Photo by Peter Wuebker

From any approach, there is a heart-stopping moment when Lake Superior reveals herself in full.  It never fails to take my breath away.

The longer I am away from Big Water, the more there is that feels amiss in my life.  I have lived close to the Pacific Ocean, and near other Great Lakes.  But there is nothing else like this for me.

I love Lake Superior.  I love her like a mother.

Photo by Peter Wuebker

With Superior I am a child who needs to gaze upon the face of its parent and be enfolded in her embrace.  I need her to be near.  I want to hear her musical voice, whether in the whisper of waves lapping gently on her shores or in the crashing of her surf.  I must walk beside her and return to her.  I know all these things about myself, yet the more I know of her, the more I realize there is to be revealed.

Photo by Peter Wuebker

She shows herself to me, this inland ocean, in hue and action, in air and stillness.  Her horizon is so vast as to melt into the sky.  I am humbled by her strength, and marvel at her violence. She cloaks herself in mystery and secretive enigma, drawing me in further.

Davina Haisell writes:

When I saw Lake Superior for the first time, I felt like I was hypnotized. Dad pulled off of the highway so we could watch it. It felt like that lake was looking deep into me, you know? Like it was looking through me or drinking from me. I imagined it knew we were there and that it was watching us.

I stalk others who speak of knowing her.  I yearn to be first with her, and I tell myself I am.  I recognize their thoughts and descriptions exactly as I know her, and I congratulate myself, as I love her so much she must love me more.  They can’t be as important to her as I, her favorite child.

Photo by Peter Wuebker

On this last visit, I find myself where the voyageurs – strong coureurs des bois (runners of the woods) – gathered long ago to trade.  We have visited the encampment at the Grand Portage National Monument which commemorates their long journey to the shores at Kitchi Onigaming, the “Great Carrying Place.”  It is here that they would rendezvous with North West Fur Company traders who had paddled to meet them all the way from Montreal more than three hundred years ago.

Photo by Peter Wuebker

The Grand Portage Band celebrates the Rendezvous with a pow wow honoring their veteran warriors.  They have welcomed us in the past and we were grateful to have been taken to the holy site of the Little Spirit Cedar, which grows from rock overlooking Gitchee Gumee.  Offerings from the Ojibwe have been left at the base of this tree for hundreds of years to ensure safe travels.

Photo by Betsy Wuebker

I gaze eastward from a Grand Portage overlook.  Pete is busy packing up our campsite, but I am not done with my other beloved, Lake Superior.  I am high enough that weather patterns alternately reveal and obscure the lighthouse on the northwest point of Isle Royale, over twenty miles away.  It is an infinitesimal pinpoint of white on the horizon where water meets the sky.

The overlook is windy and deserted.  As I lean against the fence separating me from hundreds of feet of air, I am buffeted and sprinkled with rain in a kind of baptism.  The clouds move quickly across my field of vision, and I see sheets of harder rain on the horizon.

Another car pulls up and a man gets out.  We are the only two people here.  He joins me at the fence and nods in silent acknowledgment.  “It is beautiful,” he says softly.  “Yes,” I say.

“Have you been to the Rendezvous?” I ask.  He nods.  “Yes, I have just come from the pow wow.”  “It’s a wonderful thing to see,” I say.  He nods again.  “I come every year,” he tells me.  “I am Anishinaabe, from Ponemah.”  He looks out at the water. “I have been with with my brothers and sisters by the water.  I come here to dance.”

I must have looked confused, because he explains to me that some Ojibwe have taken to identifying themselves with the more ancient name of the People.  I tell him about the People’s museum in Leelanau, and he looks surprised and pleased.

Photo by Betsy Wuebker

We stand in silence for quite some time.  There is much to see and no need to speak.  He beckons eastward and we watch a rainbow begin to form within the clouds.  “I could stand here all day,” he says to me softly.  “It seems as though we are looking into forever.”

We watch the rainbow grow.  Wider and thicker, it fattens in the sky, a finger of heaven touching this water that I love so much.

Photo by Betsy Wuebker

We look at each other, this Person who has come out of nowhere I know and I, and then look back at the heavenly display.

