North to Alaska - Christmas Eve

The afternoon before Christmas was going to be a relaxing time for me.  I had just finished trapping a bunch of field mice that for some reason or another could not understand that the inside of our cabin was not a field and I was looking forward to a couple of hours of uninterrupted snoozing.  It could have been a very relaxing time due to the fact that Bev had adorned the fire place with stockings for "Santa" to fill and I could  envision Christmas cookies dancing around in my head given the smell coming from the oven.  I knew I would not be interrupted by the Saturday mail delivery because Big Bear had gone to Hawaii for the holidays as all true Alaskan do.

Just as I was drifting off to nod land there arose such a clatter in front of the place I sprang from the couch to see what in the world was going on.  As I through open the door I saw Clem Moore chasing letters and packages all over the snow covered ground due to the fact that his sled had turned over.  The letters were flapping around like dry leaves during a hurricane.  I immediately figured out that Clem had taken over in Big Bear's absence, his sled had turned over and the contents of the mail sack had spilled.  He was a little round fellow but he was very lively and quick and I was impressed by his agility to keep his pipe lit. 

The reason for the sled turn over was because his sled dogs (oh yes, Clem is a purest.  He said all deliveries if delivered by a dog sled should be pulled by sled dogs) got a little rambunctious when they sighted a dear or two along the path.  The lead dog dashed off towards the dancing dear and the alpha male of the second order pranced right behind them.  One dog was a little vixen about the whole thing and refused to move causing the other dogs to fly up like a comet and the sled blitzing downward splintering like cupids arrow.  Clem was lucky he didn't get his rosy cheeks pierced by the splinters. 

I immediately started helping him gather the letters and packages.  We took them to the door through them inside and went out to untangle the dogs.  That didn't take as long as I had thought and luckily so. 

In our exuberance in throwing the mail sack inside we through to hard and the edge of the mail sack was in the fire place.  The canvas mail sack was smoldering and steaming and due to the sack being cold and damp did not burn.   Recipients of the letters were lucky because nothing was destroyed,Clem too because he would not lose his job because and me, for I could continue to have a place to live and would not have to try and explain to Bev why her house had burned down after she returned from gathering fresh water down by the lake. 

We both rushed in pulled the bag away from the fire.  He sorted through the bag and found the packages addressed to Bev and I and went straight to work filling the stockings on the fire place.  I asked him if he wanted some cookies and he replied he would much rather have biscuits but would gladly accept some to eat on his way.  He had many places yet to visit before his shift was over.

We walked to his sled made some minor repairs, wished each other well and off he sped through the dawn and the thistle.  He did turn around and yelled,  "Happy Christmas to all," and to him I yelled back "and to all a good night."

North to Alaska - One for the Money

One afternoon I was returning from Jimmy Green’s cabin, naturally taking a different trail depicted on Uncle Frank’s animal skin map, when, not to my great surprise I came across, what can only be described as a log chapel.  Of course I stopped to pay my respects to whoever had gone to all the trouble to build such a place this side of no where.

The chapel door was unlocked so I let myself in.  The sanctuary was very small so I immediately noticed a man sitting in the front pew crying.  I was sort of embarrassed and so as not to embarrass him started my retreat back through the door when he stood up turned to me and said, “Welcome friend.”

The old hymn Amazing Grace started softly playing in the back ground from speakers that I could not ascertain the location of.  He walked up to me, stuck out his hand, and said, “Hello, I am Aaron, you must be the new teacher.”  He invited me for a cup to tea.

I accepted of course because it was cold outside and I had previously turned over my four wheeler.  Getting it righted had shaken me up and I needed a place to recuperate, and besides another code of the road in these parts is that you always accept an invite, fitting in is always on my mind.

His living quarters at the rear of the chapel were nice but small which seemed even smaller because a great big hound dog was curled up in one corner near the potbellied stove.  He poured us both a cup of tea and sat out some biscuits. 

“Nice little place you got here.” I said.   “Yes,” he replied.  “The stove keeps things cozy and warm and I feel a burning love for this old place.  When it gets real toasty and reminds me of my place in Kentucky when I would sit on my porch and watch the blue moon go through its phases.

