Alaska! Up North and to the Left

by Steven Swaks

  The day was winding down, the last patient had just left the clinic. The mystical Jack was already in the back mopping. Lydia had not really seen him, he was just a pair of overalls swiftly going by. She had not tried to ignore him, it seemed more that he wanted his own privacy and did not like to interact with strangers.

  “Do you want to go ice fishing?” Maria asked Lydia. It was a simple question with its share of fun and promises.

  “Ice fishing?” Anything related to ice and cold -especially after this morning’s episode-did not sound appealing, but Lydia truly intended to fully enjoy her experience. She brushed off any idea of urban comfort and stood like a trooper ready for action. “Sure, why not?”

  “Then let’s go!” Maria laughed.

  Lydia retreated to her quarters to dress up. She came back out with gloves, scarf, thick hat, arctic boots and a long down coat. Maria was already waiting for her by the reception’s desk. Lydia was excited to go but today’s temperatures were appallingly low. In a region where temperatures could drastically change from one day to another, postponing was a delightful option, but she did not want to miss out. After all, who ever had a chance to go ice fishing? Even if it was common in Alaska, in the eye of a Southern Californian girl, it was as foreign as the bull running in Pamplona.

  “How often do you go ice fishing?” Lydia asked.

  “I go almost every day!” Maria cheerfully answered.

  “So… We could have gone tomorrow?” She knew it was too late, but postponing would have been a great move in light of the depressing weather.

  “Oh, no… tomorrow is going to be cold!” Maria replied.

  Lydia frowned without answering.

  They both walked out to Maria’s snow machine, the engine was already running with a loud popopopopopopopopop. Lydia stopped on the porch of the clinic. She glanced around. The small snow covered street was deserted. The cold was intense and the wind joined the party to aggress her. It tried, it sought any opening in her wintery armor. Any hole, any gap between clothing was fair game and a good opportunity to get in to reach the warm and sensitive skin. Lydia looked at a large analog thermometer with a red pointer. It showed 12 below. Colder tomorrow? How?

  She sat behind Maria on the snow machine and hung on. Was it too late to back away? It would not take much, a quick tap on the shoulder, a lame excuse and she would be back in the warm clinic in no time. That was it, that was the best course of action. As Lydia’s right hand ascended towards Maria’s shoulder, the snow machine lurched forward. In a survival instinct, Lydia’s hand went on a nose dive towards the plastic handle and held on as tight as she could. There was no more turning around. The snow machine sped up. A second prior, the clinic was right beside her, now it was fleeting away. Maria left the relative safety of the snow covered gravel road and entered a narrow trail. The thick bushes were only a few inches away flying by in a distorted blur. Once in a while, a small branch attempted to impose its ruling and sharply slapped them. Lydia could barely handle it, the cold assaulted her. Hang on to the handle, don’t let go, can’t let go. Her head was buried behind Maria’s shoulder. When was she going to stop?

  The snow machine drove down an embankment and rode for a brief moment on a flat surface. Lydia looked up, they were on the Yukon River, or so it seemed. The snow machine slowed down and finally stopped by a small hole in the ice. She stepped out, the ride had not been so terrible. It must have been six or seven minutes, ten at most. She looked around them and saw another few holes in the ice scattered around. There was even an old chair by one of the openings. Maria picked up two small sticks she had brought with her, they were glorified two foot long branches turned fishing poles with a string, a hook, and a small weight. Maria handed one to Lydia.

  “So, what are we fishing?” Lydia asked.

  “Pikes mostly.” Maria came closer to the hole. “Here is what you have to do. Let the string go until the weight hits the bottom. After that, you go up and down with your pole and wait for a fish to bite. That’s it.”

  She showed Lydia in a vertical motion, Lydia did the same. She cautiously approached the hole and released the weight. Surprisingly, the lead hit the bottom only after sinking two or three feet.

  She looked at Maria bewildered. “That’s it?”

  She shrugged. “The river is very shallow here, but the current is still running below the ice.”