“You’re right,”  I say.  “We are.  We’re looking into forever.”

It’s a finale of grand proportions that stuns me into further silence.  There is nothing more to say.  I think of the age-old promise the rainbow portends, a covenant of protection by the Almighty, holding us safe from harm, representing mercy and kindness.  The rainbow is a bridge between heaven and earth.

Day will always follow night,
the warm days of summer
will always follow
the cold and snow of winter,
as long as the earth shall be.

Photo by Betsy Wuebker

The rainbow grows larger and then begins to fade.

The Person I’ve been standing with steps toward his car and then turns back once again to look out over Big Water.  Transfixed, it is as though we both cannot break the spell.  Finally, we breathe.

“I will come here to dance again,” he says.  I know I will, too.

I am this water.

———————————

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Looking Into Forever Part 4 is a post from: Passing Thru

I think it’s safe to say when we arrived in Alaska, we expected it to be teeming with wildlife and photography opportunities from the get-go.  Initially, one of us looked upon this prospect with more favor than the other, as you will see.  You’ll also see that my husband’s regard for me is tempered with the most basic reality. 

Flush from the previous day’s festival atmosphere in downtown Anchorage, we pick up our car in the morning and decide to venture. The concept of urban wilderness isn’t entirely alien to Minnesota-dwelling Outsiders. However, given the non-homo sapiens population statistics kindly provided by the ADN, I find myself wondering if Bear Insurance would be part of the well-prepared cheechako’s travel kit. We have none.

Following Claudia’s example from yesterday, I look to the mountains and orient our rented conveyance (totally indicative of GM’s performance issues with today’s consumer) on the map. The Chugach Range cradles Anchorage against the mouth of the Cook Inlet, and I see Eagle River to the northeast of the city. Remembering that a high school friend had made this town her home after graduation, I am curious. We have also seen recent video of a moose kill as it happened outside an Eagle River resident’s bedroom window and as far as we know the bear perp is still at large. I start to feel like a nervous city slicker, but say nothing. Pete has come to shoot critter photos, after all.

We pull into the Eagle River Nature Center, following the Iditarod Trail without realizing. The lot is full, people are ready to hike and everyone’s dog is wearing a bear bell. The theory is, if the bear hears you coming, the bear will avoid you. Except if you threaten her cub(s) in some way, which evidently you are able to do by just being there. Huh. I wonder if dog tastes better than human to a bear. If so, does the bear bell signal dinnertime to a hungry bear?

We take a look at taxidermy in the headquarters, and I am not reassured. Brown bears, in particular, are gigan huge enormous. You’re supposed to make noise with a black bear and stand completely still with a brown bear and you will survive either encounter! I’m thinking this root theorem is what’s commonly known in Alaska as bullchitna. Is it that the brown bear’s attention span isn’t long and it will become disinterested in you? Could you get away with uncontrollable shivering or other potentially embarrassing bodily functions if you stand your ground? Inquiring minds want to know. Not. In. Person.

We decide we will defer lunch (another food group that is attractive to bears) until our return from the hiking trail. Out we set, Pete’s tripod clanking and me with a gimpy leg from a recent fall off my bike Outside before our trip. I think, “No wonder he doesn’t seem worried! He is able to out-run me!” The trail we select is an easy loop, less than a mile. Thank you, loving husband. It is punctuated with viewing platforms from which Pete hopes to get some photos of wildlife. Bette Midler singing “From a Distance” reverberates through my head.

We find ourselves not alone. It would seem we are accompanied by the entire population (human) of Eagle River. There are children and dogs galore, whooping, jingling, pooping and mingling. Everyone’s happy vocalizations ensure the absence of any and all critters who might be willing to have their photo taken. Even the song of the birds is stilled. While Pete is irritated, the black bear theory at least is definitely proven.

We tailgate our lunch from the cooler in the parking lot and decide we need a location less traveled for the rest of our day. The Eklutna Lake Trail is the ticket. Easy to navigate, check. Glaciers, check. Mountain view, check. Lakeside vistas, check. Only ten miles in from the main road, check. Happily, Pete gets this photo of a bush pilot swooping his little floatplane through the valley of the lake. We have authenticated our day in the wild with a quintessential Alaskan image!

