Catch Me if Yukon

by Maddy Hunter

  “Were the whales out in force?” Like a practicing diplomat, our driver greeted us outside our bus with smiles, enthusiasm, and a willing hand to assist guests up onto the first step. His name was Steele, although he didn’t specify whether that was his first name or last, and he seemed to enjoy interacting with the seniors as much as he enjoyed pampering his bus. He cut quite an arresting figure in his regulation uniform and cap, looking more like an airline pilot than a bus driver, which wasn’t a bad look to have, especially if the rest of the package included chiseled cheekbones, laughing eyes, and a devastating smile.

  “Lots of whales,” Margi Swanson replied as she climbed aboard, “but no lifeboats.”

  “You needed lifeboats?” asked Steele, clearly astonished.

  “It was a simple misunderstanding with one of the passengers,” I explained. “No harm done.”

  “Good thing you didn’t need to abandon ship,” Steele advised. “Whale watching vessels aren’t equipped with lifeboats.”

  Dick Teig climbed onto the stepwell. “I guess Titanic never hit movie theaters in Alaska.”

  When everyone was seated, Etienne went through the bus taking a head count while I laid out the plan for the rest of the day. “We’re going to give you some free time in downtown Seward for about an hour while we wait to pick up our local guide at the Alaska SeaLife Center. Her name is Alison Pickles, and according to her credentials, she’s an aficionado of all things Alaskan, so I expect she’ll be able to give us the skinny on just about everything.”

  “What wonderful things are we supposed to do in downtown Seward for a measly hour?” demanded Bernice.

  “You could shop for souvenirs,” I suggested. “Or take pictures. Or grab a snack. Or—”

  “Bernice has a point,” Alice Tjarks spoke up. “We’re wading into dangerous territory with only an hour. That hardly gives us time to get off the bus before we have to get back on again.”

  “I agree with Alice,” said Helen Teig. “You’re setting us up to be late even before we get off.”

  “But—”

  Steele clicked on his microphone. “If any of you would like to remain on the bus, I could give you my special busman’s tour of Seward, if the Micelis have no objection. It’s not part of their itinerary.”

  Cheers. Clapping. Whistles.

  I raised my hands in surrender and smiled. “Okay, okay. How can I say no to that? So, if you’d prefer not to spread your money around Seward, you can stay on the bus for an unadvertised optional tour. Once we’re on the road again, it should take us about an hour and a half to reach Girdwood, which is where we’ll be staying for the night at the Grand Girdwood Hotel and Resort. And as a special bonus, we’ll be dining atop a mountain this evening in the resort’s AAA Four Diamond restaurant with panoramic views guaranteed to take your breath away. So we still have a busy day ahead of us. Is everyone hanging in there?”

  After our early morning departure from Des Moines yesterday, a three-hour time zone change, and a two and a half hour bus ride from Anchorage to our lodgings in Seward, we’d all been feeling pretty punchy last night. And the fact that daylight persisted throughout the night didn’t help matters, not even with blackout drapes. Alaska wasn’t Europe, but the jet lag felt the same.

  “You bet!” came an anemic chorus of three voices. Everyone else had already moved on, heads bent, attention locked on their cell phones, texting or playing games, looking like airplane passengers during the flight attendant’s safety measures presentation.

  “All guests on board,” announced Etienne as he made his way to the front of the bus. “We didn’t lose anyone.”

  I flashed him a thumbs-up.

  In the tour industry, it was the little things.

  Downtown Seward was a short street of mostly one-story, flat-roofed buildings that boasted a colorful array of awnings over their storefront windows. It could probably pass for a town in the Old West if not for a few modern upgrades: angled parking spaces instead of hitching posts, two-ton pickup trucks instead of horses, multi-globe streetlights instead of kerosene lamps, a liquor store instead of a saloon, clapboard hotels instead of brothels.

