Queen of the Road

by Doreen Orion

  The owners of Alaska Waters, Inc., are Washington native Jim Leslie and his wife, Wilma, who is of Tlingit and Haida decent (and, Jim proudly told us, also descended from a Haida chief). Jim was not only a wonderful resource for all things Alaska, but a true man of the bush and a sort of Candide of the North, to boot. As he propelled us in his jet boat along the Stikine River (the fastest free-flowing navigable river in North America), he pointed to the many places he’d been nearly killed by calving glaciers and large, angry mammals. Even more harrowing were the tales of his days owning logging camps, where at one time, three of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted were speculated to be in the area—and they weren’t even the employees who ended up murdering each other.

  While Jim’s life leaves little room for what, as a psychiatrist, have been staples of mine—introspection and contemplation—he is the one who seems completely untroubled and totally satisfied with his existence. I had to wonder if spending so much of one’s time under the stars and out in the vastness of the Alaskan wilderness (rather than just rooting around in the cramped confines of one’s own brain) could not help but make any foibles in self or situation seem insignificant. Even though his life appears so much more complicated than mine (to start with, he dresses and leaves the house every day, not to mention hunts and fishes for his food, as well as the constantly staring death in the face thing), perhaps simple isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  Our six-hour jet boat trip down the Stikine River included two male guests from Louisiana also staying at Jim’s RV park whose wives were too afraid to accompany them on the small boat. An older couple, Ivan and Gina Simonek, friends of Jim’s, were also aboard. Ivan and Gina were born in Prague. After the Russians invaded in 1968, they asked their U.S. pen pals to help get them out. One in Wrangell sent airplane tickets.

  At first, Ivan worked at a sawmill before he could earn a living as the gifted photographer he is. Both Tim’s psychiatrist and Project Nerd within were fascinated by Ivan’s story of working at the mill, where he found it impossible to true (flatten) the blades. His constant mistakes got him so angry, he was actually afraid he’d kill someone. Fortunately, the mill closed for a year and he had all that time to process what he was doing wrong. When he came back, he discovered “the saw would listen to me,” allowing him to do whatever he wanted with it. It seems he learned an important lesson from that experience, because he’s also become an accomplished naturalist.

  “I like to learn about the things I take pictures of,” he told us.

  Pointing out an eagle’s nest, Jim said that although monogamy is dominant, recent DNA samples from along the river discovered that they do fool around.

  “Hey, honey,” Jim joked, “I’ll be back in a while…just going out to get some stuff for the nest.” Birds with benefits, I guess.

  At the end of the trip, Jim put the boat through a “Hamilton maneuver.” I won’t go into the physics of it (OK, fine. I couldn’t even if I wanted to), but suffice it to say the boat turned end to end within a very short distance, resulting in G-forces better than an E ticket ride. He had told us to fasten our seat belts and hang on, or if we wanted to have an even wilder time, go to the back deck and brace ourselves on the railing. Tim and I immediately shot up and raced to the stern. During the first turn, I let out a scream. It wasn’t so much fear as shock when the icy water hit me.

  “Better hold on,” Jim called out to me with a gleam in his eye. “That was only a practice run.”

  “Don’t worry,” I called back. “That was only a practice scream.”

  A Princess would not last a day in Jim’s world. And, in fact, I nearly didn’t. His boat had no head, so I managed not to pee for seven hours—it was either that, squat in the bush, or use the outhouse we encountered near one of the Park Service cabins. (I couldn’t tell which would be worse: peeing in the former or sleeping in the latter. Come to think of it, peeing in the latter or sleeping in the former would have been just as bad. Fortunately, I had no intention of doing either.) As a result, I inadvertently became a celebrity of sorts amongst our little band, but by the time we got back to the bus, I was ready to explode.

  Passing through the narrow Wrangell Strait (so narrow, cruise ships can’t make it) for our next stop, we delighted in seeing the ferry’s wake wash up on the nearby shore. We were on our way to Sitka, the former Alaskan capital. This eleven-hour leg was to be our only overnight in a cabin. Some hardy souls eschewed that “luxury” (this Pacific Princess can tell you the Love Boat it ain’t) and pitched a tent on deck, instead. Scanning the colorful, newly sprung slum of harnessed Gore-Tex straining against the wind, Tim asked, “Wouldn’t that be fun?” He was actually serious.

