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	.	The View		.	.	FROM 65 NORTH			.
	.	Page 1 of 1.....Return to Vitae-	.						.
	.	.Larry Ledlow, Alaskan correspondent	.						.
	.	. 9-11 from 65N . Larry Ledlow (C) 2001 Larry Ledlow			.	.	.	.	.
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	.	9-11 from 65N Theater in the Round I awoke early on September 11th. Feeling pressed by project demands at work and an impending critical meeting, I dispensed with my usual lie-in, taking thirty or forty minutes easing into consciousness. In a string of many sleep-deprived days, I opted for hard-core alarm mode on my clock radio instead of the usual “Morning Edition” from National Public Radio. The trick worked, and I was on the move immediately with the next step in my routine. Showering is, perhaps, the most demanding task I face most days. My plumbing is fickle to the extreme; temperature extremes, that is. The water flows from a boiler and holding tank in the garage about forty feet from the cabin. It mixes in unusual ways along its lengthy and circuitous route to my shower upstairs. Often only a narrow comfort window exists. Skill and cunning are required to maintain a proper balance with hot and cold faucets. Orchestration of the faucets is preceded in hilarity only by the awkward dance of Victor Hugo’s hunchback as I step up and over the side of the four-footed bathtub, curling my six-two, XXL frame to fit within the five feet seven inches to the ceiling. (In fact, the entire house poses vertical challenges to me with every step. I claim evil gnomes built the house to three-quarter scale. My wife can reach virtually everything in her stocking feet. I can reach everything with my head.) I skipped feeding the cats and the dog, brewed a quick cup of coffee, and made some toast. While munching and sipping, I quickly checked email. Nothing extraordinary permeated any aspect of my routine. I had been under the gun at work for months, and my energy was rapidly waning. I was singularly focused and nearing the end of my tether. The morning was dark and cool, not quite frosty. Traffic was sparse on my 20-minute drive, pausing only at the five-stoplights to my office from the cabin about five miles outside the opposite end of town. My habit is to turn on the police scanner to monitor during the commute. (I am a disaster services volunteer and an amateur radio operator.) Just a few minutes from my office, I thought to turn on my truck’s broadcast radio to catch the six o’clock headlines. Instead, I listened in amazement as the fissures gaped open between “us” and a non-trivial fraction of the world outside “Western-friendly” home territories. From my office I tried various Internet connections for news, but links were congested. I rang my wife, announcing hesitantly the trouble unfolding a continent away. (Her daughter lives in New York City.) She turned on the television and kept me abreast while I monitored the radios at my end of the line. It was a few minutes after ten that morning in New York City. By 9 AM Alaska time, the magnitude of the East Coast tragedies had become clearer to me using words alone. Management set up a television in a conference room, but I steered clear. Someone told me video of the second plane slamming into the World Trade Center was available on the CNN web site. I waited another hour. I wasn’t sure I could handle the glaring truth at that moment. I didn’t fear the horrible sights I might witness. I was afraid of feeling sad. In the end, I found myself profoundly sad at a certain loss of innocence for America. (Not that we are blameless for tragedy on the world stage.) I was far from surprised at seeing how horrible people can be to each other. I learned that working in the Balkan conflicts. I said aloud that our country will never be the same, and I distinctly heard the flutter of civil liberties taking flight in between strong, war-footing statements from Mr. Bush and Company. About 8 AM on Wednesday the twelfth, the phone rang. My father said he was driving to Fairbanks from Anchorage, over 350 miles up the Parks Highway. He wanted me to drive him and his companions along with his boat up to the Yukon River bridge, about 130 miles north of Fairbanks. He planned an 800-mile trek down the Mighty Yukon to his second home in St. Mary’s, and fall’s end was nigh. The normal drop-off point in Nenana, 50 miles south of town, was unusable. The difficult, mean Tanana was too shallow for the 25-foot fishing boat to navigate the sand bars on its way to a confluence with the Yukon. Dad asked me to find some parts for extra fuel barrels to power the twin, 90-horsepower Honda engines. I drifted in and out of daydreams, but I tried persistently to move on with my day as usual. Save for a few minor distracting moments, I apparently achieved more success than most of my co-workers. Pop called with an update as they stopped for lunch on north side of Denali National Park. Healy is a friendly town overrun by tourists in summer. It is a quaint oasis abutting the state-sized park for locals and a steady flow of north-south motorists year-round. By 3:30 PM my father and entourage had arrived, and we filled all tanks with more-or-less 200 gallons of gasoline before motoring north. The rising, irregular terrain added an extra deterrent to our progress. The heavy-duty pickup held steady, but the 6000-pound load behind strained brakes and trailer axels as we neared the beginning of the Elliott Highway. Tiny Fox is cupped in a valley about ten miles from Fairbanks at the crossroads of Steese and Elliott Highways. Home to the Howling Dog Saloon, Fox also hosts Silver Gulch Brewery, the immensely popular Turtle Club Restaurant, a genuine US Army Corps of Engineers permafrost research tunnel, dredges and countless other remnants of the gold-mining era, and the last major fuel stops before the bridge, 120 miles northward. The Steese Highway heads northeast into rugged high country, where any single mile can turn life-threatening suddenly, especially in the dead of winter. Services in the microscopic mining town of Central are at least four hours and three summits away. None of us had ever actually driven as far north as the