by Steven Swaks
Henry was like most Yupik, he was patient and determined. His late fifties and years with the Alaska National Guard had taught him to wait for the proper moment to strike. That morning was it. Maybe once a month, Henry entered the classroom with a small Zip Lock bag containing his famous homemade strips. So far, I had been rude and always found a lame excuse to bail out and escape the cold fish at 8:00 am.
Henry walked towards me, “Hey Steven, want some fish strips? My wife made them this weekend.” Think, quick, an excuse, something, my coffee on the desk begging to be the only one this morning, need an idea, the exit, running. Everything fading, can’t refuse, doomed…
It dropped like a bomb, the bridge collapsing under my feet, “Sure, I’ll try.” My coffee was screaming betrayal. I had never even looked at the strips, the idea was enough to repulse me, cold fish at 8:00 am, come on! I glanced at the small package, picked it up and opened it.
There was a small collection of dry salmon strips, which looked like dry slices of fish with some kind of oil rubbed on it and maybe a few spices here and there. It looked repulsive. I picked up the first strip, stared at my greasy fingers, and brought it to my clenching lips. The salmon’s flesh was still attached to the skin. I had to bite it off. I waited for the gag reflex to kick in, at least it would be done and I would have my ultimate excuse, sorry can’t do it, ever again. The first bite hit my taste buds, this was not bad at all; the subtle mix of light spices and salmon melting in a tender and gentle flavor, the taste spreading like a wild fire in uncontained pleasure. I had to try another one, just to make sure it was not a fluke. It was the same thing! How could it be?
The instructor was gone, “man, this is good!” I stooped down to the caveman level, ready to fight to protect my strips. There was nothing else, only the intimate union of my taste buds and the dried fish. Fish strips? What a shameful label for such a delicacy. In an instant, the little kitchen Zip Lock bag was history, emptied of its delicious contents. Beyond any possible words, my actions spoke for me; Henry stared at me witnessing the slaughter.
“Hum.” That was it, not a real word, the only comment Henry managed to express. He turned around with an incredulous expression and walked back to his office nearby. That morning, one more wall of prejudice and labeling fell, one more assumption had surrendered to the real experience.
The Orphanage
August
The same old crew was back together, the mishandled Amanda, the sweet Cara, the loud Bill, my beloved Lydia, and my humble highness. This time was not about butchering salmon and overstuffing the freezer, especially since Lydia had been on a girl’s fishing trip with the specific instruction to come back with only a single salmon. Our freezer was already overflowing with the tasty fish, and I was confident the rest of the catch could be split among the other sailors. I was wrong. Lydia came back with eight. I guess the other ladies also had their freezers overdosing on kings and silvers. Bethel was overrun by salmon, even the scientists who are supposed to count them -talk about a job!- gave the low life chums away (I always wondered what happened to the kings they caught).
This time, rather than going for another murderous session, we decided to visit the Kwethluk Moravian Children’s Home, better known as the Kwethluk Orphanage. The old orphanage and school were three miles from Kwethluk, upstream on the Kwethluk River. In 1939, Moravian missionaries, already present since the 1880s, opened the orphanage for children who had lost their parents, whether it was from the common tuberculosis outbreak or for any other dramatic reason. Orphans were not the only residents, children from abusive homes landed there, along with undisciplined brats cast away from their own families.
The facility was mostly labeled the orphanage, and for whatever reason, it closed in 1971 and had been left abandoned ever since. For the last four decades, the buildings had been exposed to the elements and the endless Alaskan winters, rotting, falling apart, and mostly forgotten. Many times, especially on my way to Nyac, I had flown over the crumbling structures; it was only a quick glimpse under my wings, an ephemeral sight of fleeing buildings, sheds, a lone church and a network of boardwalks spreading like blood vessels. I could feel history going by, the wrath of discipline and punishment, kids playing and crying, overwhelmed teachers and priests, a whole little world was going by, fading under the weight of time. I had always wanted to visit the orphanage. In a way, it was our own little local museum, a short jump to the past and an open door to the intimate Alaska I loved so much.