  They both stayed quiet for a while in the middle of the frozen river. They continued baiting the fish and waited. It did not take long, perhaps fifteen minutes at most. Lydia felt a light tug on the makeshift pole. Her heart started racing as she gently pulled the pole. A fifteen inch fish was fighting its way out of the hook. She pulled the gray and green fish out of the hole, unhooked it, and dropped it onto the ice.

  “It’s a pike!” Maria screamed. Lydia could see the excitement in her eyes. There was no more cold, there was only the tribal rush of hunting. Lydia dove the hook back into the ice. Maria looked at her, “I’m so happy you caught one… but, let me know when you get too cold.”

  “Ok, I will, I’m fine right now.”

  Maria waited for an instant. “Well, let me know when you get too cold!” Maria repeated slightly shivering. Lydia was on hunting mode, it was not a passive fishing party, it was a chase, a primitive quest. With the excitement running through her veins, Lydia had blocked out everything else. She glanced at the young woman and saw the slight shiver. It was a sign, when an Eskimo was cold, it was time to retreat and head back to warmer grounds.

  “I guess we should go back now,” Lydia sighed. She picked up the floundering pike and stored it in a small metal basket attached to the snow machine.

  “Do you know how to cook the fish?” Maria wondered.

  “I don’t really want it and besides I cannot cook in the clinic. You can take it if you want.”

  “I don’t need it, an elder lives next door to my house, I’ll just give it to her.”

  Maria sat on the snow machine. Lydia waited an instant, it was a brief moment frozen in time. The utter silence was upon them. Perhaps a mile or two away, Russian Mission glowed isolated in the heart of the Alaskan night. Lydia could see spruce trees swaying in the wind on the river bank. There was already a scent of Christmas in the air and it would help to turn the page on the recent events.

  Day Off

  January

  Christmas came and went in a glorious celebration of overeating, perhaps overdrinking, and surely over-consuming presents debacle. The birth of Christ was left on the side lines as a mere parenthesis in a shameful pre-awakening season of our lives.

  A few days after the dual celebration, I could only focus on one single thing. Today, I was OFF! There would be no fighting with the weather, no running in and out of the hangar, no facing bone shattering arctic winds. Today would only be about the television, and me. I would royally own the remote and rule the couch. Lydia? She would be working at the hospital at a safe distance from any potential interference with my plans of deep relaxation.

  This delightful idea was my first thought as I woke up in the darkened bedroom. My eyes gently opened like a red curtain at the beginning of a play. I stared at the ceiling in what was probably an idiotic pause, but it did not matter, freedom was upon me.

  “Steven!” Lydia yelled from the adjacent master bathroom.

  I was still sleeping; I could not possibly have heard her.

  “STEVEN! I know you are awake! The pipes are frozen!” My glorious morning was shattering, collapsing under its own weight. “STEVEN!!”

  I could not deny it, I HAD to go rescue the damsel in distress. I peeled the warm blanket off the bed and walked to the bathroom. I entered the overly lit room; my eyes rebelled and instinctively mostly shut in self-preservation mode.

  “Steven, honey, the pipes are frozen, could you go take care of it?” The simple, yet terrible request was followed by a heartwarming smile.

  I remained stoic, picked up the hair drier in the top drawer, turned around, grumb
led, and went downstairs.

  “Equality of sex? Sure! They want equality as long as they don’t need something…” I muttered to myself.

  I entered the garage and threw my arctic jacket on. I peered in the boiler room, we had just filled the outside fuel tank and the heater uttered a muffled humming sound. From my level of expertise, it was good enough and the house was definitely warm, so the culprit was not there. I glanced outside from the garage window. A few street lights hardly lit the dark street, the wind did not appear very strong but I could still see snow blowing on top of heaps where it had been pushed by snow plows. I zipped up my jacket and grabbed the keys to the water room, so far away in the post-nuclear-winter-looking outside world. I opened the garage side door and walked down the wooden deck to the small heated water room independent from the house.

