On pack ice

Remember when we were young and there always seemed to be one or two guys that your mom did not want you to play with? You know, those neighborhood kids who kept getting you to do things that your mother knew you would not have done if those delinquents had not talked you in to it.

"No telling what will happen to them," Mom used to say. Well Mom, I found out what happened. They moved to Alaska.

George and Jode were always getting me into trouble. One time, though, I thought I finally learned my lesson and swore never to play with them again.

The most recent blizzard had taken a breather and my buddies decided we needed to go down by the beach and see how far the pack ice had frozen out onto the Bering Sea. We hopped on our snow goes and sped the tundra mile, and when we got to where the beach should have been there was nothing but snow and ice as far as the eye could see.

George, being the younger and braver (or stupider) of the trio, decided we should venture a little further to see if there were any seal breathing holes.

I made a feeble attempt at suggesting that we did not need to do this, but even at my age scoffing from your peers has a terrible impact on your manhood. George and Jode sped out on the ice and I followed.

Sure enough, not too far out we came across a few of what to our untrained eyes looked like they could have been breathing holes, so we killed our engines and waited for a seal to appear.

The sun was shining, and although the temperature was less than comfortable, the heat from the engines, a thermos of hot chocolate, and some seal jerky made the wait not unpleasant. We waited, waited, and waited some more. The hot chocolate got cold, and I decided seal jerky would be better suited for lashing sleighs together.

Seals must be able to hold their breath a long time, for none appeared.

George decided we ought to get a little closer and go ice fishing, or as he called it, manucking. I don't think that was the real Yup'ik word for ice fishing but it was the one George kept using.

George produced three sticks with line and hooks attached. We all selected an ice hole and dropped our line, using, what else, chewed seal jerky for bait. George soon pulled out a small fish he called a devil fish. Jode soon followed by pulling out a little larger fish that none of us could name. I, of course, was having no luck at all.

I kept watching the sky to the west and noticed that storm clouds seemed to be rolling in faster than I thought safe and suggested we leave.

George was pulling fish out every time he put in his line. He was very reluctant to leave. I mentioned the oncoming clouds again. He said not to worry, he had his GPS, and even if we were caught out on the ice with no land in sight he could get us back. Jode said that sounded OK to him, and I said I thought it was a terrible idea.

Sure enough the clouds rushed in, the wind began to blow, and the snow whirled around. It was bad enough that even George said we ought to get back. George and Jode packed up their fish, we started our snow goes and George got out his GPS and turned it on. Nothing. It was not working.

By this time I was in no mood to discuss the situation so I told George to let me try. I put the GPS on the hood of my snow go, gave it a good wack with my manucking stick and numbers popped on the screen. The GPS was now working and we sped off back toward shore.

George later asked me what made me think of hitting the GPS with the manucking stick. I told him it was because I did not have a hammer. I told him it was my Army training. If it didn't work, just hit it with a hammer, or in this case a manucking stick.

The two of them are still in Alaska and have invited me to go on a whale hunt some time this spring when the Beluga run. I am pretty sure I am not going, and am rereading Moby Dick just to make sure I don't change my mind.

Net Fishing

Fishing has never been a deeply held passion. In fact I cannot think of any deeply held passion I have ever had. I have fished some, especially when I was a kid living in Fairmount. My buddies and I use to have a whale of a time catching bluegills, sun perch and crawdads. One summer while in Alaska I got to go net fishing with the patriarch of one of the two teaching families that lived in the village year round and that was interesting.

We loaded the necessary nets and poles into the trailer attached to the four wheeler and headed down toward the Bering Sea. We turned left at the shore line and went another five miles or so and came around the northern edge of the bay.

When we reached a spot that he thought appropriate he took the net and poles and waded out into the bay to set his net and then returned to the four wheeler where we just sat and talked about guy stuff. This net fishing seemed pretty easy from my view.

My fishing companion said that it took several years for he and his wife to reach the level of acceptability they had in the community. He said that when he first started fishing he would give most of his catch away and for that fact he still does.

No fish would be given away that day because after about an hour he waded back out and, started bringing in the net. We had caught (we?) a very small flounder, a hooligan fish and several jelly fish.

There were others out that same day and as we started our trip back and my friend would stop and talk to each fisherman and ask about their luck that day. No one admitted to catching anything but a few said that there was a couple that were pretty big but somehow got away.

As we were about to make our right turn toward the village I noticed a lump of something on the beech. I asked to go by and have a look. It was a headless walrus, a dead one of course. It had washed up on the beach and was so rank looking and smelly that even the gulls were not interested.

