Gordon Stoddard

by Go North, Young Man

  One day I heard that someone had driven to Homer and back again. The road was still officially closed but not, apparently, impassable. The flow of salmon into the cannery had almost stopped by then, and I figured that the cannery could do without me. But when I approached the cannery owner with my resignation and a request for pay, I learned something new about the fish industry in Alaska. “Why don’t you wait until the run is over?” said the owner. “Then I will know what to pay you.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  He very patiently explained to me why the rate of pay depended upon the profit made in an entire season. The first 10,000 cases of salmon, he told me, paid the expenses of the operation. After that it was all pure profit, and if, at the end of the season, that profit was high, the hourly rate paid the workers was high. “So if you’ll stay on for a couple of weeks more,” he concluded, “I can probably pay you more per hour. Anyway, we never pay off until the end of the season.”

  But I was anxious to get going, to find my homestead in the woods. I convinced him that, with all my mistakes, I had been worth $2 an hour, pocketed a month’s salary, said goodbye to the rest of the slaves and drove south along the Sterling Highway.

  Chapter IV—The Search

  AT THE LITTLE TOWN of Soldotna the road forked. The left road led north, toward Anchorage. I took the right turning—toward Homer.

  As soon as it had crossed the Kenai River, the highway wound up into the hills, and for the next ten miles it dipped and curved, dipped and curved, leaving forests of birch and spruce to drop to the lowlands of muskegs and lakes and then climbing again. After over twenty miles of tedious driving, I drove across a big bridge spanning another river—the Kasilof River, according to my map, and like all the rivers I had seen so far, the color of chalk from the glacier silt it carried. A sign pointed down a dirt side road to indicate that there was a town named after the river somewhere in the area, but I didn’t think it worth investigating at that time.

  I drove on. There was no evidence of habitation along the highway—not even a sign advertising gasoline. If this was the homestead country, where were the homesteaders? I asked myself.

  About ten miles south of the Kasilof River my question was answered. Rounding a big turn in the highway, I could see a log cabin here and there, and finally a sign: “Clam Gulch Store.” The store was only the living room of a homesteader’s cabin and the groceries were few, but the man and wife in charge made up for the lack of goods in friendliness. “What can we do for you?” they inquired with real sincerity. “How can we help you?” I asked them how far it was to the next town. “Twelve miles,” said the man. “It’s called Ninilchik. But you can’t get through. The road’s closed.”

  “There’s no possible chance of my making it?”

  The storekeeper eyed my car. “We-ll,” he drawled. “Looks like your Plymouth’s in pretty good shape.”

  Leaving Clam Gulch with two candy bars and the good wishes of the store people, I drove on. Within a couple of miles I came to a large sign blocking the road. “ROAD CLOSED” it stated in letters fully a foot high. “DO NOT PROCEED FURTHER.”

  I worked carefully around the road block and drove on. Rocks hammered the underside of the car as it lurched through deep ruts and potholes. Loose dirt and gravel showered the body. The tires spun madly in puddles of black, sticky mud, and every moment of activity, I feared, would be my last. Both the car and I took a terrific beating: we were sweating out every foot, every yard, every mile.

  Suddenly I rounded a curve and nearly collided with three gravel dump trucks which were spreading their loads. As I passed them I could hear the angry yells of their drivers, but I didn’t stop to listen to the epithets they undoubtedly shouted: I knew I had no right to be on the road they were building, but it was too late to turn back now.

  After a couple miles more I passed another road block sign and I was in the clear. Then, coasting down a long hill, I crossed a small river and drove onto a short side road into the fishing village of Ninilchik. The town consisted of a jumble of rotting shacks, a few natives lounging about on what passed for streets and a swarm of ferocious malamute dogs which ran out from every direction to snarl at me and look longingly at my tires. I waited for someone to call the dogs off so that I could get out of the car. When nobody did, I honked my horn to clear a path through the dogs and drove on.

