Sucktown, Alaska

by Craig Dirkes

  Girls of Taylor’s stifling hotness always made me jumpy. I became self-conscious immediately, wondering which Eddie I should be to impress her. Overly nice, churchy Eddie? Maybe, because chicks dig sensitive guys. Subdued, mysterious Eddie? Maybe, because chicks dig the strong, silent type. The real Eddie? Maybe, because the slightly arrogant yet fun-loving Eddie that is me has a decent enough track record.

  I cleared my throat. “I hear you won an award for a spelling bee or something?”

  “I did!” she said. “But, wait now. I’ve never seen you in town. Who are you with? Are you here to, like, crown me Queen Nerd of the YK Delta?”

  “No,” I said, laughing. “I’m the new reporter at the Delta Patriot. My boss said I should write a story about you.”

  Her face lit up. “Wonderful!” she said. “The more exposure we can get for this program, the better.”

  Taylor turned around and walked toward her desk in the front row, where she’d been reading a textbook. She wore tight blue jeans.

  Perky pooper? Check.

  I sat down at the teacher’s desk and pulled my reporter notebook from my backpack. “Everyone else is at lunch, right?”

  “Yep,” Taylor said. “They’ll be back in fifteen minutes. We’ll need to make this quick.”

  “Shouldn’t you be at lunch too?”

  “I have too much work. I ate at my desk.”

  Once again, it seemed like Taylor was looking at someone behind me. I turned around and saw nothing but a whiteboard with smudges of red marker that hadn’t been erased well enough.

  “So,” I began, “what’s up with the spelling bee?”

  “It’s not just any spelling bee — it’s a Native spelling bee,” she said. “Yup’ik and other Native languages are in danger of dying out after the next generation or two. Creating this spelling bee is my own little way of trying to keep the Yup’ik language alive.”

  “Are you fluent?”

  “I probably know a couple hundred words. But my dad can speak it. He grew up in the village of Anvik. He’s half Native, half Italian.”

  Again I focused on her right eye. Its iris was slightly wider than the left one, and that eye didn’t seem to track correctly. It lagged, not obviously or dramatically, but enough to spot.

  “What about your mom?”

  “She’s a full-blooded Swede and can’t speak Yup’ik. She emigrated here twenty years ago. Both my folks are teachers at the junior high.”

  That explained Taylor’s exotic beauty. Throw a Native, Italian, and Swede into a blender, and you get a tall glass of gorgeous her.

  Taylor went on to say there are Native immersion schools across Alaska. She’d been working with the University of Anchorage’s language center to develop curriculum for each school to organize a spelling bee for their own particular Native language — of which there are about twenty in Alaska. Ten of the schools signed on and would hold their own Native spelling bee in the spring for kids in elementary school and junior high.

  “Basically,” Taylor said, “the spelling bee idea started with me, and now the University of Anchorage is taking it across the finish line. I won their 2010 Award for Young Innovators in Cultural Education.”

  I congratulated her while looking into her right eye. I switched to her left eye and asked how she came up with the idea.

  “I love my culture and wanted to do something to help preserve it,” Taylor said matter-of-factly.

  “And?” I couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or sarcastic.

  “And that’s it,” Taylor said. “I love Kusko. I love its people. Not being fluent in a Native language wasn’t going to stop me from starting the spelling bee. Do people who volunteer at pet shelters have to own a pet?”

  I checked the time. The other kids would be walking in at any moment.

  “Got time for a quick photo?” I asked, standing up from the teacher’s desk and pulling my camera from my backpack.

  “Sure,” Taylor said and rose from her own desk. “Where do you want me?”

  Anywhere I can have you, I thought, but what I said was, “How about over by the windows. We’ll use the natural light.”

  I felt like I was quickly becoming a decent little photographer. Dalton gave me a digital SLR to use, with a wide-angle lens. I’d shot a few things for stories, and I’d been practicing around town. My photos were turning out pretty nice. Prior to landing in Kusko, I had never photographed much of anything, and I only shot with my phone.

  I popped off a few frames of Taylor.

