Gladys and Lyman had built the home we visited, a lovely retreat on the river. Jewellike soldiers, including purple fireweed jelly and other items from the garden put up by Gladys, stood guarding the mud-room entrance. They’d made most everything in the house themselves, including the kitchen cabinets. Gladys, a handsome woman with an elegant figure, even in jeans, laughed when she told us of a telephone surveyer who had once asked her in which supermarket she bought her meat. She explained that they killed a caribou every year, a moose every other. Lyman teased her gently about the first moose she’d bagged, years ago. Got a good one and got him clean, didn’t take a lot of shooting. Only trouble was they were a mile and a half from the road. Did we have any idea what it was like for two average-size people to lug a dead moose that far? It was difficult for us to picture. They smiled sweetly at each other. Their meat freezer, they explained, was right outside. It was plugged in only during the summer, of course, not in the winter. When they wanted salmon, they went out back and caught one. They grew what they could in this climate, though Gladys was giving herself and the garden this year off. In spring they planned to take a trip “outside” to visit Jody and her five children in California. Of course they’d fly their own plane. We had coffee and tea and chatted in the cozy kitchen. Outside, as we left, a squirrel that had been trained to run up the outside of their pants leg to search and seize the peanut hidden in a pocket there for him, put in an appearance. As Lyman drove us back to our campsite, I thought maybe this was what Thoreau had had in mind. And all our friends who had tittered and nattered about our “relationship risks” on taking this trip ought to have coffee at the Nichols’s sometime.
Father’s Days
T wo days to D-day, Dad’s arrival. The drive north to Anchorage was stunning. Snow-covered mountains backed up against blue sky on either side of Turnagain Arm, an extension of the massive Cook Inlet. The tides this far north were extreme, with a range of up to thirty-three feet. We hoped to catch the bore tide, an abrupt rise forming a wall of water up to six feet high. The tide tables in the newspaper warned us to be on the lookout just after low tide. Somehow we miscalculated and missed it. Instead we picnicked at Beluga Point, without beluga. Anchorage, with its 250,000 residents and civilization, was just around the bend, though it felt remarkably rural this close to the city. The narrow two-lane road hugged the hillside as if hoping not to get washed out to sea. Beside us railroad tracks, the lifeline from Seward to the interior, drifted in and out of sight.
As we approached Indian Creek, the shoulders bulged from either side of the road like Joan Crawford’s in a heavily padded dress. Cars were scattered everywhere, parked willy-nilly, as if the drivers had stopped suddenly for an emergency. We scanned the horizon for white whales. There were none. As we looked down from the bridge, the cause of the excitement became clear: Of course, the fish were running, and this was Alaska. We remembered friends who had once told us of building a house in Hawaii. They had been delighted to find plenty of good, hardworking craftsmen. What took some getting used to was that when the surf was up, work was out. Here the call of the wild came from fish. As we drove on, we shook our heads at our own ignorance. Next time we would know better.
As we were marveling at the accessibility of nature, the two lanes abruptly gave way to four, then six. Thoughts of fishing forgotten, familiar green highway signs loomed overhead. A divider separated us from oncoming traffic, while vehicles merged smoothly on the right. In an instant we were on an expressway in Anywhere, U.S.A. We approached the city with mixed feelings. It would be fun to get some Thai food, see Earthquake Park, and pick up a few RV supplies. Sandy was curious to look around for signs of life as he remembered it from his business trips twenty years ago. We also needed a Costco stop to get more than twenty rolls of film developed. And replenish our gourmet jelly bean supply. We did still have our priorities. Yet we seemed to have less and less use for cities.
