Buenos Noches Paloma

I’m 95° degrees south of home.  Which is another way of saying I’m half way around the world.  Actually, halfway under the world, visiting a foreign land, struggling to speak a foreign language in order to help my dad cross a lifetime dream off his bucket list.  I watch my brother-in-law blow the ass-end off another Argentinean eared dove and wish the sun would set a little faster so I can go back to the Estancia and drink some more Malbec. 

“Muy bien,” the bird boy says.

“Muchas gracias,” Travis, my brother-in-law says.

From the folding lawn chair, cerveza in hand, I scan the endless cornfields and watch an infinite number of dove speed overhead.  Travis keeps the barrel pointed skyward.  His bird boy, actually a man of at least forty years, flawlessly loads more shotgun shells into the bottom breach of the twenty-gauge Benelli semi-automatic bird exterminator. Travis aims and fires again.

“Buenos noches paloma!”  The bird boy says.  Travis laughs and tracks another dove coming in low and fast across the front of the blind we’re hiding behind.  As I sip my cerveza I hear the sound of his shotgun exploding just a few feet away.  Moments later, tiny dove feathers sprinkle down upon our blind like snowflakes in a gentle winter storm. 

“Do you want to go to Argentina?”  My dad asks.

“Argentina?  I’d love to go to Argentina.”  I said.

“Your mom surprised me at that silent auction last month.  She bid on a gentlemen’s dove hunt at a lodge in Cordoba, Argentina.  It’s all inclusive, we just need to get there.”

My initial thoughts were, why travel thousands and thousands of miles away to kill something that probably lives sporadically throughout our own country- actually the winged upland bird lives throughout Virginia, North Carolina, and just about every other state in the conterminous United States.  Little did I know traveling to the southern hemisphere to shoot dove is the trip of a lifetime, an epic event in the life of any one that considers themselves hunters.

“Because there’s millions and millions of them,” my dad said. 

Actually, the population hangs around twenty million.  I was home visiting my family on summer vacation when the proposition was proposed.  A quick YouTube search showed several videos of hunters dressed in khaki and camouflage blasting shadows from the sky.  The swarms had to have contained hundreds.  Almost mechanically one swarm followed another and hunters with massive grins pointed their barrels skyward, picking doves from the swarm methodically.  Was it really this easy?

“They’re a pest.” Travis explained.  “Most American morning dove have one litter a year, Argentinean dove have four.  There is no limit to what you can shoot from the sky,” he said.

“Alaska is a long way from Argentina.” I said.  “How about next spring break?” 

 I never really kept a bucket list; instead I prefer to live my life in the bucket, and Alaska is that bucket.  But I was glad I could accompany someone else fulfilling their dream.  Despite spending the last seven years in a hunter’s Mecca, I have yet to pull the trigger on any big Alaska game.  

I never really grew up hunting.  My father was raised a hunter.  He talked a lot about hunting, but never took me hunting.  Instead of repeating a tradition of hunting in the family he taught me a different passion for the outdoors.  Almost monthly we hiked and camped throughout the foothills and crags of the Shenandoah Mountains.  We left no trace; instead taking only memories and photographs.  Coming and going through the deciduous forests I would count blaze orange dots strewn across the hillsides as our backpacks and cameras sat in the backseat.  He taught me to shoot a camera instead of a gun.  I don’t despise hunting, nor do I dislike it; I just don’t feel called to it.  Not the same way I feel called to trek quietly through a pristine forest, climb upwardly upon a rocky ridge, ski through endless powder, or pedal across wide valleys and along narrow single-track.  Argentina was a long way to go to learn how much I still love my father; maybe it was just a way of saying thank you for all the times he took me outdoors as a child. 

Bags were packed.  Boarding passes were printed.  Somewhere in between being extremely busy and very hectic I managed to slip out of Fairbanks, Alaska.  Luckily five flights would give me plenty of time to pour over my travel guide to Argentina and learn as many Spanish phrases from the books’ appendix as possible.  In aisle seat 17C I glared over two people and out the tiny window, winter slowly disappearing as we rose above the clouds.  Somewhere over the central mid-western states on my third flight spring lurked below. 

At Miami airport I met up with the crew: Travis, my brother-in-law from North Carolina; my dad and his good friend Bob, from Virginia. I could almost imagine the Argentinean dove begin to quake and quiver as we lost latitudes and Cordoba became within reach. 

