River Trip Journal 11

8/7/2017

Woke up early this morning and busted a move. Potstickers and salmon at midnight tided us over until now.

The Chandalar is much colder than the Yukon. No more baths, alas! When we came out of Cutoff Slough, it felt like walking into a grocery store in an Arkansas summer: a sudden arctic blast.

We drove through a bit of burning forest just now. Thick, smoky air, bright sunlight catching in the billows, red-topped, dead-needled spruce. Lots of eagles today.

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Later:

The faster current is a little scary. I had to navigate some really shallow gravel bars and riffles as we left Venetie at dusk heading into the sun. It was definitely the toughest section of river I’ve driven yet.

happy keely lower chan drive

It was really lovely to see M. and get hugs from kids. Everyone was helpful and curious and welcoming. Sometimes I miss Venetie a lot.

Getting gas was a little tough. They don’t take cards. We worked it out after a few tries.

Surprise plane wreckage beside the river tonight. Not sure what to make of that. It’s only four miles from Venetie, but I’ve never heard of it. It’s filled with names and initials that I recognize, though, painted on or smudged into the dust and grime on the inside.
(Editor’s note: this plane crashed in 1997 after taking off from Venetie. No one was killed, though the wreck looks pretty terrifying)

planeplane tailGeoff plane inside

We had a harder time finding a camp than we have in the past. The shores are mostly cobble now, where before they were sand.

keely boobs?

I’m nervous about navigating the canyon as we turn onto the East Fork, probably tomorrow night. We will be gaining a lot of elevation, and I’m not sure what to expect exactly. Everyone says we’re doing well to try this at high water, and that now is the highest it’s been all summer, so our chances are good, whatever that means.

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River Trip Journal 10

glow

8/6?
Sunday Evening

Back on the river, finally. We had a good two weeks down on the Kenai and in Fairbanks, but it is good – really good – to have all of our really important possessions contained in the hull of this boat again.

We are in Back Yukon Slough now, on our way to the even narrower Cutoff Slough that leads to the Chandalar.

lowerchandalar geoff smile

We arrived in Fort Yukon yesterday afternoon. We had been unable to get reservations for that flight, but somehow both of us and the dog and all our excess baggage made it on the plane. “You’re on!” said the agent at Wright’s, and there was instant pandemonium. Everything had to come out of the truck and get packed up to be shipped out, the truck had to be parked across the way, the parking paid for, and friends called to cancel evening plans, all in about ten minutes. We had really thought we were stuck in Fairbanks for at least another day and so were totally unprepared. When we finally took our seats about fifteen minutes later in that hot metal canister of a plane with glare on its wings, the relief was huge. Geoff still got absolutely sticky; it was a boiling hot afternoon, and he hates flying, but I felt such a weight lift away that I probably could have floated on air to Fort Yukon even without the plane.

Even after visiting for a few hours at the district office, we were able to get Lyra in the water and ourselves to camp before midnight. I had my best night of sleep in weeks: no rain, no rain fly, no noisy RVs (Jimmy at the beach, he of no teeth, nearly suffocated us when he fired up his gnarly old diesel camper at six in the morning), no pressing worries.

Our freight, two action packers full of pots and pans and food, didn’t make it on the plane with us yesterday and didn’t make it today, so we called Wright’s and had them send it ahead of us to Venetie. We will meet it there tomorrow. For tonight, we have no pans, no stove, no potatoes, and, in Geoff’s case, no sandals or boots. He is wearing his work shoes or none at all.

We are making great time in this slough. It’s shallow and slow: what current there is is with us. The sun has fallen lower in the sky since we went south. It actually gets dark for a little while at night now. On one stretch of still, brown water the sun striped the surface with the shadows of tall black spruce. stripes

The water is much stiller and the channel much narrower here. It is not hard to navigate, but there is no way to cut corners. The long meanders dictate our path.wave curlWe hope to make it to the Chandalar tonight after we pass the mouths of the Christian River and Marten Creek.

I am crossing my fingers that Geoff doesn’t try to persuade me to cook dinner in the dog bowls tonight. I will report back on this matter later.


Later:

When we came onto the Chandalar, it felt like stepping into a walk-in freezer. The water is much colder and paler, though still grayish. We have started traveling upriver again.

As we were motoring along, we passed a few camps. At one, we were waved ashore. I was a little apprehensive. Some people are very opposed to our traveling on tribal land, and, although the river is public, there are some folks who resent our using it. I felt better as soon as we got close enough to make out faces. It was P and S, who had taken me for a dogsled ride in Venetie a few years ago, and they wanted us to come up and visit over tea.

They are incredibly nice guys. They made tea and gave us dry fish for the rest of our trip. Since our life jackets didn’t make it on the plane, they insisted that we take a couple of extra ones from them until we get ours back in Venetie. We ate cookies and they looked over our maps with us and gave us advice on the best route to take and where the tricky spots are. They are fishing for kings and silvers, and they have sixteen dogs in camp. They also have satellite TV.

