North of Hope (2 page)

Now, only a year later, I arrived in the Arctic to float the Hulahula River, wishing I’d had a chance to say goodbye. Wishing I had spent more time with Dad and Kathy on rivers. Wishing for a sense of deeper connection to them. I had hoped Sam might come on this trip too, but he declined. He had immersed himself in distance cycling and had a 1200-kilometer ride scheduled while I was away on the river. Our brother Max was tied up at work in D.C. I had come feeling hollow, scooped out, empty. I had come because I knew I had to, though I couldn’t articulate why.

I’d chosen my two traveling companions for their willingness
to make the trip: my adopted brother, Ned, and his work colleague Sally. We stumbled down the shaky steps from the plane onto the frozen dirt runway in the island village of Kaktovik, the only settlement on the northern edge of Alaska between the Canadian border and Barrow. Our journey would start upriver along the Hulahula River on the mainland, just as Dad and Kathy’s trip had, requiring a flight south on a yet smaller plane. But first we had to pick up our raft and other supplies.

The few other passengers from the flight to Kaktovik dispersed into the treeless landscape, and we stood alone under an overcast sky. Our loneliness was short-lived; within a few minutes of the plane’s landing, a man named Ed, wearing a large mustache and a down coat, picked us up in a school bus that had seen better days. We each took our own seat; we were the only passengers. Ned sat rigidly even as the bus bumped over one of the town’s handful of short dirt roads to the Waldo Arms Hotel, a group of derelict trailers and Quonset huts. Sally couldn’t sit still in the bus seat. She had surprised me at our first meeting. I had heard only that she also kayaked, yet she was so plump as to appear almost round, with red smiling cheeks and dark blond hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“Wow! I can’t believe we’re finally here! Never thought I’d actually be in the Arctic!” Sally said. Her grin came easily, and I swallowed against how it chafed me. We were a motley crew, the three of us, I thought. To be embarking on a journey so personally significant with someone I didn’t know seemed questionable at best.

Ned smiled something that looked more like a grimace, a second too late for spontaneity.

“Amazing,” I said. Even to me my voice sounded flat.

I figured Sally must be smart; she worked with Ned in a market research firm back East. Ned and I had never been close. Growing up, we wore on each other like grinding gears. I assumed that
adulthood had tempered his youthful angst, though we had not spent any significant time together in the years intervening. I had not wanted to come alone, and yet I hoped that neither Ned nor Sally would require me to engage with them. I wanted to have my own trip.

Outside of the dirty bus windows, the tiny houses of the village decayed into the landscape, brutalized by the harsh weather. They reminded me of old ice cubes left too long in the tray, withered in the subfreezing temperatures. No trees grew this far north, so the whole of the tiny village was visible. Old snowmobiles and broken dogsleds hunched in dirt yards, protected by mangy dogs straining at their chains outside the small homes. Other dogs slunk through the streets.

The bus bumped to a halt in front of Waldo Arms, which was barely distinguishable from the buildings around it. A moose skull and antlers and a Dall sheep skull, scoured white by wind and snow, sat outside the hotel doors. Clouds clustered about the mountains to the south when we arrived, threatening our afternoon departure plans, but there was still a lot to do. We would be renting a raft from Walt Audi, who ran Waldo Arms with his wife, Merilyn. Walt had been stationed in Kaktovik years ago as part of the Distant Early Warning (DEW) Line set up by Eisenhower in the late 1940s as the nation’s primary air defense in case of a Russian invasion through Alaska. After that, he flew for years as one of Alaska’s original bush pilots. A pile of bent propellers next to a shed by the airstrip attested to Walt’s mythic indestructibility.

Ed worked with Walt and Merilyn. He took us through the drill of inflating the fourteen-foot blue rubber raft, checking the pressure and learning the pumps, practicing loading the raft with our enormous pile of coated nylon and rubber dry bags. As Ed gathered equipment, an Inupiat woman came to stand in the doorway and told stories of going far out onto the ice to hunt walrus. Ed pulled out a scale, and we weighed the gear, including the raft:
440 pounds. The pilot needed to know this so he could decide how many trips to make to ferry us and our gear to our put-in point. We bought white fuel for our camp stoves from Ed, disassembled the raft, and loaded the truck with our gear to go back to the airfield.

