The Lone Hikers

     In the Northeast of Oregon, there is an expanse of wilderness that seems to rise up quickly and starkly, coming from the West to the East, out of the dry and prosaic flatlands of the state center. Once you leave the stunning optics of the Columbia River gorge, you may think the mountains have come to an end. A cracked and brittle expanse with neither shrub nor tree in sight might be enough to turn you back toward the snow-capped volcanoes of the Western rainforests. If you keep pushing, past the dreary town of Pendleton and the foothills of the Umatilla National Forest, you will eventually come to a crowd of stunning, inviting peaks. The basalt-coated gorges, intertwined with intrusive granite and fissures of eroded canyon, are the gorgeous evidence of ancient magma movement, shaping the Wallowa-Whitman Wilderness and its surrounding mountains and valleys. It is a corner of strange, dramatic wilderness, intersecting the high alpine and glacial lakes of the Wallowas with the high desert and sagebrush landscape of the Hells Canyon wilderness to the East. The canyon drops drastically, and the Douglas firs are traded for sparse patches of Ponderosa pines. It was during the third week of a hitchhiking pilgrimage I made around the Pacific-Northwest, ending along the Bitterroot River, that I came upon the Wallowas and the vast wilderness beyond them. Within these ridges, I picked up the attention of perhaps the right people at most certainly the wrong time. 

     It was my third day since leaving the town of Joseph, the town situated at the base of the Wallowas along the Northern shore of Wallowa Lake. My time in the Hells Canyon Wilderness, a journey predominantly spent on old snowmobile trails that cut well away from the road, was supplemented by frequent streams and common shade to beat the mid-June heat. The moment came when my feet struck pavement again, and by then I was down to the last morsels of my jerky. It felt good to be back on the highway, though highway is a generous term, for the road I hit fresh out of the shadowy wood can be better described as an access road. 

    Standing on a thin shoulder several miles south of Salt Creek Summit, with a cool and narrow stream trickling nearby, I thumbed valiantly for the ride that would ideally carry me South, toward the Brownlee dam, on into Idaho. Particularly sunburnt and haggard, I hoped that my disheveled appearance would not deter the passing commuters from aiding me in my quest. 

     I wore an army-tan shirt and cargo shorts, both well beyond their wear. 17 days I had been on the road, and I was nearing the halfway point of my route. The dust and tumble of leather tramping was rewarding but particularly taxing in the Summer climate. I sought a good patch of shade, near a cold water source, and a couple of days’ respite to read and write, and nap. Idaho promised much in my mind, and I made the horrid mistake of assuming that my road to arrive there would be unperturbed by unknown, halting forces. I didn’t know it then, but it would be many days before I would cross at the Brownlee Dam. 

     Making triangles of gravel with my boots and sweating under the thinning shadows cast by the looming mountain hemlocks, I stood at attention with a poise of fronted exuberance each time a vehicle passed me by. North Pine Road is quite rural, and at times I waited up to an hour between cars. I played my harmonica, read from a series of Steinbeck essays, and washed in the nearby stream. On the fourth hour of standing, thumbing, and hoping, there was a clamorous mixture of squeaking brakes and barking dogs. A golden pickup with a contractor’s rack on the bed and a collapsible trailer in tow pulled to a halt in front of me. The driver was a man with a salty, peppered beard and a grin that was as much with his eyes as his mouth. In the passenger seat sat a woman, and both of them seemed to be in their late 50s. From the backseat protruded the snapping muzzles of four dogs, each one with a different coat, color, and voice. The driver apologetically exclaimed that he would love to give me a ride, but with a backseat full of protective hounds thought it unwise. I told them I understood and prepared for another few hours of waiting. It seemed that, as soon as they disappeared around the bend, they reappeared with a gladsome plan. 

     “Why, you don’t mind riding in the bed, do you?” The driver asked. 

     “Not at all, sir! In fact, it’d be a luxury cruise on a road and day like this.”

     The couple introduced themselves as Nathan and Joanna. These folks were coming from their canyon homestead in Imnaha, headed to Oxbow for a weekend of leisurely fishing. They invited me to join them, and eagerly I accepted. They instructed me to get comfortable in the bed full of cargo, but not before loading me up with a handful of corn chips, a few chunks of dried beef, and an ice-cold beer straight from their cooler. In a minute, I was settled on some spare tires, facing the highway, which dissolved before me around every curve. I munched on the snacks and sipped on the beer, my spirits tremendously high. I was on my way to Oxbow, a collection of camps on the banks of the Snake River at the base of Hells Canyon, with well-humoured locals who graciously took me under their proverbial wing. What could go awry? 

     Well, nothing that was within my control. You see, an hour after Nathan and Joanna stopped on the North Pine Road, several officers arrived at the spot where I was last seen. I imagine the State Troopers observing with perplexity the strange geometric shapes I had left in the gravel where I stood. But they were too late. The hitchhiker they were searching out had long since been picked up. So they expanded their canvas area. 

