Tom, assignment V: Hazy Shade of Winter

The snowmachine tracks curled to the left where the Chena and the Tanana rivers met their confluence, a few miles outside of Fairbanks proper. Someone, probably during this last warm week, had cracked through the rotten ice and soaked themselves in the freezing river. I sidestepped the looming cracks and walked towards the conspicuous “no trespassing” signs posted on the black spruces on the riverbank. Postholing through knee-deep snow, I struggled my way to the center of the so-called Indian Village, feeling the tinge of cold as the granulated spring snowcoat worked its way into my boots and melted on my socks. The cabins were locked, loudspeakers unhooked, benches were stacked by the chicken-wire fences. The birch-bark canoe had been cleared out for safekeeping. The season was two months away, still, maybe more. But the thatched-roof cabin was still there. Soft smoke filtered through the hole in the roof, diffusing under the spreading snow-covered branches above. I ducked my head and arched through the doorway. It was warm inside and smelled like birch smoke. She was turned away from me, facing the far wall, warming her hands over the fire. Somehow she hadn’t heard me. I put my hand on the shoulder of her kuspuk and she turned with a start. You made it, she said. Didn’t know if you would. I kicked at the hard-packed dirt on the floor. I never wanted to leave in the first place, I said. The fire was out now. I turned outside, where a crowd of tourists sat beneath loudspeakers mounted on birch columns. An army of sunvisors and golf shirts were arrayed neatly on rows of handmade benches faced Natalie, who held up a massive set of moose antlers. This was always the highlight of her little set, the part that would stick with them before they shuffled through the forest to watch the snow dogs play in their tiny pen. And of course, in order to attract the big game we use our traditional call,she bellowed. Cupping her hands in front of her mouth, she stopped for a moment to build up the drama. The sun shone through the spruce trees. Here!, she cried. Here, moosey moosey moosey! The laughing drowned out the groans. Later, in between chicken tenders at the farthest north Denny’s in the entire world, she told me it always did. The same dumb joke, twice a day for the entire twenty years the massive top-heavy tourist riverboat has been escorting people to that inauspicious bend in the Chena, and it had never bombed. A few older women stopped to have their pictures taken with the antlers. Somewhere these photos are mounted in family scrapbooks: grandma, grandpa, a dead ungulate crown and Natalie Joseph, who had come all the way from Fort Yukon to briefly intersect with their cruise-ship tours and their faraway lives. The senior citizens’ brigade had cleared out, anxious to take in the full Indian Village experience before the riverboat’s expectant whistle. Natalie held my hand and we started to walk. I imagined I could feel the warmth of her hand through her fox-fur gloves. I pulled my fur ruff tighter over my head as the bitter wind sent chills down my spine. I’m just not used to this stuff, I said. We’re almost there, she laughed. Store’s nice and warm. Promise. I’m sure she wasn’t the first girl from Fort Yukon to bring home a white boyfriend, but I couldn’t tell from the reception. Two dozen sets of eyes focused on my full-out honky skin as a perused the half-empty shelves inside the only store for 250 miles. Jesus Christ. Eight dollars a gallon? She grabbed the milk out of my hands and walked toward the front counter. Only thing here costs more than the gas. But a girl’s gotta drink something. A heavyset older man with think glasses and a scraggly beard walked over to us and greeted Natalie. She introduced him as her uncle Don. Everybody in Fort Yukon was either her uncle or her cousin, I had noticed. Later on, I would quiz her about which ones were actually blood relations and which were just honoraria, but in some cases even she wasn’t sure anymore. It’s a village, she shrugged. Everyone’s related, one way or the other. Uncle Don gave me a bone-crunching handshake and whispered in my ear to keep my hands off of his niece. Natalie crunched through the hardpack to her front door, me following close behind. A snowmachine had just passed and noxious two-stroke exhaust still saturated the air. I doubled over coughing as Natalie watched from the front step. She grabbed the gallon of milk from my hand. I’ll be inside, she said. The door didn’t fit right and she had to ram it with her shoulder to get it open. I stared after her, trapped in the moment. I finished coughing and decided to compose myself. Stepping around the pile of snowmachine parts and dirty snow next to the house proper, I opened the door to the outhouse. Inside the attractive wood-paneled box was the aesthetic affront of a green plastic port-o-let. I walked back outside through knee-deep snow. Stacks of firewood sat expectantly outside the boarded-up cabins, waiting for the season to kick in again. A Supercub buzzed in the distance. I stomped past the riverboat dock and worked my way through the dead reeds back onto the Chena, careful not to step on the fresh ice churned up by whichever unlucky snowmachiner had busted through the rime. I looked back up the slope but Natalie had gone, for good this time. I pulled my ruff tighter and started the long walk home.