Pilgrim's Wilderness: A True Story of Faith and Madness on the Alaska Frontier

by Tom Kizzia

  Maybe no one in McCarthy even made it past the song verses, decorated with musical notes, that opened the letter like theme music for a television show:

  Oh what a Love that will Bind the wounds of Loss and Heal my Breast—

  Oh what a love that will cast away the pain

  Oh ″ ″ ″ that will Bear for me the Cross of a brand new start

  Oh what a love that will let me begin again …

  A song was given that desperate night I made my way that day and night to my beloved wife, Country Rose—Now in Labor with our child!

  Our 16th child to “part the womb” —one land, one family, one birth to bless us —every child a new plan and vision of looking forward to the Beyond.

  Having wandered threw out Alaska so many years, it was filled with trials, wanting to except neighbors, wanting to find our place—only to be slandered, robbed, and beaten, praised, accepted and Loved. But the reward came that Patience reaps, and the “End of the Road” McCarthy Town became the Beginning for a Pilgrim Family. Our first visit produced a family list of 177 reasons to be here, and not one “No”!—It was God Given.

  Pilgrim wrote of driving home that fall after seeing a doctor in Anchorage, keeping in touch with the Mother Lode properties via a new remote phone at the cabin.

  My knee at times in “screaming pain”; —Time was short, for Mama Country Rose was “overdue” with child — Trusting in God that He would not let us down after all He’s done for us. Threw Anchorage headed home — Truck and Trailer with food, clothing, bedding, tools we pulled into Palmer …

  Just as I headed out the hwy I received “that” call that said — “Don’t stop now my husband, the child is coming.” —I’m set free and Homeward bound. 50 years of driving faultlessly had prepared me for this day as I climbed into the driver’s seat and told my right leg to work for me now, as we sped down the hwy the tears in my eyes gave the road a shimmer —and a call to mama to let her know, “I’m threw the Hills now and open country is before me —yes baby the hammer’s on the floor, just believe.” On the road I stopped along the hwy at a Christian home. I pulled up —they were gathered outside —Pilgrim! Hello! —Pray, Pray my brothers, my wife is in labor and hundreds of miles of blacktop, 60 miles of dirt, 17 river crossings lie ahead —Oh Pray! as my engine sound disappeared into the darkness.

  I reached the bridge and the bollards, and no sons were there yet —They had had trouble? —I slumped over the wheel as the tears and the pain put me asleep —

  I awoke surrounded by family —A call to mama revealed she was in strong labor, as my sons wisked me across the bridge —Into a track R.V. —A blurr through Old Town McCarthy —Oh Lord Jesus, so far to go! The next hours were so hard, holding my body together threw the trail and sometimes submerged in water —yet we all had only one purpose —

  To Be There On Time —It was unconceivable that we wouldn’t be there. I remember asking the sons to stop just a moment —I felt I was falling apart and the pain made me think of a warrior wounded in the battle field with no relief. Then I heard Joseph say as he put his arm around my broken body —We’re almost there —you’ll see the lamp in the window soon papa. Then I was carried in, and as I stood there I saw mama — She saw my brokenness, I saw her love, as she sat so honorable on the couch —We embraced —we wept —we were finally all together and our prayer and great need answered.

  The children, he wrote, needed to know why their mother cried in pain. It was because of mankind’s sin, but God would save those who lived in faith. He described the birth itself in melodramatic detail, and then how he received the child: “Thoughts pierced my heart as I saw this child, my fingers caressing its head, so small, so new, so holy, such promise, such love.” A boy!

  Now was the moment—I lifted him to God in Prayer and Thanks—As before, I waited for to hear his name—Three Times it came to me—He shall be called Jonathan—Gasp and tears were heard threw out the family—What a lovely name.