  I fought to put the key into the lock. I was lucky this morning, the lock did not pose any resistance, a few times, I have had to come armed with a lighter to thaw the lock. I barged into the small room and shut the door behind me. Sadly, I knew the procedure, not that I had to thaw the pipes every day, but I had done it before, perhaps two or three times per winter. We were privileged; the heat gun action was required everyday for a few friends of ours just to take a shower. The water system was basic with a large aluminum tank, a filter, a pump to feed the water to the house, a sewer tank beneath the shed, and an army of pipes to link the big happy family together.

  I plugged the hair drier in and attacked the source of our troubles, the pipe leaving the pump and heading to the house. What’s the saying? Experience makes best? Better? Anyway, after a few futile attempts, I had learned where the pipe liked to freeze. I ran my hair drier back and forth a few inches away from the pipe, and of course I had cranked the room heater to high (which was not much, maybe a step or two above very cold).

  After a few minutes, I went back to the garage and called Lydia who was still in the bathroom. “LYDIA?! DO YOU HAVE ANY WATER YET?”

  “YESSSS, IT’S GOOD NOW!! THANK YOU!” Mission accomplished. I locked up the water room and went back to the bedroom. I knew the bed would still be warm. Under a positive light, this little morning escapade only highlighted the delicious comfort of my bedding. I nudged myself under the blanket. It was exquisite. It was the expression of a perfect harmony of comfort and warmth, the fantastic pillow softly sinking under my weary skull.

  “STEVEN?!” Lydia called.

  Maybe I could make it look like an accident, they would never find out…

  “Yes, hon?” I said with a forced smile.

  “I need you to go to the post office, they have a package for me, the receipt is on the desk,” Lydia hollered.

  “Ok, I’ll take care of it,” I muttered, buried under the blankets.

  “Hold on, you also need to go to the store, the list is on the desk next to the post office receipt.”

  “Ok…” would there be an end to this?

  “And don’t forget, it’s Wednesday, you have to go pick up the vegetable box at the furniture store.” Lydia still shouted from the bathroom.

  My day was on a nose dive, shot in midflight by an unscrupulous hunter. My remote was fleeing to better horizons.

  “Oh, that would be great if we could meet for lunch!”

  “Uhh…”

  “Stop by the hospital when you are done!” The last hope for a me day was terminated with a bullet in the head, execution style. The cold blooded killer had not hesitated, it had been a job, nothing more. Like they say, it’s not personal, it’s business.

  Lydia left for work along with my sleep and any thoughts of comfort. I got out of bed and prepared for a day of errands. Where would I go first? The post office seemed the most appropriate. Later on, the place would become a bazaar and it would take me an hour to pick up a package. Not that there were long lines, but because the entire town went there and Alaska Company every day. I did not mind, but like anything else in Alaska, the bitter cold and a heavy coating of wonderful people and friends hindered efficiency. More than once, I entered the post office on a mission, I would walk in, keep my head down, stride to the mail box, get my mail, and find the nearest exit while keeping my head bowed to avoid any eye contact. But it never worked that way. At some point, I spotted an old acquaintance and felt the urge to go say hi and catch up.

  I did not know what I was picking up, I only had a receipt. I drove to the post office and parked by the main entrance. I knew the back way, the sneaky back door to stealthily work my way to the mail box and run out, but I had to pick up the package Lydia was waiting for. There was no hiding, the enemy was everywhere, lurking at a corner of a corridor, ready to say hi and strike a conversation. Weak, I would not resist, and I would add my two cents before diving head first into memory -or gossip-lane.

  The Bethel post office was a very large structure. A long time ago, a wise official had decided that mailmen could be mauled by large dogs in the lower 48, but they did not deserve to freeze to death just to deliver the mail from house to house, therefore, nobody in Bethel had a mailbox and we all went on our daily migration to our respective P.O. Box. The post office had been built with four corridors of mail boxes left of the main entrance. To the right, there was a more typical service area with a counter and two or three employees. Behind them, there was a very large warehouse ready to handle the heavy flux of mail going in and out of Bethel.