International flights are like a bad hangover that won’t go away.  Cramped, tired but restless, the entire interior of the plane seems to shrink around you as you beg to the table tray in front of you for the flight to end.  Your feet swell, your breath stinks, the tiny little drinks don’t calm the sensation you get when a stewardess runs over your toes then smashes into your knee with the concession cart. The plane, a tiny blip on a cartoon map projected onto the bulkhead in front of me, moves so slowly, I stare and steadily try to will it forward.  Just when my head feels like its about to explode the plane touches down in South America.  Warm air floods the interior and everyone begins to push towards the exit hatch. 

The stewardess starts speaking Spanish.  As jet lag begins to set in, I stumble off the plane and shuffle towards customs.  Gestures and friendly glances become my primary mode of communication.  The gate clerks and customs agents, whom I assume are friendly, only briefly look at me in the midst of a long bout of Spanish that I have no recollection of.  It’s been fourteen years since I flunked out of Spanish in high school. I think this is going to be a long week. 

“What now?” I asked my dad.

“Some one is supposed to meet us here,” he said.

An extremely helpful man approached our group and somehow knew my dad’s name.  He spoke some English, enough to be dangerous. I carried my own bags. Then watched my dad get snookered into a baggage cart and bag boy, whose services I’d be surprised to see come free. 

“He knew my name,” my dad said.

“It’s on your suitcase,” I said.

I threw my pack on my back, grabbed Travis, and headed for the door.  The bag boy followed us like a lost puppy to the lobby, and despite my resignations turned out to have a clue who we were, and where we were supposed to go.  He ungrudgingly showed us out into the parking lot and safely to our driver.  Speaking just enough English to be helpful, maybe even charming (with the right group of tourists).  But, he did manage to get a small tip from my dad’s pocket.

Cordoba reminded me a lot of the mid-western United States.  There was expansive farmland filled with corn, sorghum, and soybeans growing everywhere.  It was a mixture of central California and Iowa.  Rows and rows of varied agriculture sprang from rich soil as semi-arid hills loomed in the distance.  Despite being the second largest city in Argentina, we quickly left the urban and crossed into the rural.  Small stands of trees lined the highway and separated the thoroughfare from the farmland. 

Racing northward my eyeballs struggled with my eyelids.  I wanted to see as much as possible, even along the drive to our hunting lodge. Unfortunately after forty hours in transit, my eyelids won.  I was finally jolted awake as our shuttle van drove off the paved highway and onto the dirt road leading to the Estancia del Pilar.

An Estancia is a fancy Spanish way of saying cattle ranch.  There were no cattle, so in this case it means a hunting lodge that’s dressed up to look like a ranch.  The single story buildings were a balance of boldness and simple sophistication.  White stucco walls were accented with large windows and dark hard wood.  Maroon clay tiles lay upon the floor.  Crouching through narrow entries you immediately were greeted with high ceilings.  The smell of old cigar smoked still lingered in the air.  Strong leather couches faced one another and had probably heard many stories of success and failure found in the killing fields lurking just outside the Estancia.  Before they really knew my name I was greeted with a hot towel and a whiskey.  Wandering through the parlor I imagine Ernest Hemingway smoking a cigarette and drinking gin in these very rooms, bragging of his takings from fields a continent away.  Finishing my glass of whiskey I switch to Malbec and imagine what sort of pretentiousness is required to survive here, and sustain this life of luxurious sportsmanship.

“My name is Nacho.  I will be your field guide, it’s time to go shoot some dove.” Ignacio the head guide said.

They don’t waste any time I thought.  I feel a little less like a customer and more like a warrior arriving to help a people troubled by a pesky bird.  Nacho loads us into the same van we had arrived in shortly before, and we head into the fields, with little explanation along the way. Ten minutes later the door of the van slides open and I’m prompted out.  Seconds after that a shotgun is placed in my hands and my bird boy gestures skywards.  Making a sideways L with his thumb and index finger, then slightly moving his thumb, I understand this as the international gesture to start blasting. 

A conveyor belt of little dark shadows flutters overhead.  We’ve been dropped along a dirt road; shooters are spread about fifty yards incrementally apart.  With a wall of corn to my front, I hear concussions to my right and left, the hunt has begun. The corn comes to about my face.  It is fall in Argentina and the corn must only be a few weeks from harvest.  The last time I shot anything flying through the air was seven years ago, and that was a clay florescent orange disc.  I quickly run through a couple techniques I remember.  Look down the barrel; hold your head so the bead on the end is level.  Keep the gun moving and track the barrel with the bird’s speed.  Lead slightly ahead of the flying object.  Depending on speed of flight and wind, the lead can be adjusted.  Squeeze the trigger.  Despite a thorough understanding of upland bird hunting, I continued to spray the air with number seven birdshot, and the birds continued to fly past, unscathed.

