The "bush" wasn't
something I'd heard of growing up in Dayton, Ohio. With a population of
almost 150,000 and ever expanding suburban sprawl, Dayton was far, far from the
bush. I grew up within a 15 minute drive of 3 Walmarts, a mall, and later
3 of my personal favorite restaurant- Chipotle. I'd always had almost
instant gratification of material goods and a plethora to choose from.
I'd also never had to worry about becoming dangerously lost; Dayton's
parks inevitably led to some sort of development. I had access to hiking
trails, ice cream stands, movie theaters, arcades, shopping centers, etc., as
most American youths do, yet I was bored. I longed for adventure in a
faraway land, preferably with fewer people and more wildlife. I would get
my wish, and it would forever change me for the better.
As long as I can remember, I wanted to go to
Alaska. I picked Alaska for a state
project in elementary school, Balto and Brother Bear were two of my favorite
movies, and I desperately wanted to see wolves, bears, and eagles in the
wild. Hence, when offered a summer avian
internship working for the US Fish & Wildlife Service in King Salmon,
Alaska, I quickly accepted.
King Salmon has a
population of about 350, one grocery store, and 2 restaurants/bars (one of
which is only open seasonally). There is
one paved road, the Alaska Peninsula Highway, that runs about 15 miles from the
end of the airport runway to the neighboring town of Naknek (population is
about 500). When the road ends, the only
ways to travel are by plane or boat.
As the plane descended
towards my home for the summer on May 5th, 2014, I gazed out the
window at the strangest landscape I had ever seen. Flat, scattered with ponds of various sizes,
and spattered in shades of red, yellow, and green, the tundra stretched below
me. Water was everywhere and the sky
promised more; the clouds hung low and the air was humid as I walked off the
plane towards the tiny King Salmon Airport.
That night I fell asleep to the whistle-like honking of Tundra Swans and
the winnowing of Wilson’s Snipes, sounds foreign to my ears.
The beauty of the
tundra and the town of King Salmon is more subtle than that of the snow-capped
mountains and volcanoes that line the Alaska Peninsula coast. Walking on tundra is like walking on the
softest pillow; the ground sinks beneath your feet. The land changes colors like deciduous leaves
in the fall; blankets of red, orange, and gold.
Kneeling to the ground, one can see the intricacies of the tundra. With its feathery Sphagnum, cream-colored
Labrador Tea flowers, shiny Bog Cranberry leaves, segmented Horsetails,
leathery lichens, and a variety of other plants and fungi, the tundra at the
microscale looks like another planet.
The small town of King
Salmon is home to some of the kindest people I’ve met. Everyone in town waves as they drive by, the
grocery store cashiers know you, and people share stories of fish, bears, and
more. The few people that live on the
wild Alaska Peninsula all have a story; some belong to families whose presence
extends back to World War II, some are bush pilots, some fishermen, some
federal employees stationed here, among others.
These people are bound by their ability and willingness to live separated
from larger society but completely bound to the land and sea. This is one of the few populations that truly
understands humankind’s interconnectedness with and dependence on nature. Bristol Bay, which includes King Salmon,
hosts the world’s largest Sockeye Salmon fishery. The talk of the town in summer is the salmon
run; people depend on the fish for food and finance. The potential outcomes of the berry and moose
harvests, and inevitable interactions with bears (both positive and negative)
are also often discussed. Summers are
short and winters are long, cold and dark; resources must be utilized and never
wasted. This is a brave, strong people,
and I feel privileged to have spent time among them.
Time moves slower here. Without many of the distractions that life in
more populated areas involves (rush-hour traffic, city lights and noise, advertisements
everywhere, etc.), one is better able to focus on fostering relationships and
finding creative outlets. My first
summer, I had no internet or cable in my cabin, and no Verizon service. I found myself spending more time outside,
reading, and sketching wildlife. My
second summer, spent working for Katmai National Park, I invested more time in
artwork. Not only did I sketch more
pictures of wildlife, but I made charcoal drawings, porcupine quill and feather
earrings, and casts of bear tracks. I
also went pack-rafting, and fished almost every weekend, catching Rainbow
Trout, King Salmon, Sockeye Salmon, and Silver Salmon. I worried less and adventured more, flying in
small, single-passenger bush planes and camping the backcountry. Stress melted away as the towering volcanoes,
powerful Brown Bears, and determined salmon led me to the realization that the
only thing I am in control of is myself.
Nature is the best teacher, and the beauty and danger of the Alaska bush
gave me a new understanding.
As the tundra is a mosaic
of different plants, fungi, and lichens, King Salmon is a mosaic of different
people, all with a love of the land and sea, and adventure. From this place I have learned the beauty of
simplicity, and the timelessness of the land, sea, and the creatures residing
within. Bristol Bay’s Sockeye Salmon run
has occurred every year for thousands of years.
The mountains have stood for even longer. I am humbled by all of it. There is a wisdom in this land and in this
lifestyle; a community surrounded by wilderness rather than a green area
surrounded by a city. The Alaska bush is
simple in some ways but complex in others, quiet yet wild. It is definitely unique, and for me it has
become another home.
