Looking for Alaska

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Map

  1. Dream in the Daylight

  2. Ted

  3. At Home with “The Police Log”

  4. “Fly through That Hole”

  5. Tina

  6. Bears on Dora Way

  7. Can a Glacier Cry?

  8. No Road

  9. The Largest Member of the Congregation

  10. Termination Dust

  11. Howls of Glee

  12. Maximum Security

  13. Bingo Anger

  14. On the Way to Coldfoot

  15. The Winter Trail

  16. Life at the Homestead

  17. On the Edge of the Land-Fast Ice

  18. Anything but Cyber Trash

  19. Hobo Night

  20. XtraTuf

  21. Unalakleet

  22. Landing on a Roof

  23. Leaving Alaska

  Epilogue: Jump Out of That Plane

  Also by Peter Jenkins

  Copyright

  To my six highly intelligent,

  extremely creative,

  hard-working,

  beautiful, and handsome,

  perfect children:

  Julianne, Luke, Jed,

  Rebekah, Brooke,

  and Aaron

  Acknowledgments

  Looking for Alaska would not have been possible without the caring and assistance and friendship of the following people: my great family, Fred and Coleen Jenkins and Molly, Sarah, Derick, Colin, and Evie. Winky and Randy Rice and Alex, Jesse, and Tyler. Scott and Bonnie Jenkins and their children. Elizabeth and Abigail, my little sisters. Mom and Dad Jorgensen. Kevin and Val Karikomi and Matt, Mike, Dave, and Dan. Mike and LeAnn Turner and John, Michael, and Scott. Eric and Michele Jorgensen and Tammi, Kari, Rachael, Derick, Cheyanne, Chris, Brandon, and Brittany. Aaron and Robin Jorgensen, Gena, Julie, Jerry, Cory, Taylor, and Page. Chris Jorgensen and Anna Stowell. Archie and Janice Buttrey. And a special thanks to Rhoda Jenkins, who inspired me very early to be an adventurer.

  There were many terrific people in Alaska who helped out and offered their assistance. Many of them are in the book. Those that are not I wish to thank here: Gale Vick and Richard Lowell. Mary Pignalberi. Linda Sylvester. Dawn Starke. Tina Lingren. Colonel Glenn Godfrey. Julie Guy. Linda Thompson. The following people at APRN: Dale Harrison, Ron Zastrow, Steve Franklin, Liz Fullerton, and Jessica Cochran. Cindy Matson. Ron Spatz. Scott Taylor. Lee Gorsuch. Ann Parrish. Kathy Newman. Mel Kalkowski. Terri Graham. Tom and Mary Tougas and family. Mavis Blazy and Ken Lancaster. Jim and Kathleen Barkley. Kenai Fjords Tour staff. Sharon Anderson. Lori Draper. Randy Becker. Mark and Betsy Bartholomew. Doug Lechner and Bay Vista B&B. Gail Phillips. John Torgerson. The University of Alaska, Anchorage. The University of Alaska, Fairbanks. Kodiak College. Maggie Wall. The brilliant staff at the Alaska State Library. Mike Hyde. Gerry, Margie, and Guy Riley. Brian Porter. Lisa Murkowski. Gary Wilken. Robbie Graham. Craig Matkin. Diane Kaplan. Richard Foster. Scott Henderson. Joyce Thomas. Steve Langdon. Alan and Ginnie Austerman. Peter Ecklund. Kyle Johansen. Karen Hofstad. Stan Hooley. Jim Tilly. Jennifer Foltz. David and Elizabeth Odell. Kerry Cline. Neal and Juanita O’Shea. Macen Kinne. Genie and Joe Smith. Pat and Lorali Carter. Drew Pierce. Kris Norcoz. Arne Fugloug. Harold Kalve. Don Young. Hertz of Seward and Rosie. Dale and Carol Ann Lindsey. Dennis and Jackie Wheeler. Bob Malone. The ALPINI’s. Artie at BJ’s. Jim Menard. And in general, the outstanding people of Alaska, so many who were so helpful.

