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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Thursday
Aug202009

That Momma Pitbull that gave me the big scare until I discovered that she is really a sweet American bulldog named Tequilla

I saw Tequilla on the second-floor deck of the rocket house as I walked today, so I stopped to introduce myself to her people.

Tequilla, who I mistakenly described as a pitbull is really an American bulldog and her primary caretaker is Malia, and that is her in the background. The pug-nosed dog at left is Lolita, the cat is Mellow and the little boy is Gabe.

While Malia notes that Tequilla is protective and will raise a fuss should a suspicious person come around, she describes her both as a sweetheart and a Houdini, as she can be locked in the house or in a pen and then she will appear outside, at the bottom of the stairs.

Tequilla is most affectionate and so shares a kiss with Malia as Gabe looks on. 

Sadly, Rocky, the black pup, is no longer here, but has passed on. Malia only recently adopted the two dogs. Right after she did, the father of her children died. In the midst of such tragedy, Rocky contracted Parvo.

How does a Mom and her children deal with such loss, back to back?

They just go on living. That's what people do. It seems impossible, but they do it, anyway.

Gabe and Mellow.

Tequilla and Mellow.

A little further on my walk, I found Mary in her driveway. I had not seen her for a long time but today she was out. We talked for quite awhile and she told me many stories, but I am tired and need to go to bed soon, so I will not attempt to relate any of them.

Suffice it to say, she has led an interesting life and grew up in Florida, where her sister would like her to return. She did visit recently and the jet ride there and back was pretty miserable.

As we visited, her poodle and cat came out to join in.

Miss Rita, Mary's cat.

Then I was in downtown Wasilla where I had just parked when the train came along. Naturally, I was thrilled.

The Alaska Railroad engines were pulling Princess Cruise passenger cars and one of them had a picture of a giant grizzly bear on it - probably to scare the real bears away so that they will not frighten the tourists inside.

Nobody likes it when the tourists get frightened. 

Well, the bears like it. They think its great fun.

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Reader Comments (1)

over here, it's the sharks that think scaring the tourists is great fun.

August 20, 2009 | Unregistered Commenterkalaluka

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