Read Coming into the Country Online
Authors: John McPhee
Coming into the Country (27 page)
Cook was anxious to get back to Donna. So, less than a week after breakup, with ice running heavy, he borrowed a canoe and started for the river with his dogs. He might have used the quiet eddy at Eagle's boat landing, a short distance upstream, but that would have meant taking the dogs through town, and Cook did not wish to create a disturbance. Several dozen dogs are chained to stakes beside cabins throughout Eagle, and Cook's loose ones, running amok, could be counted on to start fights and drive the tied ones berserk. So Cook, whose base in Eagle is a shack on some land he owns, led his dogs through woods and down to the river just below the town. He met Steve Ulvi there, who meant to go downriver with him. Slipping, falling into crevices, they slid the canoe over high shelf ice and lowered it into a small indentation of water, a petty cove. This was at an outside bend, where current runs fast in a river. Flying ice chunks in tumbling hundreds pounded by. Big flat discs, called pan ice, their edges worn round, spun among the chunks. The canoe was a nineteen-foot Grumman aluminum freighter. Cook and Ulvi loaded itâthree crates of bees, two hundred and fifty pounds of gasoline, an old outboard motor,
the corpse of a great gray owl, a big wooden box of supplies, two rifles, a shotgun, a sixty-pound sack of sugar, and the five sled dogs (about four hundred pounds of dog). Steve sat in the bow. Cook, in the stern, made a few shifts for balance. Then he shoved the canoe out into the stream. The ice was so heavy and concentrated that the mean free path for anything attempting to move through to a safer part of the river would inevitably be extremely short. The canoe travelled about ten feet. It was on the current for perhaps two seconds when it was hit from behind and driven like a nail into the stationary ice. It might as easily have been upended, or pressed down into the water, or, most probable event of all, rolled over. But luck was running with the ice. Wedged there, stuck, protruding backward into the river, the canoe was at least upright. Blood ran out of Cook's face. His skin became as pale as the floes in the river. If more ice were to strike the canoe now, it could crumple it up like an aluminum can. Ulvi wrenched the bow free and shoved the canoe backward. Once more it floated among the ice. He and Cook, prying hard to get the bow around, were nudged but not hit. They tried an angling path toward the slower side of the river. Ahead of them to the end of the view was a thousand acres of ice-filled water. Beyond sight, it was impossible to guess the level of danger, for ice can jam at bends, entrapping with it anything that floats, while the weight of the river builds up behind until the force is sufficient to explode the ice free.
the corpse of a great gray owl, a big wooden box of supplies, two rifles, a shotgun, a sixty-pound sack of sugar, and the five sled dogs (about four hundred pounds of dog). Steve sat in the bow. Cook, in the stern, made a few shifts for balance. Then he shoved the canoe out into the stream. The ice was so heavy and concentrated that the mean free path for anything attempting to move through to a safer part of the river would inevitably be extremely short. The canoe travelled about ten feet. It was on the current for perhaps two seconds when it was hit from behind and driven like a nail into the stationary ice. It might as easily have been upended, or pressed down into the water, or, most probable event of all, rolled over. But luck was running with the ice. Wedged there, stuck, protruding backward into the river, the canoe was at least upright. Blood ran out of Cook's face. His skin became as pale as the floes in the river. If more ice were to strike the canoe now, it could crumple it up like an aluminum can. Ulvi wrenched the bow free and shoved the canoe backward. Once more it floated among the ice. He and Cook, prying hard to get the bow around, were nudged but not hit. They tried an angling path toward the slower side of the river. Ahead of them to the end of the view was a thousand acres of ice-filled water. Beyond sight, it was impossible to guess the level of danger, for ice can jam at bends, entrapping with it anything that floats, while the weight of the river builds up behind until the force is sufficient to explode the ice free.
Sarge Wallerâwho is, among other things, a professional rivermanâlater commented on Cook and Ulvi's journey and described them as “yahoos.” Sarge said, “Them ice floes could knock the boat over and wipe it out. They could get wiped out ten miles down. They could be dead now. Who would know?” And no one did know for a number of daysâor think much about it, truth be told. Then Ulvi and the canoe reappeared in town. He looked tired, cold, gaunt, but, withal, intact.