  Then we celebrated with all that God had provided—Leg of Lamb, berries, cheese, home grown everything—We searched the meaning of His Name in the Hebrew = JEHOVA GIVEN. We understood so deeply, and more to learn. This Land and its people, our Home and all He’s done here is purely GOD GIVEN—We know this and now can for a surety look forward with the promise of a New Love, New life, New Song in our hearts—We wanted to tell you because we love you so much with His Love that looks to the beyond—

  —In Jesus The Pilgrims and Baby Pilgrim “Jonathan”

  PEOPLE ASSUMED the Pilgrim Family had gone into the wilderness, like their namesakes in New England, looking for space to establish their own theocracy. Like those other Puritans, though, the family’s motivations soon shifted toward the mercantile.

  Neil Darish at the McCarthy Lodge was probably the first to learn Pilgrim was thinking about bringing tourists to the Mother Lode. In a way it made sense—even in the 1950s, a bush pilot had a pretty good business flying tourists from Anchorage out to see the old Alaska ghost town, until Kennecott’s lawyers barred the door. Actual mining wasn’t an option. Before the national park, new owners at Kennicott had tried picking up the blue and green copper ore left on the ground. They gathered tram spillage in bags of jute and shipped the bags by plane and truck to Tacoma. The ore caused such a stir in Tacoma that smelter operations paused—no one had seen copper that rich in decades, not since the Alaska mines shut down. But the venture didn’t pay, and the owners soon turned from high-grading ore to high-grading antiques out of the ruins. These days visitors were the only real source of outside income.

  Pilgrim stopped by the lodge frequently to ask advice of Darish. The lodge owner found it flattering to have the welfare of such an industrious yet innocent family placed in his trust. Papa was an engaging conversationalist, quick to pick up on the community’s dynamics, keen to want the same things Darish wanted and full of questions. Papa was concerned that the family’s horseback ride business, so picturesque and appealing to tourists, was raising objections among locals because the horses chewed bark off the cottonwoods and left steaming piles in the streets.

  Darish flew up to see the family’s new homestead. He and Pilgrim agreed the mountaintop Mother Lode mine could be quite an asset. Tours through the caverns would tap a deep treasure-hunt craving in visitors, and the liability-averse Park Service would surely never agree to such a venture on their side of the mountain. Darish explained the big picture: In his view, visitors were drawn to McCarthy as a genuine lived-in place, not some fake reproduction of the old frontier. Not only did Pilgrim see the beauty of that, he said tourists could not find more genuine country ways than his family’s. He elaborated on this in a couple of early letters to Darish from the homestead, printed out with unpracticed spelling on the back of sample logs from the mine, in which he imagined a future visit to “Hillbilly Heaven Mountain Lodge”:

  They have over 400 ac of private land, a wonderous location all set up for guest to come and experience Real Alaska Living.… Take walks on the glaciers, climb threw Diamond Creek, find hidden valleys—watch the big ram sheep, and enjoy the numerous bears that climb the distant cliffs—dont worry they all carry .454 to protect folks if needed.… The famous “Mother Lode” mine—The Last open copper mine in private hands, is in the near future being prepared even now for limited tours. Chip a peice of ore from the walls of this mine—while your up there you’ll be amazed as you’ll seem to be on top of the world looking out over the World’s Largest National Park. You’ll see giant ariel tram that brought the ore down and you’ll walk along the top of Bonnanza Ridge—its towers, hidden valley and pinicles point towards Heaven.

  As he wrote that first letter, Pilgrim was experiencing his first spring breakup in the valley, with snow melting to reveal Wigger’s D5 bulldozer and a rock drill and the fullness of the Lord’s love for the family. Whenever his sons managed to get back, they would commence rebuilding the interior of the main cabin, which had been trashed when they got there, insulation and griz
zly bear scat strewn everywhere. “Old Slew Foot,” as Papa called the giant bear, showed up one of their first mornings at dawn, rousing the dogs. They got off a wounding shot, and five sons with rifles tracked the grizzly up the mountain. From an alder thicket Old Slew Foot made his final charge and they loaded him with bullets. They saved the skin and said nothing to the park. Thus was McCarthy Creek reclaimed for God’s glory.

