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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
Oct242011

A brief conversation with a black horse

DateMonday, October 24, 2011 at 1:19PM

Up ahead, I could see the black horse standing on its hind legs, holding one hoof in the air in a way that reminded me of a human hitchhiker. I sensed nonsense and trouble, and so resolved not to stop for anything. Yet, I could not just be rude, so I slowed to a crawl and rolled my window down. The horse dropped down to all fours.

"Hey, Bill!" the horse shouted as I rolled into conversation range. "I need a ride into town. Open your car door so I can get in!"

"No," I protested. "You're too big! You can't fit in my car! And you might poop on the seat!"

"C'mon, Bill, lemme in! I really need to get to town. I have a haircut scheduled, and a rally to go to."

"No!" I insisted, as I rolled slowly by. "You're a horse! Horses don't get rides from people - horses give rides to people!"

"If you don't come back and give me a ride, then one day I will give you a ride!" the black horse threatened after I had rolled completely past. "I'll buck you off and then I'll stomp on you!"

I drove away. I did not go to town at all. I went home instead, and ate a cupcake - chocolate, with banana frosting.

Lynxton had made it, especially for me. It was damn good.

 

AuthorWasilla, Alaska, by 300 | Comment4 Comments |
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Reader Comments (4)

I'm back. I missed you. I've never had a horse talk to me "yet." we looked at pictures of Lynx.

p.s. he is sooo cuuuute.

October 24, 2011 | Unregistered CommenterRiana

Is the horse's name "Ed" by any chance? A horse is a horse of course of course...., your cupcake sounds like it was delicious :)

October 24, 2011 | Unregistered CommenterPat in MA

i'm sure it was the best cupcake ever..very handsome horse

October 25, 2011 | Unregistered Commentertwain12

Poor Bill...you must get more rest. I think that you're hallucinating. It's the only possible solution. But if the horse had made the cupcake, I have thought something else...horses have drug people before, you know.

October 25, 2011 | Unregistered Commenterdebby

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