We saw a flock of young geese right where S had said they would be. We saw cranes strutting on a sandbar and an enormous beaver. At last we settled on a beach a few miles up from camp after a golden sunset. We did not cook in the dog dish. I made a foil pack for some frozen (thawed) potstickers, and Geoff grilled a couple fillets of Kenai River red salmon.lower chandalar camp

Editor’s note on tribal land:

I wrote back and forth with the tribal government this summer, asking for approval to do this trip, which was eventually granted, so Geoff and I could have camped on tribal land if we had needed to. However, Alaska’s navigable waterways are public up to the normal high water mark. Since we always camped on beaches and sandbars, we never actually used that permission. The only times that we set foot on tribal land were when P. and S. invited us up to their camp, where we were made to feel very welcome, and in Venetie, where everyone was lovely to us, helping us to get gas and groceries, and asking me if I was coming back to teach, which was super flattering.

There have been a few people who have commented negatively about our trip since we got back to Arctic, but I don’t think they are the majority. I want to be respectful and have a good relationship with the community here, but I don’t want to let a couple of loud voices push me into giving up adventures on Alaska’s public lands.

I am trying to be honest and open-minded about the whole thing. I want someone to sit me down and really talk to me about it, but that hasn’t happened yet, and I’m not sure who to ask. If you are from Venetie or Arctic, are reading this post, and feel up to helping me understand, come find me or call me at school. I am ready to listen. It is a conversation I really want to have.

River Trip Journal 7

Later 7/13:

Stevens Village was like a beautiful ghost town full of fireweed, foxtails, and ripening raspberries. We walked all along the main streets in the still, hot, hazy evening and didn’t see or hear a soul. There were no dogs barking or chainsaws in the distance.

Finally, I knocked on a door, and a friendly, smiling young woman sent me down the road to “the house with all the dogs” to talk to the agent about picking up our package from the plane. The agent walked us to the post office where she had left my box. We chatted about folks from Arctic that we both knew, and about how the families with kids have left Stevens because the school closed a few years ago.
“How many children are there in Stevens?”
“None. They all went to Fairbanks.”
Isn’t that strange? A whole community with no children. I saw a toddler on a four-wheeler with a young woman. How heartwrenching it must be for everyone when the kids leave.

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Weekends are Sacred

Last Wednesday night, Geoff and I left school to meet a late flight. We were stoked – it was a good surprise, an unexpected extra flight from Fairbanks that was carrying the rest of our gear from break. We arrived at the airport and hopped out of the truck into the -20 degree evening air expecting five or six boxes and a backpack. Geoff wasn’t even wearing a coat – it was supposed to be that quick. What we got was a backpack, five or six personal boxes, and about eight-hundred pounds of freight for the school. A lot of it was perishable.

We’d had no idea this stuff was coming. No one from the district called, and the airline hadn’t notified us. The maintenance guy, who usually picks up freight for the school, had gone home for the day (after making sure that nothing was coming in on the plane – the regularly scheduled, dependable morning flight). We couldn’t leave that stuff up there – the tomatoes and lettuce were already half-frozen.

We did what we had to do, lifting box after box into the back of the truck until it was overflowing: we lost boxes a couple times on the ride back to school, but frozen chicken patties don’t suffer too much from that kind of treatment. When we got to school, we unloaded and put everything in its place – the frozen stuff in the freezer, the fresh stuff in the refrigerators, and so on.

This wasn’t according to plan, and it sucked.

Evenings are precious. They are for skiing and working on snowmachines and cooking and playing games and preparing for a weekend in the woods and watching movies. They are also for planning and grading and doing dishes and other necessary chores that allow us to ski and eat and camp and relax.

We powered through the stacking and unstacking, packing and unpacking and went home to eat leftovers. Thursday and Friday passed as all days must eventually pass. When the last kid left the building on Friday, we each heaved a sigh of relief.

That night, in the middle of cooking dinner, I heard a plane. “Plane?” I said, surprised to hear one coming in at 6:30. “Must be a MedEvac,”

“No one has called for the truck,” Geoff replied, sharing my thought. Sometimes we get called when an injured person needs a ride to the airport because the school has the only working truck in the community and the injured person needs to lie down or can’t be transported by four-wheeler. Now that there’s snow on the ground, though, the community should be using a sled.

The call came fifteen minutes later. A whole planeload of freight for the school, mostly canned goods, which will explode if left outside.

Did we…

  1.  Pretend we never got the call and swear never to answer the phone again, leaving the cans to burst on the runway?
  2. Give up our Friday night and go haul freight until our fingers froze off and our backs buckled?
  3. Quit our jobs and move to Iceland?