“Empty.” I said.  My bird boy quickly swooped in and easily shuffled four shells back into the shotgun.   

            “Enough of that.” I said.  He looked confused.  I grabbed one shell from his hand and put it in my pocket.  “I’ll load.” I said.  Handing me a beer was great.  Even waving fresh air across my face with a cabana leaf would be cool, but something about someone loading my gun seemed awkward.  After several years in the Army and some of them spent in combat, I like to be solely responsible for my firearm, and its ammunition.  Plus, loading my own shells, at my own pace, probably saved me hundreds of dollars in shells when it came time to cash out.   

            “Ok, Señor,” he said.

            All right, focus, I thought.  I’ll give this one a little more lead.  Squeeze.  Bang.

            “Bueno.” The bird boy said as the dove took a nosedive strait into the corn.  

            For the next two hours I blasted hundreds of rounds into the air. Birds would explode in a puff of feathers.   Sometimes I would see the back end separate from the body in an even bigger puff of feathers.  The really amusing ones were direct hits; those would suddenly stop and whirl out of control like a broken helicopter, spinning rapidly towards the ground. 

            By the end of our session the ground was littered with dead dove and I was standing atop a mountain of spent plastic shotgun shells.  Just as I was setting down my gun and reaching for a beer from the cooler, my dad came walking up, grinning ear to ear.

            “Wow,” he said. 

            “Yeah, that was hard,” I said.

            “You did all right,” he said, looking around and surveying the dead dove he stepped over to visit my hunting spot.           

            The van quickly pulled up and I was handed another beer from Travis already sitting inside.  I could get used to this kind of hunting I thought- a guy that wants to load your gun, a lawn chair in the shade for when you get tired of shooting an endless supply of game, a cooler full of beers, and the best part is I left the dirty gun and a mess to clean up out in the field for someone else to deal with. 

            Moments later we walked back into the Estancia.  I was handed another whiskey and freshly grilled dove was waiting to accompany the cocktails on a platter.  We flopped down in the leather chairs and immediately stories of triumph and trial filled the air.  Let the pampering begin I thought, when is dinner, I am Hemingway.

            Six hundred and sixty one dove later I was done.  One thousand four hundred and eighty two dove later, Travis was done.   Seven hundred and eighty five dove later, Bob was done.  Nine hundred and sixty eight dove later, dad was done.  I ate dove every day, but I didn’t eat three thousand eight hundred and ninety-six dove.  I ate bacon wrapped maple dove, dove dumplings, baked dove with a peppercorn and mustard sauce, dove salad, and spicy dove spaghetti.  Chancho, the feral hog, ate dove sushi every day; as did the local foxes, eagles, and millions of bugs emerging from everywhere.  Eight of our bird boys took home bags of dove for their families, and their neighbors families.  In the end, I imagine a few dove were left to decorate the cactus and that’s ok, because as long as they were dead, the farmers were happy.

            “My grandpa always talked about hunting in another country.” Travis said.  “He taught me to hunt dove right out our back door in Ashe County.  He was born and raised in western North Carolina.”

            “He would be glad you’re here.” I said.  “And someday you can teach your child to hunt the same hills, sharing stories of the time you hunted the best in the world.” 

            “I need to do this.” Travis says, and then removes the brightly colored shirt he’s been wearing for two days.  “This was my granddaddy’s”

            “Oh.” I said.

            After putting his hunting vest back over his undershirt, Travis takes several dead dove littering the ground around his shooting spot and places them in a circle from beak to tail.  Then, he folds up his grandfather’s shirt and places it in the middle.  Removing a tiny bottle full of vodka from his pocket he takes a swig and dumps the rest on the shirt.  Then, removes a book of matches from his shooting vest pocket.  Folding the first over, he strikes it upon the rough back using his thumb and forefinger. Then, tosses the book into the fire pit.  The shirt and surrounding dead birds become engulfed in flame.  I hand Travis another cerveza and we stand back to watch his grandfather’s shirt burn.

            I sit next to my dad after the hunt on the last van ride back to the Estancia.  “This has been a good trip.  Thanks for inviting me.” I say.

