Nondalton

As I started up Third Avenue West, whom should I meet but Eddie Teel, my old friend, who asked, “Where do you think you are going?”

Looking just like a tramp from off some boat, I replied, “Hoping for some place to hang out for a few days.”  

He said, “Good, come upstairs with me.  Ward, and I have a two-room apartment here, and he is away for a week.”  We were standing on the street corner in front of the Drug Store across from Seattle Pacific College.  What else could I ask for?  He took me upstairs to a beautiful apartment in the front part of the building. 

Eddie said, “Make your self at home.  I was on my way to work so will have to run.”  As a parting thought he said, “You know where the bakery is downstairs, don’t you?”

Man!  Oh!  Man!  How lucky can I be?

My next thought was, where was the telephone and what was that number?  Both were located and the local call made.  Dorothy almost dropped the phone when she heard my voice. 

“Mama, he’s here!  Ellis is here.”  I heard Dorothy call to her mother, who was apparently out in the kitchen.  I was thrilled to hear her voice and how excited she was that I had made the trip.

I was lucky that the phone call I had made was a local call, less than a block and a half away.  I was asked to review my trip from Iliamna Lake down to the Ballard Locks.  That call would have been very expensive on a long distant line. 

Dorothy wanted me to come right over, but I reminded her that I had been 18 days at sea on a small boat and was in need of a little repair work on my appearance before nice people saw me.  There was a small barbershop about half way down the street where I frequently stopped when I was in school.  The barber glanced at me then took a long look. 

“Where have you been?  Out to sea on a long trip?” 

I answered him, “Vacationing.” 

After he had brushed the surplus clippings from my neck and shoulders, I felt much more presentable and I walked around the corner to Cremona Street.

In response to the push on the doorbell button, the door opened wide and there was Dorothy looking very beautiful.  We expressed our greetings to each other right then and there without closing the door.

“Oh, come in,” she remembered to say.  Mama and Papa were discretely in the kitchen preparing afternoon tea.  She took my hand and at the feel of her soft hand, we had to repeat our greetings once more, still forgetting the open door. 

Papa came in from the kitchen, closed the door, and greeted me with a semi-formal handshake.  Then Mama found some excuse to pass through the room and expressed her greetings with a handshake.  She said she was glad I had had a good, safe trip down from Alaska.  I thought it best not to tell her about the rough night’s crossing of Cook Inlet and the number of times I was sure we were going to roll completely over or plunge down from one of those high waves and never come up again.

Dorothy and her mother had set out a nice afternoon tea for some of Dorothy’s former school friends.  After one good look at my sunburned face, they commented, “We thought you were in Alaska, but your suntan shows you have been somewhere on the beaches of the South Sea Islands.  Does the sun really shine up north in Alaska?”

My stock reply was, “Come and see.”  On second thought, I felt I owed them a better explanation, so I said, “Eighteen days at sea on the deck of a small boat will do wonders for your complexion.  Try it sometime.”  Most of the guests were people I had known for some time at school.

Mama and Papa remembered they had an errand to do, so they took the car for a drive.  I helped Dorothy with the dishes and made small talk about what a problem I had had with dishes when my left arm was in a cast.  We had something on our minds but didn’t know how to bring up the subject.  Finally, I decided to “break the ice.”  (That expression came naturally after all the ice I put up with last winter.)

“How was my timing?” I asked.  “I tried my best to get here a little earlier.” 

“Oh, Ellis, I thought you would never get here.  I have a temporary reservation on the parlor in the girl’s dorm for the 22nd.” 

“That is only six days away.  Who is helping you?”  I asked.

“Dorothy Ferman has a standby crew lined up awaiting orders.”  Dorothy replied.

“Let’s get on the phone and let her know you have a prospective groom, sitting here in your front room, who is anxious to be on the road back north.” 

