by Brian Keenan
Debra’s home was a splendid octagonal log structure. She and her husband Dennis had designed it themselves and had built it in a wooded setting. Years ago, Dennis had built a large two-storey annexe on one side. Outside were the inevitable outhouses. The smallest of these housed cut timber for heating, and there was a much larger enclosed shed for ‘all the stuff we need to survive up here’, Debra explained. The largest of the outhouses contained cars, four in all, each of them vintage classics. ‘But,’ Debra continued, ‘he keeps telling me there is room for two more and the jury is still out on that one.’
I thought of the roads I had driven in the RV, then commented, ‘There’s not enough roads here for anyone to need any more than one vehicle, unless it’s a giant bulldozer with snow-shifting attachments.’
‘Exactly!’ Debra concurred.
I knew that one could really only use the roads for three months of the year. Each of Dennis’s superbly restored vehicles would probably only get an outing a few weeks a year. Still, I loved this Alaskan eccentricity, and the fact that everyone was a collector or a hoarder. Obviously Dennis had refined this curiously Alaskan preoccupation. I admired him and his collection, and was curious about what he intended to fill the two empty spaces with. But I also felt it would not be a good conversation piece with Debra.
Inside the octagon, Debra showed me round. I was impressed by her and her husband’s art collection. Dennis’s taste in line and colour had been apparent in his vintage car collection, and it obviously did not stop there. Debra also had an extremely interesting collection of native artefacts. I remarked how her present home was a huge difference from her first. She agreed, but at the same time explained that the original homestead was still there and she still visited it when she could. She hinted that the spirit world was really her true home and she increasingly found herself travelling in the spirit plane. She looked casually at me as she insisted that deciding to go on such a journey was not a decision that should be lightly taken. Nor is it one we can turn back from. We may refuse the call for a while, but inevitably, if we are true to ourselves and to what is meant for us, we will be empowered to achieve this end. I sensed again that she was not simply passing the time of day with me. It seemed a good opportunity to discuss things further with her.
I remembered her telling me that she had chosen to leave the visionary world of her childhood as she was growing up but had promised herself that she would return to it when she was older and perhaps better able to understand it. I was always anxious with Debra. I did not want her to feel concerned by my questions, or that I was prying, but I should have known better. Debra probably knew me better than I knew myself. She complied with my request with no more hesitation than it took to collect her thoughts.
‘Shortly after my son Keenan was born my life started to not go so well. Not from anything external – Dennis was grand, my life looked good. What was wrong was all internal; I just had a profound sense that something was wrong in my life. I started to be sick all the time, I was becoming chronically tired and depressed, not my normal self. I became worried because I knew it was not a disease of the body but a dis-ease of the heart, and I didn’t know what to do about it. Then I saw some Japanese drummers and I walked away knowing that if I made a drum I would be healed. I didn’t know how or why, I just knew it. It took me two years to make a drum, something I can do now in one evening.
‘As soon as the drum was completed I started having waking visions and unusual dreams even though I still didn’t know what to do with the drum. This went on for months. Finally, I waited for when Dennis went on a hunting trip and I had a whole week to myself. I shut myself away, lit candles and spent the time meditating and asking for guidance. About two days into this, I sat down to meditate, closed my eyes and saw an animal staring me in the face. I opened my eyes and it was gone. I closed my eyes and it was back again. No matter what I did, whenever I closed my eyes there was the animal looking at me. I knew immediately that this was not like any meditating I had ever done before. The animal turned and made motions for me to follow it. After this happened several times, I decided to follow. This was my first shaman’s journey, before I even knew what that was. It was completely beyond anything I had ever experienced, and I had been meditating for twenty years at the time.
