Epic Solitude

by Katherine Keith

  “What a kid,” we say in unison.

  Dave takes ownership of the wheel after covering everything with tarps and checking the boat’s battery connection, water filter, and gas tank. I serve as the navigator and stand guard over sleeping Amelia while Dave drives, keeping us pointed in the right direction and changing our angle of attack on the waves as the water current pushes us off track.

  The rough seas continue for another couple of hours, increasing in intensity, when we smell gas. The bouncing has cracked our plastic drum gas tank. Gas leaks out over the deck at an alarming rate.

  Dave yells, not in panic, but so I can hear him over the waves, “Kat, grab the wheel. Alan, stand by Amelia.”

  We go to our posts. I keep the deck as level as possible for him. Water splashing against the windshield makes seeing a challenge. The swells—close to ten feet—rise over the top of our tiny fiberglass boat.

  Dave works to avert catastrophe and minimize the loss of gas. Could it explode if a spark lands on the gas? Rather than letting my imagination get the better of me, I focus on driving. Dave tips the drum of gas on its side to stop the biggest leak. We have space in another drum to pump gas into. Dave grabs a hand pump and transfers thirty gallons of fuel from the leaking drum into other containers. He jury-rigs another fuel hose intake for the second drum. I flip the switch to start the bilge pump to clear gas out of the boat. Incoming water from the waves rinses the gas away as the bilge works hard to keep up. Drill in hand, Dave fastens the new drum to the boat with a snow machine belt. He wants no similar complications. Twenty minutes after the leak, everything is in order.

  Coming back into the cabin to catch his breath, we do some mental math on our options.

  Dave sighs. “It’s eighty miles to continue to Shishmaref and thirty miles to go back to Deering.”

  “How much gas do you think we have left?” I ask,

  “We need at least forty gallons of gas to get to Shishmaref. If the water stays rough, maybe more. We lost over twenty gallons, leaving us with fifty. We can continue as long as we wait for smooth water from Cape Espenberg to Shish.”

  “Fine by me!” Alan says.

  Amelia, now awake and hungry, states her opinion. She doesn’t care where we go as long as she gets to eat. Nursing her in the tumultuous conditions is difficult. Alan unbuckles Amelia and holds her on the floor of the boat. I squeeze into the front crawl space of the cabin.

  Dave laughs. “I’ll keep her under fifty miles per hour.”

  Not sure I appreciate his joking at the moment, I laugh anyway. The nonsensical laughter in the frightening and overwhelming conditions removes the tension from my shoulders. Feeling safe with Dave at the wheel, I take Amelia and remove enough of my soaking-wet outer gear to access my soaking-wet inner gear. Breastfeeding is not for sissies. I brace my back in one corner and press my feet against the wall and a toolbox to stabilize our position in the steep undulations. This is when I discover that I get seasick in close spaces.

  Time passes interminably before we pull into the calm waters of the shallow, protected lagoon of Cape Espenberg. The boat sighs in relief. Sitting in stunned silence, a comatose daze, we take in our surroundings. Disembarking, we walk up to the cabin to find Johnny Weyiouanna and his relatives from Shishmaref. They greet us with open arms. Right away, Johnny grabs Amelia and sits down with her on the grass. It is a great welcoming committee. They bring us to a hot woodstove to dry off and offer us percolated coffee, caribou soup, and pilot bread crackers. We are royalty at this point. Genuine hospitality is a priceless gift.

  My bruised body relaxes in the dry heat radiating from the woodstove. I stare out the window and take in the landscape. Tall, green grass covers the terrain. Not at all worried about the southeast wind assault, but dancing and laughing as if playing a secret game with mother nature. This beach is unusual for the area, with fine-grained sand sculpted in a Zen-like array of ripples left from the last high water. Ripples of memory stay etched in the sand as if to say, “I was here.”

  Snippets of surrounding conversation pass through my meandering mind.

  “Caribou upriver last night,” says Perry, one of Dave’s longtime friends.

  “Still there, you think?” Dave says.

  Perry shrugs. “Might as well find out.”

  “How long can you folks stay for?” Ardith asks. Ardith is Johnny’s wife and the matriarch of the family.

  Dave puts his feet on a stump closer to the woodstove to better dry out his wet socks. “We’re your guests and don’t want to impose.”

