The Winter of '79: Journals of a Wilderness Wife

By Atwood Cutting and Tim Peters

The Winter of ’79 is the true story of one particular winter season that spanned the gap from 1979 to 1980 with a lot of nasty weather in between. We know about it because Kate, alone on a mountain top with no phone and no one over the age of one to talk to, wrote letters to her mamasan in Hawaii. Her mom kept the letters. Kate also

• Language: English
• Publisher: Echo Hill Arts Press, LLC
• Release date: Apr 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9780999506189

Atwood Cutting

With the writings of Jack London and Ralph Waldo Emerson as their inspiration, Atwood Cutting's parents chose to follow an idealistic dream, and pioneer in the Alaskan backwoods. Thus, as a newborn, Attie was transported home from the hospital on a snow mobile. Her mother was surprised to find the nursery looking like a scene from Gettysburg - charred and steaming - but in they went, regardless. The greatest source of material for this work of historical fiction was the author's mother, Kate Peters, who told many wonderful stories about the weather, the road, and the neighbors at the end of the road. Luckily, Grandma Tutu in Hawaii saved most of the letters Kate sent her, over those twelve years. These nuggets from an isolated mountain home proved to be a goldmine. Kate Peters also took photographs and kept journals, which shed enough light to give an accurate historical perspective for those who want to know what it was really like, living in the bush before cellphones and four-wheelers had been invented. With her brand of humor, the author tells her mother's stories better than anyone else ever could, except maybe Kate Peters herself. Educated in Alaska, Missouri, California, Hawaii and British Columbia, author Cutting graduated 'Phi Beta Kappa' in visual and performing arts, and then rounded out her education, with a Master of Liberal Arts degree in aesthetic expression. She is married and lives in Colorado, where she photographs spectacular sunsets over the Rockies, and other noteworthy sights.

Book preview

Chapter One

You Only Own What You Can Protect

Early Summer, 1979

Mr. Waterfall

BREAKUP HAD FINALLY completed its onslaught, and their road was now mostly passable. The weather was great, and Tim wanted to head into town for water and supplies. Kate and the baby chose to remain on the farm, to enjoy their private paradise on this lovely June morning.

Tim had driven away shortly after breakfast. Now Kate washed the dishes and Attie bounced in her elastic swing and poked at the baby activity board attached to a column in front of her.

When we’re finished here, Kate said to her little companion, we’ll go out for few rays of sunshine, and maybe collect a bouquet of spring wildflowers. It’s such a beautiful day. I want you to get a gander at all the grandness that surrounds us.

When the dishes were done, the young mother saddled her little one in a pack tied across her front, and they headed out for an Alpine denizen’s afternoon delight.

Back in less than an hour, Kate opened the squat basement door . . . and stopped dead in her tracks. A stranger was standing in the kitchen!

He had on a black leather vest, leather pants, and a beaded leather headband. He wore no shirt under his open vest, and his long, blond hair was stringy and dirty.

Who are you? Kate demanded of the startling apparition she’d come upon in their remote mountain home.

I am called ‘Splashing Waterfall,’ the intruder answered. Stunned, Kate struggled with the unusual name. Had he said, Splashing Water? Kate's eyes fell on the knife that hung from his belt. It was gigantic.

And why are you in my kitchen, sir? she demanded, trying to disguise her alarm with the kind of homesteader’s bravado she’d seen portrayed in the movies.

I walked up to sit on the rounded mountaintop, and I grew thirsty while on the road. I thought this place might have water for me to drink.

He was tough and lean, with the physique of someone who might have been acquainted with hard drugs. Maybe he’d even been in prison. She scanned his knuckles. Convicts often had tattoos on their knuckles. He had none.

Kate risked a glance at the loaded shotgun they kept hanging by the bed, but it might as well have been a million miles away. She’d never be able to get to it before he got to her with his knife . . . if things went that way.

Are you from around here? She asked, trying to sound civil while making it clear that she was the boss, (even though, at the moment she figured he had the upper hand).

No. I come from the Dakotas. Adopted by the Sioux and raised on the Reservation. It is my Sioux name that I use.

Oh.

They call me ‘Splashing Stones in Falling Water’ because I splash at the river and fight against the current.

Oh. Kate doubted his whole story. If he’d been raised by the Sioux, then she’d married Prince Rainier. If you’ll wait outside, I’ll bring you a drink; but I’m not comfortable with you coming into my house uninvited, Kate finally offered.

Mr. Waterfall nodded with a look of sad understanding, and walked across the inner-sanctum of their isolated fortress. When he reached the still wide-open front door, he stopped and said, I will be thankful. Then he ducked below the lintel and stood outside, waiting.

Kate laid her flowers on the table and filled a blue tin cup with water. She went to the opening and handed it to him where he stood, at the base of their pillbox-strength steps, while she remained inside, her hands at the ready to slam and bolt the gate of the fort, if he made any threatening moves.

He didn’t. Instead, he shook out the empty cup and handed it back to the woman. Many thanks, he said, and he climbed up the steps.

The bush wife nodded, then shut and locked the portal.

After unpacking four-month old Attie and setting her down in her playpen, Kate stood the new flowers up in an old ice cream churn, poured a few cups of water to cover the stem bottoms, and crossed the room to make sure that the shotgun was loaded. While she was near the bed, she looked out the little window that faced west.

There was Mr. Splashing Water! He was only a few yards south of their hen house, and he seemed to be pacing out measurements of some kind. What did he think he was doing?

It felt like the unanticipated arrival of Fram and his instant family, all over again. What was it Fram had said? What say, we build right here, Ruth? Kate’s gut reaction that time had been the same as now. This stranger, and his humongous knife, had to go.

