Epic Solitude

by Katherine Keith

  Two miles from town, the ice becomes thick and takes a long time to break through. Over two hours after we left camp, we arrive and warm up our Dodge truck. Dave drives us to check in at the Kotzebue airport, a small terminal by any standards. There is not much time to spare. We hand our tickets to the boarding agent. I reach up to embrace Dave and realize I am crying. I don’t want to be apart. His gentle strength and love make me a better person.

  Amelia, Alan, and I line up on the other side of a glass wall that now divides us. Alan, oblivious to sad feelings, is excited for the adventure of a trip. The many new faces distract Amelia. I stare through the glass at Dave who stares back until, after one last, lingering glance, we move away, blocked from his view.

  “Goodbye, I will miss you,” I whisper to Dave, knowing he can’t hear me. My heartache grows with every step away from him.

  Lost

  Kobuk Lake, Alaska | 2003

  Empty, crow, black sky

  gives birth to silence and pain.

  No words can bring light.

  —Journal entry, June 20, 2019

  Freeze-up is underway. During this time of the year, ice forms in large sheets but hasn’t solidified enough to travel. During a windstorm, ice can still incur significant damage to property along the beach. Our neighbors, Aggie and Diane, also spend freeze-up out at camp. Dave will help whenever anyone needs it. No matter how big or small the favor, he is someone to count on.

  From Ellensburg, I talk to Dave on the phone as much as possible.

  “How is the airboat coming along,” I ask.

  “It is ready for a test run. John Ray is in town and can weld the squirrel cage. I’ll take it up the beach later today.”

  “That is so great!” I say. “How is the plastic working?” Black UHMW plastic covers thin-milled spruce lumber so that the boat can come on and off the ice into the water with little friction.

  “Like a charm,” Dave says.

  “I can’t wait to hear how it goes.” Dragging the airboat to the beach by himself is a monumental undertaking.

  We talk a few hours later that night. “How did the test run go? I ask. “It has worried me all day.”

  “Don’t worry about me. It works great. I tinkered to find the right balance. It is ready to go to town.”

  I am floored at his progress. “When are you going to go?”

  “Not for a while. I’ll wait for it to freeze-up better and calm down. It’s too windy right now. I don’t have the squirrel cage, and there is no need to risk it.”

  The next morning I have an eye appointment in Ellensburg. These opportunities don’t come up often in Kotzebue. Before leaving, I call to say good morning. No answer. I call again. I hang up after the fifth time.

  “That’s odd,” I mention to Dewey.

  He reassures me. “Party lines must be busy!” Dewey is familiar with the unreliability of our camp phones.

  I go the eye exam but can’t shake my sense of unease. The optometrist asks endless questions about our lives. With high energy, as if intoxicated, I answer her questions about Dave and the life awaiting us at camp. We plan to go to Yakima with Dewey to get supplies. I call Dave again from the optometrist’s office and still can’t get an answer.

  “Those darn sunspots are acting up again,” Dewey says.

  Dewey, Alan, Amelia, and I go on to Costco to get a computer. Dave and I are developing a website to help local artists sell their work. I tell Dewey about our plans, eager to distract myself from this growing knot in the pit of my belly. Alan entertains Amelia in the back seat of Dewey’s truck. Before leaving Yakima, we stop for a bite to eat at a local burger joint. I find a pay phone and call five more times. No answer.

  Dewey notices my distress. “Can you imagine how often we felt this way? Every day since David moved up there. Those darn phones just never work. Then the next day, David calls us and says he was outside working on logs. Nothing to worry about. Don’t you worry.”

  I appreciate his calm manner. As soon as we get back to Ellensburg, I call Dave and get nothing. I know something is wrong. Dread and fright wash over me.

  Preparing for dinner, we get the phone call.

  Archie Ferguson (Aggie’s son-in-law and our good friend) says, “Hi Kat. Now, don’t get upset, but I need to update you.”

  My breathing stops in knowing. “Go on,” I choke out.