  “Can I see?” she asked.

  I let her look at the photos on the camera’s digital display.

  “I like these!” Taylor said. “Can you send me one?”

  Bingo. That was just the in I needed. Now I could email the photo, she’d reply with a thank you, and I could respond with something irresistibly clever. Side bonus: I now had photographic evidence that the hottest girl alive lived in the middle of nowhere. After ten minutes of knowing her, I was already blind to her weird eye.

  “Yep, I’ll email you,” I said, all laid back, trying to disguise my excitement. “I might send some follow-up questions for the story too. I’ll see how it goes.”

  She jotted her email address on my notebook. Then she smiled, looked at me, and asked, “What about you, Eddie? Where you from?”

  Good God did I love how she said my name.

  “Minnesota. I came up to Anchorage for college, then to Kusko to work at the Patriot for a year.”

  Or forever, if you end up wanting to raise our babies here.

  “Cool that you’re a writer,” Taylor said. “I like to write too. I’ve been keeping a journal forever.”

  She handed me my notebook, and I told her, “Great to meet you.”

  “You too,” Taylor said, sitting back down at her desk.

  I began walking out the door, dodging incoming students. I stopped, turned around, and walked back to Taylor.

  “Did you forget something?” she asked, looking up at me.

  “Do you know what ‘cheechako’ means? My boss said I should look it up.”

  Taylor chuckled. “Everyone in Alaska knows that word.”

  “Everyone but me, apparently.”

  “It means a newcomer to Alaska who doesn’t know his head from his ass about life here.”

  CHAPTER 6

  READY, SET, HIKE

  Dalton and I shuffled around in the back dog yard, ankle-deep in snow, corralling eight dogs for my first solo mushing trek. We had knocked off work early to take advantage of the windless day, bright sunshine, and twenty-degree warmth. I wore my favorite red hunting coat and a pair of black snow pants he’d lent me.

  “Before long, you’ll graduate to a regular twelve-dog team,” Dalton said, holding a brown dog named Boris between his knees, fitting a harness around the pooch’s neck. He lifted Boris’s right front leg and slid it through a hoop connected to the neckpiece, then the left leg.

  The lead dogs, Joanie and Biff, were already harnessed and attached to the aluminum sled at the front of the gangline. They stood near the shed at the foot of a snow trail. An ice hook on a ten-foot rope anchored the sled so the two dogs couldn’t take off.

  “I’m pumped for this,” I said.

  I took my time getting Aggie, another brown dog, fitted correctly. Once I secured her harness, I grabbed her by the collar and pulled her over near Dalton, who was busy attaching Boris to the gangline. Boris and Aggie were swing dogs, meaning they stood second in line behind the lead dogs.

  “Suck it, nerd!” Finn hollered from somewhere next door.

  I looked around and spotted him behind his living room window. He’d cracked it open just enough to hurl his favorite insult at me. I took off my glove and flicked him off.

  “Wanna hang later?” he hollered.

  I’d been sto
pping over at his house to play Madden football.

  “If I’m still alive after this,” I yelled.

  “Have fun,” Finn said before closing the window.

  A few minutes later, Dalton and I finished harnessing the four remaining dogs — Lunchbox, Diesel, Lenny, and Kuba — and attaching them to the gangline. Ready to rock.

  I hopped on the back of the sled while Dalton circled around behind me. The dogs knew it was go time and barked out of their skulls. Some were so excited that they ran in place, kicking up snow but going nowhere; they looked like muscle cars doing brake stands. The sled jerked forward a few inches every time two or more of the dogs lunged in unison.

  “Get on the brake,” Dalton instructed.

  I pressed my right foot, hard, onto the brake, a square-foot rubber pad with sharp metal spikes on the bottom. The brake, positioned between the footrests, plunged deep into the snow.

  Dalton dislodged the ice hook, ran toward me, and tossed the hook and rope into the front of the sled. I pressed my foot onto the brake even harder, but it still wasn’t enough to keep the dogs completely at bay. They dragged the sled and me along the trail, at the pace of a speed walker.