 He just grins his big Argentinean dove slaying grin and pats me on the back. 

I hesitate. “I hope we can keep taking trips together.” I say.  Then, I slug the rest of my beer and crush the can.  The van hits a pothole and dozens of dove flush up from a bush just to the right along the side of the road.  I watch the shadows in unison turn into the sun and flutter towards low hills lurking in the distance just above the rows of corn.

_______________________________________________

Samuel Chamberlain doesn't normally prefer to blast small flying creatures from the sky, actually, he's been recently dabbling in absolute pacifism, and thus a trip to the Southern Hemisphere consequently resulted in falling off the wagon.  Thankfully, Hemingway would abide, and there was plenty of Malbec and Whiskey readily available. Though an opportunity to write a quest piece doing something extraordinary is always worth it.

_______________________________________________

Photos by Jay Chamberlain and Travis Birdsell

Setting Forth

I’ve spent the past month applying for graduate programs to begin this Summer.  I’m very excited about pursuing a Masters of Fine Arts (MFA) in Creative Writing.  So I applied to University of Alaska Anchorage, University of Alaska Fairbanks, Pacific University in Oregon, and Goddard University.  Fairbanks is the only residential program.  The other three being low residency I could live anywhere, travel anywhere (within reason), and still work on the degree.  I think there are benefits to both kinds of programs, should I get accepted, I will have a hard time deciding which lifestyle I want to assume while working on an MFA.

Here is the first chapter from the 20 page writing sample I had to submit with my application for all four programs.  I think… I want to be a Non-Fiction writer.  At least that’s what I’ve applied for.  I have toyed with Fiction over the years, but I guess I feel more comfortable with Non-Fiction.  Maybe that could change?  The piece below could be called a memoir, as most of the chapters are about my life the last two years in Arctic Village.  I have unofficially titled it Living With Caribou People. This first chapter is called "Setting Forth."

As we boarded the Cessna I had no idea what I was getting myself into.  Nearly all my belongings were boxed up on the plane, ratchet strapped right inside the cockpit just behind me.  Yet we were dressed like this was just another hiking trip- boots, backpacks, rain jackets, and high tech sweat proof shirts.  If my wife was nervous there was no indication in her demeanor or tone of voice.  I on the other hand felt as if my stomach had been turned inside out.  We were headed to another part of the state, to a world I had never seen.  I felt as if I should be a little more scared, but I wasn’t.  I was clueless.  I was naïve.  I had a sense of adventure raging inside of me.  A sense of purpose so strong it was dampening all my other thoughts, cares, and worries.

We spent two weeks putting a 1800 square foot condo into a 10x15 storage space.  I gave a lot away.  Saving only our bedroom suite- hand made Amish furniture from Pennsylvania (a wedding gift from her family), and some fine china  (a wedding gift from my family).  Also stuffed into the aluminum container were several boxes of books and our tropical clothes, we wouldn’t be needing those 120 miles North of the Arctic Circle.  It felt good to purge materialistic pieces of a past life.   A life where the military allowed a young couple to move 20,000 pounds of stuff 6,000 miles across the country.  My belongings for the next year would be several boxes worth of essentials mailed in advance, along with a couple hundred pounds of dry goods (rice, beans, dog food).  Saving only what had the most sentimental (or monetary) value.

 

It was two o’clock in the afternoon.  From Fairbanks I could see summer storm clouds approaching from the North.  I had only been in this part of Alaska a few times before.  Everything about it still felt unfamiliar to me. There were no jagged peaks looming in the distance as in Anchorage.  Fairbanks is surrounded by densely forested hills, or domes, rolling forever into the distance. The new environment had my senses at a heightened state of alertness.

We sat in the waiting area, silently thinking about the future, about how our lives were going to be forever changed.  A grizzled old pilot came out and called our names from a manifest.  We were the only two passengers scheduled for the afternoon flight.  Whether he sensed my anticipation or not, he gave no indication.  The Cessna rose quickly from the East Ramp of Fairbanks Airport, banking sharply and pointing due north.  We climbed above the clouds and seemed to drift for two hours.  I tried to stare out the window and memorize the landscape but my mind wandered from one thought to another.  Impatiently curious about whom would greet us at the dirt runway.  Frazzled by how I would become a teacher on the first day.  Scared of what the natives would think of me.  Curious about how my wife would take to this new environment.  It still all seemed a bit surreal.