I asked him if he was a preacher and he responded that we were all preachers but we all preached different things.  The hound dog came over to the table where we were sitting and as I reached down to pet it I noticed Aaron’s boots.  They were the brightest blue I had ever seen and made from a material that I guessed was suede.

He asked me a lot of questions about who, where, why and how, the usual stuff strangers ask and then it was my turn to ask him a few.

To sum up his answers:  He had been a G. I. in the army but didn’t like it because it made him feel blue all the time and he did not like the fact that many of the guys were not nice to him.  They were jealous he guessed.  He told the soldiers not to be cruel to him but men being what they are they continued devilishness but tried to disguise it with humor  He was able to disguise his own feeling of hurt and tried to keep a tender love in his heart as all good Christians should.

When he left the army he drifted to New Orleans and stayed with a Creole family named King and worked on a shrimp boat.  He didn’t like New Orleans much because he always thought there was something strange about a city built below the water line and always was concerned that the rocks holding back the water would one day give way and the only place he could go to escape the flood was atop the old jail house near the Trame district.  He sort of liked fishing though so he hitched hiked to California and worked his way to Hawaii figuring there would be a lot of commercial fishing there.  He was mistaken of course and found himself as a hula instructor at a The Rock Café after it was discovered he could move his hips around better than most of the Hawaiian girls. 

A promoter saw him and signed him to a contract to play a three week gig in Las Vegas, all expenses paid and for a healthy sum of money.  "Viva," he thought, which he explained is a slang Creole word for great.  He soon found out why they called Las Vegas sin city.  He got involved with one of the show girls who he could not help falling in love with, but who eventually broke his heart.  Her little sister tried to comfort him and after he made her promise not to do what her big sister had done, he gave her a ring and a chain to hang around her neck.  That didn’t work out either so he decided to head to Alaska. 

He worked on a fishing boat for awhile and with the money he had made in Las Vegas, that had lasted three years after the original three week contract, and two very successful fishing seasons he moved to his present location, built this little chapel of his and finally found peace.  He felt very fortunate not to live in a ghetto, enjoyed the early morning rains of summer and the always white Christmases that were never blue even though he spent them by himself.  He said he could get moody now and then but then there was always someone stopping by and it happened just often enough to make him realize how foolish he was to rush in to a depressing mood.

We finished our tea and as I was leaving he said for me to be careful and gave me a good luck charm shaped like a flaming star to protect me on the trails he said.  “Thank-ya, thank ya very much for stopping.” He said while shanking my hand.

As I was mounting my four wheeler for the two hour trip back to my cabin I felt more than heard my own voice say, “Conley has left the building.”

North to Alaska - Ray the Raven

One day after pondering one of my more harrowing experiences slamming against a modest blizzard amongst the mysterious trails that always lead back to our cabin, I was especially weak and weary when a tap tap tapping came to our cabin door.  I was in no way expecting or even wanted visitors but the code of the north mandated I answer it.  I yelled for Bev to put on some water for tea and start worming up some biscuits. 

The person I encountered was a funny and odd looking little man.  He was dressed in the usual winter gear for travelers up here except for the fact he dawned a top hat.  This was odd enough but what was even odder was that he had a raven perched on his shoulder.

If you have never seen a raven in real life you cannot appreciate their size.  They are big.  It was a ridiculous site – a small man dressed in an overly large parka, a top hat adorning his head, a muffler around his ears, and a giant bird perched on his shoulder whose head stood higher than the top of his stove pipe.

While taking off his parka the bird jumped on top of his hat to make it easier for him and when he hung the coat on the door peg, our fine feathered friend resumed his previously held position.

He thanked Bev for the tea munched on a hot fresh biscuit and proceeded to introduce himself as a wondering poet by the name of Raven Ray.  “Oh,” I said “that explains why you have a raven on your shoulder.  Sort of you calling card.”  He looked at me puzzled like and said, “What Raven?”  I could tell right away that not only was he a wandering poet but a stand up comedian as well, although he was sitting down.  I said no more and decided to play along. 