Our preparation was complete, but clouds still hung heavily over the mountains. The last weather call grounded us until the next day. Even if one could find shelter from the elements in this tiny village teetering on the edge of the world, there was never any question that nature ruled. We were forced to slow down, to take nature on her own terms. The start of our trip on the Hulahula would have to wait. We were in Kaktovik for the night.

Waldo Arms had a monopoly on lodging, and a room ran a couple of hundred dollars a night, well beyond our trip budget. We opted for the bunkhouse at forty dollars a night. Bunkhouse was a euphemistic term: behind the Quonset hut of the hotel was an uninsulated and unlit plywood shed with filthy mattresses piled on top of each other on rudimentary bunks. A narrow gangplank connected the bunkhouse to the rest of the Waldo Arms trailers. Ragged Visqueen covering the broken glass of a window let in some light.

“Well, it’s probably too cold for bugs,” I said to no one in particular.

“Hope so,” said Sally, maintaining what I thought was remarkable composure for an East Coast city girl in a remote Alaskan village. She began arranging her gear.

Dropping my backpack and sleeping bag on one of the bare mattresses, I walked up the gangplank and headed into the common area of Waldo Arms. Inside, I sank into an ancient gold floral velvet couch and took in the room around me. The couch sat on a rust-colored carpet well scuffed by boots over the years. A large piece of scrimshawed baleen hung on the wall above a notice of the musk ox hunt, warnings about polar bears roaming the village,
maps of Alaska, and assorted articles and calendars about Alaska and the Arctic from past decades. Static and the occasional voice scratched an uneven staccato over the radio in the office at the far end of the room. A small window into the kitchen with a laminated menu beside it offered expensive greasy food, and a couple of picnic tables covered in red-and-white-checkered vinyl tablecloths sat in the dining area. In the kitchen, the gentle cacophony of clanging pans was strangely soothing in its familiarity. As my body relaxed into the couch, all of the details that had insulated me for so long—the decision to come, organizing the trip, the preparation before departure which had filled the time and the crevices of my mind—evaporated like the Arctic coastal fog in the summer midnight sun. Now my mind focused with a clarity that, while not welcome, was inevitable.

On June 14, 2005, a little over a year ago, I had received the last email I would ever see from Dad:

I hadn’t noticed the detail they’d given. Details we would need to look for them, to identify a campsite. Last year they had been in
this same place, excited, preparing, checking equipment. Perhaps they had sat on the same couch.

The possibilities and wonderings pressed in, soft and firm like chloroform; I needed to move. Ned and Sally stayed behind to read, but I needed the feel of ground beneath my boots. I zipped up my coat and headed through the set of double doors. Outside, a barbed wind scratched at my face and penetrated my fleece. I welcomed the distraction. I headed toward the police station.

Though most of the scattered buildings of the village cowered from the ferocity of Arctic weather, the government buildings, funded by oil companies, stood solidly. At the police station, I walked into the welcome of a well-lit room, entering the concrete edge of the story I had been sketching for a year. Officer Holschen, the policeman who had first called me, had fielded my calls many times in the intervening months, rehashing details and events.

“Where exactly were they on the beach?”

“How do you know how long they had been dead?”

“Have you seen bears act this way with other people?”

“Can you tell exactly what killed them?”

“Where was the emergency locater beacon? Had they tried to use it?”

A thousand other questions had burped rudely into my mind, never at opportune moments. Each time, I called Officer Holschen, and each time, he answered patiently, talked through my questions, never impatient, never annoyed. His life and line of work had taught him to understand the survivor’s need to pick up each rock and turn it over again and again and again. He understood the human delusion that believes that if we can answer questions, fill in the story, somehow we might turn back the clock.

