Flying in the general direction of the sun
Thursday, December 16, 2010 at 1:08PM 
When my scheduled time to depart Barrow approached, I did not want to go. I wanted to stay put. There were two reasons for this - one, because in the midst of all this darkness, cold and sorrow, I had felt the warmth, the light and the love that Barrow is capable of producing. Never misunderstand me - Barrow bears more than its fair share of turmoil and hurt - as do all Native American communities that I have ever spent time in - but at its core, its base, wrapped in the heart and soul of the people who have lived here for so long and borne so much there is something strong, loving, giving and spiritual. This warmth and strength can truly manifest itself in the time of no sun, in a time when beloved ones have been lost and people have come together to nurture and support each other.
And so it was on this trip.
Two, in the darkness itself I found a degree of solace that I could not have had I been in a place where the sun rises each day. The darkness of the day itself was like a blanket of warmth and comfort draped upon me.
I am a person who likes to walk, regardless the weather or the presence of polar bears, of which daily sightings were reported in town. If I walk on the roads, people always stop to give me a ride, so, as much as I could, I stayed off the roads and walked across the lagoon - two, three, maybe even four times a day. I would walk, under that dark or dim sky, all alone and it felt good to me. Depending on the direction that I walked, the wind might bite into my face with the sting and threat of frostbite but even so it felt good to me.
And there, alone, walking under a sky free from sunlight, I would talk aloud to Soundarya. It wasn't always a pleasant conversation. When someone that you love so dearly dies at their own hand, even though you know she was suffering such bitter, painful, grief herself, it leaves you with many questions and additional hurts.
But it was always a good conversation, a loving conversation, one that I needed to have. Even though the rational side of my brain knew she was not really there, somehow, it always felt to me that in some way, she was present and that she wanted to communicate with me as badly as I wanted to communicate with her.
So I spoke out loud and then in silent pauses listened for words I could not hear, but could only feel, or imagine that I felt.
I did not wish to leave this environment, where I could walk upon the lagoon in the dim and dark and converse with Soundarya and then go sit amidst the warmth of friends who would feed me caribou, whale and fish -people not related by blood to me but who are my family, none-the-less.
Perhaps this sounds crazy and perhaps it would be best if I were to just keep all this to myself, but this is how it was and I did not want to leave Barrow.
I knew my loving family awaited me at home but still I did not want to go.
I took this picture as I walked off the lagoon, about 8:30 or 9:00 AM, enroute to Pepe's for breakfast.
And here I am at Pepe's - taking a portrait of Joe The Water Man, son of Fran Tate, owner of Pepe's. Joe became famous in Barrow in the days when no one had running water piped into their homes and he drove a water truck, to fill their tanks and barrels.
He never wore a parka or even a jacket or sweat shirt, but always just a t-shirt, no matter what the weather. Twenty below, 30 below, - 40, - 50... there was one day that the official weather bureau thermometer is said to have broken after the mercury plunged right through the bottom of it, but a number of thermometers around town, including one that I myself laid eyes upon, registered - 63.
And there was Joe The Water Man, delivering water in his t-shirt.
On days with wind chills of - 90, - 100: there was Joe, in his t-shirt, delivering water.
Joe does not drive the water truck anymore. He keeps my coffee hot and makes certain that I get two packets of raspberry jam with my wheat toast - unless there is no wheat bread to be had, and no raspberry jam either.
This happens sometimes.
He does not really wear this hat to work. A fellow from Anchorage who calls himself The Mad Hatter and who likes to frolic in Cuba and Thailand had come to Barrow to sell hats and had let Joe try this one on.
I thought he looked pretty good in it.
Up the street from Pepe's is a water tank, with a Nativity scene in front of it and the guiding star of the east above.
Now here I am, at just a bit after 11:00 AM, sitting in the Alaska Airlines flight that will fly me to Anchorage. What you see beyond blowing a mini-blizzard into the air is a snowplow, clearing the runway. I had checked to see if I could postpone my departure and leave on another day, but every single seat out of Barrow had been booked into January.