  Archie continues, “Dave and Diane left camp in the airboat about three hours ago and haven’t made it to Kotzebue. Diane had a stroke and needs to make it to the emergency room. Dave carried her in the airboat, having no other option. I am up here on the hill in Kotzebue and can’t see any sign of them. It is real stormy right now. Southwest winds. Water is rough with whitecaps and ice.”

  I am silent and waiting.

  Archie asks, “Have you heard from him?”

  I say, “I haven’t. Are the search-and-rescue crews out? Dave did a test run with the airboat yesterday, but it is too lightweight for bad weather.”

  Archie says, “Search and rescue can’t go out yet. The storm is too bad. Airboats go where and when others can’t. When they have problems, others can’t help.”

  Refusing to think we are helpless, I ask, “What about planes? Can they do a flyover?”

  Archie says, “Right now the visibility is too low. Eric Sieh will take off when it clears.”

  At that, I feel a sense of relief. Eric is one of the best bush pilots I know. If anyone knows where to look and can handle the weather, it’s him.

  “Can I do anything?” I ask.

  “No,” Archie replies. “If you hear anything let me know. I will do the same. I’m sure they’re just stuck on the beach somewhere or the motor broke down. We will find them and bring them home.” Archie’s voice contains hope but also the pain of wisdom, having supported many unsuccessful searches. Archie and his wife, Lena, volunteer much of their time trying to keep residents of the region safe.

  “Thanks,” I say and hang up the phone.

  Turning around I find a room full of people looking at me with white, drawn faces. This is the day his family has lived in fear of—the day their son is the object of a search. I pack and plan to go home. Alan will stay longer with his grandparents so he doesn’t have to live through the fear and stress of a search. He will come home when they find his Dad. The only calls I receive from Archie are those with no news (see fig. 35).

  Later that night, Archie calls to tell me that the search is on and official. November 7, 2003.“We still can’t do much because of the weather. Eric can’t take off. Boats can’t go out because of ice conditions leaving the lagoon and in front of town. The only piece of equipment that can make it to where Dave and Diane likely are is Danny Shield’s airboat.”

  “Have you spoken to Danny?” I ask.

  “We’ve been calling all afternoon and got through on the VHF. Their camp phone is down. When Danny heard what happened, he took off right away to look for them, despite the awful weather and the fact it’s dark out.”

  I become worried for Danny now. “Have you heard from Danny? Is he safe?”

  “He called on the VHF, but he found nothing. He had to turn around about half an hour ago. He’ll try again when it calms down or at least gets light out.”

  My stomach turns over at knowing, no matter what, there is no help to come for Dave and Diane tonight. Diane, with a stroke, stuck out all night in the nasty, wet, cold, windy weather. I know Dave will do his best to take care of her, but how will she survive?

  Amelia and I make it to Kotzebue the next morning. As the fog lifts, airplanes search but boats still can’t make it out. The airplanes find nothing—not a single trace of Dave, Diane, or the airboat. On the third day, boats make it out to search. They find Diane’s body still inside a part of the airboat. The boat drowned and Diane with it.

  Diane was a second mom to Dave and often
took care of Alan. A mom herself, with numerous grandchildren, her loss devastates the community of Kotzebue. Diane was only sixty-one years old.

  Dave is not with the boat. Dave always wears his float suit when boating in rough conditions. I hope his safety training helps him to stay alive and make his way to shore. My mom, Cassie, and Cindy come up to Kotzebue to stay with Amelia and me during the search. Alan is still in Ellensberg with his grandparents.

  The search continues for weeks into freeze-up, but the search transitions to recovery despite my insistence that he must be wandering around on the tundra, trying to make his way back to Kotzebue. Once the ice is thick enough to travel on, search-and-rescue crews drill holes in the ice, looking for any sign of him. Nothing. Eric Sieh gives me the great gift of being able to fly around and search myself even after so many others tried to find him. Chuck Schaeffer spends hours taking a four-wheeler around on the ice, looking for traces of him on the sandbars. They are looking for a body. I am looking for my husband, alive and well.

