Alaska! Up North and to the Left

by Steven Swaks

  The routine was often broken by inquiries from anxious customers. He looks young… How long has he been flying? Does he know what he is doing? Has he been there before? How many winters has he been here? The joy of aviation, the candid looks on my passengers’ faces, the fear, the questions, the classic look of a well-known fearful frequent flyer passenger turned friend when I bowed my head pretending to pray before the engine start up!

  The beginning of the flight was routine, the weather was nice, just a few scattered clouds well above us and good visibility. The wind was fairly calm, so the flight over the mountains would be that much smoother. Once at cruise altitude, I just needed to relax, stay on course and enjoy the flight. The first 25 minutes kept us parallel to the Kilbuck Mountains, about 20 miles east of us. Below us, the tundra morphed into bushes and patches of short trees. Spruce trees appeared, first a few loners isolated from the crowds, then thousands of their kind spread north in a carpet of tall green spires going by beneath our plane. Soon after, our route met a few hills growing into short but chiseled mountains for a flight more and more scenic.

  A quick tap on my shoulder brought me back to reality. The younger girl was about to tell me what every pilot dreads, the holy grail of annoyance, the paramount of the you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me moment. Yes, the all mighty “I feel sick.” There was nothing to feel sick about! The plane was completely stable with absolutely no turbulence. Matt looked back and yelled at her; the once calm and delightful cabin was rapidly turning into chaos. My peace and freedom were dying, crushed by the teenage machine. Lilly was feeling sick, Matt could feel his dream of independence, peace and adventure fading away. The reality of parenthood was slapping him in the face.

  “Why did you eat those candies? Didn’t I tell you to take it easy on the sweets before a flight?” The rugged spirit was gone, the adventurer had checked out. There were no more woods, no more freedom, but the blunt reality of children and responsibilities. “If you came here to act that way, you should have stayed with your mother!” The family unity was crumbling before my eyes.

  “But, but, you wanted me to come!” Lilly mumbled, her teary eyes betraying her teenage insecurity.

  Amy was boiling. “Why did you drag me here? I wanted to stay in Anchorage! I told you that would be a mess! You never listen to me!” She crossed her arms and looked out in the vast land and rising mountains.

  The teens were overwhelming the father, already uncomfortable in the cabin confinement, the muggy heat, the noise, and concern about the dogs left unchecked all the way in the back hidden behind the baggage. It was a family matter but it was also my job. I had to somehow diffuse the situation, or at least dampen it. Norton Aviation did not provide convenience bags to the passengers. I had to improvise. The ultimate back up was sitting between Matt and me, my punctured plastic lunch bag. In these late afternoon hours, its contents were long gone. I proposed it to Matt who grabbed it with the passion of the superhero ready to save the day. The beautiful mountains were long gone, the winding rivers, the potential bear on the hill top went to the side lines. Chaos was surrounding the cabin. Matt was hunched back while assisting Lilly with the plastic bag. I looked at him.

  “Do you want to land at Aniak and take a break?” I had never rerouted a charter flight before, but it seemed to be a good option at the time.

  “It’s fine, let’s continue, I want to get it over with,” he turned back and resumed his care and scolding at his daughter. Like a trooper, Matt was holding the plastic bag to mitigate the unavoidable. In denial and waiting for the gastric contents to show up, he could not help but express his frustration.

  “How many times did I tell you no candy before flying? How many? Did you listen? No! Of course not!”

  Between two convulsions, Lilly was trying to defend herself, “But Daddy… not my fault… won’t do it again.”

  The bear morphed back to the caring father.

  “How’re you doing?” His left hand was caressing Lilly’s blond hair. The tension was finally decreasing.

  Miles away from the current situation, Amy, the older daughter, was looking outside attempting to ignore the whole scene. Her thoughts were taking her to the Mall, eating warm chocolate chip cookies with her giggly friends. “Look, look, look, did you see this guy? He is sooooooooooo cute, hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee.” Soon, they would go see a movie with some dull teenage starlets portraying an xth struggle between a top model vampire and puppy-like werewolves in a tenth money making hollow sequel.