The phones started ringing.  Finally the phone calls began to taper off and Dorothy came in and cuddled up next to me on the davenport.  “You will never know how many times I have wanted to do this with you last winter.”  (The ice was broken.) 

The sound of a car pulling into the back driveway reminded us there were many things which had to be done between now and the 22nd.  We knew a shopping list would help so that was the place to start.  Sea-bags were the best thing for traveling in Alaska. 

“We are going back to Alaska, are we not?”  Dorothy asked.

“Yes, and shoepacs are essential.  Fancy leather dress shoes are out for the area where we are going.”

The list continued to grow.  “You know, we are going to require two sea-bags to contain these purchases,” I noted.  We decided to fill one first.

“Do you think your Papa would let you use his car for a trip to town?”  I asked.  J. C. Penny’s and Sears catalogues were located, and our shopping lists grew faster. 

We did not need to worry about groceries.  I told her about Hans Severson and the large amount of stock he always had on hand.  “We will never be hungry,” I told her.

Our shopping spree was “cash and carry”, so the car came in very hand as a storage place to lock items in the trunk.  We had fun all morning, spending money.  In the afternoon, Dorothy wanted one of her friends to go with her as an advisor.  Dorothy Ferman volunteered to go, so they took the streetcar down town. 

I took advantage of the free afternoon and the car, and went over to see my sister living near Duvall.  It was a surprise for her.  I hadn’t told her I was coming down from Alaska.  The wedding was a bigger surprise.  I invited her and Will, her husband, to attend which pleased her very much.  Our parents were planning on being there as well.

The morning of the 22nd arrived.  The big event was set for seven o’clock that evening.  I contacted the Alaska Steamship Co. one more time.  Still nothing was available. 

By chance, I met up with Clifford Roloff, recently married and now living in the University District.  I told him my problem with transportation and the need for lodging.  He knew of a nice, small, secluded place near where he was living.  He knew the landlady and offered to make the arrangements for one or more nights.  I did not tell Dorothy or anyone else.  However, I asked Dorothy’s father if we could use his car for a short overnight trip.  

The seven o’clock hour arrived and the traditional ceremony was underway.  Dorothy Ferman’s committee had done a nice job of decorating the room.  There was a cute latticework archway, covered with sweet pea blossoms, under which Dorothy and I were to stand.  As we stood there in proper formation with our attendants on either side, my eyes scanned the archway of flowers.  To my dismay, someone had used 6-penny nails to spike the footing of the arch to the polished parlor floor.  The oak flooring was badly damaged.  Whoever it was, that took the blame for that, has worried me to this day. 

After the wedding cake had been cut, everyone was standing around with cake in one hand and punch in the other, visiting.  No one noticed the bride and groom slip out to the kitchen and out the back door to their car parked conveniently nearby.

Next morning, the sun was up as usual and the world was rotating as it had been doing for centuries.  We still had the folk’s car.  We decided, “Why not take an early morning drive?  We could find some place for breakfast along the way.  A carefree drive somewhere would be a good way to start our first day together.” 

By chance, we were driving along Railroad Avenue looking at the ships and spotted a new ship just in port.  It was from Canada.  I made a fast left turn up to First Avenue.

“Where are you going?” asked my new wife.

“To Alaska.”  I replied rather briefly for a new husband. 

The Canadian Steamship Company was just opening its doors for business.  Walking confidently up to the counter, I asked if they had accommodations for two as far as Juneau. 

“Let me check,” said the lady at the desk.  After a moment, she came back.  “I am sorry we have only one place available in first class.  A lady in cabin 21 left word she would share her room with another lady.”  I looked at my new wife with a questioning expression on my face.  She nodded her head. 

“How about something on the second class deck for a man?”  I asked the lady at the desk.

“Oh yes, there are several places there.  Arrangements can be made and you can take your meals in the first class dining room,” she replied.

“When do you sail?” was my next question. 

“This afternoon at one thirty,” she replied. 