  A wide selection of restaurants were scattered about town, allowing tourists to sample cuisine from the far-flung parts of the world, as long as those parts were confined to places that specialized in pizza, burritos, gyros, and egg rolls. The main thoroughfare was home to a bakery, clothing store, ice cream shop, and souvenir shops that specialized in gold, silver, knives, and ulus. But a high-end department store had yet to find its way onto Seward’s main street, and the construction of an IMAX theater or Whole Foods looked to be decades away.

  Steele dropped me off in front of a building that resembled an old railway depot, which was a stone’s throw away from the manicured green space that fronted the bay. Etienne volunteered to accompany the group on their spur-of-the-moment tour, so that left me in charge of meeting Alison. I just hoped the Iowa crowd didn’t offend Steele by failing to look up from their phones long enough to see the sights he was going out of his way to show them.

  I watched the bus head down the street, surprised when it pulled over to the curb to let off another passenger.

  Dad.

  He waved his brand-new smartphone at me, then—with a series of charade-like hand gestures—indicated that he was going to wander the grounds to take pictures.

  For this trip Dad had sidelined his beloved camcorder in favor of a smaller device with fewer widgets. As skilled as he was at operating farm machinery that was big as a house, he was an abject disaster when it came to video photography, with much of his footage accidentally capturing pavement, blue jeans, footwear, and a random montage of dirt and rocks.

  Two weeks ago he finally acknowledged defeat and purchased a state-of-the-art cell phone with a camera that boasted a gazillion pixels. And even though he was already operating it like a pro, I could tell he still remained confounded about his inability to master a simple lightweight camcorder. Mom had even asked me on the QT, “How come your father can operate a twelve-row cultivator, but he can’t get the hang of a ten-ounce video recorder that fits in the palm of his hand?”

  “Easy,” I’d told her. “The camcorder isn’t big enough.”

  “Putting your camera through its paces, are you?” I called to him.

  “Yup,” he called back.

  I tapped my watch. “Don’t lose track of time. I’d hate to have to leave you behind.”

  He grinned. “You bet.”

  Dad was so much more chatty on vacation than he was back home. Traveling with friendly people in a relaxed social setting really loosened his tongue.

  Even though I wasn’t scheduled to meet Alison for another hour, I headed off toward the SeaLife Center, which was a mere hundred yards away, housed in a boxy gray building with a glass front. As I neared the entrance, I noticed a pretty blond sitting on the low barrier wall that flanked the terrace, her gaze focused downward on her cell phone, thumbs flying. I suspected the woman might be Alison from her resemblance to the headshot she’d posted on her website. But what really cinched it for me was that she had a suitcase.

  “Alison?” I called out as I jogged up the stairs.

  Looking up from her phone, she hopped to her feet, all smiles, warmth, and confidence. “Sure am. That must make you Emily.” She extended her hand in greeting. “Sorry I’m early, but it’s the only available time my neighbor could drop me off.”

  “No, no. Don’t apologize. I love that you’re early. You’ll fit right in.” Her photo had been striking, but with her luminous complexion, shampoo-model blond hair, and fine-boned features, she was downright gorgeous in person.

  “I can’t tell you how happy I am to be working with you.” She glanced left and right. “So where are my tour guests?”

  “On a sightseeing tour of Seward and environs. They’ll be back in an hour.”<
br />
  “Oh. So if they’re touring Seward without me, is someone else giving them the spiel about the 1964 earthquake and tsunami?”

  “Uhh…our bus driver might be taking care of that…or not. He didn’t say.” I frowned. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t know what he’s telling them. This was all unplanned.”

  “Great! I love spontaneity. No worries about my spiel. I’ll fill them in on some of the more interesting aspects of Seward’s history as we head north.”

  “Are you a native Alaskan? You didn’t say on your website.”