  Speaking of Alaskans, a very special thanks to the supporters of The University of Alaska’s Writer in Residence Program, of which I was a part. Thank you so much, National Bank of Alaska (now Wells Fargo), Alaska Railroad, Alaska Heritage Tours (CIRI), NorthRim Bank, and Holland America Westours. Thanks especially to Al Parish, Ed Rasmuson, Gov. Bill Sheffield, Johne Binkley, Dennis Brandon, and Mark Langland.

  Thanks to my longtime great friends, Skip Yowell and Winnie Kingsberry and, of course, JanSport. And Bill and Mary Lucy Fuqua, great friends. Bill, thanks for all the doctoring and especially the friendship. And our terrific friends and neighbors, Ray and Cindy Williams. Thanks to Tammy and Tony Jamison and A.J., Sam, and Lucy, who took care of stuff while we were gone. Thanks to our great friends Tom, Belinda, and Tanner Long. Thanks to Christ Community Church, Scotty Smith, and congregation. To my friend and one of the few people who can read my handwriting, Glenda Andrews, who typed much of this book as I wrote it by hand. It has been great working together again. And to Paul and Anne Breeden. Paul has made the excellent maps in all my books since my first, published in 1979. And to Tom Smith, my mentor at National Geographic. And Harvey Arden. Thanks to Pat Golbitz, my first book editor and beloved friend who influenced me in so many ways. Thanks for inspiration and friendship to Luther and Kay Jones and family, and the Minnow Bucket Crowd.

  Thanks to my excellent agents, Michael Carlisle, Whitney Lee, Byrd Leavell, Michelle Tessler, and Christy Fletcher at Carlisle and Company. And to Neal Bascomb. Special thanks to my good friend and adviser, Barbara Morgan.

  I am especially pleased with my new publisher, St. Martin’s Press. First, to the voice of St. Martin’s, Helen Plog. In a world of sameness and the shunning of accents, Helen sets the tone for St. Martin’s! I love it. Thanks to Sally Richardson for her outspoken belief in this project. And thanks to the other talented folks at St. Martin’s I’ve had the pleasure to work with: John Sargent, John Cunningham, John Murphy, George Witte, Joe Rinaldi (Go get ’em, Joe), Alison Lazarus and her outstanding sales people, Ben Sevier, Steve Snider, Matthew Baldacci, and Matthew Shear. And especially to my talented, calm editor with the perfect personality for me, the outstanding driver Kelley Ragland. Thanks so much, Kelley. And thanks, Kent Ragland, for giving your little daughter a book you really liked, A Walk Across America, and suggesting that she read it.

  A fond tribute to that pivotal moment, known to but a few, now immortalized as “Three moons over the Kenai.”

  And especially to Rita, my loving wife.

  1

  Dream in the Daylight

  Four feet of the whitest, most gorgeous snow was on the ground north of Moose Pass, Alaska. It looked so deep and so perfect it seemed as if I could jump out of a plane from five thousand feet and land in it with a poof, without a parachute. The top foot was fine powder; most of it had fallen ever so lightly from the sky last night. The sun does not light things for very long this time of year, and at this time of the afternoon the snow and the sharp-faced mountains glow a deep yellow-pink. The sky is the deepest, purest blue I have ever seen.

  I spotted something far to the right in my peripheral vision. A magnificent long-legged, mature lynx was bounding through the snow. The clouds of snow that rose all around it hid whatever it was chasing. This scene was so exhilarating to me; it seemed to be happening in slow motion. The lynx was light and dark gray and surrounded by the clouds of yellow-pink-colored crystals of snow kicked up around it. I may have seen the lynx for only five seconds. It, and whatever it was chasing, took a sharp turn into the snow-coated spruce. I was the only person in Alaska who witnessed that moment of high inspiration. How many tiny pieces of wild animals’ lives are we humans blessed to see?

  Who will see the twin moose calves, warmed by spring’s penetrating Alaskan sun, as they both try to stand for the first time o
n wobbly legs? They almost fall; one hits its nose on the ground and that keeps it from completely losing its balance. They attempt to take their first steps; they must be able to run soon. Only their mother and a few ravens watch.

  Who will see the female mountain goat, who is having her kid on a beach right before Bear Glacier in a place safe from so many aggressive predators? This lone female climbed down an almost vertical rock face to this beach on Resurrection Bay where a freshwater spring drains down the rock. No bear, no wolf, no wolverine, could follow. She would not look up often, but that is where the golden eagle came from, to take her kid in its talons.