I asked if he had any idea how it got there and he said it could have been any number of ways. One could have been that it was just sick and died and it was found to late to be of any use accept for the ivory tusks and some one just took them off. Or, he continued, it could have been shot but sank before the hunters could retrieve it and then again found later by another, thus the ivory saved. The last thing that he said could have happened was that some poacher just shot the animal, cut off its head and left the rest.

It was probably one of the first two reasons because I have never met an Eskimo who would ever waste a good hunk of walrus meat on purpose.

Toys for Tots

Pitka's Point is along the Yukon River on the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta.

It is not exactly known when the first settlers came to Nigiklik, but they brought with them the Yupi'k Eskimo culture along with the name of "Nigiklik," meaning "to the north." Nor is it exactly known when Mr. Pitka decided to open a trading center.

Mr. Pitka and the trading center are long gone. The people of Pitka's Point enjoy their quiet little village and feel privileged to do so. One hundred and twenty-one Yup'iks live here. The school is the smallest in the Lower Yukon School District. So I went from the largest village and school in the Lower Yukon School District to the smallest.

The high school has been transferred to St. Mary's a few miles down the only road in the Delta and that leaves our school with a population of 32 in K-8. My class size was six. The teacher-to-student ratio can overwhelm one. The other three teachers had about the same class load but one of them had the responsibility of being the lead teacher and site administrator. Because of the astronomical class load, we had three aides, a librarian, a Yup'ik instructor, a maintenance man, a custodian, a cook and a secretary who did not really need the rest of us.

Cynics might think Pitka's Point is a place where teachers go who want to retire but don't want to give up the fat paycheck. Think again. I had four subject matter preparations a day along with at least three and some times four levels for each prep. I also coached cross country, sponsored the student council, was in charge of the yearbook, showed movies every Friday night, and held open gym each night for those students who could control their behavior during the day. And, oh yes, my favorite because it is so nondescript – special projects coordinator.

On afternoon I was passing the time away drinking hot chocolate, warming my feet by the stone fireplace and watching a sled being pulled by dogs on TV.

The phone rang and the caller said, "Is this Conley McAnally?" Without waiting for a reply he continued, "This is Sgt. Jones." I paused a moment and said, "This could be Conley McAnally. What do you want?"

Sgt Jones laughed and replied he got a lot of comments like that lately and assured me he was not a recruiter or the one who tracked down retired National Guardsmen for reactivation. I immediately became suspicious, though, because how did he know I was a retired NG?

"Conley," he said hurriedly, interrupting my paranoia, "your name was given me as the contact person for Toys for Tots for the kids in Pitka's Point." I relaxed, and we coordinated the arrival of the packages.

A few days later early in the morning a C-130 landed at the St. Mary's air strip – no small feat for such a big plane on such a little landing strip on such a cold snowy day. I drove the school truck to the rear of the plane and three Marines jumped down off the ramp and loaded four big bags in the truck bed.

We could not hear to speak over the roar of the engines, but the young Marine who seemed to be in charge – and I mean young – smiled, we shook hands, and he and his small band of brothers jumped back on the plane and took off, I suppose to some other small arctic Eskimo village.

Driving back to Pitka's Point, it occurred to me that I did not even get the kid's – man's – name. He was doing the kids of Pitka's Point such a huge favor and they would be receiving Christmas cheer from a total stranger.

As I sit here writing this I realize how many Army, Navy, Marines, Coast Guard, and Air Force young men and women are allowing us to enjoy a Christmas this year and how they are giving us the most precious gift of all. All are giving us their time many have given their lives and like the young Marines that delivered toys to a bunch of Eskimo tots, we don't even know their names.

Critical Hour

One blizzard evening while living in Pitka's Point along the Yukon River, an event occurred that reminded me of the critical hour.

There use to be a TV show on one of the health channels that followed medical emergencies through what the show called the "critical hour." The premise of the show was that when an emergency occurred, like a heart attack or severe accident, statistically you had one critical hour to begin treatment or the possibility of dying greatly increased.

We had a small clinic in Pitka's Point, but like clinics everywhere, it had its limits. Besides, at the time there was not a trained health aide assigned to our village. That meant that all medical concerns, questions, and procedures had to go to St. Mary's about 15 miles away. St. Mary's had a regional clinic and could provide medical treatment but anyone having a very severe problem would have to be evacuated to a larger regional clinic or even Anchorage, weather permitting.

There were four teachers assigned to Pitka's Point. I was the only male and it seemed that I was relied on more than one might suspect in this age of enlightenment and equality between the sexes. One teacher called me and said that the other two teachers were at her house and that one of them, the youngest one, had a swollen throat and was starting to have trouble breathing. They asked me if I could take her to the clinic, a health aide was going to meet them there.

