Alaska! Up North and to the Left

by Steven Swaks

  “That’s all right,” he said with a radiant smile. “By the way, I saw that you were looking at the dress. It’s a kuspuk, a native dress; many women like to wear that in Bethel.”

  “Thanks, I was wondering about that too.”

  “First time in Bethel?”

  “First time in Alaska!” I laughed.

  “Are you coming to visit somebody? For work?”

  “I might work there,” Lydia answered.

  “What do you do?”

  “I am a family practice physician.”

  “Oh, my, we can always use doctors around here. You should take the job, you would like it. People are very nice up here!”

  “Are you working for the hospital? Did they pay you to say that?” I joked.

  The man smiled. “No, but once you’re in Bethel, it’s difficult to get out, people fall in love with it!”

  “Well, we’ll see what-”

  “Passengers for Bethel, Alaska airlines flight 45 is now ready for boarding, please prepare your boarding pass. Be careful, the stairs are slippery, and it’s pretty cold out there!” The young airline attendant cheerfully announced on the speaker.

  “Stairs? What is she talking about?” I asked looking towards the window for a cue but I could not see anything in the deep darkness.

  “I don’t know,” Lydia answered. Our source of information had already fled to wait in line.

  We joined the other passengers, waited our turn, and presented our boarding passes.

  “Thank you… Lydia and Steven.” The young lady gave us the cards back with a warm smile.

  We opened a door to the jetway and… a blunt slap of cold wind aggressed us. Where was the jetway? An icy flight of stairs went down to the ground level. I zipped up my flimsy jacket and walked down with Lydia. An older 737-200 with its cylinder shaped turbojet engines was a hundred feet away waiting for us. We followed orange cones and walked around the front of the plane, while two heavily dressed women assisted us with orange glowing sticks repetitively pointing towards the rear of the aircraft. The front half of the plane had a large cargo door wide open with aviation containers entering one at a time.

  “Are we going in a cargo plane?” Lydia yelled to cover a loud generator noise.

  “No, it’s a combi, freight in the front, passengers in the back, just go, you’ll see in a minute,” I screamed back. She nodded.

  We walked up flimsy metal stairs in the back of the plane and entered the cabin. A doorless partition split the plane in half right over the wings. We walked to our assigned seats and placed our carry-on in the overhead bins. We sat and took a deep breath.

  Lydia looked around. “What’s this thing? It’s tiny! How many seats do they have in there? Forty, fifty?”

  “I don’t know, I think they can change the configuration if they want. I take it they don’t have that many passengers in and out of Bethel. I bet you they have loads of mail and freight.”

  We were going from novelty to surprises. I had no idea what to expect in Bethel. It was all so foreign. It was a step by step process, take it as it goes and we’ll see from there. The flight was a lapse in time, a few pretzels, a cold drink, and utter darkness outside. The plane landed on a frozen runway.

  The pilot made an announcement. The weather had been worse and worse since we had left L.A. How bad could it be? Could it get any worse than Anchorage? Where were my ill-conceived ideas about the West? My ludicrous theories to make me feel better?

  The temperature was all I heard from the message, that’s all I needed to get.

  “I didn’t hear the temperature, what did she say?” Lydia asked.

  “It’s 20°F…”

  “It’s not that bad-” Lydia shrugged.

  “Below.” I added.

  She paused. “Below? No… are you serious? Twenty below?”

  “That’s without the wind, look at the bushes; it’s got to be 15, 20, miles an hour.” I shook my head. I was in shock. Anchorage was only a prelude, a sample of the rage to come. The back door opened. It was an out of body experience. I walked to the end of the cabin, turned right at the galley and expected a jetway. I was wrong, again. There was nothing but the same flimsy stairs, the malignant darkness, the blowing snow, and the bitter cold. Or was it something else? It was a live cold, a mad entity in quest of warm flesh. It entered my throat and dove down into my lungs. It sucked the air out and watched with malice.

  I walked down the shaky stairs and aimed for the terminal door. Every step was a struggle, a balancing act on frozen grounds.

