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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Saturday
May082010

How I took my R&R - part 2, the bike ride: I see a beautiful grandma with her granddaughter and dog and many more things; I make a softball throw straight out of my old nightmares

As mentioned in my first post of this gorgeous three-post day, I had a great need to get out under the open sky and do something physical, but I did not know what. My first choice was a long, long, long, bike ride, but I knew that I was not yet in shape for such a thing. 

If I had been younger, no big deal. I could go out and pedal and pedal and pedal all day long, even if it was the first time in a long time. I might be a bit sore the next day, but so what?

It would feel good in its way.

I thought of various options but, when it came down to it, I still wanted to ride my bike. So I contemplated having Margie drive me 25 miles or so away and then drop me off so that I could pedal back. In this way, I could at least cover some ground that I had not covered by bike in awhile and it would be a decent, though not a long, long, long, ride. And if I had her drop me off as far up as we could get on the still snow-blocked road that goes over Hatcher Pass, then the first long portion of that drive would be all downhill and would not strain me at all - although there was a chance that I would gain such great speed coming down the very steep grade that I would have an accident and kill myself.

In the end, though, I decided just to hop and my bike and go, no destination in mind, and see where I wound up. So as not to overdo it, I would try to limit myself to three hours and I would not push it.

If I wanted to stop and take a picture, I would stop and take a picture.

Maybe I would find myself passing by Dairy Queen. I could then stop and buy a small strawberry shake.

So I got on my bike and went. I had gone no more than a few hundred yards when I came upon these three, walking. 

They looked too beautiful to simply pass by, plus I recognized the woman as a waitress who had served Margie and I years back at La Fiesta Mexican restaurant.

So I stopped to chat just a little bit, and to take this picture.

"Your daughter is beautiful," I told her.

"Oh, she's my granddaughter," she answered. I had forgotten her name, so she told me and she gave me the names of her granddaughter and the dog, too.

Stupid me. I was certain I would remember, so I did not bother to speak them into my iPhone.

Now I have forgotten all of the names except for one.

The dog is Maui.

It is a little bit tricky to hop on bike with the plan of not planning where to go, other than to wherever your wheels roll to, because right away you start thinking of possible destinations to go to. The first one that I thought of was the bridge over the Little Susitna River, but I rejected it right away because that would only give me about a six or seven mile ride.

I wanted to go further than that.

I then decided that when I came to an intersection and got an urge to turn one way, I would turn the other, so as to make my destination all the more unpredictable.

But how does one do such a thing? As soon as you decide to turn one way, you have actually decided to turn the other, but then if you go ahead and decide to turn in the direction you had originally decided upon, you have still blown the whole plan.

So I began to pedal and ponder this situation. Then, before I came up with an answer, I found that, without even thinking about it, I had turned right on Lucille, headed in the direction of Metro Cafe.

I pedaled on, until I heard an airplane approaching. 

I stopped my bike, picked it out in the sky, waited until it passed over the first wire and then shot.

I then pedaled on toward Metro Cafe, thinking that maybe it was just the right kind of day to try one of their frappes.

Yet, when I reached Gail Street, it suddenly dawned on me that this was entirely too predictable, so I made a sudden right turn onto Gail, away from Metro Cafe.

I cannot quite tell you how it happened, but after I made a few more unpredictable turns, I found myself at Metro Cafe, ordering a frappe, served to me by Sashanna.

I then went out and sat down at one of the patio tables, so that I could photograph any kids who might pass by on bicycles. These two soon did.

Then Carmen took a five minute break, came out, sat down and visited me for ten minutes.

We talked about many things, including her childhood in Mexico, when she lived in a house with dirt floors in a tiny inland village. 

No telephone, no refrigerator. "We had to buy our food and eat it the same day," she recalled.

I thought about mentioning how Margie was born under the open Apache sky and lived her early years in a bear-grass thatched wickiup - the Apache version of a teepee - but decided to hold that information for another time. At this moment, the focus was upon little Carmen in Mexico and that was where it should stay.

I had resolved that I would not pedal by the park, but then I realized that I needed to make a restroom stop and they had one there, so I headed for the park.

As I pedaled by the skateboard area, I saw a kid come down one ramp and shoot toward another. I knew he would catch some air so I raised my pocket camera and shot this frame from the bike trail as I coasted by.

Just a little further down the bike trail that passes through the park, I saw these two boys pushing their bikes up this hill. I figured that they would then turn around, shoot down the hill as fast as they could and then commit some dare-devil act, but I did not hang around to see what.

I pedaled on to the restroom.

After that, I found myself drawing near to the Charlie Bumpus ball fields, named for the former mayor who, before he was buried at too young of an age in the Wasilla cemetery, built the Raven View subdivision, named a street within it for his daughter Sarah and then sold us our house on her street.

