Eskimo Scouts

A local National Guard detachment had been given notice that they were to be deployed to Iraq a few Junes ago. This in and of itself was not newsworthy unless you lived in the area. It was and still is a story that is being replayed in cities, towns, hamlets, and villages all over the United States.

Like in all small communities, relationships among the residents was tight, and it was hard to find anyone not related to someone else around Buckland, either by blood, or common law adoption, not affected by the call-up.

A couple of the community leaders approached the school and it was decided by all that there needed to be a special event in honor of all the veterans and members of the community who were soon to be leaving to serve their country. So as in all small places where people live out their lives, it was decided that a community potluck should be held, followed by a short honoring ceremony.

As the time rolled around for the event to begin the serving table filled with food. Plenty of meats, fish, soups, potatoes, pastas, and cakes adorned. Someone even had time to bake a huge cake resembling the U.S. flag.

After the opening prayer, to which the school cafeteria was no stranger, and after everyone had their fill, the principal started the program with heartfelt words about his own relatives being sent off to war years ago.
He asked all veterans in the audience to come forward and be recognized. I was proud to be one of those so honored.

To watch the throng move forward from the crowd reminded me of the Phoenix rising from the ashes. I had no idea there were so many veterans in our small village along the banks of the Buckland River just short of the Arctic Circle.

Every major conflict since WW II had at least one representative, and several villagers – including one woman – had served in peacetime.
The senior vet was asked to remain, and the two school employees and the wife and mother of one young man not yet back from basic training were brought to the front. The principal and the elder vet honored the three citizen soldiers with little mementos.

Each was given a yellow ribbon pen for their spouses, a small U.S. plastic flag, National Guard T-shirts for their children, a window banner with a star in the middle, and a camouflaged handkerchief emblazoned with the 91st Psalm, which was promptly read to the audience.

The guardsmen had their pictures taken; the photographs will be hung in a prominent place in the school until their return, and if my tenure among the Inupiaq people serves me well, for a long time to come.

The school counselor, a major, said a few words of thanks and credited his wife for assisting him in anything that anyone might think he ever did that was admirable. Next came the maintenance man/basket ball coach, a 1st sergeant (who looked like a 1st sergeant should,) who told the young men who were not going that they had the responsibility of taking care of the young and elders. The lady teacher, who was married to the young man in basic training, said she had just talked to her husband in Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, and that he was proud to be doing what his country had called him to do.

That June the Inupiaq Eskimo villages of Kobuk, Shungnak, Kiana, Noorvik, Noatak, Deering, Kotzebue, Kivalina, Buckland and all villages that dot either side of a line we call the Arctic Circle, once again sent their best and brightest off to war.

Just like their fathers and grandfathers, who helped protect our northern border during the Cold War, as members of the Alaska Territorial Guard Scout Battalion, the 207th Infantry Brigade (Scouts), carried their banner to a far distant land, protecting a far different kind of border, in a place and war that is not so cold.

Death on the Tundra

Bright Moon and a bunch of her friends were riding their four wheeler s on the beach late one night. They were playing a game the kids called ditch'm. Bright Moon was riding with three other girls when they hit a piece of driftwood and thrown in different directions. All suffered head trauma. They were evacuated to the regional hospital a couple of hundred miles away by plane. No small feat in the middle of the night in the Alaskan bush but unfortunately a common one. Bright Moon was the most severely injured so she was sent on to Anchorage. The family managed to raise enough money to be at her side the next day and eventually faced the horrendous decision of pulling the plug.

School was sort of a dismal place waiting for news about Bright Moon's condition. The vice principal spoke over the intercom to try and set the record straight about her condition and asked everyone to observe a moment of silent prayer. An hour later he came back over the intercom and informed us that Bright Moon had died. School was dismissed.

The next day some village elders, a social worker and the missionary came to Bright Moon's classroom and had everyone who wanted talk about her and more or less comfort one another. They sang songs, held hands, and prayed. No separation of church and state that day.

A day or so later her body was flown back to the village where it was laid out on the family's living room floor. The wake was like a wake anywhere else. Friends and neighbors brought food, shared hugs and memories, shed tears, and bid Bright Moon farewell.

The next day a large funeral was held in the school gym. All the stores were closed, school was put on hold, and even the post office closed down.