“One thirty today?  Take my money quickly!  We will be on board.”

 A fast trip back to the University District was made to explain our good luck to the landlady.  She wished us well on the trip.  We took another hasty drive back to Cremona Street to collect a carload of baggage and to ask Dorothy’s father if he would drive the car down to the dock while we went down on the streetcar. 

Once things started to move, it was fast action from there on until one thirty in the afternoon.  A porter in a white jacket escorted Dorothy to her stateroom, number 21.  I was directed to a gangplank farther along on the pier.  There were no white jacketed porters reaching for my luggage, or directing me to the second class deck, but I found my assigned place and soon joined Dorothy on the deck above to wave goodbye to her parents, and to everyone standing on the dock below. 

The final whistle blew.  At the sound of the whistle, the dock loaded with waving people slipped silently away: it was not until we saw the space of open water between us and the dock that we realized that we were the ones really moving.  We were on our way to Alaska. 

Our first stop was Victoria, Canada.  I met my bride in the first class dining room when I heard the steward sound the chimes for breakfast.  It was a beautiful sunny Sunday morning, and our ship was tied up at a pier in the inner harbor of the city.  The breakfast was elaborate.  We later learned that Canadian Steamships are noted for their excellent meals.  I couldn’t help but wonder how the fellows down in second class were faring for breakfast that first morning out.

We took a walk around the top deck in the sunshine and admired the architecture of the inner city.  Everything was so “English.”  We felt as if we were in a foreign land already, but we could still look back across the straight and see the Olympic Mountains gleaming in the morning sun.  (Notice how easy it was for me to drop the pronoun “I” for “we.”) 

The ship was scheduled to sail at one o’clock, so we strolled uptown to window shop.  The shops were more interesting than the more familiar ones back in Seattle.  We were back on board in time to hear the steward going around the ship announcing lunchtime.  We were to learn about high tea in the afternoon and dinner at night.  We also found that we needed to dress up for dinner. 

The next stop was Vancouver, still in view of the mountains of Washington.  Then it was on through the Inside Passage to Prince Rupert, with a lot of deck time for shuffle board games along the way.  As we entered Alaska, Ketchikan became our next stop, then on to Juneau for the end of our Canadian trip. 

We disembarked, and checked-in at the Alaska Steamship’s Office, on the same dock.  There was no transportation to Seward.  There was no assurance there would be anything going that far north for days.  We crowded everything into a locker available on the dock and I put the key in my pocket. 

I had been in Juneau last June for a few days, and I remembered taking a room with cooking facilities near the Capitol building.  It was within walking distance from where we were standing.  Dorothy said, “Let’s give it a try.”

We explained who we were, and the landlady said she had a room with housekeeping arrangements.  When she quoted the price we both spoke in unison, “We will take it.” 

It required two trips back to the dock to get our baggage together once more.  While going back and forth, we had located a grocery store.  Dorothy knew how to buy and I was able to carry, so we loaded up with enough food for a week.

The next day we spruced up a bit and called the Office of Indian Affairs for an appointment.  The girl on the phone said, “Come right on over.”  Mr. Hawksworth, head of the department, came out of his office to greet us, and meet Dorothy.  We were invited into his office. 

His first words were, “I was sorry to learn about your wrist last winter.  How is it doing now?”  I gave him a brief review of the problems I’d had. 

Turning to Dorothy, he asked, “Do you plan to continue on with teaching?”

“Only if I don’t have to leave Ellis,” was her reply, much to my joy. 

“The department has, at present, a number of two-teacher vacancies.  There is one very close to where your husband has been this past year,” he told her.

That was big news to me. 

“The Bill Liese couple are leaving because of her health.  It is our most isolated village in the Territory primarily because of transportation difficulties.  Nondalton is about twenty miles up the river from Severson’s store.”