  At over 4,800 square miles (nearly half of which is water) Sitka is the largest city in the U.S.—by area. (The population is only around nine thousand.) By the early 1800s, after a series of battles with the Tlingit, Russia claimed Sitka for its capital in North America. For over a half century, the Russians then exploited the lucrative trade in sea otter pelts. By the time the U.S. purchased the territory for $7.2 million (less than two cents an acre), overhunting had destroyed the industry. The Alaska Purchase was not a terribly popular proposition in the Lower 37 and became known as “Seward’s Folly” after Secretary of State William H. Seward, who spearheaded the effort.

  When Seward visited Alaska two years later, in 1869, the Tlingit in Ketchikan threw him a potlatch—an elaborate celebration involving extravagant gifts which usually bankrupted the host. Tradition dictated that in return, the guest of honor must then throw one himself, allowing the original host to recoup his expenditures. Not knowing the custom, the secretary never did, leading the chief to erect a totem with an upside-down likeness of Seward on top, complete with red nose and cheeks, signifying a fool who does not repay his debts. In case anyone still didn’t get the point, he’s even perched on an empty box, signifying the gifts he never gave back. Some descendants of Seward’s descended on the village a few decades back and asked that the totem be changed. The Tlingit refused—the debt still hadn’t been repaid.

  Although our RV park on Sitka was little more than a parking lot at the harbor, what a parking lot it was. We not only had a view of all the boats, but the tiny, one-runway airport just across the channel and snowcapped mountains farther across the sea. We spent several afternoons sitting on a patch of lawn with Miles, just soaking it all in.

  Unfortunately, I had decided that if Wrangell Jim could live for days in a tree in the rain along the river, hunting moose, the least I could do was try hiking again, especially when our guidebook raved about one particular hike’s views and photographic opportunities. Tim was thrilled…until we hiked. For it was on Sitka’s Harbor Mountain that we took what I would come to term The Alaskan Death March. Although even I had to admit the scenery was spectacular (ocean, islands, distant peaks, yada yada) the lack of an escalator on the steep climb nearly did me in. And why should I suffer alone?

  So I devised the Five Stages of Getting Grief from Hiking with Doreen: Denial (“We’re not going all the way up there, are we?”); Anger (“I can’t believe I let you take me on this stupid hike!”); Bargaining (“If we stop now, I’ll have the energy to do another hike tomorrow. Really, I promise!”); Despair (“Oh, why did I ever let you talk me into anything over three miles?”); Acceptance (“Fine. But this is absolutely, positively, the last hike I will ever go on for the rest of my life!”). Recalling the disappointing Perseverance Lake Trail of Ketchikan, I felt compelled to add a sixth stage, one which only occurs in extreme circumstances, at a perfect storm of elevation gain, accumulated mileage, mud, and bugs: Confabulation (“Look at the dog! You’re killing him!”). Finally, when I nagged enough to make even Tim agree to quit, I clutched the poodle to celebrate, beaming as I attempted to reinforce the wisdom of my husband’s capitulation.

  “I’m so glad you didn’t make me continue to the top. This way, I could actually enjoy how beautiful it was. I’d even do it again.”

  “R
eally?” Tim retorted. “I wouldn’t.” Here, even I have to admit that I would do it again. I guess experiencing something that stupendous tends to erase memories of the hardships endured in experiencing them (kind of like childbirth, I’m told), especially when reviewing the fabulous shots I was able to take. If all hikes came with a guarantee that they were in surroundings so stunning, I might actually get an REI (Recreational Equipment Incorporated) membership. Lord help the REI folks.

