Looking for Alaska
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Authors: Peter Jenkins
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Contents
3. At Home with “The Police Log”
9. The Largest Member of the Congregation
17. On the Edge of the Land-Fast Ice
Epilogue: Jump Out of That Plane
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To my six highly intelligent,
extremely creative,
hard-working,
beautiful, and handsome,
perfect children:
Julianne, Luke, Jed,
Rebekah, Brooke,
and Aaron
Acknowledgments
Looking for Alaska
would not have been possible without the caring and assistance and friendship of the following people: my great family, Fred and Coleen Jenkins and Molly, Sarah, Derick, Colin, and Evie. Winky and Randy Rice and Alex, Jesse, and Tyler. Scott and Bonnie Jenkins and their children. Elizabeth and Abigail, my little sisters. Mom and Dad Jorgensen. Kevin and Val Karikomi and Matt, Mike, Dave, and Dan. Mike and LeAnn Turner and John, Michael, and Scott. Eric and Michele Jorgensen and Tammi, Kari, Rachael, Derick, Cheyanne, Chris, Brandon, and Brittany. Aaron and Robin Jorgensen, Gena, Julie, Jerry, Cory, Taylor, and Page. Chris Jorgensen and Anna Stowell. Archie and Janice Buttrey. And a special thanks to Rhoda Jenkins, who inspired me very early to be an adventurer.
There were many terrific people in Alaska who helped out and offered their assistance. Many of them are in the book. Those that are not I wish to thank here: Gale Vick and Richard Lowell. Mary Pignalberi. Linda Sylvester. Dawn Starke. Tina Lingren. Colonel Glenn Godfrey. Julie Guy. Linda Thompson. The following people at APRN: Dale Harrison, Ron Zastrow, Steve Franklin, Liz Fullerton, and Jessica Cochran. Cindy Matson. Ron Spatz. Scott Taylor. Lee Gorsuch. Ann Parrish. Kathy Newman. Mel Kalkowski. Terri Graham. Tom and Mary Tougas and family. Mavis Blazy and Ken Lancaster. Jim and Kathleen Barkley. Kenai Fjords Tour staff. Sharon Anderson. Lori Draper. Randy Becker. Mark and Betsy Bartholomew. Doug Lechner and Bay Vista B&B. Gail Phillips. John Torgerson. The University of Alaska, Anchorage. The University of Alaska, Fairbanks. Kodiak College. Maggie Wall. The brilliant staff at the Alaska State Library. Mike Hyde. Gerry, Margie, and Guy Riley. Brian Porter. Lisa Murkowski. Gary Wilken. Robbie Graham. Craig Matkin. Diane Kaplan. Richard Foster. Scott Henderson. Joyce Thomas. Steve Langdon. Alan and Ginnie Austerman. Peter Ecklund. Kyle Johansen. Karen Hofstad. Stan Hooley. Jim Tilly. Jennifer Foltz. David and Elizabeth Odell. Kerry Cline. Neal and Juanita O'Shea. Macen Kinne. Genie and Joe Smith. Pat and Lorali Carter. Drew Pierce. Kris Norcoz. Arne Fugloug. Harold Kalve. Don Young. Hertz of Seward and Rosie. Dale and Carol Ann Lindsey. Dennis and Jackie Wheeler. Bob Malone. The ALPINI's. Artie at BJ's. Jim Menard. And in general, the outstanding people of Alaska, so many who were so helpful.
Speaking of Alaskans, a very special thanks to the supporters of The University of Alaska's Writer in Residence Program, of which I was a part. Thank you so much, National Bank of Alaska (now Wells Fargo), Alaska Railroad, Alaska Heritage Tours (CIRI), NorthRim Bank, and Holland America Westours. Thanks especially to Al Parish, Ed Rasmuson, Gov. Bill Sheffield, Johne Binkley, Dennis Brandon, and Mark Langland.
Thanks to my longtime great friends, Skip Yowell and Winnie Kingsberry and, of course, JanSport. And Bill and Mary Lucy Fuqua, great friends. Bill, thanks for all the doctoring and especially the friendship. And our terrific friends and neighbors, Ray and Cindy Williams. Thanks to Tammy and Tony Jamison and A.J., Sam, and Lucy, who took care of stuff while we were gone. Thanks to our great friends Tom, Belinda, and Tanner Long. Thanks to Christ Community Church, Scotty Smith, and congregation. To my friend and one of the few people who can read my handwriting, Glenda Andrews, who typed much of this book as I wrote it by hand. It has been great working together again. And to Paul and Anne Breeden. Paul has made the excellent maps in all my books since my first, published in 1979. And to Tom Smith, my mentor at National Geographic. And Harvey Arden. Thanks to Pat Golbitz, my first book editor and beloved friend who influenced me in so many ways. Thanks for inspiration and friendship to Luther and Kay Jones and family, and the Minnow Bucket Crowd.
