Lake Clark

Signs of spring were everywhere.  From the schoolhouse steps I could see open water between the beach line and the lake ice.  Ducks were beginning to land on the lagoon to work around the edge of the ice, feeding on the fresh grass shoots coming up.  The ptarmigan were beginning to replace their white plumage of winter for the conventional brown summer wear.  Using the trail around the lagoon and detouring through the woods to avoid the soft ice and water, I walked over to Hans’s store just to have someone with whom to talk.

I found Mike Hatton making a few repairs on his log house.  He said I was just in time for his afternoon coffee break and invited me to join him.  He had baked some fresh rolls that morning.  I have noted that many men, living alone, are excellent cooks especially in the bakery department. 

After a little chitchat about the spring weather, I asked him about the news on his radio.  He was the only one in the area with a workable radio that kept up with the current news.  After my experience the past winter, he said he was now purchasing one of the new short wave outfits so we could keep in contact with Anchorage and the rest of the world. 

Mike went on to say that the Alaska Steamship Company was having a problem with the longshoremen who worked on the docks where the large ships stop.  He hoped the problems could be worked out soon because it was almost time for the fishing season to open in the Bristol Bay area.  

I was a little concerned about this too.  After being isolated for so many months waiting for air transportation that past winter, I did not want to go through a similar experience with the Alaska Steamship Company. 

Hans stopped in about that time.  He knew Mike would have taken his pan of fresh rolls from the oven some time this morning. 

The subject of transportation came up first. “The Star Airways will be flying with skis for some time,” said Hans.  “They don’t exchange their skis for pontoons until the last minute and the ice on the lake is still thick and firm.”

During the conversation about transportation, I learned of another possible route to Seattle.  A man named Hinie Berger had a large halibut boat, on which he had made some changes.  He handled general cargo and a limited number of passengers plus the mail service between Seward and Dutch Harbor, along the south side of the Aleutian Peninsula.  He wintered his boat in Dutch Harbor and started his summer trips from there. 

I was out on the edge of my chair eagerly taking it all in and anxious for more.  “Where can I catch this boat, and how do I get there?”  I asked.

Hans, being an old timer in the area knew all about Hinie and his boat.  “Before the airplane connections to Anchorage, he traveled back and forth to Seward and from there on to Anchorage or Seattle.”

“From the head of Iliamna Lake,” Hans went on to say, “there is an old wagon road over the hill to the saltwater bay on the south side of the peninsula.  There is nothing there now but an old house, which makes a good place to camp.  Hinie winters his boat in Dutch Harbor and starts his summer’s runs from the west end.  He leaves Dutch Harbor during the first week of each month.  If a person hiked over on a Thursday and was prepared to camp on the beach over Friday, he would have a good chance for a ride into Seward.”

“When do you plan to leave?” asked Hans. 

We had been discussing airplane flights in and out and ice conditions, so a direct question as to when I wanted to leave, took me by surprise.  “Oh, about the first week in June,” I managed to say.  It was the middle of April and I thought June was a long time away.

“Well it is time to start thinking about it now,” was Hans reply.  “We will watch the weather you know, WP.”

Taking the trail around the lagoon on my way home, I thought about the need for a boat, just to use in crossing the lagoon during the summer months.  I recalled the small boat my brother and I had built years ago.  He was fifteen and I was thirteen.  We built it in an unused bedroom and when finished, we had to remove the window and window casing to get the boat out of the room.  A boat like that would be just the thing to use on the lagoon.  I also began thinking about the number of discarded boards out behind the school building.  I promised myself I would have another look at them when the snow was all gone. 

The next morning was another beautiful Alaskan day.  I longed to take a hike over to the river to see the falls I had been hearing about, but taking my eyes from the beauty of the morning and glancing down at my desk, I saw my monthly report, started but never completed.  Important things first, would have to be the order of the day.

Lunch over, I went outside to sit in the warm sunshine on the front steps.  Those steps had become my favorite sunning spot.  I had heard a plane fly over and land as I was eating my lunch and was wondering if there were any passengers aboard.  Sure enough, there was a man coming my way, and carrying a suitcase too.  If the way he was dressed did not give him away as someone from down below, the suitcase did. 

My eyes followed him as he approached along the sandbar between the lagoon and the large lake.  He appeared to be a large man, and as he came closer, there was something about his walk that was familiar.  He crossed the outlet of the lagoon and headed toward the school, and then I knew.  How could it be anyone else?  How did he find me?  It was my brother Liston! 