     On May 30th, only several days after I began my journey from Seattle, a mother of three from  Wenatchee, WA, named Whitney Decker, reported to the police that her daughters were missing. The last time she saw them, they were leaving on a scheduled visit with their father, a man named Travis Decker. He picked them up in his white pickup truck, and they brought the family dog. Three days later, on the 2nd of June, the bodies of the girls were found on the embankment of Icicle River Road, a remote access road near the Pacific Crest Trail, and their father was nowhere to be found. The oldest hadn’t even made her 10th birthday. His premeditation is almost without doubt. Travis Decker’s Google search history, only days prior to the murder of his babies, includes questions about how to effectively and secretly relocate to Canada. His custody of the three children was unequivocally revoked, his bridges burned, and his plan was seemingly underway. I won’t divulge in the horrific details of what Decker did to his offspring simply for forensic posterity; you can search his name up and read all about what this monstrous man has done. The blood of Travis and traces of non-human blood, presumed to be from the dog, were found in the cab of the truck. When the bodies of the children were found, the search was bumped up immediately. Air surveillance and ground teams covered several hundred square miles in a matter of days. They covered the sky, the rivers, and the far-reaching ranges of The Enchantments in Western Washington. Posters depicting a picture of Decker with the promise of a $20,000 cash reward for information were plastered in most gas station windows clear across the Pacific Northwest. They had his basic description: 5”8, 190 lbs, black hair. In my words, this man is of slightly below average height and of military build, indicative of his 8 years in the U.S. Army. With a dark mustache and a strong chin, I’d say he is likened to me if I were of Southern origin and if the viewer saw me from 80 yards off through fogged-over binoculars. It is said that this outlaw would be traveling light, in remote areas, and was last seen in a tan shirt and dark shorts. The nickname attributed to him by law enforcement was ‘the lone hiker’. 

      I couldn’t have picked a more merry crew to join. I rode with Joanna and Nathan to their campsite, and after hanging my hammock near where they erected their trailer, we all strolled the Western bank of the Snake River and took in the absolute glory of Hells Canyon. They were hosts of sheer hospitality and unmatched geniality. My prayer for a weekend of rest was met in full, and much of our time together was spent doing precisely what they had come to do: Wasting the hours away reclining in lawn chairs, reliving old stories, and casting for catfish ankle-deep along the sandy shore. Their dogs, Trip, Sophie, Meko, and Willow, were a cast of wildly different but complementary personalities. I thoroughly enjoyed watching them wrestle and tumble in the dust on the outskirts of our camp. All except Meko accepted me into the crew, and even Meko licked my hand before my time with them was through. I slept better that evening than I had since my time in an Astoria hotel. My hosts fed me at every point, encouraged me with exhortation, and kept me fully engaged and entertained with tales of hilarity. We dined at the Hells Canyon Inn that evening and ate morel and elk spaghetti the night after that, and in the mornings, we feasted on sausage and egg burritos fixed in a skillet. 

     It was during my second day with Nathan and Joanna that the Police finally found me. I was sitting across from my gracious hosts, chatting at a picnic table under the shade of the box elders from which my hammock hung. All was still in the stifling midday heat, the only sounds coming from the occasional rancher on the road or speedboat on the river and the constant, ambient thrum of the cicadas. A hearty game of cribbage was about to strike up when a Baker County squad car pulled in front of our camp, obscuring the mirage on the road with a plume of dust and sending all four of Nathan and Joanna’s hounds into a protective frenzy. Two officers emerged, and the dogs were the first to greet them. One officer, who later introduced himself as Matt, was in all the gear a State Trooper could carry in such heat. Sophie and Meko began nipping at the heels of Matt, and no matter Nathan’s scolding, the dogs kept bothering him. At the time, I thought Meko, a formidable Border Collie, was why Officer Matt kept his hand on the grip that jutted from his hip-holster. There were a few minutes of pleasant conversation between Joanna, her husband, and these cops, mostly to do with the weather, fishing, and a string of tattling on the previous campers who left a heap of trash in the firepit. Neither of the officers addressed me at first, though I kept my eyes on them, and suddenly, the officer named Matt, walked over to where I sat and introduced himself. I shook his hand and followed suit with what I hoped was a friendly demeanor. 

     “Ha! Matt. I should remember that easily enough,” he said. 

     “So, what are guys up to this afternoon?” I asked. 

     “Well, we’ve actually been looking high and low for you, Matthew.” This was said by the other officer, named Tim, who wore no gear save for a pair of slacks, a polo, and a pistol. 

     My mind immediately raced to a myriad of possible infractions, not one being the real cause for them searching me out. I thought about Oregon’s hitchhiking laws and vagrancy ordinances. Perhaps I wronged someone and moved along before realizing what damage I had done. To be perfectly honest, at that precise moment, I was wholly bewildered. 

     “Me? How can I help you?” 

     The two officers grinned at one another. It was a set of honest, well-to-do grins, not the sort of smiles that said “let’s cuff this kid.”

     “Don’t worry, Matthew, you unfortunately look similar to someone else.” Tim said. 

     “Who?” I asked,

     “Have you heard the name Travis Decker?” 

     What ensued was a bird’s eye view of Decker’s crimes, his flight, the local and federal response, and finally the series of callers who had mistakenly identified me as the killer of their heightened, overzealous imagination. As Tim and Matt explained, I fetched my passport and Alaskan driver’s license. Tim continued his synopsis of the previous 24 hours while Matt ran my ID to officially clear me of any criminal suspicion; T’s I was more than willing to help cross. Tim went on with his report of all the folks who had called me in, some of them being quite certain, likely at that moment reeling from needless adrenaline in anticipation of a grand sum of reward money. As it happened, the vigilant attitudes of the young waitress at the Hell Canyon Inn, a gas clerk at Scotty’s Convenience, and several well-intended commuters heading to and from the depths of America’s deepest canyon resulted in articulable suspicion and a full-blown manhunt. An APB went out on my description and the details of Nathan’s truck. The Staties and the Baker County Police searched the highways, campsites, and backroads of the region well into the night. They almost caught up to me 30 hours earlier, but in the time it took the nameless caller to arrive within cell coverage, my saviors had swung in and delivered me South. Several more reports the evening before provided dispatch with new information: That the suspect was seen with a middle-aged couple and a pack of boisterous dogs traveling in a golden pickup. A member of the Hells Canyon Inn Staff, apparently as soon as we walked out the door, called 911 to inform the authorities that she had just served a chicken sandwich to Travis Decker. 