Thanks to my excellent agents, Michael Carlisle, Whitney Lee, Byrd Leavell, Michelle Tessler, and Christy Fletcher at Carlisle and Company. And to Neal Bascomb. Special thanks to my good friend and adviser, Barbara Morgan.
I am especially pleased with my new publisher, St. Martin's Press. First, to the voice of St. Martin's, Helen Plog. In a world of sameness and the shunning of accents, Helen sets the tone for St. Martin's! I love it. Thanks to Sally Richardson for her outspoken belief in this project. And thanks to the other talented folks at St. Martin's I've had the pleasure to work with: John Sargent, John Cunningham, John Murphy, George Witte, Joe Rinaldi (Go get 'em, Joe), Alison Lazarus and her outstanding sales people, Ben Sevier, Steve Snider, Matthew Baldacci, and Matthew Shear. And especially to my talented, calm editor with the perfect personality for me, the outstanding driver Kelley Ragland. Thanks so much, Kelley. And thanks, Kent Ragland, for giving your little daughter a book you really liked,
A Walk Across America,
and suggesting that she read it.
A fond tribute to that pivotal moment, known to but a few, now immortalized as “Three moons over the Kenai.”
And especially to Rita, my loving wife.
1
Dream in the Daylight
Four feet of the whitest, most gorgeous snow was on the ground north of Moose Pass, Alaska. It looked so deep and so perfect it seemed as if I could jump out of a plane from five thousand feet and land in it with a poof, without a parachute. The top foot was fine powder; most of it had fallen ever so lightly from the sky last night. The sun does not light things for very long this time of year, and at this time of the afternoon the snow and the sharp-faced mountains glow a deep yellow-pink. The sky is the deepest, purest blue I have ever seen.
I spotted something far to the right in my peripheral vision. A magnificent long-legged, mature lynx was bounding through the snow. The clouds of snow that rose all around it hid whatever it was chasing. This scene was so exhilarating to me; it seemed to be happening in slow motion. The lynx was light and dark gray and surrounded by the clouds of yellow-pink-colored crystals of snow kicked up around it. I may have seen the lynx for only five seconds. It, and whatever it was chasing, took a sharp turn into the snow-coated spruce. I was the only person in Alaska who witnessed that moment of high inspiration. How many tiny pieces of wild animals' lives are we humans blessed to see?
Who will see the twin moose calves, warmed by spring's penetrating Alaskan sun, as they both try to stand for the first time on wobbly legs? They almost fall; one hits its nose on the ground and that keeps it from completely losing its balance. They attempt to take their first steps; they must be able to run soon. Only their mother and a few ravens watch.
Who will see the female mountain goat, who is having her kid on a beach right before Bear Glacier in a place safe from so many aggressive predators? This lone female climbed down an almost vertical rock face to this beach on Resurrection Bay where a freshwater spring drains down the rock. No bear, no wolf, no wolverine, could follow. She would not look up often, but that is where the golden eagle came from, to take her kid in its talons.
Who gets to notice fifteen snow-white ptarmigan, the state bird, fly over the ivory meadow, the black marks on their tails looking like flying black triangles on a giant piece of clean white paper?
A pack of four black wolves pad down a frozen creek. They spook a couple thousand caribou, part of a herd of several hundred thousand. At first the wolves are not visible, just the caribou moving across the white-on-white-on-white tundra. The running caribou string out and move as if they were a school of fish, darting, alternating their course, and shifting so slightly, in unison. Then the black wolves appear surrounded by an eternity of white, and the reason for the caribou's movement is clear. No human stands on this massive piece of tundra but me.
There is so much life and death that plays out on the land and water of Alaska, and only a tiny bit of it is ever seen. But because of how Alaska thrilled and surprised me, I'm getting ahead of myself. Before we could come here, there was so much to do, so much to consider. But thanks to friends and family, it turned out to be no big deal getting access to the last frontier.
Two weeks after we arrived, riding down the hill in Seward, Alaska, on this borrowed mountain bike made me feel like a kid again, a feeling that is getting harder and harder to capture. I'd practically skidded around the curve by the abandoned orphanage, maybe fifty yards from the house we were renting, and was gaining speed on the straightaway of this paved road. The blue Schwinn mountain bike I rode had so many gears, if I shifted into the highest one, I could keep pedaling and still gain speed. People interested in my continued good health would accuse me of going too fast.
I hoped one of Seward's horses wasn't standing in the road around the next sharp, blind corner. The Bardarsons' horses lived on that corner, and one or two were often out of the corral, where the grass was greener. At the bottom of the hill a group of huge, black ravens often perched in a stand of dead spruce, making bizarre sounds. They sounded nothing like birds; hearing them I could understand why Natives felt ravens had powerful spirits. Later in the summer, when my son Luke used his bike to get back and forth to work, I would walk up this hill and try to mimic the ravens. They were too intelligent to respond.