I jumped from the steps and ran to meet him.  His first words were, “Why haven’t you built a boat for visitors to use when crossing this little puddle.”  Yep, that was my brother Liston all right, and was I glad to see him. 

He was ready for a cup of coffee and a sample of my pilot bread crackers with strawberry jam.  He was on his way to Bristol Bay to work at one of the canneries.  When he saw that his flight from Anchorage to Bristol Bay would be flying over Iliamna Lake, he asked for a stop over at Hans Severson’s Roadhouse.  This was the same old brother from a way back: he would not admit that his trip had been planned especially to come by and see how I was getting along with the broken wrist. 

I took him on a tour of the building and when he saw the extra bed up in the attic stock room, he could not conceal his pleasure at having a place to stay.  He said he had forgotten to include a set of bed sheets in his suitcase and so would accept the blankets.  We were both glad that the local people of Newhalen were out in the hills somewhere trapping beaver, so we could have time alone together.

Liston had seen a river and a falls somewhere close by as the plane circled in for a landing.  Incidentally, it was his first time in a plane and the first time he had seen a plane take off and land with skis.  I was glad he had a clear day for the flight down from Anchorage.  He couldn’t stop telling me about his flight, and the view of Mt. McKinley. 

Now that he had seen my place of abode, he wanted to see the area back of the school building.  He also wanted to see the village.  We went back of the school and followed the trail to the top of the hill where we could look down on the village.  Liston just couldn’t believe humans were living in houses like those we were seeing.

We did not go down into the village but followed the trail.  Almost immediately, we came to an outlook point and there below were the river and the falls.  It was a beautiful view.  A smooth flowing river, maybe two hundred feet wide, without a ripple, dropped twenty feet down into a large pool of clear water.  We followed the high bank of the river for maybe a mile or so until our watches told us we should make a bee-line back to the school in order to get there before dark. 

The following morning we had sourdough pancakes.  This was a first for my brother.  He realized he was really in Alaska, as he ate the sourdough pancakes. 

The program for the day was to build that boat he thought we needed.  We went around the school building collecting all the scrap lumber we could find of any usable size.  Then we went over to talk with Hans to see what he might have in stock to sell.  We came home with two pieces of lumber 1”x10”x12’. 

By night, the middle of the schoolroom looked like the startup of a boat shop.  Liston was the technical engineer.  I merely sawed the boards as he marked them, just as we had done when I was thirteen and he was fifteen.  We certainly made a mess in the schoolroom, but I was careful to sweep the floor at the end of each day’s work. 

It was only a day or two until we were ready to call on Hans for some caulking material and a can of green marine paint.  I made it a point to see that the boat was taken outside before we started the paint job.  We could hardly wait for the paint to dry so that we could try the boat out on the lagoon. 

The boat passed the test.  We were a couple of proud sailors, rowing the new boat over to the store, just to show it off.  We noticed that the lake ice was receding fast, and there was a lot of open water.  There was also a strange boat tied up at the dock.  It was the boat that went down the lake and then on down the Kvichak River out in to Bristol Bay, which was a short distance from Naknek.  A large salmon cannery was in that area, where most of the people from Iliamna Lake fished or worked.

The owner of the boat said Liston would be welcome to go with them.  On the side, I asked Hans about Mr. Jones, owner of the boat.  Hans recommended the boat owner and said the men going with him were all good fellows. 

We rowed our new little dinghy like mad back to the schoolhouse for Liston’s things and set another record on the return trip.  I was sorry to see Liston leave so soon, but we had had a great three weeks together.  To fish for salmon in Bristol Bay was what he had wanted to do for years. 

As I stood on the dock watching Liston’s boat disappear around the point, Hans came up and opened the conversation by telling me what a nice little boat we had made.  Then he said he would have taken Liston down to Naknek, but he had a trip scheduled to go up to Old Iliamna, at the head of the lake the coming Wednesday. 

That would be day after tomorrow.  Oh!  Boy!  Just what I was wanting—and in the first week of June, too.  I told Hans to save a place on board for me.  I tried for a new record on the trip back to the school building. 

My monthly report for May came first, which included the routine inventory of all government property.  Then came a preliminary order for next years’ supplies.  The process did not take much time as I had been working off and on with it all spring.  Then I wrote a long letter to Dorothy, author of those scented letters I had been receiving, telling her not to sign up for another school term for next year, and that I would drop her a line or two from Seward on my way south.