  From Ninilchik to Homer I saw cabins and shacks at frequent intervals along the highway. At the top of a long hill that led down to the town and—according to my map—Kachemak Bay—I stopped the car and got out to stretch my legs. The view was spectacular. Off to the right was the wide stretch of water that was Cook Inlet, reaching for at least fifty miles toward the jagged mountains of the Alaska Range. To the left rose a series of grassy hills splotched with patches of lavender—fire-weed, I was later to learn. In front of me the road disappeared into a grove of spruce trees where I knew the town of Homer lay hidden, and extending out from the town and bisecting a large, blue bay was a narrow spit of land. Across the bay the mountains reached up to the sky, and in two of the mountain valleys I could see an expanse of white which I knew was a glacier flowing to the inlet. This was the Alaska I had dreamed of, seen pictures of.

  But when I drove into Homer I was in for a shock. There was no grandeur here. Only a few frame buildings with false fronts not unlike those in a California ghost town. Only mud streets and no sidewalks. Just another town.

  In looking Homer over and doing a little inquiring around, I found out that it boasted one drugstore, one hardware store, two hotels, two general stores, one laundry, two churches, two restaurants, two lumber yards and five bars, and that the proprietors of these establishments made their living from farmers, homesteaders, fishermen and tourists. So far, I was a tourist.

  I walked into the drugstore to buy a pack of cigarettes. The man who waited on me introduced himself as Vern Mutch, Sole Owner. He was in his forties, of slight build, wore glasses and had a receding forehead. He reminded me of a thin Scattergood Baines. His friendliness—were all these wilderness people friendly?—soon had me talking about myself, my plans for homesteading, etc., and he listened attentively, dropping a piece of advice now and then.

  Finally, seeing that another customer had entered the store, I turned to leave. As I did so I said, “Oh, by the way. Where can I get a cheap room in this town?”

  Vern Mutch, Sole Owner, studied me for a moment through his glasses. Then he said, “Why don’t you come back later and go home with me? You can stay at my place until you get located.”

  I had been in the drugstore exactly ten minutes, and already I had made a friend and received an invitation. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had been treated to a prime example of Alaskan hospitality.

  Six weeks later I was still in Homer, still a house guest of Vern Mutch. In an effort to repay him for his kindness—he wouldn’t hear of accepting cash for room and board—I had volunteered my services at the store, fished for salmon at the nearby Anchor River so that he would have plenty for canning, dug pails of razor clams and picked bucketsful of high bush blueberries to replenish his larder. I had learned that everyone around Homer lived off the wild products of the country and I felt that it was the least I could do. Besides, I enjoyed fishing, clamming and berrypicking.

  The Mutch drugstore was like no other drugstore I had ever seen. Besides being stocked with alarm clocks, toys, perfumes, film, projectors, cameras, bicycles, antifreeze, Jeep trucks, chain saws, tires, Jeep parts, fishing tackle, souvenirs and pressure cookers, it had a full stock of drugs. Vern was the nearest thing to a doctor for miles around, and he also acted, on occasion, as the town veterinarian. He had been a druggist in the States, too, but tiring of life in a Michigan city as I had tired of life in any city, he had sold his store and brought his wife and young son to Alaska to “retire.” Now he was busier than ever before. In addition to running his store, he was in the process of starting up a cement block plant, owned an interes
t in a bus line and was one of the directors of a bank that hadn’t opened its doors yet. He was growing with a growing town and getting, he said, a big kick out of it.

  During my six weeks in Homer I was always on the lookout for a homestead. I asked thousands of questions of the homesteaders I met and was told that all the best land around Homer had been taken up. But I wasn’t discouraged. Every day or so I drove north on the Sterling Highway to see what I could see. “There must be some land left,” I told myself.

  One day I stopped at a farmhouse a few miles north of the Anchor River with the idea of asking the people about the available land around them. Knocking, I waited. Suddenly the door swung open and several assorted dogs, cats, chickens and people rushed out. A rather pretty young woman standing in the doorway said, cordially, “Come on in. The dogs won’t bite.”

