Alaska: Talking Wires to Tok

© 2013 by Thomas Henson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 8/16/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4685-3242-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-3245-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-3243-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011963064

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Editors

Tina Parchman

Ann Chandonnet

Carol Razewski

Susan Braund

Dave Thorp

Others

Alaska: Talking Wires to Tok

Preface

Chapter 1 TALKING WIRES TO TOK

Chapter 2 ANCHORAGE

Chapter 3 THE BIG ONE

Chapter 4 UP THE HIGHWAY

Chapter 5 EUREKA

Chapter 6 MEDELTNA

Chapter 7 THE SHAMAN

Chapter 8 WALLY WALLACE

Chapter 9 BLUE SKY

Chapter 10 COLD WEATHER

Chapter 11 THE PACK

Chapter 12 CHISTOCHINA

Chapter 13 GAKONA

Chapter 14 WILLIWAW

Chapter 15 BEAR

Chapter 16 SINONA

Chapter 17 THE LAST HUNT

Thanks to Johnny Davis of Chugiak for the title.

Editors

Tina Parchman

Ann Chandonnet

Carol Razewski

Susan Braund

Dave Thorp

Others

The author at Rabbit Creek in 1953

Preface

Alaska: Talking Wires to Tok

After World War Two ended in 1945, a period of time called the Cold War began. Communist Russia and China moved to occupy neighboring states. Russia annexed many Eastern European states and built the Berlin Wall. China and Russia backed the Communist regimes in Korea and Vietnam.

The Korean War, in particular, threatened the Territory of Alaska. A Chinese dragon and a Russian bear gazed jealously across the Bering Strait for more lands to conquer. If Korea could be taken, the next step was Alaska. Fortunately, Harry S. Truman was president of the United States, and he was capable of being as hardheaded as a Missouri Mule. Alaska would be defended by all the resources at his command.

A small part of that effort was the construction of a telephone line across Alaska and Canada to insure military communications from Alaska to Washington in case the war in Korea began to spread.

This story, though fiction, tries to relate some of the struggles that were historical facts and also serve as a tribute to the brave men and women who contributed to the effort in a beautiful but savage and dangerous land.

Chapterr 1

TALKING WIRES TO TOK

At the foot of the Sanford Glacier ice field, a mighty Alaskan bestirred himself. Gone into antiquity were the saber-toothed tiger and the woolly mammoth, but on the top of a lateral moraine, a brown hulk rested and surveyed the rocky surfaces beside the milky stream. He was tired of grass, his spring physic, and his stomach called for the solid sustenance of red meat.

Spring was getting along, and the brown one had a busy summer ahead of him. He watched the rocky bottom carefully, but there was no sign of any life between the sharp ridges that rose on either side. The stiff breeze off Sanford Glacier was cold and ruffled the thick, woolly coat along his back. The cool air accentuated the hunger deep within, and he raised his great head with the small, beady eyes and looked up at the side of the green mountain. He recalled that there was plenty there among the rocks and the grass patches to soothe the complaining edges of his gut.

He had to do something soon because mating season was just around the corner. He had to have the strength to mark his territory once again, as he had for many seasons.

Then there were the other males; there were always the other males. In the early years, he had taken them all easily, but last year the one called The Giant had fought him to a standstill. The fight took place in a small clearing among the stunted spruce just below timberline. The spot was one of his favorites. When he went there to lay claim to his territory, he liked to lie on the moss and roll around in the high grass. It felt so soft and cool, especially after the hot and sweaty job of marking his stake.

His tree was a small spruce, bare of branches nearly to the top. At nine feet, the bark had been stripped, revealing white wood coated with a film of yellow resin. Long yellow and brown strands of hair stuck to the sticky surface.

As he had reared to reaffirm his sovereignty with the long, curved claws, the intruder struck. The young giant had come to steal the old bear’s stake. The battle had lasted for a long time. All the cool grass had been flattened. Much of the springy moss had been ripped from the brown rocks underneath. Many of the small spruce were crushed as the great hairy bodies crashed against them.