A few days later Bright Moon's mother came to our classroom and presented us with an 8 x 10 colored photograph of Bright Moon. I found an old rosary and draped it over the picture. The picture and rosary hung there the rest of the school year.

When I returned the next school year the picture was still hanging on the wall. Some of Bright Moon's friends came by and asked if they could take it to their new classroom. It was a procedure that would be followed until her class graduated from high school.

The year book that year will have a page dedicated to Bright Moon and her presence and at the graduation ceremony her picture will be placed on the seat where she would have sat. Her name will be read as if receiving a diploma and then a close friend or relative will carry the picture down the aisle towards the future that should have been hers.

One day my teaching partner George and I decided to go down by the beach and look at the pack ice forming on the Bering Sea.  The snow-go, what they called snowmobiles up there, was to small for the two of us, so we hooked up a dog sled sort of thing.  George being the younger and more athletic stood on the back like he was driving a team of malamutes or huskies, I drove.

We cut across the tundra and because I was fully clothed in Arctic gear I found it difficult to keep an I on George.  I was able to turn my head just far enough to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, so really all was well.

We made it to the beach without incident, dismounted and walked out onto the ice and marveled at all the structures that waves and freezing cold produced. We went out as far as we thought safe and then realizing we did not have a rifle and a Polar Bear had been reported a few weeks earlier, we decided to return and began our trip back to the village.

We followed the coast line which we knew would take us back to the village but after travelling for awhile I got bored and tired of the monotonous journey and decided to use dead reckoning.  I cut across the sand dunes, around and between piles of snow and ice and just wove my way through the maze.  I was not concerned about George because I could see his shadow in front of me.

Eventually I got through the the dunes and made what I figured was a bee line to the village. The sun had changed directions and there were no more shadows but the tundra was flat and little could happen to George. My dead reckoning was good because I soon saw the village just a little south of where I thought it should be.

We entered the village and the natives we passed on our way back to our abodes seemed a little more friendly than normal.  They kept waving and yelling out something I could not understand because of the roar of the snow-go.  I smiled and waved back.

I pulled up in front of George's place, shut off the engine, dismounted, turned to talk to George and ...no George.  My stomach turned over.  I hurriedly unhooked the now empty sled, tried to figure out where I had lost him and if I could retrace my path.

As I was winding my way back out onto the tundra through the village I saw George.  He was smiling and un hurt.  He told me that he had tied his left leg onto the sled when we hit the village ice roads because the sled was whipping around and he was afraid of losing his balance.  The sled did go side ways on the ice and he lost his footing and was dragged down the icy road for aways.  He said the natives were yelling and waving at me to stop but the noise of the snow-go was to great and I had not hurt them. He was eventually able to get his knife out and cut the rope thus freeing himself.

 For some reason George never again invited me to drive his snow-go.

Igloo

Teaching in bush Alaska had some advantages.  One was the money but one that I found more important was the flexibility in following class decorum.

The kids were always ready to do anything other than the 3 R's, so I had not gotten "out side" out of my mouth before they had bolted from the room one cold and snowy morning.  I was much impressed at their behavior and felt a little smug because they all used the door instead of jumping out the nearest window which had not been uncommon when I first arrived.

We soon had constructed two snowmen about 10 feet from one another and decided to build an igloo between them.  We built our structures in front of a conex, which I might add permeated the land scape and were used for storage.  The only problem is that they were like magnets to the kids.  They would climb on top of them then hurl themselves off the top on to the snow.  Sprains and broken bones were not uncommon.

When we began building the igloo I realized that we needed a snow knife to trim the edges and cut the blocks more efficiently.  I sent a couple of the kids home to bring one back, (try that in the lower 48.)

It took us less than 30 minutes to build our structure.  I was impressed.  It was not every man, I thought, who could direct the building of such an elaborate structure that would last until at least the end of May.

All the kids started crawling in and out of the igloo and suggested I do the same.  I decided it would not hurt anything, besides they said they were wanting to figure out where a rear exit should be cut.  I took a young boy with me and we decided where the cut should be made and he started whacking away with the snow knife.  He made the exit just large enough for him to get through so I had to turn around and leave by the front entrance.

