Far North Adventure: An Alaska Narative

By Alf Walle

Unfortunately, most visitors to Alaska have but a few days to explore. As a result, much goes unseen and unknown. Gain the visions you missed by hitchhiking along with my recollections of a ten year foray into the Last Frontier. Drive the Alaska Highway, taking side trips to Dawson City and Valdez. Stalk moose and catch salmon with Athabascan Indians who still follow a subsistence way of life. Observe an Inupiaq whale hunt on the Arctic Ocean. Visit the rural neighborhood where dog sledding heroes, such as Lance Mackey and Ken Anderson, live and practice their sport. Fly by bush plane into remote camps and live with exploration teams. See how frontier boom towns, like Fairbanks and Nome, as well as Native villages, are evolving. These and many more exciting adventures await. You can’t see Alaska in a few days. But you can experience it through my eyes and Far North Adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publication Consultants
• Release date: Aug 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9781594331688

Alf Walle

Anthropologist, archaeologist, folklorist, adventurer, and writer, Alf H. Walle has spent the last ten years in Alaska getting to know the Last Frontier. Instead of following well beaten paths, he headed to the hinterland, found jobs there and learned about the country and its people from the inside out. Currently dividing his time between the Alaska of the Far North and the Central American country of Belize (a tropical paradise accented with virgin forests and Maya ruins), he possesses a broad vision of the yin and yang of different climates and cultures.

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Preface

Many books about Alaska provide exciting tales of rugged daredevils who live to tell of their exploits or—in the case of Into the Wild—perish. Although I have traveled throughout Alaska and seen my share of adventure, I do not offer that kind of account.

I'm an average guy who is eager to learn about people, experience nature, and try new things. Middle aged, in reasonable shape, but hardly a perfect specimen, I came to Alaska with a lot of curiosity and more time on my hands than travelers who have only a few days in the Far North and are locked into a well structured itinerary.)

Because of the work that I do and have done in Alaska during parts of the past 10 years (including producing the Southeast Alaska State Fair, stints with Native corporations, teaching college courses to Native students in the Bush, working with cultural camps that seek to strengthen the heritage of Alaska Natives, serving as a human services counselor in rural parts of the state, going to work by bush plane, and so forth), I have done and seen things that are withheld from most people. No amount of money could have bought most of my experiences. Ironically, I gained these priceless opportunities precisely because I was simultaneously earning a paycheck.

This book is a memoir that introduces an Alaska that many are not lucky enough to see firsthand. All these accounts are based on incidents that actually took place. At times, of course, several events are combined into one account, names have been changed or eliminated as appropriate, and so forth. Nonetheless, everything in these pages actually happened. To provide an orientation of where we will be going, a thumbnail sketch is provided below.

For those who can do so, driving to the Far North is a wonderful experience. The Alaska Highway, also known as the Alcan, is the only road in and out of the state. A scenic wonder and an engineering marvel first built during World War II, it wanders through raw wilderness as well as historic communities such as Whitehorse, the capital of the Yukon Territory. Side trips to the gold rush town of Skagway, the sleepy fishing port of Haines, and legendary Dawson City offer a wide array of options that are easily reached by cars and recreational vehicles. The roads are good. Rugged four wheel drive vehicles are nice to have, but not essential.

Alaska has a mystique and so do the men and women who live here. Alan Miller of Haines demonstrates the strength of the frontier spirit. Although most in the Lower 48 would consider Alan to be hopelessly disabled due to physical misfortune, he thinks of himself as merely inconvenienced and lives accordingly, hardly held back at all by his grave handicaps. In Alaska, this kind of self determinism can still bear witness to the power of the human spirit.

Many people dream of finding their little cabin with a few acres of forest. I was lucky enough to do so. Discovering a neglected cabin 30 miles north of Fairbanks, I bought it for a song because the former owners gave up on Alaska and went back to the Lower 48. Through hard work, the hovel became a cozy little home in a world so quiet you can hear the wings of birds pounding against the air.

Life in Alaska often demands self reliance in a battle against nature. In 2004, a massive forest fire threatened my cabin and to defend it, I volunteered to help a crew of firefighters from out of state who needed someone to provide directions. Working to save my home, I met an exciting cast of characters and struggled with them to face the crisis.