Within minutes of leaving Fairbanks the landscape became void of human life.  Rolling hills turned to larger domes, which became the White Mountains.  This time of year they were a stale brown, signs of a dry Summer.  Haze in the distance gave some indication a forest fire was lurking out there.  As quickly as they began the White Mountains ended, sloping downward into the vast Yukon River valley.  It would still be twenty minutes until we crossed this mammoth river.  The flats were full of small ponds, lakes, creeks and tributaries feeding into the Yukon as it snakes thousands of miles across Alaska.

Just after crossing the Yukon River the pilot finally spoke up.  Shouting over the sound of the engine, he asked why I was going to Arctic Village.  I think he assumed we were just visitors.  Coming to hike into the Brooks Range and return back to civilization.  A smirk came across his face when I told him I was a new teacher.  I felt as if he was privy to an inside joke that I was about to become a part of. He knew dozens of teachers come and go from rural Alaska each year.  I’m sure several had sat in the same seat as I was.  He knew what I would quickly learn in the village.  He had seen the trouble come and go from his cockpit.  Probably even witnessing brief events on the runway, chance encounters that shaped his own opinion of Native Alaska.  The pilot spoke briefly of the beauty surrounding Arctic Village, and the frequency from which hikers and hunters visit in the summer.  Then he said nothing else, with holding his thoughts.  Letting me form my own opinions as the plane continued northward.

As the Cessna circled the village once, I was immediately surprised at how small it was.  The first obvious sign of civilization were the large red roof of the school seen from miles away.  Spread across a fairly wide valley, nestled alongside a twisted river, Arctic Village seemed to be growing out of the landscape.  There were no rows of houses; the only real symmetry of human life was the long strait runway.  It looked as if human life had bled in with the contour of the land, maybe even becoming part of the land.

The plane came to a halt at the end of the gravel runway.  Immediately four wheelers fired up and swarmed the aircraft.  The lifeline to the outside world-only coming once a day-had arrived.  People began scurrying around emptying cargo containers, loading up a school truck, going through the daily motions of collecting supplies from the plane.  It all seemed foreign.  My senses were still on overload.  Trying to memorize every face.  Listen to every voice.  While also collecting my belongings as they were ungracefully tossed into the dusty Earth.  This was my new home.

An Indescribable Memento

While traveling around India for two months I tried to capture my travels through writing.  In some places I kept a diary.  Other times I would record events in the form of short stories.  While some days with little time to spare I would just create various lists.  The following is the first short story I have taken from rough draft to something somewhat polished.  I usually don't do much with dialogue in my writing, so I've began to fool around with that.  Enjoy.

An Indescribable Memento

Of all the places to stumble upon a memory, why here?  The mind has the ability to store away the darkest of memories in the deepest of places.  Yet in an instant they can be recalled from this chasm, unconsciously brought to the surface.  As much as I try to hide my fears, my thoughts, my wrongdoings and tribulations- they are triggered from all around me.  A long lost smell, a friendly smile; even an otherwise unfamiliar environment brings feelings of déjà vu rushing back.  Chillingly withdrawing those memories from there resting place.  Feeling as if just yesterday I had experienced them for the first time.  Our mind forces us to relive things, time and time again.  A soft touch or gentle voice from the past, thoughts I want to take shelter in.  Violence and destruction, times I try to forget, yet they rest right alongside one another.  The good lurking with the bad.

It started as just another tout trip for “KP”, our driver.  Take the Americans to one more shop, flaunt them about, then fool them into thinking this was some handicraft specific to only that place.  Marble in Agra.  Textiles in Jodhpur.  Trinkets in Old Delhi.  Silver in Jaislmer.  Silk in Bikaner.  And gems in Jaipur.  So when we stopped at a jeweler near the Amber Fort, I figured it was one more round of Olympic haggling from another pushy salesman.  He started by showing us four young adolescent males squatting around six grinding wheels.  As usual there were twice as many men standing around watching as working.  The men carefully worked, grinding and shaping the ugliest rocks into precious gems.  Only briefly glancing up to look upon another set of tourists looking down at them.  I briefly wondered if they had families.  I wondered how many hours a day they worked, and what they got paid.  Was this their place in life?  Or would the new world order of India allow them to someday have a jewelry shop, looking down upon their own employees, hunched over grinders.

