. I started bootpacking around using my pole for a probe, and searched for 15 minutes in an ever-widening square. Then I kept searching. And searching. The ski was nowhere. Here it was our last day on the slopes, the powder had arrived, and I was spending it searching for my damn ski. Over an hour passed and I’d searched an area about the size of a basketball court. Jimmy finally hiked up. “Man, you’re going to have to go down on one ski,” he said. These were rental randoneé skis from REI, a nice pair of K2 Mount Bakers, and I winced imagining how I’d tell the guy where I’d left his gear.

Jimmy was standing below me a few meters. I’d reached both the bottom limit of my search area and my patience, sweat-soaked and angry. We were at least 75 feet from the spot I’d lost the ski. The morning was shot. Jimmy eyed me with pity and plunged his pole into the snow.

Whack. There it was. He hit it on his first jab. “No way…”

I clicked in. We had just enough time to bomb to the bottom, check out, and fly home. Thanks for the memories Bertha, we’ll miss you, too. —Christian DeBenedetti