I park my Subaru next to a behemoth truck, Ford F-350 with duallys – a ranching rig. Another big truck is parked around the side. I wonder who drives these rigs. I wonder if I’ll be welcome here, a city-slicker wanting to be a mountain man… a liberal smack in the middle of red country. I take a deep breath and pull on the bulky iron door handle.

There’s two women in the bar, one bartender, one customer. Both in their late 30s, maybe early 40s. Wouldn’t have guessed this crowd from the trucks outside, but what does that say about assumptions? I cozy up at the corner of the bar on a plastic-topped red stool dashed with glitter. It’s a safe distance from both women… no obligation to make conversation unless they initiate.

“What would you like, hon?” asks the bartender, a short blonde, maybe the kind of woman who packs a .38 snub in her purse. I’ve seen it before.

“You have any IPAs?” I ask.

“Sorry hon, only Coors, Coors Light, and Budweiser.”

“Oh ok, I’ll have a Bud Heavy then.”

My beer reference gives her a bit of a snicker… a foot in the door? The other bar goer turns to me. “Where you from?” she asks. “It’s that obvious, huh?” “Yep. Plus I already know everyone around here, and I don’t know you.”

I hesitate to reveal my current city of residence in places like this. Once it’s out there, I can’t take it back, and the judgement will be final. “San Francisco,” I say. “Oh Frisco, and what the heck are you doing all the way out here?” “I don’t know… I think Nevada is beautiful, and I’m here to photograph it.” “Really, well there ain’t much to see.” “Yeah, well I like the mountains, and there’s plenty of them.” “That’s true, I guess we get pretty used to the way things are out here.”

“Say, where you stayin’ tonight?” she asks. “Oh, I was gonna head out to that state park.” The two women catch eyes. “You’re nuts, it’s freezing out there tonight,” says the bartender. “I am kinda crazy, but I have the winter gear. Don’t worry.”

I drink my two beers and slip on my jacket for re-entry into the night. The other patron, whose name is Georgia, stops me. “You know, hold on a minute, let me call my husband… we own a little cabin across the road that you may be able to sleep in.” “No, you don’t need to do that for me,” says my Midwestern roots. “Well, let me just call him and see, OK?”

What goes into a $600 tripod, and why it matters.

Big business is messing with small-town Alaska.

An Arctic Deployment