Summary for our Chugach experience: no wild critter sightings with the exception of what might have been a bear’s butt as we came round a bend on the way home.

And even then, cheechakos can’t be sure.

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CHEECHAKOS IN THE CHUGACH is a post from: Passing Thru

The latest from our friend John on his RV odyssey from Minneapolis to Alaska.

Good Evening from Skagway:

You can see DukDuk and me in the attached picture as we entered Alaska and, yes, I am smiling with thumbs up. The drive down was interesting as some of the landscape looked a bit like what the moon looks like in pictures. We arrived in Skagway Sunday afternoon with 3,801.9 miles on the trip odometer and spent the day reloading our liquor cabinet and getting familiar with the town.

I thought there would be RV service centers in town and there is not. So, Monday was clean and service the RV. Following the mantra “take care of your equipment and it will take care of you” we changed the oil & filter (hadn’t done that in awhile), did about 6 minor repairs, washed the whole unit, and reapplied Rainx to the windshield.

Later we made contact with a fishing boat captain and booked a 1/2 day afternoon trip on Tuesday before finishing the night at the Skagway Brew Pub [established 1897 - ed.] with a couple of cold local beers.

Tuesday morning we did our souvenir shopping and had a quick lunch before we hit the docks. We met Captain Mike Hardy of the Choctaw Lady and headed out into the Taiya Inlet which is part of the Inland Passageway. We saw two humped back whales and a pair of eagles but no fish action for about 3 hours (we are 3 weeks early don’t you know). Finally I got a hit and landed a 27″ King Salmon that had to be 28″ to keep so it was released.

That night the Captain invited us as his guests to the local Eagles Club for a couple of beers and to watch game 6 of the Stanley Cup finals. This was the first live TV I had seen in nearly 3 weeks. I met a local artist that turns wood and bone into bowls and pens who gave me a few places to flyfish on the way to Whitehorse. The Captain offered us a good deal for the next afternoon to join 2 pre-booked guests and we accepted the offer.

Wednesday morning we woke to some light rain and headed into the one grocery store in town that gets its inventory delivered on Tuesday. It seemed the whole town was there and we bought what we needed and headed back to the RV. At noon we were back on the docks and joined Captain Mike and two guys from Vancouver. Again we headed into Taiya Inlet but this time went 6 miles out into 700′ of water.

One of the Vancouver guys caught a shaker that had to be released and about 3 hours into the trip Cortney hooked into a fish that took 7 minutes to land and a picture is attached. This monster was 42″ long, weighed 36lbs, tied this season’s record, and is a native not hatchery fish. It is Alaskan Gold! [Holy buckets!  Now that's worth getting the camera out! - Ed.]  After the charter Captain Mike cleaned the fish and cut off 2 salmon steaks that we will be grilling shortly.

We are meeting the Captain for a beer later and to listen to a popular Blues singer from Anchorage. Not sure what our plans are for tomorrow but we will be starting the trip back no later than Friday.

Again, all is well.

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FROM THE ROAD: ALASKAN GOLD is a post from: Passing Thru

This is the latest dispatch from our friend John’s odyssey.  He’s made it into the Yukon and it looks like the real fun is beginning.  Now that he’s actually crossed the provincial border, these lines from the Bard of the Yukon, Robert Service, seem apt:

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
A race that can’t stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain’s crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don’t know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they’re always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new. . .

Good evening from Teslin, Yukon.

It has been a tough day on the road getting the snot kicked out of us on the Cassiers Highway. [Pfffttt!!  This guy did it pulling an MGB in a trailer behind his RV, for crying out loud!  He does say it's rough. - Ed.]

It took 3 hours and 45 minutes to cover 140 miles of gravel and frost-heaved pavement this morning before we got on the AlCan Highway going west. Even then we ran into 2 sections of 10-mile gravel road that we could only go 25 miles an hour or risk getting shaken to death.

