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A blog by Bill Hess

Running Dog Publications

P.O. Box 872383 Wasilla, Alaska 99687

 

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Wasilla

Wasilla is the place where I have lived for the past 29 years - sort of. The house in which my wife and I raised our family sits here, but I have made my rather odd career as a different sort of photojournalist by continually wandering off to other places to photograph people and gather information, which I have then put together in various publications that have served the Alaska Native Eskimo, Indian and Aleut communities.

Although I did not have a great of free time to devote to this rather strange community, named after a Tanaina Athabascan Indian chief who knew Wasilla in the way that I so impossibly long to, I have still documented it regularly over the past quarter-century plus. In the early days, my Wasilla photographs focused mostly upon my children and the events they participated in - baseball, football, figure skating, hockey, frog catching, fire cracker detonation, Fourth of July parade - that sort of thing. 

In 2002, I purchased my first digital camera and then, whenever I was home, I began to photograph Wasilla upon a daily basis, but not in a conventional way. These were grab shots - whatever caught my eye as I took my many long walks or drove through the town, shooting through the car window at people and scenes that appeared and disappeared before I could even focus and compose in the traditional photographic way.

Thus, the Wasilla portion of this blog will be devoted both to the images that I take as I wander about and those that I have taken in the past. Despite the odd, random, nature of the images, I believe they communicate something powerful about this town that I have never seen expressed anywhere else. 

Wasilla is a sprawling community that has been slapped down hodge-podge upon what was so recently wilderness of the most exquisite beauty. In its design, it is deliberately anti-zoned, anti-planned. In the building of Wasilla, the desire to make a buck has trumped aesthetics and all other considerations. This town, built in the midst of exquisite beauty, has largely become an unsightly, unattractive, mess of urban sprawl. Largely because of this, it often seems to me that Wasilla is a community with no sense of community, a town devoid of town soul.

Yet - Wasilla is my home and if I am lucky it will be until I grow old and die. Despite its horrific failings, it is still made of the stuff of any small city: people; moms and dads, grammas and grampas, teens, children, churches, bars, professionals, laborers, soldiers, missionaries, artists, athletes, geniuses, do-gooders, hoodlums, the wealthy, the homeless, the rational and logical, the slightly insane and the wholly insane - and, yes, as is now obvious to the whole world, politicians, too.

So perhaps, if one were to search hard enough, it might just be possible to find a sense of community here, and a town soul. So, using my skills as a photojournalist and a writer, I hope to do just that. If this place has a sense of community, I will find it. If there is a town soul to Wasilla, I will document it. I won't compete with the newspapers. Hell no! But as time and income allow, it will be fun to wander into the places where the folks described above gather, and then put what I find on this blog.

 

by 300...

Anywhere within a 300 mile radius of Wasilla. This encompasses perhaps the most wild, dramatic, gorgeous, beautiful section of land and sea to be found in any comparable space anywhere on Earth. I can never explore it all, but I will do the best that I can, and will here share what I find and experience with you.  

and then some...

Anywhere else in the world that I happen to get to, such as Point Lay, Alaska; Missoula, Montana; Serenki, Chukotka, Russia; or Bangalore, India. Perhaps even Lagos, Nigeria. I have both a desire and scheme to get me there. It is a long shot. We shall see if I succeed.

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Wednesday
Oct082008

Baby Kalib's first snow / the death of one of the great whaling captains of Barrow

DateWednesday, October 8, 2008 at 12:20AM

 

It's not really his first snow, as he was born the day after Christmas, last year, but it would seem to be the first snow that he took conscious note of.

Do you remember feeling this kind of wonder?

And it makes him smile. He's an Alaska boy, all right!

As for Muzzy, when it comes to snow, he's an old paw at it.

Muzzy in the snow.

Kalib observes falling flakes.

He touches his first snowball. 

Martigny. I took other pictures out and about in the snow today, and I intended to put some here, but I think I will wait and share them tomorrow, maybe. This was Kalib's day.


 

The death of the great whaling captain, Arnold Brower Sr., Barrow

 

Iñupiat Eskimo Whaling Captain Arnold Brower Sr. was found dead this morning, not far from his camp on a river near Barrow. Apparently, from what little information I have so far, his snowmachine fell through the ice. I am told that he was able to get out, but even so he did not make it.

He was the father of 17 children and I have no idea how many grandchildren, great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren. One thing that could almost always be counted on was, come whaling season, his crew, the ABC crew, would bring home a bowhead whale to feed the community.

I took this picture inside his home three summers ago, as he fed me caribou soup. Just by the taste of it, Arnold could tell you where a caribou had been shot and in what season.

His crew will be featured in an upcoming National Geographic TV special, so keep your eye out for it.

Arnold was 85. There is no one more knowledgeable about Arctic survival then was he. I found him to be a kind and generous man; exceptionally observant and intelligent. He served as a paratrooper in World War II and since that time had been at the forefront of anything having to do with Native rights and land claims. He did all that he could to make certain that the development which had to come to the Arctic would be done with protection of land and water, mammal, fish, and bird, and the Iñupiat culture at the forefront.

I am greatly saddened by the news of his death, but find comfort in the fact that he never had to face a nursing home and that, to the very end, he lived his life the way he loved it.



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