Officer Holschen was strangely real. The mental character sketch I had engaged with in the story of Dad’s and Kathy’s
deaths deepened suddenly into a real person. He greeted me with a big hug. His first name was Richard, the same as Dad’s. I had expected him to be a native man, because Kaktovik is a native village. Instead, he was Caucasian, about my height with light brown hair and an easy smile, his uniform neatly pressed and tucked. Looking at him, a real man instead of only a voice with a name, I was astonished to think of myself as dimensional too, another character walking through the same story from a different angle. I had become accustomed to considering myself an empty shell, chasing ghosts and shadows.

“I came to raft the Hulahula,” I said, feeling my face flush. Speaking the words underscored the audacity of undertaking a trip of such immensity. I was suddenly embarrassed, as though I’d been caught playing dress-up as a child. My words to Officer Holschen that day made me fully aware, for the first time, of the journey ahead. So much about the past year was so unreal, so intangible, that I had ceased to understand context. “Just thought I’d come by and say hello, and thank you in person for all the help you were to me over the past year.”

We confirmed my coordinates with his from the police report. “Has anyone had any more ideas on the bear last year?” I asked.

Officer Holschen shook his head. “But you know, I don’t know that bears are so different from people. There are people out there who are crazy, and who’s to say there aren’t animals with the same problem? If I were to give it my best guess, I would say that this was just a rogue bear.”

“We brought along the 45-70 and a shotgun with slugs,” I said. “What do you recommend if a bear approaches?”

“They rarely take notice of you. But if they do approach aggressively, ninety-nine percent of the time they’ll run away if you fire at the ground so it sprays up in front of them.”

“What if they don’t?” I asked.

“If they keep coming after the first shot, aim for anything brown,” he said. “But I’ve never seen that happen.”

We said our goodbyes. “It’s great to meet you,” he said with a big smile. “Have a wonderful trip!”

Outside, I realized that I had reached the end of the dirt road. I headed back toward the beach, where the Inupiat villagers were holding their June whaling festival, Nalukataq, a thanksgiving celebration following their spring whaling season.

Along a makeshift wall of Visqueen and plywood, villagers hunkered down out of the frigid Arctic wind blowing off of the polar ice. Weathered brown hands offered passersby bits of pinkish-white blubber attached to thick black whale skin cut into pieces one or two inches long, a delicacy called
muktuk
.

A couple staying at Waldo Arms was roaming the party as well. “It’s an acquired taste,” they said with a smile as I looked a moment too long at the cold gelatinous mass, “but it’s not bad with plenty of ketchup!”

A smiling Inupiat woman in a colorful and ornately stitched parka held out a piece of muktuk on a white paper plate. There was kindness in her deep-set eyes, the creases in her face holding years of weather and wisdom. I took the paper plate with the gift of whale and added a liberal dose of ketchup, popping a piece in my mouth before letting myself think about it. The muktuk was disconcertingly rubbery. I suppressed a gag and chewed until it was gone, not quite able to disguise my distaste.

Officer Holschen and a couple of his children walked by with plates of muktuk, which they clearly were enjoying. “They say it’s a kind of fat that keeps you warm if you eat enough of it,” he said, smiling. “They love this stuff here. We’ve really grown to like it, especially the kids!” I smiled back at the happy family.

I was an intruder here. These people living in a remote village with traditions so vastly different from any I had known made up the only culture that could understand the land I presumed to visit with my unarticulated plea for peace. They lived the connections among people and animals, earth and sea. The Inupiat were the
only ones equipped to understand any answers. I was a stranger, an outsider. I had accepted their gift of hospitality, participated in village tradition, and had nothing to offer in return. I didn’t know then to accept it as grace.

Before embarking on this journey, I had considered my impending intrusion into the wilderness. But only after visiting the village celebration was I aware of my double trespass. I hoped that a people so close to the land possessed a deeper understanding than I about animals, about animals killing loved ones, about how to navigate this primal and unforgiving world. I hoped I might learn at least some of that understanding from them. Perhaps it could mitigate the pain. Perhaps it would help me honor even more those I had lost.