Alaska In The Winter

After three years in the Marine Corps I needed some “down time” to get back to the real world. I spent the Fall of 1973 in Wyoming and then singing the streets in San Francisco. In early December I headed north to spend the winter in Alaska. First stop was in Seattle where I spent a day or so. There I left my two earthly possession, a used VW Bug and the guitar I have to this day, with an acquaintance. She was pleased to have a car for a few months and promised to “take care of ” my guitar until I returned.

I hopped a midnight flight to Anchorage arriving in the early morning and went to the YMCA to get a bed. It was the darkest part of the winter which meant that the sun was rising in the mid-morning and setting mid-afternoon.

It was still dark when I arrived at the Y. I paid a few dollars at the front desk and was directed to the dormitory which was quite familiar to me resembling the inside my barracks at Quantico where I had started my Marine Corps existence. There were probably 20 men sleeping in the dorm, all of whom were from various parts of the state, doing their two week stint in the Alaska National Guard. My most intense memory, however, was the roar of the snoring that continued throughout each night.

Inspired to get a quiet night’s sleep, I decided to look for another place to live. A few days after my arrival I was calling my parents on one of a number of pay phones in a cluster of phones, to tell them that I was alive and well in Anchorage and looking for a place to stay. The fellow on the phone next to mine overheard my comment and, as I hung up, asked if I would mind sharing quarters with him. He introduced himself as just Woody from Juneau, said he was in Anchorage learning how to drive semi’s for the new pipeline project, had rented a small apartment and needed to get a roommate to share the rent. He was wearing a blue skull cap and had a pocked face appearing much like I would imagine QueeQueg to have looked, as he walked onto the Pequod in New Bedford.

We walked a few blocks in the snow and came to a small motel consisting of 10 simple units located on a park in central Anchorage. Woody’s unit consisted of one room combining a living room, kitchen and bedroom with two beds off of which was a simple bathroom. We bantered a bit during which I mentioned that I had recently been discharged from the Marine Corps, he, in reply, showed me his 44 magnum … 15 All. Woody said somewhat proudly that he had spent a year in the Michigan state penitentiary for getting a bit carried away in a ballroom brawl in his late teens. I said something about having played college hockey against Michigan and Michigan State… 30 All. Just as I was planning a courteous escape, Woody told me that his wife and daughter would be visiting from Juneau later in the month, that their minister in Juneau had sent a hefty supply of moose meat which he was pleased to share and that he planned to trade in the 44 Magnum for a car. Game, set, match for Woody We became very good roommates as I ended up working most of the night, writing sports articles and driving a panel truck delivering papers for the Anchorage Daily News. Woody did his semi training during the day while I slept.

I spent many fine winter evenings and nights, especially during the Arctic Winter Games that were held in Anchorage that winter. Each evening, when a game was being played, I’d walk about a mile to the hockey rink where I would watch the game and prepare my notes. After the game I’d walk about two miles to the paper, write a story about the game and then watch as they “put the paper to bed.” I loaded about 25 stacks of 25 papers each into a panel truck and headed out into the snowy streets to deliver the papers to various paper boys around the city. After my three hour adventure in the dark and snow, I would deliver the truck back to the paper and head out for an early morning breakfast before returning to the apartment to sleep. Although exciting, the existence was a lonely one. The cold, the dark, with few people to whom to talk. Little things, like a friendly hello, made a big difference during that time of my life:

Long ago December, a bleak Alaska sky

Empty streets banked in snow, pretty woman walking by.

Young man from the south 48, working on his own,

Far away from family and friends, feeling all alone,

When she caught his eye,

he drew a sigh.

Couldn’t tell you why.

It might have been the jeans she wore or her long wild windswept hair.

It might have been the way she walked, with confidence to spare.

It may have been her summer smile against the winter sky.

But it all came clear when she drew near, looked him in the eye

And just said “hi”,

a warm welcoming “hi”,

all she said was “hi”.

It caught him by complete surprise, and as she walked away

A smile lit up his face like a kid on Christmas day.