Kate checked Attie in the playpen and then took the shotgun back off its hooks and hastened out to confront the fellow for a second time.

What are you doing? Kate asked quite sharply.

This is where I will build the sweat house, the matter-of-fact visitor responded audaciously.

I don’t think so. Not here. This is private property, she corrected.

Yes, right here, the stranger countered. He was pointing to one especially-flowery patch, a spot where the two newlyweds had lain on more than one occasion. A village will rise from here, the Native imposter announced. He sounded like they’d already come to an agreement.

I don’t think so, Kate informed him. This land is not for sale.

The man with a strange name continued, undeterred. We will build many teepees here.

Teepees? Red flags were poking up all over the place. No. I don’t think your vision will be coming true here, sir, Kate repeated.

Yes. It is so. He turned away and continued pacing out his circles in the Peterses’ side meadow.

Please leave the premises now, Kate ordered, with all the confidence and authority she could muster.

The man looked puzzled. Then he turned, without a word, and walked down the hill in the direction of Cutting Creek.

Kate hustled into the house and hunkered down behind the locked door. She would wait for Tim to get home. He could take care of this interloper. Tim was her very own warrior, and he would protect them.

* * *

Tim walked up the hill two hours later.

Kate wailed out her tale the minute he got to the door, It’s happening all over again! There’s a weird guy outside. He’s dressed like an Indian, but he looks more like an escapee. And he has a big knife. He says he’s gonna build a sweat house right next to our chicken house.

Calm down, and start from the beginning.

Kate started again and told Tim everything: about how the stranger had come into the house while she and Attie were out for a walk, and how he’d said he was going to start a village in their backyard. ". . . And he’s wearing a huge knife," she repeated.

Where did he go? Tim asked.

I think he went down to the creek.

Don’t you worry, her man said, giving her a reassuring hug. I’m here now. I’ll take care of it.

I’m so glad you’re home, she said, suddenly feeling fatigued.

First thing in the morning, I’ll take a look-see down by the spring and along the creek, her trained soldier said.

Thank you, Timber, Kate said, calming.

And God bless the U. S. Infantry, she murmured.

Two Different Visions of Heaven

THERE HE IS! Kate had been keeping an eye out all morning. She’d just caught a glimpse of a mop of stringy blond hair moving through the tall grass.

Tim went to the little side window and watched the trespasser emerge over the ridge. He was heading in the direction of their house.

I guess I’ll go out there and have a little talk with him.

"Take the shotgun, Tim. That’s a really big knife he’s got."

Don’t worry about me. Remember, I fought in the war. He took the shotgun off its nails, checked it, and headed for the door.

We need you, Timber, so please be careful, Kate reminded him.

I will, he said.

Then he went outside and walked over to talk to Mr. Waterfall, their new would-be neighbor. Kate ran to watch through the side window as the two men met and began discussing their two very different visions of heaven under the same blue sky.

The imposter pointed north, then south.

Tim looked and listened.

The stranger bent down and drew something in the dirt. Tim looked at it and shook his head with the authority of a landowner.

Kate watched as Tim said something that made the man stand up abruptly and head down toward the creek.

Tim watched him leave. Then he turned and walked back to the house.

Kate met their protector when he reached the door. What’d he say?

He says he spent time with the Sioux and that he wants to build a village here.

What do you think?

I think he spent time, all right, but I doubt it was on the Reservation.

Bad news?

Yeah. Bad news.

What’d you tell him? she pressed.

"I told him the land wasn’t for sale and that he’d have to move on. He told me he planned to live right here, since we don’t really own this land. He said it ‘belongs to all people.’"

Nice sentiment, Kate nodded. But not in my backyard. So, what do we do?

We tell him to get off our land, which I did. I told him I’d give him a ride to Footprint, if he could be ready in fifteen minutes.

What did he say to that?

He went to get his gear.

Twenty minutes later, Kate anxiously tracked the car’s departure as the two men drove down the road and disappeared into the woods. Then she shuddered, turned, and went back inside.

One comforting thought helped Kate stay calm as she waited for her soldier to return from his dangerous mission: Tim was aware of the weapon that his passenger openly displayed. But Splashing Drainpipe didn’t know about the Colt 45 automatic Tim carried in his jacket pocket. That fact was reassuring.

Mr. Waterfall had proposed to locate the sweathouse

—and a whole new village—

halfway between this tree and that house.

Squatters

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MAMASAN!

June 17, 1979 –

Your daughter is smiling. We just saw a cow moose with twin calves walking up the drive. This is my favorite time of year, when the lupines are blooming and the grass is still short enough to be inviting (i.e. not tall enough to hide a bear). And our road is almost drivable now, so I’m happy!

We’re plugging away on the house, aiming for the end of July as our move-in date.

News flash: The State is evicting Frampton! It turns out that he’s been technically squatting all this time. (Just another reminder that it’s still like the old west out here.) Things should be a lot easier once his menagerie is gone. Soon, it’ll all be manure under the bridge, as they say.

Love, love, Tim, Kate and Attie

Fram built his pigpen using old bed springs.

Grass Fire

A WEEK LATER, at about noon, Kate went outside to dump the drain bucket. Tim was away in Fairbanks renewing his number at the Laborers’ Union Hall, and she and Attie would be alone on the hill for two or three days. But it was summer, so the living was pretty easy.

Kate dumped the slop into a patch of tall grass and stopped to look around. There was smoke rising from the ridge across the flats. She set down the empty bucket and squinted into the mid-day glare.

Drat! Those were flames she’d spotted, alright. A smoldering crescent was burning its way down Myerses’ field. Shoot, that’s not good.

She ran back inside and used the CB radio to call the Myerses. They didn’t pick up, so she went ahead and called it in. "There’s a fire up on Round Top Mountain, near Myerses’ place.