Most of the scars from that battle had healed, as usual, but there was still a sore spot above his left ear. It did not bother him except when he rubbed a tree to stop the itching or stuck his great, round head inside a hollowed-out stump. Then the huge bear bawled and instinctively lashed out at the pain, which only caused more pain.

The memory of the battle began to subside, as the pangs in his insides urged him to keep moving. He pushed his great chest off the green grass and sat on his haunches, swaying back and forth and from one side to another as if he were having trouble getting his huge frame to move.

Coming down off the hill, he tripped, lost his footing, and rolled the rest of the way to the rocky ledge lying beside the milky stream. Once again, he struggled to his broad feet and ambled along the dark sandbars and boulders. Then he stopped and sniffed the boulders beneath his long claws. Finding nothing edible, he raised his massive head and again looked toward the green mountainside.

The alders were thin beside the trail, making for easily traveling. He took time to sniff all the interesting scents that crossed his path, but they were not what he was thinking about. What was on his mind was high up among the big, gray boulders; the little, brown, furry creatures with the sharp teeth and flipping tails. He couldn’t depend on seeing them with his eyes, so he just wandered among the tufts of grass and moss, waiting for their whistling, scurrying, and chirping that gave them away.

There it was! He heard it. The excited marmot stood on top of the craggy boulder, jumping around and screeching a warning to all his kin in the area. Then as the big brown neared the boulder, the little, frightened creature dove into the moss below and scurried around the rock, fleeing to a brown patch, chirping all the while. Into the black hole, the marmot disappeared.

Suddenly the big, awkward figure was swift and sure. He pounced on the brown patch and clawed at the black refuge with three-inch blades. The sod and the earth came out in chunks in rapid succession, but the black hole was deep beneath the layers of earth. A dozen more swipes quickly removed more of the earth and rocks, until a hole the size of a bathtub was left beneath his feet. The bear rested and sniffed at the black hole, soon realizing that his quarry had escaped. The burrow was too deep. He’d have to keep moving until his keen ears sought out another meal. He was not discouraged because he knew there was plenty of food moving about the mountainside.

At the base of another boulder, he sniffed out a second burrow. The scent was hot and reminded him of the gnawing in his stomach. Eagerly, the long, black claws removed the turf around the dark hole. The boulder was blocking his mission, and the bear knew he would have to move it to claim his prize. Swiftly the strong paws filled the crevice at the base of the obstacle. With a sharp tug, the boulder turned on its side. Crash! The big paw clamped down on the soft, furry flesh.

After finishing his entree, the big brown ambled off in search of his next course. No hurry now, because he felt better. Besides, he had all day to choose the rest of the menu.

Chapter 2

ANCHORAGE

Anchorage 1950s

At Eklutna Village, twenty-five miles northeast of Anchorage, the late spring sun hovered like a golden ball at the top of the sheer rock face of the mountain. Its warm rays filtered through the tall spruce, illuminating the white wood-frame Russian Orthodox Church surrounded by a traditional Athabascan cemetery. A cross with two horizontal members adorned the top of the small sanctuary and graced each brightly painted spirit house. Out on the broad flat, which reached from the mountain to the Knik River, wild irises and forget-me-nots sprinkled their glory over the muskeg.

At the edge of the clearing, around the church, cabins constructed of logs and boards rested quietly. Most of the doors stood open, exposing their dark interiors. Four Indian children wandered about the clearing, pausing only briefly to talk before continuing on to their destinations.

A green Dodge Power Wagon rumbled up the dusty, gray gravel highway and squeaked to a halt in front of the picturesque church. Two men stepped down from the cab, and four more jumped off the rear of the truck. The rear passengers stood in a circle holding axes and saws while the men from the cab opened a side door, lifting a yellow tripod and a box from inside. The driver placed the tripod upright, while the passenger opened the box and attached a transit to the apex. Another member of the crew fished a long shaft with red and white bands from the rear of the truck.

One of the men sat the tripod over a survey stake and adjusted the plumb bob to hang directly above the small nail driven into the top of the stake. With the tripod in place, he turned the scope to an azimuth parallel to the road. Putting his hands on his hips, he squinted through the instrument and said, Okay, boys, it’s just to the right of that little birch sapling—the one next to the big spruce. The men with the cutting tools moved off in the direction indicated by the surveyor.