After my cabin was saved from the flames, new people moved into the area turning it into a hotbed of dog mushing. My neighbors include the legendary Lance Mackey, top contender Ken Anderson, and a range of other competitive and recreational mushers. Since the dog team enthusiasts have arrived, I have rubbed shoulders with these colorful characters and enjoyed the camaraderie doing so offers. The success of local contestants in the Yukon Quest and Iditarod has created a sense of identity and purpose in my neighborhood that can seldom be found when people are emotionally isolated.

As the city of Fairbanks increasingly becomes a tourist destination; the town and its economic strategies have been transformed. Some think these changes are good just as others fear they cater to outsiders at the expense of the local community. Does the old have to fade in order to make way for progress? You be the judge.

Whereas Skagway is an iconic Gold Rush town that largely lost its soul when it became a tourist attraction, Nome is another mythic community of gold, greed, dance hall girls, and all that goes with them. Nome, unlike Skagway, has not surrendered itself.

A small community on the Bering Sea, Nome has a notoriety and a history that puts Skagway to shame, including the participation of Western hero Wyatt Earp, who owned and managed the Dexter Hotel and Casino. Nome, furthermore, was the destination of the 1925 Serum Run that caught the imagination of the world as dogsleds brought life saving medicine to the children of the area when planes could not fly because of the cold. That trail is roughly retraced by the Iditarod dogsled race, which has emerged as a world class athletic event. Visiting Nome while working for StoryCorps, the oral history organization that provides interview snippets to National Public Radio, I saw this epic place and met the people as they live on a day to day basis. Quite a contrast to Skagway, I thought as I nursed a beer in the legendary Board of Trade, which has relieved the thirst of patrons during parts of three centuries.

Alaska is a land of hard living and, for many, hard drinking. Because the Native community has been especially hard hit by substance abuse, programs of recovery based on the Native way of life have become important. I am a State certified substance abuse counselor who has worked in a remote residential treatment facility reachable only by riv-erboat or bush plane. Clients combine conventional programs of recovery with frontier life, eating traditional food such as moose and beaver, and existing in harmony with nature as they seek the tools needed to recover and return home as healthy and productive individuals.

Not only do transplants to Alaska live exciting lives, so do the Native people. Proud of their heritage, members of these cultures work hard to preserve their heritage. The Old Minto Cultural Camp, located on the Tanana River 30 miles downstream from Nenana, is a venue used to strengthen and explain the Athabascan way of life. Pairing Elders with participants in one on one fashion, the camp offers a unique view of a world most people never see.

Alaska is one of the few remaining places in the United States where people still earn most of their living by hunting, fishing, and gathering other bounties of nature. Whereas people in the mainstream world view hunting as a hobby or avocation, those who follow the subsistence way of life depend on the catch for their livelihood. These differences are showcased in a moose hunt in which two seasoned subsistence hunters are paired with young city boys on their first trek into the wilderness.

For hundreds of years, the Native Athabascan people of Alaska have gone to summer fish camp to catch salmon as they migrate upstream to spawn. Some are smoked after being caught; others are immediately cooked and eaten in traditional ways. Getting out on the river in the summer is good for the soul and provides Native people with both food and a connection to their heritage in a changing world.

Whereas many rural Alaskans hunt in order to provide for their families, outsiders flock to the state to stalk the animals for pleasure. Because the goals, motives, and methods of outside sportsmen are different from those of the local subsistence hunters, conflicts develop between these two groups who share the same resource.

The Arctic Ocean is the only place in the world where the giant bow-head whale is still hunted. Every fall and spring the Inupiaq people venture out in small boats on a hunt that has both cultural and economic significance. Whaling captains and their crews are the heroes of the community. Instead of charging an admission fee to watch—as sports teams do—these heroes provide free food to the public in an age old tradition of sharing and community service.

Although the missionaries and the coming of Christianity caused some Native traditions to die, the contemporary church has become an agent of cultural preservation. Specifically, the church and the Inupiaq tradition of sharing have become intertwined. Every Thanksgiving, churches host a massive giveaway of traditional food such as whale and caribou. The event fills practical needs and is of profound cultural importance.

