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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
Apr132009

On a fine spring day in Wasilla, I first ride my bike, then drive my car

DateMonday, April 13, 2009 at 11:28PM

I rode my bike again today. I went through many puddles, but this was the biggest one.

It was fun - so much so that I turned around and rode through it again, twice. When I did, I knew how I want to live, all the time. Why can't I?

When it came time for my afternoon coffee break, I took the car. I saw a girl on a horse. Two girls on two horses, actually, but I only photographed one.

I saw a kid leaning against a bike...

...and horses in a field...

...a man riding a bicycle up Church Road...

...as he neared the top, the mountains came up in front of him.

I saw what appeared to be a family, out walking on a bike trail...

...and two young men, jogging, one manipulating his phone, the other looking at me. He probably wondered why I was taking their picture. I took it because for two seconds on this day, our lives crossed. It was a fleeting moment, but I wanted to document it forever. 

One can never document anything forever. Even those who are immortalized will be utterly forgotten. Still, even if I couldn't, I wanted to document the moment forever.

Now, you see, I rank right up there with the great philosphers - the words of whom will all one day cease to be read.

Even that moutain, it will be made flat. Or maybe it will be shattered. I don't know. I'm not a prophet. 

Just before I got home, I saw this guy, sweeping the dirt and gravel off the edge of Ward's Road. This was the strangest thing that I saw, all day. I suppose he had his reasons.

And he wore a crash helmet.

And there there was the gentleman in red, driving a four-wheeler.

This is how life is this time of year, right here, in Wasilla, Alaska.

I could have went to Carl's Jr, and bought a hamburger, but I didn't.

 

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