  But Amy was not in a theater, she was in that bush plane on a one way ticket to Alaskan isolation. The dreamy vampire was the safe haven far away from the dilapidated little cabin in the woods. The assessment of her own reality came to a grim and definitive teenage conclusion, this sucks! I should have been able to spend the summer with mom! After all, Dad left her! Why do I have to stay with him? Now I’m going to be stuck in this hole for two months! TWO MONTHS! They don’t even have internet! And no cell phone! I can’t even text! And my emails? I can’t even send an email! How could he do that to me? I hate him!

  The Lampoon plane was approaching Red Devil. Matt was calming down, Lilly’s face was sailing away from the cadaveric white to a more suitable pinkish tan. Amy was back from the mall and her fantasies. The cabin was returning to its original serenity, I could finally vegetate again and enjoy the flight.

  Red Devil was hiding behind a 2500 foot mountain down a narrow valley, nothing challenging, just enough to enhance the beauty of the area. The river running by was hardly interrupting the green and heavily wooded valley. The routine was taking over, reducing power in increments, starting the descent, checking the wind, making the radio calls. Low mountains surrounding the small airstrip nested at the bottom of the valley. There was nothing very dramatic about the setting, no sheer cliff or tall waterfall, just a gentle slope gradually increasing to the top of the mountain. A row of short trees separated the banks of the Kuskokwim River and the gravel runway which was of a comfortable size. Large birch trees hid the village from and fenced in the large aircraft ramp. I landed and taxied in. An old blue and white pickup truck approached us and parked parallel to the plane. The driver stepped out and greeted Matt.

  I have often been curious about the way passengers leave the plane, do they bother to say a quick thank you? Do they help unload the plane? Or do they leave without giving me any acknowledgment? This time, Matt and the pickup truck driver, I guessed a personal friend, helped me to carry the bags to the truck, while the girls jumped out of the cabin and disappeared in the truck. As soon as I opened the plane’s back door, Matt released the dogs and they rushed out to find a mailman to maul.

  In no time, the troop was gone. There had been no thank you, no good bye, nothing.

  I was back by myself, ready to head back to Bethel. Before leaving our base, Robert had told me that I could follow the river to get to Red Devil or on the return trip. It was often a good idea to be familiar with an area and its valleys and passes; it might come in handy in bad weather. Not that I would venture into a valley with a low overcast layer and low visibility anyway, but it was just an extra tool in my knowledge box if one day things went sour.

  The trip back was calm and peaceful, not dull, but the kind of harmony that one needs to find after a mild tension. I followed the Kuskokwim valley southwest all the way to Aniak. Even if I had never been a great advocate for low-level flying, I could only belong to the valley. I was not a scud running* fool in this melodious harmony with nature along the forty miles of smooth curves and theatrical scenes. One by one, the creeks and small beaches came to me. The winding canyons stretched endlessly, in insatiable succession of gentle curves, low mountains, short cliffs and hills. I could feel the scenery. I was part of the picture, one more stroke to the painting. I was in unison with Alaska; there was no passenger for useless talk, just the wilderness, the aircraft, and the pilot.

  I have a Neighbor

  July

  If the mosquito should have been
the Alaskan state insect, the salmon was surely its fish. My first encounter with the Alaskan King was not on a river bank fighting a 40 pounder with a fishing pole. No, my first encounter was more peaceful. It was our first summer in Bethel, and on this beautiful evening I was sitting at the dinner table with Lydia. Once again, she had tried -and succeeded-to force feed me kale and collard greens. I knew it was good for me, but so were hot dogs and burgers, at least from my Neanderthal point of view. It was the end of a nice day, the sun was still hanging high in the unusually blue sky, and its warm rays were flooding the kitchen. In between two insipid bites, I was enjoying the semi-romantic atmosphere. I looked at Lydia, deep in her eyes, recalling a few sweet moments with her, holding hands on a Californian beach at sunset before exchanging an innocent kiss. I then choked on the collard greens. After a few minutes, I was becoming accustomed to the cycle.

