‘Soon,’ I said. ‘We’ll begin our bear hunt very soon.’
‘In the car-house?’ Jack quizzed.
I smiled at Audrey. ‘Yes, we’re going on a bear hunt very, very soon . . . in the car-house.’
While walking towards the restaurant where I planned to meet Debra, my guide into the far north, I thought over how my son’s innocent lack of vocabulary had rechristened the Pequod, erasing all its dramatic and portentous import. It struck me then how his young instincts received the world as it was, without overloading it with all kinds of imaginary clutter. Something in me told me that Jack and Cal would not be as apprehensive about the wilderness as both Audrey and I were, though we only hinted at it to each other.
Debra drove me to a restaurant outside the city on the banks of the Chena. I sat and watched the heavy mass of water, remembering how our canoe had moved in it, dreamy and idle. I thought of Baudelaire’s contemplative lines, ‘When shall we set sail for happiness’. Yet the moment the lines came into my head I rejected happiness as totally inappropriate to my sense of what was waiting out there.
As strangers do at a first (proper) meeting, Debra and I exchanged banal conversations about books and travel and writing, and obviously about Alaska. I confessed I wasn’t exactly sure what I expected from this place. I had a head full of halfbaked notions that were pressure-cooking away inside me. She had spent many years working in hospital and community health projects in the north of the country and expressed a real affection for the Eskimo people and their way of life. She spoke without a hint of romanticism or naivety. I studied her as she spoke.
Her face was round and her colouring sallow. Her skin was smooth and unmarked and showed no signs of the years she had spent in the outback of Alaska. Her voice was soft by nature, I thought, rather than disposition. But another part of me suspected that she lived a life less hectic than others and therefore didn’t have to project her personality on to the world. I found it very difficult to put an age on Debra, but her mane of ravenblack hair, flowing straight and shiny over her shoulders and down her back, compelled me to wonder if she herself was part Inuit or had some indigenous Indian blood in her. I didn’t ask if it was so, and I’m not sure why. There was something mysterious about her, something hidden or perhaps withheld, that intrigued me. I didn’t know what it was so I couldn’t address it either with myself or with her. It was as if a memory of something or someone was surfacing and submerging as our conversation evolved.
‘We will have to cross the Kotzebue Sound then snake in and out of the sloughs and inlets along the Bering Sea coast towards the Chukchi Sea until we find Lena and Charlie, the old Eskimo shaman we shall be staying with,’ Debra informed me. ‘It would be hopeless to try this on our own.’
Suddenly I was drowning in the strangeness of the places she mentioned, their extreme remoteness and isolation, the fact that I would be living at close quarters with people I knew nothing about and whose world was so utterly alien to my own. My unspoken panic must have signalled itself to my guide, and she threw me a lifeline. ‘It’s a very different life than that which most of us are used to, but after what you’ve been through things shouldn’t bother you.’
I grasped the lifeline quickly, and nodded, full of mock macho indifference. ‘I suppose not!’
Before I could take a breath she asked simply, ‘What is it you’re looking for anyway, Brian?’
Maybe it was the way she used my Christian name, combined with the starkness of the question, but her words caught me completely off-guard. I looked at her coppery face and her placid dark eyes. There was neither animation nor a hint of a question in her eyes. It was as if she hadn’t asked it, as if it had come from somewhere else, or maybe it wasn’t a question but rather a statement. In any case she had caught me adrift and I answered like a stranger in a strange town who has been asked for directions. ‘I don’t really know!’ I spluttered. Then, to cover my confusion, I stumbled through my lexicon of interests, finally homing in on the world of the Eskimo and the Alaskan landscape, with its mercurial climate, its vast emptiness, its eternal beauty and its ever-present silence. It must all lead to a contemplation of something other than the world we saw with our eyes. How closely did the lifestyle of the Eskimo relate to their spiritual understanding? She informed me that native peoples rarely talk with outsiders of such things, partly because they feel outsiders would not understand and they do not want to offend, but mainly because the spirit world is an everyday reality directing and informing their lives. ‘Anyway,’ she said, definitively moving the discussion on, ‘the spirit world is something you find for yourself and you share with them if you can, and if they will.’ I listened, spooked by how intuitively she had honed in on what I was stumbling around.