“What are you doing up here?” I asked. 

“Wondering, that is what wondering poets do.”

I couldn’t help myself so I said in my best teacher voice, “You mean wandering don’t you?” 

“No,” he just as soothingly replied.  “If I was wandering I would not know where I was going and I would perhaps just be aimlessly going about.  I am a wondering poet.  I wonder about things.  Like I am wondering why you are here, I wonder who you are, I wonder who your wife is and how you came by the moose head hanging over the stone fire place there, you don’t look like a hunter.”

“Well I also wonder about a thing or two.  Not the least of which why you have that raven sitting on you shoulder and why he seems so tame and ambivalent to the rest of us.” I said.

“You know dear friend, that is the second time you have made the unsubstantiated charge that I have a raven on my shoulder.  I will let it pass again.  I am here to see if you have any information that I might use for one of my wondering poems, while as you say, I am wandering around.”

This conversation was retreating and degenerating in a circular fashion fast, but I was not about to let up regardless of the code of the north on how you treat guest.  “Ok, I will make you a deal, I will answer all you wonderings if you just tell me about that raven on your shoulder.”

“If you mention raven to me one more time I will exit this abode and shall nevermore return to your chamber.  You say there is a raven on my shoulder, why would a raven be on my shoulder.  If there was a raven on my shoulder don’t you think I would know it.  Why only a drunk or a madman addicted to laudanum would not know such a thing.”

I could not help myself.  My grade school behavior returned, “Raven.”

“You must have a desire for a raven yourself.  You are seeing things. Good day sir!”   He hurriedly put on his parka as the raven jumped on his top hat to ease the process but it did not return to his shoulder but flapped over to the table and started munching on Bev’s biscuits.  “Just remember” he said raising his voice in defiance and shaking his fist.  “Nevermore will you see me, you can quote me on that.”

I have named the raven Ray.

 

North to Alaska - Colombo vs Cooper

Usually, when I meet new people up here, it because I have taken a trail through the Arctic woods leading back to or going from my cabin.  The trails coming and going are so numerous that, by using the animal skin map provided me by Uncle Frank, I now don’t take the same trail twice.  The trails always seem to get me where I want to go and for some reason, never take any longer than if I had taken another trail to get where I want to go.  Strange, but there are many strange things up in the land of the midnight sun.  You end up thinking it strange when nothing strange happens.….For instance.

It was Sunday.  I was enjoying a hot cup of tea while surfing the internet when a knock came to the door.  I assumed it was Big Bear, because he was the only visitor Bev and I ever had.  When I opened the door I discovered it wasn’t Big Bear but a man dressed in garbs which immediately reminded me of a trapper, hunter, or prospector.

The Arctic trails have their own stern codes, one of which is never deny anyone entry to your home, especially during the winter.  I invited him in.  He shook off his snow, slid out of his mukluks, slipped out of his parka and hung it on the wall.  He accepted a hot cup of tea greedily. 

He said he had gotten very cold on the trail and was glad to see our cabin.  “It looked from a distance like a very warm and hospitable place to thaw out for awhile.” .

We both nodded in agreement and just sat there for awhile.  While we were sitting there Bev came back in from chopping wood for the fire.  She introduced herself and like the gracious hostess she started cooking up some biscuits.  .

The gentleman introduced him self as Mr. Colombo a retired police lieutenant from the Los Angeles Police Department.  “Colombo, like in…” I started to say but was cut off with a wave of his hand.  “Yes,” he quickly replied, “but no relation.  I was the butt of many jokes back when I was on the job.”

He said after he retired he started his own private investigative agency and had recently been hired to track down a missing person.  He asked us if he could ask Bev and I a few questions.

My defenses immediately set in thinking he was going to ask about Jim Huff, but that ended up not being the case.  He was looking for a man but because of investigator client privilege he could not reveal the name. 

I told him I did not know then how we could be any help. 

He informed me that he would be the judge if any information I gave him was helpful and apologized if he seemed rude.  I told him to ask away.