On the North Slope, the modern way of life has only recently arrived. As a result, many people have only limited experience with mainstream construction methods and with maintaining modern equipment. To make matters worse, few tradespeople are available in the rural communities of the Far North. Although lacking knowledge, the local people take pride in what they own and learn quickly.

Rural villages do not have hotels. When outsiders—typically researchers, corporate exploration teams, or contract workers—come to work, they stay in rugged bush camps. These camps are expatriate enclaves that develop an internal camaraderie. A sad side effect of living in a bush camp is that those staying there often fail to interact with the local Native people and get to know how they really live their lives

Many Native villages are cut off from the rest of the world and lack well trained leadership. Today, these handicaps are being overcome because managerial training is going out to the tribes and villages, with instructors providing eager students with the tools they need to effectively compete in a rapidly changing world. I am lucky enough to have served in this role.

These accounts provide a complex portrait of Alaska that expands beyond what people typically experience. In doing so, they offer a depth that is lacking in much of the available travel literature. I hope these stories of my experiences provide you with a better and more complex picture of the Last Frontier.

Chapter 1

Driving to Alaska

Anyone who wants to drive to Alaska must take the Alaska High-way—also known as the Alcan— There is no other choice. When World War II began, that option did not exist. The Japanese were making inroads into United States territory, especially the Aleutian Islands. Quickly building a land route for supplies and reinforcements became essential. Starting in 1942, the monumental project was completed in 1943; a road was carved out of the raw wilderness at breakneck speed. The enemies were not snipers or enemy tanks, but the harsh, although beautiful, environment and the ticking of the clock.

In those early days of World War II, black military men were not given combat assignments; as a result, a large number of African-American soldiers worked on the project. Largely coming from the Deep South, these recruits had little experience with extreme cold. Nonetheless, they, along with thousands of others, forged ahead. The conditions were unforgiving, but morale held up and the road was completed ahead of schedule. The building of the Alaska Highway is the last great story of the taming of the West and the closing of the North American frontier. It is akin to the saga of building the first transcontinental railroad.

When I first drove the Alcan, the spirit of those who built that epic route still lurked around every curve and rest stop. In those days, many gas stations, restaurants, and travel courts were relics of the early days of the road's construction. I use the term travel court because they weren't motels, as we generally use the term. These modest shelters often took the form of clusters of rustic cabins. Some hosts were trusting enough to post a sign instructing guests to Get some sleep and settle up in the morning.

Originally, the army put up these road houses merely as temporary camps to facilitate construction. Over the years the outposts, built for short term use, saw their lives extended and an historic character developed. The owners, proud of this heritage, displayed faded pictures on the walls showing men in uniform: the rugged guys who blazed the trail which, over the decades, has been transformed into a modern highway. After the war, and thereafter for many years, veterans returned on sentimental journeys, typically leaving notes and pictures to show what they looked like, then and now. Mementos such as these were tacked on the walls.

Just before entering the Alcan I always get a good meal because once on the highway the price of everything immediately shoots up. In the old days, I invariably stopped at a little diner just outside Fort Dawson, called the Battleship Burger. Apparently, the owner had been in the navy and had never really gotten the sea out of his blood; as a result, the spirit of the ocean had invaded, of all places, his little restaurant and its menu.

The items on the menu had names suggested by his seafaring experiences. A Battleship Burger was a large cheeseburger; a Cruiser was a large hamburger; a Destroyer was a small hamburger; a Frigate was a fish sandwich, and so forth. Besides the paper menu, the bill of fare was painted on the wall along with a picture of the appropriate ship done up in true folk art fashion.

I remember stopping in a few years ago to gorge on a Battleship Burger and fries when a freak rainstorm arose out of the blue. The squall wrought havoc in the place because a strong wind blew rain under the shingles and soon the ceiling on my half of the dining room started to leak. Not an occasional drop sprinkling down—it was a torrent that couldn't be ignored. In a panic interspersed with laughter, all the patrons moved to the dry section and soon I was sharing a table with a couple of old timers. They saw the Alaska tags on my Jeep Cherokee and asked if I was going home. I answered, Yes.

A conversation started, the men offering colorful descriptions of their adventures working on the Alaska Highway in the 1950s and 1960s, when the narrators, now retired, had been active construction workers. The downpour prompted tales of how rain easily reduced the highway to a sea of mud that was impassable. My new friends emphasized that many improvements had been made in recent years. By the time of this trip, the entire Alcan had been paved although certain areas continued to be rough and in constant need of repair. Today the road is even better, with many hills leveled and curves straightened.