I was expecting more tangible information but was surprised by the next shift in our conversation.
‘Before I forget, it is customary to bring some gifts as well as food,’ Debra said. ‘Remember, whatever food you bring must be shared. In a sense it is communal property. So don’t bring any weird or fussy foodstuffs, or that’s what they’ll think of you.’
‘Okay, no pig’s feet or gorseflower wine,’ I joked, trying to sound unperturbed. ‘What type of presents?’ I added, admitting that I wouldn’t have a clue what to bring an old Eskimo shaman living in the far reaches of nowhere.
‘Tins of salmon for Charlie and bolts of cloth for Lena,’ Debra confirmed.
I was dumbfounded, as if the joke had been thrown back in my face. I looked at Debra in disbelief. Tins of salmon to the Eskimos had the ring of coals to Newcastle about it, and as for bolts of cloth, I kept thinking of old B movies which portrayed the white man giving gifts of blankets and beads and all manner of colourful gee-gaws to the natives. It was all too much of a cliché, and seemingly absurd.
‘You must be joking. Salmon to an Eskimo? The whole of Alaska is coming down with salmon. And tinned salmon? I mean, why would he want tinned fish of all things?’
Behind the smallest hint of a smile, my guide explained. ‘Tins keep for a very long time, and in the winter when there isn’t much food about you need to have a store to draw on. Charlie also has a sweet tooth, and the oil the tinned salmon are pressed in is a lot sweeter to an Eskimo than seal oil. As for Lena’s bolts of cloth, the summers are long and hot and you have to work hard to prepare for the winter. Light cotton is more comfortable and more colourful, and Lena is a very colourful woman, as you will see.’
Debra’s explanations only compounded my puzzlement. It really was that simple but I would never have guessed it. I was learning my first lesson about Inuit and subsistence living. Subsistence means survival, and that means doing what is easiest and obvious, not making life difficult by cluttering it up with a host of unnecessary complications. While I was mulling this over, Debra chose to put into practice what she had been explaining and suggested she would order in the provisions and presents as I would be too busy travelling; I could pay her my share when we set off in a few weeks’ time. It was sensible and simple and I concurred, returning her half smile and implying that perhaps there was more Inuit blood in her veins than she knew. I couldn’t be sure how she took my throwaway remark as she was busy making some notes to remind her about what to purchase for our trip. She turned her head from the table and stared into the slow-moving Chena River, doing a mental calculation about numbers of people multiplied by the number of days divided by the number of locations. I sat watching, doing my own calculations and feeling comfortable, relieved that my guide was a woman rather than some macho frontiersman who was out to impress. I was now feeling very safe with Debra. She knew which things were important.
At that moment something flew into my head and was out of my mouth before I had time to consider it. ‘Debra, did you ever write to me several years ago in Dublin?’ I was about to leave the question there but carried on, overwhelmingly convinced that Debra was indeed the mysterious woman who had twice contacted me to explain that the musician I was attempting t
o write about had been a ‘Dreamwalker’. Before she could answer I was moved to turn the question into a statement. ‘You are her!’ I said, with the calm assurance of absolute enlightenment.
A brief silence passed between us, then Debra said, ‘You didn’t reply.’
Her face, vacant as a snow-drift, contrasted with the torrent of words that poured from me.
‘I couldn’t because there was no return address on the correspondence. I couldn’t make out your signature. But I did much later. About one month after the book was published I broadcast a message on the BBC World Service to the Inuit woman in Alaska. It was broadcast at Christmas. Do you get the World Service? I have never mentioned those letters or you to anyone in Alaska, and here you are. I mean, here we are. This is just too much of a coincidence!’ I paused, breathless at the speed of my chatter. Then, with the same calm assurance, I stated, ‘But it’s not a coincidence. I don’t believe in coincidence, only in significant coincidence.’