     The tension had gone out of the camp completely, and despite the graveness of Decker still at large, we laughed as a group at the unique situation in which we found ourselves.

     I pondered the disturbing parallels between this murderer and myself. We both left from the same corner of the country, only days apart. We both brandished dark shorts, light packs, sunned faces, and dark facial hair. His smile lines and squinted, smiling eyelids even resembled mine. In the wanted poster, he wore the same style of a wide-brimmed trucker hat that I wore. 

     “You know,” began Tim, “When I see you up close, you don’t look a lick like our guy. But from afar, well, your mustache is thick enough and your skin is just dark enough… and with that hat of yours? I don’t know, I could see it if I were passing at a highway speed. Might want to shave that mustache.” 

     Cleared of all suspicion, my record coming back decently clean, we said our goodbyes to the lawmen. I had a feeling of surreal gratitude, but I expect the officers were at least in part let down when their chance to catch the killer turned out to be an uneventful visit with a group of courteous campers. 

     Joanna, Nathan, and I laughed about it and rehashed the situation from our point of view, combined with the reported suspicions of people we had come face to face with the night before. When I thought about it, our waitress did seem a bit breathless and rushed, despite my hosts and me being one of the only tables there on the slow, muggy evening. 

     The next morning, we packed up camp, and I clambered back into the bed of Nathan’s truck. It was a wonderful stay, in a fine camp with even finer attendants who not only brought me back to full strength but sent me along with an abundant supply of protein and product. Nathan, when he saw that I had lost my baseball cap near the river, literally gave me the hat off his own head, in what seemed like a spontaneous but genuine show of provision. I treated them as a company of refuge in a time when I was regionally mistaken as a triple-homicide suspect. They backed me and were seemingly in my corner throughout the whole ordeal, though I credit them with enough sense to tell if the young man they picked up is either an aspiring writer with idealistic ambitions or an unrepentant murderer. We said our farewells at the intersection of Highway 39 and the Old Pine Road, from which I had come. The enthused couple and excitable dogs disappeared around the Northern bend, and I hoisted my pack to resume my journey West to the town of Halfway. There, I hoped to find cell service in order to check in with loved ones regarding the lunacy of what had taken place in Oxbow. Though the police had cleared me of suspicion, that memo did not, unfortunately, reach the ears of the community members. Over the next two days, I was either asked about or accused of being the killer from the North six different times. There was no doubt in my mind that it would be better for a community to take seriously the people-led response to such a crime than resort to regional apathy. Had I been him, there would have been a full measure of satisfaction after a chase that already felt weeks too long. Because I was not him, though, and the unmalicious intentions of all who reported me were wasted on some Alaskan writer, I am left to blame no one save for Decker himself. 

     I met a man in the town of Halfway who put me up in his home for two days. He and his companion prefer to remain unnamed. He was a friendly fellow and continually provided hospitality that went above and beyond what I would expect from a total stranger. As he was showing me his spacious bachelor pad, where I could sleep, where I would shower, how I should get in and out, we chatted about my travels. When I mentioned that I had been hitchhiking from Seattle, he quickly turned on me. I grimaced, knowing full well what was coming. He called his friend, a younger man, into the room with a voice that seemed a bit louder than mere caution. As he picked up a pair of nunchucks from a nearby table and his friend brandished a golf club, my new host asked with colorful language if I was that God-forsaken psycho-killer. They stood between me and the only door of the room. It took me two minutes of precise, careful negotiation and explanation before the two men finally lowered their blunt weapons. I showed them my ID, pulled up a picture of Decker, and reworked the whole debacle I had just undergone out in Oxbow. Two hours later, we were chatting in a lively way, like how old friends talk, forgetting all about the rocky start to our short but honest friendship. 

     That evening, he went to work at a local bar and left me at his apartment, encouraging me to shower and cook, and go about whatever I needed to do. When he walked out, I closed the door and stared at the deadbolt for a moment. I considered locking it, and decided not to. 

     The first order of business was to shave my mustache. My mom never did like it much anyway.

The Face of Travis Decker 

The highways and the officers were poised to match the threat, 

Their collective caution raised, their expectations met. 

To pursue the three-kid killer, the Staties joined the force. 

As they cruised and searched, both high and low, the land of cow and horse. 

To this face they were drawn, beckoned by the call 

of a half a dozen locals who had the strength and gall

to call me as the killer of their heightened harbored dreams, 

while I thumbed in stride for each past ride by field, wood, and streams. 

I was picked up by a couple who were hard-set for Oxbow, 

the Oregon corner grove, the stretch of river, fish, and home-grow. 

Like many other men, I’ve seen the source of fame, 

but never knowed by darkened deeds a wanted, hunted name.

This man has killed his children and I somehow have his face.

To let such credible tips go by would be bureaucratic disgrace. 

I have no hard-earned ledger, no manifest at hand, 

to compare with this armed killer, whose bloodlust took command. 

An angry storm was about to deluge, from the drivers who may mean well, 

and in frontier justice, rash men would indulge; I would not see a cell. 

He’s bound for Calgary avenues or the depths of the Olympic Penn. 

So look for the monster-murderer in the alpine charred and spent. 