Ulvi is a young, cinematically handsome man, with blond
curls and blue eyes and a nineteenth-century drooping gold mustache. He came into the country when he was twenty-three, and has been here two years. He followed his brother Dana, who first encountered Eagle as a stop on a Yukon raft trip, and who is now married to Bertha Paul, of the Eagle Indian Village. Harold Ulvi, an uncle, was the Northern Commercial Company's storekeeper here in Eagle twenty-five years ago. After growing up in California, Steve went to college briefly in Oregon. He backpacked all over the Western mountains. When he moved to the Alaskan bush (with his wife, Lynette Roberts), he had in advance some of the skills he would need. He had rebuilt every car and motorcycle he had owned. He knew cooking, carpentry, and more than a little about edible wild plants. Lynette and Steve, who expect a baby, have a cabin upriver near the international boundary and live there as much as they do in Eagle. “Dick Cook and I both hold in highest regard not the intellectual but the man of maximum practical application. Like Dick, I'm trying to be self-sufficient on this earth, to live successfully without altering the environment. Cook is not sucking on fossil fuels, and I don't want to, either. People say, âIf you feel that way, why don't you make candles out of bear fat?' But I'm not prepared to do that. It's all relative, of course. I do burn ten or fifteen gallons of kerosene a year for light, some white gas for my Coleman stove, some fuel for my kicker. But if everybody else did no more than that we would not have an energy problem. I learn things when I visit Dick. I go see him about his garden, for example. The most returns for the least effortâDick is definitely interested in that. He has great perspective, a good body of working knowledge. He remembers when caribou were really running around here. He's been here long enough to cover a couple of the natural cycles. He knows a lot about guns. He hand-loads. I hand-load. He carries a 6.5 Ã 55 Swede military carbine. I carry a 7 Ã 57 Mauser. Some people like a high-speed bullet. Some like a big, slow bullet. They all kill. Dick goes for a long
bullet at a moderate recoil. He believes that placing the shot is what matters most.”
curls and blue eyes and a nineteenth-century drooping gold mustache. He came into the country when he was twenty-three, and has been here two years. He followed his brother Dana, who first encountered Eagle as a stop on a Yukon raft trip, and who is now married to Bertha Paul, of the Eagle Indian Village. Harold Ulvi, an uncle, was the Northern Commercial Company's storekeeper here in Eagle twenty-five years ago. After growing up in California, Steve went to college briefly in Oregon. He backpacked all over the Western mountains. When he moved to the Alaskan bush (with his wife, Lynette Roberts), he had in advance some of the skills he would need. He had rebuilt every car and motorcycle he had owned. He knew cooking, carpentry, and more than a little about edible wild plants. Lynette and Steve, who expect a baby, have a cabin upriver near the international boundary and live there as much as they do in Eagle. “Dick Cook and I both hold in highest regard not the intellectual but the man of maximum practical application. Like Dick, I'm trying to be self-sufficient on this earth, to live successfully without altering the environment. Cook is not sucking on fossil fuels, and I don't want to, either. People say, âIf you feel that way, why don't you make candles out of bear fat?' But I'm not prepared to do that. It's all relative, of course. I do burn ten or fifteen gallons of kerosene a year for light, some white gas for my Coleman stove, some fuel for my kicker. But if everybody else did no more than that we would not have an energy problem. I learn things when I visit Dick. I go see him about his garden, for example. The most returns for the least effortâDick is definitely interested in that. He has great perspective, a good body of working knowledge. He remembers when caribou were really running around here. He's been here long enough to cover a couple of the natural cycles. He knows a lot about guns. He hand-loads. I hand-load. He carries a 6.5 Ã 55 Swede military carbine. I carry a 7 Ã 57 Mauser. Some people like a high-speed bullet. Some like a big, slow bullet. They all kill. Dick goes for a long
bullet at a moderate recoil. He believes that placing the shot is what matters most.”
When the conversation in Eagleâoutside the post office, inside the general storeâconcentrates, as it does sometimes, on Cook, not everyone is so admiring. In fact, as Lilly Allen's husband, Brad Snow, once said to me, “You will find it impossible here to say anything nice about anybody without considerable disagreement.”
“Cook is a romanticist, fancies himself a latter-day Henry David Thoreau. There's not a hell of a lot of depth there.”
“He's a patient hunter. He will sit half the night waiting for a beaver to come out of his house.”
“He is a pontifical, messianic guru. He's no dummy. He likes all these young river buckos sitting at his feet while Donna works her tail off tanning a moosehide.”
“It takes Cook two years to develop an idea.”
“It took him
six
years to get himself together and get out to his cabin downriver. Ann, his second wife, was not a bush woman, andâlike some other women in the countryâwas not willing to compromise.”
six
years to get himself together and get out to his cabin downriver. Ann, his second wife, was not a bush woman, andâlike some other women in the countryâwas not willing to compromise.”
“He's a wealth of information. If he's going to do something, he does it right. Build a sled. Snowshoes. Rifles. Gardens. Dogs. He's an excellent musherâas good at dogs as anybody.”
“His dogs are no better than mine.”
“He is self-sufficient. He is the closest to attaining the goals of all of the people of the river. He is the old man of the business, and he is making it work pretty well.”
“He manages to suggest he knows the country, but he has never even seen the Charley River.”
“Cook is not good at one-to-one relationships. So he's here in Alaska, here in the bush. We are all here for similar reasons. My mother would say we're all failures. That's not so. We are seeking alternatives.”
“Cook does not want anyone else doing his thinking for him. He also does not want to let other people think. Donna is now
learning and following. When Donna starts thinking for herself, there will be trouble.”
learning and following. When Donna starts thinking for herself, there will be trouble.”