  Thanksgiving

  Kobuk Lake, Alaska | 2003

  If I could only fly, if I could only fly

  I’d bid this place goodbye to come and be with you.

  —Merle Haggard, “If I Could Only Fly”

  It is twenty days since Dave went missing. Twenty-one days since I heard his voice. Forty-three days since I said goodbye through the glass windows of Alaska Airlines. Is it time for me to accept his death?

  It is now time for a snow-machine ride home. I haven’t been to camp since the airboat accident and don’t know what we will find. We have no snow machines in town, all of ours are at camp, so Dickie Moto lets me borrow his. Amelia, eight-months-old, needs me to think straight. How much gas do we need? what type of food? what supplies? What clothes can I find for her to drive home in? What else do we need to bring? My brain isn’t working. My heart breaks more with every beat. Amelia will never see her Dad again—this amazing, gentle giant of a man who adores her. Rather, adored her. Past tense. She will never know his smile like he knew hers.

  Mom and Cassie go back to Minneapolis, and I now need to keep Cindy and Amelia safe. That weight falls on my shoulders. Being fifteen, Cindy is still in high school but stays through her winter school break. Time away is not good for her. My sister, with the heart of a lion, will go through any inconvenience to help the people she loves.

  Alan isn’t with us anymore. After losing his Dad, Dave’s parents decide that Alan is better off in Washington with them. When Dave and I married, we didn’t think about the legal aspects of living our lives together. I didn’t adopt Alan; the thought never occurred to me. I miss him deeply, and I can’t think of his smiling face without crying. How is it right for Alan to lose his Dad, his home, his baby sister, his stepmom, and his entire life in Alaska all at the same time?

  Cindy stays with Amelia inside our temporary housing in Kotzebue. Packing up the snow machine sled, I wrap our boxes up with a tarp, tie the load with whatever rope I find, gas up the machine, check the oil, and go back inside to get dressed. A blizzard rages outside, complete with high winds, low visibility, and plenty of snow.

  “Cindy, do you have enough clothes?” I ask.

  “I think so,” she says. “Still need a face mask.”

  Looking over at her misfit hodgepodge collection of borrowed gear, I can’t help but laugh. Her bunny boots are about three sizes too big and her down pants are close to a foot too long. Digging through a random box, I find a face mask and throw it her way. The weather isn’t great, but we are going home for Thanksgiving.

  “Looks great,” I say.

  Cindy feeds Amelia a breakfast of smashed bananas and cheerios, the remnants of which land all over the kitchen floor.

  I pick up Amelia. “Wow, baby bubba, you sure know how to leave your mark on the world.”

  “She got a few cheerios in her mouth and in my hair,” Cindy adds.

  I have a pile of clothes for Amelia to wear. This will be new for her. As a super-young baby, Amelia went on snow machine rides, but she won’t remember. The big process of layering begins with fleece, mukluks, hats, mittens, then outer jackets. Amelia will ride inside my large fur coat.

  My hands are shaking with knowing—knowing I need to bring Amelia out to camp on a snow machine. I feel silly, knowing that this resilient eight-month-old child is healthy and that I have no reason to fear. My gut rears up in disagreement, shouting in remembrance. I have all the reason to fear. Cindy shares my concerns. Neither of us are in a hurry to go, but we both seem to grasp the inevitability of fate. Time to go home.

  We take off to camp, drive on an unmarked, blown-over snow trail, and make it home without trouble. Along the way, I can’t help but search. Where is Dave? Why can’t we find him? He has to be out here somewhere. The three of us make our way through the miles outside Kotzebue, feeling alone and lost in the white wall of snow. How different from times past, when going home meant love, joy, happiness, family, and connection. We now go home to obligation and to a stubborn refusal to give up on a shared dream. I want to hope that Dave will come home, and we need to keep things moving for when he does.