Still, we’ve had some good moments in the last 3 days. Wednesday night we stayed at the Round Lake Campground hosted by Wayne and Nina Hemalin. That evening we used a row boat to get out on the lake and between us caught 1 squaw fish and 36 pea-mouthed chubs. The chubs are supposedly good eating but we threw them back because it would have taken forever to filet enough of them to make a meal for two.

The next morning we went out in a canoe and trolled the lake with no luck. However, we saw 3 pair of loons that came within 20 yards of the canoe, an eagle, and an osprey diving in the water for fish.

We left and fueled-up in Smithers before heading for the Meziadin Provincial Park on the Cassiers Highway.  [Here is a photo gallery -  gorgeous! -Ed.] This has been the most beautiful park we’ve stayed in to date and in the morning the park attendant, Marvin Reid, took us fishing. I caught a nice 3lb Dolly Varden and a small Rainbow (picture attached) while Cortney caught a 3.5lb Dolly Varden.

After fileting them we took off for Dease Lake and saw 8 black bears and 2 grizzlies along the way (picture attached).

We stayed at the Water’s Edge Campground in Dease Lake and shared our meal of fish with Murray and Pat Crees from Vancouver Island. They went to bed after “blubbering a bib-full” with us for a couple of hours and we played a game of “hit the stick in the lake with a rock” which I won 11 to 7.

We left at 9, got to the Yukon around 1 (DukDuk picture attached), and finished the day around 5 at Dawson Peaks Resort. Tomorrow we will make Skagway – 3 weeks from when I left MN.

All is good.

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FROM THE ROAD: INTO THE YUKON is a post from: Passing Thru

Denali National Park - August 2008 by Pete Wuebker

I wonder as I wander out under the sky,
How Jesus the Savior did come for to die.
For poor on’ry people like you and like I…
I wonder as I wander out under the sky.

When Mary birthed Jesus ’twas in a cow’s stall,
With wise men and farmers and shepherds and all.
But high from God’s heaven a star’s light did fall,
And the promise of ages it then did recall.

If Jesus had wanted for any wee thing,
A star in the sky, or a bird on the wing,
Or all of God’s angels in heav’n for to sing,
He surely could have it, ’cause he was the King.

AS I WANDER OUT UNDER THE SKY… is a post from: Passing Thru

Perusing freelance gigs on Craigslist while on vacation in Alaska – $0

Responding to ad requesting photo of Thermoking truck in “exotic” setting – $0

Noticing Thermoking truck idling next to us at a scenic rest area – $0

Taking off at high speed to get ahead of the truck on the downhill grade to Fairbanks – $0

Watching your husband step directly in front of a semi hurtling down a steep mountain grade to get a photo that pays him $300 for less than 10 minutes work – Priceless

LOOK OUT! is a post from: Passing Thru

Book cover via Amazon

Part 3 Stories of Women in Alaska

For eighty years, a stark tragedy went incorrectly told and mostly forgotten, until it was uncovered by Jennifer Niven.  The story’s heroine, Ada Blackjack, was part of a secretive Arctic expedition.  Her companions, four adventure-hungry and impressionable young men, had been beguiled by the promises of a charismatic explorer, whose own Arctic experiences were clouded by missteps and misleading characterizations.  It was to this man, Vilhjalmur Stefansson, that all five entrusted their fate.

The plan was a three-year polar expedition to Wrangel Island, off the northeast coast of Siberia.  In 1921, the ownership of Wrangel Island was in some debate.  Competing claims from Russia, the United States, and Great Britain, through its dominion Canada, led Stefansson to the idea of asserting British sovereignty via a settlement with scientific overtones.  This was an attempt to restore his own reputation, which had been sullied by failures and accusations of misconduct with his previous Arctic exploits.  There was also a looming possibility of Japanese penetration into Siberia, giving more urgency to Stefansson’s scheme.

Wrangel Island was strategically attractive.  Stefansson believed it could serve as an air base for future routes, as well as a meteorological and radio station.  The young would-be explorers he recruited were told that the expedition’s purpose was to claim the island for the British Empire — without the support of the Canadian or British governments, for which Stefansson intended to lobby — and were sworn to secrecy.  They would go to Wrangel Island, and he would stay behind, foot the bill, and get the Canadian government to accept the cause.  Although Stefansson confided that there were several nations that wanted the island, he conveniently omitted any notion of danger from the Russians, whose interests were most likely affected by the political nature of the expedition.