He then proceeded to ask his question:

“How long have you and your wife lived here?   Have you noticed anyone acting strangely?  Have any of your neighbors bought any high priced items, like a new snowmobile, four wheeler, boat, motor, air plane or things like that?  Do I parachute or  have I seen anyone parachuting?  Have I come across large amounts of cash while traveling the trails?  Have either of you been to Seattle, Portland or places in-between? 

My answers were:  Three months.  Are you kidding?  Not to my knowledge.  No, but my Dad was in the 82^nd Airborne and no I have not see anyone parachuting.  No but it would me nice.  We changed planes in Seattle once.

With my last response he closed his note pad.  Thanked me for the tea, gave me his business card, and said he hoped he had not intruded as he put back on his cold weather gear. 

As he was exiting the cabin he turned and said, “Oh, one more thing” touching his forehead with his first two fingers,. “Have you ever heard of D. B. Cooper?”

I looked at him with a blank stair and replied, “You mean the guy who..”  but before I could finish my sentence Bev piped up and said “No.”  He looked at us both for awhile, said thank you and left.

After he was gone I turned to Bev and said, “Honey, you haven’t heard of D. B. Cooper?  She put her index finger to her lips and said very softly, “Omerta.”

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.” 

North to Alaska - Bird Man

Well the Bird Man is getting married today.  The ceremony will take place on the banks of Big Lake about 20 miles from our cabin as the ravens fly.  In fact my pet raven will guide us there, but that is the bulk of another story.

I have only known the Bird Man for about two weeks, but up here you seem to make fast friend fast and from what I have observed keep them for a long time.  We met purely by accident one day when I took one of the not so traveled trails back to our cabin after visiting the Finks one Friday.  All trails for some reason end up at our cabin.  A fact I discovered after studying the animal skin map made for me by Uncle Frank.

I had grown tired of taking the same rout to the different places the students lived and thought since it was early I would try a new trail and see if all roads go where the map says.  As I was coming around the bend of the trail I had selected that afternoon I came across a cabin nestled against the back drop of some ferns.  There was smoke coming from the chimney so I knew someone was home and being a sociable person I decided to stop and say hello.

As I was approaching the door it suddenly opened and before me was a straggly looking bearded man whose first words were, “You must be the new teacher.  Would you like a cup to tea?”  We sat down at his table in the one room cabin and he poured me a cup.

He introduced himself as Arnie and said he wondered when I would stumble across his place given the fact that I was using, he had heard, the animal skin map Uncle Frank had provided.  It has always amazed me how word gets around up here.  I asked him why I had not met him at the Tribal Feast and he said it was because he did not go.  “I don’t usually attend such events.  Nothing against them I might add but I like my solitude for the most part but don’t mind people stopping by now and then.  Glad to finally meet you.” 

Well for a guy who likes his solitude he certainly talked my ear off for the next hour and did not mind at all him telling me where he came from, why he lived where he did and what he did for a living.

Arnie is a professional Dioramast. He did admit that he wasn’t sure that was even a word but that is what he called himself.  He then explained to me what a Dioramast was.  He contracted with small museums, schools, towns, and any other organization that wanted life like replicas of their animal mascots or for natural displays.  If a group called themselves the Neosho Wolverines or a museum wanted to depict a realistic scene from the north, or what ever the reason , he would catch and “stuff” whatever was wanted..  “Oh, you are a taxidermist.” I said.  He bristled at the term.  “No,” he corrected me, “ I might do what you might call taxidermy work, but I go a step further.  Not only do I prepare the animal for display I provide a detailed drawing of the back drop and instructions on how to make it so the organization can place my work in a setting that resembles the habitat of the animal.”  He brought out and set before me some very detailed sketches and written instructions on his latest project along with a beautiful colored painting of what the finished product would look like wherever it was to be displayed.   He had to limit his animals of course to those that only lived in Alaska he pointed out. 

He had many requests from all over the world oddly enough, more than he could keep up with so instead of the high ticket items like bears, moose, and caribou he has had to limit his creations to birds.  Birds were much easier to pack and ship.  “You ever had to figure out how to ship a full size caribou to Odessa, Texas?” he said sort of chuckling.  That is when I began to notice that along the wall ceiling line there were birds galore perched upon twigs, branches, and small logs getting ready to swoop down and snatch the biscuits he had set out a minute ago.  “I specialize in Birds and their natural habitats now only.  That is why most people around here call me the Bird Man.”