  “I wish! But I’m not a sourdough, which is what true Alaskans call themselves. I’m a Californian who got bored with the golden grass, fires, mudslides, and earthquakes, so after I finished cosmetology school, I decided I needed a change of scenery. I figured Alaskans needed their hair cut and styled as often as people in the lower forty-eight, so I hopped into my little VW Bug and headed north. Pretty gutsy move for a twenty-year-old, but I haven’t been disappointed by my decision, the spectacular scenery, or the twenty-odd hours of daylight we enjoy at this time of year—it’s so invigorating.” She smiled. “That was a dozen years ago.”

  “Are you still doing hair?”

  “My own.” She tousled her shoulder-length locks with a carefree hand, exposing a dainty, dime-sized butterfly tattoo beneath her ear. “That’s about it. I learned a long time ago that the tourist trade is far more important to Alaska’s economy than hair, so I made a career change. Cruise ships, bus tours—they all need local guides, not hairstylists. I’d have to work a year as a stylist to earn as much money as I do in three months as a guide. And the bonus is, I love my job. And if you’ll forgive my being brazenly self-promoting, I think I’m pretty good at it.”

  “The reviews posted on your website were certainly convincing.”

  “It helps to be a people person. Guests like a tour guide who’s able to connect with them on a personal level. They end up rewarding you with five-star reviews.”

  She checked the time on her phone before bobbing her head toward the front entrance of the SeaLife Center. “You want the dollar tour of the center before we have to leave? I have an annual pass, and I can stow my suitcase at the guest services counter. I’ve only toured the place a thousand times, so I know where all the highlights are.”

  I shrugged. “We have an hour. Why not?”

  The Alaska SeaLife Center was a fascinating blend of science museum, aquarium, and petting zoo, where visitors were encouraged to fondle sea invertebrates that looked even less cuddly than a family of startled porcupines. We breezed past many of the technical displays about the salmon fishing industry and focused more on the tanks with active marine life: sea lions sluicing through Little Mermaid-like aquatic habitats, ringed seals with grampy whiskers and eyes black as marbles, red king crabs that resembled the hideously spiny creatures that hatched from the embryonic eggs in Aliens, moon jellyfish that floated in an illuminated tank like tiny gossamer parachutes, rose starfish that sported nearly a dozen rays and could have doubled as a ladies’ brooch, and green sea urchins whose protruding spikes looked more deadly than sharpened knitting needles.

  “We don’t have many aquariums in Iowa,” I lamented as we made our way back to the front entrance. “Landlocked states are way behind the curve about creating attractions that revolve around ocean life.”

  “What do you have instead?”

  “A cow made of butter that’s displayed at the Iowa State Fair.”

  “In an air-conditioned room with a backup generator, I hope.”

  “You bet.” I laughed. “But we do have a brand-new theme park. You know how Florida has Disneyworld and Tennessee has Dollywood? Well, Iowa now has a theme park called Green Acres, where guests can enjoy a genuine farm experience in a completely artificial environment. Fun for the entire family. It’s advertised as a cross between Epcot Center, Branson, and the Magic Kingdom, with interactive exhibits and attractions, an IMAX theater showing first-run movies, themed restaurants, a midway with acres of amusement rides, nightly stage performances, musical concerts, and upscale shopping. A family could spend their whole vacation there. It’s the brainchild of some corporate billionaire who thinks that all Americans should have the opportunity to drive toy tractors around five hundred acres of fake farmland. In fact, we recently hired a tour escort who’s there right now on her very first extended assignment. The park’s only been open for two weeks, so we’re expecting lots of feedback from her on whether it’s a venue that more of our clientele would enjoy. And we’ve lucked out that it’s only three hours down the road from my hometown.”

  The bus was already at the curb when we exited the building, parked opposite a vacant lot that was abutted by a building with enormous blue whales painted across its exposed side. After storing Alison’s suitcase in the luggage bay, Steele welcomed her aboard with a handshake that lingered beyond the mere perfunctory and an almost breathless smile that hinted of a massive explosion of pheromones.

  “Please tell me you didn’t spill all the beans about the ’64 disaster on your mini tour,” she pleaded good-naturedly.