Geoff put his foot down. Evenings are precious, but weekends are sacred. We have a right to use our weekends as we see fit, to go camping or just choose to not answer the phone. They can’t rely on our being on call every minute of every day.

For the next hour, Geoff negotiated with the agent up at the airport, the maintenance guy, and the Superintendent. It still sucked, but somehow it got taken care of without our ever leaving the house.

There is so much on a teacher’s shoulders already, and I’m witnessing firsthand the toll that added principal duties can take. We’re struggling to find a steady Gwich’in teacher, and we’re down from four classroom aides to two. Our copier is broken, we’re almost out of paper, and we don’t have enough computers. We can’t get sick because we don’t have any substitutes, our kids’ attendance is at about 75%, our special education students haven’t received services for years… Add to that some late-night emergency deliveryman work and you’ve got a camel swaying under its burden.

There’s no easy solution, but there is this:

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The sky was gorgeous this weekend, and I actually managed to go out skiing yesterday. I went as far as a creek thick with overflow, then turned back toward the fiery pink mountains and the warm home lights and warm chimneysmoke of town.

Geoff has finally got his snowmachine fixed, and we’re ready to start breaking trail toward Venetie. We’ll pack up the tent and the rifle and load the sled, then spend the weekend working our way south, keeping eyes out for caribou and good campsites. I am so ready.

Prom Dresses

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They came in the mail today, a great big whopping boxful. The girls and I had spent a few hours cleaning the gym: they were tired and dirty. Their hair was covered in glitter from the cardboard stars we’d made, and their elbows were streaked with mopwater. “Give me my knife,” I told G. “I think this is…” and they gathered round as I slit the tape and popped open the flaps.

They gasped as one in a single huge tide of breath, and then there was a flurry of shouts and rustling fabrics and a whoosh as a rainbow of colors lit with sequins leaped out of the box and whirled around the cafeteria. “look at this one! Do you think this would fit me?” P held a tiny, sequined dress against her tiny body and nearly cracked the top of her head off grinning. I looked down at the nearly empty box and my own smile grew until the corners of my mouth just about met at the back of my neck. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a shout of joy like that. There must be a special sound that only a roomful of radiantly happy teenage girls can make. I let them look over the dresses for a few minutes, then finally said “that’s it. We’re going to the locker room!”

We left the cafeteria awash in glitter and paper and bits of cardboard and open bottles of glue, and the girls gamboled down the hall exactly like giddy schoolgirls getting ready to try on beautiful prom dresses for maybe the first time ever. I followed, trying not to let tears slip out of my squinty grinny eyes. The bathroom stall doors slammed and dresses hung like prayer flags in all colors over the half-walls. P looked like a pixie in her seafoam and sequins, pulled on over her jeans. Her shoulderblades showed like wings in the back, and she glowed like a tiny moon as she charged all over the building, blushing and glorying in the compliments.

B wouldn’t come out of the stall without her sweatshirt. She was absolutely scandalized by the neckline of the pale gold dress she had on. Eventually, she peeked around the corner, pink-cheeked and flailing in her rush to get to the mirrors and then back to the bathroom stall. I believe the dress was perfect for her: it made her look fresh and regal, like a greek queen in a picture book. “Can I wear that dress?” she asked me a little later, whispering shy, and I put set it in her hands like a cloud.

Another girl held her shirt up to her chest and wouldn’t take it away to look in the mirror until everyone else had turned away. The cut of that dress was incredibly flattering, and the jewel blue color lit her skin up. She took that dress and folded it into her backpack, blushing.

After ages spent helping the other girls zip up and giving compliments and laughing, Miss A tried on a long cream dress. A is one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen, with her chin-dimples and elegant frame, and she always wears jeans and a big hoodie that she pulls over her face when someone smiles at her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her elbows. “She looks amazing,” said C, “it’s so beautiful, A.” G agreed. A wouldn’t step out of the bathroom stall to look in the mirror or for me to see her. I waited.
“Okay, Ms O,” A said firmly with a deep breath. It was a command. She threw open the door, and I walked up to face her. I couldn’t keep the admiration from showing in my smile, and A got totally overwhelmed and shrieked and slammed the door in my face while the other girls laughed and I pretended to faint from the vision I’d just beheld.

My heart nearly burst from all the demure giggles, crooked-toothed grins, surprised beauties, and happy blushing of this afternoon. Thank you thank you thank you a thousand times to everyone who helped make this happen, especially my Pops and our neighbors in Belfast who took the time to hit the post office on our behalf. Of course we owe a staggeringly HUGE Mahsi’ Choh to the Cinderella Project of Maine for this moment. I wish I had a video of the explosive, joyful instant when that box of dresses first opened. It was everything I could have hoped it would be. The girls will never forget this, and neither will I.