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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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Sunday
Dec142008

The street man: what his Alaska Native peoples fed me; what I gave to him

DateSunday, December 14, 2008 at 10:27PM

I saw him standing on the corner ahead of me as I drove toward the green light. I hoped it would stay green, but the traffic ahead of me was moving slow and when it turned yellow, I knew that I would come to stop on the corner, right beside him.

I did. He came walking toward me through the zero degree (F) air, a friendly smile on his face. I could not turn away as if he were not there, so I smiled back and rolled down the window.

"God bless you on this good day, sir!" he said.

"You too," I answered. "Where you from?"

"Mountain Village," he said. "Yukon River. It's located on the Lower Yukon."

"Yes, I know," I told him. "I've been there."

I've been in villages all over Alaska, which is different than going to villages in any other state. Mostly, you fly to these villages, as very few are on our limited road system.

The people out there have treated me good. They have put me up in their homes and they have fed me: moose, caribou, salmon, bowhead whale, beluga whale, seal, duck, goose, swan, beaver, sheefish, whitefish, crab, blueberries, salmon berries' berries of many kinds, seaweed, walrus, bighorn sheep, musk ox, mountain goat...

Food does not get better than what they feed me.

I gave the man a dollar. I don't know how he will spend it. The light turned green. I drove away.

The incident described happened in Anchorage. This is the kind of day that it was.

And here I am, a bit earlier on the Glenn Highway, passing through the East Side of Anchorage. I should replace the cracked windshield. But soon, it would be cracked again.

Passing by Merrill Field.

What it looked like when I reached downtown Anchorage.

This is why I went to Anchorage. I had something that had to be mailed today. The only Post Office that was open was the Airport Post Office. I took this picture, looking backwards, after I had been in line for over an hour. I still had quite a wait ahead of me.

I suspect that most of them were mailing Christmas gifts.

As I drive away from the airport post office.

The Marriott Hotel, with Conoco Phillips rising behind it.

And this is from earlier in the day, when a bunch of us gathered at IHOP for the usual Sunday breakfast. Tots always pick each other out of the crowd.

AuthorWasilla, Alaska, by 300 | Comment4 Comments |
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Reader Comments (4)

You're a good man. Thank you for the almost daily reminder of what it's like to be "home". Please give the kiddos big hugs for me, I missed them last time they were here. My goodness, I can't believe baby boy will be one so soon!

December 15, 2008 | Unregistered CommenterAngel

I'm glad that I can bring you home every now and then, Angel.

December 15, 2008 | Registered CommenterWasilla, Alaska, by 300

your trees are white. when people say that trees are green, i will direct them to this blog, this post, that picture. white trees. fabulous.

December 16, 2008 | Unregistered Commenterkalaluka

Yes, and we don't even have to spray the white onto them.

December 16, 2008 | Registered CommenterWasilla, Alaska, by 300

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