Stefansson had recommended that an Eskimo family or two be hired to travel with them — the men to hunt and the women to cook and sew protective clothing.  In Nome, the adventurers attempted this, but when the day came to depart only one of the locals who had agreed to the journey actually showed up:  Ada Blackjack.

A widowed mother of a tubercular 8-year-old, Ada Blackjack was fearful and suspicious of the journey, but the $50 per month she had been offered meant a great deal.  Upon return, she would remove her son from the orphanage where he now stayed and possibly take him to Seattle for a cure.  Reluctant beause of fear and impropriety, she agreed to leave Nome with the men only after they promised that more Eskimos would be hired before they reached Wrangel Island.

All that had been promised — by Stefansson to his four explorers, and they to Ada — was not to be.  Instead, a ship they counted on to replenish their six months worth of supplies was prevented by extreme conditions from reaching the island, and they were marooned.  Their food depleted severely with the onset of winter, and their misfortune multiplied with thinning supplies of game during the worst conditions in twenty-five years.  All approaches to the island were blocked by solid ice.

Stefansson assured their worried families that there was no reason to resort to extraordinary means of rescue, as he had confidence they were fine.  It was as “…if they were in some European City or an ordinary place and were merely not in the habit of communicating with you.”

On Wrangel Island, life was reorganized when it became clear they would be spending another year.  They moved camp closer to the wood supply and began rationing their food.  Game was scarce and Ada’s worries were concerned with keeping everyone in good health.  Two of the party set out for help and shortly returned, one with a case of advancing scurvy.  It was decided that three would leave their sick comrade in Ada’s care, and set out for Nome over the ice via Siberia.  They were never heard from again.

For six months, Ada cared for her companion, Lorne Knight, as he became weaker from the effects of his disease.  She cut wood, collected snow for water, set traps and taught herself to shoot.  Terrified of rifle fire, she feared the polar bear even more.  Knight’s decline was swift.  His symptoms were horrific and the illness affected his moods.  Within a couple of months he was regularly slipping in and out of delirium, and on June 23, Lorne Knight died.

Alone on the island with a corpse she was unable to bury, Ada moved to the supply tent, hunted for food, and kept a diary filled with gratitude to God for keeping her alive another day that she might see her son.  She made a second hunting boat of animal skins when her first was taken by the wind.  She “fussed over” the expedition’s cat and “mothered it,” fearing she was going insane.  Finally, on August 20, Ada was found and told her rescuers, “There is nobody here but me.  I am all alone.”

Controversy ensued after Ada’s rescue and continues to this day.  Accusations concerning her motives and character swirled, fueled by Stefansson’s need to protect his reputation and her rescuer’s desire for notoriety.  Throughout, Ada refused to speak to reporters and became reclusive in her attempts to maintain her privacy and make a new life.  She did befriend Knight’s family in Oregon and returned some of his belongings to them.

Stefansson attempted to settle his obligations to Ada and the men’s families by offering Wrangel Island for sale to the governments of Canada and the United States, and then to private parties.  It seemed beyond his comprehension that the island did indeed belong to Russia.

Ada Blackjack’s life continued in destitution and fragile health.  Eventually, she lived alone in a shack in Anchorage, and earned a meager living at sewing, housekeeping, fishing, hunting and even berry-picking.  Rumors surfaced in the Arctic and Siberia through the years about white men being sighted, but documentable information was never produced.  The families of the lost men would continue to press Stefansson well into the 1930′s, but nothing was resolved.  Later, Stefansson would begin to minimize and then outright deny his part in the failed expedition.