From one of the dark doorways, a figure in a plaid shirt and black jeans moved into the bright morning sunlight. The surveyor noted the faltering paces of the wrinkled and graying person as he approached him. He waited for the old Indian’s question, which was already in place on his weatherworn face.

What you do?

Surveying for the telephone line.

What line?

The telephone line.

What’s that?

The surveyor looked at the old man, and he was aware that he didn’t know what a telephone line was. You know, wires that hang on a pole, and you can talk over them.

Talking wires?

Yes, that’s right. Talking wires. We’re building a telephone line to Tok Junction.

Tok Junction?

Yes.

Where’s that?

About three hundred miles from here, up north.

Oh.

What wires say?

Oh, they’ll say lots of things. Whatever people want them to say.

Oh.

The surveyor waved to the man with the bright colored rod, and he moved it slightly to the left. Then the man at the transit signaled the rodman to hold his position until he arrived with the instrument for a new fix.

The old Indian watched as the surveyor carried the transit down the right of way and shook his head. Talking wires, he muttered as he headed back to the village.

Don Madison, a brindled boxer and constant companion, strolled across Ship Creek Bridge in the afternoon. He had been to visit his cousin who worked at the railroad firehouse. It was getting late, and he wanted to reach the soda fountain at Burk’s Drugs before it closed. His objective was the little, dark-headed miss who worked behind the counter. He had been in to see her several times, but this time he was determined to introduce himself and ask her out. It had been several months since his last date, and at twenty-one, he decided it was high time for some action.

At the mouth of the creek, seagulls cried and screamed while raising their buoyant bodies on wind and waves. The object of their excitement was the carrion being washed ashore. Don admired the birds for an instant. Their sleek, gray bodies and a long beak for foraging made them ideal for their water habitat. Competition for food resulted in testy temperament and fighting, but that was normal for the animal kingdom. His exposure to sea birds had been limited before his Alaska experiences; there were no such fowl to be found in the Mississippi piney woods.

The Alaska Railroad Station was just ahead. His walk took him up the graveled street past the station and up the hill by the Anchorage Hotel. Next he passed the federal building that contained the courthouse and post office. On the corner across the street stood Burk’s Drugstore. When he walked in, he immediately took a seat on a stool at the fountain.

She was there, her short, black hair swept back neatly around her soft, round face. He thought he noted a hint of a smile when she saw him, but he wasn’t sure. He felt uneasy about just striking up a conversation without being properly introduced, but he didn’t know anyone here except his cousin, and he was determined to meet her.

He ordered a soda and took his time sipping it. She came near while taking an order, and he made the plunge in a voice he didn’t recognize as his own. Excuse me, miss, what is your name?

She looked at him as if she had anticipated his request and calmly said, Jane. Jane Burk. He was surprised by her nonchalance but introduced himself to her. After making the soda last as long as he could, he worked up enough nerve to ask her to dinner. Her response was: I’m off at six. You’ll have to take me home to get ready. He told her that would be fine.

He arrived promptly at six. She was waiting for him at the front door of the drugstore. He opened the passenger door of his black Pontiac for her, and then he hopped into the driver’s seat. They drove down to L Street and followed the gravel road south toward Spenard. Most of the conversation was limited to directions. A gray cloud of granite dust followed them up Romig Hill and out Spenard Road. At Sand Lake Road, they turned west and wound around among the potato farms and spruce groves. Then they passed the radio towers at Point Woronzoff, and she directed him south toward Point Campbell. He was beginning to wonder where in the heck she was taking him, but he followed her instructions in silence. At last the road reached the shore of Turnagain Arm and turned east along the bluff. He was surprised to see such a fine house way out here.

