The mud was still frozen when I walked to KIYO Galena radio station at 9:15 a.m. on April 25, 2012. Frosted-stiff grass poked through the icy puddles-turned-lakes. Jeremy wanted to interview me. Jeremy was a newcomer disc jockey from Washington, not the state, but D.C. How he’d found his way here was a mystery; furthermore, how he’d acculturated to this village without Starbucks, light rail transit, horns honking, bright city lights, and a sea of suits and ties was beyond me. To me, everyone is a story. I interviewed him first. The interview with me was a fun conversation. I appreciated the opportunity.

Guest teaching was up next. I arrived at an aviation class with a power point of plane crashes – mostly my dad’s – and excerpts from Alaska Bush Pilot Doctor about flying situations: bobber gas gauge, wobble pump, broken ski cable, and so on. I wished my brother Mark was there. He’d actually know about all this aviation stuff; I just collect pictures, stories, and facts —and write about them.

The journalism students interviewed me for the school paper, “The Hawk.” They asked good questions, such as “What do you hope to accomplish while you’re here?”  Uh……have an adventure? Nope. Better answer: to find out about Galena Interior Learning Academy.  “Do you mind telling us how old you are?” Yes.

The day raced on. Language Arts class kept me hopping with Five Senses Writing, journalism WWWWH applications, and Personification.  Two girls joined me in the cafeteria. I wasn’t going to starve for conversation or food in this village. The Fox (missionary) family invited me to share supper with them in their home. It was my pleasure. I’d brought gifts for their girls – little Naomi and Ruthie. Names just like my sister and me.

Genny hadn’t missed a beat. With only a weeks’ notice, not only had she organized my shuttle services and lunches stops, but she’d put together a Meet and Greet at the library.

When I opened the library door, there was a man standing with his back to me. He could have been any man; any man in blue jeans and a baseball cap, but he wasn’t. He had graying red curls edging beneath his cap. Could it be? I walked slowly around him. His big smile and twinkling brown eyes confirmed it. Chris Sommers! He’d been the cutest little Athabascan Indian boy in my Tanana Day School class. Tanana, a village upriver from Galena, had supplied me with plenty of life-long memories, and he wasn’t the only classmate I’d heard about over the decades.

My sister, Mishal, works for Tanana Chiefs in Fairbanks, and flies up and down the Yukon River and keeps track of people’s where-abouts. She thought Chris lived in Galena, and was even the chief of the village.

I’d bumped into one of his younger sisters when I was in Tanana in 2009.

I certainly surprised her when I saw her walking down Front Street and called out, “Are you a Sommers”?

“How do you know?”

“There aren’t that many red-haired Natives up and down the river; and, in Tanana, back in ……….the only red-heads were from the Sommers’ family.”

“Yeah.”

Well, that started a conversation and she, two men, and I sat down on a backless wood bench facing the Yukon and talked about that year’s river breakup that had flooded Tanana.

Then there was their sister Marie. In my estimation, she’d been the prettiest girl in the Tanana Day School; prettiest of all in grades 1-8. Her smile can be seen on the cover photo of ‘A’ is for Alaska: Teacher to the Territory. (First girl on the left.)

I wished I could have talked to Chris longer. Didn’t he have three girls? Didn’t they all graduate from college? Colorado? Ah…..success stories I would have liked to have heard.

My time in Galena ran out. The memories won’t. I’m already thinking about next year’s jumping off trip from Fairbanks. Hmmmm…..Tanana?  Again? I hear the school teacher graduated from the school there and went back to teach. Why? What drew him back? I’m sure there’s a story.

Yes, those were baby chicks. Six of the tiniest, fuzziest little things. Three were shades of yellow and three had contrasting black splotches. Kim’s husband had purchased them in Fairbanks and the little cheepers had made their big flight the day before.

“Will they lay eggs?” I asked.

“Yes. Other people here have them.”

“Will they stay outside in the winter?”

“Yes – with a heat lamp. And, they’ll lay eggs even when it’s 50 below.”

I love chickens. They remind me of my Grandma Leppke’s Kansas farm where I followed her around when she fed chickens and gathered eggs. Sometimes I bravely snatched an egg beneath a full-grown flapping chicken.

I love chickens. They remind me of when we lived in Browning, Montana and my mother bought each of us four kids an Easter chick, painted in Easter colors, and they lived in a box in the kitchen. We didn’t love them as much when their fuzziness disappeared and prickly feathers emerged. One Sunday, Mom gathered up the chickens and stuck them in our VW van. They weren’t going to Sunday School. They were being dropped off at an Indian family’s home, on the way to our country church. From the looks on the parent’s faces, they would love having the grown-up chickens.

Later that evening, I met with six boarding school girls. Oftentimes people in the Lower 48 think all Alaska Natives are Eskimos. In reality, there are seven primary groups, of which two Eskimo groups, Athabascan Indian, and Aleuts form the majority. These girls were from around the state, and although with different heritages, they shared the commonality of isolated living environments in the villages they’d come from – not that I didn’t think Galena was isolated.

I was to interact as an author – whatever that means. I wanted to connect specifically with Galena so, I read the story “Breakup Takeoff” from Alaska Bush Pilot Doctor. The hero is Don Stickman. Don was an Athabascan Indian pilot from Nulato, a village a short distance downriver from Galena. I’d read through the phone book at the B&B and saw the name Stickman listed. Someone from his family lived in this village. I also chose it because it had to do with the Yukon River breakup — which had not yet occurred by Galena—but was anticipated.

After reading the story, we went on a Five Senses Walk. Five Senses Writing makes a story come alive and helps the reader feel as though she or he is right there – with the characters.