I was on the dock waiting for Hans early on Wednesday.  His boat was named the Tern (an Alaskan shore bird).  It was large, built to haul cargo from Bristol Bay to his store.  As I moved our new little dinghy to a safe place above high water, Hans appeared ready to take off with his Tern.  He had put it in the water yesterday from winter storage and it was now ready to leave for the first trip of the season. 

Eddie and another young man were already on board.  Eddie told me that he and Henry were going to be apprentice seamen (deck hands) that summer.  I was the only passenger.  The two seamen let go of the lines on command from the captain and did a professional job of stowing the large ropes on the deck.  Then they stood watch up in the bow of the boat, keeping eyes peeled for floating sections of ice. 

About halfway along on our trip, Hans wanted to stop and see a neighbor about some cordwood.  We pulled into a nice sheltered bay and approached the beach very slowly.  Hans gave the command to drop the anchor.  Both deck hands (it was a heavy anchor) lifted the anchor and threw it overboard, followed by a section of anchor chain, with a length of rope attached

We all stood there and watched the large anchor rope slide along the deck until the end showed up.  Then it too slipped over the edge of the boat and was gone.

A long period of silence followed.  We were at sea without an anchor.  Finally, Eddie said to Henry,  “I thought you secured the rope.”

Henry replied, “I thought you did it.” 

Captain Hans spoke up and said, “Listen, deck hands, this is lesson number one.  Never throw an anchor over board without checking to see if the rope is secured.”  Turning to me, Hans said, “You are a teacher.  What would you do if these two were a couple of your students?” 

Without thinking too seriously on the problem I said, “Tell them to dive down and bring up the end of the anchor rope, but this water is a little icy today for swimming.” 

Without answering my foolish suggestion, he said to Eddie, “Go below and bring up that grab-hooks with the small line.”

Eddie was quick to respond.  Standing clear of the rigging in the bow of the boat, Hans threw the grab-hooks as far out as he could over the area where we had lost the anchor and rope.  On the second try, the grab-hooks brought up a section of the anchor rope. 

“Now,” Hans said. “Before you do anything else, make the end of this anchor rope secure over there like you should have done in the first place.  Then, pull up the anchor and make it secure where it belongs.”

Hans, the teacher of his apprentice crew said, “This is lesson number two.  Have the necessary equipment on board for any emergency.  Grab-hooks left back on the dock would not have helped us this time.” 

We were under way again in no time, headed for the extreme end of the great Iliamna Lake.  There was a small dock extending out from the shoreline just far enough so that Hans could tie up the Tern. 

As I stepped ashore with my suitcase and small backpack, I said to Hans, “Put the cost of this trip on my account.  We’ll settle when I return.”  We shook hands and I said my goodbyes.  As I walked off the dock, I heard the engine on the Tern in reverse, backing out in preparation for the return trip to Hans Severson’s Roadhouse.  I did not look back.

It was about noon as I started on the twelve-mile hike over the mountain range.  The old wagon road about which I had been told was exactly as they described it, old.  It must have been years since the last wagon had made a trip on that road.  A mountain trail would have described it more accurately.  Considering the time of day, I decided to eat my brown bag lunch as I hiked along.  A good backpack would have been much more desirable on that terrain, but I had the suitcase and my bedroll which functioned as a make-shift backpack, so, “up and away and let’s get it over with.”

I could see the waters of Cook Inlet as I stopped to rest on the summit of the trail.  I estimated that I was about halfway there.  As I climbed above the tree line, the trail was not over-grown as it had been on the lower level.  The walking was much easier.  Going down hill should help some too. 

I had seen signs of bear along the trail earlier but they were all old droppings.  Going down, I was facing a nice cool breeze.  I could smell bears somewhere ahead.  If I could smell them on the breeze, they might not be able to detect or hear me coming.  They will not bother me so I will just ignore them, I thought to myself.

The sun was beginning to set when I walked out on the gravel of the saltwater beach.  I had seen the smoke of a fire from farther back on the trail, but had not expected to find a house.  Through the open door, I saw a man working at the stove.  I knocked at the door and said, “Hello.”

The man was so startled he almost dropped the coffeepot.  “Where, did you come from?”  He was so startled he could hardly speak. 

I told him who I was and that I had walked over the trail from Iliamna Lake.  “I was expecting Hinie Berger’s boat in soon.” 

The man was still in shock.  He could only stand and stare at me.  “You mean to tell me you came over that road this time in the evening, and you didn’t have a gun?” 

I told him jokingly that I had an agreement with the bears that if they wouldn’t bother me I would ignore them. 

