Timber Time

(Chapter excerpt from “’A’ is for Anaktuvuk: Teacher to the Nunamiut Eskimos.
Anna Bortel, schoolteacher, is the speaker.)

Anaktuvuk Pass is above the Arctic Circle. There is no access by roads, railroad, river, or seacoast. Transportation by dogsled is only possible in winter when there is snow. In 1960, there was no formal airstrip. The population at that time included 104 Native men/women/children and 140 sled dogs. Anna was the only white woman in the transitory village. She was also the only schoolteacher with the rigor, determination, passion, and qualifications to be the first permanent teacher for the approximately 28 children, some of whom that did not speak English. Here is a glimpse into her mission.

I’d marveled at the mid-August palette of reds, rust, and wine, and savored their ever-deepening colors. Then one morning I’d awaken to find the rich radiance had been snow-scrubbed to gray half-tones. After six winters in Alaska villages I was no longer a Cheechako; even so, with each step northward I’d felt the increased confinement of a condensed summer and expanded winter. Alaska was an enormous state and daylight hours varied considerably. Here, above the Arctic Circle, there were weeks each summer, between mid-May and August, when the sun did not set at all. Playing by the same rules, there were weeks in winter when the sun did not show its face, much less the top of its head; only a rosy halo reflected above the horizon.

The Native people thought little of the winter box, and further north, in Barrow, there were actual celebrations when the sun shut the door and hibernated from November 18 through January 24. Not me. I found myself hungry for light. I’d look at my calendar and calculate when the shiny globe would pull itself out of its dark grave, rise again, and then in full glory fill the sky with life-giving brightness.

Anna chopping ice on the lake to melt for water

My running waterwas no longer relatively convenient, but a mile-walk to the lake. I staggered against the wind and walked on top of wind-crusted snow until I unexpectedly broke through and found myself with one foot floundering in soft fluff. At home, I measured out water for each task and made as few trips as possible to the lake. I didn’t dare forget an ax to chop the ice.

The ruggedness manifested itself in beauty, as well as unforgiving reminders that survival required everyday vigilance. Snow draped the fortresses of mountains on either side of the valley, and their pristine whiteness stood out against the glacier-blue sky. Lazy pink sunrises and blushing sunsets added the remaining third color to the winter hues. The pass didn’t get the snow accumulation that some other parts of Alaska acquired, but the wind packed down what did fall, making a firm foundation for dog-sled travel.

Already, in mid-October, I’d stuck my toes deep into the caribou socks Susie Paneak had made especially for me. The fur against my ankle socks kept my toes toasty and the additional padding inside my mukluks cushioned the walk on the frozen tundra. It seemed that if one’s feet were comfortable, the rest of the body warmed more easily.

Icy fingers of cold reached into my sod hut and chapel classroom. A huddle of multiple bodies helped. On any given night teenagers and children migrated into my cabin. Sometimes I felt like I was in possession of a very large family. Many times my home functioned as a study hall. The students gathered near the glow of my gasoline lantern to do their homework, rather than struggling at home with dim candlelight. When the Eskimos didn’t have a candle, they would dip a piece of cloth in caribou fat, and strike a match to it; that small, flickering flame would be the only light in their house. My lantern could not chase shadows out of the corners, but it was faithful in providing a liberal circle for reading and writing.

I worked on lesson plans or wrote letters at my table. Scholars sat on the floor or an extra kitchen chair. The older students read quietly or helped with dishwashing, but the younger ones hovered at my elbow or begged to play Cootie. After they’d leave, I’d find Cootie legs or eyes beneath my bed or under Already, in mid-October, I’d stuck my toes deep into the caribou socks Susie Paneak had made especially for me. The fur against my ankle socks kept my toes toasty and the additional padding inside my mukluks cushioned the walk on the frozen tundra. It seemed that if one’s feet were comfortable, the rest of the body warmed more easily.

With the constant entourage, I wrote my sister Millie, “I am never lonely.” I was fortunate. The companionship and interactions were a remedy for winter depression.

I thought I’d made progress in adapting to the no-knock policy of my village visitors. I was wrong. One afternoon, I returned home from an intense day of teaching. My flashlight led me through the arctic entry and into the dark house. Usually, as soon as I entered, I’d pump up and light my lantern, but on this day that seemed like too much effort. I didn’t have the energy to even take off my parka and collapsed flat on my back, on my bed, and then drifted in the twilight between wakefulness and sleep.

Somewhere in my drowsy state, I sensed a presence in the unlit room. I strained my eyes. A bright light shone suddenly in my face. I bolted upright!

“There you are!” It was Jack, a schoolboy. I felt relieved, but my heart still thumped. He moved the light from my face and I stood up withmy flashlight, and shown it at him. He sprang back. “Miss Bortel, what is wrong?”