The merchant, a scrawny middle-aged man with a hunched back (probably from himself squatting beside those same grinding wheels for many years), began showing us around the workshop.  His rough hands and deep-set eyes giving some indication to the number of years he had labored here.  Taking us step by step along the workbench.  The process began with a rough ugly rock.  Affixed to a grinding stick, and worked through various levels of an abrasive wheel.  The rock slowly turned into a gem by the time it reached the last man.  Carefully shaped for a specific purpose, to adorn a particular trinket, and display the beauty that came from within.  Patiently the merchant asked us if we had any questions before going into the showroom.  Gretchen and I nodded approvingly, trying to move along this charade.  We left the workshop and made our way up a set of steps, past the storefront, and into the showroom.

The tour was over; the peddling was about to begin.  First we went through the usual formalities.

“Would you like any tea or water?”

 “But you must have some tea, it’s a custom.”

“What is your name?”

“Where are you from?”

 “America, oh I love American, USA!” 

And finally the real important question. “What is your qualification?”  Meaning, what do you do for a living, and subsequently how much money have you brought with you because of this profession.  As all Americans wallets come hefty with rupees, and suitcases empty in order to fill with the plunders of the subcontinent. 

So we browsed, ignoring the onslaught of trite salesmanship.  Necklaces, medallions, rings, and bracelets all tactfully adorned with gems of various shape, size, and color.  Making our way around the room.  Browsing the countless display cases but really just favoring the cool air conditioning.  Visiting such shops was an escape from the hot humid monsoon air filling Jaipur.  I briefly hesitated at several boxes of large plain semiprecious stones.  For some reason this collection perked my interest.  Was it the unfinished nature of a chunk of polished stone?  Or was there something else.  Unfortunately I had broken the first rule of avoiding sale, do not linger on any one item, for that will bring an onslaught of persistent vending.  Yet something there was beginning to speak to me.  I continued fingering through a couple boxes of stones.   The merchant immediately seized the opportunity, grabbing several more boxes and bags of stone, spreading them across the counter.  I began more carefully gazing upon the gems.  There were large ones and small ones.  Some were shaped into various geometric configurations, while others were just left to appear as a natural stone shape.  They came as deep purples and blues, in bright reds and vivid greens.  The colors enticed me to continue exploring his stock.  Then a shoebox size container was opened containing several more baggies.  He carefully removed and spread more gems upon the counter.  Suddenly, I saw His name written on one of the ziploc bags.  Instantly I was taken to another place.  I froze, not in bewilderment, but in remorse and confusion.  Thinking about what I had just thought, from another time, another place.  Slowly I raised my hand and grabbed the bag full of white and ivory colored stones.  I hesitated, my thoughts no longer in India.  The bag was labeled Jasper.  Suddenly one more meaningless stop at another craft shop was worth my time.  I fumbled through the bag of twenty some stones, selecting a round one, about the size of a silver dollar. 

“How much is this one”, I asked? 

“Lets weigh it… uh… it’s 71 grams, times 5 rupees per gram… that’s 395 rupees”, said the clerk behind the counter. 

“I’ll take it”, I said. 

“This one”, the salesman asked curiously? 

He instantly began digging through other baggies looking for gems deemed in his mind as much prettier.  More luster.  Multiple facets.  More expensive.  Those deep blues and bright reds that grab most customers’ attention.  But I wasn’t looking for something fancy.  I had found something greater then that.  I reached for my stone and began shuffling towards the door.  Hoping this would give the international body language for I’m ready to pay and check out.  His further attempts at another sale were useless, and he knew it. 

I handed four hundred rupees across the counter as the lights began the flicker.  Upon being handed my five rupees in change, I was again bombarded with more dull salesmanship.

“Are you sure you don’t want a pendant or lanyard for that stone”, said the merchant?

“Maybe another stone for the lady, Ma’am, don’t you want a souvenir also”, said his son?

We kindly thanked them for their time, quickly look around for KP, and stepped out into the hot humid bustling city of Jaipur.  KP looked a bit confused, not saying anything, but you could tell by his eyes he was curious.  He escorted us to his parked Tata sedan and opened the door for Gretchen.  Once inside the vehicle I removed the memento from my pocket and securely zipped it into my backpack.  Gretchen looked at me and smiled as we drove out of the alleys of the Pink City, back towards our hotel.  I was thinking about Him.  Thinking about the transformation that had just occurred from a thought, a memory, what felt like an old bad dream, into an item?  This keepsake would become a symbol.  The circular shape a reminder not of death, not of the bond between pet and owner, but of the disconnected moments in life that become quickly reconnected.  That our past can always become our future, that it shapes who we are in the present.  Overcoming insurmountable odds isn’t about putting those challenges behind you in a linear life, but about-facing them again and again.  Coming full circle shouldn’t be an idiom or cliché about coming back to where you started, but an idea that we never really put things behind us.  The human brain is a trap for these thoughts, feelings, and memories.  The Jasper stone is a reminder to cherish these memories, both good and bad.  Because through the moments of horrid violence come thoughts of growth, symbols of affection, and most importantly ideas of purpose.