This time I turned and stared into the Chena. Debra, I know, was looking at me. I was thinking harder than my face showed. I wanted to say that if nothing more came of the encounter and our travels together, then so be it. We would have a meeting of minds; somehow we would share the magic of this moment.
‘Nothing in this life happens by chance, Debra,’ I continued. ‘There’s a route map laid down for us all to follow if we will and if we can. I didn’t only come to Alaska to write a book about this place, I came to find something else. I’m not sure I know rationally what, but whatever it is I have a very strong instinctive sense that I may find it here, or at least discover the next signpost along the way. I didn’t come to the ends of the earth to write a travelogue. There is another agenda at work here, and I am not the author of it.’
I turned to my guide and looked into her face, part of me demanding an answer and wanting that quiet, dark demeanour of hers to be gathered up into my own excitement. But her face remained unmoved. ‘Jesus,’ I thought, ‘the woman thinks I’m nuts and is contemplating how the hell to extricate herself from this situation.’ But when she spoke her voice was soft and untroubled. ‘Yes, I have felt the same thing very strongly for several days. That’s why I thought we should meet. But I also needed to hear and understand your thinking.’
I thought my excitement had peaked, but then Debra said, ‘Perhaps we should go somewhere less busy.’ I agreed, but insisted on saying something before we departed. While we waited for the bill I told Debra how important her communications had been and how they had arrived at a significantly troubled time during the writing of the book. She could not possibly have known that they had provided the key to unlock profoundly difficult parts of the novel, but I was deeply indebted to these ‘missives from the Alaskan ether’, as I called them, and I wanted her to know it.
‘Things happen,’ she said as we rose to go. It was as if I had told her nothing more significant than the time of day. But both of us knew better than that.
We drove to Creamers Field, once the most northerly dairy in North America, now a protected nature reserve and stop-over for thousands of migratory birds. There were three well-laid-out nature trails that within minutes allowed you to depart from Fairbanks environs and submerge yourself in the wilderness. Only some waterfowl and cranes hunt at the periphery of this forest. Inside, it’s the stalking ground for moose and a breeding ground for mosquitoes and a million other kinds of fly and insect that thrive in the wet heat of the place. As we entered into its shadowy depths I understood why the wildfowl remain on the outskirts. The temperature of the place seems to shoot up, and the heat rising from the melting permafrost and the remnants of the last snowfall changes the very texture of the air in the place. You feel as though you’re steaming over a dark cauldron.
It was an otherworldly place indeed for two seeming strangers to come and talk of their separate understanding of what had propelled them together. But paradoxically, the deeper we walked into this infested confessional, the more unencumbered our conversation became. I was entranced as I watched how the flies, mosquitoes and moths seemed to be drawn to us both. Debra remained unperturbed by them; I, on the other hand, punctuated my conversation with wild swipes as I tried to keep the creatures from me. I was quite taken by Debra’s equanimity, as were the insects themselves, who seemed to alight on her hair only momentarily before disappearing. It was as if they came solely to acknowledge her presence and welcome her, and then took their leave. I didn’t think much of it at the time as I was too busy trying to protect myself from the ravaging creatures, but the recollection has struck me often since. Part of me does now believe that these creatures came almost to give homage. If not the queen, Debra was an honoured guest in this humming hive of the wilderness.
I don’t precisely recall how we got to the subject, but I found myself speaking about my incarceration and, paradoxically, how I had never before felt so free, so much at peace and with such clarity and lucidity of mind. They were subjects whose complexity and depth and perhaps strangeness I have never sought or been inclined to share with anyone, much less a stranger. But my guide to the Inuits did not seem like a stranger; in this strange cathedral of trees humming with an unearthly chorus of insect sounds, I felt at ease with her. Confession seemed effortless. It was as if Debra had been delivered to this place for this purpose. She listened in intense silence, intuitively understanding what my words seemed to stumble over. During lapses in my conversation, as I struggled to communicate, she spoke of her encounters with worlds that are hidden from the eye. Such worlds are often difficult to reveal, and many a life is lived in the shadows from a lack of such validation, but when we live close to our intuitions and emotions we can if we wish find companions in the strangest of places. The whole tenor of our shared exchange was one of support and deep mutual understanding. It would be foolish of me to attempt to record here the things we spoke of. I couldn’t anyway. For it was not so much the topic of our conversation but the emotional and psychic correspondence behind it that was significant.