‘I followed the animal for three days and two nights. We spent the night out in the cold huddled against the wind until finally we climbed a high mesa, and at the top was an old man seated at a campfire. I cannot say everything that went on there, but he did leave me with four gifts and he said they were not given to me for my own glory but to be used to help others. He said if I used the gifts to help others I would be healed, but if I didn’t, I would get worse and worse and maybe even die. At the time I thought, “Well, that’s not much of a choice!” I was completely confused by it all. I even wondered a bit if I was going crazy, though I thought I knew in my heart that I wasn’t.
‘I had a rough couple of months after that trying to figure out what happened to me and what it was all about. It was so unlike my usual thinking and knowledge and so foreign to the imagery and concepts that I had to go outside myself, to other sources, to help me. But because I chose to go for it, everything fell into place. Everything went smoothly when I let go and let it all happen without trying to stop it or block it. I just said, “Okay, I feel a little bit crazy but I’m going for it,” and it all worked. I did get better. Every time I shamanize I feel well and good, and when I stop shamanizing I start to feel bad again and my life doesn’t go as well, even until this day. People think I am helping them, but I am really helping myself. It’s a win-win situation! When we work with powers of the universe it should always be a win-win situation.’
At first I was struck by my friend’s openness; after all, we had only known each other a few weeks. But then I corrected my thinking. Debra had contacted me, a complete stranger, over seven years ago. She had an interest in the psychic powers of the blind musician I had written about, had read about my university lecture in the local paper and had attempted to contact me in pursuit of her interest. And after all that time we had met up again. My friend Pat Walsh knew of her interest in the spirit world of the Inuit and had contacted her about becoming my guide, even though Pat had known nothing of Debra’s letters to me. Debra was my guide into the Arctic North, but she was also another kind of guide, and her candour was as much instruction as it was storytelling.
I was studying a beautiful skull Debra had shown me as she spoke. She must have been watching me as I tried to take in what she had set out for me. Then I heard her suggest that we might do some more ‘work’. ‘You will be leaving tomorrow and there is much that needs to be done,’ she said. ‘It is unfortunate because I usually have more sessions with people.’ Debra had a way about herself. Maybe it was the openness with which she spoke of her spiritual life amid all the other curious coincidences that made me trust her completely.
I agreed, and we passed from the octagon into the great halllike structure that had been annexed onto the main building. At the far end of the room Debra spread out a small blanket then left, leaving me to ‘prepare myself’ in whatever way I thought fit. I kept thinking about how quietly serious she was. I thought about something she had spoken to me about: ‘Maybe you don’t need to shamanize like I do, but the universe has called you to a task and it will make you well if you choose to do it. Carolan was the spirit that called you to your task, but as we move through our life we must never forget our allies, our helpers, like Carolan, who guide us and call us to our true tasks. And we mustn’t ever forget that when we are called by the universe to do a task it is never for our own glory but for the “upliftment” of man. In the process we become uplifted ourselves. That’s a pretty neat situation, don’t you think? We all win on this one!’
Debra returned with a bag and a wooden box. From these she extracted a collection of feathers, some bones and incense. In the bag was her drum. She also showed me her shaman face veil, which wa
s tied across the forehead and covered the eyes and nose. She also produced a rattle and some stones, explaining them away as ‘aids’ and ‘props’. In reality, she didn’t need them, but they were traditional tools for her work. She compared them with a psychiatrist’s ‘Rorschach card, word association or even hypnotherapy’. Some native people with whom she had ‘worked’ were happy with her shaman’s tool kit. She continued to use them because she always had, and they made the transfer from this reality to the spirit realm more immediate and intense. They were familiar to her, and in her own words, ‘what works best for you is what you work with’. But I was sure it was as much about honour and respect for the tradition of shamanism as it was about creating altered states of consciousness.
We spoke for some minutes about what things I might seek assistance from the spirit world about, so that we could focus our journey. Debra wanted to give me some basic instruction on how to begin to locate my ‘own power and animal spirits’. I sensed that Debra was anxious over what she was about to do. ‘It really needs more time and more sessions to set this up right, but today is all we have so we shall have to make do.’