We paid attention to the road surface beneath our feet. Muddy? Smooth? Gravel-bumpy? Sloshy? We put our noses into the air, like a dog sniffing a scent. We smelled car exhaust, tundra awakening from the winter, and the aroma of woodstove smoke. We grabbed a handful of springtime snow, snow that had melted and frozen repeatedly. No longer was it flakey. Nor did it melt instantly in the warmth of our hands. It was grainy – like sand. Closing our eyes helped us focus on our senses. Walking with our eyes closed brought our attention to the warmth and chill of the evening sunshine filtering through the birch trees as we passed between the shadows and the open spaces.

This subdued and reflective focus lasted only so long. The invigorating air combined with long evening shadows compelled the girls to dash about and play shadow tag with one another. Giggles and shouts filled the air.

We hadn’t tasted the snow or mud or old leaves. But when we arrived back at the meeting house, we sipped hot chocolate. Our sensory experience was complete.

“What is the most comforting smell to you?” I asked.

“Wood smoke,” replied one girl quickly.

The short list was added to. Every smell mentioned had to do with the outdoors. These were true Alaskan girls. They resonated with the outdoors — no matter the frigid temperatures or lack of sunlight. It wasn’t the sense of warmth or sight. It was the life of the outdoors.

Wood smoke evokes memories in me of Mom’s propensity for wiener roasts — on a Yukon River shoreline, a Cook Inlet beach, or over a homestead burn barrel. I flashback to brush piles on the Gaede-80 homestead when my parents turned a wilderness into a home. I can still hear the clang of the woodstove door when Mom started the morning fire, while I remained buried beneath my flannel sheets.

Snow. Fresh air. The Big Dipper in a clear sky. Hot dog roasts. Mossy tundra. Even though one of the girls confided that she really was a city girl, she’ll always find her roots, her center, and her rejuvenation in the uncontained outdoor spaces. That’s just the way it is. That’s why I’ll never be a city girl – even if there are urban chickens.

I wanted to sit where I could see the terrain below; specifically, the Yukon River.  I climbed the shallow steps into the ERA airplane and looked ahead. The ceiling was low and even I couldn’t stand up between the single row of seats on either side of the narrow aisle.  Halfway back, I stepped over a hump in the floor and an older Native man informed me, “He doesn’t want us to sit back there. Weight and balance.” I sat down across from the gentlemen and noticed that his fingers were all stubs. Frostbite? My view outside was filled with the high wing and the back of a twin-engine.

About 10 people filled the seats in front of me. A number of passengers started conversations. The tall young man who crouched awkwardly to ensure our seatbelts were fastened, was every bit a commercial pilot in his clean black trousers and crisp white shirt. At that moment, he was also the flight attendant.

Even though my view was limited, I caught glimpses of the very frozen Yukon River.

When I deplaned, I wasn’t sure who to look for, but Genny, the school librarian, found me as if we were old friends. My suitcase would arrive in the outdoor chainlink fenced area. “They’ll put it on a pallet,” said Jenny. The other option was the mud.

Genny, the ultimate hostess, tour guide, and chamber of commerce spokeswoman, immediately oriented me to my unfamiliar surroundings.

Galena’s population of 500 is spread around three main parts:

–       The Air Force Base which is now used as Galena Interior Learning Academy (GILA) and is set back from the airport.

–       Old Town, the original townsite which runs along the often mile-wide Yukon River and is comprised of old cabins, outhouses, sled dog houses, the post office, and a docking area for barges.

–       An area upriver, away from the river, which includes the public school, health services, community hall, KYIU radio station, and houses. That evening, when I was invited to dinner by Kim, whose family lives in that area, she said, “We live in the suburbs.” As much as the Galena people told me they didn’t really live in a village, at no point was I convinced.

Scattered within these vicinities are the Alaska State Troopers post, the headquarters for the Koyukuk/Nowitna National Wildlife Refuge, St. Berchman’s Catholic Church and Galena Bible Church, government offices, two B&Bs, and a coffee shop. All in all, Galena is a hub for smaller villages up and down the river and the Interior.

Genny and Kim had set my agenda. Lunch at the school cafeteria, which was also the gym, was top of the list.

Breakup was in full force. The ground was frozen, but the snow was melting and water had no place to go; consequently, puddles were lake-size. I was ready to put on my tall rubber boots — even though I observed women in crocs and sandals. Some even wore cropped pants and frilly nylon blouses. It was sunny all right, but it was also 40 degrees. I was comfortable in my wool sweater.

Next on the list was to see if I had cell phone coverage. No. That meant they’d verbally tell me when I’d be where, and who would pick me up from where. Or, they could call the B&B if I was there.

The B&B was a double-wide trailer on stilts. It is not unusual for houses and building in the Interior to be on piers. Permafrost semi-thaws with temperatures, but more so if a warm house is placed on top it. The owners did not live in the B&B and I was on my own. The entry was through the garage which smelled strongly of fuel. The bedroom overlooked a frozen lake. “Overlooked” was enhanced by the de-cline of the room. “There’s been some shifting,” said the owner. This shifting was evident in bedroom doors which stayed open unless a shim was wedged beneath them, kitchen cabinet doors that swung open, and an exterior door that didn’t lock. I prayed there would not be an earthquake.

The boiler had a problem. The heat was hot water baseboard. The electrical heater warmed my room nicely. The shower the next morning was chilly. There were no window coverings. Facing the lake was a good thing. The sun didn’t set until after 10 pm. The bed was comfortable.

My 48 hours in Galena was a blur of unknowns, adventures, and fun surprises — were those baby chicks I heard peeping?

To be continued…..