I told Mr. Hawksworth I had visited Mr. and Mrs. Liese in their Nondalton village last year during the Christmas season.  Bill and I also met occasionally when he came down to the Post Office at Hans Severson’s store.  I agreed that the twenty-mile trail was difficult both in the summer months and during the winter. 

Dorothy spoke up, “If other teachers can make it, we should be able to do the same.”

Dorothy and Mr. Hawksworth both looked at me.  I was on the spot.  “Well, (I tried not to stammer) it would be a convenient move to make.”  I hoped neither one could see me dragging my feet. 

“Good, the secretary can fill out the papers and you can sign them while you are here.  We will start Dorothy, effective July 1st, at $150 per month. 

Dorothy almost fell off her chair.  She had been earning $60 per month the past two years and out of that, she was paying $40 per month for room and board.  As we walked down the steps from the Federal building, she took my arm and said,  “Honey, you know what?  I would hike that old twenty-mile trail to Nondalton any time for the money I just signed up for.” 

“You would!”  I was the one surprised now.  “Let’s go celebrate.  How about a salmon dinner?” 

From our apartment window, we had a good view of the harbor and just below in a park-like setting, a baseball game was getting underway.  “Shall we go down and watch the game?” 

“At ten o’clock at night?”  Dorothy asked.

“You are in Alaska now,” I reminded her.  It was a warm evening.  The sun was behind a mountain peak overlooking the town of Juneau.  As we found a spot to sit on a log, we noticed no one was wearing coats.  Shirtsleeves were in mode for evening sportswear, even that far north.  Two local teams were competing, and we cheered for both teams, and had a good time.

The next morning, a noisy robin woke us up with his persistent greeting from a nearby rooftop.  Two o’clock a.m. and broad daylight?  Back to bed and cover up my head.  “I’ll sleep until my clock says it is time to start a new day,” I mumbled.  Somewhere a noisy alarm clock sounded, and then an eager beaver on some boat in the harbor sounded off with a whistle loud enough to awaken the entire town.

  “We might as well get up and start the day,” I told Dorothy.

While dressing, I had an idea, “Let’s pack a brown bag lunch and take a hike.”  I recalled an old wagon road that went up in the mountains, somewhere back of town.  We needed to start getting fit for that twenty-mile hike facing us when we got to Iliamna Lake.”

Breakfast dishes finished and lunch in a brown bag, we started around the Federal Building and found the street which quickly became a wagon road and then a well-worn trail leading up the mountain back of town.  Soon we were up and above the timberline in a grassy meadow covered with mountain flowers and blueberry bushes.  The view was spectacular from that height, but the brown bag lunch was becoming heavy. 

Finding a rocky ledge where we could sit with our feet hanging over, we proceeded to transfer the contents of the brown paper bag into more practical containers.  Wiping the crumbs from our mouths and the jelly from our fingers with the paper towel material our sandwiches had been wrapped in, we retraced our steps back down the trail.

As we approached the timberline, Dorothy asked, “Are there any bears up here?” 

“Oh no, not here!  We are right on the edge of Juneau.  We can almost see the houses through the trees.”  I replied.

“Well, what are those things?”  She was pointing down the trail. 

I looked and almost fainted.  There were three big brown bears eating blueberries: Papa bear, Mama bear, and Baby bear (only Baby bear was more like a teenager).  I was scared and could not move.  Three big, brown bears between safety and us.  There was no place to run, no trees to climb, no gun to use, and nobody knew where we were. 

Trembling, we stood and watched.  So far, the bears were unaware of us.  They were having a picnic of their own, eating blueberries.  Papa bear was on the right side of the trail and Mama bear with Junior were on the left side.  All three bears had their backs turned to us and their faces buried deep into berry bushes. 

“Sh-h-h-h.”  I made the sign with my finger across my lips.  “Keep quiet and don’t let them hear us.”  I whispered to Dorothy very, very quietly.  “Look straight ahead, do not act as if you even see them, stand tall and walk quietly by them.” 