The ease of having an RV in this city amazed us. Coming into a population center, we had girded ourselves for difficulties. I imagined pulling into Times Square to camp in the Sue, biking down to Wall Street, then up to Bloomie’s and over to Central Park. A likely story. Here we located several RV parks within the city limits and chose one that was well within biking distance of everywhere we might want to go. Ninety miles of bike paths made it simple to go to and from downtown, out toward the airport to run errands, then through Earthquake Park on the water’s edge. I knew this couldn’t happen within fifty miles of New York. I had been, and would always be, a great defender of the Big Apple. My hometown was the only city worth living in, I thought. For energy, intensity, variety, excitement, and culture, nowhere came close. On this trip, however, for the first time I began to wonder if I really wanted to put up a fight and be tough every day for the rest of my life. My skin was so thick, I yelled at cabbies. On the other hand, I didn’t really think Anchorage was a city. It felt like a big town to me. Other cities were wonderful to visit, but why would I move to Cleveland or Boise? San Francisco was beautiful, New Orleans sophisticated, but I’d take Manhattan if I wanted to go to town. Somehow since we’d opened our minds to a new life, the “where shall we live” question was had also come into play. Our friends and family were primarily in the Northeast, but not exclusively, and more and more of what we had thought of as permanent now seemed open to change. Perhaps we could live somewhere other than New York. The wheels in our minds were spinning faster about moving slower.
Even in Anchorage, however, you knew you were in Alaska. City dwellers here—unlike New Yorkers, who are mostly immune to nature—learn to thrive in the rugged climate. And there are other obvious differences between Anchorage and anywhere else, especially New York.
Things Alaskan Things New York
Pickup trucks 525i Beemers
Dogs in pickup trucks Teens in limos
Float planes Corporate jets
A dog, a dock, a plane A babe, a helipad, a jet
Salmon bakes Chinese, delivered
Messy front yard Lawn doctor
Real cabin style Ralph Lauren
Woodcarvings, life size or better, chain sawn Corporate art
Burl art Burl Ives
The ring of fire volcanoes The Ring at the Met
21 hours of sunlight The city that never sleeps
Hunting for dinner Hunting for dinner date
Combat fishing Combat shopping
Dog mushing Dog walkers
Miserable roads Miserable streets
Incredibly friendly road workers No road workers
Drive-through espresso bars Drive-by shootings
The advantages and disadvantages of each scrolled through my mind. We had tried living in the city during the week and in the country on weekends, not finding it very satisfying. Could there be one place that incorporated most of what we wanted?
As had become our habit, our first stop was the bookstore. I needed F. We parked in the K mart lot, which, legend had it, welcomed RVers to park overnight gratis. Good to know. Glad we didn’t need it. As we walked toward Border’s Bookstore, a chubby fellow in a suit and tie (hadn’t seen one of those in a while) hustled toward us.
“Hi!” He puffed a little.
“Saw your license plates.” Breathe. Breathe.
“You’re sure far from home.”
Was this a scam? What would he try to sell us? Was he a desperate author and no one had shown up for his book signing? “Welcome to Anchorage!”
Was he with the Chamber of Commerce? Had he read our minds and known we were thinking of moving? I felt slightly guilty that New York would find out we were even thinking of ditching her. City antennae up, we continued moving in the direction of our goal and the safety of the store.
“Hi,” we allowed.
“Are you having a good time so far?” he inquired.
“Yeah, had a ball driving up. Just got to town. You live here?”
“I do. Saw your tags and knew you were a long way from home. Enjoy Anchorage.
”
He veered off toward his car and waved. We lamely waved back. I still had a lot to learn. This friendly-to-strangers stuff was very disorienting.
We had an interesting couple of days eating, shopping, and being tourists. One afternoon, on a break between activities, I was lounging around in my usual glam outfit of T-shirt and sweats when I logged on to our e-mail service. We were indeed part of the brave new world, for there before my eyes, from thousands of miles away, was an invitation to discuss a job. One of my former colleagues wanted to hire an editor-in-chief for one of the top publishers in America. Would I be interested? I was pleased. When were we coming home? I was flattered. When could I start work? I was very flattered. But it took all of three or four seconds to know my response. I was not interested. The freedom I felt being responsible only for the two of us, mixed with the challenge (ignoring the fear) of the unknown future, made any other answer impossible. I knew what it was I was saying no to. I knew the job inside out: the thrill of competition, the rush of being right, the enjoyment of a job well done. I also knew all about the ridiculous hours, the endless pressures, and the constantly growing publishing machine that needed feeding. As I drafted my polite thanks-but-no-thanks response, I wondered what our future would bring.