  Harvey had warned us, “Just take a look, and don’t sign anything.” His words had fallen on deaf ears, as usual, but they were coming back with a cruel reality. It was a mistake. This trip was an aberration, a fluke, a lesson learned. The fantasy was turning into a nightmare. We entered the small terminal. I glanced around. It was a single room with a small ticket counter, baggage claim, and security line. The restroom had a unisex vanity wide opened onto the terminal for everybody to stare at. What a strange concept. At this point it did not matter, not the restroom layout, not the people hugging and rejoicing to be reunited with a loved one. Nothing mattered, I just wanted out of there. I did not care about anything else. Where was Lydia? She was following me. I looked at her in search of an agreement, a look to tell me that yes, this time we had gone too far. The airline counter was just a few feet away, a quick talk with the agent to change our tickets and leave this place right away. That’s all it would take.

  “Hi Dr. Swaks!” A young native woman with long black hair, and sparkly brown eyes waved to Lydia.

  “Hi Deborah.” Lydia politely smiled and greeted her.

  Who was this person? I thought.

  “I’m Deborah Paul, but you can call me Debby if you want.” She extended her hand towards me with a large welcoming smile. I looked down, still numbed. I looked up towards Deborah and shook her hand. I introduced myself.

  “How was your flight?”

  “Good, thank you,” Lydia answered.

  “Well, tomorrow is going to be a busy day! I’ll take you around town, and I’ll show you the clinic.” Deborah looked at me. “Dr. Swaks told me that you’re an EMT and a flight instructor?”

  “Yes, I am.” I was surprised by the question.

  “I am asking you because we’ve medevac flights to the villages with paramedics. They might be able to take you tomorrow if you want,” she said with a smile.

  I smiled back. “Thank you.”

  It was a direct hit below the belt, a sneaky offering with my two passions served on a platter. Come here my dear friend, I am going to give you the time of your life and you won’t leave Bethel. The trap was set, but I was much stronger than this. If I was to become weaker, the hefty 20°F below will always be there to punch me in the stomach and remind me what a fool I would be to settle in this place.

  As I stood there, I had to admit, aside from her tricky attempt to corrupt me, Deborah appeared to be a warm and genuine person. Lydia had met her in D.C. a few months prior. She was the one to blame. She was the one who had approached Lydia and planted the seed of moving to Bethel. I had nothing to do with this; I had only made a comment after a movie; that was all. Thinking of it, this little getaway weekend was not reasonable. It was an option, a choice among so many, but moving here was truly unreasonable. We would be polite and open-minded, but there was a point where logic had to take over. The whole weekend was a bad joke, a college kid prank in frozen country. Come Sunday, we would thank Deborah and board the plane back to California. Bethel would be a memory, one more tale to tell the kids around the dinner table. “Hey remember that time we almost moved to Alaska! What were we thinking?” Our teenagers would remind us that it was the twentieth time we told them that story, but we would still get a good laugh about it.

  We picked up our bags and stepped outside. The initial cold out of the plane was more bearable. I looked around and did not see much, three or four taxis with swirling exhaust fumes waiting for cus
tomers, passengers leaving the terminal, piles of snow scattered around a small parking lot, and a few dim lights occasionally breaking the utter darkness. Aside from a row of hangars and a highway, there was nothing else but the deep night. We sat in Deborah’s black Ford Explorer and travelled through town to our bed & breakfast. Lydia and I politely acknowledged the small talk and the next day briefing. Were we excited about it? I didn’t even know. One of the local supermarkets was on the program, the hospital visit of course, and my potential medevac flight. That was always the thing about EMS. We did not wish for something to happen, but if it did, we wanted in, not by voyeurism, but for the go-go juice of the action, the break in the routine and the step forward to help. Sometime during the day, I planned to visit the local flight school. I had talked to the manager a few weeks prior; he sounded nice and open to possible employment. Tomorrow was not my own personal site visit, or maybe it was, I didn’t even know at this point.