  As I was trying to swallow my xth bite of the tasteless matter, somebody knocked on the front door. I looked at Lydia inquisitively. Who could that be? I surely did not have a mistress and most of our newly found friends were most likely occupied with their own Bethelian activities.

  Another three knocks on the front door… who dared disturb my quality meal? I stood up, walked with a decisive and confident stride to the front door, and opened it with a protective assertiveness. A Yupik man was standing in front of me, holding what I assumed was a wrapped fish in a newspaper. The unknown visitor appeared to be in his mid-sixties with thick and curly white hair. The man had obviously grown up in the Delta and spent a lot of time fishing and hunting. His leathered and tanned skin was an open book to years of life in the bush perpetrating ancestral traditions, each wrinkle was an expedition at sea searching for seals on a frail embarkation, it was hours on the river gathering wood for the stove, it was sadness of losing a loved one, like so many others.

  The man smiled and handed me the slimy object he was holding saying, “My name is Joe, I am your neighbor, I have a king salmon for you.”

  I had a neighbor who actually talked to me? I had seen so many large metropolitan areas where the neighbor was a world away. Everybody lived their hectic lives but never bothered taking the time to slow down to get to know their own neighbors. We were like anybody else, guilty as charged because we did not really care, there was always something else to do, some more important obligation to attend to. We did not want to make the first step to break the barrier. After years living side by side without real communication, the neighbor became a foreign entity living on a different planet.

  Bethel was not a large city, the neighbor was indeed a good person who cared and selflessly came to visit offering a salmon. This gesture was overwhelming, I babbled a quick and confused, “Thank you… name is Steven… you shouldn’t have… thanks… want to come in?”

  The man shook his head, smiled, and walked out without giving me the time to say anything else. The Yupik were often quiet and almost shy. After a while, they opened up to the stranger and became wonderful friends. The neighbor walked away after his selfless offering. He had done what he came for; there was no more reason to stay.

  I walked back inside hugging my slippery friend. I put it on the kitchen counter and finished my kale. With the dinner out of the way, we prepared to filet the close to three-foot monster on the green Corian countertop. It might have sounded like a strange combination, but the green countertop matched the oak kitchen cabinets which spread throughout the room and onto a small kitchen bar where the gutting and filleting would take place.

  I knew it would take a while to fillet my first salmon, but I was ready to handle the task at hand. Like any good newcomer, we had recently purchased our first Ulu knife, a traditional Western Alaskan knife still commonly used. Its circular blade and short handle running throughout the entire length of the knife made it very easy to handle. The Ulu was truly multipurpose and was the tool of choice to fillet a fish. It gave the worker a natural and easy circular motion matching the shape of the blade.

  In the eyes of a native, my first attempt to fillet a salmon was, I admit, truly pathetic. I involuntarily turned the kitchen into an operating room. Knife -check-wooden cutting board -check-trash bag for all the gutty mess -check-plate to collect the filet -check-left over kale in the trash hidden under a plastic bag -check- (Lydia did not see that one). The 33 inch beast laid on the chopping block and was dangling well off it. I approached the salmon with my knife in hand. I incised near the backbone and worked my way towards the tail. As I filleted it, I gently peeled off the meat and cut it at the same time. Once done with one side, I flipped the salmon over and repeated the operation on the other side. We then cut the two large 10 pound filets into manageable portions, vacuum sealed, and froze them.

  If the first filleting was a gross attempt to decently cut the salmon, like anything else, I knew it would become a more natural skill as time and practice went on. This basic gesture was an insight to a new personal custom and a better understanding of the Eskimo culture, and what they did for survival or simply to perpetrate timeless traditions. My neighbor had opened a door to a culture I could not ignore, I wanted more, I wanted to belong to the ancient customs and become part of the history.