  Expecting the incoming hit, Dave flinches as Perry slugs him in the shoulder. “Come on, brother Dave! Don’t be stupid!”

  “Ow! If I had boots on, I’d chase you.”

  Ardith finds Amelia and snuggles up with her in a chair by the woodstove. “That isn’t an issue,” she says. “We hope you’ll stay for a few days. Get caribou.”

  I smile and take another sip of the delicious coffee.

  Dave and others hop on Perry’s boat and head up the Goodhope River. I take Amelia to our boat to reorganize and clean it after the chaotic trip. Things need to dry out. Dave, Perry, and the guys come back a couple hours later with two caribou. Dave finds three glass fishing buoys, a common discovery along beaches and rivers of the Chukchi Sea. Exhausted, Dave, Amelia, and I crawl back into our boat to sleep. Alan finds a marvelous warm spot to sleep by the woodstove.

  The next morning, we wake up to the delicious smell of sourdough hotcakes and fresh caribou meat frying on the woodstove. I am eager to walk the beaches and eat my fill to keep my energy up. I don my revolver holster before settling Amelia in her carrier, hoisting the ensemble on my knee, and whirling her around onto my back. Alan stays and plays with the other kids. Dave helps Johnny with a construction project.

  Amelia and I plan to walk the weather-beaten shoreline for hours. The beach is a hundred yards wide at the narrowest point and stretches for miles. Each wave that crashes ashore brings the possibility of seeing ancient wonder. Glass floats, bones, ivory, artifacts, carvings— everything that a hobby archaeologist at heart, like myself, dreams of and more.

  Stopping to feed Amelia, I see remnants of sod houses from a thousand years ago. These people lived a very difficult but rich life. They woke up every morning on this beautiful beach with berries on the grassy tundra, fish to catch, and caribou to hunt. I wonder if they accepted the age-old truth: while tough, life punctuates suffering with simple, profound moments.

  The hike resumes until I come across a large set of fresh bear tracks. I freeze and scrutinize my surroundings, assuming every dark piece of driftwood in the distance will move and charge us. The plus in the +P of my revolver’s name doesn’t give me much confidence as I visualize being confronted by a charging, hungry bear.

  I walk quickly on the way back, feeling like a coward. I force myself to scrutinize objects on the beach, as if to thumb my nose at any bad luck out there trying to thwart my nice day. Vulnerable and alone, I would rather be a coward than miles from Dave and helpless with Amelia. Been there, done that, lost. I run back while singing an uplifting Dixie Chicks song in a fake-happy voice to Amelia on my back. She enjoys the bumpy pace as if this is a new game.

  My thumping heart triggers images of Madi and the cost of the last time I was helpless with my daughter. What am I doing out here? How can I bring Amelia out like this, not knowing with surety that this little adventure of ours is 100 percent safe? Panic sets in. Footprints in the sand haunt me, as do the footprints of my past, etched in the landscape of my soul like ripples in the sand. Three more miles to go before we are back to camp. I am alone. Tears mix with sweat and sand. I need to hold Amelia. I pull the carrier off my back, take Amelia out, and sit down in the fine sand. Hugging her, she is the air I need to breathe. Her heart beats against mine. Her little fingers tug my hair.

  I spot a figure walking toward us on the beach. I r
ecognize Dave’s gait. He came to find me. Safety and security wash over me with immediate effect. Amelia is not in danger. Dave has snacks and sits down by us on the beach.

  He sees my tears and needs not ask what is wrong. “It’s okay, baby,” he says.

  Amelia yells out a few happy baby sounds and throws herself in her daddy’s arms. He tosses her up and down a few times, and she rewards us with a symphony of giggles. Amelia’s carefree laughter drives away the fear-induced black pit that formed a suffocating knot in my throat and stomach. Tears escape my eyes again—tears of relief, love, and new life, tears of appreciation for the gentle strength of my husband and the gift of life that Amelia brings to all around her (see fig. 34).

  The next day, we travel to Shishmaref, where more kind, warmhearted friends and family greet us. Part of the reason for making the trip is to purchase carvings. Some of the best carvers in the state live here. The elegant mastery and showmanship of their work is unprecedented and makes the higher price of their art well worth it. We visit for a couple days, taking time to look at a lot of carvings and bracelets. After gassing up, completing boat repairs, and resupplying, we head back to Kotzebue. Stormy weather is two days out, and we cannot afford to take the scenic route home. After our absence, things need tending to.