  We kept looking outside without great success: a few empty streets branched out from the main highway, old and simple snow covered houses, a snowmobile going by in a deafening sound. Come to think of it, I had never seen one before. We turned off the main highway onto a smaller street. On either side of the road, the wind swayed snow-covered bushes and propelled twirling snow into the night sky. Further to the right, was a small building with grading equipment and two or three old or perhaps even abandoned trucks. A larger two-story office building followed, then, nothing, a wide opening in front of us and a ninety degree turn to the left. What was that? As the car turned, I squinted towards the right to focus through the Alaskan night and the poor public lighting. A vertical sea wall was protecting the street from a large and flat expanse of ice, a frozen river probably, it was hard to tell. We turned again to the left and pulled into a small gravel parking lot.

  Deborah stopped the small SUV in front of a bed and breakfast, a large blue two story house. We entered through a mud room, or arctic way in Alaska according to her. There was a narrow flight of stairs leading to the kitchen and dining room upstairs. The bedrooms were downstairs. We met the owner, a middle aged man, who showed us our room which was very small but clean. The queen size bed was so inviting. What time was it? Hardly 8:50 pm. It felt like midnight. Lydia and I were exhausted. It was the airport security, the three flights, the waiting, the cold, but above all, it was the doubt and uncertainty of the times to come. Tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow would show a little more of this place. In twenty four hours we would know better. For now, I only wanted to rest and escape.

  Bethel, Alaska

  January

  The next day was a marathon, a sample platter of an unlikely life to come. We woke up and stared at a Saturday morning through a frozen window. There were a few cars on our small parking lot, a gravel road, and the sea wall. Everything was dead. It could have looked beautiful with the white coat of snow and ice, but all I saw was the absence of life through the omnipresent darkness. There was no movement, nobody walking outside, nothing. How could anyone live like this? I didn’t want to get out. I looked further away. The Kuskokwim River curved away from us in the stark night. It was still. I peered, it was completely frozen. I shook my head. There was a small structure on the river. It looked like two poles and a banner. I could not make out what was written on it. It did not matter anyway.

  We walked upstairs to the dining room for breakfast.

  “Ah! My Californians!” A well-built woman greeted us with a large smile and a rumbling voice. “Ready for some chow?”

  “Good morning…” Lydia smiled hesitantly.

  “Good m-” I was cut off.

  “Come in, come in, don’t be shy! Everything is right here. Coffee is on the small table behind you. Oh, by the way, I’m Betty, you met my husband last night. How was your flight?”

  “It went wel-” Lydia attempted to say.

  “That’s good, well eat your food, you can have seconds if you want, or thirds. It doesn’t matter! I have to do some bills! You can leave your plates on the table when you’re done. I’ll take care of it,” Betty said and walked into a small office adjacent to the dining room.

  “She could beat me up…” I muttered to Lydia.

  She chuckled and elbowed me. “Don’t say that.”

  “She could…” I repeated.

  “I know, but be nice.” She smiled.

  We helped ourselves to the homey breakfast buffet and sat at a long dining table.

  “You always make fun of my diet but look what you took. Let’s see, what do you have here? Small fried potatoes, an omelet with cheese, and a pancake with syrup. Not too healthy, huh?” I pointed at each section of her plate with a critical eye.

  “It’s not exactly the best place to find healthy food… and talk for yourself! You’ve the same thing… and this… what is that?” She pointed back at my plate. “I didn’t see the steak, I can’t even eat that in the morning anyway, it’s too heavy.”

  “It’s caribou! I’ve never tried it before!” I said with a large smile.

  “No… are you sure?”

  “There was a little sign next to it. This is cool!” I grinned with an excited nod.

  “Caribou? How can you eat that? It’s disgusting!”

  “Just be open-minded! We’re here to explore, you should be proud of me. I am trying to experience the local culture.”