  Salmon Hunt

  July

  There was the next logical step to my Alaskan education. It was time to fend for myself and feed my family. It was time to leave the nest and become the hunter. It did take some time to arrive to this conclusion. At first, upon arriving in Bethel, I had an agenda; I only wanted to survive this forced isolation without any intention to mingle with the local culture. After all, I was a city boy and I could not plausibly find any interest in the local activities. I had even chatted with my flight school manager who told me that I would soon buy a boat and a snow machine. I politely nodded, but I did not think I would do such a thing, ever. Lydia and I were not the hard core outdoor people, we enjoyed going out with a certain level of comfort, and the boat did not really match our urban profile. But the river tempted us with so much to offer, from the simple joy ride, the midnight sunset cruises with friends, the unavoidable salmon fishing, to the winter expeditions on the ice road. A few months after our arrival, the snow machine was sitting in the back of house and the boat was waiting for us in the harbor.

  There were two main ways to approach salmon fishing. There was the traditional, not to say recreational, rod and reel, which was fun, but it related more to gambling and amateurism on a Sunday afternoon with the twelve pack nearby, rather than actual fishing. Every time, the fisherman cast the rod and hoped to catch something on the floater’s back trip. The new attempt ineluctably followed the recurrent failure ever increasing the excitement, or the frustration.

  The other alternative was more industrial and calculated. Net fishing was surely the way to go if the fisherman was looking for efficiency and quantity; this afternoon would be all about that.

  A few minutes past noon, Lydia and I drove to the harbor and met with Amanda, one of Lydia’s semi-neurotic coworkers. Amanda was nice, but (there is always a “but” after “nice”) she was often flirting with a nervous breakdown. She used to be fairly pretty with curly blond hair, but her thirties had sounded like a jail sentence. In her frustrated and crumbling mind, every day was a step further from the altar and a potential wedding. Men felt her urgency and found a quick escape.

  Bill and Cara, our boat co-owners, came along. The pair came from Minnesota and also worked with Lydia. Bill was a 6’2” slightly overweight carpenter, loving life and a tad obnoxious. Cara was tall, sweet, and was an ideal counterbalance for Bill’s occasional outburst. Do not misinterpret, Bill was neither choleric nor angry, but his exuberant energy needed containment. Both of them could not hide their Northern ancestry even if they had tried with their blond hair and very fair skin punctuated with an occasional freckle here and there.

  The five of us met on the harbor’s sandy parking lot and walked down the wooden dock, the five of us, that made for an awkward outing. Any odd number passed by undet
ected otherwise, but Amanda’s face reflected her disappointment when she was, once again, the only single in the group. Her face was like that of a six year-old little girl opening the big present at Christmas, wrapped with a large pink bow, only to find an empty box. She walked down the pontoon, staring at her rubber boots and occasionally glanced at the water.

  We boarded our small seven-seater aluminum boat which belonged more to the motorized row boat section than the yachting club in Saint Tropez. Its dark green hull did not help the repulsive look either, but the boat could safely keep us on the river, and that was what counted after all. We boarded and pushed the boat away from the dock. The small 30 hp motor pushed us with a rhythmic popping sound. More experienced than I was, Bill was the captain for the day. He stood high and proud at the controls, chin up in the growing wind, his left hand on the wheel and his right hand on the throttle. The world was at his fingertips.

  Our fishing spot was a bottleneck fifteen minutes downstream just north of Napaskiak, a small Yupik village on the other side of the river. The ride was easy and smooth as we followed the west bank of the Kuskokwim. The occasional tall embankment hid most of the scenery, not that there was much to see in this area, only an endless collection of bushes, shrubs, and an occasional short tree. Once in a while, the embankment caved in and opened up on a small river or a slough joining the Kuskokwim.

  We arrived at our fishing spot. Bill slowed down and maneuvered the boat for an ideal killing spree. The river might have been half its width at this particular spot, but it was still well over 500 feet wide.

  The captain was commanding his sailors.

  “Cara! Throw the anchor on the port side of the bow!” Bill barked. She rolled her eyes, picked up the anchor, and threw it overboard on the right side of the boat.

  “Cara! What did I tell you? On the other side! I said the port side not the starboard side!”