Wrangel Island has subsequently been used by the Russians as a prison, a political concentration camp and a KGB training center, befitting its desolate isolation.  In 1983, Ada Blackjack died at the Pioneers’ Home in Palmer, Alaska, where no one knew her story.  Ada’s son, Billy, had been working and was able to get the Alaskan legislature to grant recognition of his mother’s bravery one month after her death:

“What is known is that for month after lonely and terrifying month, Ada Blackjack Johnson . . . lived off the land, battled polar bears, and somehow managed to survive until a rescue boat arrived nearly two years after she arrived on the island. . .”

jenniferniven.com

Jennifer Niven has said that this book arose out of her research for a previous book, The Ice Master, a story of a doomed Wrangel Island expedition prior to Ada’s ordeal.  Her research revealed the story hidden away in archives in Canada, New Hampshire, Alaska and North Carolina, within personal materials from the men’s families and Billy Blackjack’s records, recollections and files.  From all of these disparate sources, she pieced together a most fascinating story of grim, heartbreaking survival.

Related Articles:

In the Name of the Crown

The Heroine of Wrangel Island

Time Magazine:  Wrangel Island, February 4, 1929

Other Posts in the Series Stories of Women in Alaska:

FRONTIER TEACHER

CLAIRE – NO SMALL ADVENTURE

SURVIVOR is a post from: Passing Thru

Image by Archangeli via Flickr

I despair on the morning of our departure when we are cleared for takeoff.  We are leaving Alaska and I have not seen Denali with my own eyes.  Uncharacteristically, I am in a window seat, a consequence of the first class cabin arrangement.  As I look out above the clouds, I am stunned.  Now The Great One chooses to reveal itself: icy twin peaks rendered bright by the sun.

“You see me now,” it whispers.

We struggle upon our our return.  Everything is different, off balance, needing more contrast.  We are halfhearted in locating our bearings.  We find it difficult to describe the pull of the land we have left.  When asked, we are nearly mute:  “Indescribable.”  “Unbelievable.”  “Awesome.”  “Incredible.”  The elemental presence we experienced courses through our veins, powerful, magnetic, unfettered, undeniable.

We have been Outside for six weeks.  Alaska holds us.  Our compass has been reset to our own True North – the Last Frontier.

We see it now.

OUTSIDE, SEEING is a post from: Passing Thru

When we enter the parking lot for Potter Marsh, we see a hand-lettered sign warning us to lock our cars and leave no valuables to temptation.  Other hand-posted notifications cite bird species observed and warn of bears.  There is an erasable whiteboard for anyone to post an update.  This collaborative system is common to many of the places we’ve visited.

The boardwalk meanders in spider-y fashion thoughout the marsh, which is fed by fast streams the salmon favor.  The traffic noise has faded to a quiet peace, and our walk is leisurely.  At first things don’t seem too exciting.  Then I realize I need to look closely.

Potter Marsh is bustling with activity.  Tiny Yellow Legs (we can’t tell if they’re ‘Greater’ or ‘Lesser’) dart back and forth in the shallows.  They look like little sandpipers hurrying about.  A mixed group of pintails and grebes in the water is more languid.  These families are swimming from pond to pond in clusters.

The marsh wasn’t always a wetland.  Although it is now part of the Anchorage Coastal Wildlife Refuge, at the turn of the century this site was dry land.  The Alaska Railroad changed that in 1917, when an embankment was built to lay waterside track along beginning of the Turnagain Arm.  Fresh water was trapped on the east side of the Seward Highway, transforming the upland into a rest-stop for migrating water birds.   Between 30,000 to 50,000 visitors stop in each year.

Three creeks feed the marsh.  The hydrology is just now being studied.  Discovery of high groundwater volume moving through the ecosystem has led to calls for suspending development upstream.  Interruption of groundwater flow due to construction is disturbing the balance and depositing sediment, filling up the marsh.

Despite these changes, salmon still spawn upstream in Potter Marsh.  We spot one nearly spent in the shallows.  The salmon slowly twists near the surface, breaching to gasp for air.  This is a dance of death to be, part of the life cycle, horribly fascinating.  I feel sorry for the fish – humanizing it on its sandy deathbed – and walk on so as to look no more.

This is our last day and we’re spending it without much of a plan.  The truth is, we don’t want to leave.  And we don’t want to talk about wanting to stay, either.