The small boat was skimming on top of the water, each wave sending the bow temporarily airborne only to crash right back down into the water. The rhythmic chop was not a problem for any of us, except for Amanda who was going through several shades of green. Out of pure pity, Bill reduced the throttle along with the torture. The experience was exhilarating, the cold and deafening wind blowing by, the intimate unison with nature. Even in the heart of the summer, the temperature was barely in the 70s and dropped well below with the wind chill. Like scared sheep in a barn, the girls huddled together in the back of the boat vainly attempting to stay warm.
The boat ride to the orphanage was a time to take it all in. We could have had a chat screaming at each other’s ears, but it was more peaceful to sit back in silence and enjoy the scenery going by, granted it was not much, the same brownish murky water and the same shrub-covered embankments. We played dodge ball with the sand bars and found the entrance to Church Slough. The twisty slough was an appreciated short cut in an endless curve of the Kuskokwim River. We entered the passage and followed its narrow and meandering path; it might have been ten minutes of joy and violent back and forth banking for Bill, but the rest of us endured the trip unable to do anything else, the ever changing g-force restraining us to our seats. The slough was a succession of sharp turns and steep curves. With a large grin spreading from ear to ear, Bill was enjoying this. In his infatuated mind, there was nothing else but the joy of riding, we were only collateral damage waiting for the slough to open up onto the Kuskokwim River.
Finally the slough spat us out onto the Kuskokwim and unleashed the power of our pitiful engine. A few minutes later, Kwethluk appeared on our right behind a row of trees and thick shrubs on the river bank. With 800 souls, the village was of a good size but mostly remained hidden from the river. We could not see much from our point of view but a few narrow beaches, kids playing in the river, and an ever extending collection of Lund-like boats anchored nearby. The typical brown wooden houses were hidden further up the embankment mostly behind thick bushes and small trees. Deeper in the village, there was the unavoidable store, the clinic, the school and the small post office, all neatly arranged around a main street, mostly a glorified dirt road.
We passed Kwethluk and entered uncharted territory. I had seen the river numerous times from above, but the earth bound point of view was quite different. We left the Kuskokwim and entered the Kwethluk River. The watercourse was narrow and intimate, there was no more speeding on a half mile wide river, it was time to slow down and enjoy the peace surrounding us. We were deep inside Alaska, roaming along its life giving streams; it was a deeper exploration of an untamed territory. Each curve was a new sight, the gift of new scenery for my green eyes. The boat’s engine was humming, barely disturbing the silence. We did not talk either. The area was Nature’s Kingdom, we knew we were only guests and did not dare to perturb the peace.
We turned right a last time, the orphanage majestically appeared on the left. For so long, I had seen it from a distance, now, it was letting its guard down, it was allowing us to approach it. The first house, if I dared to label it that way, was on our left, only feet away from the embankment. It was a large four story building overlooking the river. The assaults from multiple winters had scared its façade. Here and there, were the signs of aging, the prelude to an end to come, the fading brown paint, a small white balcony caving under its own weight. I really wanted to go inside, but I did not know if we would be able to enter. Who knew how stable the structure wa
s?
The surroundings felt somber with a strange mood in the air. There was the weight of history and the past souls living there, even Bill was quiet. He reduced the power to idle and pointed the bow of the boat towards a small beach. The Lund hit the sand; we secured it to nearby thick roots and worked our way up the embankment.
We progressed cautiously on an old wooden boardwalk. On either side of us there was a deep spongy moss. I had tried to walk on it before but only with great difficulty. Sometimes the moss was hard enough to be walked on, but most often, it was a mushy and swampy mess unable to support a man’s weight. Most of the villages built on the tundra understood that fact a long time ago and had built their own elaborate network of boardwalks strong enough to support a four wheeler or a snow-go, down to the miniature boardwalk intersections with a cute little stop sign.
