ELBOW
ROOM
a Tale of Tenacity on Kodiak Island, Alaska
D. D. Fisher
© Copyright 2011, D. D. Fisher. All Rights Reserved
First Edition
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage, and retrieval system without written permission from both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Published by Aventine Press
55 E Emerson Street
Chula Vista, CA 91911
Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0659-6
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011919380
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Dedicated to Greg,
who taught me well.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My deepest gratitude to my husband and lifetime partner for his support and encouragement during the long months I worked on this project. Grateful thanks to my sister, Debbie, for reading my early and very rough drafts, and long-distance encouragement to “keep it up.” My heartfelt thanks to the numerous friends in Kodiak whose kindness and help made our life on the rock so enjoyable.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Located in the Gulf of Alaska, Kodiak Island is the largest in the state, measuring 3,588 square miles and accessible only by a one-hour plane ride or a twelve-hour ferry ride from the mainland. We moved to Kodiak site unseen and found a unique blend of beauty and bitterness, richness and depravity, wildness and serenity.
In the 1980s, there were no shopping malls, half the residents still didn’t have running water, electricity was intermittent with frequent brown outs and luxury items were anything that couldn’t be handcrafted or borrowed from a friend. The climate was harsh with cold snowy blizzards that blasted through long dark winters followed by wet, foggy, springs and damp rainy summers. The small fishing village was ten years behind the times in technology, engineering and even some basic modern amenities.
Still, we became mesmerized by the abundant wildlife, sea life, and a strange but innovative lifestyle that depended on tides and winds and the pristine but dangerous environment. Somewhere along the way, we got caught up in the battle of man against Mother Nature. Each small victory fueled our determination to face the next challenge, as each major setback brought us closer to the truth.
We stayed on this remote island for more than twenty-five years and felt privileged to share the lives of people who faced the daily challenges of this mostly uninhabited and harsh land. These determined individuals struggled and strived to maintain a lifestyle unlike any other, and so reaped the benefits of Elbow Room.
This is a work of creative nonfiction based on my own experiences, opinions, and imagination. Some details were altered and names were changed to protect the privacy of individuals.
1 ARRIVAL
Being upbeat and positive, while useful in sorting out certain situations, was not always easy, and being upbeat and positive while bumping around at 30,000 feet in a compact aircraft designed to haul freight was downright difficult. I gripped both armrests tightly and pressed my feet to the floor as the cramped, stuffy plane banked hard to the right.
The wide span of flat metal wings tipped almost vertical as we circled around lush green mountains that were still wearing white snowcaps with white ribbons streaming down the crevices of the high rocky peaks. The plane suddenly dropped altitude and the nose shot down towards the ocean. I hoped this was it.
George and I had moved seven times in the first ten years of our marriage, partly because of a restlessness acquired from the obligatory military moves during George’s hitch with the Air Force, and partly because of an inner quest of George’s to “find our niche.” I tagged along each time, learning to pack and unpack with surprising efficiency, and typically felt that each new start brought new hope.
But this place was remote. We had always lived in big cities. Kodiak Island was not even on most maps of the United States. The few that depicted the Great Land showed Kodiak to be a smudge just below the left leg that swung out into the Pacific Ocean like some artist’s mistake.
“It’ll be great, you’ll see,” said George when I pointed out that the nearest mainland was two hundred fifty miles by air or twelve hours by a large four hundred foot ferry, according to a Milepost discovered in the local Colorado Springs library. The dusty dog-eared travel guide contained descriptions of Alaskan cities, towns, and other places of interest, including road maps and populations, but little was mentioned about Kodiak. The Internet would have been useful back then.
Kodiak was a small island in the middle of the Gulf of Alaska with no road access, no big city close by, and nobody we knew had ever heard of it.
“It’s still part of America,” persuaded George, “and people do live there. See, the description says population 6,195 and look, there’s even a college.”
“But it’s Alaska, George. It’s cold in Alaska. So cold that Eskimos live in igloos and all the animals are white because of all the white snow. And that figure probably includes dogs, cats, and bears. And they say it’s really dark up there, too,” I protested.
No argument reached his adventurous self. George was always determined to see what was over the horizon, always ready for the next adventure. He clung to his belief that something better was always around the corner. I clung to the last few personal treasures that I knew I would have to leave behind.
It was April 1984 when George packed up his 1973 Chevy pickup and departed for Kodiak. I sold our house in Colorado three months later and loaded Blackie, our two-year-old black Labrador, into my compact car and hit the road. We reached Seattle in four long, bleary-eyed days, stopping along the way for brief rests and drive-up meals. From there the dog and I flew to Anchorage, and then took another one-hour flight out into the Gulf of Alaska to the remote island of Kodiak. The car arrived three weeks later by barge.
The airplane suddenly leveled off, gliding just feet above crystal blue water rumpled and dimpled in its age-old effort to keep in rhythm with the ebbs and flows of the ocean tides. White dashes of foamy waves appeared and disappeared from the watery depths below. A miniature silver and blue boat grew larger and larger, and then rushed by the rounded porthole window of the plane. I could see the beginning of the runway sticking out over the ocean like a flat gray tongue sticking out of the face of the mountain that stood like a granite wall dead ahead.
I heard the landing gear groan down in place and felt the hard bump as the wheels nicked the surface once before skidding down on the tongue. The afterburners roared up loud and the passengers leaned forward in unison as the aircraft suddenly braked to a crawl and the pilot steered the plane across the tarmac and then around in a full circle to face the ocean again.
It was a sunny August morning when we pulled to a full stop in front of a small metal building labeled Kodiak Airport. No gangway tunnel pushed out to greet the plane; instead, a rack of stairs wheeled over by the ground crew was clipped to the door.
When the door hatch swung out and up, I gingerly climbed down the ladder in single file with the other passengers, glancing quickly around. The breeze was cool on my face, the air smelled clean and salty. A sort of tangy weedy scent brushed past me as I caught glimpses of green trees and green bushes and green grass. No tall buildings. Not one skyscraper stood