  “You’re a caveman…” Lydia shook her head and glanced around the room. It was a living room/ dining room with a single dining table for ten to twelve people. Throughout the room, the walls were littered with native artifacts and local trophies. A dream catcher hung on a wood beam. An old book shelf stood ground with even older books, and a deep couch split the room into the living room area. A few accents here and there added to the surrounding charm, a large area rug, a coffee table with a pile of unread magazines, a small end table with a handmade doily, and an antique lamp. The required moose antlers and two small stuffed mammals dressed the large stone fireplace in a final rustic touch. 8:30 am might have been too early for a fire anywhere else, but it was a welcome sight from the cold waiting for us outside. We finished our breakfast in silence.

  A weight was coming down on our shoulder, the weight of anxiety like a lazy giant sitting upon us. What time was it? 8:36. Twenty four minutes before Deborah came, that was if she was on time. Lydia and I did not speak, but the vibe was there. We wanted to find out. We wanted to put an end to the agonizing wait and finally put a label on this town. A pass, and let’s move and do what we have to do to start a new chapter in our lives in Alaska, or a fail with a good hand shake for Deborah, a deep sorry look, and a good luck to Lydia in L.A. That was, of course, if there was not some miraculous last minute solution to keep us in California.

  8:47, thirteen minutes to Deborah. Inactivity was staring at us, smiling and holding down our hands on the table, unable to go anywhere, prisoners of our fate to come. We did not want to talk. We knew where it would go. The discussion would not be about the weather, we already knew that one all too well. It would obviously be about the possible move. What needed to be said was already said, multiple times. I was playing with the sugar dispenser. Lydia was staring at a caribou head hanging on the wall.

  8:54, six minutes. It was all good. Why was I so tense? There was no real reason to be so stressed out. It was only a visit; that was all. No stress. A visit for a potential life changing move. A visit for a drastic change of pace, leaving family and friends, that kind of little tour that might shatter our existence to pieces. What were we doing here? I had to stop. Stop. Good.

  9:00. Where was she?

  9:01. Late, that was it, she was late. Were we in one of those places where 9:00 means something else? Was there an Alaskan fifteen minute grace period? Maybe even thirty minutes. An hour? That was a sign, right? There was my answer. I could not be in a place where people would show up an hour late. An hour was simply unacceptable. The decision was made.

  Alaska Company

  January

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nbsp; 9:02 am, Lydia and I heard Deborah’s car pulling into the parking lot, and looked at each other ashamed of our hindering stress. We did not need to talk. We stood up and walked downstairs to meet Deborah and finally discover more of Bethel.

  Aside from the paved highway (the whole seven miles of it), the city streets were snow covered gravel. I was truly looking forward to seeing the historical downtown area and…

  9:08 am. “Here we are!” Deborah said cheerfully, stomping on my melancholic, maybe even romantic, thoughts. Lydia and I looked out the car window to find something noticeable in the darkness.

  “Where?” Lydia frowned.

  “Is this… downtown?” I asked doubtfully.

  “Downtown?” She paused, “Sure, you can call it that way. That’s Alaska Company or AC for everybody. It’s one of the three grocery stores in town. The other two are by the river. There’s a Wells Fargo and a video rental store over there.” She pointed at a crescent shaped brown building with a boardwalk further down a straight and narrow gravel parking lot. The two story structure stood by itself hardly lit with small orange spot lights in the morning darkness.

  We walked into Alaska Company to visit the store which was bright and of a reasonable size with very high ceilings. We passed two candy machines for the joy of the children and the repeated despair of the parents, then entered directly into the vegetable and fruit section. From my carnivore point of view, there was nothing noticeable, a plain and basic collection of greens and various fruits to fulfill the required and dreaded dietary needs. Lydia was more attentive. She analyzed the quality and the prices, mentally comparing them to what we were used to before moving on to the next bin. It was scientific work. I was more impatient, conventional vegetables was already uninteresting, but here, I was a step further into complete boredom, especially since the odds of moving to Bethel were still remote in my refuting mind.

  “Are they rotten?” I said with a smirk to Lydia while looking at the tomatoes.

  “Be nice. The quality is really not that bad, but it’s expensive, almost twice as much as what we pay at home.”