The last time I drove the Alaska Highway, I looked for the Battleship Burger, but didn't see it. I turned around and snaked back slowly, eventually finding a cute custard stand occupying the building. The folk art was gone and so was the colorful menu. I felt a loss.

Watson Lake is known because travelers have a tradition of leaving signs to celebrate where they come from.

Actually, the character of the Alaska Highway has become rather generic in recent years. As the road has improved, the traffic has increased. At some point, the critical mass was reached where mainstream gas stations, restaurants, and facilities could profitably be built. On my last trip north, I noticed that many of the old army camps that had been converted to roadhouses were boarded up and closed. A chapter in history was rapidly ending. I lamented this fate, but was glad to have experienced those colorful old facilities when they were still in service.

In spite of the retreat of local color, the Alaska Highway continues to be a wonderful journey with spectacular scenery. I highly recommend it. But the rugged outpost character is largely faded. On a positive note, almost any roadworthy vehicle can make the trip and it is no longer necessary to have three spare tires tied to the roof.

The Alcan starts at Fort Dawson, British Columbia. Before entering, you wind through Fort Dawson until reaching an intersection with a small shopping mall and gasoline station on the right. Turn left and you enter the highway. A tall road marker celebrates the beginning of the highway, flanked by a grain elevator in the background.

After passing the motels and all the commercial creep that has built up, the road becomes almost deserted, although paved, well marked, and maintained. It is a good two lane highway, which is more than adequate for the traffic.

The scenery is spectacular and rugged; rivers, mountains, and valleys await. Eventually the road leads to the Yukon Territory. The metropolis of the region is Whitehorse, a place where prices are relatively low and a wide variety of services is available. The town has always been this way, all the way back to gold rush days. When a WalMart store opens up in many communities, the event is lamented as the end of an era. In Whitehorse's case, this occasion was just a continuation of what began over a century ago: the town has always been a shopper's mecca. Some local people complained that the new WalMart building encroached on a sacred Native site, but few voiced any concern that a new discount store was entering the area.

When Whitehorse's WalMart first opened, shoppers flocked to the store all the way from Juneau, Alaska hundreds of miles to the south. Alaskans put their cars on the Alaska Marine Highway ferries and went to Skagway. After that, they drove over the mountains and into White-horse, spending a couple of days shopping and eating out in the better Chinese restaurants. Then they headed home again with the car heavily loaded with merchandise that was not available back home.

The frontier character of Whitehorse remains. One artifact of the exciting gold rush era is the old stern wheeled steamship the Klondike II. The original Klondike, wrecked within a year or two of its christening, had a short life. The ship was stranded on a sandbar, its hull damaged beyond repair. But the sandbar that killed the ship kept it from sinking. A new hull was quickly constructed: an exact replacement. Then everything from the original Klondike was salvaged and swapped out onto the new vessel. The engines, the wheelhouse, the superstructure, the entire ship above the waterline, was transferred. So the Klondike II is mostly the original ship. For many years it shuttled back and forth between Whitehorse and Dawson City. Today this noble relic sits in dry dock awaiting visitors and looking as stout and gracious as it ever did.

In the flattering public relations literature the community provides, people are told that the name Whitehorse was chosen because the miners thought the foam of the raging river resembled the mane of a giant white horse. Actually this explanation is a bowdlerization. The other story is that during the gold rush days men could still find a white whore in this northern outpost. If they went any further north, however, only Native women were available. Never forget, Whitehorse started out as a rough and tumble frontier town that catered to single men seeking riches and adventure.

Although long abandoned, Canyon City, located on the bluffs above the river, was once a hotbed of activity. A few miles from Whitehorse, this is where many of the miners of ‘98 wintered over and prepared the rafts and boats that would take them to Dawson City and the gold-fields. Those walking that ground today could easily miss the clues that this was once a hub of human activity unless they kick off a century's sod and brush from a large, odd shaped mound, revealing thousands of rusting tin cans. These abandoned containers once held the food the 98ers ate en route to their fate up north. Some made fortunes, others died in the quest. All