_________________________

This short story is in reference to an event that occurred my second day in Arctic Village.  More information on the travesty can be found at Lost in Alaska.

Mini-Memoir: Seeing Caribou

The third cross country ski of the year, only a few days after Halloween. It wasn’t like Anchorage, that’s for sure. The temperatures quickly dropped, while the snow took its time blanketing the ground a little more every couple days. Though we missed the big dumps of south central Alaska, the new sights, sounds, and smells of the interior excited us. Gretchen dressed for the cold, putting on a thick fleece- pulling her extra thick mittens out of the box they had been shipped in. Still taped shut with packing tape, Eagle River return address labels across the top. I gave her the usual “ don’t wear so many layers, you’re going to be skiing hard”, banter. Jack, our four-year-old husky noticed the change out of school clothes into ski jackets and started spinning in excitement. After lacing up my boots I moved to the arctic entry to grab my skis and harness Jack.

The snow wasn’t great, but it was skiing and even a bad day skiing is better then anything else. We gingerly glided around some of the rocks still exposed in the unpacked snow. Making our way past the store and council several kids cheered to Jack, effortlessly pulling Gretchen along in ski jour fashion. I was struggling to keep up, but enjoyed the challenge of racing Jack. As I settled into the push-glide motion we cruised out the road to the airport. About a mile from town we quickly passed someone on a 4-wheeler shouting about something on the runway. “It sounded like he said Caribou”, I asked Gretchen. As we crested the last rising hill to the airport we spotted several animals moving in the distance. At first they looked like ants scurrying around an anthill. We slowed our pace and flanked behind the airport weather station to get a better view. Quickly thousands of Caribou came into focus. This was it; the Porcupine Caribou herd was migrating south through the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, across the Brooks Range, and into the Yukon Flats. Arctic Village lies right in the path of this migration. And on this specific day we were the first people to meet the herd’s arrival. For nearly two hours we sat counting and watching the Caribou. It was amazing to think this one days life experience had been occurring every year, year after year. Full grown adult males, mothers and yearlings, they were all there, grazing and moving. It was a process you could tell had been happening for thousands of years. An intrinsic feeling, imbedded in the Caribou’s soul. Generation upon generation of Caribou being born on the shores of the Arctic Ocean. Then migrating back and forth to the bountiful flats along the Yukon River. As we sat these ideas of mortality, life, and instinct came to mind. A slight chill began to set in as we tried to disguise ourselves in the snow. Not the bitter cold we were soon about to face. But that small chill that begins in your cheeks and finger tips, slowly working its way to your core. Cold enough to form tiny mustachesicles with the perspiration of your breath. Gretchen started counting to stay warm. First individually, then she lost count after reaching 154, she decided to start guesstimating how many there were, using precise calculations to count groups of Caribou, again, loosing count after several hundred. I thought briefly about the implications of drilling in ANWR, of the even the remote possibility of impacting or altering this profound event. After four months of teaching in Arctic Village I knew these people survived off this herd, and had done so for hundreds of years. The subsistence life style, though recently becoming subsidized with the help of rotary airplanes and native corporations- was still dependent upon the precious meats and materials found in the Caribou. Suddenly we heard a loud clicking sound, looking right to witness two large males in combat. Antlers clanking against one another, heads bumping and legs thrusting as they struggled for superiority. What were they fighting over? In the background several newborn yearlings picked at lichen and other delicious pieces of vegetation on the ground. It’s hard to believe such a basic, unappetizing life form could serve as their main source of food. I wondered why more people in town hadn’t been alerted to their arrival. Why more hunters hadn’t shown up with their .223’s or .308’s to shoot a couple. Having the herd this close to town wasn’t rare, but wasn’t normal. Typically the herd crosses the Chandalar River from a valley just south of the village and moves into the flats. Today they were swimming across the semi-frozen river right near our village. In a dog paddle like stroke we saw hundreds of Caribou struggling to cross the open water. Ice beginning to glaze near the edges of the shore, leaving the middle open to flowing water.