The man is on the run, and my route is set on course, 

so let me not perturb the flow of justice known by force. 

And let me not be the one to stand in the direct way 

of a definitive result to this freak act; a violent, evil fray. 

There is no way to tell it without the stains of salt and blood, 

the news of murder-mayhem spread from Pendleton to Mt. Hood. 

And all across the Snake River lands, where the

 lights in the homes are put on by the dams, 

one pilgrim lay sleeping beneath a star-speckled sky, 

As the posse of lawmen searched the night for their guy. 

The waitress at the Inn saw my face and thought it so,

that the killer seen on Facebook had a hideout in Oxbow. 

The gas clerk saw my mustache and had to do a double-take, 

the wanted poster handy, he thought his instinct; his mistake. 

Who doesn’t wish to withstand the wiles of evil, unchecked men? 

Who doesn’t want to be the one to officially identify them? 

So the reports came flying at the local station, and burned was the midnight oil,

of the two Oxbow cops, one armed to the teeth, whose Father’s Day would not be spoiled. 

They found me sitting and sipping on the shady bank of the Snake River. 

Justice is good when it’s local and true, where Feds could never deliver. 

But I am not he, 

and I don’t wish to flee, 

and I will even flash you my Alaskan ID. 

Hells Canyon is deeper than Grand, and vexed rangers scoured its depths,

for the face of a lad, in cargo shorts clad, sunburnt and seen on some steps. 

A search is seldom in vain, for they know now I have no waning warrants, 

so book me for vagrancy, something sublime, take me not for a crime so abhorrent. 

As the officers cleared my name, absolved of malicious ambition, 

the outlaw struck North amongst the big game, set on his evasive mission. 

I am no running killer, and my home is merely the road, 

In mountains and towns, thus wherever I’m found, is where I will call my abode. 

And well pursued was the wanted man, in the land of sow and heifer, 

The mad-mean man, across State lines he ran, the man named Travis Decker. 

The End of The Bay

- Below is a narrative about the three Russian villages found at the end of Katchemak bay, in Alaska, and the time I spent with one of the locals. It is not a particularly exciting story, though I thought the happenings and characters interesting enough to put down. - 

The End of The Bay  

        In Alaska, At the end of the road along Katchemak Bay, there are three Russian villages, relatively separated from the populated town of Homer eighteen miles to the South. These villages make up a beautiful and ornate community of hearty lifelong Russian-Alaskans, and it came to mind that I should explore them and interview the locals, who had remained mostly a mystery to me. On a crisp Autumn Saturday, I embarked on an excursion along East End Road, beginning in Homer, hoping to hitch a ride with someone who knew the lay of the land much better than me. It was drizzling steadily throughout Saturday morning, and there was a deep chill in the air when I began walking down the forest-clad hill. I carried only my wallet, cell phone, and pocketknife. I had heard quite a bit about the exclusivity of the locals within the village and did not want to tempt myself into possible derision by bringing my camera. Within an hour, after stopping for coffee to warm myself, I took up a position on the road and valiantly threw my thumb in the air and crossed my fingers with my other hand, hoping and praying for a charismatic ride to fulfill both my curious quest and desire for good company. 

     I hailed rides until noon came and went, and at twelve fifteen there was the response of squelching tires on gravel. I looked behind me to see a black Toyota Tacoma. Rushing to the passenger door, I lifted a prayer of gratitude for the timely event of the pickup. My attitude of thankfulness only increased when I saw that the driver was an older gentleman with a long, wispy-white beard. His bright blue eyes reacted with humor to my panting, breathless approach. Wearing a flannel that looked as old as himself, and a warm smile that sent the chill right out of me, I knew immediately that he was a most interesting character, precisely the sort of fellow I was hoping to find. 

     We cruised along the slick road through the town of Ketchamak, towards Fritz Creek. The rolling clouds gave way to broad rays of sunlight, which dazzled the wet route ahead of us and turned the trees around us from orange and yellow to bright auburn and tawny gold. Autumn was in full effect, and the patches of quaking aspens stood out vibrantly among the far-reaching forest of spruce and pine. I shook the hand of my driver, and his grip was firm but his arm shook with a slight tremble. 

          “I’m Stan, Stan White.”

          “Wonderful to meet you, Stan. I’m Matthew!” 

     I asked him where he was headed and he let out a hearty laugh,  

          “Farther than you, to the end of the road.” 

     Smiling broadly, I explained my intrigue in the Russian villages and my desire to reach the farthest point along the bay. The elderly gentleman explained that he was married into a Russian family and had served as a teacher within all three villages throughout his career. He was returning from his bi-weekly supply run to Homer and clarified that picking me up was done so out of charity. We chatted as he rolled the pickup under canopies teaming with color, and around curves in the road that gave splendid views of the bay below us and the blueish-grey mountains beyond. I settled into the passenger seat and assumed the task of learning all I could about this old man’s life. Stan was once in the Army and began his time in the military out of a literary and linguistic pursuit. 

           “I always loved languages, particularly Spanish. I joined at the time hoping to be put through a language and correspondence school, but it was the 60s, and so they made me learn Russian.” 