  “I sit helplessly amid torrents of water, Ice break-ups, unwalkable snowy trails, mt. trails closed by Avalanche danger, a Joyous prisoner to God’s Love, and so at peace with all my youngest children, in this wonderful valley we know now as home,” Pilgrim wrote. The letters came as a surprise to Darish, both for their lightheartedness and because he had figured, above all, that the Pilgrims would want to keep people away. “We treasure our solitude,” Pilgrim explained, “for the Bible tells us that the family shall dwell in Solitary.” But his family intended to strike a beautiful balance, he explained.

  In the evening they’ll play some of their unique versions of mt. music, they have “dubbed” “Gospel Grass” music. I do think I heard one of them fiddlers say “God loves fiddlen around and playing to Him.” The young one’s dance the old celtic “clog.” The meals are free, Mama Country has obviously been use to cooking for these past 30 yrs.… After good simple food—mountain music—you’ll be ready to take the trail to your “Pappy cabin,” light the lamp and look out up the mts. or glaciers or the river and count the beauty and blessings of a experience that is guarenteed to change your Life—This is their first season, and Limited Availability is open—Make soap with Mama or try your hand at the spinning wheel—They love to teach, or watch the Tanning of hides, Native style, or watch the boys make you something at the forge or anvil—or! Learn to load a black powder rifle, and how sweet it shoots—

  Pilgrim even offered a general description of the town for Darish to use on his “web sight.”

  Come on down to “Old Town McCarthy”—the town that was the biggest little town in Alaska—where copper and gold flowed out of glaciers—the Wild West of Alaska, where “churches” were out-lawed—and sin, riches and harlotry were coveted!—A few families left from those boom days have held onto what Alaska really stands for—“Preachers”? well not exactly, to say the least, but rugged, ready and caring people that have begun to build the town back.…

  Darish advised Papa to approach his lodge idea like a sensible business. Buy insurance, for one thing, and work with the national park to get the proper permits. Pilgrim seemed so naïve in some ways.

  I have a question—How do we get paid? Let’s say they send 6 months advance for full, to stay 3 nights.… Well if nobody has cash any more, can I have one of those little credit card things, that pulls over the card & “Bill”—they sign it—I give them a copy—I send one in—& I keep one—or I could advertise—“Cash only! I can’t trade your signature for Hay!?”

  I wouldn’t be that concerned about people, at least what kind—There would be a few things, but they would naturally take care of themselves—foul speaking & Nudity are out, but that’s never been a problem, even when we’re in someone else’s world—

  Robbers—murderers—hurtfull people—Park Rangers, and state troopers, drunk child welfare protection workers, and any one that has a purpose to harm or do evil to others are not acceptable —

  And or if a problem arose, I believe we can very nicely get them a quick departure date, so that only good things happen. But whatever position you take to help us, it will be honored, and each Act and Labor has its Reward —

  There won’t be Trouble—God’s bigger than that, and we won’t be passing out saw-off shotguns to be sure—of which we have none! And all Jews are welcome! By the way!

  We have one thing to endever together, to mind our own business, to live quite and peaceful lifes, and to work with our hands, singing a pleasant song.

  BY THE time Jonathan was born in October 2002, they were fixing up a guest shack they called the Happy Cabin. The family lived in two cabins left from Wigger’s prospecting days. Then the smaller and nicer of the two cabins burned down. It happened after a night when the temperature hit thirty below. The woodstove had been loaded extra full and the winds had howled down the valley with unusual force, the bellows of winter. The next morning, the valley was silent as Country Rose went to the window and saw smoke under the eaves. Fifteen-year-old Israel risked his life to dash back in the cabin for an armload of rifles, then ran barefoot through the snow to disconnect a propane tank and pull it away from the flames. They saved the livestock penned next door, but after that everyone slept in the living room of the drafty main cabin.

  The fire aroused sympathy in town. Darish sent tourist business their way—a group of snowmachiners from the city who had showed up in McCarthy looking for something a little different.

  They called themselves Motorheads, though they weren’t the kind of Alaskans whose enjoyment of the wild usually involved noise and speed and prodigious consumption of fossil fuels. White-collar lawyers, accountants, a few members of the opinion staff at the Anchorage Daily News, they were more likely to be taken for cross-country skiers, fly fishermen, and kayakers. Conservatives and liberals both, the longtime friends didn’t, for the most part, own big trucks and four-wheel off-road vehicles. Every winter, though, a dozen or so headed off for a boys’ adventure on borrowed or rented snowmachines. They told friends they saw a lot more beautiful country that way than they ever would on skis.