  I wasn’t so sure: the malamute on my left was eyeing my left leg with obvious appetite and the malamute on my right was licking his chops. I moved my legs one at a time. When nothing happened, I walked into the cabin. The next thing I knew I was sitting at a table eating a huge piece of blueberry pie and drinking a very good cup of coffee. More Alaskan hospitality.

  I explained my business, and obligingly my hostess brought out a large map of the district and proceeded to show me the land she thought might be available. When I picked out a plot adjoining her homestead she said, “You’re married, aren’t you?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m a bachelor.”

  “Oh. Well, you wouldn’t be interested in this land, then.” Her voice was decidedly hostile. “We’d much rather have a family living next to us. Why don’t you go up and see the Doners? They have the next homestead up the road.”

  Climbing into my car, I looked back at the house. The door was already closed and the malemutes stood on guard. Apparently it was a capital crime to be single in Alaska.

  I drove up a hill and stopped in front of the next house—a nicely-painted, friendly-looking house this time, and I hoped its inhabitants were more of the same. As I left my car I was nearly knocked flat by a little brown bundle of fur which leaped on my chest and managed to lick me twice before falling to the ground. “Don’t worry,” said the man who appeared around the corner of the house. “He won’t bite.”

  I believed him. I introduced myself, told him what I was looking for and waited for the question. It came. “Are you married?” he asked.

  I backed toward the car. “No, I’m not,” I said, somewhat defiantly.

  “That’s too bad. A wife could be a great help to you in homesteading. The winters up here are pretty long, you know, and most bachelors don’t last until spring. Then the homesteads are abandoned and the land goes to waste. We need people who will build the country up—families!”

  “Well, thanks for talking to me, Mr. Doner. I guess I’ll move along.” I opened the car door and started to climb in.

  “Hey! Hold on! Don’t you want to see some land?” Mr. Doner was waving me back.

  “Well, sure,” I said, feeling better. “Where is it?”

  During the rest of the afternoon Mr. Doner showed me the plot of ground lying next to his property. It consisted of 33 acres running between the highway and the bluff overlooking Cook Inlet, and it pleased me very much. There was a wonderful view of the inlet, and across it, Mt. Iliamna of the magnificent Alaska Range. There was half a mile of road frontage and enough good timber to build a cabin. This was for me.

  I jumped into the car and drove like a madman back to Homer and its airport. There was an Alaska Airlines plane just leaving for Anchorage: I took it. The landing wheels had hardly stopped spinning when I leaped out, hurried to the Land Office, barged through a door, demanded to see a map on the Homer area and requested the necessary filing papers. Running a finger across the map, I found the Doner homestead and—right next to it—“my” land. “There it is,” I told the clerk in attendance. “That’s what I want!”

  The clerk leaned over my shoulder and put his own index finger on the map. “Read what it says,” he directed.

  “WITHDRAWN FROM PUBLIC ENTRY,” I read. “But—but—”

  “Happened just yesterday,” said the clerk. “Government took the land for fishing sites. No homesteading there, any more.”

  Two weeks later, having recovered from my so-near-and-yet-so-far blow, I resumed my hunt for land, determined to buy some if I couldn’t get it any other way. This time I drove past the Doner homestead and stopped at a little creek that crossed the road. The land beside it looked like a fine place to build a cabin, and my hopes began to rise. There was a crude road nearby and I drove down it to see where it went. Presently I came to a large, two-story, round-log house. The door didn’t open at my knock, but a loud, gruff voice produced practically the same effect. “COME IN!” it roared.

  I entered the house to find myself confronted by a veritable giant of a man. He stood at least six feet four inches in his stocking feet—and he was wearing his stockings at the time. His shoulders were as broad as a bookcase, his hands were like hams of the type L’il Abner carts around, and I almost expected to hear him say, “Fe, fi, fo, fum. I smell the blood of an Englishman.”

  But he didn’t say that. He just said, “Sit down. You’re just in time for dinner,” and handed me a plate and fork.

  “But—but—but—” I stammered, thinking he had mistaken me for somebody else.