Well what was I supposed to do say no? I told them I would go start the truck and for them to be ready to go in about 10 minutes. Fifty minutes left in the critical hour.

I no sooner had the truck started when all three came out and said they were very concerned now because since they had called the throat seemed to be swelling faster and the young teacher was having more trouble breathing.

I backed the truck out through the snow, onto the icy road and started winding up the hill toward the main road a mile away. The window wipers worked and my vision through the blizzard was unimpaired but the snow drifts kept causing me to swerve all over the road. Forty minutes left.

As I approached the last hill before the main road I zigged when I should have zagged and plowed into a snow drift. I was stuck.

I immediately put the truck in reverse and tried to back out, did not get very far, and then started the rocking motion I had learned during defensive driving classes. Drive, reverse, drive, reverse. Luckily I managed to get out of the drift, backed back down the hill, got another run, got stuck again but this time the engine died.

I tried to get the truck started but it just sat there and the ignition made the clicking noise we all have heard when the battery dies. Thirty minutes had gone by.

I was wondering what to do, wondering if anyone in the truck knew how to do a tracheotomy, and wondering if we would freeze to death before morning.

I tried the ignition one more time and between prayers and perhaps language that would make a sailor blush the engine started.

I slammed the gear into reverse, backed down the hill, shifted into second and gunned the engine. We slipped and fished tailed back up the road but this time shot onto the main road leading to St. Mary's. Twenty minutes left.

The road was relative clean but for some reason the window wipers became inoperative. I rolled down the window and stuck my head out and drove the rest of the way into St. Mary's without further difficulties.

When we arrived at the clinic with five minutes to spare. The critical hour had been kept intact. The Health Aide on call met us at the door. He examined my friend, and called the on call doctor in Anchorage.

A diagnosis was made and prescription given. The trip back was uneventful, going down hill through the snow was a lot easier.

The medicine the doctor prescribed over the phone apparently worked, the teacher recovered. But the whole episode made me realize that this is not a place for the sick, lame, or lazy.

Keeper of the Sacred Bundle

Every culture has a keeper. A keeper of a bundle of information. The one who keeps the stories that make the clan, tribe, or village what they are. They may be a shaman, elder, or just someone in the village who likes to tell stories. Pitka's Point nestled along the banks of the Yukon River, was no exception. The Keeper was a teacher named Elaagna mallra, or as we called him, Sergie Nick.

Sergie taught Yup'ik language and cultural skills to all 32 students at Pitka's Point. The older ones he took to the shop and showed them the finer points of building sleds. Some of the more talented students he taught to carve in ivory, wood, bone, and soap stone. The art of sewing skins was part of the curriculum, be it a boy or girl student. Bead work was attempted by all, but the girls seemed to enjoy it more than the boys.

The younger children liked the stories and legends he told and several times a year all participated in the "talking circle." That is when all the students or adults connected with the school, and sometimes the community, sat in a circle, given an object that may or may not have any significance, and tell the group how they felt or their innermost thoughts.

The only rule was that no one could interrupt, and what was said in the circle stayed in the circle. The children respected that and I never heard anyone make fun of anyone after the circle disbanded.

The last few years Sergie told me had been hard. "It becomes harder and harder," he said, "for the old ways, beliefs and customs to mean what it used to, to the next generation. Video games, television, action movies, and other western perks seem to take hold much easier." The bundle of information Sergie had however nor his enthusiasm to relate it never seemed to diminish.

If there was one thing I learned living in an Eskimo village it was that kids are kids, people are people, and every time I saw something different or what I thought was different, I stopped and realized that the same thing happens in the Lower 48. We teachers got appalled up there when we would see or hear of bullying, when a kid got involved in drugs or alcohol, when a 14-year-old returned from an exclusive boarding school because he or she was home sick, or when we noticed that Eskimos parents spoil their children. Any of this sound familiar?

Being of Scotch/Irish decent I have found that my children really don't care that much about their ancestry. If you would ask any of them where their ancestors came from they are more often than not to say Indiana. You ask an Alaskan Native where their ancestors came from and they probably will say "here."

The bundle of sacred information our fathers and grandfathers have has less and less meaning each generation. But hope is not lost. Every so often a spark is lit by the Sergies of this world and the torch and stories are passed along. It has probably been that way for generations and no culture past or present has been immune. If one were to visit Pitka's Point, Emmonic, Kotlick, Bethel, or a host of other villages in bush Alaska they will find a Sergie passing on to the next generation all that is and was held sacred, at least once upon a time. A fire will be lit in one or two of the students and the process will repeat itself.

There will always be a Keeper of the Sacred Bundle.

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.