  Dalton jogged behind me to give me some final instructions. “Hold on tight,” he said. “The second you release the brake, you’re going to fly.”

  I swiveled my head around and watched Dalton pumping his arms, running clumsily in his snow boots, trying to keep up.

  “How far should I go?” I asked him.

  “About eight miles,” he said. “Four miles ahead, this trail will connect to another trail that leads to the village of Napakiak. Turn around where the two trails intersect. Yell ‘Joanie, home!’ and she’ll swing the team around.”

  “What if I get lost?”

  “Impossible,” Dalton said, louder, as the distance between us grew. “Joanie always knows the way home.”

  “What if I wipe?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Dalton! What if I wipe?”

  “You won’t!”

  Well that’s reassuring, I thought.

  “Okay then!” I said. “Here I go!”

  I let off the brake. The dogs took off. My head snapped back, and I went off-balance. The burst of speed created a windchill on my face. I held the handlebars tightly and stabilized myself. I looked back and waved at Dalton, now more than fifty yards away. He waved with both hands.

  I turned back to the trail of hard-packed snow ahead. Riding the sled triggered the same exhilaration and freedom I’d felt the first time I successfully rode a bike without training wheels, or drove my dad’s old Ford truck, solo, on my sixteenth birthday.

  The dogs and I glided along at a steady speed of perhaps fifteen miles per hour. The gentle, repetitive pitter-patter of their paws on the snow sounded like they were dancing on velvet.

  I decided to test the brakes, just to get the feel. “Whoa!” I shouted, pressing my foot onto the rubber brake pad. I gripped the handlebars solidly as the back of the sled wagged back and forth like a car skidding on ice. Twenty yards later, the sled stabilized as the team came to a complete stop.

  Joanie, at the front of the team, looked back at me, curious about the holdup. “Hike!” I commanded, instructing her to accelerate.

  Joanie snapped her head back to the trail and hit the gas. The other dogs followed suit. Less than ten seconds later, they hit full stride.

  I gazed to my right, to my left, and straight ahead. I saw nothing but blue sky and flat, vacant, snowy-white tundra in every direction. I supposed that if I didn’t have the dogs and lost my bearings out here, it’d be more disorienting than getting lost in outer space.

  A moment later I looked back in the direction of the house and Kusko city limits. I saw neither. In two minutes, I had gone from being at home to being in the absolute middle of nowhere.

  * * *

  A few miles into the trip, I realized that for the first time since I moved to Alaska, I could hear myself think. The dogs, the silence, the serenity, and the sunshine were detoxifying, cleansing all the mucky bullshit that had built up inside my head.

  Thinking clearly had been almost impossible in Anchorage because of all the parties, the sleeping in, the parties, the skipped classes, and the parties. My head always hurt. To numb the pain and beat the stress, I partied more. That led to more headaches and more parties.

  I hadn’t been able to think much in Kusko, either. After little more than a month of living there, the place was turning out to be similarly mind-numbing, but in a different way. Almost every day was the same: go to work, go home, clean dog shit, watch TV or read, repeat. It was a waste, not an Alaskan adventure. I could do that stuff anywhere. Plus, I was piss-poor. And I didn’t need my truck here after all. And I barely knew anybody.

  And Taylor. I wasn’t getting anywhere with her. We’d been in touch a few times after I emailed her the picture, but none of her responses provided much promise. I wanted to see her, but without a bona fide hint from her, I didn’t have the balls to ask.

  I thought about her most recent email:

  Eddie,

  Whatever. There’s no way walleye tastes better than salmon. Get it straight, cheechako.

  Kidding. Your stories about Minnesota are cool. I’d love to take a trip there someday… or anywhere, really. I’ve never traveled farther than Anchorage. That’s why I’ve been applying to colleges outside of Alaska, but I don’t know if I’d ever go. I love Kusko. That probably sounds weird.

  It’s late. Just wanted to touch base.

  Taylor

  Bor-ing. All her emails were like that — short and friendly but kind of lame — and not exactly flirty. And she took days to respond. Was she only writing me to be nice? Or did she just suck at writing a decent email?