      As we reached the far side of Fritz Creek Stan broke his career down into factions. It began with a deep desire to master the pen and spoken languages. Stan wanted to write and read and use his love for Spanish as a leap-pad to Latin countries. But the year was 1961, the fourth phase of the Cold War, and Kennedy thought him more useful in Berlin, intercepting Russian broadcasts. He remained there for four years and during that time became quite fluent in Russian and German. Helping to bluff Russian bombers and train other correspondents from the U.S. in the use of radio equipment, Stan developed to be eminent in his military life. Despite this, he told me how the years he spent abroad only seemed to dim his light, and so when his time in the Army was through he dedicated himself to usefulness in domestic affairs, using his fluency in Russian as a hard selling point. He began to teach in small Russian-Orthadox communities across the Midwest. After his renewed desire for adventure in new lands brought him to Alaska, he was tasked by the Kenai Peninsula Borough to teach throughout several tiny villages 6 hours from Anchorage.  

          “They didn’t need many teachers, but they needed consistent teachers who would show up at school in the harsh weather, even if it was only two students to a classroom.” He explained.

          After meeting and marrying a Russian woman named Elena, Stan and his new family settled into a wonderful little life of homesteading, teaching, and rearing children among the wooded hills that hug the end of Katchemak. He faced bitter winters, muddy springs, and brilliantly abundant summers. It was peak Autumn as we made our drive together, and Stan concurred with me that it is the most beautiful of the seasons. The subject of literature was brought up and I discovered that we shared many favorite authors, the greatest among them being John Steinbeck. It made sense to me; Stan spoke with a writer’s tongue. We were nearing the end of the road, and in an instant, we went from a paved highway to a gravel street. Stan pushed the truck through the winding route with ease and speed. The snowcapped peaks of the unnamed mountains came into view, and the clouds continued to break apart and give further glimpses up and across the deep blue bay. 

          “Would you like a tour of the villages? I don’t know what you have going on, but I’d be happy to show you around.” Stan offered. 

          “That is exactly why I wanted to come out here, to meet someone like you! I would love that, so long as it’s no trouble.” I responded. 

     And with that we started a tour through all three villages, Stan serving as an effective and well-versed guide, beginning with his hometown called Voznesenka, which means ‘Ascension’ in Russian. 

          “We’ll begin with our church,” Stan said. 

     We pulled into a large gravel parking lot with a long, fairly modern-looking building in its center. He told me that the original church was farther into the village. Parking alongside it, Stan explained the origins of the religion, which I presumed to be Russian Orthodox but quickly learned that it is considered “Old Believers”. In the 1600s, When Russian Orthodoxy rose to popularity in the motherland, a small sect of believers resisted the mainstream adaptation of the religion and continued for themselves a line of churches that eventually made their way to Russian America. 

      As we walked to the front of the building Stan explained that the primary differences between the religions are that the Orthodox church has hierarchy and priesthood, while Old Believers have a generally low-church congregation. We entered into what looked like a lobby, plain and bare of furniture aside from benches that lined the walls and a few paintings of saints that hung between the rectangular windows. 

          “This is as far as you can come, unfortunately. The rest of the building is for members only.” 

     The guestroom, which doubles as the entryway, is for visitors, on the rare occasions that Voznesenka has them. The rest of the church, which I was unable to view, is full of ornaments and icons for the purposes of worship. Each service begins from two to four in the morning and will run as late as noon, and most attendees will stand throughout their worship instead of sitting or kneeling, all according to Stan. We loaded back into the truck while Stan continued to give me the history of his religion, which he adopted when he married his Russian-American wife. When I asked him what he thought of the belief he shrugged and said that it was better than most other churches he had attended. 

     The tour continued, and the cemetery was next. We began driving down a hill and stopped just before a black fence blocking off a small field surrounded by a looming canopy of trees. Nearby was a pile of gravel and a mound of dark soil for burial. Through the windshield, I saw several dozen tombstones, all spaced out from one another, each one well-washed and maintained. Stan looked straight ahead and said nothing for quite some time. Then he began telling me about some of his friends who were buried there, how long had passed since their deaths, and in what manner they died. 

          “When I first moved here there were only a couple of graves. Now…” He trailed off. 

     I looked the man over and his eyes were still fixed forward, his hand resting gently on the steering wheel, shaking slightly. Suddenly he put the truck into reverse and began to maneuver back down the hill. In such a small town every death seems to linger longer than in other places, a deep hit not only to the family and friends of the soul but to the community entirely. He told me that funeral services are usually held on the beach below Voznesenka, and he was eager to show me the intrepid coastline. 

     …And intrepid it was, or at least the road which led to it. 

         “It began as a four-wheeler trail,” Stan explained as the truck began bouncing through deep potholes. We transition from East End Road to Ketchemak Selo Road. “The State tried to redirect the road around the hill, but the route was too long, and the locals wouldn’t have it. So they pushed their way through here.” He nodded ahead to a steep curve in the path ahead. We took the turn quickly, and the road before us only seemed to get steeper. Snaking down from Vaznesenka to an opening on the beach, the route leading to the small village of Ketchemak Selo is infamous for its treacherous and menacing pitches and curves. After the turn we began steadily down a straight wide trail, one which gave an excellent view of the water we were nearing and the few switchbacks we must traverse to get there. My experienced driver assured me that he had driven the dangerous route many times before, in conditions much more treacherous. 

          “In the winter, it can get tough, real rough. Only motivated locals upkeep it, and in the harsh conditions sometimes there isn’t anything anybody can do to keep it maintained.” 

     Stan told stories of unfortunate drivers who took the icy road too fast or too slow or were caught by sluffing land, the debris of which could be seen against scrappy reinforced aluminum troughs all along the side of the cliffs. I trusted Stan’s ability, though, and simply marveled at the pitch of the road as we cruised toward the clay beach beneath us. 