As I was just about to leave, a giant snow ball was rolled in front of the entrance preventing me.  Ha, ha, I got the joke, very funny, "now let me out."  Silence.  More silence.  I looked at my watch, it was about lunch time.  Could they have gone on to lunch and left me there?  Certainly not.  All of a sudden two young agile Eskimo children came crashing through the top of the igloo.  They had jumped from the conex.

We dug our way out, went on to lunch where I picked up a different bunch of kids for the afternoon class.  They decided that it would be fun to build an igloo.  What a surprise.  They even produced a snow knife that looked a little familiar.

After we had built their igloo, they wanted me to go inside to help decide where the rear exit should be placed.  I had learned my lesson well and did not bite this time, but I did manage to do a somersault off the top of the conex on to the igloo that would have scored a 10 at any Olympic competition.

On a Bear hunt, of sorts.

Bear Hunt          Tales From Conley


The sighting of a polar bear in the part of Alaska I lived in for awhile was not common, if at all.  You would hear stories now and then that one had been observed a few years back, but never who it was who actually saw Ursus maritimus.  I figured it was the village version of our urban legend.

However one day my teaching partner, George, came back to the village after an afternoon tundra excursion all excited and said he had spotted what looked like paw prints down along the beach several miles north .  The towns people grew very excited because they knew George would not fabricate such a story.  So off they went in search of the polar bear.

They returned several hours later and nothing to show for their efforts other than empty gasoline tanks and a touch of frostbite or two.  George was a little crestfallen because the hunters of the north had not even been able to find the tracks where he told them to look.

The next morning George called me on the phone and asked if I knew how to fire a rifle and was I comfortable driving a snowmobile.  Yes and some was my reply.

We met about an hour later, mounted our snowmobiles, equipped with rifles, one camera and a GPS.  An hour after that we were standing over the paw print of, what seemed to me , must have been a tremendous size bear.  The tracks were leading north down  along the beach.  George took several pictures to prove to the villagers that what he had seen was true.  I thought that would be all we needed.

George on the other had thought we should track the bear and see if we could take some close up pictures.  I thought this was a terrible idea especially when he mentioned taking close up pictures.  He countered that our snowmobiles could out run the bear, but I still had no desire of being chased along the Bering Sea by a pissed off creature.

Logic eventually prevailed and we returned to the village with picture proof.  Problem was the camera had not worked.  We tried to convince the villagers what we had seen was accurate and we had GPS data in hand and it was worth another try on their part, but they had more important things to do.

George never did quite forgive me for talking him out of tracking the bear.  It was not that I was afraid to you see, it was just I remembered a friend of mine telling me once that "you never hunt anything that is big enough to hunt you back."

The Adventures of Conley McAnally: Conga Queen - revisited

The Adventures of Conley McAnally: Conga Queen - revisited: The United States Government wanted to provide economic assistance to Panama after the fall of Manuel Noriega. A small part of that assistan...

Conga Queen - revisited

The United States Government wanted to provide economic assistance to Panama after the fall of Manuel Noriega. A small part of that assistance was to send a National Guard Engineering Battalion to build a road between Nombre de Dios and another small village just south.

I have never been one to question the wisdom of the military so when I was assigned to a Military Police Company as a Major of Artillery in charge of security I took it in stride. I knew nothing about building roads, military policing actions, or security. I was sure that my three weeks in Panama were going to be a cross between SNAFU and FUBAR. Oddly enough things went smooth because I made a command decision and turned everything over to an MP Captain and stayed out of his way.

Having the captain run things allowed me to roam around the jungle area and visit those places that were off limits to the troops. Some one had to recon those areas to make sure those who were not supposed to be there were not. Might as well have been me. Apparently the GI’s were behaving themselves because I never did find anyone where they were not supposed to be.

My snooping took me into Nombre a lot. I made friends. So good of friends in fact that I would eat lunch and most of my dinner meals at what passed for an outdoor café.

To call Nombre a town would be giving it to much credit. It did have a school and a church with no pews, a clinic which I never saw open, an out door bar supported by telephone looking poles, and a combination grocery store and oriental restaurant, which to call it such is a stretch. But what made Nombre alluring were the many huts made from plywood, most resting on stilts surrounded by a beautiful bay with a black sand beach.