  Ever wonder what to do if you find an injured eagle? Wrap it in a blanket (it’ll be calmer if it can’t see) and get it to Alaska Airlines for its free, all-expenses-paid flight to the Alaska Raptor Center on Sitka (salmon crudités not included). There, it’ll be nursed back to health or, if too severely injured, could become a permanent member of their Raptors-in-Residence program. The center started in 1980 in the backyards of two Sitkans who rescued an injured eagle and eventually grew into a nonprofit in a new location on seventeen acres. In a specially designed viewing corridor which keeps them hidden, visitors can see the birds put through their paces in the flight training center before being allowed to return to the wild, flying from tree to tree and swooping down into waterfalls and streams to pluck up a salmon dinner—sushi style, of course. There are even several flight conditioning areas, including vertical flight mews to test for lift and a flight tube to check stamina and maneuverability. Up until our visit to the Raptor Center, we had seen plenty of eagles from a distance, but it’s up close that we could truly appreciate their immense scale. And those eyes. Those piercing, mesmerizing eyes that bore into your soul and make you wonder just who should be anthropomorphizing whom. This ain’t your grandma’s parakeet.

  From the former Alaskan capital, Sitka, to the current one, Juneau, we caught a high-speed catamaran that cut the trip in half, to less than five hours. This was the only leg where we saw an abundance of marine life: humpback whales, orcas, and sea lions, not to mention the never ho-hum eagles.

  All the ferries have a naturalist or park ranger aboard to provide programs and commentary. On this trip, the guide mentioned that humpback whales are as big as buses. Tim and I couldn’t help beaming at her unknowing nod to one of our own, until she ruined the moment by mistakenly commenting that this meant they were fifty feet. The woman may know her wildlife, but she sure doesn’t know buses. I wanted Project Nerd to get up and give a rebuttal, but for once, he demurred. The naturalist also pointed out an island just off Sitka with a rare species of pink flamingo, native only to that one tiny spot on the planet. Once we rounded the bend, there they were, a few dozen or so, scattered throughout some trees. They seemed a bit still. Maybe they’re sleeping. It was only later, when she mentioned some other upcoming wildlife viewing and promised, “I won’t be fooling you with plastic flamingos this time,” I realized I’d been the butt of some uproarious Sitka humor. Concrete as a sidewalk.

  Although by now we’d seen plenty of Alaskan glaciers (like with eagles, it’s hard to become jaded about the things), the Mendenhall in Juneau was quite unique, its river of ice hovering over the city like a brooding uncle, menacing and beckoning at the same time. (I swear I could hear it purr, “Want some candy, little girl?”) Standing so close to this towering, ancient behemoth (the Mendenhall is over thirteen miles long, up to one and a half miles wide, and 1,800 feet thick) I couldn’t help but feel how transitory and insignificant our own lives were in the greater scheme of things. It made me appreciate, yet again, the time we had taken out for the bus thing from whatever minuscule time we’d been allotted in the universe. But even the seemingly venerable and invincible have their vulnerable moments: The visitors center at the glacier displays striking old photos from decades past showing how much the Mendenhall has retreated—about two miles—in this relatively short amount of time. To drive the point home even further, while walking the various trails in the area, we regularly encountered signposts announcing the year the edge of the glacier had reached that particular point.

  Downtown at the state capitol (unlike most, it’s rather plain, lacking a dome since it was originally built as a territorial building), we learned about a remarkable woman who championed civil rights for Native Alaskans in the 1940s. At that time, restaurants, hotels, movie theaters, and stores hung signs saying “No Natives Allowed” or sometimes even “No Dogs or Natives Allowed” and Native children could not attend public schools. A Tlingit, Elizabeth Wanamaker Peratrovich, lobbied for the passage of an antidiscrimination law.

  In 1945, it came before the territorial council for the second time, having failed to garner enough votes two years earlier. The law seemed destined again for the same fate. Then one of the debating senators asked, “Who are these people, barely out of savagery, who want to associate with us whites, with five thousand years of recorded civilization behind us?” Peratrovich, who wasn’t even scheduled to speak, rose from her seat and calmly answered, “I would not have expected that I, who am barely out of savagery, would have to remind the gentlemen with five thousand years of recorded civilization behind them of our Bill of Rights.” She then went on to eloquently portray the effects of discrimination on people she knew. Her impromptu speech was greeted by resounding applause and the Alaska Civil Rights Act was overwhelmingly passed.

