ALASKAN BUSH TOWN: CLOSER TO THE FOOD CHAIN

CHAPTER SIX
COLD FINGERS

Monday, May 22, 2000

First day of work.

I’ve been up since 5 am. Like any new kid I’ve showered twice, paced a bunch, mixed and matched my work clothes, fashioned them in front of the mirror. I’ve settled on what I wore last night at the beach -- they’re still mussed up from wet sand, and I’m hoping the worn in look will score points with my new co-workers.

It’s been raining all morning. Constant. A thick, sloppy rain. Straight down and solid. It’s cold, too. I’m trying not to look at the outside thermometer.

Mostly I’m sitting on the couch, working on my second bowl of oatmeal, waiting for the others to wake up. I hope they do soon, it’s 7:28, and somehow by 8:00, my Alaska adventure is officially going to begin.

Alarms start buzzing at 7:30. An electronic church-like syncopation. One’s darted off immediately, followed by the shuffle of human life. It’s Susyn -- from the ladies wing, and a bathroom door shuts. Water pipes hum in the walls.

Dave’s next. He simply slumps into the common room wearing nothing but blue long john bottoms. He’s grizzled up. Bed-head, sleepy eyes, flushed cheeks. Doesn’t notice me. Starts water for coffee, oatmeal’s up a bowl for the microwave. To the bathroom.

Joe’s alarm goes off again -- as he pushed the snooze button. It’s 7:42 now. I can hear Joe clunking in his room. He says something muffled through the walls, a lazy “God dammit.” He exits his room fully clothed, with his ball cap on, and into the bathroom he goes.

At 7:57 everyone’s out. Munching on ad-hoc oatmeal, sharing bread, beading coffee. No one says anything. In their own sleep hazy worlds. I sit with an itchy trigger finger. My knee’s bouncing. My eyes darting back and forth. Waiting.

Rain pours outside, greasing up the thermometer: 34 degrees.

8:00 hits. Joe looks at me, says, “No,” he’s looking at my clothes, “No. That won’t do, Coard. You’d better take off your ‘work clothes’ outfit. I don‘t want you to catch pneumonia and die.”

* * * * * * * *

I haft to pee in the worst way. I’ve excused myself from my duties -- sorting little baby fish -- and walked a short 15 yards from the tent. I’m standing at the edge of a little peninsula, at the inside of a creek curving like a horseshoe. It’s a slow up-to-the-nipple creek, a heavy rock throw’s distance across. There’s a wall of pine trees and bushes on the other side, but on my side it’s speckled with chunk pieces of woods -- where our tagging station is -- but mostly it’s tall strands of grassy fields signifying soft, mushy ground.

The cold rain’s still a constant heckle, and now it’s worse by the fact I’m removing many layers of clothing.

The first to go is the big, orange jacket, with the shiny letters on the back, Forest Service, USDA. It’s a survival jacket Joe told me to wear it until I get acclimated. It’s the kind of jacket you’d wear when your airplane falls out of the sky into the middle of the ocean. It’s as thick as a couch cushion, weighs as much as it protects, and, thankfully, has a real big zipper.

Next I snap the big plastic buckles to my waders. Big brown things made out of half inch rubber, lumbering and clumsy. Old, used; patches of goop dot places like it’s been cut by shaving. Big, plastic boots melt into it, too. Two sizes too big. Can’t help to swagger. Right now I’m peeling myself like a banana.

Next are my own clothes -- three layers. My golfing ‘rain gear’ jacket. It’s small zipper hopeless to get at. I take it off over my head, casting it aside. I tuck the last two layers up with my elbows, exposing my belly, to get at my crotch.

The problem’s my pants. Button fly jeans.

* * * * * * * *

All I’d known is that we’d gotten into the big, smelly Forest Service Suburban and drove about five minutes on a dirt road, then turned off onto an even tighter dirt road, that Joe called The Tunnel Of Love.

The Tunnel Of Love’s a narrow rickety thing lined with trees that scrape the roof, molest the rear-view mirrors, and twang the radio antenna. Inside we’re tossed around, too -- the road a knurled splotch of dirt pits and roots.

We drove to the end of it, to a place called Broken Bridge. And indeed, there is a broken bridge there -- a habbered up wood thing assaulted by time and the elements, more organic than artificial.

All that’s left is a little ziggy foot path to a small clearing next to the creek where a white tent’s erected; our tagging station. White cloth-like material staple-gunned to a crude wooden tent frame. Today the rain turned it into a drum, loud and smattering, funnels of water over the sides.

It’s cold. We see our breathe.

Joe set me in front of four plastic buckets filled with creek water. Dave and Susyn brought over buckets of little baby fish from the traps. My job, as I was told, is to reach in the bucket, grab a squirming baby fish, stick it in a little measuring tube-thingy, and throw it into one of the four buckets based on it’s size.

I tested the water with my finger. Sharply cold.

“Where’s the gloves?” I said.

“Oh, there’s no gloves,” Joe says, “You’ve got to learn to get a feel for ‘em.”

He reached in and scooped one out to demonstrate, “Easy as pie -- like picking up a penny.” Broad smile.

Not for me. Not for awhile. Not long enough for the jokes to hit, for concern to set in, and finally, as I walked away discouraged to urinate, Susyn saying, “Do you think he can handle this? This might be too much for him.”

* * * * * * * *

Which brings me to my present predicament: half stripped of my protective layers, splayed out with my belly button showing, staring bewildered at my crotch.

My hand’s are frozen; chilled blue waterlogged claws. I’ve lost the power of my opposable thumbs. I’ve lost feeling in my fingertips. They’re numb. I scrape them over my crotch -- over and over again -- hoping by chance to unbuckle something.

My top half soaked now. The rain finding its way down my back. Goose bumps and red blotches. I’m shivering uncontrollably. Teeth chattering. I don’t know what to do: I’ve really got to pee, and I really can’t undo my fly.

Joe shouts, “Hey Coard! Don’t spend too much time out there with your jacket off!”

The choice is clear: piss my pants or die.

Fine (smoldering warm ooze of momentary comfort).

I won’t die today.

Sticky.