We approached the first building in which most of the windows were either open or broken. I walked towards the half buried basement and bent to peek through one of the open windows. It seemed it had been used for storage of miscellaneous utilities with boxes remaining, an old metal basin scattered across the floor, and a dusty work bench by the window. I could imagine the fulltime handy man working and scolding children running in, the echo of those long lost voices filled the atmosphere like a distant echo ringing out from a long lost childhood.
We walked to the main entrance; the stairs were gone, they had not collapsed, they were just no longer there. Bill climbed the unique support beam that was left and disappeared into the house. Even if it was not a bold ascension -it might have been twelve or fifteen steps-I did not picture Lydia and Amanda climbing the single narrow wood beam. A voice came out of the building.
“Hey guys, there’re stairs in the back!” Bill was like a sniffing dog, exploring the first floor, raping any ounce of mystery left.
We walked around the house, found the stairs and entered. There was no particular smell, I had pictured a strong odor of moisture and mold, but with most of the windows opened, the rooms were well ventilated. Surprisingly, after four decades of neglect, the light beige wooden walls were still mostly intact.
The five of us walked down a small corridor. On the floor, was a cardboard Ajax box with a 2 cents rebate offer. We entered a large bedroom with pale wood flooring and three bunk beds in the middle. The atmosphere was heavy. I can’t say it was oppressing, but there was a sense of respect, like inside an old European church. For centuries, believers had been walking and praying in the edifice and each visit had left a little bit of their spirit. We barely talked; Amanda stayed within eye sight from Lydia and me, dedicated protectors. Bill and Cara were already on the second floor roaming around. Once in a while, we whispered a quick comment overwhelmed by the history unfolding.
We followed Bill and Cara to the second floor. Each step in the staircase was a new crack, a new reminder of the neglected wood. The second floor was darker than downstairs. We entered another large bedroom with five beds, all bunked except a twin sized bed leaning against a wall. Other than the beds, there was nothing much, only a pair of mattresses still resting on metal bed frames. That was all. Strangely enough, a few of the windows were boarded, who had done that? I wondered if the residents thought they would come back.
At the end of the main bedroom, there was a small door to the right. I approached it. I pushed the old door. My stomach cringed. A little girl’s white dress was floating by the only window, barely holding on to a hanger. The dress looked old, but I could not conceive it had been hanging there since 1971. The dress was giving the small bedroom a ghostly presence. The small room was peculiar with a single bed against the wall. Who had stayed there? A teacher? A care giver? Lydia walked in.
“Oh boy…” she whispered, and walked right back out. I smiled and followed her.
There was a second door, as we came to it, Amanda walked to the small bedroom by herself. I waited.
“OH MY GOD!!” She screamed. She had just seen the dress. She came right back to us, “What is this place? This is creepy! We need to get out of here!” She was whispering and looking over her shoulders, worried to wake up an unseen entity. Why did we all whisper? It was not a church, nobody was asleep or studying, or at least I did not think so.
I opened the second door, there was nothing much, only a small bathroom with an old sink and a bathtub. White curtains were still attached to the window floating in the wind. Above the sink there was an old mirror, a vintage soap holder, and a plastic soap dispenser. What was that thing doing there? The orphanage had been abandoned since 1971. Nobody had lived there ever since, or at least that was what we thought. I could not get over that, everything was antique or at best from the sixties. What was a plastic dispenser doing on the wall? I seriously doubted they were already there in those days. Everything was frozen in time in a certain era, except for that dispenser. It felt like a cheap science fiction show, I looked at Lydia puzzled, she glanced at me and shrugged.
Amanda was petrified. “I can’t stand this place… what are we doing here?” She was whispering, almost begging.
“Why don’t you get out? We’ll meet you outside.” I said.
“You want me to walk down there alone? Are you nuts?” She screamed at me in a muffled whisper.
“Come on, it is not that bad. Maybe we should spend the night!” I laughed.
Lydia jumped in, “Heck no!”