famous bridge. Our ignorance exacerbated the journey’s duration. To have enough daylight for launching, we should have been in place and ready by 8 PM. As the light dimmed, the road grew longer in the shadows. Little more than 30 miles from its paved beginnings, the highway turns to dust and gravel. Rocks, ruts, and washboards slowed our pace to a crawl. Forty miles onwards the Dalton Highway would begin. The Dalton’s other name is the “Haul Road”, the only overland supply route to Prudhoe Bay over 400 miles away. The Yukon River bridge lies at milepost 56, at least an hour and a half past Livengood for us and our heaving cargo. I realized any chance of success for an evening launch faded completely as we picked up the Dalton where the Elliott road turned west towards Manley Hot Springs. In Alaska, you have to be flexible above all else. It was a perfect Indian summer’s evening. Mixed solitude and gentle conversation complemented the soft September light. The yellow sun’s rays underscored the immense expanses of golden birch clad in their fall garb. Set against the backdrop of dark, rich spruce, the leafy embroidery of birch and willows conjured a phenomenal tapestry of change. The sun lingered as the sky slipped from cobalt into inky velvet. From high ridges we could view the peaks of smaller mountains in the foothills leading to the Brooks Range. The lure and illusion of wilderness surrounded us. However, we rarely lost sight of our constant companion, the Trans-Alaska Pipeline. The massive 18-wheelers speeding past punctuated our dreams as steady reminders of the huge industrial complex on the Beaufort Sea at the end of that dirt track. About 10 PM we descended a long, steep grade, possibly eight percent in places. A pipeline pumping station suddenly appeared, and several signs reminded us we were near the bridge. The Dalton jumps the river across a narrow, tilted expanse of steel and wood nearly 300 feet long. The sodium lights on and near the bridge transform the pipeline into a fabulous, magic, gilded thread, without beginning and without end as it silently stitches together snapshots in the Arctic night. Five Mile Truck Stop and Motel sits along a segment of the northeast riverside at a site previously occupied by a pipeline construction camp. As we slowed to turn left into the parking lot, we saw acres and acres of pickups, RVs, and empty boat trailers aligned neatly in rows, each one evidence of moose- or caribou-hunting parties on the prowl. Considered rough by outsiders expecting modern wayside comfort, Five Mile’s conjoined trailer complex provides some badly needed amenities for tired, hungry truckers, hunters, and river travelers from deep in the bush. Strong, hot coffee, pretty good food, a phone, a shower, and a warm bed go a long way to quiet the inevitable pangs from being too long on the move. The motel was closed until morning. The night was thick, and any approach to the river would be difficult. We reconnoitered, and quickly decided to spend the night and get a fresh start in the clear morning light. I parked the truck and trailer in one of the last unobtrusive spots 150 yards from the motel, and we proceeded to make camp. Dad and I would sleep head-to-toe on the boat, and the others would sleep in the pickup. In the climbing, fetching, and stepping down, we paced ourselves appropriately for the darkness. The sky rewarded our discretion and due diligence with a chorus line of lively, pale green lights. The night, which at first seemed a disadvantage, proved to be a basic ingredient of the deeply moving, sensory pleasure to follow. According to Eskimo legend, afterlife may lead an individual to either a good place or a bad place. However, there is no assurance that afterlife will be better or worse than here on earth. Heaven assumes several levels to the Yup’ik and other coastal peoples. Heaven’s highest level is the aurora, where there is no snow or storm. It is the land of plenty, including light. Spirits playing ball are one ancient explanation of the northern lights. They are playing football with a walrus head. The aurora demonstrates their struggle. Candidates for the highest appointment after death include a hunter who dies during the chase, a woman dying in childbirth, a murder victim, and especially those who have been generous to the poor or sick. I have heard some believe the magic lights illuminate the path to Heaven those fortunate souls. Inuit of the shores surrounding the Arctic Ocean add their own twists to aurora legends. Nineteenth-century journals and other accounts speak of their fear of the northern lights, and they carried knives for protection. Tossing dog excrement and urine skyward could help. Other Native Alaskans believe that one must be careful not to offend the auroras, because these ghostly spirits somehow control the supply of game and weather. My aunt and my father’s assistant are both Yup’ik from the Yukon River delta of western Alaska near the Bering Sea. They huddled together several yards away, speaking softly in a mix of their native tongue and English, none of it precisely discernible to me. We all gazed briefly at random celestial quadrants before twisting our necks to watch the choreographed displays on another sky-stage. In between my moans of dismay and awe, I heard one of our Eskimo friends whistle. I must have looked puzzled, even in the dark. My father explained they whistle to make the aurora come closer. I took a few paces forward. “You want to see it get brighter?” asked my father’s friend with an impish inflection. Then he began to whistle. I stood transfixed at the magnificent light dance. Translucent green spirals, swirls, drapes, jets, and corona filled our view. A satellite flashed and tumbled overhead. I stood on the tundra a million miles from New York, head tilted skyward, luxuriating as a witness to uncommon beauty. And yet, I sensed in my heart a subtle fear of something I didn’t quite understand. As the gods struggle, as good people leave this life, Nature offers us startling reminders of great conflicts around and within us. I believe the Eskimo legends. I’ve seen the aurora. Peace.					.		.
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