  Before we took our leave of Juneau, we went to a salmon hatchery to see the heavenly humpies throw themselves up over rocks from Gastineau Channel to climb a fish ladder, thanks to their built-in, biologically powered GPS system, which routes them to their spawning site. (Do they have some know-it all lady’s voice in their heads intoning, “In…four…hundred…feet…swim…left”?)

  I sincerely do hate getting up early. Always have. In fact, I was so upset about having to wake up at 4:30 a.m. to catch the ferry out of Juneau that I hadn’t slept well for months obsessing about it. I’m a bad sleeper anyway, as one poor hotel maintenance man in San Francisco can attest to.

  In 1997 when my first book came out, the publisher decided to send me on a book tour. I was, of course, thrilled. Until I read the itinerary. While TV, radio, and bookstore appearances were scheduled, sleep did not appear to be. For five days I was to travel to five cities, staying long enough in each to appear on the local evening news, then take a flight out to arrive early enough to appear on the morning news in the next city. By my calculations, I would be lucky to get four hours of sleep a night, when more than double that is an absolute requirement for a Princess’s beauty rest. I knew the thought of not getting enough sleep would further keep me awake on the trip to the point where four hours would seem a luxury, so I took a few sleeping pills with me.

  At the end of the week, I arrived at the last stop, San Francisco, at one in the morning. I had to be up at 5 a.m. to get to the local television studio in time for my segment on the live broadcast. By then, I could adjust how much of the pill I had to take to be assured of various amounts of sleep, so rather than wait until I was already in the room, I bit off an appropriate piece as I was checking in at the front desk. I figured this would afford me an extra twenty precious minutes or so of shut-eye. My plan worked, until I was rudely awoken at 3 a.m.…by a cricket.

  The chirping was unmistakable. I was incensed; this was not a rural burg, but a fancy, big-city hotel. The thing wouldn’t stop. In my drug-addled state, I reached for the phone and managed to rouse the concierge.

  “There’s a cricket in my room,” I slurred.

  “Ma’am?” Surely I wasn’t that unintelligible. The poor man must be deaf.

  “A CRICKET! THERE’S A CRICKET IN MY ROOM!” Why in the world did the hotel have deaf people manning the phones?

  “I’ll send maintenance right up.” I have no idea how much time passed, but a uniformed man (who I vaguely recall had a short straw in his hand) did indeed arrive at my door to find me sitting at the edge of the bed, head in hands.

  “Kill the cricket,” I moaned. He gave the room a quick once-over, a dubious look on his face. Then he heard it, too. CHIRP. His head snapped toward the ceiling. He beamed at me, tri
umphant.

  “Ma’am, it’s only the smoke alarm battery. I’ll just—”

  “KILL THE CRICKET,” I pleaded.

  “But, ma’am. It’s the city code. I’ll have to go get a new—” I would have none of it. This man was learning what my commoner husband had known for years: Do not get between a Princess and her beauty rest.

  “KILL IT! KILL IT!” I chanted

  “But, ma’am. If there’s a fire…the code…” I let out a wail, which he undoubtedly understood to be only a taste of what was to come as punishment for disobeying royalty from the infamous Island of Long.

  “I have to be up at five in the morning.” I like to think it was sympathy at that last whine that compelled him to grab the battery and make haste out of my room never to be seen again. But I could be mistaken.

  We boarded the ferry in Juneau at a particularly low tide. This was easy to discern, even for physics-impaired me, as the dock’s ramp was at a much steeper incline to the boat than we had seen before. I ungallantly (gallantry is a consort’s lot, after all) wished Tim luck and drove the Jeep into the hold as instructed by the attendants. Neither of us could understand how the bus would make it. Then, after every other vehicle was loaded, a deckhand motioned Tim forward. The crew brought out four short ramps and very efficiently stuck two under the tires to lessen the incline. As Tim slowly crept the bus to the end of one set of ramps, the attendants put down the others, rotating them around, repeating the procedure three or four times. Of course, it seemed to take forever and Tim felt with particular acuity the eyes of all five hundred or so passengers upon him as he inched his way onto the ship.