He explained that the kids hadn’t seen a light at the classroom orin my house, which they expected after school let out in the afternoons. He’d volunteered to investigate. “You okay now.” He was genuinely relieved that nothing was amiss, and ran out to spread the glad tidings that I’d been found.

At my wit’s end, on Friday I stretched a rope across the two entry posts as a sign of “no visiting” hours. I didn’t want anyone disturbing my lazy sleep-in on Saturday.

*****

I’d expected new experiences in Anaktuvuk, but I never knew exactly what those experiences would be. Not all were met with laughter or satisfaction. One night, I awoke to a weird, high-pitched vibrating sound. It reverberated like the string section of an orchestra warming up before a concert. I’d become accustomed to the howl of the constant wind as it chased around my sod house, but this reverberation made sleeping impossible. I lay

awake trying to discern its exact whereabouts. I visualized the outdoor thermometer and groaned as I mentally saw the mercury sunk well below zero. I did not relish leaving my cocoon of comforters. The cacophony continued. I tossed and turned, trying to muffle the racket by pressing my pillow around my ears. Finally, in exasperation, I relinquished all hopes of sleep and crawled out of bed to find my caribou parka and boots.

The bitter wind smacked me in the face and pinched my lungs. Now I was fully awake. I stopped to orient myself in the darkness. Moonlight slipped through the ice fog and cast an eerie glow on the clump of sod houses and skeletal caches. The view intrigued me, but my warm bed enticed me more. I had a job to do. After digging around in the snow, I found my stepladder and leaned it against the sod. Up I crawled to the top of my house. In the fall, when Gladys Main and Ida Mae Merrill, my Fairbanks friends, had spent a week with me, they had attached wires to secure my stovepipe and steady it against the wind. Gladys, also a schoolteacher, was tall and could ably stretch to connect the wires. Ida Mae, a cook at the University of Alaska,

and fittingly round, could find something funny in any situation. For one second I contemplated what she’d be joking about now.

The original concept was worthy, but at this time of the year, with the frigid temperatures, hoarfrost encased the wires. The combination of frost and wind set up vibrations that caused the high-pitched screeching sound. I rubbed on the wires with my mittens. The nerve-jangling racket subsided. The quiet was momentary. Howling huskies, signaled to one another that something was amiss in the middle of the night, which perhaps they should all know about. That was music compared to the untuned orchestra on my roof. I edged back down and hoped for some rest. Eventually, the dogs’ sad wails were replaced by the familiar sound of wind.

ked at me without understanding what I was talking about.

*****

After school one day, a student announced, “John Hugo and other men go down to Kivik (area – not village) and Ihyanituk (area – not village) to hunt. They get cabins fixed for winter.

When Anna Hugo dropped in, she stirred my desire further.

“My parents are going to Kivik at school break.”

The entire village was preparing for Timber Time.

“Would there be a possibility that I could go, too?” I inquired boldly. I realized sled space was limited and that everyone who went along must make some contribution. I’d accept a “no,” but hoped for a “yes.”

“I’ll ask,” replied Anna.

“I can take food and help with the cooking,” I offered.

In awhile, she returned with a message of acceptance from her parents.

“When do we leave?” I asked excitedly.

“Maybe Tuesday, maybe not,” she shrugged her shoulders.

This conversation repeated itself for another week. I’d managed to schedule flying connections to Ohio for the winter break, a series of five segments, but dogsled travel defied such precision. After several more days, I told myself, You must learn to go on Eskimo Standard Time.From what I’d learned about these people, weather and family health were the determining requisites. Who knew when these factors would come together? Regardless, I prepared to leave at a moment’s notice and in one corner of my home I stashed supplies I would need for the sled trip. Among the items were tomato paste and seasonings for a spaghetti supper, along with chocolate Quick for cocoa, and peanut butter for sandwiches. Then I waited.

At 8:45 AM on November 4, Anna Hugo came over and announced our imminent departure.

In the gray of morning, John Hugo placed a large canvas over the entire dogsled and steadily arranged our supplies. I watched in horror as the sled filled up.

“But, Anna, where will we sit?” I whispered nervously.

“We will sit on top of everything,” she said casually.

The heap grew. “But how will we hang on?” I asked. I couldn’t believe my eyes as John lashed down the huge mound. How would I stay on for the ride? My prospects looked grim.

John positioned his team in their harnesses. Ten dogs leaped forward, eager to pull, and yelping in anticipation.

Then it was my turn.

“Come Anna,” Anna Hugo motioned me to sit in front of her as she climbed toward the back of the sled. John took his position behind the sled on the runners, ready to release the brake and yell “Go!” I looked around for some anchor and finally dug my caribou-skin-mittened thumb under a rope. The dogs lunged forward before I could brace my legs around the supplies, and I lurched against the Anna behind me. The wild ride began.