  Who gets to notice fifteen snow-white ptarmigan, the state bird, fly over the ivory meadow, the black marks on their tails looking like flying black triangles on a giant piece of clean white paper?

  A pack of four black wolves pad down a frozen creek. They spook a couple thousand caribou, part of a herd of several hundred thousand. At first the wolves are not visible, just the caribou moving across the white-on-white-on-white tundra. The running caribou string out and move as if they were a school of fish, darting, alternating their course, and shifting so slightly, in unison. Then the black wolves appear surrounded by an eternity of white, and the reason for the caribou’s movement is clear. No human stands on this massive piece of tundra but me.

  There is so much life and death that plays out on the land and water of Alaska, and only a tiny bit of it is ever seen. But because of how Alaska thrilled and surprised me, I’m getting ahead of myself. Before we could come here, there was so much to do, so much to consider. But thanks to friends and family, it turned out to be no big deal getting access to the last frontier.

  Two weeks after we arrived, riding down the hill in Seward, Alaska, on this borrowed mountain bike made me feel like a kid again, a feeling that is getting harder and harder to capture. I’d practically skidded around the curve by the abandoned orphanage, maybe fifty yards from the house we were renting, and was gaining speed on the straightaway of this paved road. The blue Schwinn mountain bike I rode had so many gears, if I shifted into the highest one, I could keep pedaling and still gain speed. People interested in my continued good health would accuse me of going too fast.

  I hoped one of Seward’s horses wasn’t standing in the road around the next sharp, blind corner. The Bardarsons’ horses lived on that corner, and one or two were often out of the corral, where the grass was greener. At the bottom of the hill a group of huge, black ravens often perched in a stand of dead spruce, making bizarre sounds. They sounded nothing like birds; hearing them I could understand why Natives felt ravens had powerful spirits. Later in the summer, when my son Luke used his bike to get back and forth to work, I would walk up this hill and try to mimic the ravens. They were too intelligent to respond.

  It was early June, yet I had on a black fleece vest, blue cotton sweatpants, and Adidas cross trainers. On our farm in Tennessee, where we normally lived, it was hot and humid in June; wearing fleece would be impossible this time of year. As I sped down the hill, Alaskan air flavored by glaciers and the sea blew hard in my face. To be able to dress like this in the summer was a simple yet surprisingly profound pleasure, especially because the daylight stayed out to play until 2 A.M. Oh, to be away from the shriveling humidity.

  Some of our friends thought we might be moving here forever, but Rita and I had made no plans to stay longer than a year or so. Rita and I and most of our children had been living in Alaska for only two weeks, and I hadn’t traveled anywhere yet, except around and around this coastal town, really a village walled in by jagged mountains and otherworldly blue glaciers on three sides. The road to Seward ended in the sea; “downtown,” where the city hall, library, and movie theater were, this town was not even three-quarters of a mile wide. In 1964 much of it had been destroyed by one of the ten worst earthquakes in the world in the last hundred years—three of the ten worst have occurred in Alaska.

  I know people who travel across several countries on their two-week vacations, but this was not our vacation. While we were in Alaska, we had decided to settle down in Seward (pop. 2,830), about 130 miles south of Anchorage, on the Kenai Peninsula. I’d heard the name Seward—he was the man who “bought” Alaska for two cents an acre. But I’d never heard of Seward the city until my friend Ben Ellis told me about it. Ben, a former newspaperman, worked at the Sea Life Center there.

  I didn’t know where to begin this odyssey. I’d fought the feeling these two weeks that I was wasting priceless time. I was not burning up the roads headed for some Eskimo village, nor was I making any lists or filling up my calendar with interview dates and visits. Fortunately, I have a wife who understands that some people, including her husband and her father, a farmer, don’t work like many people do.

  Different seasons of the year, of life, demand different kinds of output. There is a time to sow and a time to reap. Sometimes it’s more mental, sometimes it’s almost purely physical. And at times your heart and spirit rule. There are similarities between writers and farmers; you prepare the ground, then plant the seed. You patiently allow Nature to do as she will. You take away the weeds, you allow the sun to shine and the rain to fall, then you harvest what is there. Alaska seemed too big of a field to harvest. People I respected said, though, that Alaska was more like a big small town. Everyone knew everyone. That was easy for them to say.