I did not want to miss Christmas with my family, so I decided that I had better leave as scheduled.
And here we are, lifting off, departing Barrow.
We wing our way south, toward the sun, toward the glow of dawn/twilight. I was raised to believe that the sun always rises in the east and sets in the west.
In Alaska, this is not always true. The sun can rise in the south and set in the south. It can rise in the north and set in the north.
It can rise and set not at all.
See that little stream down below? Before I crashed it, I would sometimes fly my airplane, the Running Dog, right over that stream, between those low mountains.
It looked very different down there than it does from up here, but even so, I recognize it.
You can see that although we are still a couple of hundred miles from the sight of the sun, the amount of light is on the increase.
Now we pass over the northern flanks of the Brooks Range...
...now the southern.
We reach a point where the sun still fails to shine directly upon the ground, but it does shine on a couple of clouds below us at an altitude that I can only guess at. I won't even try.
As we near the Yukon River, very near to the place where the Tanana flows into it, the sun manages to strike the ridge tops, but not the valleys.
The White Mountains.
At one point I turned around and saw that there was a sunbeam, traveling with me, right there in the plane. It was the little son of Olemaun and Thelma Rexford, owners of Aarigaa Java and Aarigaa Tours, in the arms of his dad.
Oh, I have forgotten the name of this little one!
But someone can remind me, I'm certain.
And in front of me - another sunbeam, fast asleep.
By the time we reached the Alaska Range, the sun was up, but it was overcast and we could not see it. Soon, we were descending, and then were flying low over Cook Inlet - on final to landing in Anchorage.
Margie picked me up at the airport and then we drove to Taco King for lunch. Except for Rex, who had just driven from California to Anchorage with Ama and had then caught an airplane to New York or Newark and from there on to New England, all of the Anchorage family met us there.
Kalib came with his spatula and blanket.
Next, we were driving home to Wasilla.
I am now days behind. I will try to catch up tomorrow, when I will bring you back to Wasilla with me.
Reader Comments (7)
Great pics, Bill. I spent a year on Adak with the Navy July '69 to July '70, and can remember seeing the sun maybe 4 or 5 times that whole year. Being from northeastern Wisconsin, I'm used to cold, but your pics reminded me of what real cold is.
Ever get out into the Aleutians.... way out? I remember it not being that cold, but the wind never stopped, and it snowed horizontally, not vertically. Being from Wisconsin, I got Duty Driver a lot... most of the guys had no idea how to drive on ice and snow.
Most of us hated that year, but I remember feeling right at home with all of Nature's offerings. A very few of us spent a lot of time exporing, fishing, hiking and checking out the WW II pillboxes cut into the cliff sides. I know they shut down Adak as a good-sized Navy base years ago, but sometimes wonder just what is going on there these days... besides corporate fishing.
Great blog; great pics.
looks like a new reader found you. i love when that happens! best way to grieve for a person who has taken their own life is to converse with them, as you are doing. we don't have much snow here in philly but some mornings when i'd drive to work i was so ill-prepared that i'd use my spatula - hi kalib! - to clear off the icy windshield.
Hi Bill,
Just wanted to say Thank you for bringing me along for the ride. I hope you and your family have a nice holiday and your heart heals a little more each day.
Kalib and that spatula kill me. I lovvvvvvvvve it.
Sometimes I think that's why I chose to live in this dark, cold place. It heals all the tiny hurt places in my heart... the darkness does somehow give you comfort. I understand that completely.
I think that it is special that you are talking to Sandy in a place that you love so much. A place you love with someone you love...
This is just to let you know I am among the many who are by your side as you work your way through the loss of Soundarya.
I don't have anything helpful to say nor any wisdom to share but thought I should speak up and let you know I am walking with you...
The dark is restful and healing sometimes but can become isolation if we don't all call out our names now and again.
Pi here, Bill...
On your left, neighbor...
I'm short, it's easy to miss me lest I call out
but I'm here...
Absolutley love the pictures.
Blessings to you in your healing as we approach Solstice.