We walked back to the hallway which was definitely darker than the first floor. Come to think of it, I hadn’t heard from Bill and Cara in a while, I take it they were upstairs. The three of us approached the staircase, it was narrower than the first to the second floor and drastically darker. I was the first one to climb, step by step. Lydia was behind me dragging her feet.
“Steven, do you really want to go?”
“Sure, why not? It’s getting interesting.”
I didn’t know if it was indeed getting interesting, but it was truly creepy. The staircase walls were bare, there was no paint, only the rotting dark brown wood. Here and there, an occasional draft carried in a few leaves. Black shadows played on the wall like a sick show for terrified children. The floor felt alive, cracking under our weight and responding to our footsteps. It felt sturdy and strong, but it complained and moaned under our feet. The atmosphere was suffocating, pressing on our chests like an invisible evil.
“That’s enough, let’s go back.” Lydia was reaching her threshold. Amanda was well done, swimming in her own fantasy world, lost little girl in the dark woods, haunted by demonic spirits. She was the next one on the short list. She would be the one thrown out the window, the shadows would take her, she knew it. This is how her life would end, husbandless, killed by an invisible force.
Amanda, Lydia, and I walked downstairs and exited the house. I had the satisfaction of having visited a place I wanted to see for a long time. Bill and Cara were waiting for us in the front.
“That was cool! What’s next?!” Bill barked.
Amanda moaned, “I can’t wait to see the next one…”
We gathered up and walked to a small structure a hundred feet away. It was a two room workshop. The work bench was still there, along with an entire collection of tools and hundreds of different sized and shaped screws and nails; I was amazed. There was also a skill saw, a drill, thousands of dollars of equipment left unused. Bill was quiet, only shaking his head.
“Can you believe this, probably hundreds of people came by, nobody took anything. That’s impressive,” he murmured. We walked through the workshop in silence, just like a pilgrimage.
We walked out quietly and headed for the next building.
A small white church with a short bell tower and a silver metal roof was a little further along the boardwalk. On the right, there was a high grass area with a swing. We entered the small chapel, the wooden benches were still there but had been pushed off from their original alignment towards the exit. It almost looked like the worshipers left in a panic, scattering papers all over the floor. A Bible was on a benc
h. A commemorative plate stood on the altar, reading:
Luke 1:78 – 79:
78 because of the tender mercy of our God,
by which the rising sun will come to us from heaven
79 to shine on those living in darkness
and in the shadow of death,
to guide our feet into the path of peace.”
The deep sense of peace in the chapel was surprising, if the dorm felt bleak and obscure -especially the last floor-the chapel was a lot more welcoming. I felt compelled to have a short personal prayer; I could not help but be thankful for this privileged moment. I had travelled, I had moved many times only to find myself with my wife in a small chapel in Alaska. I had dreamed of a life away from a cubical, away from the norm and the predictable, and there it was, facing me, I was a bush pilot in Alaska. I knew this would come to an end one day, after all, everything did. I did not know what the next chapter of my life would be, but I knew I was deeply enjoying this one.
The soldier
September
The plane was covered with battle scars from the day. This morning, Five One Charlie was a shiny white bird, but after a day of exposure, it was now a mud covered survivor. The spotless windshield was punctured with splattered mosquitoes, or what was left of them, a dried off green and yellow substance smearing up the thick plastic. Their last act of defiance was there, staring at me.
I landed in Bethel exhausted from battling the same weather system travelling west to east throughout the day. I felt like a weary boxer during a match, each flight was a new confrontation, each landing at the base a break, back in my corner of the ring. I had no coach to give me a pep talk and tell me it would be all right, I only had Jeb barking a new destination.
“KALSKAG! NEXT! Take two telecom techs and fly them to Chuathbaluk, wait for them there, and you bring them back here.”
“All right,” I answered wearily.
Jeb should have worked at a fish auction. His calling was probably there, not here with us. I should not complain, I loved Kalskag, a small village 35 minutes north of Bethel. I was not as familiar with Chuathbaluk. I knew it was an extra fifteen minutes upriver on the flanks of a short mountain, but that was pretty much all I could recall about the small village.