That’s what we did until we reached the timber, and then we ran for all we were worth, down the hill to the safety of Juneau. 

The landlady had a telephone message from the Office of Indian Affairs waiting for us when we reached the apartment.  The substance of the message was, “The M. S. Boxer would be docking in Juneau the day after tomorrow about 10:30, on its way to Seward.  They had accommodations for two.  If interested, call the office.”

“Interested—We are, and, how!  Where is the nearest phone?”

One more day to wait.  How would we put in another day?  Our landlady suggested the museum in the Federal Building.  The idea seemed a good one so we walked around the Federal Building to the entrance. 

As we opened the front door, we were astounded by what we saw.  An enormous bear, standing nine or ten feet tall, confronted us.  Following our close encounter with the three bears on the mountain the previous afternoon, it was a real shocker.  Surviving our greeter at the entrance, we spent several profitable hours in the museum. 

The next morning, we were down at the dock long before the M. S. Boxer was sighted coming in to port.  The good old Boxer!  She looked just as she had when I climbed down the Jacob’s ladder last September in Egegik, except that there was a different skipper and crew.  Yes, they were expecting two passengers to come aboard in Juneau.  What do you know!  The same stateroom was available.

Did I tell you there were two bunks in the room when I was a passenger last September?  I threw Dorothy’s suitcase and my seabag up on the top bunk and we went back on deck to have a look around.  In place of a deck loaded with lumber, there was a new Ford truck securely lashed down, going to Yakutat. 

From the time we left Juneau until we docked in Seward, four days later, it was like sailing on a different sea.  As we approached the dock, the Skipper said,  “I see the train to Anchorage is waiting for our load of six passengers.”  

Neither Dorothy nor I could see a train anywhere but there was a car on the dock resembling a Seattle streetcar.  All personal baggage from the Boxer was sent ashore in one sling load and the passengers reclaimed their own belongings from the pile.

Our train was an interurban type of car.  Because of the longshoremen’s strike, no freight or passengers came across the docks into Seward, bound for Anchorage. 

There were not many stops between Seward and Anchorage, but somewhere along the line, in the timber, the car came to a sudden stop.  We all looked out to see what the problem was.  There on the tracks, a few yards ahead of us, stood a large moose, head down, challenging us to battle.  The engineer stepped out, waved his hat, and shouted.  The moose took a step forward and shook his antlers.  They were one of the largest sets of antlers I had ever seen.  (He must have been an important member of the Moose Lodge and was supporting the longshoremen’s strike.) 

The moose took one more step and presented those beautiful antlers for battle.  The passengers in the car were betting, some on the engineer and some on the moose.  The engineer gave up first and got back into the car.  With the car’s horn blasting away, he slowly advanced on the stubborn moose.  When within a few yards of each other, the moose lifted his proud head and trotted off into the brush.  We all cheered for the engineer.

Anchorage was a small, one-street town.  We saw a hotel near the center of town within walking distance.  It was close to the hospital where I had spent a recent Christmas vacation.  We walked up the short street.  At the desk, we asked if they had a room.

“Have we got rooms!”  Then in a more business-like tone he asked, “What would you like?” 

“Oh, something with a telephone,” I said. 

During the formalities of signing the register he asked, “Going fishing?”

“No, we live out there.”  The desk clerk showed no sign of surprise.  I was glad he did not ask, “for how long?”

 Once in the room, we called the airport. 

“They would have a plane going that way tomorrow morning.” was the answer.

“Where can we reach you in the morning?”  I asked.

“Our planes are taking off out at the point instead of here on the lake.  We will have a taxi at your hotel door in time.”

Immediately after breakfast, we had our baggage down in the lobby while we stood by the telephone in the room, waiting.  At about ten o’clock the phone rang.  The voice on the other end said the taxi would arrive in ten minutes.  We waited almost another hour before a taxi driver showed up looking for two passengers going to Hans Severson’s Roadhouse. 