  Just like everybody else, we received our daily bills and useless advertisement, but in our isolation, the post office was a portal to the rest of the world and everything else. Everybody shopped on line and the fruit of our desire magically appeared a few days later behind the USPS counter.

  I was task oriented, get in, get my box, get out. I was in line (talk about major exposure), patiently waiting my turn to be served. I peered around to find anything remotely entertaining, promotion posters on the wall and even a few postcards about Bethel. I looked closer, there were generic pictures with whales, bald eagles, or a musher and his dogs zooming by with beautiful trees and mountains in the background. We had neither. An employee called me to the counter and I picked up my package, a large but fairly light box. I stumbled my way to the exit with the box completely obstructing my forward vision.

  “Oh, hi Steven, how are you?” A very strong Arabic accent (in Bethel…), a younger female voice, Saamiya! She was the wife of one of Lydia’s colleagues, and even if her first days in Bethel had been a culture shock, she was getting used to it. Saamiya was one of the only Muslims in town and her family had been well accepted. I moved aside and faced her rather than a wall of cardboard in front of my face. She was covered with a traditional Muslim scarf, as usual.

  “Hi Saamiya, how are you?”

  “I am sick of it! People are so ignorant!” Her right index finger was pointing in the air to the rhythm of her frustration. I could not help but smile, her sweet voice punctuated by her thick accent demeaned any hard feeling.

  “What happened to you? What’s wrong?” I asked slightly amused.

  “Somebody I do not know just asked me why I was wearing a mosquito net! He even told me that the mosquito season is not before June!” She muttered.

  “I’m sorry. You know, they’re not really used to seeing the veil. Maybe it’s a good chance for you to educate them,” I suggested.

  “Ahhhh, somebody else even asked me if I was cold!” Saamiya smiled, laughing at the situation. “Enough about me! How are you?!” She asked.

  “I’m fine, I’m going to have lunch with Lydia later on,” I answered.

  “Good! Good, good,” Saamiya said nodding her head repetitively. “Say hi to her for me. Bye.” She smiled again and walked away towards a wall of mailboxes.

  Still amused, I carried on with my package and walked to the car.

  The drive to the Alaska Company store only took a few minutes. The notion of traffic in Bethel was as foreign as snow in the Bahamas, but this morning there was indeed a delay with a heavy congestion of seven or eight cars at a stop s
ign. On the right embankment a large orange trailer displayed a warning for a construction zone ahead, “HEY DUDE, WATCH THE CONSTRUCTION.” The Bethel unconventionality sometimes went a little too far, but the next day somebody came to their senses, maybe helped by a few phone calls from concerned citizens, and the sign went back to more appropriate terms.

  I pulled in the gravel parking lot and found a spot in front of the store. I looked in the rear view mirror, a perfectly aligned row of taxis were waiting for the next customer. It did not take much, a look, a sign, something from a patron coming out of the store and one of the taxis surged out like a dog that just spotted a dirty sock. Alaska Company was a nerve center in Bethel along with the hospital and the airport. Little groups of natives gathered at the entrance and waited for a friend to come pick them up, they caught up with acquaintances, looked at private flyers posted on cork boards, or gossiped and enjoyed a break in the long winter.

  I entered the supermarket with my list in hand. I picked up a red plastic basket and walked down the aisles as efficiently as possible. The fettuccini and Alfredo sauce flew into the basket. I tossed -sorry, I gently dropped off-a tomato sauce jar (“watch the brand! Has to be the “Pregg brand.” Yes! The one with the meat balls and the mushroom,” Lydia had warned me), along with the pasta. I entered a new aisle, wrong one (female hygiene, a no man’s land, a definitive no-no), I hastily withdrew and entered the correct one. I stopped for an instant and pondered on the plethora of advertising signs promoting the choices offered by the store (really?) and their everyday low prices. I chuckled and winced at the sad reality, the local prices were bumped up two to three fold in comparison to their lower 48 counter parts. Another few items crash landed in the basket. I checked out at the cashier, and walked my way back to the 4Runner.