As we headed for the Anchorage airport to pick up my dad, my pop, Gerard, we did a quick drive-by of the five other flight centers in town. One, Elmendorf, was military. There was a lake for seaplanes and two very large airports for private planes, plus the regular airport. There seemed to be at least one plane per person up here and lots of air traffic problems. We had no trouble finding a parking space on the ground, however, at Anchorage International. Sandy was as eager to see Dad as I was. The two had formed a warm, mutually respectful relationship that really was a pleasure for me. On the surface they were night and day: an eighty-year-old Jew from Berlin and a fifty-three-year-old Wasp from Michigan. But underneath they were cut from the same honest humble cloth, woven with a thread of good humor.
Dad arrived, the first person off the plane, looking a lot like an eager schoolboy off on holiday in his windbreaker and baseball cap. This would be the first time he and his wife of twenty-five years, Martha, would vacation separately. She was spending the time in New England with my recently widowed aunt. I don’t think she really minded missing the excursion in the RV, and I know he didn’t mind missing two weeks of sisters chatting. It was just odd seeing them apart. But it was great having him with us. He was pleased as could be that, while his friends may have gone to the Catskills for the summer, he had come to Alaska.
The three of us doubled back south to Alyeska, the largest of Alaska’s six ski resorts, where we had rented a large one-bedroom apartment for Dad to shake off his jet lag and regroup. We also had a reservation at one of Alaska’s best restaurants, the Double Musky. We knew a good dinner would get him on track faster than a good night’s sleep, which didn’t come easily at his age. One of my dad’s great pleasures in life had always been fine wining and dining. After spending his career in the wine business, he had the nose and palate of a professional. As a child, I was sometimes embarrassed as he sniffed his food or wine before tasting them in restaurants. Now people just thought he was a gourmet. Supremely annoying to me was his seemingly effortlessly trim figure. By now, Sandy and I were rarely eating out. Too much Miracle Whip and too much money. Both of us were also inclined to put on weight, so we made every effort to cook and eat simply. We both loved my dad and wanted to keep him entertained and happy on this trip, so we decided it was worth a few pounds here and there. Our first night out included rack of lamb and Double Musky chocolate pie. We hated every minute of it, but hey, you do what you have to do to keep peace in the family.
In the morning we took the first gondola up the ski mountain for a good look around. It was only us and the staff. This was one of the things we had planned for Dad’s visit, since it was scenic but not strenuous. The good weather was holding. The view of the valley, Turnagain Arm, and Cook Inlet was stunning. The three of us strolled around the lodge peeking into the dining rooms and looking out at the vistas. The terrain was barren at this altitude, the ground surface loose rock. After reading the warning not to pick up any unexploded artillery shells that may have been left from the previous winter’s avalanche control program, we ambled outside. Together we walked up an easy trail.
As we rounded a bend, Gerard said with delight, “Look, snow! “and pointed up.
Like the old mountain goat that he was, Dad scrambled up the steep incline with me in pursuit. Sandy stood his ground and shouted at the two of us that we were nuts. As a man with a ceramic hip held in place with wood screws and two unreliable knees, he wasn’t about to follow us up the treacherous, unstable incline. I chased Dad, who wouldn’t stop until he had a handful of the white stuff to toss at me. I bounced one back at him. I took a picture of him, and he got one of me. We collapsed laughing side by side. It was hard to believe that I wasn’t a kid anymore and that this man was eighty. Recovering our dignity, we looked back at Sandy, who glared up at us. Like two chastened children, my father and I returned to safe ground. My husband, my quiet, polite husband, told my father in no uncertain terms that he, Gerard, was not to do anything that stupid ever again. I’d never seen Sandy do that.