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Viola Goggans and her family came drifting into the country in a school bus a couple of years ago, with purpose ignited by the presence of gold. They stayed first in the drainage of the Fortymile River, and then shifted to Eagle. Because Communists would before long take over the nation as a whole, they reasoned, there could be “no future for the kids.” Money would be “worthless,” and “the only thing that will buy anything is gold.” Tom and Vi Goggans were not in a position to hoard commercial bullion. They had entered Alaska some years before with a baby and a dime, and only the baby had substantially grown. If they wanted gold, they would have to separate it from placer ground.The school bus was their mobile home. For its future they had imaginative plans. It was full size, yellow, the standard model, and they were going to convert it into a boat. They would then launch the bus on the Yukon and navigate downstream to a tributary river and up that to high creeks with promise of gold. To scoffers who cared to listen Vi was not reluctant to give details. (“They thought we was crazy. They thought we was going to drive out on the water. They was about ready to send a straitjacket down. We had 'em all confused.”) People seemed to think that the Gogganses were going to seal the body, drive off the bank, and let the wheels spin in the river. Actually, they meant to slice the bus in halfâthe long way, under the windows and around the endsâand then flip over the top part and make it into a barge. The lower half would float upright on eight evenly spaced steel barrels, and, barge in tow, would be powered by the bus engine, with a propeller on the drive shaft. Old Cap Reynolds, long gone from
Eagle now, once built his own miniature stern-wheeler. He took it down the Yukon a couple of hundred miles, and far up the Porcupine River. The school bus, for its part, never had a chance to prove itself one way or the other. The Gogganses had two partners, who got into money trouble and withdrew. Vi and Tom could not fund the adventure on their own. So Tom is off working on someone else's claim, and for months at a time Vi is alone with her children in a rented cabin in Eagleâa gold widow, showing visitors the few flakes and small nuggets that are the beginnings of the family's defense fund against the second coming of Russian America.
Eagle now, once built his own miniature stern-wheeler. He took it down the Yukon a couple of hundred miles, and far up the Porcupine River. The school bus, for its part, never had a chance to prove itself one way or the other. The Gogganses had two partners, who got into money trouble and withdrew. Vi and Tom could not fund the adventure on their own. So Tom is off working on someone else's claim, and for months at a time Vi is alone with her children in a rented cabin in Eagleâa gold widow, showing visitors the few flakes and small nuggets that are the beginnings of the family's defense fund against the second coming of Russian America.
She is a small woman, not five feet tall, with a touching, uncalculating friendliness that would win her more friends almost anywhere than it has in Eagle. She says, “I'll play you a tune on this here, if you'd like it,” and she picks up her Hohner accordion. Beth and Jimmy, seven and five, look on. She plays “You Are My Sunshine.” It is the only tune she knows on both the piano and the chord sides. She plays it again. Intently, she tilts her head toward the keyboard. Her hair is tallowy blond. She has a narrow face, and many missing teeth, a prominent nose. She wears a red headband above blue denim. She is thirty-nine. Before Alaska, she lived all her life, and went for a time to grade school, in Havre, Montana. Asked for more, she plays “Roll Out the Barrel,” apologizing for its incompleteness, for without the support of chords, she suggests, a barrel will not roll. Carrying a thermos of coffee, she goes to the Common Council meetings, where she is sure she has identified at least one pure Communist, albeit he is just an observer like herself and not a member of the Council. “I got a family now. I like to find out what's going to happen when they get older. I never been to a council meeting before I came to Eagle.”
Jess Knight, thirty years ago, made a log raft, draped a car over the raft with paddle wheels in place of tires, and drove on the river a hundred and sixty miles to Circle. The school bus
is still beside the Yukon but is hardly ready to go anywhere. It is beyond hope for road or river. It has no wheels, no motor, no seatsâitems sold to pay for food. The bus interior is utterly stripped out, and all the windows have been shatteredârandom targets of random bullets.
is still beside the Yukon but is hardly ready to go anywhere. It is beyond hope for road or river. It has no wheels, no motor, no seatsâitems sold to pay for food. The bus interior is utterly stripped out, and all the windows have been shatteredârandom targets of random bullets.
“I like Eagle, but not the people. They are either Bible thumpers or alcoholics. They try to rub the Bible on you. They don't like it that I won't go up in front of them and confess. If you confess, you confess in silence, before God, and not broadcastin' it. Leanin' on the Bible there, they can't stand up on their own two feet. They talk nice to you, and what they say about you hurts when they think you won't know.”
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At home, I spend much of my time looking out of windows, and in the cabin I am occupying here nothing changes the habit. Outside is First Avenue: mud and dust, pocked and gravelled, the principal thoroughfare of the city, where children go by in wagons harnessed to dogs, and old-timers in pickups cruise slowly back and forthâ“trolling,” as someone has put it, for conversation. The cabin is tight, comfortable, heated by an Ashley. It is said of a fine stove like this one that it “will drive you out of here at seventy below,” a promise enhanced by bush architecture. Cabins are generally small, so the stove can retain command. My wife was here for a time. We slept in a loft just above the Ashley. Routines developed. Every other day, we sawed and split some wood, but, with the ice petering out on the river and the sun shining eighteen hours a day, we were soon using the stove for little more than to get our blood moving in freezing temperatures as the day began.Other books
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