  He shook his head, his eyes suddenly dreamy as well as laughing. “I pointed out the sights without filling in the historical details. They wouldn’t have heard me anyway. They were too glued to their cell phones.”

  “Excellent. I have a feeling that you and I are going to get along famously.” Giving him a saucy wink, she ran up the stairs, her voice immediately ringing out with an air of authority. “Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Alison Pickles, your local guide, and I’m here with the promise that for the next twelve days, you can expect to have the time of your lives.”

  There was a slight delay before the group broke out in applause, punctuated by hoots and a smattering of whistles. I guess the guys needed time to look up from their cell phones before they could react to how pretty she was.

  Steele stared up at her through the open door. “Wow.”

  “She’s a lovely person,” I said, giving his arm a playful squeeze. “You’ll have beautiful children.” I ranged a look up and down the street. “Is my dad back—the guy you dropped off before leaving on your tour? Pioneer Seed Corn hat? Blue jeans? New cell phone?”

  “My buddy Bob? Sure thing. He was waiting for us when we pulled up.”

  I grinned. “You’re buddies already? With my dad?”

  He bowed his head toward me, unable to suppress a smile. “We shared a rather intimate experience before he got on the bus. He showed me every single photo he’d taken in the last hour.”

  “Oh, no! I apologize for his taking up your time.”

  “Don’t apologize. He got some great shots of Seward.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “He did?”

  “You wanna believe it. Interesting composition. Great angles. Art pieces in the making. He said he was going to upload them to the new website that everyone in the group was using.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Your dad’s got quite the eye. Tells me he’s a grain farmer. Hate to say it, but I think he’s been in the wrong profession all his life. He would have killed as a photographer.” He swept his hand toward the stepwell. “I’m ready to head out if you are.”

  Dad a photographer? Either Steele was into primitive art or Dad had finally managed to take photos of something other than dirt and rocks.

  I beamed at the thought. I guess genius sometimes needed an assist to help tease it into the open, which filled me with regret for every bad word I’d ever said about cell phones.

  “So can I pick ’em or what?” I boasted to Etienne as I slid into the seat beside him.

  “She’s impressive,” he conceded. “The real test will be how well she handles Bernice.”

  “My money’s on Alison,” I whispered as she opened the mic to begin her spiel.

  “While we make our way up to Girdwood, I’ll tak
e some time to mosey down the aisle so you can introduce yourselves, but first, I’d like to fill you in on some of the basics of Alaska’s history. You probably all learned in grade school that Alaska was purchased from Imperial Russia in 1867 for a mere seven million dollars. And the man who purchased it, US Secretary of State William H. Seward, became a laughingstock for allowing himself to be duped into buying a frozen wasteland that was virtually uninhabitable.”

  “Doesn’t look like it’s changed much,” cackled Bernice.

  Alison paused. “Excuse me, ma’am. What’s your name?”

  “Bernice. Why? What’s it to you?”

  “Because you’ve made a very astute observation, Bernice. Most of Alaska is still uninhabitable. In fact, after the Good Friday earthquake in 1964, Seward itself was virtually uninhabitable. Between the waterfront collapsing into Resurrection Bay, the subsequent tsunami, and the big Standard Oil fuel tanks catching fire and incinerating half the town, Seward was practically wiped off the map. As a point of reference, the road we’re traveling on now? It would have been under water.”

  Oohs. Aahs. Murmurs of astonishment.

  Etienne raised surprised eyebrows as he glanced at me, mouthing, “She can handle Bernice.”

  Yup. I might just have to put myself in charge of hiring all our local guides from now on.

  My phone rang with a personalized chime that indicated our newly appointed escort for the Green Acres theme park tour was on the other end. “Hi,” I answered in a hushed voice. “Everything okay?”

  “Geez, what’s wrong with your voice? Omigod—has someone died?”

  “Our local guide is talking in the background. I’m being polite.”

  “Oh. No dead bodies yet. I guess that’s good. How big are the mosquitoes?”

  “I haven’t seen any yet.”