The mist and gloom of the day is a perfect depiction of our mood.  When the drizzle intensifies, we head for the parking lot.  I am unsettled.  I am not sure what to do with all I have taken in from this land.  I climb in and silently buckle up, as it all seems too big for words.

POTTER MARSH is a post from: Passing Thru

Book cover via Amazon

Part 2 – Stories of Women in Alaska

A feisty schoolteacher making waves at the turn of the century in frontier Alaska sounded like the perfect subject for the next read. Hannah Breece came to Alaska in 1904, assigned by the U.S. Department of Education to establish schools for Native and Russian children.  Her timely view throughout her 14 years in the Frontier was that her purpose was to bear educational gifts and benefits from the U.S. government and civilization itself. Jane Jacobs, Hannah’s great-niece, known by her own right as a leading urbanologist, fills in the gaps that Hanna left in her narrative, in A Schoolteacher in Old Alaska.

Hannah’s first four years were spent on Afognak Island and Wood Island off Kodiak Island.  She had already been a teacher for twenty-four years in Pennsylvania and Rocky Mountain Indian Reservations.  This photo shows two Anglo women who are identified as possibly schoolteachers on Wood Island in the time period she was there.  The Alaskan island villages in which she worked have relocated and vanished, and the terrain has shifted or they were obliterated by tidal waves resulting from 1964 earthquake.  Jacobs retraced her aunt’s sojourn in Alaska and added narrative and context to her aunt’s handwritten memoir.

I wondered what would bring a 45 year old spinster to the frontier.  While quite conventional and proper, Hannah also held daring views.  She was not bound by traditional teaching methods and often improvised when she encountered language barriers and restricted opportunities to be in front of her pupils due to their family commitments and lifestyle.  She was generally enthusiastic, religious, loved finery, and was a staunch prohibitionist.

Travel was perilous and upon arrival, life was arduous in these villages.  Contrasting cultures between Russian and Aleut residents often necessitated ingenious solutions.  Hannah was responsible for book learning, but also for educating the populace in modern ways.  She often served as an on-site mediator, and also advocated for the people, serving as a conduit to and from the U. S. Department of Interior.

Hannah’s preference was to get things up and going, and then, after things were in place, move on to a new remote location.  She would typically request reassignment after two or three years.  After the Kodiak area assignments, she moved on to the Lake Iliamna area – shown in the photo, and then to Fort Yukon and Wrangell.

In a lengthy commentary at the end of the memoir, Jacobs comments and clarifies through a modern lens.  Seeking to draw conclusions derived from federal policy as meted out by an increasingly frustrating labyrinth of bureaucratic agencies, Jane bemoans Washington’s micro-managing and ignorance.  The system was firmly in place and bucking it was to no avail.

More interesting is Jane’s discovery that Hannah may have self-sabotaged her career with her partisan advocacy of Native interests.  Much of this advocacy stemmed from benign neglect on the part of Washington.  Personnel changes and unfilled positions left many of her requests unanswered.

Jane admits that she let Hannah’s fragmented manuscript languish for more than 50 years.  Assumptions and attitudes inherent in Hanna’s times conflicted with Jane’s beliefs – she hated them.  As time passed, though, Jane came to understand that without the attitudes and beliefs, there would have been no story.  Hannah and others like her would never have been sent, nor more than likely would have gone on their own, to Alaska.

Hannah eventually retired to Oregon.  Jacobs recalls a rare visit to Pennsylvania and was taken along on a visit to a colleague of her aunt’s in an old folks’ rest home.  Expecting to be bored, instead the 9 year old Jane recalls a rollicking afternoon spent with the two old ladies gleefully recalling scandals and hilarious moments.  Later, she would be somber thinking of the elderly teacher, confined to one room, waiting on the inevitable in obscurity, highly ironic considering the dangers and adventures that had gone before.

The last sentence of the memoir reads, “And I was glad that I had had a small part in blazing the way for better things in this most beautiful, most wonderful land.”   Ultimately, Hannah is revealed as generous, stubborn, independent and original.  I think I would have liked her very much.

FRONTIER TEACHER is a post from: Passing Thru