Anna’s view on her dogsled ride to Kivik

In my dreams I’d imagined an idyllic sled-dog ride with a comfortable “seat” on caribou skins. I’d brought along two cameras and had planned to alternately take still slide photos and 8mm movie sequences. But now, I wondered if I’d miss all the scenery as we traveled down the John River. Hanging on – by my thumb and thighs – demanded all my attention, much less any chances of filming.

The omnipresent wind made our ruffs flap around our faces. I mentally thanked Susie Paneak for outfitting me for this arctic quest. We’d only just begun and already I was grateful for the caribou socks, mittens, and the mukluks. I’d overheard the village mothers tell their children, “White people don’t know how to dress for cold.” Probably true. Susie didn’t want the schoolteacher to freeze to death.

Mile after mile the super-charged dogs raced over the frozen Anaktuvuk River without any indication of tiring. Meanwhile, I clung to the raring bareback until I thought my tense legs would break. No wonder that when I returned home and undressed, I found my thighs and calves were black and purple. I just need to rest my legs for a few minutesplayed like a broken record in my mind. After awhile, a new message was add: I just need to wipe my nose.

Then, I took the chance. I let go of the rope to find a tissue in my parka pocket. At that same instant a strong gust overpowered the sled, pushing it sideways on the glare ice. It skidded out-of-control until we slammed into a pressure ridge. I sailed off the sled. John yelled at the dogs to stop. Anna clung to my parka and managed not to topple off after me – as she dragged me alongside the sled until her father was able to stop the raring dogs. We looked at each other and in comic relief burst out laughing at the unexpected derailment. At least I’d managed to stretch my legs and blow my nose.

“We’ll soon be there,” Anna encouraged me.

Even with that hope, I reluctantly crawled back on the sled, stuck my thumb under the lashing, and braced my numb legs for the remainder of the trip. Three hours after leaving Anaktuvuk Pass, and none too soon for me, we arrived at our first day’s destination: Ihyanituk, 25 miles south of Anaktuvuk, and where the Anaktuvuk River joined the John River.

David, one of students, stood beaming at the door of the sod hunting cabin. His hair was tugged in all directions and looked as though he’d just pulled off his parka hood. “I see you coming,” he said.

I was happy to see him, elated to get off a whale of a ride, and in Seventh Heaven to go inside a shelter.

I shivered and shook as we sipped his welcoming feast of hot tea and coffee, and chewed on caribou meat.

Mabel Paneak and her brother, Raymond, arrived after us, followed by the Rulland siblings – Tommy, Roseanna, Johnnie; Danny, who had been so sick with tuberculosis, and his father, Clyde Hugo, joined our indoor camp-out, too. We sat on the willow-bough floor and peals of laughter filled the air as we recounted the near catastrophes enroute. Just like me, Mabel had flown off her perch and landed in a rock pile. Johnnie’s dogs had careened about and dislodged him from his sled runners. Roseanna had given up trying to balance on top the sled over the bumpy terrain and attempted to run alongside. She’d tripped and fallen in a mound with the sled passing her by. The hilarity prodded the chill away. Tea steeped, tuttu (caribou) simmered, and tales grew.

“Maybe we take out stove,” Tommy remarked later when conversation lulled and the kerosene lamp dimmed.

I looked at him incredulously. How would we stay warm?

“Too many people,” he said.

He had assessed the sleeping situation. If 11 people crawled into sleeping bags and stretched out, there might not be room for the stove in these tight quarters. We scrambled about and like a puzzle, we arranged our sleeping accommodations. We succeeded to squeeze ourselves together. The stove remained.

The next morning, someone tossed more grounds into the coffee pot, and I prepared breakfast with my offerings of homemade bread, butter, and peanut butter. When I gingerly climbed atop the sled for our next segment of travel, I felt warm and satisfied; but the twinges in my stomach reminded me of yesterday’s sled-riding anxiety.

We had traveled southwesterly to Ihyanituk. Now the mushers turned the dogs northwesterly up the Ihyanituk Creek. The trek grew increasingly difficult. Mushers struggled to guide the sleds over the frozen waterfalls. Dog’s feet, cracked by running through the ice overflows, left red prints in the snow. Empty wolf traps left disappointment on faces. Swampland frozen with knobby hummocks increased the bumpy starts and stops of the sled as the dogs labored on the uneven surface.

At one point, the postcard view of spruce trees and snow-covered mountains drew my attention away from the hazards. Untouched snow and trees! I hadn’t realized how visually starved I was for trees. Snow on trees.The color of evergreen trees. Vegetation that was taller than willows. I hadn’t seen trees since I’d arrived in Anaktuvuk – five months ago. I’d missed them so much in the barren pass.