The poor man just stood there and looked at me.  Finally he said, “Well, come in and have a cup of coffee.”  He indicated a place on the opposite side of his table for me to sit.  It was a welcome invitation, because my feet were killing me after that twelve-mile hike.

His coffee was good and I told him so.  I could tell this pleased him.  We chatted a little over our cups of coffee.  I found out his name was Smith.  He asked me if I would like a bowl of his mulligan stew.  He had just been putting the finishing touches to the pot when I knocked at the door.  Over the bowl of stew, he asked if I had a bedroll.  I did have one.  It was my backpack. 

“You can roll it out in that spare bedroom there.  There’s no bed but the floor is clean.”  He added,  “I sleep upstairs.”

I tried to tell Smith thanks for taking me in for the night, but he was upstairs and in his room before I could finish.  The bare floor may have been clean and also hard but I was unaware of any discomfort, I was ready for sleep.

I was up early, checking on the weather.  The look of the sky indicated a change was in the making.  I could hear Smith in the kitchen working with the stove to start a fire, and perhaps breakfast, also.  There was a pile of wood and an ax behind the house so I proceeded to split wood until the call came for breakfast.  Smith said he appreciated the pile of split wood.

During breakfast, we discussed the possibilities of Hinie Berger coming in that day.  Smith was expecting to be picked up some time today or tomorrow.  He said he had a partner with whom he fished around the Kodiak Islands.  Smith’s partner picked him up at that bay around the first of June each year.  However, he always came prepared to spend a week waiting for his partner to show up. 

“It is an inexpensive place to spend a few days’ vacation as long as I stay down here on the beach line and let the bears stay up there in the willows.”  He added, “In all the years I have been stopping here, I have never once gone over that old wagon road to Iliamna Lake.”

Some time mid-afternoon, we saw a boat coming into the bay.  Which would it be, Smith’s partner or Hinie Berger’s boat?  As the boat came closer, we could see it was Hinie Berger’s boat.  I collected my things and stood down near the edge of the water where I expected him to come ashore.  I was eager to get aboard.

My guess was right.  The ship’s dory pulled in with two men on board right where I was standing.  “Are you Hinie Berger?”  I asked of the first man to step on shore. 

“I sure am,” was his welcome reply.  “What can I do for you?”

I introduced myself and said, “I would like to go in to Seward and then on down to Seattle if you have room for one more on board.” 

“Well, it so happens I have a place for just one more man.  If you can take the simple accommodations, you are welcome aboard.  Is this your baggage?”  Turning to his man in the dory, Hinie said, “Put the man’s baggage in the dory.

Hooray!  Hooray!  I made it, and maybe I was even on the way to Seattle!

Hinie went up to chat with Smith for a few minutes.  On his return, he asked me aboard the dory, and with the aid of the small outboard motor, we were along side his ship in no time.  It wasn’t a large passenger ship, but neither was it a commercial freighter.  It was a forty-eight foot remodeled halibut boat.  To me it was a ship in a time of need.

The ship’s motor started and with the anchor back on board, we were on our way.  Homer, directly across Cook Inlet, was our immediate destination, but with the wind blowing up the Inlet and the tide flowing out of the Inlet, it promised to be a very rough sea to cross.

As we left the shelter of the bay and started across the Inlet, Hinie said to me, “It’s going to be a little choppy out there.”

The skipper of a small craft never spoke truer words.  I recalled some of the days on the old Boxer crossing the Gulf of Alaska.  This was more of the same. 

Our passenger list included a man and wife (she a teacher), two big game hunters from Ohio (polar bear in the Arctic—no luck), and myself.  After a few minutes out on the choppy sea, they were all out “riding the railing and feeding the fish.”  For once, I was glad my bunk had side railings or I would have been thrown out on the floor.  I was doubly glad when the sound of the engines slowing down indicated we were pulling in to Homer.  I did not leave my bunk to see the sights.

It was daylight when the sound of the throbbing engines informed us that we were under way once more.  It was a beautiful day, the wind was down and the sea calm as we made the trip around the end of the Kenai Peninsula.  We were off shore just far enough to enjoy the Kenai range of white-topped mountains.  I spent most of the day in a comfortable deck chair, glad that I did not have to hike some trail over that range of beautiful mountains, which we were now comfortably viewing.

We were in Seward by late that evening.  One glance at Seward’s wharves told me the Alaska Steamship Company was still having problems.  Before we docked, I checked with Hinie once more to make sure my trip to Seattle was still on his books.

