It isn’t an Alaskan adventure if everything goes according to plan. This is exactly what our Exchange to Manokotak is shaping up to be. First off, let’s start with some words for the wise: If someone buys you a plane ticket and tells you to get on, you best get on when and where you are supposed to. Otherwise they are <expletive> expensive to change. This is how the start of our rural exchange began. Due to car trouble and a miscalculation of time we arrive literally, five minutes after Alaska Airlines has stopped checking bags and persons. Four hours on the phone with: two different airlines, the education department, supervisors, Manokotak school and 423 dollars later - tickets are reconfigured for the next day’s departure.
Tuesday’s arrival at the airport was reminiscent of the Bill Murry film Ground Hog’s Day, but aside from this bit of surrealism, the flights went more or less according to plan. We board, we fly, we hit turbulence, we fly, we land. Lather, rinse, repeat. Arriving in Dillingham we are crestfallen to discover that Pen Air has misplaced our luggage - all of it. Contained in these three bags are our gear and amenities but most importantly - our FOOD. The entire weeks worth of food has somehow disappeared over the skies between Fairbanks and Dillingham. Somewhere sits a red suitcase filled with all the tangible delicacies that a hungry stomach could want. After spending thirty minutes at the baggage claim and another fifteen filling out the required forms a bizarre and, frankly, obscene spectacle befalls me. An elderly native man comes into to the airport to check into his flight. With him, he carries a shabby cardboard box and a small leather bag. After placing the box onto the scale he is reproved by the clerk at the desk.
“Sir, you cannot transport your fish like that!” scolds a small and weathered woman, “You simply cannot take that with you like this, it is against regulation, it needs to be in a cooler or something,” Her cadence reverberates through the drab Dillingham airport.
Without so much as a reply the old man removes a scale covered white trash-bag from the inside of the cardboard box, hoists a four foot King by the tail and places it, unceremoniously into a near by receptacle. The frozen tail protrudes from the waste-bin like a ragged tombstone. I feel myself cringe as I watch several days worth of salmon steak and days more of: lochs, skirts, filets and chowder disappear into a trash can that is ten inches to shallow to hold such a feast. I stare at the rubbish bin and the tale wondering if I should go pull the fish from it’s shallow grave and do something with it - anything - even eat it raw. It is at this juncture that I am informed that the last of the bags have been placed on the claim and find that mine are not among them.
The same weathered woman thrusts two bits of paper into the air in-front of my companion and I while we stare quizzically at one another. Midway through the forms I leer hungrily back at the tail protruding from the canister, debating if I should sacrifice one of my shirts within my carry on to smuggle some of the trashed King to Manokotak. After all - it will be likely a few days before this debacle is sorted out and I am most definitely hungry now. As I finish my lost baggage form I resolve to hoist the forsaken salmon from the repository and sneak outside to carve off several concealable pieces. As I head for the trash can, an airline worker wearing an orange reflective vest, emblazoned with the airlines moniker heads me off and seizes the tail-fin plucking the salmon from its confines and heads outside. I stand, yet again, crestfallen as I watch dinner walk out the front door.
In the passing hours, my stomach gurgles as I pass time in purgatory. Three hours I have killed, waiting for the small Cessna to collect me from this place and speed my companion and I to an uncertain town in the middle of Alaska’s back woods. Taking us, with no food and no connections to perhaps one of the hungriest nights I have yet experienced. Only time will tell.
Good fortune has shined upon the expedition, a shop owner within the airport has generously given us a bag of sandwiches, jerky, and potato chips. All for the mere exchange of a couple oranges. The shop owner refused payment and thrust a bulging bag of groceries into my hands just moments before boarding our flight to Manokotak. I descend the stairs and, with great mirth, show the bulging sack of snacks to Anton. His face lights up as I tell him that they were completely free, a donation for starving students. He greedily eyes a piece of jerky, to which I toss his direction. I return to the bag and dig out my own piece of jerky, I pause a moment before opening the packet and discover that the jerky is expired, as of 2/13/07. Five years ago... I turn to warn Anton, but he has already inhaled the salty snack, I opt to say nothing and see if science will reveal whether the remaining sticks are edible or not.
The plane ride to Manokotak is uneventful, the small aircraft bounds down the runway and gains altitude with ease, this is truly flying. I miss riding in small aircrafts, large jets are not nearly as much fun. The pilot makes a detour to Togiak first. We drop off several boxes of supplies and take on two new passengers. We circle back to twin hills to deliver some mail and fly on to Manokotak. We land, help load the last few boxes of supplies into the back of a ratty Cheve Van and meet the driver, Queemok, an elderly native man. Queemok drives us to the school, a few miles from the airport, but not before nearly cutting off an approaching plane.
Queemok slams on the breaks, the rusty Cheve jolts to a halt and Anton bounces off the back of my seat. The elderly man smiles sheepishly and mutters something under his breath. Arriving at the school we meet Herman, the principal of the school who quickly shows us around and to our apartment. The apartment is nicer than anything I had expected. Furnished with: water, beds, shower, washer, dryer, chest freezer, three rooms, a couch, tables, chairs, stove, sink and coffee. This apartment is nearly better than my cabin, though not as rustic, but a far cry better than what I had anticipated. Herman also supplies us with some frozen pizza from the stores and tells us to report to the school at 7:30 in the morning.
Settling in I go to make my bed. The sheets seem clean enough however there is a large blood spot on one of the corners. As I remove the sheet from my bed I notice a hand written scrawl along the bottom of the sheet. I freeze momentarily as the letters flap out into the air: Life Skills. Much less intimidating than what I had originally perceived written as “_______ Kills.” Perhaps, this is karma from feeding my friend ancient dinosaur jerky? Either way, as of yet he hasn’t keeled over seized by botulism. After I conclude this entry I may brave the prehistoric jerky myself... Or perhaps, not. In all, today has shaped up to be quite the adventure. I am going to go into the school for open gym tonight and to snap a few pictures of the grounds. More to come later I am sure and God willing my bag of food and gear.
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