North to Alaska - Jimmy Who?

All kinds of different people come to Alaska for all kinds of different reasons.  They all have one thing in common although no matter how hard they make their denials.  They all want to escape from something.  They seem to want protection from the past that only isolation can bare true witness too.  It might be the routine of a life in the suburbs, the clutter of urbanity, wives, husbands, debt collectors, the law, a failed relationship, or even themselves and sometimes others who are to frightening for most of us to contemplate.  I have met all at one time or another during my tenure here.  Some readily talk about why they left where ever they left from, while others reveal nothing about their past.

The most mysterious guy I have met up here is named Jim Huff.  He is a square looking fellow whose age could be anywhere between 60 and 80.  He is almost as wide as he is tall but seems to be in pretty good shape given his age.  He lives in a cabin all alone just off one of the numerous trails coming from the Twins home to our cabin.

Like most people I meet up here it was by accident.  Always being the sociable type I stopped to see who lived in the very quaint little cabin partially hidden by the willows.  As I was about to knock on the door it sprung open and I was met by Mr. Huff with a shotgun leveled at my stomach.  He did not seem very sociable at all.  He said, “I need a pass word.”  I replied that I wish I had one to give him and hurriedly said something about being the new teacher, I came from Tucson, grew up in Independence, hoped Big Bear and Uncle Frank had told him I really was a nice guy, and I thought I might just be on my way and was sorry to have bothered him.  I sad all this in such away that I even noticed my hysteria.  He then smiled at me, lowered his firearm and sheepishly said with a slight smile, “Sorry I thought you might be someone else.  I don’t have many visitors.” 

He asked me to come in for a cup of tea which did not resonate at first due to my hyperventilating.  He took my arm and helped me to a chair.  He sat me down and poured me a cup of steaming tea.  As I was looking for a sack to put over my head, which is what I remembered people did when hyperventilating, he apologized again.

We both sat in silence awhile till I could recuperate and then we got the formal introductions out of the way.  In deed he did know that a new teacher was in the area but he had recently had some unwanted visitors and thought that I might be of the same ilk.  I looked puzzled but before I could ask him any questions he just waved me off by his big meaty hand and said, “Never mind.”  He still had the shotgun so I never minded.

He asked where I was from, why I came here, who my favorite students were, what sport teams I liked, if I could shoot a gun, was I a member of the teachers union, did I think I was being treated fairly by the school district, if I was of Italian decent, and was I in anyway associated with any law enforcement agencies, state or federal.  I answered all his questions but when I tried to ask him questions again he again put his hand up which I took for a signal for me to stop.  I dutifully obeyed since I noticed he still had the shotgun leaning against his leg.

He talked, I listened.  I could tell he was from some where in the Midwest even though he said he was from Alabama.  He said he didn’t like the Cardinals or the Chiefs but did like the Tigers, Lyons, Red Wings, and Pistons.  He said he was a research scientist studying aquatic marine life, which I thought a little strange because he lived a good twenty or so miles from the lake.  He claimed he had lived in the cabin for over twenty years and that it was a gift from grateful admirers because of some favors he had done them years ago.  He talked for about an hour more and said a lot but upon reflection said nothing at all.  When I left I knew hardly anymore about him than I did when I first arrived. 

I shook his meaty hand after he transferred the shotgun to his left hand.  “Next time yell from the trail before you come to the door.  It is safer that way.”  I assured him I would.

Two miles down the trail I ran into Big Bear.  He asked me if I had been visiting Jim Huff and was wondering if he was home.  He said he had a couple of letters that seemed important since they were postmarked Washington D.C.  “Thought I would bring them out personally.”  “Who is that guy?” I asked as I pointed over my shoulder with my thumb.  No one seemed to know was Big Bear’s reply.  “He just lives there all alone.  Now and then a couple of people come by who say they are Federal Game Commissioners but they never stay very long.”

When I got back to my cabin I related my encounter with Mr. Huff to Bev.  I told her the guy looked vaguely familiar but for the life of me could not place him.  I knew Bev hated the Red Wings since she was a staunch Blackhawk fan and I ventured an opinion that he might have been a retired hockey player.  She went to the computer punched up Jim Huff and found nothing.  She then tried J. Huff, James Huff, Jimmy Huff and Jamie Huff.  Perhaps I misunderstood his name and it wasn’t Huff.  She then tried just J. H. Detroit Red Wings.  Nothing.

We were about to give up when I mentioned to her the strange questions he rattled off when we first met.  Like did I belong to the teacher’s union, was I being treated fairly, was I an Italian, or a law enforcement agent.  Bev’s Sicilian eyes widened like a moose’s caught by the head lights.  She typed in J. H, teachers, union, Detroit.  She looked at the screen in shock.

She showed me the info that popped up and there was Jim Huff in handcuffs being lead out of the federal courthouse in Detroit but the caption did not use the name Huff.  We closed the computer and decided that such information should be left alone and swore to each other that we would never bare witness to the whereabouts of “Mr. Huff” to anyone, especially to members of her “Family.”