  Goodbye

  Kobuk Lake, Alaska | 2003

  Who loves the rain

  And loves his home,

  And looks on life with quiet eyes,

  Him will I follow through the storm;

  And at his hearth-fire keep me warm;

  Nor hell nor heaven shall that soul surprise,

  Who loves the rain,

  And loves his home,

  And looks on life with quiet eyes.

  —Frances Shaw

  Dave and I decide that I should take the kids and spend freeze-up in both Minnesota and Washington visiting family. Amelia, seven-months-old now, is still fragile. We aren’t comfortable with her being out at camp without the means to travel to town in an emergency. During freeze-up, we can’t travel by boat or snow machine or even airplane because the little gravel spit that sometimes doubles as a runway washed out during the last large storm. Dave must stay to keep an eye on the place during this tumultuous time of year when the ice is forming on Kobuk Lake. His homemade airboat project is near completion, and he plans to test it out this freeze-up.

  We catch the 5:00 p.m. flight out of Kotzebue, heading down toward Seattle. Amelia is oblivious to the packing chaos. Alan, now twelve-years-old, knows the routine from years of traveling with his Dad. To help me pack, Dave keeps Amelia close to him. He cradles her in his high-seated captain’s chair which he pulls close to the woodstove. He wears the same old well-worn green KOTZ Radio hat and a maroon sweatshirt that settles on his tall muscular frame. His ceramic coffee mug rests on the corner of the woodstove to maintain its warmth. We will sacrifice many things, but good coffee is not one of them. Wearing fleece pajamas, Amelia squeals in pure happiness as she helps her dad prepare his favorite breakfast: homemade bread toasted on the woodstove. Dave can spend hours with his little girl. He makes a funny face, and Amelia giggles carefree, as only babies can. I glance over every few minutes, enjoying the peace of heart that comes from this joyful scene. After losing Madi, both Dave and I understand how we need to cherish these precious moments. We don’t know when they will be our last.

  It is October and Kobuk Lake is freezing. The boat ride into Kotzebue will be cold. I pack our cold-weather gear for the ride in. Alan and I carry gear out to the four-wheeler trailer and pull a tarp over it to keep our luggage dry. Low temperatures freeze the ground, but we will be driving along the beach, where water and ice would splatter our bags. Alan starts the four-wheeler up after filling the tank with gas. At ten o’clock, the sun is up, and light reflects off the frozen ocean. Frozen ocean? Dang. We have to drive our boat. How is this going to work? Alan and I walk back into the house to report on the conditions.

  “Um, Dave, the lake is covered in ice. How are we going to make it?” I ask.

  “It’s not that thick. No, it’s not. It’s not too thick,” he replies in a playful high-pitched baby-coddling voice. It is hard for him to be serious with Amelia on his lap beaming up at him with adoring eyes.

  Alan and I roll our eyes at the same time. We will get nowhere right now.

  B. B. King plays in the background, “There Ain’t Nobody Here but Us Chickens.” Dave sings to Amelia and dances with her by bouncing her up and down on his knee. He doesn’t seem to care all that much if we don’t make the trip to Ellensburg. It’s obvious he isn’t excited for us to be leaving.

  Meanwhile, I freak out, unwilling to stay at camp during freeze-up with no way of getting medical help if something happens to Amelia. Too much can go wrong. But I don’t want to be without Dave for a month.

  I ask him to reconsider. “Please, Dave. Can’t you come with us? Your mom and dad want to see you. The cabin will be fine. The boats will be fine. We can work down in Ellensburg. Just come with us.”

  “I wish I could,” he says. “Remember last year? The ice came up so high it almost destroyed Aggie’s summer house. I’ll pull the boat out of the water at camp. We can’t leave it in town. Nowhere safe to put it. I’ll just stay at home and work on the airboat. I want us to stay here during break-up next year. We can get a safe ride into town anytime once I have this airboat done. I need to finish it.”

  The death of Madi affects us both in different ways, but neither of us will be helpless anymore. His airboat design is elegant and lightweight, with a frame built from thin spruce lumber he milled over the summer. Tireless, he pushed himself to finish the airboat, hoping it could be ready for freeze-up, but we are out of time.