  Doubtful, considering how smart she was. Taylor said in another email that the race for 2010 valedictorian of Kusko High School was down to her and some other dude, and that her cultural-education award would probably be the clincher.

  But if Taylor didn’t dig me, then why bother writing me in the first place? Why keep it going?

  Who knows. The odds favored her not liking me. She was way too smart, and way too hot.

  * * *

  I snapped out of my pity party when the dogs kicked up a flock of a dozen ptarmigan twenty yards ahead. The little white game birds looked like oversized doves. I didn’t see them coming because they were so well camouflaged.

  The drumming of their wings spooked Biff, who slowed for a moment before realizing Joanie, running to his right, hadn’t let up. I watched the birds fly against the blue sky, then lost them when they dipped down against the snow.

  We continued motoring along the four-foot-wide snow trail. Behind me, the cluttered imprint of the sled’s skis and the dogs’ paws stretched all the way to the horizon. Far to my left, a red fox stood out against the snow, near the only tuft of bushes I’d seen in several minutes. He sat on his haunches, licking a front paw, watching the world go by.

  The peaceful surroundings chilled me out. Prior to this solo mushing trip, when I wasn’t thinking clearly, all those negative thoughts about Kusko, Taylor, and bungling my first stab at college would have gotten the better of me.

  Not anymore. I felt energized now. Good things are coming, I thought.

  I wasn’t ready to hate Kusko. Soon the weather would warm. Fishing would start. I’d fly to villages to cover stories. Finn was supposed to take me ptarmigan hunting. And now I could mush by myself whenever I wanted.

  Suck it up, pussy, I thought. Life is about to get better.

  The trail started veering left. It intersected with another trail at a spot that looked like a roundabout. This had to be the place Dalton mentioned.

  “Joanie, home!” I shouted.

  Joanie led the team onto the roundabout. We circled around a loop as big as a
baseball diamond. A minute later we were back on the trail to home.

  “Hike!” I yelled.

  * * *

  By the time I saw rooftops along the horizon, the dogs seemed gassed, panting heavily and scuttling at a pace that barely qualified as running. A few minutes later we came within sight of the dog yard, about a hundred feet ahead. The dogs slowed to an uninspired trot; then they sped up again. The sled jerked, and I almost lost my grip.

  “Whoa!” I commanded the team.

  But we kept going like that — jerking ahead and halting. From what I could see, Joanie and Biff were having a power struggle. Biff, at the front of the team on the left, kept trying to run full bore; Joanie, at the front on the right, held back to decelerate. This confused the rest of the dogs. Half of them followed Biff’s lead; the rest, Joanie’s.

  “Whoa, Biff!” I shouted.

  I saw what he saw. Rosebud had gotten loose in the dog yard. She stood at the edge of the property, barking, just a short ways ahead. She had been in heat all week. Shit, I thought. Biff wants to get laid.

  Biff’s lead was winning out. The team and I were coming in too hot. I pounded my right foot on the brake. We sped past the shed on a collision course with Rosebud’s doghouse, straight in front of us. Rosebud bounced on the roof of her house and barked like mad.

  Biff and Joanie pulled up inches short of Rosebud’s house. Boris and Aggie halted behind them, followed by Lenny and Kuba. But Lunchbox and Diesel — the wheel dogs, running last in line — couldn’t stop in time. They smacked into Lenny and Kuba from behind. The four dogs tumbled to the ground, tangled in the gangline, snarling and biting at each other.

  I jumped off the sled and got in the middle of the ruckus. Popping his jaws, Lenny stood on top of Kuba, who was defenseless with his front legs snarled in the mess.

  “No, Lenny! NO!” I smacked him on the nose, and he let out a squeal and cowered.

  Next to me Diesel and Lunchbox played a game of chicken, growling diabolically to test if the other had the minerals to make a move. I had to be more careful with them because Diesel was basically a wild animal. Beyond letting me harness him or attach him to the gangline, he only took orders from the pack leader — Dalton, who was nowhere to be found, of course.