She placed her props around the blanket. The incense was already perfuming the room. Debra donned her face veil and told me to lie back and empty my mind. After a few minutes she would give me some instructions to focus on and hopefully I could take my first small step into the unknown. I listened to Debra’s instructions and followed them. I knew we were sensing out a portal, a place where two worlds cross. From there I could go and return on my spiritual quests.
Out of the quiet I heard the dull chink of bones, then the sharp noise of her rattle. Debra’s voice was low behind me. Then the emphatic rhythm of her drum reverberated around the room; Debra’s power chanting accompanied it. I lay back and let whatever was about to happen, happen.
Suddenly my guide’s voice changed. It was clear and bright, completely different from the soft, melodic voice that had been building up the power chant. I knew immediately that she was speaking in a disassociated state, speaking her vision to me. She spoke of seeing a young child. He was alone, and seemed profoundly sad. Then she saw a frightened adult hiding behind the corner of a wall. At moments her voice became low and strained, as if the effort to speak was too much or what she was ‘seeing’ was painful to articulate. I tried to listen intently but could make out little. Still, I sensed the pain and distress of it. It wasn’t frightening or unnerving, but it did make me feel very close to my guide. I wanted to help but didn’t know how.
Just when the whole thing seemed too unbearable, Debra’s voice called. This time she saw another bear. It was a huge creature. Now it was carrying a child and the lone boy. It was very protective and caring. A moment’s silence followed, and Debra’s voice changed again. This time it was full of wonder and enchantment. The place she was in was variously described as being beautiful, peaceful, filled with such content, and radiating with such harmony. The words themselves tended towards the banal and sentimental, but I could feel the heat coming off them as Debra spoke. She fell silent, and for a few moments I could only hear her languorous sighs. Then it was over, and we sat in silence, letting the moment retreat from us.
When the room had calmed and reality returned, we shared our experience, trying to piece together what we had separately seen and felt. Normally such other-worldly intimacies can be awkward, but neither of us felt that. The power of the moment had been reassuring. ‘When I do soul retrieval,’ Debra explained, ‘I actually see the soul piece at the age it was lost, many times in the very setting where the loss occurred. When, say, I find a four-year-old in a certain place doing a certain thing I actually see it as if I were there and it is very real. Sometimes those journeys are very long. The big bear was carrying yourself, the child, to protect the child/you. You had a need to feel safe which was carried over into your adulthood and was exacerbated by your “lock-up”. In actuality, the bear was a type of power wrap, a lorica from Celtic wisdom that you could call to you. You were very much in need of this.’ I looked at Debra questioningly and she looked up at my unspoken query. ‘Yes, Brian, you are carrying a lot of pain and have been for a long time. But I know you intently understand this as I say, ultimately we heal ourselves with the help and advice that is given to us. Really we should be doing more work together on this. But it seems as if it is not to be. I can still watch out for you, but only if you give me permission.’ I knew Debra was not making any demands. The best of guides don’t only show the way, they help you when you stumble. Debra had given me a lot to think about, and though I knew as I left her home that we would be unlikely to meet again, I also knew it was not the last time we would speak.
Back at my cabin I sat on the porch. I thought I could see the tiny pin-pricks of distant stars. The seasons were on the turn again and I still had some travelling to do. I had already been to places that were on no map. Now I was heading south-west to Dillingham to catch the shoals of salmon as they return home to spawn and then to die in the waters in which they were born. There was some kind of metaphor for myself in this. I kept thinking of what Jack London said about being prepared to forsake your old ways, belief systems and old gods when you come to Alaska. But it was too much to take in just now. I have never been convinced by Damascus Road experiences, and in any case, my life was not my own. Tomorrow, Audrey and the boys would be back with me.
I looked out at the strands of fireweed growing by the track up to the cabin. Seedpods were beginning to ripen at the bottom of the stem; at the top, the remaining purple petals. Soon those seedpods would split and the seeds with their downy parachutes would float off in the breeze to root and grow again. Winter was already drawing near. But for now the fireweed was resting in the night, and I wasn’t sure where my dreams would take me.