  I did not feel at home in Alaska yet. I wondered if I ever would. But on these journeys, I always feel this way at first. It’s part of the pressure of adjusting to a new place. It might take me a while to feel comfortable. I learned a long time ago that it’s best to allow myself to be reprogrammed to the pace of a new place. It’s better to relax and respect my way into a new world than to force myself on it.

  And there is always sadness about what we’ve left behind. If it hadn’t been for our friends Nona and Rusty Jones, we would probably not have been here at all. Certainly we wouldn’t have relocated as a family, and then the adjustment would have been much more wrenching for me. In my life, tiny, apparently unrelated moments have had great influence. This whole trip had started with a simple introduction over lunch.

  Over the last few years Rusty and Nona had become two of our closest friends. In the fall of 1994, Rusty invited me to come for lunch in Nashville to meet one of his clients. Rusty’s an entertainment attorney and represents me when I do something entertaining. Lately I hadn’t been doing much. I was prepared to accept that now that I was older, and like other adventurers, whether they be explorers or athletes or entrepreneurs, my best adventures in life were over. Leave the intense challenges for the young. But I didn’t want to give them up. I like to compliment Rusty and tell him he is the lawyer with half a heart; at times he really seems to care about people. For months, he’d been telling me I needed to go somewhere, take off and explore, so that I would have something to write about. He knew how I was feeling and what I needed. Although he tried to make a joke of it, he knew my situation wasn’t funny.

  The client Rusty wanted me to meet was an Alaskan folksinger, songwriter, and true eccentric named Hobo Jim. Hobo’s given name is Jim Varsos. He’s actually not eccentric, just ferociously himself. He has carved out his own kind of life; he’s the kind of guy who has never worked in a cubicle. In the seventies he hitchhiked to Alaska with two women from Texas. They landed in Homer. Rusty had been itching to introduce us to each other. He was fond of saying that Hobo was his favorite anarchist. And, based on some comments I’ve made about politicians and the government, Rusty seemed to think that Hobo and I might share some views. Hobo is no anarchist; it’s just that Rusty’s a liberal democrat.

  After lunch Hobo invited me to come visit him and his family in Alaska. I decided to take him up on his offer; about six months before I was supposed to leave, Rusty’s wife, Nona, stepped in. The Joneses’ youngest daughter, Grayson, had become our youngest daughter’s good friend; they were both seven and loved the Spice Girls. Usually I did all I could to avoid hearing their mus
ic. One day, however, Rusty and I took them to a Spice Girls concert. While we were at the concert, Nona and Rita were going to see There’s Something About Mary. (They thought it was a chick flick. Whoops.)

  Nona is the kind of woman who makes things happen. She’s from Memphis and she could probably run a small country. She is not your image of a shy and subtle southern girl. Rita fits that description more, except she’s from southern Michigan. When the movie grossed them out, they went for coffee. When we all met back at the Joneses’, Rita and Nona were ready for something.

  “You guys, sit down,” Nona commanded us, as only Nona can do.

  Nona is forceful but only when she thinks there is something good for you involved. You can’t help but love her because you know she loves you, even if she’s a bit dominating. I am used to Nona’s type of personality; my father was just like her. My dad expressed his opinion about everything we did—everything that he knew about, anyway. Somehow he seemed to know much more about what we did than we thought he did, almost as if he had done the same things when he was young. I used to think he wanted all of his children to do just what he said, but I learned that he expected us to respect his opinion and then make up our own minds.

  When we came in from the concert, Rusty went to make us each a mint julep, but decided to wait when he discerned Nona and Rita’s seriousness. Rusty surely knew something was up. Being an attorney, he is used to being thrown any kind of pitch, so he smiled comfortably as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Maybe he was still thinking about Posh Spice.

  “Honey,” Rita said sweetly, “Nona and I have been talking and she has something important to say for me.”

  My brain dashed around in search of places of difficulty in our relationship, but before I could find any, Nona took over.

  “You’re going to Alaska, going there to work on your next book. Well, why not take the family with you? Rita wants to move up there with you, no matter how long you plan to stay. You can take Julianne, she can go to school up there somewhere, and the older kids can come up in the summers. What do you think?”