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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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Monday
Jan122009

I find myself all alone with Kalib - well, not quite; sorry, cats, for ever saying that - two are never alone when there are cats about

DateMonday, January 12, 2009 at 10:08PM

As usual on Monday and Tuesday evenings, I strapped Kalib into his car seat and then drove him and Margie to Wal-Mart, where I dropped her off to go to work.

Normally, Jacob and Lavina return home about the same time that I get back - sometimes, they even meet us at Wal-Mart and take Kalib away from his grandpa. Hey - I know that's me, isn't it? "Grandpa!"

Even though I like being a grandpa, I can't get used to hearing that word applied to me, because it sounds like a word used to describe someone old, whereas I am still young. Absolutely. I am young and I intend to stay that way, no matter how old I get.

But I digress. Tonight, his parents didn't pick Kalib up. They called to say that there had been an accident on the Parks Highway and they were stuck in traffic that moved only occassionally, and then not very far.

So when we got home, I sat Kalib on the floor and watched him as he scooted around. He often looked up at me and made walrus sounds. I wonder where he learned to do that?

I made walrus sounds right back. I learned to do it from listening to walrus, and to Eskimos, making Walrus sounds during certain motion dances, or even just when they are very happy, like when they've caught a whale.

Given what happened with Martigne, you might think it wreckless of me to let Kalib get this close to Royce, but if you knew Royce, you would know the cat is in far more danger from the toddler than the toddler is from the cat.

As much fur as Royce has, he has lost great clumps of it to Kalib's yanking hands. Royce's eyes sometimes go wide when this happens, but Royce will take a mauling from someone he loves and never strike back.

He is that kind of cat.

And he is growing old - so very old.

And no kitten will ever call him, "Grandpa." 

Sorry about that, Royce.

 

 

AuthorWasilla, Alaska, by 300 | Comment2 Comments |
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Reader Comments (2)

LOVE this photo - both sets of big brown eyes. Looks like Kalib's face is healing nicely .... thank goodness!

January 13, 2009 | Unregistered CommenterLindy

Poor Royce, he knows he's not suppose to strike back when tortured but still...it would be nice to not have his fur pulled. Must be something with male cats, my females run when the grandkids are around, not the boy, he's game for all the tugging, pulling, patting and being carried around by his head, middle or back end the little two leggers can throw at him. I have four, gulp, grandchildren and still can't get used to the idea that when some little voice yells for "gramma" that it's me they're calling for. When did I get old enough to be a grandma? Heck, when did my girls become old enough to be mothers!?!

January 13, 2009 | Unregistered CommenterKattonic Mom

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