A moment later, a tree branch ran up my leg, shredding the heavy wool pants. I felt a numbing scratch, but couldn’t risk checking out the damage. After straining to go up a long steep hill, the dogs quickened their pace as they started down the other side. We descended the hill, hitting every bump with gigantic force.

Just when I thought I could notsurvive another jounce, Anna suggested, “Let’s walk.”

Finally, I could forget merely surviving and attend to the inspiring environment. I couldn’t take my eyes off the trees. We continued the arduous journey on foot. About 1:30 PM, a Christmas-card log cabin nestled in spruce trees appeared. The dogs veered toward it. I’d made it.

Except for a small wood stove and one wide board, the cabin was completely empty. John built a lively fire in the stove withrealwood, not puny twigs like we used in Anaktuvuk. Raymond chopped additional wood. Water heated up quickly and we took the edge off our hunger with Pilot Boy crackers and tea. Mabel cut up meat and I found the noodles I’d brought along. Our one-course meal, cooked in a clean five-gallon aviation gasoline can, consisted of one-third can of water and plenty of caribou with noodles. We placed cups and plates on the board on the floor.

Following our afternoon meal, John left to check on traps before the early winter darkness reined in outdoor activities. The girls attended to mending. Mabel patched Raymond’s torn mukluk and shared some sinew with me so I could mend my wool pants. I asked that they teach me to sing “Jesus Loves Me” in Eskimo. Mabel showed me how to use the sinew and we passed the time singing and sewing.

Scrapping a sheep skin in preparation to make mittens

The day ended with only mukluks removed; otherwise, our nightclothes and day clothes remained the same. Conversation had slowed and the fire crackled less. A lone wolf howled in the distance. A wolf pack answered back.

“A good sign,” remarked Danny. “Maybe there is wolf in trap.”

Tomorrow we would know. Tonight the dying embers fizzled and went out. I snuggled deep into my sleeping bag – the night would be cold.

The next morning, Raymond and David left their comfy nests and made a roaring fire in the subzero-cabin. Ice covered the water pail. The rest of us emerged tentatively from our nighttime insulation. Mabel started coffee and I searched for pancake ingredients.

“Coffee-tugok’pick? (Do you want coffee?),” asked David.“

“I coffee-tugok’tunga (Yes, I want coffee),” I answered.

“Tomorrow you will go back to Anaktuvuk,” said Anna Hugo. “Roseanna, Mabel, and I will not go back, until later.”

My eyes teared up at the thought of riding atop the sled for that distance. That would be a long haul, longer than when we’d come out here since the 40 miles had been divided into two days. Anna read my mind.

“You will sit in the sled and even in a sleeping bag.”

Sure enough, John put the wolf and fox skins he’d trapped below my seating section.

In comparison to the trip to Kivik, the jostling sled ride back to Anaktuvuk felt like a cradle. A big disappointment was to find the sod house we had stayed our first night, had burned to the ground. We stood in disbelief. But, in Nunamiut tradition, no one complained or expressed any futility about the situation. They dug away snow, gathered wood, and started a fire for tea. I shivered and waited for the water to boil. After I pressed the cup to my lips and the hot liquid ran down my throat, I still shook. How could anyone really get warm in thirty or more degrees below zero? Someone on another sled hauled out a hindquarter of caribou and cut slices of the frozen raw meat. I pulled out peanut butter sandwiches I’d made before leaving that morning. I’d kept them near me for body warmth, but they were still stiff as a piece of crusted snow – although they did have more flavor.

As we continued up the John River, the hint of daylight diminished and the cold intensified. John was riding the sled runners and I turned to look up at his face in the last glimmers of light. The raw polar wind and cold had transformed his breath, moist from exertion, into an artist’s brush. His parka ruff was covered with frost, as were strands of his hair, which hung down on his forehead. Even his eyebrows, eyelashes, and whiskers were silvered. I wanted to remember it forever. I reached for my movie camera, but couldn’t get it to snap a picture. I turned back to John’s face and etched it in my memory.

We arrived in Anaktuvuk at 4 PM.Dora, John’s wife, had coffee and tuttu waiting for the weary travelers. After the six-day absence, my outlook had changed and I saw Anaktuvuk like a city in comparison to the wilderness where I’d traveled. The trip forever altered my perception of the nomadic pattern of the Eskimos.

It seemed the trip altered their perspective as well; they’d embraced me before, but now I felt they’d flung open their hearts to me. This journey had been a sort of initiation; now I truly belonged to them.

When I left for the winter break, several men carried my bags to the plane.

“We’ll miss your organ playing,” said one man.

“Thank you. You teach our children,” chimed in others.

“I’ll only be gone until school starts in March,” I assured them.

“You come back?” they kept asking, even when I assured them that except for what I needed for my trip back to Ohio, I’d left all my belongings right there in my cabin.

“You take care of yourselves,” I urged, blinkiing tears from my eyes.

I didn’t want anyone missing when I returned.