     Once we had made it to the bottom, unharmed and in high spirits, Stan pushed the speedometer on the flat, open beach. Tall brush grew on either side of the sandy trail, and the tide lines came right up to it. The bay opened up gloriously, and the color of the hills along the coast contrasted beautifully against the silver fray of the windswept ocean and the looming grey mountains. Stan was telling me details about his childhood while we passed an old homestead with a small group of cattle grazing beside it. We stopped once to allow a man on a four-wheeler to lead a cow over a bridge. Once we crossed the bridge ourselves, I saw Ketchamek Selo. The village meets the sea at the base of a long wooded gully. Hills rise gently on either side, encasing the clump of buildings in a vibrant bowl of color. Stan explained the history of this particular village and told stories from his days as a teacher there. We came between two houses and stopped before an empty lot. For the first time since the cemetary Stan was quiet, and he looked far off into the barren concrete space. 

          “There… There used to be my old school building here. They must’ve torn it down this summer. I taught there for 26 years, rain or shine.” 

     He kept driving, his mood slightly dampened by the unexpected loss of the old building. His attitude quickly changed when we came to the new school. It was homely and small, but charismatic and colorfully painted. He told me about the current teachers and the sparse population of children, and with sad eyes he remarked on how little he gets down there in his old age but made a resolution to do so more often. A wooden jungle gym was positioned in a small park near the school, though no children played on it. As we continued along the tightly packed houses I saw lawns filled with old toys and mangled bikes. Something was offputting about the village, and I quickly realized that it was solely due to the lack of people. No bustle, no locals, and no noise apart from the steadily rising wind. I asked my guide where all the children were, mentioning the bikes and play places. Stan sighed deeply. 

          “It’s the damn screens, Matthew. Fifteen years ago, when I was teaching, kids would run all day long through the valley, beside the creek, and along the beach. Now, they’re all inside. All the villages have Wifi, and the parents think it’s easier to leave them to their screens than to kick them out to make a childhood for themselves.” 

     The topic was working Stan up, and he continued his brief rant about the younger generation’s technological inclination until he wore himself out. We continued driving, touring the church and village council building, before making our way back up the beach. Stan decided to fill me in on the most interesting piece of Geological information I have ever received. Ketchamak Bay, in the native language, means ‘Smokey Bay’, a title I initially misunderstood. Various shops around the town of Homer use Smokey Bay in their names, and I originally thought that it referred to the thick fog that rolls in and around the base of the mountains, stretching across the water and engulfing the coastal communities. Stan told me otherwise. 

          “There are many coal deposits here, Matthew, cut deep along the base of the hundreds of gullies. When wildfires would roll in and set fire to the coal, the deposits would smolder for months, sometimes years. Gray smoke rose steadily from these gulches, and so this place, this beautiful place, got its name from the mighty and long-lasting destroyers, the great fires of old.”  

     The excellent piece of local lore was imparted with a teacher’s attitude, and I remained silent for as long as Stan had something to say. He continued about the geology of the land we rode through and the glacial history of the Kenai Peninsula. When we came along the coast once again he pulled the truck to a halt. We exited, crunching small pieces of red rock as we went. I strode quickly ahead of him to snap a picture of the scape sprawled out before us. When the old man came close he instructed me to look down. He picked up a chunk of the auburn rock and handed it to me. 

          “Look, see? It’s natural brick. The coal, charred from the fires, mixes with the clay, and out comes this stuff.” He explained. 

     I pocketed a small piece as a momentous artifact to remember all that Stan had taught me. 

     Back in the truck, we headed towards the last village, Razdolna. This village is nestled between short lines of fur atop a short hill. Its size is somewhere between Voznesenka and Ketchamak Selo. We drove to the school first and Stan remarked on how long it had been since he last stepped foot in it. Later, after exploring the small village, we were back on the main dirt road, leading to Stan’s home. He insisted I see his house and meet some of his family. Within a few minutes, we were turning into a small grove, well protected by the tree line. In its center, there were several structures, the biggest among them being a large wooden barn, beside it a wide mesh pen where chickens, geese, and a peacock resided. Opposite the corral was a small two-story home with a blue and white exterior. Once we were out of the truck Stan led me towards the barn. 

          “Come, meet my son,” Stan said as we strolled through the yard. 

     An unseen figure was forking hay through a wide window as we approached. The first room inside the barn was dimly lit and had dirt flooring. Each wall held a multitude of gardening, hunting, and woodworking gear, all neatly hung in rows. The sound of a door swinging open made me turn my head to the left, where I saw a tall bearded man stoop through the frame. He was a strong-looking fellow, and he wore brown work pants with tan suspenders slung over a thick wool shirt. He initially looked perplexed, but any confusion on his face quickly transformed into a rueful and inviting smile. He stuck out his hand as I stuck mine out towards him. 

          “Heel-low! My name is Ivan.” 

          “Matthew, wonderful to meet you!” 

      His hand gripped mine with an expected strength. 

          “Your father has been kind enough to show me around the towns. He is a wonderful storyteller.”             I  told Ivan. Stan filled him in on how we came to meet and what we had been up to throughout the afternoon. Both men, father and son, had an unmistakable resemblance. 

          “Sounds like you’ve got quite a tour guide, Matt. He show you the schools?” 

          “Every one of ‘em” I responded. 

     Stan and Ivan and I continued chatting while they showed me the rest of the barn. Stan’s son was a roofing contractor, and we talked about his recent projects while Stan led the tour through the dark building. In one room, from which Ivan was pitching hay, the sound of scuttling came from a wooden crate in the corner. Ivan walked over, reached inside, and scooped up two small kittens with one hand, stroking their small ears with the other. He explained that a neighborhood cat had weaseled in one night and given birth before any objections could be made. Now the kittens, and the cat, were Ivans. Stan didn’t seem too happy about the cats, but held one kitten anyway and gingerly patted its tiny head. 