All three of my boys used to play American Legion Baseball at this field with the Wasilla Road Warriors. I decided to pull over and see if the current Road Warriors might be practicing or playing.

They weren't. But this baseball was lying in the parking lot. 

No baseball players were in sight on any field. I figured the ball must have fallen there when the parking lot was full, rolled under a car and so nobody found it.

There were some adult men doing batting practice at one of the softball fields adjacent to the baseball field.

I stopped to see if I could get a shot of Chris, whacking the ball.

Before I did, a pitch went a little wild and rolled to the backstop behind me.

I did what anyone would do and picked the ball up so I could toss it back. Then a horrible feeling hit me.

Have any of you out there ever had a bad dream, a nightmare, where you are trying to throw a baseball but you can't do it? You throw, but instead of flying the ball weakly leaves your hand and falls to the ground?

Remember how, last summer, for the first time after I broke my shoulder and got it replaced, I tried to toss an apple core and it just tumbled to the ground?

At that time, I resolved to build up my strength by tossing rocks every day until I could throw again.

I did for awhile, too. But now it has been a long while since I last tossed a rock.

The pitcher raised his glove as a signal for me to throw the ball to him.

"I broke my shoulder," I said, "I can't throw so good now." I then tried to throw the ball, but instead of going to the pitcher, it went to the left, hit the ground about ten feet away from me and then rolled a little ways away.

"Sorry," I said.

"It's okay," the pitcher said.

How the hell am I ever going to go surfing at Yakutak on July 14, my birthday, like I committed myself to doing?

Why the hell did I ever stand on that stupid rolling chair to take that worthless picture and then when I fell, why did I protect my camera instead of myself?

Dumbass!

After I got the picture, I pedaled away, carrying the baseball with me. Maybe I can't throw so good right now, but a baseball is just not something that a person such as me would ever leave behind in an empty parking lot.

A ways down the road, I dropped the baseball. I decided to see if I could stuff it into my pocket. It fit. So that is how I brought it home.

Next, I found myself going down the bike trail that follows Church Road. 

When I got to Seldon, I could have turned towards Sarah's Way, toward our house, but I didn't. I kept going. And soon I came upon these four.

Soon after that, I found myself on the bridge that crosses the Little Su. Despite my best anti-planning, I had wound up here anyway - but by a rather convoluted route, one that greatly increased the distance. My camera battery died right after I took this picture.

I headed home, but I took the long way to get here.

My journey lasted about three hours. When I stepped into the house through the front door, I saw Margie standing on the porch outside the back door.

So I went out to join her. Royce came through the door with me.

It was his first excursion outside since October.

So that was good to see.

I will leave this as the lead post probably until about noon on Mother's Day.

Then I will put up a special post - a Mother's Day tribute. 

So if you come here Mother's Day morning and see this, be sure to come back Mother's Day afternoon. 

And remember - it is four hours earlier in Alaska than on the East Coast.

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Reader Comments (5)

those frappes will get you all the time LOL
sorry about that nightmare, i can't say i ever had it though.

May 9, 2010 | Unregistered Commentertwain12

Happy Mothers Day Margie!

May 9, 2010 | Unregistered CommenterAnn S.

What a beautiful ride!! Sorry to hear about your dream. I haven't had that one but it reminded me of one that I have often when I'm in distress and try to scream, but nothing comes out. As to Metro Cafe and Little Su, it's interesting how even though we try to shift our habits, our subconscious always brings us back to the territory we know.

May 9, 2010 | Unregistered CommenterShaela

Hey, it looks like you all get Spring up there in the Frozen North, too! :-) I'm pretty sure one of those two boys on their bikes was wearing shorts, and it looked like the other had on short sleeves. Wonder what the temperature has to be in Wasilla for kids to start shedding layers?

Happy Mother's Day to Margie! And congratulations and ear-scratches to Royce! Nothing like a little fresh air and sunshine to perk up an old boy like him. :-)

May 9, 2010 | Unregistered CommenterCynthiaC54

Twain - I think I am going to spend too much money on frappes now. It was pretty odd to have a nightmare that I have experienced many times come to life.

Ann - I will pass it on.

Shaela - Yes, and I think deep down I probably wanted a frappe and I wanted to see the water flow in the Little Su.

Cynthia - Yes, here it is definitely spring. By comparison, yesterday in Barrow the high was 10, the low -2. And in Barrow, that is spring. As to when kids start shedding clothes here, I'd say that by the time the temperature hits 40 degrees, you will see them running around in shorts and t-shirts. Our highs the last couple of days have been in the mid-50's.

I know that in the warm parts of the country, people start bundling up when it drops to 60, but not here. Royce appreciates the good thoughts.

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