We climbed in and were driven down Main Street (the only street in town) to a place called “The Point.”  It had a name but everyone referred to it simply as “The Point.”  There was our plane, no dock or float, just a sandy beach.  The pilot was wearing rubber boots.  He picked Dorothy up and carried her out to the plane.  I was wearing shoepacs.  The water was deeper than shoepacs could take so I got a little wet but that was all right.  I was going home.

The pilot gave the plane a push as if launching a boat.  Then he caught onto something and climbed up on one of the pontoons.  While we drifted, he exchanged his rubber boots for shoes and climbed into the cockpit.  We taxied out into the bay (upper part of Cook Inlet).  However, after a long run at full speed, the pilot could not lift off the water.  Stopping to turn the plane around, he tried another long run at take-off speed.  Still we had no luck getting out of the water.  We drifted around while the pilot called the Anchorage hanger.

In the meantime, a little breeze had sprung up and ruffled the water.  The pilot made a third try in a slightly different angle and direction.  This time, when at takeoff speed, the pilot rocked the plane a little, lifting one pontoon at a time out of the water.  When both pontoons were free and out of the water, the plane literally jumped into the air, and we were off. 

Years later, over a friendly cup of coffee, the pilot said to me, “Remember that time when I had such difficulty in the lift-off from Anchorage?  I was overloaded.  The Boss wanted me to take some fresh meat down to Dillingham.  I had a half-beef under the seat where you and your wife were sitting.  It turned out to be a much bigger beef than expected, so we were a little over weight.”  Like the old saying goes, “what you don’t know won’t hurt you,” but that flight could have had a different ending. 

Losing altitude, later on, we saw the docks at Hans Severson’s.  The pilot circled over the lone schoolhouse and I pointed it out to Dorothy and said, as my pilot had said almost one year ago, “There it is.”

The landing was smooth and we coasted up to the floating dock.  Eddie Severson was there with a line to make the pontoon fast to the dock.  Eddie was too bashful to greet Dorothy, but Hans was also there, standing on the dock, to welcome us home. 

Hans said to Dorothy as I introduced her,  “You are a brave woman to follow this man all the way up here to a place like this.”  Mike Hatton must have been somewhere near because he showed up about then for an introduction to my new bride. 

The only white woman in the area, Mrs. Hanson, who with her husband operated the Roadhouse, came out from the kitchen to greet Dorothy. “We heard on the radio from Anchorage last night that you would be on this plane.  We have a special dinner ready for you and Ellis.  We are glad he returned and brought you.”

Turning to those standing around, she said, “Dinner is ready now.  Please come in.”  This was as much a surprise to me as it was to Dorothy.  I could see Dorothy was very pleased with the reception given her.  During the dinner, we told about our encounter with the three bears back of Juneau.  They could hardly believe we had walked through three bears eating berries and had gotten away with it.

During the social hour following dinner, we talked about our meeting with the Office of Indian Affairs in Juneau.  They did not know that Bill and Mrs. Liese were leaving.  We told them we had been asked to replace them.  We did not like to break the bad news that the Liese family was leaving, but we would have to tell them sometime.

Mike Hatton offered to take us over to the school building as he had done for me last fall.  We entered through the back door to the kitchen.  Everything was about as I had left it.  Mike and his boat returned home, and we were alone and standing on “square one.”  I looked at Dorothy, “Where do we start?” 

Dorothy wanted to see the rest of the place.  We took a tour of the bedroom, living room, schoolroom, clinic, and attic storeroom. 

“Is this all?  Where is the bathroom?”  Dorothy asked.

“It’s out back.  I’ll show you.  We have running water, too: I will run up and get a pail-full.” 

With a shrug she said,  “Looks like we have everything we need except kids for the school.” 

“They’re all kept with their mamas and papas over the hill in the village,” I replied and then added as an afterthought: “But we are a little short just now on kids since they are all out fishing.”