  We come home to an empty cabin that has the last remnants of him laying out collecting dust. I feel close to Dave again for the first time since we departed at the Kotzebue airport. His clothes, his smell, his music, his hat, his sweater, his coffee mug, his winter boots, him. Despair is not a cozy companion. The cruel fates that set up this sequence of events nail me to a cross of shame and longing.

  A notepad lays by the rotary phone with his handwriting transcribing his thoughts. He was looking at airline tickets to meet us in Ellensberg while we were still there. Was he going to surprise us? He made a note about the band Marc Brown and the Blues Crew and where to find their music. His last cup of the infamous D&M coffee lies on the stones of the woodstove. His favorite hat hangs from a nail in the center log of our house. B. B. King is on the record player he was listening to the evening after I said goodnight on the phone from far away. The airboat scaffolding is outside the house with tools waiting for Dave to put them away. Life at our house hit the pause button, waiting for Dave’s return as if holding its breath.

  There is wood in the house left behind from Dave’s proactive efforts. Cindy searches for kindling while I load up logs. Within five minutes both woodstoves are roaring. Amelia hangs out in her Dad’s captain’s chair close to the stove with her outside gear still on. She gets mad that she can’t move and cries. I sit down in the chair to comfort her and weep. My rapid breathing catches with every breath as I struggle for control, trying to grip my sense of reality as if I can hold it.

  I realize this little baby girl provides me with comfort, not the other way around. Taking a few breaths, I gain control before looking to Cindy.

  “What a mess, huh?” I try to take a light tone about the bachelor pad of disarray he left behind. “What a guy! Food on the counter, clothes everywhere, dirty dishes …”

  Cindy looks around. “Yeah. How did he manage for two weeks without us?” Cindy goes outside to turn the propane tank on, and I find a book of matches for the pilot lights.

  “Thanks, Cindy,” I say as she comes back in. “Ready for some coffee?”

  “That sounds good.”

  Amelia calms down, and as the temperature in the house rises, we take off a few layers of gear.

  “I’d like to get things done outside the house before the snow covers everything. Want to come out or stay in?” I ask.

  Cindy looks at Amelia. “I can stay inside with Amelia.”

  We tag-team, taking trips to the outhouse and watching Amelia before I head out.

  “Holler if you need anything,” I say. “I will be right outside.”

  The priority is always wood. Finding the latest wood pile, I spend time splitting wood before carrying a dozen armloads into our storm shed. I cut kindling for faster fire-starting.
The main camp tools are still visible, and I put them away. We need a snow machine. I find our fan-cooled 550cc Polaris on a pallet, where Dave put it last spring. Driving it up on the pallet prevents the snow machine track from freezing into the mud or tundra at times just like now. It takes ten minutes to get it going, and everything sounds in working order. I search around for gas cans and find enough gas for a trip to town. I am not sure which drum has straight-up gas and which, if any, have pre-mixed gas. As a mechanic, Dave didn’t trust the oil injection system and disabled it. He preferred to add oil directly to the gas at a ratio of one-to-sixteen. Not finding any mixed gas, I search for some oil.

  Confusion sets in, “What kind of oil is it now? Two cycle? Synthetic? Four cycle? Motor oil? Why so many oils?” I shriek out to no one in particular.

  Time to get the generator started. I placed it by the woodstove for an hour to warm up. It is standard practice for us to bring it inside every night to protect this crucial piece of equipment. This time however, it was outside for six weeks. That Dave, of all people, left it outside shows the emergency Diane was in. The generator is always finicky, and I worry about damage. I carry it outside and fill it with gas, turn on the fuel valve, choke it, cross my fingers, and pull back on the starting cord. Nothing. Five more pulls. Nothing. Ten more pulls. Nothing. I go through all the steps again, checking the on-off switch and the fuel valve, adjusting the choke setting. Nothing.

  “Fuck!” I scream out at the top of my lungs, instantly feeling bad that I’ve worried Cindy.

  It’s getting dark out, and I know it is dark inside the house. I need a different plan. I bring the generator back in the house.