She led him inside a large, comfortable living room with a huge fireplace of fieldstone. Pointing through the glass wall, she identified Fire Island and the Kenai Peninsula. At this time, her father came in, and she casually introduced him. He seemed as unconcerned as she did about the whole thing. Don found this odd, because where he came from, a father would be extremely interested in young men his daughter brought home. It was another of the informal Western ways he had noticed since coming to Alaska. The formality he was used to was restrictive yet not binding. Here, it was different. Formality, while not nonexistent, was not restrictive and not binding. It was very trusting and open. To Don, being away from many of the old traditions of the South was freeing. He loved and respected the South and her people, but now he felt much freer, unfettered by the old ways he had known and able to embrace new customs. Here a man could be a man without worrying about so many rules and customs. Perhaps it was because people here were building a city from scratch and building their own new customs and traditions at the same time. On the other hand, there was a culture here much older than even the Southern culture. Don was soon to discover some of these native customs and traditions and how they coexisted and collided with white settlers.

Mr. Burk and Don discussed the area and the native people: the Eskimos, Athabascans, and Aleut. Within these broad categories, there were Tlingit, Haida, Siberian Yupik, and others, each with their own language, customs, traditions, and symbols. Each group had a wonderfully rich and fascinating culture.

Yet Don had noticed that even though there were no race barriers, the natives still didn’t mix much with the whites. There was some intermarriage, but no one seemed to care. One of the collisions for the native people with white customs was the recreational and social custom of drinking. For the white folk, alcohol had been a long-time part of their culture, and although whites had their share of problems with it, the natives got a hard lesson fast.

Mr. Burk expressed his feelings about the particular problem the people were experiencing. They can’t handle the booze. When they get into town, they hang around the dives on Fourth Avenue and drink until they are broke. You can see them lying around the street passed out. When you walk by, they sometimes bum the price of a drink. A bunch of them will hire a taxi to ride them all around town until their money runs out. Then they’ll flop on the sidewalks in a drunken stupor. I feel sorry for them, but what can you do? Don had noticed this also, but he realized that white people were used to the evil effects of booze and the destructive power of it. Drinking was a relatively new pastime for the people, and they were on a long, hard road of learning how to cope with it.

That night, Jane and Don went to the Pagoda, a Chinese restaurant on Fifth Avenue, to dine on steak and wine. Don had fun with Jane, and they went out several more times, but their relationship was never strong. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but somehow she was different. They just never seemed to communicate well. He had hoped spending time with her would be more interesting, but something was missing.

He managed to stay pretty busy, working out at the new airport site and building a road into his homestead. It was a long trail up the side of the mountain from Potter Road. The ascent was so steep that his Jeep could not climb it, even in four-wheel drive. He had to put chains on all four tires to make it to the top. Another route would have to be dozed in at a less grade. Well, this project would have to wait until next summer. He didn’t know how long he would be employed, and he might need the money to winter up on the mountain.

Crews were putting wires in for the airport’s runway lighting. The job had just begun, and the area had been cleared of trees and brush. Ditches ran all over the place, and their job was to install the circuits underground. Frequent rains made it a muddy place to work, but otherwise, it was pleasant because of the men he worked with. Dick Piper, his foreman, was friendly and helpful. He never seemed dissatisfied with his work. His work partner was from California, and he loved to talk about his adventures around the world. Don enjoyed hearing about his colorful exploits.

Then, the summer was on the wane. Termination dust sparkled and glistened on the Chugach Mountains like powdered sugar on chocolate cake. The white stuff fell and vanished several times before it settled in for the season. This coming and going always led people to bet on which snowfall would be the one that decided to stick.

About this time, Don heard about a big job getting under way, a construction project to build a telephone line to Tok Junction. At first he thought it was just a rumor, but the reports from the union hall confirmed the story. They discussed it on the job, and the consensus was that it would never last the winter because of the Interior’s extremely cold weather. Hell, they can’t build a line up there in the winter, Dick declared. There’s just no way it can be done.

Why? Don innocently asked.

Hell, it’s just too damn cold, that’s why. In fifty below, oil turns to rubber, and rubber turns to glass. How in the hell you going to run trucks and Cats in that kind of weather?

A truck’s got to have oil to run, all right, Don agreed.

Damn right, and wheels to roll on, too.

They’re making good money though: three-and-a-half an hour and double time for all overtime. They’re working nine hours a day, seven days a week, Don excitedly told him.

Man’d get rich if he didn’t freeze to death, Dick logically explained.

Don thought about the big money. He could use it on the homestead next summer. He would have to hire a Cat to put in a new road and clear the land for plowing. Twenty acres was quite a bit of land