My father smiled and said, “Ja, ja.”
This was his vacation, he seemed to say, and he was just having a little fun. Sandy shook his head as he steered us back to the security of the gondola. Instead of a wife and a father-in-law, he had been momentarily traveling with two unruly kids. Back on terra firma, we pulled into a rest stop across the inlet. A picnic lunch of smooth saga blue, garlic salami, and slabs of sourdough bread made everything right again. The magic of food.
Traveling with a third person presented an immediate challenge: There were only two front seats in the Sue. We tried rotating positions, but I got a little edgy when Dad tried to climb over the hump between the two front seats while we were moving. Sandy said I hovered too much. Mostly Dad ended up aft at the dining-room table. He pored over maps, guidebooks, and The Anchorage Daily News. I began to feel frustrated that he was reading about where we were and where we were going instead of looking out the window and enjoying being there. It baffled me that he could spend an entire day meandering through the Anchorage paper. There simply wasn’t that much in it. But reading the paper was one of his routines. I tried to hold my tongue, but that was never one of my favorite poses.
“Pop. Look! There’s the Kenai River. Can you see the incredible mountains? Left, left—look at the fish. Can you see the color of the water? Wow, how about that waterfall? Did you see how blue that glacier was? Pop, stop reading the paper—you’re in Alaska! Pop! Isn’t this landscape bizarre? It looks totally different all of a sudden. Don’t you think it looks sort of lunar? Pop, Pop. Earth to Pop.”
“Oh, I’m having a great time just being here with you kids,” he said with a grin.
That wasn’t enough for me. I wanted him to see what I saw, feel what I felt, be amazed at what awed and inspired me. Sandy and I traded places so I could drive. Watching the road smoothed me out. The two of them talked easily. I remembered someone once telling me, “Of course your dad knows how to push your buttons. Who do you think installed them?” Was he trying to push those buttons, or was he really having a good time? I chose to believe he was, even though I would have preferred him having a good time my way.
Over the next two weeks we covered fifteen hundred miles and built as many memories. We spent three days in torrential rains at Homer-on-the-spit (which was practically in the ocean to begin with). One night we introduced Dad to camping in the woods, a totally new experience for him. In compensation we planned a later night at a fancy hotel’s plush RV park, complete with a soak in a hot tub followed by an elegant restaurant dinner. He even got to experience a night in a remote lodge with no phone, TV, or electricity. There were two boat tours and a series of great meals. We took in all the sights: from puffins and wh
ales to volcanoes and glaciers to fabulous views of elusive Denali, the highest mountain in North America. After a bumpy day or two, we rewrote our rhythm from two part to three and got in the groove.
In the midst of all this fun, Pop woke up one morning and sounded like hell.
“I’b fine,” he insisted nasally, “I’b fine.”
When he didn’t rally for dinner, we became concerned. Our next six days were to be spent in Denali National Park and Preserve, in the RV, in the woods, quite literally in the middle of nowhere. Instead we found him a cabin and parked the RV outside like a hovering mother whale. In the morning he had a fever and coughed. Each of us, thinking our own thoughts and not wanting to frighten the other, became very quiet. We were 238 miles from Anchorage, 120 miles from Fairbanks, and 4,647 miles from his doctor, his wife, and his familiar surroundings. I thought that if something serious was wrong, the results might be too awful to consider. Pop continued to insist he was fine, but later in the morning he wanted a second opinion from a doctor.
This was not Northern Exposure—there was no doctor in town. In fact, there was surprisingly little in the way of a town at the entrance to Denali, a major tourist attraction. A couple of hotels and saloons. There was no doctor. It was Saturday. We looked in our guidebooks and followed the instructions. We called the state police. We waited anxiously while they did whatever they did. They advised us to go to the medical facility at Healy, someone would meet us there. We drove north. It was the quietest ten miles of the trip.
First We Quit Our Jobs Page 11