Hinie assured me I was scheduled for the Seattle trip.  He also said he planned to be in Seward three days, and that I could sleep in my room on board at night.  He added that the cook would be off duty while we were in port.  I assured him there must be plenty of places to eat uptown. 

That statement proved to be a little uninformed.  As I strolled uptown looking for a place to eat breakfast, I noted most of the eating places were closed.  There didn’t seem to be much life in town.  Then I remembered that the docks were stacked with merchandise, and food supplies and that groups of longshoremen stood at every doorway, preventing general public access.

With foresight and knowledge, Hinie had tied up at one of the oil company’s docks to take on fuel for the trip south.  Out near the edge of town, I finally found a small hamburger place open for business.

The three days went by very quickly in Seward.  Hinie had his crew and passengers on board the evening before the sailing date.

Long before daylight, we slipped quietly from the dock.  When the sun came up, we were far out to sea.  Only the snow-covered tops of some of the highest peaks were visible on the eastern skyline.

Late in the afternoon of the fourth day, we were close to the islands of southern Alaska.  Winding around some of the many islands, we saw the lights of Ketchikan, highlighting the evening sky.  Needing fuel, we tied up an oil dock on the North end of town. 

Hinie made it clear to both the crew and passengers that the boat would be leaving the dock at twelve o’clock sharp.  The two big game hunters from Ohio had been boasting most of the day about what they were going to do when we reached Ketchikan.  We had left the young school teacher and her husband back in Seward.  The big game hunters and crew members called two taxies to take them into town.  I did not join the group.  I had a pretty good idea which section of town they were interested in visiting.

The boat seemed very quiet with the crew and passengers on shore.  Hinie invited me to spend my time in the wheelhouse up on deck.  As the clock’s hands began working themselves up to twelve, and with the tanks full, he was beginning to show signs of wanting to be under way.

Just before twelve o’clock the two taxies pulled in on the dock.  From the sound of things, the party was still going on.  Crew members and passengers all seemed to be very unstable.  At last, the dock was cleared and the taxies went back to town. 

Hinie came into the wheelhouse and said, “Can you take the wheel?  I’ll let go the lines and manage the engine.”  He must have seen the astonished look on my face.

“I must move away from the dock immediately.  The cops are coming.”  I was still speechless.  “Just go that way and follow the chart.”  With that, he dashed back down to the engine room.  I heard the big diesel engine come to life and the boat began to move. 

Was he talking to me?  There was no one else in the wheelhouse but me. I grabbed the wheel and eased the ship away from the dock.  Then I looked at the chart before me.  It was marked with a red line showing where we were and where we were expected to go.  The channel markers were all lit up, either with a red or green light.  Somewhere in my background I had learned, when on a boat at night, “always run red to red and green to green,” referring to the sidelights required on all powerboats.

On the turns, the charts gave the settings to turn the compass indicator to, so it was quite simple to watch the compass and channel lights, and then turn the wheel to direct the boat in that direction.

Once or twice, I was aware of Hinie looking over my shoulder, so I must have been doing okay.  I think we were going through some scenic places according to the chart but I was interested only in the red and green channel markers. 

At about the time for a new day to begin, one of the crew members, having slept off his Ketchikan party, reported for duty.  He was one of the engineers and Hinie was with him.  Hinie relieved me at the wheel and sent the seaman down to the engine room.  Hinie was very thankful for my help and said that I would be welcome on his ship any time.

The sun was coming up when I passed the door to the galley.  The tantalizing smell of bacon and eggs and the looks of a fresh steaming cup of coffee were more than I could resist so I decided sleep could wait just a little longer.

The weather was beautiful and the skies clear as we continued on down the Inside Passage.  We could sit out on deck at any time of day.  It was like a cruise through the mountains from a relaxing deck chair.  Finally the high cut banks of Whidbey Island began to show up on our left and then there was Port Townsend with the column of steam in the background, and I knew we were almost home.

We did not pull into Elliot Bay or the waterfront of Seattle.  Hinie chose to make Lake Union his port of call.  As we entered the locks, known to all of us from the Puget Sound area as the Ballard Locks, I could hardly wait.  I had my backpack and suitcase out on deck waiting.  As our ship rose up with the action of the water entering the locks, I was watching.  When the ship’s deck came up level with the sidewalls of the lock, I stepped ashore.  I was home. 

I did not need to sightsee around the locks or watch other boats going in or out.  I knew where the good old #28 streetcar’s tracks were, and I headed in that direction.  I took the front seat on the first car going my way.  I wanted to be the first person off when we reached Third Avenue West.