Flashback Twenty Years February 11, 2001, Grayling AK

Twenty years ago, I was teaching in the village of Grayling AK. Yesterday’s ski outing reminded us of those days. I looked through my Journals and found this entry.

Terry and I had been talking about skiing to Anvik (the closest neighboring village) for months, but I hadn’t had much time to train for the distance.  The farthest I’d skied was 9 miles and that was two weekends ago.  Friday night was promising a warm Saturday, and the days are long enough to travel distance, so I suggested getting up early and leaving for Anvik by 9:30—about ten minutes before sunrise.  Terry never questioned whether I could make it. He jumped right into action and started packing the sled.   

At 9:23 the next morning, amid extremely giant flakes of falling snow we headed for Anvik.  The sled, towed by a rope around Terry’s waist, was packed with emergency gear including a pistol in case of moose attack.  I carried a daypack and Muk was unencumbered, trotting happily alongside his “daddy” for just another ski outing.  One of my students stopped us on the way out-of-town and wanted to know our destination.  She said we were crazy to be heading out in such a storm and that a couple from Anvik was holed up at her house right then.  They felt it was dangerous to be out in such poor visibility.  They might get lost and end up stuck in the overflow or diving into a river hole.  Most locals cannot imagine that there’s a big difference between skiing and snowmobiling, having never skied.  We don’t need much visibility when we’re traveling only a few miles per hour. So off we went with the blowing snow driving us along.  It was relatively warm, 20^o and beautiful.  We were happy to be outside, doing something not connected with school.  Muk pranced ahead of us, having no idea that we would be out long past his limit of endurance.  Perhaps we should have listened to my student.

Our first landmark was a bluff 8 miles out from Grayling called Jonah’s nose (Is it Biblical?).  The snow was still blowing, and we were totally alone breaking trail, but we seemed to reach the bluff in no time.  By mile 14, however, I was really started to tire, plus, I could feel the blisters forming on my heels.  Every time we’d stop for even a minute to adjust things, Muk would walk around in concentric circles, kind of stamping his feet as he went.  We thought he was trying to spell SOS in the snow, but soon realized that he was making a bed.  He could burrow down and be tight in a sleeping ball in less than 30 seconds.  But as soon as we started anew, he’d jump up and plod onward.  

At some point during the seventh hour, we were met by the first snow machine of the day heading toward us from Anvik.  A woman in her early 60s, Betty, and her son, late 30s, Spud, slid off to talk to us.  She and her son were inebriated. They were amazed by the sight of skiers, though she called us snowshoers several times.  She shouted out, “are you tourists?”  She told us she’s lived in Anvik her whole life and never skied nor seen anyone ski as far as we were.  Her son was standing beside her, teetering back and forth like a thin tree in a strong breeze.  His coat was wide open, and he had no hat on.  His inside pocket revealed his secret for staying toasty warm, a bottle of Windsor. Betty tried to pull his hood up and tie it, but wasn’t quite capable of that, especially with all of his bobbing and weaving.  He said his scarf blew off somewhere, pointing back over his shoulder.  Fortunately, in our morning’s skiing, we had collected 3 hats and a glove along the trail.  Terry dug out the best hat and pulled it down over Spud’s red ears.  He gave a grin of thanks, but didn’t fasten the velcro, so it probably soon blew off. Betty ended the conversation by declaring that she didn’t know that other people would be as crazy as her to be out in such weather, and Praise God that we had broken the trail for her.  She hugged me and beaming a large smile took off toward Grayling.  Muk was taking advantage of every second, snug in his sleeping ball.  

After seven hours, we hoped we were near to our destination.  Betty said we were halfway, but Spud said we had 4 miles to go. We hoped Spud was right.  All accounts had said that Anvik was 18 miles, so we figured it was just past the next bluff.  After the bluff, the riverbank flattened to marshland and it seemed that this was the shore of the Anvik River.  So, we slowly trudged on.  By then, my heels were so blistered I was moving like the Tinman after a light rain.  An hour or so later, we had made little progress.  Another snow machine headed our way.  This man was sober and friendly.  From him we learned that Anvik was now four miles away and that it was actually 22 miles from Grayling by the trail, or 18 miles by air.  He also said that it was above freezing.  We knew that it was warm, but we didn’t know it was that warm.  He headed off to Grayling to break trail for Martha (local bootlegger), who was planning to ride to Holy Cross for a funeral.  

We had a hard time starting again.  The snow was thawing and sticking to our skis.  Terry cleaned mine off, but they immediately iced up and I couldn’t push them.  Finally, I took them off, and stumbled along in the soft snow, sorry that I had neglected to bring snowshoes.  Our speed seemed to be down to about one mile an hour.  It was late enough to start worrying about whether we’d make it by sundown. Terry gave me his skis and put on mine.  We pushed on slowly.  About half mile out of Anvik we were overtaken by the same guy returning from Grayling.  He promised to call one of the teachers and have her meet us at the shore for a ride up the mile hill to school.  It was now after six, and the light was fading it seemed, though we had not seen the sun all day.  Not that that stops people from snowmachining, but it was also raining.  

When we angled off the river and entered the town the streetlights were lit, but no one was in sight.  I was crestfallen.  I had depleted all my energy and could barely stand the blister pain.  It was torturous pushing up that long hill in the growing darkness, though Muk was happy to see and hear other dogs.  Now if he ever wants to run away, he has a home away from home.  Terry stopped the first person he saw, and she called the principal on her VHF.  The teacher came racing down on the school’s snowmachine.  She said they were just about to sit down to a dinner, and we could join them.  The teacher took me first, then returned for Muk and Terry.  We warmed up on ginger cookies just out of the oven.  Muk relaxed in the Arctic porch, eating the other dog’s food.