  “You’re hungry, aren’t you?” he boomed.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Well, sit down and shut up!” And when I didn’t move to obey him, he pushed me down on a bench in front of the table. It took only a forefinger to do it.

  This was my meeting with “Greasy” Grogan, the overlord of Stariski Creek—a meeting that was to play a big part in the shaping of my life in Alaska. But I didn’t know it at the time. After eating a large meal of fried salmon steaks, pie and coffee, I managed to whisper to mine host that I was looking for land and ask him if he knew who owned the plot down by the bridge.

  “I own it; that’s who,” said Greasy. “Whadaya wanta know for?”

  “Well, I thought I might be interested in buying some of it. Would you be interested in selling?”

  He screwed his surprisingly babyish face into a very adult frown and scratched his head. “Could be,” he said.

  “How much per acre?”

  He considered for a moment. Then he said, “One hundred dollars.”

  The price was much too high for unimproved wilderness land, I knew, but I was afraid to tell him so: he was bigger than I. But during the next week I thought the matter over and decided to meet his terms on at least five acres. “Five acres at five hundred dollars. Right, Mr. Grogan?” I said when I went to see him.

  “Five acres at a thousand dollars, you mean,” he said. “Where’dya get the idea I’d let you have it for $100 an acre?” It was no deal.

  While drowning my sorrows in vodka at the Kachemak Bar in Homer a few days later, I got to talking to a man who seemed to be interested in my dilemma. He told me that a Mr. Jones who lived in Anchorage had filed on a homestead up Stariski Creek from Greasy Grogan’s land and had never proved up on it. “He might be interested in relinquishing the land to you,” he said. “Why don’t you write him?”

  “Sure, why not?” I said listlessly. “What can I lose?”

  I wrote the letter that night, and a few days later I received an answer from Mr. Jones. He would be glad to relinquish the land to me, he said. All I had to do was send the necessary papers to him and he’d sign them. I hadn’t seen the land, of course, but I figured that out of 160 acres—the maximum homestead acreage—there should be enough good land for what I wanted to do. I got the papers from a surveyor in Homer and sent them to Mr. Jones immediately, along with $100 to make sure that he wouldn’t change his mind. They came back signed by return mail.

  But I wasn’t a homesteader yet: by relinquishing his claim to the land, Mr. Jones had simply given it back to the government, and I, at that point, had no legal ri
ght to it. My next step was to make out filing papers and send them, together with the relinquishment papers, to the Land Office in Anchorage. Having done that, and having been assured by the government surveyor in Homer that everything would go through without a hitch and that I could take possession any time, I made preparations to move to my new home.

  But this, in some ways, wasn’t as easy as I had supposed. My druggist friend, Vern Mutch, was opposed to the whole idea. “Why do you want to go homesteading?” he said. “Why don’t you stay here with us this winter and help me in the store? Why don’t you come in with me and buy forty acres near town? Why don’t you come in with me on the block plant? Why do you want to make trouble for yourself?”

  But all his arguments, entreaties and offers had no effect on me. My answer was always: “Because I want to go homesteading. That’s what I came up here for.”

  He finally threw in the towel. Lending me some tools, loading up my car with food and making me a present of a malamute puppy, he said, “Good luck. I’ll see you soon.”

  I headed north on September 15.

  Chapter V—The Homestead

  “WHERE IS IT, Ski?” I said to my malamute pup. “It must be around here somewhere.”

  Trying to find a homestead you have never seen and survey lines made forty years before and long since overgrown was a job for a prospector or a water-hunter with a divining rod, I decided. I had pitched my pup tent in a grove of spruce trees near the highway, but I didn’t know whether I was trespassing on somebody else’s land or camping on my own domain. Then I had spent half a day tramping through the woods looking for the survey lines on the roughly-sketched map the Land Office had given me. But it was hopeless. Every time I found a line of stumps that could have been boundaries there was a spruce tree among them that looked to be over forty years old, and I knew I was on the wrong track again. (The stumps, I later found out, had been left by trap pole cutters and had, as I had suspected, no relation to boundaries.)