I quickly made friends with the town’s chief law enforcement officer and mayor. They introduced me to this old black lady whose house rested on stilts just off the lagoon part of the bay. I never really understood why she took a liking to me since we did not communicate very well. I spoke no Spanish and she spoke only a smidgen of English. But regardless I would sit on her porch in the evening, listening to the waves break upon the shore, watch the stars and moon glide across the Atlantic side of the Panamanian sky while drinking a beer perhaps, which cost twenty-five cents. She may have wanted me around because I would bring her fruit and MRE’s the soldiers did not want. It was a fare trade as far as I was concerned.

One evening while protecting my country from the onslaught of some creature from what I referred to privately as the Black Lagoon, I heard the faint sound of drums and beautiful voices in the distance. Through a communication system that the lady and I had developed she told me the people were practicing for the visit of the Conga Queen.

Two nights later I had organized a cook out for some of the neighbors. I had one of the guys go buy beer and steak to feed twenty or so and only insisted that the local yucca root be sliced like French fries and deep fried. This party cost me less than $20.

We were done with our meal when a delegation of sorts came to the party. They informed the gathering that the Conga Queen was about ready to begin but did not want to start until the American’s showed up. ( I did not mention that I needed help in my recon that evening so asked the Captain to come along.)

It seemed like the entire village was there waiting for us. The village people formed a large circle with the drums and singers I had heard two nights previously congregated at one arc. In the middle of the circle was this very tall black lady, wearing what reminded me of African dress and adorned with a large Carman Miranda headdress.

She swayed and back and forth looking as though she was in a trance but in reality just dancing and ignoring the crowd. Now and then a male would jump into the circle make stalking like moves towards her and she would still ignore the advances and when tired of her intruder she would just wave him off and then another would enter the arena. I got the impression that I was watching a mating dance or a ritual related to a hunt. I never did find out exactly what they were doing.

The Conga Queen eventually started undulating and swaying over to where I was standing and took my hand and led me to the center of the circle. I was supposed to do the same thing the other men had done, but could not really get into the ceremony. I just sort of stood there rocking back and forth feeling very awkward. I was finally waved away by the Queen to my great relief.

She took a short break and food was served along with some pretty good tasting stuff I was sure was loaded with alcohol.

She returned to the circle, the music began and everything started repeating itself, but this time the men who jumped in the circle were more aggressive and she just as aggressive would wave them off. It was like none were good enough for her.

Having been embolden by the beverage that I had grown very faun of I walked into the ring, took the Conga Queen in my arms looked up into her eyes and told her that she was going to dance the way I wanted to now. The crowd was very delighted.

We did a belly rub sort of dance to a slower beat than had been played and things were going along just fine. Then the music started getting faster and faster and all of a sudden the Queen grabbed my butt with both and hands and started humping me right there in front of everyone. I tried to extract myself from the embrace but to no avail. The crowd was cheering and whistling and creating all sorts of noise. Then with one final lunge to my mid section or there a bouts, the Conga Queen dropped to the ground and seemed to have fainted. Two men came out and led me away from the Queen and the crowd started clapping. The Congo Queen stood up bowed and the show was over.

One of the local villagers came up to me with the Conga Queen in tow and let me know that the Conga Queen wanted me. I was a little confused at first but eventually figured out what he meant and gracefully declined. I told the interpreter to inform the Queen that I was greatly honored but I felt that she was mistaken about my animal prowess and would be greatly disappointed with my real life performance.

The Shooting of Who?

by   Conley Stone McAnally

Big Bear picked us up promptly at noon Indian time, which meant 3 P.M.  We hopped aboard his customized three seat snowmobile and headed south.  The trip was about three hours long and went over ridges, through the woods, and wound through valleys.

Just as the sun was setting I heard in the distance what could only be described as merriment.  There was laughing and good natured shouting just above the roar of a piano playing a ragtime tune.  As we crested the top of the last crest I spied in the valley below the Malamute Saloon with blazing yellow rays of light piercing the darkness through the windows.

As we entered the place the first thing that struck me was how similar it looked to the old western bars I had seen in movies and the ones that were in Tombstone.  The next thing that struck me was that a lot of the men were whooping it up dancing to the kid in the corner playing the upright piano.  The men were dancing by themselves, laughing and just having good natured fun.