          “My dad’s always been a dog person.” Ivan said, chuckling, “But he’ll love anything as cute as these guys.” 

     The two men were a fair mix of earnest strength and obvious gentleness. Ivan told me about his wife, Stan’s daughter-in-law, with affection. 

          “She should be around here soon, she’ll get a kick out of seeing you. Dad doesn’t have many visitors out here.” 

     We left Ivan to his work and stepped back into the beautiful afternoon light. Stan pointed out his son and daughter-in-law’s house, which was on the far end of the property. Next was the greenhouse, a structure built from reinforced aluminum arches wrapped in thick plastic sheets. We entered into it and I was met with the rich smell of fertilized soil and a warmth that made me realize how chilly the mountain air had been. He pointed out peppers, tomatoes, peas, cucumber, radishes, and Swiss chard. 

Stan peddled around the garden boxes for a while and invited me to seize a tomato to my liking. I chose a small, perfectly round, seemingly ripe tomato, and with it, I followed Stan out of the greenhouse. We began strolling towards his home, and I noted how beautiful it looked in the warming light of the approaching evening. Just before we came to the front door Stan stopped suddenly. 

          “Listen, my wife,” He began, pausing to scratch his beard, “She isn’t well. She won’t be much of a host, so you’ll have to settle for me if that’s alright.” 

          “More than alright, Stan. Lead the way.” 

     I walked through the door and was instructed to remove my shoes. Stan directed me to the restroom, explained that he was headed upstairs to his wife and would soon return, and told me to make myself at home. In the bathroom I washed up and carefully rinsed the prized tomato, drying it with a delicate lacey towel.

       Exiting the restroom, I could not find Stan or any trace of him. All was still in the small house, and the chickens and geese clucked and stirred in the pen outside. I padded on the solid wooden floor until I was in the living room, the walls well ornamented with various paintings and wooden carvings. In the corner, high up on a shelf decked with Russian scarfs, was a stoic icon of the Virgin Mary. Her face was gracious and important-looking. I stood there, with the plump tomato in my hand, and the house was completely silent, save for the large and definite ticking of a clock one would expect to find in the house of an older couple. I paced a few steps and looked at the beautiful artwork that hung over the dining room table. A square frame depicted a well-shaded seashell of pen and charcoal. Another, above it, was of acrylic, depicting a bluejay hopping among underbrush. Large wooden carvings of trees and fireweed were laid along the doorposts and window frames. It was marvelous work, and each piece was signed with Stan’s name. 

      The voice of the old man came from the stairway, and it broke me from my artistic analysis. 

          “Would you like some bread or some eggs? Perhaps a glass of milk?” 

          “I’d love some, Stan.” 

     I offered to help prepare the snack but the man insisted I sit at the dining room table and make myself comfortable. I eased back into a wooden chair and complimented his handiwork on the wall. 

          “Oh, it’s nothing.” He said shyly.

          “Seems like they are more than nothing, sir. When did you start painting?”

     Stan began telling me about the art classes he had taken as a young man, and fortunately, I got him monologuing about his favorite artists while he pulled bread from the pantry and eggs from the fridge. I sat still, marking my pocketbook with the details I had acquired throughout the day, and occasionally looked up to watch Stan sway his way across the kitchen, fixing the food. He took deliberate steps, steadying himself against the counter as he went. The old man shook considerably, and when he pulled a gallon of milk from the fridge he first placed a well-folded towel beneath the two empty glasses so that the drops of cream he would inevitably spill could immediately be soaked up. A moment later he gently set a plate of bread, cheese, and fried eggs in front of me. He arranged the silverware and glasses and then took a seat opposite me. I asked him questions about his travels to Russia and for the better part of an hour Stan filled me in on the details of his extensive expedition throughout the USSR, Ukraine, and Georgia. For his age, he had incredible alacrity and consistent attention to detail. 

      Suddenly, at the door, came the calamity of a mother and child. The girl, who looked about five years old, kicked her boots off and was immediately scolded by her mother, a woman who looked to be in her thirties. The pair entered the dining room and the woman gave me a hearty smile. 

          “You must be the scary hitchhiker Ivan told me about! What’s your weapon of choice, chainsaw or machete?” 

     Stan let out a booming laugh, a sort of grandfatherly laugh I had not yet heard from him. The small girl rushed to her grandpa and he heaved her up onto his knee. I smiled at her, and she made a sour face and buried her head against Stan’s chest. 

           “Oh, there there, he’s alright, Anoushka, just a visitor from New York.” 

           “I suppose she hasn’t seen any visitors at grandpa’s table, yet.” said the woman. 

     She introduced herself as Polina. We all talked for a few minutes about how she came to live in Alaska, in such a small village, after growing up in the Midwest. Polina was well-spoken and warm, and as she continued to confidently talk with me her daughter gradually turned her head to investigate the strange young man in her Dedushka and Babushka’s home.

      The mother and daughter received mugs of milk from Stan and we all conversed about the details of their family, a large clan spread throughout the Peninsula. Stan was arranging various visits to his three other sons, all of whom worked construction like their eldest brother Ivan. Polina had a genuinely humorous way of telling stories, which mostly revolved around her years spent in a small Russian Orthodox community in Minnesota. After a spell of silence, Stan asked me to remove my baseball cap, since we were in the presence of the Virgin Mary. I immediately complied and as soon as I did he clarified its significance within their religion. We talked doctrine until the light coming through the windows began to dim. There was a noise of creaking wood, and I turned to see a small woman in colorful clothes dart from the landing of the stairs to the bathroom door. 