  One year, their destination was a lodge that stayed open all winter along the unplowed Denali Highway. The next year, in early 2003, they decided to go to McCarthy.

  When they got home, all they could talk about was the Pilgrim Family.

  The original plan, worked out over the phone with Darish, had been to drive to Chitina and then travel by snowmachine along the old train route to McCarthy. But when they got to Chitina, it hadn’t snowed in a while and the road was plowed. They decided to keep driving and make McCarthy their starting point rather than their destination. They parked by the river at the end of the road, near the footbridge built to keep out those rough riders of summer Alaska tourism, the true motorheads.

  Right away they got in trouble. On the hard-packed trail to town, several of the brand-new 700 cc rented snowmachines overheated and had to be left for retrieval later. The next day, traveling up the icy trail to see Kennicott, a machine overheated and leaked radiator fluid, and when they stopped a cabin owner yelled at them because his dog team might lick up the dribble of poisonous antifreeze along the trail. The Motorheads were mortified and spent the next hour working with shovels and plastic bags to remove traces of green snow.

  Back at the lodge, disheartened by their mechanical troubles, they learned from Darish of a family, new to town, who could help. Two young men with long hair and beards and floppy hats stopped by the lodge and went to work fixing the damaged snowmachines. One of the Motorheads had lost a radiator cap somewhere down in the engine. Joseph and Joshua Pilgrim plugged the radiator hole, lifted the heavy machine in the air, flipped it upside down, and shook it until the cap tumbled out. The Motorheads looked at one another and smiled at the simple solution.

  The boys’ father walked over from the family wanigan base camp in town, opened a photo album, and described their homestead far off in the mountains. Mama and the young children were out there now. Papa Pilgrim said his boys could provide a daylong tour of the valley for fifty dollars a person.

  The Motorheads had a debate. The political conservatives in the group thought fifty dollars each was too much and pushed for a group discount. The liberal majority said this ragged family needed the money. The conversation went on for some time because debate, unlike small-engine mechanics, was something these professionals were good at.

  The next morning, Joseph and Joshua and another brother showed up on three small patched-together one-cylinder snowmachines. Each Pilgrim had a younger brother riding on back. Their sputtering little Tundras were half the
size of the Motorheads’ machines, and the Pilgrim boys wore light jackets and hats while the Motorheads were dressed like astronauts in one-piece snowsuits and helmets. But the Pilgrims snow-danced in circles as they led the Motorheads into the mountains on a blue, sun-glinting day. The trail was wide and groomed. The craggy summits were spectacular. They rode all the way to the scenic alpine headwall of the McCarthy Creek valley, where they could highmark like real motorheads on steep slopes below a glacier. The Pilgrims seemed able to ride as high as they wanted. The director of the state humanities council lost balance ascending and tumbled over backward, but he stood up laughing and his friends got some great pictures.

  Later, when they got back to Anchorage, the Motorheads told stories about the country-Jesus family they’d discovered in the Wrangell Mountains. The whole family lived in a single cabin, crowding their sleeping bags into one big room at night. The little children could not stop staring at the group’s one African American. They were all so cheerful, fed the snowmachiners a big meal, and played gospel music—“Hallelujah, I’m ready to go,” they sang. They were living in the middle of a national park, but apparently this was not a problem in Alaska. It was one of those days that made everyone think: What a great crazy state we live in.

  ON THE Motorheads’ last night at the McCarthy Lodge, it was the visitors who did the singing. Every year the trip ended with the Motorhead Follies, celebrating the comedy of motorized touring unburdened by pretensions of competence. A dozen people from the community turned out, including Papa Pilgrim and Country Rose and a few of the older children, who had made their way down from the homestead. The big hit was a song about the Pilgrims to the tune of The Beverly Hillbillies theme. The Pilgrims didn’t seem to know the original and gave the lyricists undeserved credit for their catchy melody.