With a little giggle she said,  “Oh, you are just kidding me.”

We did not do much to improve the building and living quarters.  Our current interest was how we were going to make the move up the river.  Hans told us the school had a boat, but it was up the river at the schoolhouse.  The village and school were on the opposite side of the river.  Even if we hiked up, we would have no way to cross the river, since all of the people of Nondalton were now living in summer camps along the river

“Is there an outboard motor for the boat?” I asked.

Hans did not know if the school’s outboard motor was working.  He suggested we watch, and when a plane came through, ask to be flown up to Nondalton and then come back down the river with the boat.

Hans’s suggestion was a good one.  While waiting for a plane, we got my pack board ready for a short stay.  It was only a day or two until a plane stopped in with space for two.  The pilot agreed to fly us up to Nondalton.  Hans had the keys to the schoolhouse.  He also said he had two new outboard motors in stock.

Just before we boarded the plane, Hans told us, “When you come down the river, beach your boat above the rapids.”

The pilot evidently overheard Hans’s instructions because he made an extra circle over the village of Newhalen to the mouth of the river and pointed out the falls to us.  Then he followed up the river two miles and pointed to the rapids.  Quoting Hans, he said, “Beach your boat here above these first rapids.”  He gave us a good look at both the big falls and the first rapids.  I also noted the well-worn trail leading from the beach to home, nine miles away.

When I offered to pay the pilot, he said,  “I’ll try your Juneau Office first.”

Our first view of Nondalton was a good, overall scan of what we had let ourselves in for.  The village was a collection of weather-bleached log houses, situated on a hillside on the lower tip of Lake Clark.  There wasn’t even a dog around to bark.

As the plane took off, I put my arm around Dorothy and said,  “It isn’t too late.  We can still admit our mistake.  This is the first of July and this can’t be the only place where they need a couple of teachers.” 

“No!”  She said,  “An agreement is an agreement.  Now that we are here, let’s have a look around.  There, see that bell on the roof.  It must mean something.” 

Standing back from the lakefront, a short distance away, was a building with a typical school bell on the peak of the roof.  One of our keys fit the lock.  As we pushed the door open, we could tell this was not the schoolhouse.  Someone had been living there. 

“Look.”  I pointed to a corner of the storm shed.  There, leaning in the corner, was an Evinrude Outboard motor.  But where was the school building?

Hans had told me it was at the top of the hill.  Then I recalled my brief visit last Christmas.  Yes, this was where Mr. and Mrs. Leise had lived and the school was up on the hill.

“Let’s go see the school,” I suggested, and we started around the house following the trail.

“Hello!  Are you our new teachers?”

We were so startled, we could not answer.  Who was speaking?  The village was supposed to be vacant.  Looking around we saw an old white man leaning on his hoe where he had been working in a garden of potatoes.  He came over to the wood fence and said his name was Hobson. 

In turn, we introduced ourselves as the Arnolds.

“Oh, yes.  You are that young teacher down at the Newhalen School, with the broken wrist.  I remember you now.”

I proudly introduced Dorothy and said we had been asked to replace Bill and Mrs. Leise.  It was Hobson’s turn to be surprised.  We never did learn his other name; he was just known as Hobson.

We inquired about the school’s boat: “Will it float?”

Hobson pointed down to the beach.  “The school’s boat is pulled up under those birch trees down on the point,” he said, then, after indicating a small storage building, continued: “The oars are kept in the cache there.”

We chatted some more about the Leises.  We also learned that the school building was a little farther up the hill on the path we were following. 

Our key fit the lock on the school building as well.  It was a one-room arrangement with a partly unfinished wall for a second room addition.  There wasn’t much to see so we thought it was time to check on the boat. 

The oars were in the cache as Mr. Hobson had said.  The boat was well up on the beach and was a problem to push back into the water, but strangely enough, it did not leak.  We pushed off and with alot of courage applied our strength to the oars. 

