I was born on September 8, 1942 on a small farm in the south of small country called Latvia. Two years later, shortly after the birth of my younger brother, my parents hitched horses to a wagon, lo...view moreI was born on September 8, 1942 on a small farm in the south of small country called Latvia. Two years later, shortly after the birth of my younger brother, my parents hitched horses to a wagon, loaded a few possessions, my older brother, my younger brother and myself and fled their homeland, never to return, as the Russian troops descended on Latvia.
For the next six years we were moved form one refugee camp to the next. It was at one such camp that my father died in a truck accident leaving my mother to care for the three of us.
In 1951 we were sponsored by the members of the Methodist Church in Beatrice, Nebraska. It was in that little town that my older brother saved enough money to buy a small, white plastic radio; the very same one to which I pressed my ear late at night to listen to the adventures of Sgt. Preston and Yukon King, his dog. That is where the dream began, the dream to paddle the Yukon River. And it happened many years later, after I married and had three sons of my own. When they were grown, they couldn't take the trip with me and my wife refused to saying she had no intention of becoming bear bait.
Working as a principal at a middle school in Mascoutah, Illinois, I had saved enough vacation days to finally take my kayak trip down the Yukon River. The superintendent agreed to cut me loose for the one summer. That was all I needed and I was on my way.view less