          “Oh, there’s my wife. I’ll go ask if she’d like to meet you, but don’t count on it.” 

      Stan got up and met the old woman as she emerged from the bathroom. They spoke quietly for a minute or so, and both presently turned to me. Stan’s wife, whose name I learned to be Elena, had a circular face and matted grey hair. Her clothes were colorful and formal. She made no effort to return the smile I offered her, and in a moment she was walking back up the stairs. Stan returned to the table and apologized for her curtness, explaining that they had never invited anyone inside their home outside of family members. He recommended we get going, offering to drop me off in Homer. 

     On our way out I said farewell to Polina and her daughter Anoushka. The young mother insisted she take me back to the greenhouse and load me up on vegetables to take with me. She provided me with a brown paper bag to fill. At her request, I gladly collected a dozen snap peas, a few jalapenos, and eight more tomatoes. 

     Back on the road, with Stan driving once again, I looked back to get one last look at his gorgeous homestead. 

          “You have a wonderful family, Stan.” I said

          “I’ve been blessed, and I’m grateful to have all my kids nearby. I don’t mind being old, I just don’t want to be old and lonely.” He responded. 

     As we cruised back onto the paved road the auburn light of the setting sun cast brilliant warm light on all the lush forest and hills around us. The bay was clear and pretty and salmon-colored.

     I asked the old man a question, an intentional inquiry I like to extend to all content-aged men who seem to have figured things out. 

          “Why here, Stan? Why do you enjoy where you live, and what you do?” 

     Stan thought for a while, took a moment to clear his throat, then laid down these wise words.

          “Well, son, it’s less about what I’ve done than how I’ve done it. I didn’t want to join the military because I felt I had a calling to art, writing and painting, and such. Pretty pictures don’t protect your country, though, through my time in the service, I learned that a man’s got to have a purpose much bigger than himself. I loved languages, I still do, and I used that love to do what many others couldn’t.” 

          “And you still found time for art, eventually?” I asked. 

          “Oh, you can’t put a love for something aside, so long as it’s a love for something good. I sketched and wrote poetry and stories in the Army, only now I have a hell of a lot more time for it.” He said. 

     I asked him about location, and how The Kenai stacked up against all the other places he had lived. 

     Stan laughed hard and had to take a moment to catch his breath. 

          “I mean, look around! Nothing like this place, Matthew. Though, I despise the bitter cold and have put up with over thirty-five Winters here. I’ve been in beautiful warm places, and I’ve been here, and here is always better. I suppose Robert Service put it well in a poem called ‘The Cremation of Sam Mcgee’:

      Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.

       Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.

     He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

  Though he'd often say in his homely way that ‘he'd sooner live in hell.’”

     Stan finished his recital with pride and I asked him to continue the poem. He recited the whole

thing perfectly and I listened to his soothing narrator’s voice while I watched the vibrant fireweed

flicker past.

     The truck barreled on, back through Fritz Creek, and the land began to look familiar to me again. We were nearing the end of our day together, and when we were close to town he began telling me details about his service in Berlin. Much could be said about the stories he told, but one particular narrative stood out, and it went something like this: 

     “There I was, in West Berlin, taking a walk in the business district. I turned a corner and was met with the wall looming high above me, there in the street, cutting off two large office buildings in the middle. The windows and doors for half a block on either side were filled in with bricks so that nobody could use them to get across. I wasn’t looking for the wall and wasn’t even aware that I was that close to the border. I looked at the broken glass and barbed wire and the strangeness of it. The cobblestone avenue was empty, and I stood there, just stood there, for what felt like forever, gawking at the thing. Then came a man, a middle-aged businessman in a suit. He carried a briefcase and a real stoic look. He walked along the edge of one of the buildings until he was about 20 yards shy of the wall. The man didn’t pay me any mind, and we both stood there in silence for a couple of minutes. Then he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and waved it rhythmically above his head, back and forth. He was looking far off, to the windows of a building on the East side of the wall. A couple of seconds later I made out the sight of a dainty woman, leaning far out of her window, also waving a white handkerchief. I looked at the man and the once-hard face was beaming with a big ol’ smile, and there were tears in his eyes. I don’t know who the woman was to him, probably his mother or sister or maybe a lover, but he knew that she was alive. I get emotional just thinking about it- about the division and distance, and how people had to connect, even in the smallest and simplest of ways.” 

     He told the story with the reverence of someone who reads and listens. He said that he always considered himself an observer, and that was what gave him such an inclination to paint and write; An eager old man’s attempt to intentionally analyze and record the beauty that surrounds him. He was precisely the sort of character I was praying to come across. Someone who could adequately exude the immortal spirit of small-town delight taking shape in a personable narrative. 

     My driver dropped me off at the base of East Hill Road. While thanking him for his generosity and shaking his hand, I took one last long look into Stan’s bright blue eyes and could see the gold behind them. Then I grabbed my jacket and hopped out of the truck, waving to him as he turned around onto the road, heading back to the Russian village. 

     Walking back up the hill to my dormitory, I thought of all the wisdom and narratives I had gained in such a simple manner over so short a time. And I had nothing to show for it- even the chunk of brick from the coast had worked its way out of my pocket. Nothing to show, apart from a head full of stories and an overflowing paper bag of beautiful tomatoes.