In one corner there was a blackjack dealer with a white shirt, black armbands, and steely gray eyes.  At the end of the bar stood a woman dressed as a dance hall girl, and behind the bar serving drinks was a guy dressed in a red and white stripped shirt with blue arm bands and matching bow tie.

As we seated ourselves the dance hall girl came to our table, introduced herself as Lou, the owner of the Malamute, turned to the bartender and yelled, "Put down your pad and pecil Bob and set'em up for my friends here, first one on the house."

We toasted each other, drank our shots of whiskey and another one was poured for the the three of us.  I told Lou to leave the bottle and I through away the cork.  I was determined to have fun and that this would be a night to remember.  Never a truer thought was 'thunk.'

We watched the men dancing and eventually one of them came over to me and asked very politely if he could ask Bev to dance.  I looked at Bev, she smiled and shrugged her shoulders.  I said yes.  For the next thirty minutes Bev was on the floor dancing her feet off.

While Bev was out on the floor I asked Big Bear who the menacing looking black jack dealer was.  He was, he told me, Lou's latest conquest.  Trouble is this guy it is said was the real jealous type and some considered him out right dangerous.  His name was McGrew, Dan McGrew.

Bev returned to the table while the boy on the piano took a break.  She said she had not danced that much since she left high school on the south side of Chicago or when she was a go go dancer with The Red Rubber Ball band.  No sooner had she said that than the door flew open and in stormed a wild looking guy with a beard to the middle of his chest and hair down to the middle of his back.  He looked like he was fresh from the mine fields or trap lines. He was dog dirty and ready for bear.  His parka was glazed with dirt and opened at the front to expose a buckskin shirt, it too looking somewhat dirty.

He marched to the middle of the empty dance floor raised his hand over his head holding a pouch bulging from its contents and said, "Joe, give my friends a drink on me, and don't stop till I tell you to.  I hit the mother load boys."   A cheer came from the crowd and everyone gathered round him.  Laughing, slapping him on the back, and congratulating him on his find.

I asked Big Bear who that guy was and Big Bear's only reply was that there is going to be some trouble and did not divert his eyes from the stranger.

During the celebration the stranger spotted the empty piano in the corner.  He walked over to it and began to play, my God how that man could play.  He didn't do ragtime or the popular tunes of the day, they were more of a classical bent.  Lou ventured over to him and placed her hand on his shoulder in what looked like to me a very familiar fashion.  I looked over to the blackjack table and old Dangerous Dan stiffened  and glared in the direction of the stranger and Lou.

The stranger was a true musician because he seemed to lose himself in the ivories and his music touched your insides.  The music eventually became haunting and thunderous and seemed to shout emotions that can only be described as having a touch of evil. 

With a loud last crash of his paws on the keyboard he stood up and said,"you all know who I am and how long it has been since I have been here.  You all respected my situation except for one of you.  One of you is a low down hound from hell, wife steeling, no good bastard that takes advantage of the poor, the elderly and lonely women.  That guy is Dan McGrew! 

With the word McGrew the lights went out, men began to shout and two shots rang out in the dark.  When the lights came back on Dangerous Dan McGrew was slumped over the blackjack table dead while the stranger lay beside the piano with his head resting in Lou's arms.

I was close enough to hear the stranger tell Lou, "See, I told you I would strike it rich and return to you."  With that the stranger closed his eyes and died.

We all had to wait there till the state troopers arrived and it was a little unsettling Bev said dancing around the dead bodies but the sheets put over each man helped.

We were the first to give our statements as to what we had seen and were allowed to leave.   On the way back to the cabin I asked Big Bear what was normally done in cases like this.  He said that the officials make a half hearted attempt to find the man's relatives and usually with no positive results.  Then the property goes to the state and then auctioned off.  I asked how much the state would get for a really great gold mine and how they figured the exchange rate of all the gold the stranger had with him.

"They don't usually buy gold minds because most like our dead friend here are broke and no one knows  where the strike was, it could have been any place.  The Malamute was his first stop so he had not registered a claim.  His 'mother load' will be like your Lost Dutchman Mine."  What about the pouch of gold he had with him.  "Well I am not as wise as a lot of the guys but I bet you that Lou has already ready provided that service."