When we emerged out of the forest it was as if we had made another level of contact. We had been to a place that takes some people many years to come to. As we parted, Debra confirmed that we would speak again soon, but between times she needed to make some journeys and speak with some people. I understood without another word that these journeys would not be to any place on a map, and that whatever information she sought would not be on this world.
As I wandered home from our encounter, I contemplated where my guide might take me. A part of me has always been looking for a place of belonging, a spiritual homeland that has nothing to do with ownership but a place where authenticity can be found and affirmed. Carl Jung called it a ‘psychic observation post’ from which we might understand the deepest parts of ourselves and recalibrate the trajectory of our life. Would my Inuit guide help me find such a place?
Road to the High One
Bolstered in the Pequod RV and loaded to the gills with all manner of supplies, we set out to navigate along the Alaska highway, stopping where we could before entering into the far reaches of Denali National Park whose wilderness features had been praised by everyone we had met. On my map I counted more than two dozen ‘protected wilderness refuges’. I love the reference to such remote places as refuges. I had intended staying in several of them throughout the state but was rapidly becoming aware that these places were huge. Yukon Flats Refuge, for instance, is larger than Ireland, and several of the other two dozen are larger than that. But Denali was supposedly famed above the rest. ‘It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen,’ people had said. ‘When you arrive, be prepared for the ultimate Alaskan experience.’
So we set off full of expectation. Adventures, we assume, are for children, but part of me believes we leave our childhood too soon for the disappointing El Dorados of adulthood. I had to admit I was more excited than I could comprehend. I looked at Jack and Cal strapped into the dining area of the RV. I wanted desperately for this adventure to work at
a level they could understand so that it might better inform me.
It’s only when you are on the road that you can begin to form a response to the phenomenon of ‘break-up’ – when the melting ice swells the rivers signalling that summer has arrived. Outside the enclosure of the town it begins to strike you like a candle that has just been lit, then swells up to its full brilliance; that seemed exactly how the forest floor appeared when the first sun flooded it. As if by magic the dark-green foliage of plants such as the cranberry and Labrador red contrast with the brilliant green of the moss carpet that seems to be burning chlorophyll amid this first prolonged saturation of natural light. The fireweed was out and already marking time. The first blush-red and green shoots would grow up to half an inch every day, reaching some six feet by September. Like red-hot rods pulled out of a furnace they burn in a fusion of red, orange and yellow. Summer is over, Alaskans say, when the fireweed blooms to its top in September. Wherever you are in the state, look to the fireweed and it will tell you unerringly just how far off winter is. This same fireweed would mark the duration of our stay. We set off as it was just emerging from the frozen earth, and would be departing when it reached the apex of its growth.
Now, journeying south and away from the northern ridges, we could see the effects of the winter snow’s dissolution into the thousands of rivers and streams. It is not impossible in the space of one day to stand at any creek bank and witness this surge in the water volume. The rising tempo of the cascading rivers is an acoustic background to the powerful forces moving across the land.
Of all the elements, none is more important than water. It dominates all other things. It shapes the land, creates habitats for wildlife, makes obstacles or avenues for travel, threatens or sustains human life. A watercourse fed by snowmelt and break-up ice floes can create the kind of havoc that cannot be contained. For some communities it is a time for prayer: that the ice may make a safe and peaceful journey to the sea. Such can be the fury and suddenness of these surges that in some areas it is not uncommon to see young moose stranded on loose ice floes, being swept down the raging torrents. If they are lucky the ice raft that carries them might be swept onto the nearby remade banks where they can scramble to safety. But for the majority, the torrents defeat them. We were too far south to witness such an event, but I had seen and heard the mood music of the water and could well believe the tragedy that awaits the innocent and the unprepared.