How are these Caribou called to make this monumental journey? What internal idea is driving them, forcing them to walk and risk survival across such great distances? Wolves, bears, and hunters constantly picking off brothers and sisters in the herd. What internal apprise is telling them to make this pilgrimage? I found my way to the classroom after five years of military service. To me it seemed the thing to do. Turn a passion for Alaska and a calling to serve into something unique. Making the decision to work in the bush I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Various friends gave me snippets of life working in the bush. My family didn’t totally understand, the distance from home and the life we knew becoming even greater. But while sitting their watching thousands of Caribou do what they are supposed to do, it seemed I was where I was supposed to be. I knew at that moment that despite the ugliness and cultural differences, that place was where I was supposed to be. Challenges and struggles had tried to stop me. Certain moments our light felt as if it were shinning alone, providing the dimmest illumination in an ever growing abyss. Keeping me from reaching my migratory destination, but I prevailed. My own intrinsic spirit had played a similar tune to that of the Caribou. Life is not without challenges. As we scale mountains, cross-frozen rivers, and struggle to find food- it shapes who we are, as a pack, pair, and individual. Gretchen and I had traveled a great distance to reach this point and time. Making decisions wrecking the emotional stability we had built around us. Breaking down the physical barriers that defined normal. Not only for the better of those around us, but for the sanctity of our own being. Because to ignore the tune would be denying a piece of our soul.

Bio Sketch: Andrea

assignment- interview a classmate from the Homer Open, write a biographical sketch

Mentally preparing for the Homer Writing Consortium I knew I would have the privilege of collaborating with other professional teachers. Little did I know I would be dissecting part of their lives and writing about it. Each person I’ve met at the consortium fascinates me. They have my utmost respect as professional educators and experienced Alaskan teachers. If only we had the opportunity to fully know one another, the way I know my closest friends, the way I know my wife. To extrasensorily perceive one another with just a glance would be astounding. In writing we must first know our subject. Through deep brainstorming and critical thinking we develop an understanding of our subject, then capture it to the best of our abilities. In a sense this is the metamorphosis we witness as writers of our subject. This is how Andrea has grown as a teacher, and the subject of my biographical writing. She’s lived several lives within a life. Interweaving one within the next finally ending up in the Matanuska Susitna School District, and ultimately in a chair at the Alaska State Writers Consortium Homer Open sitting beside me. “Would you like to be biography partner,” she asks me? You seem new to teaching and I’ve been teaching for a while, we might be able to learn something from one another.

Serving others, always. This is the motto I feel Andrea has come to simply live by, though she is very humble about it. Whether loyally teaching students in the Mat- Su School District as a Special Education Teacher, or faithfully standing by her husband through health issues- how many people can say they’ve given an organ for someone they love? For sixteen years Andrea has spent her career helping students in Alaska learn to read, write and develop life skills essential in school. Starting in Seward as a teacher before moving to Palmer, Andrea has spent the last three years serving as a high school resource teacher.

Part of being a teacher is being a life long learner. A bibliophile at heart, Andrea has adapted to the digital revolution, armed with her iPad loaded with wonderful ebooks. Constantly looking for new teaching manuals and professional development texts available to download, she is driving the digital train of education into the 21^st century. Despite this innovative technological wonder, she still saves boxes of books for the day batteries won’t bring the glow of her screen to life. Her genre is non-fiction, though she enjoys fiction. Andrea loves to learn and does so through constant inquiry and intellectual curiosity of the non-fiction genre.

Few people have experienced some of the sights Andrea has. Humpback whales breaching off the bow of her glacial tour boat. Peregrine falcons swooping across the sky, snatching baby chic’s of the rookeries Resurrection Bay cliff walls. Sea Otters buoyantly bouncing on the surface of the water. Orca’s stealthily cutting the surface, obscuring their black and white stripes in the chilly gulf waters. Andrea served as a conduit to this aquatic Eden working six years in Seward as a Park Ranger. Sharing, not only these experiences but knowledge and information about these wonders. A testament to her cheerful attitude toward others and eagerness to teach.

Whether rescuing and raising four beautiful German shepherds or faithfully supporting her sick husband, Andrea cares about others. In the classroom she engages with students and strives to teach them the skills necessary for life. Only when you have lived your life to the fullest can you teach others what life is. This is what I have learned from Andrea.