Arnie came to Alaska several years ago for the same reasons many do.  He wanted the adventure of doing something out of the ordinary, relished solitude mostly, as we all do till we have it, and had no immediate family he had to keep in touch with.  As our discussion progressed it soon became clear that he was also escaping a broken heart, or at least trying to.

He started telling me about the love of his life that had not worked out and for years he had thought about her, all most obsessed about her from time to time.  But eventually his obsession and thoughts of his lost love grew fainter and fainter and now and then he would realize that he had not thought of her in days, then weeks, and then even a month or two would go by with out a thought of the loss.

He then quite happily pulled out a letter and said, "But that was then and this is now and now is always better than then."  He said he had received a litter about six months ago from the lady and it was a nice friendly letter.  How she managed to track him down he was not certain but at this point he really didn’t care.  One letter developed into another and through their correspondence both realized how foolish they had been to let time slip away for reasons that were now unclear to both.

One day he decided enough was enough and four wheeled down to the school district central office, where he mailed most of his birds and drawings from, called her on the phone and asked her to marry him.  She said yes. 

She would be arriving at his cabin tomorrow he said and their wedding was planned for the following Saturday.  He said he didn’t want to be rude but he had a lot of work to do to get the cabin straightened up and needed to shave, “I remember she really didn’t like men with beards, but I think she will like my mustache.”  I took the cue and left, but not before accepting an invite to the nuptials.

Bev and I are looking forward to the event.  We both wonder what the bride and groom will be wearing and what the theme and backdrop of the proceedings will be.  Big Bear will preside over the event and I suspect many will be in attendance.  Although both Arnie and Alice, the bride’s name, are in their sixties I suspect that they will have a long and enjoyable life together.  How romantic.

North to Alaska- Cheers

It has taken the last two days to recuperate from the Tribal Feast, which I looked upon more as a gorge.  Even today I feel like I will never eat again.

The morning was interrupted by a visit from Big Bear Sam.  He said he had promised to give me the paper he wrote while in college that dealt with Native Americans and Alcohol specifically those Native Americans living in Alaska.  I had forgotten about his promise but told him I had been looking forward to reading it.  He told me to remember it was just his opinion although he did some Internet research, conducted interviews and used some pure logic.

We chatted for awhile longer over a cup a tea and then he left to visit others, his usual Sunday routine he told me.

I read the paper he had written while attending the U of A, Anchorage, and found it very intriguing.  I wont bother to duplicate the paper here but think it interesting enough to share some of the high points.

It is estimated that out of every 100,000 deaths in Alaska among aboriginals almost 100 are due to some sort of alcoholic factor.  It doesn't sound like much but statistically the percentage is huge.  He figures that Indians/Eskimos (I/E) just cannot handle alcohol.  Why he asked himself.  Was there some sort of genetic difference between whites and I/E's or was it because  I/E's were just not able to control social impulses that sometimes alcohol released.

His research showed that those who claim Jewish ancestry became alcoholics late in life.  The Irish became lushes during middle age, and I/E's became dependent in their early 20's or late teens.  The Jewish cultural had alcohol in their life since antiquity, the Irish had been drinking for around 1000 years, but the I/E's had only been introduced to grain and grape for less than 300 years.  Big Bear included that the high rate of deaths among I/E's was due to a Darwinian thing.  Those of the Jewish culture and those of Irish decent had much longer to weed out those who could not handle alcohol through natural selection.  Those that Alcohol seemed to make them do stupid things died with more frequency than those who had some sort of tolerance.  Over the years those who had a high tolerance were able to pass on that tolerance to the next generation.  Eskimos and Indians had just not been drinking long enough to achieve the tolerance level that Jews and Irish had obtained.

I for one cannot verify the data that Big Bear used for his conclusion but his idea is certainly interesting.  I am not sure I feel about his hypothesis and would be interested in hearing what you, the long suffering reader of this blog might think.