  I make Alan a cup of hot chocolate and grab a cup of coffee off of the woodstove. We finish listening to B. B. King as we watch the outside world come alive with light. The natural light is bright enough that I can turn off the propane lanterns inside the house. The next song plays on KOTZ, “Who Let the Dogs Out?” This is a family favorite.

  Alan jumps up and yells, “Woof, woof, woof! Who let the dogs out?” Alan runs over to grab Amelia from Dave.

  She yells out her own version of “Woof, woof, woof.” Amelia idolizes her big brother and will do anything he wants her to. Alan lies down on the floor with her straddling his neck. She stretches down to grab a ton of Alan’s thick, dark hair before latching onto his nose. Amelia knows it is her inherent duty to torture her big brother. She leans down, bites his nose, and drools all over his face.

  “Ah! Gross!” Alan yells out, causing baby Amelia to laugh until she falls off him onto the floor.

  Dave runs over to join in the fun, picks up Amelia, and yells out, “Diaper Bomb!” Dave holds her high over his head then “drops” Amelia’s butt right on onto Alan’s face. “Diaper Bomb!” he yells out again as Alan playfully tickles Amelia, hoping to get her soggy diaper off his head. “Who let the dogs out?” Dave sings.

  “Woof, woof, woof,” Amelia and Alan both yell, in very different dialects.

  Drinking my coffee in the wooden rocking chair, looking out over the water, I laugh at their hysterics. Inside, I remain anxious about the trip ahead. I can’t shake this tangible sense of dread and unease that follows me around a lot these days. I continue with preparations until we complete the packing process.

  The four-wheeler ride down to the boat is frigid. Water from under broken shore ice splashes on our legs. The offshore ice looks solid enough to not want to drive a boat through it. Dave pulls at the anchor cemented in frozen mud with ropes coated in ice. He doesn’t seem fazed. Putting on insulated hip waders, he grabs a tuuk—a metal ice chisel on a long pole—from the trailer, and walks through the ice, breaking his way around the perimeter of the boat. Alan pretends he is a giant squashing icebergs. Five minutes later, they climb up on the slippery edges of the boat to break the ice from around the outboard. On cold nights, D
ave keeps the lower unit underwater, so the water lines won’t freeze. Once done, he clenches the fuel pump multiple times to prime the engine before turning the ignition key. It starts right up despite my worries of a dead battery.

  He comes back to shore to help get Amelia aboard and in her boat seat. Amelia loves going on boat rides and is chattering in an excited language only she knows. Foot by foot, we get the boat turned around, breaking the surrounding ice with the tuuk.

  In deeper water the ice breaks away from the pressure of the bow of the boat. We plow along at about ten miles per hour into the endless sheet of ice. The ride into town will be long. In meditative wonder, I watch the glare ice roll from the waves our boat creates without breaking. The most rigid ice by our boat breaks away in brittle defiance, while the more flexible sheets undulate with the pressure created by our passage.

  We stop a few times to ensure the water pump isn’t freezing and continues to circulate water. Alan mans his station in the enclosed boat cabin. For a kid born on the water who doesn’t get seasick, this is heaven. He has an Archie comic book and leftover candy bars from the last town trip. Amelia falls asleep with the gentle rocking of the boat and lullaby of the steady scraping of ice. My ears hear the boat complaining as the thin ice scours the fiberglass. I try not to worry. Dave has it under control. He lives by a motto, sometimes irritating, of Safety First. All of us need to have life preservers nearby, ear protection for the four-wheeler and snow machine noise, a survival kit when traveling away from our house, and a back-up plan for the back-up plan. Looking over at Dave, I feel safe and at home. This echoes my impression of him when we first met—him dressed as a mummy and me smelling like dogs and fish. I found a home. Now we are leaving Dave at camp alone. I will be homesick without him by my side. We haven’t even left yet, and I ache from emptiness.

  Dave and I talk about dreams to come, things we want to accomplish, the businesses we want to develop—small details that maintain our lifestyle. We need a computer to leverage new trends in internet sales. I will negotiate a better wholesale coffee rate from D&M for resale. Alan needs better homeschool books to engage him in the material. Amelia has outgrown her baby clothes and is ready to upgrade to one-year-old sizes. Dave has parts for me to pick up. Small things which paint a dreamy future together we can work hard for.