It wasn’t long before we began to sense the current of the river.  It was ample so we moved right along.  “Ten miles of river,” they had told us, “before the first rapids.”  It was a pleasant ride, drifting along with the current.  We began to hear the noise of the rapids before they came into sight, and rounding the next bend I saw the white water ahead.  I manned the oars and made for shore.  With a piece of rope, we pulled the boat down a few yards until we saw where other boats had been tied up.  We felt like experienced seamen as we made our boat fast to a tree. 

At the top of the grassy bank, which made us puff to climb, we found a good place to stop.  We had carried our brown bag lunch all around with us and now was the time to empty it.  The nine-mile trail ahead was still unknown to us.  We said we could do it, so we gave it a try.

The first few miles spanned some hill country.  The trail was narrow but firm and dry, so we proceeded Indian-style, one walking behind the other.  When we came to some wet swampy areas, we walked on sections of old tree trunks or small logs; this feat required the use of a long pole in order to maintain balance. 

Finally, from the crest of a hill, we could see the far-off water of Iliamna Lake and we knew we had it made.  It had taken four hours on the trail but considering some of the terrain we covered, we were satisfied with what we had done. 

When we returned, Hans Severson was sitting outside with his chair leant back against the wall of the building, enjoying the warm evening. 

He called to us as we approached, “How was the trip?”

“We didn’t fall in the swamp coming over the portage,” was our reply.  We told him we had met our prospective neighbor, Hobson.

Hans had a good chuckle over that.  “Old Hobson has been around for a long time.  He was here when I first came.” 

“Are you open for business?”  I asked.

“Any hour of the day or night I am open for business.  What’s on your mind?”

“We had an enjoyable trip floating down the river this morning,” I answered.  “I am not going to row back against that current for love nor money.  How about one of those motors you have in stock?”

“Do you want the five horse or the nine horse?”  Hans asked.  “They are both new Johnsons.” 

“The boat belonging to the school up there is a heavy old tub,” I said.  “It would be smart to take the nine horse.”

Hans tipped his chair into an upright position and entered the store.  Very quickly, he returned with a shiny new nine horse Johnson.  Some of the original wrappings were still intact.

“That was a quick trip,” I commented. 

“I was sitting here waiting for you.  I knew you would float down the river with the current but only a fool would try to row back up against the stream, so I took off some of the packing from around this nine horse this afternoon,” replied Hans.

“Did it start okay?”  I asked.

“I had it running for a little while—It took right off.”  Hans replied.

“How about gas and oil?”  I asked. 

The month of July was a busy month, packing our baggage across the portage and then when we had a boatload, making the trip up the river.  All the able bodied men, who could pack across the portage, were working for the canneries or were not interested in helping us.  But little by little we were able to accumulate enough supplies to start the fall season.  When sledding was possible, it would be a much simpler job to run down to the grocery store and the Post Office.

The coming of August reminded us that it was time to start thinking about school, although it had been on our minds since our arrival.  After looking the buildings over, we decided to make a change. 

We moved into the one-room log school building, and remodeled the former two-room residence to serve as our school building.  Using some materials we had on hand, we built a partition in the former schoolroom, transforming it into a cozy kitchen and comfortable living room.  With the addition of a storm-shed entrance, we had a nice log cabin for our living quarters.  The former residence with its two large rooms and storm-shed was more suitable for a school.

Dorothy was responsible for the first four grades and I taught the upper grades.  All the students spoke English, which was an improvement over my first year of teaching down at Newhalen.

On the first day of school, a new little boy and his sister presented me with a note from their mother, that read,  “Please give my two children school names.”  We had a couple of friends back in college who were recently married so we named our new students Merlin and Edith.  The mother was very happy with the names.

A few months later, another little boy handed me a note from home saying, “Please spank my Johnny.”  I didn't.

We evidently had a PTA group in the village of which I was initia