Audrey and the kids made good time travelling from Anchorage. The first thing that struck me when I saw them was that Cal was walking more steadily than I remembered. He seemed happy to make adventuresome forays on his own without having to hang on to one of us or whatever was at the ready. I was taken by the idea that my youngest child had learned to walk in Alaska while his father was learning to walk in another reality that Alaska had opened up. Jack was even happier to see me. I had lots of stories to tell, but they could wait.
The next morning we deposited the Pequod with the hire company after we’d bought an extra buggy and stocked up on baby supplies. Pat would take care of the goods we had to leave behind. That afternoon, I watched as a V-shaped flight of geese flew over us heading south-west, the same direction as us. They always seemed to be turning up at such moments. Now here we were, leaving, like the birds, on our homeward leg. Our flight out of Fairbanks would only take a few hours on a commercial jet.
When we arrived in Dillingham a fisherman friend of Pat’s called Mike and his fishing partner, Olaf, met us. I observed to myself that this was the third Alaskan named Mike I had stayed with, and I had met plenty of others on my travels.
Mike Davis had arrived in Alaska some thirty years ago to work on a volunteer scheme as a teacher. Like most of the people I had met, he had found himself staying for one more year, then another and another. Over those years Mike had worked as a journalist, a teacher and a union representative, and had even served a term of office in the legislature as a Democratic representative. Now he worked for the University of Alaska’s rural development programme in Dillingham, and spent the summer break fishing the Bristol Bay area during its massive seasonal salmon run. Olaf was a postgraduate of the same university doing research into the walrus. He and Mike partnered up during the fishing season, but, as they explained during the drive to our cabin, it was one of the poorest seasons on record. The salmon numbers were exceptionally low and the price of fish per kilo the canneries and the buyers were offering was also the lowest it had ever been. As we drove past, Mike pointed out the harbour. It was jam-packed with the chunky, silver-grey aluminium fishing boats that were unique to the Bristol Bay fleet. ‘This time la
st year that harbour was empty. It’s going to be a long, hungry winter for some fisher-folk.’ By the time we’d got ourselves installed in our cabin, Mike was still talking salmon. The disastrous season was having a major impact on everyone in this lively but isolated bush town. Dillingham was, as Mike proclaimed, the salmon capital of the world. Sometimes more than fifteen thousand tons of salmon are hauled out of Bristol Bay in a six-week salmon run. During that time, the population doubles with seasonal fishermen and cannery workers.
The majority of the resident population were native, a mix of Eskimos, Aleuts and Athabascan Indians. The whites who had settled here were well assimilated. The greetings hailed across the street to Mike declared that he was a well-liked resident. A glance at the map explained why the majority of the population was native. The names of the small villages clearly declared that this was Yupik territory. Quinnhagak, Togiak, Aleknagik, Ewok, Koliganek, Iquigig and Kokhanok all made the name Dillingham appear ludicrously cumbersome and totally inappropriate.
In spite of its name, Dillingham was a good place to stay, but it was the countryside around it that made it so attractive. This was still the Alaskan bush. The only stretch of road out of Dillingham ran for approximately twenty-three kilometres to Aleknagik Lake and back again. The countryside beyond and around this road was virgin bush, teeming with mountain lakes and rivers that were the spawning waters of millions of Pacific salmon every year. A cursory glance at the map confirmed that everything here was dependent on water. The salmon was born in icy mountain lakes then swam through the labyrinthine network of rivers to mature into fabulous majestic fish far out in the ocean, only to return some three or four years later to the exact spot of their birth to start the cycle all over again. Dillingham could have been Killybegs in Donegal to me, except that the fishermen in Donegal would not believe that such a place as Dillingham existed. It was part of the dreams of old men and drunken deckhands. In fishy terms, it was El Dorado.