There he was on the streets alone, outside in the cold

But she’d fired the furnace of his aching heart, lifted up his sole,

By saying “hi”;

a warm and welcoming “hi”,

all she said was “hi”

“All She Said Was ‘Hi’ “ by Russell Walden & Ledyard Campbell

In early March I was able to attend the start of the third Iditarod Race at a small high school stadium. I watched all of the teams, one at a time, circle the track and head out toward the Alaska Range for the 1000 mile journey to Nome. I must have seen Carl Huntington, the winner, as he left, but the only team I remember was Rod Perry and his team lead by “Fat Albert” who began the race sitting in the basket grinning at the fans as Perry and the other dogs worked their way around the track and out into the suburbs of Anchorage.

A little less than three weeks later I flew up to Nome to watch Carl Huntington come up off of the ice of Norton Sound and onto Nome’s Front Street for the final dash to the finish 20 hours ahead of the second team. I spent three days in Nome awaiting other teams. It remains the most remote part of the world I have ever been. Equally distant from Moscow and Washington D.C. Nome is only accessible by air, dogsled or snowmobile in the winter months.

Dog sled, plane, snowmobile… the only way to go

Northwest Alaska when it’s covered deep in snow

The days are short and even still the sun is hanging low

Digging in and digging out in seventeen below

Winter northwest Alaska, frozen tundra everywhere

Endless nights, Northern lights, ice crystals in the air

The bold ones and the timid, Mother Nature doesn’t care

She’ll tests them all with winter to see what they can bear

Yes they need to be tough to face the challenges of living

But they know that’s not enough when the world is unforgiving

So they look to on another to the young and to the old

For strong hands, strong hearts to pull each other …

Through the dark and cold.

They know seasons come and go and someday will be spring

When the ice will go out, the wind will lose its sting

But until then while winter still is King

They’ll survive the unsurvivable, whatever fate might bring.

Yet they need to be tough to face the challenges of living

But that may not be enough when the world is unforgiving

So they look to on another to the young and to the old

For strong hands, strong hearts to pull each other through the dark and cold.

Strong hands, strong hearts, they do what they can and they all do their parts

They look to on another to the young and to the old

For strong hands, strong hearts to pull each other through the dark and cold.

Dog sled plane and snowmobile the only way to go.

“Northwest Alaska” by Russell Walden & Ledyard Campbell

I flew back to Anchorage in a four seater single engine plane with a Henry Peck, a photographer from the paper. Along the way, when we spotted a dog sled team, Jay Morley, the pilot, would dive down to a few hundred feet to allow Peck to get a picture of the team and the waving musher in their final 145 mile leg across the ice of Norton Sound and on to Front Street in Nome. As we landed in Unalakleet at the East end of the Sound we encountered a hefty cross wind. Morley suggested that Henry and I close our eyes and relax saying, “no use in all of us being nervous.” After refueling in Unalakleet I had a talk with one of the mushers resting his team for the final leg, while Peck took a photo for the paper. We then flew on the Anchorage with a second fuel stop at McGrath.

Back in Anchorage, now that winter was ending and snow beginning to melt, I planned my departure to the South 48. I was sorry to leave Woody who I expected never to see again. Although his appearance was rough, he was like an old coat or sweater, threadbare and exposed. He didn’t even try to hide his shortcomings but shared whatever he had, as he had done with the moose meat when I first arrived, and as he did at my departure, giving me his gold plated pen, saying “I want you to use this to sign some important legislation when you get elected.” We didn’t talk a lot, especially since our lives were on very different schedules, but words are for politicians, a profession I did not pursue. We communicated with a quiet acceptance of and respect for each other. It’s been over 45 years since I left Anchorage to head to Mexico and then Alabama. When I think of Woody, I imagine him living in Alaska, perhaps even in Nome, sharing his philosophy of life on long summer evenings, with whomever might stop to listen, native or tourist.

Ledyard CampbellJanuary 28, 2021